ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, my jaw dropping in

  disbelief. If he’d told me he’d decided to become an ascetic

  and spend the rest of his life meditating under a bodhi tree, I

  wouldn’t be more surprised.

  “I just said,” he states matter-of-factly. “I’m going to put it in black and white tomorrow.”

  For a moment there I lose my voice. Mummy, everything is

  NOT fine. My shivering escalates as though I suffer from a

  reaction from an intravenous infusion. I wish there was a way to make him pay for his acts of injustice.

  “Taana, you there? I’m sorry,” he says strictly, his tone conclusively unapologetic.

  “Don’t be, Papa. It’s your hard-earned money and a Will

  should one hundred percent be that. Your will to give your

  money to whomsoever you please,” I say, a bit of a grudge

  creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. After all, I’m

  not a saint like Mummy is.

  “I’m glad you see it that way. You see, I don’t know how to

  say this humbly, but most of the martyr’s kith and kin are rather big fans of mine. This small bequeathal gives me hope they will get a chance to step into my kind of shoes—live my kind of life. Honourable and with service to the society,” says the vain father-mine.

  “Don’t worry, Sir. You’re God’s gift to mankind, and so it’s asking too much of you to say anything humbly.” I clear my throat.

  “You will be okay.”

  “Don’t let me be in your way. Martyrs deserve charity,” I add lamely, laughing a hollow laugh, taken aback to hear the words come out of my mouth but I guess that was the grown-up thing to say. I compare myself to a pine tree with a missing tree limb. When I’m wounded, the sap of wisdom flows from my being, essentially making a bandage over my cut, eventually fossilizing into a hard and impermeable layer. “On that other note, service to the society, I do have a good chance of winning the ‘nurse of the year’ plaque which—”

  “Let me tell you something,” said the Father of the Year.

  “These things are always rigged and even if they aren’t, in my opinion, they’re quite meaningless. During my service, I had several chances of getting such-like-baubles but I knew better than to chase them. There are more examples of successful people who are illiterate rather than literate. Now, listen closely, I demand that—”

  Instead, I hold my phone at a distance from my ear. Would it kill him to say a word of praise for once? Even the emaciated resident rat has shown more enthusiasm—last night when I broke the news to Mr. Skin‘n’Bones, he had rolled over before squeaking non-stop. Was there a prickly shrub where Papa’s heart ought to be? Did he even know where the heart’s located? Left, right? For all we know there’s just a hollow cavity in there.

  A minute later, I put it back to my ear. “That’s true,” I say

  tonelessly. “Professor of Philosophy,” I add sotto voce.

  “—my name’s inscribed right up there on the wall. In the

  Officers’ Mess, just behind the counter.” He says that as

  though his name had been inscribed on one of the brass stars

  embedded in the Walk of Fame. I picture him belting out lyrics of self-praise, his chest puffed out like an Italian tenor notwithstanding his Indian accent. “Talk to Mummy. She can tell you more.”

  “Congrats,” I mumble, “why did they put his name? I

  didn’t hear that part. The voice broke.”

  “Chotu, turn off the gas. Will you? The milk will boil over,”

  Mummy calls out to the helper and then to Papa, “Shekhar,

  don’t take the umbrella out. It’ll get wet; I don’t want it dripping all over the car; I’m gonna take it.”—They deserve each other, I’m afraid the offensive thought crosses my mind—before she answers me, “It’s a paid thing. He has given a whole year’s supply of Horlicks and Bournvita to the canteen. For the cadets.”

  I hear the Papa-the-critic’s grunt in the background, “Officer’s Mess. Not Canteen.”

  “Amazing,” I manage to mutter.

  “Chotu,” Mummy shouts at the top of her lungs, “don’t

  leave the back door open. The fruit-flies give me the jitters.”

  “Jitters? Jitters?” Papa fires hard-hitting bullets, “flies give

  you jitters? I stood ground, literally and unflinchingly even when bullets zoomed pa …” His voice fades away in the

  distance.

  I hear her footsteps—probably an attempt to escape Papa’s

  severe scrutiny—on the creaky floor. “What’s your prize for

  again?” Mummy asks breathlessly. “When’s the result?”

  “Tomorr—”

  “Chotu,” Mummy yells, “Milkman’s call wait. Door bell’s ringing too … gotta be him at the door. Take a kilo ONLY.”

  “Mummy, I’m cold. And sleepy.”

  “You were saying. Some prize …?”

  “It’s an award, not a prize. For luck, I’ll send a cupcake

  today in anticipation to all who matter. Do ask Papa to eat it.

  And promise me you won’t.”

  Papa’s voice carries out to me, “Sonia, don’t lock the

  bathroom. I need things. And for God’s sake, why can’t you buy a dozen tubes in one go? Defies all logic… always running out of paste.” The echo of his bellow takes a few seconds to die away.

  “I’ll leave it open,” says Mummy, and then to me, “thirty years and he still can’t trust me to do things my way. Dozen tubes as though they’re eggs and bananas. Do I issue instructions regarding bullets and bombs? Anyway, I’ll make sure he eats the cake … um … for luck, did you say?”

  My grudge begins to thaw. “Great. Sucking, plucking rat!” I scream. Mr. Skin‘n’Bones nibbles at my big-toe-nail.

  “That mouse trap of yours? It hasn’t done the job?”

  “It doesn’t work. It’s just decorative. Forget it. You know my love for animals.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, your tip worked.”

  “The one about rotating the injection site?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that one. Can’t see any lumps on my skin now that I

  am careful,” she says, “but the insulin was cloudy this morning. Is that okay?”

  “No, no, no. Discard it. I’ll bring you a fresh supply. I’ve

  told you before, haven’t I? Shouldn’t be cloudy, grainy, or

  discoloured.”

  “I need my sleep,” my room-mate Priyanka calls out from under the covers. “Would you mind stepping out?”

  “Throw it away,” I continue. “And—”

  Priyanka’s muffled voice cuts in. “What part do you not get? I worked the graveyard shift, too.”

  I cup the phone. “Okay BFF, in a sec,” before whispering into the phone— “Gotta go.”

  “One sec, talk to Papa.”

  I wince as though I’ve bit into a lemon. “Signal’s rather poor—can’t hear you Mummy,” I lie. “And for God’s sake a bathroom’s a bathroom. Everyone has the birth right to lock it,” I couldn’t stop myself from adding before hanging up quickly. “But hey, what do I know? Each to his—”

  “Do stop your blah, blah, blah,” Priyanka growls.

  Middle path, Tana, middle path. Take the higher road. Do

  not take your anger out on her. I speak through gritted teeth. “I have, haven’t—”

  A sharp bang on the door followed by the washerwoman’s shrill voice drowns my words. “Open Sister. Parvati here. Clothes.” The tawdry string of light-bulbs that Pri had put up on the door for Diwali, sways precariously. I tug at the cobwebby thing making it crash to the floor. Good riddance.

  “Hey, what broke? Any problem?” Pri asks groggily.

  “Nothing that can’t be handled.” I put on a loose-fitted tee

  with boyfriend jeans, slip on both the M&S fur mules as well as my gloves before
flopping down on the comfortable leather armchair I call Miss Grizella. Writing was gonna sort me out. With that pleasant thought in mind, I pick up my diary, unlock it, and put the pen to the paper, my grudge melting away into oblivion. Go with the flow. Accept nothing; reject nothing. Papa’s extreme action: His and his alone. How I choose to react: That’s what I own. So, go with the flow, and see where the path takes you, I tell myself.

  One day maybe I can pen a self-help book.

  Three

  LUTYENS BUNGALOW ZONE. January, 2018

  SOMETIME AT THE CLOSE OF the day, I hear a knock. “Who’s that? I’m in the bath.” My gaze moves from the lilac-coloured pearly clouds in the glowing twilight out the window towards the door.

  “It’s me. I came to check on her,” Mr. Patel’s voice carries

  though the locked bedroom door to me.

  “She just slept, Sir. She’s just fine; you sure can catch up on

  your sleep, too.”

  “Okay then. Call me if need be. I’m awake—just playing Tetris.”

  It’s been almost six months since Mr. Vikram Patel, a

  moneyed businessman, hired me through MedMac hospital to

  provide not just companion services to his Alzheimer’s-stricken wife but also skilled care; help with injections and physical therapy. She has short spurts of clarity of expression, but for the most part she’s enveloped in a cloud of dementia. Even so, keeping her at home means a lot to her husband. This is so because their home can hardly be labelled a home—it’s more an estate which could easily fit in several posh bungalows in its premises, a mansion providing, at least, material comforts to the immeasurably distressed patient.

  The sprawling property on Lutyens, Delhi’s leafy corridor

  of power, is set back from the road and obscured entirely from view by a tall ficus hedge. As for Mr. Patel, he needs no introduction. The Star Pharma owner is on the Forbes list after all, the barometer of the rich and the famous. Rumour went that he wasn’t always this global pharmaceutical tycoon. A drug distributor: That’s what he once upon a time had been.

  About half an hour later I call up Mr. Patel, my voice on the edge of hysteria, “Hurry up, Sir. I misjudged … she’s taken a sudden turn … she’s not responding. Something’s wrong.”

  Rushing to her bedside, he holds her misshapen hand and shakes his head at me. Shedding copious tears, he keeps muttering incoherently—“My shoni sweeto, my boolaga chiga chaaga … not fair …” I call up the hospital and then Shobha Didi before shrinking into the background, quiet as a mouse. There’s nothing anyone can do or say in this moment. A hard-hitting tragedy, I think, he is much too young. So are the kids.

  Shobha Didi barges in like a freight train, that being her usual style of entry. On seeing her, Mr. Patel howls, “Didi, I’m finished.” Kneeling beside him, she holds his head in her hands and sobs quietly.

  “I’ll get the Ganges-water.” She pulls herself back slowly,

  gesturing to me to take her place before walking out the room.

  As I kneel, Mr. Patel flings his head on my shoulder. Gently, I bring it down to my chest.

  “Can’t believe it—so sudden. Did she say anything?” he

  asks croakily, “did she cry out? Any pain?”

  “Not a second of pain, Sir. I can assure you of that. She went silently.”

  He holds on tightly to me as though I am a lifeboat and

  cries, “What good is my stupid pharma empire? And what

  good are the doctors: ‘Her mind’s going but her body’s good,’

  that’s what he told me. No medicine could save her. My life’s over. She’s gone. She’s left me all alone in this world. I have

  no one.”

  “There, there, Sir.” I tenderly push his head back to look into his wet, brown eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, Anita, how will I live without you?” He pulls away from me and strokes Mrs. Patel’s face lovingly. “At least you went away peacefully in your own bed, and at home. That’s

  what you wanted. I know.”

  “That’s all she wanted, Sir. She wouldn’t stop talking about

  it when in her senses. Can’t imagine how bad you must feel

  but I know something about loss too,” I try to console him.

  He looks questioningly at me.

  “My father. He died of respiratory failure at a relatively

  young age.”

  “When?”

  “About a year ago. He was just fifty-two. It was sudden,” I

  find myself saying, “I couldn’t say a proper goodbye though

  I did get to talk to him on his last day on Earth. Sadly, the

  conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one—a regret I have to

  live with.”

  He looks at me questioningly. With shaking hands, he strikes a match and lights a cigar.

  “I-I-he-he called up to tell me he’d decided not to put me in

  his will,” I took a deep breath before going on, “in favour of the martyr’s fund. An opinionated man who never shied from speaking his mind or following his heart… often leaving me and Mummy to bootstrap.” Heretofore, my senses almost always, completely shut up if anyone so much as mentioned Papa’s death in my presence. Given a choice I would much rather donate an organ happily than be a part of any such conversation. Probably my feelings for Mr. Patel cause me to deal with my own.

  “I’m sorry,” he puts out the cigar in a bowl before putting a hand on my shoulder. “And you went along with it? No questions asked?”

  I nod lamely.

  “Why so?”

  “I would have liked to argue. But no, I didn’t.”

  “That really says something about you as a family.”

  For a while, there is nothing to say. He sits silently, racked

  by intermittent sobs, with me clucking now and then. It is as

  though we were united in grief. At length, bowing his head

  down on Mrs. Patel’s feet, he cried, “How will I tell the

  children?”

  As they say, that is my cue. Again, I embrace him only

  to feel his warm lips on my scantily covered bosom. He

  sighs. I can sense a hint of desire in that unhappy groan.

  Before I know what is what, he is kind of crushing me in his arms. “You smell of roses,” he says. My lips brush against a salty tear that trickles into the cleft in his chin. ‘Stop it, that’s quite enough,’ the voice in my head barks at me, Sweet Mrs. Patel’s body is barely cold. What’s wrong with you, Tana? You should be mourning, not cavorting like a trollop with the new widower.

  I stand up, “I should go, Sir. I’ll go get my shawl.” My

  breasts have swelled up, a taut-pink-nipple escaping free of my

  wispy see-through powder-pink negligee.

  He springs to his feet, “Of course.” His face crumples as he

  sinks down wearily next to his wife’s still body.

  After kissing Mrs. Patel goodbye, who was my most

  agreeable patient ever, and without saying another word to Mr. Patel, that being the decent thing to do as he needs to be with Yash, Maya and Shobha Didi, I pack my things and make my way to Priyanka’s room in the hostel. She won’t object, I am certain. We can go back to our previous arrangement of sharing the rent. A lot has happened these past few hours. I have to write. I take out my white gloves.

  A few days later, Mr. Patel’s name flashes across my phone

  screen. I shut my eyes tight.

  “It’s me,” he says.

  “Um… I’m sorry again, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow at the

  prayer meeting. Is there anything I can do?” I ask gingerly,

  holding my breath.

  “Yes, sure,” he says, “if you could come back to the house

  afterward for a bit? My wife’s left something for you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Patel.” I let out my captive breath, my eyes

  sparkling with anticipation.


  Four

  MEDMAC NURSES’ HOSTEL. January, 2018

  “STAY AWAY FROM THE LECHEROUS fellow,” Priyanka warns me as I dress up in a black pantsuit, and then tame my mane into a low bun out of respect for the dead. I do miss Mrs. Patel. “Don’t let him get ideas.”

  I do hope he gets a few, I think.

  “He has the hots for you.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” I state a bit hotly, buttoning up the white

  Lycra shirt, “I’m running late. He has asked me to read a eulogy.”

  “Just be careful.” She sneezes loudly. “It’s the pollen

  season.” She blows her nose hard. “It’s not as if he’s going to

  make you the next Mrs. Patel.”

  “I don’t see why not,” I murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

  My cell rings. Mummy! I better take it else she won’t stop

  calling. I hold the gadget between my ear and my shoulder while continuing to button up, “I’ll call you back, Mummy.”

  “No hello? No good morning?”

  “Morning got away from me. I have to go—”

  “When exactly do I call you? It’s never the right time,” she

  cries. “I would lay my life for you without a thought, and look

  at you—always dodging my calls… sending them to voice mail.”

  “I said I’ll call.”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “When do I ever sleep in the day? I mean ever,” I snarl.

  The phone flies out from my grasp. I leave my shirt alone and manage to catch it.

  Phew!

  “One day I’ll be gone and you wouldn’t even know,” says

  the drama queen tragically.

  Middle path, Tana, middle path. “Something’s come up,”

  I say in an even voice.

  “Doesn’t it always? How’s—”

  “I’ll call,” I say dully and am relieved to press the red

  button. Pro-tip to myself: Do not pick Mummy’s phone if

  you’re in a rush.

  At the Late Mrs. Patel’s prayer meeting I avoid looking in

  the direction of the dear departed soul’s tall, good-looking, except for his double chin, husband. Is he what my BFF said he was? Lecherous? No, she doesn’t know him. He’s as decent as they come. Nevertheless, people are unknowable. In the latter half of the day, I find myself ringing the bell of his bungalow, built nearly a century ago during the British Raj, and majorly refurbished later to make what was once only a prestigious piece of history to both a distinguished as well as a luxurious one. Driving rain slanted down torrentially from the louring clouds.