by bhavani
Escape is a break from mundane experience. While familiarity is often the foundation on which we construct towering castles of our life sometimes you need that odd brick to liven up the façade. Some people dissolve into the myriad colours of a drug-filled world, or bathe in tubs of alcohol-induced joys. Others build rainbows through a passion, and some revel in bartering opinions. There is still another kind. That is Chungum. She always wanted to be in control of the level of escape, and all the above, didn’t suit her. She exchanged thoughts in the confines of her mind, her thoughts echoing back as she sharpened them.
She rarely stepped out to meet friends, leading her mother to wonder, often, if she had any at all. There were no midnight calls or endless messaging sessions during meals; in fact, she hardly carried her phone around. Chungum was approaching the supposedly to-be-settled age of 30, yet she was far from what ‘settled’ meant. Had she ever had a boyfriend? Her mother, who considered herself broad-minded, was willing to accept even a girlfriend. But the odd behaviour that would have gone into the upkeep of a boyfriend or a girlfriend, on the sly… well, Chungum did none of that.
She would be exactly where she told her mother she was. She was rarely late, no secretive calls, dinners away from home or special dressed up weekend outings. None of her friends called saying that they saw Chungum at the mall with some boy. Years ago, when she herself was growing up, there were many restrictions. She wasn’t allowed to go out alone, have a job or choose a life partner. She thought her daughter would be a go-getter; would use this wonderful privilege of being born in today’s time. But…
She needed to shock Chungum. She needed to rip the comfortable durrie from under her feet and leave her standing barefoot on the wintery floor.
Ma finished her breakfast and continued to sit at the dining table. She ran her hands over the smooth surface removing the dust here and there, then sat with her fingers drumming a repetitive rhythm, her eyes alternating between the clock and the staircase Chungum would come down. She would have that talk today over paneer parathas. It was Chungum’s favourite and would soften her up. That was another thing, food! The amount that girl ate, the weight she was putting on, which boy would want to marry her!
Chungum was one floor above getting ready for work unaware of the elaborate planning going on below. Though she didn’t need to prepare, as at most breakfasts her mother would let loose like she was emptying a larder of outdated stocks; a larder that was replenished the next day with more to throw at Chungum. The conversation was linear in thought and construct, and predictable. It always concentrated on Chungum’s dire situation. That bleak and dreary future, grey and darker grey till the horizon.
Chungum had hardly gotten comfortable at the table before…
“Chungu, why don’t you ever dry your hair?”
That question was a sure sign that irritation levels had peaked early. Usually Ma began on a soft note then would move to harsher ones. Though using a shortened version of her name meant Ma was still warming up. So Chungum ignored the question, debating between starting with one paratha or putting the two she would anyway have on her plate.
“Chungu, what is your plan?”
“About what Ma?”
“Your life! Where do you see it going? What next?”
“Continue working in this company.”
“You should have dreams Chungum… dreams. What are your dreams?”
Ah, she’d sprinted to her full name. Chungum took a deep breath directing her attention to the yummy paneer parathas. Each was filled with a soft paneer mashed with green chillies and fresh coriander. She bit into a piece, topped with some tart mango pickle. Hmmm… why did paneer taste so good?
“Look at Sheila. Such a good girl. Works so hard, doing so well.”
“Ma,” Coming back from paneer-land, “she works at an education firm, as the coordinator between colleges in India and other countries. She hardly ‘does’ anything, in fact…”
“I see her pictures on Facebook. Dubai, London, Singapore… she’s always travelling across the world! She definitely has a good job.”
Conversations about dreams always dragged in someone as a shining beacon of how dreams were meant to be dreamt then lived out. Chungum didn’t react, though Ma wanted some kind of an acknowledgement; even anger would have sufficed. Chungum would sit quietly and nod her head through it. Many days later, in one of those lows, when wallowing seems like all you would ever do, it would peep out from under stray memories. Chungum would then replay the scene on loop till it forced tears and greater angst.
“You want me to travel Ma, I can.”
“It’s not only about the travel, she also has a husband.”
Ah, now we’re talking. Husbands are a pivotal definer of success. Without a husband a woman’s identity is incomplete. Her mother, who had let her wear shorts and sleeveless tops when most parents didn’t, couldn’t accept that there could be life choices and even happiness without a man standing by you. Chungum wondered what Ma’s reaction would be if asked what she thought of her own marriage? Ma found her freedom and space only after dad died. But marriage is after all the hallmark of success. Once that took place, Chungum was certain, Ma would demand a child, then one more and then, something else.
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes, yes… I am Ma.” With a loud voice like yours I don’t think anyone can not listen.
She had finished two parathas, wondered if she should ask for half more. It would cause a flare up about her weight, but the fire was burning strong so why add more fuel. Chungum knew she was getting fatter and she did have a plan and it would work out. Soon. For now, one more paratha or that brilliant mishti doi from yesterday? Babu Uncle had brought them a box full of small matkas filled with mishti doi from Kolkata. Could she have one without Ma picking it up?
She took a pot shot. “I am looking for a good guy Ma. You know how tough it is.” She reached the fridge. Her mother was looking into her eyes and nodding. “Ma, the minute I find him, I’m telling you, I will introduce you to him. And I will get married.” Mishti doi in hand, she was almost back at the table. “I will get married immediately. You want to let me find a boy of my choice right. You aren’t someone who would force me to marry someone I don’t like!”
“Now you’re just being sarcastic! Like I ever force, Chungu… I give you so much freedom.”
This mishti doi was the best she’d ever had. Which shop was this from? The clay pots, used to set the milk sweetened with jaggery into curd, ensured every drop of water was removed. The doi was firm yet had a give. There was a little resistance as she dipped her spoon. She plunged deeper.
“I do want you to get married. You know life is lonely. It’s important to have a companion to share life with it… its challenges…”
Her hand moved gently, scooping a mouthful. She lifted the spoon and let the mishti doi sit on her tongue; just stay there. Her eyes open yet unseeing, savouring the flavour that whirled inside and reached every corner.
The voice continued to talk about marriage but she couldn’t hear it anymore.
The soft sour sweetness was loud, dominating. She could escape into this, immerse herself in its wonderland. She peered into the matka at the dip in the centre made by her impatient spoon. The world was soft, creamy and sour yet the sweetness tugged at her sleeve. She dipped her finger in and sucked a large dollop. She held the edges of the matka, they were slippery. She peeped, bending over, her body half into the light yellow haven. Her hands slipped and she tumbled in. The mishti doi welcomed her, enveloped her, taking her deeper.
A few minutes later, Ma, who’d gone to get more parathas, came back into the room. Chungum was nowhere. Her plate lay on the table with the matka of mishti doi in the centre. She’s left for work without saying bye, Ma thought shaking her head. She threw the matka in the bin, put the plate in the sink and went to her bedroom. On the table, next to the water jug, lay Chungum’s car keys.
Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/johnloo/
