I listened. And the more I did, fear crept up. Fear isn't good, it shouldn't be shown. It cripples, crumbles and crushes you. I chanted this as a mantra since childhood, still it never worked. I feared love, I feared relationships, I feared family, I feared giving, I feared letting go. Did I fear myself? I wasn't sure. Or might be I was. I feared accepting, seeing the truth.

He called. Again today. I didn't receive till the third time. Mamoni observed, in her usual way--just a glance from atop her spectacles or the newspaper she always read; a camouflage.

"Who is it?" she asked.

I didn't reply. Not everything has a reply, not everything needs a reply, not every time one ought to reply even if the need be. She should have understood by now. Her intrusiveness was that single cobweb hanging from the corner. No matter how many times you vacuum, it just refuses to go.

Thoughts came and went, forced to exit. I returned from the market, soaking wet. The streets were a death trap, potholes in the size of craters. Mud spotted my kameez- patches of brown, same with the salwar. They would require a double wash; the stubborn stain of filth and diesel refused to go otherwise. This city marvelled in contradictions, the highs and lows too evident to ignore. I called it the practicality of living-the Billboard Kolkata and the real Kolkata. Here, gullys wed sounds: bicycle wheels to chattering. Cabs and autos whooshed by-palaces on wheels; the bastards behaved as if these roads were family assets! A kick to the balls would bring some sense. And curse me, even the Lord failed to understand why I forgot an umbrella.

"How many times have I repeated, rest these chores to Kamala. This is what happens when you do too much at once. Leaving without switching the stove off and then this runny concoction in the name of tea?" Mamoni curled her nose. "There's not even sugar! Where's your mind these days?"

If only I knew.

The day lingered. Putting four eggs on the boil, I diced two onions. Chillies crushed, ginger grinded, garlic minced. Siddhartha preferred heat in curries. "Make it spicy", he said the last time. I kneaded the dough, covered it with a muslin cloth. Lachcha parathas were always his first choice in flat breads. "Sreya, one more, please." He often requested.

Please—a single word, evokes multiple emotions, a passive show of gentleness. How much much I prayed his please's meant something! Alas! They never did.

Or, I might be wrong.

"Everyone's blind to their own faults", Baba said. His partiality to owning one's mistakes confirmed the truth. Men often excuse their faults, my husband wasn't an exception. As women, we just need to see through the layers. That's all.

Spatulas clanged, hands moved; distraction worked wonders, a brilliant ploy to slave the mind. Time ticked, hours rushed. I prayed things to roll smoothly. And it did, until Mamoni opened the pan and shouted. "You cooked eggs! Today's Tuesday!" 

Bloody heavens!

My eyes closed, a sigh escaped. Too much happened in too little time. Buckle up, Sreya. Not a second to idle.

                                   ------

"You must be joking! How can I arrange twenty thousand?"

"Sweet sister, I told you before too. Seems like it didn't enter your dead ears."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you ruining my life? You are up to no good yet refuse to let me be. Just why?"

"Tsk, tsk sister. You're wrong here. Do you think I don't know what your plan is? Do you think I believe what you want the world to believe? Why you're staying with the perpetual pussy eater, Sreya?

"Mind your langua-"

"And you mind your act. Be smart, be the bitch you're. Twenty within the next week. Or-"

"Wait! I need a favour."

"What?"

"Balbir Kaur. Family lawyer. Around 60. 15/1A Dhakuria Station Road, Kolkata-31, that's the previous address. Don't screw this-"

"I'm in Burdwan, constantly working, so.."

"Shut the fuck up! To hell with your Burdwan! I know you're in Kolkata. You have been staying here the past twenty five days."

"Fine, fine. Information will be sent soon. I'm your loyal servant if you keep satisfying me."

"Balbir Kaur, remember the name. I'm sending you a photo. Every detail I want. Else..you know what I'm capable of."

"Bitch."

"Fucking moron. Don't you dare call me before Saturday."

                                   -------

Shhhhhhhhhhh!

My senses flared to awareness as a burnt smell of roasted potatoes filled the air. The cooker resigned giving one last whistle. Seconds later hasty footsteps thumped into the kitchen. "There's this sm-" Mamoni's brows furrowed with disgust. "Oh, God! These are completely charred! You're awfully disoriented. What's the reason?"

"I'm fine..j-just the potatoes."

"No. It's about Babin, right? You know what Sreya, silence is good but, not always. I have been meaning to talk for quite some time. There was no scope-"

"Or you simply didn't want to. Happens, I understand." I cut her off.

She threw a look—an arrow of caution. "Sit", she pointed to the empty space on the sofa. I obliged.

"What you chanced upon that day—"

"I didn't chance upon, Mamoni. It occurred on broad daylight, in front of all!"

"And this wasn't the first time. Ba-Babin has...a trauma." She stopped, took a laboured breath.

Her hesitation to divulge further details piqued my anticipation. I closed the distance and squeezed her hand. "I'm listening." I said.

"We keep it a secret. I demand you do the same." She insinuated each word. "I'm grateful for what you did but, tread lightly. This is sensitive. I'm a private woman and I protect and respect confidentiality. Mister Kaur, the person who called..he's an acquaintance, a past one-"

"I deduced the sam—"

"I expected no less. But, past is to be buried and you're not to probe deep. Am I clear?"

Is it just Balbir Kaur she's running away from? Or..

"Hmm. You've my word." I said. She nodded in affirmation.

"Your father-in-law was a hardcore addict. He-he was murdered."
That's a revelation. Siddhartha never mentioned him ever being an addict!

"An affable gentleman who fell into adverse circumstances." Mr Chatterjee's words reverberated. I dared guess what those were. If anything, Mamoni's version could lack credibility. This woman possessed questionable integrity.

"Was-was Baba always? I mean..an addict?"

"Yes. There's a family history. Mr Kaur and Sudhir were childhood friends. Babin loved his father, Sudhir was a gentle soul except the demon that possessed him. Our family broke. My husband trusted Kaur with our properties, there were serious litigations. But, he was a fraud. Babin had issues which later led to trauma, the drunken feats were too much for his young impressionable mind. With each passing year, the chaos increased until one day he claimed he saw-"

"What?"

"I'll elaborate later. This matter should be of no concern, to you at least."

Mamoni trudged towards the window. Often her eyes glimmered—an odd mix of frailty and firmness. This woman lived a peculiar life, as if it wasn't even hers.

But, why?

"What I mean is..do not nag Babin, ever. All these years I had the situation under control. Mr Kaur left Kolkata or maybe the country too, we didn't know until the call that day."

"Still it doesn't clear why his name triggered Siddhartha like that? I'm sorry but I need to know. He's my husband!"

"Listen, girl, I appreciate your concern but don't you think it's too early for you to interfere? I know my son well. Don't discuss these with him, or ask. That's it."

I sat silent. Listening, observing--each gesture, every facial line, each drop and rise in her voice, the way her fingers clasped tight when she blatantly lied. The anger sipped into my stomach, squeezing and clenching until it snowballed into an uncontrollable rage. Her world and mine differed. A lot. We conflicted on interests, clashed against perspectives but, amidst this all there remained a connection—we both had something to protect. The million dollar question—WHAT?

A woman who doesn't bat an eyelid even while framing her son is one dangerous wench. And that was someone who I needed to look out for. Supriya Basu could churn whatever trash she wished, what she failed to notice—the bits had started falling into place and the only thing the puzzle missed were a few missing links.

You've merely seen the eggs, mother-in-law, but not the bird. Sreya will go to the bottom of this.

                         
                             **********

I stood, lost in the immensity of the night. Night was mine, the time when I went nude- to perform-duties, which fulfilled desires; our post-midnight rendezvous. What started as a chore bloomed into pleasure. Sometimes, he appeared-in my wet dreams, not those girly, pinkish romantic ones I had in my childhood. Here he was raw and brutal-pushing, biting that left me screaming. I fantasized about his hands on mine. Permitting Siddhartha worked as a diversion, later he grew in on me. When I was ten, a dog slept in our front yard, every day. Kalu had a blackish-brown complexion and a deformed leg. He was ugly, one of the worst examples of an Indian pariah. But, he licked, loitered and sniffed. Wanted pats and hugs. I fed him day and night: rice, curry, boiled potatoes, biscuits and even sweets-a vegetarian dog. Well, when you're hungry you hardly discriminate. Kalu died, Bholu came. Then Bholu became mad and went away, her children were killed. I never cried, one always replaces the other-law of nature. Siddhartha reminded me of kalu. Bholu never left much of an impression to begin with.

Darkness, unlike sunlight, doesn't hit you in the face. It's subtle but all-encompassing, kind of sucks you in a vacuum. It has a vibrancy of its own-its abstract, elusive. I gazed, at the stars, at the pond-the water devoid of ripples, the air thick with enigma, me and my mind, alone and in the company of each other. The mosquitoes buzzed and dogs howled, it broke the monotony-the monotony of a resting city squinting its eyes, trying forcefully to induce slumber, snoring away all the murkiness and gloom. The night is the time when the worst and the gross is lulled to life; I thrived in it. No pretense, no remorse, no conscience-pure and unadulterated me.

The wind galloped, whipping the trees and slicing through the leaves. A branch broke and a nest shattered. I gasped in despair. Young lives destroyed, just like mine-a rotten childhood; mashed, quashed and beaten to a pulp, forever trying to live up to expectations. An overbearing father, an asshole brother-masculinity at its worst. Ma differed, she lived for me. I loved and longed for her. A scared five year old would squeeze into her bosom, sniffling and questioning-her existence, my existence.

"Why doesn't Baba let you sing?" I would ask.

She would maintain silence. What else could she do? She had learnt to lose her voice, it's astonishing how much practice can achieve.

"Why, Ma?" I nagged.

"Sometimes you need to do certain things for the greater good." She would smile.

Then, why the tears? Tears of joy? Didn't seem so. "Something fell in my eyes"-she always said.

My innocent self persisted. Badgered her into complying. "Please Ma, just one or two lines. I want to hear you sing. Please, Ma."

Like magic words flew-a beautiful harmony weaving the Sun and Moon together, binding their warmth and tranquillity. Floating on clouds I transitioned to sleep, lost in a blissful abandon of her mellifluous voice. And then reality dawned, the spell was never meant to last. It soon ruptured, hurling us onto the cold floor. In my dazed vision, I saw Baba seethe with rage. He clenched his fists and yelled. "How many times have I told you not to sing? Are you a nautch girl? Whom are you singing for?" My limited vocabulary never sheltered those words but I understood they hurt. Ma wept, pained and died. Each day she died- slowly, silently. She would fall at Baba's feet and cry. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Chhum! Chhum! Chhum!

The sound of ghungroo would waft in the air, bells creating a soulful symphony. Oh! How I wished Ma danced! A delightful sight, dressed in colourful orbs, her feet striking the ground in rhythmic beats. Two pale yellowed pictures-those were all and I realised she performed arts. I often wondered how the adult mind worked, wanted to delve deep into the intricacies. What captured a little girl, why would it fail to captivate an adult? Haven't they got more brain? At least that's what grandma told. Adults lie too, I just didn't know. And then, the sound of heavy foot would thrash the floor-angry, swift strides. Baba would storm into the room and tie the metallic bells forcefully into Ma's ankles. She writhed to be free, pleaded mercy but he would scream. "Now dance and I'll watch. Dance your heart out. Didn't your father raise you be a courtesan?"

Courtesan and nautch girl--two words I grew up hearing. Prostitutes, that's what they were, rather that's what Society labelled them to be. What was a problem with a nautch girl? They were artists. So, is even art tainted? Pleasure was a by-product, they gave and received. Simple profession, simple rules. Prostitutes? Really? These people put men in their damn place. 'Your potency lies in that particular thing. Your whole worth is restricted to that mere organ'- women who show men the true colour of their capability aren't inferior or cheap. They owned their body, weaponized it for a special cause. Cheap was Baba, cheap were those human beings who sullied and degraded them yet indulged. Cheap was other women and girls like me who saw them in a different light yet were reared to act out our partner's wild desires in bed. I wished I could stand up and scream from atop the hills-'yes, my mother is a courtesan. I'm the daughter of a courtesan. And I pride myself in that. Men, you may thrust, hammer, pound, strike, hit, knock, but you're impotent. Nature has crippled you, it didn't bestow that privilege. At the end of the day, you enter a sacred space--a space that buds a life, a space that houses possibility. And you dare slash, tear and rip that apart, riding on your virility. Shame on you!'

I only wished.

Why didn't Baba drink? Why didn't he stumble into our room and sleep with legs half-dangling? He never did those, seriously.

Why? Just why?

At least, that could let me hold on to something, anything that promised peace, all I coveted was a single reason. One bloody reason! But, he bulldozed his masculinity into our lives, stepped on it, murdering emotions and wishes, fed on our thoughts, and all, all he did in full awareness. He never hurt, never raised a finger, yet Ma cut and bled. The wounds she carried were the manifestations of her hidden wrath, the one she blanketed under a smile-the smile that satisfied and fed Baba's preferences, aspirations. Well-being or greater good they say, what a marvellous camouflage!

I wished Siddhartha was addicted beyond cure, I prayed he never showed all those subtle gestures of love, care. Knowing he never bothered could alleviate the ache, the torment when my heart scorched and grilled. When he wasted in the company of other women or urged me to pretzel my body into thousand awkward postures, just like the way those girls behind the screens did, I burnt and smouldered.

So, I found a saviour--anger. My anger blossomed like a flower. It budded from deep red to light pink. As the petals flapped their wings, it took shape, found a form. A frightened girl started taking charge, as she should. Women are good actors. I observed, learned and sharpened that attribute. Saying things out loud when you should, is a mark of obstinance, independence; women ought to walk with a crutch, this world favours the fragility of the fairer sex. I was dusky, never fit in. I taught myself to give a dam about fitting in. I pretended to fit in but deep down I knew I never would. I fabricated defenselessness, got used to playing with the emotional, societal and sexual needs; it helped in more ways than one. With time, it contained and compartmentalised my indignation to a disturbing degree-a balloon ready to be inflated. As years passed I transformed into a smiling devil, learning to place my cards at the right places; my friends often called me 'The Vixen'.

Manipulation isn't a disease, rather a way of life. Conviction of denial and integrity of pretence gives a sick satisfaction. Boundaries and limits are just for the retards.

                            *********

We were inside The Orient. I sipped on orange juice, Siddhartha indulged in wine. Varun's engagement party saw a horde of guests, it reminded me of 31st March--the day it all started.

Glasswares clinked and heels clicked, cameras flashed, people laughed and posed for selfies. Siddhartha ushered me into the platform, hands at the small of my back. "Sreya, my wife", he introduced with a grin. Our palms touched, warmth radiated, my fingers coiled around his, we held hands. "You look lovely", he whispered. I smiled, even blushed. Sometimes, I did blush, like an infatuated school girl. I understood why. In my sole endeavour to propel, I often missed out on the intricacies-the trivialities that created memories--sweet memories—to nurture, to share.

Today Siddhartha had scouted a saree for me. "Let me choose. Hmm, how about this?" He picked a lovely silk from a sea of reds, oranges and blues. The colour was my favourite, I never agreed but he understood. "Burgundy enhances your complexion", he had said. I guessed these were the memories girls talk about and romanticise. I hoped they were worth it.

The hall buzzed, love floated in the air, people jostled. From childhood, I never had a good equation with crowded places. I respected my space, expected the same; none bothered, though. We are always busy, occupied in our little worlds. I slipped out when Sidhartha wasn't looking. This side of the hotel was a perfect array of homey hues, the open space invited the lungs to expand and absorb the floral aromas. It housed safety. I took another sip, the cool drink quenched my thirst, calmed and soothed my anxious nerves.

My platforms clashed against the polished floor. Tak! Tak! Tak! In an empty hallway, the sound resonated.

The walls displayed murals--fibreglass--three horses galloping away, their flared manes indistinct against a cloud of dirt. A particular painting caught my attention. A woman laid on a bed--plush but barren, semi-naked with a satin sheet thrown on her lower limbs. Her legs leaned against the wall, hands placed over the head. The artist took extra care to portray the facial lines—they reeked of arousal. I traced my fingers along the painting—rough, grainy. Each contortion on her body was a work of fine artistry. The way her feet rubbed at the ankles, the way her open hands were ready to surrender to a wild embrace..

She was a woman in love! But, with whom?

There was a single man in the painting. The wall hung a photo of the couple--a gigantic one, the day they wed; he in a black suit with a red pocket square and she in a heavenly white gown with angelic feathers. They resembled wings--wings of dreams, hope. Yet, he wasn't the one she reminisced about. One leg of hers rested against the photo. She was too drowned in pleasure to notice. Her husband wasn't who she wanted. It was someone else! I searched for the name, Passion was written in cursive. I nodded. No, it didn't work. For me, it manifested only one feeling-Longing.

Footsteps entered the hallway, confident thumps dismantled the quietude. I attempted to leave.

"Planning to go already?"

A jolt of electricity..a gasp..utter disbelief and then complete silence.

I turned and froze. For a second the lights dimmed and darkness descended. Still, I could see and it wasn't an apparition. The person standing in front was real-blood and flesh! The same visage, the grin, that dimple at the chin, even the same voice!

The past I chose to forget, the past I buried under the grave breathed on my face. Like those creeping shadows from my worst nightmare, it crawled out of hiding and looked at me-deep, penetrating. The eyes twinkled, there was a certain glimmer—not joy or happiness but destruction. Yes, destruction.

"Ar-are you?" I could only stammer.

"Yes, the very same." It replied.