Pepsi Cola Felcy


July 15, 2014


The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.
-  Theodore Hesburgh


1984.

The Orwellian year had been slipping away with its penultimate month in progress. Microsoft wasn’t a household name with its antiquated Disk Operating System, but on the threshold of throwing WINDOWS wide-open to the world unleashing the mighty computing power.

This story, however, is nothing concerning the totalitarian state or the advent of the computer, but about a woman and me coming together and getting acquainted mysteriously on a bench outside the Saints Peter and Paul Church, Ruwi, Oman, on a Friday morning, that year.

We the two strangers had been sitting for quite some time exchanging glances and watching people promenading before us, but without uttering a word. And then, she tilted her head, smiled and broke the ice. “Are you from Mangalore?” She inquired.  I nodded affirmatively.

And as we began a conversational journey, I took the liberty of studying her. She was medium built with a comely face, tawny skin tone and long jet black hair. The laboriousness was evident all over her chapped hands. Her voice generated compassion. There was much age disparity between us. I was 24 and she 44, I reckoned.

Her name was Felcy. She had been working in Oman as housemaid for 6 years due to the estrangement of her husband. He abused her and their only child, Roshan, in an alcohol-soaked haze. As the clouds of sentiments started getting darker, she wept.

“Please, don’t weep,” I pleaded. “I can’t stand weeping women.”  

She stopped weeping and wiped her face with a handkerchief. Slowly she removed a Pepsi Cola from her bag. “Have a Pepsi!” She slid herself to my side and handed over the can. With the distance between us cut to a foot, she now smelled of Yardley English Lavender commixed with the sweat of hard labour. 

With another Pepsi can in her clasp, we began to fill ourselves with the sweet fuel for our talk.  “I love Pepsi Cola,” she revealed, smiling beautifully. “Its delectably sweet taste turned me into an addict. I always carry some cans for Roshan. Why don’t we get Pepsi Cola in India?”

“It is a political play, Felcy. You won’t understand if I told you.”

We talked on into another hour and parted with a promise to meet again on the same bench on the following Friday as she was confined to a single outing a week.

During our second meeting, I learnt that she didn’t make many friends in Oman. Neither had she been in any kind of illicit relationship since she still loved her husband despite his atrocities and abandonment. She ached for her son and her predominant talks revolved around him and herself as if she had pitched a separate world for them.  

“I had a nightmare last night,” she said abruptly.

“Let me hear it.”

“Roshan and I were hanging loose on a tightrope in the sky with a substantial distance between us. It was a perilous crossover across the deep gaping ravine of certain death. He was screaming for help. With my heart thumping in horror and hands bleeding, I was thrusting myself forward, but the tightrope kept getting elongated, taking Roshan far and away. And then I awoke with a start, bathed in sweat, with an incomplete dream,” she paused and took a sip of her Pepsi. “Does it make any sense to you?”

I remained silent for a few moments rubbing my chin reflectively. Introducing Felcy to Sigmund Freud’s 'The Interpretation of Dreams' would be pointless and a cumbersome process. But her stare demanded an answer. “Some dreams do come true. But the majority is deceptive,” I philosophized.
  
“Anyway, it is no time to break heads on interpretation. Instead, drink Pepsi Cola.”

She giggled. “Oh, yes, I forgot.” Soon we were sipping the Pepsi from the frosty cans.

“Roshan will be completing BCom next year,” she announced with a sparkle in her eyes.  “Thereafter, I will bring him to Oman, get him a job before I return to Mangalore for good.”

“That’s a right decision,” I reasoned.

Our discussion progressed into the next couple of hours with another couple of Pepsies. Finally, we rose to our feet and set forth in different directions.

When we hit the bench for the third time on the following Friday, I noticed blisters on her right arm as she handed me a Pepsi can. “Did you hurt yourself?” I inquired. For some strange reason, Felcy’s pains had been becoming mine.

“The hot oil splattered across my arm while deep frying,” she explained. “Often, my employer wakes me up from sleep in the middle of the night and makes me fry snacks in entertaining his nocturnal guests.”

My heart cringed. “That’s inhuman,” I bawled. “You must leave the job after finding another.”

“No, no.  It wasn’t a complaint,” She clarified serenely. “I am happy working there, all through which I keep Roshan before me. He alleviates my pains and sorrows. He wipes out my fatigue, satiates hunger and quenches thirst. All the sweat and tears I shed are entirely to earn a livelihood for him and create a better future.”

I was moved by Felcy’s words more so because she wasn’t much educated, yet she had enough wisdom to create a splendid future for his son. She then inquired about my health and work with motherly concern in her voice that I felt as saccharine as the beverage in my mouth.
 
We talked a lot, rather, she talked a lot and then we departed.

Yet another exciting meeting emerged with the dawning of a new Friday. Along the way, I bought four Pepsi cans with a resolve to sweeten Felcy’s mouth. It was, in fact, to hush up my inner voice taunting repeatedly that I was more interested in drinking her Pepsies than sympathizing with her miseries. I then headed to the bench with a joyful heart. As if by a divine arrangement, the bench was empty with total privacy reserved for Felcy to verbalize her thoughts. I dropped loosely on the bench and waited anxiously.

The time had been ticking off, well past the appointed time. Yet, there was no sign of Felcy.  Perhaps she’s praying a little longer today, I thought. Some more minutes were added into my waiting, but there was no show of Felcy.

As I sat there in disappointment, hunching forward and staring at the ground, a pair of legs fetched before me suddenly. I jerked my head and saw an unknown tall lady towering before me.

“Are you Simon Monis?” She quizzed.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice tinged with surprise.

“I am a friend of Felcy, who has asked me to convey you a message. She left for Mangalore night before last as her son committed suicide by hanging himself with a rope,” she rattled out with no hint of mourning for her friend’s son. 

The news shook me violently. I felt gobs of electricity flowing through my veins. Surroundings blacked out momentarily. I sat there clutching the Pepsi cans. Soon I regained my composure and asked, “Did she tell you the reason for ending his life?”

Her pat answer filled the air. “Roshan had left behind a letter.  It was due to the pangs of separation from his mother, whom he loved dearly. His long suffering through the terrible trauma of separation led to his cruel action. One last thing, Felcy said she would never leave India again. I must leave now, I am in a hurry,” the messenger turned round and walked away with a man waiting afar.

All hopes, dreams and ambitions of a lifetime that Felcy had been building brick by brick upon her son were shattered in a flash, shaking her world to its foundation.

That night I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in my bed. I cried bitterly, seeing in my mind’s eye a devastated Felcy wincing with pain. Her life, that had been like a half filled can with the estrangement of her husband now drained completely with the demise of her son. Whatever sweetness had been there in her life sucked up completely by a quirk of fate. I craved to be beside her during the darkest hours of her life as she bid goodbye to her deceased son – to console her, to wipe her tears, to hold her like my mother as my brother Roshan’s coffin lowered into the grave, and uplift her spirits with God’s promise that Roshan is in the stately splendors of heaven. As if God sent, she showered on me motherly love when I had been missing my mother as much as she’d been missing her son in an alien land.  I cried…..cried……cried.

It is almost 30 years since Felcy went out of my sight, during which the world has witnessed sweeping changes. Today, the computers are as commonplace as fathers and mothers.  MS Windows 8.1 hit the store shelves trying to satisfy the ‘want more’ greed of the computer buffs.  But for me, it was Felcy, who, on mere three Fridays, threw open the windows of the World of Mothers – her version still prevails everywhere as I watch mothers from all walks of life engaged in labours of love for their children. 

In a short span of time, Felcy took me to the depth of the motherly love, a love that is inexplicable, and a love that is so pure, sincere and unconditional which is more precious than anything on Earth – mothers sacrificing their lives for children to create better tomorrows, and yet expecting nothing in return.  No matter whether a mother is beautiful, blessed, blissful or battered, her love for children is undiluted and undying.

I never met Felcy again. All my efforts to learn her whereabouts proved futile as she had relocated to an undisclosed address. I never sat on that magic bench again deliberately to avoid getting overwhelmed with nostalgic vibes.

Every time I crack open a can of Pepsi, Felcy pops out of it and stands before me not as a gallant heroine, but as a role model for young mothers, who had unwittingly demonstrated the selfless dedication of a mother. If I had a grateful heart for my mother’s love for the past three decades, I credit Felcy for it, wherever she may be right now, in body or spirit, for opening my eyes.  

Married with children today, I see the reruns of Felcy’s motherliness in my wife as she dotes on our children.  

God bless Felcy! So also all the mothers of this world, including mine and the one of my children!



By Ivan Menezes, Valencia/Muscat
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Comment on this article

  • Richard D souza, Doha/Mangalore

    Mon, Jul 21 2014

    Hi Ivan,
    The story serves its purpose, keep up the good work. The story touches particularly the people in middle east who see the domestic servants abused and suffering everyday.
    My respectful remembrance of your own mother whom I happened to meet years ago.Mothers were created since God could not be everywhere physically.Keep writing.

  • Rony Menezes, Manipal, Muscat

    Mon, Jul 21 2014

    Ivan, I suppose the so and so microscopic analysts very boisterous in tandem, gone into deep slumber and have sought solace elsewhere ah ! Seems so, not heard them long time. However, you keep writing, all the best!

  • Ivan Menezes, Valencia / Mangalore

    Sun, Jul 20 2014

    Those were lovely words with the kind encouragement from you, Jessie D’Sa.
    Umesh, you rightly summed up in just one line.
    I thank you both for commenting. God bless you abundantly.

  • Umesh Rao, Mangalore/ Muscat

    Sun, Jul 20 2014

    Interesting story with a commercial brand interwoven into a real life situation.

  • Ivan Menezes, Valencia / Muscat

    Sat, Jul 19 2014

    I thank all those who read the tragic story without really bothering for a microscopic analysis, trying to find the logic. The writing process brought me magic moments as I remembered my own deceased mother for all that she had done for me.
    I was very keen on writing a story to depict mother’s love. Leaving aside professions such as teacher, nurse, accountant and even a housewife, I chose Housemaid due to two facts etched on my mind for decades about two housemaids: (1) In 1987, a Mangalorean housemaid known to me had narrated as to how her employer woke her up from sleep in the middle of the night to fry snacks to entertain guests. (2) In 1993, a housemaid known to my colleague (they both hailed from the same place) had rushed to India because her son had committed suicide. Apart from these facts, the most of the Indian women come to the Gulf to work as Housemaids solely to earn a livelihood for children, an equal responsibility that is neglected by their husbands.
    Thank you all, once again. May God bless you and your mothers abundantly.

  • Jessie D'sa, Udupi/Jeddah

    Fri, Jul 18 2014

    Ivan Menezes, it's really a heart touching article. Tears automatically rolled from my eyes when I read Roshan committed suicide. In today's society, so many mothers and children have been separated because of poverty and alcohol. This is the reality of today's competitive world. My heart breaks when I see such helpless children and mothers and I can't do anything. God only can do something about it. Great article! Keep it up!

  • Ivan Menezes, Valencia / Muscat

    Fri, Jul 18 2014

    Rony, very many thanks for your lovely comments. What you have commented was precisely my purpose at the time of writing the story trying to depict how deep a mother’s love is. You have got that message and I am happy about it. May God bless you and your dear mother abundantly.

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Fri, Jul 18 2014

    And all this while, reading the comments following his Pepsi Cola Felcy, Ivan, might be taking a sip,
    grinning,trying hard to fathom the logic or loopholes in any of them.
    A sip from Pepsi Cola...Of course!
    It's the writer's preference for a ' brand' that usually finds it's way into his stories.Right?
    That's simple logic for you.

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Fri, Jul 18 2014

    Sir Geoffrey
    I do agree
    Sir Archie
    In trying to define logic clearly
    Has 4 or more of 90 Surely...

  • geoffrey, hat hill

    Fri, Jul 18 2014

    Archie Pinto, Mangalore / Mumbai, read your comments a couple of times, couldn’t fathom what exactly you are trying to say. When I came across the word ‘ped’ in the second line, concluded that you must’ve downed a peg or two before typing these comments and I gave up.

  • Archie Pinto, Mangalore / Mumbai

    Thu, Jul 17 2014

    Once a newspaper made a mistake in its news. It said ‘Indian kangaroos are on the verge of extinction’ instead of mentioning ‘tigers’. Suddenly, all associations moved into action. One lady approached me with a donation box.I ped two currency notes. It was actually one note torn into two. I was happy that I saved two Indian kangaroos. At home, when I dug my pocket, other two halves of notes came out. The notes bore different serial numbers. Shocked, I rushed to the street. Lady had vanished. I didn’t want to hurt kangaroos in case the lady put all the money in kangaroo's pouch. If so, one kangaroo will be telling other, holding torn notes, “this is illogical”.

    Like Geoffrey sir telling Bhandarkar sir. I asked someone where I can find kangaroos. He said he was returning from the zoo. “Board on the cage says kangaroos, but inside were chimpanzees.”I failed to find kangaroos. Next day, a Minister announced that everything would be done to preserve Indian kangaroos. His aide told him kangaroos are only in Australia. Minister shouted, “Import some and make them Indian citizens. If we could bring Australian cricketers for IPL, why not kangaroos for preservation?After few weeks, Government gave the erring News Reporter a big award. Because he helped prove that Indian kangaroos are not animals but harebrained humans.News Reporter came under the same league as those whose mistakes led to famous discoveries and inventions.

  • geoffrey, hat hill

    Thu, Jul 17 2014

    R.Bhandarkar, M'lore, Logical loopholes are loopholes/errors/fallacies pertaining to logic.
    Reader gets touched/moved by the emotional premise of a story of this nature and then if you dissect and apply logic to the dissected parts, loopholes/errors do surface magnitude of which are being subjective. This process automatically came to pass in my mind as I read this story and I just shared my thoughts.
    Going back to the initial stage of our debate on prose and poetry, when you utter a Shayari like ‘Roshni Chand se Hoti Hai Sitaron Se Nahin, Mohabbat Ek se Hota Hai Hazaron Se Nahin’ it’s sure to fetch you lots of ‘Wa, Wa’s’ But if you convert this Shayari into prose, listener might ask you ‘In which school you studied your physics?’

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Thu, Jul 17 2014

    How can loopholes be logical Sir?
    Something sans logic is called
    a loophole right? And for every story to be 100% realistic is certainly asking for too much.Accept the 'shades of reality' in it and move on. That is what Ivan has done, reading my magic story entwined around his tragic one and giving me advice to write similar Mini Stories promoting the Mountain Dew , Coca Cola brand etc.

  • geoffrey, hat hill

    Thu, Jul 17 2014

    R.Bhandarkar, M'lore, frankly, I fail to see any message in this story. All I can see is a mother’s unconditional love for her son and infinite toleration/patience of a typical Bharathiy Naari. Agreed, virtue is it’s in reward, but the way her dreams are shattered, it’s hard to explain in a logical manner. May be, he dying in an accident would’ve been a more plausible explanation. And yes, I do agree, writing a story without logical loopholes is much more challenging than being an armchair critic. That’s the reason why I opt for the latter.

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Thu, Jul 17 2014

    Sir Geoffery..
    You mean to say even if 'Rodent Logic' can be allowed in poetry, even a slightest 'Dent in Logic' cannot be allowed in prose?
    Any which ways it is very easy to pass arm chair comments and Ivan Sir would vouch for it,than be a writer to encapsulate a message
    one intends to convey through prose.

  • geoffrey, hat hill

    Wed, Jul 16 2014

    Good catch R.Bhandarkar, M'lore. But let’s not forget, the former is a poem and in poetry ‘ Ravi Kaanaddanna, Kavi Kaanthaane’ and as the title implies, it based on fantasy or imagination. The latter is pure prose, close to reality and I don’t think that one can take as many liberties as in poetry as far as logic (or rather the lack of it!) is concerned.

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Wed, Jul 16 2014

    Sir Geoffrey...
    You have given exemption to the 'MICE'(In the Poem- I write from Heaven)under the guise of 'figurative expression' and allowed them to enter heaven. Under some such 'expression' or 'reason' also allow this to pass.
    Ivan's use of the english 'medium' in the story, plus the conclusions in the end are fantastic.

  • geoffrey, hat hill

    Wed, Jul 16 2014

    I can understand a child or even a parent choosing taking the extreme step when the other party bids long goodbye suddenly/unexpectedly. But in this case it’s a grown up final year college student and the mother’s 6 years in middle east were well planned and the very next year itself the son was to shoulder responsibility as per the agreement. Any mentally normal son committing suicide at this stage due to pangs of separation seems illogical.

  • Rony Menezes, Manipal, Muscat

    Tue, Jul 15 2014

    Absolutely beautiful Ivan, a tear jerker especially when one being far away, can only reminisce those moments and yearning for dear mother. There cannot be anything to substitute a mothers’ love, nothing ever. Wow ! I really like your style of writing I must say.

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Tue, Jul 15 2014

    Sure and cheers mate! I concede any day, anytime that you are a gem of an Original.
    The time, the sit outs in my Story were real happenings but.

  • Ivan Menezes, Valencia / Mangalore

    Tue, Jul 15 2014

    Thank you, Mr Bhandarkar for entwining your magic story around my tragic story, thereby rendering mine a history (1984 vs 1991). Doesn’t the old adage ‘old is gold’ still hold good here? Moreover, I feel you have committed plagiarism by using ‘Pepsi Cola’ (you could have used Coca-Cola instead). No issues. Give us more mini stories using brands Mountain Dew, Mirinda and Limka. Who doesn’t like them? Cheers!

  • R.Bhandarkar, M'lore

    Tue, Jul 15 2014

    Pepsi Sans Cola Tracy.
    1991-Year of Liberalization.
    I remember meeting Tracy at one of the sit outs at Nariman Point Mumbai.
    A habitual talker to strangers it did not take me long to strike a conversation with Tracy. I was 25
    and think Tracy hovered between 35-40. In due course of the conversation ,she explained how she had kicked out her husband from her life the day she had found him cumbersome and good for nothing.The son out of their wedlock was pursuing his academic career in a residential school in Karnatka.
    Tracy met me the same time next week and by co-incidence in the same sit out. She explained how she had brought her boy up initially, strong and to have control over his emotions. They took you nowhere nowadays she had taught him,she revealed. Here share a Pepsi with me she said. She got it free from the Pepsi Stores where she worked at present -she informed. I was dumb struck but attacked the Pepsi bottle nevertheless.
    The next week again by coincidence,I tell you, same place same sit out... Tracy gave me the Pepsi and some Pep talk of how to face the modern world. You have come here with dreams? Follow them and rest not till you have made them real. I am off to Udupi tomorrow to see and drill more fearlessness into my son. I want him to say 'I want more' she said.
    I marveled at her spirits.
    She is an Original I thought. If
    I somehow apply her guidelines and make some changes here and there following the same spirit I can make it.I did -as a writer of sorts.


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