She sounds frantic and almost on the verge of tears on the phone. She is also incoherent. I am not able to figure out much other than that she is desperately calling me over. I sense trouble and rush downstairs to get into the car. I quickly cut through the traffic as rashly as I can and reach her place in ten minutes. When she opens the door, she looks frazzled, kajal running down her eyes, and she is soaked to the bone. Behind her I see a two-inch-high puddle advancing towards the door.
‘The tap in the kitchen just came off,’ she says, ‘and I can’t make the water stop.’
As she closes the door, I wade and reach the kitchen, which is at the end of a long corridor. Water is gushing out of where the tap had been. The walls are wet too. I figure that she must have tried to put the tap back on in vain, causing the water to spray all around. Plastic bags and old rags are strewn on the kitchen platform. She must have attempted to stuff those into the pipe, but again in vain. I try to do the same—with the same result.
‘Do you have a screwdriver or a wrench?’ I ask, almost certain she is going to say no. These are not tools you find in the house of a single woman. But she runs into her bedroom and comes back with pliers.
‘This is all I can find,’ she says.
‘Perfect,’ I say. I pick up one of the longer pieces of cloth off the platform and try to drive it into the pipe. It takes me five minutes but finally the water stops.
‘I can’t believe you managed it,’ she says with a sense of relief. ‘I’ve never felt so helpless before.’
‘Glad I could help. What happened exactly?’
‘I was making breakfast when I noticed water dripping from the tap even though it was shut. I tried slamming it down but it just came off. It’s an old house, and the plumbing is poor. This kitchen doesn’t have a valve I can use to turn off the supply either. I tried fixing the tap back on but got drenched.’ She pauses and looks awkward. ‘Let me quickly go in and change,’ she says. ‘But what about you?’
‘It’s not a problem. I’ll stand in the sun in the balcony. I’ll dry soon.’
Fifteen minutes later, I’m leaning over the railings and looking at the guards at the gate below who are eyeing me suspiciously when Alisha walks up from behind and hands me a steaming cup of coffee.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, gladly accepting it. ‘What about all the water on the floor? We’ll need to push it towards the bathroom so it drains.’
‘It can wait.’
I instantly feel warm inside as I take swigs of the coffee. ‘Not that I had a problem coming over—as I said, I’m glad I could help—but why didn’t you just call the guards or a plumber?’
‘It’s not easy being a woman staying alone in Delhi, Rohan,’ she says, the tips of her hair curling up with the steam from her mug. ‘These men are guards only by profession. There have been nights when they have tried to enter my house claiming that they saw someone suspicious in the balcony. I don’t feel safe around them. They asked you lots of questions on your way up, didn’t they? I’m sure you don’t face any such problems with your guards.’
I nod. As she pauses to outstare the guards still looking up, it occurs to me how different a woman’s lived reality is from a man’s and how little a man realizes it.
‘There was no time to call a plumber from outside,’ she continues. ‘And if I had called the society plumber, the neighbours would have found out what happened. They anyway look at me weirdly and am sure talk behind my back. Now they would have blamed me for emptying the tank also. It is as all the neighbourhood aunties say—unattached women in India become the subject of loose talk rather easily.’
‘Don’t be too upset about what happened today,’ I say, hoping I sound reassuring enough. ‘Such things happen.’
‘Oh no, I’m not upset. In fact, in a weird sort of way, I’m glad this happened. I think it’s the sign I was looking for all these months.’
‘What sign?’
‘Okay, don’t tell anyone. I have yet to discuss it with Maran. But I can’t not tell you after all you’ve done for me today. I’ve decided to move back to Jaipur … You remember you had asked me why I didn’t stay back home for my birthday and I had said I wanted to spend the day with my friends? It was because I knew I won’t be around them on my next birthday.’
I stare at her without saying anything. I’ve dried in the sun by now but feel like I’ve been doused with cold water once more.
‘Don’t tell me it’s just because of the men there!’ I say, trying to sound casual and funny.
She laughs a hollow laugh and says seriously, ‘I think I’ve had enough of this life. I think I want to go back home. I had applied to a few places, and when I went to Jaipur last month, it was to appear for an interview at ToI. They called me yesterday with an offer and I was debating with myself if it’s really wise to move back just because I can’t bear to live alone any more. If I’ll be doing it for the right reasons. I was unsure but I think this incident was just the sign I needed. It’s made making up my mind a lot easier.’
‘Really? You’re going to move cities because the tap in your kitchen broke?’ I say, trying not to sound too grave.
‘No, of course not,’ she says with a straight face. ‘I’ve moved cities all my life, but I had been asking myself what I’m doing here. I had come to Delhi because my boyfriend was here. It makes no sense for me to stay on now. I think I was holding on to a part of my old life, hoping that I might some day return to it. I need to face up to reality and accept that that’s not happening. I need to make a clean break.’
She pauses to sip on the coffee. ‘And it will be nice to be around my mum,’ she says. ‘You know, growing up, I didn’t get much time with her. We moved countries so often, looking back it now feels like whatever time we did get with each other, I was too disoriented with the transition to really appreciate her. She’s retired now and it will be nice to have her around—you know, do some spadework with her in our little garden.’
I stay silent. ‘I know a lot of people think of me as this strong, independent person who’s happy to be by herself. But, honestly, who ever wants that? Who wants to live a lonely, loveless life? At the end of the day, we all just want to be around the people we care for deeply. So to give you the short answer, yes, I’ve decided to accept the offer and move to Jaipur.’
Coffee mugs in hand, we silently look at the cars revving their engines and leaving for work, the children in uniform going off to school and vegetable vendors setting up their carts. At a different time in our lives, I had stood in a balcony like this alongside Ira.
‘I’m sure you must miss Ira too,’ Alisha says unexpectedly. ‘You know, Rohan, I’m a fan of yours. I honestly do admire you a lot. It’s so heartening to see that Ira is doing her own thing in New York and you here. Touch wood, you have such a healthy relationship. And one day she’ll be back.’
The irony of it is just too much for me to bear and I look away.
*
As soon as we reach office, Alisha goes into Maran’s room to put in her papers. Through the glass door, I see him look at her with a smile, which quickly turns into a frown. He picks up the phone and a minute later Alisha’s immediate boss goes in too. They all talk animatedly. They obviously don’t want her to leave, but I wonder what they can do if she wants to move back home. Throughout, Alisha remains seated in the chair, looking docile yet smiling. Maran picks up the phone a few more times and talks to someone in HR, I presume. The meeting drags on. It’s not over even forty-five minutes later. When Tanuj arrives, he drops his bag in his chair and looks at me. ‘What’s happening?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. What made you late?’
‘Come with me. I’ll tell you,’ he says and I reluctantly go with him downstairs. He looks mysterious and happy in an odd sort of way, not saying a word until we are out of the building through the back gate, have bought two cups of tea from a roadside vendor and are standing way out of earshot of our colleagues who are just arriving. I’m just starting to wonder
if he too has got another job offer when he announces, ‘I’m getting married.’
I’m stunned. I didn’t even know he was dating. ‘It all happened this morning,’ he says, not noticing how shocked I look. ‘The wedding is in May in Kolkata and you’re the first person I’m inviting. You have to come!’
‘Of course.’ Remembering how to react, I give him a hug and say, ‘Congratulations! But who is she? I’m bloody mad you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend but I’ll pick that bone later.’
‘No, no. It’s an arranged marriage.’ I’m all the more stunned by this. Given how free-spirited and independent he has always been, I never pegged him as the sort of guy who would get married, leave alone have an arranged marriage. I’m at a loss.
‘Well, it’s not exactly arranged,’ he continues. ‘In the sense it’s not like our parents fixed us up. I knew her elder sister. We had worked together in Bombay. We got in touch a few weeks back and she told me they are looking for a guy for her younger sister. You know, one thing led to another, I cancelled our Amritsar trip and met Tanvi instead. It was serendipity, Rohan. There’s no other word for it. My mum had made me meet so many girls but I just didn’t feel any connection with them. But with Tanvi, the moment we met, I said to myself, “My search ends here.” It really was serendipity.’
I smile. I had heard about things unfolding like this but never experienced it myself. Ira and I had been friends ten years before we got married.
‘The very next day I told her sister that it was a yes from my side,’ he continues. ‘Tanvi took her time but she called me this morning to say that she liked me for my earnestness. She said I looked like the kind of person who would make her happy and she agreed. Phone calls were made between Bombay, Delhi and Kolkata and finally a date in May was fixed. It’s all happening so quickly but I’m thrilled.’
Crushing his empty cup of tea and discarding it in a nearby bin, he says as we start walking back to office, ‘I’ve bought a house, you know, I’m getting married now. It feels like I’ve arrived in life.’
*
At night, when I turn the key and open the door, everything looks so unfamiliar in the dark that I feel I’ve walked into someone else’s house. As I look around, I realize this is not home. For twenty-two years of my life, entering home had meant entering a brightly lit drawing room where Amma would be setting the dining table for dinner and Appa would be reading the newspaper, folded twice, in the kitchen while keeping an eye on the milk on the stove. Then, for one glorious year after marriage, it had meant walking into a room with the lights turned out and watching Ira sleep. Home had always meant peace and quiet, never darkness and such disquiet.
After all the time I’ve spent on the periphery of others’ lives, Momo makes me feel important by nuzzling my hand, asking for food. I don’t turn on the lights. I sit down on the floor and stroke his back, feeling grateful for his presence. Brood as I may, I’m unable to wrap my head around what I’m feeling. I think it’s anger at Ira for this overwhelming loneliness, in the face of which I find myself helpless. But I suspect it’s something more and I’m not able to put my finger on it.
I take out my phone, its light filling up the room, and scroll down my contacts. I wonder whom to call, if at all. There’s a tremendous force inside that makes me want to reach out, but to what or to whom I cannot tell. Suddenly when I look up, the walls feel closer than they are. I jump, pick up my car keys and leave.
Without any destination in mind, for an hour I drive around south Delhi. I drive through the dead lanes of Hauz Khas and Green Park, Safdarjung Enclave and R.K. Puram, looking up at the closed windows of Delhi’s elite who have the money for all they need. I join the traffic of the trucks on the Ring Road and go in the opposite direction all the way to Kalkaji. I slow down to a crawl so that the guy behind starts honking, then I speed up so that my butt cheek is off the seat as my right leg holds the accelerator down. I don’t know what I’m looking for or hoping to do. Perhaps to whip up a storm to take up all my mind space. I take a U-turn at Okhla and race myself back to Shahpur Jat. But when it’s close to two and I’m nowhere near calm enough to go to bed, I call up Gaurav in a vague hope. He is awake.
‘Come over,’ he says, and I change course to go to JNU.
‘Chandrabhaga, 221,’ I roll down the window on the passenger’s side and tell the guard at the gate. He eyes me suspiciously because it’s so late. I wonder if he’ll now make me call Gaurav and ask him who his hostel warden is in order to verify if he really is a student. But he waves me through after handing me a blue token.
‘Hey roomie,’ Gaurav says in his usual deep, hollow voice and gives me a hug as he opens the door of his hostel room. I know it makes me seem pathetic but I don’t let go, despite his bristly chin digging into my shoulder.
‘Had a bad day?’ he asks, rubbing my back.
I finally let go. ‘Yeah, sorta,’ I say, looking into his eyes that are glazed as usual behind his Gandhi glasses.
‘Okay, come. Let me pour you a drink.’ The room is barely big enough for the two single beds and littered with unwashed clothes and empty packets of Haldiram’s Mint Lachha. Mercifully, his roommate is out. Gaurav opens his cupboard and takes out a half-empty bottle of Old Monk. He retrieves a plastic cup from under his bed, pours some of the rum into it and adds some Coke. He already has his glass ready.
‘Out with it. Girl trouble?’ he asks.
‘I’m not in college.’
‘But you are married. Which is worse.’
I give him a wry smile and drink.
‘How are things at work?’
‘Swell. Everybody’s life is set but mine.’
‘Who everybody?’
‘Everybody. People who talk of leaving jobs without so much as a thought. People who’ve got things figured out so right that they can buy homes and marry strangers and know they’ll be happy. People sitting pretty in N-Y-C.’
‘Ho, ho, back up. Did you and Ira have a fight?’
‘No. Not today at least. Anyway, let’s not talk about all this. Let’s watch something.’
Gaurav decides to introduce me to Breaking Bad, which he claims will blow my mind. ‘Since you don’t smoke up, this is the second trippiest thing you can do,’ he says. I agree; the show is gripping from the get-go. But having seen the forty-five-minute first episode once before, Gaurav sleeps off even as it runs on his laptop. And it’s too depressing for me right now—not so much because of Walt’s lung cancer but the bleak and barren Albuquerque landscape and the suffocating idea of the man as the provider of the family even if he’s dying—so I turn it off and give in to the itch to call Ira.
‘Hello?’ Her voice is calm.
‘Hi. What are you doing?’
‘Nothing, meeting some friends for dinner later. Why? What time is it there?’
‘Three-thirty.’ She doesn’t ask why I’m up so late.
‘Are you online? We can video chat,’ she says.
‘No. Don’t have wi-fi here.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Gaurav’s room, JNU.’ She doesn’t ask why I’m here.
Silence.
‘I’m upset,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
Silence.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I say.
Long pause.
‘Yes, tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Every sense. I have no career, no money, no marriage to speak of. What more do I say?’
‘These things take time. Don’t be upset.’
‘That’s what I had thought when we started living together. That now that we share the rent, we’ll have some savings, now I can focus on my career, maybe think about buying a house. And look at me now. Half my salary goes in paying bills and the other half in paying EMIs.’
‘Are
you saying I am the reason for this?’
‘I did not say that.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying what I said. That I have no career, no money, no marriage.’
‘You know, Rohan, I’m sick of this. You call to complain and say you’re upset. But all you really want to do is blame me. Why not just do it directly?’
‘Okay, maybe I do want to blame you. I’ve done so much for you and you can’t even talk to me without fighting once. I moved to Delhi to be with you, took up a job so we could get married and what did you do? You flew off and left me alone here. Do you know how depressing it is to go home every night? I want to ask people if they’ll hang out with me so I don’t feel lonely, but I don’t because it makes me feel like shit.’
‘What do you want me to do, Rohan? Do you want me to be eternally grateful to you that you took a loan for me? Did I not give you all the money I made when I did have a job? I gave you ten years of my life. Ten years to get you to like me. And the moment we were married, it was like you didn’t care. You were like this even then. You expected me to be grateful that you married me. You just didn’t try to do anything to make me happy. You were never excited about celebrating festivals together—or going on a weekend holiday somewhere. Do you remember my first birthday after we got married? Do you remember not giving me any gift? Remember me being upset about it for twenty-one days straight? All you said was you wanted it to be something grand, that you were saving up for it. But couldn’t you have given me something small—a greeting card, a letter? I didn’t want something grand. I just wanted my husband to make me feel loved for a day. But you didn’t care. Do you remember me crying about my job every night? You won’t because you were never there. Because you were at work. So what exactly should I be grateful for, Rohan? That you loved me for one year to my ten and then gave up after the wedding?’
The Story of a Long-Distance Marriage Page 7
