‘Don’t you know? He’s your best friend after all.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘I can’t believe you don’t know.’
‘Sir, if you can’t tell me straight, don’t bother.’
‘He has been transferred.’
‘Really? All of a sudden?’
‘Chiplunkar is resuming his charge tomorrow.’
The news was disheartening.
I wouldn’t be able to see Satwalekar any more. I would miss his neat work, the clean reports, the error- free drafts, the lovely handwriting, the signature made with a flourish. More importantly, I would miss someone who was the epitome of good habits. He was going to be replaced by that paan-chewing Chiplunkar, who had the disgusting habit of throwing trash into his desk drawer rather than the dustbin.
I couldn’t imagine it. It was as if a child, reared for nine months in the womb, had died at birth. Why did the child have to live for nine months and give everyone hope, only to die the moment it was born? Why did it not survive? Wasn’t the nine-month-long journey a complete waste?
Satwalekar came to hand over charge to Chiplunkar.
He folded the tablecloth and put it into a bag along with the plastic flowers.
I stepped out of the office with him.
We walked all the way to the Gateway of India. We sat on the parapet there. It was hot. Satwalekar seemed depressed.
‘Satwalekar…’
He removed his glasses and took a handkerchief out of his pocket. The handkerchief was, as expected, white and neatly folded. I thought he was going to wipe his glasses, but he dabbed at his eyes. He was in tears.
‘Satwalekar,’ I repeated.
‘Friend, my life is over.’
‘Satwalekar, don’t get emotional. Things will work out.’
‘What exactly do you expect will happen?’
‘Things will be good. Life doesn’t end when such events occur.’
‘Are you familiar with Kolhapuri chappals?’
‘Yes, I wear them. Why do you ask?’
‘How does it feel when the loop holding the toe breaks? We somehow manage to drag our feet and walk. But we don’t enjoy the walk, do we?’
His analogy silenced me.
‘My life is going through a similar phase. One can’t discard the chappal just because it’s broken. One patches it and keeps using it. But all the time there’s the lurking fear that the loop may snap again. That’s how it is.’
‘Satwalekar, you’re quite strange, you know?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t mean to say “strange”. It slipped out inadvertently. Though you may say, “How can something slip out inadvertently?”’
Despite his state of mind, Satwalekar laughed out loud. It encouraged me.
‘This is what I wanted to say.’
‘What?’
‘Stop expecting perfection from others.’
‘And become like them? Tolerate whatever they do? Is that what you want to say?’
‘To an extent.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then you’re bound to be unhappy.’
‘I am unhappy.’
‘What’s the point, then? Look at the incident where your wife spilled some salad while serving it. Wasn’t that trivial?’
‘This sort of logic hurts me. We accept a bottle of ink falling down, food spilling while being served… We accept all this without question. Such trivial mistakes have become a part of our life. We accept human behaviour in the same way we accept fruit falling down from a tree due to gravity. I can’t accept such logic. How can someone be so clumsy after having cooked and served food for years?’
‘I agree. But isn’t the issue trivial enough to not argue about? Won’t it spoil marital happiness? Isn’t that more important?’
‘I don’t like the “anything goes” attitude. My worry is that I have to climb the mountain of life with such a partner in tow.’
‘You will, I’m sure.’
‘No. It’s not just some isolated, trivial event. It’s a mindset that I’m struggling to change.’
‘That too will change.’
He gave me a look that told me he was beyond reasoning. I would not be able to convince him.
‘I wanted to lead a perfect married life.’
‘You will, I tell you.’
‘No. That’s ruled out. I could predict my future from the very first day.’
‘What made you come to this conclusion?’
‘We were having dinner. We were sharing a meal from the same plate. We were feeding each other. I didn’t realize it for a while, lost in my newfound happiness. But then it dawned on me that she made a funny noise while eating. It was intolerable. I told her, trying to be as sensitive as possible. And do you know what she said?’
‘What?’
‘“It’s been my habit for the past twenty-three years. I don’t think I can change it.” I asked her to try. She replied that it wasn’t possible, and why was it such a big deal? I was silent, but I decided then that I couldn’t have a meal with her.’
I pondered over the situation. Seeing me in that thoughtful state, Satwalekar said,
‘Forget it. Why are you torturing your mind?’
‘I’m not. I’m happy you’re confiding in me. What saddens me is the fact that you’re saying some trivial issue or deep-rooted habits will cause your married life to be a failure.’
‘That was just one example. I have to take care at every step. She leaves the comb with hairs sticking in it. She leaves the knife at the table after cutting vegetables. The toothpaste tube is always without its cap. I can’t step into the bathroom after she’s had a bath. I get irritated when I have to see the bath mug lying on the floor. How many times can I remind her? The milk boiled over thirteen times in the last fifteen days. She will put sindoor in her hair and wipe her hand on her sari. How many such things can I point out? It’s never-ending. I have to live with it for all my life.’
‘Don’t jump to such conclusions. People change. You’re the one who is going to change her. It’s your mission. A challenge. Accept it. If you are man enough, take it upon yourself to change these things. I’m sure it will happen.’
‘She won’t change. If she believes that the things I point out are trivial, the chances of change are
