Of Mother Among Other Things II

I
It was 4.23 p.m. when she got the call. She remembers the exact time because she was typing the story for her next film. The characters had taken over the course of their lives. Even when she told them to stop beating the boy who was tied to the lamppost at the Naka, they continued. She was reduced to a being a mute spectator. She was no more a writer but a typist in the court, typing along anyone who spoke and accused the young boy of stealing the bicycle. But she knew that she had write about how the young thief died. She typed with greed, moving only her eyes, blocking anyone who spoke against the boy. She dint know who among her character would deliver the final deathblow on the young thief’s stomach. For now, She had forgotten anything that happened in her past. Suddenly, there was a silence. Everybody stopped doing what ever they were doing, they turned back and stared at her. The words stopped appearing on the computer screen. She turned her head and looked. It was 4.23pm. That was when cell phone rang.

Her mother had died.

She suddenly saw her father standing near the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the squirrel. He was sipping his evening tea. The window belonged to drawing room of her house in Mumbai, a place where she spent more than twelve years before she got married. But like a character in her story her father decided to be seen like that, right after the call. She looked around and started at the extra bed lying right in the center of her small apartment in Kolkata. ‘He can sleep there, when he moves in few weeks later. He can go for long walks around the beautiful campus. There were snakes, injured birds and dogs that will keep him busy. He will be happy here,’ she thought.

Her father did bring home an injured hummning bird. It was beautiful with pale wet eyes. He kept her wrapped in soft cotton cloth. He was awake all night. Next morning, when the sun shined, he took her out. She was once again dry and light. Her father insisted that she accompany him when he set the bird free. Next moment, the bird was not there. She did not see her fly off. Her father did. He kept pointing at the bush the bird had entered. He pointed at the flower. But she could see nothing. She felt uneasy. A strange feeling that she often felt, when the characters would stop talking to her for no reason. After lunch, when her father was asleep she forced her characters to get back to action. The characters spoke out of the fear that she would just abandon them. She typed an entire sequence that afternoon while listening to her father snore with content.

Later she realized that the sequence was unnecessary. It was shabbily written. She felt ashamed. She deleted it. She did not regret the loss of all the typed words. She kept staring at the computer screen. She then desperately looked if there were any missed calls from her mother. She tried dialing her residence number in Mumbai. There was no response. ‘Amma must have gone to Majumdar aunty to talk…she should come back before dad returns from office. I have told her million times not to go that woman’s house. Especially at a time when I need her. I need to finish this damm story. Let her come back!,’ she said to herself.

She knew that every time, she went through such moments, there would be a call from her mother. She would ease the tension. She had to just tell her about what her characters were up to and leave it at that. She knew that after she kept the phone down, her mother spoke to her characters, pacified them. Fed them with curd rice and lemon pickle. If they were adamant, she would spend the entire afternoon preparing tamarind rice. The characters had to give and start talking to her daughter while she typed.

She kept staring at the computer screen when a hand reached out switching off the computer monitor.‘You are looking very tired. Will you have a cup of tea?’ her father asked She looked at her father irritatingly and asked ‘Where is Amma?’.


II
Years later, I asked her why she had stopped writing. ‘I really don’t know. I had realized something one day. I could not write after that.’ She said untying my plates. ‘What!’ I asked. ‘ Nothing! May be after you were born I got really busy,’ she told me laughing out loud. She gave me a pat on my back and gestured to get my comb quickly from the shelf. I ran with guilt to fetch the comb. I knew she was watching me. She still does especially when I sit down to write.