The Green Room & Devi Collection

by Nag Mani

  “Why don’t we open it and see? It could be used as a storeroom.”

  “I was not given any key…”

  “I meant break it open.”

  “No. This is the bank’s house. We can’t go around modifying things as we like.”

  “It’s a just a lock! Why hasn’t someone already done that!”

  “I don’t know… maybe because there must have been a good reason to lock it in the first place.”

  Aditi washed the next set of clothes in silence. The little boy returned with an empty bucket. He was done cleaning the motorcycle. Manoj went inside with him. Aditi wriggled the clothes dry and hung them on a coir rope running across the length of the courtyard, supported by a bamboo pole in the middle. Her eyes fell on the room. The window was shut tight. The lock was old and rusty. She glanced at some bricks thrown in a corner of the backyard. How many strikes would it take to break the lock? Four? Five?

  She pulled out one of the bricks and rammed it against the lock.

  She missed.

  It hit the latch and jerked away from her hands.

  Yet, the lock broke open, as if it had been a decoy all the time.

  She pushed the door. It gave away silently. The inside was dark. The air was stale, suffocating. She let her eyes adjust, but even with the door open, she could hardly make out anything inside. The window was to her left. She fumbled in the darkness and found a bolt. She found herself looking at her house. It was a different perspective altogether. The square source of light in the formidable darkness, suffocation, carrying with it the image of the withered walls of a house. It was as if she was looking into the private space of some complete stranger. She turned around. The window cast light on a circular wall projecting out of the ground – about four metres in diameter – enclosing a gaping darkness. She looked out again and saw a lamp hanging in the veranda.

  “What are you doing?” Manoj came out as she lit the lamp.

  “I opened the door. You were right. There is a well inside. Just checking what else…” She carried the lamp back to room, smiling to herself. She didn’t have to look back to tell that Manoj was annoyed. This was one of her small achievements that made her happy. She explored the room. The walls were all bare. “And what is here?” she called out to Manoj. The lamp illuminated a cemented platform on the ground with raised edges and a drain in one corner. “A bathing area…” she muttered. She heard Manoj come in. He stood at the door, blocking the daylight. “And this well here…” She went nearer. The wall was dry. Crumbling. The well too had a cement platform on the floor, sloping away from the centre. She leaned over and raised the lamp over the well. All she saw was the wall running down a few metres before disappearing into complete darkness. Nevertheless, she pushed a loose pebble into the well and listened for any sound.

  She waited and waited… her eyes trying to drill through the darkness.

  Nothing happened. “What we need is a torch,” she straightened and looked away, and in doing so, her eyes fell on the window.

  Manoj was still standing in the veranda.

  She lurched around.

  No one!

  The lantern fell from her grasp. The light flickered and then vanished completely as it fell into the well. And in her attempt to catch it, she lost her balance. She panicked and shrieked. For a moment she thought it was all over. She was going to fall in…

  Then her hands moved. She pushed herself away from the wall and ran for the entrance. But Manoj was already there. “What were you doing? I told you the well was treacherous.” He went ahead to peep in. “The lantern is gone. Come on, now. Let’s go out.” He shut the door and led her back to the room. Aditi didn’t say a word. She followed him quietly.

  Neither of them noticed the woman watching them from the window.

  *

  Lying on her bed, Aditi watched Manoj through the window as he pushed the dripping Rajdoot up the veranda. Memories came haunting back to her – her father making innumerable trips to clear that a motorcycle was not a part of the marriage deal. The dozens of letters that told her family about her demise. She saw the face of her husband’s brother grinning, telling her that she too would go down, like the previous one. It was the concern for family reputation that did not allow her to consult the neighbours, neither would they have opened their mouths. And it was trust that made her turn a blind eye towards the razor-sharp words – that her father must have checked her husband’s background and would have never sent her away with a widower.

  Aditi had been married in the autumn of ’95. For another year and a half, Manoj continued to live in his native town of Naugachia with his family. Day after day, she watched him leave on a bicycle. Hunched over the handles, he would peddle ten kilometres to his bank, a tiffin-box and a bag dangling from his shoulders. He would return at night with a TRING-TRING outside their house. Once she told him that cycle did not suit the social status of a deputy manager in State Bank of India. Manoj and his brother were having dinner then. Aditi was sitting on the floor with them, ready to serve at their slightest nod. Manoj’s face had gone red.

  “Yes Bhabi,” Ajay said, “he is a married man now. Why don’t you ask your father to give him a motorcycle?”

  Aditi stared at him in disbelief. A motorcycle? Above everything her father already gave? And then he laughed and began eating his food. He gulped down a glass of water and went out to a friend’s place.

  A month later, her father knocked at the door. It was raining outside and he was drenched to skin, clutching a cheap leather bag tightly against his chest. The moment he saw her open the gate, he sat down on the floor, out in the rain, covered his face and began to cry. She knelt beside him and hugged him, unaware what it was, but certain it must have been something terrible that he had broken down at the mere sight of her. Her mother-in-law peeped from her room. Her father-in-law was away visiting some relatives.

  Ajay had sent letters that Manoj needed a motorcycle, now that he was a married man and needed to maintain the social status of a deputy manager. Her father replied that he couldn’t afford to buy one. More letters were sent that if he couldn’t keep the honour of his son-in-law, he should better come and take his daughter back.

  A week later a letter arrived that his daughter had met with an accident and was fighting her last moments. Money was short. So were her breaths.

  When Manoj and Ajay returned in the evening, her father went to confront them. Ajay locked himself in a room and his brother just laughed it away. “Just a mischievous little boy!” Then he shouted at the closed doors, “Ajay! Why did you send these letters?” And without waiting for a reply, he ordered Aditi to serve them dinner. Her mother-in-law hurriedly came out of her room and went to the kitchen, and before Aditi could understand, she laid out food for the men and served a large plate for Aditi as well, something she had never done before. “Come dear,” she said with such an affection that Aditi was taken by surprise, “come and eat. You must be hungry, my child. Come.”

  Aditi took the plate to her room and listened to her mother-in-law tell her father how lazy girls those days had become. Her mother-in-law’s tone had changed. There was no love now, but pain and pity. Her vision had blurred due to a life spent in making fire in the kitchen and how she wished her Aditi could relieve her of this duty. But he, Shyamlal Prasad, her father, chose to send her to school than teach her how to cook a decent meal. That Aditi was taught how to hold a pen instead of a broomstick. “What a waste of childhood!” How she longed for a grandchild… but alas… Aditi… Shyamlal Prasad kept quiet and listened to it all. Then just out of nowhere she asked, “How much money have you brought for her treatment?” Her father gaped at the old woman in stark astonishment. “But you came here for her treatment? Isn’t it?”

  “Not much,” he mumbled.

  “But we can always make a down payment for the motorcycle! Manoj knows good dealers here. He is a manager in the bank, after all. You can always pay the rest later! It’s no hassle. They all know him
for good.”

  “I have just married my youngest daughter. How will I… I have given away everything I had.” her father’s eyes faltered.

  “I know. I know,” her mother-in-law replied. “She is no longer your responsibility. She is ours now. You are only concerned about the whims and whimsies of your youngest daughter. Anyway, we can take it on loan! I heard you have a big piece of land, bigger than this village. You can give that on mortgage. Or are you saving everything for your son? Give your daughters a little bit also, they are your children as well. God has blessed you with a son. When he marries, he will recover it all.”

  Shyamlal Prasad left the next day. He did not go to the bank with Manoj. He turned at the gate to look at her. Aditi saw how sorry he was. Silent and mute, he was asking for forgiveness, explaining that had it been his way, he would have taken her straight back home. But she was destined to endure the misfortunes of his doings. And silently, he thanked her for enduring it all.

  Manoj was angry and beat her for days to come. More letters were sent, for a few months later, her father arrived again, this time accompanied by monstrous clouds marching over the village from south. He paid for the motorcycle. When Aditi asked from where he had arranged the money, he just smiled sadly and patted her head. “Anything for you, my princess!” And she didn’t have the heart to ask anything else.

  Manoj finally bought a blue Rajdoot. He had to wait for a few days because it had to be ordered and transported from Purnia and the roads were nothing but ditches and rubbles in rainy season. Aditi had to dress up and worship the vehicle when it arrived five days later. The marigold garlands on the motorcycle had not even withered when the news arrived. On his way back to Bhagalpur, her father had taken a boat across the flooding Ganga. A mighty storm broke out, and amid shouts and cries, the boat capsized. Mother Ganga took everyone away. None of the bodies were recovered.

  When the transfer letter to Purnia arrived in ‘97, Aditi saw it as an opportunity to leave everything behind. Manoj’s parents wanted him to stay back and expected him to travel a distance of 65 kilometres to Purnia, and back, every day. It was she who convinced him to shift to Purnia altogether. His parents paid regular visits to the small house they had rented, taunted him, nagged him to come back. She coaxed him into taking a house-loan. Then the construction began. Naïve and inexperienced as she was, she looked over the construction. Her dream began to take shape. She began to prepare herself for a quiet life with her husband, with a beautiful garden and sweet fragrance of roses.

  After the house was completed, she overheard someone talking about the benefits of opening a gas agency. More and more people were switching to LPG. Its demand was increasing day by day and distributors were so limited. She asked Manoj to look into it. They could open their own agency in Naugachia. Not Purnia, she reminded him repeatedly. Gas agencies had already started blossoming in Purnia. Theirs would not be able to compete in the market. Manoj found out that even Naugachia promised little business. He finally applied for a license in the neighbouring city of Madhepura under his wife’s name. They leased a shop in the main market of the city – M. G. Market. It was inaugurated in February, ’99 and handed over to Ajay. Manoj was beaming with happiness. Why wouldn’t he? He was the topic of gossip in his hometown. His hard-work had not only secured a top-notch job for himself, but also created a lucrative employment for his brother, who, till recently, did nothing but pretended to work in a hospital. His parents couldn’t stop boasting about their sons.

  And Aditi couldn’t help but smile on her way back to Purnia on the blue Rajdoot. Her husband was all hers now.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE FIELD TRIP

  It was Arvind who suggested that Aditi accompanied them for the field trip the next day. A jeep was waiting outside. Manoj was hurriedly gulping down his breakfast with water. He washed his hands and began shoving papers and files into a bag.

  “Madam, why don’t you come with us? See more, our village?” suggested Arvind, helping with the papers.

  “No, Arvind, I am fine here.” Aditi was reading a magazine on the bed. She had not even brushed or washed herself. As it was, they were already late and she didn’t want to cause further delay. But more than anything, she didn’t want to go with Manoj.

  “But Sir, what will Madam do here?” Arvind tried to convince Manoj.

  Manoj ran short of decision. Here was his staff, who was trying to brighten the mood of his wife and put a hold on the tension that was building up between the couple. On the other hand, they were getting late. He didn’t want to throw the entire trip off schedule because of personal reasons. But he did not have the courage to say this to his wife.

  Aditi came to his rescue. “No Arvind. Some other time. The driver is waiting and I am not even dressed.”

  “Driver is waiting? So? Arey, driver sahib,” he shouted out of the window, “Madam is coming with us. You will have to wait. Go, do your job behind some bush if you have to.” The driver jumped out of the jeep, and instead of finding some place to relieve himself, he hurriedly began to dust the seats and wipe the windows. “See, Madam, he can wait. Now you will come with us?” Then he laughed and looked at Sir, “After all, how much time can women take to ready?”

  Zeba served Arvind tea twice while he waited for Madam to get ready, while Manoj took a quick nap in the hall. Aditi washed herself, got dressed and had her breakfast. And then they drove through the village, Arvind in front and Sir and Madam in the back seat. They passed huts and shops and men toiling in fields. The sky was patched with white clouds and the sun did its best to keep their journey hot and uncomfortable. The engine roared. The vehicle bounced and jittered, leaving a long trail of dirt behind.

  They stopped outside a small campus cordoned off with bamboo stalks and canes. Arvind went inside and called out someone’s name. A man replied. Manoj took out a brown file with the bank’s logo from the bag and nodded at Aditi. “Come.”

  A tiny, shagging hut sat in one corner of the campus, which otherwise was covered with potato plants on one side and watermelon climbers on the other, irrigated through a network of dykes connected to a hand-pump. A thin grey cow with small horns was swishing its tail lazily under a shade. A man in his thirties came out from the hut to greet them. He just had a rag wrapped around his waist and a gamcha on his shoulder, his skin leathery and dark. Three small, naked children peeped from inside.

  “Baiji,” Arvind said in his booming voice and put his hands behind his back, “Manager Sahib is here to see you.”

  Baiji folded his hands and bowed. He turned around shouted something and another boy, probably the eldest and in a pair of shorts, ran out of the campus.

  Manoj was struggling with the bag and the brown file in his hands. Arvind came forward, took the bag and stepped back again. “Baiji,” Manoj said, finally opening the file, “how are you doing?”

  “Well, Sahib, with your blessing.”

  Manoj looked around the campus. “This was the cow you bought?” he asked, glancing at a number branded on a rear thigh of the cow. Baiji nodded. His body was bent forward and his demeanour was that of a student called upon by the principal.

  The boy in shorts returned with two plastic chairs and placed them before the manager. Baiji wiped the chair clean with his gamcha and offered them a seat. Arvind continued to stand with his hands behind his back.

  “Why haven’t you reported to the bank?” Manoj asked once Aditi had settled in her chair. “You have taken a loan and you know very well what it means.”

  “You can see, Sahib, what the situation is. I could not buy fertilizers in time…”

  Manoj looked around again. Aditi followed his gaze to a small piece of land on the other side of the campus. It didn’t take long to understand that it was a tomato plantation in ruins. It was too late for fertilizers or pesticides.

  Manoj shook his head. There was no point asking more questions. “Still Baiji, you have to report to the bank. I have sent you two notices. You didn’t reply.
Why? Anyway, this is the third, and final.” He underlined Rs. 12,413 and handed him a piece of paper from the file. “Come to the bank tomorrow.”

  Baiji reluctantly took it. “Sahib, I don’t have any money.”

  “Whatever it is, you have to report to the bank tomorrow. This is your final warning. Come to the bank, deposit something at least. You cannot miss your instalment for more than three months. Do that first, then we will see what we can do.”

  Manoj closed the file and was about to get up when a woman came out of the house and placed a stool in front of them. On it were laid two plates with a small quantity of puffed rice, a quarter of chopped onion, a green chili and a little salt. After them were placed two glasses with lots of water. Aditi stared at Manoj for a moment, confused if they were actually supposed to eat. He nodded. They ate in silence as the three naked children watched hungrily from the hut. Arvind ordered one of the kids for a glass of water, drank two, then took the poor farmer to one side to discuss something.

  Once they had finished, Baiji brought a mug and poured them water to wash their hands. He folded his hands as they got into the jeep, his family peeping through the many gaps in the bamboo fence.

  They set off again, roaming around in the neighbourhood and handing notices here and there. The last customer in that area fled to the fields the moment he saw them coming. He left his wife to deal with them, who stupidly stuck to her statement that her husband had gone to Siliguri and wouldn’t be back before two weeks. Manoj handed her a notice and then they drove deeper into the village.

  They next visited a customer who had taken a loan for an auto-rickshaw. His house was in a more crowded area. The sun was high in the sky as they walked through narrow streets, avoiding puddles and cow-dung, as many faces peeped through surrounding windows and many men looked up from the variety of work they were doing. The customer had a proper brick house and enough chairs to offer all three of them.