Pluck

by Preeti Nangal (India)

A leap into the unknown India

I had dry throat when I reached the restaurant and asked for a glass of water. I opened their menu and apart from noticing names of ‘exotic’ curries, I saw panna cotta in the desserts – a dish I had fancied for some time. But I did not have cash and my debit cards had below-minimum balance. I closed the menu and asked for another glass of water. There were large windows on my right with rolled-up bamboo blinds. Through teary eyes, I looked at the bright-blue expanse of the Arabian Sea. It was a peaceful view of the gentle and persistent ripples. There was still time before the dinner service and the restaurant was pretty empty with only a few foreign customers relishing snacks and beer. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and I wished I could share some of the serenity with my family but it felt like a desire that could only be followed by a pang. That is when the phone rang. It was brother. My anger-fuelled adrenalin had started to wear off and I had begun to feel scared. I did not take the call, put the phone on vibration and asked for the third glass of water as I opened the menu one more time. The phone buzzed again. Reluctantly, I tapped the wobbling green icon and said mildly, “hello?” “Wherever you are, come back!” It was brother barking on the other side. It is a mystery beyond me to gauge what people become when they are angry. “I am in a restaurant. Bristow’s Bistro. Come here.” I spoke so low, I hoped he could hear me over the sound of static. “What!! I don’t care where you are. You come back where you left us. Are you going to give father a heart attack?” How does one respond to an accusation like that from one’s elder sibling? I cut the call but did not have much choice. I closed the menu and asked the waiter where the washroom was. * When I stepped out, it was dark. As I reached the bend of the road, I saw mother’s silhouette pacing up and down; father was talking to a stranger and brother joined mother from another corner of the street. They were clearly part of a search operation and I was the one who was lost. I needed them to see me so that I could be found. As soon as I came closer, mother pulled me by my sleeve and screeching through tightly-pressed teeth, asked me where I had been. Brother and father, not speaking at the get-go were waiting for the henchwoman to prove her patriarchal loyalty before giving their verdict. I cannot say I did not see this coming. In 25 years, I had never walked away from my family. Especially, as a young unmarried woman in Northern India going off-radar in an unknown city was a nightmare incarnate. Even if that off-radar duration was a few minutes and the location was at a stone’s throw – literally. Father had started cursing himself and his fate for the days he had to see. Brother did not miss a beat to prove his merit as the heir-apparent to the throne of the patriarch. The phone recording was replayed; brother puffed up his chest when his concern about father’s cardiovascular health came up and the recording was swiftly dismissed as evidence when my voice mentioned the name of the restaurant. None of this was new for me. Verbal assertion had failed me again. * Words can fall like dead bats on the ears of people who have already marked ‘the other’ as sinner unworthy of empathy or trust whether in a family or a country. Charity and politics begin at home. And the only take away I have from this day is that it is not going to be easy and the action is least likely to be understood for its context but if it helps with living a dignified life, walk away. ***