In the end, the hammer-head who saw me perpetually as a
nail has done his last job: Driven the last nail into his own
coffin before he could write me off his will. Game, Set, Match! We can call it Even-Stevens. He’s safe in the cold morgue until the cremation tomorrow. Safe travels too, good Sir. Lucky are the angels who’ll get to be in the same room as you will be in, dear hubristic father-mine.
If my actions and reactions regarding this unfortunate
incident sound harsh to anyone, they do not know the half of it. Father-mine’s behaviour toward me has oft and unfailingly made me question the very purpose of my sorry existence in this world. Purportedly, he’s my father, but to me, plainly, he never was—not for a moment. All things considered, a paternity test certainly wouldn’t have been out of line. However, that ship has sailed.
Mummy cried her eyes out the entire evening. Blessed soul doesn’t know it yet that I’ve done her a good deed, rescued her from emotional slavery. One less fragile-ego-ed fella out there. Plus, she dodged a bullet. It’s obvious she didn’t eat the H-laden-C not the least because of my cleverly crafted words.
All her life, the belligerent grouch has/had ruled over her—kept her passport, her credit card, her pan card, all in the name of keeping them safely. As if Mummy is five years old. ‘Here’s your credit card Sonia, but DO NOT use it.’ ‘What are you going to do with the passport?’ ‘I’ll plan a trip, um … maybe,’ she had said this one time. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he had replied, ‘how can you—you who gets lost in a Mall?’ When they did go, sooner or later a comment such as this popped-up, ‘Hope you’re done with your silly sight-seeing. Anything else you want to tick on your agenda?’ Guilt-riddled, as if she’d committed a crime, Mummy would shake her head vehemently, ‘Of course not.’
Though in his defence, she did exact revenge in her own sneaky way. “That’s dinner.” She would point at two colocasia-leaves steamed rolls lying sadly on a plate as though waiting for a firing squad to finish them off. “You’re gaining
weight around the middle.”
A match made in heaven. Mummy and Papa.
Another conversation I recall which will give you a fair idea about the way our family worked/not-worked is as follows:
One day, right after an afternoon show Mummy suggested, “We could eat out. I didn’t make lunch.”
Papa scowled as though she had murdered someone nice.
“Aerocity has good Chinese restaurants,” she suggested.
“That’s in the other direction,” he told her.
“How about Tonino’s on MG road? My friends say it’s good Italian,” I chimed in from the back seat.
“MG road is not on the way back home,” said Daddy-dear.
“Hard-Rock-Ca—”
“Just so you know, MG road and Saket are out of the way.”
“I know Hyatt’s on the way,” said Mummy, “great Indian.”
“Can’t go to a five-star. We are not made of money. When I was your age, our frugal means—”
“Oh, please! I’ve heard that one before.” I plugged my ears
with my fingers.
“Moreover, I don’t want to give the car to a valet,” he said.
“Papa!” I threw up my hands. “It’s a Maruti Alto, not a Bentley. Not to mention the peeled-off paint and the jammed
back door.”
“Consider yourself lucky you’re in a car and not on foot,”
Papa glowered at me and then announced, “we can go to The
Chanakya Mall.”
He said that in a ‘take it or leave it’ manner. By then,
understandably, I had lost my appetite.
After a heavy silence of a minute or so, I asked, “I’m sorry, what were the choices again?”
“Hold your tongue, girl. Not another word! There are no choices. So, are we going to Chanakya?”
An absolute cracker father-mine is.
“Let’s go home,” sighed Mummy, “we can eat bread and
eggs.”
“Fine,” —he hummed a tune— “put on the radio Sonia, will you? You are the DJ,” he said as though he was crowning her.
Mummy rotated the dial and an old Hemant Kumar song played. She began to hum too.
“Not this. A new one,” he said.
Bewitched Mummy once again twirled the dial.
“Mummy, let it be. I know you like Hemant Kumar’s songs.”
She continued to change stations.
Stay miserable, for all I care. I crossed my arms and
imagined black smoke curling out of my nostrils before bursting into flames. “Stop right there,” I suddenly piped in forgetting my resentment, “it’s a new one, Papa. ‘Garaari’ by Hardeep.”
“Plain noise, in my opinion. All these Punjabi songs.” He caught hold of the dial.
I imagined the President announcing, “We award the Maha
Vir Chakra to Lieutenant Shekhar Sharma SS-62663, 18
Grenadiers for his inspirational leadership, and conspicuous
courage which were instrumental in the capture of the radio-
button during the eponymous Battle of Songs.
“Can you check the AC?” —I sniffed at my underarm— “I’ve started to sweat.”
My alleged father switched off the air-conditioning and pointed at the poor vendors outside. “Count your blessings. Look out. You aren’t the one selling lychees and melons on the roadside, in the scorching sun,” he reminded me of being God’s own child. “When I was your age… blah, blah, blah”
Of course, backing him to the hilt was Mummy. “Hear, hear,” she said.
“Ungrateful girl,” chorused the nasty couple, nodding
sagely. However peppery toward each other, in this respect, at least, this adorable couple is completely in agreement.
In that moment, I swear I could have happily sold Papa the
melon-head out to the devil. “You guys are sure you’re not
long-lost twins?” I asked spitefully while both my innards and my exterior simmered. No wonder I moped all the way home.
The Drill-Sergeant even fixed Mummy’s quota of drinks
making her queue up like a refugee for her meagre ration. ‘You made a fool of yourself yesterday. You could very well do with a week off drinks.’ Not to mention her pee breaks when watching Tata Sky. ‘Can you press pause? I don’t want to miss Salman’s song. You do know he’s my favourite contestant. Gotta to go use—’ Mummy’s saying. His answer: ‘After this song.’ Or: ‘Just so we are on the same page, we are not going anywhere. It’s Sunday, MY day.’ Now, which page is that? Your page, Papa—not your family’s. For fuck’s sake, can’t you say ‘OUR’ day? I’m sorry Diary. Generally, you know me—being old school and all, I do not stoop to using the F-word but today understandably, my emotions are raw. The day’s tumultuous ride has left me gasping for breath as though a heavy weight crushed my chest—the weight of my conscience. To hold on to my sanity I have to unload this weight: By penning his non-virtues.
Hitler reincarnated’s money is for me and Mummy to share.
Agreed, the name Tana means stem but he didn’t have to treat me literally as though I was one of his bonsais—wrapping steel wire around me that not only bent me but also cut into me leaving ugly scars. “Bend, reposition, that’s what I should be doing at all costs? Right Papa? Wrong!” I can live with not hearing, ‘Shape-up, change, bend, you as you are—that’s not good enough,’ for the rest of my life. I can live with not feeling like a nobody. What I can’t live with is—never mind what. Amen!
The martyr’s fund can wait, and Papa can join his merry
band of martyrs in hell/heaven, wherever the poor fellows are.
Not that the money he left is a ransom but at least it will make do for a while. Honestly, it’s more to do with ethics than anything else. India could learn from France’s inheritance laws which make it virtually impossible for parents to disinherit their children. Maybe I�
�ll earmark this money for shoes alone. That cracks me up. Some day Diary, I’ll tell you more about it. Had the overbearing man lived to see his grandchildren, I wouldn’t have put it past him to terrorize them too in the name of blah, blah, blah. Not that I am going to start breeding any time soon.
Papa, the killjoy, now go dole out the wisdom of your precious opinions to the angels or the devils, depending on wherever your big, bald, round humpty-dumpty-head will land. The very head’s attentive ministrations that sucked the fun out of everything. Even eating. I can still hear that imperious voice, ‘Be sure to wash the backs of your hands, between your fingers, and under your fingernails. Lather for thirty seconds, about the time it takes to sing the National Anthem.’ Not even Varun scrubs that much before stepping into the OT. ‘I’m not hungry,’ no wonder I skipped Operation Meal now and then to avoid this tomfoolery.
Mummy, finally you can live a little since the rotten-egg-
papa’s gone to live in his sanctimonious basket with a halo pasted around his cracked shell. Although, nothing can put Humpty Dumpty together again.
Good night and sweet dreams, dear Diary. I, for one, am
going to kind of overdose on these here pretty-pink-pills. Tonight, I deserve this indulgence. Generic Name: Lithium. Brand Name: Lithobid. Dosage: I don’t care. Use: Keeps me sane. Side-effects: Dissociative amnesia, hallucinations.
There’s a small matter, though. Should I be worried? Rosy caught me with my hand in the cookie jar, this afternoon. I think I got away with the cock-and-bull story I fed her about Mummy needing the distilled hemlock-seed-soup for her asthma. Is there even a thing called seed-soup? Anyway, what matters is that she doesn’t have any dots to connect. Apart from that, what are the chances they bump into each other? Nil.
In gratitude,
Tana Sharma
Ten
HUSH LITTLE BABY
DEAR DIARY
IT IS HALF past seven, on a Friday morning, in the middle of January and I write from my hostel room. A promising scenario is expected soon not the least because of my kind deed. I’ve told you often how much I like that bedroom in Mr. Patel’s Lutyens bungalow—the one that gets the morning light. If all goes well, I could possibly be waking up in it every day. Here are the minutes of the preceding night at the Lutyens bungalow.
“Wait Diary, Priyanka’s asking for a towel.”
Now, where were we? Yes. Here I go:
Late last evening, I heard a knock on the door.
“Who’s that? I’m in the bath,” I answered.
“It’s me. I came to check on her,” Mr. Patel’s voice carried though the locked bedroom door to me.
“She just slept, Sir—she’s just fine; you sure can catch up on your sleep, too.”
“You’re bathing, you said?”
“I’m totally naked, Sir. Forgot to bring in a towel,” I said.
“Should I bring you one?”
“Oh no, no, Sir. I’ll rub my body dry with this napkin here.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” he whispered, his voice wonky.
As you know, I have been his wife’s caretaker for almost
six months now. My stay as her private nurse has been by far the most comfortable phase of my life to say the least. Soft blankets, no electricity cuts, feather-pillows, and swanky washrooms where I take long, hot showers. A huge contrast from the hostel’s communal clean-ish toilets. Fresh ABC juice, that’s what the rich call it, Apple, Beetroot and Carrot—for us middle-class folks ABC are the letters of the alphabet—and five-hundred rupees a box blueberries and the like are the kind of meals I have here. That’s because I get to eat the better part of my patient’s meals, which by the way are carefully planned by the world’s top-notch dieticians to provide her the best food money can buy in terms of nutrition combined with taste. I do try really hard to feed her as well as I can, that being an integral part of my job but the poor dear has a rather weak appetite. So, it seems like a shame to let the delicious leftovers rot inside dustbins. That’s how I end up getting them.
Also, who would have thought an average next-door-type girl would get the chance to use La Mer and La Prairie creams? Plenty of those too, to help myself to off her dressing table though I do feel somewhat uneasy doing that. The nice lady encourages me to do so in her rare lucid moments. “Go on, Sister, I’m not going to use that nail polish any time soon. Don’t be shy.” Or another time when she said to me, “You’re my daughter Maya, aren’t you?” Despite my protests, she gave me a bagful of cosmetics. “I’m not gonna be around much longer. Someone might as well use them. Maya’s too young for them.”
In return, I went the extra mile taking care of her. Not only did I make sure she didn’t have a moment of discomfort, I also pestered her doctors to no end asking them to look into all promising things for a cure. Regrettably, there were none. Once Mrs. Patel knew there was no hope and a new Mrs. Patel was a foregone conclusion, she kept her eyes peeled to find a suitable girl from amongst their social circle to replace herself. My heart bled for her. “Help me find the right girl, Sister.” It most certainly wasn’t a part of my job—but Mrs. Patel insisted I had good instincts. “I trust you to find someone proper.” Soon, I was running out of reasons why I shouldn’t and couldn’t be that girl.
It’s not unheard of to dream—so to turn this into a
reality, I began to be purposefully coquettish with Mr. Patel
in preparation for the time when he is ready to choose; quite the uphill task considering that A: The flirting had to be subtle, and B: He has a strict moral code. Finally, last week I knew I had him where I wanted him to be—panting like a dog for my hoo-ha. However, Mrs. Patel had no immediate plans to go anywhere anytime soon. The doctor on house call said, “She’s
relatively young. It’s only her mind that’s going. The body’s
good.” He smiled as if that was a good thing; the poor lady is
severely depressed and hence, suicidal.
For days together she refuses to move giving her painful bedsores. Often in her sane moments she prays feverishly, “Please God, I can’t live like this. Give me shelter.” She begs of me, “Sister, I’ve heard of go-packs for those who can’t cope with life. Please have pity on me and promise me you’ll arrange one. I’ll be indebted to you. All I want is to die peacefully in my own bed, at home, surrounded by my husband and children.”
Many a night, you’re my witness, Diary, I cried myself to sleep agonizing over her debilitating affliction. I bet none of the doctors made an allowance for that, and neither did they consider the burden her condition put on the caregivers.
The family was going to pieces—the children could hardly bear to be by the bedside of the shrivelled stranger they called mother. I couldn’t bear to see their little hearts breaking when she asked them, “Do I know you? Go away. I need quiet.” Constantly they badgered their father complaining about her memory. Or lack thereof! On this topic and innumerable others, the heretofore nice children began to butt heads with their father. That wasn’t all. They were also at each other’s throats at the slightest excuse. I couldn’t live their lives for them but I could fix them given that I held the strings of this poor puppet here who was dragging them down with her. This sweet family deserved better. It was time to put the vermiculated poor Mrs. Patel out of her misery.
That being so, I set about preparing a go-pack for her by crushing all sorts of tablets—Montair-LC, Aspirin, Lomotil and mixed them up with water before feeding the paste now and then to her, spread out over the past week. Dosage: Indeterminate. Side-effects: Ooh, various ugh ones. The foamy paste that dribbled down her mouth, the spoilt-egg-roll smell that emanated from her et cetera. Best not to go into any more detail. It’s not in good taste. Use: Mercy killing. Assisted suicide. Relieving a suffering person from his/her misery in a kind manner. Medical term: Passive euthanasia. For the uninitiated, this is the act of hastening the death of a terminally-ill patient by altering some form of support and letting nature take its co
urse.
Once she was safely inside the Pearly Gates, God bless her
sweet soul, I drew a rose-petal and jasmine-oil bath, and soaked in it washing away the tears that rolled unchecked down my cheeks. Soon, I would have to break the sad news to her husband and we couldn’t have me smell like a rotten egg-roll too.
After my aromatic bath I slipped into a plunge-front
Victoria’s Secret satin negligee kissed with Chantilly lace and bought from Amazon, a slip I hoped would prove to be a smart
investment, and called up Mr. Patel, my voice panicky, “Hurry
up, Sir. She’s really, really in a bad way.”
He rushed to her bedside, held her misshapen hand and
shook his head bewilderedly at me. “I don’t understand.” Tears
streamed down his rugged face. “What good is my pharma empire?” he wailed.
Stop right there. It is good for a lot many things, beginning with fruit-platters, like-a-family-member staff person at your
service, organic home-grown vegetables… and this doesn’t
even come close to a comprehensive list, I thought before kicking myself mentally for thinking such cheap thoughts in a sombre moment such as this.
Kneeling beside him, I held his head in my hands bringing it down to my scantily covered bosom. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, I’m gonna buy you a bird,” I whispered softly.
“What?”
“Shh, Sir.”
He sighed deeply. Seconds later, he crushed me in his arms murmuring, “You smell of roses,” and I kissed a tear that trickled into the cleft in his seamed chin, if the wiggly-jiggly mass of caruncle-like-flesh could be called a chin. Doesn’t matter though—I like him, chin and all. Stop it, that’s enough, the voice in my head barked at me, Sweet Mrs. Patel’s body is barely cold. On top of that, you know you loved her. You need to mourn too. I pushed him back while managing to pull out a breast at the same time. “I’m so sorry, Sir. I’ll go get my shawl.” My breasts had swelled up, a taut pink nipple tantalisingly visible.
Without saying goodbye to Mr. Patel, that being the decent,
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 7
