Waiting

Dear Reader,

The painting is one by Yuri Pimenov, an expressionist. It’s called ‘Waiting’. Thus, my story is titled the same. I had to write a short story on this for an examination, and it turned out quite well. It isn’t exactly the same since my paper isn’t with me, but a modified version nonetheless.

Roma slid her scarred back against the rough wood of the shelf, as she sobbed incessantly. She had finally gained the courage to make the call. Even though the conversation had ended, the telephone receiver was lying there on top of the shelf, unattended and misplaced. She could hear it beeping. Little did she care about the receiver or the aftermath of the heavy rains; a dull evening, the sound of a damaged street lamp outside the window of her apartment, a car honking on the narrow road between two buildings in an undeveloped and unsought after area of Bombay, with potholes that were now overflowing with contaminated water, a peddler cursing the driver for taking up his business space, and dozens of children playing cricket on the road which was narrower than a pitch. She sat there in pain, her bruises feeling like a thousand needles being pricked into her body, all at once and wept.

Unlike the rest of her friends, Roma looked like a simple, unfashionable woman. Her hair was always in a tight plait or a bun; the only piece of jewelry that ornamented her body was her gold hoop earrings. She tried her best to look beautiful in the limited means that she had. Her face was thin and her body appeared fragile. She didn’t look like a particularly happy woman. Life just went on for her, and she could never define its purpose. Roma wasn’t like this before her parents had arranged her marriage to that devil of the husband she had been living with for over two years now. She was well-to-do, healthy and free. She was cheerful and was loved by everyone she interacted with. She was a charming young woman, intelligent for her time. She was beautiful.

Things had moved downhill after she got married; she wasn’t allowed to continue teaching, which was her hobby and her well paying job, the income from her husband’s side was just enough to sustain the two of them: where he got the luxury to audaciously waste money on drinking at the bar every evening while she would simply sit next to her window and stitch. Over a year after they had got married, and had been trying for a boy child Rakesh wanted, she was diagnosed with incurable infertility. Hence, she continued to live her mundane life aimlessly, where she was constantly reminded her unsuccessful and incomplete life as a woman, by her imbecile husband. A child was all she could have hoped for to make her life slightly better, and that too was snatched away from her, just like a beggar’s blanket getting stolen on a winter night.  

Everyday was the same; waking up early, cooking for Rakesh, getting ready, cleaning the miniature apartment and pointlessly spending the dull day. In the evening, she’d stitch to distract herself from the fear of her husband getting back from the bar and having a new form of torture in store for her. Occasionally, she would sneak out in the afternoon and have a chat with her comparatively rich and happier friends who owned boutiques and salons in the next street. She wouldn’t share her problems with them, because she believed in making the most out of the few spare hours she got away from the depressing house, her beastly husband, and her tired soul and brain. She was genuinely glad that they had more meaningful lives, but the tinge of jealously would sting her every now and then, reminding her that her life was half as uneventful as theirs, yet, in all the wrong ways. Roma had some time to meet her friends this afternoon, but even after trying her best, she couldn’t cover the bruises near on her forehead and ears, so she just sat patiently and stitched. She had memorized helpline numbers from the magazines she had read at her friends’ parlors and boutiques. She recollected seven of them quicker than she could recall her parents’ numbers, who she was refrained from contacting and venting to. Rakesh would threaten her every week, but the voice of his last threat rang in her mind long after he had left, louder than anything else. She bore her head between her bleeding knees and cried while the heavy downpour quietly receded like a misbehaved child shamefully dismisses himself from class, she recollected, “Don’t you dare pick up the phone, you nasty bitch! You call anyone, and I fucking swear to God that I’ll kill you.”

Rakesh had never threatened to kill her before. She was terrified; numb as he had tightly wrapped his fingers above her elbows, suffocating the skin, and marking a significant print on her hand as he mercilessly dragged her across the teen feet wide room just to throw her on another chair. ‘How did all of this start?-’ she thought as she lifted her head, sobbing, ‘What did I do to make it start? What have I ever done?’ Numerous such questions crossed her mind, where she tried her best to find an answer, even though she had no fault in it. Yet, she stared at the door and recalled about the incidents that had taken place an hour ago.

The beatings had gotten more frequent than usual; normally, it was once in two weeks or so, but it had been two consecutive days of inhumane slaps and thrashing for Roma. The wounds from the previous day hadn’t even healed. It only got more barbaric that Friday. She was sitting next to the window and stitching a blue cardigan for her mother’s birthday next week. In a dull lit living room of that miniature apartment, she sat alone between a lamp and a window to make maximum use of the available light, and intricately weaved.  She stopped for a minute, and looked at the reddish-blue clot starting from the end of her thumb, down her wrist, almost up till her elbow. Her eyes moved to her swollen feet as she was reminded of last night’s thrashing, again. She teared up; and let them fall as they moistened the half- stitched cardigan on her lap. She stared into nothingness with emptiness in her eyes, pondering over her everlasting life-crisis.

 ‘How will I end this?-’ she thought out loud, ‘Why can’t I give him a god damn baby?’ she burst into a heartrending cry, and stretched the half-knit cardigan across her face, bearing her face in it. Fifteen minutes of sobbing, and then she finally stopped. But her heart still ached. She hated herself, for daring to speak up in front of Rakesh. The frequency of these outbursts had become unhealthy. The negativity around her was like a parasite, crushing her natural optimistic self, making her a frail figure standing alone in a dark and empty room. That was her life, summed up in ten words.  Roma saw the door knob turn in front of her. Rakesh’s silhouette emerged as the door flung open. His paunch consisted of all the liquor he drank before coming home. He was dressed shabbily, with a half unbuttoned shirt exposing his repulsive chest and loose, stained, brown trousers. Not a soul would believe that he belonged to the professional class.

Roma brushed off any sign of tears on her face, and stood up, with a stern expression.

 “Where’s my food?” Rakesh slurred, as he stumbled into the room, swinging the door shut behind him.

“There’s no bread.” She replied, hesitating.

“You’re a worthless bitch….Why couldn’t you tell me before? WHY?”

“I was telling you in…the morning-”

“OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND TALK, WOMAN. WHERE IS MY GOD DAMN FOOD?”

“-But-no money-” she said in desperation.

“Why the fuck isn’t it here, on the table? What the hell do you do sitting at home all day?” he shouted, storming towards her. Roma dropped the cardigan on the ground and stepped aside.

“First you don’t give me a baby. Second you don’t even prove your worth by being a good wife. You can’t even cook my dinner, useless piece of shit.” Rakesh’s unshaved face was a few centimeters away from hers. As he spoke, she had no choice but to inhale the stench of liquor off his body and his breath. She bowed her head, and looked at the sweater on the ground.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, woman. Don’t be a prick!” Rakesh shouted, pushing her head upwards with a tight grip on her hair. She closed her eyes tight to resist the pain. “LOOK AT ME!” he bellowed, tightening his grip. She opened her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. Her face wore an expression of helplessness and fear as she stammered, “Please don’t-” and that was exactly when he lost complete control, as his rough palm landed on her cheek, and he pushed her head against the wall, dragging it mercilessly while she shrieked. He stormed off in a fit of rage, destroying the furniture, and anything else he could find. Facing the wall, Roma continued sobbing. He lifted the chair she was earlier sitting on, and banged it to the ground, as she shivered, not even daring to look at him. He dropped all the decorations and necessities off the dinner table, as he yelled, “Why the fuck do you even live here if you can’t buy some fucking bread yourself and cook me a god forsaken meal?” She shrunk to the ground, weeping and shivering. She had no money to buy the bread, and when she had tried asking him for some, he walked straight out of the house without even responding to her. Roma knew that she wasn’t the one to blame; yet, she faced the endless torture with courage.

The electricity went as the thunder outside grew louder, and droplets began to fall from the black skies. He stomped towards her in anger, lifted her by the arm and slapped her hard. Two, three, four, and they continued as he screamed in frustration while she screamed in agony. There they were, in the house illuminated only by the street lamp outside the house as the pitiable wife was ruthlessly thrashed by her beastly husband. Rakesh flung Roma by her arm, onto the ground, as she let out a cry of despair, and slammed the lampshade on her back. The hot bulb landed on her lower back and she screeched in pain, beating her hands and legs on the bare floor. He lowered his face leveling it to hers, as he said, “Not a word to a soul.” And all she could do was cry harder. She struggled to stand with the help of the table’s leg. In excruciating pain from her burnt back and a few glasses pieces in her palms, she succeeded in the mammoth task. Rakesh stood there, staring at her with hatred in his drunken-red eyes. 

Roma feared Rakesh, like a donkey fears its ruthless master. She was the victim of her husband’s intoxicated fury. Her heart would race out of the terror of him being around. As he walked up to the struggling, injured woman, she breathed in to hold her tears back and closed her eyes. Rakesh shouted in anger, “LOOK AT ME? DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS?”

“Stop. Or-” she said, gathering some courage. The spontaneity of the courage startled Roma herself, and she dreaded her moment of bravery then itself.

“OR? Are you seriously threatening ME? Do you know that I can do anything to you, and all you can do is stand there like a wimp? Do you? Fucking bitch. How dare you!-” He grasped her hair and continued, “Don’t you dare pick up the phone, you nasty bitch! You call anyone, and I fucking swear to God that I’ll kill you.” The honesty in his voice was shocking. Roma stared into his eyes and knew, that from that moment onwards, living in that house was a risk to her life. He gritted his teeth in anger, pushing a chair aside, and flinging her onto it with his fingers making an imprint on her hand. She burst into tears with unbearable pain and sat on the chair, hopelessly waiting for the next beating.

Roma could faintly see the stains on the white wall across her. It brought back unforgettable and agonizing memories; of the day, about 3 months back, when Roma had taken a mild interest in making herself look like a 24 year old woman of her age, and not like a weary  woman of thirty five. She had bought some hair dye to colour the white strands which were evidently visible. She didn’t suspect that Rakesh would return early that evening, so keeping herself slightly entertained, she waited till the time the dye package instructed that she could wash the colour off. She went exactly by the clock; when eleven minutes were remaining, her husband came home early, drunk. His first reaction was a condescending laugh, embarrassing her of daring to think that making this effort would make a difference. He laughed and said, “Why do you want to look young? You’re sterile anyway. Wasting my money on this shit.” For his entertainment, he dragged her forehead a few centimeters across the wall, after which he slapped her, and things got ugly again. The stain of her hair dye rested permanently on the wall, prohibiting her from experiencing a shade of joy, and provoking her to constantly think about her dreary life and eternal suffering.

Rakesh threw his wife of the chair with a jerk, and walked off from the house in anger. As the door shut, the last hint of lighting was lost; the street lamp outside the window was damaged by the lightening.  After a fit of weeping, she crawled to where she was initially stitching, except now that there was no chair resting there, and pieces of glass pierced through the skin on her knees.

 Roma’s shifted her eyes from the door, as she was struck with a realization. Even though her back still tingled with pain, her knees and palms still bled, and the pain from her old bruises were only intensified, she thought about her moment of valor. She had stood up to her barbaric husband for once; and even though she was brutally punished for it, the fact remained that she did perform an act of courage. Living in that house was a threat to her life now, and she knew that. His threat and beatings flashed across her mind. Roma was hesitant. She stretched out her knees and her palms in front of herself and thought, “This is what he has made me. I can’t.” The seven numbers she had naturally memorized were running through her mind. Her heart raced. “If he finds out, I’ll be dead. I can’t.” Those numbers forced her to think about the life she could lead, going back to her parents and friends in Chennai. A life with a reason to live; not having to think of jumping out of the window she stitched sitting next to, or not having to think multiple times before picking up the phone from the shelf which was a hand’s length away from where she would stitch seemed to comfort her.

The numbers induced the drive in Roma. She knew she had to take a stand, and this was the only moment she could do it. If her husband entered, she would be killed, but if he didn’t, she could turn her life around. “I have to do it. I can do it. It’s my only chance. I will save myself.” Roma got goose bumps as she said it out loud, taking in a deep breath. Suddenly, all the excruciating pain was secondary. She stood up, with the help of the shelf and reached out to the telephone. With faint light from the street lamp on the opposite side of the street, she dialed the first number that flashed across her mind.

“This is Women Suicide Helpline number, Mumbai are you alright?” said a female’s voice, with genuine consideration.

“I need…help…” Roma spoke, holding the telephone cord as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Tell me what’s wrong, I understand, I’ll help you.”

“I’m hurt..my husband…he threatened to-”

“Threatened to?”

“Um..I can’t..he said he’ll kill me if I ask for help.” She finally said it, under one breath. Her shivering shook the cord.

“We need your name and address, we’re coming right away. Hang on, we won’t take more than 5 minutes. Nothing will happen to you. We’re coming.”

“C7 203 BIT Chawl 1…near Bombay Institution deaf and dumb, Tadwadi. Name is..Roma Yadav.”

“We’re just coming, hold on.”

The call ended. Roma dropped the receiver and it lay on the shelf; she couldn’t believe that she had just made the call. She slid her burnt back against the shelf and sat down. All she had to do was to wait for five minutes and her life would change. She was overwhelmed by her courage. She knew Rakesh could come home any moment, but she took all the possible risks she would have never taken, even in her wildest dreams. Overcome by a range of emotions, Roma wept; wept for relief, wept for her courage, and wept for her strength. She wept from pain and she wept from joy.  At last, Roma wept for freedom. 

With Love.