Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake

by Preeti Shenoy

  ‘Good morning, dear! We haven’t properly met. I am Mrs Billimoria,’ she announces.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Billimoria. I am Nisha,’ I find myself speaking a little louder than necessary.

  ‘I can hear you my dear, my hearing aid is on,’ she smiles and points to it, and I am a little embarrassed at my presumption.

  ‘So sorry,’ I say, and then it seems a little silly to not invite her inside as I can see that is what she expects.

  ‘Err…do you want to come in?’ I ask, still a little hesitant to let anyone into our private little world.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, I’ve got some Lagan Nu Custard for you. It is a Parsi sweet dish. I think your little children might enjoy it,’ she says amiably, as she waddles slowly into my dining room (and into my life, but I am yet to know it then) and places the bowl of custard on my table.

  I find the fact that she has thought about what my children would enjoy very endearing, and I am a little ashamed of my rather stand-offish behaviour so far, where I have studiously avoided her.

  So I tell her that is indeed kind of her to have been so thoughtful and ask her if she would like to have a cup of tea. She says she will take a rain check on it and invites me over to her place. She then peeps into the bedroom and gazes at Rohit who is fast asleep. Rohit does look angelic with his black curls framing his rather large forehead and that smooth, soft baby skin.

  A huge smile stretches over Mrs Billimoria’s face and she says, ‘God bless, my dear. Those who have children are indeed blessed.’

  Her statement really makes me feel good, something that I haven’t felt in a long time.

  ‘I agree,’ I say softly, as I see her off to the door.

  ‘And oh, before I forget,’ she says, ‘There is a bunch of letters that have arrived over a couple of years. I have held on to them, meaning to hand them over whenever I see someone in this flat. Are you the owner or the tenant here?’ she asks.

  ‘I am the owner, and I’ll collect them when I give you back the custard bowl. Thanks so much,’ I say.

  She waves an acknowledgement and then she is off.

  I cautiously taste the custard as soon she is gone. It is delicious! I am certain that Tanya will love this little treat when she comes back from school. I am happy that she has not pried at all about why I am here. Maybe all old ladies are not really nosy as I had first assumed. I am suddenly thankful for Mrs Billimoria’s interference in our daily routine.

  But regular routines can only so much as take a ripple or two in them, especially now that I am a single parent. My immediate problem is that of cash. I definitely do not want to call Samir and take his handout money for my monthly expense. I am too proud and too independent for that.

  I remember the bank account that I maintained when I used to work at Point to Point. I had not operated it ever since I got married, which means that money has not been touched for eight years now. Somehow as soon as I got married, Tanya soon arrived, and after that too there was no real need for me to use it, as Samir had given me the add-on card. Now I want to revive that account and I want to know how much money there is.

  I make a call to the bank and am told that the account has turned dormant. When I ask what it means, the guy at the other end says ‘Ma’am, once an account turns inactive or dormant, you can’t perform several operations.’

  He explains that that in case of an inactive account, you cannot request that a cheque book be issued. After two years of being inactive, the account turns dormant. You can’t request that the address be changed, the signature be modified, a joint holder be added or deleted, or an ATM or debit card be renewed. You will also not be able to withdraw money from an ATM or carry out any transaction through internet banking or a branch of the bank. However, the interest gets accrued and continues to get credited over time.

  I ask him what I should do to make the account active again and he says that I will have to go to the bank and fill up a formal application, giving a letter stating the reason for absence and also supplying a proof of identity.

  I tell him that I will be there in half an hour and set out, carrying baby Rohit. The distance is too short to take a cab but too long to walk with baby Rohit in my arms. But I have no choice and two hours later, all the formalities are done. My ATM card would be given to me after two days and I am really happy because I never expected so much money to be there in my account. I have about two lakh rupees and one thousand in cash, with the interest included. I am glad that I saved up on almost all my earnings, except for the rare shopping binges for clothes, before I married Samir. Two lakhs is a tidy sum indeed, and my immediate problem of getting cash for daily expenses without having to ask Samir is temporarily solved. I don’t even know how much money I would need in a month to run a house because I have never had to really bother about money since my marriage. I realize now how much I had really changed when I married Samir. It was as though I had handed over the financial reins to him while simply taking a backseat. I had been content to do so.

  I was too blind then, too euphoric, and too caught up in that magic world of newlyweds, where nothing matters but the two of them. Samir too had never mentioned the word money, as he had always wanted me to have the best of everything.

  ‘Nisha, I want you to have all that your heart desires, because you deserve it,’ he had said, as he had given me the add-on credit card.

  My ATM card arrives in two days as promised, and even though for thousands of people who have bank accounts, it is a routine matter where they don’t even think twice, it is a big moment for me. I finally have my own money. I treat it with reverence and carefully put it away in my purse. At that moment, that is my dearest possession, apart from my children.

  The children and I have settled into our new lives now. Tanya had of course demanded an explanation as to why we were here.

  ‘Baby, sometimes two grown-up people have a fight. Then they live separately. Your papa and I have had a fight,’ I say.

  ‘So we will not go back to the big house?’ she asks innocently.

  ‘No, this is our home for now. Do you like it? I lived here as a little girl. Your mama has grown up in this house.’

  ‘It is nice, Mummy, but the other house is really nicer,’ she says with piercing honesty that only children are capable of.

  ‘I know, baby. We will do up this house also nicely, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Mummy. But I have to ask you something. Why didn’t you say sorry to Papa?’ she asks with hands on her hips.

  ‘I tried baby, I tried my best, but he would not listen,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I know Papa will come after some time and pick us up and say sorry to you,’ she says with certainty.

  There is a lump in my throat, as I turn and blink away the tears.

  Samir’s call comes after about twenty days of settling into our new home, shattering the serenity and calmness of the routine that I had woven around the children and me. It is like a huge boulder that has been thrown into a placid lake.

  My palms go cold when I see his name flashing on my screen. My heartbeats increase. A thin film of sweat appears on my forehead. I had tried so much to talk to him earlier and he had repeatedly ignored. I am too hurt and upset. Why should I talk to him now?

  I ignore his call and continue with my cooking. He calls again. And then, again.

  This time I pick up the call, and before he has a chance to say anything, I say ‘Fuck off, bastard, and leave me and my children alone.’ Then I hang up and switch off the mobile, my hands trembling as I do so.

  I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction in having done this. I do know that the money I have will not sustain me forever, but I also know that I do not want even a penny from him from now on.

  I am determined to raise my children with my money. He can truly fuck off from my life and be with his Maya or whoever his floozy is.

  I make myself a cup of tea and call up Chetana.

  ‘Hey babe! How nice that you called! How are you?
How are Tanya and Rohit?’ she askes chirpily.

  ‘Not so good yaar, I have moved out. Samir has left me,’ I say, and my words feel like pellets of lead rolling off my tongue.

  There is a stunned silence at the other end as she tries to make sense of what I have just told her.

  ‘You are not joking or playing the fool, are you?’ she asks finally in a small voice, hoping that I would tell her it is a joke.

  ‘I am in my dad’s house. It’s been nearly three weeks since I moved here. Well, actually it is my house now,’ I say, forcing a little laugh.

  ‘Nisha, I am truly shell-shocked. I want to come and meet you, but Dhruv will be coming back from school shortly.’

  Tanya had met Dhruv many times, and even though he was a year younger, they had got along so well, with Tanya going into the protective ‘mummy mode’ that little girls so often do, and Dhruv meekly following anything she ordered, happy to be led. Chetana and I had spent many happy hours watching our children play together, as we sipped our iced teas and chatted and relaxed.

  Chetana too, like me, had quit working as soon as she got married. She was content, just as I had been, being a mother and a homemaker. How happy we had been then. The only difference was she was still content, but my life had changed drastically now.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, I am fine really,’ I say.

  Then I tell her that I have to hang up as I have many things to do by myself now, with no domestic help at my disposal.

  She asks why I haven’t hired a maid. I do not feel like telling her about my money issues. If I do not hire a maid, my little stash will last that much longer. I don’t feel like brandishing my newfound poverty in front of her, especially since I am being pig-headed in not accepting Samir’s money. Besides, it is nothing to be proud of. I know that Chetana, being the practical one, will simply advise me to take the money Samir is offering. I do not want to deal with that right now.

  Also, partly I am somewhat disappointed that she did not immediately come and see me. Of course I know that she has to be around when Dhruv comes home from school, but she does have her mother-in-law staying with her, she has a full-time live-in maid, and I do know that on a number of occasions in the past, she has left Dhruv behind and gone on overnight trips with her husband. So it is not like Dhruv cannot manage without her. Also, she could have brought Dhruv along and come over, once he came from school. Somehow I feel hurt, because I truly expected her to drop everything and come over, as I would have done the same for her, had our positions been reversed. I don’t know if I am being extra sensitive about all this because of what happened between Samir and me, but all I know is that I am tired of feeling alone. I am tired of being brave.

  I do not want anyone to offer quick-fix solutions simply because such solutions do not exist. It is my battle and I have to deal with it alone. All I need is someone to just hold my hand and tell me it will all be well. It would have mattered a lot had Chetana just come over. I feel let down.

  I sit for a while in my father’s armchair, thinking all about it, and then after a long time I decide what to do.

  I call up Akash.

  November Rain

  It is 8.20 p.m. when Akash rings my doorbell, soaking wet from head to toe. The Mumbai rains are notorious, and even though I had assured him that I am indeed okay, he said he was coming over right then. It has taken him six whole hours to get from Fort (where his office is located) to my place. On normal days, it would have taken a mere half an hour, but just a few hours of torrential rains have ensured that Mumbai has come to a screeching halt.

  It had started pouring just after Tanya came back from school, and I had immediately called up Akash, assuring him that I was fine and begging him not to set out in the rain. He had told me he wouldn’t and had asked me not to worry. I had believed him and forgotten about it then, as Tanya had excitedly started telling me that she had bagged a main part in her school play. She said she had been selected to play the part of ‘Puss’ in the story Puss in Boots. She animatedly explained the whole story to me and I had watched her in rapturous delight, revelling in maternal pride. It is strangely a universal phenomenon that once you become a mother, you feel overjoyed even at the smallest achievement of your offspring. I guess in many ways, I was living my childhood through my daughter. Everything that I was not as a child, she was. She was smart, popular, outgoing, had tons of friends, and eagerly took part in everything at her school. I as a child was socially withdrawn, taunted, bullied, and never made friends. I am so happy for my daughter and I hug her. I tell her that tonight’s bedtime story would be Puss in Boots, to which she claps in delight and throws her arm around me and tells me, ‘Ma, you are the loveliest and best mummy in the whole world.’ I live for such moments. I really do.

  So when Akash had rung the bell, interrupting our Puss in Boots, I was totally taken by surprise. For a few seconds, I just stood and stared as though I was seeing an apparition.

  ‘Nisha! You have a visitor!’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘Oh my God! Akash! I told you not to come.’

  ‘Mama, who is ringing our doorbell?’ calls out Tanya from the bedroom.

  ‘It’s Akash, baby. Go to sleep now, you have school tomorrow,’ I tell her.

  ‘Hi Akash,’ she calls out chirpily from her bed.

  ‘Hi angel,’ he responds with affection.

  When she had started learning how to speak, I had asked Akash whether he wanted to be called Akash Mamu or Akash Uncle and he had been horrified. ‘Please, Nisha! I don’t want to be a mamu or chacha or even an uncle! I am five years younger than you!’ And he had insisted that Tanya address him by his first name.

  ‘But you haven’t finished the story, Mummy,’ Tanya tries feebly to postpone her bedtime by a few more minutes. What children have against sleep, I do not know. It is as though she will miss out a part of some great action, drama, which is happening without her.

  ‘Lights are off, baby, and you know the rules when lights are off. Sleep now. I will read it to you again tomorrow,’ I say, as I shut the door.

  Akash is shivering now from the cold, his teeth are chattering, and he is slowly making a puddle on the floor of my drawing room.

  ‘Good Lord, Akash, I’d have given you a hug, but you are dripping wet. Let me get you a towel,’

  ‘Arre! What is the use of a towel? I need to get out of these clothes.’

  ‘Haan baba, but I don’t have any men’s clothes. I don’t even have a bathrobe.’

  ‘I can sit here in a towel,’ he smiles.

  ‘Shut up! You can wear my nightgown if you don’t mind,’ I say.

  ‘Hahahaha, yeah sure, and I can transform into Akash the drag queen. Muuuuah baybee,’ he says in a fake accent and a throaty voice, as he pulls a face and blows a kiss.

  I laugh.

  ‘Actually, you can wear my track pants and a tee. The track pants might be short but at least it will be better than the laced nightgown,’ I say.

  Akash is much taller than me. He is about 5’11’ whereas I am 5’4’. So my track pants end just above his ankles. He wears it with my bright pink T-shirt which has two teddy bears and a large red heart in the centre and pretty white flowers all over, even though it is much too short for him. I laugh at the sight of him dressed in my clothes. Then I go over and give him a big hug. More than him, I need the hug.

  I am so grateful for his company, so moved that he came all the way in the rain.

  ‘Have you had dinner?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I ate a two-course meal while wading knee-deep in Mumbai’s streets filled with water,’ he says.

  ‘Very funny. Thanks for sending me on a guilt trip.’

  ‘Come on, Nisha. I came because I wanted to come. And yes, I am hungry. Do you have any food?’

  ‘No Akash. I cook just enough for the kids and me. But it’s okay; let me rustle up something for you. We can talk in the kitchen,’ I say.

  ‘This is quite a nice flat actually,’ he says, as he foll
ows me into the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, if you do not mind the paint peeling off the walls, the floor which is old and worn, and the rickety old furniture, then yeah, it’s nice. This is where I grew up,’ I say.

  I remember the time when Akash and Chetana had first met me after my marriage, and how impressed they had been with the opulent house. Compared to that, this place must be feeling like a real dump to him.

  But in a strange way, I am quite proud of it.

  There is an awkward silence between us now, as we both do not know what to say about my situation. I don’t want to cry in front of Akash. It is still hard for me to talk about it.

  Akash senses it and keeps quiet, as he watches me julienne the carrots and slice the garlic and the spring onions.

  Ever since the children and I moved here, I have been experimenting with all kinds of cooking. Tanya is as eager as me to try out any new thing I make, and my fridge is always full of fresh vegetables, cilantro, herbs, cheese, and any other ingredient that catch my fancy at the supermarket when I go shopping.

  ‘Wow, you chop like a pro!’ he exclaims.

  ‘Wait till you taste it,’ I smile as I boil the noodles just right and run them under cold water so that they do not stick. If they are overcooked, they become a sticky, globulous mess.

  ‘So, how has life been post IIM?’ I ask. Akash had managed to crack the CAT exam the year I got married. He was delighted when he was placed in Hindustan Unilever (back then it was called Hindustan Lever Limited) on the very first day of his campus recruitment. He had stuck to the same company.

  ‘Yeah, I can’t complain. I got my promotion last month. I am now in the middle-management level and guess what I am? A “lister”,’ he says. He explains that listers are those people who have the potential to become future leaders in the organization and are the chosen ones for a fast-track growth in their career.

  I am really happy for him.