Forbidden Desires (5 page)

Throughout the party, not once did she show an iota of her true feelings. Ayesha was tired of this facade. Somewhere she had lost her willingness, her dignity and her ego to a marriage she hardly cared about anymore. She was forever devoted to a man who had a gambling problem and who had stopped loving her a long time ago.

After all the guests had left and she cleared up everything since the servants had also turned in for the night, she took a long bath and applied lotion on her arms and legs. She curled up into the bed next to her husband, who as far as she could tell from his snoring was already in a deep slumber. She looked up at the ceiling and said a little prayer to give herself more strength to be a better housewife. Sometimes it’s hard to love your husband in spite of all his vices. Sometimes it’s hard to be happy with the life you’ve chosen. Sometimes it’s impossible to think of an alternative. And that’s when you need a little prayer to help you understand that things are going to be okay. She could suddenly feel a ripple go through her body telling her that maybe this was the last time she would ever do anything for someone else. Soon she would be doing things just for herself.

Delhi is always a mess the day after Diwali. A thick fog envelops the city, smog that lays low as people sleep in till mid-morning. The smell of burnt firecrackers lingers heavily in the air. The streets are littered with debris from crackers and unexploded Diwali bombs. Scared dogs that had hid the previous night start to crawl out from under the cars to find food. And the regular rumble of vegetable vendors with their thelas and broomstick sellers on their bicycles, snake their way through the small lanes as they call out for customers.

Honestly, Ayesha hated Diwali. Adi insisted on buying firecrackers every year and starting three days before Diwali would start bursting them as soon as he came home. His father indulged him, of course, buying thousands of rupees worth of crackers. On Diwali night Adi and his father would be bursting bombs, anars and chakras outside their house while Ayesha would sit and hope the agony of the day and the festival would end soon. Her headaches on these nights were always bad. ‘Wasn’t Diwali about celebrating lights, being with friends and family and eating good food?’ Ayesha thought. It’s not supposed to be about gambling, and bursting crackers or getting stuck in traffic when you go to the market. Why was Delhi all about the show? Two weeks before Diwali, all the markets would be packed. Women would be buying decorations from Dilli Haat till Karol Bagh, spending all their time and money on gifts for people who hardly cared about them and buying clothes and jewellery for their families so they could look and feel good. Diwali was a big farce, Ayesha thought. It was nothing more than a huge marketing scheme for people to spend their hard-earned money on things they would never use again.

She herself, only because of the pressures of everyone around her, had gone to G. K. M Block market a week before Diwali. She was incredulous at the amount of money people were spending: table runners were selling at five thousand rupees and people were actually buying them! ‘Madam, yeh exclusive piece hai. Kisi ko dikhaya nahin hai abhi tak. Jaldi le lijeye varna chala jayega!’ She was sure these shops made lakhs of rupees in one day, experts as they were in the art of marketing that no MBA institute could possibly match. And now after two weeks of the dust and smoke settling, Ayesha was still cleaning up and putting away the Diwali presents an IAS officer received.

‘I’m going for golf,’ Varun said, disturbing her thoughts. He was wearing his shoes as he spoke. It was Sunday and Ayesha was exhausted from all the parties they had attended the days before leading up to her very own Diwali bash. She could tell she was suffering from a kaju katri hangover. From farmhouses to outdoor gardens, Delhi had really outdone itself this Diwali.

‘Are you going all the way to Noida?’ Ayesha asked as she walked to Varun. The best part about being an IAS officer was the houses and apartments they were allotted. As you moved higher in rank, the number of rooms in your house rose as well. From DII to CI, Ayesha had shifted from colony to colony and trudged her old furniture to new houses and had changed the upholestery to give it a new look without wasting too much money.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I need to send the driver to give this gift to Mrs Verma in Sector 36.’

Varun shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you keep giving these gifts.’

‘Arrey, she gave me a lovely tray and tea set for Diwali. If I don’t give something back, I’ll look so greedy.’

‘You need to stop this lena dena stuff. It never ends. You women spend more money in giving to each other than actually making any money.’

Ayesha bit her lip and wanted to say it was all much cheaper than what he had spent gambling but quietly handed over a gift-wrapped package. ‘The address is on this. Please send Gokulji as soon as you reach Noida Golf Course.’ Varun’s weekly ritual was to go to the golf course to meet his colleagues and friends to tee off and after a round of walking and playing to have a few beers and a heavy lunch and head back home in the evening. A few times Ayesha had gone and chatted with the wives who accompanied their husbands but soon she got bored of the conversations with the women who only spoke about who was transferred where and who travelled where during their holidays or as usual, their children. The food was the same in all the clubs, whether it was the Gymkhana or golf course—chicken tikkas, some cold snacks, an oily buffet and two varieties of desserts. She hated it. Varun loved it.

Once Varun left, Ayesha went back to her room to survey the mess. She had put off the inevitable for too long. She needed to pack up the house. All their summer clothes were lying in the cupboards. Adi’s books and toys were scattered in his room. The carpets needed to be cleaned and put away.

It was two weeks after the party. After she had broken the news to Adi that they couldn’t go on their vacation he had thrown a huge tantrum and stormed off, giving her the silent treatment because she was the one who broke the news to him. Adi was fine with his father, as usual. He didn’t blame his father, who had lost the money. He blamed his mother because she hadn’t saved enough and was not working! Ayesha had felt like she had been slapped in the face that day. She wanted to tell him that she had sacrificed her life for him. So that he could grow up with at least one parent around who would always go to his soccer and cricket games and school plays. A parent who was proud of her son and knew every detail about his life. And he was taking his father’s side? Ayesha had no words. That’s when she had borrowed money from her father and told Adi that they would go because she had managed it.

So she had delayed the packing.

She had gone to meet Tarini as she promised and had a wonderful lunch at Habitat, her favourite place for hearty Italian food that felt more from Chandigarh than Rome. Tarini had just bought a new Dior bag for four and a half lakh rupees. Ayesha would never spend so much on a bag. She was a practical woman. She had studied and passed in the first class in her Master’s program in sociology. She was planning to study more before she was married off. She had a keen interest in physics as well and often wanted to speak to someone about the topics that interested her and not just about the house and Adi. But with Tarini, Ayesha was the listener and Tarini the talker. As much as she and Tarini were friends, she was never into fashion and brands. Her elegant saris and statement jewellery were all that she needed to make a mark in any social outing. And now she had to pack it all up for another move.

She sat in front of her cupboard and sighed. How many times had she done this? Four, maybe five since Varun had shifted houses within Lucknow and Delhi a few times as well. She was tired. She wanted a stable house with a walk-in closet where she could just hang her winter clothes and not worry about the whole, tedious process of airing each and every one and putting them away in trunks. But being the wife of an IAS officer meant that one would constantly be travelling, shifting houses and putting away woolens in trunks, suitcases and box beds every spring.

‘Savitri,’ Ayesha called out to Savitri, her trusted maid who had been with her for over ten years. ‘Shall we put moth balls with the clothes?’

Moth balls. The world had progressed in many ways but no one had solved the problem of keeping warm clothes away without silverfish insects eating into them. Ayesha sighed. She knew she didn’t have enough trunks for the new winter wear they had bought this year. Adi had grown so tall that none of his old sweaters fit and she had had to buy a whole new wardrobe for him. But she didn’t have the heart to throw away his old clothes. They were reminders of a simpler time. Clothes sometimes become memories more than photo albums ever do.

Savitri walked into the room, surveyed the mess and asked, ‘What about your kanjeevaram saris? Do you want to keep them out in case there are any more parties?’

Ayesha sighed. She was done with parties. Her grand Diwali party had left her mentally and physically exhausted. She hadn’t even gone for her yoga class since then.

Adi would finish his semester in DPS R. K. Puram this term and then they would move. Since all their friends were travelling during the winter holidays, she knew there were no more parties happening in the next few days. And in Lucknow they would need to settle in before they could re-connect with their old friends there, people she had never got along with but socialized with for Varun’s sake. They were all superficial and shallow. Something she believed she could never be.

‘Let’s pack up as much as we can. Later on we can see if I need anything.’

‘Do you want to keep your western clothes out?’ Savitri asked, picking up a pair of jeans from the stack.

‘Just a few. I’ll wear it with a coat if I need to step out casually.’ Ayesha had very few jeans and blouses but she mixed and matched them so wonderfully that she never needed to buy anything new to add to her western collection. She rarely wore jeans anyway, always preferring salwar kameezes or saris even if it was to go out with friends or to shop.

Ayesha loved Delhi, its cultural vibrancy. From plays and book launches, to gallery openings and cocktail parties, the conversations, the art, the music, the academic richness— there was always something happening in Delhi. And even though she was from a small community in Allahabad she was at heart a big-city girl and hated the close-mindedness of small town India and the vacuousness of its intellectualism. She was sent to north campus Delhi after completing her schooling in Allahabad. She stayed in hostel and had an aunt who she visited on the weekends who was her local guardian. She watched plays in Kamani and ate at Pandara Road. She shopped at Khan market and G. K. and even went to Chandni Chowk one Sunday with Tarini to get the experience of old Delhi. She loved every bit of it. The shops were beautiful. The people were warm and friendly. There was rich culture all around her. History emanated from every corner. Tarini had lent her a camera for a month and Ayesha spent all her free time wandering around monuments and taking photographs: Purana Quila, Jantar Mantar, Delhi gate, Ajmeri Gate, Red Fort, Lal Darwaza, Sunheri Masjid, Safdarjung’s tomb. By the time she had to give back the camera, she had hundreds of photographs, a suitcase of memories and a passion for Delhi that she had never felt for any other city before. She was heartbroken when her college days ended and her parents called her back to Allahabad. They wouldn’t let their only child stay alone in the big bad city, after all.

So when her father found an IAS officer who was based in Delhi, she jumped at the chance to get married.

Varun was tall and handsome and had studied economics to enter the IAS. Intellectual enough, she had thought initially. And pleasing to the eye. They used to have conversations in the beginning but Ayesha soon realized that Varun only knew economics. He had no other interests, never wanted to discuss anything new. Adi was born in their second year of marriage and suddenly all her plans of becoming a sociologist were put on hold after a difficult pregnancy and birth. Her family became her world. Her photography was left behind. Before she knew it, they had to shift away from Delhi.

She turned to walk out of the room before she remembered, ‘Oh Savitri, Adi’s summer clothes have become small. So we’ll give some of them to the Blind Shelter. But all of Sahib’s and my clothes I want packed in the large trunks. Bahadur will help move the suitcases. We might as well put away as much as we can in one go, na? No point in working again later.’

Savitri nodded and went about her job. She was accustomed to her mistress’ needs. She had come with her from Allahabad and looked after Ayesha and Adi as her own family. In the last ten years, the family had shifted five times. From a small D-1 quarter to a C-2 apartment (the types that government servants were given according to their rank and entry into the system), a bungalow in Lucknow to a flat in Moti Bagh, Delhi, and finally to a lovely, posh three-bedroom large corner plot in Vasant Vihar with a garden, where they had their last two Diwali parties. Savitri had helped Ayesha pack, shift and set up home repeatedly. She could see her mistress didn’t want to move but such was the life of an IAS officer. She was just glad that Ayesha relied on her far more than she did on anyone else.

Ayesha went into the kitchen to supervise Hari Prasad, their long-time cook, for the evening meal. She tasted the soup.

‘A little more salt. Oh and Sahib likes his casserole with cheese and since I’m just having soup, put it into the oven just before he comes so it’ll be nice and crisp.’

Ayesha had a large staff, something that most IAS officers were entitled to. These were the few perks they had. No money of course, because the stipend was meagre. Working for your country should be an honour. Being a bureaucrat meant that you were admired, revered and respected in circles that went beyond Delhi. It meant that you would have a driver, a cook, a gardener and a few maids to clean and manage your children if you needed them but you would hardly have money to buy an expensive car, fancy clothes or luxurious jewellery.

Ayesha touched her solitaire earrings, her favourites. Ten years she had worn the one-carat diamond earrings that her father had given her on her wedding day. As a gesture of gratitude. Her husband’s side had given her two gold sets. One for the sangeet and one for the reception. They were kept away in a locker. She only wore these earrings. And her wedding ring. She would have loved for her husband to gift her something special on their tenth anniversary but he had just given her cash to buy whatever she wanted. How thoughtful, Ayesha thought, with a bitter taste in her mouth.

It wasn’t as if she wasn’t grateful. She was happy that she had a loving husband and a happy home. It was just that sometimes she wished there was more to her life than being a housewife.