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Chapter 4 by Author Sandeepa Mukherjee | #WriteWithChitra #StoriesConnectUs

Chapter 4

Manorama was not sure she had heard him right.

But there was nothing there to distract her, so really what was her excuse? It was not as if Divya and Aarav were fighting and shouting, ‘Mummy, you have to come here now!’. There was no Vinod singing the latest Bollywood song totally off-key as he tossed noodles in the wok. There was no background score at all. No, she had heard the boy all right, distinct and clear.

With the sun casting shadows across her balcony, it seemed as if even the birds were now quieter, speaking in hushed tones.

Manorama pressed the phone to her ear, cleared her throat, and a bit too loudly said, ‘Can you repeat that please?’ Her voice sounded harsh to her own ears.

A slight hesitation was palpable in the voice on the other end.

‘Errm … I thought you knew Vinod. I am his son.’ The voice on the other side was clear but unsure. A young man’s voice. Not a child anymore. And yet, young. Innocent. Hopeful

‘Which Vinod are you talking about?’ Manorama’s voice was gruff, even though she had not meant for it to come out that way. She didn’t know this boy. She didn’t know this Vinod. There were many Vinods in Mumbai.  Even movie stars are named Vinod. Vinod Mehra, Vinod Khanna, Vinod Dua, Vinod Nagpal. She used to be a big fan of Vinod Mehra, such a good actor he was.

‘Chaudhury. Vinod Chaudhury?’

Manorama’s heart thrummed loudly against her rib cage. What was this happening? What this some kind of cruel trick? Why couldn’t she have just disappeared into thin air too, as everyone else seemed to have done?

‘He is an architect … at Gem Architects,’ continued the young man.

Manorama was finding it hard to breathe. Her voice choked, as if an invisible rope was strangling her. She dragged herself to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of cold water and slowly took a sip.

‘How did you get my number?’ she whispered into the phone.

‘You were on my contact list. Right after my “Ma”, was your name “Manorama”. I don’t know how it came to be there; maybe because this is my Dad’s old phone. When he got his iPhone, he gave me this one. But do you know where he is? I can’t seem to get through to anyone,’ the boy asked.

‘I know nothing, leave me alone,’ Manorama said harshly and disconnected the call. The only other human voice she had heard all day went silent.

An eerie silence descended over the room. Yesterday, when she came back home after work, the street was bustling as usual and she had cursed the cacophony of car and auto horns. ‘Can’t we ever get some peace and quiet around here?’ she had grumbled to herself. She remembered the bhelpuriwala at the society gate and shouts of children returning from their game of cricket. Aarav was with them, running across as soon as he saw his mother, announcing loudly how he had hit a sixer. She had got two packs of Bhelpuri and a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk for him from the kirana store right across the gate. She remembered the sweet and spicy chutney on the bhelpuri and licked her dry lips.

Today the silence was thick and dense. You could cut it with a knife like a three-layered dark chocolate cake.

The boy’s words sat heavy like an immovable rock on her chest. What did he say about Vinod? Was he playing a prank on her? What kind of a joke was this? Vinod, her husband of twelve years, Vinod Chaudhary, senior architect at Gem Architects was that boy’s father? That boy who was not Aarav but a young man? How could that be?

Manorama felt restless. She did not know which answer to look for anymore. She was a logical person. One who analyzed situations, and did not succumb to emotions. But the alternate universe she seemed suspended in defied all logic. She tried to organize her thoughts and think, but it felt useless.

All of a sudden, she realized she was hungry. She had not had any food since morning. She found herself craving a bowl of Maggi, something to anchor her to reality — a bowl of Maggi Masala, slightly soupy with a dash of green chilli sauce, garnished with some dhania patta. However, she did not have the energy for that. Instead, she grabbed a pack of Parle G, hungrily munching on them as she flicked on the TV. A toothpaste ad was on. She felt relieved at the sound of human voices. After the ad was over, the news started. Manorama sat upright, her body slightly bent toward the telly. So then, the newsrooms were working as usual. Maybe they would throw light on the situation, she hoped. She bent forward a little more. The newscaster read out the news in a flat tone. Manorama listened closely. There was a virus in Wuhan, China, killing everyone, said the newscaster. For a second, Manorama stiffened, not knowing why. And then she realized that she’d heard this broadcast before. This was yesterday’s news. The exact news from yesterday was being played over and over. There was no one in the newsroom. Tears stung her eyes and a cold chill went down her spine, as if her blood carried tiny icicles.

Manorama reached for her phone and redialed the last number. Again. And again.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Write with Chitra!

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Read –
Chapter 1 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Chapter 2 by Sumira Khan
Chapter 3 by Krusha Sahjwani

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