Night Out

By

Soma Sarkar

Mrs. Da-Cuhna handled death like she handled life. Head-on, with zest. Today was Joe, her husband's funeral. She cooked tons of meat and mixed loads of salad and brought out her best red wine, full-bodied, generously spiked with rum. Nodding briskly at the condolences she hoped the guests would enjoy their meal. Blessings came best on a full stomach.

Not that people needed anything to wish Joe peace. They would have done it anyway. Not for Joe but her. Despite her troubles Mrs. Da-Cuhna kept the tidiest house, made the best plum cake and had the heartiest laugh. Most of all, she was large of heart. No one left her house with just a cup of coffee. There was always something to accompany it, something that made you feel cared and loved. It's a different matter that not many people visited her. They felt they were intruding on her time. She always had a lot to do. Her only regular visitors were the stray dogs of her lane who got a meal everyday. Today, of course, they had had a feast.

Eighteen years back Joe was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. He was 39 and Mrs. Da-Cuhna a year younger. The sons were young and the daughter newly married.

Sophie, the eldest child was on her first visit home after marriage. She had brought some furnishing material for the sofa all the way from Australia. It stood out from the rest of the furniture. The milky white silk with huge pink roses lit up the room. Mother and daughter stood admiring, breathing in the fragrance of new expensive fabric. "I can't bring myself to sit on it," Mrs Da-Cuhna giggled.

"New clothes for the old lady!" Joe joked as he sat down. And spilled his coffee. The stain spread rapidly. Moving from one delicate petal to another, enveloping a leaf and finally stopping mid-way at a bud. "You clumsy bugger," she muttered, blinking back tears, scrubbing hard. The stain remained but the cloth wore out. Even now, when the white had turned a dirty beige, the stain still showed. Poor, poor Joe, she thought, but how was I to know. It's not everyday that you get pretty things. And it's not everyday that a deadly disease shows its first symptom.

Over the years Joe's condition worsened. She fed him with a bib. Changed his diapers. Got the sons married. Knitted mittens for the little ones. Baked cakes for the older ones. All her energies were absorbed by her home. It had always been tidy. But with time, it became spotless. As Joe's condition deteriorated, cleanliness became an obsession. The kitchen sink sparkled and clothes were spotless. She waged a silent war against dirt and nothing was as gratifying as the smell of detergent with its promise of whiteness and absolute sanitation.

May you find peace Joe, she murmured, measuring out the flour. She'd bake ginger biscuits. Shawn's children loved them. They'd be leaving for Saudi tomorrow. Shawn worked with an IT company and time was precious. She sieved the flour. Why didn't Laurence make it, she wondered. Larry, her secret favourite, working with some NGO in some godforsaken part of Assam. She cracked the eggs and beat them vigorously. She knew he'd call later to say he missed his train. A complete lie but he would come once the rest had left and stay for long. At least, he didn't say he was busy, she sighed. She mixed the grated ginger, rolled the dough and set the oven to pre-heat. Everybody was busy. Even Sophie, who was pregnant for the fourth time. High time that girl stopped making babies. She shut the oven door with a clatter and wiped the kitchen table clean.

It was late evening and Mrs. Da-Cuhna's body ached as she sat fiddling with the TV remote, switching channels unmindfully. She heard the lusty cheers of her grandchildren at play. From upstairs came the voices of relatives. Bursts of stifled laughter jabbed at her insides.

She felt terribly lonely. All her life she had tried her best not to make her children feel deprived. Tackled problems with a cheerful front. Relatives who thronged the house now were nowhere in sight then. But that didn't deter her from remembering birthdays or wedding anniversaries. The phone was ringing. She stayed where she was. Not another murmured condolence. Joe was long gone before he died. God should have called him much earlier. Why did Joe have to suffer so much? Why did her struggle seem so meaningless today?

She looked down at her calloused fingers. They were stroking the old coffee-stain. The phone was still ringing. Mrs. Da-Cuhna dug her nails into the fabric. A few threads gave way. She scratched and pulled till the cloth tore. The stain was no more, just gaping foam. She looked at a crumpled paper napkin and kicked it. Nothing was where it should be. Nothing was as it should be. Her throat constricted. A noose was tightening. The walls closing in.

A cool draught touched her face as she stood at the gate. November in Hyderabad was pleasant. There was a hint of winter in the night breeze. Her house looked festive. She took a deep breath, and pulling her black stole tight across her chest, trotted down the lane.

The late evening traffic was chaotic. Cars, trucks and auto-rickshaws jostled for space.  Motorcyclists scraped through the tiniest opening and zoomed away trailing clouds of smoke. She stood gazing for a long while and started walking slowly along the road. After years of solitude the vehicles whizzing by, almost touching her, left her rattled. Petrol fumes stung her nostrils and the loud honking battered her eardrums. And also lifted her spirits. If only she could lose herself in all the noise and lights. Home felt like a tomb.

"Where?" the auto-wallah asked.
"Gomes, man. The hotel."
"Gomes Towers."
Since when has it become towers? She remembered it as a quiet little place. The children were visiting their grandparents. The doctors had detected the disease and the couple was oscillating between disbelief and anger and grief. They had quarreled that day, cursed each other till there were no more hurtful things left to say. And somewhere in between, clinging to each other, they wept. Later, they went to Gomes'.

The auto sped down a river of lights. St. Anthony's Church passed by. As did the medical stores, where an unknown person manned the counter. The food-joint, a little ahead, had grown into a restaurant. The one-room bank shot up to a multi-storied building. Brilliant lights rose high into the sky. With a jerk, the auto stopped. Gomes Towers twinkled above. A liveried doorman held open the polished brass door.

Mrs. Da-Cuhna found herself in the dark, smoky interiors. Fumbling for her spectacles she sat down at the nearest table. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she took in the nearly empty bar. At one corner, behind the bar, was Gomes' scowling face. An electric candle flickered before it. She crossed herself. Joe's got company.

She looked around. Back then it was always full of Joe's friends. Some old-timer could still be around. God might just be nice to her and send her some company. The waiter came and she asked for a rum and cola.

There was no one she knew. A man in his forties caught her eye. Soon, he swaggered to her side. "May I join you?" The tone was polite. Mrs. Da-Cuhna nodded.

She took in his coarse, dishevelled look. A vague odor touched her nose. She smiled. There was something likeable about him. After a while it struck her. He reminded her of Allen, the gawky boy who danced with her on her first May ball and later kissed her at the street corner. She stole a glance at the man, who called himself Jatin. The same body and those terrible dreadlocks. It seemed like yesterday. And later she married Joe, his friend. What difference did it make? Joe died a slow death and Allen got killed in a freak train accident.