So, to sum up, I would happily have put up with everything
if only A: he wasn’t so very miserly, and B: he was at times man enough to side with me when I lock horns with the purple-
pincered-scorpion whose life’s sole mission by the way is to
keep Vikram’s coffers brimming.
Now, I can’t expect me to live like that. A divorce on
grounds of physical abuse will get me a tidy sum despite the
prenup. I know. I read up. Soon I’m going to lawyer up too.
Live and let live. To each his own. Fill up your gilded cage with potatoes, tomatoes, and mangoes but let me go fly off to live a life with no regrets. Scrape the bottoms of woks, barrels, and pressure-cookers; eat the pea peels cooked in stale walnut oil if you must but leave me alone. Polish the grey out of your lips with the almond-peel scrub all you want but again, I beg of you, leave my pink buds free to blossom.
Last weekend when Didiji was away visiting a sick relative, for a moment there, like a fool I thought life could be different; different as in good-different without the snake guarding our home and hearth. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Vikram proved to be worse with his rules—practically aiming to convert me into a slave, trying to get away with it by cunningly christening me with the fancy euphemism, Superwoman. Like I said, I would have put up with all this and more if only he wasn’t in the habit of at first dissecting and then disseminating my life so fastidiously. I’m done. I’m pulling out.
Now, the thing is I’m running out of time. A few months
from now, Didiji’s going to take an entire month off to crawl
back under her rock in Orissa to spend some time with her
mysterious hatchlings of whom no one has ever seen a single
picture of—I, for one, strongly suspect she’s a virgin—and Vikram expects me to take a coinciding leave from work. It’s one thing blitzing a yoghurt-fresh-fruit-smoothie for myself and quite another to roll out a proper spread for the whole kit and caboodle. My God, how the sweet children run through food like termites. Touchwood! God bless their growing bones and growing appetites. However, I can’t handle it. I have to escape before the like-family-cook leaves. What sort of a billionaire doesn’t have a spare cook—he ought to be on top of the recipient list for a donor chef. He says he’s counting on me. My sincere apologies Sir, you will have to count me out! After the trying day I’ve had today, thanks to my new family members, I am more convinced than ever before.
A brief sketch of this morning, around eight a.m.:
“I’m getting late, Vikram. Mr. Kumar’s physiotherapy is
scheduled at half past nine.”
Cupping a breast, he kissed it, his breath hot.
“By the way baby, I’ve run out of money.” I ruffled his
greasy hair. “Could you … um …” Deliberately, I left the
sentence incomplete.
He in turn left my body parts alone and shot a disapproving
glance at me. “Don’t misunderstand me but a high five-figure stipend a month is a handsome amount by all accounts. Plus, all that shagun money … what did you do with it?”
I blew a fuse. My God, did he just say what I think he said?
Like a bloody employee, do I have to explain I bought gifts for the children, flower-seeds for the garden, a washing-machine cover from Amazon etcetera, etcetera? And he’s a billionaire? Pauper number one; as poor as a Church mouse. His name should be crossed off any such rich-man-list or for that matter any ‘man’ list. Eunuch! Should have known better than to believe owning a broad bungalow guarantees broadness of mind.
Furious, I screamed, “You’ve got money to burn. Why do you care? Do you want me to grovel?” A spray of spit flew out my mouth.
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow as if he expected
me to read his mind.
That’s the point in time when the lateral frontal pole prefrontal cortex in my brain began to do its job—strategic
planning; telling me to compartmentalise my life till a proper plan’s in place. As a result, I cooled down.
“Maybe I need to earn your trust more, earn my place in this family,” I spoke slowly as though I were a wise old lady.
Vikram stood up. “There you go. Be a superwoman in the
house, with the children, the staff and with,” —he winked
while pointing at his crotch— “and you can have the world. Nothing like a tight pussy to exercise the old muscle.”
“Baby, I do not have super powers like those avengers,” I
said. “Neither am I in the trade of a whor—”
A loud knock on the door interrupted my speech. I walked
to the door. “No, goodbye kiss, klutzy clod?” he called out
after me.
See? All those injuries I inflict on myself; he has come to
believe I’m this accident-prone girl who bruises easily. And
then, if memory serves me right, we argued a bit about a trip to
Bangkok that sat invitingly on our to-do list. I’m absolutely
knackered and it’s only nine a.m., I thought before finally
opening the door to bolt for freedom.
That was not to be. I was in for a dreaded vis-à-vis with the
fearsome homemaker. “Fight if you must but can you lower your voice,” Shobha Didi, the World Wide Web’s best homemaker tried to look past me, “the children are at that age …”
“Not fighting, er … just fooling around.” I turned my head to glare at Vikram before spinning around. “Didi, have the children left? I totally forgot.” Diary, you know it—I hadn’t forgotten. A headache brewed in my noggin and I couldn’t possibly have survived the puppies’ boisterous chatter all the way to the school. I make enough sacrifices to last several life-times. For devil’s sake, I hit myself—not easy. I’m like a hair’s breadth away from a mental collapse.
“Yash was disappointed,” said Shobha Didi, “Maya was
pretty much gutted. That’s how little girls are. She cribbed
about it all the time while dressing up. Children are fragile.”
She gave a cluck of impatience. “Excuse me,” she said, trying
to walk into the room.
“Sorry, am I in your way?” I grated my teeth. I hated it
when she charged into my bedroom like a mad bull.
“I said, excuse me.”
“No, you excuse me.” I stood ground, blocking her way.
She forced her way inside. “Oh, Saab, Guru Ma Radhey
Radhey Shri Shri called. Does elevenish work for you? On
Sunday?”
“Mm-hmm,” Vikram gave his assent.
“So, basically, can you not do that again?” She spun around
to tell me.
Basically, can you just disappear from here and reappear if you must, in the back of beyond? “Can I what not?” I egged her on.
“Lead them on; them dear kids. Don’t forget.”
And you don’t forget your place; you’re not the boss of my voice’s volume or my time, I thought. Why the hell is everyone treating me as though I were still an employee? Have they forgotten I graduated from Sister Tana to Mrs. Sucking-the-sausage-Patel? I am not Cruella, the stepmom she is making me out to be. The darling kids are adorable—I’m gonna play scrabble with them tonight. The very same scrabble I bought along with several other games with that money the Finance Minister is asking me to account for. I’m not gonna stoop to his level and start listing the purchases. Keep guessing and fretting, you all! The thing is I’m a polite person—that’s my shortcoming. It’s only when I write and/or when I’m high that I am brave enough to make accusations and/or air my grievances. Aloud, I said, “I’ll remember that, Shobha Didi.”
“In there is a jalapeño baguette.” She held a Tupperware box protectively and proudly as though she’d packed a gold coin in it and in return I needed to put her on a pedestal or something. “Fresh bread. Do te
xt me by five-ish if you’re not eating at home. Yesterday’s food in the casserole went all bad. The tray was left out in the heat. That reminds me—you’ve still not set the trays. Also, Phoolvati wants you to sort out your clothes in the laundry room in a timely manner. Separate them for washing, dry-cleaning…”
“Extremely important information, I’m sure, but I’m late,” I
cut in abruptly though I did soften the response by obliging her with an ingratiating grin. We have come to share a blow-hot, blow-cold relationship. “How do you know so much?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I’m a certified executive housekeeper.”
More-like-a-certified lunatic. In my mind’s eye I saw a dissertation titled Journey of Clothes by Professor Shobha Didi describing the meditative peregrinations of clothes from their humble, soiled beginnings to getting home, clean and dry. Blessed are the Patels.
“You need to learn to fold—”
“I can fold my sleeves. That count?” I asked cheekily before tapping the tiffin, “The cut Alphonsos?”
“They got spoilt. Not good quality. Don’t ever, I mean ever send the chauffeur for fruits,” said the domestic bovine animal.
Is she my mother-in-law? Don’t do this. Do that. The tick-
infested buffalo! She could do well visiting a vet to get the bugs
out. “Who do I send?” I asked not really caring to find out the
answer.
“Go yourself. On your way to or from the hospital. That
way you can examine each piece carefully.”
“You want me to sweep the chimney too? Is this a joke? Phoolvati and you have a daily comedy routine?” I asked. For the love of Lord, are they fruits or bloody organs of the body?
“I’m a housekeeper, not a comedian.”
“Can’t imagine you as one. Good chat, Didi.” I wanted to stick my tongue out at her and tie a bell around her neck but gave her a world-weary smile instead, and walked toward the main door. Why is she intent on drawing me down a blind alley, leading me away from my true port of call? Why does it have to be Housework versus Hospital? Can’t nothing co-exist? Can’t I pace myself as and how I want?
“The mountain of clothes. It’s pile-high,” she came after me, all knives out.
“Eh?” I stopped for a moment.
“Your clothes. Laundry.”
“I heard you the first time—DIDI,” I grunted, pinning down
Vikram, who stood meekly in the doorway of the bedroom,
with my gaze, Call your monkey off.
“Um … no clean undies or socks in the drawer,” said
the owner of a pharma empire, a Lutyens bungalow and God
knows how many other properties, including but not limited to
at least two villas in Goa.
Die! Double die, undie-less man! My blood boiled. Transforming the world, they believe. One perfectly laundered garment at a time.
“A quick word?” Vikram marched toward me, pulled me
inside the bedroom before slamming the door shut. “Now what
was that? Something on your mind? Say it now.”
“If you insist.” I slapped his face hard and stormed out. He treaded on my heels, green and gasping.
“As much as I enjoy the company of all you lovely
people,” —I moved my head 180-degrees to encompass the
wiry Phoolvati too in my deliberate and methodical scan— “I
have to go do REAL work. Goodbye, hardened housewives,” I said caustically before walking away. “Or, scratch that. I can let Mrs. Dhaliwal die and run a search and rescue operation, can check if any undies are stuck in the dryer or left abandoned on the clothes line.” Flitting about whole day in your chopines, arranging, re-arranging cushions and photo-frames. I could hear her mumbling behind my back, “Her mother warned me she wouldn’t be any good with household things but it’s my bad luck I refused to believe her…”
“You’ll be happy to know I didn’t throw away the fungus-
riddled bread or the seized milk.” I stomped crossly all the way to the car, looking back over my shoulder, half expecting her to chase after me on a broomstick with a laundry basket and a casserole. At last, I was behind the wheel of the expensive Merc. I guess the ghosts of my parents had come to reside in Shobha Didi. Possibly, triplets separated at birth.
And what was this unhealthy obsession with clothes? Wash
them, iron them, stack them! I had better things to do with my time. The clothes weren’t going to sprout feet and walk off. I believe they would be there when I got back. The Universe needed my nursing skill-sets to fold Mr. Kumar’s upper and lower limbs so much more than my dilettante-housewife-type skills to fold underwear.
Didn’t the woman always boast about in-house dry-cleaning? Couldn’t they hire in-house sorting-clothes people if they were in such a mad hurry. It was not as if I refused to do them nasty clothes—Sunday was the day for them pesky things. And what happened to ‘Tana is the sweetest girl?’ I mimicked Shobha Didi’s voice out loud.
People change. They are unknowable.
I shook my head and paired my cell phone with the car
before switching on music from the touchpad on the central console. Quite the contrast from the auto-rickshaw from the fleabag hostel. However, it hadn’t taken me long to figure out that money alone couldn’t make me happy. I was simply a simple girl with simple needs: An organic vegetable patch in the garden, fresh-fruit-smoothies, and face packs. Those would do nicely. I really couldn’t deal with this extra baggage clogging my arteries; the in-the-face children—it was one thing seeing their charming faces for short periods of time during their mother’s lifetime and quite another to actually be there for them 24/7 to raise them to be good citizens—the domestic animal Didi breathing down my neck, Phoolvati disgorging and dumping her sob stories on me, Vikram examining my bills under the microscope as though they were blood samples in a lab. A depressingly long list.
Just so the world knows, my rather poor opinion about the
miserable institution of marriage has corroded beyond repair having experienced its horrors first-hand. I’d much rather check out, The Story of Diana on Netflix, use the vibrator—far more suitable for the job—make do with Parvati, the humble washerwoman, own my own space where I call the shots, and die a spinster. Marrying an Indian guy is too people-y for me. Therefore, before I crack to pieces, I decided to rush the hour to make those incriminating videos. Watertight evidence was what was going to get me over the line.
At the intersection I missed the green light by the blink of
an eye.
“Damn! The traffic is killing.” I pulled out the Phenergan
from under my seat and uncapped it before glugging it, still bent. When I straightened, I glanced at the pole. “C’mon, stupid-red-light, change, change.” Maybe after all, the five minutes away auto-rickshaw journey was better. The weather was merciless, too. Papa could be roasting in hell as I drove. I regarded the sky closely, “See Papa, what did you say? No AC for your little girl? Look, what she has now,” I gloated, pointing at the fully automatic climate control feature in the car. Probably made him turn in his grave.
Catching sight of my face in the mirror, I noticed purple
capillaries form a sort of an upside-down umbrella just below
the hollow of my right cheek. Suitably impressive, I laughed.
Varun will kill my husband and that’ll be the end of Mr.
Double-chin-tight-purse-strings-hubby-dear. No, no, no. Stop it, Tana. That line of thinking won’t do. Nobody needs to get
hurt. Just walk away with a cartload of money. That’s all.
By the way his sagging double-chin reminded me of the
bluish wattle of an ostrich on National Geographic. The
grimness of it all was not totally lost on me. What was I doing
with my life? How long will I keep beating myself up? It’s kind of perverted, I jiggled my head vigoro
usly as if that would help purge my head of all trials and tribulations. ‘Hey, stop your fault-finding,’ Mummy did say, ‘you are exhausting, Tana.’ As if Mummy, you weren’t.
I picked up my cell phone and opened the Amazon app to
buy a couple of things. Job done and still the light continued to
remain resolutely red. Restlessly, I tapped my fingers on the wheel only to be interrupted by the ringing of the bell. He’s calling. One slap’s not enough? Gutsy fella. I debated whether to take the call or not. ‘Be diplomatic, tactful,’ I advised myself vehemently. I can handle it without blasting him off into outer space. Can’t yet risk getting kicked out of the house—I do need hard evidence before any judge will rule in my favour and hand me a slice of the rich pie.
“Ahem…” Vikram’s voice came over the Bluetooth.
The light turned green and a beggar stepped on to the road
directly in front of my car. I gave my all to the horn— “Go die somewhere else.” I itched to mow her down. Hey, stop fluttering, Diary. That was a joke—I wouldn’t have—rather couldn’t have what with a baby beggar cradled in her arms. I adore babies; even filthy, homeless ones.
“Tana?”
“Who else?”
“Tana …”
Good heavens, spit it out. “Yeah, tell me.” I composed my
voice as best as I could, all things considered.
“Naughty imp. S. toys from Amazon?”
“So now you’ve installed spyware on my phone?”
“Er … nothing like that. I get this message from Amex each time you use the card,” he explained.
“You need to change that,” I stated in no uncertain terms.
“Huh? Why?”
“There’s a thing called privacy.” I added sarcastically,
“BABY.”
“Okay, I hear you. We will see. Is it even legal to buy these
Um … adult toys?”
“Are you even an adult. Of course it’s legal.” Does he live
in a bag?
“Anyway, about this morning. What came over you? You
okay?”
‘Why wouldn’t I be? And what do you care?”
“Look, I’m s—”
“Save your breath.” I interjected tersely.
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 13
