by Manju Kapur
Astha was silent, while Hemant’s eyes quickly scanned the page. ‘You certainly have a nice imagination‚’ he said, ‘You put things well.’
Astha looked pleased.
‘And for being so clever …’
He leaned towards her, and reached under her blouse. Astha pressed him close, and breathed my husband into his waiting ear.
‘My baby‚’ responded Hemant.
Astha heard him with satisfaction. Her husband was going to encourage her writing. Maybe she could become a poetess as well as a painter. Her life was opening up before her in golden vistas.
‘Do you think there will be golden vistas in our life, darling?’ she asked, taken with the sound of the words.
‘Of course, baby‚’ he replied. ‘Golden like your body in the sunlight when it comes through the window touched by the water of this lake.’
‘Oh, Hemant‚’ laughed Astha, ‘I didn’t know you were a poet!’
Hemant looked modest. After they had kissed, fondled and not made love, Hemant told the bearer to take the drink tray upstairs to the roof.
They reclined on deck chairs facing the lake. The ice tinkled in Hemant’s glass, bird sounds tinkled in their ears, water lapped around the boat. They were too high to see the sludge that had gathered around the houseboat, too high to notice the slight smell that came from the stagnant edge. Upon the roof, hand in hand, Astha’s heart was as full of love as the lake was full of water.
Back in Delhi, Astha submerged herself in the role of daughter-in-law and wife. The time spent in the kitchen experimenting with new dishes was time spent in the service of love and marriage. Hemant’s clothes she treated with reverence, sliding each shirt in his drawers a quarter centimetre out from the one above so they were easily visible, darning all the tiny holes in his socks, arranging his pants on cloth-wrapped hangers so there would be no crease. With her mother-in-law she visited and shopped in the mornings, the memory of the night past, and the expectation of the night to come insulating her from any tedium she might otherwise have felt.
Every evening her father-in-law remarked, ‘How nice it is to have a daughter in the house.’
Hemant looked as though it were all his doing, while Astha’s mother-in-law sighed and talked of her absent daughters; Seema, so far away in America, and Sangeeta, well, now that Hemant was married, he and his wife were responsible for Sangeeta, whose troubles with her husband and in-laws were always hinted at rather than spelt out.
Astha, proud that she was considered responsible enough to share the family problems invariably replied, ‘Don’t worry Mummy, she has us‚’ though she was seven years younger than Sangeeta, and had only seen her at the wedding.
After they had had tea Hemant and Astha dropped in on her parents. ‘I do not want them to feel they have lost a daughter‚’ Hemant insisted, as they walked through the colony to Astha’s old house, while Astha thought how nice he was, and how lucky she.
‘Why do we have to drink tea twice every day?’ she complained occasionally, for the pleasure of hearing Hemant say, ‘And disappoint Mama and Papa, who are waiting? And when Mama makes snacks especially for us, no fears.’
‘Especially for you, you mean‚’ said Astha.
‘It is the same thing‚’ said Hemant drawing Astha’s hand through his arm even more tightly.
In the kitchen, Astha’s mother would hiss ‘Happy?’ and Astha would give the slightest non-committal nod, wanting to keep her happiness to herself. To share it or voice it might encourage its departure.
*
Meanwhile Hemant immersed himself in sex manuals. He hid them in his cupboard under rows of shirts.
‘Mummy might see‚’ Astha objected nervously. Her mother-in-law frequently visited their room, examined all the items, and straightened the covers on the bed.
‘So what?’ laughed Hemant. ‘We are married, what can anybody say?’
The number of sex manuals increased. All the books had graphic illustrations.
‘Why do you have to read these things?’ Astha demanded for form’s sake.
‘They are interesting. Look.’ Hemant tried to show her, but Astha turned away her head, and Hemant did not persist. ‘I will show you in other ways‚’ he murmured in her hair.
Astha blushed and said nothing, too diffident to tell him that she had already noticed a change in his lovemaking, he was less in a hurry, and his focus had widened from the single point of her vagina.
New positions, timing the length of intercourse, variations on a theme. There seemed no end to what one could do with two bodies. At the suggestion of sexy clothes she balked.
‘What do you think I am? A whore?’
‘There is nothing to be ashamed of darling‚’ said Hemant caressing her. ‘It is to increase married pleasure.’
Astha looked at the lacy black thing he was offering her. ‘What is it?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘A teddy.’
‘So I am to be your teddy bear?’
Hemant was not interested in double meanings. ‘I went to a lot of trouble to get it for you‚’ he said.
‘For me?’
‘Who else is the woman in my life?’ asked Hemant, pushing her towards the bathroom. Thank God their room was slightly separated from her parents-in-law’s bedroom, thought Astha, and they had a bathroom to themselves. Otherwise there was no way she could do these things. She locked the door and looked at herself in the mirror, clad from throat to ankle, neck to wrist. Diaphanous, lacy, and a soft pink she had all along thought this nightie made her look quite attractive. Slowly she took it off and looked at her body. She was in her hairless condition, the way Hemant liked her, with legs, arms, and underarms freshly waxed, shining smooth, with not an unsightly black stump in sight, only a series of pink bumps where the wax had pulled too hard and left its protest. She raised her arms and anxiously sniffed the wet place underneath. Hemant didn’t like the smell of sweat, or vaginal fluids, he was a little squeamish in that respect, and she now washed and dusted herself with powder before turning her attention back to the thing. Single piece, lace and satin, slinky, with holes and slits, she could crumple it in one fist, its only stiffness the wires in the cups.
She put it on, and there from below her chin, a deep cleavage appeared with black laced mounds on either side, the dark nipples straining through black net hearts. She almost didn’t recognise herself, with the sexual parts so emphasised. She raised her arms to take out the pins from her hair, watching as her breasts rose and thrust forwards, feeling an excitement that embarrassed her.
Astha wrapped a dressing gown around herself, and slowly went into the bedroom locking the door quietly. Hemant was lying on the bed with the small bedside lamp on, his arms and chest shone brown and shapely. He kept his eyes on her, as she took off the dressing gown and walked self-consciously across to him, desire rising still higher, trying not to think of what she was wearing, what it was doing to him, to her. She sat next to him, and he grabbed her tightly encased body.
‘Sit on me‚’ he said hoarsely, pulling her on to him, twisting the little bit of lace aside.
Astha sat on him, her breasts tight and forward, falling over him, over my husband, she thought, as they rocked together, while sensation took over, drowning thoughts even of husbands.
*
The days passed. Astha had not imagined that sex could be such a master. Slightly ashamed, she kept hidden that she longed to dissolve herself in him, longed to be the sips of water he drank, longed to be the morsels of food he swallowed. The times he was away she was focused on one thing, the moment of their union. When he came through the door, she wanted to jump on him, tear his clothes off, thrust her nipples into his mouth, and have him charge his way through her. One with him, one with all that mattered.
I haven’t really lived, thought Astha, till now I did not know what life was all about.
She felt a woman of the world, the world that was covered with the film of her desire, and the fluids of their
sex.
A few months and dullness began to taint Astha’s new life. What was she to do while waiting for Hemant to come home? Her in-laws were not demanding, for the housework they had help, and supervision, no matter how painstaking, still left her with enough free time to be restless in.
‘You need to work‚’ said her mother.
The teaching job she had never considered with interest loomed large. Now that she was married, Astha could see that its hours qualified it as the ideal job, a fact her mother was even now pointing out.
‘As a teacher you will earn some money, but you will only be out half the day so the home will not suffer.’
Astha looked resentful. Her future suddenly seemed very pedestrian.
*
It was some evenings later that Astha’s mother brought up the subject with Hemant. ‘She needs to be occupied, beta.’
‘Yes, Ma, I know‚’ said Hemant. ‘I myself was thinking.’
‘What about your painting and writing?’ asked her father. ‘You can make use of these talents in journalism.’
Mother and husband expressed scepticism.
As they walked back through the colony to their own house, Hemant repeated, ‘Journalists have to stay out late, they have very odd hours. We must see about a teaching job. You read quite a lot.’
‘I don’t think that alone will equip me‚’ said Astha, briefly wondering whether all women were destined to be teachers or nothing.
Hemant laughed. ‘You will probably know more than anyone‚’ he said.
*
With the newly introduced 10+2 system, it was not difficult to get a job teaching elective subjects to classes eleven and twelve. In answer to the combined wishes of Astha’s relatives one of her college teachers phoned with news of a vacancy at St Anthony’s School, and if she was interested she should go and see the Principal, Mrs Dubey.
Astha’s in-laws approved. ‘It is a good time pass.’
‘It’s near enough. You won’t have to spend much time on the road‚’ commented the mother.
Her father merely said, ‘It will do until you decide to develop yourself in other ways.’
Her husband said, ‘With a job you won’t be so fidgety if I am a minute late.’
‘Oh, I am to work so you can do what you like?’
‘Who says I want to do what I like? It will benefit you to leave the house in the mornings. When the children come we will see whether to continue this.’
At the interview Mrs Dubey made it clear that a teacher at her school needed to show commitment to the institution, foster students’ interests in extra-curricular activities, and make sure they did well in the tenth and twelfth board exams, the reputation of a school unfortunately depending on results. Astha agreed to everything and was hired. Later she thought that since the job fell into her lap, her destiny must be teaching.
Being a teacher meant the languor of her days was over. No longer did she have the luxury of leisurely brooding over her love, she had to get up early and go to work. She had exercises to correct, and lessons to prepare. She started a reading club, a writing club, a painting club, directed by the principal’s suggestions and followed through with her encouragement. The peripheries of her world now stretched to include many schoolgirls. Life was shaping up nicely, with her mind and heart gainfully employed.
Hemant dropped her occasionally when she was getting late for morning assembly. Both families exclaimed at his devotion as a husband.
*
A day, as usual, with Hemant coming in late. Astha had been waiting the whole evening, and now took this opportunity to gaze at him, her soul in her eyes, the soul that she was waiting to hand over on a platter.
‘How are you, darling?’ he asked, looking at her affectionately. ‘How was your day in school?’
‘They have asked me to edit the school magazine‚’ she managed, but even those few words were difficult, so heavy was the passion weighing her down. Her tongue felt useless in her mouth, unless it was activated by his.
He sat down on the sofa, and Astha knelt to take off his shoes. She unlaced them, and pulled off his socks, gathering the day’s dust in her lap. At that moment she loved Hemant so intensely, that every fetid, stale, sweaty smell that came from his foot was a further nail in the armour of her love.
‘How was your day?’ she asked. ‘Why are you so late? I have been waiting hours.’
‘The director called a meeting‚’ replied Hemant looking disgruntled.
‘At this time?’
‘What does he care? Slow, pompous, ass-licking fucker.’
‘What has happened now?’
‘The latest directives for distributing loans. Our target has been increased, and he is worried we might not make it. Then his head will be on the chopping block.’
Oh dear, this was not going to be a happy subject.
‘This percentage for cottage units, that for farmers, this for small scale units, that for backward classes, and without any security! No collateral, no third-party guarantor, because the government has to look good in the next election while we bear the losses. How can any bank function in this manner? This is what happens when you nationalise banks, constant meddling and interference.’
How long would it take for him to notice her? ‘I kept thinking of you in school‚’ she started, but Hemant hadn’t finished.
‘How are we encouraging any initiative, if these buggers get money for free? And how do you make sure someone is scheduled caste, for fuck’s sake? Just a few months ago I had a branch officer complaining that the local bigwig was demanding a larger than usual cut for supplying the bank with certified scheduled caste people. He was falling short of his target and he had to give in. Bloody country, this is why we never progress. In America such interference would be unheard of.’
‘Well, this is India, dearest‚’ said Astha, not wanting Hemant to start on the subject of America versus India. ‘This is the way things function. If you get angry, you will only harm your health. My father got blood pressure because he hated his job. Fire burns itself‚’ she added, a saying she had grown up with.
Hemant deflated. ‘When I think of how my classmates are doing, how much money they are making – with an American MBA you can do anything, but there are no opportunities in this bloody country, none. Sometimes I wish I had never come back.’
‘Money isn’t everything darling. Look, you have your family, me, our parents.’
‘Maybe we all emigrate, huh? Seema’s husband keeps calling, he’s willing to sponsor me.’
Live abroad? ‘Yes, let’s go‚’ she said excitedly.
Hemant sighed, ‘No, Az, I came for Papaji and Mummy, I have to stay. Papaji knows I am being wasted here, and he tries his best to make me happy, but still, what can he do about the job? This is not satisfying work, it is a clearing division, clear this loan, that loan, deal with union demands and government meddling, nothing is allowed to become efficient.’
Astha’s desire receded. She felt cold, dreary, and distanced from him. She had been waiting for him all day, thinking of their being together, but nothing of this was reciprocated. He was a criminal, destroying her anticipation, ruining her happiness.
Her subservient position struck her. She had no business kneeling, taking off his shoes, pulling off his socks, feeling ecstatic about the smell of his feet.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ said Hemant as her hands stopped moving. He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. ‘Leave my shoes, I’ll do it.’
He got up, put them away, and catching her by the elbow sat her down next to him. Poor man, thought Astha softening, he must have had a hard day in the office, was that anything to mind? She must make his home a haven for him, not a place of recrimination.
‘So what were you saying about school?’ he asked, passing his hand down her back, gently pressing the dividing line between her haunches.
Astha sidled closer to him, and the pressure became a little firmer. ‘I kept t
hinking of you‚’ she whispered. ‘I missed you every minute.’
‘Baby‚’ he murmured, accepting this as his due. ‘And school, how was that?’
‘Well, they have asked me to help with the school magazine, as I am the teacher for the senior elective English classes. And I thought, why not?’
‘Do they know you write?’
‘Of course not. Anybody with reasonable English is enough for this job. My class XI girls got really excited, they want to organise a creative writing competition. We can publish the best poems and stories, maybe even send them to the children’s page in the newspaper.’
Hemant wasn’t really listening. Astha stopped talking about creative writing as he got up to lock the door.
‘They are waiting‚’ objected Astha.
‘Just a quick one‚’ said Hemant.
‘They will know what we are doing‚’ said Astha, already imagining what was to come, even if it was a quick one.
‘Let them know. We are married.’
Astha lay back, aware of every inch of her skin, aware of every thread she wore, now about to be dislodged. The day, with its petty vexations flowed away from her. This, what was going to happen, was the central thing in her life.
The last year of Astha’s father’s service drew to a close. They would have to leave their house soon. Hemant threw himself into their plans, politely suppressing his surprise at their unworldliness.
‘Az‚’ he said frequently to his wife, after visiting his in-laws, ‘how come Papa didn’t plan more for his retirement?’
‘He was planning‚’ said Astha hopelessly, ‘in fact they were always planning.’
‘Then, what happened?’
‘They kept trying to buy, but it was always too expensive. Then this housing society thing came up and they were allotted land trans Jamuna. They thought once the bridge was built and prices went up, they could sell the plot and buy a small flat this side.’
To Astha now, this seemed like not very much planning.