Metamorphosis

So here she was, in the famous city of London, the London that she had been hearing about from the age of three, as in – ‘London Bridge is falling down’ or ‘…I’ve been to London to look at the queen, ‘Rita mused, as she looked out of the window. It was now a week since she had come to this country to join her husband. Until now, she had ventured only as far as the corner shop and the library. Today she had been a bit more adventurous and gone to the local market. She had only just got back.

Rita looked at her watch. It was five o’ clock in the evening, though it seemed almost like midnight. Not a single soul was in sight. An eerie silence had greeted her, when she had reached home. There was a message for her on the answering machine. Jatin was going to be late. He had to go out for a beer with his colleagues.

As she was locking her door that morning, Rita had espied the Asian woman who lived two houses away, with her shopping trolley. “Hello! I am Rita.” Rita had held out her hand, as she brushed back a strand of silky black hair with the other.
“I am Geeta, Geeta Patel.” A plump moist hand had held Rita’s, warmly.

“Here auntie, let me help you with that.” Then seeing the protest on Mrs. Patel’s lips, she had added, “Oh auntie, if you were my mom, would you still stop me from helping you? Just think, I am your daughter, okay?” After wheeling the trolley to Mrs. Patel’s front door, Rita had waved goodbye. What a friendly, sweet-natured little thing thought Mrs. Patel, as she watched her receding form. None of the shrewdness and cunning of the London girl, for sure, she thought.

Rita had then taken the tube to the nearest shopping mall. She had looked around at her fellow passengers. All of them had straight faces. She had smiled at the passengers sitting in front. They had given her a cold stare. She had hastily wiped away her smile and looked out of the window. She had thought it very strange that nobody in the train was talking to or smiling at anyone.

Rita took a sip of her coffee. The house was cold. She took out a match and lit the open fire in the living room. Pulling up a chair, she sat down shivering, close to the fire. As she held out her hands over the flame, she remembered a story she had heard as a child. It was about a little match-girl who tried to keep herself warm one night by lighting matches. Each time she lit a match, she saw something that life had denied her. Only now, instead of the poor girl, Rita saw herself in the flames. She is with Jatin. They are going shopping together. He is laughing at her and calling her a ‘scaredy-cat’ as she hesitates before the escalators…now he is pulling her into his arms, as they wait at the station for the tube. Feeling her stiffen, he whispers, “Relax. It’s okay. This is London, not India. Nobody is looking at us.” He then plants a firm kiss on her lips, before she manages to wriggle out of his arms…. The flames flickered and the vision faded away.

A shiver ran up her spine, as Rita remembered what had actually happened that morning. She had been about to cross the road, when she saw an old man on all fours in the middle of the road. His bag had ripped, sending apples and oranges rolling all over the street. Rita had rushed over to help him. But just as she bent down to pick up an orange she heard a loud “now look here missy, I am not having the likes of you coming and stealing my stuff. You keep your hands off my fruit!” Taken aback, Rita’s mouth had fallen open and she had gaped at the old fellow waving his stick at her, before turning away.

Rita poked at the logs and watched the flames flicker. As she gazed into the flames, she saw Jatin and herself in front of a vending machine. Her coin has got stuck. Jatin gives a fierce kick to the machine. Bar upon bar of chocolate comes pouring out of the machine. The two of them, laughing gleefully like kids, scoop up the loot…Rita swallowed. She cupped her thin elegant fingers around the coffee mug and took another sip.

That morning, when Rita had reached St. Anne’s Centre, a part of the local shopping mall, the doors had opened automatically. Rita had gingerly stepped in. She had felt a little overwhelmed. After all, she came from a country where luxuries such as automatic doors were only to be seen at international airports and hotels.

Rita had watched the young crowd dressed in trendy outfits and had felt sloppy in her clumsy baggy jumper. Her mother had lovingly knitted it for her and it had always been her favourite, that is, until now. She had then proceeded to look at some clothes in the famous Marks and Spencer store. She had smiled as she had remembered her father taking out his tweed jacket every winter and proudly telling everyone that he had bought it from the famous Marks and Spencer. That was 10 years back. Now tweed was nowhere to be seen. What she did see were row upon row of brilliantly- tailored dresses. She wanted to check out the price of a white dress, but was afraid of touching it, lest her brown colour should run and ruin it.

The flames leapt up as Rita threw in another log. Another vision - this time the two of them are in Top Shop at Brent Cross. Rita is trying on a whole lot of dresses. She comes out of the dressing room and stands in front of Jatin with her hands on her hips and her chin thrust up. Just like she had seen the models do on the catwalk. Jatin looks at her thoughtfully for a minute, then shakes his head” No, it’s not good enough.” She tries another, then another. Then she steps out in a white dress, and twirls before the mirror. Jatin lets out a low whistle. He holds up his fingers and with his dark eyes glinting mischievously, whispers “Perfect. We'll buy it.” … A little piece of burning wood fell out of the fire onto the carpet. Rita quickly picked it up and put it back into the flames.

Rita had sat down on a bench outside Marks and Spencer for a while. She had smiled as she offered a sweet to a toddler sitting next to her. The little one had smiled back at her. Just then the mother’s loud bellow was heard “How many times have I told you not to speak to strangers or take anything from them?” The next thing Rita knew was that the sweet had been yanked from the toddler’s mouth and thrown into the bin, accompanied with loud yelling and screaming.

There had been many people in the shopping centre and many of them had been glued to their mobiles. As Rita had watched their animated faces, engrossed in conversation, she had realized that they were not actually there but in another world, transported by modern technology. Where were the appreciative glances of strangers as their eyes roved over her, the smiles, the wolf whistles, the serenading that is still so much a part of the Indian shopping experience? Rita had sighed. This was a world taken over by machines, or so it seemed.

Rita had been walking towards a bookshop when something had dazzled her. Right in front was a shop called H. Samuel. What an amazing collection of crystal ware! Rita had looked longingly at the miniature crystal piano, a wee trumpet and a dear little typewriter. In fact, everything in the shopping centre seemed to dazzle her. Every article on display appeared to have perfect finesse.

However, in spite of all the shine and glitter, something was missing, thought Rita. Here, in London, everyone was so professional, so coldly indifferent. No one bothered if you spent hours browsing through the wares of a shop and then walked away without having spent even a penny. This would never happen in her country. The moment she’d step into a shop in India, the shopkeeper would begin to woo her with his smooth talk and wares. He may not have been to management school, but he had mastered the art of treating the customer as king. He would espy her leafing through some dresses and pointing to the one that she seemed to be interested in, remark, “Madam, this colour really becomes you.” “Madam, if you wear this dress tonight, he will definitely propose to you.” Then, when she had tried on the dress, “Madam, this dress was stitched just for you!” As a result, she would not only leave the shop with at least two dresses, but also feeling two inches taller.

Rita had smiled wistfully as she had thought about her homeland. She had started to feel a little homesick and had headed back to her apartment.

Rita grimaced. She poked with her stick at the dying embers. Just two nights after her arrival, Jatin had gone off to a nightclub with his friend for his birthday bash. She couldn't go with him he had said. It was supposed to be a boy’s night out. She couldn't understand. Back home she had always accompanied him.

He had returned at 3.00 in the morning, totally drunk. They had an argument. Enraged, she had slapped him. In icy tones he had told her “never ever do that again,” as he had brusquely removed her hand from his face. His handsome face had looked so ugly and distorted then and so unlike the Jatin she had married and was madly in love with, just a year back. Rita’s soft brown eyes were moist by the time she finished her coffee. The fire had gone cold and nothing but ashes remained.

Mrs. Patel was seated in a bus. A smart young girl dressed in a Nicole Farhi jacket and holding a Gucci handbag sat down beside her. She looked vaguely familiar. A little boy of about three went up to the girl and smiled at her. He was sucking a lollipop and put his grubby fingers on her chinos. The girl irritably pushed the child away. An old man sitting next to her, across the aisle, tried to make small talk. Like a true Englishman, he started talking about the weather. Turning to Mrs. Patel, the girl whispered, “The problem with these old fogies is that they talk too much.”

A few minutes elapsed. The girl looked up from her book to see what was holding up the bus. There was a pregnant woman at the door with another child, whose pushchair had got stuck between the doors. “How long is she going to take?” the girl muttered.

The woman with the pushchair was now standing on the aisle, beside her. She swayed helplessly as the bus moved, holding onto the pole with one hand and the pushchair with the other. Once she almost fell over the girl and apologised profusely. The girl gave her a condescending stare before turning away. She ought to offer the woman her seat, she thought guiltily. But what the hell, she had had a long day, she was tired, besides, her stilettos were killing her.

The bus slowed down and the girl rose to get off at the stop. Something in the way she sashayed down the bus seemed to jog Mrs. Patel’s memory and she remembered who she was. “Hey Rita!” she called out as the girl stepped off the bus. Rita waved to her without so much as to give a backward glance. She continued to walk and speak on her mobile. Mrs. Patel watched her thoughtfully. Yes, the transformation was complete. It had taken a little over two years for the metamorphosis.

-Sangeeta Bhargava

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