|
A
Silver Lining…
At
Last!
Richa
Jha
The
Hubby and I entered a room full of eyes that keenly followed
our steps and shoes. We were hopelessly late in arriving
at this party at a friend's place. Though no one demanded
an explanation for the cause of this delay (it's The Hubby's
firm belief that frankly, no one cares; but I don't see
how others could be so self-centred), I felt we owed them
one.
“We're so sorry we're late. Actually, our little one is
not well. I had to make sure he was fast asleep before we
could slip out of the house.”
A few heads, mostly of other women present there, nodded
out of politeness. I waited for someone to ask me details
on the illness, but none came from any side. The Hubby may
have been right in his analysis of human nature, afterall.
But I had to talk about the harrowing past few days I had
spent nursing a sick child. About how little I had slept,
about how little my child had eaten, about how weak this
illness had made him, about how the doctor was shocked to
see such a complicated case of this illness (not really,
I would have made up that last bit). You see, if you've
had a toughie, you want the rest of the world to know how
well you coped. You want others to believe that you can
handle adversities as efficiently as you can bake a cake.
What is little realised is that self-congratulatory words
can be cathartic. And it's only human to expect others to
be all ears when you expatiate.
No such luck from this set of ears, I could see. So I started,
“my child had an acute stomach infection, which refused
to go away. It was a nasty one. We nearly had to get him
hospitalised. He would rush to the toilet every hour, and
then throw up any medicine we gave him. Uffff! Kids look
so vulnerable on such occasions…phew! What a week we've
had.”
“How old is your child?” asked a concerned voice from the
far end.
“Oh, just two plus, and look what the illness has done to
the tiny soul,” I replied. Now that they had learnt how
little my child was, I thought they would commiserate with
me with appropriate expressions.
“Tell me about it. My six month old daughter had a similar
affliction about 10 days back, and it turned our worlds
upside down. We were scared she would get so dehydrated
that we'd have to rush her to the hospital. Poor baby…”
I didn't like that. It goes without saying that this tiny
girl's case was genuinely more severe than my child's, so
don't get me wrong here. I felt bad for the baby. What I
didn't like was the fact that someone else present there
had had a tougher time than I had, and had still managed
to arrive on time, and worse of all, was feeling no urge
to talk about it. (However as I got to know later, she had
narrated the story before we had reached there.) But at
that moment, her words pygmied me and my woes in my own
eyes, and it seemed, also in the eyes of others present
there. You are familiar with this feeling, aren't you? That
she, a younger mother, a more competent crisis manager,
hence, a smarter being…Oh Jealousy! Why dost thou sting
so deep?!!
“That is what we were discussing before you came”, the lady
sitting next to me said, “every one in Dhaka seems to be
getting this diarrhoea. Especially the children. Look at
my son. He's five now. And he was admitted at the hospital
for four days. Poor fellow missed school for over a week,
and his exams begin next week. You feel so guilty for these
kids. They are overburdened with studies, and on top of
that these illnesses. We parents of school--going children
don't have it easy…”. All right, all right. So the room
was full of women smarter than I am. Soon there was a barrage
of similar tales from all sides. I sat through the rest
of the evening without uttering another word.
On our way home, The Hubby saw me sulk and did his bit by
asking just the right questions. “Why/ something wrong/
etc?”.
I told him about the kind of conversation we women had had
at the party. “Oh! That's sad indeed. Poor kids. And it
must have been terrible for the others because they had
to tend to their office work as well. It was relatively
easy for you, don't you think…?” Could someone throw this
man out of the car please? And The Hubby believes he understands
me!
But suddenly my face brightened, my spirit upped. “On second
thoughts, don't you think that is what made it worse for
those kids?”
“What,” he obviously didn't understand the sudden cause
of my mood elevation.
“The fact that I was there at home by the side of our little
one right through his tummy trickle. You know, the fact
that I didn't have to be away at work every day, I think
that is the only reason why our son's case didn't deteriorate
the way theirs did. Don't you think so? Huh. And those mothers
think they can do everything at the same time, and still
be perfect at each work…”
The Hubby usually maintains a diplomatic silence when I
propound my personal axioms. And I like him for that. Funny,
I no longer wanted him thrown off the car! |