Her marriage was in shambles. Shambles was not perhaps the perfect word to use, it was dying down, just like the hibiscus tree in the backyard. A few withered leaves hung about those dilapidated twigs. Sheila looked beyond the kitchen window and made a mental note of having to cut it down, the next time her casual gardener turned up. Settling down with a cup of black coffee on her super comfortable cane chair with baggy cushions, she idly glanced through yesterday’s newspaper. Actually, she was trying to come to terms with her life, as she did every morning. Among the many questions that wafted across her mind like usual, the most important one was, how she ended up as a housewife in a sleepy hamlet at the end of nowhere.

Once upon a time, this quaint little town seemed so romantic to her. She jumped into wedlock, leaving behind a lucrative techie job in the metropolis. She convinced herself that she had found the love of her life and she was going to make a grand success of it away from the madding crowd of the corporate rat race. Just after her marriage, she did not immediately resign from her job, for a couple of years, she tried to work it out with work from home and a few days of extended trips to the city. However, in the end, it became too exhausting until her pregnancy terminated it. Or should she have terminated the pregnancy instead?

Advertisement

She shuddered involuntarily at the thought and roused herself. There was tiffin to be prepared for her teenage daughter and breakfast for the rest of the family. As she busied herself in the kitchen once more she saw her day help casually wielding the broom on the stone-flagged steps in such a way that no dirt was dislodged.

Standing over her gas oven, the first thing that came to her mind was what she was going to cook for breakfast. Puri-sabji, poha, upma, bread or omelette? Then she recalled that whatever she cooked, her family was sure to find fault with it. Invariably either the puri was too “oily” or the sabji “bland”, the poha too “dry”, upma “soggy” and so on. She settled for bread and omelette because that was the easiest.

As expected, it was her husband who first sauntered into the kitchen. He sniffed the air and commented, “Bread omelette again!? Really is it too much to expect to have a decent meal once in a while? You know very well that I have to put up with the canteen mess for my lunch.” The first thing that came to her mind was that it was a “very salty upma” just the other day. However she kept her peace, she didn’t even feel like arguing with that man who turned from a beloved to a barely tolerable person within a span of a decade and a half. She set his plate on the dining table and munched mechanically through her own share of bread and omelette. She packed the rest in a tiffin box and girded her loins for a far more difficult job to do, getting her daughter ready for college.

She peeped through the half-closed doors of the room her daughter inhabited. Everything was in complete chaos all around, with her lanky young girl sprawled on a messy bed under a semi-clean bedcover.

“Wake up, it is already eight-thirty.”

No response.

“You will be late for college once again.”

No response.

She went on repeating her wake-up calls for a few more times till she somehow couldn’t take it anymore. She moved forward and yanked the coverlet from the sleeping form and yelled “Wake up, I say”, as if a half-clad being was jerked in an electric impulse into a sitting posture and locked her eyes in an angry battle with her mother.

“How many times have I asked you not to touch my bedclothes?”

“It would not have been necessary if you had woken up as soon as I called you.”

“Whether I wake up in time or not is my business.”

“It is your business to attend college in time.”

“And it is yours to leave me alone. Oh God, how does it matter whether I go to college on time or not!”

“Because you need a basic education.”

“Really, and what good has that education done for you, pathetic creature?”

This was too much; involuntarily, her hand curled around her daughter’s slim arm in remonstration. In response, her daughter spat out with all the venom of an 18-year-old, “Why don’t you go and die, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic!”

After an hour or so, after the departure of her husband and a scowling college goer, wearing the most disagreeable outfit in her possession. Sheila once again settled on her favourite chair in the verandah with another cup of coffee. As she gazed without seeing the interrupted greenery that was once a pretty garden, the tumultuous thoughts inside her slowly crystallised into clear-cut concepts with sharp edges, which tore into her senses and drew blood.

“Why don’t you go and die?”, those parting words of her daughter kept reverberating in her senses. Death or suicide was never a solution, but neither was living, at least not in this manner.

She got up, took a long shower, dressed up as if reporting to an office, packed her tote bag with some fruits, water bottle, papers, pens, mobile and a purse, then locked the door and walked away.

There was a thin stream near her bungalow, which was once the main attraction for her after shifting to this place. Once upon a time, this rivulet sparkled with joy and happiness. She recalled the countless occasions the three of them enjoyed impromptu picnics at its edges. The laughter and banter that followed made living such bliss. Why, even earlier, before her husband had turned into a paunchy, grouchy headmaster, they shared surreptitious romantic moments among those thick-set shrubs, secluded from the whole universe. This place was truly a slice of paradise back then.

Today, as she sat on a dilapidated bench, surrounded by overgrown weeds, those memories of happiness coursed through her body. The rivulet remained more or less the same. It still caught up in the sunlight and glittered like broken gemstones. True, time had perhaps robbed it of some of its agility, but it did not stop rippling merrily among the reeds. Not that it was completely free of discarded plastic bottles and such like trash which casual picnickers dumped in her, but still she flowed.

Yet, her life has become stagnant. She wondered when it was that she became a cesspit, into which her family relieved themselves of their daily frustrations, which she digested without any repercussions. Even if there were repercussions, did she find any freedom in the process?

“Really, and what good has that education done for you, pathetic creature?”, she had to confess to herself there was some truth in that remark. She continued staring at the sunlight reflecting from the swift-flowing stream till her eyes hurt. She closed her eyes for a while, when she opened them again, her mind was still not made. She bought out a much-handled letter from her purse. It was an offer from a well-known residential school that required a postgraduate computer teacher. It came as an answer to the many applications she sent in the past few months. She read that document once again. Should she accept the offer and enter into a career at this age? Won’t everything become too difficult for her to navigate, staying alone away from the comfort of the home to which she has become so accustomed? Yet, she was well aware of the fact that she may not get such a chance anymore.

Could she deliver proper lectures and tackle students who, in every possibility, will taunt and tease her more mercilessly than her own daughter? On the other hand her experience in mothering as a  recalcitrant young lady may come in handy. For a long while, she went on debating with herself on the pros and cons of the situation.

Then she brought out her mobile phone and typed in her response. Once the decision was made she became calm and peace descended on her. After some time, she broke into a spontaneous whistle, which startled a kingfisher to flight.

Advertisement