In
those days, If I remember correctly, Lily-bai’s house got the first telephone connection
among the neighbors. Markam, Lily-bai’s husband, had come down from Middle-East
and had decided not to return. Instead he opened a small grocery shop in the
market. The phone and the TV came along with him in the last trip. For years,
theirs was the only house that had a telephone or a color TV. For important events——usually
cricket matches——the TV would be staged outside in the veranda on a high table and,
a sizable crowd would gather. On weekends, Sunday evenings precisely, after the
daily chores, neighbors would gather for the weekly cinema. In those days,
before the cable TV, Doordarshan would telecast a single movie in a week.
The
telephone served a different purpose though. It became a communication channel
to the outside world. Prior to it, the neighborhood was isolated. The phone
would ring unexpectedly, sometimes in the wee hours; someone would request to
deliver an urgent message, to one of the neighboring houses. On such times, Lily-bai
was seen rushing out for the errand. Many of the random calls were for Neelu——her
husband had to leave for Middle East shortly
after the wedding. Though, Lily-bai disapproved these hour long romantic calls,
in her heart of hearts, she liked being the messenger for the lovers. Thus, she
had become an important person, who, prior to the phone, was hardly known in
the neighborhood.
When
strangers called Markam, for some work related to the shop or about the
upcoming Panchayat-election, she would answer the call in a telephone operator
tone. “May I put you on hold for a moment, if that’s not much of an
inconvenience for you?” she would say. She had learned that line from TV, which
she used generously with the strangers.
Over
the period the calls have reduced. The mobile phones have flooded the market
and now, even our milk-man has one.
Lily-bai
has fond memories of the past; even now, occasionally when a stranger calls she
was heard making polite requests to the callers: “May I put you on hold for a
moment, if that’s not much of an inconvenience for you?”
///////////////////////////
“Mom?”
“Where
are you?” asked Lily-bai.
“No
dinner tonight. I have a party-”
“You
had a party yesterday.”
“Yes.
Today is a new day.” Said her son, Sunil.
“Listen…”
“You
said, If I get good scores-”
“Don’t
ride the bike in the night; take an auto-”
A
young woman’s giggles were heard from the other side.
“Who’s
that?”
“Mom…I
can’t hear you. Will call you back,” The line got disconnected.
“He’s
going out of control,” she told Markam. Who’s going out of control? Markam
wondered. But he soon concluded, the only person in the house, who could go out
of control——other than Markam himself——would be his son. Markam had just
reached home after a long day at the shop.
“This
is his final year,” said Markam.
“When
did you get your first bike?”
“What?”
Over the years, Markam had got used to wife’s out-of-context questions; still,
she managed to surprise him occasionally.
“At
what age you got your first bike?”
“I
never had a bike. You know Father-”
“How
many girl-friends you had, before you married me?”
“What’s
this?”
“Just
answer.”
“None.
Father showed your picture and commanded to marry-”
“How
come your son doesn’t have a single quality from you? Sometimes I wonder if you
are the real father.”
“You
tell me!” said he, anxiously.
Evening,
the couple had a quiet dinner, in the absence of their son. “I will miss him if
he gets a job in a distant place,” said Lily-bai.
“We
might have to send him to Bombay
The
thought of her son going away made her sullen.
“We
should have gone for a second child…” she said.
“We
can try now.”
That
broke the pensive mood. She got up from the chair, started collecting the
dishes; “One of these days, Look yourself in the mirror,” she giggled.
“Do
you think I should call him?” she asked her husband, while making the bed.
“Don’t
bother him.”
“It’s
late.”
“He’ll
be fine. He’s the key.”
Late
evening she locked the doors but, let the outside light on. In the amber light,
she noticed that the helmet was on the bench, where it was left last evening. She
couldn’t sleep. Many a times, she had waited for Sunil on the couch. In those
long waits, she had regretted not having more children. The decision to settle
for a single child was made long back, when financial conditions were dire. In
the early days of marriage, for Markam, it would have been difficult to manage
a large family. Things improved only after he went to Gulf. The thoughts
trailed off, when she heard the bike outside. After a sigh, she got up from the
couch, and before her son could quietly open the door, she opened it for him.
“I
know it is late-” he mumbled.
“Wear
it,” she thrust the helmet in his hands. She went to sleep, without waiting for
an answer.
///////////////////////////
The
next morning, Lily-bai met the traffic police at the market junction.
“What’s
the fine for not wearing the helmet?”
“Why
do you want to know?”
She
was expecting such a reply. She flourished a 100 Rs note. The policeman quickly
pocketed it. “200 Rs with receipt; 50 without receipt,” He said.
“I
know a college student who goes by this road everyday.”
Then
she placed another hundred in his hands.
“What’s
this?”
“For
tea and snacks.”
“What
for?”
“Make
the fine a thousand.” She gave the details of the motorcycle and the rider.
“I
know him; he’s a regular,” said the police. “Why so keen on this boy?”
“He’s
my son,” she said.
At
the dinner they spoke this and that. Lily-bai compared the father and son.
Father’s hairline was fast receding, whereas the son could have started plaits
anytime. The various colorful bands, on the left hand, suggested alliance to
different causes, which Lily-bai didn’t know or didn’t care.
“Things
are getting expensive,” Markam said. He was referring to the retailers of his
shop.
“Even
fines! Do you know the fine for not wearing a helmet?” Sunil asked.
“No?”
“One
grand.”
“What?”
“Thousand
rupees.”
“Did
the police stop you?” asked Lily-bai.
“No!”
Markam
sensed fowl business in the air; but chose to ignore it.
///////////////////////////
A
few days later, while they were watching TV after the dinner, telephone rang. Lily-bai
signaled Markam to reduce the TV volume.
“Mark
Rodriguez?”
It
was a stranger’s voice. Lily-bai remembered the old days; a mischievous smile
came on her face.
“May
I put you on hold for a moment, if that’s not much of an inconvenience for you?”
From the couch, Markam shook his head, disapprovingly.
“Wait
a moment…please…are you an acquaintance?”
“You
can say that,” she said coyly.
“I
have a message. May be you are the right person to inform the parents. I can’t
do that…” The voice sounded hesitant. “There’s been an accident. They took Sunil
to the emergency. But he died on the way-”
“…”
“Wait…hm…don’t…don’t
tell them the boy died right away. Tell them he is serious and, eventually they
will be ready for the sad news-”
At
first, she thought someone was pulling a prank on her——like the way she was
doing. Most of what she heard didn’t make any sense. Her hands started trembling.
The eyes blurred. She had to sit in the chair before continuing. “Say that
again please…” she said.
///////////////////////////
Around
that time, they received the most number of calls——none were answered by Lily-bai.
Markam answered all of them, patiently. He explained again and again, whatever
minimum information he knew about the accident, to the many callers——most of whom
were unknown to him. The callers were sympathetic, polite, and eager to jump for
any help——deep in their hearts though, they let a sigh of relief, for such an
incident had not happened to them. When the calls became unbearable, Markam put
the receiver off the cradle.
Lily-bai,
after receiving the news first hand, developed a fear for the phone. Later
days, whenever it rang, a cold shiver would run through her spine. She didn’t
touch the phone again.
Many
rumors started after the funeral. The victim was eloping with stolen cash. An ex-friend
had seen the departed using drugs, a few days ago. The rumors were wild,
colorful, attention-grabbing, and untrue.
Markam’s
neighbor and friend, Sastri, never called. He didn’t ask any questions. When needed
he was available. At the mortuary, Sastri had suggested his friend to wait
outside, and alone finished all the formalities. Sastri’s wife cooked food for
both the families. Sastri would place the food on the kitchen counter and
quietly make an exit.
“You
don’t have to do this,” one time Markam told him. But the suggestion was
ignored; the food kept coming. Often, the friends sat on the park bench, not
talking for long. “He was wearing the helmet and he was not drunk,” said Sastri
one day. Markam looked at his friend.
“I
thought, you would want to know,” said Sastri.
Lily-bai
didn’t sleep for 5 days in a row. The phone was off the cradle. On the 6th
day, when she didn’t show any signs of sleep, she was taken to the hospital for
sedation.
Markam
cut down his outings and, confined himself to the house. The shop was leased
temporarily.
///////////////////////////
Days
dragged. One day, when she opened the door, on hearing the bell, a stranger was
found.
“This
is not the right time.” She slammed the door.
Later
when she came out for some chores in the garden, she found the stranger sitting
on the outside bench. On seeing her, he stood up, “I need only 30 minutes from
you,” he said.
She
looked at the tall lean man; he didn’t have the false enthusiasm of a salesman.
His eyes were sunk in the sockets, glow less.
“You
have waited 2 hours for a 30 minute talk.”
“It
is important for me,” the man said.
She
pulled a chair. The man sat on the bench.
“Do
you know an organization called MADD? M-A-D-D.”
“No.”
She said.
“In
1980, Candice Lightner’s 13 year old daughter was killed by a drunk driver, in California
“The
road accidents here are alarming. No where else we have such high numbers. My daughter
was waiting for the bus when a truck hit her. She was not even near to the
road.
“If
we don’t respond now, some more lives will be lost. I don’t have a plan. But if
we come together and talk about it something might come up. Some people have already
showed interest.”
Lily-bai
didn’t interrupt him; she eventually said: “My son won’t come back.”
“True.
But you can save someone else’s son. You can save a family from ruins,” said
the stranger. “Take a day to think about this. I will call you at ten in the morning.”
He
gave her a few leaflets and his card, before leaving.
///////////////////////////
She
got up early, and finished the chores. Though, there was no rush these days——No
one waiting for the breakfast or the lunch-box. These things no more mattered. The
funds, reserved for education, were liquidated for the day-to-day expenses. She
had donated all her son’s clothes. His pictures were locked in a safe in the
attic. However, she could not erase the memories, collected over the years, to
cherish in the rainy days.
She
cleaned last night’s dishes; mopped the floor. At ten, the phone rang, as
promised. Her body shivered. Palms started sweating. One time, she had run to
take the calls.
She
ignored the ring. Are there people like me in the outside world? she wondered;
people who quietly suffer injustice and become martyrs, eventually. These
thoughts disturbed her. Why no one has come forward so far?
She
was never a front runner; she had never started a conversation with a stranger——never
addressed a crowd. All those things were left for Markam.
What
is at stake? She asked herself and realized at once, she had nothing to lose,
now that she had lost everything. In that moment things became clear to her. The
phone was still ringing. She picked the phone.
“Hello,”
she said.
///////////////////////////
Note: If you liked this short story, you might like my other short stories as well. Click here for more.
The story was first published on www.daijiworld.com
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