Arms loaded with grocery bags held tightly, close to her chest, she's unable to disengage any finger to press the elevator button to the basement parking level. The thought of putting down the bags brings on a wave of panic. What if the bottoms give way? Not a pleasant thought, running after cans of baked beans, slipping on egg yolks, and still worse, bending down to pick up broken pieces of glass jars. Patience does have its rewards. The third-floor owner, Piyush, comes to her rescue. Though residents in the same apartment complex, the formal introduction was long pending. So far, interaction limited to a 'hi' and 'bye' whenever crossing each other, either in the elevator or the parking lot.
Like most nosy women, their common maid Rumi had already shared bits and pieces of information about him; the weird bachelor living with his 'phirang' (foreigner) partner.
"Amma, it's so shameful to see two men hugging each other on the sofa like a couple, making out Khulam Khula (publicly). Never mind that" … she dismisses, continuing, "As they are both very respectful and never nag, I just ignore it all and do my work. They pay well, so why should I leave their household?" speaking aloud her thoughts in justification, as well as for Madam's ears. In the absence of any comment forthcoming from the Madam, the conversation ends. However, she doesn't fail to notice Madam's swollen eyes, bruised face, and Saheb missing. Directing a brief questioning look at her, she resumes mopping the floor. Neeta knows the news would, sooner or later, reach her ears through the grapevine. Fresh ammunition for gossip for the entire 'Bai' (maid) community working in the apartment complex.
* * *
Piyush the 'Charmer' appears like a godsend, wiping out her worries. He offers to take some of the load off her arms, going to the extent of dropping it to her seventh-floor digs. She can't thank him enough. After all, chivalry is not an outdated concept … she surmises, as he inserts the key to the door to her apartment, offloading the grocery bags at the entrance and making a quick retreat. 'Thank you so much', she yells after him. 'Do drop in whenever you are free'.
He nods in affirmation. ''Sure thing, how are you placed this evening? We could do a barbecue on your balcony and I'll get a bottle of vintage wine I saved from my last trip to South Africa. By the way, I'm Piyush and you are Sweta and your husband Subhash ... now you must be wondering how I know your names ... we share the common maid Rumi who volunteered the information, so don't think I have been prying around.' Sweta can't stifle the giggling that follows, going by the fact that gossiping in apartment complexes travels faster than sound waves. As postmen deliver letters, maids perform the role of postwomen, engaging in door-to-door gossip deliveries. 'No worries' she says, bemused.
Bongo, her eight-year-old cat comes running to welcome her home, with his audible purring, rubbing against her leg, a signal to pick him up for cuddle time. The delightful furry fatso cheered her up whenever she was in the dumps. In the past, there were days when she experienced those 'lows' and today it had reached rock bottom, loneliness engulfing her, closing in like a fortress. Without sex, without the warm, stale breath on her face from the adjacent pillow on the bed. Without her husband. The best years of her life, sharing a camaraderie unequalled, gone in a whiff. Everybody had commented they were the most compatible couple. Whether genuinely or in good humour, that's the way it appeared. 'The made-for-each-other couple' so hopelessly in love, identical in size, shape and cheeriness, made them all the more endearing to colleagues and friends. Being poked at occasionally, all in good jest and the associated joviality, never upset them. Obese would be an understatement. Happy as clams, they remained unmindful of sniggering looks from those hourglass figures they met, when out shopping at the Malls. Their critical stares, often returned with defiant looks conveying the unspoken ... well if you are concerned about our sex life, it's better than you can imagine.
* * *
Six years into the marriage, the first signs of crack started showing up, with as innocuous a remark as, 'Sweta why don't you switch over to wearing full-length dresses, it would make you look slimmer', or 'Let's hit the gym daily, good for both of us'. And then the final nail in the coffin, when his disinterest in having sex is evident, excusing himself every time, on the pretext of being too tired. That is when she realises something is amiss and regrets having turned out his pant pockets to discover the letter he had forgotten to hide /destroy. It was from one of his colleagues Preeti and pretty she was, with a body anyone would die for, possessing a flat board stomach, a narrow waist, and long shapely legs. Well-endowed in all respects, despite eating as much as for two. Cynosure of all eyes, men and women alike. Most importantly, she belonged to his 'community' and therefore, similar mindsets. That explained why his overnight trips to various cities had become so frequent of late. Was she accompanying him on these trips to shack up in the same hotel room?
She plans to catch him red-handed!
On his next trip that Saturday, she picks up the phone and calls his office, asking for Preeti, identifying herself as her sister, calling from Ajmer due to an emergency arising in the family. The operator puts her on hold and reverts within a few minutes, 'Sorry Mam, Preeti is out of the station; she left for Mumbai this morning. Can I take a message to communicate to her?' Her suspicions get validated. With "That will not be necessary", she ends the conversation, putting back the receiver in its cradle.
Everything seemed perfectly normal the previous night while packing Subhash's bags, in readiness for him to catch the early morning flight to Mumbai, to attend a weekend sales conference. Instead of calling for a taxi at that ungodly hour, she had volunteered to drop him off at the airport. He kissed her and walked into the terminal, waving goodbye. Surely her imagination was running on overdrive.
But her sixth sense tells her not all is okay. She requests a day off from the office, 'reporting sick' and takes the next flight to Mumbai. The airline staff can accommodate her request, with a 'no show' from a passenger, booked on the same flight. The taxi drops her off at Hotel Taj Mahal. The receptionist is busy handling customers queued up. Sweta looks around and spots the board displaying the Sales Conference venue in Banquet Hall no.4. So far so good. He hadn't lied about the conference. Reaching the reception counter, she asks if Mr Subhash Goel from Birla Cements had checked into the hotel earlier. The receptionist confirms that Mr. and Mrs. Goel had checked into room No.301 for the sales conference, booked by the company. Without fluttering an eyelid, she asks if room No.302 is vacant and that she needs just a one-night booking, to attend a family wedding. Fortune favours the brave couldn't be truer! The receptionist hands over the key to room No.302 remarking, "What a coincidence that we have two Goel families on the same floor" … adding, that the room would need to be vacated by 10 am the next morning.
* * *
The June mid-day temperature is at its peak, discouraging enough to venture outdoors. And the weekend traffic is horrendous, with most families out on a Saturday to shop, eat out, or catch their favourite matinee show, notwithstanding the heat, humidity, rain, hail or storm.
Like a detective straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel, she decides to stay put in room No.302 all day, with her ears cocked up for the sound of approaching footsteps to the room directly opposite. Room No.301. The humming of the air-conditioner has a lulling effect. She doses off on the chair pushed up against the door. When she wakes up, it's dark outside. Her wristwatch dial shows the time as 6.30 pm. Phew!! She was going to miss the drama after all! But no ... around 10 pm riotous laughter reaches her ears. Through the peephole she sees them, in an inebriated state, opening the door to room No.301. The door is left ajar for some time for her to catch a glimpse of them clawing at each other—enough evidence to nail him down. In two minds, whether to confront him right there, or at home, plagues her for a long time. Would it be prudent to catch him in the act? No … that would only cause more heartburn. Better sense prevails. Moreover, it would be distasteful to create a scene for the benefit of others on that floor. She would deal with it when he returned.
* * *
He returns home on Sunday, by the 5 am flight, after the weekend rendezvous. When she opens the door, she finds him looking tired. Her heart melts seeing his dishevelled look, but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She aims straight below the belt, giving a punch that makes him suck in his breath in agony. Then follows blow after blow all over his face and body, till he collapses like a malfunctioning airbag on the doormat. It takes some time to tell him all that had happened the previous day. He has nothing to say in defence. She refuses him entry into her flat, telling him to get lost; get lost and shack up with the Preeti, from his office. She is done with him and his philandering. As for his personal effects, it would be sent to whichever address he desires, along with the divorce papers. He stands up, recovering from the shock of it all and then strikes her face so hard, that it knocks off a loose canine that she had intended to get extracted at the dentist's clinic. Well, at least she was spared from that visit. The apartment is in her name, gifted by her parents, when they got married. He has no claim on it. His address could be anything … c/o Footpath, c/o Miss Pretty or c/o Hell!
It happens so fast and furiously. Bongo is nowhere around. The aftertaste of the blood in her mouth makes her retch. Rinsing her mouth, she takes a couple of sleeping pills to induce a long uninterrupted sleep. Sometime around noon, she opens her tired eyes. The cat, all seven pounds of squirming flesh, has climbed onto her belly. Squinting into the sunlight streaming in from the open window, she discovers that she is now the weary possessor of a pounding headache, and at some point, had managed to lose both a tooth and a spouse. But at last freedom is hers to savour! She is determined to celebrate this newfound freedom. Shopping is therapeutic, she had heard. Off she goes to pick up groceries to replenish the depleting stocks in her refrigerator. That is when she meets Piyush at the elevator. She looks forward to having him over that evening for the barbecue. That would at least take her mind off the traumatic events of Sunday morning.
* * *
Piyush turns up with his partner introducing him as Mark, from Athens. It doesn't take more than a few minutes for Piyush and Mark to confess their relationship and if that is okay with her and her husband. That calls for a confession from her, as she spills out the episodes of Saturday and Sunday morning's drama and the finality of it all, tears rolling down her cheeks that could fill up a bucket. Piyush and Mark again come to her rescue, comforting and assuring her they are there to help in any way they can. All she had was to holler. As the evening progresses, Piyush and Mark open up about their failed attempts at finding a donor for having a baby of their own. No woman was willing to come forward without one or the other preposterous demand; donating eggs and carrying the child as well, but with part custody. Some for financial considerations, totally unaffordable.
Chewing on the juicy barbecued chicken legs, they explore all the possible avenues of having their biological child with donor eggs. It then dawns on Sweta, why not? That would catapult her to motherhood. And motherhood does not discriminate between the shapely and the plus size. She offers to donate her eggs and give birth to their baby, with no conditions attached. Except, that she be allowed to be the child's godmother. The couple jump at the offer and seal it with a threesome hug. As if in support, the moon peeps from behind the clouds filling the balcony with light and hope. Hope for a future for the three of them. She is going to prove to herself and all those engaged in body shaming that she is not to be dismissed as 'fat and ugly'. There is more to her than "meets the eye"!
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.