Infinite Guilt

Well, that’s it then. All that is left is to pay the rickshaw off, and then I have to go inside the house. Which I do, and I ring the bell and I walk in and she opens the door, and she knows that I would be coming sometime around now, something still makes her freeze in the doorframe, and then she clasps me to herself in that way I hate, that way which always makes me feel I am still thirteen and not thirty. I disengage myself and let the bags plunk to the floor.

In the middle distance beyond her, he stands watching both of us, a half-smile on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. He stands there watching half-mockingly as if this was a little comedy being played out for his benefit. I say nothing to him; nothing seems to be adequate, not sufficient.

 I change, and she leaves us to the TV and goes off to mind dinner. The evening news is moderated by the clinks and rattles of steel against steel, as we sit side by side and do not converse. 

Dinner is to be served; he and I sit on opposite sides of a small table, much like two gladiators sizing each other up: the table is the warzone, place mats defensive positions, and spoons are swords which will be waved during the conversation. She is the arbitrator neither side is willing to listen to. 

Predictably, she serves the chapattis, he serves the guilt.

‘I hear you have quit this job too.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I did not like it.’

‘You did not like it? What is there to like about a job? You do it, you earn a salary and you live a life. Did not like it!’

That puts me on the defensive.

‘I cannot spend the rest of my life filling forms in triplicate and covering up other people’s errors in whitener.’

That stings. I can see it in his eyes, even though his face is neutral.

‘I did not spend my life just filling forms in triplicate. There was a purpose to whatever I did something larger than what you are ever going to understand.’

I do not reply to this obvious mistruth. She serves me another chapatti, and a conversation restarter.

‘But this time you will stay for a few days, no? Go to the village, spend some quiet time, and figure out what you want to do.’

‘Figure out what you want to do’, he mimics her, ‘what has not happened in thirty years will happen in three days. What do you want to do, after all?’

I am not hungry any longer.

‘I have told you a hundred times. I want to write. And I will make a living doing that. I will be going back tomorrow morning.’

And I leave them, him to his unfinished dinner, and her to a hungry night. In wars between two people who love each other, the one who arbitrates should be prepared for a lot of injury.

_____

It is morning, now. The not unpacked bags are slung on my shoulders again as she clasps me to herself as if she wants the very essence our beings to meld together. Her eyes are sad like dusk in the mountains, and tired like a long day’s end. I can tell she has not slept, her hair is tangled, and her face tells the story of all her years, all the battles she has been spectator to, the crow’s feet around her eyes the silent scars gifted her by our egos. I hold her tight, as if I am not going to see her again. There have been too few of these embraces, I realize, and now, there will never be enough.

He stands in the middle distance, watching us. The half-smile is nowhere in evidence. I notice for the first time that in the half-light he looks very, very frail; almost all his hair are silver now, and his eyes promise stories of valiant defeats that I will never share. As I release mother from my embrace and move towards him, I notice the peculiar way he is holding his left arm, the hurt from the accident must still be there. I stand before him, and we say nothing to each other. And then I turn and walk out of the door.

‘Goodbye mom. Goodbye dad.’