What the Heart Wants

Rachel wheezed her way up the last three steps. Normally she would have waited for the lift, but this was news that couldn’t wait. Dragging herself to the teacher’s lounge, she exhaustedly fell on the sofa. 

There was no one in the room right then - thank God for that - because her breathing was loud and made weird whistling noises. “This is not good” she murmured to herself remembering the many warnings her doctor had given her asking her to lose weight - especially now that she was nearing fifty.

“Rach, are you okay?” 

Marie Therese walked into the room carrying thirty notebooks with the same ease as the smile on her face. Oh, to be young again.

Rachel held her chest with her left hand and signaled to Marie to wait a few moments. Taking a sip of water from the bottle that her friend offered, she finally found the strength to speak. 

“I found one. I found one, Marie!” Rachel's grin was from ear to ear.

Marie’s eyes glistened. “Where? Really? Who?” 

But before Rachel could answer, other teachers began walking into the room and their conversation was cut short.  

__

She could never point to the exact moment that it started for her, but Marie Therese was consumed by the need to hold and caress a baby. Though she was at the peak of her fertility at the age of twenty-nine - as per an article she had read while researching ways to deal with her predicament - she wasn’t in a position to have a child. She had tried many things - prayer, reading, singing and even cooking - but nothing filled that void. She would make excuses to head to the Kindergarten section of the school she taught in; and all the KG teachers would smile awkwardly at this 12th standard Mathematics teacher who coochie-cooed their students. 

This ‘need’ wasn’t all the time, though. It ebbed and flowed. Sometimes, if she counselled her students - which she regularly had to - and she felt that the session had gone unexpectedly well, she would bask in that joy for a few days. Then, suddenly, an ad on TV, or an inconsolable infant in church would rekindle her agony. But, now Rachel's 'find' - a baby for her to cuddle and hold - filled her with an inexplicable joy. 

It wasn’t that Rachel and Marie had been close friends for long. Marie had moved from the school’s branch in a different state to this one just six months ago (because the school’s original Mathematics teacher had suddenly quit and moved continents). Having to take over classes in the middle of the academic year; getting acquainted with a bunch of new teenagers; ensuring that they finished their syllabus as per schedule; and after-school coaching for those who needed help meant that she had time for only cursory greetings with her peers.

Marie and Rachel's friendship came about in a moment. It so happened that it had been a particularly difficult day for Marie; she was on her period, her class had been uncharacteristically roguish - maybe because the academic year was coming to an end, and her principal had called her to give her an earful about not being able to handle the boisterous students.

A physically tired and emotionally exhausted Marie had known from the timetable in the teachers' lounge that all the teachers would be occupied and that she’d have at least forty minutes to herself. So, she had curled up in the corner of the sofa in the teacher’s room and wept softly. The soft rustle of the silk cotton sari that Rachel had been wearing that day had given away her presence; she hadn't known if Rachel had been standing there for a while or had just walked in. But, once they made eye contact, Rachel simply came and sat next to Marie and offered her the bottle of water she was holding. 

That was three weeks ago. Though Rachel didn’t press Marie to confide in her, Marie did end up telling her about her baby-hugging emotional need a couple of days later. “Okay, let’s find a baby to hug then. Easy!” Rachel had declared matter-of-factly. 

Only that it was far from easy. The school was chock full of children, but Marie couldn’t go hugging them and pouring her maternal emotions on students. And Marie’s absolute condition that this stay only between Rachel and herself didn’t help. So, even though there were a couple of teachers who were new mothers with gurgling infants at home, neither Rachel nor Marie approached them with their request. 

Marie would often meet at Rachel’s house. She learnt that her children were both studying to be doctors - one about to finish and the other one just starting. She had lost her husband to an aneurysm when the children were very small. They spoke about each others’ lives, their struggles and joys. Their friendship blossomed. 

So it was that an afternoon of secret crying had made friends out of strangers. 

____

“It’s sometimes a physical ache.” The pain was evident in Marie's voice. 

“I know.” Rachel held her friend's hand.

The bus ride to Valmiki Nagar was not a long one, but it felt like an eternity and when the bus stopped, it felt too short. 

Marie nervously twisted the crucifix on her chain around her fingers. Her breath came out in short bursts. 

Rachel squeezed her hand. “I’m here, don’t worry.”

They walked the short distance from the bus stop to the house. 

It was a small house, almost shack-like. 

“Hello, I am Rachel. Ramji sent me.” Rachel introduced herself to the lady who opened the door. 

“Oh, please come, please come in”. 

The lady's eyes softened at the sight of Marie. “Please do come in, Sister Therese” she welcomed her deferentially. 

The entire house could be covered in three steps to the left and three to the right. The hall was also the bedroom and the kitchen. A small door led to an outdoor toilet.  As away from the stove as possible and near the only window was a little baby, about four months old, sleeping peacefully on the floor. 

His little mouth was slightly open and his small chest rhythmically fell up and down. It looked like he had been recently bathed, because his face was white with powder and his forehead and cheeks were adorned with two big black dots. 

“Lal Bahadur” the mother whispered softly. She led Marie to the sleeping baby. 

Marie’s hands trembled as she touched the baby’s satin cheeks. His brown hair fell down his forehead in delicate curls. Her fingers touched his tiny nose and traced down to his chin. 

Tears fell down her eyes. 

“He’ll wake up in another half-hour” the lady whispered softly, “you can then hold him all you want.”

For the next forty-five minutes Rachel and the Nepali lady spoke in hushed whispers while Marie sat beside the child sometimes making his fingers curl around her little finger and sometimes just staring at his beautiful face. 

When the baby finally woke up, the mother fed him and gave him to Marie to burp. 

It was awkward, it was messy and it involved a lot of spit-up on her black and brown habit*, but Marie handled it with utter joy and gratitude.

It was late when Marie and Rachel bid adieu to Ruchi and her son Lal Bahadur. She had made both ladies promise to come for lunch that Sunday which they wholeheartedly agreed to. 

“I’d like to thank Ramji with fruits, if it’s okay with you Rachel.”

“He’d love that. Apples are his favourite,” Rachel offered, making a mental note to thank her watchman herself. It’s not always that someone would allow a stranger to indulge his sister’s child. 

“Would Mother Superior be mad at you for returning so late to the convent?”

Marie nodded. “I’m going to have to tell her the whole story, from the beginning. She might be a little angry, but I know she’ll understand.”

*habit - an attire worn by members of a religious order. 

Beautiful

People are always nice to me.



At work, colleagues make eye contact and give me genuine smiles. In the supermarket, I always get served as soon as possible, so that I dont have to tire myself waiting in long queues. Stories of my special illness reach before I do and I always get the best customer service. My happy go lucky nature; sparkling eyes and contagious laughter make me feel nice, it feels like I make other people’s lives just a little better. Its all sunshine for me.



Until I come home in the evenings, that is.



The door is the first reminder of who I am. Its wide frame jabbing at my side, sneering and saying, ‘Welcome back to hell, honey’. I am scared to enter my own house. Because, the truth is always there, sometimes lurking behind the shadows of my memories like a thief, but most of the time, like an ugly scar, commanding my attention. Either ways, it always leaves me like a victim of an accident. Beaten, bruised and in agonizing pain.



It has been what, close to two years now, and the lies I had begun as mere emotional crutches have now become pillars of truths for my sorry existence. Even my conscience has stopped its occasional pricking, and suddenly, the discomfort of spinning my tales has vanished. But if the truth had been told, the world would have known that even though I wasn’t really sick, I indeed did have a disease. And it was in my head.



****



Two years ago, I had met this person at a mutual friend’s get together. Soft spoken, well educated, stylishly dressed, Sam was all that a girl looking to settle down could ever want. But, I wasn’t looking to settle down. I wanted all the fun of a relationship without the strings. He, however, wanted those strings. I knew that he genuinely liked me, maybe even loved me. We had a mismatch right there; I knew it from the start. But, I think I was desperate for a companion and so just went with the flow. He was great, really. He complimented me, bought me wonderful gifts, and took me to great places. He made me glad. But I yearned for wild. For crazy. For mind blowing.



And soon I got what I wanted.



The annual office party was proposed to be held in a beach house instead of the regular conference-socialize-dinner-bye bye schedule in some five star hotel in the city. Everyone was so excited. My excitement however was short lived as soon as I remembered that I’ll have to bring Sam along as my ‘guest’. Not like he embarrassed me or anything, but, I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to ‘socialize’ as well as I would normally, if he were around. So I lied to him; told him that it was a very confidential, senior -management –alone- invited business meet slash dinner weekend and that even though I really wanted to him to come along...



His understanding nature was almost pitiful. He believed in ‘putting himself in another’s shoes’. That’s why, when I told him about this, despite his immense disappointment, he analyzed, rationalized out loud and came to a conclusion that agreed with what I had initially wanted. Phew.







***



The beach house was great! The sea, the sand, the people, the booze! I walked hand in hand with him, to the immense envy of the other women!



He was a colleague’s friend, and very single. We had both tried to play the mating game, a few minutes after I entered the beach house, but the fact was that there was no need. Even the simplest act of him staring at me while I was pretending to ignore him was ecstasy in ways I had never known, I savored it. Though we didn’t speak a word to each other, the vibes were not very hard to miss. Our chemistry was, simply put, explosive. A single glance my way made me stand singed to my skin, vulnerable and wanting. Passing him in the hallway, experiencing the merest hint of his body’s heat, filled me with a pleasure so intense that I wanted to throw up. And experience it some more, again.



In this entire lustful, silent, hullabaloo, was there even a moment that I thought about Sam? About the man waiting at home for me, planning some silly surprise to ‘make up for the boring meeting, darling’? No, I don’t think so. However, there was this one awkward microsecond when my conscience did unexpectedly rear its groggy head, but I put it to sleep with a shot of vodka. I was in no mood for advice.



It had begun with a tingling at the nape of my neck, the mating games were over and now, it was time for the ritual.



What a night it was. He gave me all. Crazy, fun, wild, passionate, he was everything I wanted in a man. We had very little conversation and whatever we had, he had me in splits. It was great being with him. He was a painter, two years my junior. Quirky, unpredictable and innovative, he was as opposite to Sam as fire was to water. Before the weekend was over, I knew that this wasn’t.



So, it was adieu to boring Sam, right? No. In a twisted, contorted way, I realized that I didn’t want to leave him. Not because I loved him or because he gave me expensive gifts, but because at that time I had believed that being with him reminded me of what I secretly had. Like letting myself go hungry before I went for a banquet, I spent days with Sam, to only savor more my nights with the painter of my dreams.

***



My house is engulfed in darkness; it always is, because I keep it that way. Sometimes I feel like I am a bat in disguise- light hurt me, darkness comforted me. Today was not a nice day. So many random things happened and each, like a stab from a dagger, pierced my heart with the memories of my past. It shook me from the stupor of my routine and reminded me of all the things I had lost. And how. It reminded me of that fateful day. I turned high the volume to the TV and in hopes that it would drain out the screaming in my head. And distract me from noticing the shadow I was casting.



***



I don’t think I was a bad person, just a pretty girl, conscious of her strengths and intelligent enough to use it to her advantage. And it was during this strategic time that I had met Sam. Apart from being rich and handsome, he was so.....unaffected by the bad things of the world. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t gullible or anything, just, pure hearted. The kind of person you would expect to return your borrowed car with a full tank. He was a serious, self made guy, believed in love, in compromises, in adjustments. He was too nice for his own good, and I think, the universe conspired and brought him to me, to strike the balance.





The day I met him, it took me three minutes to realize that this guy was besotted. He had later confessed that he had been too nervous to approach me and had waited a good three months before he had worked up the courage. He was so different from any of the men I had been with. He didn’t play games with me. He was sweet and never shied from telling me that he loved me. I didn’t want to be affected by sweet words, because, from my previous experiences, I knew that all this led to just one thing. It stood on four legs and had a mattress on top. But his sincerity and honesty began making inroads into my defenses. That was the time I should have let go of my inhibitions, broken down my walls. But, old habits die hard. And even at twenty eight, along with deep desires to be ‘normal’ and ‘settled’, I was also craving for wild, crazy and mind blowing.



And again, the universe conspired and sent the painter into my life.





***



You just know when it isn’t your day, or your evening. First the TV stops working suddenly and the next thing I know I've poured strawberry syrup all over myself. And now as I am washing away the sticky liquid from my hand, I resist the impulse to glance at myself in the mirror. I dont have to see my face to remind myself of my condition. My hands, my feet, my body are enough reminders. But, looking into the mirror would force me to look into my eyes and a fallen person like me just didn’t have the guts. Yet, today, after many months, maybe because of the couple I had seen sharing an ice cream, I want to take a peek, catch a glimpse, to see, if the years that had gone by had given me the guts to face myself.



***







The day Sam and I got married, a year after we had met, I decided to stop everything ‘infidel’. I was now a man’s wife, I was Mrs. Sam and I had an expectation to live up to. I had even quit my job, taking up freelancing and giving myself fancy titles. When I broke off with the painter, to my immense relief, he took it well. He didn’t know I that I was married, just that 'things were not working out' and 'grandma was ill and needed me'. So we said goodbye on good terms and parted as friends.



Does an alcoholic ever ‘leave’ his addiction? Does a slave to cocaine really give it up for ever? Though being a wife was nice, suddenly, I began fantasizing about the days when I wasn’t addressed as a Mrs. And as passionately as a lion prowling for a prey, thoughts of the painter began to percolate into my mind. He was a living breathing reminder of my ‘wild days’. Devoid of any feelings for him, I just wanted to meet him to experience a ‘thrill’. Just once. And I promised myself that promiscuity would then have seen the last of me.



Maybe I should have heeded the signs. No, I should have heeded the signs. I had chosen the middle of the week for my little secret rendezvous. Sam would be busy with work and won’t notice if I came back home a little late. But, on that day (of all the days) Sam decided to stay back home and take rest. I had to catch a train to a different town and time was running out. So, like a good wife, I made him some soup and bolted out of the house, in case he saw the guilt in my eyes. The car wouldn’t start. Hearing the engine dying after every ignition, he came out, fixed it and sent me out to my adultery with a kiss on my forehead. I should have stopped the car and went back home with him. All the four signals I had to cross before I reached the station were red. I should have taken a U turn and gone home to my sick husband. The train was twenty minutes late. I should have cancelled the ticket, repented and gone back to Sam, given him a hug and stayed home with him. But despite the heavy feeling in my heart, despite my intuition screaming, asking me to turn back, I entered the train.









***



Its amazing how one simple thing can lead to another to another to another. A couple sharing an ice cream, a smart woman in a business suit, a metallic grey Volvo, reminded me of the things I had wanted to forget and leave buried in the recesses of my mind. Led me to look at myself in the mirror, to search for my wedding photos, to see the videos Sam and I had taken together and to bear the searing pain in my heart. It was self inflicted punishment- my penance.



***







That day, when I sat beside Sam’s bed in the hospital, his eyes dilated and unfocussed, I couldn’t move. My heart was heavier than myself, and I wasn’t sure whom the doctor had meant when he said, ‘no hope’. I had died and gone to hell, because along with my body, my soul too was burning in the fire of my guilt. Sam’s hands were in mine as I willed with all my heart, praying like a child; to a God I had forgotten long ago, to even replace his life with mine.



After receiving everyone’s condolences and saying good bye to the last of those who had come to pay their final respects, I went back to our room. Sam’s and mine. The empty bed stood before me as a testament of my life. It was by losing him that I realized how much I needed him. It was his absence that helped dawn on me that I was in love with this man. That I had loved him from the moment he had said ‘hi’. I had loved him when I was at the beach house; I had loved him when I was in the train. I had always loved him. And with the viciousness of an enemy who pulled out my heart with his bear hands, the universe witnessed with a smirk, the crumbling down of me.



His heart attack was so sudden and unexpected that even he didn’t know what to do. Had I been there.........but it was all over. Sam had died whispering that he loved me. What a pitiful, sorry, broken creature I was, wailing with the pain of lost love in my heart.



***





The photos and CDs are back in the box. This evening was tremendously painful and not to mention exhausting. As I slowly ambled towards my bedroom, I feel like the door has sensed my pain. Its not sneering anymore, just seems to look at me with pity.



After Sam's death, the grief and the loneliness had gotten to me. Or maybe it was my guilt. Or maybe it was all of it. I became a recluse. I moved into a different town, far away from where I lived, someplace where no one would know me. After a year and a half of mourning and negligence, one day, while entering my house, I had to call emergency services, and to the humiliation of me, waited, as the carpenters broke the door around me, to make way for me to get through. The entrances to all the rooms in my house had to be widened to accommodate me.



I now work in an obscure shop, existing one day, to get through the night and exist through the other. The very beauty that I had found to be my weapon, my pillar of strength had, like a fair weather friend deserted me. The very men, who would have otherwise openly stared at me in admiration, now ignored me, as a gesture of kindness- so that I didn’t have to see the looks of disgust on their faces.



If anyone cared to ask, I began saying that I had a 'special illness'.



My size, so markedly obvious, made me famous in ways I had never wanted to be. So, to bear the barbs, I began laughing along with them, my sorrow and my grief hidden behind my smiles and laughter.



It was now time to sleep. To forget the agonies and the guilt for a few hours and hope that Sam would come in my dreams and call me ‘beautiful’.