Had She Been Here

 

51.Had She Been Here

 

One day when I was returning home from office I asked the driver to make a detour. To my old school master’s house. Reaching there I went to the door and pressed the calling bell. But there was no response. No one came to open the door. Nor was there any sound from within. Is he not there? I peered into the room through an open window and found that the fan was on. That meant that he was indeed in the house. Then why this delay?

At last the master himself came and opened the door, with profuse apology. ‘I am sorry I am late. I was in the kitchen preparing noodles for my son who had come back from school. It was then I heard the calling bell. I thought I should put on a shirt...’ he paused for a while, thinking of something and then added with a tinge of sadness: ‘Had she been here!’

If she heard the sound of the calling bell when she was busy in the kitchen, she would immediately rush to the door, open it and usher in the guest. She would then take the shirt I have to wear and gently place it on my shoulder. All I had to do was to sit in the drawing room and talk to the guest. By then she would have brought tea for the visitor, not forgetting to ask him about his family matters. In the midst of it all she would find time to help our son in his homework and go back to the kitchen to do her work. And when the guest departs she would be there to bid him   farewell.

Master said, he would never forget this Uthradam, the eve of Onam. Usually on Uthradam day his sister and children would come  here from Bombay to spend a day with us. On Thiru Onam day all of us would go to our ancestral home for a family get-together. He continued with nostalgia.  “My sister’s children, born and brought up in Bombay, were fond of  our delicacy poovada. Also cheeda and sarkara varatti. This time nothing of the sort could be made at home. Could they be bought from outside? Oh No.  The children liked the poovada made at our house. They used to enthusiastically partake in the preparation of poovada. They would help in grating the coconut, mixing it with jaggery and spreading the preparation on the plantain leaf.  And matching their enthusiasm was the fervour and the passion with which she made the delicacy for them.”

On this Uthradam day there was nothing but an anguished sob from my mind. Had she been here!

This year, for the first time, I ordered Onasadya (Onam feast) from the club. And the children were served the feast by me and my sister. While serving, we were silent. So too were the children.

Had she been here, my mind ached.

That feeling was reflected on the faces of the children as well.  Where is that softness of the rice that she used to serve on tender plantain leaves? And what a contrast now with the feast from the club packaged in aluminum foil?

It was when the feat was half way through that I noticed that I had forgotten to light the brass lamp though my sister had poured oil and put the wick in it. I had a longing: Had she been here.

It was my sister who made the suggestion. Why should I and my son lead such a lonely life in our big house? Why not let out the upper floor so that there would be someone in the building to talk to and mingle with?

It is a good idea, I agreed. At least when I  go to temple after giving some homework to my son, there would be somebody in the building to take care of him.

As luck would have it, I got  a good tenant within two days. But only when they reached home with their furniture and other belongings did I come across one problem. Where to keep my own belongings that now occupied much of the upper floor?  Did this house have so many articles? Where would I keep them? Which all would I discard? I couldn’t make up my mind.

But all these things were there even before I constructed the upper floor. And in what orderly manner had she arranged them all in the house. I didn’t even have to think about them. How much I wish she were here.

Everyday she would get up at four. After her bath, she would light the lamp in the pooja room. I would wake up only when she calls me with the steaming hot bed coffee. She would then iron the dress I had to wear for office. Her chores did not end there. She would help my son prepare his homework, put all his books in the school bag, give him breakfast and then take him to the school bus. She would then rush back home to serve me breakfast before I leave for office.

In  between  she would run to the door whenever she heard the doorbell ringing. It might be  sales people for home delivery, marketing guys for Rajasthan carpets or vacuum cleaners. It could be inmates of some ashram trying to spread spirituality. She would deal with them pleasantly and again concentrate on keeping things ready for me in my  bag and bidding me the usual farewell.

Late in the night she would be seen  cleaning up the kitchen, humming her favourite song. She would never close the kitchen before thrice asking the traditional query ’Is there anyone out there  starving of supper?’ She would get up again at Four’o clock in the morning.

I have now a handsome salary, big savings and  many friends. But I have only half my life left in me. My life would never have been like this if she had been here.

Master remained silent, as though he were in a distant world, having a meetely poignant interaction with her.

Once I was about to leave for office when I saw two women  coming to  our house. They were doing a census survey on behalf of the government. Even in the midst of  her morning chores, I saw  my wife patiently answering their queries.

Name?

She told her name

How many children?

She gave the number.

Are you employed?

No.

Do you have regular income?

No.

Those who came looked at each other. In the column on employment what should they write? Unemployed or Dependent. They wrote Housewife. In other words one without an income, a dependent person.

 

I thought of my master. Didn’t he say about his wife that she rose at four in the morning and would go on doing her work , going to bed only by eleven in the night? In other words  working for 19 hours. At a modest Rs 50 an hour her monthly earnings would be Rs 28,500.  It dawned on me that my wife was also on domestic duty 24X7.  In my profession I  made only Rs 18,000 a month. But I am head of the household and she my dependent.

To use a euphemism housewife or homemaker.

In other words one without a job, one without any earnings.

I stopped my wife flitting here and there in the house and looked at her face, as though looking at her for the first time. Why this way? She wondered. I felt as if my master had possessed me.

 

I thought for a while: Oh my God, what would have been my predicament  had she not been here!