by Anita Nair
She turned on her side in reply. Sethu smiled in the darkness and caressed her arm. She shrugged his hand away. He felt her stiffen. He thought he heard a muffled sob. ‘Oh lord, Saadiya, why are you crying?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll fetch you whatever you want.’
When Saadiya turned to him, he felt his misery lift. He couldn’t deny her what she wanted, but he would find a way around this unhealthy craving.
He brought her the Koran, and the Holy Bible, the Thirukkural and the Ramayana. ‘I know you read the Koran in Arabic, but didn’t you tell me that your community writes Arabic using the Tamil alphabet? So you can read Tamil, isn’t that right? In which case, you can read all these books. You can have the religions of the world to fill your empty hours.’
Her arms laden with the books, Saadiya said, ‘I like reading and I will read them all, but you can’t expect me to forget what I have learnt ever since I was a child. The Koran is more than a book. The Koran teaches a way of life. Is that so wrong?’
‘So does Hinduism,’ Sethu retorted. ‘Besides, it is an older religion.’
‘You don’t understand what I am saying.’ Saadiya shook her head. Was it in exasperation or sorrow?
Sethu looked at her for a long moment and then turned away. He didn’t understand her any more. Why was she being so difficult? He could see that she was miserable, but couldn’t understand what caused the misery. Particularly when life had become so much easier.
James Raj was a good employer. He made no unreasonable demands and if Sethu worked long hours, it was because he volunteered to do so. As for the business without a name, Sethu called it trading, though there were no ledgers or written records of transactions. Some might even call it smuggling, but it wasn’t really so. Besides, Sethu liked the challenge. He was making money, too. More than he had ever expected to. James Raj gave him a bonus for every successful transaction and Sethu was beginning to feel a confidence that had eluded him since he struck a knife in Balu’s abdomen.
If only Saadiya wouldn’t be so trying. She seldom smiled, and her eyes hurled accusations at him.
Sethu went to Nazareth. He needed to talk to someone. There was only James Raj. James Raj listened to him quietly. ‘I don’t understand her any more,’ Sethu said.
‘Here, drink some buttermilk,’ James Raj said, gesturing to the glasses of buttermilk that someone had brought in.
‘She is lonely. She is used to being with people. Here, she is all by herself most of the day. It fosters strange thoughts, peculiar cravings,’ the older man said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Once she has a baby, she will be all right. Find her a pet for now. A kitten, perhaps. It’ll grow up quickly and won’t need much caring for after that. By that time, if she is pregnant, she will have the thought of the baby to occupy her.’
Sethu grinned. This was why he liked James Raj. The man was practical, unlike the doctor who would have quoted a verse from the Bible and asked him to pray for guidance.
When Saadiya missed her period for the second time, the midwife confirmed the pregnancy. Sethu swallowed his pride and took her to Nazareth, to Dr Samuel Sagayaraj. No matter what their differences, the doctor was the best man to help bring this baby of theirs into the world.
The doctor examined her, gave her a list of dos and don’ts, and patted her back with a smile. He looked through Sethu and acknowledged him just once, to explain the prescription.
Sethu was quiet on their way home. The doctor’s rejection had hurt him. Once he could have talked to Saadiya about it. Now, it was as if she had withdrawn from him. Completely. Irrevocably.
Where was his Saadiya?
I could tell him. I, Saadiya Mehrunnisa could tell him if only he would care to listen.
I lie here in this bed. The doctor tells me that I should fight the pain. He has gone to look for Sethu. To bring him to my side to persuade me to shout my pain, vent my agony.
My anguish is like a ball of iron. It stays rooted and refuses to budge.
I see disdain. In the holy books that you brought me—yours, mine and others’, I see contempt for a love we tried to tend. Ours is an unholy love.
I see contempt in the eyes of our neighbours. They will not let their wives or daughters associate with me. He is blameless; she is the wanton creature, they say. She is the one who ran away from home. What could he do? The poor man. He had to take her in. That is what they say.
Everywhere I go, everything I do, I hear the words: You are to blame.
When the baby kicks me, I hear the echo: You are to blame.
I try praying, but even God turns his head away.
You, my husband—but you are not my husband, for we are not wed—tell me I am silly. That these voices of contempt I hear are merely voices in my head.
But I know. My anguish blossoms from that.
Early this afternoon, as I waited in the hospital corridor while you went to fetch the doctor, I saw Vaapa and Suleiman.
I saw them look at my distended belly. I saw Vaapa’s eyes narrow and heard Suleiman gasp. Then Suleiman’s eyes met mine and I saw the uncertainty in them. I saw his love for me vanquish the hatred and his lips stretch into an arc of tenderness. I saw him lean towards me and I saw Vaapa touch his elbow with a finger.
They turned on their heels and walked away quickly. I wanted to run after them. I wanted to fall at Vaapa’s feet and plead, ‘I have sinned, Vaapa. Forgive me, please Vaapa. If only you would.’
The pain rips though me, but I clench my teeth. Not even the thought of the baby wills me to fight it. It would be best if the baby and I died here.
What kind of life would it have anyway, with no ancestry to speak of, no family, not even a religion or a god to call its own?
Why does the baby have to live? Why should I?
‘You mustn’t be like this,’ Sethu says. I try to read his eyes. What does he want from me?
‘Saadiya, my love,’ he says. I feel myself relent at the emotion in his voice. If only he knew how much power he exercises over me.
‘Saadiya, my precious girl, have you forgotten our dreams? This baby is a seal of approval from God. He wants our love to be. This baby is us, Saadiya. Saadiya, please, you must …’ His words still. I know what he wants to say even if he doesn’t.
I must fight. I must not give up. I must be more responsible. The baby’s life is in my hands. But I don’t want this child. Why bring forth a child that will have to pay for my sins? Our sins.
‘If this baby is born, it has to be brought up as a true Muslim,’ I hear myself say.
Sethu stares at me. He is shocked. ‘Is that what it’s about? Religion?’ I feel a contraction begin. I mutter through clenched teeth, ‘Isn’t that what everything is about? Faith. How can I allow a life to be born if I don’t know what that life has to look forward to? Don’t you see, I want my child to know God, my god. I want my child to belong.’
Sethu puts his hand on mine and says gently, ‘Whatever you wish. Only let this child, our child, be born.’
The contraction grabs me from my hipbones and prises me apart. I scream. I scream again.
Veeram
Come then, this is not as difficult as you think it is. Veeram: you may think of it for now as valour, and that is the expression we will perfect here. Allow your eyes to widen. Yes, just as in raudram. Your eyes have to open wide, but do not glare. Let your nostrils flare, as though sensing victory. The mouth is set and the jaw is clenched. You must inhale as you usually do, but try and exhale through the eyes. Then the cheeks will acquire a mobility of their own …but you already know that. Now, to crown that valour, you must let your shoulders and chest and your gaze turn ever so gently this way and that to either side. You are the lord surveying your conquests and empire.
Now think. Where does valour derive from? Yes, you are right. It is courage. But what is courage?
For this we shall look to nature again.
Take the drongo. The aanaranchi. It is a common enough bird, small, with a glistening bla
ck body and a forked tail. What is uncommon about it is its courage. It will not let the crow anywhere near it, and will chase crows and even kites and peck them mercilessly till they flee. Why does the drongo do it? In the nesting season, it’s to protect its babies, but what about the other times? Who knows? The timid birds—babblers, doves and pigeons—wilt all build their nests where a drongo does. For they know that the drongo will keep the marauding birds away and protect their young. Perhaps this is nature’s way of teaching us to draw courage from our beliefs.
But to survive is also an act of courage. The afternoons and nights of the thulaavarsham, the October storms, are fierce and frightening, but it is the day that teaches you about endurance. The morning after the storm, the sky is blue. The air is cool and moist, even though the sun shines clear and radiant, finding its way through the undergrowth to light even the underbellies of leaves and gnarled stems. The paddy fields are squares of jade interwoven with emerald. They gleam. The plants stand with their ankles in brown muddy water; water beds that reflect the sky in tiny patches. Dragonflies hover. In gardens, coconut clusters that have sagged from the assault and battery of the rain are propped up and tied. The land repairs itself.
But for the highest feat of daring, I would suggest the cashew apple. Look at it, rosy red and yellow, sometimes orange, as it hangs from the tree. Its purpose is to sustain the nut that grows on it rather than within. It is the nut that everyone wants. But somewhere within that fruit, in its fermenting ripe breath, is a need to prove itself. Which is why, even when it drops to the ground with the weight of its ripeness, it will still not let go of the nut. This is the courage to go on. Despite everything. And this, too, is veeram.
Shyam
My head hurts. A fierce throbbing that I think will split my skull and smash it into a thousand pieces. I clench my jaw to ride the spasm. There is a narrow chink of light sneaking its way through a gap in the curtains. Even that hurts my eyes. My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels heavy and wooden. I wish Radha was here to shut the chink of light out. I wish Radha was here to fetch me a glass of water and two aspirins. I wish Radha was here to sit at the head of the bed and rub balm on my pounding temples. I wish Radha was that sort of a wife. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much last night.
I sit up. The world swirls. A sledgehammer slams the insides of my skull. I shut my eyes and hold the edge of the bedside table to steady myself. I have a meeting at ten in the morning. I cannot afford to miss it.
I go into the bathroom. In the mirror, I see myself, bleary-eyed and with mussed up hair and greying stubble. I splash water on my face. The smell of toothpaste churns my stomach. I feel last night’s excess push its way into my mouth. I put the toilet seat up and crouch by the yawning mouth of the bowl. I retch again and again till there is nothing left in me. I can taste the sourness of vomit. I slam down the lid and flush. All the unpleasantness of the past buried, I think grimly.
The throbbing in my head lessens. I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth again, then I call room service and order a tall glass of lime juice, black coffee and a few Saridons.
I lean back against the pillows and close my eyes. In a little while, the coffee will be here. I will drink it and begin to feel better. Only then will I confront Radha.
The coffee works its magic. I feel my eyes begin to focus again. I shower, dress and splash enough CK One to obliterate the memory of the stench of vomit. I look at my watch. It is a quarter past nine.
I pick up the phone and call home. There is no response. I stare at the phone for a moment. Do I dare to? Then I dial Uncle’s number. Radha answers the phone.
‘Where the hell were you last night?’ I snap. The words seem to have emerged without my volition.
I hear her indrawn breath. When she speaks, I feel as if my head has been thrust into a bucket of ice cubes. Her voice is cold and edged. ‘Here, at Uncle’s. Where else?’
‘I called last night at least half a dozen times. Shanta said she didn’t know where you were. She said you went at sunset.’ I try to explain my impatience.
‘Shanta is an idiot and you are an even bigger one not to have called on my mobile. Uncle has been unwell for two days now and I came here because he refused to come home.’
I hear her, but I am not sure if I believe her. Everything she says sounds rehearsed. Even her indignation.
‘Why didn’t you tell me he was unwell when I was leaving? I wouldn’t have gone then. He was all right when we met him the night before.’
‘He seemed to be better when I spoke to him yesterday, in the morning. Then he called to say he was feeling unwell again. So I came here last night. But why didn’t you call here?’
I don’t say anything. How do I tell her that I was scared to? I had tossed and turned the thought in my head a million times: What if she wasn’t with Uncle? What if she was with Chris?
It was then that I began to drink.
‘What is wrong with Uncle?’ I ask.
‘A gastric attack. Vomiting and dysentery. He seems very weak.’
There was no point in checking with him. The old man will admit to rabies if Radha asks him to.
‘I don’t know when I will be home,’ I say.
‘I may need to stay an extra day or two,’ I add. ‘I might even go down south to Trivandrum.’
‘Oh,’ her voice murmurs. I feel disappointment. I had expected her to protest at my absence. Instead, she sounds very matter-of-fact.
‘Do me a favour. Will you check if Padmanabhan has come? And give me a call, will you, to let me know,’ I say. When I am back, I will have a valid excuse to check with Unni about Radha’s comings and goings.
‘Who?’
‘Padmanabhan, the elephant,’ I say.
‘Oh!’ I hear the displeasure in her voice. ‘Anything else? Would you like me to check how many bunches of bananas he ate?’
I ignore the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Yes, there is,’ I say. ‘Have you booked a new gas cylinder? What about the plumber? Has he come? Call him and remind him. And remind Shashi to check the air in the car tyres. Ask Unni to check on the new coconut saplings.’ Each time I go away, I think when I call Radha, I will tell her how much I hate being away. That I feel lost without her. And then all I do is squabble or hurl instructions at her.
‘I am waiting for Shashi,’ I hear her say.
She is going home. I feel a coil of joy unwind.
‘So Uncle is better now?’ I probe.
‘He is. But I will come back in a little while. I don’t dare leave him alone.’
I don’t like this. I don’t even like the thought of it.
‘Is that really necessary? You know how the servants will gossip about your going away in my absence.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Shyam, I am going to stay with my uncle.’
‘I know. But …’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s ridiculous, the way you fuss. Besides, what is there to keep me at home?’
When I put the phone down, I feel the sledgehammer at the back of my head. I swallow one more Saridon and call for a taxi.
I think of what Radha said. The bitterness in her voice chills. What is there to keep me at home? she asks.
How does she know? I have been so careful.
Four years after we were married, I began to worry. There seemed to be no sign that little feet would ever patter about in our home. We made love. Not as frequently as I would have liked, but enough to start a baby.
I wondered if she was doing something to prevent conception. ‘Are you on contraceptive pills?’ I asked.
She had a bemused expression, but she shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Well then …’ I smiled. I felt as if we were starting on a project together.
As project leader, I had certain responsibilities. I rummaged through her bedside table drawer and her vanity case and even among her clothes to check if she was telling the truth. She was. A year later, we were still trying.
We went to see a doctor. She wasn’t
a gynaecologist, but we knew her well. She said, ‘Don’t think about it and it will happen.’
Rani Oppol wasn’t so convinced. ‘Maybe there is something wrong with her. You must go to a specialist and get it verified.’
Rani Oppol was angry with Radha that day. We were spending the day in my mother’s house and I discovered that staying in Radha’s house had spoiled me. I was used to clean tiled bathrooms, and found the bathroom in my house dingy and even a little smelly.
I thought of what Radha would think when she saw the clothes wedged over the tap. There were petticoats and saris, bras and panties, and my brother-in-law’s Y-fronts. ‘Do you have to keep these here?’ I asked Rani Oppol.
Rani Oppol frowned. I saw the anger on her face. ‘I suppose she asked you to tell me this. You can tell your wife that my daughter and I wear saris and we have that many more garments to wash. Not all of us are like her, wearing the same pair of jeans for months together, and as for those little blouses, I wouldn’t let my ten-year-old daughter wear them. Every time she raises her arm, it shows her midriff. And all that hair left loose …The girl has no sense. And what about you? How can you let your wife dress like a slut?’
I kept quiet. If she knew Radha had nothing to do with this, she would be even more wounded. My sister is a very sensitive person. ‘So now my brother doesn’t like me any more,’ she would say. There might even be tears. At the moment she was merely angry at being criticized. It was preferable to her being hurt. So I let it be.
Rani Oppol was right, of course. If we went to a specialist, we could find out exactly what was wrong. But I didn’t have the courage to broach the subject with Radha.
So I read up as much as I could on conception and began to keep a calendar of her menstrual periods.
I knew Radha would be furious, so I didn’t let her know what I was doing. Then one morning she came into the office room to ask me about a magazine subscription. ‘I have a feeling that it ran out last month,’ she said, drawing the desktop calendar towards her. I felt my insides shrink and shrivel.