Keys — Part 1
Amidst the enchanting chaos of the backyard, a microcosm of existence unfolds. The drizzle of jasmine blooms delicately perfumes the air, as chrysanthemums withdraw into contemplative solitude. A boredom befalls the aloe vera, its languid fronds longing for a touch of excitement. Melancholic sunflowers, heavy with the weight of their sorrow, bow their heads in silent contemplation. Hysterical marigolds burst forth, riotous bursts of color. Amongst this tableau, frogs stare at me like croaking grannies wrapped in grey widow costumes.
On the left, two coconut trees wrapped in a tight embrace, as if poised for an ethereal flight, their verdant wings occasionally dropping their shameless constipations onto the red earth below. Perched upon one of these wings, a regal bald eagle, concealed behind a comfortable white neck scarf, smirks at my current predicament.
To the right, a mango tree stands with graceful poise, its ripe fruits relinquished to nourish the earth’s creatures, becoming sustenance for worms and the delight of sparrows. Beside it, a guava tree thrives, adorned in vibrant foliage, where a flamboyant parrot, its plumage puffed up like matcha powder, draped in a satin cape, is savoring the succulent pleasures of crimson guava flesh. Earthworms, caterpillars and centipedes squiggle, squiggle, and squiggle again, glad to have no bones. Ants, small and big; red and black, queue up for their big feast. Hovering above them is my youngest son, playing Dr Jekyll on his newfound specimens. The tomatoes and eggplants look ripe. They need to be plucked.
“Eggplant curry today?” Abhimanyu would have asked. I would then cook with garlic, ghee and spices, just the way he liked. With each spoonful devoured, relishing the flavors, he would jokingly exclaim, “Give me those hands that conjured this culinary magic. I want to kiss every cell and savor every inch.” “This curry is Ahahaha! Your hands Ohohoho!” he would flirt. His flirtatious banter would make my cheeks flush, a bashful reaction I would conceal. With a playful roll of my eyes, I would gracefully dance back to the kitchen, a sense of fulfillment and gratitude permeating my being.
Perched upon his cherished vintage swing, I find respite under the sheltering eaves of our ancestral abode, where the backyard unfolds its fertile tapestry. Before me, a coffee table fashioned from the very coffee shrubs that once adorned my grandfather’s estate, their leaves now stripped and varnished, dead but glazed. Nestled upon this arboreal relic, a pair of car keys to our faithful Maruthi 800 beckon. I liked her, the car. Abhimanyu preferred Chetak, the scooter. Perhaps the scooter anchored him to his bygone days, of pre-marital unadorned simplicity, no responsibilities, independence and frivolous decisions, a momentary escape.
The car, an ethereal chariot of my dreams, glided gracefully like a swan, its dark glasses exuding an air of effortless swagger. Through scorching Hubli summers, it cradled me in a cocoon of coolness, shielding me from the relentless heat. On the deafening roads of Bangalore, its music enveloped me, submerging my inner turmoil in a symphony of respite.
In the realm of vehicular misfortune, the scooter emerged as an equine counterpart — a beleaguered donkey of transportation. Its brakes, fragmented and feeble, danced on the precipice of failure, while gears, worn and weary, struggled to find their place. The cacophony of its honks, a jarring symphony that pierced the air with painful resonance. In a peculiar blend of audacious emissions, its black fumes, tinged with a perverse charm, embraced you with a nervous exhilaration. Alas, my husband, once its sole champion, now rests in eternal slumber, leaving behind memories entwined with this wheeled companion.
The keys lay before me, their elongated metal forms extending accusatory fingers, clinking together with a resounding chant of “SHAME! SHAME!” Memories flood my mind, reminiscent of a haunting news broadcast. Our eyes, fixated on the television screen, witnessed a scene of unspeakable brutality — women subjected to beatings, violated by religious zealots.
These cultured men, adorned with self-proclaimed moral righteousness, deemed these women offenders. With their self-ordained crowns of virtue, they forcibly dragged them through the streets, tugging at their hair or any vulnerable piece of their feminine being. The reason? The audacity of these women to sway their scandalous curves, to let their succulent breasts jiggle in a dance of perceived debauchery, all while partaking in the sinful elixir of intoxication — booze.
Mrs Shetty next door expressed her support for this wave of moral change — “Cheecheechee! Those girls deserved it. Is it our culture to drink and wear such clothes? I suspect that one of them must be that Miss-oh-so-perfect Indu’s daughter, you know, the one down the street. She parades around in a vehicle wearing high heels, chin high as if she owns this hill. I say that she should be ashamed. A bad influence on our little girls. Wandering around with boys. Listen to me, Leela. Women with unbounded freedom go out of hand. You are lucky you have two boys, Leela. You have fewer restrictions to impose. With girls and their questions these days — uh, it’s hard to control their hormones. Who will marry these pub girls now? Tch-tch-tch…” She feasted on the news for a few days.
I find myself pondering the impending discourse of Mrs. Shetty on the plight of widowed women. Specifically, one widow bereft of daughters, a blemish upon the community and the very essence of humanity! I envision Mrs. Shetty conjuring an arsenal of disapproving glances, casting a shower of disapprobation upon such a widow. These ruminations awaken a frenzied stirring deep within me, an urgent excavation in the depths of my belly, as it seeks to unearth a singular vexation.
A jasmine-infused mango breeze tiptoes in, my attention returns to the sharp-edged keys before me. I recall the Sundays and holidays when I gently pushed Abhimanyu’s resistance, as he yearned for the trifecta of television, sustenance, and slumber. There were times when he refused to budge, and I, driven by desperation, resorted to tears and self-imposed hunger. You see, the yearning to venture beyond the confines of our abode consumed me. Yet, stepping out independently was not an option, not without a husband by my side. How could I fathom maneuvering the car?
Yes, I held a license, but it seemed inconceivable to actually learn the art of driving. Abhi, the man of our household, chauffeured me wherever I needed to go. Thus, while I remained tethered to the home throughout the week, immersed in the rhythm of cooking, cleaning, and perusing glossy magazines, he roamed the world, engrossed in his work.
One might assume that my husband imposed these limitations upon me, but the truth is that I was the architect of my own confinement. I fashioned the rules of our household and, in turn, imposed restrictions upon myself. Thus, I forged a formidable cage of unyielding metal, a structure I proudly crafted, locked, and discarded the key.
But now, that key, reborn with a renewed purpose, gazes at me, mocking my predicament. My elder son interrupts my solitary musings, urging the necessity of starting the car. The question lingers in the air —are we keeping this car?
Perhaps. Let’s see — I can only manage this.
The visage of my elder son, once adorned with the innocence of thirteen summers, now meets the criteria for indulging in the vices of burning weed and tobacco. In a fit of frustration, he unleashed his thunderous voice upon his younger sibling not once, but twice last week, exclaiming, “Stop it! stop being hungry all the time! If you eat up all food, we shall have to consume you!” I marveled at his cunning strategy, advocating for consuming his brother instead of himself, should the dire circumstances demand it.
Meanwhile, my younger child, momentarily diverted from the wonders of earthworms, seizes the keys, oblivious to the judgmental piece of metal, and darts towards the main door: “Let us drive the car! Car! Car! Bep beeep… peep.”
My father, master of lurking in the shadows, floats out from his room and says, “Wait for me!” His slender and frail appearance might easily deceive one into assuming he is advanced in years. Yet, this man possesses the artistry of crawling, soaring, swimming, and galloping with effortless finesse to acquire his heart’s desires.
Part 2 to follow tomorrow.
Indian writer
