living in the past

Sandeep was playing cricket outside while I watched from the window. I was paranoid about a lot of things sometimes. Especially the safety of my children. Who knew if a rapist or serial killer was on the move in our neighbourhood. Who knew anything anymore. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that my father tried to abuse me as a child. There was no connection between that and my being paranoid. None at all, I told myself.

I returned to chopping carrots into tiny pieces for the stew I was making. The carrots were bad. Expensive, yet bad. Inflation maybe down but it didn’t seem to be when it came to household expenses. Raghav used to asked me why or how I spent so much money on food. Till I told him to go shop for vegetables himself one day. He didn’t take me seriously. So that day there was no food served at his table. Of course the kids didn’t starve. I took them out to dinner.

Everything seemed to be a game for him. Marriage was a sport. Maybe I should treat it like a sport then, I thought sometimes. It seemed to work for my husband after all. Ever since we were teenagers and madly in love, it was always one game after another. And he always won. When we got married, I thought I was the lucky one. I thought I had landed a great guy and we would live happily ever after. I’m not saying he’s terrible. I was just mislead. By him and my own naïveté. By and by I realised, it was he who had won. Finding himself a girl who was totally and utterly at his behest, completely in love with him… one who listened to everything he had to say. Well that didn’t last long. Neither did the love either.

By the time I realised that, it was too late. Realised I hadn’t done the smartest thing by marrying Raghav. Sandeep had already arrived, and my parents had already passed away. My brother and I were estranged and I had no one to help me. A few months later, another baby was on the way. Much to Raghav’s joy and my shock. One thing I still loved him for was the way he brought up our son. He adored Sandeep and the feeling was entirely mutual. Another child would have been a dream come true for them both. I miscarried though. And I didn’t want another child after that. Call me silly but I felt guilty. For not wanting the baby out of my own selfishness and greed for a personal life. And then the baby just went. Like a puff of smoke. One day she was there, growing inside of me. The next day she was just some skin and cells which had to be removed. A baby.

Raghav got over it. Wanted to try again. I put my foot down. Things went sour for a while after we stopped trying for a child. They never really went back to normal. Teenaged days in the throes of love and the first happily married days… it all ended. When you play a sport you lose yourself in it. you give your entire body and soul to it and before you know it you’re too tired, too old to play anymore. You have to retire. I wished I could retire from marriage. Not ask for a divorce. But just retire.

Sometimes I dreamt I had a daughter. Her name was Sameera. I spoke to her, sometimes she even spoke back. She would have looked like my mother. Button nose, slightly slanted eyes, long black hair, slightly wavy, and with a short voluptuous build. Maybe she would have followed my mother and become a dancer or singer as well. I didn’t think of Sameera too often anymore. For some reason the bad carrots were making me think back several years. To the days when I first started playing with Raghav. My first years as a mother and wife. Right upto today. Here I am, a middle-aged woman with a list of regrets she could not do anything about.

I sighed. At first I felt a deep pain which almost reverberated through my body. Then it became a little numb. Like I had become over the years. As if I was sitting on a block of ice and could not feel any pain anymore. It was when the blood began dripping on the carrots that I suddenly realised what I had done. I had sliced neatly through my ring finger. Not entirely, though I was tempted to do so.

I returned to the window to look at my twelve-year-old son running about, getting dirty and tanned under the harsh Noida sun. He was laughing, sweating, flailing his arms about, yelling and generally having the time of his life. I hoped he would never fall in love and treat his lover like I had been treated. Like I was an insignificant maid at times.

Raghav hadn’t even touched me for as long as I could remember. I tried to remember when we last made love.. no, I couldn’t even call it making love anymore. It was just sex. And he was probably getting it elsewhere I suppose. There was a time when I was so hungry for him. Just the feeling of his bare skin against my palms gave me such joy. It used to make me all warm inside and I would smile just thinking about it. I wondered sometimes whether I had changed too much. Maybe that’s why he didn’t love me anymore.

I looked at the hand towel I had wrapped around my finger. It was almost wet with blood now. I remember Raghav once used to kiss my bruises, cuts, stitches or even my heart, when he thought he had hurt me for whatever reason. He hadn’t done that since Sandeep was born.

I didn’t miss it. That’s why I thought I was numb. How could I not miss the love of my life? How could I not try to mend my marriage? How could I just continue comparing it to playing a sport?

My cell phone buzzed and Raghav’s name popped up. I checked the message with my free hand.

“Thanks for not answering any of my calls. Going to Agra for three days. Sudden work. Going straight to station now. Call me. Want to speak to S.”

I called Sandeep and told him. He looked at my hand and looked at me, aghast and petrified. I suddenly realised I still hadn’t cleaned up my finger.

“It’s fine, baba. I just cut it while chopping carrots. Now call your dad.”

He swallowed and came towards me. What he did was totally unexpected. He caught me around my waist and gave me a tight hug, so tight I was gasping for breath. Laughing, I told him not to worry. He could speak to Raghav, clean up and be ready for dinner in half an hour.

What he said next was equally unexpected.

“Ma. Show me your phone.” And I did. He did some technological trick with it and the message details popped up. He showed them to me.

“See. It’s an old message, Ma. You’ve forgotten again. Papa died four years ago. Train de-railed. Remember? You keep forgetting sometimes.”

24/12/2004. 2.46 PM.

Rag

The message details said.

I read it again.

“Ma.”

The voice seemed to come from very far away. My son was holding me up now. I didn’t realise my legs had gone weak till I felt his firm hand around my elbow. I looked up at him and he seemed so tall, so grown up.

“You’ve gotten so big, babu. Don’t look twelve anymore,” I could hear myself muttering.

Pause. He helped me sit down.

“Ma, I’m turning 17 next week.”

I watched him in amazement as he turned the gas off and brought the medical kit, laying it at my feet. He blew gently on my finger.

He looked just like Raghav.