Bizarre

By Sarbani Chakravarti

PART I

Aparupa, that was her name. The petite girl with pale skin and large eyes. They welcomed her at birth as she was born to her parents after a series of miscarriages. They had almost given up the hope of holding a bundle of joy in their arms, choosing to look the other way when relatives, friends or neighbours played with their children or rebuked them. They had almost reconciled to the possibility of staring at old age without a progeny, without the privilege of leaving a part of themselves behind after they were gone. They had learned to live with the pain for years, perfecting their skills at stoicism till providence decided to smile upon them. It was nothing short of a miracle when her mother’s unexpected pregnancy was discovered, when she arrived tearing out of her mother’s body in the wee hours of the morning, her shrill voice piercing into the darkness of the night to announce the arrival of a new life on the face of the earth. Her father pacing up and down in the portico of the cold, depressing building of the district hospital heaved a sigh of relief when the nurse informed him that a daughter had been born and his wife had survived the ordeal. One day later, the couple walked out of the hospital, her mother clutching the tiny body close to her heart, her most prized possession, the biggest blessing of her life. They decided to call her Aparupa- the unparalleled beauty. The name reflected their happiness and gratitude.

Apa – as she was popularly addressed, the apple of her parents’ eyes, the darling of the neighbourhood did not stand out as a child. She was like every other child, jolly and playful. The only attribute which made her stand apart was her obedience- often unquestioning obedience. Her mother feared it.

“Apa, are you sure you want it? Are you sure you want to give it up? Are you sure …” Each time her mother asked these questions, Apa replied with a smile, often words did not follow the smile leading to the deduction that everything was fine with her…always. That she never claimed her own space was never noticed by anyone except her mother who was filled with apprehensions for reasons she could not decipher clearly. It made her uncomfortable, the very though of her daughter not claiming a space for herself in scheme of things bothered her. “Maybe she will shake off her diffidence, gain more confidence as she grows up.” Her mother took refuge in this conciliatory thought.

The family lived in the fringes of the town in a modest one-story house. Part of the building was plastered; the front part displayed a drab grey cemented wall interspersed with ventilators sporting the designs of flowers which presented themselves as a bouquet. Those were the bedrooms, dining room, kitchen and the prayer room which had mosaic floor where Apa was never able to make rangoli during Laxmi puja. The tiny feet of the goddess drawn using rice paste could not stand out on their own. They blended with the floor, imperceptible and vague like the mist dissipating and vanishing after making a brief appearance amidst multitudinous objects; each colour of the mosaic refusing to allow the footprints to make their presence felt.

Apa played in the courtyard which faced the unplastered part of the house, she played with her dolls, the boy and the girl whom she had married off and were now settled as a family, cooking in their own kitchen, eating together at the dining table, sleeping together on a bed which sported two miniature pink pillows and a blue quilt bearing a simple cross stitch design embroidered by her tiny hands. The miniature animals of her toy box stood scattered around the couple. She hugged her dolls, kissed them, even breathed into them as if trying to infuse them with her life, sharing a part of herself with them to enable herself to have the vicarious happiness of blissful cohabitation. She was content, she was comfortable, that was enough for her to be happy. In a world where everyone pursued the unachievable and unattainable, she had found her own space, however imperceptible it could have been for others, in her heart of hearts she knew she did not need to aspire for more. Other children did not find her interesting enough to be befriended, she accepted the rejection gracefully. Her lone friend Lata visited her and together they played with the dolls, animals, utensils, furniture; it was their own little world where they were both comfortable. It appealed to Apa because it offered no unpredictability or apprehensions and it appealed to Lata because she could take a break from asserting herself and fighting battles as she was known not to mince her words. Lata knew to fight, fight back, assert herself, reclaim her rights, stand her ground. She was everything that Apa was not and that was why the two girls were as thick as thieves. The demise of Apa’s mother made Lata all the more indispensable in her life.

She grew up but still did not claim her space as perceived by the world, and with her mother gone, there was no one to ponder over any imaginary catastrophe. The pain of her mother’s death ripped her heart apart, however strangely enough, it was also a sort of relief for her as no one pinned any expectation on her anymore.

The girl metamorphized into a woman, she could be seen walking down the narrow lanes of her neighbourhood dressed in a salwar kameez clinging to her lithe figure, making a silhouette against the setting sun. She walked to her college and back from there with her best friend Lata. Lata the rebel and Apa the reticent were inseparable- for Apa she was the substitute of her mother who could infuse her with courage and confidence and provide her the safety net against pain and rejection. On their way back, they often dropped in at Apsara Boutique to check out the new clothes which made regular appearances at the store. Not that always Apa could afford them, her father’s modest means did not permit her to be extravagant, but she took the liberty to try them on and look at her beautiful reflection in the mirror of the changing room. She was always filled with a sense of pride to see herself blossoming into a woman – fair, slim, her long hair cascading down to her waste, her dark eyes- a poet would have called her an Ode to Womanhood – the over romanticised aspect of the physical beauty of a woman that transcends every other aspect of her being. Apa knew she was beautiful and desirable and that defined her self-esteem- the approval of other people who said she was beautiful shaped her sense of acceptance and confidence. She had never ever felt so happy about herself.

“Dada, have you thought about getting a groom for Apa? She is already 20.” Her aunt voiced her concern for her niece whose mother’s death had bestowed the responsibility of reminding her father of his parental duties on the remaining elderly womenfolk of the family.

“Dekhbo, let her complete her graduation.” Replied Apa’s father nonchalantly. He had neither considered it important to guide his daughter in her studies, nor did he consider it necessary to look for a suitable match. The family had no hopes in him, his inadequacy in domestic affairs after the demise of his wife had become an accepted truth for the family.

Dekha shuru koro, start looking for one now. It takes long to get a suitable match for people who have neither the right connections nor the resources.”

Apa’s father did not respond. He knew it was the truth, however, he was too unwilling to make the effort. Match making was a woman’s job and he did not have one in his life. Thus, he could be absolved of the indifference.

Lata and Apa, Apa and Lata – the two of them together, they had outgrown the toybox, so they needed each other more to live a life that they often found tiring and confusing. The cushion of friendship was an integral part of their coping mechanism. They found joy in simple acts like gorging on street food, buying trinkets, trying new clothes and occasionally buying the cheaper ones. There can be no unhappiness if one aims and aspires for nothing. It was true for Apa but Lata had a different story. Her parents had often admonished her for her brashness.

“Lata, you are too opinionated, it’s not good, it can be dangerous. It is unbecoming of a good girl to behave like this.” Her parents always said this, fearful of the consequences which she might have to encounter at her marital home. Lata could not care less. It was not her job to please everyone, she had a mind of her own which allowed her to think, to speak, to accept or to reject if she had to.

“It’s time we marry her off. She can do whatever she chooses after she is married.” That was the best solution her parents could come up with. Lata overheard her parents discussing her future, a future that she had never envisaged for herself. Her decision was quick and daring. She packed her bags and fled to Kolkata where she had friend who had agreed to give her a space to live till she could find a job for herself. She ran away, escaped to carve out a life for herself leaving her childhood friend behind, lost and forlorn.

PART II

Lata looked outside the broken window of her office, the rain swept through the streets of the city purging it of its dirt and adding to its miseries. The street urchins could be seen bathing in the downpour, their hands outstretched, screaming in joy. Their parents scurried to take shelter at the bus stop which had become crowded with waiting passengers, passers- by, animals- anyone and everyone who could squeeze in under the shade of the open bus stop. The flower tubs erected by the municipality which were filled with different kinds of wrappers housed the rats in distress. She could see the rodents, black and shiny, with their slender bodies and pointed heads squatting on the edge of the tubs inspecting the possibility of burrowing into the soil inside the tub and not being able to do so as they housed noting but wastes dumped by the passengers. The garbage not having been cleaned, threatened to spill outside as they floated in the waters of the rain. Lata had never witnessed such harmonious coexistence before.

She withdrew from the window and returned to her desk, sat down at it, picked up the receiver to resume making calls once again to prospective clients. She had a target to meet, she had to keep her job, her parents had disowned her, she was an errant daughter, an embarrassment to the family but this did not break her spirit, rather it made her more determined to etch out a life for herself away from the expectations of her family. After her relocation to Kolkata, she had lived with a friend of hers for about a month before shifting to a working girls’ hostel which allowed only unmarried girls or widowed woman to stay. Lata had strange roommates, young, old, widowed, spinsters- women from different walks of life who had nowhere else to go- no one to fall back on- trying hard to survive in a city which showed little mercy to people who did not have the basic means of survival. The fact that she could have lived a comfortable life at her parents’ house or in her husband’s house never evoked any sense of regret in her mind. She had accepted her circumstances, rather embraced them most willingly. It was a small price to pay for the independent and spirited girl. Her family did not bother to check on her and though it hurt her deep down, she never took pity on herself for being abandoned by the very people who had given her birth. She wrote to them on special occasions like the new year and Durga Puja but was careful never to call them as she feared it would open the floodgates of emotions which would drown her and carry her backwards in life. It was a frightening prospect; she would not do it.

“Lata, what is the conversion rate? Making calls is of no use unless they convert into clients. We sell insurance, you need to remember that you have to paint a grim picture for the client, unsettle him enough to make him willing to pay.” Lata knew it was a business where fear had to be traded and of late, she had not been doing a good job. Mr. Kejriwal had noticed that she looked perpetually tired and uninterested. It irritated him.

“Sir, I am calling. Some will buy,” replied Lata timidly. She had to be docile, she needed to apply for leave as she had to appear for the examinations of the correspondence course that she was pursuing to improve her job prospects. She had learnt to tread with caution. Discretion is the better part of valour.

Lata made the call, “Hello. Good morning Sir. I am Rohini calling from Easy Insurance.” The client disconnected the line even before she could begin with her sales pitch, it was one of the polite reactions elicited, customers often hurled abuses and in stray cases also asked her if she would be interested to go out for a cup of coffee in the evening. Lata did not care much, it was a professional hazard she had learnt to take in her stride. Her roommate Rohini worked at an international call centre; she had been trained to speak with an American accent to handle oversea clients. Everyday she walked into her office as Rohini, assumed the identity of Rebecca and spoke with a fake accent trying to pacify the customers and solve their problems. Lata knew she had to stick to her current job till she upgraded herself, the job at Easy Insurance had sustained her for two years after her relocation to the city.

PART III

Lata sat at the window of her cabin, the rays of the sun being reflected by the table top glass fell on the opposite yellow wall giving it a pale glow. The sun was about to set in an hour, the day would end for many in the office but she had to work late hours perfecting the presentation which had to be made to the client the following day. She could anticipate what Mr. Dayani would say in his nasal voice. “Miss. Saha, I understand you are making a good offer but it’s still very expensive. We cannot pay such high premium for the employees. Business is down. We are struggling.”

Lata had scripted her reply already, “I understand your problems Sir but think about the tax benefits…” She knew how to coax him into acceptance, she had a legendary track record in converting the most difficult cold calls into the most lucrative clients. They thought she was a natural and this conviction had brought about her meteoric rise in the organization where she had joined as a tele caller.

Nothing had happened by accident or coincidence. She had planned every move of hers with precision. It was she who had requested Mr. Kejriwal to shift her out of the desk job and put her into the field. Tele calling was a dead end, it could be a job but could never become a career and Lata had no intention to waste her time at a place where she had no future. They had shifted her out, it was no big deal for them as they fired the sales executives in three months if they failed to perform. They would fire Lata too if she failed, they had no reason to feel sorry for her. Much against the cautions of her friends, Lata decided to descend into the open battlefield to make cold calls and earn revenue for her employer. It was a big risk but Lata did not think twice.

Sitting at her desk, Lata reminisced about the past few years of her life, the past few years had been more eventful than the remaining chunk of it. She had done the seemingly impossible and that too at frequent intervals dismissing the possibility of success obtained by fluke.

She remembered how on a day when the city was troubled by some unrest, she had ventured into areas which are avoided by most people as a matter of common practice. She had walked into the serpentine lanes looking for Abdul Hossain, the elderly tailor whose shop had been destroyed by fire two years back. He had saved every penny to rebuild it, the thin old man evoked a sense of pain and pity in the heart of Lata when he stepped out of his house to meet her. “Beti, Anwar ne bola thaa that you would come. But why did you venture out on a day like this?” The concern in the eyes of the elderly man was genuine.

“Chacha, how are your legs now? Are you able to have your meals properly?” Lata asked the elderly gentleman with a broad smile.

“ Aare beti, an old man will have old legs and less appetite. Not to worry.” Abdul had laughed with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes and Lata had responded with a hearty laughter. It had broken the ice between them. He invited her to his house where his daughter-in-law served her a glass of sharbat to help her beat the savage heat of May. It had not been very difficult to convince Abdul Chacha about the necessity of getting his shop insured and over a period of a few months, about fifteen people of the neighbourhood had followed suit. One man had even insured his warehouse. It was just a small conversation with the watchman of the office which had paved the way for Lata’s first success in sales. Anwar, the young, lanky chap had told her about the miseries and hardships of his old uncle who had to support his family of ten members. Lata had learnt a very important lesson of life-that no conversation was ever a waste of time. She trained her ears to catch every word uttered by people she encountered in her life and she knew how to use them to her advantage.

And then there was the case of Dobson Drugs where the workers were on strike demanding a pay revision and better working conditions. Lata had walked into the premises of the factory where the workers were busy preparing for a battle, swarmed by the police who stood in riot gears. They were suspicious of her when she tried to sneak in. She had to pull the wool over their eyes to reach the reception of the office and finally into the boardroom. Mr. Kajaria was not interested to waste his time talking to a mere slip of a girl. Lata stood her ground and said, “Sir, give me five minutes of your time to break the strike.” She had correctly hit Mr. Kajariya’s Achilles hill. She sat down with him explaining a new group insurance policy for his workers which would give them several benefits and most importantly, though Mr. Kajaria had to bear the premium to convince his workers that he had their best interest in mind, the cost would be less than giving in to their demands of pay hike. Mr. Kajaria called in the union leaders, presented his case behind closed doors and after a few rounds of meetings and negotiations, the workers resumed work. There had not been any strike at Dobson Drugs since then.

Lata looked out the window of her cabin, it was the Managers’ cabin, she had risen through the ranks, she had earned her place in the world. She picked up the phone to dial Apa’s number. “Apa, can we meet tomorrow at 6 in the evening? I have work to finish today.”

“Anytime that is convenient for you. I am free… always,” came the reply from the other side.

Lata replaced the receiver and focussed on the screen of her laptop.

PART IV

Lata’s escape from the suburban town to Kolkata was a red flag for Apa’s family. Her aunts were panic -stricken, they took it upon themselves to get a groom for her bypassing her father who had withdrawn from the family. He took his morning tea and left for the park to meet up with his friends from the neighbourhood. They walked down the cemented pathway, exercised and practised laughing out aloud at the laughing club. They were all retired men who had no reason to hurry back home, their children being settled in life and their wives being busy with household chores left them with enough leisure time. Her father had found the perfect escape route, his inaccessibility only aroused pity in the hearts of the family members. “He is still not able to get over the death of his wife,” they concluded. This justification absolved her father of his indifference and carelessness.

It would not be very difficult to find a match for Apa, her aunts knew that. She was unassertive, dutiful and pretty. The only disadvantage that she had was her father’s modest means. Some good family would be interested in her, they assured themselves. She was into the final year of her graduation when she was married off to Amit- an engineer with a promising career. The family did not care about anything else apart from her beauty and modesty. She would not be living with his family in the suburban town- she would live with him in Kolkata, in his own flat which he had purchased with a loan from the bank and be driven around in his car. Apa became the object of envy for the neighbourhood mothers who had marriageable daughters. “What luck!”. They muttered.

Apa left for her marital home leaving behind a life that would no longer offer her a space, now that she had a home of her own.

PART V

Apa stood at the balcony of her flat tending to the saplings which she had planted the previous week. She had purchased a variety of flowering plants from the nursery which stood at the turn of the main road. Amit had driven her to the shop on his way to office, she had taken a cab back home loading the trunk with pots of plants and saplings. Amit had an eye for beauty, he loved symmetry, anything less than perfect irritated him and she went out of the way to fit everything into his framework of perfection. She did not find it taxing, on the contrary, it offered her an empty canvas which she could colour to her heart’s content, something that she had not been able to do as a girl in her father’s house. Amit was generous with money when it came to beautification of the house. “A beautiful lady deserves a beautiful house,” was his response when Apa asked for money from her husband. However, he ensured that Apa gave him a detailed report of her expenses.

Apa walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bowl from the beautiful olive-green drawer. Each room of the flat, the kitchen, bathrooms, everything had been brought to life by an interior decorator. “What is life without beauty? Home is where the heart is.” Amit had laughed heartily while handing over the cheque to the decorator. Now the house was hers, every part of it, every bit of it and that was where her heart belonged. She never craved to visit her parental home. Her modest belongings at that home had either passed on to other people or had been discarded as more space was needed to accommodate new members of the family. She was no longer a part of the household where she had been raised, played with her dolls, gone to school and college, she did not belong there anymore. That part of her life existed only at the recesses of her memory which sometimes she visited with fondness- a part of her life which no longer existed, it felt so unreal to consider that it ever had been a part of her existence.

Apa broke some eggs and poured them into the glass bowl, she would bake a cake for Amit to celebrate his promotion. The new OTG should be put to use. Amit loved it when she cooked for him, she loved everything that he loved.

“You should not take so much stress, the doctor had advised you to be careful in the first trimester,” Amit cautioned her. Apa could sense the tension in his voice, it brought back the unsettling memories of her miscarriage.

Apa could feel the cramps in her stomach, she broke out in a cold sweat realising that trouble was brewing. Gathering enough strength to rise from the chair where she had seated herself to beat the spasms, she walked to the drawing room to make a call to her husband.

Amit arrived driving back in tearing hurry, he was in a state of panic. He gathered a neighbour and the two of them helped her limp to the lift and finally board the car to be driven to the hospital. Both of them were out of their wits.

“Mr. Sarkar, I had cautioned you earlier, Mrs. Sarkar needs to take rest. Otherwise, there might be another miscarriage.” Dr. Basu commented with clinical detachment, for him she was just another patient.

Amit decided to bring his mother to take care of his wife. “Do not get up from the bed till the baby is born.” It was his order and everyone was expected to toe the line. His mother had a natural affection for Apa, she was able to live happily with the very difficult son of hers. Amit was demanding and rigid, it was impossible to make him budge from his standpoint. He had very strong dislikes and no persuasion could make him change his mind. That was one of the reasons why she did not prefer living with him under the same roof. That was the reason why she loved Apa, she had been able to bring some equilibrium in her son, at least that was what she thought.

Her mother-in-law went out of the way to take care of her, she cooked for her whatever she craved for, after many years Apa found her own mother… in her. Confined to the bed, having nothing to do apart from watching the television or reading magazines bored Apa but she found happiness in the affection of her mother-in-law and concern of her husband. She had never felt so valued in her life. Her unrestricted diet and total inactivity made her bloated, her short height coupled with her increased body weight made it difficult for her to move in the third trimester of her pregnancy. No one cared about it, everybody wanted a healthy baby.

Debayan, her son was delivered by the C section. Apa remembered her mother-in-law touching her forehead gently, bending down and whispering into her ears, “It’s a boy,” her voice quivering with excitement and happiness.

PART VI

“Deb, Deb,” screamed Apa. It was difficult to rein in the boy. He was always full of energy and up to mischief, messing up the house, pulling down curtains, throwing plates in the kitchen. Apa found it impossible to keep pace with him. The house resembled a battlefield every evening when Amit returned from office. He entered the house with a frown on his face, disapproving the state of chaos the house was perpetually in. On his way to the bathroom, Amit often kicked the slippers and toys strewn across the floor which obstructed his path. The miniature animals scattered helplessly as Deb giggled in his childish innocence unaware of his father’s indignation.

Apa hid in the kitchen fully aware that she had failed miserably at housekeeping. She was perpetually terrified of Amit’s arrival. She was failing him in life. The tasteful showpieces displayed on the glass shelves which had been personally selected by him mocked her. Beautiful things, anything exclusive never escaped his attention and neither did things which failed the test, and this terrified her. She was terrified to see her own reflection in the mirror, she could hardly recognise herself in the grotesque image- short, stout, her belly in the shape of a square appearing as if a pillow had been stitched which wobbled as she walked with her thin legs. Her breasts sagging and out of shape. She did not recognise the repulsive figure. In the presence of her husband, she felt like being under the scanner, always falling short of beauty, always failing. She was scared, petrified and most willing to exist on the fringes of her own family. She would rather be invisible, feed Deb, prepare breakfast for Amit, wait for him to leave for work and once he left, she would blossom exhibiting her resplendence. The noon held no terror for her, it lulled her into a state of blissful inactivity. It was almost like being high on some intoxicant, a state which Apa wished would last forever. However, she had no such luck, Amit brought her miseries back when he returned in the evening.

Whenever Apa stepped out of her house, she felt the eyes of her neighbours following her. She knew they smirked at her recalling the contrast she made with her husband. It made Apa shrink with a sense of guilt and shame.

“Why don’t you do something about your weight? It’s food that is killing you. Why can’t you give up on sweets and rice?” Amit’s angry outbursts had become a matter of commonplace occurrence.

Apa did not know what to say, so she said nothing. She dared not confront Amit, she had nowhere else to go. Her brother and his wife would never welcome her. No one would as she had no excuse to walk out on her husband. Walking out of a prosperous life was nothing short of lunacy.

Amit slept on his side of the bed, never bothering to have a conversation, never trying to reach out to her. Apa exhibited the common sense of coming to bed late mostly after Amit fell asleep. She crawled into the bed surreptitiously and froze for the night.

She did not know how to go about her life, what could she possibly eat? Everything seemed to have overdose of carbohydrate, sugar, cholesterol or fat. Deb occupied most of her time leaving her without the luxury of taking a walk or gymming out her cellulite. Though she felt hungry, she cut down on her meals throughout the day, however found it impossible to be impervious to her hunger pangs after seven in the evening. Yet she grit her teeth and endured it only to succumb to it in the latter part of the evening. By eight, the battle was lost and she ended her day with a plate of rice. Rice had always been her poison as she hated eating chapatti despite being ordered to do so by her husband. She never reduced, never kindled love in her husband’s heart. She lived each day of her life in guilt and shame.

There was one thing which Apa could never dream of, to be able to eat with her husband. “Ah, it’s a shame you have to eat that quantity! The rice, the egg will do you no good. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” Too many questions were asked which never elicited any response. And she shrunk every day, every moment, afraid to see herself in the mirror, loathing the sight of her image. Her name Aparupa was nothing but a cruel joke making a mockery of her appearance. With each passing day it was becoming unbearable for her to carry on with her life pretending that everything was good. The unnerving oppressive silence that engulfed the house when Amit was around pushed her to the verge of nervous breakdown. In her heart of hearts, she wished Amit would be transferred to some faraway city which would make it impossible for him to visit his family for months, or better still for years thus giving her the freedom to blossom in her own way. Nothing like that happened, he stayed with them adding oodles of misery to Apa’s already miserable life. Amit had become the curse and bane of her existence.

PART VII

Lata stepped out of her office to meet her childhood friend Apa at the bookstore. In each other, they found the only link that kept them connected to a past which appeared distant and surreal to both of them. Lata was the only cushion that Apa had in her life, she was privy to all her stories of trials and embarrassments. They hugged the moment they ran into each other. “Oh, Lata what a joy to see you!” Apa could not contain her excitement.

“Can we sit down at Everest and have a plate of Biriyani?” Enquired Lata.

“No, can’t do it today as I have to drop and pick up Deb from his drawing class. I will get it packed and eat at my place before Amit arrives.”

Lata did not insist, she knew Apa’s difficulties and acknowledged her limitations. The two friends spent sometime at the book store before taking leave of each other. Apa dropped her son at his drawing class, purchased a packet of biriyani and left for her house.

The evening was warm, Apa felt her clothes sticking to her body as she sauntered back home after having dropped Deb at his drawing class. This time of the day marked a period of transition in her mind, relief gradually making way for panic. She unlocked the door, entered the room and switched on the fan. Gently she kept the packet of biriyani on the table as if it were an infant requiring the gentlest of touch. She felt a beautiful softness in her heart, a tenderness that she only experienced when Deb was around, an emotion which is evoked only when one is in proximity to something that is very close to one’s heart. Her heart had narrowed down, retaining space only for Deb, however, when she discovered any long-lost love, she was amazed to see how much she was still capable of feeling. The spontaneity of the emotion evoked overwhelmed her. She walked into the kitchen, grabbed a spoon and sat down at the dining table. The aroma of the biriyani filled the room, she closed her eyes and chewed savouring every grain of the rice. She popped in spoon after spoon allowing herself to sublimate into ecstasy. The outside noise of the traffic failed to distract her.

She was so much consumed in her own bliss that she failed to hear the noise of Amit’s car pulling into the garage. She took another spoonful, Amit drove into the parking lot and turned off the ignition. She munched and munched and munched. Amit climbed and climbed and climbed up the stairs as the lift was out of order. She took the boiled egg into her hand and bit it gently. Amit stopped in front of the main door and pressed the bell. Apa walked slowly to the door and put her eyes on the eyehole as she was certain that it was the grocer who had come to deliver the items which she had bought after dropping Deb.

A cold sweat broke out as Apa stood transfixed to the spot. She peered into the eyehole again to ascertain that there was no mistake. It was Amit indeed, standing in front of the door. Apa thought he looked indignant, waiting to explode for having being kept waiting for “too long”. Perplexed and petrified, she ran into the kitchen with the remnants of the biriyani in the packet. Pressing the lid of the dustbin with her toe, she dumped the packet into it, rummaging through the garbage to ensure that the packet was hidden at the bottom, hoping that it would ensure that no accidental discovery happened. Done with this part of the job, a thief in her own house, Apa remembered that she was holding the egg inside her mouth. She could not open the door like that! She instinctively tried to gulp it down. The doorbell rang again, panic- stricken she tried to swallow it in one go. The egg like a headstrong child refused to go down, it stuck to her throat, some bits of it went into her trachea. She gasped for breath, the bell rang again thrice in a row, a clarion call for domestic battle where the winner was always one man. Apa coughed and struggled to breathe. The orchestra continued, the bell ringing outside the house and the gasps inside. They coincided sometimes but were never in sync. There was no harmony, a performance which could only be booed by the audience. How long did the struggle last? No one would ever know. Apa slumped to the floor, sweat streaming down her beautiful face distorted cruelly by the pain.

Amit though irritated at the beginning, realised after ten minutes that something was amiss. He hurried down and returned with the watchman of the building and the driver of a neighbour. The three men ran up, “Apa”, Amit screamed again and again and again. They broke open the door to find the drawing room empty. The aroma of the biriyani was not registered by them. They ran into the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the balcony but found nothing. Amit was about to run out of the house to look for Apa somewhere outside the flat when the watchman screamed in panic. Amit ran inside, into the direction of the noise. He reached the kitchen, all three men found Apa lying on the floor, wet in sweat, red- faced, eyes almost popping out of the sockets. Amit flung himself on her, checked for life but was too terrified to comprehend the catastrophe. The three men carried the body down and drove it to the hospital. Apa was declared brought in dead.

The post-mortem revealed that it was a clear case of death due to choking. It stated ‘Death due to accidental aspiration of food’ proving beyond doubt that no foul play was involved. The body was released the following day.

The garlanded photograph of Apa stood on a tastefully decorated low stool, people sat cross- legged on the floor for the prayer meet. Sandals and shoes piled up at the entrance as people poured in with flowers and sweets in their hands, their eyes red, their voices choking while offering condolences to the bereaved husband. The elderly ladies of the neighbourhood cried holding Deb tight in their arms. People lamented relentlessly about the injustice of providence. In one corner, at the back of the congregation, sat Lata clenching her fists, her eyes red, seething with anger for letting a murder go unpunished.

By Sarbani Chakravarti