For Martha Aunty
From where I sit, I can see only his feet. They are old,
wrinkled, unsteady. By the time I look again, they’re gone. I don’t know
who he is, but I seem to catch glimpses only of his feet every day.
It’s strange that my time at the study desk and his siesta coincide so
often.
He stays in the apartment block diagonally opposite mine, two
floors below mine, and his bedroom – at least parts of it – is visible
from my study room. Since I’m away from home most of the time, I cannot
say for sure that no one else lives there. Maybe he has a day nurse. Or
a maid. Or a daughter, daughter-in-law, son or son-in-law who visit
him occasionally. At nights, I see various avatars of his feet on his
bed – covered in blanket, clad in socks, with a trail of lungi
shuffling at the ankles... On the rare afternoons that I’m home, I see
his silhouette ambling in the rooms, behind the lace curtains that
attempt in vain to shield the apartment from the gaze of lazy onlookers
like me.
It had become part of the background music that formed my time
with the keyboard, and it never occurred to me that I could go meet him
and try to build a relationship. For all my stories where accidental
meetings set in motion some brain-churning adventure, a steamy
relationship or a tragic drama, my real life sought the comfort of
monotony. I took his story for granted.
This morning, I woke up feeling sick. A simple cold-and-cough,
but I wanted to avoid both the heat and the AC, and decided to stay at
home. His feet were dangling from the cot today. I went about making
myself some herbal tea, wrote a few lines, slept the whole afternoon –
and the feet never moved. Late in the evening it dawned on me that
neither had the feet moved all day long, but they were dangling from
the cot – not steady, not relaxed, but sort of… dead.
I mentally made a note of the floor (fourth) and the direction
of the house (facing east, so it must be flat number 403) and sprinted
down to the security guard of the building.
“Dayal, who lives in 403?”
“Chachaji. Sharma chacha. Why didi?”
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes didi. Poor man. He’s 60 years old. And there’s no one to
look after him. I can’t imagine being so alone. His wife apparently left
him twenty…”
I did not wait to hear the rest of Dayal’s ramblings. I ran up
the building and Dayal followed me, sensing trouble. I reached 403 and
rang the bell incessantly. No one answered.
“Dayal, do you have a spare key?”
“Didi, what happened? You saw something?” He was still huffing and clueless.
“His feet are dangling, Dayal. Do you have a spare key?” I was
paranoid and screaming. Dayal fumbled with his key-bunch in anxiety.
“I have one. He gave it to me long ago saying I’ll need one if
something happened to him…” his voice quivered as he picked out a key
and tried it on the lock of chachaji’s house. After several attempts
with three keys, the door finally opened; I ran inside, towards what I
figured was the bedroom. He lay splayed on the bed, remnants of foam at
his mouth, his legs dangling by the edge of the bed.
I was paralysed with fear. I felt guilty – as if I could have saved him
if only my mind had registered the dangling of the feet. I stared at
the man in shock – his hirsute face lay crooked against a pillow, but
he could have been a handsome man once. He was dressed in a white vest
and a cream-and-green chequered lungi. Next to the bed, on a small
bedside table, under a pretty beige night-lamp, was a framed
photograph. I walked towards it in a trance. Dayal had taken off,
shrieking “police” and “ambulance”. I was arrested by the photograph in
the frame. Sharma chacha, with a very beautiful woman. That woman was
my step-mother.
***
Twenty years ago… she had walked into my life holding my
father’s hand. They had fallen in love – though she was married at the
time, dad said her marriage was a wreck and she had filed for divorce a
few weeks ago. Two months after she started living with us, her
divorce came through. And six months later, she married dad.
I was in class eight when I attended my father’s second
wedding, and like every kid, I was hostile to the concept of a
step-mother. My mother’s memories were still fresh; she had died just a
year ago. It made me wonder whether this relationship had begun even
while my mother was alive, but I did not seek an answer, because I did
not want to think that my mother was being cheated on behind her back.
It also made me wonder whether dad had done everything he could to save
her from the blood cancer, or had he just let her die so he could
begin a new life. But I kept those thoughts to myself, and smiled
sheepishly when the cousins made fun of the daughter attending the
father’s wedding, and turned away when my uncles and aunts clucked
their tongues in pity.
In fact, my father had a long talk with me before he got her home –
he told me frankly that he was in love, and he would not be using any
excuses such as ‘Riya needs a mother’ to let the marriage happen. He
told me I was free to feel angry, disgusted, violated – but he hoped I
wouldn’t give his new wife any more trouble than an average adolescent
would. That was my first experience of being treated as an adult – when
my mother died, I was treated as the baby who lost everything, pitied
and fussed over. But now, my father was treating me as an equal – as
one who he understood, as one who he expected would understand him. He
left me defenseless.
Since I figured that whatever emotion I felt would be understood by my
father, and hence pointless in expression, I decided not to react. I
chose to use my dumb smile on things that did not concern me and ignore
the things I resented. She wasn’t mean to me, but she wasn’t my mother
and I made sure she understood it.
She took the message with equanimity. I told her so the first time she
tried to force me to have dinner when I wanted none. “It’s okay aunty.
No one expects you to be my mother. You can conserve your energies to
be my father’s wife.” She just smiled and nodded her head. It was
annoying how neither of them granted me the pleasure of confrontation.
If it was my mother, she would have slapped me and given me a reason to
throw a tantrum. But with my father and step-mother, I got no chance
to be a child. It was frustrating.
My step-mother – her name is Martha, by the way – was a non-intrusive
lady otherwise. She let me be, she let my father be, and she was happy
to potter around the house doing this and that. She was not needy, she
did not crib or nag, she always smiled no matter what you said, she was
immensely patient with my father’s workaholism. I never understood why
someone so self-effacing would have a problem in their previous
marriage.
Over the years I got used to Martha aunty. We even developed a silent
camaraderie. She always came to my PTA meetings, she was there for my
graduation ceremonies, she helped me get admission into the creative
writing course in the UK that I was keen on, she helped me pack and
leave, she soothed me when I was homesick. We respected each other. Dad
was happy with her too, as far as I could see.
And then dad decided to end his life. I was in Kolkata teaching Writing
in Practice at the Jadavpur University at the time – eight years ago. I
couldn’t believe that my dad would kill himself. What had happened in
the seven years I hadn’t been living with them?
When I reached home, grief hung thick in the air like the smell of
coral jasmine in the mornings. There was a small gathering of relatives
I’d never seen in my life, and a few uncles and aunts seemed to be
gliding through the rooms. His body, stiff and cold like the marble
stones he had insisted on flooring the house with during its
construction, was laid out in a coffin to the east of the living room.
I’d cried so much during the journey that my eyes were pink and puffy. I
looked around the room for Martha aunty but she wasn’t there. I looked
askance at everyone in general until I found Martha aunty’s sister
Agatha sitting quietly in a corner. I went up to her and kneeled before
her.
“Agatha aunty, where is Martha aunty?” She looked up at me and immediately looked down in what seemed like guilt.
“Agatha aunty, where is my step-mother?” I stressed on the title for
emphasis, and Agatha aunty looked up sharply. “I don’t know,” she
murmured.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Where. Is. She?” I had lost it. I
screamed, “Where the hell is that fucking woman?!” All the eyes in the
room were on me, while Agatha aunty quivered like an Asopalav tree in
the wind, a tear trickling down her right cheek. “I do not know, Riya.
She’s missing since day before yesterday. I got a call from Gregory
[she sobbed heavily at the mention of my father’s name] on Thursday
saying they had a fight over something trifle. I offered to come and
give them some moral support, plus cook dinner. But he said it’s all
right, he just wanted me to know. But the next morning, when I tried to
call her cell phone, it was switched off. Gregory’s phone kept ringing
and no one picked up. I panicked and came here. I found the doors open
and Gregory foaming at the mouth. Martha wasn’t here. I tried calling
her again, but it was still switched off. I thought she might come to
my house, but she didn’t. I don’t know where she is.” She launched into
an inconsolable moan.
I totally lost it. I wailed on until a couple of my cousins took me to
the next room and tried to calm me. After a lot of crying and sobbing, I
calmed down and wondered what to do. What was the fight about? It
couldn’t have been trifle if Martha aunty had to lose her cool. Dad
always lost his composure when having an argument – he hated to lose. I
picked up my mobile phone and dialed Martha aunty’s number. It rang. I
wondered what I should say if she picks up, but she did not pick up. I
returned to the hall to find Agatha aunty sobbing into her dupatta.
“Agatha aunty,” I called softly and she looked at me, pain and concern
written all over her features. “Did you try calling her again?” I sat
next to her trying in vain to avoid the eavesdropping relatives.
“I called every day, every hour, beta. The phone rang a few times but
she never picked.” She sobbed again, her eyes seeking sympathy.
I nodded in support. “Did you leave her a message?”
“I did, I did. She never replied!” I pitied Agatha aunty for a moment,
but I felt like there was something to this that I was unaware of.
“Aunty, did she have any psychological problem? From her first
marriage? Or from earlier? Why did she leave her first husband?” I
realised I should not be asking this in public, but the need to know was
stronger than the need to hide it from the public. Agatha aunty
started sobbing uncontrollably. I patted her back mechanically, anger
simmering within me. I was starting to feel cheated, not only for
myself, but on behalf of dad too. Did he know? Did he kill himself
because he found out?
I waited for Agatha aunty’s grief and shame to subside. She looked at
me, searching for some pity in my eyes, but I’m sure she found none.
She hung her head, and I repeated my question.
Not raising her head, she said, “Yes. She was bipolar. She was on
medication.” I don’t think it surprised me. It suddenly explained why
she was so neutral and composed, why she never bothered. The medication
must have been keeping her drowsy and numb. Agatha aunty looked up to
see how I was taking it, and my blank face might have encouraged her to
go on talking. “I think she had run out of her medicines the night
they had the fight.”
“What was the fight about?” I was surprised at the acerbity of my tone.
Agatha aunty hesitated for a few seconds but gave in when my eyes bored
into hers. “It was about the disorder. Gregory knew she wasn’t well,
but he never asked what the illness was. He thought it must be one of
our usual geriatric problems, like BP or diabetes. When he went to the
medical store to get her medicine it was a new boy at the counter and he
asked Gregory to walk over to counter number four for psychiatric
medicines. That’s how he found out. He came home and questioned her.
She lost her temper. She never liked to be asked about her bipolar
condition. She hated the hallucinations and mood swings as much as the
others. She liked to pretend to have a happy, normal life.” Aunty
started sobbing again. I noticed with a lot of discomfort that the
entire room was listening to us, the people hanging around in the foyer
and outside the house also having barged in shamelessly to watch the
family’s skeleton closet being opened. But I did not care at the
moment. I wanted to know.
“The first marriage?”
“It failed partly because of the disorder and partly because of the man
she had married. Theirs was a love marriage and he knew Martha was
mentally unstable, but he was not supportive. He goaded her about the
illness every time she made a mistake at home. He attributed all her
weaknesses and mistakes to the illness. She attempted suicide three
times during their six-year-old marriage. She hated existing at the
time. We used to bring her home so often at the time. It was awful.
“It was after her last suicide bid that she met your father, in the
hospital she was in. He had just lost his wife, and he was looking for
comfort. She was so sick of her husband knowing about her illness, that
in front of your father she pretended to be a visitor to the hospital
and not a patient. There was no reason for them not to fall in love,
because she put on her best behaviour. It was also a very good therapy
for her disorder, because being loved made her feel good and reduced
her anxiety considerably.
“Your father loved and supported her a lot. She never had a relapse of
suicidal tendencies after that. But she had to be on constant
medication to avoid slipping into depressive or aggressive phases. And
that day she must have got agitated because she had run out of her
medicine, and argued with Gregory. You know your father cannot cope
with an argument. One thing must have led to another and she must have
completely lost it. I don’t know, beta. I am scared for her. I… I think
she might have killed herself already. I don’t know,” she started
wailing in my arms. I patted her absent-mindedly. It still did not
explain why my father killed himself.
I became strangely quiet after hearing Martha aunty’s story: I could
not help sympathising with her, but I had lost my father, and I was
unsure how to react, what to feel. Agatha aunty told me she had already
filed a missing person complaint at the police station, when the
suicide was reported. The police was investigating both the cases side
by side. My relatives differed on whether to wait for her before
conducting the funeral or not, but I insisted that we go on with the
funeral on the fourth day of death, which was the day the police had
given clearance for. I also had to go through a lot of grilling on the
possible reason for suicide – he had consumed enormous amounts of rat
poison. The police personnel were kind but probing. I volunteered as
much information as I could, including the fact that my step-mother
might not be mentally stable.
After the funeral, I was resting on my dad’s favourite easy chair,
working myself up to finally cry for my father, when our landline phone
rang.
“This is from the police station. This is about a missing person
complaint registered by Agatha D’Cruz about Martha Mathias, aged 47.” I
sat up sharply, hitting my knee on the table.
“Yes?” I said, stifling a cry.
“We have found the person. She is currently in a mental health care centre. Please come to the station for more details.”
When I went to the police station, the sub-inspector himself took me to
the hospital, mouthing platitudes about mental illnesses and
mother-daughter relationships and social problems and suicides. I let
him talk on, nodding at intervals, but not really registering anything.
I was wondering how I should respond to Martha aunty. I hadn’t decided
if I wanted to blame her for my father’s suicide. The sub-inspector
put me in touch with a kind-looking psychiatrist, who explained to me
that my step-mother had been spotted by a few people trying to jump off
the Ravindra Mhatre bridge into the Mula river and had been taken to
Poona Hospital, from where she was referred to the mental health care
centre because she was delirious and violent.
The psychiatrist told me she had been given strong antidepressants and
sedatives and was sleeping. I asked her if it was okay to wait by
Martha aunty’s bedside until she woke up. She said she was happy to see
I was very affectionate towards the patient and said she’d definitely
recommend being at her bedside. I thanked her and walked into the room
she pointed out.
Martha aunty lay on the bed with her hands and legs shackled lightly to
the bed post. I was shocked for a moment, but I remembered that the
doctor said she had been violent. A nurse looked askance at me and I
explained to her that I was the patient’s daughter and that I had the
doctor’s permission to sit next to her until she woke up. She looked
relieved to get out of the room.
Martha aunty looked spent. There were bruises on her hands and legs
that spoke of violent behaviour, attempts to injure herself and others.
I finally broke into sobs and cried my heart out as I waited for her to
wake up.
I didn’t remember how long I’d nodded off, but I awoke at a touch on my
head. It was Martha aunty, smiling at me indulgently. I blinked a few
times before deciding to return the smile.
“Baba, don’t worry. You’re all right. You were a good friend to me. I
am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t help it. He was
making me angry,” she blubbered. I looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“What, aunty? What did you do?” Panic rose in me.
“Rat poison. What else could I do? He asked for tea. Then he slept. I
made curry with the poison. I woke him up in the evening and gave him
tea with rat poison. He said it tasted funny and I said the milk is
funny these days. He tried to be polite. He said sorry. But he knew. He
knew. Now he was going to reprehend me about the illness all the time.
Just like him. He shouldn’t have known. I spread rat poison on his
bread. You know how many types of rat poison we have at home? Jam,
sugar cubes, powder, spray… It was too easy. He was writhing with
stomach pain by night and I cut off the landline and hid his cell
phone. He started frothing when that Mahadev serial started. I couldn’t
see it. I walked out of the house…”
My mind went numb again. Her confession did not come as a surprise
because I had already thought of the possibility of Martha aunty
killing dad in her state of mind, but I did not want to suggest it to
anyone. I wanted to hear it from her, I think. I wanted to know. She
rambled on, not even noticing that I had walked out of the room.
I peered into the doctor’s chamber. “Doctor, she has woken up. She thinks she killed my father. But he committed suicide.”
The doctor looked confused for a moment. “Yes, she’s been rambling about rat poison.”
“Did you tell the police about her ramblings?”
“No. We have to submit the case report to them tomorrow. I asked for a day’s time.”
“Good. Please tell them she’s rambling, but do not mention the rat
poison. My father consumed that to kill himself. She thinks she did it,
but it’s just her hallucination.” The doctor looked shrewdly at me,
finally getting my drift. “It is her hallucination, isn’t it, doc?” I
hoped she understood my implication.
She nodded slightly. “Yes. I appreciate your concern for her illness. Thank you Riya.”
“And doc, please ensure that she is here with you as long as needs to
be. I will visit her once a month, and pay for all the necessary
treatments. I hope that is okay?” The doctor nodded again. “We will
discuss this later, Riya. Let’s settle with the police first.”
***
The police and paramedical staff barged into the room, with a
doctor following dignifiedly behind. I was still clutching the framed
photograph. Someone walked up to me and cleared their throat. I looked
up at a well built man in khakis.
“Do you know him, ma’am?”
“Huh?”
“Do you know this man?” The police inspector pointed to Sharma chacha who was being taken out of the room by paramedics.
I blinked. “Nah… no inspector, I don’t know him. I’m sorry I’m in shock.”
“I see. I would need you to give me a statement of how you found him
please. Preliminary examination says it was a heart attack. We have
already got the watchman’s version...”
“Yes, sure inspector. I’m okay now. I’ll come with you.”
I thought of the delirious Martha aunty still rambling in the
hospital and stopped feeling guilty about the dangling feet.
Glossary:
beta: child
chachaji: paternal uncle in Hindi. Also a common term of endearment used in northern India
didi: sister in Hindi
dupatta: A long piece of cloth, part of the Indian attire called salwar-kameez, used to drape over the woman’s torso
lungi: a garment worn around the lower half of the body.
