Maliha Iqbal shares a tender story about life of a woman, who is bound by the expectations of the society and the need to be normal, in an abnormal world.
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I am Dr. Shweta Joshi but I don’t like using ‘doctor’ in my name. It distracts customers and I have to participate in unnecessary discussions with them so I have stopped using this title now. It has made things more efficient and it makes no difference to me. I have typed out so many Ph.Ds. that I barely remember the title of my own but it’s all going to come to an end now. I am going to be normal now. I have always wanted that.
About a month ago, after returning from work, I found my mother sobbing inconsolably. She refused to tell me what had happened. I thought that it was probably due to my father’s death. I couldn’t think of an appropriate response until I suddenly remembered that I had typed out several obituaries. I had begun speaking in a high, clear voice,
“Ajay Joshi, my father, passed away peacefully on 24 October, 2022. He was born in Delhi to parents who were originally from Uttar Pradesh. He worked all his life as an engineer and his love will be remembered by his wife, Laxmi Joshi and…”
This seemed to make her condition worse and she started shouting along with crying. I will admit that I panicked somewhat. I awkwardly put my arms about her and she pushed me away. She kept telling me to go away. It was a tempting offer. She had herself asked me to leave after all. I could go to my room and shut the door, blocking out the noise but I instinctively stayed. Then she took my face in her hands and said,
“Look at you. I really don’t understand what has happened to you…”
She seemed at a loss for words and then continued, “It’s like…I don’t understand…Why can’t you behave like other people? It’s not normal…”
I nodded. I understood what she had meant and I did really want to be normal. I just didn’t know how. I wish there was some kind of book or manual. We stayed in silence for a moment and then she said,
“Shweta, look at yourself. Still unmarried…”
Marriage! There it was. Perhaps that’s what she wanted me to do. I tried to remember what I usually typed out on wedding invitations and then murmured,
“Marriage is a holy union…it’s a celebration.”
That seemed to work for the moment. She became excited and started talking rapidly. I cannot remember all that she said but she did mention that now that my father was dead, it was her responsibility to search for a groom. Then talking without a pause, she pulled me into an embrace.
***
That night, ma’s words echoed in my mind. I clearly remember once having been normal. It was a long time ago. I think I was a child back then. The other children never excluded me and I always played with them, laughing and running, following all the conventions. I could still do those things because I did remember them but I don’t think those same rules applied while socializing with adults. That’s why I don’t really bother except for mother. I feel so bad for her and father. They both raised me with everything- I had food, clothing and a warm home but somehow, I always made them unhappy. I never knew when to smile or cry. Never knew what to say in any situation.
If I had to say what caused this, I think it would be around class sixth. We had exams which were properly graded instead of the usual A or A+ and it was only expected that I score a certain percentage. I remember trying. Trying sincerely but always ending up as a failure. It didn’t bother me at all but I could tell my parents were disappointed. I had a tutor who came for three hours daily. I did all my homework. My teachers said I was never a nuisance in class but my grades refused to increase.
By tenth class, I was only talking to about two people in school. I don’t exactly know what happened. I always felt different from others. I didn’t ever know what was the appropriate thing to say. I don’t think it was just the studies. It was something I cannot really explain. My teachers said I had closed in around myself, that I didn’t socialize.
When I went into eleventh grade, my father told me that I should join a good coaching institute to ensure that I was able to get into any one of the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT). I joined Amit Sir Classes. On the first day, I remember sitting in the corner as the teacher entered. He told us that getting into an IIT was no joke. If we were serious, then it was absolutely essential that we went ‘underground’ for at least two years. His voice rang out as he said,
“These two years will make the rest of your lives. It is important that you don’t waste them in frivolities- stay focused on your studies. You can talk to your friends, relatives and classmates later. You can meet them later. You can go travelling with them later. For these two years, if you don’t go underground, there is little hope for you. Stay absolutely focused and dedicated.”
I liked the idea of going underground. For the first time, I felt like I belonged, but I suppose I never did come up. I didn’t get into any IIT. I tried once more next year but was again unsuccessful. I attempted the entrance exam of government medical colleges the year after that but was met with failure there too. At last, at the age of 21, being three years older than other batchmates, my parents enrolled me into a government college for a bachelor’s degree in political science. I stayed there until my Ph.D. In the final year, I noticed that all my classmates were worried sick about employment. My parents asked me if I had applied for any jobs yet. When a batchmate offered me employment at a typist shop that her uncle had newly opened, I accepted it, mainly because I had been rejected everywhere else. She thought it would be a good odd job for me while I searched for employment. I joined on 12 December, 2019, seven years ago, and then my life changed forever.
***
I can’t believe ma did what father failed to do in nearly three years. He had different standards for a prospective groom I suppose. He had wanted someone who had a good permanent government job or if not that, then a well-paying oversees job. He was never very particular about looks but insisted that he would pay no dowry but none of them seemed to like me. They had a problem with my job or with my looks or they wanted dowry. Ma was not so particular. Anyone with a reasonable job who would have me was enough even if we did have to pay some dowry.
When I came from work almost a week ago, she jumped up in excitement and told me that she had been busy searching but now the search was over. The boy’s family had asked for only five lakhs, she said, and that was so manageable. She assured me that my future husband would find employment soon enough. After all, he had a degree in mechanical engineering. The only reason for his being unemployed was the fact that he had never found the need to work. His father was a wealthy businessman and his parents had assured ma that he would find employment once he had a wife and child. He had been, perhaps, a bit laidback but a family was the incentive he needed to work. Moreover, his parents were getting old and needed me to take care of them.
There was just one condition. I must leave my work. Ma said it was a small condition and it was high time anyway that I left the dreary job in that stuffy little place. They paid me a pittance, she said, and this was an opportunity that I mustn’t miss.
After working for seven years, when I told the owner that I would have to leave, all he said was that he had already paid me the salary for the entire month so I must work till the end of the month at least. On the last day, I transferred all my customers to Hema, my current colleague. My colleagues have changed frequently over the past years but I have never taken a day off since the shop opened. It was going to end now.
The days after leaving my job passed in a blur. The new routine disoriented me somewhat. Earlier, I only had to wake up at eight and reach the shop at nine. I came home at seven and went to bed at ten. It had all been so simple! For the first few days, I kept waking up at eight like I had done earlier and then I would try to return to sleep but it was getting much harder to sleep as days passed. On the first day after leaving my job, I actually woke and got dressed, putting on my faded shirt and trousers, and was just heading out when ma stopped me. This incident seemed to unsettle her.
I was almost always busy. Shopping, haircuts and working on my appearance, along with learning household chores and cooking. Whenever I had a minute to myself, like I do now, I would think about the typing shop. What would be happening there now? My head is usually filled with the tap-tapping of keys when I remember this place. It’s like a constant buzzing at the back of my mind. I cannot help these thoughts. Yesterday, we were in the balcony and ma was hanging out clothes to dry. I looked at her frail body, at her faded grey hair and I wondered what difference it would make if she died now or five years later? She was so close to the edge. Just one push and it would be so easy, so easy! No one would suspect anything and I wouldn’t have to marry. I could take up my job again. I looked away and tried to think about something else. I remembered when father died. We burned his body and the next day I was back at work, slightly upset by the idea that I would be late to deliver one of the documents a customer had requested.
Vijay, the prospective groom, came to meet me on a prearranged day and ma got me dressed up in a bright pink salwar suit with my hair tied in a complicated braid. She applied some make-up and said that she had to tell the boy’s family that I was twenty-nine instead of thirty-five. She told me somewhat sternly to act normal. If I had to describe Vijay, I would say that he was a human male in his forties with thick glasses and a big pot belly. He took me out to lunch and I mostly stayed quiet as part of the strategy ma had devised. If I spoke too much, I might end up saying something strange. It was better to stay quiet and only answer the most essential questions. He might take my silence for nervousness and that would be quite normal.
The next day, his family called ma and said that Vijay had found me suitable. I was going to be normal at last.
***
The wedding date is not yet decided. It’s been two weeks since Vijay agreed to the marriage. He gave me his number and regularly texts me on WhatsApp. I have to ask ma for an appropriate response frequently and she seems to be increasingly worried about this. I finished washing the dishes a few minutes ago and now I have some time to look through WhatsApp. There are three messages from Vijay and I don’t open them, waiting for ma to return, and there’s one from Hema. My heart gives a little jump as I click on it.
“Hiii… just wanted to c if u know where anita’s file is saved…can’t find it on my comp. Please tell asap cause she’s an angry one.”
Oh no…I get up quickly and pick up my handbag. I was already on the way to the shop when I realized that I was still wearing the apron used for dish-washing. There was nothing I could do about it so I continued, thinking about Hema’s terrible work ethic. She always caused delays and once I had actually found her playing a card game on the computer during work hours! It was just as I had thought, she was annoying the customers with her poor services. I was more than willing to teach newcomers but when I had offered to help her, she had actually laughed at me.
I could see her now inside the shop through the doors along with Anita. I walked in and they stared at me in surprise. I noticed that a replacement for me hadn’t yet been employed. Hema began,
“Hello there… what a nice surprise…is there anything you want to…”
Ignoring her, I addressed the customer,
“Hello! Are you here regarding your thesis?”
“No, today I am here for a form.”
Her hands waved at the screen.
“That’s not the correct format for DOB…”
I motioned for Hema to shift aside. She stared strangely at me for a moment and then moved away. I quickly corrected the DOB format and then moved on down the other entries. It took me around fifteen minutes to fill out the form. When the customer had left and around twenty minutes had passed, Hema said awkwardly,
“Is there anything I can do? I…actually it’s almost time to close the shop.”
I stared at the clock. She was right. I stared around the tiny room with the dust covered desks and small stools. Hema was fanning herself with a notebook while a small fan gyrated slowly above us.
“Will you please give me a minute? I have something to do.”
She nodded and went outside. It was quiet in the little room except for the tap-tapping of keys on the computer and in my head. I was writing a message on web WhatsApp to Vijay.
“Thank you for taking time out to meet me. I regret to inform you that I no longer wish to continue with this proposal of marriage. I am sorry for having caused you any inconvenience.”
That’s how a rejection letter was typed, right? I would know. I had received several when I had been looking for a job until this typing work found me.
I had not bothered explaining why I didn’t want to marry. He would never understand. My mother would never understand. No one would.
Author’s Bio
Maliha Iqbal is a student and writer from Aligarh, India. Many of her short stories, write-ups, letters and poems have been published on platforms Live Wire (The Wire), Cerebration, Kitaab, Countercurrents, Freedom Review, ArmChair Journal, Counterview, Writers’ Cafeteria, Café Dissensus, Borderless Journal and Indian Periodical. She can be reached at malihaiqbal327@gmail.com.