Cities That Walked – An Excerpt
Fiction: ‘For twenty-eight consecutive days, there had been no phone call from Oli’s house, from Ravti. You understand how the grave the situation is, an already unelectrified village, perhaps now shrouded in some unimaginable stillness.’
An edited excerpt from Adrija Chatterjee’s short-story collection Pilgrims of Reflection (Half Baked Beans, 2024) – available here.
The party had just picked up its tempo as Sewa munched upon her eighth cheese straw. The two of you spoke in the lingo of drunkards.
It was then, between flute glasses filled with vodka, and platters of thin-crust Hawaiian pizza, that Adi declared Oli’s arrival. “My wife might kill me for this,” he said. “but with an oath to protect my harmless little body, I wish to say I have committed myself to this rather big obligation.”
You, who sat upon the garden chair, limbs sprawled in relaxation, were probably too high to process such dramatic a scene.
“Dear wife: Sorry for breaking this so late,” Adi said. “But I have a cousin who has developed a rare medical condition. I promised that she could come and stay with us.”
15 minutes. That’s how long it took for you took to process the phenomenon of the coming days. As Adi drove back home that night, you ensured that your seat was far removed from the vicinity of the rearview mirror. It was a miracle that your head did not burst with emotions that mapped themselves in an uncertain jigsaw.
How could he? We are so busy throughout the day! We don’t stay home! With the little we do, how is it possible to be the caregiver for some physically incapable being?
The cloudburst moment probably arrived as you flung the heavy entrance door, hard enough to hit Adi in the abdomen. Inadvertent. Yet, it felt strangely cathartic to watch him writhe in a pain you felt he deserved.
“Oli suffers from aplastic anemia. Poor thing! My uncle barely has money to look after her treatment expenses. You know how things are in small villages!”
You never looked into his deep eyes; instead continued spreading the peanut butter upon burnt toasts.
“Uncle almost begged…” Adi said, “I could hear his voice choke, having her here can save him at least three to four months of rent, almost double his income for a year.”
In eight years of marriage, you had no idea how that uncle looked, let alone have any knowledge about the presence of a particular cousin—one who could barely walk, move, or support herself.
“We stay in Mumbai!” Adi said, “The hospital, where her doctor has agreed to commence her treatment at subsidized rates, is less than five kilometres from this house! We can manage this much humanity!”
The toasts were done, smothered with crunchy peanut butter, and a brown face that stared at the face of that imbroglio. Humanity, you chuckled, as Adi’s jawline tightened around his unkempt beard. It was obvious how the two of you were destined to retire into different bedrooms at the end of the day. Once Adi revamped the den, the teensy attempts to reconcile were long forgotten. You watched a new bed being installed, and cabinets and drawers brought into that room without a window. The room you never stepped in but hated to let go of.
*
The nurse whines away over the phone, speaking to her family who lived in some district of Ratnagiri. You know that it’s difficult to get through those weak networks in those remote places. You wonder, the what if of life minus this clamp down, Oli’s parents would have probably called twice a month, instead of the present one-time affair! These are times when one learns what to hang on to and what to let go of. It has been five minutes that the nurse has still not hung up on that family phone call. Oli has been calling, her usual feeble tone, the girl needs to be taken to the washroom.
“Kindly get over that telephone, your patient needs you!”
The nurse hurries off, not caring to sanitize her phone that stayed smeared with her nose picks and eye dust. For twenty-eight consecutive days, there had been no phone call from Oli’s house, from Ravti. You understand how the grave the situation is, an already unelectrified village, perhaps now shrouded in some unimaginable stillness. Yet, the what-ifs and buts never leave your side. Don’t they have acquaintances in nearby areas who could at least place a call out here? Someone they trust who can pass on information and everything!
Humanity, you chuckled, as Adi’s jawline tightened around his unkempt beard. It was obvious how the two of you were destined to retire into different bedrooms at the end of the day. Once Adi revamped the den, the teensy attempts to reconcile were long forgotten.
You let out a sigh, inadvertently, perhaps out of caffeine deprivation.
“We are left with little cyclosporin post the week starting 23rd of May,” the nurse announces in a monotone voice.
It sounds ominous, more than the moment of a last-hour Friday evening meeting with your superior. Did Adi listen? After all, he’s the one to own up to his responsibility. He emerges out of the room, almost instinctively. These days, you do not exchange a high five—physical or virtual. He switches on the television, which pops up high-definition colors. Your gaze turns towards Oli’s bedroom, the girl tries to catch a glimpse of that brightly lit screen every time it’s switched on. Her eyes marvel at the 55 inches of LED, but she never wants more of it, except for furtive peeps every now and then. Medicine, medicine… your mind wanders away.
Clampdown extends beyond April
Essential Services to run with glitches
Your telephone beeps amidst that macabre flash of headlines. The beep makes your heart pump fast, picking up the telephone, the screen displays a text from Sewa: Hope everything is fine, clampdown and bedroom. A wink follows it, which appears too dowdy in this situation. No message from Ravti, which means the money for treatment isn’t going to come in for the second month straight. The playlist on the mobile phone still plays along “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-da,” an all-time favorite from the Beatles.
The Health Minister requests for more data on State levels
Public Services shall remain partially open with the immediate option of shut down in case violations occur out of proportion.
The reporters blurt out facts in a manner more impersonal than necessary during this overwhelming time. It is difficult to decide whether it’s wise to break into a jig over the song on the playlist, or continue existing in that sullen face. You choose the latter: Imagination of happy nothings usually manifolded that feeling of darkness afterward.
The text from Sewa remains unanswered, there are way too many soiled bowls and dishes in that sink that need to be cleaned before dinner.
***
Adrija Chatterjee holds a M.Phil degree in Foreign Policy and Peace Studies. Her works have appeared in The Active Muse, The Alipore Post, Life and Legends, The Chakkar and elsewhere. She has been a CNF contributor for the anthologies Narratives on Women’s Issues in India: Vol 1 Domestic Violence (IHRAF New York) and Defy Definitions (Black Eagle Books). She is the author of the chapbook Beyond The Night Jasmine (2021). Pilgrims of Reflection (Half Baked Beans, 2024) is her debut collection of seven short stories. You can find her on Instagram: @ad29ct.
