by Manju Kapur
Why should anyone love her, she thought hopelessly. She was so ugly. She thought of Pipee sucking her fingers. She looked at them, and put them experimentally in her mouth. They didn’t taste very nice – of soap and sex. What had Pipee thought of them? And what would Pipee’s own fingers taste like? What had Pipee seen when she had pushed her face towards the mirror? Certainly not what she saw now. Slowly she went back to bed.
*
Her meetings with Pipee increased. When she was alone in the home in the mornings Pipee dropped by on her way to work, she phoned her at least five times a day, short brief conversations, but which drew each of them firmly into the nitty gritty of the other’s life. And the days when she didn’t see or talk to her were days with something missing, and not even extra hours at the canvas could fill the vacuum Astha felt. She started to fantasise about touching her, imagined her hair between her fingers, her skin beneath her own, her hands on the back of her neck.
*
Astha frantically trying to reach an appointed meeting place.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘I was about to go.’
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.’
‘What happened?’
‘I forgot it was a bandh. Not a single scooter wallah agreed to come. Not one. They said they would be beaten up. I even offered fifty bucks.’
‘Then?’
‘In the end he took eighty.’
‘Eighty! Three times! You shouldn’t have paid it, Ant.’
‘I had no choice. I would have given him anything.’
‘He was taking advantage of the situation,’ said Pipee sternly.
‘What could I do? You were waiting, I kept thinking of that, but I was on the road, and there was no way to tell you.’
‘Oh sweetie, it’s all right. Now, forget about it. I thought you must be having a problem. I can’t imagine where I’d be without my scooter.’
‘I don’t see why you haven’t bought a car,’ said Pipee later, as she was stirring her cold coffee. The meal had ended, and Astha was worrying about how she was to get home. ‘One needs to be mobile. I learned how to drive a scooter, it was all I could afford, but with you it’s different.’
‘We have a car.’
‘Hemant’s.’
‘Which I use.’
‘Only when he doesn’t.’
‘He sends it back from the factory with the driver whenever I need it.’
‘I’m sure he does, but you can be more independent with your own.’
‘A car costs over a lakh.’
‘You could hold an exhibition, and earn.’
‘Not lakhs.’
‘Ant, why are you being like this? Didn’t you tell me your mother left you some money?’
‘With Hemant.’ And the old hurt comes to choke her.
‘Hemant is not a monster. Have you tried asking him? Since ask you must.’
‘He’ll say whenever I want the car, I have it. Also I can ask my in-laws for theirs.’
‘If Hemant can keep a car for his parents, he can keep one for you.’
‘Well, I, the children that is, use it as well. For tuitions, classes, and stuff.’
‘The point is‚’ went on Pipee patiently, ‘if you had a car you would not have to do all this asking business.’
‘I can’t ask for a car for myself.’
‘Why not?’
‘Hemant says there is going to be trouble in the factory.’
‘How long has this factory been running?’
‘Ten years.’
‘I imagine he has made enough money to buy you a car.’
‘He is very generous to me.’
‘Good. Now come let me drop you home otherwise you’ll be cheated all over again.’
As they roared through the streets of Delhi, Astha leaned against Pipee, with her arms around her waist. Once or twice Pipee turned to ask, are you all right, Astha merely nodded, too happy to speak, even had the sound of the vehicle allowed it.
*
‘But why? The car is there for you whenever you want it.’
‘Please, Hemant. I am thirty-six. I need to be independent. I am always adjusting to everybody else’s needs.’
‘And the money?’
‘We could use what my mother gave.’
‘You know I have invested that for the children, and in five years the amount has grown nicely.’ Hemant looked satisfied. Astha had heard all this before, heard when the bonus shares came, heard when the dividends came, when the debentures were bought, heard as it doubled, trebled, quadrupled. There was no question of touching it, she knew that. Only somewhere surely there was money she could touch? She said as much.
Hemant looked at her. ‘Who is putting these ideas into your head?’
‘Nobody‚’ said Astha offended. ‘Does somebody have to tell me to want a car?’
*
‘Mama, Papa is getting you a car?’ Anuradha. Hemant had told her first.
‘It is also my money‚’ said Astha suddenly angry. The children turned towards her, slightly shocked. Only prices were discussed in their house, never money, and certainly not whose money was whose. It was all common money because they were a family.
‘Papa’s money too‚’ said Anuradha quickly.
‘Of course Papa’s money too. But if necessary I will hold an exhibition to help pay for this car.’
Himanshu put his hand into hers. ‘When I earn I will buy you a car‚’ he proclaimed. Astha tightened her hold on his thin interwoven fingers and stared at the overgrown nails, at the fine hair glinting blondly, at the sun exposed brown skin.
‘And I will buy a car for Papa‚’ said Anuradha.
‘But Papa and Mama are not separate‚’ said Astha, quickly. ‘Whatever you buy will be for both of us. Don’t I use the car we already have? It is not Papa’s or mine. And now we will have a second car, besides the one upstairs, neither Papa’s nor mine, but for everybody. We are a family with growing needs.’
It was the end of the term, before the summer holidays, and PTA day. Astha was in her children’s school, trying not to stare at the fathers and mothers around her, united and content.
There was a whole list of teachers she had to see.
Himanshu had done badly in his mid-terms. He hadn’t finished his papers, but really he knew everything. Astha was waiting to tell his class teacher this, something she had been saying since nursery. The teacher in turn would tell her that even so, he had to increase his speed, other children managed. If he didn’t, he was going to find it very difficult at the higher levels. Astha could predict the conversation verbatim, but these motions had to be gone through.
Anuradha was doing badly in science and maths. She didn’t understand the method of explanation, and Astha had to find out why in a way that didn’t compromise her daughter’s intelligence, attentiveness, or abilities. Both her children were dead against her discussing any of their problems in school. Before she had left Anu had screamed, don’t say anything, don’t Mama, then in class the teacher says, so you are having difficulties, why don’t you ask me during the lesson instead of complaining later, and the kids stare at me, as though I am a moron. Besides, I keep telling you, there is no point asking for explanations, they all repeat the same thing in the same way, only slower.
Himanshu had looked equally worried, you are not going to say anything to my teacher, are you, Mama? In class, she’ll say something to me, she will get angry.
*
With the futility of it all firmly established, she waited in line after line to see various instructors, behind parents busy pumping them for the secret of success in that particular subject. She was going to be late for her meeting with Pipee, why had she, against all experience, allotted two hours to school? Now precious minutes were being wasted in the corridors of this huge and unfeeling institution.
The maths teacher, Mr Sharma, before whom there was a line half a mile long. Anu obviously not the only one havi
ng problems. After an hour of waiting, her turn.
Anuradha? Yes, a very bright child, but she should work harder, if she has a problem in following, she should ask me, I tell them, ask me, there is no excuse for not understanding. She should do one hour timed exercise every day, maths is only practice.
Astha pulled out Anu’s mid-term exam from her bag, 59 out of 100. Mr Sharma’s temper rose the moment he saw it, look at this, correct method, but a mistake in adding and the answer is wrong. And here, she has copied the sum incorrectly. How will she get marks? Crooked margins, untidy rough work. Careless, careless.
Astha stared at the paper, she understood nothing of it. Were Anu’s crimes so bad? A crooked margin, a sum added wrong, another carelessly copied, did that result in 59 and feeling a failure?
Surely it doesn’t matter if the rough work is not neat? she queried.
It is the attitude that matters, the attitude, thundered Mr Sharma.
In the face of this, further comment seemed redundant.
*
Finally, all the teachers met, the Vadera children ticked off in various registers, her participation in the learning process marked, her children’s faults pointed out and noted, and she was free. Frantically she ran out of the school gates, she was over an hour late already. Pipee would have cooked for her, she would be wondering.
As she rang the bell to Pipee’s apartment, she could hear footsteps coming towards the door. Her heart beat faster, explanations trembled on her lips. The door opened, and before her, the face, always in her mind, always indistinct, the long narrow eyes, the hair which sprang back wild and unruly, the voice she could drown in, the mouth that pulled inwards as she smiled, the little mole hanging under her nose like a dew drop.
There she was, and there Astha stood, and nothing else mattered. Silently Pipee motioned her in, took her bag, and closed the door.
‘What took you so long? I was getting worried.’
‘Sorry, Pip, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, there were millions of parents, and the teachers took ages. I kept thinking of you waiting, I felt terrible the whole time.’
They were standing. Slowly Pipee put her arms around her. She could feel her hands on the narrowness of her back, on the beginning spread of her hips. Gently she undid her blouse hooks, and her bra, looking at her face as she did so and slowly she continued, feeling her back with her palm, coming round up towards her breasts, feeling their softness, especially where the nipples were, feeling them again and again, in no hurry to reach any conclusion. They were enclosed in a circle of silence, the only sound, the sound of their breaths, close together and mingled.
In the small bedroom, Astha tense with nervousness. She was afraid, yet there was no going back. Sensing how she felt, Pipee took her time, touching every crevice of her body with her mouth. The sweaty patches of her armpits with small stiff hair beginning to poke out, the soft fold of flesh where the arm joined the torso, the hard bony part behind her ears, the deep crease between her buttocks, the hairiness between her thighs.
In between they talked, the talk of discovery and attraction, of the history of a three month relationship, the teasing and pleasure of an intimacy that was complete and absolute, expressed through minds as much as bodies.
Afterwards Astha felt strange, making love to a woman took getting used to.
And it also felt strange, making love to a friend instead of an adversary.
*
She returned home in a daze. As she neared her house, she succumbed to panic, she was a mother, nothing should disturb that. For a brief and guilty moment she wished she was like Pipee, alone and free, but she checked herself. A large part of her belonged to her children, that was how she lived her life. She couldn’t imagine any other way.
She was a wife too, but not much of her was required there. A willing body at night, a willing pair of hands and feet in the day and an obedient mouth were the necessary prerequisites of Hemant’s wife.
*
A few days later. ‘Hemant should be pleased‚’ said Astha to her lover, ‘he says women are always mind-fucking.’
They both laughed at the wife’s revenge.
Astha was in love. All day she thought of her, visualising the turn of her neck, long, sloping, unornamented, the collar bones on either side of the small hollow at the base of her throat, the screws of her hair latticed, as she had once seen them against the dark, heavy, green of the trees of the Tagore Arts Centre. And her fingers, long and so narrow the bones showed, with stubby nails, and a snake ring, three silver bands, two small turquoise eyes, two black painted dots for a nose. And her eyelids, that fragile tender area where she wanted to press her lips, compressing them to the size of peas to enclose that space. And the mouth with its inward-turning corners, she could gaze at those dents for ever.
From time to time she brooded about her own sexual nature, but her desire for Pipee was so linked to the particular person, that she failed to draw any general conclusions. So far as her marriage was concerned, they were both women, nothing was seriously threatened. Meanwhile her best time at home was when she was fantasising about the one she loved without interruptions, lost in her thoughts, wallowing in her feelings.
All this made it difficult for her to focus on what was going on around her. She was able to forget she had another life only when she was absorbed in her painting or her children’s homework, an echo of an earlier simplicity that now appeared to have some advantages.
*
Astha was surprised when Hemant noticed.
‘You seem distracted‚’ he pointed out. ‘What is it?’
She felt a flash of fear, but then an affair with a woman was not an easy thing for a husband to suspect. Caution drew her lips into a smile, and put a hood across her eyes. ‘Nothing‚’ she said. ‘What do you imagine?’
A look of dissatisfaction that it seemed must always be on one of their two faces, crossed his brow, giving her a momentary sense of control. She was not there. How right he was. But when had he acquired the sensitivity?
What about the times he had not been there, and the reasons had always been such that her own claims seemed selfish. Now sexually involved with another, she realised how many facets in the relationship between her husband and herself reflected power rather than love. Hemant had managed to ignore her because ultimately he filled his own landscape. That her discontent had been expressed in nuances that were minor, only helped him in his disregard.
In the days that followed, Hemant began to watch Astha. Let him watch, thought Astha, he who had not looked since the early days of marriage, was now looking and found that what he saw did not add up.
Her lies grew skilful. Her desperation and her need ensured that they tripped off her tongue, as though she had rehearsed them for hours.
*
Fed by right-minded parents, Astha had believed that never, ever must one lie. There was a Pinocchio lurking in her moral self, waiting and watching. Her nose would grow, her eyes cross themselves in vain attempts to hide the gruesome deed, her skin would turn yellow and pimples sprout all over her. Her inner ugliness would be reflected for all to see.
She had lied about the boys she had known, and each time she had been punished. They had left her, she had not deserved better.
When she married she had wanted to tell her husband about those boys, but she had been afraid he would not accept her, and that tiny seed, usually forgotten, was still inside, telling her she was unworthy. She had compromised by being excessively truthful; she knew her husband trusted her implicitly.
Now, she lied all day. The strongest thing in her was the most secret. Pipee encouraged her. Not for her the moral values of George Washington, the boy on the burning deck, Eklavya, Ram, Sita, Lakshman, those for whom words translated into codes of honour never to be broken no matter what.
‘Of course you have to lie. They don’t own you.’
‘I know, but … I wish I didn’t feel the way I did.’
‘What way?’ ask
ed her lover very naturally, and when she didn’t reply, very insistently, ‘what way?’
‘Oh you know‚’ Astha became vague. ‘So much of the real stuff is with you, and since I can’t talk about it with my family, it makes me feel pretty schizo.’
‘Why do you have to talk about it with them? You talk about it with me. Are they your guardians or something?’
It was hard to explain. Pipee lived on a grander, more open scale then she did.
*
Meanwhile this grand and open creature was growing jealous of other claims. She had even wondered, to Astha’s horror, when she was going to inform Hemant about them.
‘He is not your owner, you know, he’ll have to face up to his inadequacies.’
‘No, no – I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
It seemed so unthinkable, how could she explain. ‘Maybe I’m a coward‚’ she remarked thoughtfully.
‘Oh dearest‚’ sighed Pipee, ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve lived a certain way, you are used to certain ideas, you can’t suddenly be different. If I am impatient with your situation, it’s because I want you to be happy.’
She turned the other’s face towards her, took out her pins and stroked her open hair, reaching into the scalp, in a way that reminded Astha of her mother oiling her hair every Sunday when she was young. She closed her eyes and sank against her, feeling as though she were in a warm bath. With Pipee there was no battering against something hard and ununderstanding, she was all warmth and intuition. She thanked God again for this love in her life, when she had thought all chance of love was over.
*
If God had given her love, there was no time supplement with this gift, so Astha often found herself wishing despairingly she could live each day twice, once with Pipee, and once on the ordinary plane.
She dreaded the occasions when her lives clashed, and was at no time more at the mercy of her circumstances than weekends.