Darshan Dijju! Had your chiya yet?”
“No, I just finished my pooja. Come join me for tea.”
Two weeks.
It had been exactly 12 days, since Rami started waking up to the not-so-pleasant voices of her elderly neighbours.
At 6:30, Mrs Uprety, out to water her new little pot of Tulsi, would shout across her terrace to Mrs Shrestha, who probably just wanted a quiet morning to herself.
A morning greeting between the two, which started with small talk, would then almost always turn into a painfully long conversation about everything under the sun, filtered and unfiltered.
Is it eavesdropping if I don’t even want to hear it in the first place?
It was no different today. Having had slept for only three hours, Rami hoped she could get three more. The wee hours of the morning were of utmost importance for her to fill her sleep quota for the day. And for the twelfth consecutive time, it was not going to happen.
Inescapable.
There was no going back to sleep. It was going to be a long day and she was not going to get through without a little tantrum.
She dragged herself out of the bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of tea. If there was one thing that Rami didn’t like to start her day without, it was a good cup of chiya. She made it with a recipe which she followed religiously; 1:1 ratio of water and milk, orthodox tea leaves, one spoon of plain tea powder, grounded cardamom, and just a little less-than-a-spoon of sugar, for each cup. She would then put the pot on high flame for exactly two minutes only to turn it down just as the tea boiled. And she’d let the pot be on for one more minute. Good texture, good colour, and good taste.
Today, as she waited by the gas stove, she lost her patience.
Watched pot never boils.
“Ama, could you watch the pot for me? I need to pee.”
Just when Rami was done, she got distracted by an army of ants that was marching towards her dustbin in the toilet. This was an odd sight.
She had a compulsive obsession with clean toilets. If her room was always a mess, her toilet was just the opposite. Everything in the bathroom had a designated place. The sink, commode, shower, and the tap, they were always stainless. The tile floor was always dry. And at any given point in time, her bathroom smelled of ginger and orange.
The army of ants hence was a sight unwelcome. Somebody had thrown a mango peel in the dustbin.
“We have an organic bin for a reason. Can we not throw fruits in my dustbin, please.”
When she went to the kitchen, nobody was there attending her chiya, which had now been overcooked and looked at least three shades darker from her desired shade.
Ugh! It’s going to be a horrible, horrible day.
She drained the chiya down the sink, went back up to her room, changed her clothes and headed out.
Her scooter rattled as she made her way through the half-baked roads of the city and creaked every time she pulled the brake.
I need to fix this scooter. I need to fix my life.
……………
Rami had had a fairly sorted life. She came from a family that made a decent living. She had graduated from a good school when she was 18, she had graduated with a marketable degree when she was 22, and by 24 she had already garnered enough experience that would easily land her jobs of her choice.
Independent, modern day woman.
One year ago, she had met a guy, the perfect eligible bachelor, who she knew her family would readily approve of. He had tipped her world up on its side. The relationship was flawless and if anything, he brought a sense of stability into it. She felt loved and wanted. They were rock-solid.
Everything was in place. Perhaps, a little too in place. And deep inside she had secretly wished her life came with a little drama, and a whole lot of adventure.
And now that the wish had been granted she wasn’t sure if she could deal with the danger.
…………….
“I have a relative, an unfortunate old woman. While her son and daughter are in America, her granddaughter lives with her. A complete brat, always throwing tantrums like a Maharani! The poor woman has no control over the situation.”
“Kids these days, I tell you. One of my nieces is worried about her son. She says, he keeps bringing home a new girl every two months and casually introduces them to his parents as his girlfriend.”
“This is Kalyug—the age of vice. I am afraid the kids of the new generation will never understand what love and commitment is.”
The conversation between the two neighbours she had overheard this morning kept playing in her head. Rami wanted to shake it off, but she couldn’t.
There was some truth to what they said. Rami did belong to a generation where love and commitment were two things that came with little or no value.
In fact, she was where she was, because she was struggling to understand what love meant for her. And she had been up all nights, for a whole month, because she was failing to commit to the one guy who was (probably) just right for her.
……………
“Look at you, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” he embraced her in a much needed hug. “Chiya first and then we head for an English breakfast?”
Rami smiled for the first time in the whole morning.
“Where were you all my life? Nobody gets me like you do.”
Rami had never met anybody like him ever before. He was not ‘settled’ per se, but he was definitely ‘sorted’. He knew exactly what he wanted in life—to be happy.
He was not perfect, but it only made it so easy to love him. She had fallen heads over heels.
“Now, don’t go falling in love with me.” He always lit her up.
When the sahuni brought them their chiyas, Rami drank hers quietly, as if savouring every moment.
“Bottoms up! Now let’s go grab some breakfast to quiet the monster in you.” He held her hand and looked right into her eyes. She was sleep deprived, but that’s not why her eyes were exhausted. They were tired of hiding the truth.
He asked her to look into his eyes before he addressed the elephant in the room.
“It has been one month. We both know why you haven’t been able to sleep at night.”
He pulled her phone from her side and placed it between the two.
“Maybe, it is time that you tell your boyfriend. This is going to be horrible, but at least you’ll be able to sleep at night. It will bring you peace, even if it breaks his heart.”
“Do you think he has already smelt the storm?” she hoped the response would be negative.
“Of course.”
……………..
It had been 12 hours and she still hadn’t heard back from the ‘perfect’ man whose heart she’d just broken.
I might as well headline my neighbours’ daily gossip one day.
“Do you know that girl who cheated on a handsome, well-settled, young man, for a hippie? Such a shame. Kids these days.”
http://kathmandupost.ekantipur.com/news/2017-08-27/dancing-with-demons.html
