SHUT INS

Jeannie looked at him seated on the old armchair on the verandah. Sarath looked older than his fifty one years. After the stroke he suffered he could hardly do anything. His speech became a series of mumbles and garbled grunts and he could use only one hand. He could hardly walk, but dragged himself if he was supported by someone. Sitting on the armchair made him feel better - better than being on his wheelchair anyway. Wheelchairs were for invalids; he loathed the words 'invalid,' 'disabled,''shut ins.' Even she winced whenever she heard people describe Sarath as an invalid. Made him sound useless. It hurt her to acknowledge that the description was really the truth. He was useless in a lot of ways and totally dependent on her, making her feel as shut in as he did.

She walked to the edge of the small garden and stood at the gate, gazing at the road which she had used so often; she remembered how sometimes it was a path of drudgery - especially when she had to carry heavy bags of vegetables and groceries. Now the road had taken on a different look. It looked inviting and seemed to beckon her. She recalled their early morning walks; they used to step into a hazy kind of world before the sun was really quite awake. He would walk briskly, not pausing for even a second; she used to call him a robot. She always lagged behind, never able to catch up with his pace. Now look at him. His body slumped on the chair, his good hand moving up and down to his face and onto the arm of the chair repeatedly. His mouth sagged to one side and sometimes, unknown to him, the spittle drooled onto his clothes. He would sit there, his shirt wet with saliva; then she would see it and wipe his mouth.

As Jeannie silently returned to the house, every item of furniture was imprinted in her head as never before. They looked dark and forbidding. It was as if the chairs and the tables held her down to the house. She remembered how she loved her possessions. She used to polish the dining table and arrange the vases - smiling, humming a tune. She cooked with delight and experimented with daring new recipes. They often cooked together. Indian food, Italian food, Thai food - international cooks they called themselves! Now he had to have everything mashed up - soupy, sloppy stuff that slid down his throat without much effort. Her friends told her she should go out sometimes. It was easy to say, but who would stay with him? Her daily help Seela wouldn't know what to do with him. When it happened, Seela was afraid to even look at him. She couldn't believe her master - the gentleman she had worked for so long, had changed so much. She peered at him when he was brought back from the hospital on a wheelchair - unable to move, unable to speak. Jeannie had to get an attendant to look after him during the day, but Sarath hated depending on this strange man. He wanted Jeannie by his side all the time. The attendant hardly served any purpose, so she asked him to leave. She had to manage with Seela.

Two weeks ago she had received a wedding invitation. Sushila was an old School friend and had called her a few days back.

"Jeannie, please try to make it to Choolie's wedding. I know it's difficult, but do try. We'll be so happy to see you there."

The invitation was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Sarath Gooneratne." She turned down all the invitations now because it was difficult to go out in the evenings. At least during the day she could dash out to the shops with Seela there at home to keep an eye on him. But in the evenings she felt compelled to stay in.

When she showed him the invitation he read it carefully and she knew he was looking at the time given: "7 pm onwards." He feared those times. It was as if a net had been cast over him which drew her in as well, but after Sushila's call she decided to accept the invitation. Surely he wouldn't mind her going out this time?

"I have asked malli to come and stay with you while I go to the wedding." she said.

He just looked at her. She assumed that it was all right by him.

She was strangely excited about the wedding. Earlier, she had avoided weddings, saying they bored her, she hated dressing up, it was a waste of time; and now, it had become a real outing for her - almost an adventure! Which sari should she wear, the pink or the grey silk? She put them against her, eyes brightening at the thought of putting on this finery and stepping into the outside world. She rummaged through her box of jewellery and picked up the amethyst earrings and ring to match. Now she had to find a suitable bracelet. A smile played on her lips as she recalled the many times she had gone through these pieces, trying to match them with what ever she was wearing. But that was so long ago. The past ten months seemed like a lifetime.

Carefully, she ironed the sari, jacket and underskirt and hung them up in her bedroom. What if he wanted something while she was away? Would her brother understand? Even she found it difficult to understand him sometimes. The water surged over her body while she showered. She sprayed herself with an imported cologne and was dismayed to find that most of it had evaporated. Well, never mind, she thought, I'll use what's left.

Her make up had dried up and was difficult to use. But she had a good skin and sparkling eyes and didn't need too much colouring on her face. She combed her long hair and then pinned it up in a knot on the top of her head. He used to like that so much. How he used to watch her dress, telling her what jewellery to wear, admiring her outfit, laughing at her when her hair didn't stay up perfectly. Suppose he got another stroke while she was away? After all this was how it had happened the last time. She went out for a few moments and when she got back he was slumped over in his chair. She glanced at him. He was lying inert on the bed, his eyes glued on her. He tried to smile but his mouth took on a grotesque shape which made her shudder. He said something but the sounds came out as a series of grunts which she could not understand. He was waving his good hand at her, calling her. She went to him and sat on the bed. He moved his hand across her face, touching it gently, trembling fingers playing on her ears and then he gripped her hand in his. The tears trickled down his numb face. She just bit her lips and remained silent.

The doorbell rang. It was her brother Sugath. She went to the door and he was taken aback to see her eyes full of tears.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Nothing - I'm not going."

"But why? You're all dressed up."

"No, I can't. It's just-" she didn't complete the sentence.

"Is he telling you not to?" he asked.

"No, no." She was vehement, "I don't want to go, I can't leave him. I know I should but I can't" she sobbed.

He remained silent. "Don't worry. I'll sit with him and get him whatever he wants while you are out."

But she shook her head. "No, really, I'd rather stay home, with him. Really."

He stood at the door and then said, "Okay, if that's the way you want it." He didn't attempt to come inside. "I'll come some other time - maybe tomorrow - to see you both."

He left. She shut the door and stood against it for a few moments, composing herself, and then went back into the room.

He gazed at her, his eyes filled with anxiety, expecting her to leave at any moment. She could see that he was surprised when she slowly started undoing her jewellery and unwinding her sari. He tried to say something but the only sound that escaped his twisted lips was a series of agitated grunts. He waved his hand frantically, calling her to his side.

She sat by him on the bed. "My brother couldn't stay - he had some urgent work to attend to. It doesn't matter. I won't go. I really wasn't too keen on going anyway; you know how I hate weddings and dolling up." She gave a laugh which, to her ears, sounded hollow. She hoped her lie didn't sound the same. But he looked happy. His mouth contorted into a smile and saliva dribbled down his chin.

She wiped his chin and held his hand and he gripped hers with a fierce tenderness that made her want to cry. In a curious way she felt relieved she had stayed behind.
