As soon as we arrive at the hospital, we are rushed straight to the emergency room. Akash has driven at a breakneck speed, and now my t–shirt is drenched with blood as well. During the car ride to the hospital, I felt like I was going to vomit. I feel so scared and so darn worried. I am totally freaking out because of the huge gash that is spouting blood continuously.
They have taken Rohit inside and told us to wait outside for a few minutes. I am clutching Akash’s hand in sheer terror. My palms are icy cold. I can barely speak.
‘The baby needs stitches at the back of his head. Which of you want to hold the baby while we put the stitches?’ asks the doctor on duty.
I break into tears.
‘It’s okay Nisha, I will hold Rohit,’ says Akash.
‘Don’t worry, your son is a tough guy. We will do the stitches first to get the bleeding under control,’ says the doctor to Akash as they walk inside.
Both of us are too dazed to tell the doctor that Akash is not the father.
I am all alone now, sitting on the cold steel chairs outside the emergency room. I badly want to call up Samir. After all, Samir does have some responsibility, doesn’t he? It is Samir who should be here with me today. Not Akash. Samir should at least know what has happened to his child, his very own flesh and blood.
With trembling hands, I dial Samir’s number. It is a number that I have dialled so many times that I can even dial it in my sleep. The phone rings for a few seconds. Finally, he answers.
It is the first time since he walked out on me that I am hearing his voice. It feels like a thousand butterflies have been let loose inside my stomach. It is hard to figure out what I am feeling. It is a mixture of love, hate, confusion, anger—all rolled into one.
‘Nisha. Why did you leave that house?’ is the first thing he says.
I am thrown so off-track by his question that it takes me a few seconds to even comprehend.
‘Samir, you were the one who left, remember?’ I finally manage to say.
‘You can stay there, you know. I have moved in with Maya,’ he says.
I feel like a prisoner whose death verdict is being repeated by the prison warden, even though the judge had declared it long back.
Why is Samir emphasizing it again as though I do not know it? I have no idea.
‘Yeah, and I have moved into my own house, Samir. My own house. Not yours,’ I spit out the words.
I cannot believe that we are fighting over the phone in a hospital while my son is inside, getting his head stitched.
But I am also so hurt at how Samir is behaving. There is no excitement, no eagerness, and not even the tiniest trace of love in his voice. I immediately regret calling him. What the hell was I expecting? A sudden change of heart?
I have half a mind to hang up, but that would just be silly. Also I guess, one small part of me still hopes that Rohit being in the hospital will somehow bring Samir back to me.
‘Samir, Rohit is hurt,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ he says.
And then there is silence.
I hate him at that moment. I hate him with all my heart. What kind of a man is he? Has his heart turned to stone? Has Maya blinded him so much that he cannot see just how much the mother of his children needs him at this moment?
Finally he says, ‘How did he get hurt?’
‘I am calling from the hospital Samir. How he got hurt is not important. He is inside the emergency room now. Anyway, I am sorry I bothered you in the first place,’ I say and I hang up.
I wait desperately for the phone to ring. I want Samir to call back and ask which hospital I am at and whether Rohit is going to be okay. I want some shred of evidence that he does care for us. I want him to tell me to come home. I want to know whether his children matter to him at all. How can he wash his hands off us this much?
His call never comes.
I die a thousand deaths, waiting outside the emergency room. I sit with my face buried in my palms, trying to remember all the prayers I know. ‘Please God, let him be okay. Please God, please God, please God…’ I keep repeating the prayers over and over inside my head, in a desperate bid to calm myself. I have never been religious, so I have no idea how to pray. I only have vague memories of my school prayers. I have never had affinity for any one religion in particular. And so I strike up a bargain with God. I promise that if Rohit is okay, I will make an offering of ten coconuts at the Ganesh temple near my home. I promise that I will light fifteen candles at the Holy Angel Divine Child shrine which we passed on the way to the hospital. My stomach churns, and my hands and legs feel like iron bars at the thought of a permanent brain damage or something incurable happening to Rohit. I am so darn tense and frightened. I should have known better than to have left Rohit unmonitored like that. I should have told Akash and Tanya to watch him. I chide myself and kick myself mentally over and over again. I am a second-time mother. I know how dangerous it is to leave a baby unattended, yet I slipped up. I truly feel stupid, and I feel so bad for my son. What kind of a mother am I?
They emerge after what feels like forever. Rohit has stopped bawling and there is a huge bandage around his head.
I break down again on seeing him so calm and I carry him and kiss him over and over. I am relieved to see him safe and also feel awful to see that he now has stitches on his head because of my negligence.
‘How many stitches?’ I whisper to Akash.
‘Six, but we have a brave little soldier here, don’t we?’ says Akash to Rohit.
Rohit looks at him and gives him a smile. It is hard to believe that it is the same baby who was screaming in pain only a little while earlier.
‘So can we go home now? What has the doctor said?’ I ask.
‘He said that most probably Rohit would be fine, but they cannot be one hundred per cent sure. But since Rohit did not lose consciousness immediately after the fall, it is a good sign. He has also advised us to keep a close watch on him and see if there is any vomiting, dizziness, or an apparent change in his usual behaviour. If we spot any of these signs, we have to bring him back, after which they will do an MRI scan. If not, we’re all good.’
I almost collapse with relief when I hear this. He is more or less okay. But still, we can be a hundred per cent sure only after two days. I am thankful that the immediate danger has passed now.
Rohit acts like there is nothing wrong. He is not bothered about the bandage on his head or on his arm. He is his usual active self and is now reaching out for Akash’s sunglasses.
Akash chuckles and says, ‘That is my boy. My brave baby soldier,’ and there is a surge of pride in his voice. I am so grateful for Akash’s presence.
I call up Mrs B and tell her that even though Rohit has had to have six stitches, he is fine now.
Tanya immediately wants to talk to me as she has been waiting for my call.
‘Mummy, what happened to Rohit? Is he okay? I am scared, Mama.’
‘Don’t worry, baby. The doctor fixed it.’
‘Has he given medicines for Rohit to eat?’
‘Yes baby, he has given painkillers.’
‘What is that, Mummy?’
‘Baby, I will come there and explain everything. You give the phone to Mrs B and be a good girl, okay? Mama and Akash are coming there just now.’
‘Okay, Mama. See you soon,’ she says, as she hands over the phone to Mrs B.
I tell her that we will soon be on our way home.
It is only when I am getting into the car, and I see my phone ringing and flashing the Spar guy’s number, that I even remember about the party order which is still to be completed.
‘God, Akash, it’s the guy from Spar for the ajinomoto and spring onions,’ I say.
‘Yeah, so I will drop you and Rohit home first and then go and pick it up,’ he says calmly.
‘Akash, look at the time!’ I say in horror. ‘It is 4.10 p.m. and we haven’t even finished chopping yet. We have to reach home, start cooking and be there by 7.15 p.m.’
&
nbsp; Then I suddenly remember that I had left the noodles boiling on the gas when we had rushed out to the hospital.
‘Oh no!’ I shout, starling baby Rohit. ‘I left the noodles boiling on the gas. We are screwed Akash, we’re fucked big time,’ I say.
‘Shit,’ says Akash as he steps on the pedal.
And in that one word, he has totally surmised the situation we are now embroiled in.
We are really neck deep in it. And I don’t see any way out.
Trust in Me
As soon as we open the door to our apartment, the stench of burnt food hits us. The stove is still burning brightly, and the noodles in the vessel are an unrecognizable gooey mess at the top, yellowing in white circles in the middle, while its charred remains at the bottom and the sides stare back at us.
Akash and I peer into it and then look at each other. My heart sinks.
The tension of the whole day and this anticlimax is too much for me to bear, and I dissolve into tears. Akash is immediately at my side.
‘Calm down, Nisha, calm down. You do one thing. You go make tea,’ he says.
I look at him like he has gone crazy.
All the hopes we had, all the dreams we had built up, have burnt in front of our eyes and this guy wants tea?
‘Okay, baba, if you don’t want to, I will make it,’ he says as he goes into the kitchen. He disconnects the gas cylinder from the hired stove and connects it back to my kitchen.
And he emerges a few minutes later with two perfectly made steaming cups of tea.
‘Tea for two,’ he announces.
‘No piece of cake?’ I ask.
‘Eh?’
‘Mrs B’s wisdom. She says it is the piece of cake that makes all the difference while serving tea.”
‘I am the cake here, Nisha, Want a bite?’ he smiles.
‘I don’t want a bite. I want to chop you to bits. You are the one who got me into this mess in the first place. And look at us now. The Magic Saucepan has shut down even before it started. A fine opening it has turned out to be.’
‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’ he says, and I am surprised that Akash knows that usage.
‘I did not know you are an opera kind of a guy Akash. You do surprise me! You know about Richard Wagner’s Opera Suite?’ I ask, suitably impressed.
‘Oh, is that phrase from the Opera?!’ he asks.
‘How did you know about it if you haven’t heard of Richard Wagner?’
‘It is a common expression in sports reporting, Nisha. That’s where I heard it. Probably at an NBA game,’ he says. ‘Anyway, why are we sitting here discussing the fat lady’s vocals when there is so much work to be done? You go get dressed and wear your saree and everything you had been planning to wear.’
‘Yeah, right. And we will go there and entertain them by dancing or what? Ladies and gentlemen, Nisha and Akash will present an item number for us!’
‘Arre! Do as you are told for once. Leave it to me. Let me keep our little soldier with me. You go get ready.’
‘You are kidding, right?’
‘I am not. Now GO,’ he says, as he gives me a gentle push and takes baby Rohit from my hand.
The day’s excitement has been too much for Rohit, and he soon falls asleep in Akash’s arms.
As I get dressed in a very elegant chiffon saree, I notice just how much weight I have lost. I have indeed never been this slim before. The saree drapes around me perfectly and accentuates my curves, making me feel so sexy in it. The whole effect is understated elegance, as I slip on my favourite pair of diamond earrings, the ones that Samir had gifted me when we had got married.
‘No woman ever hated a man so much as to return his diamonds,’ someone once said. I wonder if it is true. But I still do not hate Samir. One part of me is of course furious at his betrayal, but another part of me somehow knows that a part of it is my fault too. The angry e-mail he had sent, did have a huge underlying patina of truth in it. That is why it left me with such a foul taste.
Still I felt we could have worked out things, had he given me a chance. But Maya being in the picture has changed everything irrevocably. It is still a stabbing pain when I think of them together. So I sweep it aside and look at myself in the mirror once more and am really pleased with what I see.
I step out and see that Rohit is fast asleep and Akash has placed him on my bed and is lying next to him. He has smartened up and changed too.
He looks at me and stares. And finally he says, ‘Nisha, you look stunning!’
I smile and say a thank you. It has truly been a very long time since a man paid me a compliment, perhaps the last time was before I became a mother! I do feel wonderful.
‘Now Akash—man to the rescue, fair damsel. Give me fifteen minutes. You go and leave the little soldier with Mrs B, and then off we go,’ he says.
‘Can you tell me what is all this about? And it better be good, Akash. I really don’t want to leave Rohit in this state with Mrs B,’ I say, still not comprehending. Is Akash taking me out somewhere to get my mind off the lousy day it has been? If that be the case, I am going to kick him so bad. The last thing I want to do is go out and eat at some fancy place, leaving my injured child behind.
‘Just go and leave Rohit, and don’t tell Mrs B about the burnt food and all. Tell Tanya to behave and you meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes, okay?’ His instructions are precise and crisp, and something about the way he says it makes me follow him without asking too many questions.
Fifteen minutes later, we are in Akash’s car headed towards Fort. I am very curious now. And I beg him to tell me what this is all about.
‘Listen to this,’ he says, as he fiddles with the controls in the car’s music system and turns up the volume.
A song which I have never heard before comes on:
Trust in me in all you do
Have the faith I have in you
Love will see us through
if only you trust in me
Why don’t you, you trust me?
Come to me when things go wrong.
‘Wow!’ I say. Who is the singer?
‘Etta James, though Eddie Fisher has sung it too,’ he says, singing along.
‘Why don’t you trust in me in all you do?
Have the faith that I… I have in you
Oh, and love will see us through, if only you trust in me. Yeah…yeah yeah
Why don’t you come to me, when things go wrong, cling to me and woh, and I’ll be strong
We can get along, we can get along, oh, if only you trust in me,’ Akash sings.
I watch Akash humming away the tune, surprised at how melodious his voice is.
It is now 6.10 p.m., and the street lights have already been turned on to illuminate the streets. We have crossed Haji Ali and are now headed towards Breach Candy hospital.
Akash pulls over and stops the car.
He tells me to come out while I am still wondering what the hell he is up to. Then I see a street-food stall, not even a stall, simply one operating out of a cart. There is a guy standing next to it, busy tossing noodles in a huge wok. A delicious aroma wafts towards us, making the food look very appetizing.
Then it strikes me!
‘No, Akash! We can’t possibly do that!’ I exclaim, the sheer audacity of the plan poking me like a sharp pinprick.
‘Of course we can, and we will. Watch me,’ he says.
He talks to the guy and expertly strikes a deal. The guy cannot believe that we want such a large quantity of food at such short notice. He must have thanked his lucky stars, as we seem to want almost his entire stock for the day.
Akash and I watch as the guy pumps up his stove to make a very high flame on it.
‘He does seem to know his stuff, Akash. Chinese cooking has to be done on very high flame,’ I tell Akash.
‘And look at the way he has chopped the veggies too, Madam; it is right upto your exacting standards,’ says Akash, as he points to the carrots, french beans, and shredded
cabbage, all neatly chopped and stored separately in large containers.
‘How can we pass off street food as our cooking? What if they hate it or, worse, what if they discover this?’
‘That is a risk we will have to take, Nisha. You need to be cool about this. It’s better than cutting a sorry figure with no food, isn’t it?’
Forty-five minutes later, we have our main dish and two side dishes with as. As a bonus, the guy has thrown in some delicious fried chicken too for starters.
‘Try kijiye, Madam, aapko bahut pasand aayega,’ he says confidently.
He is indeed right. I have no doubt it will be truly delicious, but I am still petrified of what we are doing.
Akash has arranged all the food neatly in the serving containers which Ahmed Bhai had sent over, along with the cooking ones, in the back seat of the car. So, this is what Akash had been doing when he sent me to Mrs B’s house for fifteen minutes. He had been loading all the containers in the car.
We have ample time now to drive to Malabar Hill, which is where Mrs Singh lives.
We arrive well on time, and my heart is thudding in my ribcage like a muffled loudspeaker.
Akash calls up Mrs Singh and tells her we are outside her apartment. Mrs Singh tells us to come upstairs with the food and says that she will tell the security to let us in.
Her apartment is on the eighth floor, with a huge terrace and a landscaped garden which faces the sea. It is very tastefully done up and even though, in my eight years with Samir, I have seen many opulent south Mumbai homes, Mrs Singh’s apartment manages to impress me. The party is taking place on the lawn and the guests are yet to arrive.
She has already placed her serving containers on the table.
The hired help greets us and shows us into the kitchen.
Akash is carrying the main course and the chicken dish and I am carrying the starter and the vegetable dish. We place it all on the kitchen counter and then we turn around and see Mrs Singh approaching us.
‘Hello, Akash!’ she greets him with warm familiarity.
‘Hello. Mrs Singh. May I introduce you to Nisha, the person behind The Magic Saucepan,’ he says, as I smile and shake her hand.