My Box

The dust had hardly settled when the 5 o'clock bell sounded. The day had been relatively idle, with merely 4 classes having the library period. That left 5 periods free. I was happy that no class had had library during the last hour of the day. That left me 2 hours of cleanup with a 5 o'clock exit unlike subject teachers who all stayed busy till 6. I wasn't very good at anything. No no, I'm not being pessimistic, just factual. My marks at school were dismal, even for language! I hated running or jumping... sports. I stammered and stuttered during presentations. Wasn't stage fright, just lack of talent. I had had some friends I suppose, but I don't really know where they are now. I'm good at marriage and motherhood I think.

I had spoken of dust hadn't I. Well, I had been dusting that day too. That was usually the last chore of the day. Before that, I would clean up and tidy the books that are on the shelves and return those that are off them back to their rightful place. Children don't really mean to leave things in a haphazard manner. That just happens. I have 3 children back home, so I know. Cleaning after them is a daily business, if not a continuous one. I was not fond of dusting or keeping things in order, but I did it anyway. There's no one else for such work, here or back home. Both places would have to find someone new for that wouldn't they. I wonder who'll replace me.

Anyway, going back to that faithful day, my dusting cloth had caught the edge of a book and succeeded in emptying the whole shelf down onto the floor. They fall like dominos. My mind had been wandering over potential choices for dinner, and I had just realized I'd have to buy things for any of those choices. A visit to the supermarket needed then. Gone... that one free hour that I spend doing nothing, drinking tea on the balcony, feeling empty but at peace, before the kids get in sweaty and stinky from play and tuition, before the homework tension, before the cooking, before the husband's entry, before the dinner, before the cleanup, before the dish washing, before the lights out, before the end of the day... that one hour, Gone. In an attempt to comfort myself, I had run through possible options for the Christmas trip my husband promised to take us on. "Mountains", he'd said, "this time let's do mountains. Shouldn't be any higher than the budget of course". All 4 of us had giggled at that joke. I had to find a place soon. I had been given a month and there was only a week left. If I didn't find a place, the trip was out. He didn't like to travel. So these Christmas trips had been for me. Why couldn't I just decide on a place. Is it because I didn't really enjoy trekking, or camping, or the inevitable barbeque. My spirits had fallen again. Back to being irritable, I had stuffed the books back in, ignoring the position or genre. So when I say it chanced upon me, that is the truth.

It must have been the name, Et dukkehjem, or perhaps the language, Norwegian, I later found out. Foreign books weren't common sights in our library. It was an English adaptation, of the play written by Henrik Ibsen. The Doll's house. I remember thinking, "what will a man know about a doll's house". Perhaps that thought was what had got me turning the pages. You see, being a librarian, I knew the name of every book we housed, but being only a librarian, reading them wasn't my job. If it came under the acceptable list, then it was allowed to be displayed. That was all. Reading the books from the "College Entrance level Material" shelf of the "Literature" section, had not just been laughable, but ironical too. Of course I hadn't been to college. I was a librarian. Barely got through high school.

I cannot claim to know what had possessed me. I had finished reading the entire play that very day, in that very room, in that very position I had found it in, cross legged and amidst the scattered books I had long forgotten had to be put back. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there must have been thoughts of reality floating about but I cannot remember them today. What I remember though, is the horror one feels when sympathy and empathy take the place of what should correctly have been disgust and disbelief. As each page pulled me into a story that should have been incomprehensive, but instead felt relatable and worse, recognizable, I had desperately wanted to put the book down. Was I empathizing with her! Why would I empathize with such a woman. Spineless, wasn't she. Merely a child. A women without identity, without self. No, I shouldn't understand her. I couldn't possibly. My husband wasn't Torvald. My children weren't Bobby, Emmy or Evar. I WASN'T NORA.

We'd all come a long way from all this. My life was made by my choices. The world had moved forward. Perhaps in the less fortunate households, or among the backward parts of the country, there were such women. I lived in the city. In an apartment. I was far away from such women and times. I had a job. I had money. I had security. I vote! I drive! I'm free! Right? Right? And yet, and yet, I couldn't put it down.

I put my husband and children through a lot of worry that day. I had reached home so late. 9 o'clock!!! And not one phone call! Had I not seen or heard even one of the numerous messages and calls they had sent me. I had been too casual. At least I was safe, so I got away with some soft admonishing. I had made up some story about an after-hours school meeting.

"Though what a librarian has to do with school meetings I have no idea"

"Ya me neither haha"

I don't know why I lied.

"I was reading a book"

What does a librarian have to do with books huh.

The truth is that, as I had closed the last page of that book I had heard a thread snap. Perhaps I had cut it. And as the fabric fell apart, I had stood nude and exposed, to myself. Slowly, or in a matter of seconds, I cannot say which, I watched that body start breathing, heaving, as it came alive for the very first time. Passion. Passion for life. The blood of our minds, the breath of our hearts, the strength of our guts. I saw it flow through that body, adding color, adding vigor, adding shine. Was I dead before? Merely existing perhaps? Why is it that I never looked to life for life? Did I deem myself unworthy of independent happiness? When did I begin doing that?

Those questions don't matter today. I'll never do it any of that again.

Today's my last day here. No one really knows I'm leaving. Then again, no one really knows me. My first auditing visit, as a mystery shopper, will be to a hotel in Kovalam, Kerala, India. Not a great pay, as my company regretfully admits, but to relax, have room service, travel, they don't know, I'd have done it for free. My bags are packed, goodbye said, and the divorce papers are all drawn up. I haven't begun missing them. Eventually, I expect, I will. But right now, I have coconut trees in my head, backwaters in my heart, and the heat in my body.

I must go now. I look back for the last time. No dust anywhere. Everything is clear, spotless, discernable, uncovered. I open the door and step out of my box.