Short story
A matter of thanklessness
The toothbrush slipped from his hand. Into the large white oval-shaped basin it fell. Sher immediately picked it up. A little clot of paste dropped on his red T-shirt. Oh! He pinched the clot with his forefinger and thumb to remove it. But the naughty paste had already left a whitish stain, which meant he needed to wash the shirt. He took it off and threw it into the basket where the day's clothes for washing were being dumped. As he continued brushing his teeth, the toothbrush again struck the clenched rows of teeth and jumped off his hand once more. It fell into the basin with a rattle as it did before. He picked it up automatically, and before he could thrust it back into his mouth, as if it had a life of its own, the toothbrush leaped into the basin again from his hand, the third time. He silently recovered it but instead of reapplying it to his teeth he held it under the tap for washing. Having done that he replaced it back into the mug, which had lost its original use because of a broken handle, but was used as a holder for his shaving razor, shaving cream and some used toothbrushes. Then he gurgled and washed his face. He would now take a bath, but the thought of the toothbrush dropping from his hand so many times would not leave his mind.
Nishi, who had recently, sort of, walked out of his life, had always looked for meanings behind such happenings. Mostly she would interpret anything and everything, that was apparently of no consequence to be ominous, and would take that as a divine judgment coming in disapprobation of their relationship.
Sher told her when they were spending a night together in a hotel at Cox's Bazar: "You see, it's your mindset that sees everything as reflecting the inappropriateness of our relationship. Nobody knows that we are here, neither your husband nor my wife. Nobody has any reason to suspect that we are together. I'm in Chittagong on office duty, and you're in Dhaka spending a night with your friend, whose sister's marriage is coming off two days after."
Pouting her lips, which were full and dabbed thick in red lipstick, Nishi said, "That is all moonshine. You talk stupid. You're still showing me dreams. I wouldn't have come if I had known that you still craved me as you did in the past."
"Yes, I still crave you, probably much more intensely than before, because there's your husband now, and I feel being challenged, and my desire grows more. But if you didn't feel the same way, then why have you come all the way to Cox's Bazar!"
Nishi, while taking off her gaudily printed chemise, paused before she completed looking herself in the mirror, and said, "I've risked everything to come and see you. Even a little mistake anywhere, a divorce will be instantly in place. See, what risk I've taken for you! But I don't want to go the old way. I just want to sit here in the balcony with you and hear the waves lapping on the shore."
Then a little pause, then she started in a torrent of words again, "My colleagues in the bank keep me asking why I am not looking happy, why I am shrinking, why this and that . . . why this and that, you know, just unbearable, people are so nosy, and you came to my life more like a curse, to destroy me. You have a wife; still you chase other women for sex . . ."
Sher chuckled, trying to make pointless humour. "Correction madam: I have chased only one woman other than my wife, and I can't have sex without love . . . And, and, it's not all for sex that I love you."
Nishi's body was Greek-statue like, and leering at her into the mirror, Sher added, "And you have a husband now."
"Oh! What an equation!" In high anger, Nishi moved away from the mirror as if disentangling herself from everything that related to her image. On the balcony, in the dark, she remained seated for most of the night, while Sher tossed restlessly in bed. Very late at night she finally submitted, sweet, soft and giving. Sher inwardly thanked her for being so artful.
Sher stepped into the bath tub, his eyes felt wet, tears came brimming. One full year had passed but he has not yet been able to forget Nishi. He held the shiny silver-coloured metalled hand-shower over his head, and soft, needle-thin streams of water coursed through his thick bunch of hair, and then streamed downward over his shoulders and on his back. Holding the shower in front of his face he spun it around and the full thrust of the flow sprayed over his face, giving him a smoothing sensation.
The bathroom door was kept ajar, though full privacy of the bedroom was ensured by having the door to the other rooms locked. The morning had about been two hours old. The children had already left for school. The maid servant was busy in the kitchen. He could hear Riti doing something in the bedroom. The music came on, a familiar English song, one of the slow rock numbers, though he couldn't just identify the singer. Lately Riti, in desperation to snatch her husband back, had taken to doing things he loved to do, one of them being listening to English songs. Now he doesn't have to go and buy the Eid special issues of Protham Alo or 2000 or the puja special issues of Desh or Anandabazar. Riti does it, and her reading hours have noticeably increased.
The next number, Scorpion's Wind of Change, floated inside the bathroom, but he had already finished his bath and was wiping himself dry with a big sky blue towel sporting a brand sticker.
This was the life he got to resettle with Riti: comfort, regular meals, playing father, playing husband.
He had a board meeting to attend. The organization he worked for was an NGO based in Geneva. It was a tough position to get, but his solid track record and his CA degree had got him the job. The organization, called Greenwood, was funding a large project dedicated to environment protection. He had presented a paper on the traffic jam two weeks ago at a five-star hotel, and today he was planning to convince the CEO about the budgetary allocation. From his wardrobe he chose a shirt, a brand product, green and white striped, and a tie with the caption, "The Lost World", printed across it. Against the thick green texture of the tie a close look would reveal an array of distinct features of wild animals and reptiles, which were facing extinction.
Sher, going out for office, hugged his wife lightly, before he left the bedroom. Their breakfast table was down the end of a narrow passage. As he walked down the passage Nishi's sharp image suddenly bobbed up in his mind. Strange that on his own wife he was implanting some of the acts of adoration which he had become habituated to performing with Nishi. The caress, the embrace, the press, the deep affectionate guttural sounds in moments of ecstasy, the togetherness, all these he was in the phase of reconstructing on his own wife, as if she was the material on which he was laying a model brought from elsewhere. Riti, with her womanly acumen, suspected as much. "You do things now in a different way, Shoitan."
"I may be the Shoitan or devil, but don't you find me serious?"
"I'm only rice and milk for you, Shoitan. Oh, you were so blinded, I only prayed to God: O God, return him to me. What actually did you find in that slut, a blackish bitch."
Sher fumbled. "No, no, she actually had much respect for you, but she was helpless. I was helpless too. When we met we forgot the world."
"That's why when you said you would leave Rangpur, I at once agreed. Now, you are much better in Dhaka, a new job, a new house, children going to better schools, only if Mother had survived a little longer."
"But where we would've left her in Rangpur, in whose custody?" Sher's voice choked. His eyes brimmed over with tears. All the way from Rangpur, the road journey was arduous for his ninety-three old mother, who frequently vomited into a number of plastic bags that Riti, sitting beside her, held up to her mouth one after another. It was a Noah super deluxe rented microbus, but what was that to age! She survived only six months in Dhaka.
Sher still finds it difficult to realize, which act had effected the severing of his relationship with Nishi. His mother's death or Riti's phone call to Nishi's mother.
The week after he came to Dhaka on his new job, he received a call from Nishi. "Mother is very upset," Nishi said. "Some woman called her and said something which Mother wouldn't tell me. But she's very silent and grave since then.
"Who might it be?" Sher queried back in total ignorance.
"I suspect it must be your wife."
"No way," Sher retorted, "she can't see the difference between one thing and another."
"This is a problem with you," Nishi said angrily from her mobile. "You take your wife to be too simple, but our land phone is a Caller ID set. I can sms you the telephone numbers of the calls that we received yesterday."
Surprisingly, one of the numbers Nishi sms-ed him was Riti's cell phone number. He saw his wife in a new light. For the first time in their married life he was jolted into a new realization. "My God," he muttered to himself. "What did you say?" Nishi's voice still vibrated in annoyance. "It's very natural," she then continued, "It's life and death for her, very natural for her to be so desperate. Another woman in her place would've committed suicide or gone mad. You're a devil incarnate; actually, even your shadow is disgusting!"
After many attempts he got Riti on her mobile. At first she denied having made the call. Then she broke into mischievous laughter.
Traffic halted on Mirpur Road every minute. Sher endured the rising heat of the day, soaking wet under his closed collar, but he kept looking straight on, thinking how it was that he tolerated Riti's misdemeanour. It was a counter-offence he had to digest for the life of him. But he made up his mind, so the following month he brought the whole family to Dhaka, drawing the Nishi chapter to a close. Obviously the telephone call worked, or so it seemed. But Nishi got married in two months and he showed Riti the invitation card. She sighed in great relief. All became quiet for sometime.
But the loss of sleep appeared like a problem that needed urgent treatment. Riti would do more than what she could do, at night her fingers would softly brush his hair through and through, and it would never stop, neither would she disturb him with improper questions, though he realized she knew why he was not being able to sleep. Daytime was no problem. Nishi's memory got diluted into his office work, board meetings, multi-media presentations and lounging. Nights became a testing ground for him, all memories would crowd in and he would merely turn on his side praying for sleep to come. And the dreams came, smart and bold, not in any docile mood, but in quite a physical way. When told about it, Nishi said, "It's because you miss me, that's why."
But the belching didn't stop.
One day in the morning at breakfast, he brought the packet out of his briefcase and showed all the reports to Riti. The physician he consulted was a specialist in gastro-liver malfunctions, and none of the reports had shown anything of concern, except for a non-ulcerous dysfunction, for which a tablet a day from the esomeprazole group was advised.
The jar on the table had emptied of water. As Riti rose quickly to refill it from the kitchen, Sher watched her minutely, though unaware that he was doing it. Her tall figure slightly bent now with age, her once tight body now loosened up, and the immaculate shape of her hands had shown parched skin. There was an uncommon degree of alacrity in her movement though, the way she left her chair, went past the fridge and disappeared into the kitchen. His practised eyes did not miss noticing the new body language his wife was showing. His heart filled up immensely with pity for the woman, the mother of his children, who had nursed his ailing old mother more than what a daughter would do, who had won her in-laws' hearts with her genial affection and simplicity. His heart warmed to her. His hands, like things invisible, went forth and started caressing Riti in deep affection. The image of a reconstructive effort, however, hung in the corner of his consciousness.
The traffic cleared, and his driver sped up the car on a different gear. Sher felt a growing sensation warming up in his groin. The next moment he began mulling over the idea of a visit to Rangpur.
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