Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake

by Preeti Shenoy

  Samir had come along and changed all that. My life had taken such an upward spiral when he had entered it, it was as though somebody had pressed a button on the elevator to the penthouse and it had zoomed nonstop ever since.

  Except that the elevator, the penthouse, and everything else had been fake, like a movie set. I had nothing now, except my two children.

  There is barely any traffic on the road at this time of the night and the driver zooms at breakneck speed. I don’t even feel like telling him to slow down. Like little Tanya, I am also too dazed to care. We reach my old apartment in exactly twenty-two minutes and the cab driver assists me in getting the luggage out.

  As I pay him his fare, I find myself mentally counting the amount of money left in my purse and I hate it. Since my marriage to Samir, I have never ever been in a situation like this, and it pinches me. When Tanya is woken up again the second time that night, she starts protesting loudly and crying.

  ‘Hush, my baby, hush. You can sleep now, nobody will disturb you,’ I say, as I lead her to the double bed in what used to be my father’s room. She climbs on to the bed, collapses, and falls asleep almost instantly. One of the perks of being a child is the ability to fall asleep so quickly, free of any worries. I place baby Rohit beside her. I look at the innocent, trusting faces of both my children and I feel a pain that I have never felt before. It is the pain of being rejected, being betrayed, being kicked in the gut by a person you gave your heart and soul to.

  The person who is the father of my children.

  Most of my life, I have trusted my impulses and my instinct, and it has taken me along. My decision to move into this home too was made in a spilt of a second.

  Just like the decision I had made to kiss Samir on the moonlight beach in Bali all those years ago.

  I grit my teeth, fighting back the tears. I feel devastated, but I do not want to cry yet again. I have done enough crying for the night.

  I toss and turn and keep replaying the contents of Samir’s letter in my head. I wince with the fresh wave of hurt that strikes deep. I feel like a prisoner being tortured and hit from the back with arms tied, without knowing where the next blow will land. I desperately want to turn off Samir’s thoughts, his words. I want to block him out. I do not want to think about it. But it is as though a demon has gripped me in his clutch and is taunting me. A thousand thoughts swirl around in my head. Why didn’t Samir at least try once to make matters right? I hate Maya with every pore, every cell in my body, even though I know it is not solely her fault.

  Rohit stirs in his sleep, and this brings me back to earth, forces me to stop thinking about Samir. Suddenly I realize that the first thing in the morning Rohit would want his milk. I remember that there is nothing in the house. I panic for a few minutes. How foolish of me to walk out of the house in the middle of the night with two children in tow? How terribly immature and silly of me. Yet, when I think of Samir’s words, I know I cannot bear the thought of staying there even for a few seconds and feel I have done the right thing by walking out.

  I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. I decide to stay awake and ring the doorbell of the person who lives in the opposite flat as soon as it is dawn. I have no idea who lives there, but I decide that whoever it is, I would explain my situation and ask to borrow a glass of milk. Surely that would not be a problem?

  Then I think about Tanya’s school. She always goes by the school bus, and I know that the school bus does come to this area too. I decide that there is no point in Tanya missing her school, just because her parents are busy messing up their lives. I decide that as soon as it is around 7.30 a.m. (which I figure will be a decent hour), I would call the assigned bus-teacher and ask her where the pickup point for children in this area would be, and also whether it would be possible to pick up Tanya from here on a daily basis.

  I feel calmer having solved two immediate and practical problems and then set about unpacking the stuff I have carried in my suitcase, putting it away methodically, simply to distract myself from the pain of Samir’s actions. Also, Tanya would require her school uniform the next day. The faster this place feels like home, the better it is for all of us.

  I cannot help but feel like I am in a dump of a place after the opulence of my previous home.

  Samir’s home, Nisha, not yours. He stated it himself.

  The painful realization feels like I have inadvertently touched a burning ember. How can someone you consider your own, end something like this, a meaningful marriage without so much as an iota of guilt? How can someone walk out on his wife and children? I am angry and upset all over again, but I control myself as I hear a noise outside the flat. I glance at the clock and am surprised to see it is nearly 5.40 a.m. I go to the balcony, the same balcony where I stood all those years ago, as I waited, watching out for Samir’s car the day my father passed away. I peer down and see the milk-delivery man unloading the crates of milk from his bicycle. This is good, as it means that I don’t have to ring my neighbour’s doorbell for milk.

  I open the door to my flat and wait for him to come by. When he is keeping the milk packets in the jute bag left on the door opposite by my neighbour, I call out to him.

  ‘Madam, doodh roz chahiye? Coupon doon?’ he asks.

  I tell him that I would indeed require milk every day. I ask him how much the coupons cost and hand over the amount. And then he tells me that he supplies bread and fresh eggs too and asks if I want those. I am happy at this stroke of luck and I bless him silently, as it means that my immediate need of catering to Tanya’s breakfast is taken care of.

  Just as I am shutting the door to my flat, clutching the packet of milk, bread, and eggs, I see an old lady opening the door of the flat opposite to mine. She is short, with wrinkled skin, bobbed white hair, thick glasses, and is wearing a kind of a frock. She also has a hearing aid.

  ‘Hello, dear. Have you newly moved in?’ she calls out cheerfully.

  ‘Yes, just last night,’ I reply, not wanting to make conversation, hoping that she would take a hint that I have just moved in and hence I am busy. In reality, it is just that I do not want any nosy neighbours, and especially old ladies, offering opinion on my current situation, which I feel she is most likely to do.

  ‘How wonderful to finally have a neighbour! This flat was locked for so long. Do come over if you need anything,’ she continues chirpily (a bit too chirpily for my liking). I simply nod and thank her while shutting the door.

  When I turn around, I find that Tanya has woken up and is rubbing her eyes and looking around as though she is in a dream and cannot believe where she is. Despite all my worries, I find myself smiling as I gaze at her puzzled face.

  I keep the eggs, milk, and bread on the dining table and give her a hug, carrying her to the sofa and plonking down with her in my lap.

  ‘How is your new house, baby? Like it?’ I ask.

  ‘Why have we come here, Mama? How did we come?’ she asks.

  She obviously was too disoriented to remember her midnight taxi-ride.

  ‘Mama will explain all this in the evening. You have to go to school now. Which reminds me, I have to call your bus teacher. You have a new bus route from today,’ I say, as I dial the teachers’ number.

  Five minutes later, Tanya’s travel arrangements are sorted out as the bus indeed crosses this route. The teacher has given instructions as to where it will stop and the names of two children in Tanya’s class who board the bus from the same place. I know the bus stop well, as I have grown up in this area, and I know that it is a seven-minute walk from this apartment.

  Tanya has seen me writing down the names of the children who will be in the same bus stop with her while I was speaking to her teacher.

  ‘Maaa, Nikita and Sneha are going to be there! Maa, you know what? I sit next to Nikita in class. Nikita is Sneha’s friend, but she can be my friend too. I will ask her,’ says Tanya excitedly, sorting out the politics of friendship and diplomacy inside her head. I smile again at her u
nfazed enthusiasm. Oh, to be a child of seven! Her biggest problem in life right now is how to wheedle herself in the friendship between Nikita and Sneha, and how to secure her position. The fact that her life has changed forever does not strike her at all, and I am happy for her innocence and her immediate acceptance of our new situation.

  I tell her to get ready for school, and I am glad that she is old enough to have a bath on her own. ‘Mama, where is my uniform? she asks.

  ‘In the cupboard, baby. Mama has unpacked it. Look, this section of the wardrobe is all yours, the other section is Mama’s, and this third section here is Rohit’s,’ I say, as I open the wardrobe and show her how I have neatly organized the clothes.

  ‘But Rohit has only diapers and baby clothes,’ Tanya giggles.

  I am compelled to join her.

  ‘Yeah, he is a such a baby. You are a big girl. You can even have a bath on your own,’ I say.

  ‘And also brush my hair, don’t forget,’ she adds.

  I boil the milk and busy myself with preparing breakfast. I am thankful that Tanya’s school is one of those which supplies lunch to its students.

  I check on Rohit and he is still asleep.

  Tanya comes out fully dressed, looking really smart. For a seven-year-old, she is indeed efficient and independent.

  ‘Mama, where are my school shoes?’ she asks.

  That is when I realize that I have forgotten to bring her school uniform shoes.

  ‘Oh no, baby. Silly Mama! I have forgotten to bring your shoes. They are in the other house,’ I say.

  ‘What to do now, Mummy?’ she asks in dismay.

  ‘Wear your sandals today. I will write a note explaining to your class teacher, asking her to excuse you for today,’ I say.

  Tanya agrees happily to this suggestion too; for her it is the novelty involved—she can now wear sandals to school, something which she is not usually allowed to do.

  I open Tanya’s school diary and turn to the section of ‘Parents’ Notes to Teachers’.

  I sit for a few minutes, poised with the pen in my hand, wondering how on earth to explain to her class teacher that I have hauled the kids to a different home in the middle of the night and hence forgotten the school shoes.

  Finally I write: ‘Ma’am, due to unavoidable circumstances, Tanya cannot wear her regular school shoes today. I request you to kindly excuse her for just today. She will be in the prescribed uniform tomorrow.’

  Rohit has woken up now, and I give him milk which he happily slurps.

  As I walk my daughter to her new bus-stop, in her school uniform and pink sandals, with my son perched happily on my hip, cooing at all the sights on the road, I wonder what in the world I am going to do with my life.

  Tanya spots her friends and cheerfully calls out to them, telling them that from now on, she is on this bus route as she has shifted to a new house. They squeal in unison, the typical little-girls’ squeal at otherwise trivial news which is so important and exciting for them.

  I am surrounded by people, moving cars, traffic, school children, their mothers or fathers, and the busy Mumbai traffic.

  Yet, for the very first time in my life, I feel all alone.

  Every Rose Has Its Thorn

  After Tanya leaves for school, I take Rohit and go to the supermarket nearby where I used to shop before marriage. I pick up the essential supplies and baby food and diapers for Rohit. Earlier when I shopped, I would never bother about the price. I would have loads of bags filled with grocery items, and the chauffur would carry the bags to the car. I would whip out my credit card (an add-on card to Samir’s) and pay without so much as glancing at the bill. It would all go as smooth as silk, and a trip to go grocery shopping was something I enjoyed and looked forward to. I liked to see the new products, I liked to browse, compare ingredients in each of the products, and then make an informed choice. But today, I find myself comparing the prices. I have no clue if Samir has cancelled my add-on card. I don’t want to be embarrassed at the counter in case I have no money to pay. I look into my wallet and I see that there is about twenty-two hundred rupees left. I do a quick mental addition and I see that my total bill is about nineteen-hundred rupees.

  I walk to the cash counter, hand the cashier my card, clear my throat and say casually, ‘Could you tell me if this card works? I think I might have got a wrong card. In case it doesn’t work, I’ll pay cash.’ My heart is pounding as I say this well-thought-out speech, but the guy at the cash counter of course has no clue.

  ‘Sure Ma’am, let me check,’ he says politely as he swipes the card.

  I wait with bated breath.

  ‘Sorry Ma’am, it is not accepting the card. It says it has been cancelled.’

  Even though I half expected it, it still feels like a huge slap.

  ‘Oh, okay. No problem, I’ll pay cash,’ I say, as I carefully count out the notes.

  For the very first time, I realize how it feels to be poor and to be without cash. I have just three hundred rupees left in my purse, but now my grocery supplies for at least two weeks has been taken care of. (I hope. I have no clue as I never kept a tab before on what I would buy and how long it is likely to last.)

  ‘Can I have it kept in your car, madam?’ offers the guy helpfully, glancing at Rohit perched on my hips.

  I have no car and I have no money. My husband just cancelled my credit card too.

  ‘Oh no, that’s okay. I’ll take it,’ I smile bravely, as I lug the heavy bags in one arm, with baby Rohit still perched on my hips.

  Once I reach home, I almost collapse with the effort of walking home with the bags and Rohit. My face and my whole body is covered in sweat. I am panting and puffing badly. But Rohit needs his bath. His bath time helps me calm down. It is a time which is just his and mine. It is a time he completely enjoys as he splashes in the water, giggling and chuckling. In the earlier house, he used to soak in the bathtub, but my father’s apartment (now mine) has no such luxuries. Rohit does not mind the least bit and he laughs heartily, as I lower him into a large bucket filled with lukewarm water, testing it with my elbows, checking to make sure the water isn’t too warm for him.

  Once he is asleep, I rush to the kitchen and finish the cooking really fast. I discover that it feels so different when one is cooking just for oneself and two kids. When I was with Samir, making a meal was a long-drawn process, with three elaborate courses. The cook always made it well, but I mostly had to oversee. On the days I felt like cooking (after my cookery classes, I had enjoyed cooking so much that I had started cooking a lot, just to occupy my empty hours), I would give the cook an off, and make a proper three- or four-course meal, watching in quiet satisfaction as Samir ate. Samir could never tell the difference between what the cook had made and what I had. It did not bother me and in fact, I took it as a great compliment that I was as good as, if not better than, a professional cook.

  ‘How is the dinner today?’ I would ask, as I hovered around like a mother hen, watching Samir eat.

  ‘Hmmm, it’s really nice,’ he would say in a distracted way, and I would smile a great big smile of happy satisfaction of a job well done.

  At that time it did not matter, but bringing this memory up now hurts. It is like I have scratched a long-healed wound, in the hope of making a blister. Why I do this, I don’t know. It is just that the pain of rejection has a funny way of grabbling people and kicking them again and again. The strange part is it is all self-inflicted, yet one is unable to break free.

  I think about the time when we had invited his friends for dinner and I had cooked. I think about the time when I first knew I was pregnant. I think about the time Tanya had been born. I think about all the years that I have spent with him, and even though I do not want to cry, I end up crying again. I mentally kick myself and tell myself to get a grip. Why can’t I let go and stop thinking about it?

  How can you let go of eight years? How can something wonderful change into this?

  When one has two small children, one
cannot afford the luxury of thinking too much. Each day is a mad rush to simply get the routine chores done. With young children, you cannot afford to miss a meal, you simply cannot afford to miss a nap, and playtime and bath time are sacrosanct. In a way, I am happy for the routine. It keeps depressing thoughts at bay.

  It’s almost as though the children and I are in an isolated cocoon that we have created for ourselves. Tanya wakes up, gets ready for school, and I make her breakfast and mine too. Then I wake up Rohit, and we all march to the bus stop which is all but a six-minute walk from our flat. Tanya skips ahead and I hurry to keep pace with her, with Rohit perched on my hips. By the time I come back, I am huffing and puffing with the effort, usually drenched in sweat because of the humidity and the heat of the unrelenting Mumbai sunshine. But I do look forward to these walks to the bus stop, as they gives me a chance to get out of the house and get some fresh air. I am cautious of meeting other parents at the bus stop as I am not ready to give any explanations about my situation just yet. So I keep a distance and walk back with Rohit when Tanya boards the bus.

  We do the same thing in the evening when the bus arrives. The time I am home, I mop and swab the house all by myself, as I would rather save on our already dwindling finances than employ a maid. I then bathe Rohit and finally have a bath myself. I am exhausted by the end of it all. On some days, Rohit’s nap gets delayed, and some days it is so hectic that I would not have had a bath even till evening, when I go to greet Tanya at the bus stop. On those days, Tanya watches over Rohit, while I hurriedly have a bath.

  It has been just about two weeks since we moved here, but we seem to have fallen into this familiar and comforting pattern. In a strange way, the drudgery of mundane housework is actually helping me cope with the tumultuous emotions which Samir’s betrayal has created.

  This little, insulated world we created for ourselves is disturbed one morning when the doorbell rings, just after I have come back from dropping Tanya to the bus stop. It is the old lady from across the floor. She is carrying a large glass bowl covered with aluminium foil in her arms.