It’s all About Her
Sushma Madappa
The bottle topples over and water seeps into the patterned red tablecloth. I watch as the patch darkens and creeps up to the bottom of the fruit bowl. Mother gasps. The man with grey-green eyes looks up from the newspaper he is reading. He doesn’t say a thing. He has other ways of making his displeasure known.
I wake up to the incessant cackle of crow pheasants from the Gulmohar tree outside my bedroom window. The bedside clock blinks sinisterly. Its neon digits announce 7.09 am. Are these harbingers of impending doom, warning me of the day that lies ahead? The faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air. I walk into the bathroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. A pair of dark brown eyes stare back at me. I stand there for a few minutes, eyes affixed to the image in the mirror. And once again marvel at how different we are, me and the man with grey-green eyes. Same gene but like chalk and cheese.
*
I look down at the toothbrush holder; it’s shifted a bit to the right. I finish brushing, splash some water on my face and reach for the towel. It’s not where it should be. I look around frantically and realise it’s hanging from the hook behind the door. Why must I be the only one to put things back where they belong?!
I walk down to the kitchen, pour some water in a pan and light the stove. While the tea is brewing, I step out and pick up the day’s newspaper. There are dark cumulus clouds looming in the distance. The breeze carries the fragrance of the Frangipani flower from the neighbours’ garden. I hear the susurrus of water and turn around. The man from next door is watering his plants. He turns away, avoids eye contact.
I wonder what he thinks. What he knows.
I walk back in and pick the brass vase off the floor. The photo frame that usually rests on the side table is lying on the ground. The glass has cracked. I must get it changed tomorrow.
She is still asleep but I am dreading the moment she will wake up. How will she react today, what is she thinking and what will she say? These thoughts hang like a sword over my head.
*
I first met her at a common friend’s party. I was getting my drink at the bar when she walked up and asked the bartender to fix her a large Glen on the rocks. Her choice of drink piqued my interest. I observed her for a while that evening. Everyone seemed to know her and wanted to speak to her. She seemed to be equally attentive to each person; talking, listening and responding to them in a manner that made each one feel like they were the most important person in the world. Was she attractive? Yes, very. It was not just the men; the women too seemed to be drawn to her. She seemed oblivious to the impact she had on people. And this was the quality that drew me to her.
I was too proud to ask the host for an introduction, but I got my chance later that evening. I was on my way out when I saw her waiting for her Uber in the parking lot. She was frantically trying to give directions to the clueless cabbie. I thought I’d take my chances. I walked up to her, introduced myself and offered to drop her home.
She hesitated for a brief second before smiling pleasantly and accepting my offer.
Conversations with her were effortless. She was guileless, vivacious and exuded a confidence that eluded me. I desperately wanted this fabulous creature to be a part of me.
*
Is that her phone ringing? Is she awake? Is she silently biding her time until I speak to her? Is she pretending to be asleep? Why does she keep me guessing? What stance will she take today? Will she be pliable or petulant? I don’t want to guess anymore! Why doesn’t she come downstairs and end my misery?! Why must she make me suffer?!
The first time I asked her out, it took a lot of effort on my part to seem nonchalant. Once she’d agreed to dinner, I tried my best to contain my excitement but still ended up in her studio on the pretext of seeing her work.
As she pushed open the door to her five hundred square foot studio space on the terrace of her apartment building, the first thing I noticed was a picture of her at the potter’s wheel. Her unruly curls were piled on top of her head in a careless bun; part of her forehead and the crown area were smeared with clay. She was looking up at the person who had taken the picture with an untamed twinkle in her eyes. There was a quote printed at the bottom that read, ‘At the end of the day your feet should be dirty, your hair messy and your eyes sparkling.’
I watched her as she moved about switching on the lights, explaining what her sculptures represented and how she visualised them. My eyes stayed glued to her hands as they danced about caressing forms, gesturing, stretching, withdrawing; as though they had a mind of their own.
That night, we swapped stories, listened to silly songs and found comfort in the warmth of each other’s skin. In the morning, I was dreading going back to my apartment and my mundane 9 to 5 existence. She asked me to stay on. I agreed and never left. Until we moved here.
I had been a recluse for most of my life, until I met her. During the initial years, our weekends were always packed; visiting friends, watching films and planning weekend getaways took up most of our time. These activities have dwindled over the years. She has changed so much.
I used to wonder what she did holed up in that studio of hers. She could stick around there for hours; even forgetting to eat at times. How could someone be so much in love with what they did? So invested. So immersed. As though it actually made her happy. I can’t get through work without multiple smoke breaks. I can’t get through anything without multiple smoke breaks! But she was different. She was consumed by clay. But that was before. Things have changed since then.
Every now and then I catch her staring listlessly into space. Last week, she was lying on her side and staring at the sunlight streaming though the gaps between the curtains. What did she think of when she got like this? Why didn’t she tell me what was on her mind? Didn’t she realise I needed her! I’d let the glass in my hand slip through my fingers and shatter on the floor. This jolted her out of her stupor and as though on cue she stood up, walked towards the kitchen and returned with the dustpan and broom. The shards of glass don’t bother her anymore. There was a time she would have rushed to see if it was one of the glasses from her favourite set; chided me even. Not anymore. She has stopped caring. Doesn’t she notice it bothers me? Her passivity drives me insane.
Now, I hear the water rumble through the bathroom pipes, the gurgle of the flush and the shuffle of feet upstairs. She is up! Please, please God! Let her be cheerful today! I can’t bear to watch her doleful face anymore. I won’t allow her to drag me down with her.
I look out of the window. The neighbour is trying to get his golden retriever to go inside the house. There is a faint smell of wet earth in the air. It has begun to drizzle.
Yesterday before I left for work I had asked her to get a gift for Krish and Nidhi. ‘Could you pick up something they can use and get it gift wrapped? I’ll be back a little early so I can change before we leave for the reception hall,’ I'd said.
‘Hmm ok,’ she said incoherently.
When I got back she was all dressed-up in this green silk sari. She looks good when she makes an effort but she rarely does these days. The last few years have dulled the sparkle in her eyes. Her lackluster hair, dreary clothes and lack of enthusiasm have begun to embarrass me. It’s like her spark has been snuffed out. Can’t she at least make the effort for me, if not for herself!
‘I have run out of wrapping paper. I bought two sheets but they are not enough to cover the whole box,’ she’d said her lips quivering and eyes brimming with tears as she frantically tried to cover the rectangular patch of cardboard that was left bare.
Why must she always be so melodramatic?
‘Couldn’t you have gotten it gift wrapped at the store?’ I said.
‘I meant to, but I got out of the studio at six thirty and was running late. The lady at the counter wouldn’t hurry; so I thought I might as well get home and do it myself and picked up a couple of sheets,’ she said.
She can’t do anything right. Why must she make everything so difficult for me? Why should I put up with her carelessness! Yesterday, I made sure she understood this. She can't continue to make these mistakes.
I ended up going to the reception alone. This isn’t unusual. I have made excuses on her behalf plenty of times before. When Krish and Nidhi asked I said, ‘You know what artists are like. Taciturn and temperamental.’
I could see they were disappointed, but how could I have helped it!
At parties and weddings, I used to like watching her move around talking to people. No matter how many people laughed at her jokes or were on backslapping terms with her, I liked knowing that I was the one who got to take her home. At a gathering I’d follow her with my eyes to see how much time would pass before she looked in my direction. I would time the frequency of these glances. When she did glance my way she would smile with an unabashed twinkle in her eye. Or so I liked to believe. But as our relationship progressed these glances began losing their charm. These days, she seems sad when she looks at me. At times, even furtive and fearful. I wonder what’s eating her? I wonder if she shares her fears with anyone?
But who could she be talking to here? We now live an hour and a half from the city. And the cellphone reception is patchy at best. We don’t have any friends here. But I believed leaving behind the hustle and bustle of city life and living closer to nature would calm her down and help with her headaches. Also here, she can rent a larger studio space at a lesser cost. This last bit sold her on the idea. So after the initial resistance, she caved.
I hear the dull thud of footsteps on the stairs. The wooden staircase creaks under her weight. I hear the roar of thunder and catch a flash of lightening bounce off the neighbours’ car. I prepare to steel myself against her reproachful gaze.
It begins to pour with a vengeance as she gingerly walks into the kitchen, limping a little. Her eyes, as usual, don’t give away her thoughts. I hand her the tea in her usual cup. She accepts it silently and wearily gets on with the breakfast preparations.
Why doesn’t she say something? Why does she torment me? Does she enjoy my misery? Does she get a kick out of the fact that second guessing her thoughts drives me crazy? Why is she doing this to me? Her subservience irritates me. Where is the feisty woman I first met? I feel cheated.
The oil sizzles on the pan; the smell of processed meat assaults my senses. She cracks one, two and then three eggs and starts blending the yolks and whites, beating them with a fork; all the while staring listlessly at the rain pounding against the window behind the stove.
It’s only eight thirty in the morning but it’s dark and gloomy inside. I switch on the light, walk up behind her, circle my arms around her waist and bury my head in her hair. She still smells the same as she did on that first day I dropped her home. The flowery, fruity fragrance of her shampoo drives me into a frenzy. I can feel her body stiffen. I graze my lips on the bluish-purple bruise on her bare back and mutter an apology. She is still, her body neither resisting nor yielding. I compel her to turn around. She doesn’t protest, says nothing and soundlessly crumples into my arms; as she always does. I let out a sigh of relief and catch my reflection on the windowpane behind the stove. The man with grey-green eyes, stares back at me.
*
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