A Married Woman

by Manju Kapur

  False Ram-lovers – False weapons

  Temple, church – Mosque, gurudwara,

  All the same – The same for all

  Up towards Raisina Hill, candles dripping wax on the paper plates, holding a memorandum, on which they had been gathering signatures for the past month, protesting the attacks on the Muslims, protesting the bid to demolish the Babri Masjid.

  Around them swirled cars and pedestrians, irritated at having to stop in front of aggressive placards and glowing candles, while the procession marched across as many roads as it could, hindering traffic, drawing attention to its message.

  Towards Rashtrapati Bhavan, home of the President, home of previous Viceroys. Huge, mammoth, it towered in the distance, far from the high and massive wrought-iron gates that barred unauthorised entry. There the processionists halted, lit by TV cameras that dimmed the candles they were focused on. From Raisina Hill Astha could see the lights of cars swishing up and down Rajpath. How few we are, how many indifferent on this one road. She looked towards the former Viceroy’s Lodge. Designed as a regal sandstone testimony to British glory, it had served its purpose for only seventeen years, before becoming a testimony to illusion.

  The protest songs and slogans continued. Finally an official arrived, and a side gate opened a suspicious crack. The memorandum along with two spokespersons squeezed in; two people and a thousand signatures of mainly school and college teachers, artists, painters, and film people. A lot of the marchers had brought their children, who looked as convinced as their parents as to the justice of their cause and the usefulness of their protest, never mind how few they were.

  While they were waiting a letter was read out. Worded in English – objection – it should be in Hindi. The writer, an English academic, quickly explained in Hindi that the letter would be in both languages, and sent to all the leading newspapers. For now he begged their indulgence, he would read the letter in English, pending its immediate translation.

  The letter proclaimed that the Sampradayakta Mukti Manch, and the teacher and artist community were united in condemning both the BJP and the Congress in encouraging Fascist forces in the country, and in failing to take quick action against the threats to the Babri Masjid. Were these threats actualised, secularism would be at grave risk, and communal hatred unleashed on a scale that would be difficult to control. To take no action was tantamount to encouraging social divisions along religious lines. Weaker sections would suffer. This was not to be tolerated. We appeal to the government to do something before it is too late.

  Signed—

  *

  A resolution was then formed to establish a core group that would see to further action, the first being to circulate more petitions.

  This done, the songs resumed:

  For how long will they loot my village?

  Taking a torch I will go

  Through the world I will wander

  To make my village safe for me.

  Half an hour passed without any sign of the spokespersons. The last night of the year was wearing on. Astha kept surreptitiously looking at her watch.

  ‘Arre, will we ring in the New Year here?’

  ‘Let’s go, they can come later.’

  ‘No point hanging around.’

  The TV crew began to pack up. The candles had burnt down. As the procession started back towards the Manch office, Astha lagged behind, keeping a sharp look out for an empty scooter. She had to be home by eight-thirty, or things would be worse with Hemant. At one point where the procession had stopped the traffic she found one, and by quickly agreeing to pay his price, bumped her way home.

  It turned out they were going to at least three of the parties they had been invited to. Senior bank manager, dear friend, and American NRI come to visit his parents.

  Astha hurried towards a thick dressy silk sari, peeling off her woollens. The sari was green with a broad red and gold border with woven flowers, hearts and peacocks. A matching deep green blouse was dotted with tiny gold paisleys. Her ordinary jewellery would have to do, she hadn’t had time to go to the bank locker to take out some of her heavier stuff. Hopefully Hemant wouldn’t notice. She threw her mother-in-law’s maroon pashmina shawl casually over her shoulder, and thus guaranteed to freeze in the manner of women partying in Delhi winters, she was ready.

  Ready to feel cold, ready to drink, dance, smile, laugh, talk, ready for anything the last day of the year might bring. She had made a gesture of some significance before Rashtrapati Bhavan, it made her more amenable to the evening now. Having something of your own makes you strong, she thought.

  ‘All set?’ asked Hemant picking up his wallet and car keys.

  ‘Yes‚’ replied Astha. She was pleased that he had put the unpleasantness over her involvement in the demonstration behind him. They were going to have a nice time.

  ‘You look very nice‚’ he commented admiringly.

  ‘Thank you‚’ said Astha, feeling a small flush of pleasure.

  ‘I thought we would go to the manager’s house first. It is bound to be the dullest, we can leave quickly.’

  *

  The senior bank manager lived in a large house in the older part of South Delhi. Clearly he believed in doing things big. The little front lawn, shamiana draped, the verandah, the drawing, dining room, all were devoted to the party.

  ‘Gosh‚’ said Astha, as they were bumped constantly by people, avoiding glasses, and lighted cigarettes, ‘there must be five thousand people here.’

  ‘More like two hundred‚’ said Hemant smiling indulgently.

  Astha could see his mood had further lightened. It had taken two hundred people but still she was glad.

  She put out her hands to warm over an angeethi and tried not to breathe the thin spirals of acrid smoke coming from it, the coals were obviously wet. Other women holding soft drinks and glasses of juice were also standing around the angeethi. Astha smiled at them uncertainly, noticing the jamawars and pashminas flung over their shoulders, their smooth white waxed arms, glittering jewellery, and beauty parlour done hair. They looked perfect, perfect in a way she could never hope to look, lacquered and finished. She wished she could say she despised that look, and she did despise it, in theory, while crumbling wordlessly before it in practice, never able to hold her own.

  She took a deep breath, turned to the woman next to her, and remarked, ‘Cold isn’t it?’

  The woman smiled her agreement, ‘What does your husband do?’ she asked in her turn.

  ‘He manufactures television sets. And yours?’

  And so the phrases flowed on, till Hemant, one double whisky down, gestured to her that it was time to leave.

  *

  The next party was at the house of the parents of the NRI. The place was full of men slapping each other on the back, counting the years they had been acquainted, walking down memory lanes, those lanes always so evident at this time of year with the foreign returned, the come back for two-three weeks when the weather is good and the kids can stand it, returned.

  The food was mostly chaat and snacks. There was all kinds: papri, gol guppa, and for those who couldn’t eat cold things in cold weather, hot tikkis, with green sour chutney and red sweet chutney, fat and swollen bhatura served with spicy channa, laced with halved green chillies and onion rings, dosas, idlis and vadas, and finally jalebis floating in hot oil, crisp, sweet, inviting to be crunched up ring by ring. There was even tea in earthen mugs which all those who weren’t drinking sipped gratefully.

  ‘Oh, can’t we go home, now?’ moaned Astha, who thought she would burst if she had to eat another thing.

  ‘One more party, darling‚’ said Hemant over his whisky glass. ‘Chin up.’

  I hope he is not too drunk to drive, thought Astha, the glow the food had given her fading, as she thought of the drive to Greater Kailash II where Hemant’s closest school friend resided.

  *

  Ankur’s party was on the terrace of his two-roomed barsati. Ankur had divorced after ten
years of marriage, and was now discovering the joys of an affluent single life in an emphatically male environment. He fancied himself a cook, and with flushed face offered earthen mugs of mulled wine, mulled wine going ethnic, he said genially. On one side of the terrace a barbecue was set up. Seekh kababs, paneer, mutton and fish tikkas were being served with thin romali rotis, folded into triangles, on flimsy silver paper plates. There were four dead-looking salads, all smothered in shiny glutinous mayonnaise: pink (thousand island?) green (herb?) two whites (garlic? yoghurt?). As Astha jabbed at bits of paneer, it was easier to seem to eat than to argue with her host, she wondered it was only five hours ago that she had stared at wax dripping onto an identical foil plate.

  Inside the music was loudly drowning everything out.

  ‘Come, darling, let’s dance.’ Hemant’s alcohol-aided spirits were high.

  Astha obediently swayed, her sari palla slipping, looking covertly at the others doing their stuff to popular numbers pounding through the dimly lit smoky room.

  ‘Are you OK?’ shouted Hemant above the din.

  ‘Yes‚’ she shouted back, automatic response-cum-smile.

  ‘Good‚’ he said, his voice slightly slurred, and in the dark he came towards her and pecked her cheek. His breath smelt of whisky, and she let her head tilt towards him, imitating reciprocity, before a couple bumped into them and forced them apart.

  ‘Now, now‚’ they shrieked, ‘no kissing between husbands and wives.’

  How stupid they all are, thought Astha. No kissing between husbands and wives. As though we were something besides conservative, strait-laced, middle-aged Indians. Should an unmarried couple kiss, I would like to see the reaction, I would just like to.

  *

  Early next morning Astha rose, made herself a cup of tea and went out. It was another year, and she wanted to mark it in some way special to her. New Years should be private affairs, she thought, thinking of all the partying she had done last night. They had screeched Happy New Year, hugged, kissed, danced, eaten relentlessly, drunk this and that, and finally at 2 a.m. made their way home, Hemant slow and careful because he was trying to appear in control, and Astha silent, because she knew Hemant had drunk more than he should have, and there was no tone sufficiently neutral in which she could convey this.

  It was cold in the tiny garden. Astha grabbed the mali’s jhaaroo, and began to sweep the dead leaves into a pile. She wanted to make a fire. A fire was a good New Year’s thing. Burning all the old year debris away.

  As the flames smoked through the wet leaves, Astha cupped her hands around the mug of tea. It was Flowery Orange Pekoe, a delicate and flavourful smell. She smiled, thinking of the year ahead. She had found what she really wanted to do, something she was good at, she was lucky. She now felt established enough as a painter to give her art the time and energy that was its due. She was ready to leave her job. She had been teaching almost fifteen years, staying because it had been a good occupation for a woman.

  She finished her tea, and went into the spare room. It was early, but she wanted to begin the first day of the New Year with work important to her. She took out her file and started visualising scenes for a March for Justice. The idea had grown last night among the candles. The canvas would be dark, with a group of people huddled before the gates of Rashtrapati Bhavan, which loomed remote and massive in the background. The bright spots were going to be the candles the marchers held, the yellow of the halogen street lamps and the red and white lights of the cars on Rajpath. The rest would be in shadow. Astha hummed as she worked. There was no one to tell her how tuneless her singing was.

  VI

  Pipee stumbled into the New Year alone in her flat, staring at the two-rod heater, nursing a small rum and coke. It had been a year since Aijaz’s death, and as every day in the past year, she had been fierce in her desire to be alone, turning down well-meaning invitations that friends, colleagues, relatives and acquaintances showered her with.

  Her mother-in-law had phoned from Shahjehanpur asking her to visit. But she couldn’t. Not yet. The one time Pipee went, she had hardly been able to stand the memories that swept her every inch of the way. In every face she saw traces of Aijaz, and their sweetness to her had made it even harder.

  She and her mother-in-law had cried and cried together, but conversation had been difficult, everything they had in common was in the past. She only stayed a few days, and as she was leaving, the mother-in-law gave her a cheque for one lakh. ‘I didn’t spend on your marriage, now you take this.’

  ‘I don’t want it‚’ Pipee’s voice trembled, there seemed no limit to the number of times they could cry together.

  ‘Please, for him‚’ replied the mother. ‘He would not like to think we did not look after his wife. I want you to know you will always have a home with us.’

  Dully, and with Neeraj’s help, Pipee bought a flat in Vasant Kunj. She had the money from Shahjehanpur, life insurance, and dollars sent to her by her brother.

  It usually takes a lifetime to possess a place of one’s own.

  *

  ‘You can’t go on like this‚’ Neeraj had remonstrated on New Year’s Eve at the office. ‘It is not healthy. You are still young.’

  ‘I don’t feel young. I don’t feel anything.’

  ‘Make an effort, you are not even trying.’

  Pipee turned away. What did Neeraj think, that she liked feeling the way she did? In fact she would give anything to be free from the thoughts that haunted her. Only since Aijaz’s death did she realise that how you die is as important as the loss itself, and can make all the difference to the ones left behind.

  There was no relief from the pain of his final moments. She couldn’t get rid of the thought of him trapped in the Matador, suffocating with the heat, burning bit by bit, screaming for help perhaps, trying to break the windows, wrench open the doors, and then the terrible moment when he realised he was going to die, him along with nine others, those nine there because of him. What had it felt like? Had he been able to think of her, their love, their lost future?

  Till now not a single culprit had been brought to book. Perhaps if the assassins had been identified and punished, a bit of the horror might be stilled; she didn’t know, she only knew it wasn’t likely to happen. As for that Sampradayakta Mukti Manch, she hated it more than anything. What had they done to ensure justice? Had they worked on bringing pressure on any government organisation? No, they had a platform in his name which they called freedom from communalism, and all they did was hold exhibitions, raise money, and indulge in cultural nonsense. She hated them, each and every one of them individually, but above all she hated Reshana Singh, who had surfaced out of the woodwork, from god knows where, after Aijaz’s death and taken over his memory. She managed to imply that theirs had been a deep connection, she was practically masquerading as his wife. How well had she known Aijaz, she was so much older than him, that any attraction on her husband’s part must have been a purely passing phase.

  What should she do, should she leave Delhi? Her mother had tried to get her to relocate in the south, you can find an NGO in Bangalore or Madras, there are slums here as well. You need to put the past behind you, start a new life, you will be near me, come, come, she persuaded in letter after letter. Pipee now looked at the last one:

  My darling daughter,

  Every day I miss you, think of you, pray to God for your well being, and the courage that will see you through this crisis. Aijaz was a wonderful man, a loving husband, and you were lucky in your marriage. I say this despite the terrible tragedy, because what you two had can never leave you. You have been a wife, you have been loved, and this will stay with you for the rest of your life.

  I know what you are going through and darling I would have given my right hand for the same thing not to have happened to you that happened to me. But it seems we cannot escape our destiny, whether our husbands are young or old.

  Maybe it is a blessing in disguise that you have no children. When
your father left me, I had my Pipeelika, and my Ajay, I needed no one else, but you with your youth, your intelligence, your personality, you need other outlets. Aijaz would not want you to be unhappy or alone. I know that. Life has its own laws that will be heard and felt.

  You are always, always in my heart,

  Your loving Ma.

  Maybe, she thought, staring at her mother’s letter, she really should make more of an effort to go out. Although it had been a year she didn’t feel any better, perhaps she never would. But to go on refusing to meet people, always to be alone, that was not the answer either. Her life stretched before her, long and dreary. What her mother was advising was to form a new relationship. But how? Aijaz had been hard enough to find. And there had been Samira when she was young. She had never loved anybody else.

  Perhaps she should go to the States, leave Aijaz to the Reshanas of this world. The whole of last year Ajay had been calling her insistently for a Ph.D. programme, you will be surprised what a difference a complete change of place will make.

  Yes, she would be surprised. Ajay had no imagination, but still she, who had lost everything and had nothing more to lose, could give it a try. In the meantime she might travel with Ujjala.

  With these thoughts, in front of the heater, eating her dinner of scrambled egg on toast, Pipee passed into the new year.

  Waving saffron flags, Hinduism marched across the country in the following months, marched in time to film songs converted into bhajans, to Leaders trying to convince the masses that the glory of an ancient land could be resurrected by their united hands. Young men, show your manhood, rescue mother India from the influence of the Muslim invaders, whose long shadow falls over us even now. The wrongs of the past have to be righted.

  These hoards, gathered mostly from the Hindi heartland, become the face of militant Hinduism, armed with tridents, swords, and a determination to die if necessary for the cause entrusted to them. This behemoth turns it head towards Ram’s Janambhoomi. A temple needs to be constructed on the sacred soil of Ram’s birthplace, burdened for so many years by a mosque. A date is fixed for the event.