You look at the clock. Five minutes to ten.
You know that you have five minutes to draw the legs of the pressed pair of trousers upon yourself; wrap its waist around the striped shirt hanging loose from your shoulders, its buttons are yet to slip into their holes; plug that fat (from too many credit card slips, forgotten invoices, occasional self-photo and a bunch of needless visiting cards) wallet into your back pocket; toss car keys into the left and mobile into the right; feel the belt hoops and weave the snaking leather into it; grab a stale sandwich from the covered plate on the dining table; run fingers through the still-wet hair; glance at your reflection passing behind the mirror; secure your feet and rush out to office, locking the door from outside.
The drill is burned into your head. And you have done all these, year after year, with a certain ease and a mindless automation.
Today, however, is different. You still look at the ticking clock. Five minutes to ten. But just as your legs slip through the trouser, you see a little pair legs kick air. Little hands clenching and un-clenching, cutting the cake of air at random angles. You hear the faint sound of coughs and the exaggerated sound of tiny puffs of breaths. You stop in your track, while your eyes rest on the woman on your rumpled bed.
It’s your pale, sleepless wife who might have just closed her eyes. Eyes that seem swollen with unspent nights. You have a faint memory of the last night: lights being turned on, a baby wailing, a woman waking up and rocking her to sleep. You only have a hazy memory of the night, you waking up just a little and then going back to sleep, partly concerned. Partly unconcerned. As if it was not your job after all!
But now that you have taken bath and freshened up, the guilt of the night pins you to the wall. So you decide.
While the hands of the clock churn your insides, you tentatively lift the little bundle and awkwardly hold it in your arms. The head hangs down precariously, killing you. You have no bloody idea. What if he starts to wail? You don’t want your wake up your tired wife, no matter what. You feel responsible. Guilty. Embarrassed. Scared. A nervous salad of emotions.
Little legs kick your gut. They rumple your neatly-pressed shirt. They enter the gaps between unbuttoned holes. A warm softness presses against your chest as you bring your face closer. Milky air hangs loosely around. The skin on the face moves in what you assume is a smile. Tiny nails scratch your face-washed cheeks. Ooh, it hurts so well!
The relentless clock, meanwhile, ticks away. It shatters your time-thresholds and calculations. God, you are sure late to that important meeting. But you are chained to a new destiny, tethered by the large eyeballs looking from small sockets. By the tiny mound of a nose with flared nostrils. And the two greyish-pink lips that miraculously curve like a beak.
The expression on the face of the bundle changes. Thousand lines of white appear on the soft skin of pink. You know that the explosion is not far away. In a Hollywood-like effort, you throw all the tricks to diffuse the bomb in silence.
Shoo. Hush, hush. Tch Tch. No. No. Please, oh please. God! Someone help me. You sweat from concern, as your interning hands keep rocking him.
Rocking…rocking…rocking.
All your efforts seem to fail. What if he starts a full-scale cry? You run out of ideas. Your mouth has no new sounds. Your ache from patting and swinging, and your own awkward sitting. Your waist is numb, but there isn’t much scope to correct the posture. So you hang on, shaking that soft puddle of flesh, wondering what your wife’s hands are made up of.
Those large eyes are still looking at you, making you feel embarrassed, frustrated, spent, impatient.
You look around. Your wife’s eyes have dark circles. The ceiling fan’s blades have gathered inches of dust that no one has had the time to clean. The milk-bottle’s nipple lies uncovered. The ash from the mosquito repellent coil has fallen down like a collapsed circular bridge. Through the curtain gaps, the trespassing rays of the morning sun falls in star-war-like light shafts. It shows you that air has dust particles, and for a moment you go back to your school classroom and the suave science teacher.
In turns, you look at your undulating lap and everything else around. Even as you keep repeating this cycle, the large eyes show no intention of closing down. And then, somehow, at some point, you drift away and don’t count the seconds any more. Your numbness becomes so numb that you don’t feel the pain anymore. You are an automaton, a robot possessed by love.
When you finally get yourself back, you notice that the tiny lids are slowly closing down. An elation runs through your body, recharging you. When the lump finally falls silent, you imagine doing a victory jump, punching air and doing a somersault. It is a strange feeling of achievement, as if nothing else matters. Your eighteen-hour work days fade into trivialities, tight deadlines lose their significance, boardroom presentations seem like water-cooler talks. The rush of blood in your veins tells you that now you have really arrived. The sense of accomplishment, and even more, the contentment, dwarfs every bit of success you have ever felt in your life.
You look at the loveliest thing you have ever created and smile into the thinning air at that defining moment of success. Oh, what a feeling! The clock stops. It runs out of ticks!
