the rogue data point... excerpt

here is an excerpt from a story i am supposedly working on, supposedly coz, i am not actually working on it. it is just sitting here...

To my happy place,

The source of youth, renewal, and forgiveness

To T,

For her receiver transmitter analogy

And

To Mohammad Rafi,

For singing so beautifully ‘tumne mujhe dekha, ho kar meherbaan, ruk gayi ye zameen tham gaya aasman’

(You looked at me, in kindness; the earth stopped, the heavens bowed)

Started: 17 March, 2009

Finished: not yet

Dr. Mahesh Dixit was at the clinic when the call came, a barrage of words that he is supposed to understand, but somehow do not seem to be making any sense. An accident, his wife, severe traumatic brain injury, subdural hemorrhage, the information does not sink in to the extent that he actually debates whether or not he should ask Patricia to cancel all his day’s appointments.

He drives himself to the hospital, all the time wondering if it was a mistake of some sorts, because shouldn’t she have been at work, what was she doing down at queen street anyways? It was only when he saw her, in the sterile hospital bed, surrounded by the low hum of equipment over which was the voice of this bright young thing, rehashing the very same words that Dr. Mahesh Dixit has himself fed to countless spouses and their families before, that a strange numbness spread down his arms. He glanced at the name tag, Gordon Smith, first year? He must have said it out loud because the bright young thing was now defending himself with medical jargon that doctors throw down at the simple folk. Dr. Dixit just stared at him, the numbness having now made its way to the rest of his body.

“Dr. Dixit! I have been waiting for you.” It was Janelle, one of his favourite nurses, from back when he was an attending neurosurgeon at this very hospital years ago. She glanced at the listless figure that was his wife, pursed her lips and looked away. Then with an effort that showed, she walked around the bed, and hugged him, “I am so sorry.”

Dr. Gordon smith had now stopped talking, it was the sheer helplessness of the young doctor’s expression that set off a cold bitterness cruising through Dr. Dixit’s veins, his stomach churning, and before he knew what was happening, he was throwing up in a bin.

The next few days are a blur. She never regained consciousness. He was never left alone. friends, or supposedly friends, they are all husbands of her friends, people who surround him, who look into the details of the funeral arrangements, and their wives who take over the home, filling it with so much unnecessary food. Women, when they don’t know what to do, they bring you food. And they say stupid stuff; like God’s will, and destiny, and she is in a better place; when they don’t know what to say why don’t they just shut up? He totally understands why Rohan has not come home, why he is staying at a friend’s place, and no matter what these women tell him, he is not going to call him until he knows what to say to a boy who has just lost his mother.

Sanjana was different, she came home, she cried, she hugged him, she went to see Rohan, she did the laundry, she did everything a sensible person would do, everything except she ironed her mother’s blouses and hung them in the exact color coded spot in her closet where she herself would have hung them. That was the only indication he had that Sanjana did not know what she was doing either.

These days he spends half his time trying to remember the last thing he said to her, it was something about a soap dispenser, it was not important at all, another one of those mundane conversations they have been having these past many years, only now, that conversation has acquired new meaning. What was it? He keeps racking his brains, what had she said? Somethigna about buying it on sale, what had he said? Something not nice, not intentionally bad of course, but he remembers having hurt her slightly, he had not meant to, and he knows that she knew that, she was not mad at him either. A lousy soap dispenser. This is nto what it should come down to, a twenty year long relationship ending with – not even an argument, not a fight, at least you could have had that, gone out with a bang, said something terribly mean and hurtful, something worth being guilty about for the rest of your life, but it was not that. Their last conversation was unremarkable, nothing stood out, no grand last words, no frilly promises, no instructions, no secret desires or wishes revealed, nothing, there was absolutely nothing in it that you could hold on to.

He had gotten her clothes, her bag, her shoes with a heel missing, and the remnants of what was her phone at the hospital that day. He has gone over the contents of her bag many times in order to make sense of what has happened. You see, he gets the old woman driving the car, looking away for a second, he thinks it is acceptable that Ipsita came out of nowhere, he understands the accident, the injury, and her subsequent death. All of that makes sense, the part he still doesn’t get, is just what was his wife doing at that place at that time? It is the kind of thing he cannot speak to anyone about, without making it look like he doubted her and he did not, it is just that it does not add up.

Her purse was full of junk you would expect, nothing out of the ordinary, make-up, wallet, cards, money, loose change, a couple of business cards – some investment banker and a nail salon, and receipts – a bag full of receipts, from all sorts of places, grocery, dry cleaning, gas. For all her organization, he wonders why she never threw out the garbage receipts, what did she plan to do with a receipt of bread bought five months back? You are not going to return it, why hold on to it? He has figured out that she had a dentist’s appointment that day, she evidently left work for it, her car was parked in the basement, why did she not drive? If she was not going to her dentist’s why did she not call to cancel? That was not like her at all; Ipsita was meticulous about keeping appointments, so why would she choose to miss an appointment she apparently left work for and then go in the exact opposite direction? It is the one fact that does not sit in with the rest, the one piece of the puzzle that stands out, the one question he would very much like answered.

It was almost a month after she had passed away that he noticed the coffee shop receipt from the day of her accident, and he didn’t tell anyone about it. He told Patricia to find him an hour’s break between patients and went to the place, with her picture, he felt guilty doing it, but he did not know what else to do. The girl remembered her, mostly because of the accident; she was sure the lady sat alone and did not talk to anyone. ‘She seemed thoughtful, pensive, you know, like she knew what was coming.’ This was said in a conspiratorial, half leaning into him, whisper. Dr. Dixit took in her blonde dreadlocks, the charms, her crystal bracelets; he realized he must have been staring at the pentacle on her neck, because she touched it and said ‘Oh! I am a witch, you know.’

‘Right. Right. Of course.’ He nodded, stepping back.

‘I can see you were related…’ it sounds like a question, takes him a few seconds to answer, ‘Yes, She was my wife.’

‘Oh I am so sorry.’

‘Thank you. But are you sure she was alone?’

‘Yes. But I am really sorry, I should have done something.’ He is perplexed what does she mean, ‘I saw her ethereal aura expanding, but I am new to reading auras and I doubted myself, I did not want to scare her, but now I know I was right, I should have warned her. I am so sorry.’

It is perhaps his professional training that reassuring people comes so naturally to him. ‘No, it was not your fault; don’t beat yourself up for it.’ He says. ‘Did it look like she was waiting for someone?’

The girl looks away, bites her lip, ‘Umm…. Now that you mention it, I think it was the other way round. I think she gave up on waiting for someone. Like she was finally ready to let go, to leave. You know.’ She expects some appreciation for this deep insight. Dr. Dixit has none for her. ‘But then, why would she come here? She had to be meeting someone. Was she looking outside? at her watch? Anything of that sort, that looked like she could be waiting for someone?’

‘No, not that I can think of.’ She is not happy that he was not grateful for her deeply perceptive observations, he seemed more hung up on obvious details.

‘Was she making phone calls?’

The girl really does not know. ‘I was working you know.’

‘How long would you say she stayed here?’

‘I don’t know, an hour maybe.’ There was a lineup beginning to form behind him ‘You shouldn’t do that you know.’

‘Do what?’

‘Think ill of the dead, it hurts them.’

‘I am not thinking ill of my wife.’ There was anger rising in his voice.

‘You are doubting her, snooping around.’ It is an accusation he cannot bear to hear, the audacity of this, this little chit of girl, what does she know what he is doing. ‘I am not snooping around. I am trying to understand why she was here in the first place, when she should have been at the dentist’s or at work. That is not doubting.’ He is almost talking to himself now. ‘In the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, why would she sit here, for an hour, alone?’

‘Oh I know you are hurting. But she had to come here.’

‘Had to, why?’

‘To die. She was meant to die here, so of course, she had to come here, she could not have been at her work or the dentist’s, this is where she was meant to be.’

‘Right.’ it is more than what he can take, he has had his full of this brand of philosophy. It is too much, he is walking out, this girl; he wonders if she has lost her brains, or never had any to begin with. She calls out behind him, ‘I am sorry for you, for what it is worth, she had a beautiful soul you know.’

‘Right.’ He waves his hand abruptly and steps out.

The freezing air hits him with a bang; he wraps his scarf around his neck, he shakes his head trying to get rid of the ‘witch’, no it still does not make sense. Why did she miss an appointment to do nothing and if she just sat here doing nothing, why did she not call the dentist? That girl is wrong. It is not like he does not trust her, twenty years of being together; she never gave him any reason to doubt her. It is just, it is….