Chapter 24

23. Whisper on the Pillow

'Misery has struck!’ He texts her one day, without any preamble. 

It lies in her inbox,unseen-unanswered, for five hours straight.

Calling the day off at work, she had been sitting at the foot of the almirah, combing through the lower shelves. Her negligence had converted them into an unorganized mess. She couldn’t even find her favourite aqua green kurta which she planned to wear to a wedding the next week.

Kirti’s use of Whatsapp was minimal; always late to revert the texts - the exception being her brother and Tejas, some people chalked it to her arrogance, but it was just her nature to maintain comfortable distance from all forms of social media; because Kirti believed, they were more of showcases disguised as connecting apps. The important people in her life knew her enough to call instead of text. 

When her phone, which was on an I-V drip right then, blinked,  she ignored it. It couldn’t be her brother, he generally texted late. Tejas...their exchanges had become restrained in the last few days. If it was him, she did not care enough to see. It would either be an apology or an appointment for discussing his wedding, which as selfish as it sounded, Kirti had no zeal or interest left to humour him with. It would most definitely be some Pinterest ideas or planned meets from the GotRealWithTheRing group. 

Once, when she had properly organised the shelves, ironed out the wrinkles of her dresses, carefully placed them back; enjoyed Khichdi with papad, she picked up her phone with the intention of muting the group before proceeding to scroll through YT videos.

That’s when her heart drummed a beat that she missed.

XxxxX

'Misery has struck. The ‘ill luck’  has finally rubbed off on me.' 

Is it a mistake? Why would he text her?

‘Who’s this?’ She writes after deliberating for fifteen minutes.

‘One of the narcissistic jerks,’ He replies and then another reply follows. He replies immediately. As if he was waiting. For her. A far fetched thought. Pleasing Nevertheless.

‘Stop bluffing. I can see your DP, which I could not earlier. Last night my number was saved.’

‘Too much information’

‘The days of pretension and indifference are over, I’d like to think.’

‘Hounding syndrome symptoms spotted. The patient is advised to distance from the object of obsession,’ she types back. Her cheeks are hot. Her palms clammy. 

‘Object of obsession? Vain, much?’

‘Ah, the affliction, it seems, has struck here too! Your conceit has rubbed off on me.’ She hasn’t felt this much adrenaline rush in years now.

‘Will you not ask what happened?’ 

‘Do you think I’m interested?’ 

'Reverting a text implies an interest?' He replies an hour later.

'I just wanted to see who it was' She takes two to get back.

'Granted! It doesn’t explain why you continued though’

'Fine, which ill luck has dared to dishonor you?'

'Endless journey. Did not get business class. Seat at the back of the plane! The person next to me can try for some Snoring League, if there is any.’

'Traveling by plane and complaining?! It’s the bucket list wish for so many. There are lakhs who migrated on foot!’

'Humbled!’

‘But is there always a need to compare? Am I not allowed to crib and complain, however little my miseries are?’

‘You’ll have to find another listener then for I can feel no empathy/sympathy over such misfortunes.’

He doesn’t reply again. Neither immediately nor hoouurrs later. She feels edgy, an emptiness gnawing at her stomach. A loss that pokes the center of her heart.

Was she too harsh? Will he not text again. Ever? Well, it’s nothing to her. He can stew all he wants.

Two days later, one lazy afternoon, when she doesn’t feel like eating, and does not go out with her co-workers to the nearest food mall, she’s reading their exchanges. Her fingers hovering, forming a string of words, legible sentences, typing, back-spacing, heart thunder, she manages a, ‘I can listen to your cribbing.Sometimes maybe. When I am not being my crabby, judgmental self.’

His text arrives late. Very late. Till that time, she has erased her sent message(so that it does not remind her of her impetuousness) and censured and sanitized her thoughts of him.

‘When would those days be? When you are not being crabby, judgmental that is’

‘Twice in a month. Eleventh lunar day of each of the two lunar phases.’

‘I’m trying to get there…’

‘Ekadashi, ever heard of it?’

‘From my Dadi, yes!’

‘So it’s a day they say to cleanse and rejuvenate. Best day to play nice and sweet. Don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely’

XxxxxxxX

‘It's a non crabby, non judgmental day’ 

She reads his text in between changing buses. She has started working again. The scooter motor won’t run so the buses.

‘Hmm?’ She’s confused.

‘It’s Ekadasi today.’

‘Were you keeping tabs?’

‘Had to’

Her stomach flips at that simple declaration.

‘We can talk today without getting into an argument’

‘True, I’ll be a good listener today’

‘I’ve meetings lined up. Later’ 

She feels disappointed. It’s like he’s being a tease. Making her heart jump and sink in its cage.

‘It was a busy day.’ He writes very late into the night. The message gets read immediately. These days even a small blink of the phone is enough to startle her awake.

‘I was a part of an interview panel’ He starts.

So out of league, she thinks. What has he studied? Do CFOs take interviews?

‘Oh’ she replies.

‘Total disappointment. No good candidates. Dismal state of affairs. Phd student applying for a economic sub-officer post! Why waste his Phd degree? Got rejected obviously. Met other candidates. So desperate they were. Disguised unemployment has hit the roof. So disappointing. Did not come across any candidate who would leave a lasting impression’

‘You there?’

‘Hmm’

When the clock strikes twelve and it’s another day, and he has logged out, she writes to him.

‘How can one not be desperate? If one has the responsibility to feed a house? When every other unsuccessful venture is pulling him/her into a deeper abyss. You, sitting on your high chair in an air conditioned room, how can you judge that Phd scholar for applying for a lower post than their skills? Do you know if s/he always wanted this? Would he have not wept over his ‘dismal state of affairs’? At the transformation of what s/he wished and of what became of them? They are all victims of this society with unequal and far and few opportunities.  Being able to throw some economical terms does that make you a greater being? Lasting impression? Look at them like human beings, instead of cogs you’re choosing for your system. Their burdens, their struggles. A little empathy would go a long way.’

She is heaving by the time she ends the long rant. It’s personal. She felt attacked. For she has done both. Working jobs beneath her degree and skills. Had also applied for posts beneath her, had been turned down because she seemed too ‘desperate’ to get the job. Don’t seem desperate, some had advised. 

He reminded her of dreams, of all the things she wished to, but never became. The wasted years, degree, hopes and ambitions, she reminisces about and drifts to sleep, her pillow wet with her tears.

The next morning, she wakes up at four to delete her message but there’s a single text waiting for.

‘This calls for a long argument about how you look at me and my privileges - my high chair. But the only thing I want to say is I would try to look at things from your point of view. Difficult but worth it.’

She leaves her bed early that morning. Sweeps the floor. Rinses clean her granny’s Puja utensils. Makes Kanda poha for breakfast. 

‘What are you smiling about?’ Her granny asks.

‘Kuch bhi toh nahi’

XxxxX

‘You were right,’ she writes to him one day. ‘I might be condescending too. There’s a guy around here, a homeless teenager. I donated to him my brother’s clothes a week back. Today, I saw those clothes thrown in a heap of garbage’

‘Oh’

‘I was livid and began cursing him in my mind. I thought if he keeps this attitude he will die of cold. What did he want? Some branded clothes?’

‘Tsk Tsk. He wasn’t entitled to accept your gift.’’

‘I know. So mean bitch of me.’

‘But can understand your rage and hurt.’

‘I am so bad. How could I curse him?’

‘Welcome to the club of flawed’

XxxxX

He sends her a picture one day. Random click. Stacks of paper on a table, a mug of coffee, pen and other stationary. 

‘Are you at home?’

‘Hmm’

‘How’s Sylvester doing?’

‘Don’t know. I live separately. Condo’ 

‘Oh’

‘How’s your leg? Recovered?’

She clicks the picture of her recovered foot. Sends, then deletes immediately. Unmanicured, unpainted feet and her feet at that should have no place in his gallery.

‘I won’t say sexy feet. Don’t worry’ He writes back.

‘I don’t have Sylvester but I have Diana’ He then sends a picture of a fish, with other fishes floating in a bowl shaped aquarium.

‘It’s called Diana?’

‘She’s called Diana after my crush Diana’

‘Penty?’

‘The only one I could fantasize kissing without straining my neck.’

‘Too much information’

XxxxX

He is overseas. Texted her to tell that he was being forced to sit in a solarium. Getting tanned.

She didn’t know what solarium was. Had to google it.

The entire visit he kept sending her details of places, sometimes some random clicks; never of famous places, but of random people caught in his lens, interesting names, shapes. His details feel like he’s ready-ing her for a visit. As if there will be a time when they’ll go together. Yet she feels good. 

She keeps sending him mundane details about her too.

Like,  'I'm in the kitchen cleaning the slab. Now, looking out of the window. Winds howling. Angry shelves of clouds squeezing strings of water at me. I see a pigeon's head. Holed up in a broad open pipe. Right across our window. Hair all ruffled, it looks cute, annoyed at Mumbai monsoons; maybe resenting his decision of having moved in here for bigger opportunities.'

'Bigger worms,' she writes again. ' Looks hungry. There's a chapati left, I think I should leave crumbs on my window.'

'The champion of strugglers! But...'

She waits as he's typing.

'Exercise caution,' he writes, 'You know you have a bad history with aves and canines alike.'

XxxxX

It’s late night, one o’clock. There’s only one station at the radio that’s playing old songs. Earbuds in, she’s listening to the songs while scrolling down their texts. Ignoring other texts.

It’s again raining outside. The room is dark except for the dim light from the bulb hanging above the basin placed in the corner of the room. 

‘Do you know what I am listening to?’

‘What?’ The reply comes immediately. As if…

‘You wouldn’t know. It’s very old.’

‘Try me’

‘Panna ki tamanna hai ki hira mujhe mil jaye’

‘Seene pe jo main rakh doon hath, phir khil jaye’

‘Wow, I didn’t know you knew Hindi songs so well’

‘Wrong source. All you’ve been fed is misinformation’

When she doesn’t reply, he writes another few lines, ‘Dil toh dete hai, lete hai log kai baar...hua kya kisi se kiya tha tumne pyar...Yaadon ko chhod do...vaadon ko tod do’

She had logged out.

She had been so naive to think that it is a kiss that makes for a foreplay. No, stuff like these is what makes a foreplay. Conversations  that slip into your unconsciousness causing havoc with your sleep. Stuffs that wild dreams are made up of.

Another song had started,

‘Karwatein badalte sari raat hum...Aapki kasam’

Her granny called out, ‘Kirtiiii…’

‘Coming Dadi...just this last song’

‘Yaad tum aati rahe, ek hukh si uthti rahi

Neend mujhse neend se main bhaagti chhupti rahi

Raat bhar bairan nigodi chandni chubhti rahi

Raat si jalti rahi girti rahi shabnam...aapki kasam’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aa1lc1Hlkgo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6pt7nij6WQ

[NOCOPY]

[MEMBERSONLY]