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Authors: Kishore Modak
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dependent on the monthly stipend
that I sent him. I was proud of him.
I did not seek her,
leaving the past behind me. Even when I caught sight of her at the
supermarket, I turned away in fright and horror. Her face was the
same, other than the disfigurement that time hands out; it was
unmistakably her, short, reaching for noodles in the Asian section of
the store, on tiptoes. She still looked maid-ly, with her mum
somewhere close by ticking a list of procurement with overflowing
carts in tow. I moved away, checking out and walking home as fast as
I could, with my little bag of leeks.
I didn’t visit
the temple that evening, sitting instead by the window, looking at
the evening traffic, struggling in the streets below.
What if I had come face
to face with her? Would we greet before moving on, or would we just
feign the failure of recognition? I was glad I had seen her the way I
did, surreptitiously, leaving the choice of advancement or retreat in
my hands. I had retreated, for now. If she had seen me and said hell o , unprepared I would probably reciprocate with
politeness, waiting there before something happened.
Did I not owe the
courtesy of a warning to her new mu m ? I would inform
her, ‘You have a diseased- prostituting-snake-bitch inside your home, who will consume your men with the poison of her
lust, just like she has done with mine.’
Then again, Mary looked
in advancing years, maybe lust-less like me, a simple maid running
chores and sending money orders back home, to support the education
of children.
The encounter did not
disturb me, neither did it bother me; it simply provided an avenue of
mental immersion, another mind-filler at lonely meals by the tele, or
just before falling asleep. Unanswered questions resurfaced, with a
much milder intensity, but intensity enough to awaken curiosity.
After all, she was the only person who had all the answers to that
year in Singapore. I still did not know the where- how-whe n of her affair with my son. As regards David, there was still one
question, which she could probably fill me in on—the question
of wh y .
There was also the
question of her child—whose was it and where he or she was?
I did not lose sleep
over such matters, but I did change the venue of my shopping in the
week ahead, moving a few bus stops further before falling back into
my daily routine.
If there was only one
thing I could ask her, what would it be? I discarded many options,
before settling on this one ‘If you had a choice, a choice of
winding back in time, would you do it again, would you repeat your
act?’
Y e s or N o . Either way, I would accept and understand her
choice before walking away.
My days, too, were
drawing to a close; I had withered, needing a not-so-strong wind to
snuff me out. I could have carried these questions to my pyre, but
decided not to, I wanted to know and close loops out, as the bankers
put it, before I moved on.
Ironically, when I
started looking for her I could not find her easily. Each trip to the
supermarket, found me eyeing the Asian section from a distance,
looking for Mary. On one occasion, I even walked up to the Asian
section, looking around as if for her to find me, examining the packs
of noodles; they weren’t like the ones she used to buy in
Singapore but I took one in any case, wanting to try them. Would they
emit the same foul odour that we had come to know in Singapore?
After a few months,
looking for her became an obsession, it started to consume me, almost
as if I had to find her and ask her that one question before I died,
even if it meant heading to the Philippines on the pretext of seeking
some tropical sun. I had her address in Manila and that would have
been the last resort. I could not die, letting time carry questions
away, away from me forever—because for one, Jay would certainly
not chase or swim after them.
The noodles stank; yet
I ate them, when they cooled.
On the Internet, I
sought out the agency from where we had hired
that I sent him. I was proud of him.
I did not seek her,
leaving the past behind me. Even when I caught sight of her at the
supermarket, I turned away in fright and horror. Her face was the
same, other than the disfigurement that time hands out; it was
unmistakably her, short, reaching for noodles in the Asian section of
the store, on tiptoes. She still looked maid-ly, with her mum
somewhere close by ticking a list of procurement with overflowing
carts in tow. I moved away, checking out and walking home as fast as
I could, with my little bag of leeks.
I didn’t visit
the temple that evening, sitting instead by the window, looking at
the evening traffic, struggling in the streets below.
What if I had come face
to face with her? Would we greet before moving on, or would we just
feign the failure of recognition? I was glad I had seen her the way I
did, surreptitiously, leaving the choice of advancement or retreat in
my hands. I had retreated, for now. If she had seen me and said hell o , unprepared I would probably reciprocate with
politeness, waiting there before something happened.
Did I not owe the
courtesy of a warning to her new mu m ? I would inform
her, ‘You have a diseased- prostituting-snake-bitch inside your home, who will consume your men with the poison of her
lust, just like she has done with mine.’
Then again, Mary looked
in advancing years, maybe lust-less like me, a simple maid running
chores and sending money orders back home, to support the education
of children.
The encounter did not
disturb me, neither did it bother me; it simply provided an avenue of
mental immersion, another mind-filler at lonely meals by the tele, or
just before falling asleep. Unanswered questions resurfaced, with a
much milder intensity, but intensity enough to awaken curiosity.
After all, she was the only person who had all the answers to that
year in Singapore. I still did not know the where- how-whe n of her affair with my son. As regards David, there was still one
question, which she could probably fill me in on—the question
of wh y .
There was also the
question of her child—whose was it and where he or she was?
I did not lose sleep
over such matters, but I did change the venue of my shopping in the
week ahead, moving a few bus stops further before falling back into
my daily routine.
If there was only one
thing I could ask her, what would it be? I discarded many options,
before settling on this one ‘If you had a choice, a choice of
winding back in time, would you do it again, would you repeat your
act?’
Y e s or N o . Either way, I would accept and understand her
choice before walking away.
My days, too, were
drawing to a close; I had withered, needing a not-so-strong wind to
snuff me out. I could have carried these questions to my pyre, but
decided not to, I wanted to know and close loops out, as the bankers
put it, before I moved on.
Ironically, when I
started looking for her I could not find her easily. Each trip to the
supermarket, found me eyeing the Asian section from a distance,
looking for Mary. On one occasion, I even walked up to the Asian
section, looking around as if for her to find me, examining the packs
of noodles; they weren’t like the ones she used to buy in
Singapore but I took one in any case, wanting to try them. Would they
emit the same foul odour that we had come to know in Singapore?
After a few months,
looking for her became an obsession, it started to consume me, almost
as if I had to find her and ask her that one question before I died,
even if it meant heading to the Philippines on the pretext of seeking
some tropical sun. I had her address in Manila and that would have
been the last resort. I could not die, letting time carry questions
away, away from me forever—because for one, Jay would certainly
not chase or swim after them.
The noodles stank; yet
I ate them, when they cooled.
On the Internet, I
sought out the agency from where we had hired
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