Floored: A Story of Pain and Perspective

 

Do you take your bed for granted? I know most people do, like your bed automatically comes with the bedroom. Well, it’s baked into the name of the room, right? Maybe I should frame my question better. Do you take your bed-frame for granted? I know I did. My small bedroom comes with a bed frame fit for a king size bed. It has a sufficiently large mattress on it.

Nowadays, people in their late 20s are no longer considered young, and why should we be? After spending hours hunched over my laptop, I get up from my desk like someone twice my age.  Holding my neck with one hand and my back with another, rubbing and massaging them, as if that will alone remove the last spec of ageing from my body, I walk over to the kitchen for a quick snack. Sitting in the same position makes it harder to stand up and often when we do, a sound escapes our larynx, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, almost as involuntary as a sneeze when we have a cold, except the cold is cured after a few days, but there’s as of yet, no cure for anticipated ageing, or let’s call it ‘Aetas Vigniti’- Latin for the uniquely dramatic condition of ageing in your twenties. When we sit somewhere, we hold our knees before lowering ourselves down to the chair, just to curb the pain. Showering in cold water even in summers can make our backache go berserk.

The reason for my rant about our over-advanced ageing was simply to drive home the fact that a normal mattress that would’ve felt heavenly to lie on for 50 year olds even twenty years ago, feels an assault on the backs of us who are traversing, rather poorly might I add, the dangerous realm of being in our late twenties. I was subjected to this mattress and its oppression on my poor back for the last decade. On the brink of beginning my 30s, it’s safe to say I am no longer a young woman and sleeping on that mattress generated strong and painful protests from my ageing back. On most mornings, instead of taking a shower with warm water, I’d take a shower with a pain-relief spray to make my back feel less aged.  

Witnessing my pain every morning, my mother decided enough! It was time to get a new mattress. After careful planning and picking and pondering, my mother and my uncle decided the ‘memory-foam’ mattress would do justice to my poor, aged back.

Now, there’s something you need to know about my mother. One project, as simple as it is of buying a new mattress and disposing of the old one, is not enough for her. She has a pressing need to squeeze in as many projects into this one project as she can. Once the mattress had been finalised, she decided she needed, to increase the amount of storage in the divan underneath my bed-frame. “While you get a new mattress, you might as well get a new bed altogether”, she announced one morning over breakfast. I was about to pop in my paratha dripping with butter, and stopped abruptly. What did she mean by a new bed? Soon it became clear though, that she had a few bed-ly renovations planned, and my need for a new mattress was the perfect occasion for her to execute them.

I did not enjoy my breakfast that morning, for my mind went over the size of the hole this entire assignment would drill in my purse (you see, I don’t wear pants often because it’s too hot, and women’s dresses don’t have pockets, so the hole was most definitely going to be in my purse). My mother then suggested we get the bed frame ready with the extended storage and we can purchase the mattress the next month. It seemed reasonable to me and arrangements were made to dispose off the old mattress that had waged a war on my back over the last decade, and I was officially without a bed in any shape or form. I looked around my room like it belonged to someone else. Having a huge bed in my small room all my life had simply removed any concept of floor space from my brain and the first look after my bed-frame had been dismantled and carried away made me feel like this is a studio, I can dance in here! I don’t dance though. But it’s strange what the exuberance of having more floor space can make you do. It made me dance! Had my mother caught me in the act, she’d have fainted from the shock of it- has my daughter been replaced by someone else?

What followed were two weeks of pure joy and a lot of dancing (with the door closed of course!) Although my brain did not quite register the sheer blessing of having the whole floor to myself, I loved having a single mattress that my mother had rummaged out of one of the lofts to sustain me while my bed was being redesigned. I liked the single bed. A bit too much! I pleaded with my mother to let me keep the single-bed mattress but she needed her storage, and on any day of the calendar, the Indian mother’s wishes, fancies and weird arguments win against anyone by a long shot. My lawyer friends were also sure to lose, had I sought their help. So, for all intents and purposes, I knew I stood no chance of keeping my floor.

I spent many a glorious hour on that mattress, propped up the throw pillows, and brought out my soft toys and cuddled with them while watching movies on my iPad. And the best part was, I could keep my glasses of water and mugs of tea right beside me without fearing they would topple over, because the floor was right there- like a pillar of strength! Or, maybe in this case a floor of strength. I’d come home every evening and my room would be waiting for me with all that floor at my disposal, as if to say ‘sit wherever you want, we’re all yours!’ No invitation from no man has ever seemed so alluring to me, and I hope those men read this someday and really put in the work to better their skills. The floor had me floored and how!

One afternoon, I randomly set up a stack of books by my bed and stuck my bedside lamp on top of it. Now I had a reading nook doubling as a bed and tripling as a chill-out corner. With that massive bed eating up my room, my old limbs had to make the effort to climb the bed; get all the things needed for a long session of chilling in my bed with movies, and if mother called me from the next room, my old limbs would have to find the strength to climb back down again. And, there would be no book stack by my bedside either, which really added character to my room. Who needs a bedside table when you can have a bedside stack of your favourite books? Not me!!!

The floor gave me so much potential to try different things, dancing behind closed doors being the first. I could buy a bean bag, set up my easel, and have canvases stacked up against one wall on the far west side of the room; I could buy a couple of different beautiful rugs and make the room even cosier, although, as an unfortunate resident of Kolkata, cosy is not what we need. But, it never hurts to dream, right? I could buy a huge Lego set and sprawl everything out on the floor to assemble it, only to fail miserably. I could spend my money on all of this that my mother perceives as useless and be very content. This is why you earn money as an adult- to splurge on things meant for children. These are all things I could do, but never did because the villain made a comeback!

That ominous, gigantic, gargantuan bed-frame was meant to be in my life. I cannot keep a man, but something about me summons huge bed-frames to my room; and one evening when I came back from work, there it was, ogling me, mocking me, teasing me. It might also have eve-teased me, you never know. And the days of unfiltered joy of having a floor were over. It was like a crazy, whirlwind romance come to an end, like a farewell to a dear old friend, like... Oh! I am too full of emotions to be able to put words to them. However, now the new mattress would come in, and my days of suffering acutely from Aetas Vigniti would be over. Having cursed my back all my life, had it not been for its relentless pain, my mother would never have turned the project of getting a new mattress into a redesigning assignment, and me? I’d have been oblivious to a great friendship and camaraderie of my life- me, the single-bed mattress, and The Floor!

-Reva.

(A reflection on what a life without a bed could've been)

DENIAL

 I had a niggling pain in my abdomen and went to the washroom to check if I had got it down. I craved extra chocolate syrup in my hot chocolate that morning and every little thing irritated me. That whole week, I had spent long hours in the kitchen, Chef D'Costa briefing us every morning, Sai complaining about not having a social life outside the kitchen, and receiving numerous texts from Ram about how long I had been ignoring all aspects of my life apart from that damn kitchen. 'There's a life out here, Heer. In case you've forgotten.', 'It's been two whole weeks since I've seen you. At least take a Sunday off now.', 'Who works on a Sunday anyway?', so on and so forth. I missed Ram and wanted to see him. Sometimes I wondered if overworking was a disease if I needed to get treated. However, the kitchen pulled me like a magnet is drawn towards a refrigerator and I felt there's nothing wrong with being passionate. My brother called to remind me to take a trip to his place the next week, it was Timmy's first birthday and Ram had already asked me four times to go pick out presents with him. 

I checked my panty and there was nothing. I was sure I would get it down soon and my stomach hurt. There were huge dark circles all around my eyes and no matter how much I liked food, I felt like I'd throw up every time I ate. I wanted to get over with it as soon as possible, the worst few days of every month, the pain was always excruciating. Ram took at least two days off to stay with me lest I fall in an attempt to go to the bathroom. Somewhere I was traumatized from my cramps, I dreaded them every month and did everything in my power to try and reduce the intensity. Painkillers could only do so much and beyond that, it was just a test of my threshold to pain. 

I went back to the kitchen to restart work on the last few orders for lunch and then begin with the preparations for dinner. My head reeled and I felt uneasy. As always, I wanted to push on a little more. I did this every month until I felt really unwell and Ram had to be called in to take me home. "Just get some rest the moment you start feeling sick. Don't let it escalate this way", he'd always say, but old habits die hard. Right from culinary school to this day, taking time off made me way too guilty, at times the guilt outweighed the peace I felt from relaxing at home. 

"Maybe you should go home," Sai said, as I started chopping the veggies. I had taken the next weekend off for Timmy's birthday and I did not want to ask Chef D'Costa for another afternoon off. He was strict to the point of being ruthless and I escaped his wrath for overcompensating in the kitchen all the time. Not that it wasn't my fault for wanting to work more, but sometimes it occurred to me that I could do with a break that wouldn't have me be stuck to the bed, moaning in pain all day. I looked over at Chef D'Costa at the other end of the kitchen giving a dose to his sous chef and he looked like he'd rip his head off any minute. No way, I thought, I cannot go ask him for leave this afternoon. He'll rip my head off as well.

An hour later, however, I was in a lot of pain. I took a painkiller that had no effect and I felt too much pain to continue working anymore. Chef D'Costa let me go and Ram picked me up. Back home I tried to sleep as Ram left for his office again. "I'll be back as soon as I finish, honey. Don't worry. Gimme a call if you feel too unwell.", he said while closing the door behind him. Half unconscious, I felt myself bleeding, but something felt amiss. Something was breaking off from me, something that belonged to me and it didn't feel right to bleed that way. I cried as I called Ram again and on our way to the hospital I told him that it felt like a part of me was being taken away forever. 

I vaguely remember being put in a stretcher and Ram holding my hand but beyond that, it's all a blur. I woke up late that night with a sinking feeling and a body drained of all strength. My room was dark and I could barely make out if there was anybody else there. I tried to remember the events of the day, bits and parts came back to me vaguely, my pain, the bleeding, the ambulance ride. I reached out for water on my bedside table and the glass fell to the floor and broke into pieces, waking up Ram. 

"You stayed back?", I asked.

"Of course, I wouldn't just leave you here."

"No, I mean, they let you?"

"My childhood friend's father works here. I spoke to him and he allowed me to stay."

"Okay… why do you look so grim? Has something serious happened to me? What did the doctor say?"

"How about you get some rest and then we talk in the morning?"

"Please tell me. I know something is wrong."

"I really think you should rest. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."

"Ram, please!!!", I grabbed his hands.

He looked at me, sat down by my bed and sighed. I held on to the last few strands of hope in my heart and tried to think that nothing grave was the matter, it was perhaps just an intense case of menstrual cramps, that he was hesitating to tell me because I'd make fun of him for freaking out and bringing me to the hospital just for menstrual cramps. 

"Sweetheart", he took my hand in his, "you had a miscarriage."

…

It had been a few days since then, I was back in the kitchen motoring away. I didn't feel anything. I powered through each day as it came and life went on. I knew there was something wrong with me but I did not know what. Timmy's birthday was a blast and I was supposed to enjoy the trip back to my brother's house, see my parents and have a nice time. Ram came with me and the whole family was there. My aunts and uncles hovered around me asking me when I'll get married, my cousins wanted to hear all kinds of stories about my life in Goa, and I spent most of my time with my little Timmy. 

No matter how much I loved my family and especially Timmy, I felt out of place there. I did not understand myself and I knew no one understood me. No one knew what had happened, what I had lost. In my head, I tried to reason with myself every waking minute about how I wasn't ready for a baby yet, how I wasn't married, how I'd have to let go of it eventually. Nothing stood for long. All reason failed every night when I tried to sleep and that fateful afternoon kept flashing before my eyes. My sleep kept coming in bursts and visions of a woman bleeding woke me up every time. My brain was fogged and my body needed more sleep, yet my mind wouldn't let me. 

Back in Goa, after the family weekend, I decided to summon an auto every morning to get to the kitchen. The walk bothered me. Walking to and from the kitchen every day was something I cherished. I had dreamt of being able to walk down to my place of work every day since I was a little kid. I would have my earphones on and listen to soul-warming summer songs on Spotify. Every time I discovered a piece of new music, I would send it to Ram. He thanked me for his ever-growing playlist. Walking on the streets of Goa is refreshing, just like walking down the roads of Manipal. Sai did not understand my fascination with Manipal. "It's such a small town, what do you do there?". I always told her that to understand my love for Manipal, you will have to live there. 

Three weeks after my miscarriage, the kitchen started bothering me and so did the songs. I went from feeling nothing to feeling restless all the time. Ram had started picking me up every morning and dropping me back every night after I had collapsed in the kitchen. 

"You're not well, are you sure you don't want to go to your parents' house?" Ram asked me one night while driving me back. 

"No. I cannot stand the thought of being in Delhi."

"What about visiting your brother?"

"I was there just two weeks ago."

"Okay… How about we plan a holiday? Andaman and Nicobar? You always wanted to go there."

"No," I said. 

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"C'mon Heer!"

"Just drop me home." I did not want to talk to him anymore. 

"Heer, darling, you have to tell me what's going on with you. I am worried."

"There's nothing to worry about. We weren't ready to be parents anyway."

"But Heer…"

"I don't feel like talking anymore."

Ram walked me to my floor and made sure I took my medicines before I went to bed. He wanted to move in with me, which we had been thinking about for the last year and had it been some other time, I'd have jumped with glee. But that night I dismissed the idea with a straight face. I did not want to live with him anymore. 

"Okay, think about it when you wake up tomorrow."

"No." I said, "I don't want to think."

"Heer…"

"Ram, leave."

"Will you try to get some sleep?"

I did not feel like responding anymore. He left after switching off the lights and I stared out of the window. I hate Goa, I thought to myself as I heard the waves splashing against the shore in the silence of the night, breaking the stillness periodically and rhythmically. Sai called and I switched off my phone.  The phone was a nuisance in my life and I threw it on the floor, with a certain rage that was new to me. 

Like every other day, I watched the night break into dawn and I got up to get dressed. My wardrobe irritated me and all the yellow clothes that I had felt like torture to my eyes. Suddenly my entire wardrobe felt like a burden I wanted to get rid of. I called Sai and asked her to get me some clothes. 

"What have you done to all your clothes?" she asked as she handed me some of her clothes and I walked into the washroom to change.

"They're there. I don't wanna wear them anymore." I said.

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe I don't like them now."

"So you're gonna buy new clothes now?"

"No."

"Then?"

"I'll wear some of yours and some of Ram's."

Sai sighed and looked at me as I came out of the washroom in her summer dress. 

"What?" I asked.

"Heer, you need to take some time off from work."

"Nonsense! I'm going to take on an additional shift. I'll talk to Chef D'Costa today."

"You haven't been sleeping properly at all and now you want to take on an extra shift? You're clearly not well and we're all very worried."

"Let's go. I don't want to be late to that stupid kitchen." I said walking towards the door.

"Stupid kitchen?"

"I don't like that kitchen anymore."

"And yet you want to take an extra shift? Why?"

"I don't know."

"Heer…"

"I don't want to talk anymore. Just start your scooty."

The kitchen suffocated me more and more each day. My performance deteriorated and Chef D'Costa made sure I knew that I wasn't performing well. He hurled rough words at me and the whole team stood there expecting me to cry and break and be a whole bundle of mess. Anton even asked me to leave this place and look for another job that would save me from having to endure Chef D'Costa every single day. He had denied giving me an extra shift and took my weekend shifts from me as well. My once fiery ambition and passion for making my mark in the culinary industry was slowly getting outweighed by the heaviness of my mind. 

The madness of a commercial kitchen seemed to pass by me and soon I let go of the lunch shift. I only worked the dinner shifts and newer and talented chefs filled in the gap that I had left. I could not work more than one shift without getting thoroughly exhausted. Ram supported my decision of working less but he insisted I work the lunch shift and let go of dinner. However, the sunlight had started making me feel a certain heaviness that made me dizzy. I kept the blinds drawn from border to border all morning and no matter how much Ram insisted that I let a bit of sunlight in, I couldn't. 

One Saturday afternoon, I was lying in bed thinking about my initial days as a professional chef and moving to Goa to be with Ram after two whole years of long-distance. My parents had wanted me to get married soon as they were getting old, but I needed time to do well in my career, run my kitchen, and Ram and I needed to work a few things out between ourselves. 

"I dream of having our own house and two little kids. And I'll cook and feed y'all so much; all of you will be so chubby." I giggled sitting on Ram's lap on the beach. 

"Umm… Heer?" 

"Yes?"

"If I don't want kids, will it be a deal-breaker for you?"

"What??" I was surprised, "you don't want kids?"

"I am not sure but maybe I won't."

"Oh… okay."

"Is that a deal-breaker for you? I know how much you love children and you've always wanted to be a mother but… I don't feel sure about myself."

"Yeah, I can understand but… well, we have time, we'll figure out what we want when the time comes, right?"

"Of course! We will reevaluate our choices then and we'll compromise."

"Yeah!" I smiled at him as he held me in his arms, "we'll be fine."

That was the first and the last time we had spoken about children. It had not affected me or our relationship. We had been confident about everything about us from the start, from belonging to different communities and different places, having different cultures and different careers, we had seen through it all with a lot of maturity. Being happy with each other came naturally as the sun rises each morning. Through all the highs and lows in the last five years, he'd been my constant support. 

I called Ram and asked him to come. I had a feeling like I was sinking deep into my bed, it would engulf me like a black hole and I'd never be found again; the sheets and the duvet seemed to be moving by themselves and wrapping me in a tight inescapable grasp; there was a hole opening in the bed and I was being sucked right into it. I could almost see Death as a figure, an ugly monster staring down at me and mocking my fear; faces of my family and friends flashed before me and I wanted to cry out and call for someone to pull me out of that gutter that kept sucking me in. 

I could feel my body shake like being struck by an electric current and I wanted to run away. The whole apartment, the place, the sound of traffic, everything bothered me; everything seemed threatening. As Ram entered, I screamed and howled asking him to free me from all the demonic bedding that was strangling me. 

"I am dying Ram, save me, save me please!!" I shouted. 

"Honey, what's wrong? Nothing has happened. Nobody is doing anything to you. You're safe."

"No no, I'm not, these bed sheets are strangling me."

"Shhh honey, calm down. You're imagining things."

"I'm not Ram, believe me. The bed was closing in on me. Believe me please!!" I pleaded with him. 

Now that he was here, my bed was quiet and I felt safe. But I could not forget the feeling of being engulfed by a demonic bed. I kept getting into a faint daze and each time I woke up with a jerk, sweating and shivering. Ram gave me a sleeping pill and stayed the night but the next morning I woke up to the whole room closing in on me and engulfing me into a void. My helpless screams woke Ram and he held me tight and close to his chest as he tried to calm me down.

When I finally felt better, he put me down again and sat by me, holding my hand. I felt exhausted yet too scared to sleep. He looked terrified and worried sick. He suggested I go to my parents or at least inform them about what was happening, I slowly got out of the bed to go to the bathroom and collapsed on the floor, All of a sudden my legs felt extremely weak and I couldn't get up. Ram helped me up and took me in his arms again. 

"What is happening to you, love?" he said, his voice breaking. He held me to his chest and I heard him cry. His heart beat against my ear rhythmically and I felt like it was my dead child's heart beating in his chest. My dead child. My dead child. The words rang in my head and my brain felt foggy. As he loosened his grasp around me and put me down on the bed, I asked him to hold me closer to him, tighter than before; I wanted to hear his heart again, this time, louder. Was my child really dead?

I suffered another week of similar episodes of being sucked into my bed and various other pieces of furniture and my mobility had become very limited. Ram wheeled me around and most of my time I lay on the couch or my bed, in a trance, thinking of the same three words 'my dead child'. Ram had informed my parents and my brother and they had all been here, cramped in my two-bedroom apartment. My brother left a couple of days ago while my parents insisted on staying. 

"She needs a psychologist," Dad told Ram. 

"She's in denial. She refuses to go to anyone or anywhere; doctor, friends or, even out of the apartment," said Ram. 

The next morning, Ram played my favourite Goan folk songs and my head started spinning at its first note. I felt like my chest was swelling up, my brain was squeezing and I was losing control all over my body. It was a feeling I couldn't explain or comprehend. I just needed the music to stop. 

"Stop that song, "I told him.

"Okay, do you want to listen to some other songs? Retro?"

"No. No songs."

"Instrumentals then?"

"No. Nothing. No music." I said coldly.

"Heer…"

"My child is not dead Ram. How can he be dead?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart but that is the reality. We can't change it, can we?"

"I don't know. I don't understand anything anymore."

"Please, I beg you, please tell me what I can do to make you feel better."

"My child is not dead," I repeated. 

My parents fought about whether or not to admit me to a mental institution. From being in denial about my dead fetus which I referred to as my child, I had started playing with an imaginary child. I could hear it call me, laugh and giggle. I could hear its goos and gaas and I could see it in my lap, playing with my finger, I could feel its tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb, I could smell its babyish scent. My child's presence brought a change in me, I regained some of my strength. Even though I still had to be wheeled around, I could sit up for longer. 

My father decided to wait for a while longer before admitting me to a mental institution. Ram and my mother cried now and then whenever I played with my child. My episodes hadn't stopped though, and I would often feel like the room was engulfing me, sucking me into a void, strangling me by the neck, stopping the airflow; I would die any minute, and what followed was an intense hysterical few moments of anxiety which would eventually lead me to pass out. I was still averse to daylight and music, flowers and my old clothes and everything that was a part of my life prior to the devastating loss. 

"Remember this?" mom asked me, handing me a tiny sweater. 

Back in my college days, I had asked my mom to teach me to knit so that I could make little sweaters for my children in the future. I would often tell mom how special my children would be, how deeply loved and cared for they'd be, that nobody would be able to touch them as long as I was there. I had very strong maternal instincts very early on in life; and it broke my parents' heart to see me lose a child and try everything in my power to not mourn the loss, to tell myself that there was no loss and that I had a child, my dear child, for whom I had knitted sweaters long ago. That was the first sweater I had made with mom's help and I always took it with me everywhere I went. 

I took the sweater from her and stared at it, my hands trembling. As I looked up, I could see my child moving further and further away from me. Soon it vanished and I frantically looked around my room in search of its innocent little face, clutching the sweater tightly to my chest. I screamed and banged on my bed asking my mother to leave that instant. I wanted nothing to do with her. She had her children and I didn't. After two months, it finally dawned on me that I had lost my baby, the baby for whom I had waited all my life, for whom I had picked out names, for whom I had made sweaters, whom I had dreamt of every time I saw a little kid. I had lost my baby before I'd even known that I had him. 

I asked for Ram and broke down inconsolably when he held me to him, I heard his heartbeat again and my head felt under tremendous pressure. I remember waking up in the hospital with Ram sitting by my bed. I cried and cried and cried continuously, without a pause, a break, without effort. I could not stop crying. Tears flowed down my eyes even though I could no longer keep my eyes open, there were huge bags under my eyes for crying so much, but I could not stop my tears. It felt pointless to go on living after losing my 'child'. To not have known and experienced the joy of having a life in me and be told that I had lost it felt unjust. Of all the people in the world, God had chosen me for this ruthless punishment, the woman who had always wanted to have a child, the woman who went as far as to learn knitting only to make sweaters for her children. Being alive was a burden. 

 I agreed to see a psychologist. Ram wheeled me into his office on a Monday morning and I wanted to run away the moment my doctor asked me the first question.

"What challenges are you facing?"

What challenges was I facing? It was the death of a foetus that somehow registered as the death of my child to me; I was dealing with the loss of something that I didn't know I had; I was mourning an event for which I wasn't ready... what were the challenges? What do I say? My bed, the furnitures, my room engulfed me? I couldn't stop crying? I couldn't walk? Which challenges do I talk about? 

I took almost a half hour in his chamber to articulate my feelings in my head and make sense of em, but eventually nothing made sense. I proceeded to tell him many times and stopped midway because I didn't want to live through the agonizing moments again; because I didn't know what to say or how to go on; because my thoughts were not coherent to me. 

"I help you make sense of your feelings and emotions when you cannot do it yourself, that's why I'm here. Don't worry, just say what comes to your mind, as it comes. I'll take care of the rest.", he said.

 His treatment helped me recover faster than we'd expected and before long, from being disinterested in life, I was looking forward to seeing him and listening to him. 

"Battling mental illness is a slow process", he said, "oftentimes you'll hit rock bottom. But the key is to embrace your fall and work on it. The more you deny, the more denial will haunt you."

One month into my therapy, I regained my strength little by little to walk again and do simple everyday tasks like combing my hair and taking a bath. I no longer had daily episodes of drowning in the waves of my demonic bedding, I could look at my old wardrobe again and I cried less. I still felt a part of me was missing and there was a void in my heart, but I embraced my heartbreak. 

It was a Sunday morning, a few more days later, when I woke up and Ram brought me breakfast in bed, he kissed me gently on my forehead and gave me a quick hug.

"Ram?" I called him softly as he set the tray beside me.

"Yes?"

I smiled at him.

-Reva

A House of Murderers

 It was raining heavily when Raju woke up and got dressed for work. He tiptoed to the kitchen trying not to wake his wife or the kids. Lighting a candle, he ate a small breakfast of some leftover rice, after which he left for work. He cycled to the far off flower market to buy fresh flowers at a nominal price and then turned his cycle around to head to his destination at the heart of the city. About an hour of cycling later, he reached a house in North Calcutta, a big, yellow, three-storied house, guarded with a black iron gate. It was still fairly early morning and the neighbourhood was quiet. He entered the premises and rang the bell, hearing which a woman shouted from the top floor, “who’s it?”

“It’s me, Raju.”, he answered.

“Oh Raju, wait, I’ll send the keys. Wear double mask before you enter.”

“Yes ma’am.”

A couple of minutes later, the keys came down in a bag swinging from a rope tied to its handle. He opened the door, wore his second mask, changed his clothes and went upstairs for further orders for the day. It was Mr Chatterjee’s house. He stayed on the top floor with his wife, son, daughter-in-law and his young seven-year-old grandson; while on the first floor resided his sister-in-law and her husband. One of the most well-to-do family in the near surrounding, they were not only highly privileged but most of them were in the possession of elaborate degrees.

“Did you bring the flowers, Raju?” asked Mrs Chatterjee as soon as he entered, “how much are they?”

“30 bucks ma’am.”

“What? It was twenty-five the last day.”

“Ma’am, it’s different every day.”

“Did you go to that market we told you about?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Alright, if you say so”, she said, not quite believing his honesty, “there’s some money there on the table and a list of things you need to get today. Head over to the market and get them soon.”

“Sure ma’am”

Obeying her orders Raju left for the bazaar early morning. The Chatterjees always had a long list of things to be bought fresh from the bazaar and they sent Raju to the bazaar every day. Do they really eat so much? he wondered. On his way down, he knocked at the door on the first floor wondering if they had any list for him. When they didn’t answer, he went away to the other house where he worked to collect their list.

It was almost ten, and while the Kolkata sun was burning on his head, his stomach was burning and churning from hunger. All he had eaten was a handful of rice at five in the morning. Five hours, a long distance of cycling and a long, hot and humid trip to the bazaar later, there was no more fuel left for the rice to be provided. He longed for food but his expectations were dashed when he went to Mr Chatterjee’s house to deliver the things he bought.

“Here’s the list for my sister’s house. She was sleeping when you came so she couldn’t give you. Go over to the bazaar and get it soon, will you?”

“Ma’am, can you give me some food first? I am starving.”

“Of course. Get her stuff first and then I’ll give you breakfast.”

Away he went for another trip to the bazaar and by 11:30, he could feel his head spinning when he returned after having run the errand. Although his breakfast comprised of a couple of tough pieces of bread and a little pickles, he devoured them.

He spent an hour at Bhabi’s house, for whom he cleaned the apartment and the furniture, did her daily grocery shopping and ran any random errand that she would send him on. Sometimes she gave him lunch if he stayed on late, and sometimes the Chatterjees gave him some food in the afternoons.

Even though the food was inadequate, he never complained or asked for more. “They do so much for me. They lent me the money to buy the cycle, how can I ask for anything more?” was his steady reply whenever Riyaz nudged him to ask for more.

“Idiot! They are the most affluent family here. It won’t starve them to give you a little more food, rather they will starve you to death. Don’t you see how they subtly exploit your obedience and helplessness?”

Nothing Riyaz said, had any effect on Raju. Mr Chatterjee was his master and he wouldn’t question his decisions or orders.

Things were particularly difficult for Raju back at home. A wife, two young children and an ageing mother to support and he was the only earning member. Things had never been easy for him. However, with the rapid spread of Coronavirus disease, his financial situation looked tighter than ever. From his twenty-five hundred salary at the Chatterjees, they deducted a thousand bucks every month to compensate for the fifteen thousand they had lent him to buy the cycle.

“Let’s limit our diet only to rice and potatoes. With the money being deducted and mother’s medicines, we can’t afford lentils and onions anymore. And no more milk either.” Raju informed his wife a month later when the Chatterjees deducted another thousand from his salary.

“But the milk is only for the kids.”

“I am sorry, I really am. But I can’t manage. Even the electricity bill and the rent for the last month is pending.”

“Why don’t you ask them to lend you some money?”

“I am already paying off a loan I had taken previously.”

“Ask Bhabi.”

“I will.”

---

“What?” said Bhabi the next day, “more money? You had taken leave three days last month and I didn’t deduct that from your salary taking pity on you. How come you ask me for more money? With the virus spreading and the economy crashing, our finances are tight too. Even then I haven’t stopped paying your salary and I give you one meal every day. More money!!” she said aghast.

With his head hanging low, he went about his work of cleaning her apartment and returned to the Chatterjees who gave him the keys to their other house “the caretaker has gone to his village for a month. So you have to go clean the house once a week.”

He worked late into the evening cleaning the house, every nook and corner of it and while cycling back to the Chatterjees, he met Riyaz on the way.

“Did you settle how much they will pay you for cleaning the house?” Riyaz asked after Raju filled him in.

“No,” he replied innocently.

“Do that you stupid! Ask them for an even thousand if not more.”

---

“No, we won’t pay you anything extra for that. You’re already paying off a loan. Consider this as repayment of that loan.” Mr Chatterjee replied.

“Please, sir. I need to buy medicines for my mother and pay the rent and the electricity bill. Even the ceiling has a crack.”

“Raju, you know the situation now. Payment is less everywhere with the economy steadily spiralling downwards. We can’t pay you more till you have repaid the loan. Our finances are tight too. You understand, don’t you?”

“Definitely sir, I know you would help me if it was possible for you.”

“Of course we would. Who gave you the various jobs in this neighbourhood that help you feed your family? Who gave you the money to buy the cycle so that you could avoid public buses during these contagious times?”

“Yes sir, I completely understand. I will manage at home sir. Thank you.”

Along with the economy, Raju’s family peace crashed too. Despite all her efforts, she couldn’t make him see how the Chatterjees and Bhabi were leading him to a slow death. Unable to compromise on his loyalty towards his master, Raju compromised on his and his family’s health and nutrition. While his wife pleaded with him to look for work elsewhere, he couldn’t turn his back on that family.

A month later when Mr Chatterjee came down with fever, Riyaz warned him of the possibility that he had been infected with the virus. Dismissing his warning as always, Raju kept working for them when one by one all five of them got attacked by the dreaded virus.

“We will get tested Raju, but until then please work for us.” Mrs Chatterjee told him.

Obeying her as always, she continued working for them until a few days later their test results came positive and it was time for Raju to stop working for them. Raju’s wife saw this as an opportunity to persuade her husband to look for another job but her dreams were dashed when he arrived home the next evening and declared that he would continue working there.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked shocked at his decision of slow suicide.

“They offered me money if I serve them during these times.”

“It’s not important. Riyaz said he will help you look for other jobs. Please! Don’t jump into the well. Please!!”

“Ten-thousand Rupees.”

“It’s your life. I don’t care how much they are offering, please don’t go.”

“I have no choice. It’s a lot of money.”

“Please! I beg of you.”

No matter what she and Riyaz said, Raju made up his mind and the dire need for money compelled him to be at their beck and call without a worry for his life. In a house where all the members were infected, he cleaned the floors, dusted the furniture, changed the bedsheets, and did everything they asked him to do. Bhabi did not let him enter for fear of getting infected and that just let him remain always at the service of the Chatterjees.

He sent his mother, wife and daughter to live with his sister while Riyaz offered to take in his son. He lived by himself and served the Chatterjees without tire or complaint for ten days straight until he took to bed with chilling fever and a banging headache. Drowning in pain and fatigue the next day, he called his only friend, Riyaz.

Morning, evening and night, Riyaz, Raju’s wife and their elder son, Sonu took turns in looking after him, cooking for him while sleeping and spending time on the porch outside their small hut. One fine night when Raju struggled for air, he gasped and gasped and while Riyaz went frantically in search of oxygen but did not have the money to pay for it, Sonu pleaded with the Chatterjees to lend them money.

“My father is dying sir, please!!” he begged over the phone. Bhabi, angry at Raju for choosing to serve the Chatterjees and leaving her without house help, did not receive the calls.

“We can’t pay more than five thousand right now. The expenses have gone through the roof since we all became Covid positive.”

Devoid of oxygen or any kind of medical care, Raju breathed his last the next afternoon.

A week later, Sonu got dressed early morning much to the surprise of his grief-stricken, widowed mother.

“Where are you going?”

“To work.”

“To the Chatterjees?” she said aghast, traumatized and about to fall unconscious.

“No mother. Riyaz chacha is going to help me get a job where he is working.”

“Oh thank God!”

“Don’t worry. I know better than to step into a house of murderers, mother”, saying so he left as Riyaz came calling for him outside their shabby little hut.

-Reva.

Postcards from Manipal

 

My Daily Dose of Happiness

 

“I hate him!” I announced walking into my room that evening after a day of rigorous lecture and shooting. Studying cinema isn’t particularly easy. I’d like to take a few minutes and divert from my course of narration to point out what the society thinks of students studying Cinema as their major. I was an Economics graduate who decided to detour from Economics and chase my dream of being a filmmaker. People who supported me and were genuinely happy that I was doing something I enjoyed were my parents, a few of my relatives and my closest friends, Som, Ena, Bebo, Noddy, Mona, Anusri, Abheek, Shirsha, Trisha (from Amity) and a few of my professors who had taught me during my graduation days. My Guru, Rajat sir rejoiced my decision and wished me all the good luck in the world. Rajat sir had taught me Economics ever since I was fourteen years old and he was the first one to tell me to leave Economics and pursue a subject that would give me the happiness and satisfaction I deserved.

“You’re made for art. Go spread your wings there.”, he’d always tell me. That is what an ideal teacher sounds like. He is my Guru in the true sense of the word. He motivated me and inspired me and taught me so much more outside the boundaries of reason, logic, and Economics.

Most of my school teachers and the society mocked me behind my back. The general idea goes like this ‘children who can’t do anything else in life, study cinema and media’. What these kinds of people have never realized is that studying cinema is studying every art form and, history, politics, philosophy and psychology in order to understand what Cinema really is.

“Where every art form culminates, Cinema is born.”         

I was well aware of all the mocking and my character analysis going on behind my back, but everything about studying Cinema felt so right that I couldn’t bother about what these pseudo- career counselors had to say about my decision. It wasn’t only a right decision to study Cinema, it was my best decision.

Now back to the narration, Shirin looked on surprised at my rather filmy entry. She was cozily cuddled up in her blanket reading something. She kept looking at me not knowing how to react. I marched in, took off my shoes and sat on my chair angrily, clearly irritated on the unnamed person I’d referred to.

“Don’t look at me that way, I really, really hate him.”, I repeated.

“I hate him too.” She said.

“You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“I hate anyone my roomie hates. I think I can take a guess on whom you’re talking about here.”

“You do?”

“Your annoying and evil classmate, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s him.” I sighed, “he’s so irritating! He has to stop me every time I ask some question to the teacher or give my view on anything, he has to oppose me on everything I say and insult me if I brush off his remarks. I mean, what does he think of himself? He knows everything? Can’t I have an individual opinion? Bloody hell that piece of shit!”

“Uh! He’s increasing his tantrums day by day!” Shirin remarked looking equally pissed off at my tormentor. It had been sometime into starting college in Manipal and Shirin and I had become great friends in less than a month.

“He is getting on my nerves. Not only mine, I’m pretty sure, he’s getting on Binayak sir’s nerves as well. Binayak sir looked really cross during the lecture today.”

“Obviously! I’m not even dealing with him and I’m already irritated.”

The hate-conversation about my tormentor went on for a while longer and Shirin repeated how much she hated him and never wanted to see his face. I was starting to feel better and freshened up and made myself some warm milk and sat at my desk staring at the wall, thinking about Binayak sir’s lecture and the assignment he had given.

I had cleaned my room shortly after that fateful afternoon walk to MIC and I had made posters for my wall, decorated it with fairy lights and small hand-painted pictures and organized my desk. It  held all my essentials like my craft supplies, table lamp, books, laptop, water bottles, the memory books that Som, Noddy and Mona had given me and the most beautiful pen-stands. One had a picture of my sister, my mother, and myself, and the other was a gift from Mona on my twenty-first birthday. Mona and I were happily smiling at the camera. I wasn’t homesick anymore, but you always miss your family and the old friends you leave behind. I went through the memory books and looked at those pen-stands and missed my friends back home a lot. Every once in a while I’d look at the pen-stand and wonder how different Manipal would be if Mona, Som and Noddy had come with me.

It was almost eight that night when I was going through some notes and my phone rang, it was my tormentor. I stared at it, angry, irritated, frightened, all at once. I didn’t receive hoping he wouldn’t call a second time. He did. I kept avoiding. I knew too well why he was calling. He had never spoken in a civil tone with me over phone or in person ever since we’d begun our post-graduation in MIC. I didn’t trust him, I didn’t like him and I feared him. I was scared of hearing what he had to say, I was scared of being at the receiving end next day in college for not receiving his calls. Shirin had gone to her friend’s room and I sat there starting to curse my decisions again.

“Come for dinner Little Penguin!” I heard Sakshi’s voice. They all called me Little Penguin because apparently, I behaved like one.  

“What?”

“Dinner, lady, come for dinner.” She said standing at my door.

“Nah! You guys go ahead, I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t care for your mood. You come.” She marched in and pulled me out of the chair. I went with her obediently. All of us were extremely obedient kids of our Sakshi Amma. We listened to whatever she said and never said ‘no’ twice. If Sakshi tells you to do it, you do it. And I’ll admit, she made life a lot easier with her strictness. All of us would’ve taken ill every second day had it not been for Sakshi and her constant scolding so that we eat properly and eat healthy. She took me by the hand and walked me to the dining hall as if I was her little baby who’d run away the moment she left my hand. I took more than one serving of the curries as per her instructions and sat down to eat. Ramya and Ramitha were already there and I can vaguely remember one of them getting one of Sakshi’s famous scoldings for taking less food. She obeyed Sakshi and took a second serving immediately.

“What is the name of the new girl again?” Ramitha asked.

“I don’t remember.” Sakshi said, thinking hard, “do you remember, Ramya?”

“No…”

“There’s a new girl in your class? How nice!” I said. We had only three students in the class and it was no fun. Trisha and I had fun outside the class whenever my tormentor wasn’t around. But with him near us, we just remained on high alert all the time.

“The new girl is so weird, you know.” Ramitha said taking a spoonful of rice.

“Really?”, Ramya was surprisingly surprised at the statement. “She grew a beard?”, she asked in astonishment.

Skashi and I broke into squeals of laughter and Ramitha hurriedly noted it down. It was almost as if Ramya’s duty to mishear something and Ramitha sincerely noted it down. It has become quite a list by now and everytime we remember one of Ramya’s version of any statement by any of us, we laugh the same. Ramya was the funniest and the most amusing among us. She was effortlessly funny and so sweet!

We laughed a lot that night at dinner. Ramitha read out the list and there were certain gems like ‘something amaze’ became ‘Agumbe’ (the name of a hill on the Western Ghats) and ‘cute meme’ became ‘puke cream’. After dinner we huddled in Ramya’s room and as the night rolled by, I forgot that I was scared of someone who was staying in the same campus and was going to the same class. Their voices and laughter filled the air in that room, and I became engrossed in all the positivity they spread, to worry about anything else. Every night when we met for dinner and talked about the day, laughed together and cracked jokes, I forgot all the worries in the world. I still remember those wonderful nights I had spent with them. The after-dinner conversations with them was my daily dose of happiness!

-Reva.

 

Postcards From Manipal

 

Finding a Family Away from Home

It was the month of June that year when I was preparing day in and day out to crack the entrance of a good film school in India. I was desperate to leave home and stay elsewhere in the country, live life like an adult. Manipal called me that month for a personal interview and I remember the joy in my parents’ eyes that I was getting one step closer to my dream of studying Cinema.  That month I saw Manipal for the first time in my life and I remember falling in love with every bit of that tiny town in Udupi district. Situated on the Western Ghats, in the lap of the hills, surrounded by numerous small, pretty beaches it is the most beautiful picturesque university town.

We stayed there for three days, walking around the beautiful town, giving my interview and seeing the university main building. My college was Manipal Institute of Communication (MIC) under MAHE (Manipal Academy of Higher Education). MIC is inside a narrow lane towards the left from Tiger Circle if you stand facing the town of Udupi. Few steps after crossing the famous eatery called Egg Factory, there stands the quaint little campus of my beloved MIC. Cottage type classrooms, a rustic canteen, trees around the campus and bikes and cycles parked near the gate, MIC felt like it was straight out of a novel. When I saw MIC for the first time that June, I travelled back to my childhood days when I’d sit through the science lectures in school and dream about going to college in the hills with small cottages and narrow lanes and trees full of colourful flowers. Manipal was everything I had always dreamt of but never thought that any place could be as dreamy.

After my interview I went to Coorg, then to Mysore and then back to my hometown, Kolkata. By then MAHE had selected me as one of the candidates for MA Film Art and Filmmaking. My dream was coming true. I would be studying Cinema in the most dreamy town I had seen all my life. There was less than a month left to shift to Manipal and my parents and I started making arrangements. My friends bid me farewell, gave me Memory Books and Mona cried too. I was so happy and excited that I didn’t realize the gravity of the situation. I boarded the train on 12^th July to Bangalore. Manipal is in Karnataka which is in South India. I’ve stayed in North-east India all my life, specifically in Kolkata. It took two flights and a cab to reach Manipal, quite a long journey, which I thoroughly enjoyed. We skipped taking a flight because we had a lot of luggage and the train ride was long, almost two days, but I loved it. We travel so less by trains nowadays in the quest of reaching places sooner that trains are a luxury for most of us.

I reached Manipal for the second time on 14^th July ready to settle into the town. I was going with a friend from my previous college so I knew I wouldn’t be all alone in a new place. I was extremely happy and couldn’t wait to start studying Cinema. My hostel campus was just as beautiful and filled with greenery and flowers of many kinds. After the orientation we had our first lecture with Binayak Sir. He was a young Bengali professor who’d teach us screenplay writing and he was a native of my city, Kolkata. He was very easy going and we had a great first day with him. It was a small classroom of three with another girl called Trisha apart from my friend and I. After his lecture, I went to my hostel to set the room. My roommate was Shirin Gupta, a first year UG student at MIC. Her parents were already there setting her part of the room. They were Bengalis staying in Gujarat.

I spoke to Shirin’s parents for some time and they seemed like good people. They had a rather young son who was around nine years old that time. They called him Omi. I was very excited to meet my roommate and after mama helped me unpack all my stuff, I decided to spend the night in the hostel instead of with my parents in the hotel. They were going to stay for a week to see if I’d need anything else in the hostel and they could buy it for me while I attended lectures. Manipal is a funny place. Sunny this minute, pouring down the next minute. Everyone in Manipal carries huge umbrellas and mama and papa had bought me two such umbrellas, one as a back-up in case the other one broke. Apart from the university and the moody rains, strong winds breaking the umbrellas and umbrellas getting stolen were the other prominent affairs that the students there coexisted with.

The first night in the hostel was nice. I lay down on my bed comfortably. Shirin had come back from college and she seemed to be a little scared of me given I was four years her senior. I tried my best to be friendly with her but she wasn’t convinced.

“I thought you were an extremely strict woman and would scold me for everything.” She confessed to me later when we had become good friends.

She left the room and crashed in at her friend’s room downstairs somewhere. I was a shy person, perhaps I’m still somewhat shy, but the Reva back then was a different person. The Reva writing this today is much stronger, more confident and has grown up like three or four years in the span of some ten months. Shirin returned later that night after dinner and we talked for sometime before sleeping. Next morning we got ready to go to college together and it was nice, a different experience. I didn’t feel the homesickness kick in and went to college happily. I knew I had an old friend with me and old friends help make life a little easier.

Classes and life was going well until the next night when my friend, who stayed in Block 19, if I can remember correctly, called me out for dinner as he was feeling lonely. It was nine by then, pretty late for a small town like Manipal, but I immediately grabbed my shrug and wallet and left. He called me to the food court near his hostel. I didn’t know the way, nevertheless, I figured it out by asking the random people on the road. We had a nice dinner and it was dark, lonely and almost ten when we finished and he deserted me lying that he’d have to get back to the hostel although the perm time for us seniors was eleven. That night gave me a scare. Although in the hostel campus, the roads were lonely and I hung on to dear life while walking back. That was the night I knew I had lost a friend… a friend who was never a friend to begin with. Friends don’t leave you alone. They guide you home.

From the next day I started staying with my parents in the hotel. I wanted to be around them as much as I could before they left for Kolkata. Mama convinced me to move back in to my hostel and make other friends but I couldn’t. I tried hard but no self motivation worked. The last night with my parents still gives me the shivers when I think back. I was not only sad about losing a friend but I was scared of him. He had suddenly turned his back on me. One evening my father and I were walking down to our hotel when suddenly he fell down and it was the highway. Cars were rushing past us and an unknown fear of loss gripped me as I struggled to get him up. When I told my friend this incident, he didn’t care. He started misbehaving with me and fighting with me over nothing.

Binayak sir had a word with my parents and I remember breaking down in his office. He assured me that he’d look after me like an older brother but nothing could get me to stop crying. My parents left after ten days and I returned back to an empty hostel room. Shirin was very helpful whenever I felt too overwhelmed but she needed a little more time to come around. Now I was not only a senior, but a senior who had no grip over herself.

Probably the worst phase of my life were those initial days after my parents left me there. I cursed Manipal and hated her with all the strength I had. I cried all day long till I video called my parents and seeing them home, I cried some more. My laundry piled up, coursework piled up, study table and cupboard was a big mess and so was I. I ate almost nothing, walked to college like a zombie and came back to hostel only to breakdown. Arya, my senior from my previous college suggested that I see a psychologist because clearly, I was giving into depression and it wouldn’t help me. I felt too tired to walk all the way to KMC (Kasturba Medical College). I texted my friends back in Kolkata and kept on crying about how much I missed them and how lonely I had become. My brother called me and I told him the same after I finished crying over the phone. I just cried every minute of the time I was awake. This continued till I met an amazing woman one afternoon called Sakshi.

She stayed in the room next to me and was studying MA in Mass Communication from MIC. She was a beautiful, strong woman from Ludhiana, Punjab. I still remember that first ‘Hello’ she told me. There was something in her voice which was so welcoming and endearing!

“Are you okay?”, she asked. I came across very clearly as someone going through their personal worst. Sakshi has an eagle’s eye. She understands people better than most others.

“I don’t know. I don’t like it here. It’s so lonely.” I said almost in tears.

“Aww, don’t worry. Come with me, I’ll introduce you to my friends. You’re from MIC, right?”

“Yes, MAFA.”

“Wow! Come, I have friends who love cinema as much as you.”

“Really?” I said locking my room to walk back to college.

We walked downstairs together and she introduced me to Ramya, who’d later become my personal Clown, and Ramitha, who’d go on to become my cinematographer and go-to person for all cinematic questions, and Varsha, who became like a sister.

All of us walked back to college and Ramya and Ramitha couldn’t stop asking me questions about my course. That was the first day in Manipal when I smiled while walking to MIC after my parents had left. My zombie like walk picked up momentum and I didn’t feel like crying. We laughed and walked, talking about cinema and upon reaching college, decided to meet near the gate in the evening after our lectures.

“I’ll introduce you to Shraddha, Arushi and Shrishti, some more of our friends. You won’t be alone anymore.”, Sakshi told me.

That fine afternoon when it had stopped raining for about an hour and Sakshi asked me to tag along with her and her friends was one of the most memorable moments of my life. That walk marked the beginning of my most treasured experience in these twenty-three years, it gave me friends I had never thought I’d find in a place so far away from home, it gave a family when I desperately needed one, it restored my love for Manipal!

Reva.