Married Woman (30 page)

Astha pulled out Anu’s mid-term exam from her bag, 59 out of 100. Mr Sharma’s temper rose the moment he saw it,
look at this, correct method, but a mistake in adding and the answer is wrong. And here, she has copied the sum incorrectly. How will she get marks? Crooked margins, untidy rough work. Careless, careless.

Astha stared at the paper, she understood nothing of it. Were Anu’s crimes so bad? A crooked margin, a sum added wrong, another carelessly copied, did that result in 59 and feeling a failure?

Surely it doesn’t matter if the rough work is not neat? she queried.

It is the attitude that matters, the attitude, thundered Mr Sharma.

In the face of this, further comment seemed redundant.

Finally, all the teachers met, the Vadera children ticked off in various registers, her participation in the learning process marked, her children’s faults pointed out and noted, and she was free. Frantically she ran out of the school gates, she was over an hour late already. Pipee would have cooked for her, she would be wondering.

As she rang the bell to Pipee’s apartment, she could hear footsteps coming towards the door. Her heart beat faster, explanations trembled on her lips. The door opened, and before her, the face, always in her mind, always indistinct, the long narrow eyes, the hair which sprang back wild and unruly, the voice she could drown in, the mouth that pulled inwards as she smiled, the little mole hanging under her nose like a dew drop.

There she was, and there Astha stood, and nothing else mattered. Silently Pipee motioned her in, took her bag, and closed the door.

‘What took you so long? I was getting worried.’

‘Sorry, Pip, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, there were millions of parents, and the teachers took ages. I kept thinking of you waiting, I felt terrible the whole time.’

They were standing. Slowly Pipee put her arms around
her. She could feel her hands on the narrowness of her back, on the beginning spread of her hips. Gently she undid her blouse hooks, and her bra, looking at her face as she did so and slowly she continued, feeling her back with her palm, coming round up towards her breasts, feeling their softness, especially where the nipples were, feeling them again and again, in no hurry to reach any conclusion. They were enclosed in a circle of silence, the only sound, the sound of their breaths, close together and mingled.

In the small bedroom, Astha tense with nervousness. She was afraid, yet there was no going back. Sensing how she felt, Pipee took her time, touching every crevice of her body with her mouth. The sweaty patches of her armpits with small stiff hair beginning to poke out, the soft fold of flesh where the arm joined the torso, the hard bony part behind her ears, the deep crease between her buttocks, the hairiness between her thighs.

In between they talked, the talk of discovery and attraction, of the history of a three month relationship, the teasing and pleasure of an intimacy that was complete and absolute, expressed through minds as much as bodies.

Afterwards Astha felt strange, making love to a woman took getting used to.

And it also felt strange, making love to a friend instead of an adversary.

She returned home in a daze. As she neared her house, she succumbed to panic, she was a mother, nothing should disturb that. For a brief and guilty moment she wished she was like Pipee, alone and free, but she checked herself. A large part of her belonged to her children, that was how she lived her life. She couldn’t imagine any other way.

She was a wife too, but not much of her was required there. A willing body at night, a willing pair of hands and feet in the day and an obedient mouth were the necessary prerequisites of Hemant’s wife.

A few days later. ‘Hemant should be pleased‚’ said Astha to her lover, ‘he says women are always mind-fucking.’

They both laughed at the wife’s revenge.

Astha was in love. All day she thought of her, visualising the turn of her neck, long, sloping, unornamented, the collar bones on either side of the small hollow at the base of her throat, the screws of her hair latticed, as she had once seen them against the dark, heavy, green of the trees of the Tagore Arts Centre. And her fingers, long and so narrow the bones showed, with stubby nails, and a snake ring, three silver bands, two small turquoise eyes, two black painted dots for a nose. And her eyelids, that fragile tender area where she wanted to press her lips, compressing them to the size of peas to enclose that space. And the mouth with its inward-turning corners, she could gaze at those dents for ever.

From time to time she brooded about her own sexual nature, but her desire for Pipee was so linked to the particular person, that she failed to draw any general conclusions. So far as her marriage was concerned, they were both women, nothing was seriously threatened. Meanwhile her best time at home was when she was fantasising about the one she loved without interruptions, lost in her thoughts, wallowing in her feelings.

All this made it difficult for her to focus on what was going on around her. She was able to forget she had another life only when she was absorbed in her painting or her children’s homework, an echo of an earlier simplicity that now appeared to have some advantages.

Astha was surprised when Hemant noticed.

‘You seem distracted‚’ he pointed out. ‘What is it?’

She felt a flash of fear, but then an affair with a woman was not an easy thing for a husband to suspect. Caution drew her
lips into a smile, and put a hood across her eyes. ‘Nothing‚’ she said. ‘What do you imagine?’

A look of dissatisfaction that it seemed must always be on one of their two faces, crossed his brow, giving her a momentary sense of control. She was not there. How right he was. But when had he acquired the sensitivity?

What about the times he had not been there, and the reasons had always been such that her own claims seemed selfish. Now sexually involved with another, she realised how many facets in the relationship between her husband and herself reflected power rather than love. Hemant had managed to ignore her because ultimately he filled his own landscape. That her discontent had been expressed in nuances that were minor, only helped him in his disregard.

In the days that followed, Hemant began to watch Astha. Let him watch, thought Astha, he who had not looked since the early days of marriage, was now looking and found that what he saw did not add up.

Her lies grew skilful. Her desperation and her need ensured that they tripped off her tongue, as though she had rehearsed them for hours.

Fed by right-minded parents, Astha had believed that never, ever must one lie. There was a Pinocchio lurking in her moral self, waiting and watching. Her nose would grow, her eyes cross themselves in vain attempts to hide the gruesome deed, her skin would turn yellow and pimples sprout all over her. Her inner ugliness would be reflected for all to see.

She had lied about the boys she had known, and each time she had been punished. They had left her, she had not deserved better.

When she married she had wanted to tell her husband about those boys, but she had been afraid he would not accept her, and that tiny seed, usually forgotten, was still inside, telling her she was unworthy. She had compromised by being excessively truthful; she knew her husband trusted her implicitly.

Now, she lied all day. The strongest thing in her was the most secret. Pipee encouraged her. Not for her the moral values of George Washington, the boy on the burning deck, Eklavya, Ram, Sita, Lakshman, those for whom words translated into codes of honour never to be broken no matter what.

‘Of course you have to lie. They don’t own you.’

‘I know, but … I wish I didn’t feel the way I did.’

‘What way?’ asked her lover very naturally, and when she didn’t reply, very insistently, ‘what way?’

‘Oh you know‚’ Astha became vague. ‘So much of the real stuff is with you, and since I can’t talk about it with my family, it makes me feel pretty schizo.’

‘Why do you have to talk about it with them? You talk about it with me. Are they your guardians or something?’

It was hard to explain. Pipee lived on a grander, more open scale then she did.

Meanwhile this grand and open creature was growing jealous of other claims. She had even wondered, to Astha’s horror, when she was going to inform Hemant about them.

‘He is not your owner, you know, he’ll have to face up to his inadequacies.’

‘No, no – I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

It seemed so unthinkable, how could she explain. ‘Maybe I’m a coward‚’ she remarked thoughtfully.

‘Oh dearest‚’ sighed Pipee, ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve lived a certain way, you are used to certain ideas, you can’t suddenly be different. If I am impatient with your situation, it’s because I want you to be happy.’

She turned the other’s face towards her, took out her pins and stroked her open hair, reaching into the scalp, in a way that reminded Astha of her mother oiling her hair every Sunday when she was young. She closed her eyes and sank against her, feeling as though she were in a warm bath. With Pipee there was no battering against something hard and
ununderstanding, she was all warmth and intuition. She thanked God again for this love in her life, when she had thought all chance of love was over.

If God had given her love, there was no time supplement with this gift, so Astha often found herself wishing despairingly she could live each day twice, once with Pipee, and once on the ordinary plane.

She dreaded the occasions when her lives clashed, and was at no time more at the mercy of her circumstances than weekends.

One Wednesday Pipee said firmly, ‘There is a gay and lesbian film festival this Saturday. I know, I know, Saturdays are difficult for you, but I want to go, and I think you should too.’

‘But Pip …’

‘Don’t say anything. I want to see the films with you. Don’t you think they have a special relevance?’

This was undeniable.

‘Do you mind if I ask Hemant? Don’t worry, he is bound not to come.’

Pipee made a face. ‘Then why ask him?’

‘He’s going to be home this weekend.’ went on Astha hurriedly. ‘He will find it strange if I make a programme without him.’

‘Let him.’

‘He is beginning to complain.’

‘Of what?’

‘Oh, just‚’ said Astha, avoiding specifics. ‘You know. He feels something is not quite right.’

‘Well, it’s not. It’s time he woke up.’

‘I wouldn’t go so far‚’ said Astha quickly.

‘You wouldn’t, huh?’

‘No. Everything is all right the way it is.’

‘Don’t ignore the obvious, Ant‚’ was all Pipee said.

‘Go with you and Pipeelika Khan to a gay film show? Are you out of your mind, Az?’

‘Well, I am going with her. You can for once come to something I am interested in.’

Hemant stared. ‘I’m not interested in homosexuals‚’ he said. ‘And I thought neither were you. But I’m learning something every day.’ He held out his hand, and Astha slowly put her own in his. ‘Stay home. We can rent a video. We haven’t done that in a long time.’

It was not fair. It needed his wife’s having an affair for Hemant to promise to see a video with her, something he knew she loved. Such an evening might have made her happy a year ago, now it seemed like blackmail.

‘I’ve promised Pipee …’ she said.

‘So? Unpromise her.’

‘Maybe next Saturday, but not this.’

A sullen look settled on Hemant’s face. Astha could see resentment, and she felt sorry. But not half as sorry as she would feel if she didn’t go, didn’t sit next to Pipee in a dark hall, with their arms, hands, knees touching.

‘Why can’t we do this some other time?’ she went on, ‘often you have not been here for me. I think you should be understanding about one day.’

‘I was busy, Az, I was establishing myself.’

‘For ten years?’

‘It takes that long, you knew that, you supported me.’

Their disagreements had the history of their marriage hanging onto them, and Astha had no time for this now. ‘We can continue our discussion when I come back‚’ she said.

Hemant refused to respond, and Astha could think of nothing further to say. She didn’t want to leave him like this, but he was giving her no choice. Quickly she put on the first sari that came to hand, grabbed a shawl and left.

It was only when she walked down the road to the scooter stand that she realised it was in fact a chilly day, and she was going to feel cold. Should she go back for a sweater? No, she didn’t want to encounter Hemant again, better to freeze. She
wrapped her shawl and palla firmly around her, and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

The cold bit through her in the three-wheeler, and her nose began to run. She looked through her purse for a hanky – no, she had forgotten to bring a hanky as well. She bent down and wiped her nose on her petticoat.

At the community centre, Astha made her hesitant way into the hall. She was late, and it took her a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. She felt her sari being tugged, and there was Pipee leaning against the wall by the entrance, waiting. She sank down next to her, feeling exhausted after the battle with Hemant, looking with cursory interest at the screen, registering indifferently the men and women, speaking broad American about the discrimination they faced as gays. In between some social scientist gave his opinion, in between that there were clips of marches and demonstrations. Astha looked at the faces on the screen. All of them open, none of them living a life of lies.