METAMORPHOSIS- A Tale Of Despair And Hope

She closed the book, a marker within its pages. Lately she found she had trouble picking up where she had left off. Surely her memory wasn’t already playing up? At forty nine Shobhana considered herself fairly young, certainly not the next in line for an early case of Alzheimer’s. She gently rubbed her eyes and stretched. It was past eight, already time to go home. It had been yet another long day. She flicked off the lights and carefully locked the library behind her.

The watchman was checking the doors and windows. It promised to be a muggy night and he didn’t relish the idea of a ticking off from the Dean over wet classrooms. He spotted Shobhana Ma’m in the corridor and came running. Normally he preferred them to leave early, but when it was she, he didn’t mind. He liked her. In fact they all liked her. Such a “gracephoool” lady! So highly placed but not a proud bone in that elegant body. Always had a smile for everybody even lowly staff like him. It was a bonus that she was easy on the eye, but mind you, not a whiff of scandal in the thirty odd years he had known her. Not like the others, going “he! he! he! he!” all day with the Sirs. She was a wonderful teacher, they said, but they all kept their distance. She could strip off a layer at twenty paces, if it ever came to that. He hurried in the rain to hold the gate open and saluted as she passed. The lady had class. He wondered why she had never married.

She smiled in response to the watchman’s infectious grin. She wondered if it was the last of the day as she sped home. Rather, what passed for home. A three-bedroom on the fourth floor of a suburban block had seemed like a great idea when she had bought it first. She had furnished it with care and gradually it had taken life and a personality of its own, reflecting her sensitive yet easy going attitude. Its uncluttered, cosy, comfortable style offsetting the sombreness of an Egyptian papyrus here and an African wooden figurine there. She usually liked going home after a long day, especially to her gold fishes and Lothario.

The steady tattoo of the rain had grown and was now beating wildly against the windowpanes. Suddenly the thought of going back to an empty house was anathema to her. Sure Lothario would be expecting him, but he was far from a one-woman tomcat. He would seek boarding and lodging elsewhere. And sure, she had made the house as she had wanted it but at times like this she wanted more, much more. She needed a companion, to talk to, share her day and cuddle up to. Anything would beat the one-sided conversations with Lothario and falling asleep in front of the telly. She felt she couldn’t take one more day of that.

People often wondered, though lately they had stopped asking her, why she had never married. She had no answer to that. She did not know it herself. A reasonably good-looking woman from a decent family with a great education, she didn’t know how she never got around to marrying, when everybody else was. Of course, people speculated. Maybe an affair that had gone sour or a groom that had walked out from the mandap. Maybe she had three older unmarried sisters, or maybe she was a lesbian. She wished it were something as simple as that.

There had never been a dearth of men with honourable intentions. During post-graduation she had been positively inundated with proposals but she had wanted to be self-sufficient. Later she had taken up teaching at a University and that had meant moving away from her parents. Between handling projects, assignments and promotions, a wide friend circle, being cultural advisor to the Student’s Union and having no parent to remind her of the biological clock ticking away, she never knew when she missed the marital bus. But when the proposals started trickling down to those only from widowers, divorcees or rich paraplegics she knew she couldn’t live with that kind of a compromise. She would rather stay single. But they called her a spinster. She could even live with that had it not been for the strange looks everybody was giving her these days. Or was it her imagination?

She took a wrong turn. She couldn’t go home to that stark, bland, sterile atmosphere; she wouldn’t be able to tolerate the silence that screamed with the decibels of a thousand orchestras. She drove aimlessly around the streets, the rain beating down, echoing the downpour within her. She doubted if a husband and couple of kids would have made all the difference in her life. And what about bad marriages? Surely not being married was better than the hell of a dead relationship? Besides, she was not completely alone. She had friends, several, in fact. And Rita? How could she forget her? Rita, her friend, who was more of a sister. Her kids were the foster kids Shobhana never had and her loving husband Rajeev was almost like a brother. The two women hung out together all the time, mostly at Shobhana’s place. She felt uncomfortable impinging on the privacy of Rita’s family and a little guilty for monopolising her. Though she had been around forever, she felt Rajeev and the kids were a little restrained around her. But natural, that. Shobhana and Rita had shared everything together, their joys and sorrows, their achievements, their pains, fears and tears.

“Hey! Do come in, you’re wet. Is everything all right?”

“I just have to speak to Rita for a few minutes, then I’ll leave.”

“OK, but what’s the problem? Can’t you tell me? She has taken the kids to her mother’s place. She’ll be back tomorrow”, he explains. Hearing this Shobhana is crestfallen. Rajeev makes her sit down on the sofa and gives her a towel to wipe her hair.

“You look terrible. Have you eaten?”

“No”, she mumbles, she can barely talk. She is choking with emotion. She asks to use the loo as he goes to fix her some food.

-   -   -   -   -

She has consumed the hot cup of coffee and the remains of the dinner he had brought her.

 He pats her consolingly. He has never touched her before and is self-conscious doing so now. A fierce gush of wind blows. The candle falls to the floor and the room is plunged in darkness. As the pitch-blackness envelopes them Rajeev doesn’t know who made the first move, but they are in each other’s arms. Shobhana is still crying, he can taste the salt on her lips; it is the sweetest thing he ever tasted. He is desperately licking the tears off her face and frantically squeezing her soft curves. Her skin is hot but he is aflame. Her smell is intoxicating but he can barely breathe. He doesn’t know what’s happening but has never been so turned on in his life. This woman, who had never mattered before suddenly seems to be the sole desire of his life. He hears the blood roaring in his ears and his heart pounding wildly. His fingers shake uncontrollably as they tear at the buttons. He feels like he is going to burst.

Shobhana is handling this better. The deluge of tears is still flowing but she takes time to carefully remove the pins from her saree. She smiles at Rajeev’s desperation as her hands and tongue roam his magnificent body, wondering how she never noticed it before. Her defence is a no-go from the outset against his rampage. She lets him have his way right there on the dining room floor, an eager receptacle for his invasion. They have all night and later she can have her way, when she will not be rushed by him.