Married Woman (33 page)

She continues in a different register, don’t talk to strange men, don’t wear any jewellery on your trip, not even your watch, be careful of what you eat and drink, keep on phoning.

I have to remind myself of my three weeks with P.

Later.

Am leaving shortly. More lies as to why they can’t drop me at the station, Reshana, Manch, gathering early, train leaving late. I want to leave before Hemant comes home. Remember journey to Ayodhya, when the children came to leave me at the station, and waited for hours with me, the pre-Pipee time, the non-lying, looking for the key to happiness time.

Still later

At P.‘s place we prepare for departure. We shut the windows, shut the fridge, leave two lights burning. I have had puris made for us and aaloo ki sabzi, along with pickles. We take all the fruit she has, plus water, glasses, steel plates, napkins, a knife.

We don’t say much, but already I feel she and I are enclosed in our own special world. Is this feeling on call to those who are happily married?

This is what she is offering me if I leave Hemant, this togetherness. Dearest, is this why you were so insistent that I come? You have already proved your point, we don’t have to get on that train at all, don’t have to go to Kanyakumari via Madras, with my supposed Reshana at all.

I think we are ready she said. The taxi will come soon.

We lock up and go down.

December 9th, night

At last, Kanyakumari. The train to Madras took for ever, and from there a bus. Felt complete and peaceful the whole way; I think she felt the same. No wonder marriages start with going away, cutting off from the old, entering the new with a journey, just the two of you – even in an ocean of people – just the two of you. It seemed so wonderful, we kept looking at each other and smiling.

I am waiting for her to finish her bath, then we walk down to the beach. The Yatra starts tomorrow.

Later

The beach half a kilometre from hotel. We could see the gulls, smell the sea air. As we leave the hotel after tea, I babble, the tip of the continent, the tip of the continent. P. laughs at me, grabs my hand, and we run, our feet sliding in the softness of the sand. We run to the shore line, where we can see the waters of the Arabian Ocean, Bay of Bengal, and Indian Ocean merge, grey, blue and green. The sands are three distinct

colours too, red, black and pale yellow flowing into one another. There is something about the sea, its smells, its sounds, you feel small but liberated. There it is before you, vast and eternal. My troubles felt trivial.

We were together, we were happy. We walked along the water, me with my polyester sari tucked high into my petticoat, handbag with our money heavy but safe under arm, chappals in hand, P. with her salwar rolled up, taking turns with the bag.

Little boys ran up and down hawking packets of the separate coloured sands. I bought some for Anu and Himu.

P. pointed out the Vivekananda Rock in the water. Apparently that is where Vivekananda stood one December a century ago and moved to great emotion by the sight of India across him, pledged to work for the upliftment of the masses and the unity of the country. The Leader of this Yatra is also big on unity and saving the country, still not unified; the masses, still not uplifted.

I stare at the sunset as though I had never seen one before. I felt every second of its sinking in my bones. I am scared. No one can be so happy and have it last. When am I going to pay?

Early morning, December 10th

We stayed awake the whole night. I kept telling Pipee she had to go to sleep, for me it was a holiday but she was here on work. She looked at me and said when will you learn anything, the whole thing was a way to be with you. She closed her hands over me, and I could scarcely breathe with the pleasure. I often find it hard to accept that she could desire someone like me, but when I am with her the doubts fade, and I feel strong and loved.

Muslim and Sikh relatives of martyrs who have died for the country are gathered here to hand the Leader the flag that will be hoisted in Srinagar’s Lal Chowk, 47 days, 14 states and 15,000 kilometres later.

December 10th, night

The mood of last night completely gone. Five hours in the hot sun. P. was a wreck. If she arranged this trip to be with me, if I need this kind of plan to leave home, then we pay for our sins in sweat and irritation.

But we are together – no denying – would I have had the imagination to think of something like this? Why am I so passive, why can’t I bristle with initiative, maybe this is what she hates about me.

Her Ph.D. rears its ugly head whenever I see her talk to someone or take out her notebook. She has already made contact with several journalists while I watch her.

The Leader was late, the auspicious moment came and went, and still we waited, sweat pouring down, 10,000 of us boiling away. Then finally the Leader spoke for one hour, then all the martyr’s relatives spoke, then every Tom, Dick and Harry took his turn.

At 1.47 we started. The coconut was broken, lemons put under the wheels of the two vehicles made to look like a temple and a houseboat. South and north. Inside there are two rooms, storage, water tanks, etc. The Leader refused air-conditioning, he was taking this journey not for his comfort, but for the unity of India. We could have done with some air-conditioning, but then we are not leaders.

December 15th, night

We cross at least five villages or towns a day. Whenever I can I phone home from an STD booth. At appointed stops, the Leader emerges to the front of the houseboat he is riding in and addresses the people over loudspeakers. He indicates the flag in the Bharat Mata Temple perched on the bonnet of each vehicle. He tells them about the pride every Indian must have in his nation, the pride that has been trampled upon in the past. He announces that India is one, and that is the meaning of his journey. He declares that India will not tolerate terrorism in Punjab or Kashmir. He reiterates that no Indian can accept the separate
status given to Kashmir, that Article 370 of the Constitution is now irrelevant. He describes the water he is carrying with him, the water of all of India’s sacred rivers; the soil he is carrying belonging to the birthplaces of India’s noble sons. He allows them to have darshan of the vessels in which the water and the soil is kept. Amazingly they want to. They rush to touch them, to put tikka on them, to garland them. They also want to touch the Leader’s feet, but this the security men do not allow.

At night we eat what has been arranged for us at the circuit house or dak bungalow, and fall into bed, weary as hell. Perhaps it is just as well we are so tired for we do not have a room to ourselves. All intimacy is confined to the bathroom. In the bus our hands enjoy a limited freedom, no one can see what we do, but still, was there an easier way to be together?

600 kilometres in 4 days.

December 18th

Who would have thought one state was so large? We are still in Tamil Nadu. We are visiting, glimpsing rather, all the temple towns in a cavalcade, flanked by two security jeeps, rifle butts poking out through the windows. The Leader has to be protected. The heat of the air is sharp, this is their winter, so strange to never be cold. From the bus window, the landscape flashes by, the greens and the browns brighter than the ones I am used to, with an occasional rock or hill. I think of the flat plains of the north, and I think Ah, the diversity of India. Soon I will talk like the Leader, of Unity in Diversity, of The Oneness underlying The Difference.

I fantasise about food constantly. The food provided for us is too hot, and I am forced to eat dry rice. Whenever I can I buy fruit for both of us. P. doesn’t care what she eats, but if I go on with this stuff, I shall be sick.

Today she gave a banana I had kept for her to a journalist. I wanted to kill that woman. In the bus P. said, I didn’t want it, and her stomach is upset. What could I say? I kept my jealousy to myself.

December 20th

We are now in Karnataka. Phoned children from an STD booth near the tea stall where we had halted, while P. finishes her cold drink. We then walk down the road bordered by red earth. The cacti on the edge come up to my shoulders. There are fields and fields of tomatoes, light green against the leaves, supported by trellises, or simply sticks. I can see women picking them. Green tomatoes wait in piles next to the road, for buyers. They are obviously reddened somewhere else. I remember my father used to like green tomato chutney, a recipe he taught my mother. My own children will never be able to think of my cooking, only Bahadur’s. I don’t care, I am too happy to worry about anything.

The Deccan Plateau. Hills popping out of the landscape. The bus weaves to and fro and I feel sick. I take Avomine, and drowse against P.’s shoulder. I love her smell.

Days merge one into another, the landscape changes, I too have fallen into the rhythm of the journey. My mind is stilled. At night we roll into beds that are provided for us at the circuit house or dak bungalow. How many more days before we can share a bed???

December 22nd

There are two buses following the Leader. One is security, aides and party workers. The other is publicity and journalists.

The woman who had a stomach upset continually hounds us. She is a correspondent for a paper based in Madras. Periodically, when the convoy stops, Pip and she disappear for their interviews. At these times I take out my pad and sketch. It will be a record of our journey when I return, and maybe a base for a canvas. I want to feel productive, that I did something besides stare besottedly at one woman all day. It’s not easy being in love every single minute. Resentment creeps in, especially when the other person is talking to someone else.

Meanwhile we pass through Mother India, who impassively stares at this cavalcade of temple, houseboat, and gun-toting security men. Nothing is new for India. Doesn’t the Leader say that again and again, India is our mother. Her qualities are patience, tolerance, love and resignation. Her rewards are that she is forced to suffer over Kashmir the recalcitrant child, Punjab the rebellious one. The father – i.e. the Leader – will not stand for this any longer. Time to take a firm hand.

How can we listen to this rubbish day after day? I complained to P. when she was looking at my drawing pad that night.

Only three more days before we take the bus for Bangalore. Then it will just be you and me, she replied, carefully examining each sketch. I am continually flattered by her attention and comments:

Are these scenes for your Ekta Yatra canvas, I like the houseboat and temple and the way you have captured these crowds, but isn’t this a lot for one painting, and so on.

Living with someone interested in the details of your work is companionship at the deepest level. I long to create the canvas I have in my head so she can see it too.

December 24th

Bangalore at last! In the guest house of the Y. Our room, our bed, on which we spend hours. Maybe this is what good marriages are like. To be able to express what comes into your head, and know it will be understood as you meant it. To be more yourself because all of you is able to love in a way the other responds to.

She goes to sleep, and I pass my hand over her breasts. At first it had seemed odd, after years of being made love to by a man, to have one’s breasts met by a similar pair, though larger. No wonder men like them so much. You can do much with a pair of breasts. These loose, hanging, swinging items, breasts, penis – objects of passion and anxiety. Stuff you can hold in your hands, squeeze, maul, make yours,
like playing with clay – taking you back to your childhood.

The rubber trees are enormous and green outside, the bougainvillaea is blooming, it is warm, fragrant, pleasant, far from the cold of Delhi. Why can’t I live here for ever with her, forget I have a life outside this room, this bed, these arms, this mind that sees me the way I am and loves me still.

She looks at my face, puts her arms around me, don’t look so sad, we have each other, we are the lucky ones.

December 25th

Christmas.

She pointed out her grandparents’ house as we passed by in a scooter.

‘Can’t we visit?’

‘No.’

‘Why? I want to see them. I want to see where you spent your childhood.’

‘Well, you can’t. They’ll pester me to stay, and ask a lot of questions.’

I could make out a small house, a little garden and a huge tree, studded with white champa blossoms. Pretty, but I couldn’t imagine Pipee in it, the antithesis of suburban.

‘What was it like, growing up here?’

‘All right‚’ she said non-committally. Getting into her past is sometimes a problem. Especially the death of her husband. She never talks about that.

Spent the day roaming Bangalore. Talking, talking to fill the time our lives were separate – oh this happened when I was here, didn’t I tell you, and she said and he said, tell me, tell me how it was?

We laugh because we are together, doesn’t matter where, or how, cemented by our nights and words together.

January 2nd, 1992

Back from a week at Pip’s school. Idyllic place, with all the usual about idylls. Trees, millions of butterflies, thousands of
birds, lap of nature, the works. The most miraculous thing about the place, I had no headaches. Pip, no headache, I said every evening, and she smiled, the corners deepening, dimple appearing, eyes warming. My painlessness I offered as a gift, she accepted it as her due.

She showed me her butterfly tree, the walks her mother and she used to take, her classrooms, her library, she was even nostalgic about the din in the dining hall.

I had no idea P. was so involved in her school. The usual pangs with every teacher she threw herself on, with every old friend she talked about. This kind of jealousy, however slight, makes no sense. I think I need my head examined.