encouragingly.
“Well put, Sir.” I laugh weakly, calling a truce. “You
win, Mummy.” It feels good to buy peace.
“You look so much like I did when I was your age,”
says Mummy.
“Oh please!” I spit out. The peace is short-lived. Mummy,
can you unsay it? I need a stiff martini to forget that.
A strident call from Shobha Didi is a welcome intrusion.
“Saabji’s friend.” She glances at the lady she comes by with.
In a black gossamer sequin saree, a downy Fendi stole sitting prettily on her elbows, the woman I had often met at the bungalow, is pretty as ever. “She wants to welcome you to
Lutyens,” adds Didi.
“Rather nice of you.” I extend a hand.
Paying no attention to my hanging limb, the lady with the
elongated neck says, “It’s a neighbourly thing to do. I am
Lutyens, born and raised. Um … Tanushree, is it?”
Somehow, she had always reminded me of assassin spiders, now proving not be an entirely inappropriate comparison.
“Tanushree’s a South Indian name, right?” she continues.
In the background, I hear a gaggle of giggling ladies
scream, “Selfie with the man of the hour.”
“Wait, wait for me,” the lady disappears from my sight, not a thing I regret.
I need a drink. Simply put, I am not great in crowds, hemmed in by social niceties. In truth, I sometimes envied others their ability to be normal in groups. Standing amidst so many people, only to be stared at and scrutinized proves to be rather daunting for me.
I ask a waiter, “Which other snacks you have besides um … what did you say?”
“Salmon Tartar, Shrimp Toast, Edama—”
“Is there a golgappa counter?”
Nose up in the air, he said, “At Majestic-Crown, we don’t
do street food.”
Oh, God, does everyone have to be so prickly? Does nobody like anybody just as they are? Can folks stop picking at each other like they’re vultures?
Anyway, getting hitched to Mr. Patel is a dream come true for me: for one because he is a part of a ready-made sweet family, for two because he lives in Lutyens Bungalow Zone, and for yet another because he hobnobs with the glitterati of New Delhi. Whatever little desire I harboured for this third thing fizzles out right here and now after the woman-with-spider encounter.
Six
MEDMAC HOSPITAL. March, 2018
“NOBODY NEEDS TO KNOW.” I hand the prescription to the girl behind the cash counter while surreptitiously slipping a folded five-hundred rupee note along with it.
She gives a barely discernible nod.
“The usual,” I tell her.
“Sister, could you spell the name? The writing’s,” —she bends her head down to the paper— “kind of difficult to read.”
I smile. “Tell me about it. I doubt if even Doctor Varun
can read his own hand. Not unlike a hard-to-crack-code.”
“The name of the patient?”
“Monika Grewal … with a ‘K’. DOB 07/06/1990.”
After I get the five prescriptions filled in plus the unprescribed narcotic analgesic Fortwin for my personal use, I go into physiotherapy room number one adjoining the nurses’ station for my three o'clock.
“Hello, Sir. How are we doing today?”
Mr. Kumar nods feebly.
Is that Mummy? I frown when I heard her voice from behind the connecting door which was slightly ajar as I help Mr. Kumar into the green hospital shirt. I have been married for a few weeks now and Mum has called up every single day asking me to resign.
“You never call me. It’s always me,” she complained
yesterday.
“That’s because you don’t give me an opportunity—you do know you call up every single day,” I replied morosely.
“You mean the missed calls. You’re supposed to return them,” she continued.
“I’ll return them when I can,” I said, “that’s what missed calls are about.
“It’s best if you take my call that same moment. My memory isn’t getting any better. I forget what I have to say,” she persisted.
I did my eye-roll which is what I did quite a bit around her. “You don’t forget, Mummy, do you? Moreover, what will we talk about? About how I never talk to you? Or about how you are stuck with the good-for-nothing-Chotu?”
“Not that. I know you are in some sort of marital trouble. Taking pain-killers and even—I can’t believe it’s true—blacking out.”
“Mummy, you need to take up a hobby, besides me.”
“I will if you tell me what’s wrong.”
It frustrated me to no end that Mummy’s guess was not far off the mark. Before getting hitched, nothing had raised a red flag. Now, afterward, pain had caught me unawares; it had sneaked up on me. Vikram … people are unknowable. The strange sex, the hitting … and I’ve seen Phoolvati skulking about in the corridors like a spy. Had they been sleeping together until I came into the picture? Having said that, being old school, I didn’t want to give up on my marriage.
Oh, God, why is she here? I don’t need this today given the
personal crisis at home. Maybe it’s best to just sneak out and then come back in when she’s gone. Leaving Mr. Kumar to twiddle his thumbs for a bit—that is okay considering he’s not the busiest man on Earth— I take a quick peek and see her talking animatedly to Rosy, the chatterbox.
“Before he died, her father had been working on his family
tree. Frightfully dull work. Though important, I suppose. The
fact is, his great-great-great grandfather was a Maharajah of
some sort. Blue blood. Still, she didn’t turn up for the unveiling of his portrait in the Officer’s Canteen.”
Maharajah of Pompousness, if I were to guess, I think.
“Did your husband’s colleagues commission it?” asks
Rosy.
“Commission what?”
“His portrait.”
“No, no, he himself had got it made, and intended to gift it to the Canteen … but then, he passed away before he could get to it.”
“That is so sad. Can I visit the army campus to see this portrait?” smiles Rosy.
Sister Rosy’s hunger for gossip was legendary. The girl can talk her way into Fort Knox if she so desires.
“I’ll take you. So, you’re a Christian? The name Rosy …”
“Oh, no, no, not at all. I’m a devout Sikh. Rosy is short for
Raspreet, meaning ‘one who drinks the elixir of naam’.”
“Yeah, I get it. My third cousin’s husband in Canada calls
himself Ken.”
“And his original name?”
“Kanwarpreet. Most Sikh names end with -preet. No?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Er … Sharma. They also end with -deep.
And -der too. Like, this here is my husband, Gurdeep.” She
holds up her phone to show the lock screen.
“Nice.”
“Wait, I’ll show you more.” Scrolling through the photo-
folder in her phone, she points at a picture. At his bachelor’s party. Handsome, isn’t he?”
I am sick to my back teeth with people who overshare
pointlessly, spilling their guts out to strangers.
My mother studies the picture concentratedly. “Which one
is he? Frankly, I can never tell one bearded and turbaned
Sikh’s face apart from another.”
“Really?” Rosy stares at Mummy incomprehensibly.
“Anyway, enough about me. You know what Ma’am, we
haven’t met since…”
My phone buzzes giving me an idea. “Mr. Kumar, I’m
sorry but um …” —I stare sadly at my phone— “there’s this
thing that’s come up, a personal matter. You don’t mind if Sister Rita takes over?
”
He in turn, smiles sadly. After wheeling him into room
number two, I walk purposefully, my mind made up.
An hour or so afterward, I walk back into the nurses’
station, pretending to be engrossed in my phone though I
switched it off since I spotted Mummy.
“Hey, Tana, your mother came to visit,” Rosy tells me.
“Really? Why?”
She shrugs. “She asked for you—tried your phone, too.”
“I’ll call her. The battery died.”
“But you were looking at it.”
“Yeah, just checking.” I tried to keep the irritation out of
my voice.
“Someone’s been naughty.” She points at my upper arm. “A love bite?”
I glance down only to see a guava-pink bruise on my shoulder.
“Um … I guess.” My face burns and my head begins to
throb. I fumble in my bag, take out a pill and down it
quickly.
“What’s that?”
“Harmless Benzos.”
“Don’t lie to me. You’re taking Lithium?”
“It’s a mood stabilizer. I need it.”
“No, you don’t. Dr. Varun ruled out bipolar.”
“How do you know that and—” I bit my tongue. After all, it’s Nosy/Rosy. “—he could be wrong.” My hands shake rather violently, probably itching to pen down my thoughts in the
diary before my next blackout. Tonight, it will have to be.
“And what’s the Valium and Prozac for? I saw in your
bag.”
“Um… insomnia… er—” I begin uneasily.
“There you go, you can’t sleep,” she says triumphantly,
“something’s off—you need help. I know it.”
“Um … I’m gonna head out.” My eye twitches, “Little-
Miss-Snoopy-Joe sleuth.”
Seven
LBZ and MEDMAC HOSPITAL. August, 2018
I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE I’ve been married for only six months. It seems as though the life before exists in an entirely different time zone.
“I’m getting late, baby. Mr. Kumar’s physiotherapy is scheduled at nine thirty.
“You know you owe me one … need I remind you? Last night’s debacle …” So, pursuant to this line of thinking, undeterred, he nibbles at my by-now-raw-nipples. He cups a breast, shoves it into his mouth and mumbles, his breath hot, “Ripe mango, ready for plucking. Anita’s were smoothies—mango smoothies.”
He’s kind of obsessed with sex, … and fruits. Even our honeymoon, along with the two twinkling stars, Yash and Maya, in London featured this innocent produce in a prominent role.
Travelling on a shoe-string budget, our room at The Cozy Bug resembled a dormitory. Two mattresses on the floor, empty candy boxes rolling around, spilled soda cans and ketchup smears on the sofa arms. He explained, “That’s how London hotel-rooms are,” —he lowered his voice as though sharing a sensitive government secret— “that is, if one chooses to stay in a posh locality.”
“That’s all very well,” I scowled, “but do we have to bust down the toilet door before we can pee? Do you have to spend half the day in it?”—I turned to ask the children—“anyone wants anything? I’m calling room service.”
My brand-new husband asked, “Didn’t you just have a
strawberry smoothie and a salad?”
I looked him in the eye, “Yeah I did. So?”
“Which begs the question…” he paused mid-sentence
prompting me to finish his sentence.
“…why I’m still hungry? Maybe because I’m not a camel,”
I drawled.
“But you’re always hungry?” He glided his finger down the price list in the menu.
I gave him a black look. “Okay, kiddos. Say your prayers. We are all gonna starve to death right here in London. Can you imagine the headlines splashed in The Daily Telegraph? ‘Family found dead in hotel room. Forbes billionaire with a net worth in excess of ₹1 billion absconding’.”
“We will be famous,” cried Maya, clapping excitedly.
We bumped our fists together.
“Children, no new shoes or clothes for you either until your
existing ones get smaller and/or hole-riddled,” I said.
“No need for theatrics. All I’m saying is that in-room dining
is expensive. You can eat all you want on the street.”
I cancelled the order. “Happy now, Uncle Scrooge. You can go back to your Tetris on your toilet.” How come I had pegged him as a generous fellow? Marriage certainly brings out the worst in people. In a flash they turn from benign to malignant. Shobha Didi’s also metamorphosed into this Shobha-Didi-In-law. And it’s no secret how this tag in-law not only infects the happiness of the carrier but also spreads misery via pathogens to those who breathe the same air as the infected person.
A loud knock on the door helps me escape these
unpleasant thoughts. Pulling my shirt down, I walk to the
door. “No, goodbye kiss, clumsy clod?” he calls out after me,
“and keep your word. Give another thought to the Bangkok
trip. Shobha Didi’s never been on a plane. The kids can’t wait,
too.”
I’ll sooner die than go to Bangkok with the whole jingbang. How do I care if she’s never seen a plane. I’m not her travel agent. “About that babe,” I turn around, “can just the two of us go? Like a real honeymoon? Just you and me…” Secretly, I hope I can change him if given a chance to be alone with him.
“I promised Shobha Didi—”
“For God’s sake I’m sure it wasn’t an oath written in
blood.” I open the door.
“What?” I ask.
Didi says, “Fight if you must. But can you keep your voice down?”
“Sorry Didi, have the children left? I totally forgot. I did
promise to take them to school. Oh well, tomorrow’s another
day.”
“They were heartbroken.” She wags a finger at me, her
cratered skin turning sooty. “Don’t let them down again. Another thing—you ate up all the almonds. The children didn’t
get any. I count five for each member of the family before
soaking them.” She walks into the room to speak to Vikram.
“Er… maybe you can soak more of them?”
She swivels round, bristling at my words. The apoplectic
purple of her mouth clashes horribly with her perpetually red-
rimmed eyes, and of course the ugly cicatrices on her sallow
cheeks don’t help either.
“Just asking …” I give her a mousy smile.
In response, she launches into a lecture about good
parenting, laundry-skills if they could be called that, and
arranging cushions, photo frames, and perhaps show-pieces.
“Blah, blah … undies need to folded a specific way.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it.” Perils of living in LBZ aka Laundry Blah-Blah Zone.
“No, they are pile high, and—”
“I heard you the first time, DIDI.”
“—you still haven’t displayed them photo frames,” she gripes as though I’ve forgotten to place the sterile instruments in a surgical tray. As if she’s heard my thoughts she adds, “The trays, too. You haven’t set them.” I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s developed a mathematical model with the aim of concurrently improving the placement technique of the crockery and minimizing the tray types required for each.
Not inclined to be bogged down into this morass of
unmitigated nonsense, I walk to the main door.
“A quick word?” Vikram marches toward me, pulling me inside the bedroom before slamming the door shut. “Now what was that? Something on your mind? Say it now.”
A moment later, having shown the door to hostile thoughts before they could settle in my m
ind, all in all, an art I was adept in thanks to my complex childhood—I get behind the wheel of the black Mercedes S-class sedan. I look around for my sandwich. Quite the contrast from the auto-rickshaw and the humble potato patty. However, it hasn’t taken me long to figure out that money alone couldn’t make one happy. You can’t eat money.
Just then, Phoolvati runs out, handing me the sandwich box. “Sister, aap toh Rani ban gaye ho ji. Mera bhi kuch karo ji.” Silver toe-rings give ji.” In Hindi she told me that I have now become a Queen and should do something for her, too. I am not a fool—I do know the King’s been busy doing something for her.
I snatch the tomato and jalapeño baguette from her and press my foot hard on the accelerator. “More-like-Naukrani,” I mutter to myself. And this snack is supposed to tide me over until dinner in accordance with Didi-Penny-Pinching’s budget. Even Church mice eat better than the residents of 39-Lutyens. At least I can have a whole boatful of the hearty potato patties with great dollops of ketchup as opposed to the Michelin starred microscopic dots of sauce served in this palatial bungalow. Perhaps I’ll be better off asking her the number of pomegranate seeds allotted for each member of this rich family.
At the intersection, I miss the green light by the blink of
an eye. I bend down to get a bottle from under the seat. My
weapon.
“Damn.” I squint into the mirror to examine my face.
Purple capillaries form a sort of an upside-down umbrella
just below the hollow of my right cheek. Suitably impressive, I laugh. I shouldn’t be laughing about it. Am I going senile at the young age of thirty? The grimness of the sordid mess my life is in is not totally lost on me. What am I doing? I jiggle my head as if it will help purge my head of all trials and tribulations. A few nasty thoughts beat a hasty though unenthusiastic retreat.
The phone rings—It’s Vikram. I debate whether to take
the call or not after the unsavoury ding-dong with him—with a tight slap thrown in—moments before I stepped out of the bungalow. I can handle it, I press the green button and then we go blah, blah, blah.
At the hospital, Priyanka peers at me, her face a study in
concern and confusion, the colour ebbing from her face.
“Who died,” I ask, avoiding her gaze. She does care despite our differences.
“You will.” Her neck springs out. “I know you—inside, out.”
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 5