The Secret wish List (8 page)

This is so unfair. I feel like screaming. How can Ankit’s parents fighting with each other be
his
fault? I agree I have made a mistake. But does it warrant this big a punishment? I want to say I am sorry. I want to ask to be allowed to continue in this school. I really cannot bear the thought of not seeing Ankit every day. I like my school and have been a very good student. This is the only time I have slipped up. Please give me one chance, I want to beg.

But no words come. The look in my parents’ eyes breaks me down.

A plethora of emotions washes over me in those few moments. I feel anger, bitterness, regret, helplessness, sadness.

I don’t know what to say or do. So I stand there, hanging my head in shame, scrunching my toes inside my shoe and making a fist so hard that my finger nails dig into my palms and leave a red mark.

This one incident is going to change the course of my entire life. But I have no idea to what extent and, for the moment, all I feel is this huge heaviness in my heart and the horrible feeling that life as I know it is about to change forever.

Eight

I
T IS ELEVEN THIRTY PM
. S
ANDEEP IS FAST ASLEEP
and I am reading in bed when the phone call shatters the silence of the night.

Sandeep, a creature of habit, always stops watching television at eleven pm. If he is in the mood for sex, he initiates it. There is no foreplay, no conversation, no sweet-talk. He claims it like it is his right. He reaches straight for my breasts and I can predict exactly what he will do next. But I have learnt, over the years, to just give in to whatever he wants. He is usually in a better mood then the next day. I look at the fan rotating and think of the next day’s chores as he finishes his act, grunts in satisfaction, rolls over and falls asleep.

I usually read after that to take my mind off the niggling feeling that if our society was as conscious of women’s rights as they were in the West, what Sandeep did would probably be construed as marital rape. But, here in India, where people hush up even rape and do not speak about it, how do things like ‘marital rape’ even stand a chance to be discussed. Fact is, I hate sex with Sandeep. But I do my duty as a wife. How can he have no clue as to what I really want? How can he be so darn insensitive to my needs?

The phone call puts an abrupt end to all these thoughts racing through my head and it also wakes up Sandeep, who sits up in surprise, rubbing his eyes. He is beginning to go bald and without his glasses or shirt, with a burgeoning potbelly, looks so comical I almost laugh.

But when I answer the phone, any mirth I am feeling dissipates. It is Vibha.

‘Diksha,’ she says haltingly as though she finds it hard to speak. I know instantly from her voice that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

‘It’s all over,’ she says.

‘Huh? What are you saying? Mohan wants a divorce?’ I ask puzzled. As far I knew, things between her and Mohan weren’t that bad. Sure, he had been complaining that Vibha was always busy and barely had time for anything other than her work. Vibha herself had mentioned this to me many times. But that definitely didn’t warrant a divorce, that too so suddenly.

‘No. He passed away an hour back,’ she says and I can hear her breaking down.

‘Oh my God. How? What happened?’ I ask.

But she is unable to answer. Her father-in-law comes on the line and says that the funeral will take place the next day at three pm. It was a cardiac arrest, he says.

I am too stunned to ask for any more details.

The phone rings almost as soon as I hang up. It is my parents calling from Dubai where they now live with Rohan’s family. They tell me that Rohan will be flying to India to attend the funeral. My father and mother will not be able to travel. Mother’s arthritis has been plaguing her and Papa’s treatment for prostate enlargement has just started, due to which he is constantly tired, has spells of dizziness and pounding headaches. For them to travel from Dubai to India for the funeral and fly back is difficult. Also Rohan’s wife is expecting their second child and they help her look after his first who is a year old. Mother explains to me, at great length, why it is not possible for them to come.

I haven’t asked for any explanation. But perhaps she feels guilty as Vibha is her niece and wants my assurance. But the way my parents have treated me over the years—never forgiven me for my one stupid silly slip-up at sixteen—has left in me an enormous bitterness towards them. Every action of theirs over the years, ever since the day they pulled me out of school and sent me to an all-women’s college in Kerala, away from Tanu, away from Ankit, as though in exile, and then the way they forced me to get married even though I was only in the second year of college, has killed something within me.

Their act has created a permanent fence in my heart, with Rohan and my parents on one side, and me on the other. Even after all these years, I have never ever really come to terms with it and the scars of that hurt still manifest themselves in my lonely moments, though I pretend outwardly to be fine. I have tried to compensate for my childhood mistake by doing all I can to please and placate my parents all through my adult life. Really, I have led my entire life as they have wanted me to lead it.

For, it is as though they have constantly judged me for that one mistake, never allowing me to even raise my head for anything I wanted. It is hard for me to now reassure my mother and so I just say an okay and keep listening to her till she hangs up.

‘What happened?’ asks Sandeep.

‘Vibha’s husband passed away. Cardiac arrest. I don’t know the details. My parents aren’t coming for the funeral, but Rohan is. I have to fly to Hyderabad tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he says, the news slowly sinking in.

I expect him to offer to come along with me. I wait for him to say that we will fly to Hyderabad together.

Instead he says, ‘I have a presentation tomorrow. You know the team from Korea is coming. I cannot take leave. What are you going to do about Abhay?’

I feel angry. The person closest to me, someone who is almost like my sister, has lost her husband and he is more bothered about his presentation and about Abhay. But this is no time to pick a fight with him or point out his insensitivity. Besides, years of marriage has already conditioned me to his black and white approach to most things.

‘Well, your mother can look after Abhay, surely? I will be gone for just a day. I will be back after the funeral. I simply have to go,’ I say.

‘Yes, yes. I will ask her tomorrow morning. You book your tickets now,’ he says to my relief. Then I stare in disbelief as he rolls over once more, adjusts his blanket and is snoring within seconds.

I am in shock. I badly want to talk to someone about it. The only ‘friends’ I have are the mothers of the children in Abhay’s class. And I am not that close to them that I can call them late in the night for a chat. I have always been too busy raising Abhay and catering to Sandeep to make any deep friendships. Vibha is the closest friend I have and, of course, she is in no state to talk.

I book my tickets to Hyderabad using my add-on credit card which Sandeep has made for me. I never use it except in emergencies like this one. I usually pay for all the groceries in cash. In the early days of marriage, I had been excited about a credit card. I had shopped like crazy. But at the end of the month, when the credit-card statement had arrived, Sandeep had given me a pasting for overspending and lectured me on the value of money. Somehow after that, I had never ever spent money on myself, preferring to use cash whenever I shopped. The cash too was ‘rationed’ and strictly governed by Sandeep. There was a designated amount which he had calculated as ‘fair spending’ and all the household expenditure had to be within this limit. He also insisted that I maintain accounts for everything I spent. I found it all very stifling. Sometimes, when I could not for the life of me remember what I had spent on, I would make up stuff to write in the account book. Once, when that had happened, I had put down: ‘Five packets of sanitary napkins’ and filled in the amount to match the money I had remaining. Sandeep’s reaction had been typical and hilarious.

‘
Five
packets?’ he had bellowed. ‘Why?’

‘I have a rather heavy flow. Maybe I have cysts. I might have to go to the gynaecologist,’ I had lied.

He had quickly closed the topic after that, his mind perhaps calculating the doctor’s fee. And I had giggled later at the cheap thrills I got in getting back at him this way.

Today is not the day to wonder if plane tickets to Hyderabad amounts to ‘fair spending’ in Sandeep’s books or not. All I know is that Vibha needs me and I will move heaven and earth to get there.

I toss and turn and am unable to sleep. Scenes from Vibha’s marriage keep playing out in front of my eyes. The trip we made together to Darjeeling—Vibha, Mohan, Sandeep and I—when Abhay was a baby, barely eight months old, flashes before my eyes. I had really enjoyed myself. Vibha and I had giggled and chuckled as only cousins can and she had helped me manage Abhay. That was the only trip we had made together.

I cannot believe that Mohan is no more. How is it possible that a person who was perfectly okay yesterday, no longer
exists
?

I call my mother-in-law as soon as I wake up the next morning. She is shocked to hear the news. Whatever be the state of my marriage, one thing I have lucked out in is having an extremely understanding mother-in-law. She has indeed helped me out with Abhay whenever the need arose. She asks me to pack Abhay’s clothes and to give the bag to Sandeep who agrees to drop it off at her place on his way to office. I instruct Abhay that he has to get off at his granny’s house when the school bus drops him off in the evening.

I tell him that Vibha Mausi needs me as Mohan Mama is sick and I have to go to Hyderabad for a day. Abhay is very excited at the variation in his routine.

‘Don’t worry, Ma. I am a big boy now. I will tell the bus driver where to drop me off,’ he says confidently.

Nevertheless, I write a note to his teacher explaining the circumstances. Then I instruct the house-help to arrive before Sandeep leaves for work. I take care of a hundred other things in the house. This is the very first time I am travelling without Sandeep or Abhay and it feels strange. But it definitely feels reassuring to have my mother-in-law in the same town, that too so close by. I know that Abhay will be well-looked after and Sandeep can get his mother’s cooking. I feel grateful for one less thing to worry about.

Throughout the journey on the flight to Hyderabad, I keep thinking of how unpredictable life can be. How can Vibha’s life turn upside down like that? While I am at the airport, my mother calls once more. This time she has more details.

‘He was fine last night. Then after dinner, he said he felt uneasy and wanted to go to the loo. He collapsed before reaching the loo and he passed urine on the floor. They immediately called the doctor. He died instantly. Nothing could be done,’ says my mother.

‘I am on my way. Sandeep had some important work,’ I say. I am too shocked to comprehend and process the details of how it could have happened. Mohan was just forty-one. He was even younger than Sandeep. It seems so unfair. That too he was a complete teetotaller.

‘So what about Abhay? Is he with you?’ asks my mother.

‘No, Ma, I saw no sense in taking him along. My mother-in-law will look after him.’

‘Okay, yes, it’s better that way. What will the child do there anyway? Poor Monu. I wonder how Vibha is coping. I wish I could come. But your father as well as Seema need me. Seema’s due date is anytime now. Rohan will be reaching there around the same time as you. Please explain all this to Murali Mama, okay? Rohan won’t open his mouth. You know how he is,’ she says.

‘Yes, Yes. Don’t worry. I will tell them,’ I say.

Nothing prepares me for the sight of Mohan’s dead body lying wrapped in the white shroud with cotton stuffed up his nostrils and a pile of incense sticks lit at his head.

There is a large group of people who have gathered around. My eyes fall on Rohan who is seated next to the body. Mohan’s mother is inconsolable.

As soon as Monu sees me, she runs up to me and hugs me. ‘Can you make me wear some nice clothes?’ she says. ‘So many people are visiting us and I am still in my old clothes.’

I hug her tightly and choke back my tears. But then, when I see Vibha, I cannot hold back my tears anymore.

I embrace her and we both weep.

Nine

D
EATH IS A GREAT LEVELLER
. I
T CHANGES THINGS
.
It makes you confront your mortality. It shakes you up. It changes your perspective completely. The weight of it is usually so much to bear that people who face it, do things they normally wouldn’t.

Mohan’s death does not even feel real. It seems as though any moment now he will appear and greet the gathering, even though his dead body is right before us. On the face of it, Vibha is making an attempt to appear calm. But, I know, she is completely broken inside.

Once the body is taken and everyone has left, the loneliness becomes oppressive. It is hard to even sit in the drawing room as just hours ago, the body was there as were all the people. The furniture had been moved around and I now help Vibha move it back. Once it is back in place there is not even a hint of the tragedy that has occurred there. Everything
seems
so normal.