The Failsafe

FICTION 

Painted olive, the room gloated of Meera's becoming. He went to her desk and started frisking through her drawers. It was a paraphernalia of journals, ballpoint pens, charcoal pencils, memos, paint brushes, postcards and overused watercolour tubes. He took out the pile of sketchbooks buried under the stationery. One of them was filled with ugly doodles, mismatched tangents and uneven circles; images that represented a Meera he had barely known. The Meera who grew up in that room was fanciful, a clear juxtaposition to the practical, ever factual Meera he married. 

Supine on his rattan armchair, Putul scanned the garden. The pond near the eastern front gleaned with thickets of hyacinth. The coconut trees had stopped producing fruit. Moss engulfed the red walls from all sides. Ritam stepped out to the veranda, trying to take in Putul's complacency. It was futile. Each was aware of what the other thought. Twenty-one days of immobility and forced niceties! Spending three nights at your in-laws was tolerable, but to be forced into staying for three whole weeks was taxing for both the host and the guest; particularly made irksome by sore former instances.

Putul gave Ritam a sidelong glance. Five years ago, when Meera first introduced him, Putul was disgruntled. He could not comprehend his daughter's admiration for a man who had neither connections nor money. After all, she was the most sought-after interior designer in the city. He was pained to marry her off to Ritam, but did so mostly out of his love for her than hers for Ritam.

"How will you return?" Putul asked curtly.

"I called the transport agency, they said they cannot risk the curfew", Ritam replied.

"What will you do here?"

"I don't know. Probably work on my thesis."

"Seriously? Is it not already due?" Putul frowned. "With all the effort Meera is putting on you, you could have easily set up a business", Putul euphemised, without translating effort into money.

Ritam went inside and dialled Meera's number. She picked up at the second ring.

"House arrest for three weeks", he chimed, falling on her bed. "Guess I will have to continue being a nincompoop son-in-law", he added.

At the other end of the receiver, Meera rolled her eyes. "Rit, please."

Ritam moped his face. He was used to exaggerating his discomfort, building mountains out of mole hills. Later, when his mood eased, he would always feel foolish about plaguing her with his insensitivity. After ending the call, Ritam cast his eyes around the room. He had hardly entered it without Meera's chaperone. Painted olive, the room gloated of Meera's becoming. He went to her desk and started frisking through her drawers. It was a paraphernalia of journals, ballpoint pens, charcoal pencils, memos, paint brushes, postcards and overused watercolour tubes. He took out the pile of sketchbooks buried under the stationery. One of them was filled with ugly doodles, mismatched tangents and uneven circles, images that represented a Meera he had barely known. The Meera who grew up in that room was fanciful, a clear juxtaposition to the practical, ever factual Meera he married.

Ritam was now getting consumed by an unfamiliar longing, borne out of his guilt strewn ignorance. Meera was a tapestry he wanted to measure again; this time by inching carefully through the hem. Sure, he found her fascinating, assiduous and calm. Sure, he married her for who she was, or who he thought she was. The strings that bound them needed mending, a task mammoth to him. So long he considered himself cold, who married a rational woman because he had nothing to lose.

A waft of 'togor' woke him early the next day. The neighbourhood was quiet, save for the 'kulie's' occasional whistling. Picking up the lawn mower, Ritam gave the garden its much-needed trim. By the time his in-laws were up, Ritam was almost done.

"Come, have your tea", Revati shouted from the porch. Ritam nodded. He inhaled the scent of grass on his clothes and smirked. Meera had a thing for the smell.

"Thank you, the garden looks much better", Putul spoke almost inaudibly. Ritam turned on his seat, trying to drink on the humble sight that his father-in-law was. It took a while for him to register that Putul had actually shown gratitude and complimented him.

Ritam cleared his throat. "If you put potash at the base, the coconut trees might start producing fruit again," he suggested, sipping on his gingered red tea. Putul agreed, promising to order a bag from the nearest nursery. Emptying his cup, Putul got up and stood near Ritam. "It is good to have someone for Bihu this year," he patted Ritam on the shoulder and left.

For the next few mornings, Ritam busied himself by attending to things that needed fixing. One day, he bleached the algae out of the walls. Another day, he put potash in the soil, morphing dry earth into compost. On evenings, he religiously worked on his thesis. In coming home to them, he felt strangely drawn towards Meera. He taught Putul how to use the computer, debated with him on politics and the ever-effacing fate of heritage. With Revati, he was more at ease. They sometimes cooked together- Ritam learning exotic recipes from his mother-in-law with the hope of outdoing Meera's culinary skills someday. He enjoyed the little quibbles they made, for that reminded him of Meera even more. Every night, when he called Meera, she was flooded with his anecdotes from the day. "Your maa is a connoisseur," or "I taught him to send e-mails today," he spoke excitedly.

With the redolence of kopou, togor and keteki, Bohaag came along. The night before the first day of the festival was one without sleep. As Revati prepared an assortment of tilpithas, coconut larus and pancakes, Ritam gave her company. "Meera does not like Bohaag Bihu", she said sheepishly. "She comes during the other two, but not this. We wish she did", Revati sighed.

"I don't like the fuss about it," Meera tried to excuse herself. But Ritam kept on insisting. There was a pause. He heard her gulp on the lump, she was crying.

"Meera, what is it?" he asked softly.

"He killed himself on the first night of Bihu", she whimpered. For a moment, the confession hung around them like a thick air of discomfort. Meera continued, "When I met you, I saw how indifferent you were. But you needed...", "…saving", Ritam completed it for her.

Silence hung around them, thick as a spell.

Meera spoke again, breaking the discomfort. "Instead,you saved me", she cried again. Like a sudden fork of lightening, the gulf between them disappeared. Every invincible wall shattered under the weight of her words. Until then, neither had dared to touch the sacrosanct places of each other's pasts.

Ritam took time to find his voice. He ached to hold her for the first time. He yearned to undo all these years of co-dependence and give new meanings to them, their equation. "Can we start over, Meer?" he finally asked, afraid of making her distant than she already was.

"Yes, a thousand times, yes", Meera replied, smiling.

The first rays of the New Year cloaked the eastern sky.

It was an afterglow meant to stay and mend the fissures of a fledgling relationship.

Also Read: Inking a Vision for Classical Dance in the State

Also Watch: