Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-8)

“So mom, you will be home now?”
“Yes, that’s what it looks like”
“Listen, I am sorry to hear that”
“No need to be. Your mother is strong enough to get back on her own two feet”
“I know mom, you are a strong woman, and I admire that”
“Aren’t you happy that I will be home, taking better care of you?”
“I don’t know. I never thought that you care any less for me”
“Hmm”
“I like the fact that you work, you have a life of your own rather than cling to daddy for support all the time”

I look at Shekhar, and he smiles. Then, he hints that we should talk about good things, and have a good time. I can pretend to be having a good time, but deep down, I know that I won’t. I am hurt by the news of my impending layoff, no matter how expected and wished for it was. Suddenly I don’t have any drive to be a writer, or to be a mom in floral dress and high heels watching matinee with kids. But I don’t feel like rushing my resume to my network either. I will take it slow, this time. Savor each day, and do something meaningful. Now that we are almost settled financially, I think I can take that liberty. Life on unemployment will be a new chapter. Probably I will write it with golden letters, with the nicest of my cursive.

Krishna. My dream.
Lahiri. My dream.
Helicopter parenting. My another dream.
Hovering wife. My other dream.
Enjoy life. My sole dream.
Back to school. My impossible dream.
Go to India, and take a real vacation. Probably just a dream.
Fall in love, head over heels. My wish.

I eat ice-cream, slowly and carefully moving my spoon the bowl to catch every melted drop. I get tired, and sit back to watch it all melt. But before that Ruchi takes over, and finishes off. She is still babbling about things that I don’t know about, and don’t care about, and I have tuned out, already. She will probably share news of her medical checkup on Myspace, or not. Being the geek she is, she might be discussing puzzles and trivia on her page. I wondered who her friends were though. Or look it up myself. After all, there aren’t many Ruchi Potluris in the world.

I keep checking my emails, hoping for another beautiful email, so much that Shekhar snatches the phone from me, and switches it off. He doesn’t know what I am waiting for secretly. Am I cheating on him, emotionally? Am I allowed to be this excited over a letter of plain admiration of my writing skills? Am I allowed to imagine that the guy has a crush on me? Or is that I have a crush on this guy? Is he the shaggy blond haired, shiny blue eyed boy that I never had a crush on, growing up, because I grew up in an atmosphere where it was not decent for me to do so? What would Shekhar think of me if he knew that I was keeping a secret from him, first time in our married life? What would my admirer think of me if he knew I already have a crush on him? Just by google stalking him? Will I scare him away forever? Or will he want to take to the next step, take me for a tramp? Ruchi surely wouldn’t like me to do this. I decide to write a curt reply, so that there is no room left for another poetic letter from his side, and kill my middle-aged crush.

I see Shekhar talk to his daughter and forget everything else around him. He does the same when he is with me. But why am I not able to give everyone around me everything I have got? Why is this small nook deep inside my soul that always craves for something that I never had? I feel like the kid at the candy store holding a bag full of most decadent chocolates in the whole world, and secretly wish to eat the gummy bears when no one is watching me.

Shekhar brings another round of ice-cream, and without complaining about my weight, or calories, I share it with him. With extra show of love. Probably all the guilt in my heart of having a secret crush on a stranger makes me do it. Like the drunkards who shower too much love on their wives the day after they passed out on the couch. I don’t like this. I want my job back, so that I have something to obsess on. Keep my mind occupied for the good part of the day. I curse the higher ups for having found my group as an overhead, and I curse Greenspan for everything else. Blame has to be placed, and it won’t be on me.

I switch on my phone again. Shekhar pulls it, switches off, and I pull it back again, telling him it’s for personal email, and I am done worrying about work.

I send a quick and curt email to my crush, telling him that I appreciate his words, and that I would write a bigger email, but I have thousands of other tasks to take care of. There! I killed any fancy ideas that he might have about me, when he sent that email. Especially if he was hoping to be inspired.