Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-3)

It’s already six, and I need to get going now. I have to pick up Ruchi, and help her with homework. Ruchi is turning into a Geek Goddess. Here I am, trying to give her every opportunity to rock her life with sports and creative arts, and the girl buries herself deep in to Math and literature. She tells me that she doesn’t have to be good at everything that she does when it comes to playing tennis, but she always reminds me that since her grades might be affected, she wants to make sure she is fully rested before her Friday test. She will play with the cell phone for an hour, but not spend so long styling her hair. She has an easy maintenance haircut too. Geekiness hasn’t come into the way of talking about boys though. Of course she always reminds me that she is not one of those girls who think they have a crush. She tries hard to convince me that studies are her sole interest in school, and there is no way she will have a crush on any boy in her class. Not even Calvin with shaggy blond hair and shiny blue eyes, which I can’t believe at all.

I check my email one last time, hoping to hear some comments about my writing. Manisha said nice. I am sure she didn’t read. If she did, she didn’t understand. My writing deserved more than “nice”. Neena pointed out a few spelling errors, and commented that I saw something that others didn’t, but then, that I was a writer. Encouraged, I send it to Shekhar, and log out. Or rather shut down. I want to save energy. It’s not going to add up into the company savings and they won’t stop laying off people, but I do this for the environment. I shut down my computer, turn off the lights on my side, and decide to take the stairs, instead of the elevator. I haven’t been exercising of late, and when I sit down these days, I can feel my muffin top above the pant. That’s the reason I have switched to sundresses over the weekend and stopped wearing the jeans. Ruchi is almost as tall as me, and wears skinny jeans. I feel awkward. Frankly, I am not too old to be comfortable with the changing body, nor am I am twenty year old with all tight muscles. I almost break a sweat when I reach my car, but I haven’t given up. I am not going to give up so fast, and accept that age happens, and ageing does too.

Tomorrow will be another day. I have to get my clothes ready tonight so that I am not scrambling for something in the morning, failing to find matching underwear. It will be a long day after the release tomorrow. I expect a lot of problems. Shekhar says get used to it. He shows off his been there, done that attitude, but fails to understand that I am a woman and I want to experience life differently. He could doze off on the sofa after eating Chinese food after a long day, but I can’t. After all, I get an hour with Ruchi every day. I need to know everything that’s happening in her life, right from garden club, to Calvin, to math test. I refuse to sacrifice anything for anything. I want the best of both worlds. My paycheck is too precious to sit at home and look at Ruchi grow. But Ruchi is too precious to spend my time battling someone’s dirty code on weekends.

I start the car, and turn on some loud music. I get so tired by the silence at work. There are times when I don’t hear anything but the clanking of the keyboard all around, with rhythmic strokes. People rarely talk, and if they do, it’s only about the project. Happy hours are already history, and everyone has started bringing brown bag lunches to save a bigger better rainy day fund. They eat at their desks, and drink at their desks, like they are chained to them. They are tired, they are worn out, but they won’t admit it. No one tells anyone anything about their insight on the project. People are just happy that there is something to work on, and try hard to be the noticed as a justified paycheck. Managers try to avoid developers. They want to avoid the questions on impending layoffs actually. They try to keep short meetings, walk in last, walk out first. They don’t go with the clique to drink a good latte anymore. Everyone has become a cubicle slave, willingly and literally.

Personally, I would be glad if they told me that tomorrow was my last day. Shekhar earns enough to carry us on in this financial turmoil. I would love to be home for a few weeks and be a soccer mom. Like the lady I met at park last week. She looked so happy with life. Attending book club meetings, going to library with kids every other day for story readings, watching matinee movies, playing with them at the park, learning floral arrangements, cooking for the ones she loves, and bringing healthy portions of homemade granola for the kids to savor after a tiring game at the park. She was so well dressed too. Like the women in magazines. Floral dress and high heels. I am tired of this life in black, white and gray. May be a pink slip would be a welcome change, and bring out other colors in life. May be it will be a blessing in disguise. May be Ruchi would love to have a mother who is at her beck and call. May be Shekhar will love the fresh homemade food for lunch. May be he will fall in love with the wife that is not as tired as him at the end of the day. Who know? Life may take a different route, altogether.

I merge into the freeway, only to be slowed down. Shekhar always tells me to take the surface streets and get home faster, but I would rather park my car behind another one on a freeway and move when he does, slowly, without worrying about a pedestrian crossing, or the signal turning red. Actually, this is the only time I get to relax, without having to do the next item on my checklist. I call mom too. Every day, weekday. Last year, mom gave a scare to us after she was admitted into the hospital for high blood pressure. I know, she rambles on, she talks coldly, sometimes she loves that I call, sometimes she gives me an indifferent response, but I will still call her, everyday. Life has surprises and shocks in store, always. One day, if I get a shocker, I want to be able to face it, without guilt. I should hear her voice every day, till then. It might be next five years, ten years, or many unknown years. Anyway, we talk about her morning walks with dad, her lunch invites of the day, her maid-woes, her latest writings and readings. Just hearing her talk helps.