The Rude Retort!

(This is my last Malayalam story in English.)

“Mole*, think again. It is foolish,” Suresh Kurup was in deep angst.

“No, Achcha*, I thought over it again.I don’t want to go,” firm was the daughter in her stand.

“Get ready, Keerti, life is not a game, we are going to drop you there,” Amma’s* voice contained a tint of reproof.

“No, Amma, I don’t want to go,” each word Keerti uttered was solid.

Some more parental requests, rebukes, insistences and so on were staged, but nothing could move Keerti’s mind an inch. The day passed with no development further. Recurrences of pleading to her became feeble as days passed .Days and nights signed regularly in their registers. Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter fell in attention as per the roll-call of Nature. The year rolled twice. Nothing unusual happened.

That day Keerti entered the house after collecting her baby daughter, Neethika from LKG class, Suresh Kurup with a crestfallen visage, “Mole, Sharat has sent Divorce Notice.”

Turning her sound into silent mode she went in and asked Amma to get the baby undone her uniform for home-wear. Amma, Sreelatha was a bit weeping and wiping her tears.And  Keerti went to her room.  

It was literally a bolt from the blue for her because Sharat started, of late vaguely visiting her in her reveries. The thought about him grew to a stage of euphoria and the old feel of their togetherness sometimes conquered her calm.

 “I’ll call him, o! No, Whatsapp is better…no, I’ll ask Achchan to call him…no,…”a sort of confusion was skipping  in her mind from ‘No’ to ‘Yes.’ This disinclination led her to act nil for a while. But now at the spur of a moment she lifted the phone and called him, not once but thrice. Twice he put off the call and the third time he didn’t lift the phone.

She felt a disdain for herself and the desire was attaining a coat of attire depressed, "What.. to.. do now? Nothing.. I can.. do.”

In the mean time only blasted the divorce bomb. Suresh Kurup was observing his dear daughter’s pathetic state full of woe,“Letha, I shall go and meet him once. I shall prostrate before him, if need be. What do you think?”

“We may be insulted, doesn’t matter, it is for our dear daughter.” Sreelatha sadly. 

Keerthi and Sharat were living a jubilant conjugal life for about five years. In others’ views they were ‘made for each other’ couple. Sharat wanted his home to run in a velvety way. So only he drew a ‘No-line’ for Keerti’s job after they became spouses. And she was fully conversant about it and agreeable also. 

One day Keerti was in the usual company of wares and utensils of her castle and Sharat  and his laptop were conversing on some important official job.

 “Keerthi, Neethika is playing in the compound, take care,” Sharat’s normal style. 

The care and welfare of the child always attracted the attention of Keerti and her hubby was seldom reluctant to heed to it though.

When Keerti was about to come out her friend Nandana’s phone call stopped her. The parents used to allow their darling, Neetika to play in their compound that had a remarkable expanse, of course under the supervision of one of them.  When she was climbing the stump of a coconut tree, she fell down and got a cut on the knee with abrasions all around. The wound was small though, it bled highly. The snivel and unrest of the child was enough to fill ire of a massive degree in Sharat and his reaction went beyond boundary.

Retorted Keerti equally or perhaps with slightly more gauge, as till then she had not undergone any bitter experiences from her husband or parents. The repercussion led to the birth of two foes there. The atmosphere became hot. Yes, in between the wound was bandaged by Keerti. Household articles flew away from Sharat’s hands and plunged on the floor. The downpour of rude words from Keerti’s mouth pierced Sharat’s ears. And offensive language from him also danced in the air. As a whole the domestic climate became cloudy and eventually Keerti seized a bag from the loft, filled it with articles of immediate need and just like a gale she dashed off for her indigenous home, carrying the child in her loin. 

It was a long time to get a call from achchan after he had left for Sharat’s house. Her mind was turning weighty, “ The response may not be favourable. My action was definitely not good. But I am the mother of his own daughter, can’t he forgive me? Doesn’t he want even to see his daughter?”

“Mole, be..tt.er  you  f..org..et  hi..m,” Suresh Kurup was fumbling to answer her question while  entering the house, “ His remarriage has been fixed. It is two years you separated. For a grass widower break-up is not a big deal.”

“He says he cannot accept you because you have broken and thrown away the ‘Mangalsutra*’ and that too on his face,” continued Suresh Kurup, “He slapped you on your cheek. He claims it was his reflex. He doesn’t feel guilty for that.”

He expected an outburst of tears from his daughter. But Keerti remained unvoiced for a while and then she carried her daughter, kissed her from head to toe, “ Achcha, thank God, he didn’t claim my darling. He won’t, I know. It is a hindrance.”

She remained quiet a little. Then as if made up her mind,“I will get a job, I am qualified enough. I have to live for my little one.”

 Achchan- father,

Amma-mother,

Mole-darling

 ‘Mangal Sutra’- The wedding chain with a small pendant to which people attach great sanctity.