Married Woman (27 page)

If she did, she would not be throwing money around, wishing for elusive fulfilment. Faith would do it. She too would walk barefoot up Ramkot not minding the stones, the heat, the germs, the piss of dogs, the shit of monkeys, the spit of people. Wearing no skin of dead animals to pollute the purity of the place, no leather, no shoes, no belt, no bag, no wallet.

By this time they had reached the top. The nicest thing about the mosque was its location. On the highest spot in Ayodhya, it overlooked the town, with its collection of spires, domes and houses crowded together. Beneath them swayed the trees, a mild calm breeze blew about, a breeze that seemed to suggest that there were many ways to worship.

In a mosque built in 1528 there was now a Hindu image. Was this not enough to make it a temple? Courts had declared that Hindus had the right to worship here. But now the worship had extended beyond the deity, so that the shape of the enclosing structure had become an obstacle to faith, and every barefoot pilgrim a warrior.

At the entrance they stopped to take off their shoes. Outside bhajans were blaring on loudspeakers, declaring that the name of god is more effective if all can hear. Inside, under the central dome, hardly visible under a mound of flowers, were the images flanked on either side by men in khaki armed with guns. In front of them a line of devotees streamed past, stuffing money into large donation boxes. Pipee refused to join the line while Astha, made uneasy by the guns, hurried past the little figure that had suddenly appeared on the night of December 22nd, 1949.

The two women walked down from Ramkot to a song shrieking from a cassette on full volume,
‘We
will
go
to
Ayodhya
/
We
will
build
Ram’s
temple’.
They neared the main road and a waiting rickshaw wallah started cycling towards them. As he did so a policeman detached himself from a patrol group. His khaki clad belly hung over his belt, his truncheon swung from a thick hand. Leisurely he walked over to the approaching rickshaw wallah, grabbed him by his kurta,
pulled so hard that the women could hear a tearing sound, forced him from his seat and kicked him. Once, twice. The grizzled rickshaw wallah looked around, smiled and slowly, quietly, began to pull his rickshaw away. Not a word was exchanged. The policeman walked back to his group.

‘God! Did you see? How could he behave like that?’ demanded Astha, her tone shrill and naive.

‘Maybe he thought he was a Muslim,’ shrugged Pipee.

‘So?’

‘So? I don’t know. Perhaps the cops think Muslims shouldn’t tread on this sacred soil. At any rate they generally don’t come here. That man must have been desperate for customers.’

‘And why shouldn’t Muslims … it’s a mosque as well. He should have hit him back.’

‘And be beaten into pulp?’ inquired Pipee. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Astha stared at the ground moodily, and pulled her sari palla further over her head to protect herself against the sun.

‘But why are you so upset?’ demanded Pipee in her turn. ‘These things happen all the time. Surely you know that.’

‘He looked like Himanshu,’ said Astha suffering into her sari.

‘Himanshu?’

‘My son.’

‘Your son is so old?’

‘Of course not. But that look – when he gets out in cricket for example – he is not very good, and when he gets out – that is when he smiles. Just like that.’

‘Mother-son,’ said Pipee somewhat gloomily. ‘An obsessive over-protective phenomenon.’

Astha felt defensive. ‘Hardly. I am careful not to smother him. He is the one who clings to me.’

‘Despite yourself, you must be liking that.’

Somehow Astha didn’t mind this comment from Pipee, it was so non-judgemental. ‘I do rather,’ she confessed, and then, ‘he is the only one in the whole world who smiles whenever he sees me, no matter what.’

‘Women. So pathetic in their hunger for love,’ remarked Pipee sapiently, guiding Astha into a tea stall.

‘Isn’t there someone you love?’ asked Astha seizing this opportunity, hoping Pipee wouldn’t draw back, that it was not too early to be exchanging of themselves.

‘I married for it,’ said Pipee, and again that reserve. Yesterday it was ‘I live alone’. Was she divorced, had her husband been unfaithful, or cruel, was it a problem of in-laws? How soon before she could ask?

They left the tea stall, and had stopped for a moment under the shade of a tree to exchange phone numbers, when a monkey jumped on Astha’s back. The sudden weight, the shock of her sari being pulled from her shoulder, her own scream, left her collapsed with fright.

Pipee grabbed Astha and examined her arms, her back, her neck, pushing the hair to one side, looking minutely for any scratch the monkey might have left.

At last she drew her away from a crowd that was beginning to gather, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she declared, ‘no scratch, you won’t need rabies injections.’

Rabies injections. This thought had not occurred to Astha, she had registered nothing besides panic and the fact that Pipee’s arm around her had tightened for an unnecessary second.

It was getting on for five in the evening when they took separate rickshaws to go to their separate guest houses. Looking at the face before her, Astha said, ‘Please keep in touch.’

The eyes crinkled. ‘Of course. I’ll be visiting my in-laws for a few days, they are not far from here. So sometime next week?’

I’ll look forward. I mean it,’ Astha went on babbling, hating herself. Why did she always have to sound so stupid? And how come she was visiting in-laws when she was no longer married? Perhaps it wasn’t divorce but death, and she
so young and attractive, with her smile, her hair, her skin, her eyes.

The mouth folded inwards. ‘Well, see you then.’

They smiled at each other and parted.

Back in the guest house. ‘I see you have met Aijaz’s wife,’ said Reshana.

‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Astha apprehensively.

Pipeelika – wife. The one you were talking to last night.’

Oh no. What must she have thought, why didn’t she say, why didn’t she guess, what kind of impression did she make – oh no, oh no, oh no. Aijaz. Aijaz’s wife. What must it be like to be Aijaz’s wife? Widow – widow, not wife. So that was why she looked like that, and spoke like that.

‘It’s obvious she didn’t tell you,’ Reshana continued. ‘Just like her. Very strange woman. After his death she became totally neurotic. Wanted to own his memory. How can anyone do that? Aijaz was one of the people, if he was anything, but she resented everything we did to keep his memory alive, accusing us of all sorts of things. It was so perverse.’

‘To have your husband die like that must be very difficult,’ murmured Astha.

‘It was hard for everybody, not only her,’ shot out Reshana.

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Me tell you? Why should I?’ demanded Reshana annoyed. ‘When I saw her with you, I imagined she must have introduced herself like any normal person. Besides she avoids us‚’

‘She did, she did introduce herself,’ Astha was already defending Pipee.

Reshana looked at her, ‘Then how come you didn’t know she was Aijaz’s wife?’

‘She only said her first name, and that was so unusual I started commenting on it – oh, I don’t know.’

‘Huh. She never forgets she was his wife when it comes to the Manch. Always bad-mouthing us. I’m surprised she didn’t try it with you.’

‘She said nothing about the Manch.’

‘Surprising. She usually does. Probably trying to impress you with her tolerance. Or maybe she is a little better now, I hoped so when I saw her in the audience,’ said Reshana briskly packing her last item, her bathroom slippers, and then sitting on the suitcase to shut it. She was leaving by bus for Lucknow to do some field work.

Alone Astha sat in a daze. She had met Aijaz’s wife. She couldn’t believe she had spent so many hours with her without knowing. She didn’t think Pipee would phone her in Delhi, it now seemed too improbable. But she felt wretched, and in this mood passed the remaining few hours before leaving for the station.

‘What is your train, beti?’ asked the widow when she went down.

‘The Sarva Yamuna.’

The widow sighed.

‘It is not a good train?’ Astha asked uneasily.

‘It will be late,’ said the widow.

‘How late?’

‘Two – three hours. Maybe four.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘It comes through Bihar. No law and order in Bihar. So the train is always late.’

‘Always?’

‘Without fail,’ said the widow looking ghoulish and satisfied. ‘These Biharis keep pulling the chain when and where they feel like it, getting off, getting on, so the train gets later and later. Simple.’

There was nothing Astha could do, but continue as she had planned. She was afraid of waiting at the station so many hours alone, she thought of Hemant who had not wanted her to come, and who might consider himself justified if she was dragged into a corner of a deserted platform and raped.

She gritted her teeth against her unreason, while the widow sent her gardener, Hanif, to call a rickshaw.

‘Here is your packed dinner,’ she said handing her the box Astha had forgotten she had paid for.

‘Thank you,’ she said and at nine-thirty departed into the still small-town night. The stars above were more brilliant than they ever could be in the polluted skies of Delhi.

The usual damp, stale, wet coal, urine station smells met her as she stepped onto the platform. She sat desolately on her suitcase and waited. Soon, it would be ten. Maybe the widow was wrong.

At 11 p.m. the train was announced to be three hours late, and the widow was proved right. The numbness that had been seeping into Astha during the past hour intensified. Mosquitoes big as flies buzzed around her. She slapped them off, and started walking up and down the platform. There were mostly people sleeping, covered from head to foot in sheets, shawls, durries or sacking to keep the mosquitoes away; shapeless bundles, unidentifiable as man and woman, the length alone indicating child or adult. Water pipes strung along the side of the track dripped through the hoses that were attached to each one.

She drank a kulhar full of sweet tea and went on walking up and down the long platform in a kind of daze. There were a few other passengers waiting, but most were the bundles scattered abundantly about. At the far end in the darkest corner of the station, the only sign of life, a bundle with an elbow raised, jerking frenziedly and rhythmically beneath the cloth, in an action Astha immediately recognised. She hurried back to the tube lights of the central platform, where amid the mosquitoes and the tinkling of water dripping onto rail tracks, she had another kulhar of sweet earth-smelling tea, and then waited, waited in one spot for the train to come.

Astha passed the night in the train restlessly. Not for her the easy sleep on the way out. Was it only two days ago that she had left? She thought of the meeting, the speech she had given, all the temples she had seen, the security around the masjid, Pipee protecting her from the monkey, thinking of rabies injections. She wished she had known her connection to Aijaz, she wouldn’t feel so foolish now, but Pipee clearly hadn’t wanted to tell, that much was obvious. If she had had the foresight to take her number she could at least phone and apologise.

Her thoughts turned to home. When would Hemant come back? When the work finishes was all he had said, maybe he would have called his mother and informed her. How would it be between them? Would he still be annoyed that she had gone away? Had he missed her?

Next morning, Delhi. Quickly she hired a coolie and jumped into a three-wheeler with her suitcase. She hadn’t seen her children for two days and three nights, and now every thought was fastened onto them.

Vasant Vihar at last. She rang the doorbell, and there they were, her precious children.

Himanshu rushed to hug her, clutching a drawing in his hand that said
Welcome
Home
Mama.
Anuradha complained about the book she had to read in the holidays.

I am home, thought Astha. Emotion grabbed her firmly by the throat.

‘Do you like my drawing?’ shouted Himanshu, tugging her hand, feeling not enough attention had been paid to it.

‘I love your drawing,’ responded Astha automatically. She lifted it close to her face to illustrate her total concentration. ‘Such peacocks, so colourful, and my, what a sun. And so many cars, you have done well with the cars. Are these blue streaks rain?’

Himanshu nodded.

‘So interesting. My goodness, Himu, you’ve got everything in this drawing.’

‘Didi said you wouldn’t like it,’ said Himanshu.

‘Well, Anu doesn’t know everything, does she?’ replied Astha.

Himanshu beamed, and lost no time in informing his sister, ‘Mama likes it. So there. You were wrong.’

Anuradha did not even have to think. ‘She’s saying that to be nice to you, stupid.’

‘That was an entirely unnecessary thing to say,’ Astha informed her daughter.

‘You mean you are not being nice to him?’

‘It’s not that. I like the painting irrespective of whether I am his mother or not.’

Anuradha did not bother to reply, while Himanshu said nothing more about his art work.

‘Have you heard from Papa, Anu? When is he coming home?’

‘Don’t you know?’ asked Anuradha, puzzled.

‘Of course,’ said Astha quickly. ‘I just wondered whether he was sticking to his original plans.’

‘Well I don’t know. Dadi might. Ask her.’

‘I will. Now I’ll just go up and see her, all right?’

As she climbed the steps to make sure no cause for offence would be found in postponed expressions of gratitude, or delayed news giving, Astha thought yes, indeed, she was home.