A Tangent Touch

Middle-class is a bad state to be in – any state, at the moment, anyway is – yet, to be economically middle-class immediately associates you with the concept of mentality – not quite liberated, most often conservative, but striving to reach out and touch that which is not. Mrs Dutta lost her husband in a matter of a second one night, when everything else was scripted – the fan was in full swing and the slight sound of its circle added the lullaby to their dinner, roti, chana-dal and chicken curry. They were sleeping a sound sleep, complete with each others’ snores, done with a day. In the wee hours when Mrs Dutta came back to her bed from the washroom, she was surprised to find no snores greeting her. Most of the consolation came in that he died a blessed death – no suffering, in sleep and peacefully.

Married quite early, their son was already around twenty when she became a forty-two year old widowed entity, which she insisted to impose upon herself by taking upon the whites like a garland of decorum. Arindam took up the father’s position, having ably graduated in Law. Suffering and self-control led them to come to terms with the sudden absence of the father of the family. What time had to heal, it did, or so it seemed. Mother and son, both, missed Mr Dutta.

In four years’ time, the son’s wedding arrangements began – with the one he loved since they were in school. Money was managed well by the extended family, and everyone was happy, in general, for the mother and son. “If winter comes, can spring be far away?” Even their honeymoon was a gift from one of the rich relatives. To put it squarely, their square house fit the feelings rather well.

The bride was home. Or, the world, one could say, if the square could be seen as a circle. It was a week into the marriage, and invitations filled up their slots. In most places, the older Mrs Dutta was invited too. Who wouldn’t like a graceful woman nearing fifty, delighting a party? She was an example. They still didn’t buy a car and stayed in the square house, their rooms next to each other – walls of which were not very well constructed. If one paid attention, from the other room, they wouldn’t miss the sounds of pleasure emitting from the room next. And it was not just the sound of love-making, but also conversations and snores. One could almost be in their room.

As was our Mrs Dutta, Senior. Happy for her son, and having no complains with his wife, a certain sense of loneliness gripped her each night, running through the day. She did not miss her husband, but she missed the intimacy of touch, and the privacy of conversations. Not knowing how to deal with it, one day, when Shraddha was off to her parents’, as she laid out the breakfast for Arindam, she suddenly slipped her hand inside his shirt collar, from behind.

“Why do they have an entirely different design inside?” she justified her act.

Arindam, quite obviously taken back, relieved with the justification, replied, “Style.”

Mrs Dutta confronted him and touched through his shirt buttons, meticulously not missing his skin. “Oh, they have the design on the button lapel too?” Arindam smiled nervously. “The fish is quite well made, Ma.”

“Made them with my own hands” she continued, as if in her own thoughts, and showed them to him, “Don’t you think they are rather special?” And almost as if back to the square, she said, “Magic!” and dissolved the tension with a laugh. A very silly laugh. That evening, Arindam was told by Mrs Dutta, Senior, that living in separate households would be a good idea.

“No, Ma. We don’t need to! Has Shraddha told you something?” Mrs Dutta, Senior, kept quiet.

“Arindam, I want to be on my own.” She came close to him, too close for comfort, touched his cheek, in a manner which conveyed the entire message. “Please.”

And so long we thought Jocasta couldn’t have a complex? 

I was speaking of the apartment community in which Mrs Dutta, Senior, went on to live in, hailed as the ‘perfect mother/in-law.’