I gazed at the bedroom door, which remained
still and shut, then resumed my contemplation of the showcase.
The pair of miniature red heels stood
at the centre of the middle shelf, the ones she had insisted on buying on a
crowded street in Barcelona. They were a reminder of the time she had worn a
similar pair while learning to dance the flamenco. The first day at Escuela
de Flamenco José de la Vega had been a disaster. Each time she got carried away
by the music and the fluttering red ruffles of her black dress, I lost track
and stomped on her heels. In another instance, she tried to echo the lyrics she
did not understand, didn’t pay attention, and her feet slid between mine! I clutched
at her waist trying in vain to stop her fall, but mercifully, she caught hold
of the shoulder of a hefty Spanish lady who was lost in her own rotations. She
loved the training and adamantly wanted the heels. She claimed that the training
helped her ‘focus’.
‘How long will you take?’ I shouted. We were still young, and inexperienced in our equation, our home and our routines, and my patience ran thin.
‘Just five minutes. Have you taken the
file?’ Avni shouted back from the bedroom.
‘You have asked me three times since
morning!’ I lowered my voice. There was no answer.
There were other souvenirs from other
times. A pair of tiny polka-dotted coffee mugs was a tribute to a quiet brunch
at the Antico Caffè Greco, the oldest café in Rome. After a toxic
argument, while climbing down the Spanish steps and onto Via Condotti,
we had craved coffee.
What did we argue about? The usual
stuff - why does the world intrude into our space, or more specifically, my
parents? My mother had called me early that morning, panic-stricken, to inform
that the caregiver took a sudden leave and my father threw a tantrum to avoid
taking his pills. He screamed, which he never did earlier, and refused his
breakfast. Scrambling to find a replacement at such a short notice, I couldn’t
help peeping into my phone every few minutes and making calls, interrupting Avni’s
flow of conversation - she was gazing at a church and telling me what she felt,
or an anecdote that I can’t recollect anymore. I wasn’t telling her the reason
for my distractions to avoid an argument in the middle of tourists thronging
the place, and I stretched it for as long as I could by making comments on the
weather, people or the artwork that surrounded us, but that irritated her more.
She finally got into the matter, made a few calls herself and managed to find a
therapist-friend to come in and help. At the cost of getting upset, cold and
distant.
At the café, we settled down at a
small three-legged round beige table surrounded by maroon chairs and sky-blue
walls studded with rows of framed murals. It was a noisy evening. Locals had filled
the place with their rising and falling Italian accents and intense
conversations. We didn’t talk the whole time. We sat, gazing from the murals to
the people to our golden rings and back to our coffee mugs brimming with cappuccino.
We had read that the café was a ‘timeless place that helped people to unwind
after heavy sightseeing’. But no café could contain our relentless spirits. We
had to take more calls from home. We had to stay updated. We had to pass on
more instructions to my Mom and Dad. We had to follow-up. And, we, didn’t
talk the whole evening, and night. Next morning, she was chirpy, once again. Mornings
made her normal. A day later, while leaving Italy, we came across two mugs in a
gift-shop that reminded her of Greco, and now here they were on our showcase.
‘I am trying to find my Aadhar
card!’ she broke my train of thought.
‘Come on!’ I grunted.
‘It’s somewhere in the folder. Don’t
worry, I will get it!’
A pair of black and pink toy-bicycles were
tied together with a cheesy red ribbon, to recollect our morning in Amsterdam.
We had pedalled over the friendly streets past the steeples, the old houses
with gargoyles and ornate façades, the hundred-odd florists trying to get our
attention, the lush green parks, and the city’s vivacious waterways. I can’t
deny that I cherished the bicycles. Oh, and the earring! One of her old
earrings got stuck on my shirt button at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul! We were
walking like a spectacle, the right side of her head attached to the middle of
my chest. People had a field day staring and giggling at us. She enjoyed
walking with a slanted trunk, listening to my hammering heartbeats and couldn’t
stop laughing. I avoided the glares and stares, and the teasing people offering
help…. and tried to escape that frenzied place. And on returning to India, she
showcased this earring! It now sat next to her version of a Gelarto
Rosa, an ice-cream in Budapest where every cone is made into the shape
of a rose. She made one using coloured paper, with alternating layers of
brick-red and lemon-yellow petals and placed it on the showcase, claiming that
the ice-cream was her ‘best European memory’. She could have chosen better
things from our month-long gruelling vacation. Yet, how can I forget the white pebbles
she gathered straight from the clear, sky-blue waters of the Agios Dimitrios
beach on one of the Greek islands? For a change, it was I who asked her to collect
a heap of them, for the showcase, to which she said, ‘Since when are you
into these things!’
‘Okay let’s go!’ She stepped out. Avni
liked to startle others—then and now.
‘You sure you have all your
documents?’
‘Please, let’s go.’
By the time I had locked the door, she
had scurried down the stairs. I saw our name-plate for the last time. An hour-long
winding ride down the hill awaited us, and at the end of it, the district court.
The untimely, breezy, romantic weather was at odds with what we had set out to
accomplish. My open-air car felt unnecessary. We were not going on a honeymoon,
far from it in fact. We were going to file for a divorce, to separate for good.
***
We set off and within a minute, she started, ‘Why do you wear faded jeans?’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘We are going to a court, Aman, for
God's sake!’
‘My jeans won’t change the judge’s
decision.’
‘It’s a formal occasion!’
I scoffed. She didn’t belabour the
point. That was one advantage of separating - as a wife, she would have gone on
endlessly. I wanted to be quiet. I wanted to drive. I wanted to look ahead. But
I couldn’t.
I just had to get the words out: ‘After
we are done, I need to rush back home. Papa needs me.’
‘I know that.’ She paused. ‘Why do you
have to say that to me? Like that?’
‘I just mentioned it,’ I heard my
voice rising.
‘Look, by now, your family and all
your relatives know that I have failed to take care of your father.’
‘Please don’t start….’
‘No, seriously!’
‘Do you realize his illness? Alzheimer’s...
And how much we need to look after him? And, I mean, as a family – from now, it
will be just me and my mother.’
‘For two years, I tried to do what I
could. I helped with everything. But I cannot be chained to a house.’
‘I don’t know why his illness needs to
conflict with your dreams and choices. All I asked of you was to slow down a little.
I have a nine-to-five job. I have pushed my goals aside because of his health. I
am going slow.’
She snorted. ‘Yes, slow in all things,
except when it comes to kissing someone.’
I couldn’t reply. I should have
predicted that. Of course, she had to
bring it up. And make it sound as though that one single incident had been a
habit, something I did as a matter of routine!
We had fought almost daily in the last
six months or so; largely because neither of us was present when needed to
attend to my father. We were torn between our work, my father, my mother’s
inability to provide the level of care he needed, and our suffocating
relationship. We delayed having a child. After a long fight on one of those
regrettable nights, I stepped out and went to a nearby pub. I met an old friend
from college, someone I once used to have a massive crush on. We connected like
old times over vodka and sandwiches. And we chatted, flirted, teased, argued
and breezed from one topic to another. Time flew. I kissed her. She didn’t stop
me. We didn’t realize how long it went. And worse, I didn’t expect someone in
the pub to pass that information on to my wife. Someone who was known to us. My
obsession with knowing this person’s identity angered her even more. ‘Why
does it matter who told me?’ she had raged. ‘All that matters is what
you did.’
I admitted my guilt a hundred times. This
happened a month after we returned from Europe. Europe, six months back, had
come as a much-needed breather but ended up being a mix of fun, fights, fuss,
and frivolity. Europe, was our last-ditch effort to infuse hope, create time
and find ourselves back in our marriage. Did it help? Creating an eccentric
showcase of memories was her way of trying to ignite any feelings left between
us. Feelings shaken by my blunder in the pub.
‘You know it was not an affair. Far
from it. Yet, you allowed your lawyer to quote that as one of the reasons for
divorce.’
‘What else I could have done?’
‘What else? How can you lie?!’
‘Lie?’ she smiled. ‘Please let’s just
stop. I am sorry, I couldn’t take care of your father. I am sorry I penalized
you for kissing your friend. I am sorry I decided to file for divorce and bring
a lawyer into the picture. I am sorry I damaged your home by doing so. Alright?
Now, please, let’s not talk.’
‘When did you stop loving me?’ I was
dumb to ask that. Horrible timing.
‘Please drive.’
I drove fast for the next few minutes,
but then reduced the speed after she clasped herself to the edge of the window.
She kept looking out, not turning in my direction for even a minute. For the
next half hour, we didn’t speak. She preferred to keep her eyes closed and soak
in the breeze—or so it seemed. Her eyes opened when the car went over a ditch,
faster than usual. Her eyes met mine and she smacked her lips to hint that she
wanted water. I handed over the bottle. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight as she
raised her head and drank, holding the bottle a little away from her lips. An
act so familiar that a wave of nostalgia washed over me as I watched her out of
the corner of my eye. But she hardly looked at me. She hardly spoke. She
hardly turned my way. She hardly broke the stillness. I wondered if she ever
thought about me as I did about her. She had walked great distances with me but
hardly crossed the distance between us. She always maintained the distance. She
liked it. She hated a part of me, or hated me. I failed to understand her. Yet,
we both could tie ourselves in every knot possible.
I spared a few moments, every now and
then, to catch a glimpse of the small things talking to us. Unnoticeable things,
in the air, on the ground and in the sky. Things that I thought could defuse
our feverish thoughts.
We were approaching a winding road
flanked by the mountain on one side and the tea-farms on the other. Our journey
was a mix of sharp turns and straight roads. Tea-plants nestled in large groups
on our left. How chaotic were they? They had hundreds of leaves elbowing each
other to sip that little bit of sunlight that fell on them. But they didn’t
sway one bit, they stood wisely. The overshadowed leaves at lower levels were
content with the used light that trickled down. They didn’t demand their share
immediately. They waited for their turn, for long periods of time, until the
upper leaves fell or were cut off. Circumstances ruled. They adapted.
And in between these crowded
communities, stood the tall, proud and isolated teak trees. They kept a studied
distance from each other. They got their space. They were privileged to shower
in fresh air and sun. They didn’t struggle. No one told them to be patient.
They basked in glory. But they stood apart.
I turned on the music to distract myself,
but Avni butted in, ‘Can you switch it off? I am trying to sleep.’
‘But you are not.’
‘I am trying to. The breeze isn’t letting
me.’
‘Normally, people sleep in such breeze.’
‘I am not normal.’ She closed her eyes
to shut me up.
I glanced to my right. Grey and dull-black
rocks were huddled together. Green shrubs separated them. Why did they grow in
between the massive, monotonous and lifeless rocks? They found water. Rocks hid
a lot of water beneath them; groundwater that was scarce and deep. The shrubs
snatched every drop to survive. I wondered where the desperate need to live a
life came from. Weren’t they afraid the rocks would crush them? They were. Fear
suppressed them. They lived their whole life like repressed, invisible souls.
They never spoke out. They breathed. But they formed a relationship with
scarcity. And that kind of bonding took some time.
‘What are you thinking about?’ She
startled me, again.
‘So, you are not sleeping!’ I firmed up
my grip on the steering wheel.
‘Answer the question.’
‘I am just looking around.’
‘Oh…. your love for nature,’ she mocked.
‘Don’t dismiss it.’
The road became straighter and easier,
and I speeded up, a bit in annoyance.
‘So, what is it telling you right now?’
she asked
‘It?’
‘Your nature.’
For a moment, I considered if she was
genuinely curious.
‘That we’re going too fast,’ I quipped,
slowing down a little. ‘It is constantly speaking to us, but we have to slow
down to hear its messages.’
She shrugged. The kind of shrug that indicates
agreement with a bit of indifference. Every gust of wind that lashed us seemed
to be driving us more and more apart. Our reactions were polar opposites. Our
thoughts were like the teak trees, standing apart, standing tall, and
disconnected from each other. I didn’t know how many of our feelings were real…
and how many were exaggerated. The only thing we had in common anymore was this
journey we were sharing, to a common destination.
She interrupted my thoughts, ‘When you
drive down a hill like this, do you ever feel that you will fall?’
‘No.’
‘Aman, I mean, the narrow road, the
tea-farms have gone behind us…. we just have the valley by our side. The fencing
isn’t great. No barriers here. Do you feel unsafe?’
‘No, because, when I drive with you, I
think only about you and me.’
For a long moment, she didn’t speak. She
stared at the moving gear. Then, she said:
‘You don’t feel like we are on the
edge? Right now? You think you are going slow?’
‘If you tell me to slow down, I will.’
‘But you are able to think about two people?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘It’s hard to keep
that in mind every second. But I do. Mostly.’
‘You do… because there is no one here.’
‘As in?’
‘It’s easier to think about us, when
it’s just us,’ she said.
‘Like now?’
‘Yeah, like now.’
‘And, how often do we get such a
time?’ I grabbed that moment to ask.
‘What about Europe?’
‘That was a long time back!’, I said. ‘And
we weren’t alone. There was always a landmark, a monument, a statue, a
promenade, some history and if nothing else, the movements of a train.’
‘You want to be completely alone with
me?’ She teased, or so I thought.
‘I want to be alone, here.’
‘Live here? On these hills?’
‘Yeah. So, I can touch the clouds when
they descend.’
‘So, it’s the clouds, not me.’ She
chuckled.
‘Yeah, the cloud-nine feeling.’
The landscape and its quietness had infected
us. A little bit of peace…. it crept into the car, somehow. I can’t describe exactly
what I felt; all I knew was that I had felt it after a long time. I felt like
stopping. I felt like telling her to step out so we could take a selfie together
in the meadows, for all it’s worth. Maybe not just that. I wanted her to pause…
to absorb the panoramic valley, and the soaring ranges of light-brown mountains
whispering to the white clouds that refused to embrace them. I wanted to stop
the car and hug her. I wanted to stop.
But we had reached the town. The court-house
was only a mile away.
Before the judge and lawyers, we were stiff and cold again, formal and correct. We showed the documents. We answered their questions. We clarified. We thanked the advocates. We left with our files, she clutching hers, and I mine.
We stepped out and it started to
drizzle. ‘Such bad timing,’ I couldn’t help thinking. ‘It should have
rained during the drive!’ I was being selfish, of course.
The light drizzle changed to a heavy shower.
I had no clue what she thought, but I grabbed her hand and we rushed for
shelter under a bus-stop. I released her hand, but it felt stiff and hesitant.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
She pointed to something and said, ‘What’s
that?’
‘A tea-shop.’
‘Really.’
‘Yeah!’
‘It’s pretty small and makeshift.’
‘Hmm…’
‘Well, well…. It has something that’s
amazing!’ She squinted to catch a glimpse.
‘What?’
‘Look carefully!’
‘Tell me.’
‘You have to see it.’
‘Come on….’
‘Look! It’s something you love,’ she
said.
I peered through the falling rain and
caught sight of the brown cups without handles. They had kulhad chai!
‘Awesome!’ I stopped short of jumping
in delight.
‘Remember you complained every fourth
day in Europe!’
‘Yeah, I wonder where else in the
world they have it.’
‘Should we have it?’ she asked me.
I nodded. We had no umbrellas. And, we
were not holding hands anymore. We walked along, with a little bit of distance
separating us. We got drenched. No, we didn’t look at each other. We wanted the
chai. And, while I can’t be sure of her, I wanted some time. A little
more time, for us…. we couldn’t have asked for more.
(Artwork by Manet, At the Cafe)
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