Living Now

She slices the onions with surgical precision. Mashes the boiled potato with vicious stabs, her fingers sinking into the pale yellow meat. Tosses the onions until they turn a pretty pink. Slaps the dough vehemently and kneads with a persuasive passion. Intent on the task at hand.

“Dinner is ready, Amma”.

Emerges from a hazy, smoke-filled kitchen. Chappathis and sabji piled up in two steel dishes. The ones she got from aunty for her wedding.

Amma has locked her room. She is sulking. They fought again.

“Amma, dinner will get cold”. Pause. “You have sugar problem too”.

Amma unlocks the door and steps outside. Puffy, swollen face from crying.

Silence prevails as they have their dinner.

She clears the table. Amma waits for the right moment.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business”.

“It’s ok”.

“I’m your mother. It breaks my heart to see you like this”.

“Let’s not go there again, Amma”.

“How can you be so indifferent? How can you not mind?”

Indifference is like nirvana - a state that’s achieved at the end of a tortuous route. What’s the use of my minding or not minding? Does it make any difference? I want to remain indifferent – that’s the nearest to happiness I can attain.

“Amma, I don’t want to discuss this”.

“You always say that. Full stop. Do you feel nothing at all?”

Feeling? Should I feel the same suspicion that tore out my very soul again? Should I feel the same rage and helplessness I felt when I came to know? Should I feel tormented and demented again? Should I feel the same frustration, desperation, fury, anguish, agony – all, yet again? Do you even know what I felt or why I don’t want to feel now?

“Amma, we’ve been through this so many times”.

“Yes, but every time it ends in the same way. Only my tears. Everybody is asking questions now. How can I hold my head up when I go out?”

You’ve never had to face sympathetic colleagues who whisper and laugh behind your back. You’ve never had to deal with a boss who is suddenly reluctant to talk directly to you. You’ve never had to deal with the snide remarks and looks. Everybody knows only how to be judge and jury, and condemn you forever at the drop of a hat. Why should it even matter?

“Amma, what else is there to do?”

“Divorce him – at least that way, it is over once for all. Better than this daily wounding, which draws blood little by little!”

Divorce? So easy for you to say! Who will pay for this house, and the bills? Who will pay for my daughter’s school? Who will pay for your medicines and doctor visits? With my paltry salary, we would be living on the streets. Would you agree to that? I need to be practical. Economics is practical – emotion is not.

“Amma, you know I can’t divorce him. It’s not possible”.

“So you would rather share him with that…that…whore! How can you do this? Is this what we taught you?”

Every night, for 13 long years, I have had to share my bed with my demons. I have reconciled with them. I have made a pact. And they torment me no more. No one can teach you these things – you have to learn them by yourself.

“Amma, I have nothing more to say”.

The door slams shut. Loud sobbing.

“Oh God! Why can’t you take me away? Why do I have to live and see such things?”

She cleans the kitchen meticulously to a shine. Turns off gas. Closes kitchen window. Locks front door and hangs key carefully on the hook. Settles down to watch TV.

Sorry, Amma. I know I disappoint you – but this is what my life really is – mundane moments carefully strung together. Living from moment to moment. I ask for nothing more.


*Based on a true life story