Why rock the boat?
Learning to say the D word
The best thing about spending a lazy Sunday morning in Cubbon Park isn’t the grass beneath your back as you watch clouds jousting the trees tops all around. It’s not even about the friendly banter of the single mums surrounding you, letting you dream as they talk about the week that’s gone and why schools are what they are. It is not only about letting the kids — our collective kids — run free and wild, climbing trees in Bangalore city where otherwise they know only of exhaust fumes and traffic jams.
The best thing about lying in the lap of Mother Earth, ankle on knee, hands happily cushioning my head, surrounded by the best people I know, is the feeling of being one with the clouds that I spot. Thanks to my nattily dressed bestie Natasha — who worries about everything — who worries that I’ll catch a cold lying on the grass like that, that the sun will blind me and that the kids will probably break a foot or get a head injury if they aren’t watched over like a hawk — I luxuriate in the morning sun amongst my fellow single mothers, doing what I like doing best: being me.
Just when I spot a cloud that looks unnervingly like my lawyer’s briefcase, Priti nudges me with her foot.
I don’t like being nudged. My friends instinctively know that I like to be left alone while they banter. I ignore her and focus on a cloud that looks like the pecan ice cream I should not eat.
But Priti is like a dog with a bone.
“Tell me something. What do you say when someone asks you where your husband is?” she asks.
I’m one of the newbies to my single parent support group. I guess Priti has decided it’s single mum training time. The only sounds to be heard now are the birds in the trees and our kids’ laughing. Even Natasha’s stopped telling the kids to quit squabbling.
I sit up, sighing.
I glance at my boys scrabbling on to tree branches, knees scraped and shoes muddied. All is as it should be, I decide before I ask her to repeat the question.
“What do you say when someone asks you where your husband is?”
I tell them to mind their own business. No, I wish I could tell them to mind their own business.
“That my husband is abroad?” I say, knowing it’s a trick question. Priti’s grinning like the Mad Hatter.
“Technically, I’m still legally married to him.” I say, feeling defensive.
So what if our divorce case has been going on for the past year? I intended to make full use of my “legally married” status. Why rock the boat?
“Wrong answer,” Priya says, the glee glinting in her kohl-black eyes putting me off.
I want to go back to cloud-spotting now.
“Try again,” she says, leaning against the trunk of a hundred-year-old banyan.
“I don’t know. He is still my…” I say, finding I can’t finish the damn sentence. He isn’t my anything anymore. Why do I feel so disturbed at the idea of talking about divorce outside my circle of friends?
I look at Priti’s sneaky smile and I know I’m being schooled.
“The right answer: I am a single mother. ” Priti says. She lowers her voice, as if she’s softening the blow. Murmurs of “ah” and nods from the others around me. Natasha doesn’t nod her head. I know Natasha at least, is on my side.
“I can’t say that at work,” I say, getting back on the defensive.
“Why not?” Priti asks. There’s no challenge in her voice, her curiosity is genuine. This is why I love being with her — strong, utterly capable and so full of the joie de vivre that you’re sure some of it rubs off on you when you are with her.
“Everyone at work is married. Happily married. With kids,” I say, cursing myself for getting into this convo.
“So?”
“So, I don’t want to get noticed. ”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Getting passed over for promotion? Women have to work five times as hard as men as it is, to prove ourselves. Why give them any more ammo?” I ask.
Why is she dragging me into this on a Sunday?
“By telling the truth?” she asks.
“It’s my personal life. I don’t see any reason whatsoever to share this with my colleagues,” I say, almost growling. The girls have gathered around, wide-eyed. Natasha may be on my side, but when our eyes meet, she turns towards the children and asks one of them to fold up their sleeves.
“I used to be exactly like you,” Priti says, her voice warm as honey, the sun glistening on her newly colored brown hair, making it light up. I love watching her speak. Even when she’s saying crap that doesn’t make sense.
“But then I started talking to people at work about my situation. People may not always understand, initially,” she says.
I snort. The girls’ murmurs rise again in assent, but no one speaks out.
“But it gets better. You’ll find more people on your side as you go along,” she says, nudging me into a reluctant smile. I nod.
“If you’re done, can I get back to my clouds now?”
Everyone laughs.
All is well with the world again.
#
No one gets time for lunch on Mondays, forget the tea break I look forward to at 10 AM. Today might be an exception because the driver said he will wait for me to have tea before we set off on the hectic two-hour journey to the rural health center. That’s ten minutes to get to the cafeteria and gulp down a cup of scalding tea, before boarding the Jeep. Easy.
I am about to leave my desk when I see Leela approaching. Leela reminds me of why Caesar was wary of those with the lean and hungry look.
Leela carries all her angles and bony prominences proudly, poking fun at my voluptuousness when she can. I don’t mind on most days. But today isn’t most days. I need my tea today.
Of course, Leela couldn’t care less. Though junior to me in the cadre, she is overly familiar with me because we both hail from the same village: another reason I curse my parents for being from those backwaters.
“Madam, sukham?” she asks, slipping into our mother tongue, despite my repeated admonitions that we speak English while at work.
I nod.
“Saw you with your children the other day. Madathinte husband?” she asks.
I pause. Say “he’s abroad” and be done with it. Put on the airs of the privileged NRI’s wife and walk the hell away. Do not rock the boat.
“I’m a single mother,” I say, already regretting my big mouth. Damnit.
Her eyes widen, she looks around in a hurry to check if anyone else has heard my confession. Damn Priti.
“Divorce?” she asks leaning forward eagerly, whispering the word like its something dirty, her squirrelly face contorting. Beads of sweat form on her forehead. I might as well have told her I’m terminally ill.
“You have decided? Why?” she asks. Dear God.
I look at the clock.
“The marriage wasn’t working, Leela. You know how it is.” I say, wondering why I’m explaining. And why the hell didn’t Priti tell me what to say after declaring my singledom to the damn world?
Leela comes closer, leaning on my regulation-issue brown desk, placing her hand right where my cup of tea should have been. God help me. I will scream if she gives me advice.
I lean back in my chair, sighing.
“Madam, my husband. You won’t believe what all he did to me. He and his family. Terrible, terrible things,” she says, whispering her pain to me, choked words tumbling out of her hungry mouth, her thin lips no longer pursed, her hand clutching the edge of my table.
Terrible sounds right.
I reach out placing my hand on hers; her entire fist, her pointy knuckles, cold and trembling, fitting easily into the palm of my hand.
She jerks back.
I wonder how long it’s been since someone touched her with love. I hold on to her hand.
“You won’t believe, Madam. You won’t believe,” she says, vigorously shaking her small, walnut-shaped head, not a single strand of hair straying from her tightly combed head.
I nod, patting her hand gently.
“But you know what I did?”
Call the police? I don’t think.
“I suffered it all,” she says, bony chest swelling in pride, shoulders rising. “All for the sake of my children.”
And there it is.
The inevitable shaming that I had so dreaded when I, like Leela, had been scared of rocking the boat. But do I feel ashamed or guilty? I know my children and I are doing well. So well in fact, that I could listen to Leela venting — to her attempts at shaming me- without holding it against her.
She searches my face for the guilt I must surely be suffering from, for my wanton behaviour, for ruining my children’s lives, for depriving them of a father.
I pat her hand again, looking calmly into her eyes.
For a few seconds, there is a flicker of doubt in her eyes. I wonder if there could be a chink in the armour of her denial. I wonder if she wants to learn how to file for divorce. If she wants to file a police report, God knows I will help her.
When her harrowed eyes meet mine, there is a world of pain in the space between us.
I hold her hand, as Priti held mine, and let Leela take her time.
The flicker passes. She draws her hand away from mine. The armor’s back in place.
I tell her that she’s doing a great job as a mother. Her chest swells a little more, she dabs at her tears with her dupatta.
With a quick goodbye, she walks away. And with her goes my tea break.
The driver appears smiling wide, giving me the thumbs up. I get up to leave.
But not before typing out a quick text message:
Cubbon Park on Sunday, Priti my sweet? :)
