by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
Everyone looked up. Well, almost everyone. And then, quickly, but without the hurriedness of embarrassment, they all went back to what they were doing. The man in the suit to his newspaper; the younger man in a hoody to his tablet; the pretty girl to her – oh wait, sorry, she was not among those who had looked up; the beautiful – because, obviously, newly married – couple, back to chatting with each other; the oldest gentleman back to his dozing-off; the woman in the glasses to her book. So, yes, life settled back to the lazy normalcy expected in an airport waiting lounge. The sharp, undramatic violence perpetrated by a young mother on her bratty kid is far too mundane a public incident to deserve any extended period of attention; it is especially boring if the kid doesn’t cry.
Two eyes did not need to go back to anything else, however. They had been watching that bratty kid ever since he had slipped out of the protective reach of his mother and started playing with his monster truck toy. They had watched him gingerly taking bold steps away from her – farther and farther until he had strategically placed himself in a fairly open floor-space, free to build his imaginary dirt-tracks, invisible trucks, and other necessary monstrosities. They had watched him skillfully verbalizing creative whooshing sounds to complete his mental spectacle of a raging, crashing, mad truck race. And, they had watched him carelessly forgetting the invisible tether of his mother to lie belly down, cheek touching, nose rubbing on that oft-trampled carpet with its international, invisible dirtiness – a carelessness which culminated in that mundane, boring violence and a teeth-gritting “Neel, how many times do I have to tell you not to … ?”
As the young mother yanked her boy away from all that dirt, and went back to restart her wait for the flight, bundling him into a more protective, very visible angry clutch on her lap, those eyes looked on. And, the lady – who was clearly in her late thirties now, and to whom those eyes belonged – clutched a little tighter, the only thing that was on her lap – a handbag: expensive, obedient, unmoving.
Her husband had been watching too. Not the kid, though. He had followed her gaze all right, to see the boy playing, and caught a glimpse of that snap drama between him and his mother. But he was intently following the changing expressions on his wife’s face. He had seen them before. And, every time it wrenched his heart. A hint of gentle warmth to begin with, as her otherwise indifferent gaze suddenly caught sight of some kid playing or prattling, followed by a steady period of forgetful involvement – even if only from a distance – that seemed to tease her with a vicarious happiness, and then a sudden jolt-like break back to the reality of barren emptiness. But this time he saw something else too. The invisible tethers of her momentary possession now snapped off, she had turned to look at her husband. And he saw in her eyes a roving, beseeching entreaty that was pregnant with the kind of potency which only ultimate despair spawns.
He knew what that entreaty was. They had talked about this, fought over it. It had, at one time, almost ruined their marriage. But they had pulled through. And he had been grateful that they had. Finally, they had decided never to talk about it again. She had kept her promise. And he had made Guilt his compatriot. He had convinced both of them that he just did not have it in him to love someone else’s child as his own. She knew that she could. He knew that more.
His unforgiving guilt came rushing back from that silent entreaty. He had to look away. If only his heart would just acquiesce in her wish. He wanted them to be happy. But, forced acceptance doesn’t beget that – not when it is done for life.
The engines had steadied into the roaring purr of cruise mode. Dinner was done. The lights had dimmed. And most people, now back after the flurried use of restrooms, had started settling back into invisible, stuffy cocoons of private loneliness. Routes adopted by individuals to forget a continuous nagging compromise for legroom, or a jostle for elbow space, or to get closer to something preferable like sleep varied: a book here, a glass of sparkling water there; some white wine, some red wine; some orange juice, some apple juice; some movie, some song. The children, however, did not compromise nor did they have a particular taste for loneliness. So, they either slept, relieved that the ear-blocking pain inflicted during take-off had finally subsided, or grew emboldened by the pampering feigned smile of the pretty stewardesses.
Smile or not, our bratty kid had, of course, grown emboldened again. So when the mother had to go use the restroom, he had to get into “action”. The flavour of the day being the monster truck toy, and the punishment of it being taken away being such an impelling motivation, there was only one choice of action for him. Get up, reach the upper baggage compartment somehow, and salvage the toy. Achieving the “somehow” was where all the boldness was necessary. With time pressing against the imminent return of Mother Forbidder, the solution presented itself to the kid quite clearly. All he had to do was get on the arm-rest by the aisle, stand up carefully, lean against the baggage compartment, flip it open – just the way the adults did it – and voila, have the toy back! Of course this was never going to work; but try telling that to the kid. Try telling “it’s never going to work” to any kid.
So he tried. He got up shakily – but boldly, of course – on the arm-rest, steadying himself somewhat by holding on to the seat top. Then, drawing the attention of a few fellow adults who were still not done trying to fall asleep, he began to reach for the baggage compartment with one hand. There is a certain benumbing sensation – even without the wine – in a flight cabin which foists a lulling inertia among all – children excluded. And so it was not surprising that none had jumped out yet to stop this kid. And thus his mission continued uninterrupted. But, it still was not going to work – which is exactly what he found out momentarily after he had let go of his other hand from the seat top. Instead of being able to lean against the compartment, his body swerved the other way round – backwards into the narrow aisle space. But, even as he instinctively stiffened at this alien danger of falling on his back and, more importantly, had an instinctive realization of the implications of that, he suddenly found himself being lifted up by a pair of strong arms.
No, not the mother! He clutched at the man’s shirt and with a real terror that had swiftly dissipated all boldness, he looked at the stranger’s kind face. Within moments, terror turned to grateful relief, and he allowed himself the safe luxury of putting his arms around the stranger’s neck, and burying his face on his secure shoulder. The stranger twitched a little, and then a few seconds later put him back on the seat. The fear of physical pain now gone, a more important fear gripped him: Mom! The only thing he could do with a frown writ large on his face was to put forth a beseeching entreaty, “Don’t tell Mommy. Pleeease!” The stranger smiled, nodded, and went back to his seat.
Mommy returned. And true to the honour of that nod, the stranger didn’t tell. And bratty kid, now really safe, went to sleep.
The stranger, however,didn’t. He couldn’t. His wife was asleep. She was tired, indifferent to easier compromises.
He had to go to the restroom. He didn’t need to. But he needed to get away from something or may be to something else. Once liberated inside the privacy of the cramped restroom, he stood there staring at the platform for changing baby diapers. He rubbed his neck, thinking, staring, and remembering. Then he caught his reflection in the mirror. And, he saw a smile. He looked closer, still holding his neck, still smiling. And he noticed that something was finally missing in the reflection after a long, long time. His old compatriot, Guilt, had suddenly become invisible. He used the flush hearing the blast of air sucking in the dirt that never was there to begin with. Thus completing the ritual of cleanliness, he went back to the empty place beside his wife.
She woke up – bleary eyed and indifferent. And found her fingers clasped in his, in a strange, long-lost warmth. He had a faint glint of happiness in his eyes. She knew that look from a distant, forgotten memory. But he was not looking at her. She followed his gaze, and found that kid grinning at him shyly from an aisle seat couple of rows ahead. And then as she looked back at her husband’s face, her roving eyes searched for that ever-so-present shroud of his invisible companion. She was still unsure whether this was something to be enjoyed yet, even as she couldn’t help dreaming about the surreal possibility of a happiness that she had always known to be forbidden. She frantically hoped, with the cautious thrill of uncelebrated triumph which each passing moment brought, that in the next moment she would not find that shroud, again. She didn’t. Ever again.
Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Mathematical Institute in the University of Oxford and works on the modelling of lithium-ion batteries. Prior to this he finished his PhD at IIT Kharagpur. Jeevan prides himself as one of the earliest contributors to Spark even though he has not done much by way of contributions in recent times! In terms of story ideas, he loves the wacky and the improbable. He adores delightful twists, clever word-plays and ideas which turn conventional wisdom on its head.
Pic by https://www.flickr.com/photos/weesen/
