Duty and Desire

by Anju Gattani

  “And you didn’t think to ask me?”

  “Why, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Two days later, Sheetal had a new birth certificate drawn up for the baby with ‘Yash,’ meaning success.

  ***

  On October fifteenth, Sheetal returned home with Yash and was welcomed by the family and additional maids, hired to cater to her’s and Yash’s needs.

  A newborn and mother were considered unclean and impure for forty days after the birth and were forced to adhere to a strict set of rules. Anyone who touched their utensils, bed sheets or clothing were considered unclean and had to bathe before touching anything in the house. Sheetal and Yash, quarantined in Sheetal’s new room on the south wing, limited the post-partum filth that would otherwise have spread in the vicinity.

  It was hard to believe that the room she had cleaned and redecorated was now a prison. Her books and magazines had been removed from the shelves along with the TV because anything that required a new mother to focus and concentrate immediately after childbirth was believed to tax the brain and slow down her recovery at a time when she was considered to be at her weakest and most vulnerable. Hot, fluffy chapatis and curries were replaced with porridge and herbal remedies flavored with dry turmeric, ginger, and loaded with saturated fats, thought to help the new mother with the production of milk and to ward off infections.

  Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, stretched across the carpet and bed, and Sheetal couldn’t believe the celebration of motherhood, a new chapter in her life, could curdle like sour milk so soon. She nursed Yash, then showered and changed into fresh clothes. A maid massaged Yash with warm olive oil, bathed and changed him, and Sheetal nursed Yash again until he fell asleep. Lunch was wheeled up to her room, followed by another round of nursing, after which Sheetal took her afternoon nap. She spent her evenings talking to Mama on the phone, playing with Yash, and listening to Megha waffle about her day at college. Occasionally, Mummyji’s friends visited and clogged the remainder of her day with gossip she didn’t want to hear. The latest, according to Mrs. Damani, was news of Aradhna’s pregnancy. Aradhna was in her first trimester, and Sheetal hoped the woman ballooned to triple her size and stayed like that forever.

  Sheetal marked each passing day on her calendar with a red X. In mid-November, she marked Diwali with a bolder X because she was still under house arrest, unable to join the family celebrations. Yash’s first Diwali and, aside from several shiny wrapped gifts, all they got was a diya on the windowsill to commemorate the day.

  After X-ing out the twenty-eighth day of confinement, Sheetal threw the red marker on the floor. It had been four weeks since her imprisonment and Rakesh hadn’t visited once. She was in this position because of him. In confinement because of him, and he was free!

  Sheetal sat on the bed’s edge and the mattress sank beneath her weight. She straightened and the foam padding dipped deeper as if dropping her into an abyss.

  Then Yash cried. Sheetal turned to look at him. His hands flailed the air above a sea of cushions and bolsters that padded him on all sides, and her screams bounced off a vacuum insulated panel blocking her mind. Her heart fisted in her throat, and pins and needles pricked her gut. Pick up the baby, a voice said, but she couldn’t.

  Moushmi Kaki, a nanny, rushed in, picked up Yash, and swung him gently. She cooed and whispered, rocking him to sleep while pacing the corridor outside.

  Sheetal’s heart sank as the crying subsided. Yash was fine and didn’t need her. Mummyji was fine, too, and didn’t need her, either. Rakesh had never wanted her. Even Arvind had moved on with his life, just like Mama and Papa and Megha and Naina. They were all moving forward while she had reached a stand-still. The ticking of the wall clock deafened her. Nothing mattered. She didn’t matter.

  She rose to her feet, removed her purse from a cupboard and fished for a bottle of Elavil she had secretly taken from Naina’s drawer. She spilled several tablets into her palm, ran her thumb over the orange-coated skins and savored the slick, hard shells. Didn’t Naina spend weeks on bedrest, confined to her room? Weren’t meals wheeled up on a metal trolley? If three a night was good enough for Naina, perhaps four or five would do the trick.

  Sheetal spread her fingers apart and the tablets fell and bounced on the carpet. She looked at her hands, her fingers, her cuticles, and touched herself. No one had touched her in almost a month. Maybe they couldn’t see her. Maybe she was invisible. What if—her gut tore from within—what if she didn’t exist?

  She pinched herself and a sharp sting travelled up the length of her arm. She felt it. She must be real. Alive. She picked up the tablets, dropped them back in their bottle and took a small breath. She didn’t need Elavils.

  She just needed to die.

  ***

  The following afternoon, the creak of the opening door caused Sheetal to look up. Breath caught in her throat.

  Rakesh coughed and turned away. Sheetal wasn’t surprised. It must be hard to inhale the odor of vomit, poop and milk she had grown accustomed to. She didn’t want to look at him, but it was hard not to. He looked so young, so vibrant in a blue T-shirt and khakis, his tousled hair adding a carefree touch. It seemed like they had last met a lifetime ago.

  He walked over to the food trolley, laden with containers and Tupperware boxes, and unscrewed the lid off a thermos flask. “You didn’t eat lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry.” She slid beneath the covers, feeling like a carrier of some contagious disease. “What are you doing at home in the afternoon?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Oh.” Saturday. Sunday. Monday. What difference did it make?

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Eleven more days, then you’ll be free.”

  Had he been counting the days? “First nine months. Then forty days. Now eleven.” She held back the urge to raise her voice and vent frustration. The last thing she needed was another argument. “What after this? Where do I go from here?”

  Rakesh sat on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to sag. “It’s just how Pushpa runs things. This is her domain. It’s always been that way and there’s nothing I can do.”

  Since Naina’s wedding, she hadn’t heard Rakesh or Mummyji argue, which meant they were either steering clear of each other or she really was in the dark about the goings-on in the family. Rakesh laid a hand on her arm and she melted at his touch. “Just go along with whatever she says. It’s easier that way.”

  Easier? Sheetal winced and withdrew. Had Rakesh compromised with Mummyji in the last month and reached some sort of truce?

  Rakesh leaned across Sheetal and ran his palm along the blanket that swaddled Yash. “Can I hold him?”

  “You’ll become unclean, like us.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Yash wrinkled his petal lips. Sheetal slid her hands under the cocoon of his frame, lifted him, and propped him upright against her left shoulder. She rocked, patting him gently. “Why can’t you stand up for me like a real husband?”

  “Here, give him to me.” Rakesh spread his fingers apart and held out both hands. “I can—”

  “You’ll drop him.”

  “Look, I’ve just managed to make peace with Pushpa after Naina’s wedding. Speaking up for you will complicate—”

  “That’s right. Standing up to Mummyji will complicate everything, but standing up to me is fine because I always compromise. It doesn’t matter what I say because this is her house. Her room. Her—”

  Rakesh gripped her shoulder and dug his fingers into her flesh. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Her heart welled in her throat. “I’m stuck between four walls like some caged animal. No TV, nothing to read. I do nothing all day but talk to the servants and myself like some mad woman. Even prisoners are treated—” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I can’t take it anymore.” She collapsed against his chest.

 
His arms encircled her. “You’re strong. You just need to get back on your feet.”

  “All I did was have a baby. Your baby. And now I’m unclean? Filthy, like some stray animal off the street? It’s crazy.”

  Rakesh let go and took a deep breath. “I agree. It is. The whole thing.” He bent his arms at the elbows and joined the palms of both hands into a makeshift cradle. “Now, should I hold him like this?”

  Anger filled her gut. How dare he ask to hold Yash when he hadn’t bothered to visit?

  Rakesh leaned forward, waiting for Sheetal to lay Yash in his arms.

  She gulped. How could she deny Rakesh his son? He had as much right as she did.

  She positioned Yash in the cradle of Rakesh’s arms then gently pushed his elbows toward each other and his hands in toward his chest.

  The door swung open, startling her, and Mummyji marched in. “Oh, how nice, I tell you. The picture-perfect family. Good to see you have made up.” She narrowed her attention on Rakesh. “Make sure you shower before dinner. You’ve touched them, and now you’re just as unclean.”

  “No,” Rakesh was firm.

  “No?” The freckles on Mummyji’s face squeezed against each other, threatening to pop.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “You will join us when you are clean.”

  Yash wriggled in Rakesh’s arms and Rakesh handed him back. “Isn’t it time you cut out your old-fashioned mumbo jumbo?”

  “You are calling my faith nonsense? There’s no reason why your wife should be excused. In my time—”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

  Mummyji wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you tell me what century it is, I tell you. Forty days. After that, do what you want.”

  “Be reasonable,” he softened his tone. “It’s insane to lock someone up like this.”

  “Dinner only when you are clean.” Then she left.

  “I’m sorry.” Rakesh turned to Sheetal, his attention on the duvet. “I tried, but…”

  Her attention drifted to the Xs on the calendar. Perhaps none of the Xs mattered. Only Rakesh mattered.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Megha sauntered in, dressed in a tight-fitting, yellow knitted T-shirt and a pair of skinny, faded blue jeans. She waltzed around with an air of confidence, her bright red toenails peeking out from the pointed ends of a pair of golden sandals. She played with Yash for a while, then sang lullabies, and cooed and chatted with him.

  “Nice sandals,” Sheetal complimented her. They were such a contrast to the thick, clumpy hiking boots Megha used to stomp around in. It felt like yesterday that Megha was a clueless tomboy. She’d transitioned with almost no resistance into a chic, young Tommy Girl.

  “Recognize them?” Megha asked.

  Sheetal shook her head as Megha fanned her arms, stood on tiptoes and spun. Streaks of plum-colored highlights in her hair waved across her face, and Sheetal remembered how young and carefree she had once been. Then Megha pinched the air on either side of her hips and curtsied as if to a make-believe audience. She wasn’t just happy about something. She was ecstatic.

  Conscious of her feet, Sheetal wiggled her toes under the bedcovers, relieved they were no longer fat and swollen. However, an additional forty pounds of weight waterlogged her, a huge portion, the potato sack on her belly. Cellulite padded her hips, waist and breasts like an outer body that she could feel but didn’t feel a part of. Then Sheetal noticed several golden straps criss-crossing the front of Megha’s sandals. “They remind me of my wedding sandals.”

  “They are.”

  The words punched her in the gut. “You’re wearing my sandals? You didn’t even ask.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. Besides, you haven’t worn them all year.”

  Sheetal struggled to pull herself upright, dragged down by the extra weight. “You could have at least asked before trying them on.”

  “Chill, yaar Bhabhi. I’m not taking them like Naina. I just wanted to see if they fit.”

  Well, they obviously did. And from the ease with which she confidently flitted around like a butterfly, they appeared to suit her better. A bitterness roiled in her heart. How dare Megha tell her to chill when she was tied to this baby like a cow, imprisoned for the last month?

  “Bhabhi… Bhabhi?”

  “What?” she snapped. “Sorry, I was lost. Just thinking of when I was younger, like you.”

  “Bet you weren’t a chatterbox. Bhaiya told me to watch my tongue when they came over two days ago. He told me not to talk so much.”

  “Who?”

  “Prakash Goyal and his family.” Megha sat on a chair, keeping a distance.

  “Who is Prakash Goyal?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t Bhaiya or anyone tell you?”

  Rakesh had come to visit yesterday, but he hadn’t mentioned a thing. Mummyji popped in and out of the room several times, but no word, either.

  “Bhaiya tried to fix me up with a boy. He invited the family over for dinner two nights ago. He didn’t tell me beforehand what they were here for. No one did. This guy, his parents, and some aunts, like five of them, just turned up to see me.”

  “As in marriage?”

  “Can you believe it?” Megha bolted out of the chair and paced back and forth. “Bhaiya assumed I would agree to marry someone of his choosing, just like that. He didn’t even think to check with me first.”

  According to custom, brides and grooms were carefully selected for one another only after the heads of both families met and the girl’s parents visited the prospective groom’s home to better understand their daughter’s prospective living condition and lifestyle. Only after the prospective couple met and felt they were suitable for one another did the families initiate the engagement and proceed with the wedding preparations.

  Which meant Rakesh had visited the Goyals’ place and approved. But then why didn’t he mention anything yesterday? “So, what happened? What did you say?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You told Rakesh to go to hell?” No one told Rakesh to go to hell.

  “No, that Prakash twit. He has the darkest complexion ever. The biggest nose, and hair oiled to his scalp like glue. I don’t care if he’s rolling in money. I told him I don’t plan to marry anyone. Especially him.”

  “You really said that?”

  “You bet. I told him marriage was completely out of the question.”

  Sheetal sat in awe of Megha’s courage. “So, you’re not planning to marry anyone?”

  Megha stopped pacing. “There is this boy at college I like. Raj Saxena. I wanted to tell you about him the other day, but then we had to rush you to the hospital and…”

  “I’m… I remember, and it’s my fault. I never even asked again. But tell me everything. I’m listening.”

  “There’s no point. Bhaiya doesn’t believe in love. He calls it nonsense. A waste of time. If I tell him about Raj, he’ll think Raj is only after me for the money.”

  What if Rakesh was right? What if this man was only interested in Megha for the money? They knew nothing about him or his family or background. “So, you love Raj?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I thought you said you liked him as a friend.”

  “No, I meant like as in love. I want to marry him.”

  Sheetal took a small breath and tried to hold back surprise. “Aren’t you a bit young? And we don’t know anything about him, like where he lives, his parents, his qualifications. You’re only—”

  “What difference does any of that make? We love each other. That’s what counts. We’ve already decided—”

  “Shouldn’t we meet him first?” She could imagine Rakesh’s expression if he found out. But then, he had a soft spot for Megha, so perhaps he wouldn’t lose his temper.

  “How can you, when Bhaiya invites all these other boy
s and their families to meet me, without asking?”

  “He’s doing it for your own good.” Wasn’t that Mama’s voice? Mama’s words? And why did she feel like she was talking to herself?

  “And how do you know what’s for my own good?”

  If Mummyji could play favorites with Naina, she could certainly do so with Megha. After all, she’d been taking care of Megha like a mother in many ways. “We do know a little more than you. And better than you. Marriage is not a game. Everything has to be thought through carefully.” She felt like Mama. Go easier. Be gentle on Megha, a voice inside said. “I’ll talk to Rakesh and see if he’s willing to listen. I’ll handle it from here. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? How can I when Bhaiya doesn’t? If Bhaiya trusted you, he would have stuck by your side and not kicked you out of the room. So maybe you’re the one who needs advice, not me. I know my brother very well, thank you.” She spun on her heel and left.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

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  Sheetal’s confinement ended exactly ten days before the start of her exhibition. Rakesh had shipped forty-seven paintings to the gallery, but she still lacked a forest, a lake and a still-life. Determined to have all fifty paintings ready in time, she entered her studio, positioned a canvas on the easel, and prepared a palette with a selection of summer lake colors. She loaded paint on a paintbrush and swept a long stroke of blue. The paint scratched and clumped across the textured surface. She brought her hand back, accidentally knocked a jar of turpentine, and the pungent liquid spilled onto the floor. She grabbed a rag and bent to clean up the mess, but the room began to spin. She straightened, dropped her brush on the workstation, stumbled to the sofa, collapsed in a heap of dismay, and rubbed her knees. They ached from lack of muscle strength and the pressure of too much weight. How on earth was she going to manage three paintings when she didn’t have the muscle control and stamina to paint one?

  Needing to escape her misery, she telephoned Mama.

  ***

  Before lunch, Sheetal signed up for Pilates, and on the first visit to the gym, her private instructor, Amita, directed her to lay on her back atop a rubber mat.