“Wind it in. Can we not be so morbid? I’ll live.” I match
her stare determinedly. “Comes with the territory.”
“Are you insane?”
“Don’t ask me. You know me. You’re the pro.”
“Well then, you asked for it. You … are … out … of … your … stupid mind.”
“I’ll get through this,” I continued to support my stance, “I know I can make it work.”
“And you know, how? Look at you—marinating in self-
torture. Where’s our sturdy stem with healthy roots? Our tana?
Our strong tana is slowly breaking, I can sense … a broken
stem,” says Priyanka philosophically. “Say something, Rosy.”
“Pri’s right. It’s not good to hold in things,” says Rosy, the
curious cat.
“I said I have a plan. Anyhow, I’m married. That’s how married people are.” I stir uncomfortably.
“No they aren’t.”
The two of them watch me sceptically.
“Look, as much as I appreciate your fairy-godmothers
routine, I am old-fashioned—till death do us part kind. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Just tell us what’s going on and we will let you be.”
“It’s difficult to tell … something to do with um,” —I lower my eyes— “rough sex.”
“What?” Rosy’s eyes pop out. “Look Tana, we are all
adults here. All. I am here if you wanna talk,” she says, hungry
for a salacious story.
In response, I examine my nails for the longest time.
Someone cuts short my inspection by thrusting a cup in my
hands. Gotta be Pri-the-serial-tea-maker.
“If it’s cold I can go nuke it,” she breaks the awkward
silence, “well?”
“I can change him,” I say lamely.
“That’s the plan?” “What’s he doing to you?” “You are
sick.” Both girls speak one over the other.
“Yes, I am. Stop fussing,” I tell them emphatically.
“We will if you talk to Dr. Varun.”
After a lot of um-ing and er-ing, I give in. “Okay,” I
mumble in agreement.
The girls keep on pinning me with their stern stares.
“Now what? I said I’ll go to the psych ward. I’ll talk to Varun.”
“I think that psycho husband of yours needs to visit the
psych ward.”
“It’s gonna be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” spits out Priyanka.
“Are you my mother?”
“I’m not, but Auntie is. So, talk to her at least. What does
she have to say about all this?” she waves her hands at my battered face.
“Mummy’s left Delhi without a word—so, she hasn’t said
nothing about anything,” I tell her truthfully. “She didn’t
approve of um…” What I wouldn’t give to have her back.
“There you go. Have you thought of seeing a bereavement
counsellor?”
“Why?”
“For God’s sake, Tana! One after the other you’ve kinda
lost both your mother and father,” said Pri. “Auntie’s not contacted you … still … am I right?” She grabbed the collar of her shirt before peeping down her neck. “You’ve given me the angriest rash ever— the kind that’ll swell into pus filled blisters. Allegra can’t handle it, maybe even Avil cannot. Look, look. Here, check it out,” she bends down to show me aggravated red spots.
I quickly avert my eyes. “I’ll pass, thank you.” Once again, I study my nails and murmur, “You are right. But what I need is space.”
“Space? Why?”
“To heal …” I say sheepishly.
And then she makes her usual hourly statement, “I’ll make
you a fresh cup of sweet masala tea.” She adds importantly, “you will get a pink strawberry biscuit, too,” as though she’s
offering a pink tourmaline.
“Mine’s black. No sugar,” says Rosy.
Priyanka gives her a dark look.
“What,” she asks, “is that a crime? Asking for tea? You
didn’t give me the first cup either. Only to Tana…”
“She’s the one who needs fixing,” says Pri, “duh!”
“And we don’t? Traumatized witnesses?”
“Touché!” Pri goes to get tea.
Despite everything, the hot tea warms my cockles. Little
things, little joys. That’s all I need. I force myself to smile.
This is what Sadguru recommends we practice: Smile and half your troubles vanish.
“Nice tea,” I say, scalding my long nose. “Pri, Rosy, do
swing by some day for tea.” I look up from my cup to watch
Priyanka’s reaction. She doesn’t disappoint me.
Clapping as though she’s won the lottery, she asks,
“Really? At Lutyens bungalow?”
“Where else?” I smile proudly.
“We thought you’d never ask,” both speak together, at once
exchanging meaningful smiles.
“Tomorrow then? Four o’clock? Wow! Wow! LBZ’s famous Annual-Afternoon-Tea party,” whoops Pri exuberantly.
“You knew about this party?” asks Rosy accusingly.
“Like you didn’t!” retorts Pri.
“`Social front abuzz with activity`—that’s what my horoscope read.” Smiles Rosy. “Told ya, astrology’s based on solid science.”
I frown, already regretting the invite. “I said, some day.
Tomorrow could be tricky.” Bunch of old ladies dying to go to
a tea-party—If you ask me I hate these silly get-togethers.
“Tana!”
“Oh, well okay.” I know I’ve put my foot in my mouth,
and now nothing I say or do could keep Pri away.
“I’ll tell you all, I mean all about Sister Rita’s affair over tea,” promises Rosy, perhaps in an endeavour to lock-in the
invite. “Every torrid, tiny detail. Stay tuned.”
I sigh pleasurably in anticipation of hearing juicy gossip.
The pleasure is short-lived though. Dr. Varun’s voice
breaks up our cosy coalition, “Sister Tana, you do know Mr.
Kumar’s a paraplegic. His limbs aren’t going to fix
themselves.”
“Yes, Doctor.” I scamper off, holding on tenaciously to
my smile.
That night, the majestic 39-Lutyens bungalow stands
cloaked in a red-and-white-striped circus tent in my dream.
“Whoosh!” Shobha Didi broke the air as she cracks a whip. At the command, Vikram jumps on to a tightrope, grasps it between his big and second toe and walks, while playing a game of Tetris on his phone. Now and then he touches the forward pointing end of his bushy brow, tipping in salutation. Phoolvati, the joker in the ruffle-collared, super-stretched costume and a face painted in white, juggles photo-frames and soaked almonds.
Splaying the air, I dive down from the trapeze to catch one of the flying almonds.
“Look, Papa, your daughter’s acrobatic skills—”
Drenched with sweat after a rigorous exercise session,
father-mine, however, is busy preening himself in front
of a mirror. “In my opinion, I’ve probably sweated out two kilos of fluid. Shekhar Sharma, you are great.” Mother-mine pirouetted out of a magician’s hat, holds her skirt, bends her
knees, and curtsies to Papa.
PART TWO
__________
THE DIARY
Eight
BAA BAA BLACK SHEEP
DONNING GLOVES, I PICK UP the Diary. “Hey, what’s that?” I spot an ink mark on the eye of the face painted on the cover. “Don’t worry, sit tight,” taking out a fine-grit sandpaper from the paper restoration kit, I rub i
t gently on the stain. “See, you’re all good. Nicely exfoliated.” I brush away the dust with a soft brush, all set to pen down my thoughts.
DEAR DIARY
IT IS A quarter past eight, on a Monday morning, early January and I write while seated in the gutted Miss Grizella in our nurses’ hostel room.
You look so very pretty today. The scrub did you good. Bright-shiny-eyes, a cute-button-nose and a rose-bud-mouth! Everyone says I could give Snow-White a run for her money but it’s you pinkalicious who is the real beauty. What would I do without you? I can’t wait to unlock you, pour my thoughts out of my brain into the ink that leads to the tip of the pen which then drips on to your body. Life-giving drip. Life-saving drip. It gives you life and saves mine. I’ve known myself to plunge into an abyss of oblivion for days on end without ever finding out what happened until I found you. This symbiotic association is what keeps me associated to the real world. Now let’s talk about the past hour—not one of my best. Here is what happened.
Mummy called up. “Papa wants to speak to you.”
“Not now, Mummy.”
“Now is all he’s got. All day today and tomorrow he has this really interesting ‘Herb Show’ he’s judging. Believe me, you need to hear this. Here.”
Sadly, Papa the blimp broke some pretty heavy news to me. “The martyr fund wins. I’m putting it in the will tomorrow,” bleated the black sheep of our family.
Seriously Papa? You could have knocked me over with a feather. Each time my father opens his mouth, he overwhelms credibility. I don’t care if the fire-eater saved Kargil, and if he’s now out with all guns blazing to save the world. Save your little girl, you son of a B, and look what he is doing—making me swear. That’s what the oversized behemoth slaved all his life for? The martyr fund? Bypassing his own child? That’s downright wicked! Is that parent-like behaviour? Why is he hell bent on torpedoing my life? Naïve-me believed he would have taken a bullet for me just as he took one for Kargil. Dumbo Tana. Instead, he continues to murder indiscriminately—pulls the pin out of the grenade and drops it happily on top of his own unsuspecting family, blasting their nice brains into confetti.
Papa, you started the war. Surgical strike number one—that’s all you. Another badge of honour goes up on your uniform for the tactical surprise. That’s what you hanker after—applause, audience. Strike number two—Boom! That’s going to be me.
Sickening as it may sound, people are unknowable—can’t
trust anyone. Despite the way my father treated me all my life,
a small part of me always chose to believe he cared. Now I know better. The grim truth is unsheathing itself from the scabbard before cruelly backstabbing me.
And what is the point, for God’s sake, of all those
fairy-tales in which every girl comes into money, little or more, by marriage or inheritance? Making us believe someone, somewhere cares.
I respect him wholeheartedly but he sure doesn’t deserve half of it in view of his cold-blooded decision. The martyrs are dead and buried. Does he expect the money to jolt them back to life? Well, newsflash: Going by simple science, a defibrillator cannot start a long-dead stopped heart. How exactly will the money serve the dead? On the contrary, I didn’t die. Here I am—alive and kicking and apparently invisible to him.
So, understandably, for a moment there I lost my voice along with a whole lot of respect for him. Middle path, Tana, middle path, I reminded myself.
“Tana, you there? I’m sorry though not really, because in my opinion—”
“Don’t be, Papa. It’s your hard-earned money and a will
should exactly be that. Your will to give your money to
whomsoever you please,” I said, a bit of a grudge creeping into
my voice. I did not want that. I tried hard to sound normal
though all I wanted to do was to rip the rusty old geezer’s
tongue out through the phone. No, no one could know my
innermost feelings considering the idea that brewed in my
head. After all, Priyanka had ears and a bird-brain, too.
Mummy had mentioned the ‘The Herb Show’. An interesting show, she had called it. I call it a positively providential one.
The shameless-rough-tough-alpha male went on, “I sure am glad this will help those folks to live an honourable life. Like I do. The way I have conducted my life. With family I can extoll my virtues—cannot do it with othe—”
Really? I think you shout it from the roof tops this thing that you do: ‘I, me, myself’. It isn’t unknown for you to flagrantly pander to your inflated ego. Plus, I know you’re a credit hogger by birth, by nature, and by profession. I continued to listen with half an ear while churning my brains to come up with a plan.
“—deservedly so,” he was saying. “Maha Vir Chakra Lieutenant Shekhar Sharma, you are great.”
Can’t believe you just said that. “True that, true that.”
“Oh, by the way, once again, I received a bunch of flowers from an anonymous person.” He laughed heartily.
No one gives a shit. “A secret admirer, I suppose?” I cocked
my head and snored.
“Most likely it’s got to be someone from a martyr’s family;
probably one of the beneficiary’s of my will.” As an
afterthought he added, “As for you, in my opinion, adversity
will make you stronger. Every cloud has a silver lining.”
Die! Double die, pretentious airbag! Do not tell me this murky cloud can have any kind of silver lining. Though still floundering, I said, “Don’t worry, Sir.”
How come I wasn’t rendered speechless? How come platelets in my throat didn’t rush to the scene and clump together to prevent these subservient words from belching forth my mouth? How come clots didn’t obstruct my vessels and choke off my voice?
Might I suggest that you stop feeding me this line of crap, Papa? Martyrs deserve this, and I deserve adversity … blah, blah. Mummy, are you in a coma? If there ever was a time to speak up your mind, it’s now.
At long last, a plan was in place: Game on.
Then Mummy had shown a vague interest in my ‘nurse of
the year’ plaque. That had cheered me up making it possible
for me to collect myself and laugh. Mummy heard the chuckle and so did Pri. I don’t know how it sounded to them but I do know that it had been a mirthless one—one born partially out of hysteria. “The results are out tomorrow. For luck, I am sending a cupcake to you in the evening.”
No sooner did I say those words, than the grudge I
harboured against Papa, changed course targeting me.
Mercurial, I should say but justified considering A: The plan that had just hatched in my brain, and B: The fact that I have a conscience.
The plan entails that the hours of my father’s life are now
numbered. He is living on borrowed time. Decades of painstakingly slow and earnest pleading to the powers that be to rid me of this dark shadow chasing the life out of me is finally hurtling toward a logical resolution. Ideally, I preferred any other means to this end—that’s why the grudge against myself. Be that as it may, we can’t always have our way. Ask me—my childhood is fraught with case in points.
Socrates died from poison hemlock, didn’t he? It shouldn’t be difficult to help myself to a few seeds from the lab, and later pin the blame on The Herb Show if found out. Thankfully, that there is a big ‘if.’ Mummy’s sugar-levels are spiking currently; so, she will not touch it. I shudder to say any more. Wait, I can’t leave that to chance—I’ll speak to her again, I thought as I plonked down on the beastly leather armchair I call Miss Grizella. Scratchy stuffing extruding out of an open seam on the back grazed my bare neck. Feeling an inexplicable surge of fury, I got up and pulled out Miss Grizella’s entrails until it stood empty. Exhausted, I thudded back into the disembowelled chair in a daze, put my feet up on the shabby ottoman and as you can see Diary, I began to write. You feel the nib di
gging rather furiously into you, right?
So, Papa, the soldier, there’s no point fighting anymore.
Your daughter has grown—and boy, is she seizing her moment. You chose to be a parent—took on the obligation but shirked the responsibility. Honourable Tana Sharma condemns you to death for subjecting your only child to mental harassment and psychological abuse. In my opinion, if you don’t approve, so be it.
Sincerely,
Tana Sharma
P.S. By the way, remember Diary, we thought this pen had broken. Happy to say it hadn’t. Not broken but bent.
SADGURU RECOMMENDS SURROUNDING SELF WITH positive energy and loving words. In an attempt to follow his advice, that night I put myself to sleep not with pills but with positive words intending to soothe my tattered nerves. “One day, it’s not going to matter how he lived or died. Tani, oh my Tani, I love you no matter what, even if your family does not,” I tell myself, and then I suddenly alter my voice till it sounds like a small girl’s, “Thank you, Mommy Diary.
Nine
HUMPTY DUMPTY
MY DEAR DIARY
IT IS a quarter past twelve as I write from my parents’ (theoretically, they are my parents) apartment at Daryaganj, Purani Dilli with only one of my parents present. Early this morning, I wrote about my father’s disturbing call to me. And now once again, I put pen to paper on this cold night to narrate his tale of depravity and to explain why he is missing.
Before I proceed, may I say: Much appreciation for existing. If it weren’t for you, I would neither recognize myself nor my life. For instance, after last month’s overdose I had no recollection of the events of my life in the couple of days before the misadventure. Flipping through you, I knew. That’s why, I have to be this diligent secretary day in and day out writing the minutes of each day. Can’t imagine what amnesiacs go through not knowing. It’s important, isn’t it? To know, to understand. You’re my messiah.
Knowing what I know, and saddened as I am by the lethal effects of my father’s follies, I have to talk to someone and again, you are the only one. Oh God, I’m knackered and so is poor Mummy. She’s sleeping right next to me. I’ll stay with her for a couple of days—at least till the prayer meeting, I guess. She’s asked me to read at it.
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 6
