Periods, Pyaar And Patriarchy

Chapter Seventeen

The week with Riddhi passes in a flurry with Shweta practically running home after her work at the center. Since it is not a very formal NGO or organization, Mrs. Matthew gives her more off days very easily. The workload also appears to be more balanced with the new receptionist they have hired. Shweta now spends her time with some of the seniors and she's glad to have made friends among them. Her little escapades with Bhavya have increased and she's been introduced to some of Bhavya's friends as well.

They're very interesting and her volunteer's duties now include playing multiple rounds of UNO. The little love affair has blown up into a sizeable affair and now they have stopped exchanging the letters. Bhavya's physiotherapist has insisted that he walk at least three rounds of the long corridors and now grumbling and leaning against Shweta, he walks.

They pause in between; with Shweta cheering him on. And when they conduct their second walk right after lunch, both she and Bhavya can hear the old lady talking in the music room. Earlier, she had sent her letters to him from that room. But now, the door stands locked after the Gujurati gentleman finally found a way to sneak his number in her small not-so-smart phone.

The week with Riddhi has provided Shweta with a much-needed break. Her thoughts don't have so much time to speed around as a crazed cat would. Her contact with Vaibhav has decreased a bit; he hasn't taken the initiative to reach out and now she doesn't feel like she wants to.

She's a bit angry and this little bit of anger has greatly helped her clear up her head. It feels like she's finally managed to weed out the unnecessary thoughts, leaving her with what was really the actual problem.

The yoga classes with Shruti in the evening and the strength training she did thrice a week seem to be having a positive effect on her body and she can feel her period symptoms for the first time in months. Her breasts are beginning to feel tender, sitting uncomfortably in her bra because of the water retention.

Then, there was the email that her father had sent her. At four-forty-five pm one fine afternoon. The initial anxiety and fear she had felt when she had seen the email had faded away. The email still sat in her inbox looking a bit strange between emails from Nykaa and Myntra.

The moment she'd reached home after her outing with Riddhi, she'd opened and reread the emails. If it had been an actual letter, she would have pressed the paper, touched the creases, and wondered how he had made them. The email was proof that her father existed alive and whole. That he had a family somewhere towards the south of the nation as he had specified in his email.

Every night when she was done with the day, she found herself going over the words again and again. Had he typed out the words in one go? Was it a stream of consciousness, because it sure read like that in certain portions? When she sat down for her meditation sessions before bed, in between the beats of the instrumental music pouring through her headphones, she would find her thoughts going back to the email. Had he written the words, erased them, and rewritten them a thousand times before he sent it?

She wanted to tell Shruti. It didn't feel like the type of thing she ought to keep to herself; she meant to tell her mother as well. Browsing on the internet and accidentally coming across her father was another thing, but this wasn't on purpose. This was real, it was tangible. It existed in the tiny space of her cell phone and if she took a print-out of it, she would have very real proof of those words. Words, that her father had thought of and written it out and sent to her in real-time, in the real world. What was this world?

My Shweta, (Shweta wasn't very comfortable with the 'my' part.)

I wonder how you are. There's a fisherman who comes up to my street every day at ten o'clock. When the clock hands hit number ten, I am always reminded of you. You used to holler, "Ten out of ten" and scare your mother almost every day for an entire year. The last year I was home, the last memory that I have of you, is you screaming "ten out of ten". Shruti had scored a full ten marks on her test and you loved the phrase. And thus, for the past fifteen years, every day when the clock hands hit ten, I think of you. My chubby, curious little girl screaming "ten out of ten".