Poisoned sympathy…
by Aditya Sengupta
45 year old Mrs. Dutta walked back to her room. It was an excessively tiring day. She turned off the lights. The only light glimmering in the corner was that of her bedside lamp, its fluorescent glow contrasting sharply with the dark red shade walls of her room. She slowly took off her slippers, pushing them neatly underneath her bed. She sat on her bed, sighed heavily and looked at the digital calendar on her bedside table.
11:53 p.m., Thursday.
25th February, 2007.
She turned off the bedside light and curled up cozily under her blanket. As the cold blasts issuing from the air conditioner swept over her, Mrs. Dutta clutched her blanket closer around her. Staring at the empty half of the bed, her heart ached once again for the man she had loved 25 years ago. It was almost 2 hours after she cried herself to sleep.
*****_____*****
“How many times have I told you to have my coffee ready on the table ‘before’ I come down for breakfast, hmm?”
Mrs. Dutta looked up from the coffee maker, into the annoyed eyes of her husband, 48 year old Dr. Dutta. He was looking at her with the same frustration as he had done this past 5 years.
“You know the goddamn hospital opens the chamber at 8. It takes half an hour to reach there. And the bloody coffee isn’t ready yet.”
Mrs. Dutta tried to smile, in spite of that insinuation. “It’s almost ready, dear. Just wait for a minute. Please.”
Dr. Dutta slammed his hand on the table, upsetting the flower vase. Mrs. Dutta quickly turned off the coffee maker, and swiftly entered the dining room. With a wet cloth, she promptly started clearing up the accumulated water on the table.
“Listen to me, woman. It’s been nearly 20 years of painful marriage with you. And can’t a man expect his coffee to be ready on time?
Mrs. Dutta looked at him from over the table, her eyes as wet as the cloth she held in her hand. “I…I…went to sleep a bit late…yesterday…that’s why…I was a bit late to get up this morning.”
Dr. Dutta went sharply into the kitchen and poured the coffee into a cup, shouting loudly from inside, “WHO IN GOD’S NAME TOLD YOU TO SLEEP LATE?”
Knowing that her husband was out of sight, Mrs. Dutta hastily rubbed her glistening eyes. She straightened the flower vase, and the table was once again spick and span.
She timidly went into the kitchen, and saw her husband blowing at the coffee in the cup and sipping it hastily. She approached him and softly laid a hand on his shoulder. “Rajat…”
“Don’t talk to me now. I’m angry. And very, very late. Bring my bag, NOW!”
Mrs. Dutta rushed back to her husband’s study, and quickly located his bag, buried beneath a stockpile of medical papers and torn x-rays. She rushed back with the bag to her husband. He was standing in front of the doorway, impatiently clicking his boot heels. She brusquely walked up to him and kindly handed him the bag.
Dr. Dutta looked at her. Mrs. Dutta smiled kindly. He turned away, and swept out of the front door without another word. As Mrs. Dutta closed the door behind her, she heard the edgy vroom of the car engine, as her husband sped away into the depths of the city.
She went back to her room.
She entered the bathroom.
She turned on the shower.
She dried her hair with a towel.
She dressed herself in a dull sari.
She cleaned the house.
She made lunch.
And she felt alone.
Mrs. Dutta felt like an old woman. Every morning, her face seemed to be wrinkling more and more. Her dull eyes seemed haggard and fatigued. All around her house, there were more than 30 pictures of her and Rajat, in happier days. She missed him terribly. She went into the drawing room, and stood by the mantelpiece. Their wedding picture hung on the marble walls, framed and brimming with life and happiness.
She cried. She used to cry almost everyday. Today, February 26th wasn’t an exception. She didn’t used to wail and scream her lungs out. She just stared at the picture and felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them. They trickled till her chin and tenderly dropped onto the mantelpiece.
All of a sudden, the distant ringing of a phone seemed to be delving its way into her consciousness and into forgotten memories.
‘Rajat left his phone at home’ was the first thought that crossed her mind.
The incessant ringing of the phone continued, as she rushed into her husband’s study and picked up the cell-phone kept on the table. The caller ID on the phone said –
Priya 9875648541
“What is your problem, Rajat? You won’t receive my calls, you won’t answer my smses. What did you think? I’d let you sleep with me and then you can run away? Hello? Rajat? Speak up. “
In a shaky voice, Mrs. Dutta asked – “Who is this?”
“SHIT…” the line went off from the other side.
The phone slipped and fell from Mrs. Dutta’s hand. Her entire body started shaking. She slumped beside the fallen cell-phone, her hands quivering. She could sense her heartbeat gain momentum. But she did not feel tears sliding down her cheeks. She did not feel sad anymore. In the faint recesses of her mind, she found solace in the thought that her husband was cheating on her. It gave her room to express her emotions to her own self and not be afraid of being true to her feelings.
She stood up hastily. Staggering, she pushed aside the stool lying in front of the table. She paused for a second’s thought. Accumulated thoughts swept over her. And then, she swept her hands across the table and the flurry of papers, books and pens went flying across the room. Reveling in the savage pleasure she gained, she arrived at the mantelpiece. Without even a passing glance at the picture, she seized the picture frame and brought it crashing down to the floor in an almighty wrench. For the first time in her life, she screamed, as she did this. It was a scream of glory. A scream of renunciation.
She traipsed back to her bedroom and opened her husband’s medical drawers. Forces of impulse had captured her being. The very thought of suicide had never occurred to her before and she always used to think of self-sacrifice as weak and cowardly. She found innumerable bottles with unknown names and dangerous symbols. Her hands shook as she took out a bottle with a familiar name and popped it open.
*****_____*****
Vroom.
Dr. Rajat Dutta parked his car in his garage, racing the engine a little before turning the ignition off. He stepped out of the car and sharply rang the door bell thrice. He noticed that the front lights of the house were off.
There was no answer. “Bloody woman.” he swore and reached into his pocket. He took out the duplicate key and opened the door with a slight click. The first thing that greeted his eyes was darkness. He switched on the lights, and placed his bag on the centre-table.
“Maya? MAYA!!!” he screamed. There was no answer.
“Where is that goddamned woman?” he entered the kitchen, and took out a jug of cold water from the refrigerator. He was just about to drink it when a voice behind him called -
“Hello, Rajat.”
He bustled around. Mrs. Maya Dutta was sitting at the dinner table, shrouded in darkness.
Rajat furiously opened the fridge and placed the jug back inside. “I will not tolerate insolence, Maya. I’ve yelled my lungs out and you don’t bother to answer? Huh?”
“Sit down, Rajat”, replied Maya, coolly.
Rajat glared at Maya. “DON’T ORDER ME AROUND!!!”
Maya Dutta met her husband’s angry defiant stare with her calm sophisticated look. “Sit, Rajat. Have dinner.”
Rajat infuriatingly sat down on the chair opposite Maya’s. The table was set with sumptuous dishes. There was chicken pakoras, ravioli, meat balls, spaghetti, mixed fried rice, ham steaks and an ice-cream pudding. There were two candles on the table, and paper napkins were neatly folded and kept on both sides of the table. An expensive array of cutlery adorned the sides of the china plates. A bottle of French wine stood at the centre of the table. Rajat stared at the table for a while, anger forgotten. In his 20 years of marriage, seldom had he seen the table so beautifully furnished. Following the candlelight, he looked up and saw the most beautiful face that he had ever seen – that of his wife.
He had never seen Maya so stunning and so gorgeous. She was wearing an expensive silk sari, with an attractive necklace garnishing her bare neck. Diamond earrings hung from her ears and Rajat was speechless.
Without another word, Maya stood up and picked up the bottle of wine. She poured out a glassful for herself and her husband. Sveltely, she handed him his glass of wine and kept her one beside her plate.
Rajat was stunned into silence. He was at a complete loss for words. If only he could envision the whirlwind of emotions playing within the murky depths of Maya’s ravaged heart, he would have truly felt pity for almost a decade of distrust.
He sipped the wine a bit and found Maya observing him. He silently put his head down and took another sip of wine. The fire from the candle crackled.
Maya took a deep breath and spoke up quite suddenly, “I’ve had enough, Rajat. I’ve suffered for 20 years. Not any more. Not any longer.”
Rajat looked shocked. Regaining his composure, he said, “Don’t speak nonsense. Eat up, silly woman.”
“Exactly. That’s what I am to you. A ‘silly woman’. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“Because I’ve had enough. I can’t stand waking up every morning to your abuses. I can’t wake up half an hour before you to make your coffee. I can’t stand to stay at home, doing nothing.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Maya. We have discussed this before. We’ve been through this be…”
“DO NOT GIVE ME ANY OF THAT SHIT ANYMORE, MR. RAJAT DUTTA. I am your wife, for God’s sake – not a machine!”
“Lower your voice, Maya.”
“Lower your voice? Lower your voice, Rajat? All these days, have YOU lowered your voice? HAVE YOU? Don’t tell me to lower my voice. Don’t test my patience, today.”
“Why are you acting so strange?”
“You knew this was coming. You knew this was coming, Rajat. You think I’m a fool? YES, I was a fool. A huge fool. A fool to lay awake for hours staring at the empty bedside, waiting for you to return. A fool for wanting to kiss you when you leave for work. I know I’ve been a fool.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Maya. Eat your food.”
Rajat sipped on his wine once again. He coughed twice and hastily wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Maya smiled. And she leaned forward, whispering, “Priya called today.”
Rajat’s glass fell from his hand onto the tiled floor, smashing into a million claustrophobic pieces, spilling the liquid remnants of the wine onto the ground.
“P…Priya?”
“Remember her? The woman you slept with?”
Rajat glanced at Maya’s eyes. It was cold and dark. Maya unmistakably knew the truth. Rajat impatiently looked around. A chilly seep of sweat seemed to run down his spine. There was an awkward silence. Maya just sat back, and smiled at the uneasiness.
Rajat suddenly screamed out – “LIES!!”
Maya laughed. A dark, sarcastic laugh. “She called up. I had a long talk with her. How many other women have you been with?”
Rajat was starting to sweat. He started coughing once again. It was evident that he was in discomfort. He managed to answer - “I know of no-one called Priya,”
“Answer my question, dear. How many other women have you been with? Four? Five?”
“WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME?” screamed Rajat, he upturned the table in his blind fury.
“I am not torturing you, darling. I’m just doing what you have done with me these 20 years.”
“Is this because you don’t even have a bloody child? Is it my fault that you can’t give birth? Is it?”
Maya sat up straight, she felt 20 years of disgust streaming through her. The absolute realization of betrayal, distrust, anger and repulsion broke through the shackles of a failed marriage. She could not stand another second to be married to the man whom she thought she had loved. Rajat found a new strength in his voice.
“Yes, yes…that’s it, isn’t it? Don’t blame me, if you don’t have a child. It’s you who’s incapable.”
Maya rose up. “SHUT UP! Don’t utter another word.”
“Why? Hurt you…where it hurts most? Eh?”
Maya calmed. She closed her eyes and searched her heart. “I thank God that I didn’t have to bear your son.”
“There’s…there’s no use…blaming me.” Rajat coughed once again.
Maya smiled. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m visiting our banks in the morning; I’ll be withdrawing all our money. Maybe get a nice job. Settle some place. Take up some hobby. I’m sure it’ll be a nice life. What do you think, darling?”
Rajat got to his feet and tottered towards Maya. He grabbed her by the throat viciously, screaming, “YOU BITCH!!”
Maya lurched backwards. Rajat gripped her neck, squeezing it. Maya tried to scream, but couldn’t. Rajat nastily struck her face in a livid frenzy. Rajat struck her again and again. He held her violently by the hair and kicked her brutally. Maya was stunned into a state of shock. But she didn’t do a thing to stop Rajat. An exhausted Rajat coughed violently as he grabbed Maya’s hand and pulled her close.
“Had…had…enough? Hmm? HUH?”
Maya laughed once again. A laugh that was interspersed with some tears and some pain. Then she brought her face close to Rajat’s and whispered into his ear, “I knew the Atropine in your medical drawer would be of some use one day.”
Rajat stared into the deep, emotionless eyes of Maya Dutta. His grip on her arm loosened. He fell on all fours and started coughing violently. Blood spewed from his mouth onto the polished marble. He looked at Maya’s face with tears in his eyes. Beside him lay the broken wine glass, the spilt wine still dry. He looked up at Maya once again in an earnest appeal. Maya stared into his eyes, burning his soul with poisoned sympathy.
“You…you…poisoned…poiso…me? Me…?”
Maya smiled at him and said, “No dear, ‘you’ poisoned me. Goodnight.”
*****_____*****
45 year old Mrs. Dutta walked back to her room. It was an excessively tiring day. She turned off the lights. The only light glimmering in the corner was that of her bedside lamp, its fluorescent glow contrasting sharply with the dark red shade walls of her room. She slowly took off her slippers, pushing them neatly underneath her bed. She sat on her bed, sighed heavily and looked at the digital calendar on her bedside table.
11:38 p.m., Friday.
26th February, 2007.
She turned off the bedside light and curled up cozily under her blanket. As the cold blasts issuing from the air conditioner swept over her, Mrs. Dutta clutched her blanket closer around her. Staring at the empty half of the bed, her heart did not ache for the man she had loved 25 years ago. She fell asleep almost immediately that night.
