Man in a Hurry

Very Sweet ....

by JUG SURAIYA

Looking back, you’d wonder what the hurry was at that time. Trouble was, ‘at that time’ wasn’t ‘at that time’ at that time. It was right then. And right then he was in a hurry. And all the bloody relatives didn’t help. The flat was full of them. A droll assortment of uncles; anthologies of aunts, each with stories about things he’d said or done when he was ever so little, and look at him now, all grown up, on this big day; a slyness of cousins in murmured conspiracies. What was it that they were whispering about anyway, silly grins on their faces? He didn’t have to ask. He knew. It was him. Now and then one would call out to him, amidst much laughter, to come and join them. But he couldn’t. He was too tightly wound up, a watch-spring coiled too often, all that morning, the past week, the past month, ever since the date had been fixed. Time had become fitful, a fickle fever that came and went. Sometimes minutes, hours, days sped by, skittering out of sight. Other times, seconds crawled like ants on sweaty skin.

He went to see if he could hurry up lunch. He wasn’t hungry himself, hadn’t been for days, appetite too slow to catch up with the haste he was in. But all the guests had to be fed before they could set off. And a suspicion told him that getting them fed wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t. Lunch wasn’t ready. It wouldn’t be ready for an hour. What was his hurry, anyway? Loud chuckles. Uncles, aunts, cousins, even the maharaj, hired for the occasion, loin-clothed, sacred-threaded, so thin after a lifetime of cooking for others that you could count every finger of your hands on his ribs. Finally they sat for lunch, men in one room, women in the other, seated on wooden patlas on the floor, thalis in front of them, the old maharaj stooping and bobbing to serve each one, a stork in quicksand. Everything seemed in slow motion. Finally he pushed aside his half-finished thali and announced he was going to change; he didn’t want to be late; 3 o’clock was the appointed time. Don’t worry, she won’t run away; she’ll wait for you, a cousin rallied. Uncles guffawed and aunts smirked.

He got changed and returned; they were still eating, prolonging it. All right; i’ll go on my own, he said, and went down to the car. Holy shit. The car. Ribbons, balloons, flowers. It looked like a Diwali hamper on wheels. Take them off, he told the driver. Can’t; your uncles put them there, sniggered the driver. Let’s go, said the man in a hurry, cursing his inability to drive. Can’t, repeated the driver. You have to wait for the others; you can’t go on your own. If you don’t start the car, you’re sacked, said the hurry man. The sound of the engine brought everyone down in a gratifying rush.

The cavalcade started. Traffic was light, the distance short. They reached at five to three. Relief flooded him. He’d made it. He was on time. He wasn’t. He was at least an hour too early. Traditionally, the man always arrives late, to make the other side wait. So the other side is never ready by the official time. From behind the closed door, muted shrieks. Ohmigod, he’s here already! How could he be? He’s not supposed to be here till at least 4! Surrounded by querulous uncles and told-you-so cousins, he stood there on the landing, stiff and stranded in his brand new silk achkan, feeling like the biggest idiot on earth and happy to be so, till, at last, the door opened. It was 3.30.

Last month, it was 40 years to that day. Why were you in such a hurry? asks Bunny. Seems silly now, she adds. Not at all; it’s given me a 30-minute bonus added to those 40 years, i reply.