The Rule Breakers

by Preeti Shenoy

  ‘Thank you, Baba—thank you for telling me this,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t take anything she says to heart. She has a sharp tongue, but she has a heart of gold. Just remember that,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Baba, I will keep that in mind,’ said Veda.

  I am continuing this letter, after a brief chat with my father-in-law. He seems to be a nice soul! He is very different from my mother-in-law. He told me just now that my mother-in-law has a soft side, and not to take to heart whatever she says. He has noticed how she treats me! Can you believe that? He is a sensitive man.

  You know Vidya, when I was in Joshimath, I dreamt of escaping to the city. Remember how I used to long for it? But now that I am living in a city, I discover that I miss the mountains. Over there, I could step outside the house and I would be in the garden, inhaling the fabulous cold, fresh air. I never thought that I would say this, but I miss the air in Joshimath. What an odd thing to miss, right?

  I have to help my mother-in-law with all the cooking. She comments all the time about anything I do. If I chop the vegetables, it is too big or too tiny. If I cook the rice, it is too hard or too soft. She sighs exasperatedly, and more than twice, she asked if our mother hadn’t taught me anything. I wanted to tell her that Paro didi helps our mother in our home, but that would have antagonised her, and I don’t want any friction between us at this point. So I held back my words.

  My father-in-law was helpful, and he got my admission done. I attended college only for two days, and then Christmas break started. I guess I will be able to tell you more about my college once I start attending regularly.

  Bhuwan says that once it reopens, he will drop me to college. He drives a Maruti 1000! He says it was always his dream to own a nice car, and since he didn’t have to take a home loan, he thought he might as well take a vehicle loan. My mother-in-law is very proud of it and she drops it into conversations with all the relatives we visit.

  Bhuwan opened a bank account for me here, and I have deposited all the cash that was gifted to me during the wedding. When Bhuwan and I went to open the account, my mother-in-law wanted to know if the account would be in our joint names. Bhuwan told her that it would be. But on the way to the bank, he said that he did not want any of the money that was gifted to me, and I should have it all. Bhuwan also said that he would deposit a quarter of his salary in my account every month, so that I don’t have to ask him for cash. I can go to the bank and withdraw whatever amount I like. He asked me if that was enough. I said it was more than enough. I think he is being very sweet and generous. I don’t have to spend on anything, as it is my mother-in-law who buys all the groceries, which Bhuwan pays for. I only need money for my auto fare, and what Bhuwan deposits for me is quite a large sum.

  My mother-in-law seems to have her own gang of friends here. There’s Shanta aunty and Kanti behen. They came home once, and I learnt that Shanta aunty has a daughter who is around twenty-eight. Kanti behen’s (don’t ask me why she is Kanti behen and not Kanti aunty—everyone here calls her Kanti behen) sons live abroad, I think.

  My mother-in-law has a maid, Shakubai, who is supposed to come every morning at around 6.30. She is late on most days though, and then there is a never-ending drama. The highlight of my mother-in-law’s morning seems to be the arrival of Shakubai. She is very different from Paro didi, who was (and still is) a part of our family. Here, in this house, I get the impression that Shakubai is easily replaceable. Her work too is not very good. It seems like she does it only for the money, and doesn’t put her heart in it. Often, after she has finished sweeping and mopping our bedroom, and after she has left, I bring the mop out, and reach far under the bed, where she has not cleaned, and it is dusty. The first time I did that, my mother-in-law shouted at Shakubai the next day. Now I am careful to do it only when my mother-in-law is not around. I don’t want Shakubai to get shouted at because of me.

  Vidya—your birthday is coming soon! A very happy birthday in advance! I shall try my best to call you. But if I am not able to for some reason, I am wishing you in this letter.

  I am enclosing a letter to Suraj in a sealed envelope with this letter. Please do give it to him. And please do put in his letter to me when you send me your reply.

  Study hard, Vidya.

  Tell me all the news. I am waiting to hear from you (okay, okay and from Suraj too!) eagerly.

  Lots of love,

  Your sis,

  Veda

  December 1995

  Pune

  Dear Suraj,

  How are you, my friend? As promised, I am writing. Vidya will give you this letter when you meet her on the way back from college.

  I can’t tell you how happy I was when I saw you at my wedding. Though you missed all the main rituals, I was glad that you made it at least for the bidai ceremony. When I saw you, I was almost in tears. But I felt very happy seeing you there. A big thank you for coming.

  Life here is very different compared to how it was in Joshimath. (Of course, it was bound to be different. But I think I am surprised by how different.)

  I am the same person I was before I got married. But now, I am being made to feel like a ‘married’ woman. I am a married woman, I know. But that’s not how I feel. I feel like the same Veda who is the eldest sister at home, who is Suraj’s friend, and who is ‘normal’. It’s not that being married is abnormal in any way, but oh, it is so strange.

  Over the past fortnight, I have visited countless relatives of Bhuwan’s (the word ‘husband’ seems so odd). I have never visited this many of my own relatives in my entire life, at Joshimath. Everywhere I go, I have to wear all these fancy sarees and deck up in my bridal jewellery. I dislike it. But it is customary—or so my mother-in-law says.

  Bhuwan is a nice guy. He leaves early for work and comes back quite late. It seems like he is quite the workaholic. His father is a sweet gentleman and he has managed to secure admission for me in one of the best colleges here. There was no problem about the transfer of credits either.

  I haven’t yet talked to Bhuwan about keeping in touch with you. But please do not worry about it. He seems to be a very considerate person and I am sure he will understand.

  What do you do during lunch break these days? Have you resumed eating at the canteen? How are your academics going? What new books have you read?

  Bhuwan told me that there is a library somewhere close by, and he said he would take me there over the weekend. But two weekends have whizzed past and we still haven’t made it. I guess we will go one of these weekends, and I will get a membership there. I am looking forward to it.

  How is your grandmother? What is happening at your end?

  Do write back soon. Put the letter in a sealed envelope and give it to Vidya.

  She will co-ordinate with you about where to meet to hand over the letter.

  Eagerly waiting to hear from you.

  Your friend,

  Veda

  Chapter 8

  December 1995

  Joshimath

  My darling didi!!

  How happy I am to hear from you. When Papa and Ma spoke to you two days ago (when your letter was in transit) I badly wanted to talk to you too. I begged them, but Papa said I couldn’t, as it would be expensive. I was angry. I am glad you conveyed through Ma that your letter was on the way. That consoled me somewhat.

  Every day, I have been asking postman Chandu if there is a letter from you. Today, when he handed it to me, I couldn’t wait to read it.

  I am replying to you immediately, didi.

  I have hidden your letter to Suraj in my history textbook, in between the folds of the brown paper cover, and not between the pages of the book. Clever, right? This way, nobody will discover it. I will give it to him tomorrow.

  Every single day, he waits for me at the crossing, didi, and every day he asks if I have heard from you. He was happy when I told him that a letter is on the way. We do not talk more than a sentence or two, as we do not want to be seen together. You know
how Joshimath is. If word gets out about this to Papa, we are both dead.

  I must say it is kind of exciting to smuggle letters. I like being in the middle of your adventure, didi.

  I am reading to Vandu, Vaish and Ani every day, like you used to. But they say I am not as good as you, and that they miss you. I threatened them that if that was the case, I would stop reading to them. That shut them up. Hah!

  Papa and Ma are happy. Your marriage is a huge achievement for them. Papa tells all and sundry about his daughter in Pune, who is married and happily settled. He boasts about jiju’s job, and his car—it’s almost like he owns the car himself! His pride is evident in his voice.

  So, you and Bhuwan jiju haven’t done it yet? I was worried for you, didi. I prayed at the Narsinghji temple that my didi shouldn’t get hurt. Do you think I should not have prayed?

  Your mother-in-law sounds like a demoness to me, didi. I did not like how she behaved at the wedding, bossing everyone around. She shouted at those poor caterers when the pooris took a little longer to make. From what you told me about her, I feel she annoys you a lot, but you are too polite to say it. She seems to me like the stereotypical, annoying mother-in-law they portray in television serials. Is she like that?

  I think if she was a little nicer to Shakubai, then Shakubai would do a better job too.

  I miss you so much, didi. Now that you are not here, Vandu has moved into our bedroom. One part of me is angry that she has moved in. It is silly, I know. But I cannot help it.

  Didi, why did you leave all your favourite books here? You know what—while you were here, you kept telling me to read all the time and I did not bother. But now that you are gone, I am reading your books and liking them very much. It’s funny the things the absence of someone makes you do.

  Try and enjoy the city, didi. Get Bhuwan jiju to take you out on weekends. I think you will start liking it then. Joshimath is still the same old boring Joshimath. Nothing new.

  Life goes on, didi.

  I will post this letter as soon as Suraj gives me his reply.

  I wish we could speak on the phone, didi. I am going to start pestering Ma to allow me to make a phone call to you, when Papa is not around. I hope she agrees, and I hope you are at home when I call. I think I will call you on my birthday! They cannot refuse me that one phone call. And I turn eighteen! I will officially be an adult.

  Will talk to you soon, didi.

  All my love,

  Your sis,

  Vidya

  December 1995

  Joshimath

  Dear, dear Veda,

  After a long wait, I have been rewarded with a letter from you. I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t been waiting for it. Vidya will tell you how I pestered her every day. At one point, I even thought she was lying and that she didn’t want to give me the letter. Or that maybe you had forgotten your promise, and I was being a fool to wait for a letter from you.

  I wasn’t going to attend your marriage. It was painful for me, Veda. Do not ask me why, but it was. So I stayed away, fuming and fretting. I also knew that just because I stayed away, it did not mean that the marriage wouldn’t take place.

  Then my dadi asked me what was wrong. I told her about your marriage, and how I think it is wrong that you are getting married so early.

  My dadi laughed and said that she had got married when she was eight years old. Can you believe that? She said that my mother had been married when she was sixteen. In comparison to that, twenty is not too bad. She said that if I was a good friend to you, I should be there for you, especially if you had invited me and it meant a great deal to you. She urged me to attend, and that was how I was there at your bidai ceremony.

  Do you know, the coins you threw back—one of them landed by my foot, and I have kept it in my wallet as my good luck charm. It is a reminder of our friendship.

  By the time you receive this letter, you would have started college. I hope the lecturers there are good. I hope you settle down quickly and I hope you have fun.

  I miss you and our conversations. Especially since we were so inseparable in the weeks preceding your marriage. I have gone back to what I used to do—I eat in the canteen. Rekha tries to join me. But I prefer eating alone. She told me the other day, ‘Don’t go around like Devdas.’ That irked me. I did not like the over-familiarity.

  I am reading a very interesting historical novel set in Scotland called Waverly. It was first published anonymously by Sir Walter Scott. Later, it became so popular that all his subsequent works were advertised as ‘By the author of Waverly’. I am finding it a bit of a difficult read, but it is very interesting, especially as it has a love story woven in too.

  Please do join that library and start reading.

  You know, I must confess that, now that you are far away, I am not bothered by whether you tell your husband about our letters or not. I like to think that (perhaps it is wrong or foolish of me) this world that we carve out through letters is ours alone. Like we have said to each other countless times—we are good friends, and there is nothing wrong in friends writing to each other, is there? I am just happy to receive your letters, and if you choose to send them through your sister, so be it.

  I hope I haven’t bored you with this letter by giving you more details than you asked for.

  Please look after yourself, Veda.

  I wish you all happiness, my friend, and I look forward to hearing from you.

  And yes—wish you a very Happy New Year too!

  Suraj

  January 1996

  Pune

  Dear, dear Suraj,

  Happy New Year, my friend!

  I was very happy to receive your letter. What a good thing it was that we decided to send these letters hidden in Vidya’s letters. My mother-in-law is a curious cat. She asked me whose letter it was, and I could honestly tell her that it was from my sister Vidya. Vidya had decorated the envelope with hand-drawn flowers and doodles and had also written her name prominently. God bless her! My mother-in-law did not bother after that.

  I have started attending college after the break. It is very different from our college at Joshimath. My accent and the way I speak is different from the way people speak here. They seem to use a lot of Marathi words. I feel like an outsider. They treat me that way too. Just like how it was in our college, there are ‘gangs’ here too, and all the gangs were formed in the first year itself. Since I have joined in the latter half of the final year, it is difficult for me to break into any gang and be accepted. I mostly eat lunch by myself.

  The lecturers back home (funny, for me, Joshimath is still ‘home’) are definitely better in some subjects, but in certain other subjects, the ones here are very good. But what I love about this college is the library.

  Suraj, if you ever come here, you will love it too. It is massive, and is spread across two floors. There are very tall wooden shelves running from the roof to the floor. It is an old college, almost a hundred years old, built during the British era. So the architecture is Victorian. The campus is very large, compared to our college in Joshimath.

  I just don’t feel at home here. There are many more clubs, and many inter-collegiate festivals. But I haven’t enrolled in anything. It is almost as if you must be aggressive to be noticed and included. That is something I cannot do. I am the wallflower here, always on the sidelines. I escape to the library whenever we have a free period. I am writing this letter from the library.

  I feel I am leading a dichotomous life. I am struggling to come to terms with being a married woman. Nobody else in my class is married and they were shocked to discover that I was. The way the girls screamed when they discovered the fact—it was like I have a disease or something. I felt embarrassed and self-conscious as they asked me a lot of questions, till one of them (her name is Betty; what a strange name!) asked them all to leave me alone and mind their own business.

  One of the boys asked me out for coffee. But before I could answer, a girl called out, ‘Hey, leave her
alone. She is married.’ That was the end of it. I would have said yes. It would have been better than being alone. But now there is no chance of that. He has told all the other boys and they treat me with great wariness. This ‘married’ status is something like a protection shield, or perhaps a fence.

  The historical novel you are reading sounds very interesting.

  I am reading a non-fiction book right now, which is a series of essays and reflections by Marcus Aurelius. I found it in my father-in-law’s small collection of books. I would have loved to discuss them with you. We would have met during lunch break and talked.

  Sigh—I must be content with writing to you now.

  After all, it was I who made this choice.

  I hope my next letter will be a little cheerier.

  That’s all for now.

  Your friend,

  Veda

  PS: I love your letters. Longer the better. And no, I do not find them boring at all. Not even the least bit.

  January 1996

  Pune

  Dearest darling Vidya,

  There is such a lot to write to you. I am happy that you managed to pester Ma and we managed to speak on your birthday, even though it was for a very brief time. I am also happy that Bhuwan wished you on your birthday. I think it was nice of him.

  So, do you feel any different being eighteen? I bet you feel the same way you did when you were seventeen. Nothing much changes—except that legally you can vote, get a driver’s licence and, if you are a girl, you can marry. I am sure you don’t intend to do any of that soon. So it’s more the thrill of boasting to your friends that you are eighteen, isn’t it?

  Here, the situation is such that I must take my mother-in-law’s permission if I want to call you. I do not want to do that. Also, I cannot talk freely if she is around. Bhuwan isn’t here most of the time. He is such a workaholic.