The Nest

I wanted always to be a good housewife-domesticated into the comfortable drone of lazy Sunday siestas in the arms of my panjabi-clad husband. Playing with the edge of his sleeves while his arms remained wrapped around my shoulders, I wanted to bring his long fingers closer to my face, to flutter my eyelashes on them, tickling him thus!

I wanted to wait in the dark of Calcutta loadsheddings with him, in our two-roomed crammed apartment in an even more crammed street of the city. Waiting-not for electricity-but for the next car to pass down the street. A passing car whose lights would cast the shadow of the window-grills on our ceiling…in which we could catch-just for a moment perhaps-our own shadows, holding hands, while lying side by side.

I wanted to wear cotton saris-the ones that get softer and softer with so many washes, colour fading so that only the black contours of the once-red or green figures remain…wanted to wear them so that I could wipe my turmeric-smeared hands on them, without feeling guilty…so that I could tuck the corner of the anchal into my waist whenever I needed to tiptoe even on a high stool to retrieve his file of papers from atop the almirah…so that when he came home from office, dejected or sullen, and wanted not to talk, but to hide his face in my chest and lie, the exquisite embroidery or the intricate designs would not intimidate him…

I wanted to have friends over; his, mine, ours; at civil hours or odd; and make my home a haven, a refuge, another home for them. I wanted to do this with him...with dim warm lights and music in the background, that nobody would listen to after the third glass of whatever alcohol that could be managed with the day's pooled-in effort!; with cigarette butts and ash strewn around lazy happy bodies, spread across my meagre whitespraed on the floor...creating a mess, that I knew I had to clear, with him offering a symapthetic, but inept hand at help! And when all would start singing drunken lullabies, or cry in remembrance of lost loves, or perhaps fall asleep, I would squeeze in, in the congested space and snuggle up to my husband, slip my arms through his, rest my head on his shoulders and smile a contended smile...

I wanted to be-if I had to “be” anything at all-a professor in college. Not so that it would earn me respect or anything, but because of its working conditions, allowing me enough time to be home. I wanted to travel by local train to and from college, and have him waiting at the Railway Bridge on most evenings, smoking while deep in thought. I wanted to pick up vegetables and grocery on the way home-together, if he seemed happy, alone, if not. Winter evenings might even see him waiting right outside my college-smoking still-to ‘pick me up’. Since we don’t have a car, we walk-with me trying to pull the shawl even more tightly around me to keep the chill of north Calcutta, a few degrees lesser than in the south, out, and him puffing the cigarette stronger…a mild cough follows..We look at each other...We smile…we continue walking…