Funny Bones

 

The alarm rang out shrill and insistent. She reached over and touched the baleful loud cockerel figure on her screen. She smiled in half sleep. Stretched herself langorously before rolling over to hug the supine figure sleeping almost on the edge of the bed. ‘Again,’ she muttered before dragging him back to the middle of the bed. And he allowed himself to be dragged. 

‘Why do you sleep so far away?’

‘Let me sleep.’

‘Wake up. We are driving uphill today.’

‘I checked the weather forecast last night. Heavy rains expected.’

‘I checked it after you. The weather has cleared up.’

‘Ok. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Rath told me about the crawling traffic last summer.’ 

‘We have an expert Driver and we are going where there is not much traffic. Remember, we discussed all this last night?’

‘Ok, but I am not moving unless my tummy is clear.’

‘It will clear fast. Just get up. Not for nothing that I make you a bowlful of vegetables every night.’

‘Too many veggies make me gassy. Alright. Get me my tea first.’

‘Anybody would think you are menopausal and not me.’

Nisha was fifty four and Ashok was sixty two. Married for almost thirty years. She grimaced as she set her feet on the floor. She stretched both feet as she had been advised by her Orthopaedic cousin and stood up. She must remember to put the medicine bag in the suitcase. 

She put the water to boil and set out two mugs. Spooned coffee into her mug, a creamer sachet and poured the boiling water into her mug. 

‘We have so many tea bags from the last trip. Shall I make yours with a tea bag?’

‘No,’ he said quickly.

‘Why do you carry all those sachets home from hotels then? If it is this desi tea you must have everyday…’

She added two teaspoons of tea to the boilng water, added some milk, covered it to brew and shut the gas. 

‘You should have let it boil a little more. That’s why I like to make my own tea.’

‘Yeah, boil it so that the tannins are released for more gassiness.’ 

Grumbling she limped across to her favourite place in the balcony. Where the birds chirpped from among the dense greenery of the park. Their own balcony was full of old potted plants. Huge rubbers and palms which had lived the major part of their lives with them. Towering over her slightly podgy figure as she sat cross legged on a chair in the corner.  

He poured his cup and walked across to her. 

She burst into laughter at his woebegone face.

‘It is just 100km from here, AK. We are not going on a Space expedition.’

A reluctant half smile hovered on his lips.

‘Is our place any less than the place we are going to? Just look around. This place is like a mini Switzerland. So much money, energy and time wasted for nothing.’

‘Fine. Let’s cancel the trip. If it is so much of a problem. Let me call Viki Cabs.’ She picked up her phone.

‘No, no let it be. At least we will see that newly excavated site on the way.’

Nisha hid a smile. Ashok belonged to an old school of thought. At least he thought he did. Unless he ascribed prosaic reasons for doing something fun, he was uneasy. His biggest turn ons in life were apparent rationality and logic. Even sex had to have a reason, that of a workout or a sleep inducer. 

‘Go on, laugh at me. The ASI has declared it as a major finding. Would be nice to see that than all those mountains and snow.’

Three days later, the mountains loomed large before her. She sipped her coffee from a flask and took pictures of the rising sun. She sighed. So much beauty hurt somewhere. Cascading waterfalls, gurgling streams, snow covered peaks, apricot and cherry laden trees. She could live here forever.

‘Watch your step. This a dangerous trek. One slip and down we go rolling.’

‘No Sahib. These are not dangerous tracks. You can walk without any support. The tough ones are ahead. Where you will have to hold on to the rocks and climb.’

‘That’s it. We are not going further.’

‘It is just half a kilometre away. We have come so far. I am not going back. You sit here if you like.’

His mouth half open, eyes dilated,feet positioned awkwardly over the muddy track, one hand grasping the rock jutting out over his head while he glanced rather worriedly at the sloping undergrowth downhill. He did look funny at that moment. She had a mad impulse to laugh but she controlled herself seeing that the man was actually struggling with emotions. He was torn between the need to accompany her as well as justify the huge amount they had paid for this trek and the need to play safe as always. If they turned back from here, that would be a sheer waste. Also, he couldn’t allow her to go ahead alone. His role as caretaker and provider for his wife was too well ingrained in him to allow deviations. 

‘Alright. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.’

‘I won’t. Don’t worry.’

‘Give way, Sahib. There are people behind you.’

Their escort was a typical man of the hills. His face was wrinkled like some of the apples that had fallen off the trees, pinkish but creased and withered. He strode ahead of them and chatted non stop. Stories of tourists who had tumbled down the hill side only to be rescued hours later, all bruised and bleeding but safe. Stories of the past when real sahibs would hire him to carry their luggage while they went on inspection of dense forests. Red faced Englishmen in brown thick socks, boots and huge airy shorts and round rimmed hats. Ones who swore at them in English if they dawdled a bit and used a whip sometimes.

'Is he that old?' asked Nisha.

'The guy is fibbing. Telling stories of his grandfather maybe. You never understand the tricks people get up to. This is part of his marketing skill. Didn't you notice how he almost forced himself on us over the others? He is smart.' 

Soon they came upon a rundown shack. There were packets of Maggi noodles on display, a stove and a few pots and pans.

'This is my son, Rajesh, Sahib. He makes good pahadi tea. You must have some.'

Ashok gave Nisha one of his 'I told you so looks and frowned when she said, 'I want a cup.' The freshly brewed Pahadi tea, wafting unfamiliar aromatic spices was too good.

'Want some, Ashok?' 

'No,' he growled, taking the coffee flask from her, unscrewing the top.

‘Take it Sahib, it will do you good. The spices are good for the nerves.’

‘Nothing wrong with my nerves.’ He looked at Nisha slurping at the hot liquid and swallowed. ‘Ok, give me one also. We need to save the coffee. God knows how much longer it is.’

‘Make me one tea please’, said a voice from somewhere above them.’And some hot Maggi. I am hungry.’

Soon two long legs came into view and a man ducked his head into the shack. 

‘Hi,’ he said, Going up?’

Ashok nodded without a smile. 

‘First time?’ he asked, looking at Nisha.

Then 'Hey Nisha!'

'You don't recognise me? Of course, it's been so many years. We stayed behind your house. My sister was your friend. Rachita.'

Nisha's face was suffused with sheer joy. Of course she remembered Rachi and her brother Vishnu. Ashok was introduced and questions parried to and fro. 

Vishnu had lost his wife the previous year. He mentioned how she had had the travel bug in her and they would do the annual trip to this place religiously. He spoke without remorse or regret. Smiling all the while, gulping down the Maggi and washing it down with the tea.

Ashok watched the flitting emotions on Nisha's face. The way she threw back her head and laughed, the familiarity, the mention of common friends.

'I think we should make a move now. If we are to catch the setting sun.'

' Let's catch up again. Where are you staying?'

With much reluctance Ashok provided the name of the hotel and it was decided that they would meet the next day for lunch.

As they watched the sun set from a precarious top of a hill, it seemed an unbelievable sight. And to think that in all these years this was the first sunset that she was seeing.

'It is so beautiful.'

'It is. Let's turn back now.'

A few more minutes.'

'Sahib, you sit here for a few more minutes while I go and get my goat. I had left it to graze here in the morning. Will be back soon.'

He didn't stop to hear Ashok's protest. They saw him scurrying into the wilderness and then suddenly the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

Ashok was now swearing. As was his habit when he was stressed out. Choicest expletives. 

He suddenly started shouting after the vanished man. 

'Hey fellow, where are you? How will we go back alone? You must have some sense of responsibility, you know. Hey, where did the guy go? Do you think he has some goons hidden here? To make a fast buck out of our helplessness. Well, don't tell me I didn't warn you. Enjoy this crazy sunset now. What's the big deal about the sun and moon rising and setting anyway? All humbug! Hey man, where did you go?'

Nisha was trying to keep a straight face in the midst of all his hysterical rambling. In the dark she could imagine his face. Distraught and stricken with panic, jumping at every rustle in the undergrowth, beating his sling bag with both hands to signal distress to God knows who. He actually looked insane. Stammering and stuttering in anger and stress. 

She quietly took out the flash light in her bag and switched it on. Rummaged through her bag for a chocolate and quietly started eating it.

'Good. It was getting a little spooky.' 

She offered him a bite which he took a little shamefacedly. 

' Not safe these places.'

Nisha did not reply. Unscrewed the coffee flask, poured some into the cap and raised it towards him. He took it silently and sat down on the rock next to her. 

In a few minutes they heard sounds of the old man returning, admonishing his goat in mock tones for straying away. The walk down was easier even without the flashlight because the man knew every step like the back of his hand and soon they were back in the hotel. Comfortably under their quilts after a hot water bath and delicious dinner, she started giggling. 

‘Did you hear what the guy said while leaving?’

‘Huh.’

 The old man had gone away happily because Ashok tipped him generously.

His parting shot was, ' Sahib, what is that word youngsters say these days? They use it all the time to each other, while clambering up the mountains. Yes, it is ‘Chill.’ He grinned and left.

Ashok looked at her sheepishly but retorted in mock anger, ‘Yes, like that Vishnu friend of yours. Chilling all the time. Eating Maggi in the middle of nowhere, discussing his wife’s death like it were the last earthquake in Bhuj. As distant and remote. I can’t be like that.’

‘Ok, so you will cry when I die?’

‘Yes, when I see your sarees in the wardrobe. Such a waste.’

He was laughing now at her shocked face and warding off her angry blows.

‘They got me married to a crazy man.’

‘Not half as crazy as some men I can name.’ They dozed off laughing and talking about anecdotes of the past.

Later the next day, Vishnu sat drumming restless fingers on his beer mug. Ashok offered a refill and said, ‘ You come here every year?’

‘It used to be every year when my wife was alive. I stopped after she died. Could not bear the thought of coming without her. This year was the fiftieth anniversary of our first meeting. She lived on the other side of my house.’

‘Sushila?’ asked Nisha in shock. The laughing and beautiful face swam before her.

‘Yes. Came to throw her ashes at the summit of the mountain. I was coming down from there when I met you guys.’

‘No children?’ asked Nisha

‘A son who I have never seen since she died. Who blames me for her death.’

‘Why?’ The anguished cry from Nisha.

‘Well, she died before I could arrange money for her treatment. I have never been very stable, you see. Changing jobs too often. Living for the day. No fat bank balance. Carpe diem has been my motto.’ Vishnu gave an odd short laugh and shook his head.

Months later, Nisha opened the door to a huge bouquet of flowers. The kinds she loved most. Red roses with sticks of white fragrant tube roses. With a huge box of chocolates inside. She stared in amazement at the sender’s name. ‘Happy Thirtieth from Ashok’ in the unfamiliar hand of the florist.

‘I told the guy to deliver at twelve in the night. Paid him extra for that. Why are you late?’ He had joined her at the door and was interrogating the mumbling delivery boy. While the boy was explaining something about the order details getting deleted, Nisha said a polite ‘thank you’ to him and shut the door.

She whirled around and said, ‘First time in thirty years!! What on earth was that?’ 

‘Well, just in case you die on me someday.’ he said, laughing while trying to disengage himself from her hug.

‘So, who are the invitees for the party tonight? The pile ons, the free loaders out for a free dinner…’

‘No, party, no people. Raj will reach by early evening.. You can watch cricket and have dinner at home.’  

‘Is Raj driving himself? The traffic is bad there. He will get late. He had better take the train.’

‘Uffff, AK! Just chill.’

‘Ok, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.’

She grimaced and pushed him towards the bathroom, handing him his towel while she made for the kitchen.

Eighth Floor

The clouds rumbled as Chitra turned the knob of her apartment.

 It was a pity because the morning had seemed bright and sunny. Just the kind of morning she liked when she needed to buy some grocery. As she shut the door to pick up her umbrella from near the shoe stand, the downpour began. Clattering and splashing huge drops on the uncovered portion of her tiny balcony.

 She walked across to the glass panes and stood there watching the rain. Sheets of water, in a slight slant were cascading down on the tiles outside. The lush green Epipremnum Aureum growing luxuriantly against the wall splayed itself langorously towards the pelting drops. Almost as if smiling in joy. 

 Chitra was a meticulous housekeeper. Never missed watering her solitary plant which she preferred to call by its botanical name. Unlike her mother who called it the Money plant or the Golden Pothos. The more leaves it sprouted the more smug she became. The plant was an odd signifier of wealth. 

 ‘Look at those huge leaves in Titun’s garden. No wonder they are loaded. All those dollars her father earns.’ 

Chitra was in her teens then. She shot an angry look at her mother.

 ‘The plant is feeding off their huge mango tree, Ma. It has nothing to do with their dollars.’ 

 Her mother muttered something under her breath and said, ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She knew better than to argue with the young firebrand Chitra. Always quick to come to her father’s defence even if the attack was a veiled taunt. 

 Chitra watched the rain in silence. She saw a little girl with a yellow and blue umbrella tiptoe across the balcony, grinning from ear to ear. A young woman, laughing with her hands outstretched, catching the pelting hailstones and showing her little girl the magic of those huge stones scattered all over their balcony. Shouts of children reached her ears and Chitra drew back very deliberately from the glass door. She drew close the curtains, unclipped the black umbrella and strode out. 

 Chitra had not seen her parents for two years. She wondered about the wart she had noticed on her mother’s neck in one of the pictures she had uploaded. It hadn’t been there the last time they had video chatted. The conversation had ended as usual in an argument. Ma has this habit of bringing in inane gossip about relatives.

 ‘Ranu has not been liking my pictures lately. I had told her off the other day.’

 ‘What about? Anyway, don’t tell me. I am not interested’ 

 ‘Listen, her status the other day was all about me.’

 ‘Ma, I said I am not interested. You don’t understand?’

 ‘So I told her…’ ‘Ma, I said no.’

 ‘But just listen..’ Click. Chitra had pushed the end button on that. 

 The rain seemed to have brought out all the weekend shoppers on to the streets. She smiled at the Indian couple who waited at the stop with her. They had a baby on a blue hooded stroller who kept craning her neck to look at her. Chitra sat down on her haunches and said, ‘Hi.’ The baby’s face broke into a beautiful smile, the pink silicone pacifier slipped out which her mother quickly placed back into her mouth. 

She smiled at Chitra and asked, ‘Student?’ 

 ‘No, I work here.’ 

 ‘How long?’

 ‘Nine years.’

 ‘You look like a kid.’

 Chitra smiled to herself as she found herself a seat right in front of the double decker bus. She loved to watch the city lights from this height. The dense growth of trees on either side of the roads, the twinkling back lights of vehicles whizzing past, the revelry in the air despite the downpour, the festoons everywhere declaring the festive season. She mustn’t forget the blue cheese, she reminded herself as she pressed the bell for her stop.

 The lady at the bus stop was quite accurate. Chitra did look like a kid. Her thick black hair had been gathered into a loose mass of curls fringing her round baby face. Bespectacled and without a trace of makeup she looked young for her thirty six years.

 ‘Next, please,’ said the girl at the billing counter.

 ‘That’s going to be one awesome Christmas cake.’ 

She smiled at Chitra as she quickly charged the items to her card. 

 ‘Merry Christmas,’ smiled Chitra. ‘That’s for my Mum.’

 ‘She sure will love it. Happy baking. And Merry Christmas to you too.’ 

 As she rode back home, Chitra wondered whether four hours was enough for soaking the fruit. Her mother would start shopping for her baking about two months before Christmas. She would keep ticking off items from her list once they had been procured. A stout woman in her fifties, she would spread out the goodies on the table, gazing with love at the small mounds of almonds, walnuts, cashew, sultanas, raisins, dehydrated blueberries, cranberries and all. This was a new ritual that she had started after she started watching those Rachel Allen shows. All the leftover liquor of the house would be poured into a glass jar, the goodies put in, the top covered tightly with cling film. She would shake the bottle every three four days, watch the raisins feed on the liquor, plump up and change colour over the next two months. She would remove the film sometimes to sniff and almost gag at the smell.

 But their home would be wonderfully aromatic on the day she baked. Chitra would wake up to the smell of cinnamon and apples, walk into the kitchen to see Ma flushed red, hair askew but grinning triumphantly. 

 ‘Want a bite?’ ‘Not now, Ma. Later.’ 

 ‘Take a small bite, baby.’ 

 ‘Ma, I said no…’ 

 Chitra heaved the heavy packages onto the kitchen counter top and expelled a deep sigh. Rummaged in the shelves for some tupperware boxes, put them in the sink to wash later, washed an Avocado, sliced it through to remove the stone, put a dash of lime and salt, scooped out the insides for her dinner. Unscrewed the bottle of piquant black olives stuffed with cheese and popped three into her mouth. 

 ‘Is that all you will have for dinner?’ 

She mimicked her mother’s tone while scraping the plate into her bin. 

 ‘Yes, it is. Because I eat healthy.’ 

 She grinned to herself and shook her head. Her mother loved surprises. 

 ‘You know, Ravi’s son has come. Ravi said he jumped out of his skin when he saw the boy at the door. Never let his father know. Drove all the way from Bengaluru.’ 

 ‘He must have come for a pocket money raise.’ 

 ‘Chitu, he has a job.’ 

 ‘I know. With a salary that runs out in the middle of the month.’ 

 ‘Whatever. Ravi is so happy. Nice surprise.’ 

 ‘One that I won’t give ever, Ma. Stop hinting.’ 

 She held her breath while the flight touched ground with that crescending roar. She breathed easy while it taxied slowly to a halt. Never a comfortable flyer despite having travelled over half of the world. 

The phones started buzzing and ringing all together. Most passengers had risen, queued up while trying to remove their baggage from the cabin. 

A nice looking gentleman across the aisle smiled at her. He sat patiently like her, waiting for his turn. Somebody’s grandfather probably. Going by the stooping shoulders, wizened face and gnarled hands.

 She smiled back. Nana would have been this old had he lived. That phone call one early evening and the loud sobs of Ma. 

 The old man joined the queue, a bag slung over his shoulder.

 ‘Honey, you need help?’ 

 She looked up to see the old man helping a woman pull a bag out. The woman was attractive, in her forties, deeply kohled eyes and red lips.

 ‘Have you got your stick?’

 ‘Yes, dear.’ 

 He mouthed ‘my wife’ to Chitra as she stared. She smiled and reminded herself not to judge again.

 She quickly glanced at her phone. The first time she had gone offline for more than twelve hours, Ma had roused her neighbours to go and check on her.

 ‘I was working, Ma. Forgot to log in. Anyway, stop stalking like this. I feel claustrophobic.’

 ‘You know I worry. How do I know you are fine?’ 

 ‘Can we cut the drama element? No one behaves like this.’ 

 She was angry. Ma stopped showing her anxiety after that. 

There was always a note of breathless joy in her ‘Ello’ when Chitra called, as if she had been holding the phone in her hand, willing it to ring. 

Her mother was a teacher. After school hours she taught little children of the nearby slum for free.The other day Chitra heard them chanting tables in the background. 

‘Two ones are two, Two twos are four’. 

 ‘Hi Ma. What are you feeding them today?’ 

 ‘Nothing. They did not like the soup I made them last time.’ 

 ‘But why did you make them soup? Why not your desserts? I thought they liked your treats of souffles, Crumbles, Tarts and Pies.’

 ‘They did. But I thought it is not fair to give them a taste of what they won’t get to eat again. Rather give them some nutritious stuff like soups, bread,eggs and all.’

 ‘I don’t agree. Give them exotic stuff that they will aspire to get to eat in their lives.’

 ‘I made them Broccoli soup today.’

 ‘That’s more like it. Did you have some yourself?’

 ‘Tell me. What did you have for lunch today?’ 

 Chitra knew when her question was dodged. She wouldn’t have eaten anything. That was so unlike her mother. She loved to cook because she was die hard foodie. Chitra remembered sitting cross legged on her bed with Ma, as a fifteen year old, eating hot Vadas at three in the morning. She had been studying till late at night and was hungry.

 Ma had got up on hearing her in the kitchen and said, ‘You want to have vadas?’ 

On seeing the delighted nod, she had hugged her tight and brought out her pan. 

‘You go, I will bring them.’ 

 But it seemed like she did not like food these days. It was always oats, fruit and soups. Was she sick? Was she not telling her something? 

 ‘Why this sudden trip home? I thought you said we could go together?’ 

 Pratim was suspicious and probing. As if he gets to decide everything in her life.

 ‘Well, I can change my mind, can’t I?'

'You are still annoyed. Look I said I was sorry about that sexist remark.'

‘No, I am not. And it is ok if you think women ought to be just eye candy.' 

Chitra giggled  to herself as she remembered his confused expression. And gave herself a thumbs up for having aced that once again. She could tell posturing men so much faster now.

The Immigration line was long. She was tired. If she got delayed further at the airport, she would need to call home. The security at home was under instruction to allow visitors only after a video call from the gate. After 11 they became particularly stubborn about following rules. And though she had the house keys with her she was in no mood to argue and convince a groggy, half asleep, bad tempered security guy at the gate. 

 ‘You are listed as co owner of the house, baby.’ 

 Chitra had stared at the keys her mother zipped into the inner flap of her bag the last time. 

 ‘But why are you giving me the keys?’ 

 ‘In case there is an emergency and you need to let yourself in.’

 ‘You should write a long story, Ma. So much melodrama in you.’ 

 Her feet felt cold suddenly. She wondered whether she had enough time to make a beeline for the seat nearby and wear her socks. No, the line was finally moving and she shouldn’t take a chance. 

 Finally in the cab and speeding towards home, she hugged her bag close. Her stomach rumbled. Hours since she had eaten anything. She had put her flight meal in the bag because she did not want Ma to cook for her in the middle of the night. The fruit cake was packed well in the Tupperware but the heavenly smell of cinnamon, rum, the plump golden fruit was oozing out. It was just like the ones her Ma baked.

 Excitement was catching up as she neared their apartments. She looked up at the eighth floor and all was dark. No lights through the curtain slits. Unusual because Ma read late into the night. She couldn’t quieten a moment of unease. 

‘All is well, all is well’ she whispered to herself.

She tapped her card at the Reception lobby and the guy looked up,

‘406?' 

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘You are Madam’s daughter?’ 

 ‘Yes.’ 

 ‘Go quickly. They are waiting for you.’

 ‘Why what happened?'  She was running now without waiting for an answer towards the elevators, breathless. She half heard the guy who shouted something after her. The door closed and she was on her way to her floor. She was sobbing quietly now, mouth clenched, tears streaming down her cheeks.

 The impersonal tone of the floor announcer said ‘eighth floor’ and the elevator stopped.

 When the door opened, she saw through her tears her parents waiting there, looking worried. 

 ‘It’s ok, said Baba. The guy confused the number. Mrs. Mishra was hospitalised today for a cardiac problem.’

 He held her close as she sobbed in relief.

 Ma moved closer,crooning softly, ‘Hush, baby. All is fine.’ 

 She drew away, laughing loudly now in relief as she took in her parents standing there, barefooted, in their night clothes and the door of the apartment behind them swung shut. 

 ‘Oh no,’ Ma wailed. 

 ‘Oh yes!’, said Chitra, taking out her key from the bag.

 ‘This is the kind of emergency I like, not any other. I swear I will kill the Security chap.’

 ‘Why on earth do you guys look so thin?’ 

 ‘So, it shows? That means the diet works.’ 

 ‘But why these stupid diet fads now?'

 Putting her bag down, she noticed flowers in the corner. There were candles And the smell of food! The table was laid with her Ma’s best crockery and cutlery. Chitra looked incredulously at them. 

 ‘Did you know I was coming?’ 

 Baba cleared his throat and said, ‘Your Ma felt you were coming. In her bones, she said.’

 ‘But how? I was so careful.’ 

 ‘I just knew,’ said Ma. ‘From your tone. I get to know.'

'Eighth floor' said the recorded voice of the elevator.

 

Unresolved

She pulled him to her. Close enough to feel his breath against her soft imploring lips. His eyes looked wild with desire, as if he were battling a storm within. But he very deliberately unfastened her clinging fingers on his kurta, dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head and said, ‘Sleep, jaan. Not now.’

 They were meeting after a month. He had come to see his ailing mother in his hometown. His young wife had joined him after a month because she had gone abroad on work. Married for three years now but she could never get past the reserve that her husband acquired in his family home. In the presence of his sisters and mother he turned into a stranger. As if he was a different man. In complete oblivion of their intimate sparks of incomparable chemistry and smouldering passion. She hated the way he looked at her. Impersonal and distant. 

 ‘Bhai, can you come out for a minute?’ That was his sister at the door. 

 ‘Yes, yes. Just coming.’ He shot a half apologetic grin at her and was out of the bed and room in seconds. Thus ended their only few hours of solitude after a gap of a month. Their phone conversations during the period had been stilted and one sided. He focussed on what the Doctors had said, how his sisters were upset, how much they all were doing for Ma. 

 He came back to take his pillow. One of the sons in law of the family had arrived. He would sleep with him in the guest room.

 ‘You can sleep in Runu’s room with her.’ 

 She looked annoyed. His eyes held an appeal which she ignored. 

 ‘I am going back to Delhi tomorrow. You stay on here.’ 

 ‘But you have just come. What will they all say?’ 

 ‘I don't really care. It is always about them. And your incredible sense of duty. I really couldn't care less. Let me go back to work.’

 The voices outside were getting louder. There was a half smothered giggle from somewhere. Hushed whispers just outside the door. She caught the words ‘battle begun’ and a loud peal of laughter.

 ‘Ok, let me go.’ 

 ‘Me too,’ said she, picking up a sheet and a pillow. 

 ‘Where are you going?’ 

 ‘To the terrace. I need to sleep. It is breezy out there. Or do I need to take permission from your sisters for that too?’ 

 She swept past him with the sheet trailing after her, pillow under the arm and her phone. Their bedroom was never theirs anyway. Always converted into a guest room for a son in law or a relative. Or someone just decided to sleep there randomly because the concept of bedroom for them never really existed. Except for the night of their wedding. When a flower adorned bed, tall glasses of hot milk, a priest whispering the sacred time of consummation now were all the red flags she ought to have recognised.

 ‘Bhai, please put the pedestal fan there for Jiju. And yes, keep the fan direction fixed towards him. Don’t rotate.’ 

 Climbing the stairs, she heard him dragging the fan towards the room. He was the sixth child of the family and born after five daughters. She had heard a lot of stories about how he had been born after endless prayers.

 ‘I did not eat fish for two years. I had to have a son, a brother for these girls.’

 Her mother in law had told her this innumerable times. In the tone of a self glorified martyr.

‘Yeah, of course. So you could put him at their beck and call while you convalesced comfortably in the Nursing Home nearby.’

 She muttered angrily to herself as she walked up. She saw nothing remotely privileged in his family’s treatment of him. A brilliant Scientist who worked in a top Research Institute of the country turned into an errand boy in his own house. In her three years as member of the family, she had never heard him being offered a glass of water. There was always a sister hanging around in the house. Throwing her weight around, being rude, interfering but noone seemed to notice. Always taking a short holiday in her mother’s house, being waited on hand and foot by their many maids. And these maids always made themselves scarce when the son of the family visited with his young wife. One decided to visit her village then, one always fell sick and one was the sole attendant of Ma. Ma was not supposed to do any household chores. So, always after a tiring long journey, she would quickly wash up and make themselves some tea before being summoned for whatever duties entailed to be done during their visit. 

 ‘Kunu’s uncle in law expired. You have to attend their ‘shraadh’ ceremony.’

 ‘That’s next Monday, isn’t it? But I have to go back on Sunday.’ 

 ‘Go back if you want to. I am a helpless old woman. How can I stop you? Kunu will have to listen to a few more barbs, that’s all.’

 She heard him speaking on the phone later. ‘Yeah, let’s postpone it.’ 

 Tonight was a beautiful night. She wished he could join her on the terrace. She had spent a month in California and she meant to discuss with him an offer that had come her way there. The moon was round and luminous in the sky, visible through the tall swaying eucalyptus and deodars around the house. The silhouette of a tree, bent under the weight of plump glistening lemons, was clear under the light of the bright moon. Staring down at the sprawling family home from the terrace, she softly whispered to herself 

‘and may her bridegroom bring her to a home where all’s accustomed and ceremonious.’ 

Her father quoting lines from an Yeats poem. Yeatsian dream for his newborn daughter was a far cry from reality in this dark, almost gothic culture of the family her father chose for her.

 Her marriage was arranged through relatives who claimed she was the luckiest girl to be marrying into this family. An only son, lots of money and the boy was very intelligent. The entire idea did not make sense to her. She was a bright girl who had just completed her PhD and wanted to work for a few years. Her father was keeping unwell and wanted her settled. 

He had seemed nice and intelligent to talk to so she agreed. He had implied that his mother and family were important. 

 ‘My mother has had a difficult life. My father wasn’t too responsible. By the time I was born, he was ridden by many illnesses. And died soon after. She depends a lot on me. I hope you will understand.’ 

 She had appreciated his honesty then. Now she was not too sure. 

She had been gripped by a moment of panic when his mother had stared at her on their first meeting. Unsmiling, the eyes hard as flint and the mouth a thin line, almost hostile. And that look disappeared the next instant. Almost as if it had never been there. She stretched herself and settled down on the rough floor of the terrace. The air was still and warm. The dark river flowed gently behind the huge house. The plantains and coconuts fringed the walls. She could hear splashes now and then. Maybe a boatman rowing his way back home. Or someone needing a late night swim. It was so humid and warm. She wished she was back home. This was never home for her. She could never be herself in this house. There was that constant vigil, the silent reprimand, the censure which she could never put a finger to and understand. 

 She heard voices from the ground floor. Voices raised in anger, the banging of a door and then silence. Doubts about her marriage resurfaced. It did not feel right to her. He never seemed to need her as she did. At least not when they were in his family home.

 Every creak that the bed made seemed to embarrass him, made him cock his ear to check if anyone outside had heard it.

 ‘Why do you behave like this? Fix the bed if it troubles you so much. It is not always sex that makes the bed creak, you know.’ 

 He laughed, pulling his earlobe in a very cute way which made her hug him tight.

 ‘I don’t know. I am not like this in Delhi, am I?’ 

 ‘No, you are not. That’s why I don’t like you here. You become strange. Your eyes become wary and restless.’ 

 ‘Come on. Nothing like that.’

 She thought she heard a nervous break in his voice. A twitch in the corner of his mouth.

 She turned her head towards the stairs leading up to the terrace. The door was shut firmly after her but she could hear shuffling of feet. She got up and opened the door. Runu stood there with one hand raised as if to knock. There was no bolt on this side of the door. She could have opened it had she wanted to. But they all apparently believed in being conscious of lines drawn. No borders were ever transgressed. A soft call ‘Bhai’ in the midst of passionate love making did not qualify as transgression.  After all, there was always a subtle cough, a clearing of the throat, a particular look to give away the almost invisible merging of borders. 

 ‘Yes, Runu.’ 

 ‘Bhai said you are to sleep with me.’ 

 ‘I am ok here. Will go down if I feel like.’ 

 ‘Ma will not like it when she hears you slept on the terrace.’ 

 ‘I will explain when she gets well. Don’t worry.’ 

 Runu started walking down the stairs, suddenly  stopped and turned around. 

 ‘Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. It never works. Fighting it.’

 ‘What are you talking about?’ 

 Runu ignored the question. She stared past her into the darkness. 

 ‘She is there. Always.’ 

 ‘Who? Have you gone mad, Runu?’ 

 Runu ran downstairs without a reply. Her loose slippers making a loud flip flop noise on the smooth red coloured steps. A door closed somewhere and again silence. 

 She shivered a little. Opened the terrace door wide and hooked it firmly to the wall. The breeze was cool and soothing to her hot skin. 

 The month long stay in California had been very hectic but she had enjoyed every moment of it. 

Old Ramsay had said, ‘Come back. We will make you an offer you cannot refuse.’ 

 She had asked for time. It seems she needed time to figure out many things. 

Runu was the younger sister of her husband. The seventh child of the family born after him. She seemed to have an abnormal streak in her. She wore the red vermilion in her hair with a vengeance. Thick and pasty red streak right across the centre of her face, from the middle of her forehead. As if she used a thickly laden middle finger to dot her forehead and then suddenly, streaked across her parting in a clumsy uneven line. Red spilling onto her fair and sweaty face. When she broke into her loud peals of laughter, she made quite an alarming sight. This parting shot from her now was also abnormal.

 The extent to which the family can go to have their way. She shook her head in disbelief. She spread the sheet under the open sky, placed the pillow under her head and closed her eyes. She wished her husband could join her. It was a beautiful night and she knew that he too would be tossing and turning in bed. Without the reserve that he acquired in the presence of his family, he was a nice guy. They could make a success of their marriage if she could get him to distinguish between love and this overwhelming sense of duty he felt for his family. If everybody else had reciprocated in a similar way she could understand. He was always under some huge obligation it seemed. 

 She turned and her hand touched something. A thick hardbound notebook was lying near the sheet, half covered by it. Had it been lying there? She clicked the flashlight in her phone. Pages and pages scrawled with a tiny neat writing in an unfamiliar script. The top left corner of every page had a drawing. A lotus, a boat, a girl and plenty of insects. Two legged mosquitoes with menacing fangs, scaly reddish brown cockroaches, scorpions with their tails upright, centipedes, caterpillars, both black hairy ones and those without hair, tiny newly born ones drawn in bunches, making her shudder and close the book. It was a lined copy and the writing was unusually clean with no scratches or overwriting. The drawings were all neatly restricted to the space where a date used to be written for school assignments. Who could have written this? Though she was familiar with some Indian scripts, she was baffled by this one. The curves, dots and lines were different. She leafed through the pages trying to understand what the indecipherable writing was trying to say. The writing was a feminine one she could bet her life on it. The way one would write sprawled across a bed, on the stomach, legs crossed and a dreamy faraway look in the eyes. Who could the writer be? She looked around the large terrace. There was a tiny shed like structure in one corner of the terrace. 

 ‘An extra toilet, for unexpected guests.’

 ‘How many more do you need? There is already more than you people require.’

 ‘When we all lived here, before the girls were married, we had a caretaker family living here.’ 

 ‘In the toilet?’ she had giggled, much to his amused annoyance. 

 ‘No, jaan, they used this toilet but lived in the backrooms behind the coconut tree.’

 ‘How inconvenient for them. To run upstairs everytime for a pee or a poo…’

 She walked across the terrace and stood in front of the tiny shed. There was a huge padlock on the door and the solitary tiny window was tightly shut. The walls were made of huge stones she noticed on close inspection. Misshapen boulders, rusty brown in colour and with a sieve like texture. Almost as if a hot liquid had been poured and burrowed holes through them. Huge pieces put together and patched and splattered with lumps of freshly mixed cement. She ran her hand over this structure and wondered. Her finger felt a gap in between the stones and she sat down on her haunches to peer in. It was dark around her except for the streaming moonlight above. She fixed an eye on the tiny crack between the stones and started.

 It wasn't a toilet. She could see a bed with a neat yellow and blue sheet. Legs of a tiny table and chair and plenty of notebooks like the one she had in her hand strewn all over the floor. The profile of a woman sprawled on the floor, writing copiously into one of them. Long black hair, tumbled on to the floor. She was in a saree. The woman turned her face slowly towards where she squatted on the terrace floor outside the tiny shed like room. Flat face with broad features. Eyes were tiny slits in an otherwise large fair face. Very pale, almost yellowish skin. And she grinned. A very knowing grin. A puckish grin showing tiny even teeth stained with betel juices.

 She stood up in shock. As if she had inadvertently pried into the privacy of another. And as if the other woman knew that her privacy was being invaded.

 She splashed cold water on her face. Took a deep breath. Wiped her face with the soft towel on the rack.The soft purring snores of the family could be heard in the dining room where she had seated herself. 

 'Can you give me a sweet?' 

Three years back,  a little Gorkha boy tugging on her saree. Round, fair and a flat face. This was on the third day of her wedding. He was the playmate of the children of the family. He would accompany his grandfather to the house at 4pm every evening. The old grandfather would sit under the tree at the gate reading. A thick book and he would keep flipping pages with the earnest of a well read man. While the little boy joined the boys of the family in all their robust games around the house. Hiding behind cupboards, under the bed, sometimes behind the huge trunk that she had brought to the household. Part of the subtle innuendos of expected dowry. Full of copper utensils which she would never use. The smiling boy shusshing her from behind there not to reveal his hiding place to the others.

 She took out a bag of gummy bears. Offered him a handful. Squiggly pieces of coloured jelly. The boy stared at them and screamed. Shrill and long blood curdling screams which brought everybody to her room. Her mother in law stood there, looking regal and distant. Eyes brittle and cold, unnerved by the screams. The boy covered his eyes and he had turned white.

 ' Take them away. They bite. They are insects that bite.' 

 'These are sweets. Children love them. Why are you scared? You wanted sweets, didn't you?' 

She was almost in tears now. Her mother in law looked away and made a sign to the old man. The old grandfather drew him close and soothed him. 

 'Hush, don't cry. Let's go home now.' 

 As they left the room, she heard him say, 'Did she come last night again?' 

 'Yes. She kept crying that insects are crawling all over her. Cockroaches, large scaly ones, crawling out of the hole in the toilet and all over her. Mosquitoes that bite. Centipedes, scorpions and caterpillars all over her. The stench of the toilet was terrible. She can't breathe in there. 'Somebody save me', she says every time.' 

 Maya could hear the soothing tones of the sad grandfather as he escorted the little boy out of the house. Hunched figures both. Fair broad nosed face with slits for eyes. 

 The bedroom door opened. Her husband came out rubbing his eyes. 

 'You didn't sleep?' 

 'No, I didn't. Did I ever tell you that you have Nepali features?' 

 He looked at her sharply. She noticed a reddish hue tingeing his pale face.

 Her mouth tightened and she got up. Carefully picked up the notebook from the table and walked across to the door. 

 Months later, she sat in the balcony of her apartment in Bay Area in overlooking the Redwood trees, rereading the letter from an old friend. Good old Gurung.

 'It is a strange story. Strange because it seems to be written in the mid twentieth century. Plenty of Gorkha cultural context. And the Indian homes which offered them employment. But hiring of the womb was unheard of until the recent past. Where did you get it? Admirable writing skills. The woman seems homeschooled.Tell me more.'

 She folded the letter and put it away