rumjhumThere’s a knocking on the door that you must answer, but you are not ready to answer it. You have to put down those words circling your mind like a theme from a musical; you have to put them down immediately before they vanish. But your hands won’t move on the keyboard, because of the knocking. It must be him. You feel some relief even though you were not thinking of him, at least not with that part of your mind which always deals with the writing bug that burrowed into you with the urgency of a Japanese Bullet Train, when the children grew old enough to be sent (“packed off”, he’d said) to a boarding school. You release a long breath and get up without putting the words down.

The angry voice inside your mind reminds you that the words you ignored in order to answer the door will not return. No matter how hard you concentrate later, they will not return. The angry voice has a habit of triggering off a virtual tirade inside your head, aided by jagged pieces of memory that tell you again and again that nobody cares about your writing and your desire to be a much feted author; least of all him. You are after all just another housewife. Once upon a time you had a promising career; your upward mobility had been neck to neck with his; but that was before the babies arrived and you stepped indoors so he could soar outdoors. To be fair, he did his part by keeping you warm and up-to-date with all the latest gadgets, holiday destinations and smart-casual clothes. Nevertheless you cried often, acid tears stinging your heart.

It’s the usual story of syrupy sacrifice and martyrdom. You don’t feel special any more. Every rejection slip that drops into your inbox tells you how crowded the ocean is. Your only hope in a thousand is to get trawled up in a net among similar hundreds, to be served together in a blend of spices, consumed and then forgotten. You accepted this state of affairs years ago. But you have undying faith in your talent. You know you can do it; you know that you could have done it before. If only…

You savor the singed feeling that resentment produces inside you. It’s a flame fanned vigorously by the sense of martyrdom that has followed you like a faithful dog ever since your maternity sabbatical got stretched and stretched until it became voluntary superannuation. He knows how you feel.

He got a batch of visiting cards made, with your name and “Writer” written in sloping serif type below that, and your email and phone number and address on the reverse. You shrugged and put them away in a drawer. He bought you a pair of solitaires. You wore them. Then you told him flintily that you could have bought them yourself, if only… Later on you’d made up for it by cooking a good meal and doing nice things to him.

Sometimes, in moments of weakness, which have a habit of hitting you in the middle of a good day of writing, you feel like throwing your arms around him and telling him that he’s the best thing that happened to you and he must be patient. Oh, he must. He must, for the good day will surely arrive, and all his privations and yours too, will be gone forever. But today is not such a day. Your footsteps stamp your irritation on the floor, because you have to answer the door. And, the words are gone. He will notice your irritation and enter quietly. He will wash up and watch TV; later on he’ll ask you in a soft voice if you would like a drink before dinner, and depending on your answer, he will either fill two glasses or continue watching TV. There is buoyancy in your step as you visualize his face. You swing open the door.

There’s nobody there. You blink a couple of times in the late afternoon sunlight. You watch the watchman as he slowly ambles towards you. You hear him say in his creaky but patient voice that the courier boy didn’t wait because you took so long to open the door.

[Author’s note: This whimsical piece won honorable mention in The Verb Magazine’s “Looking at You Contest” and an excerpt was posted in the October 2007 issue of The Verb. It is pretty much my own story; one of those days when the writer within is angry!]

Rumjhum Biswas’s fiction and poetry have been published in all the five continents, in print as well as online journals and anthologies. She has won prizes for poetrry in India and was long listed in the Bridport Poetry Prize in 2006. She blogs at htt://rumjhumkbiswas.wordpress.com