A Married Woman

by Manju Kapur

  As a story it was thin, but yes, the condom was not used. Hemant got up and stroked her cheek. ‘Even if you behave badly I love you, he said.’

  Astha forced herself to be content with this. It was too dangerous to venture further.

  VII

  Pipee called a week later.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You must have thought me horrible. I’m sorry,’ Astha rushed to say.

  ‘How were you to know? I didn’t tell you. You could be the one angry with me.’

  ‘Of course not, how could I be angry with you? You spent so much time with me, you showed me places you hate, you protected me from the monkey.’

  ‘Hardly,’ she laughed, ‘I can’t stop monkeys from jumping onto people, much as I would like to.’

  ‘I have been waiting and waiting to tell you I’m sorry if I upset you in any way.’

  ‘Well now you’ve told me. And you didn’t upset me in any way – I’m over that kind of stuff. Don’t worry about it.’

  A pause. Then, ‘You were going to show me your paintings.’

  ‘Please, come over. I would love that.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Please.’

  She had called, she had called, and for a moment despite the condom, and all the wretchedness of the past week, Astha felt a little lighter.

  *

  She looked at the work she was doing for the Manch, trying to prepare a readable memorandum that would combine historical accuracy with emotional appeal. It was proving uphill work. How could she make the nation care about the fact that no destruction of a temple had been chronicled in Babur, or in any other contemporary source, be it Abdul Qadir Badauni of the 16th centrury, or Goswami Tulsidas, in Ramcharitmanas.

  Astha stared rebelliously at her writing: The un-Islamic black stone pillars within the mosque are not proof that a temple was destroyed on the Babri Masjid site. As they are not load bearing, they were probably taken from a Hindu or Jain temple, ravaged by Shah Juran Ghori and brought for decoration. Seeing their location as a sign of contempt for Hindu feelings is a political interpretation.

  It sounded so uninteresting. Yet she had to go on sifting, sieving, fact from fact, fiction from fiction, and in the end not be sure of anything. It was lonely working on these pamphlets, it was not like painting where she required no mind to bounce her thoughts off. If only she had some of Aijaz’s magic.

  As she looked at what she was writing, her old hostility to words rose in her. She couldn’t do it, she was a painter, not a writer.

  *

  ‘But it’s not bad,’ said Pipee the next day, when Astha showed it to her.

  ‘Pedantic, dry and boring,’ said Astha.

  Pipee pulled in the corners of her mouth while Astha stared in fascination at the dents it made in her cheeks. ‘Now don’t bother so much, just finish it. No one will read it anyway. The Manch excels in preaching to the converted.’

  ‘But it’s for the nation.’

  ‘Please. Give me a break.’

  They went to Astha’s work room. Pipee’s eyes flickered over the canvases. ‘I know nothing about painting,’ she said. ‘You must teach me.’

  ‘There is nothing to learn. I’ve always responded to colours. It’s words I find so slippery,’ said Astha, the burden of The Testimony of the Black Pillars lying heavy upon her.

  ‘How do you manage to fit so many people in?’

  ‘It’s something I learned from the miniatures. They are both very full and very detailed, I love that.’

  ‘It must take for ever.’

  ‘It does, rather. The one the Manch sold took almost six months. Now I am getting faster, but still – I can’t work on them as much as I wish.’

  ‘You’ve got a pretty fancy set-up, it couldn’t be that difficult. Doesn’t your husband help you?’

  ‘My husband spends a lot of time at the factory and he travels too, so he can’t really help with the children. And the setup …’ her voice trailed off miserably. It was hard to explain her life, especially when she herself barely understood it.

  The usual female trap, it’s all right, you are not alone, we all experience it in one way or another,’ said Pipee putting her hand on Astha’s and pressing it gently. ‘So if you want to do anything of your own I guess you have to work your ass off. You are like an ant too. I shall call you Ant, I’m not sure I like this faith business.’

  Astha blushed with pleasure, ‘So we can be ants together.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  *

  Anuradha and Himanshu stared at Pipee over lunch.

  ‘Is that your scooter outside?’ asked Himanshu.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How come you ride a scooter?’

  ‘To get around. Do you think only men should drive scooters?’ asked Pipee.

  Astha felt embarrassed at her son’s ideas, maybe she hadn’t been sensitizing him to gender issues. She blushed into her roti, while Anuradha asked accusingly, ‘How come you are called ant?’

  ‘My father thought I should work like an ant for the good of the community.’

  ‘And do you?’

  Pipee smiled at the assembled mother and children. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘when I feel like it. I’m not a very good ant I am afraid.’

  *

  Pipee left after tea when Astha began to worry about her children’s homework. Driving home on her scooter, she thought I want to know her better, at least she doesn’t remind me of Aijaz. Her house is quite near mine, that is convenient, I wonder if she realises she is attractive. Her marriage sounds horrible. I’m sure her husband is a jerk.

  She thought of Astha’s painting. She clearly had a political sensibility, which made her acquiescence in a traditional domestic set-up even stranger. Maybe she was just unawak-ened. And she loved her hair, it was so thick and curled around her face even when tied back, and her skin was so pretty, clear pink and white.

  As for Astha who had shown such eagerness to know Pipee, how was she to realise that given certain circumstances, there was no aphrodisiac more powerful than talking, no seduction more effective than curiosity.

  They began to meet more often. Astha was circumspect in revealing the amount of time she spent with Pipee. She knew it would be frowned upon as excessive. When the boundaries of what might be considered normal interaction passed, she started to lie. Thus an element of secrecy entered the relationship and gave it an illicit character.

  They met on weekdays; evenings and weekends were out. Still Hemant caught a whiff of this new interest in his wife’s life and was free with his disapproval. Since Pipee was a woman this disapproval was tinged with contempt, and the assurance of no real threat, indeed had Pipee been a man, Astha would have found it impossible to stray so far down the road of intimacy, or be so comfortable on it.

  ‘Women,’ said the husband emphatically after a somewhat long phone conversation the wife had had with her friend, ‘always mind-fucking.’

  Astha cringed. Mind-fucking. Not the excitement of the real thing. The organ penetrated, the ears, the weapon of penetration, words. Words, that left no mark but in the mind,where they mingled with others that had been used to describe someone else’s past, till those experiences became your own, and you saw with other eyes, because you were no longer one person, but two. Listening upon listening, fucking upon fucking. In full view.

  Then she grew angry. How dare Hemant be so derogatory. Would he prefer her to be like him, with condoms in her suitcase, which a friend had put there by accident? She refused to engage with him on any issue, he was capable of nothing but the very crudest understanding. Instead she related the whole to Pipee who said that men were so pathetic, so fucked up themselves, they only understood the physical, and in this way she felt soothed.

  *

  ‘Have you ever been in a relationship with a woman?’ asked Pipee one day.

  They were lingering at the café at the Tagore Arts Centre, after a lunch of kebabs and roti. It was late February,
there were people sitting on the steps of the lawn next to them, on the walls white rose creepers were blooming. It was almost four, and the sunny spot they had originally chosen had long gone cold. A little boy was swabbing at the tables with a dirty cloth, a waiter was tilting the chairs against the tables, to enable the sweeper to clean properly. Pipee’s voice had dropped to a murmur, Astha leaned forward to catch her words.

  Astha felt uneasy and didn’t answer.

  ‘Well?’

  She tried to laugh. ‘I’m married,’ she said.

  ‘So? Are you telling me you are happy, fulfilled, and what have you?’

  Unexpected tears came to Astha’s eyes. Pipee was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Astha wiping her nose on the edge of her sari palla.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Pipee. ‘If you are unhappy, it’s not all right.’

  Astha went on sniffing. ‘I don’t usually think about it,’ she offered.

  ‘Who would think about anything if they could help it?’ said Pipee gloomily, ‘God knows I have tried …’

  There was a silence while Pipee drew squiggles in the rings of water left by their glasses on the table, and Astha watched her fingers. ‘Have you?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Once. Met her in school, continued in college, on and off for three years. Eventually she got married. Much later I did too.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Samira.’

  ‘Was she nice?’

  ‘Not often. She seduced me, and then when I fell in love, triumphed in that power. It was not so different from being with a man, though I am sure it can be.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It is more a question of choice than people make out. That is what I believe at any rate. Besides sex is sex, don’t you think? It is other things that become important.’

  ‘Yes, yes – of course. Did your husband know?’

  ‘I told him. But you know what men are like

  ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ said Astha forlornly. ‘I have actually only known my husband, and now I am not even sure of that.’

  She thought of the condom again – would it go on coming up in her mind at every point of sadness in her life, she wondered. She could tell Pipee about it, but Pipee might think she was inadequate in her responses, or weak in her understanding, or a fool. For now she preferred to keep this wound to herself.

  ‘Does your husband have affairs?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then quickly, ‘Did yours?’

  ‘Well there were several women before we got married, I knew that.’ Astha thought of the little gesture Aijaz had offered her, and now realised that it was in fact an invitation. ‘I think he must have had an affair with Reshana Singh, the way she goes on. I know she thinks I am jealous, and maybe,’ went on Pipee reflectively, ‘I am.’ She shook her head. There is no escape from jealousy, is there? We are all embryonic Othellos.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Astha gloomily.

  ‘Yes, well. I don’t know why I am delving into the past today,’ said Pipee, hauling her heavy bag onto her shoulder and getting up to go as the sweeper reached their table.

  ‘Maybe so I can get to know you.’

  *

  ‘You’re so pretty, Ant.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  They were sitting in Pipee’s flat drinking beer before an early lunch. Pipee had made arrangements to go to work late, and now she pulled Astha by the hand and led her to the bathroom mirror.

  ‘Are we going to do mirror, mirror on the wall / Who is the fairest one of all?’ laughed Astha nervously. She often felt an underlying tension when talking to Pipee, as they swooped and dived among their lives, offering bits to the other to share.

  ‘A modern version of it,’ said Pipee putting on the light and pushing Astha’s head gently forwards. ‘Look.’

  Astha tried to turn away, ‘I don’t like looking at my face, especially so close.’

  Then she felt Pipee’s hands in her hair, her clip undone, her hands framing the oval of her face. Lightly from behind she traced her eyebrows with her fingers, her nose, cheeks and mouth.

  The two women said nothing looking at their reflections in the small water-stained mirror. ‘See?’ whispered Pipee.

  Astha saw nothing, and abruptly left the bathroom. Later taking a scooter-rickshaw home, she felt lost and confused, the image of the two of them in the mirror often returning when she thought of Pipee.

  *

  One day, in Astha’s house, a rare occasion. Pipee preferred to meet Astha anywhere else than in her house.

  ‘So this is the marital bed,’ said Pipee, surveying Astha’s room, full of double bed. ‘The marital bed in the marital room.’

  ‘Like in most people’s houses,’ replied Astha, not particularly liking Pipee’s tone.

  ‘I know. It’s how I used to live. Are you happy here? Do you have good sex?’

  ‘Good enough, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Well he was my first, and only.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘They were crushes. One I kissed a lot, with the other there were only letters.’

  ‘Have you ever wanted more lovers?’

  What could Astha say? She was living, the way people like her lived, where was the question of more lovers, or love for that matter?

  Pipee stretched out her palm for Astha’s hand. Gently she held it, fingering her thumb nail. Round and round the stubby nail Pipee’s finger went, lightly tracing the pink part, the white part, the skin part. Astha looked at their two hands together, and inched a little closer to the woman on her bed.

  Pipee took a firmer grip of the hand in hers, and turned it over, stroking the back of it, gently sliding her rings off, and putting them on her own fingers, manoeuvring her bangles off and slipping them on to her own more narrow wrist.

  ‘I look so bare without them,’ murmured Astha.

  ‘All the better,’ murmured Pipee even more softly. Her breath quickened, and she pressed the tips of Astha’s fingers into her mouth, sucking each one gently before letting them go. Astha hardly dared breathe.

  ‘What would your precious spouse say, if he saw us together now?’ asked Pipee.

  Astha swallowed and did not reply.

  ‘Did you say he was a faithful husband?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Is he good in bed?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘If you have to suppose, he is not,’ said Pipee severely.

  Astha decided she knew nothing about love making, that she was inexperienced and stupid. ‘What about you?’ she responded in a low tone, ‘You yourself have only had two lovers.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ sighed Pipee. ‘But I’m looking for a third.’

  *

  ‘Why so silent?’ asked Hemant that evening.

  ‘Silent? Am I?’

  ‘You need me to tell you that?’

  ‘Sorry. I hadn’t realised.’

  More silence. What should she talk about? What had she talked about before silence came upon her? Their days, his day certainly. Now she made enquiries.

  ‘I have managed to bribe our union leader this time, but bribing is difficult, the workers are watchful and suspicious, I won’t be able to do it again.’

  Astha hated it when Hemant talked about bribing, and yet the way he described it, it seemed necessary.

  ‘Pipee came over today,’ she said, changing the subject.

  ‘That woman,’ said Hemant.

  Astha’s heart sank. Things would be difficult if Hemant became violent about his dislike. She tried to change the topic again, but Hemant was having none of it. ‘What did you say she did?’ he continued.

  ‘She works with basti children,’ said Astha proudly. ‘She helps them get throu
gh school, she gives them a sense of self-confidence, and strength.’

  ‘Who finances this?’

  ‘She’s part of an NGO called Ujjala.’

  Hemant grunted, ‘One of those types.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Take money from here and there, and pretend they are working.’

  It seemed there was nothing Astha could say, and yet he wanted her to talk. She started on the children. That was always safe. It was what they were united upon, and it served its purpose now.

  *

  That night, Hemant started his sex routine.

  ‘No,’ said Astha, ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  Hemant paused. This was the first time his wife had not felt like it. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then what? Do I have to give it just because you are my husband? Unless I feel close to you I can’t – I’m not a sex object, you have others for that.’

  Hemant relaxed. That old thing. He took her face in his hands. ‘Sweetheart, why do you upset yourself over nothing? You are my wife, I love you, there has never been another woman for me, never. On business trips people don’t understand commitments to wife and family, they assume their clients want a good time. If I had had sex, would the condom not have been used? You only tell me,’ he whispered, his hands falling to her breasts and circling them in the way that was so familiar, kneading them, pressing them, as he continued, ‘you only tell me,’ then pulling up her nightie, and fondling her, ‘does what you imagine have any logic?’

  Without her willing it her body responded. Hemant became even more ardent. ‘Baby, you are the only one for me, what’s the matter, are you jealous?’

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to push him away, but it was of no use.

  After the marital function had been performed, Astha got up to wash herself. Looking up from her wet and soapy hands, she caught sight of a sad and haggard face. How old she looked, and yet she wasn’t old. She was thirty-six, but all the life seemed gone. She leaned over the sink, and examined her face more carefully, certain to increase her wretchedness. Around her eyes tiny wrinkles were beginning to form. She stretched her mouth in imitation laughter, and they became more pronounced. She stared at her nose and saw the blackheads there. Her skin looked yellow and sallow, when she put her head up to look at the folds in her neck more clearly, she could see the white line at the base of her scalp, where the new hair had come, and the dyed parts grown out.