by Shobhaa De
“But look at it this way, Ritu. We are both free in a way—freer than most other couples. There are no children in both the marriages, and the respective spouses aren’t the sort to create hurdles. The whole thing could be handled in a civilized way without creating too many ripples. Divorce isn’t such a dirty word anymore. I’m sure my mother-in-law would feel pretty relieved, maybe the husband too. I’ve always felt like such an imposter in this house.”
“You are speaking about yourself and your setup.You don’t know anything about his. You haven’t seen him in his environment. You only have what he tells you to go on. How do you know he’s ready to leave his wife for you? Has he ever told you that? Or even hinted? If I were you, I’d make a trip to Calcutta to find out a few things for myself. But before doing that, I’d first check with the man himself. You wouldn’t want to go there and stumble on a few unpleasant truths, would you? The next time you speak to him, just say casually that you want to come there. See his reaction—that will tell you plenty.”
I swore Ritu to secrecy. Told her I’d kill myself if I ever found out she’d spoken about this to anyone. And then I called Krish. He was busy with someone. His secretary with whom I’d palled up (and worked so hard to cultivate) told me she’d pass on my message, but she’d been instructed not to interrupt the presentation—the agency was angling for a new client—a big fish. I chatted her up as I usually did. I don’t know why I felt the need to ingratiate myself. Maybe I imagined that her approval of this faceless voice from Bombay would somehow make a difference to Krish.That she’d be able to influence his attitudes toward me. I’d even thought of sending her perfume for Christmas. That’s how desperate I was.
The flip side of my raging passion for Krish and all its attendant anxieties, was the guilt I felt that rose up every now and again—often with frightening intensity. More than any other regret, I felt awful that now I too had joined the ranks of all those women I’d so easily condemned in the past. I had become an “adulteress.” What an ugly, judgmental, biblical-sounding word that is! And so old fashioned.Yet, we haven’t coined a better one to replace it so far. I would wonder how the parents, particularly Father, would react to the discovery. Would they damn me? Ask me never to set foot in their home? Insist on my telling all to husband and family? Expect me to die of some awful disease? Pay for my sins? Or would they blame themselves instead—don a hair shirt and wonder, “Where did we go wrong?”
I wrote to Krish about this and he scribbled back some blank verse which didn’t make any sense at all. This was another habit of his that maddened me. I’d ask him a specific question and get back an unrelated poem instead.Typed at that. Sometimes I’d wonder darkly if he kept a drawer full of typed poems which he instructed his secretary to mail out periodically. I even asked him that—I only got back another poem!
All through the affair the thing that bothered me the most were our assignations. I found them very depressing and sad. The furtive phone calls to announce his arrival in town and give me the room number. Then the little details—between meetings and after meals etc. So horribly mechanical and unromantic.Yet, I would wait with my teeth on edge, canceling everything for those frenetic couplings in impersonal hotel rooms. How I’d hate walking through the lobby to the elevators. I’d imagine everyone staring at me—knowing where I was going, sneering at the thought. I’d feel like a harlot self-consciously sneaking up to solicit customers. Once inside the room, I’d get preoccupied with small things. Overripe bananas in the fruit basket would bother me, wet towels on the bed drive me nuts, clothes discarded sloppily all over the carpet and trays with stale leftovers make me sick. I’d look for things to take my unhappiness out on—wilted rosebuds in the flower vases, underclothes and socks on the armchair, files and papers scattered on the sofa, stubbed-out cigarettes in a saucer, shoes under the table, toiletries on the writing desk—anything.
The first time I set about tidying the place Krish said impatiently, “Your secret desire must be to make it as a room service girl—the perfect chamber maid. I can put in a word for you with the head of housekeeping.”
“Very funny. But how can you live in this pigsty?”
“It’s not a pig’s abode. Or maybe it is—a male chauvinistic pig’s.” The light banter would continue, as phone call after phone call interrupted us. This then was the pattern. There was never time for a real conversation. Or maybe we maneuverd it that way. Krish was a clown. And it was impossible to stay angry with him. Besides, what could I be angry about? His lack of commitment, his insensitivity, his selfishness, the way he had absolute control over my emotional life, his power over me. Yes, I hated him for all this. I could imagine myself advising another woman, “Don’t waste your time on that bum—he has nothing to lose. He is exploiting you, using you. At the end of this you’ll be dumped—join the heap of his other discarded women. Where’s your self-respect? Get him out of your system. He’s no good for you. Never get involved with a married man.” And so on, and so on, ad nauseam. But all it needed was a letter or a call from him—and I’d go running, telling myself, “There should be no ego, no pride between lovers.” I’d plan gifts—plan them for months making them as unique, as original, as possible. I’d try and impress him in other ways. Drop names of Russian poets and Czech playwrights.Talk about the progress I was making in my little theater group, discuss future plays I knew I’d never act in. It mattered so much what he thought of me, my worth, my standing.
All of this, he took for granted. All my offerings were accepted as of right. It astonishes me, in retrospect, how grateful I’d feel for his gracious acceptance of me and my presents. I remember getting him a beautifully enameled, old silver pocket watch. It was something I’d seen with a dealer and lusted after. It was meant for Krish—just perfect. It suited his personality and I wanted it for him. I had it engraved, placed in cotton wool, put into a velvet box, gift-wrapped and hand-delivered, with a bunch of wild roses that I knew he loved. When I spoke to him an hour later, he even forgot to thank me for it! I had to ask him, as casually as I could—“What’s the time by your watch—the pocket one?”
It was only then that he remembered. “Oh shit! How could I forget? Thanks—that was real pretty.”
I didn’t want to say another word, but didn’t want to sound petulant either. With as much control as I could muster I asked him, “Liked it? Did you read the inscription?”
“What inscription? Hold the line, let me find it—oh hell, where did I put the damn thing? Look, I’ll locate it later and call you back. OK? Got to run. You’re coming later this afternoon, aren’t you? In case you can’t make it, leave a message at the counter so I’ll reorganize my appointments accordingly. Bye now.”
That was one of the more egregious putdowns but whatever he did, detesting myself all the while for doing so, I’d go along with his plans—taking hours over my appearance, changing in and out of a dozen saris, checking my legs and underarms for fuzz, wearing Dior panties, my best lacy bra and far too much perfume.
And then he was scheduled to go to London again. On an impulse I decided to go too. I told the husband about it, and absently, as it were, he agreed.
“Yes. I think it’s a good idea.You can stay with your sister.”
“That’s the main reason,” I lied. “I haven’t seen her for ages. I think she’s having a rough time. I should be with her.”
“Speak to my secretary—she’ll arrange all the details with the travel agent. Do you want to go somewhere else as well?”
“No. Just London.”
“How long for?”
“Maybe ten days.”
“Just ten days? Don’t be silly—stay longer. I’ll be OK. My mother will organize the food and everything. You take your time, enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about foreign exchange and things like that. I’ve kept some money there with friends—you can have it. See some good plays, shows, get yourself a new watch—I hate the one you’ve been using. Get an elegant one this time—Longines or Cartiers.”
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While he was innocently instructing me, I was already planning where, when and how I’d meet Krish. At the airport? Hotel? What we’d do together—how liberated and free we’d feel without any pressures on us. I didn’t feel I was taking advantage of the husband, deceiving him—nothing.
Krish sounded almost pleased when I told him.
“Excellent planning, dear girl,” he said. “Why don’t we go on a little side trip somewhere—where would you like to go? I’ve never been to Venice—have you? Let’s spend four days there before heading back—what say you?”
I jumped at it. I hadn’t been to Venice either, but had always longed to, particularly after seeing A Death in Venice. And I was sure Venice would be the turning point in our relationship—and a turning point for the better in that ethereal city of my fantasies. We’d discover how perfectly in tune we really were and how it would be madness not to be together forever. It wasn’t the touristy Venice I was chasing. I didn’t see Krish and me floating around in gondolas being serenaded by gondoliers. My Venice was going to be a golden dream where Krish and I would luxuriate in each other, sip capuccinos in small cafés, hold hands in the piazza and kiss on the Bridge of Sighs. There was nothing I wanted more in the world—just nothing. The thought of the trip transformed me. Soon I was tripping around like a teenager, making plans, just stopping short of a song on my lips and a spring in my step. Everybody noticed the difference, particularly Ritu. But this was one secret I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to blow it. My plan was foolproof. I wouldn’t even involve my sister. I schemed day and night and bombarded Krish with letters. He seemed excited as well, and sent back quite a few missives. These were loving notes, full of warmth and affection. I thought it was all going the way it should. Krish was finally coming around to looking at things my way. Venice became the ultimate test and I wasn’t going to flunk it.
I mentioned Venice in passing to the husband. He seemed amused. “But you don’t know anyone there. Besides, have you checked your ticket? Is Venice on it? Rome maybe. And your Italian visa? Have you arranged for that? Where will you stay? What about hotel bookings? I think you’re crazy to want to go alone. You are not used to traveling that way. Why don’t you wait till we can do this together—maybe next year? I promise I’ll take you, leave it till then. Go somewhere else if you want to. Why not a weekend trip to Paris or Amsterdam—I know people there. Or, ask your sister to come with you. I’m sure she could take two days off—ask her right now.” But I refused to discuss it further or go into details. I had already spoken to the travel agent and fixed up the dates. Krish had left all that to me saying it would be easier to do from Bombay. He’d organize his own ticket from Calcutta. I still didn’t know where he’d be staying in London but these were minor things. I planned my wardrobe with care, selecting the sort of saris I knew Krish liked—saris closer to his home—Dhakais, Tangails, Jamdhanis. I wanted to look like a wife—his wife.
When the husband saw me off at the airport, I didn’t feel even a tinge of guilt, remorse or shame. I waved to him cheerfully, even gave him a warm goodbye kiss at home with a long embrace. He was being very sweet—red and yellow roses, a new handbag and a small note saying, “I’ll miss you, wifey. Our home won’t be the same without you.” Even so, I felt dead and cold. It wasn’t cruelty, it was indifference. At that moment the one thing that mattered was being with Krish—everything else was irrelevant, secondary, practically nonexistent.
I couldn’t eat or sleep on the flight. I asked for stationery and wrote a long epistle to Krish—I planned to hand it over to him in person. My hands shook as my fingers raced across the pages.
Swati, my sister, was at the airport. I was too self-absorbed to even notice how old and ill she suddenly looked. My first question to her was, “Are there any messages for me? I was expecting a call or a letter.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”
“I’m so sorry—of course, I want to know how you are. How are you?”
“Tired. Bone tired.”
“Health?”
“I don’t know. I just feel exhausted all the time. Come on, let’s go.We have enough time to talk about all that—I’m just so happy to see you, it’s been such a long time. I haven’t met the family for nearly three years.You’re looking well—in fact, better than when I saw you last. Is everything OK? Husband? Mother-in-law? And you?”
I felt so protected in her presence. Even though we weren’t very close, we had an understanding of our own that was a very unde manding one. She was the gentle sister, the giving one and I was truly sorry that her marriage hadn’t worked out. I wished I could’ve found some way to offer her my support but I hadn’t anything to give. Everything was reserved for Krish. I suppose I should have talked to her about Krish for she was the sensible one in the family—the person all of us turned to in a crisis. But I didn’t.
Unfortunately, on the very next day, my wonderful secret was out. And it was the husband who spilled the beans. Before my sister and I were fully awake, the phone rang. It was him. “We need to talk,” he said quietly. “I’m arriving tomorrow night.”
I knew from the tone of his voice that he knew. And my sister knew that something had happened—something major. I didn’t really have much of a choice, so I told her the whole sordid, messy story, as calmly as I could. I was relieved by her reactions. Like my parents, she too was a stoic—strong and silent and deep as the Ganga. She just looked at me for a long time and said, “You were always the strange one, right from childhood. I couldn’t ever figure you out. I used to think you were slow or vain or both. But there was always something secretive going on inside your mind that none of us knew about.You weren’t like the others. After you grew up and got married, I stopped trying to figure you out. Even your marriage was funny—the husband you finally chose.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know, really. In all departments he was all right, I suppose. In fact, better than most. Yet, I always felt he was the wrong man for you—maybe because I never saw you talking to him. Not idle chatter—you know—but the sort of conversation husbands and wives have. Then I thought it was because you didn’t have children. But it wasn’t that. Your worlds were different and you didn’t want to belong to his.
“Mother used to say, ‘It’s all right if a woman marries above her, but a man never should.’Though your husband was a rich man, with you he didn’t feel confident.Your coldness kept him away. In his own way, I thought he loved you sincerely. But you didn’t—love him, I mean. And he had to live with that and pretend he didn’t know.”
I was all tensed up and in no mood to listen to her analysis. “What shall we do tomorrow? How shall we handle him? Do you think he’ll create a terrible scene? What am I going to tell Krish?”
Suddenly, it had become “our” problem. “Let him first get here and then we shall see. For all you know, he may have a surprise for you. What makes you think he’s coming here to accuse you? Maybe he has a mistress tucked away somewhere and your absence has helped him to reach a decision. You must not initiate the conversation. Remember not to incriminate yourself by volunteering any information. Let him do all the talking. You merely say yes or no. Silence is your best defense.”
I was quite taken aback by her attitude. Maybe I had underestimated her over the years. The truth is I hadn’t really thought about her too much one way or the other. She didn’t make me curious. I’d dismissed her as a dull, mousy, studious creature whose interests began and ended with microbiology or anatomy or some such subject. Though I was fond of her in a vague sort of way, there was never any great communication between us.
Perhaps this was because I felt she disapproved of me on some level. Or regarded me as an outsider. And, I suppose, it was the inevitable comparisons that arise in families that drove us further apart. I could still see the day, when there had been some disagreement at home, I forget what, and Father saying of her with pride, “sh
e has moral fiber.” And here she was now, providing me with the sort of sisterly support that I needed. I couldn’t even show her how much it meant to me, since we were never great ones for displaying our emotions. I wanted to hug her or place my head in her lap. Instead, I held out my hand awkwardly to shake hers. “Thanks a lot,” I said while pumping her dry, bony fingers up and down in a ridiculous handshake.
She decided to accompany me to the airport. “I’ll drive you,” she said. “Why waste money on a cab?”
On the way, we were both silent. Her only comment was, “It’s a pity your holiday is spoiled. I was looking forward to taking mine along with yours.We could’ve gone to Brittany together. Or the Lake District. I rarely get a chance to relax—and this would’ve been fun.”
As we waited by the gates for the husband she remarked, “Look. He’s carrying just a tiny case—hand luggage. Maybe he isn’t planning to stay. Maybe you were imagining things. Perhaps he’s on his way somewhere—could be an urgent business trip. Remember, mum’s the word.”
The husband was remarkably restrained. We drove back making desultory conversation about the weather in London and the weather in Bombay. Back at the apartment, Swati left us alone, discreetly saying that she had some papers to attend to for a long day tomorrow. (Swati was now on the seminar circuit in a big way.)
The husband busied himself unpacking his small bag, carefully taking out his shaving things, toothbrush and toothpaste. His voice was controlled as he chatted about the talk show that was on the tube. Once he’d changed into his pajama kurta, I could see he felt himself and in control.