by Manju Kapur
Astha’s marriage entitled her to the same emotions. This is what my parents hoped would happen to them, she thought wistfully every time the latest price of their plot was discussed, and it was discussed many times.
Vasant Vihar too was once wilderness, home to rabbits, peacocks and deer, but by the late seventies almost a third of it was under construction, a boom which the Vadera family now joined.
*
For the plans Papaji contacted the chief architect of the New Delhi Municipal Corporation, who enjoyed the same secretary level status he did. A senior teacher of the Delhi School of Planning and Architecture was recommended, drawings were made, their relative living convenience minutely examined.
The house was going to be double storied, the ground floor for Hemant and Astha, the one above for Papaji and Mummy. Each floor would have a drawing-dining, kitchen, two bedrooms with attached baths, and a small study to double as a guest room. In the centre, overlooking a patch of lawn running on the side of the house, would be an open informal area where the family could congregate. There would be one large verandah beyond the drawing-dining, and small balconies outside the bedrooms. On the roof would be the servant’s quarters.
*
A puja was done at the site, and the building started. Steel and cement could only be obtained on quotas, and construction on the house lasted nearly two years, despite Papaji’s contacts, as thirty tons of rolled steel bars and thousands of bags of cement were released in dribs and drabs by the concerned ministry.
Periodically Hemant and Papaji would go shopping along with the contractor. To GB Road for cast iron and galvanised iron pipes, toilets, taps, stainless steel and ceramic sinks, wall tiles and marble chips; to Bhagirath Palace for mild steel conduit pipes, electrical cables for light and power, switch boxes, switches, fans, hinges, door locks and door handles; to Paharganj for wood and plywood; and last of all to Kotla for glass and paint, Snowcem for the outside, oil bound distemper for the inside, lime wash for the ceilings.
Two to three times a week Hemant visited the site, he was a junior officer, and he didn’t have the pressures Papaji did. Sometimes Astha accompanied him, audience to Hemant’s sense of himself as the child of fortune. ‘This – this‚’ he said waving his hand at their plot, ‘this is worth over a crore today.’
‘A crore?’ breathed Astha. ‘So much.’ And she warmed with the pleasure of being part of a family that was in tune with the ways of the world. Now and for ever she would be looked after.
*
To avoid death duties, the five Vaderas were registered as co-owners, with a letter of intention signed amongst them as to future rights. Hemant was to get the ground floor; Seema, who had contributed dollars towards the construction, was to get the first floor; and Sangeeta, who had contributed nothing, was to get the terrace, which allowed a built up area of 25 per cent. Should either of the sisters wish to sell they had to give their brother first offer.
After the house was built, it was given on rent to an embassy, at over a hundred times the rate they paid for their Lodhi Colony government accommodation. Astha’s mother listened to the details of the increase in the family finances with glistening eyes, sighing heavily, blessing her daughter, remembering her departed husband, a very simple man, with no sense of this world.
The two-year excitement and absorption of building a house over, Hemant began to get bored. On his way home from work he took to frequenting the club where, swimming, playing tennis or drinking, he met men like himself.
They were a new breed, these men. Their fathers had opted for the security and prestige of the civil services, but the sons wanted challenge and money. Educated abroad, their idealism had been exercised in their choice to return to India, now they wanted tangible returns for that sacrifice. Certainly Hemant did. He decided to try his hand at business.
‘Isn’t it terribly risky?’ asked Astha nervously. ‘Business is full of bribes and corruption, headache and uncertainty.’
‘ Az, this is the thinking of the past. Maybe a government job was all right for our parents, they wanted to serve their country after Independence. And perhaps it once was the place where you could make a difference, but no longer. The inertia, red tape and small-mindedness kills you. Now people sit on their asses and push files around all day. As an entrepreneur you can see the result of what you are doing. And it generates work.’
‘But we are comfortably off, you have a secure position, your work is not demanding. Even now, we spend so little time together, what will it be like with longer hours?’
‘I miss you too‚’ said Hemant absently. ‘But I am not starting the business immediately. I can get a loan more easily if I am at the bank, and the company, my dear, will be registered in your name.’
‘And what will I be doing?’ inquired Astha.
‘Making TVs.’
‘TVs? What market is there for TVs? All you get are rubbishy programmes, like Krishi Darshan, Chitrahaar, and half an old black and white Hindi movie on Saturday with the other half on Sunday.’
‘You wait, Az, TVs are the thing of the future. In developed countries, TV has taken over the culture, and here too, when colour comes to India… ’ He paused and, stirred by his vision of the future, put his arm around his wife.
His wife had less imagination. ‘What will happen?’ she asked.
‘Do you know how much profit margin there is on a colour TV?’
‘No, I don’t know, and what’s the point, there is no colour, even if we do make the sets.’
‘You wait and see.’
Well, thought Astha, at least we have the security of the house if anything goes wrong.
*
Hemant applied for a plot of land with the Uttar Pradesh Industrial Development Corporation, and he was allotted one in the ambitiously called ‘Electronic City’ of Noida, Sector 16. For this as yet undeveloped piece of property he had to pay nine lakhs in installments, with ten per cent down payment. His connections in his bank made applying for a loan easy, a few trips to Lucknow, and the loan was routed through the Noida branch. He registered his wife’s unit as a small-scale industry, something that Papaji’s position in the commerce ministry facilitated.
Along with other erstwhile factory owners, Hemant waited for Noida to develop, in the meantime hiring a factory. He made his parents board members, and started his unit with a thousand black and white TVs a month. They had the standard 20-inch screen, sold at 1,850 rupees a set, with a profit margin of 20 per cent.
All this took a year to accomplish. Hemant now left the house every morning at seven to first visit the factory, and then make the long drive to Parliament Street. ‘My family comes first‚’ he would say, as he juggled factory, bank and home.
Astha watched Hemant in his new avatar and felt moved by his grasp of the rules of getting on, by his ability to exploit situations rather than be defeated by them. Because he was her husband this meant that she too would not fall between the wide cracks of the world like her parents had done.
Somewhere along the way Hemant’s attitude to Astha changed. She told herself it was only slightly, but it oppressed her. Occasionally she tried addressing this directly.
‘Hemant, why is it that we never talk anymore?’
‘We talk all the time.’
‘About the business, the house, or Anuradha. Not about ourselves. Like we did before.’
‘Grow up, Az, one can’t be courting for ever.’
‘Is it courting to be interested in the other person? Their feelings?’
‘Why are you so childish? I work hard all day, and when I come home I want to relax. If you are feeling something, tell me. I have no time for all these games.’
‘I want to be close to you, have a better relationship—’ faltered Astha, knowing she had lost the argument before she had been able to define its parameters.
‘There is nothing wrong with our relationship.’
‘Are you saying there is something wrong with me?’
&nb
sp; ‘You said it, not I.’
‘But I’m not happy, so how can you …’ She bit back words that might seem to indicate some insensitivity on his part.
‘You think too much, that is the trouble.’
Astha stared at him nonplussed. ‘I love you‚’ she said lamely, but she meant something else.
‘I know, baby, I know‚’ said Hemant, drawing her to himself, caressing her. ‘Maybe we should go out together more? Would you like that?’
‘What about Anu? I don’t like leaving her with Mummy so much. She looks after her when I am at school as it is.’
‘We’ll take her, you are the one with all the scruples. Come on, darling.’ He slipped his hand under her sari, undid the first two hooks of her blouse and slid his hand over her breasts.
‘Poor little things‚’ he cooed, ‘Have I been neglecting them?’
‘It’s not that‚’ murmured Astha.
‘Cheer up, baby. Make it nice for me to be with you.’
Baby. That is how he liked her. The look on his face became focused as he pulled her sari palla away and yanked at the rest of the hooks on her blouse, drawing it down from her shoulders and arms. Now he would bury his face in her breasts, pressing them against himself from either side, suck on her nipples, and they could both be babies together.
She found this soothing, and later scolded herself for being so demanding. Hemant was busy, Hemant was building their future, she had to be adjusting, that was what marriage was all about.
When Anuradha was four, Papaji retired. The tenants left, the family moved into their Vasant Vihar house, and Astha conceived again.
‘God willing it will be a boy‚’ said her mother. ‘I have asked swamiji’s advice as to what offerings to make.’
‘Nonsense, Ma‚’ retorted Astha uneasily. ‘These people are not like that.’
‘You are still such an innocent. What people say and what they do are two different things. Besides why is Hemant working so hard? For whom, if not his son?’
‘It doesn’t matter to Hemant‚’ said Astha valiantly.
‘I hope for your sake you are right.’
*
A few nights later. Hemant laughing, ‘Mummy is so sweet.’
Hemant often found the things his mother said or did sweet, so Astha paid not much attention. ‘She is hiring a pundit to come every day and do some special pujas.’
‘Why?’
‘To ensure a grandson.’
‘But puja may not make a difference, it may still be another granddaughter‚’ objected Astha in alarm.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, then we will try again, it’s perfectly all right. Why do you get so tense for nothing?’
‘But Hem, I do not wish to go on trying and trying until we get a son. It’s very difficult with the teaching as it is.’
‘Oh-ho, what is there in teaching? Hardly a serious job, you just go, talk to some children about poems and stories, organise a few clubs, and come back. If you do feel it is important, all the more reason not to mind if Mummy does some puja. Who knows it may yield good results?’
But Astha did get worked up, she couldn’t help it. She tried to stay calm for the baby’s sake, she took to meditation, she concentrated on peaceful thoughts. But she was not allowed to forget that everybody, her colleagues, her in-laws, her husband’s friends’ wives, her mother, the cook, the gardener and the part-time help all had an opinion about her baby’s gender, and that almost universal opinion was that it would be a son and heir.
‘Baby, it’s you they want to be a boy‚’ Astha would whisper sometimes, ‘are you a boy or a girl? I’ll love you no matter what‚’ and she soothed the foetus she imagined so troubled with her troubled hands.
*
When Astha’s son was finally born she felt a gratitude as profound as it was shamed.
‘The family is complete at last‚’ said Astha’s mother piously, feeling her own contribution.
Hemant’s mother agreed, too happy in the birth of her grandson, carrier of the line, the seed, the name, to respond with her usual reserve to someone she increasingly felt was her social inferior.
The naming ceremony of the boy was carried out on a much grander scale than that of Anuradha’s. Caterers were called, and they came early in the morning, setting up their fires in the narrow driveway. The priests arrived for an elaborate puja and havan. The letter taken out for the baby’s name was ‘h’. An auspicious sign, same letter as his father said everybody, and he was christened Himanshu.
Astha was given gold jewellery and a new sari. Anuradha and the child’s aunts were given gold necklaces. The newborn was given gold guineas.
Astha was officially declared the mother of a son. Her status rose, and she pushed from her mind thoughts of what might have happened had she been unable to do her duty.
*
Himanshu was two months old when he raised his wobbly head from his mother’s chest to smile at her, wet pink lips stretched over little toothless gums. Astha thought, he recognises me, and she smiled back, silently, across her chest, this human being and her connected. The baby, trying out the strength of his neck, began to laugh, which made Astha laugh too. Happiness flowed through her like a river, lapping at her mind. She never forgot this first exchange, it lived on in her memory, a link between a male and her that was joyous, simple, and unproblematic. So what if it was with her two-month son.
Astha often looked at her family, husband, daughter, son. She had them all. She was fulfilled. Her in-laws frequently commented, ‘Woman is earth‚’ and it is true she felt bounteous, her life one of giving and receiving, surrounded by plenty. Visitors to the house would say, ‘A mother’s love’ and then trail off, words collapsing into significant silence, which in turn washed over Astha and made her feel that she had partaken of the archetypal experiences marked out for the female race.
III
Between Anuradha’s birth and Himanshu’s, Hemant changed from being an all-American father to being an all-Indian one.
After he came home the last thing he wished to bother about was taking care of a child.
‘It’s your job‚’ he said.
‘That’s not what you thought when we had Anu‚’ replied his wife. ‘I can’t do everything myself. It’s tiring.’
It was also boring, though this was not acknowledged.
‘It’s woman’s work‚’ said Hemant firmly. ‘Hire somebody to help you, or quit your job.’
‘This is our son, the one you wanted so much. It’s nice if we look after him together.’
‘Send him up to Mummy if you can’t manage.’
Astha was struck dumb. Were Mummy and he interchangeable?
‘And‚’ continued Hemant, ‘my son is going to be very lucky for us.’
‘Oh Hemant, how?’ asked Astha with an effort that wasn’t noticed.
‘Wait and see.’
Hemant had invested in the future with his TV project, and was now about to witness the fruits of his foresight. Three months before the Asiad of 1982, the Minister for Information and Broadcasting declared that India would go colour: we have a certain dignity to uphold, an image to project. The games will be beamed internationally, conveying the pomp and splendour, hopes and aspirations of a developing nation. How can all this be done in black and white, when colour technology is prevalent worldwide? It is a question of marching with the times.
The Left protested: such a priority is elitist, false and a waste of precious foreign exchange. When the nation is still poor and backward, when electricity, water, roads, education and basic health care have yet to reach hundreds of villages, why should we develop a totally useless technology that will neither feed nor clothe?
But whether the technology was useless or not, whether it would help the nation or not, it was there to stay. Hemant now needed to travel to South East Asia; the indigenous black and white TV was possible to piece together locally but colour expertise was still not available in India. He resigned from the bank
and security, to devote himself full-time to risk and money.
Hemant placed his first order in South Korea, for twenty thousand colour TV kits. Along with the order came a manager to train the workers. Local contribution involved the assembly of the TVs, the wooden cabinet, testing, selling and service. The final product was advertised as manufactured under foreign supervision, long after the initial foreigner had left.
Four times a year Hemant travelled. The glamour of international references entered the house, as he flew to South Korea and Japan looking for the best deals. He always went alone, always made sure his trips included at least two weekends, which he claimed he needed in order to establish personal contacts. He invariably came back in great good humour, with generous presents for everyone: perfume, chocolate, sweaters, jeans, toys, Japanese dolls, games for the children, underwear for Astha, toiletries, soaps, creams, shampoo, kitchen and electronic equipment. Gradually their house acquired the gloss of a house with money.
*
Astha was now virtually a single mother. Beleaguered by job, small children and house, she sometimes toyed with the idea of resigning from school, but between her marriage and the birth of her children, she too had changed from being a woman who only wanted love, to a woman who valued independence. Besides there was the pleasure of interacting with minds instead of needs.
At school she had grown to be her principal’s right-hand woman, appreciated and valued for one tenth the work she did at home, and paid for it too. Her salary meant she didn’t have to ask Hemant for every little rupee she spent. With two children, family obligations, entertainment and holiday costs, the travelling involved in a new business, the uncertainty of business itself, rising prices, she knew Hemant would prefer her to bear her small expenses herself. As it was he spent enough on her clothes and jewellery that she always looked well turned out.
And so the once looked-down-upon job had become dear. She couldn’t leave it. Nor could she go on relying too much on her mother-in-law for help with the children, it led to remarks from mother-in-law to Hemant to Astha which left her seething with anger and resentment.