Something of Myself

I.3

And S- was being moved from one square to another as the two friends were soaking up the alcohol in unmeaningful conversations about life.

S- had just arrived home and was about to go for a shower when her mother thus spoke:

'Will you be having dinner or have you had already?'

'I will Ma. I'll take a shower and join you.'

'I have had dinner already. See you tomorrow. Good night.'

That was a bit odd. Ma never use to have dinner without S-. 'Anyways', she thought, 'no point trying to rationalise with her over something that she has not spoken about.' Deep inside she knew that her mother resented P-, our knight in shining armour, who was presently finding it difficult to walk straight outside the What If bar. S- finished her shower, donned a pair of shorts, a spaghetti top that was gifted to her by her dad and she lazed over to her mom's room.

She sat there gently, beside her, and stroked her forehead.

'Ma, are you asleep?' Are you mad at me? Why?'

There was no reply. But she knew that her mom was not asleep - for she was not snoring!

'Ma, tell me, please!'

'Nothing.'

'Well', she thought, 'at least she has uttered one word. Let me push her a bit further, but before that I should cajole her a little bit...' - who is not hungry for love?

She kissed her on the cheeks.

'Ma, I am waiting. Out with it now!'

'You went to see P-, didn't you?'

'Yes' (how did she know?!)

'Why?'

'Ma, it was just a visit. Nothing more.'

'You know S-, I have never liked him. He has been a no-gooder all his life. The proof of the pudding lies in the ruins of your marriage. So why revisit the past and ruin your life further?'

Was this just a piece of sheer co-incidence, or was it Divine Providence, or sheer irony that here were two people (S-'s mother, and P-'s friend) who were both, in their own inimitable ways trying to explain to S- and P- that life's past is meant to be put behind.

'Ma, don't go crazy about this whole thing. I did not go to sleep with him. Neither am I courting him all over again. Please don't make a big deal out of everything.'

'Yes, if only you had listened to me, if only your dad was alive, then this marriage would have never taken place...'

She was cut short by S- - 'Now who is rewinding? How can you be so hypocritical Ma?'

She was tired.

'Good night Ma. I am sorry if I hurt you.'

She closed the door and she headed for her bed.

------------------

Next morning, there were early signs, as they would say, of what the day would bring. There was a SMS from P- and that was the first thing she read in the morning:

'Morning. Live show @ 730. Kenny G. Let me know if you are interested. Have a nice day.'

He always wrote long texts. He hated abbreviations. He felt this would kill the language eventually. Mrng for Morning. U for You. Wld for Would. It pained him as much as it hardened his stance.

S- ignored the message. She was not fully awake until she had gulped down the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice...

'Will Ma still be angry or has she cooled down?'...

She got out of her bed, looked at her dad's picture which was framed on the wall. This was her first morning ritual. Looking at him. Thinking about him. Initially, after his demise, it used to be a difficult exercise - staring at him, and feeling the void. But now, it was more of a ritual - of remembering him, of not forgetting him or his contribution towards her being. She was what she was because of him. Daughters have this strange connection with fathers. Call it Freudian if you like, but simply put, it is an inseparable, irreplaceable bond between a girl and her role model.

She walked up to the kitchen where the glass of juice was waiting for her. Her mom performed her duties to the clock. She never failed to make her breakfast, pack her lunch, make her snacks, cook dishes that she loved. Inside the kitchen, she was in-charge. Outside, it was S-. In between, the dynamics took over. The relationship became complicated. Egos stared at each other. The past enveloped their lives.

As it did with P-, who was now terribly hungover, and wondering whether he should head for work at all. Alas, he managed to pull a Disprin out of the bed-side drawer. Disprin always worked, within 15 minutes, especially when you pop one in a glass of water.

Finally, he got up and opened the curtains. The Thames, which was now in the centre of an environmental controversy, was flowing as best as it could. The weather was nippy. And it was raining, like it always does in London. He hated this drizzle. He loved the city but not its weather. There was something about England that made him stay here for over 14 years now. He arrived here as a MBA student with a Queen's scholarship. And while the country seemed to have stood still for all these years, its people had changed. Both literally and figuratively. Whites were being outnumbered. Blacks were all over. The collective consciousness of Britain was undergoing change. Definitions of Britishness was being pushed about; being English was a socio-cultural debate that had roped in the likes of Rushdie, Kureishi and Smith. P- liked this winds of change. For a man like him, born and brought up in a small town in India (Jamshedpur), his home was where he came from...[to be contd]