The call...

 The call

She:

A cold blustery morning in Darwin. Mid June.  The temperature outside was freezingly cold.  Visibility was down to a few hundred feet.  The legendary crocs that supposedly considered every residents back yard as their own, had disappeared. 

Just a few night owls hooted in protest of the weather.  No sound of crickets or the frogs- sounds that always were a ‘given’ and a source of comfort for her.  Their daughter was fast asleep.  Her husband off on another one of his overseas assignments. 

She sat alone. 

Alone .

In the glow of a simple tungsten lamp.

 Her warm night clothes covered by an even warmer blanket. 

The tears she had shed threatened to become mini icicles on her face.  She stared. . .  blankly, at the picture in front of her. 

On her book shelf.  

A family portrait.  Taken in India when Jim and she had visited Amma and Appa.  Jim in an awkwardly tied veshti, the rest of them looking dapper in traditional clothes.  

Appa looked the best.  Confident.  Fit and smiling like he had just won the lottery. 

He

At seven in the evening it was still a blistering 29.5 degrees.  That’s how it was in summers in Betul.  – in the heart of India.  Deep in the forest, he sat in a small mud house. 

No electricity.  

No running water. 

No nothing.  

Except the pleasure he derived from working with rural folks on his avowed mission of taking education to those who didn’t know a school from a ‘Daaru Khaana’. 

The village boasted one phone . . . 

 that worked on occasion.

The occasion being when the so called post man was not drunk. 

Today he was. But his hut was next door, so he was not worried.  An owl hooted somewhere in the surrounding forest. As if in reply a fox howled and crickets and frogs chirped and chortled, bit players in a forest symphony. 

He heard none of it.  He didn’t smell the first drops of the summer shower or see the fire flies dancing to the forest’s tune.  He sat. . .  his ears attuned, awaiting the sound of a telephone to ring next door

He and she

The telephone had rung 4 hours before.  

She

“Akka” said her parents’ neighbour , the voice disembodied and rendered lifeless by poor electronics. “ Appa has had a stroke.  They have rushed him to hospital.  They need to operate immediately.  Can you come ? We are all afraid.  Amma is under sedation.  There is no one else here.  

He

“ Beta . . . . .  Baadhai ho! . . . . . meri beti. . ..   that is to say, also your wife is  in labour.  . 

Gone to ispithal.  With your saasu  -that is to say my wife . . . Cheers beta. . .  get on an aeroplane . . . jhaldi. .  I am soon to become Dadu  . . .  cheers .  They are saying some Caesar- veesar. . . .  I am said  aree king he tho tha Caesar”

Chaggan lalji. . .  Father in law -12th pass. 

She

“No flights possible in such a short time Maam”. 

He

“Nathing sir .  Koi possibility nahi hai “

He /  she

So they waited.  Waited for the phone to ring.  Below and  above the equator, strangely conjoined  by the conundrum that is life.  

She

The  night was silent. Not a single sound.  None at all.  Not even the ticking of their clock. In her head she could hear Appa’s laughter.  . .  like she had all her life.  

He

The fireflies had stopped their ballet. The symphony took on a new vigor. He heard nothing. . . . . 

Just her voice saying-“ Be there na, when we have our first baby. “ 

She

A storm suddenly hit .  Rain.  Hail.  Wind.  Little plants tried their best to hide  . . .  Away from its devastating force. 

He

The summer rain was a welcome relief.  Little seedlings struggled to push the mud away from their heads . . . and feel the rain.  

She/ He

They waited.  Worlds apart.  One fearing death. . . . . .  one fearing the balance between life and death. 

Both waited for the phone to ring.  

And then. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the phone rang. 

Sorry... Wrong number.

  

It started with a phone call. Late one night. Eyes heavy with sleep, I stumbled across to the phone in my living room. Who could be calling at this hour?

 “ Hello”, I said. It was a feminine voice that answered,” Could I speak to Piyaratna please?”

A wrong number, this late in the night! Trying to keep the irritation out of my voice I told her as much. Then she surprised me. Shook me out of my sleep.' Please don't cut the line', she said. All I could manage was a mumble. 'You have a lovely voice', she said. I had been told that before. Many times. After all I am an announcer and my voice reaches out to you everyday, selling soaps, mobile phones, fairness creams and dreams.' It is so calm', she continued, 'almost like a caress. You know, it makes me feel secure. Would you mind if I just spoke to you for a few minutes?' I started to say how strange the whole thing was when she cut in, ' I know its late and you are probably wondering who I am, what this is all about and such. Please! Will you just listen to me? I need to speak to someone. I have nobody to turn to.' I must have hesitated for a second before saying yes.

She did not tell me her name nor ask for mine. We were just disembodied voices on opposite ends of a telephone line. She lived in Colombo. A married woman, she was a victim of marital abuse. A husband who drank too much and spent far too much time at work. Suspicious about her every social contact, he kept her away from his friends and encouraged her not to have any.

She was young and in need of a shoulder to cry on, even if it was a stranger on a wrong number. And cry she did. Now I am no macho male who sits through Titanic and burps as Jack slips into an icy grave… I carry a sizeable hanky or a packet of tissues. The sight of a woman crying does something to my heart and I am overwhelmed by a deep sense of compassion and concern. Just listening to her cry filled me with a deep sense of concern and anger. What kind of a brute would treat his wife with such cruelty? Animals like him should be put away, 

I thought. I didn't say as much, after all you can't sit in judgment over a stranger's husband. I hardly knew this person. She was just a voice, albeit a voice that I was slowly beginning to like. The lilting Sri Lankan accent, the occasional Sinhala word creeping into the conversation… yes! I was enjoying speaking to her.

We must have spoken for over an hour before she said she had to go. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. In an instant she was gone. I stood there cradling the receiver in my hand lost in thought. I needed a drink.

Now, I am a married man and this had got me very confused. Should I tell my wife about this mystery caller? No, I thought, this was just a random incident. Why trouble her with the details…and she was fast asleep in her bedroom in any case. Nursing my drink, I walked back to the living room. 

The next day was a nightmare. I found myself distracted and preoccupied. I couldn't seem to get the mystery caller out of my thoughts. I wondered what she might be doing, how lonely she must be, cooped up in her house. Alone, with nobody to speak to or even call. Alone, in her own bedroom which must seem like a prison to her.

I decided to leave early from work. Sitting in the office was getting me nowhere. I found myself heading to my favourite watering hole. A dimly lit bar near my office. I am no alcoholic, but I like my liquor. And I needed a drink now more than ever. How else could I get her out of my mind? The minutes merged into hours. The pegs accumulated into a bottle…and she didn't go away.

I stumbled home to an icy reception from my wife. She didn't speak a word to me, but then she doesn't often speak… not when she sees me in this state. A shower and a quick meal later I crept into bed. Try as I might, I couldn't sleep. So, I tiptoed back to the living room, poured myself a nightcap and found myself hovering around the telephone. Willing it to ring.

Then… it rang! It took all my strength to keep myself from lunging at it. I let it ring for a while before picking it up. It was her. 

We spoke late into the night. I knew I was falling in love with her. Was it the voice? The vulnerability in her?  Was it pity…I will never know. All I knew was that she meant something special to me. I was the only friend she had. Her only outlet, and yet I was just a voice. She wouldn't tell me her name and she didn't want to know mine. Its better that way, 

she said. I asked her for her number and she refused. She was too scared of her husband…what if he picked up the phone…her phone, which never ever rang. I hated him even more…a brute that gave his wife a separate phone and then never allowed her to entertain any calls. What torture. I found myself wondering if he was human.

We spoke everyday…late at night. My thoughts were filled with her. I found myself giving her a name…Damayanti. A princess from ancient Indian mythology. Damayanti, who urged the clouds to be her messengers and carry her love to her lover. My princess used the telephone lines.

I even painted a mental picture of her. Petite, with traditional features, she had long hair. Her eyes were gentle and compassionate with a hint of vulnerability. Like the eyes of a doe, big and beautiful. She was dusky and never wore western garments…the kind that flaunted her figure and attracted the eyes of strangers. She was soft and demure, probably been educated in an all girls' school. She was everything I ever wanted in a woman.

We spoke to each other for nearly 6 months. Then one night as I sat speaking to her, a drink in my hand, she gave in. After months of coaxing and cajoling she agreed to give me her number. She was fed up of living the life of a prisoner, she said, and talking to me had finally given her the strength to move out of her marriage. I could have danced for joy. Once I had her number, I could easily trace her address…and finally lay my eyes on the woman of my dreams.

'Hello…Hello…did you get that', she said.

'Huh?'… I had been dreaming. There was so much to dream about now. 

'Are you taking this down', she said.

I had sat 6 months with a pen and a scrap of paper next to the phone and now, finally, I could put it to use.

'525669.'

The world began to spin in front of my eyes…. and it wasn't the liquor. Not a sound escaped my lips. It was as if all my senses had ceased to function and a scream echoed endlessly within my head.

Hello…Hello… I could hear her on the other end.

525669…it was my wife's private number.