INNOCENCE LOST (Rewriting)

9: BLAST FROM THE PAST:

I listened. And the more I did, fear crept up. Fear isn't good, it shouldn't be shown. It cripples, crumbles and crushes you. I chanted this as a mantra since childhood, still it never worked. I feared love, I feared relationships, I feared family, I feared giving, I feared letting go. Did I fear myself? I wasn't sure. Or might be I was. I feared accepting, seeing the truth.

He called. Again today. I didn't receive till the third time. Mamoni observed, in her usual way--just a glance from atop her spectacles or the newspaper she always read; a camouflage.

"Who is it?" she asked.

I didn't reply. Not everything has a reply, not everything needs a reply, not every time one ought to reply even if the need be. She should have understood by now. Her intrusiveness was that single cobweb hanging from the corner. No matter how many times you vacuum, it just refuses to go.

Thoughts came and went, forced to exit. I returned from the market, soaking wet. The streets were a death trap, potholes in the size of craters. Mud spotted my kameez- patches of brown, same with the salwar. They would require a double wash; the stubborn stain of filth and diesel refused to go otherwise. This city marvelled in contradictions, the highs and lows too evident to ignore. I called it the practicality of living-the Billboard Kolkata and the real Kolkata. Here, gullys wed sounds: bicycle wheels to chattering. Cabs and autos whooshed by-palaces on wheels; the bastards behaved as if these roads were family assets! A kick to the balls would bring some sense. And curse me, even the Lord failed to understand why I forgot an umbrella.

"How many times have I repeated, rest these chores to Kamala. This is what happens when you do too much at once. Leaving without switching the stove off and then this runny concoction in the name of tea?" Mamoni curled her nose. "There's not even sugar! Where's your mind these days?"

If only I knew.

The day lingered. Putting four eggs on the boil, I diced two onions. Chillies crushed, ginger grinded, garlic minced. Siddhartha preferred heat in curries. "Make it spicy", he said the last time. I kneaded the dough, covered it with a muslin cloth. Lachcha parathas were always his first choice in flat breads. "Sreya, one more, please." He often requested.

Please—a single word, evokes multiple emotions, a passive show of gentleness. How much much I prayed his please's meant something! Alas! They never did.

Or, I might be wrong.

"Everyone's blind to their own faults", Baba said. His partiality to owning one's mistakes confirmed the truth. Men often excuse their faults, my husband wasn't an exception. As women, we just need to see through the layers. That's all.

Spatulas clanged, hands moved; distraction worked wonders, a brilliant ploy to slave the mind. Time ticked, hours rushed. I prayed things to roll smoothly. And it did, until Mamoni opened the pan and shouted. "You cooked eggs! Today's Tuesday!" 

Bloody heavens!

My eyes closed, a sigh escaped. Too much happened in too little time. Buckle up, Sreya. Not a second to idle.

                                   ------

"You must be joking! How can I arrange twenty thousand?"

"Sweet sister, I told you before too. Seems like it didn't enter your dead ears."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you ruining my life? You are up to no good yet refuse to let me be. Just why?"

"Tsk, tsk sister. You're wrong here. Do you think I don't know what your plan is? Do you think I believe what you want the world to believe? Why you're staying with the perpetual pussy eater, Sreya?