I don't know what to say

“Hello”

“Hello”

“How are you?”

“Like I have been for some time now.“

She calls long distance every evening at 8.30 p.m. sharp. It is 11 a.m. in that part of the world. Then she goes silent for the next five minutes. I wait for her to say the next few words. It is always a variation of,

“Say something.”

“I don’t have anything to say. Why don’t you talk since it is you who called?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

I wait for another five minutes. The next question is about the house help.

“Has she been coming?”

“Yes, and yours?”

The conversation dries up. I hold on the phone for at least half an hour waiting for her to utter the next sentence. When she repeats, “I don’t know what to say,” I hang up.

This has been going on for the last five years. If it were not for WhatsApp, I would be spending my entire salary on phone calls. In the days before internet, we placed long distance trunk calls on the landline and were billed every three minutes. After squeezing in in all we had to say in three minutes during which we spoke fast in loud voices as the line was always bad. we hung up after the beep lest we should be billed for the next three minutes. Now we possess a smart phone, have Wi fi and don’t need to pay for long distance calls on WhatsApp. But we have nothing left to say to each other.

I recalled the unending mid-morning chats and late afternoon chats over cups of tea during my college vacations. After Father left for work, we would sit down to a sumptuous breakfast, clear up the kitchen, make the beds and have our showers. Midmorning was perfect for another round of tea with a light snack. She would talk about a visit to or from a relative and fill me in on the latest developments in their lives. It could be the lunch she had to rustle up on a surprise visit by a relative or the conversation that followed. Or it could be about a visit to a relative and the happenings in their house. They were inevitably followed by a microanalysis of their words or conduct concluding with “let them be”. Alternatively, we would discuss the latest fashions and where we could shop from. Talk of clothes made us seem like a normal mother and daughter. Clothes were a neutral topic that one could engage with without bringing in any people. Then there were films that we had watched and the gossip about stars we read in magazines. Sometimes we were joined in by our neighbour who would drop in for a cup of tea and leave just before lunch. Our after-lunch conversation were drowsy confidences expressing remorse and regrets, about not having done the right thing. We would doze off while chatting about random friends and relatives until Father returned from work. On the days a relative dropped in, the conversation took a turn to family news and nostalgic memories of my childhood.

I also recalled the long telephone chats we had until a decade ago. She would have a leisurely breakfast and shower and pick up the phone before she got busy with lunch on the weekends. On weekdays, it would be after evening tea before she began preparing dinner. She would complain about a family member’s words or behaviour explaining in detail that caused her immense hurt. I would gripe about a coworker and what upset me. Since she did not know my coworkers, she made sympathetic sounds to show that she was listening but didn’t remember a word of what I said the next day. I, however, knew the family member she was referring to and was disturbed after hearing about what they said or did and would inquire the following day if things were better. On another day, the complaints went back to half a century ago about a parent, sibling or in-law when she entered the new family whose trauma coloured every subsequent encounter. I had heard the same complaints almost verbatim but continued to listen. The sibling complaints would end on a conciliatory explanation but not the ones against in-laws. Gossip about extended family was another favourite topic of conversation. After sharing  the complaint or gossip, she would speculate about the reasons for a particular member’s actions but refrain from passing judgement. It was my job to respond with a judgmental remark on the conduct based on the information and express sympathy or anger. If the family member were around, the complaints would be substituted by formal polite inquiries and answers.

Then she stopped complaining and I followed suit and we had nothing left to communicate. I was frankly fed up of listening to the litany of complaints and having to comment on conduct based on relayed information and conversation. After several decades of telephone conversations, I overheard a telephone conversation in which I was the object of the grievance and the other person commiserated about my subjecting her to torture, I realized that I had been encouraged all these years to comment on the unjust action or words of someone. This is when I put an end to listening to and making complaints and grievances once for all and there was nothing more to say. It is possible that she had nothing to complain about now; but it equally be that she knew better than to complain. She didn’t know what could be passed on and what not. She didn’t know what details would give away some secrets that were not to be shared. She didn’t know talking about what would invite what comments that could be viewed in a negative light. Small talk about what was happening did not elicit anything. So no outings, visits or parties were reported even after repeated icebreakers and I got to learn about them only when I heard someone in the house say they were leaving. On inquiring why she didn’t call over the weekend, she would hem and haw before admitting two days later that they had gone out. “What did you cook for the get together?” would be met with “I forgot” until several weeks later when she let out that they had gone to a restaurant. She was afraid to cause offence to those looking after her by providing details that might create a certain impression in my mind. And so, she learnt to stich her lips. Or engage in trivial small talk about the weather, political events or the domestic help- the only person who spoke to - about underprivileged lives in the inner city.

“I have a new help. She is a Nepali.”

“Is she a good worker?”

“She is very tall and beautiful.”

“Does she know how to cook?”

“She is training to be a nurse and works to pay her tuition”.

Our conversation sounds like a farce as she is always going off the tangent. I tried hard to draw her out by bringing back memories that would make her happy.

“I ordered some snacks. They tasted just like the soft hand-made ones you would make in a jiffy when I dropped in on you in that  big house?”

“Oh yes, you all would come to eat when I rented a room in Mrs S’s house.”

“No not house. Mrs S wouldn’t let a paying guest cook in her kitchen.”

“But your ex would also come there to meet.”

Her utter lack of tact turned my tone harsh.

“Not that house where you had big fights with the landlady.”

She finally remembered, “Oh that house?”

“Grandmother used to make very large ones.”

“And she made them to fill a 16 kg tin.”

“It was Holi when you served it to revellers who came to apply color on you.”

“You know on my first Holi, your father egged me on to apply color on his sister. I did and she slapped me.”

We were back on familiar grounds. Sixty-year-old grudges and insults that she held on to as though they happened yesterday. I changed the topic.

“What are you all going to have on Holi?”

Food served was a forbidden topic because it convey the feeling that she was not being fed properly.  She gave a noncommittal answer and went silent.

She would call religiously call every day to inquire about my health and follow with questions about and the weather and the house help after an interval of five or ten minutes each. I would give my standard replies and knew it was time to hang up the moment she repeated the sentence, “I don’t know what to say. I am so confused.” I could guess that someone was within earshot from the tone of her voice or formal nature of the words. She never spoke about what was happening around her but invariably returned to old memories. When I remonstrated, I was told that she didn’t remember what happened yesterday but remembered the events of 60 years ago citing advancing age as the explanation for her short-term memory loss. Then she would mention something totally disconnected assuming that I was aware of it without providing the context,

“My daughter-in-law is visiting her parents.”

“How would I know?”

“Oh I didn’t tell you.”

“No, you did not.”

“I must have forgotten.”

I was puzzled by her selective remembering because I would ask the question to keep the conversation going rather than genuine interest in the event. Unable to decide whether mention of the lunch menu or visits to or friends was permitted or not, she took resort in saying she didn’t remember.

When she spoke, she asked questions that seemed tactless if not insensitive.

“What are you plans?”

“I am unable to move. What plans could I possibly have?”

The question would be repeated with a different word the following day.

“What is your programme?”

“How can I possibly have a programme?”

The repetition of the same question day after day tried my patience.

“Would you be in town?”

“Where else would I be?”

But she would persist relentlessly despite a hint of annoyance in my tone.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing at all.”

I was moved by the concern but daily updates on my chronic health issues were difficult to provide.

“Are you doing better today?”

“I am the same,” I answered testily silencing her.

I had taken half an hour to explain the issues I was facing to put an end to the question. The Wi fi connection was poor. She couldn’t hear clearly but was afraid to let me know. The following day she repeated the same question and I realized that she couldn’t hear a word. She pleaded with me to talk. But I refused to repeat what I had said the day before and for several months. She took refuge in saying in a plaintive voice that she had developed speech issues that prevented  her from speaking.

“I am unable to speak clearly.”

“But I can hear you loud and clear.”

“Talk to me. About anything.”

“I have nothing to say”. I repeated my daily response. “Why don‘t you talk to those around you?”

“They are working. But he will soon look in to give me my medicines.”

I hear him making Sunday breakfast for his wife. Half an hour later I hear him asking her to take her medicines.

“Why don’t you join them?”

“I want them to have some time together. Besides I don’t eat eggs”.

But this Sunday, they had invited her to taste the special breakfast cooked for a visiting relayed and stay on to join the family conversation. When she called, she appeared to be in a loquacious mood. Her speech was clear and she knew what to say. She repeated her conversations with the visitor punctuated by speculative comments in an animated voice like in the old days. Not the least interested in the relative or friend’s life or travel itineraries, I asked.

“Why should I know who else she is visiting?”

“Her expenses run to a million or two but her husband doesn’t get a pension.”

Once again, I caught myself making a sarcastic comment out of habit,

“Then how does she afford international trips and holidays.”

I stopped myself by joking about her recovering her voice when it came to family gossip. She spoke for half an hour despite my non-committal rejoinders.

“She lives very well.”

We were back on familiar territory. But I checked myself before making a comment.

“Good for her. Why shouldn’t she?”

She moved to the itinerary that I was already aware of.

“She is visiting her daughter before flying back.”

“When would that be?”

“I don’t know.”

I tried to bring the conversation back home.

“How did you celebrate the landmark birthday?”

“You mean her husband’s birthday?”

 She was still rehearsing their visit.

“No. Why would I be interested in knowing about that? Whose birthday was it that week?”

“Whose? I can’t recollect.”

“If you can’t remember, there is no point talking about it.”

I gave up and disconnected.