Homecoming (V)

He was already late, and he realized the gravity of this only when he got home. His wife had an expression that reeked of condolence. She was not used to seeking explanations, perhaps because he did not provide reasons for the same, and even today, she did not ask questions. It was the children who were disconsolate. They were not angry but disconsolate, because this used to be the occasion for them to get to know about their father. Otherwise, there used to be little between them. By the time he reached home, they were already in their night clothes, and in their beds, trying to pretend as if nothing was wrong in the moment. The mother already knew this, and that explained the condoling look. She was caught between trying to sympathize with the children, trying to pretend as if nothing was paranormal in their behavior and in the moment, and at the same time, trying to take their father to task, hesitating and faltering in the process, and eventually ending up justifying his ‘mistake’. The father had little to speak. We already know that he did not particularly enjoy being a family man – it was more of a natural order of things for him. And even today, he was more concerned about getting across his part of the story, than listening and being receptive to the other side. He was listening to all this, waiting for the commotion to end, so that he could have everyone’s attention.

He began by calling their names, with an unusual impatience in his tone. The children ignored this first quietly. He mentioned about the doll from the market place, and they tried to get under their blankets to resist going to him. He mentioned Saturday and a new story. This almost killed their urge to stay back, but they persisted. The mother, all the time, was being her busy home-maker self, juggling between those four emotions, and many more. While the potatoes boiled, she spared a thought for the children, and with every whistle of the pressure cooker, the emotion changed. Then something happened, which almost took her attention away from the drama that was slowly unfolding, to what their relationship meant to her.

He called out her name. “Today, this one story I have, is for you too”, he quietly whispered in her ear. Everything flashed right in front of her – all the mornings, Saturday evenings, his stories and their marriage – everything. By the time she regained composure, and hurriedly turned towards him, perhaps to affirm, he had already started walking towards the table.

She was not someone who had fairly-tale expectations from her marriage, and likewise, he never did anything that could have translated into an expectation. Everything was so everyday in their marriage. It was like two individuals, not knowing why they were together, and not complaining about this, going about their lives, without a fuss. They celebrated every day of togetherness, precisely because they never celebrated any. Six years into their marriage, and not one story did he have for her. She had always known him as his struggling self, refusing to come to terms with what life had in store for him. She was as unconvinced in his stories as their children were, but liked the eagerness which he told them, and which the children listened to. That he never had the same eagerness when he talked to her, never occurred to her. Today, with that careless whisper, somewhere that realization germinated.

One thought after the other gushed out her mind. What could that story be? Of course, he changed professions, from being an errand boy in one of the publishing houses, to a salesman, and to some extent, passionate about the six-string, to being a sweeper in a theater, but that was the end of his storied life. He seemed satisfied with whatever he did, but always had a complaint or two about whoever employed him, and not about the way he was treated. The complaints were about how those imbeciles missed out on the diamond that he was, and a polished one at that. Was it another complain? Could not have been. He definitely quit his job.

She called out the children’s name. Dinner was ready, and they were hungry. Trying to pretend as if they had just woken up, they came out of their room, rubbing their eyes. The little one jumped at seeing the doll, and the elder one issued a stern warning, reminding her of the secret pact they had – it was about not buying any excuse their father gave. A smile broke out on his face. The food was different from what they always had, perhaps to re-create and celebrate the evening. He cleared his throat, just like he used to. The children faked a yawn. The wife slowly smiled, softly rebuked the husband for missing out on their story – this bit was simply to induce a sense of pride in the children – and started serving the food.

“Who wants to come to the theater?” That worked like a magical spell. It was a loud, unanimous agreement from the four of them.