Five Minutes

The piercing ring of the phone jolts me. Without fail, like clockwork, my mother calls every Sunday morning at eight. I have been counting. The calls started a year back, when I moved to Agra after my marriage to Lalit. Week after week, she doesn't give up. They last about five minutes. Always ending in time for her morning walk with Sudha Aunty, our perpetually inquisitive neighbour.

I snatch the phone on the third ring; no point delaying the inevitable. I force my mouth to open in a bright smile.

“Hello, Ma”

The pause at the other end is almost imperceptible. My mother does not believe in pleasantries. She claims that she can guess how I am by my voice, hence no point wasting time and money in asking a redundant question.

“Did you receive the parcel I sent for your anniversary? Did Lalit like the shirt I got him? Is the color and fitting alright”, the questions tumble out in quick succession.

I glance at the unopened box on top of the mantel. The bright red wrapper is torn in places. Did that happen when Lalit shook it hard to guess what’s inside or when he flung it at me?

“ No ma, not yet. It must be on its way.”

I will open it eventually and describe to her in detail Lalit’s excitement on receiving his favourite coloured shirt. But that could wait. The throbbing pain on the side of my head doesn’t let me think clearly.

“When are you visiting me? It has been too long, my dear”, she asks wistfully.

It has been exactly 11 months and 10 days since I last saw her.

“Lalit has been inundated with work, ma. He comes home late and works on the weekends too. He manages the largest client for his firm, you know. A vacation is out of question for now. And he can’t do at home without me. He needs me for everything. He had to leave early even today. I somehow managed to get his lunch packed in time. You know how he likes freshly cooked food from home. ”, I chimed. The tone had to be right, a benign complaint mixed with a hint of pride. This is easy. I have enough practice.

I can see him from the bedroom door, comfortably sprawled on our bed. His head is on the edge of the pillow, mouth half open, in a deep sleep that will last for another hour. He sleeps soundly off late. The clenched fist, contorted jaw and the hard punches that land on my face; they sap his energy. I count them; he is usually done by the fifth.

“He loves you very much. What a lucky girl you are. I was telling Sudha, all that a mother wants is to see her children happy. I can die peacefully now ”, she avers.

Mothers are always right. Five minutes are almost over.