If there were a rulebook for observing people’s behaviour atop the neighbourhood houses, Miss Silwal would undoubtedly be labelled ‘mannerless.’ Not that she cared about what people thought of her. But society and its people have always berated someone like Miss Silwal, who doesn’t always sail toward a forceful current. Not everyone can sink and swim against the tides. It requires a certain amount of confidence and a lot of guts. Miss Silwal was not ordinary—or at least she liked to think so. One might wonder why a married woman still wanted to be addressed as Miss Silwal. She always enjoyed answering this, laughing at people’s obsession with finding logic in everything.

Once, when a neighbour next door asked this question at a vegetable store, she smiled and said, “I just love the way it sounds. Miss. It sounds sweet, no?” The woman looked as if she wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but Miss Silwal moved ahead, picking up a pumpkin and a cucumber. Of course, Miss Silwal didn’t visit the vegetable store to make small talk with a busybody.

This Saturday, Miss Silwal was supposed to attend a business conference at Hotel Indrawati, far from the neighbourhood where she lived with her twelve-year-old daughter. A streak of light had already seeped into the room, but Miss Silwal remained collapsed on the bed, scrolling through her newsfeed and reacting to posts now and then. A news article about a leader’s involvement in a cooperative scam caught her attention. She always liked it when the national media exposed fraudulent leaders and their mischief. As she finished reading the article's first sentence, a text message appeared on her phone. The message from Ajay Sir read: The conference is delayed for an hour. It will start at 10.

Miss Silwal almost jumped out of bed as she read the text. A few seconds later, she got out of bed, walked to the window, and dialled Ajay Sir’s number.

“Good morning, sir.”

Ajay Sir glanced at his wife, who was scrubbing the dishes, and replied in what sounded like a whisper, “Good morning.”

Over the last two years of friendship, Miss Silwal had already understood that such a cheerless reply came only when Ajay Sir’s wife was within earshot. Clearing her throat, Miss Silwal added, “Thanks for reminding me. I had completely forgotten that we were attending the conference. Thank God it’s starting at 10.” She looked at her wristwatch, gifted by her husband on the first anniversary of their marriage. She could prepare a proper breakfast in two hours, but she loathed the idea of cooking something while glancing at the watch now and then.

Ajay Sir had already hung up the phone before she could ask about the exact location of Hotel Indrawati. Miss Silwal lazily dragged her body in her sleeping suit toward the room where her daughter slept alone. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her long fingers over the contours of her daughter’s face. A wide smile materialised, as it always did, when she studied the charming features of her daughter. Miss Silwal knew very well that Pratikshya inherited that long nose from her father, who would reiterate this every time the couple talked about their daughter. Only the shiny, black hair almost reaching Pratikshya’s waist gave the impression that she was Miss Silwal’s daughter. Although Pratikshya was a carbon copy of her father, Miss Silwal couldn’t help loving her. Pratikshya had become a calm and studious child, and her mother liked that she didn’t inherit any ferocious qualities from her father.

“Wake up, sleepyhead! Mom will be leaving for the conference,” Miss Silwal whispered in her daughter’s ear. On Saturdays, Pratikshya would sleep till 9, and her mother never protested because Pratikshya put so much effort into her studies throughout the week. Whenever the mother had to go out for meetings or parties or wherever, Pratikshya would be dropped at the residence of Miss Silwal’s mother, a widow who lived alone in the next neighbourhood. Although the widowed mother detested her daughter’s ways and the masculine touch to Miss Silwal’s personality, she always looked forward to seeing her granddaughter and wished the charming little girl could live with her.

“Good morning, Mom,” Pratikshya chirped, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’ll be leaving for the conference at 9,” Miss Silwal ruffled her daughter’s hair and hugged her, which Pratikshya always saw as an exaggerated form of love.

“That means I’ll get to see my grandmother, yeah?”

“You are right, little champ. Why don’t you inform your grandmother that you are coming?” Miss Silwal offered this suggestion while rummaging through the closet for a pair of black stockings and a long skirt—an outfit that Pratikshya thought never matched her mother’s physical appearance.

“I will call her. Is the breakfast ready? I’m starving, Mom,” Pratikshya grunted and creased her brows.

“Oh, that! I’m sorry, dear. Your grandmother will cook your favourite meat for you. I’ll eat something on the way,” she blurted and looked in the mirror. The only thing Pratikshya couldn’t bear was hunger. If she was hungry, then she needed to eat right away. She just hated waiting for food. And though Pratikshya looked visibly upset having to wait for the meal, she inwardly relished the prospect of eating mutton gravy cooked by her grandmother—she loved how the flavour lingered on her tongue long after she had eaten her share.

With strands of hair scattered all over her unwashed face, Miss Silwal didn’t look appealing, but it wasn’t a concern for her. For no reason, Miss Silwal changed her plan of donning a long skirt; she put on a long coat, washed her face, applied almond oil to her scalp, and decided she was ready for the day.

“Are you ready, dear?” she knocked on her daughter’s room door.

“I am coming. Wait. Dad is calling on my phone,” Pratikshya said in a voice awash with worries. Miss Silwal noticed an edge of anxiety in her daughter’s voice, which only happened when she had to tell her mother that her father was on the other end of the telephone line. Her mouth agape, Miss Silwal stood outside the door, torn between asking her daughter to open the door or leaving in silence.

When was the last time she talked to her husband? she wondered. Perhaps it was a week ago when her phone rang in the eerie silence of midnight. She added three more hours to Nepali time, and when she realised it was past three in the morning in Korea, her intuition suggested not answering the call. But assuming that there must be something important her husband needed to tell her, she picked up the phone.

In a slurry voice, the husband hurled as many cuss words as he could, occasionally stopping to ask a question devoid of any curse, “Tell me, who’s that bearded man on your side?” She recently uploaded a photo captured on a short trip, where she posed with her favourite writer from Pokhara. It was just a regular interaction, where they had talked about books over a few cups of coffee. The husband repeated the question, mindful not to include any humiliating words. Miss Silwal didn’t answer, knowing her answer would make no difference. Had it been the first time her husband said all those unpleasant things, she would have wept, cried, and even apologised needlessly. But she was thankful that he was, at least not in Nepal.

Before her husband flew to Korea some five years ago, her life was more miserable with all the beatings and insults. And the day her husband boarded the plane to Korea, she felt like a huge weight had been lifted off her chest. Even now, while he was away from home, he would find fault in his wife’s actions and call at midnight to curse and humiliate her. Pratikshya wasn’t privy to this bitter relationship between her parents, but she could not do much. Her father was good to her, and so was her mother.

At 9 pm, Miss Silwal walked down the stairs and instructed her daughter to open the front gate so she could retrieve her scooter from the small parking area. Despite her multiple attempts, to her chagrin, the scooter wouldn’t start due to a defect. She immediately took a phone out of her pocket and dialled Ajay sir’s number.

“Sir, it looks like the scooter’s engine has failed. Please come over to my house.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” There was no question of denying Miss Silwal’s request.

In exactly fifteen minutes, a long, black car pulled into the narrow alley of their neighbourhood, drawing everyone’s attention from the rooftops. Pratikshya knew this uncle, who taught at the same college as her mother. But it was not just Pratikshya who knew this man with the long, black car—the entire neighbourhood knew it was the same car that often dropped Miss Silwal off in a drunken state outside her home. All those times, little Pratikshya would be at her grandmother’s home. But now, as Pratikshya and her mother climbed into the car, the little girl wondered what it would feel like if it were her father behind the wheel. Even Miss Silwal dreamt of this as the car raced off.

Gautam is a writer from Pokhara.