Married Woman (28 page)

Hemant arrived next evening, smiling, genial and pleasant. Astha was relieved. Clearly their misunderstanding was a thing of the past. ‘So,’ he asked, after her questions about Bombay, ‘the mosque still standing?’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘And Ayodhya? How was that? Did you see anything?’

‘It was very nice,’ said Astha, pleased at his interest. ‘I met a girl. She showed me around.’

‘What kind of girl?’ smiled Hemant. ‘You are no more than a girl yourself.’

‘Oh Hemant, don’t be silly, I am old. She is much younger than me.’

‘Well, what kind of girl?’ he repeated indulgently.

Astha changed the topic. ‘The mosque is quite unremarkable, you know. It is old, but that’s it. Half its beauty comes from the little hill where it is, overlooking the town. But it’s full of policemen with guns, it’s not possible to worship there, though people do – lots.’

‘I told you there was no need for you to go.’

‘I had to make a speech, don’t you remember?’

‘Why do you have to travel to Ayodhya to make a speech? It’s not as though you were a religious leader, or a politician or a public figure.’

‘But it is important for everyone to do what they can, to make things better, you have to try, whether ultimately it makes a difference is not in your hands,’ said Astha earnestly.

‘Well, I hope you are not going to indulge in more rabblerousing.’

His fingers were twisting the ring he had given her so that her hand hurt. Hopelessness settled in its familiar place in her chest. He belittled her, yet if she pointed this out, he would deny it. It was better to stay silent.

Later they made love.

The ritual enacted before partings, after homecomings, this establishment of the marital tie, this coming together of flesh that had been sundered.

Or so Astha thought, until next morning, while unpacking his suitcase, she came across a condom.

She stared at it for a long time, its implications running through her head. What should she do? Leave it in the suitcase, throw it, or confront him? Who had he slept with, he who was never in any place for very long, it could not be that he was in love – or had a relationship – or maybe he did. Some woman might travel with him, how would she ever know? Maybe the distributor had supplied him with someone,
she had read somewhere that women were often a part of business deals.

But why now? Was this his message to her? Was this why he seemed in good spirits? Why he had asked her about Ayodhya, and expressed an interest in what she had seen?

Finally she left the suitcase on the bed, the lid closed and buckled, the children should not see and ask what is this, the servants should not see and jump to unnecessary conclusions.

She waited till he came home. It was 9 p.m., he was late as usual. As usual he first poured himself a drink before settling down in the drawing room. The children were interacted with, while Astha moved between the drawing room, kitchen, and dining area, unable to sit anywhere, the condom firmly in her heart.

‘How are things at work?’ she asked after a while. Not that he ever discussed business with her. For that he had his father.

To her surprise he didn’t brush aside the question. ‘There is trouble in some factories in Noida, all the TV ones.’

Astha had to drag her mind to this. ‘Are you worried about ours?’

Hemant got irritated. ‘Obviously I am worried. Different unions compete for power over the workers, and we get caught in the middle. Everybody suffers but who sees that?’

‘You pay a fair wage, the workers will realise that making trouble will benefit no one.’

‘Even if they don’t come to their senses, I can’t pay more than I do. Five thousand for the men with overtime, and four thousand for the women with benefits. Paying four hundred and fifty salaries is no joke,’ brooded Hemant, ‘and these are the rates.’

‘Then what is the problem?’

‘The Communist Party Union tells them they can ensure they get more benefits and a higher wage. Well, let’s see. So far they have not been able to make inroads.’

‘Maybe nothing will happen.’

Hemant grunted, slowly sipped his drink, threw back his head on the sofa and closed his eyes. It seemed a bit difficult to bring up the condom in these circumstances, yet it had to be done. There were problems in her life as well as his.

There’s something in your suitcase,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would like to take it out yourself. I left it on the bed.’

‘Yes?’ he said indifferently. ‘What is it?’

‘A condom.’

At this he opened his eyes. ‘Ah, yes.’

‘I take it when you travel you have sex, and that is why there are condoms in your suitcase,’ Astha could barely keep her voice from breaking.

‘As usual, your imagination runs away with you.’

‘That is not an answer.’

‘For your information, I don’t.’

She didn’t believe him, and yet the hurt eased a little. ‘You carry condoms just like that?’

‘Of course not. The dealer wanted to give me a girl, was very insistent, forced this condom on me, but I’m not that kind of guy, I left for the bar before the girl came. As you can see, it is not used.’

As a story it was thin, but yes, the condom was not used. Hemant got up and stroked her cheek. ‘Even if you behave badly I love you, he said.’

Astha forced herself to be content with this. It was too dangerous to venture further.

Pipee called a week later.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You must have thought me horrible. I’m sorry,’ Astha rushed to say.

‘How were you to know? I didn’t tell you. You could be the one angry with me.’

‘Of course not, how could I be angry with you? You spent so much time with me, you showed me places you hate, you protected me from the monkey.’

‘Hardly,’ she laughed, ‘I can’t stop monkeys from jumping onto people, much as I would like to.’

‘I have been waiting and waiting to tell you I’m sorry if I upset you in any way.’

‘Well now you’ve told me. And you didn’t upset me in any way – I’m over that kind of stuff. Don’t worry about it.’

A pause. Then, ‘You were going to show me your paintings.’

‘Please, come over. I would love that.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Please.’

She had called, she had called, and for a moment despite the condom, and all the wretchedness of the past week, Astha felt a little lighter.

She looked at the work she was doing for the Manch, trying to prepare a readable memorandum that would combine historical accuracy with emotional appeal. It was proving uphill work. How could she make the nation care about the fact that no destruction of a temple had been chronicled in Babur, or in any other contemporary source, be it Abdul Qadir Badauni of the 16th centrury, or Goswami Tulsidas, in Ramcharitmanas.

Astha stared rebelliously at her writing:
The
un-Islamic
black
stone
pillars
within
the
mosque
are
not
proof
that
a
temple
was
destroyed
on
the
Babri
Masjid
site.
As
they
are
not
load
bearing,
they
were
probably
taken
from
a
Hindu
or
Jain
temple,
ravaged
by
Shah
Juran
Ghori
and
brought
for
decoration.
Seeing
their
location
as
a
sign
of
contempt
for
Hindu
feelings
is
a
political
interpretation.

It sounded so uninteresting. Yet she had to go on sifting, sieving, fact from fact, fiction from fiction, and in the end not be sure of anything. It was lonely working on these pamphlets, it was not like painting where she required no mind to bounce her thoughts off. If only she had some of Aijaz’s magic.

As she looked at what she was writing, her old hostility to words rose in her. She couldn’t do it, she was a painter, not a writer.

‘But it’s not bad,’ said Pipee the next day, when Astha showed it to her.

‘Pedantic, dry and boring,’ said Astha.

Pipee pulled in the corners of her mouth while Astha stared in fascination at the dents it made in her cheeks. ‘Now don’t bother so much, just finish it. No one will read it anyway. The Manch excels in preaching to the converted.’

‘But it’s for the nation.’

‘Please. Give me a break.’

They went to Astha’s work room. Pipee’s eyes flickered over the canvases. ‘I know nothing about painting,’ she said. ‘You must teach me.’

‘There is nothing to learn. I’ve always responded to colours. It’s words I find so slippery,’ said Astha, the burden of
The
Testimony
of
the
Black
Pillars
lying heavy upon her.

‘How do you manage to fit so many people in?’

‘It’s something I learned from the miniatures. They are both very full and very detailed, I love that.’

‘It must take for ever.’

‘It does, rather. The one the Manch sold took almost six
months. Now I am getting faster, but still – I can’t work on them as much as I wish.’

‘You’ve got a pretty fancy set-up, it couldn’t be that difficult. Doesn’t your husband help you?’

‘My husband spends a lot of time at the factory and he travels too, so he can’t really help with the children. And the setup …’ her voice trailed off miserably. It was hard to explain her life, especially when she herself barely understood it.

The usual female trap, it’s all right, you are not alone, we all experience it in one way or another,’ said Pipee putting her hand on Astha’s and pressing it gently. ‘So if you want to do anything of your own I guess you have to work your ass off. You are like an ant too. I shall call you Ant, I’m not sure I like this faith business.’

Astha blushed with pleasure, ‘So we can be ants together.’

‘Exactly.’

Anuradha and Himanshu stared at Pipee over lunch.

‘Is that your scooter outside?’ asked Himanshu.

‘Yes.’

‘How come you ride a scooter?’

‘To get around. Do you think only men should drive scooters?’ asked Pipee.

Astha felt embarrassed at her son’s ideas, maybe she hadn’t been sensitizing him to gender issues. She blushed into her roti, while Anuradha asked accusingly, ‘How come you are called ant?’

‘My father thought I should work like an ant for the good of the community.’

‘And do you?’

Pipee smiled at the assembled mother and children. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘when I feel like it. I’m not a very good ant I am afraid.’

Pipee left after tea when Astha began to worry about her children’s homework. Driving home on her scooter, she thought
I want to know her better, at least she doesn’t remind me of Aijaz. Her house is quite near mine, that is convenient, I wonder if she realises she is attractive. Her marriage sounds horrible. I’m sure her husband is a jerk.

She thought of Astha’s painting. She clearly had a political sensibility, which made her acquiescence in a traditional domestic set-up even stranger. Maybe she was just unawak-ened. And she loved her hair, it was so thick and curled around her face even when tied back, and her skin was so pretty, clear pink and white.

As for Astha who had shown such eagerness to know Pipee, how was she to realise that given certain circumstances, there was no aphrodisiac more powerful than talking, no seduction more effective than curiosity.

They began to meet more often. Astha was circumspect in revealing the amount of time she spent with Pipee. She knew it would be frowned upon as excessive. When the boundaries of what might be considered normal interaction passed, she started to lie. Thus an element of secrecy entered the relationship and gave it an illicit character.

They met on weekdays; evenings and weekends were out. Still Hemant caught a whiff of this new interest in his wife’s life and was free with his disapproval. Since Pipee was a woman this disapproval was tinged with contempt, and the assurance of no real threat, indeed had Pipee been a man, Astha would have found it impossible to stray so far down the road of intimacy, or be so comfortable on it.

‘Women,’ said the husband emphatically after a somewhat long phone conversation the wife had had with her friend, ‘always mind-fucking.’

Astha cringed. Mind-fucking. Not the excitement of the real thing. The organ penetrated, the ears, the weapon of penetration, words. Words, that left no mark but in the mind,
where they mingled with others that had been used to describe someone else’s past, till those experiences became your own, and you saw with other eyes, because you were no longer one person, but two. Listening upon listening, fucking upon fucking. In full view.

Then she grew angry. How dare Hemant be so derogatory. Would he prefer her to be like him, with condoms in her suitcase, which a friend had put there by accident? She refused to engage with him on any issue, he was capable of nothing but the very crudest understanding. Instead she related the whole to Pipee who said that men were so pathetic, so fucked up themselves, they only understood the physical, and in this way she felt soothed.

‘Have you ever been in a relationship with a woman?’ asked Pipee one day.

They were lingering at the café at the Tagore Arts Centre, after a lunch of kebabs and roti. It was late February, there were people sitting on the steps of the lawn next to them, on the walls white rose creepers were blooming. It was almost four, and the sunny spot they had originally chosen had long gone cold. A little boy was swabbing at the tables with a dirty cloth, a waiter was tilting the chairs against the tables, to enable the sweeper to clean properly. Pipee’s voice had dropped to a murmur, Astha leaned forward to catch her words.

Astha felt uneasy and didn’t answer.

‘Well?’

She tried to laugh. ‘I’m married,’ she said.

‘So? Are you telling me you are happy, fulfilled, and what have you?’

Unexpected tears came to Astha’s eyes. Pipee was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Astha wiping her nose on the edge of her sari palla.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Pipee. ‘If you are unhappy, it’s not all right.’

Astha went on sniffing. ‘I don’t usually think about it,’ she offered.

‘Who would think about anything if they could help it?’ said Pipee gloomily, ‘God knows I have tried …’

There was a silence while Pipee drew squiggles in the rings of water left by their glasses on the table, and Astha watched her fingers. ‘Have you?’ she finally asked.

‘Once. Met her in school, continued in college, on and off for three years. Eventually she got married. Much later I did too.’

‘Oh.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Samira.’

‘Was she nice?’

‘Not often. She seduced me, and then when I fell in love, triumphed in that power. It was not so different from being with a man, though I am sure it can be.’

‘Oh?’

‘It is more a question of choice than people make out. That is what I believe at any rate. Besides sex is sex, don’t you think? It is other things that become important.’

‘Yes, yes – of course. Did your husband know?’

‘I told him. But you know what men are like

‘No, I don’t think I do,’ said Astha forlornly. ‘I have actually only known my husband, and now I am not even sure of that.’

She thought of the condom again – would it go on coming up in her mind at every point of sadness in her life, she wondered. She could tell Pipee about it, but Pipee might think she was inadequate in her responses, or weak in her understanding, or a fool. For now she preferred to keep this wound to herself.

‘Does your husband have affairs?’

‘I don’t know.’ Then quickly, ‘Did yours?’

‘Well there were several women before we got married, I knew that.’ Astha thought of the little gesture Aijaz had offered her, and now realised that it was in fact an invitation. ‘I think he must have had an affair with Reshana Singh, the
way she goes on. I know she thinks I am jealous, and maybe,’ went on Pipee reflectively, ‘I am.’ She shook her head. There is no escape from jealousy, is there? We are all embryonic Othellos.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Astha gloomily.

‘Yes, well. I don’t know why I am delving into the past today,’ said Pipee, hauling her heavy bag onto her shoulder and getting up to go as the sweeper reached their table.

‘Maybe so I can get to know you.’

‘You’re so pretty, Ant.’

‘Do you really think so?’

They were sitting in Pipee’s flat drinking beer before an early lunch. Pipee had made arrangements to go to work late, and now she pulled Astha by the hand and led her to the bathroom mirror.

‘Are we going to do mirror, mirror on the wall / Who is the fairest one of all?’ laughed Astha nervously. She often felt an underlying tension when talking to Pipee, as they swooped and dived among their lives, offering bits to the other to share.

‘A modern version of it,’ said Pipee putting on the light and pushing Astha’s head gently forwards. ‘Look.’

Astha tried to turn away, ‘I don’t like looking at my face, especially so close.’

Then she felt Pipee’s hands in her hair, her clip undone, her hands framing the oval of her face. Lightly from behind she traced her eyebrows with her fingers, her nose, cheeks and mouth.

The two women said nothing looking at their reflections in the small water-stained mirror. ‘See?’ whispered Pipee.

Astha saw nothing, and abruptly left the bathroom. Later taking a scooter-rickshaw home, she felt lost and confused, the image of the two of them in the mirror often returning when she thought of Pipee.

One day, in Astha’s house, a rare occasion. Pipee preferred to meet Astha anywhere else than in her house.

‘So this is the marital bed,’ said Pipee, surveying Astha’s room, full of double bed. ‘The marital bed in the marital room.’

‘Like in most people’s houses,’ replied Astha, not particularly liking Pipee’s tone.

‘I know. It’s how I used to live. Are you happy here? Do you have good sex?’