Parenting, memories

  

Where did that dog

that used to be here go?

I thought about him

once again tonight

before I went to bed.

-Shimaki Akahiko

Prologue

“What’s after six?”

“Five,” said my daughter. She’s three now.

“No. On the other side?”

Pause. Head scratching. “Seven?”

“Yeh! High-five!”

Messy house

House is in a perpetual mess. One of these days, if you enter our house unannounced, you’ll feel like you have entered a cowshed by mistake, and you turn around to find the right entrance on the other side. Only to realize there’s no other entrance.

I think there’s some kind of evil pleasure in leaving things around——creating the mess. That’s what the little devil has been doing these days. Initially we, parents, tried to maintain order; But as soon as you straighten one room, things fall apart in the other, and then after sometime you are so tired with this routine, you leave everything to God.

Kabir Das once went on a long search to find bad guys. He could not find one. But when he looks into himself, he admits, he’s the worst of all. Anyway, I once circled the neighbourhood searching for a messier house. And, like the mystic poet I too have failed. But when I see our house, I admit, it is the messiest.

A pause

Kids are like sponges. You’ll be amazed, how they absorb only the bad things from parents. Ria has noticed me struggling on the weighing scale, often. (Something is wrong with the weighing scale at home; the numbers never come down.)

One day, she decided to check her weight herself. Only she didn’t use the weighing scale. I heard the cracking sound from the couch. And realized immediately something important had broken. I dashed for the rescue. Picked her up. When I saw what she was standing on, my heart cringed.

“This is a laptop, not a weighing scale!”

Laptop survived though. I guess the Quality Control teams of these laptop makers have young moms, who consider households with small children. Maybe the laptops are built to withstand such harsh treatments. But certainly no laptop is waterproof. I have found this out recently, when she spilled milk on the key board. Now some of the keys work and some don’t. ‘E’ is not working——the most used letter. The Pause key is working——though I don’t have any use for it. I don’t remember the last time I used the PAUSE key on my laptop! In fact I have forgotten the very use of this key!

What I want now is a pause button for my life. Yes. That’s what I want. I want to pause this life, tear this computer screen, come out and sit next to you. I want to listen to your stories. You have listened enough of mine. Now it’s your turn. I would appreciate a cup of tea, if that’s not much of an inconvenience. Tea and Britannia Good Day biscuits. That’s my dream: sitting next to you, eating tea-dipped Britannia Good Day biscuits, and listening to your stories. How about that?

Preschool

She goes to preschool now. I was not in any hurry to put her into school; but she pestered so much, we had to give in. No one in our family was so excited to go to school——certainly not me. I went to kindergarten only for a few days; there when I saw the kids fighting their turns for the rocking horse that didn’t make any advance, I got an idea about our education system. After that I made such a ruckus not to go to school, I was allowed to loiter at home.

Later, whatever I learned at school only helped me in getting good grades, but didn’t prove to be of any use in real life. All those theorems and math equations really were of no use to me. In college, when I learned ‘sin square theta plus cos square theta equals one’, I asked myself, where in the world am I going to use this? And, sure enough, I have never used any of that stuff till today; and now, after so many years after college, I have to recollect the wretched math equation just to show you how useless it is. I learned Languages, History, Geography etc. in school. But the technical knowledge that was needed in the outside world was not taught at college.

After the college, in the initial days of job hunting, the interviewers laughed looking at my resume; since, the computer languages I had mentioned——the ones taught at college——were outdated before I was born! I had to do a six month’s emergency crash course to bring myself up to speed. In these six months I learned more than 4 years of engineering.

My grandfather, Louis Serao, a wonderful gentleman——it’s possible you would have ran into him if you ever attended Kinnigoli’s weekly market fair——one who, if you start writing about, you’ll end up in long sentences, fragments,  redundant adjectives, dashes and commas, as far as I know, never used Calculus, or any second derivative math equations,  or iPhone or email id. Yet, he lived up to 90, enjoyed his life to the fullest. And at that late age, like the great writers Hemingway (suicide), Virginia Wolf (Suicide), Sylvia Plath (suicide), Gogol (suicide), Jerzy Kosinski (suicide), he lost hope on the mankind. Grandpa didn’t commit suicide; he just lost hope. I wonder where people get such ideas.

School bag

Ria had to have her choice of school bag. Her mom suggested better ones. But the options were ignored and the brightest bag with Disney character Tinker Bell was chosen. The bag is huge. Half her size. In it, she can haul college books easily, if she retains the bag that long. Every guest, visitor gets a free demo of its features. School bag has put her on cloud nine; I wonder when was the last time I was that happy? Or will I be so happy ever?

“I miss you,” she said, after the first day at school. I asked myself: when was the last time someone, anyone for that matter, had said those words to me? And, regretfully, after rattling past memories, I need to inform you this: no one. So here I am, a loner whom no one will miss if I have to leave this planet right now. Suddenly I feel like I am standing alone on the divider of NH-17 highway, somewhere near Surathkal bus-stand, while express buses dash on both sides with great speed.

On the second day after the school, she fought with her mom, not to come back. Beats me. It’s a miracle. I, on the other hand, went to school only to please Mom. Not going to school was not an option. Mom is like thousands of Mangalorean moms who want their children to be number one in everything. Even now, with all my writing, she’s not impressed. The fact that I didn’t make any money from almost a decade of writing, is pricking her heart. Such a waste of time she says.

In her time, Mom had to wake up early and work in our rice fields, before going to school. Grandma was strict. She made all her children work in the farms. Though Mom was an early riser, I’m sure she never took a break to enjoy the sunrise. In her free time, she had to weave flowers. But I can assure you she never stopped to smell the very flowers she was weaving. She didn’t have time for such finer things. Life was tough. Even after her marriage, when life became a bit easier, she got blessed——ha ha ha——with 3 demanding kids in a short span of time; at least one of them was doomed to become a failed artist. Because of this background things without monetary values became useless to her. She is quite a pragmatic person.

I was paid once though. When I was in Bahrain, I wrote a small article to an American website. As a token of appreciation, they mailed me a $25 cheque. The bank in Bahrain said, being an international cheque, they’d charge around 12 Dinars, which in fact is more than $25. Any sober person would have ignored the whole thing at this point. But deep inside I am a poet and a romanticist, I had to convince myself that writing is worth it. So I ended up paying from my pocket to clear the cheque.

Cartoons

I have opposed, in my past articles, children watching cartoons. I take that back now. Sometimes it’s a blessing, especially when you need a few quiet moments. In those times, I make her sit in front of the TV——switch on her favorite cartoon. (Right now, she’s watching cartoons in the next room.)

I have watched more Disney animation movies in the last few months than in my whole life. When I was a kid, we had only 2 VHS tapes of Tom and Jerry. I watched them all the time——again and again. Now there are so many cartoons. Some of them are violent, meaningless, and painful to watch. Only a few months ago, I was unaware of the existence of such cartoon characters as Tinker Bell, Dora, Caillou, George, and Martha. The last one is her current favorite.

It seems that the dog, Martha, accidentally ate alphabets and instead of going to its tummy, these alphabets went to its head. And, now the dog talks! This is probably the dumbest idea. I know. It doesn’t deserve mentioning here. But my daughter loves the dog.

If a big word pops up in the conversation, the show kind of pauses, and the dog turns to its viewers and spells out the word. Also, gives a few possible meanings. Sometimes it asks questions to the audience, and waits in anticipation for the answer. Sometimes there are long lectures on what the good kids should do and don’t.

All this preaching is a big NO in adult fiction. Writers can no more lecture their readers; although, such a thing was prominent in Victorian literature.

Learning

Before the child, I had this constant feeling that I am in a Satyajit Ray movie: nothing happened for long periods of time. Now I feel like I am in a Mangalore-Udupi express bus. She has become mischievous and overly imaginative: eats only the center circles of bread slices; Quietly enters the room while I am writing, switches off the light, runs away and hides; has developed a strong liking for licking ice cubes, and shuts my mouth while I talk on the phone. (Imagine the last thing, while explaining a critical thing to a client.)  

A few days back, She tried to staple my finger. In a sense I am metaphorically stapled to frozen time. You’ll notice this when you read my short-stories. The super-ideal characters have baffled many readers. Where do such people exist? They have asked me. And, I have gracefully accepted, these people exist only in my imagination.

“Can you hold my hand?” I asked her in the crowded mall, one time.

“Why?”

“I’m scared,” I said. “I might get lost here.”

“Don’t be scared. You are a big girl now.”

She cannot differentiate a boy from a girl. So she has by-hearted this information. It is so silly. This notion of roting logical things probably she got from me.

At school, I was extremely good at by-hearting. I would even by-heart math problems. The same problem with different parameters would have multiple copies in my head. I was so good at this, I was one of the toppers. Here’s what I have to say: In any school, if the topper is a person whose way of learning new things is roting——then there is something wrong with the system. Don’t you agree?

Such people, whose Modus Operandi is roting, should not join computer industry. I did exactly that, and had a tough time in the initial days of my career. Most computers are dumb——they understand only 0s and 1s. Imagine talking to a person who understands only two words: Yes & No. How do you communicate with such a person? In short, to make these dumb-computers work intelligently, whoever programs them, need to be quite logical.  

Only much later in my career, I realized that any complex idea can be dissected into smaller, simpler parts, which are easier to digest. This applies to writing as well. Writers who lack clear thoughts, use jargon and convoluted language. (Convoluted? Gosh! Should have used a simpler word!)

Epilogue

One day she offered me water in a small plastic cup from her kitchen set. She cooks imaginary dishes for me now and then. Sometimes I ask her to add more salt or ask for a second serving. This is a kid game. But might turn out fatal for writers. I am now at a position where I am slowly losing the sense of reality. When I read some of the stuff I had written in the past, I am not sure if those things really happened or they are just my imagination.

Anyway, the water in the cup was real; I saw the little circles. She signaled me to drink. I was about to oblige, but  then  I realized she cannot reach any of the water taps in the house.

“Where did you get the water?”

At first she refused; after much cajoling, she obliged finally, pointed to the commode.

Note: 
If you liked this one, you might like to read my other memoirs. Click here for more.

This article was published on www.daijiworld.com. Click here to read it on Daiji. 

Sun is sleeping

The old pond;

A frog jumps in —
The sound of the water.
-Matsuo Bashô

From the couch I saw my daughter pulling out the kitchen chair in the far corner; the chair is taller and twice heavier than her. She used the chair to climb onto the table; and, slowly opened the chocolate box, which I had thought was out of her reach. She had approached the table quietly——knowing I’ll be into my book. But once you have a child, you cannot really concentrate on anything. You always have a background thread going on in your head, on her whereabouts. I dashed to the table——caught her red handed. This made her jump; but, when she realized it was the lenient parent, she got relaxed.

“Only one,” she said. I pointed to the fistful of chocolates. She dropped all in the box, retained one. I checked the box; there were a few left on the bottom. Over the days, she had finished most of it. Chocolate monster!

I carried her down. "No eating too much chocolate,” I said.  Two-and-half now. Why this? Why that? All the time. Thank God, there’s Google. I know now more animals, more birds, more colors, and more flowers.

One time, she pointed to a tiger in the picture book, and said ‘fox’. Then she pointed to a lion and said ‘Yellow’. I was alarmed. Did she mess up everything? Do we have to start all over again? Then she smiled mischievously; told the correct names pointing to the right pictures, laughing all the time——she was just messing with me. She was in a good mood.

On such occasions, she calls me ‘Lobo’ or ‘Ravi uncle’. In India, our neighbors taught her that her dad’s name is panji——pig; so sometimes she calls me, panji Lobo.

There are a few genuine screw-ups too. One time she saw a shark on TV and exclaimed:  “airplane!” and once she called a Kangaroo, ‘Pengaroo’. That’s because of the Penguins.

In fact, I myself cannot differentiate many things: sheep, lamb, and goat; shrimp and prawn; crocodile and alligator; tortoise and turtle. (For long, I thought the bigger ones in the sea are turtles and the smaller land cousins are tortoises; but it is not true.)

She knows four colors: yellow, purple, red, and orange. She can name more, but cannot really match them. She also doesn’t have a sense of time. When she says ‘Tomorrow’, she means sometime later. ‘Yesterday’ could be yesterday or anytime in the past. But when she says ‘Now’, she means NOW. “I want it now,” is such a big pain. Sometimes I reason with her; why we cannot watch cartoons; it’s night and sleep time. She listens patiently. Nods to everything I say and responds, “I want it now.”

Occasionally, I manage to distract her: “What’s this stupid dragon doing in the closet?” I say, and we both go on a dragon hunt.

Sometime ago there was another Ria in the community. So one was ‘Big Ria’ and my daughter was ‘Baby Ria’. The other family has moved out. But the name stayed.

“What’s your name?”

“Baby Ria.”

She thinks ‘Baby’ is her name.

She talks in rhymes.

“How much do you love Mamma?”

“Too-much Too-much.”

“and Dada?”

“Little-Little.”

My wife has cast a spell on her. If you ask my daughter: do you like Dada or gutter-water? She would opt for the latter.

She makes small sentences, and fragments. I like to irritate her. When she asks questions to Mamma, I jump in and give wrong answers. “I’m not talking to you,” she says. I think she picked that line on the TV. I myself haven’t used any such line with my parents, never——they would have thrown me out. In fact, only now, in my articles I pull their legs, otherwise all along I was a nice kid, except probably in my teens.  

And sometimes, my complaints are taken to Mamma. “Dada not listening to me.”

The only time I might ignore her——that too for few seconds——is when I read something interesting. It takes a small lag to comeback to the real world. But by then she would have run to Mamma with my complaint. (You cannot become a good writer, if you don’t listen. Probably the greatest writer to follow this advice was Maugham. He had a bad stutter. Maybe, because of that he would listen all the time. Even eavesdrop on strangers. Then copy the exact dialogues in his books. He’s one of the most read authors! His books are wonderful.)

In my school days, I was not allowed to read novels. I used to hide in the bathroom, for hours——reading books. Even now, If I find something interesting, I lock myself in the bathroom and read. 

“Lobo, where are you?” She bangs on the door.

“Give me 5 minutes.”

“Watcha doin? Come out?”

Children are so impatient. Sometimes when I’m working on the laptop, she turns off the lights.

“Shooo Dolly is sleeping,” she says. Dolly goes wherever she goes. Sleeps with her. Dolly has the status of a real person. I learned this the hard way——when I used Dolly as a pillow. Something hit me hard on the face. And, Dolly was yanked off. “No sleeping on Dolly,” I heard the warning. Some toys can be effectively used as weapons.

I used to write in the evenings. She won’t allow it anymore. Why write about her, when she is right there to play. Now, I wake up one hour early and write. If you want to become a writer you should write daily. No other tricks.  (Sometimes while I am writing, from the bedroom I hear the sleepy question: “Where’s Dada?”)

Once I woke in the middle of the night and found her awake. I tried to say something.

“Shoo Dolly is sleeping,” she said.

“When will YOU sleep?”

“Tell me story,” she said.

I am very poor at children’s stories. I know only one story. I repeat that one all the time. Children’s stories are much different than the ones for grownups. Children like repetition.

5 little monkeys jumping on the bed one fell off…  

4 little monkeys jumping on the bed…

A grownup would know instantly where this is going, and toss the book immediately. But the kids like it. They love the sound of repetition. You can raise the monkey-count to 75 in the above poem, and a child would still love it.

In the only children’s story I have cooked up, she’s a character. She makes a guest-appearance in the story. She likes to hear about herself. In fact the character in the story (her alter ego) is a better version of herself: Drinks milk; Brushes teeth twice; Eats mum-mum. All without any fuss. She knows this. Knows the character in the story is better; but she’s like——what do I care?

So painful to make her eat anything; things she doesn’t like are ‘picy’——she cannot say spicy.

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she pushes away the plate. This trick had worked in the past. You can ask her if she is nice or kakka, and she would do the nice thing for you. Not anymore.

Soon I’ll be out of tricks. Sometimes I say, “How come you look beautiful today? Did you drink too much milk?”

She likes that. I don’t know how long this one would work. One fine day, she might say: I would rather be intelligent than pretty.

Whenever she dresses up, she comes to me for approval. She stands at distance, cross legged, and head hung on one side. ”Wow,” I say, “You look so pretty.” The need for attention comes so early.

And, sometimes, I hear a shriek: “I want Dada!” This means she has done some mistake and, Mamma has punished her. That’s the only time she needs me. When I hear this jungle—cry I need to leave whatever I am doing, and run for the rescue. I have told her that it’s okay to make mistakes. Everyone makes them. Pencils have erasers etc. “Just say by-mistake,” I have said——Mamma would understand.

Before she came in my life, I could leave a book on the stairs, or at the kitchen sink, and there would be no question of not finding it at the same spot hours later, when I would come looking for it. But, now, If I leave a book on a low place, it’ll will be gone, I might find shredded paper, but mostly the book would have been vanished.

One day, I was reading a book; she snatched it and vanished in one of the rooms. Then she came back, and flourished the fingers. “Magic,” she said. I searched for it desperately, but the book is gone. She’s not telling me either. The next day she forgot the whole thing. I was at an interesting point when she took away the book. It’s a short story collection. I don’t know the name of the book. The story will haunt me to my grave.

On my book shelf, between classics and writing books, a small section is reserved for her. Her books are small and bright. They have many big pictures and a few sentences. A picture explains many things! (Very few writers narrate picturesquely: Tolstoy, Proust.)

People have different fears. Some don’t like spiders, some snakes. I cannot change diapers. I know what you are thinking. But, it’s just not my thing.

Now she is potty trained. So things are not that bad. One day she was in the bathroom with Mamma; I heard the command: “I want Dada!”

Gosh I said, not now! I gave her hundred reasons, why Dada might not be the right person for the job. She listened carefully, nodded in agreement, then said: “I want Dada!”

So now that I have done the stuff, I feel there are 2 types of men in the world: those who have washed the bums of their kids and those who haven’t. I belong to the former one——the holier among the two. I am now, a Kevalin. Nothing else matters.

Parenting is an experiment: what works for one child doesn’t for another. So you keep experimenting till the kids become parents! I have raised my voice only twice, so far. Sounds like an annual event. I do have the patience of a vulture. But sometimes she just gets on my nerves. Last time when I raised my voice, a little, there was much wailing and screaming, followed by kicking the nearest toy, and throwing the milk bottle, and then banging the door to lock herself in the bedroom. Luckily the door doesn’t self-lock. I am not surprised at her. I was like that too, but not at two——I was unmanageable in my teen years. My parents considered many a times to drive me to a distant desert and leave me off.

“Can you get me some See-O-Kay-E?” I ask my wife from the dining table. She brings me Coke in a china cup.

“You want milk?” I ask my daughter. Offer the cup.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

I am going straight to hell. They will put me in hot water or fry me on the giant pans. There’s no forgiving for my sins.

Once, she made a big fuss about going out at midnight. I reasoned with her; why we cannot go tata; it’s night and no sun and dark outside. All in vain.

Plan B:

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she replied.

Plan C:

“What’s this dragon doing in the closet?”

That didn’t fly either. So we decided for a small ride. The moment we were out of the parking lot——she started snoring. Since we were out anyway, we went ahead with the ride, roamed for half hour. I had to carry her back to home. Once inside, she opened her eyes, looked around——all sleep gone. “I want to go tata,” she said, “NOW!”

So here we are. One more memoir. Whenever I write a short-story, some or the other responds: “The stories are fine, but when you’ll write a memoir?”

At the bottom of this article there is a list of my past articles. The first one was published somewhere in 2007. So I have been doing this gig for some time now. Most writers would move on. Not me. My readers won’t allow. I am going to be a life-time memoir writer. A writer whose memoirs are more fictitious than true events.

Anyway, there’s a big difference between what I am writing now and what I wrote then. The current articles are less funny——of course. I wish I had not read so many books on writing. I was a better writer before reading them. I was writing whatever came to my mind——incoherent thoughts. Then someone said from a podium at a gathering: “Hey you. Not you. You! The one with less hair. Yes. The fat-guy. You should learn the craft.”

I got hooked. I probably have the world record for reading the most number of books on writing. But I still don’t get it.

Anyway, having a child at home helps me look at the world in a different way. All ‘art’ is looking things in a different angle. ‘Sun is sleeping,’ she says at night, looking out the window. I myself cannot imagine such things——even after writing for so many years. She amazes me.

All right then. No more beating around the bush. Let’s see if we can end this smoothly. I need your help. Here’s what we are gonna do: Finish this off with only short sentences. And, we’ll use present tense. For a change. Let’s italicize the text to note the change in tense. No other gimmicks. No big words. Wait a second. Let me stretch a bit. Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.

Epilogue

We are at a carnival. She is sitting on my shoulders——legs around my neck. She holds my head for balance. We roam around. Look at the colorful things: rides and food stalls.  Then suddenly I feel something cold on the back of my neck. I turn my head. Look up at her.

“Did you make su-su?”

“Yes,” she says.

Moments pass.

“By mistake,” she says.

                                                             ///////////////////////////////////////

Note: If you liked this one, you might like the other ones in the series. Click here for my other memoirs. 

This article was first published on www.daijiworld.com; click here for the original post. 

Sexy

Part I

Eventually Das found out his wife’s affair from a telephone statement. Any other man would have got suspicious much earlier. But Das had developed an indifference towards life, in the past few years. He didn’t notice the occasional blank calls or her increased stay outside the home.

One Sunday, sipping coffee, he casually looked at the telephone bill lying on the ground, with no intention of picking it up. What caught his attention was the pattern on the statement.

Long back, while he was a Quality Control Engineer, his job was to monitor the assembly line for products not fitting the patterns. The long shifts of early days had a profound effect on him. His mind would look for patterns everywhere.  

The statement had one number with a pattern. It appeared at the same time, everyday——during his office hours. The duration of the calls alarmed him.

Soon he hired a private detective to follow her for a week, and to report anything unusual. The detective called the next day itself. They met in a café. “You don’t need a professional,” he said. “She is not hiding anything.” He tossed a few pictures.

Das didn’t recognize the man in the picture——definitely one from her music group. The man looked arty. Not a regular office goer. He had one hand around Vedika’s waist. Das stared at the picture for a long time; it was taken from an odd angle. Except for the couple, rest of the image was blurred. This amplified the effect. The picture was more like a piece of art than evidence.

“I was once interested in photography,” said the detective.

////////////////////////

Long after the detective was gone, Das sat in the café, sipping coffee——mentally rehearsing various scenarios, confronting his wife. Eventually his plan was to show the pictures to Vedika, and to wait for her explanation. This plan looked reasonable. Also, it gave the defendant an opportunity to explain her actions.

Once satisfied with the preparation, he went home. Vedika was not in. He waited in the study, patiently. At around 9PM, he called her cell——no one answered.

He went to the kitchen to find anything to eat. He was hungry. That’s when he found the yellow note, pasted on the refrigerator’s door. She had left notes for him now and then: Poetry reading today! or Don’t wait for dinner or No milk in the house. As usual the note was concise and to the point.

I’m leaving for good.

Don’t look for me.

-V.

Such a note would have had devastating effect on the reader, not on Das. Instead, his mind noted the pattern in the first two lines: each line had four words; the first words had apostrophe; the word “for” was in the same position.

He was subconsciously expecting something like this, or something more dramatic, from Vedika. At once the burden of facing her was gone. He felt relieved.

She had taken her stuff, which was almost everything. His preoccupied mind had not noticed the emptiness when he entered the house. Her vast collection of music CDs was gone. The shelf stood hollow and plain. A few books remained on the lower rack. They belonged to Das.

He called his daughter at the hostel, not realizing it was quite late. The warden warned him against such late calls. Soon the daughter came on line. “How come you are calling on a weekday?” Amodita asked. He said something.

“How’s mom?” she asked.

So she was not aware yet.

“Amo, don’t come home this weekend.” His mind started preparing for the next bigger task: how to break this news to Amo?

////////////////////////

Since he had not taken any leaves in the year, his application for one got approved immediately. Das seldom took leaves, and often resumed to work early from vacation. No such plans this time.

He ate outside——slept and woke up at odd hours. Soon neighbors would start talking about the missing person. Unlike his wife, Das was not much of a social person. His interactions with neighbors were minimum, often limited to monosyllables. He was concerned about the daughter though. How would Amo take this?

Mornings he spent in the park; it was empty on weekdays. Not being in the traffic and, not having the rush to meet the mundane deadlines of the office work, relaxed him. He took out the pictures from the envelope. Vedika looked happy. Das had never seen his wife so content.

“Are you secretly gaping at women’s pictures?”

Das didn’t notice the girl till then. She wore a short skirt and a bright top. His initial reaction was that of a surprise, since no one so attractive had voluntarily stopped to talk to him, in the past.  

“She’s my wife,” he said.

“May I?” she sat next to him, without waiting for his approval——snatched the pictures and quickly glanced through them.

“She’s hot,” said the girl.

Das had never heard someone commenting on his wife like that——at least not to his face.

“Who’s the dude? Brother?”

“Her lover,” Das hesitated using the word lover. “They eloped, last week.”

The girl, twisted her lips, and blew a suggestive whistle. The women in Das’s family never whistled.

“Now what? By the way I am Anushka.”

They shook hands. He told his name. She held the picture next to his face.  “The dude looks better than you!”

It is true, thought Das. That disturbed him.

“He’s a musician,” he said.

She looked at the picture again. “Looks like a bouncer, not musician; unless, he plays different sorts of instruments.” Das searched for a hidden meaning; but concluded the remark was made spontaneously, without much thinking, hence non- suggestive.  

“Did you inform the police?”

“No,” he said; he didn’t have any such intentions.  

“Aren’t you gonna look for her?”

Who is this girl? She is asking too many questions. Das gave her the yellow post-it note.

She took a long time to read the two lines.

“Is this her leaving note?”

Das nodded.

“Super-Cool! She’s a minimalist,” concluded the girl.

The whole conversation agitated him. “Don’t you have school today?”

“Bunked!”

The girl took out a small mirror from her bag——started admiring the makeup. Re applied dark lipstick. Everything about the girl was bright and flashy. How did her parents approve all this?

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Not far. I walk to this place. I have a car; but I can’t drive yet. I prefer walking anyway, because——”

“Exercise?”

“No. I like to meet strangers. Especially mature men. You can be free with them. No formalities. No secrets to keep.”

Something is wrong here——thought Das. Only in his fantasies such pretty women chatted so openly. Except for them the park was empty. Any other woman would have hesitated to approach a stranger in a lonely place. The girl seemed fearless. Is she one of those wonderful people who see the good in everyone? Or is this the ignorance of youth that overlooks the evil in strangers. He lighted a cigarette.

“May I have one?”

While lighting they came closer. “When was the last time you saw a woman this close?”

Das instantly retracted. She took a casual puff but an endless cough seized her.

“This is my first smoke,” said the girl between coughs.

Das got alarmed——tried to snatch the cigarette from her. “Help! Help!” the girl screamed. “This man is molesting me!”  Das let her go at once, as if he had touched a live wire.

“Hey mister, are you taking advantage of me?”

The tough look on her face made him nervous. Palms started sweating. It was a strange, surreal moment. She laughed loudly. “Did I scare you?”  She sat back and relaxed. The short skirt was raised a little; she didn’t make any effort to pull it down. The skin was whiter where it was not exposed to the sun. This pattern excited Das.

The girl observed the nail polish——gave a satisfying nod. Then she looked at the toe nails, sighed disapprovingly. Although, looking from a distance, Das didn’t find anything wrong. She took a small bottle of nail polish, and then bent forward to paint the nails.

Das suddenly noticed that she was not wearing a bra; this unexpected revelation made him uneasy——he looked away with guilt.

“How’s it?” she asked.

The question left him speechless.

“How’s my nail polish?”

Is she innocent, or Is she faking?

She held her cell phone right in front of his face. “Let me take your picture.” Once again she didn’t wait for his approval. She clicked a couple of pictures.

“Not bad,” she said. He took the cell phone. He had not seen such an advanced gadget. It was bigger than the one he was using. Unlike his phone, this one didn’t have buttons; somewhere it had a camera. Das looked at it in awe, as if it was an unearthly object——something from outer space. The phone had a pink cover. On the backside there was a picture of an attractive woman.

“Who’s this?”

“Bebo.”

“Who?”

“Kareena Kapoor.” Das had heard the name, but never seen any of her movies.

“Isn’t she cute?”

Das would never use the word “Cute” to refer a woman.

“Where are your parents?” he asked.

“When did you find out the affair?” girl replied with her own question. When Das insisted on his question; she insisted back. Resigned, Das narrated the events.

“My parents are on a study tour,” she said. “They do research at the university.”  The irresponsible academic parents amazed Das. The fools must be researching something interesting, to neglect their daughter like this. The topic of parents had brought a cloud on her face.

The girl said at length: “Do you know what’s common between us?” When Das didn’t answer she continued, “We are two lonely people.”

Das could not look at her face. She had turned to the other side.

“Do you want to come to my home?” she asked.

Das gulped.

“We can have fun. You know——”

She crossed her legs——smiled at him, innocently. “When was the last time you had it?”

Das looked at her. She stared, un-flinched. Das didn’t have any physical relationship with his wife in months. They even slept in different rooms when Amo was not at home. Though he had been honest to his wife, she had flirted with a different man. And, here’s a girl openly inviting him. Can I not do the same things my wife does? Or Should I lead the thankless life of a saint?

“I think,” he said finally, “I should leave now.”

“Why so urgent?”

“I remembered something. I’ll have to go. It was nice talking to you.” He started collecting his things.

“Mr. Das, Are you one of those men?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know?”

“I don’t know,” Das said.

“The ones who prefer men.”

That was the final blow for Das. He didn’t say a word. He kept walking, without responding to the numerous obscenities hurled at him.

Part II

Das didn’t go to the park after the incident. One day he returned from one of his idle walks, and found the door unlocked. Vedika might have come back to collect the remaining stuff. Instead, he found his daughter on the couch, her eyes red and swollen.

“Mom called me,” she said.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Das sat next to her. “What she said?”

“Many things. Said she found her music. Whatever that means. She said she’ll be in touch.”

Amo was affected the most. For Das, this was the most painful aspect of this whole incident.

Later in the evening she said: “I always thought you were an odd couple——Mom and you. Why did you marry her?”

He sighed. “Do you want to go out for dinner? Nothing at home.”

“No. I am fine,” she said.

“I’ll get something,” he went out.

When he came back she was watching TV. Das started arranging the dishes on the dining table. He looked at the many pictures of Amo on the wall, at different stages of her life. He was not in many of them——he had taken those pictures. He looked at the daughter fondly. She had more of his qualities than of her mother. Long back, a teacher had remarked in Red ink on the margin of Amo’s picture book, for not maintaining the order. Das had browsed the book casually: honeycombs, flowers, sand dunes, cracks on the ground. He had smiled to himself. The pictures were not random. All of them had patterns! Soon after, she solved her first Rubik’s cube under 5 minutes.

Das noticed something on her hand.

“Is that a tattoo?”

“No. it’s a sticker. It’ll go.”

“Talk to me before tattooing or piercing.”

“Anything else?” Amo rolled eyes. “No wonder it’s difficult to live with you.”

He took the remote and reduced the volume. Something caught his eyes——the girl on the TV. Das stared in horror. It was the same girl whom he had met in the park! Anusha. No, that was not her name. Anu something…Anushka! She was sitting next to a middle aged man. She wore different clothes, but they were short and revealing. Das Froze!

“What’s the naughtiest thing you ever did?” Anushka asked. The man said something.

She giggled. “Are you sure?”

The man placed a hand on her lap.

“Hey Mister, are you taking advantage of me?”

Das turned to his daughter. “What’s this?”

“Candid camera,” Amo said, “She seduces lonely strangers. There’s a camera crew somewhere but the victim doesn’t know that. She convinces the victim to go to her home, she being alone. When they reach home, there’s police waiting and a team of reporters and TV people…”

A cold shiver passed through his spine. “Looks like she’s the one seducing him,” he said, when recovered sufficiently, regretting using the word ‘seduce’.

“Yes. But she’s a teen——minor.”

“Does she tell the victim that she’s a minor?”

“Not directly; she would say she can’t drive or drink. Something not legal for a teen.”

Das watched the rest of the show without any questions. Do you know what’s common between us? When was the last time you were so close to a woman? How’s my nail-polish? Oh God! Everything was a script. 

Anushka had convinced her victim to take her to home. The moment they opened the large gate, something like a siren sounded. Many people materialized from thin air, like the characters from a mythological drama. Some were in uniform. The camera zoomed on the victim’s face, which had a look of horror, with many questions. Das switched off the TV.

////////////////////////

The next day Das went to the train station to drop off Amo. He waited till the train departed. Last night’s TV episode lingered in his mind. Someone, sitting on the cement bench, caught his eye. They looked at each other at the same time. She didn’t have the makeup and, her hair was cut short.

“Am I on camera now?” Das sat next to her.

Anushka didn’t reply to the question. “I no more work for the TV channel,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I have a train in a few minutes,” she said, “I am leaving town.”

A tall man with a heavy build came towards them. Two muscular men were with him.

“Well well well,” said the tall man, “look who’s here?”

Anushka stared at the man. Das noticed her lips quivering.

“Is this is your new victim?” the man asked Anushka pointing to Das.

“You’ll become famous soon,” the man assured Das. “We are all on TV. Or I may be just lucky to find her without her crew. This crowded station is not her usual hunting ground.”

“I think you are mistaken——”

“No. I am not,” shouted the man. “I have seen all your episodes, ever since you sent my brother to jail. First, I thought it’s the right thing for him. Fucking child molester. He called me from jail. Narrated the whole thing. The things they didn’t show on TV. You people have smartly edited the unwanted parts.”

The girl recoiled in horror. The man addressed his mates: “My brother was minding his own business. But the hot- bitch here goes to him. Flashes her mini skirt. Talks dirty. My brother has no mind. The fool thinks he’s a film star. I am going to put an end to this. I am going to make a nice little cut on her cheek with my knife. People will recognize her right away.”

By now Das had recovered sufficiently; he said feebly, “she’s not who you think.”

“Shut up,” said the man, “Did she invite you to her home?”

“She’s not—”

The man grabbed Das by collar. Already a crowd had gathered around.

“You think I am a fool?”

“No.”

“You think I cannot recognize the horny-bitch?”

“no-but”

“You tell me who’s she?”

Das remained silence.

“Looks like you know everything,” the man squeezed the collar. “Tell me who is she?”

“She is my daughter,” Das said.

The girl looked at Das.

“I came to drop her at the station,” Das said. “If you don’t believe me, check her purse. She has a pink cell phone and, on the back cover she has her favorite actress…Bobby.”

“Bebo,” corrected Anushka. “Dad always confuses Bebo with Bobby.”

She offered her cell. “Hey mister,” said an old school- teacher from the crowd, “don’t harass these good people.” His age and profession had given the old man the required courage. Someone had alerted the station police and a man in uniform was coming towards them.

“Munna, this is not the time to get noticed,” One of the two men——who was a silent observer so far——warned the tall man. The goons took off. The crowd dispersed. Das started towards the exit. He stopped on hearing his name. Das looked back. It was Anushka. She ran to him and, hugged him tightly.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, fighting tears, “I didn’t mean whatever I said in the park.” She continued between sobs, “I said all the bad things to you. I got paid only when I trapped someone.”

He patted on her shoulder. “Forget all that. It’s all past.”

The girl wiped off her tears. Das bought her a cold drink from the stall.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Not anymore,” said Das.

“Is your wife back?” she was relaxed now.

“No.”

“She’s at bigger loss. You are a good man.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that,” he smiled. The train’s departure was announced. “You should go now.”

The girl sipped till the straw made noise, then returned the empty bottle to the vendor.

“Sure, not angry with me?” she said.

“Yes. I am not angry with you.”

She took a step back from him. “Say Mister Das,” she smiled coyly, “Do I look sexy to you?”

She was no more a girl. She had transformed into a woman overnight.

Das hesitated, then said: “You are the prettiest woman I have ever seen.”

She smiled. Waved to him and ran to the train. Das waited till the train disappeared at the horizon; then walked towards the exit.

 ////////////////////////

Note: If you liked this short story, you might like my other short stories as well. Click here for more.

This story was published on Daiji.