by Manju Kapur
‘You are such a child‚’ said Hemant indulgently moving to her. ‘Remember this trip was to celebrate our anniversary?’ He started tugging at her sari.
‘What are you doing? The children may come in any minute.’
‘Just a quickie. They won’t come for another fifteen minutes at least.’
Quickies. It seemed that was all they ever were. They completed the act within the specified time, the sound of the rain and the more distant noise of the sea mingling with Hemant’s breathing in Astha’s ears.
*
The next day it was clear in the morning.
‘I have been talking to reception and they say that we should sight-see now as it will probably rain in the afternoon. I have hired a taxi.’
‘Where are we going?’ demanded Anuradha.
‘Mapusa, and then some beaches.’
They set off. Husband, wife, two handsome children, riding in a taxi, sightseeing in Goa.
The town of Mapusa was small and barring a few traces of Portuguese influence, not very interesting. The Mediterranean colonial style of architecture could be seen here and there in old houses surrounded by lush green gardens, colourful bougainvillaea and hibiscus spilling over boundary walls, or flinging themselves with abandon on the houses.
After driving them around a bit, the taxi stopped in front of a hideous shopping arcade with concrete circles plastered all over for decoration. The traffic was chaotic and noisy, taxis, cars, cycles and motorbikes driven by scantily clad foreigners whizzing around.
‘Cashew nuts, Goan wines‚’ said the driver firmly as the family hesitated inside the car. ‘Antiques, silver, jewellery‚’ he continued gesturing at the dark spaces behind open doors.
‘Might as well see what this town has to offer‚’ said Hemant.
*
Perhaps that was a mistake. Because one of the things the town offered was an antique silver box, priced at five thousand rupees. It was so beautiful Astha fell in love with it immediately – old, blackened, intricately carved, and totally useless.
‘Please, can I have that box?’ she asked Hemant.
‘You must be out of your mind‚’ said Hemant.
The tone, the refusal both hurt her. She was an earning woman, why couldn’t she have a say in how some of their money was spent? She never said anything when he chose to squander money on airline tickets, why couldn’t she buy a box she liked? Maybe it was too expensive, but she was sure if they bargained, it would become cheaper. Besides silver was silver.
‘It’s so pretty. It would also be a memento of Goa.’
‘It’s too expensive, these people are all cheats.’
The shopkeeper sensing indecision, urged the box upon them, very nice, old box, old price, now it will be twice as expensive if you go to buy.
‘See?’ said Astha. ‘Old prices.’
‘How can you believe him? They all lie.’
‘I also earn. Can’t I buy a box if I want, even if it is a little overpriced?’
‘You earn!’ snorted Hemant. ‘What you earn, now that is really something, yes, that will pay for this holiday.’
I have earned for my ticket she thought, but this was not the place to bring it up. The children pottering about in the shop had fallen silent. Anuradha went and stood at the doorway staring at the traffic. Himanshu was fiddling with the cashew nuts they had bought to take back to Delhi.
Astha let out her breath in jerks so that nothing was audible. ‘Let’s go‚’ she said almost to herself.
*
They went to see the other beaches, and on the way back from Vagator, Hemant put his arm around her for a conciliatory moment in the taxi. She could feel the solidness of his body next to hers. She felt limp, attacked and baffled. She didn’t want his touch, his nearness to compete with the pureness of her despair.
She got through the rest of the day somehow, sick and wretched. The beaches were lovely, and she felt resentful of their beauty, resentful at being forced to register anything besides the pain within.
Back in the hotel, the children beat against her mind, forcing attention from her through their shells. ‘Look, look at this one – you’re not looking – see, mine, put it to your ear, can you hear the sound? – not like that, you have to put it like this, can you hear the sea now? – I want to take all these shells to Delhi, they will look so pretty – I’m not putting sand everywhere, they are perfectly clean – that’s my shell – she took my shell – it’s mine – I saw it first – no he did not – she’s always taking my things – you are always taking his side …’
Another hour and Astha’s head was splitting. By the time the children had eaten their dinner and changed she was ready for the waves of pain that submerged her consciousness.
The night passed. Twice, thrice she staggered to the bathroom, clutching the walls for support to retch into the pot. Each time she hoped the pain would lessen, but it didn’t, and her nausea continued until the birds started chirping, and the dark sky turned silver with the day. Finally with nothing left in her stomach, nothing left of her, she managed to close her eyes and sink into a calm exhaustion.
Once or twice she was aware of Hemant asking from his side of the bed, expressing concern in a strained voice, ‘Are you all right?’
She acknowledged its tokenness by replying in a voice hoarse from vomiting, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. The pain will soon go.’
*
It was late next morning. Hemant had given the children breakfast, and he was now sitting with Astha on the verandah, in front of a tray of tea and papaya. Astha looked over the undulating grassy patches to the sea line. She could hear the thundering of the waves. Above, the sky was rolling with heavy grey clouds. She couldn’t remember seeing a miniature of the sea. Maybe miniature painters traditionally lived inland.
‘Feeling better?’ Hemant asked. She nodded. He held out his hand, and she put her own in it. The feel of it was dry and warm. There was a certain comfort she associated with this hand.
‘I had hoped that with the sea air your headaches might become better, not worse‚’ he continued, a careful, mock blame in his voice.
‘That would have been nice‚’ she managed just as carefully.
Inside, the children’s voices could be heard trading shells, with a few brief snatches of argument.
‘I think the children really like it here‚’ remarked Hemant, letting go of her hand to pour her a cup of tea.
It was tepid, but Astha sipped it gratefully, aware of the residual heaviness in her head with every motion.
*
The bill for five days and four nights was nine thousand five hundred rupees. Hemant was triumphant.
‘That was money well spent‚’ he said as he came back to the room after settling all the accounts at the front desk.
Nine thousand five hundred rupees spent on one of the worst weeks of my life, thought Astha, as she stepped into the hotel bus for the airport. She thought hopelessly of all the things she could have done with that money, of the beautiful silver box she could have possessed and admired for ever. But their money spending was decided by him, not by her.
‘Oh, God, you look terrible. Have you been ill?’
Thus was Astha greeted by her colleagues on the first day of school.
‘The holidays were tiring‚’ she replied. ‘My maid was away.’
Everybody understood what this meant.
‘I tell you, after one’s servant takes a holiday, it should be understood that we get a holiday too. Look at Astha, poor thing, it is obvious she needs a break.’
Take a break, how they all said it like a mantra, as if taking a break would make any difference when you always came back to the same thing.
Colleague two was talking of her sister-in-law, settled in America, who had discovered that her husband was cheating on her, and who now wanted a divorce. This brought about the usual virtuous reactions centring around Us and Them, East vers
us West.
‘There they go on divorcing – marrying till the age of 60–70.’
‘They do not understand the concept of family. They only think of themselves.’
‘The divorce rate is three out of four.’
‘They don’t know what it is to be a woman, what it is to sacrifice.’
Well, Astha was a woman, and she was sick of sacrifice. She didn’t want to be pushed around in the name of family. She was fed up with the ideal of Indian womanhood, used to trap and jail. Excuse me, stop the juggernaut and let me off. I have had enough.
‘It may not be a bad thing‚’ she said tentatively. ‘If a marriage is terrible, it is good to be able to leave.’
Everybody stared at her. Astha fiddled with her notebooks. They would be wondering whether her marriage was all right. ‘Take my sister-in-law, for example‚’ she added quickly. ‘Her only time off is with us in the summer. She is not allowed to work, rather her in-laws make her slave inside the house, she is nothing but an unpaid servant. If she complains, her husband sides with his parents. If she were in the West she could contemplate divorce without the social and economic death that would follow here.’
The bell rang. Astha got up carrying the forty notebooks of her students and headed for class. She had a job, there was no doubt as to that, but she doubted whether that made her any less trapped than poor Sangeeta. She should have kept her mouth shut about divorce. Its sole result would be speculation about her.
*
Meanwhile Anuradha turned thirteen and started menstruating. She did not take kindly to this, and Astha grew to dread her periods, interspersed as they were with bouts of rage, pain and depression. She could not remember ever attracting so much attention to herself during these times, even when it had hurt unbearably.
‘It is a woman’s lot‚’ she explained.
‘Why, why is it a woman’s lot, it’s not fair‚’ moaned Anuradha, as she clutched her hot water bottle, tears flowing from her eyes, wetting the corners of her face, disappearing into her hair.
Where does fairness come into it, thought Astha. It hurts, you bear it. That was the end of the matter. ‘It happens so you can have children‚’ she tried again.
‘I’m never going to have children, I’m going to adopt.’
‘We’ll see when the time comes. You might want your own children.’
Anuradha glared at her mother and did not deign to reply.
‘What’s the matter with Didi?’ piped up Himanshu, who was watching his sister wail and scream with great interest.
‘She’s got a stomach ache. Go and see what is on TV, beta.’
‘Nothing is on TV. Why can’t we get a dish and watch the Gulf War?’
Astha turned to stare at her son. Anuradha forgot her pain long enough to point out how spoilt he was.
‘What’s wrong with Chitrahaar? You have always liked it.’
‘I want to watch the Gulf War. In school everybody watches the CNN and the BBC.’
‘I doubt everybody in school has a dish. You can talk to your father when he comes.’
*
‘How was the day?’ asked Hemant when he came home that night.
‘Terrible. Anu has her period.’
‘Oh? Poor little thing. Was it very bad?’
‘Yes. I had to give her two Brufen. I hope she doesn’t become dependent on them. How will she bear pain in later life?’
‘She’s still a little thing. Why should she have to suffer so much?’
‘She’s not so little, and it’s part of nature.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘In bed with a hot water bottle, reading Nancy Drew. And she has a test tomorrow.’
‘Poor baby, let her be‚’ repeated Hemant quickly, pouring himself a drink and making for Anu’s bedside.
‘Oh Papa, I want some chocolate‚’ murmured Anuradha in a babyish voice, snuggling next to her father.
‘Tomorrow, all right?’
‘All right.’
He never sounds or looks like that when I have a headache, thought Astha, and then struck that thought from her consciousness. The father-daughter bond could not be compared to the rocky terrain of a marital relationship.
*
A few weeks later a dish appeared on the terrace. Astha was informed of this casually the night before.
‘A dish? But it is so expensive.’
‘It is good for the children. They will see the BBC, the CNN, they will know what is happening in the world. Who can watch Doordarshan? Two channels, I ask you. Now at least they will have competition.’
‘But such a lot of money, to have a dish in our own house. We are not a hotel, or something.’
‘Arre, I am in the TV business, I have to keep up with these things.’
Astha’s mind travelled to the little silver box in Mapusa, only five thousand, while the dish was at least eight times that. But it was useless to say or feel anything, the children and the business ensured the non-comparable nature of any
argument. If she knew how much money they had, she might be on surer ground, but she never did.
31 December. Constitution Club. 6.30 p.m. A slight mist was beginning to add to the general chill. Astha had not realised it would be this cold, and she stood shivering in her sweater and shawl. Nearby was a peanut seller, roasting his peanuts over a small fire but she didn’t dare advance towards him, in case it looked as though she thought more of her appetite than the cause.
It was the anniversary of the massacre of The Street Theatre Group. It was also a protest against the Hindu Samaj Andolan decision to construct a temple at the site of the Babri Masjid.
‘Come and help me, Astha‚’ said Reshana, approaching with two big plastic bags. Squatting on the pavement, they poked candles through tiny foil-coated plates to prevent wax from dripping onto the hands that carried them. Absorbed, Astha could forget the scene she had had with Hemant before she left.
*
Ten days ago, Hemant had asked, ‘What shall we do this New Year’s Eve?’
Astha looked wary. Last year they had spent over two thousand to go to a five-star hotel with friends, and Astha had disgraced herself by getting a headache and throwing up at one o’clock in the morning with the discomfort of everyone’s concern directed towards her. ‘Leave me at home‚’ she had pleaded when Hemant had taken it up with her. ‘I can’t help myself.’ But that was not socially acceptable either.
‘I don’t know‚’ she now said. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’m not sure‚’ said Hemant leafing through brightly coloured invitations sent by various hotels and clubs about Xmas Nite, New Year’s Eve Nite, dinner and dance. ‘The Delhi distributor has invited us, they have booked a hall at the Sayonara club.
But it’s not very personal, they call all their clients, and it is one big tamasha‚’ said Hemant looking disgusted.
‘Can’t we stay at home‚’ asked Astha tentatively. ‘That’s really personal.’
‘Stay at home on New Year’s Eve? No thank you.’
‘Tell me then, where are we going?’
‘We’ve got several invitations, let’s see how many we can take in‚’ said Hemant, his pride at being socially sought after showing in his voice.
‘All right‚’ said Astha, not bothering to ask who the invitations were from. Some friends, some place. Eating, drinking, laughing, talking. It made no difference to her. Her mind was always not quite there.
She didn’t tell him about the demonstration, also planned for New Year’s Eve. She felt this information would not be well received.
*
Now she was about to be proved right. Hemant saw her getting ready to leave and demanded, ‘Where are you going? I am free, you know that.’
Astha thought of all the evenings she had been free and waiting, and wondered if there would ever be a day when she could feel the same right to complain that Hemant did. Now she tried to be conciliatory, she didn’t want tension on a night o
f heavy duty partying. ‘I am not going to be away long, just an hour.’
‘Where are you going?’ Hemant repeated.
‘To a demonstration outside Rashtrapati Bhavan. It is the anniversary of the massacre.’
‘You seem to forget that your place as a decent family woman is in the home, and not on the streets. You also forget that this is New Year’s Eve, and we are going out.’
‘No, I do not forget. I will come back in time, what does it matter what I do one or two hours before?’
Hemant’s face assumed its shut-in aspect. Astha knew she was equivocating. It mattered because going out with her husband must be the highlight of the day, not something she was squeezing into the rest of her activities, unregarded, unimportant, done for the sake of doing. She left the house, hoping the anticipation of parties would do its bit in removing Hemant’s ill humour.
*
Back at the Constitution Club. By 7 p.m. about three hundred people had gathered. ‘Good turnout‚’ said Reshana to Astha as they finished with the last of the candles, and gathered themselves up from the pavement. ‘And that too on New Year’s Eve. We did contact everybody but you can never be sure.’
‘Many might think this is the best way to spend it‚’ said Astha with feeling. ‘To do something you believe in makes other things a little easier.’
Reshana drew back. Astha flushed. There she was trying to give Reshana her heart and soul, behaving inappropriately. She must remember that everybody was here for the cause, and if the cause also had a personal impetus, discretion demanded this be shrouded in silence.
*
Down Rajpath they marched, candles glowing. They carried placards that declared they were for a united India, that secularism was part of our Constitution and traditions, that communalism was the scourge of the nation.
They chanted as they went:
Raise your voices – We are one
We will fight injustice – We will fight together
Communalism will – Never succeed, never succeed
These are false weapons – Of the true god Ram