A Married Woman

by Manju Kapur

  *

  It was clear from the moment she stepped inside that she was in trouble. Hemant received her frostily, no question as to how was the meeting, you are looking tired, are you all right, I will look after things, you go and lie down.

  Instead there was silence through the hastily put together meal, silence as she went through the children’s notebooks after dinner.

  Himanshu wrinkled his nose at the balm on her forehead. ‘You smell, Mama‚’ he complained.

  ‘Sorry darling, my head is hurting‚’ murmured Astha.

  ‘Shall I press it?’ he asked. Himanshu liked pressing his mother’s head, and she liked having him do it, the touch of his small inept hands soothing to her.

  ‘All right‚’ she allowed. He scrambled into her lap, and put his face next to hers, managing to jab her eye with his finger. The discomfort was slight, but the tears still came. The day had been too much.

  *

  The homework was finished at last, the school bags packed and the children asleep. Before sinking her head onto her own pillow and blanking out the whole horrible day, Astha had to try and make amends with Hemant. He had come home, she had not been there, he must have been surprised, wondering, maybe even worried.

  From the passageway she could see him in his reclining chair, with his newspaper, feeling lonely. She was his wife. Still she looked, feeling exposed in her thin nightie, breasts hanging loose and obvious, eyes watering with fresh balm. She lifted her feet to go towards him, but found herself walking to her bed. She was tired, her feet were telling her, and tired women cannot make good wives.

  That night as the pain receded and she fell asleep, she dreamt. She and another person were riding close together in a scooter – rickshaw. The person turned, it was Aijaz with long silky hair, which brushed across her face. Astha leaned closer, the corners of their mouths met and pressed, alone against the commotion of the street. Slowly Astha opened her mouth, and bit on the hair. She didn’t let go, even when the scooter stopped, and they got out, her mouth firmly clamped on the rich, long, black, thick, sweetly smelling, dusty hair. This made her dumb, she could not argue with the scooter wallah, who was charging too much, but Aijaz took care of him. Aijaz took care of everything. Together, they walked into a room full of doors and windows, with a huge double bed in the centre. Blue and white curtains waved in the breeze, sunlight came flowing through, the bed was covered with soft, printed Rajasthani quilts. Doors opened, people walked in and out, but they were invisible.

  Slowly they fell on the bed, kissing all the while, when Aijaz, entwined around her, turned into Reshana.

  Reshana?

  She woke. It was early morning, the sky was lightening, she could hear the birds beginning outside. Deeply unsettled, she turned to Hemant, opened his pyjamas, gave him an erection and climbed on top.

  He forgave her sins of the evening before by responding.

  *

  The disturbance lingered with Astha all next day, the vividness and strong emotions of her dream demanding some kind of recognition. Hesitantly she started making sketches. Two women faced each other in a scooter, their noses covered because of the pollution, only the eyes visible. The scooter wallah was a dark Sardarji with a striking red turban. Perched next to him was a young man, taking a ride. Around the edges of the canvas, traffic, buildings, road, but in the centre the scooter with its passengers bent towards each other, the devouring eyes, the Sardarji and the young man.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Reshana phoned to ask.

  ‘Fine‚’ said Astha briefly, not wanting to engage with Reshana when her head was full of other things. She would think about the Manch canvas when she had finished this one.

  *

  Now that Astha was devoting practically all her afternoons to painting she found it difficult to work inside the house. There were too many interruptions, the servant, the children, the phone, the kitchen, her own restless mind. Besides which she was continually observed by whoever happened to be around, watched intently as she made preliminary sketches, prepared canvas, squeezed paint, mixed and applied colour, cleaned brushes. She could not say go away, that was rude as well as selfishly withholding of herself.

  The canvases also meant that when they entertained guests, certain conversational sequences were invariably set in motion – who paints, my wife, oh really, very good hobby for a woman, my daughter also paints very nicely, or my sister, or wife’s sister – you name it, there was always somebody who knew somebody who painted. Each time this happened Astha was forced to make her work the subject of idle gossip, a thing she hated doing.

  *

  She mentioned this to Hemant one weekend. They were in the bedroom lying off a heavy lunch eaten upstairs.

  ‘I need more space.’

  Hemant drew her close. ‘The whole house is yours, Az.’

  ‘I was thinking of something more specific. You know, a place to work in peace, spread my stuff about.’

  She knew it sounded presumptuous and unfamily-like to want space that was hers and hers alone. Hemant clearly thought so too, as he said, ‘You don’t need more, you have all you can use here.’

  ‘Not quite. I get in everybody’s way.’

  ‘Many women would die to have the space you do. We could never afford anything like this now. If only your father had done the same—’

  ‘Maybe I could have the other room on the barsati?’ Astha interrupted in a rush, a room so uncomfortable, distant, remote, and undesirable that she could ask with equanimity, and hopefully be given without hesitation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nobody is using it.’

  ‘But it belongs to Sangeeta, she may feel insecure. You know how touchy she already is.’

  A wave of anger hit Astha, Sangeeta sitting in Meerut was to be given greater consideration than herself.

  ‘I will vacate it whenever necessary, besides the servants are already there, and presumably she tolerates that.’

  ‘But darling, it has no electrical connections, how can you use it?’

  ‘I’ll get it wired, all we have to do is extend the connection from the servants’ room.’

  ‘It’ll kill you, with your headaches, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Please, please, please.’

  Hemant looked distinctly annoyed. His wife on the roof, next to the servants’ quarters, painting.

  ‘What is wrong with working down here? I let you work – I don’t stop you – I say nothing about the smell, about the canvases all over.’

  ‘The smell, the canvases, the inconvenience are exactly why. Please, darling.’

  Hemant talked to his parents. They did not agree. Sangeeta would be very sensitive to a family member encroaching on her territory, servants were different.

  Astha vowed bitterly to earn enough money to rent her own studio one day. In the meantime if there was no area available to her, she would try and make do with the wide ranges inside her head. Constantly reminded of the space nobody thought enough of her to give, she became very bad tempered during interruptions. Finally she steeled herself, she shut the door, and if disturbed too often locked it. In this way a certain uneasy privacy was granted her.

  *

  After Women Travelling, Astha’s imagination increasingly worked in pictures. For the Manch painting she decided to experiment with an issue she felt strongly about. She would deal with the Rath Yatra, with the journey a Leader was making across the Hindu heartland in the name of unifying the nation. Like the religious leaders of old, he drove a chariot, identical to Arjun’s in the serialised Mahabharat, familiar to millions of viewers. That the chariot was really a DCM Toyota was a necessary concession to the 10,000 kilometres to be done in thirty-six days. His journey was to start from Somnath, one of the first places to be destroyed by Muslim mauraders (Mahmud of Ghazni) in 1025, and end in Ayodhya, where Lord Ram was born, the hallowed spot that needed to be reappropriated to assuage the feelings of 700 million Hindus. It was also a journey to political prominenc
e.

  To portray this Astha chose a large canvas, four by six, and again drew inspiration from Rajasthani miniatures. On one end was a temple, on the other was the Babri Masjid, on its little hill. Between the two the leader travelled, in a rath, flanked by holy men, wearing saffron, carrying trishuls, some old, some young, their beards flowing over their chests. Besides the rath on motorbikes were younger men, with goggles and helmets, whose clothes she painted saffron as well, to suggest militant religion. She sketched scenes of violence, arson and stabbing that occurred in towns on the way, people fighting, people dying; she showed young men slashing their bodies, and offering a tilak of blood to the Leader; she showed young men offering even more blood in a vessel; she showed the arrest of the Leader as he approached Ayodhya.

  *

  The day Astha finished her Manch canvas, called simply Yatra, she took a deep breath and stared at it for a long time. This was good, she felt it was. The Manch had promised her half the money for the painting, she wondered how much that would be.

  This time Reshana priced Astha’s painting at 20,000 rupees. ‘It’s very strong. A bit bloody, but the scale is so small it is not offensive. And it certainly adds to the colour.’

  ‘Thanks‚’ said Astha, feeling warm and glowy.

  ‘I had no idea you were doing the yatra. A controversial issue will be noticed in the reviews.’

  Astha saw respect on her face, which pleased her, but unfortunately it also made her remember her dream. Desire for Hemant darted through her, the safe, solid, stable, secure thing in her life.

  ‘Come back tomorrow and see where we have put it‚’ continued Reshana, and Astha returned from the exhibition hall with an empty feeling in her chest. The canvas she had worked on and thought about all these months was gone.

  *

  Again Reshana proved right. Astha’s painting was mentioned in the reviews, one paper even printed a photograph of it, and it was sold before the end of the exhibition.

  Hemant said, ‘Congratulations, you must be really pleased, I am happy for you‚’ as though they had met at a party, instead of sharing the same bed for years.

  Astha said, equally politely, ‘Thank you, Hemant.’ She put out of her mind an idle romance, that he would be the one to buy it, give it pride of place in house or office, and tell everyone that this was an example of his wife’s work. She knew this was impossible, and that people who expect the impossible are setting themselves up for misery, and Astha would rather die than be such a pathetic woman.

  Instead she hugged the vision of herself as a woman who had sold two paintings in one year, sum total thirty thousand rupees, of which ten thousand was hers. She felt rich and powerful, so what if this feeling only lasted a moment.

  One day she would get so famous that Hemant would feel obliged to display something she had done, and somebody, friend? banker? associate? would see it and, impressed, would ask to meet her. Unlike Hemant, he would find her fascinating. Would he want to have an affair with her? What would he be like in bed? Here Astha firmly drew a line across the remaining part of her fantasy, it exceeded anything remotely credible.

  Summer holidays. Everything that was touched or breathed was dust laden. The heat was its usual, intense and unbearable.

  There was no question of Astha painting, her children were all over the place, she was busy with things to occupy them, summer workshops, the transportation involved, and the impending visit of Sangeeta with her children.

  ‘Will you show Sangeeta Bua your paintings, Ma?’ asked Anuradha.

  ‘Right now I have nothing to show.’

  ‘You have the picture of it from the newspaper, and the mention in the review.’

  ‘Let it be, babu, she might think I am showing off.’

  ‘ So? Shefali is always boasting about all the things she has.’

  ‘Poor thing. Sweetie, there is a lot of trouble in Shefali’s house, her parents fight, and maybe she talks like that because she is insecure. Let’s not say anything about my paintings it might make Sangeeta Bua feel bad.’

  ‘You mean jealous.’

  That was what Astha meant, but this was the child’s aunt they were talking about. ‘Painting is not everybody’s cup of tea‚’ she temporised.

  *

  Through the summer, and the trials with Sangeeta, Sangeeta’s children, Shefali and Samir, and her own children, her painting remained with her, at the back of her mind. She yearned for the moments when her hand, her eye, her brain fused into one, and her daily life was blocked out. She had experienced this increasingly with the second and third canvas, and she was impatient to experience it again.

  Meanwhile the six of them shopped, went to the zoo, went to films, went to restaurants, went to Appu Ghar, went to the science museum, went to the crafts museum, went swimming. For a week the nine of them went to Nainital, where Hemant rented a cottage. Here they boated, roamed around the lake, took long walks, had pony rides, and Astha was wife, mother, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law.

  Hemant was happy with her. He found this easier when his relatives were there, and Astha spending so much time with them. When their anniversary came, he bought her a ring, an emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds. The quality was excellent, and the ring looked well on her hand.

  ‘Brings out your colour‚’ said Hemant turning the hand around in his own, smiling at her.

  ‘Such a husband‚’ murmured her mother-in-law in the background. Sangeeta looked on registering each gesture.

  There was no need for Astha to say anything.

  *

  The summer over, Sangeeta and her children departed, school about to start. Astha stood on the verandah overlooking her tiny garden, thinking her forced exile from paint, turpentine and linseed oil was at last over. She looked at the scene in front of her, wondering how she could catch even a fraction of it on canvas. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, the air had a grey yellow quality to it that made the grass and trees more luminous, the red flowers of the gulmohar tree more vivid, the waxy white flowers of the champa tree more arresting against their large dark green leaves. There was so much moisture in the air, that as the breeze blew, it brushed her face with dampness.

  Mughal miniatures were full of monsoon scenes, lovers on the roof, the man’s hand fondling the woman’s breast, while the woman leans heavily against him, a grey sky above with white birds flying in a V-formation against the clouds. How about a monsoon urban scene, children splashing in puddles, kites flying, jamun, bhutta and phalsa sellers squatting in front of their baskets on pavements, and on the roof, a solitary woman looking towards the heavy darkness above. Melancholy filled her. After the deadness of summer, the monsoon was a time of awakening and desire, but what was one to do with one’s longing?

  She wished she could share her feelings with someone, but with only Hemant to fall back upon it was certain that her loneliness was secured. Still he was all she had, and she made an attempt when he came home and settled down to his drink.

  ‘It was really pretty today.’

  ‘I suppose. I didn’t have time to notice.’

  ‘That’s why I am telling you. I want to share it.’ But already the tone was edgy, and Hemant responded promptly.

  ‘Yes, it’s nice when you have time to admire nature.’

  The offensive implications were clear. Astha forced a sketchy smile to her lips, then turned to study the label on the whisky bottle. More than this she could not lie.

  ‘I have a surprise for you‚’ he said.

  She was grateful, ‘Oh, really? What?’

  ‘We are going to Goa.’

  ‘Goa! Why Goa? The monsoon has begun there.’

  ‘Arre! You were the one who wanted to go.’

  ‘That was in winter. In season.’

  ‘Exactly. And do you know how expensive it is in season?’

  ‘Not if we had stayed in a cheap place. There are plenty of those.’

  ‘Why go if we have to slum it. Now I’ve got an excellent package dea
l.’ His eyes softened and he squeezed Astha’s arm. ‘It’s been fifteen years since we married. It’s an anniversary present for you.’

  ‘Our anniversary is over.’

  ‘O-ho, May-July same thing. Either it’s hot or it’s raining. And the rates are off-season. I’ve got reservations for the Taj. When one goes to a five-star, the hotel becomes the destination then you really get your money’s worth.’ Hemant looked pleased with himself. ‘Off season rates‚’ he repeated as they settled down to dinner.

  ‘But Hem‚’ said Astha, managing to get excited at the idea of staying in a five-star hotel, if it was raining outside, so what, five-star was five-star. ‘It will take two days to go there, two days to get back, almost as long as the stay itself, is it worth it?’

  ‘We are flying‚’ and pride swelled his chest, and filled the room.

  ‘What? Have you won a lottery?’

  ‘I have to go to Bombay to see a dealer, the children’s tickets will cost half, yours is the only ticket we have to pay for. We will spend the money you earned for your painting.’

  ‘But darling, you could have asked me if I wanted to spend the money on a plane ticket, and that too when it is off season.’

  ‘You have a bee in your bonnet about seasons. I am telling you it will be very nice, you don’t trust me.’

  ‘I do, really I do.’

  ‘Then show it.’

  *

  It was fair, she told herself later, that her money should go towards paying for a family holiday, after all why should Hemant have to pay for everything. There was no question of any choice in the matter. Everything was already decided. They reached Goa in the rain, they drove to the hotel in the rain, the children ran towards the beach in the rain.

  ‘Why don’t we go too?’ asked Astha. ‘It might never stop raining.’

  ‘No, you go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go without you,’ said Astha. There was a possibility he would remind her they were on holiday, and why did they holiday if not to be together? She glanced wistfully outside. In the distance was the sound of the sea, and she could make out a thick grey and white undulating line.