Night Out

Mrs. Da Cuhna handled death like she handled life. Head-on, with zest. Today was Joe, her husband’s funeral. She had cooked tons of meat and mixed loads of salad and brought out her best red wine, strong, 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 for her. Despite all her troubles Mrs. Da Cuhna kept the tidiest house, made the best plum cake and had the heartiest laugh in the whole of Mettuguda. 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, sharp at noon. Today, of course, they had had a feast.

Exactly 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 all the way from Australia and got the upholstery done. The sofa stood out from the rest of the furniture. It dazzled. 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. Mrs. Da Cuhna was aghast. 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. Added an upper storey. 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 with baking powder and sugar. Why didn’t Laurence make it, she wondered. Larry, the black sheep of the family, 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. Mrs. Da Cuhna felt tired. Her body ached as she sat on the sofa 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. The 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. She managed to take them through adolescence to adulthood all by herself. Tackled problems with a cheerful front. The relatives who thronged the house now were nowhere in sight then. But that didn’t deter her from remembering birthdays or wedding anniversaries. All the babies of her larger family grew up wearing jumpers knitted by her. I’ve spent this bloody life trying to make others happy, slogging away at it, she thought with a vengeance. 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. Where was His mercy? Why did Joe have to suffer so much? Why did her years of struggle seem so meaningless today?

She felt betrayed. By everybody. 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 lying near her feet and kicked it. Nothing was where it should be. Nothing was as it should be. Her throat constricted and mouth tasted bitter. A noose was tightening around her throat. The walls were closing in.

A cool draught touched her face as she stood at the gate. November in Hyderabad was pleasant. The air was crisp. 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.

She came to Mettuguda crossroads. The heavy late evening traffic was chaotic. A picture of disorder as cars and trucks and auto-rickshaws jostled for space while motorcyclists scraped through the tiniest opening and zoomed away trailing a cloud of smoke. There was even a stray bundi-wallah pushing his cart with a kid perched on it. She stood gazing for a long while and then started walking along the road. After years of quiet solitude the vehicles whizzing by, almost touching her, left her rattled. Petrol fumes stung her nostrils and the loud honking battered her eardrums. But, strangely enough, also lifted her spirits. If only she could lose herself in all the noise and lights. Her home felt like a tomb, she didn’t want to go back.

“kidhar?” the auto-wallah asked again.
“Gomes, man. The hotel”
“Gomes Towers, boliye na.”
Since when has it become towers, Mrs. Da Cuhna wondered. She remembered it as a quiet little place. The children were visiting their grandparents. The doctors had already 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, that day they went to Gomes’. Time has passed me by, Mrs. Da Cuhna sighed wryly.

The auto sped down a river of lights. St. Anthony’s Church passed by. As did the medical stores, where an unknown man sat at 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 her. A liveried doorman held open the polished brass door.

Before she could blink 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. Some kind of weird but nice music played softly. At one corner, behind the bar, was Gomes’ scowling face. An electric candle flickered before it. Quickly she crossed herself. Joe’s got company, she thought.

She settled down and 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 and took back her order for finger-chips. 40 rupees for one plate when you can buy a whole kg of potatoes for 10? “What’s free?” she asked.
“Green peas, ma’am.”
“Okay.”
“Masala or plain?”
“Masala.”
She leaned back and took a deep gulp. “Too much cola,” she muttered, “with Gomes’ around you’d have never got away with it.”

There was no one she knew. A man in his 40s sitting a few tables away caught her eye. He too was watching her. Soon picked up his glass and 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 and held out her hand. He had a strong grip and soft hands. 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. She crossed herself.

Mrs. Da Cuhna and Jatin sat for a long time drinking. She was already onto her fifth peg and was feeling light in the head. Moved far, far away from her house, her children, everything. “Not married?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply she continued, “Haven’t missed much. Look at me, one husband. God bless his soul. Three children. And as alone as you are!” she chuckled, thumping his shoulder. Jatin gave a short laugh.

“It’s closing time, Sir” the manager repeated for the third time wearing a grimace of a smile.

“Talk to me, man. Don’t bugger him.” Mrs. Da Cuhna replied in a slurry voice, moving forward and setting her elbows firmly on the table. The manager looked nonplussed. Jatin looked away and concentrated on keeping his head from rolling off his shoulders.

“Might as well go with this vagabond,” Mrs. Da Cuhna thought hailing an auto. It was a bumpy ride and they were thrown against one another. She held him protectively. Jatin put his hand around her waist and kneaded absentmindedly. She smelt layers of dried perspiration. Her head was reeling. Something was wresting inside. She asked the auto to stop.

Mrs. Da Cuhna was walking fast. Trying to get away from Jatin. He caught up and held her by the elbow. “Don’t go,” he said.
“I should,” she replied, patting his cheek.
“You’re too drunk.”
She gave him a stinging slap. He fell.

It was past one in the morning. The roads were deserted and the streetlight cast a dull light. Once in a while a car went by. Though her breath strained, Mrs. Da Cuhna’s mind felt clear. Brilliantly lucid, a sensation that only alcohol has the power to induce. She was free of all thoughts, the thousand and one things that occupied her mind. Desire, long forgotten, sent a tremor through her body. Jatin pinned her against the lamppost. She held him with a ferocity that belied her age. He took her standing. Mrs. Da Cuhna had never known anything like this.

The day was breaking and a bunch of strays sniffed at two bodies lying in a heap. Mrs. Da Cuhna woke up to a dog licking her face. With a hoarse cry she sat up and looked around terror-stricken. Her buttons were undone. She had lost her shoes. Memories of the night came back. The place appeared familiar and with a start realised that she was just a few steps away from her house. What if somebody had seen her? What had come over her? She poked Jatin. He rolled over with a grunt and continued snoring. Mrs. Da Cuhna stumbled home followed by frisky dogs.

She entered her house with fear. Her heart was thumping. What would she tell her children who’d have been up the whole night? Accident? Rape? She needn’t have worried because everyone was asleep. Thank God, she thought as she slid into the bathroom. Later, she sealed the last packet of biscuits and put it away. Poured herself some strong black coffee and sat on the sofa, drinking. The window was open and the morning sun prised in through gaps in the apartment blocks that surrounded her house and left sharp strips of light.

Her head was throbbing and thoughts muddled. How could she do it? That too on the day of the funeral? And what dirt. But then, after the good wash she didn’t feel dirty anymore. What puzzled her was the fact that she didn’t feel any guilt either. And no shame, she was sure no one had seen her. But what hit her again and again was the outrageousness of it all. She just couldn’t believe it was her. She tried to remember that fellow’s name and wondered where he was now. Jumbled images of the night came to mind. Half-heartedly she attempted to brush them off. A warm feeling engulfed her and she stretched out on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking it. Her fingers touched some torn fabric. She got up to see. It lay in shadows.

Joe was looking at her from his frame. It was the Joe of old times. When the children were young, when she dressed them in their best as they all walked to Church, when her hand would brush against his and there was the siesta to look forward to. She closed her eyes. Two tears trickled down and vanished in the crevices of her face.

The house was in a mess but Mrs. Da Cuhna was snoring gently.