What Is... And What Should Never Be

"You should write a novel on this." I stare for a bit at her, stopping my hands which are pressing her calves to relieve the arthritis pain in her muscles. For a moment, I gulp down, try to be silent, and not show my shock at the idea she just suggested. I give it a thought, and get a rising pang of fear travel up my spine. How is one supposed to write what she wants me to write? Still.. I decide to humor her. After all, when haven't I done anything that makes her happy?

"Novel? Kitni badi?" I smile, almost a smile like the ones parents give to their children to reassure them that monsters don't exist. Strange, how we are so balanced and comfortable at having our relationship dynamics reversed. She should be the one giving me that smile. But then, I never really needed reassurance. I made peace with the fact long long time ago, that monsters really did exist.

"Pata nahi. Accha novel nahi. Short story... Short stories likhni chaahiye tujhe." She says, thinking for a bit. I feel my heart clenched into a toxic nickel grip at the tone she has right now. I resume pressing her legs, trying to comfort her of the pain. That is what I have done all my life now. I have always tried my best, to my maximum effort, to relieve whatever pain of hers I can. Not that I have succeeded in any way possible. The pain she lives with is much much gruesome. And nothing can really be done about it. So, I continue, trying to soothe her any way I can, cause I know, she is weeping somewhere inside again. And her tears will soon spill out. No matter how much she says that crying makes feel lighter, I know that she is just assuring me to not worry. How ironic, assuring a person who doesn't need reassurance. What good would come out of it?

"Aap padhna chaahogi unko?"I ask her, lovingly. Like I mentioned, our role reversals are quite extensive. As I had said, I learned quite a few hard hitting facts pretty early on in life. One of them, had been, that being strong is the only way to survive. The kind of atmosphere I have around me does not generate room for weakness. So never show what you feel. As simple as that. And yeah, anger helps leaps and bounds in existing. It makes you appear stronger than you already are. Pretty much like The Hulk always appears stronger than the puny Bruce Banner, even despite the fact that both are the same being.

She understands what I am really asking. She knows I write, even though as a hobby only. Yet, she has never read any of my works. Not because she thinks I am sub-par. No. That is the last thing she would ever consider me to be. After all, I am her child. A mother, no matter what the given conditions, always thinks of her child as extra-ordinary. It is just that she has no time to read. She never really has any time for anything for that fact. She struggles, throughout her day, to keep every tiny bit of her semblance in control. So, as a result of that, she is left with no time to indulge into anything. All she wants at the end of the day is one of her children cuddling to her. So, one can say her hobby is to cuddle with her children. Derive strength from them to keep her sanity. Even if while doing so, she becomes absolutely childish. So yeah, she understands the hidden meaning behind my question.

"Nahi. Mai usse publish karvaaungi."She says, lost deep in thought somewhere, "Poori duniya ko yeh pata chalna chaahiye. Bahot abnormal hai aisa kuch." Her voice breaks in the end. And she moves her head away from me. I stop my hands for a second, absorbing what she actually wants. And then, without uttering any word, I start again.

I curse him again. Will for him to die. How I hate him for defining everything wrong with our lives.

"Bittu!! Idhar aa.." I shout out, a bit more loudly than required, considering my brother is in the next room only.

He comes running at my voice, as if being taught to heed to ever beck and call. Of course, all of us are.

"Mumma ke pair dukh rahe hai. Dabaa de." I order him, without even giving him a chance to retort. Not like he retorts in the first place, he just sits on the opposite side of the bed, and starts doing what I asked him to do.

As soon as I have him working, I leave the room, to go to the balcony.

I pace to and fro, trying to come to terms with what Maa actually said just now.

She wants the world to know. Of course, that's what I had been telling her my whole life, that the world should know what kind of a man he is. But never once had she listened. I had always been dismissed, with words like parivar ki izzat nahi kharab kar sakte, society mei kaise rahenge, Jaise bhi hai chaahe naam ke liye hi sahi unki zarurat hai... But today, today she went and asked me to make it public.

I sigh. How far stretched out would her nerves be, telling something like this to her daughter. On one hand, she wanted the world to know, yet on the other hand, she knew now was too late and it didn't really matter, so she didn't want anyone to know.

I take in a loud gush of air and shiver a little. The chill gets to my nerves and I come inside the room, where maa is talking to bittu.

"Mai naa, shayad pagal hoke marungi." She jokes, and bittu joins in the laughter.

"Tu already pagal hai, Sanu." He quips back, and lifts one hand in the air, which mom joins back with a hi-five.

This is what happens when you are living in a home which inhabits an alcoholic too. Death becomes being mentioned so many times on a daily basis, that it's almost a joke. I join in the laughter too. I get amazed at what things we laugh on. Every other home in the world would be weirded out. But not us, we need to find the humor, either dry or slapstick, in every little thing, or else, all three of us would end up losing our sanity.

"Bittu sahi bol raha hai Sanu pagal!" I lean downwards and kiss her forehead.

-x-x-x-x-x-

I had just come out of the bathroom, a wet towel wrapped on my head to cover the wet turmoil of hair. I use hot showers and washing my hair as an excuse, and everybody knows that already. It's just that I don't want to hear the loud yelling and fighting. I don't want to be helpless and lose my control and hit him. I already know Maa would get furious if either I or bittu hit him. So, for the past almost more than 20 years, each day we control ourselves, drink in our bitter anger to the best of our possibilities, and invent new numbing excuses. We wait till he leaves the home, and then start breathing.

Today, was another fight over money. It's like a black hole, if you ask me. No matter how much you give him, it's never ever enough. It's never enough to waste; it's never enough to fuel his filthy addictions. So, everyday he fights, tortures, to get what he wants.

I see Maa getting ready, to go somewhere, I ask, "Kahaan jaa rahi hai Sanu?"

"Yahi paas mei, Sabzi laani hai." She replies, her mood extremely cranky, the crease on her forehead visible.

"Mai le chalti hu, ruk, do minute lagenge taiyaar hone mei." I reply, trying to make everything light.

"Tujhe saath mei chalna hai toh chal. Paidal chalenge." She says, and I instantly find irritation building up. Why does she negate comfort as if its poison?

"Mai two-wheeler leti hu naa. Jaldi ho jaaega kaam." I try to reason with her, that walking so far with her increasing leg pain is not a good idea.

"Nai. Koi itni si duur ke liye two-wheeler leta hai kya? Paidal chalna hai toh chal." She retorts, her voice higher by a pitch.

"NAHI!!! DIMAAG MAT KHARAAB KAR SANU! Chal two-wheeler pe!" I scream now.

"TOH JAA AKELE!" She screams back.

"Ugghh.. Go to hell!!!" I shout again, never meaning it. But still, anger taking the front seat.

She picks up her bag, and shouts at me, "You go to hell!!!" And storms out.

"I AM LIVING IN HELL!!" I screech at the top of my voice, knowing well that my statement will leave her in tears.

I open the laptop in fury, and try to obey what she had mentioned last night. I sit out black outed, not knowing what to write.

So, I start out.

'Hi. I am Samara Singh. I am here to tell you, What is... And What Should Never Be.'