‘Where do you work?’ asked the rapist. ‘I didn’t know you had moved to the city.’
‘I came last year. I run a small business,’ said the only son. ‘A fancy store. You should visit sometime.’
The rapist gave him a small smile. ‘We’re here,’ he said, pointing to the red board that proudly proclaimed ‘The Son Insurance Company’.
The only son waved goodbye and the rapist waved back. His heart was black with worry. What if his brother were to die suddenly? He walked away from the red board slowly, thinking that he should call his wife and have a chat.
Nine
Saturday. One more day to go and it would be time for her lesson. The second daughter still hadn’t told her husband about it. If she had to tell him, she would have to start with the Adjustment Bureau and that would never do. The dentist had no idea that she was thinking of divorce. The second daughter had taken the missing tooth so well that the dentist was almost pleased with her. He had taken her out for dinner and given her roses.
She had to tell someone but who? Her mother had already warned her not to go to the bureau. Besides, she was likely to support the rapist, claiming that a lesson was just what the second daughter deserved. Her sister … they had never been close growing up. The daughters were as different as chalk and cheese. They had never got along and the second daughter doubted very much that she would win any sympathy from her sister. In fact, the first daughter was likely to put on her pious face and say, ‘I told you so’.
Her father might listen. He had been fond of her. Though he had been disappointed at her birth, her father had been an affectionate man, buying her as many books as she wished even though her mother had told him not to indulge her dangerous interests. He was the one who had encouraged her to sign up for the PhD programme despite her mother threatening that she wouldn’t speak to him ever again if the second daughter took his advice.
‘I will call him,’ she thought, looking at the clock. It was 10 a.m. and he would be on his way to work. Her father worked in a bank, assessing loan requests. She dialled his mobile number and nearly hung up when she heard his wheezy hello. She remembered too late that her father hadn’t been keeping well (his blood pressure was too high, his knee pain too acute) and that he might take this news badly.
‘Hello? Is it you? Why don’t you speak?’ came the hurried voice. The second daughter could hear the roar of the traffic in the background. Somebody was honking impatiently at her father. She knew how flustered that would make him.
‘Yes, should I call back?’ she said, already regretting making the call.
‘No, no. Wait, I will pull over,’ said her father. She could hear more honking and her father cursing at the driver. ‘Ah, tell me now,’ he said finally. The second daughter imagined his face, flushed red, beads of sweat dancing down his brow.
‘I must hang up. I must,’ she thought to herself. But then, she heard herself say, ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Yes?’ said her father, a faint impatience creeping into his voice. ‘Tell me quickly. I’m late as it is.’
The second daughter ran her tongue over the hole where her tooth used to be. ‘The government is sending the rapist to teach me a lesson,’ she said, without any expression. She felt weird saying it. As if it were not happening to her.
There was silence on the other end.
‘Pa? Are you there?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Yes. Why?’ he said.
The second daughter took a deep breath and told him the story. The beatings. The forced sex. The abuse. And, finally, about her missing tooth.
‘He extracted your tooth?’ exclaimed her father, disbelievingly.
‘Yes, I told Ma about it already,’ she said, getting angry. ‘Should I come and show it to you?’
‘No, no. I was just asking. After the big dowry we paid that fellow, he dares to treat you like this?’ The indignation in his voice calmed her down a bit.
‘I want a divorce. I told Ma this as well but she was of no help,’ the second daughter said.
Her father snorted. ‘Your Ma tried to pull that one on me many years ago but the bureau refused,’ he said.
‘Did you beat her too?’ asked the second daughter, a cold hand gripping her heart.
‘No, no. How can you think that of me?’ said her father, sounding hurt. ‘She was in love with some other fellow, but her father forced her to marry me. I didn’t know.’ His voice dipped and he said again, ‘I didn’t know.’
‘But why didn’t you give her the divorce? Was it because of us?’ she asked, distracted for a second from her own problems.
‘You both were not even born then,’ said her father. ‘She wanted a divorce right after we got married. And I said okay.’
‘But the bureau?’
‘They said no,’ said her father. ‘They said we were treating the Institution with disdain and that we had to adjust and make our marriage a success. When we first went to the bureau, the guy who was the president then was willing to grant it, but by the time the papers could be signed, he was voted out.’
The second daughter did not know what to say.
‘It’s okay, forget it,’ said her father kindly. ‘We don’t talk about it any more.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want to come home?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Can I?’ asked the second daughter, her spirits lifting.
‘Your mother will be upset, but I’m always doing things that upset her.’ He guffawed. The second daughter could hear the strain in his laughter.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘I will pick you up after work this evening?’
‘At about six?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will be ready.’
It was only after the second daughter hung up that she remembered what the rapist had told her. About waiting. Would he trace her to her father’s house? Probably. But he would wait the whole of Sunday. She could postpone her lesson by at least a day.
She wondered what to tell her husband. She couldn’t just walk out of the house without an explanation. If she tried anything of that sort, he would probably extract her tongue.
The second daughter switched on the television absentmindedly. It was the Good News channel, her mother-in-law’s favourite. She was sure that the second daughter was infertile – why else hadn’t she produced an heir yet? The second daughter could hardly tell her that it was because she was on the pill. She had no intention of breeding with a monster.
A pregnant celebrity was caressing her bump and talking about work-life balance. The reporter put his hand on her belly and shrieked when the baby kicked.
Suddenly, the second daughter knew what she had to do. She ran to the sink, stuck her hand down her throat and vomited. She had watched enough movies to know that this was how it happened.
The mother-in-law (who had also grown up watching similar movies) rushed out of the kitchen even before the vomit could touch the basin.
‘Is it good news?’ she asked, panting from her sprint, the ladle with which she had been frying papad dripping hot oil on the floor.
The second daughter blushed and nodded. ‘I’m late this month,’ she lied.
The mother-in-law whooped and hugged her, unmindful of the vomit, holding the ladle high up in the air like the sword of victory.
‘Can I call my father and ask him to take me home?’ the second daughter asked timidly.
‘Of course,’ said the mother-in-law. ‘As a responsible father, he should pay for your entire pregnancy.’
The second daughter smiled. She had never received better news in her life.
Ten
The dentist was overjoyed when he heard the good news. He had been secretly afraid that it was he who was infertile and had been taking tonics in the bathroom to improve his sperm count. He was relieved that he wasn’t to share the fate of his cousin, the eunuch. The eunuch’s wife had gone through every infertility test and was
certified ‘normal’. It was only then that the eunuch had reluctantly agreed to step into the doctor’s clinic. The very first test declared that he was sterile. His boys were out of business. The news shattered his mother who had been telling all and sundry that her daughter-in-law was as barren as the Sahara. She had gone as far as to conduct pujas and prayer meetings to bless her daughter-in-law’s womb with at least a worm. Though what she would do with a worm-child, nobody was sure.
The eunuch cut a pathetic figure. He rode a motorbike that was too large for him and often dressed in leather to prove that he was a man despite his inability to prove his manhood. His wife had only contempt for him and refused to let him anywhere between her legs. The only relief was that she had not approached the Adjustment Bureau for a divorce, thereby shaming the eunuch publicly. The inability to reproduce, proved beyond doubt by medical tests, was one of the grounds for divorce that the president considered very seriously and the eunuch’s wife knew that she had a solid case. The eunuch’s mother had made him sign an agreement that he would pay his wife seventy per cent of his salary every month for her silence.
As the dentist gargled and spat into the basin, he decided that he would treat his wife better from now on. She was carrying his seed and any turbulence in her mind was bound to affect the baby. Even though she deserved the punishments he gave her, he told himself that he should be more benevolent, given her condition.
Filled with goodwill, the dentist walked out of the bathroom and found his wife packing her suitcase. ‘I will miss you,’ he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. She smiled. ‘I must fill that gap with a golden tooth,’ the dentist thought to himself. ‘What will people say when they see a dentist’s wife with bad teeth?’
‘I will come and see you every weekend,’ he promised her. His wife smiled again but said nothing.
‘Won’t you miss me?’ he asked her softly, breathing in the talcum powder that she’d dusted on her neck.
She turned towards him and said, ‘How can I when I carry your child in my womb?’
It was the right answer. The dentist’s face split into a grin. ‘His teeth are yellow,’ thought his wife. ‘And I’ve never seen a tongue so long.’
She was so hypnotized by his mouth that she did not realize that she was staring.
‘What?’ said the dentist abruptly. He hated it when she fell into a stupor like this, acting as if she couldn’t see him or anything else in the room. She did that sometimes when they were in bed and it annoyed him no end. Where did she go?
‘Nothing,’ she said hurriedly. She had seen the spark in his eye, the first sign of danger. She pulled away from him, as if to fold more clothes into the suitcase.
The dentist took a deep breath. She was making this hard for him. He wanted to be nice. He wanted to treat her well. And the baby. He mustn’t forget the baby.
‘Which doctor will you be seeing?’ he asked her, changing the subject.
‘I–I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘Pa said he will take me to someone his friend recommended.’
‘I am a doctor, too, you know,’ said the dentist, looking at his hands. ‘Why doesn’t anyone remember that?’ In their wedding invite, his in-laws had omitted prefixing his name with a ‘Dr’ and the dentist had not forgotten that insult.
His wife folded the sari in her hands nervously. ‘Sure. Why don’t you suggest somebody? I will go to him.’
‘Him? Do you want a male gynecologist? Do you want to undress in front of another man? Is that what this is all about?’
‘I—’
There it was again. That glazed look. Like a deer caught in headlights. Or worse, like his grandmother who suffered from Alzheimer’s. His blood boiled at the sight of her.
‘I was only joking,’ he said, forcing down the anger that swelled in his mouth like a swill of cheap alcohol. ‘You can see whomever you wish to,’ he said, softening his tone more. The baby. The baby mustn’t hear his anger. It was his seed. His heir. The child who would prove him to be a man. ‘What is that?’ he asked suddenly, spotting a garment that he did not recognize as his wife’s.
‘It’s … it’s a night dress,’ she said, shivering. ‘An old one. I–I’m just taking it because I’ll be more comfortable in it.’
After marriage, she had worn only saris. Even in bed. The dentist did not like her in any other attire.
‘Are you going to your father’s house or to a brothel?’ he asked her, grabbing the night dress from her hand.
She looked as if she were about to scream but then turned away, busying herself with her suitcase. That damned suitcase. Why couldn’t she say something? It was as if she had been anaesthetized. The dentist had half a mind to give her a strong dose and claim his conjugal rights on the dentist’s chair. It would be like a scene from a porn film, those videos he’d watched as a college boy with his friends, breaking the laws of the land with no compunction. Knowing that if the information leaked to the Moral Police, they would all be arrested and that would be the end of their bright future, so carefully planned by their doting parents.
The thought excited him. He placed his hands around her waist and touched her belly.
‘Take care of her,’ he said to his wife. ‘Take care of our daughter.’
‘Or son,’ said his wife. ‘How do you know it will be a girl?’
‘They say women look more beautiful when they are carrying a girl,’ he said, biting her ear. ‘Besides, there are so few girls in the family. I think I’d like a daughter. A little imp of a girl. What about you?’
‘A son,’ said his wife. ‘A woman’s life is too hard.’
He looked at her to see if she was mocking him but her eyes were innocent.
‘I’m done,’ she said, shutting the suitcase at last. ‘Can we go down? Pa will be here any moment.’
‘Wait,’ he said, drawing her close to him. He blew on her face softly. The mints he swallowed diligently kept his breath fresh. His wife did not pull away. He kissed her on the lips.
‘Let me know what the doctor says,’ he whispered, his hand still on her stomach.
Eleven
The moral policeman’s Sunday could not have been worse. He had gone to his son’s room, hoping to wake him up and take him for a driving lesson. He often felt guilty about not spending enough time with him. The boy was growing up fast and sometimes, when he looked at the boy, he found himself wondering who this stranger was. He watched his son’s sleeping face: the scratchy stubble that covered his cheeks, the slightly parted lips, the long, almost feminine eyelashes, and love swelled in his heart. How old was he now? Fifteen? No, he would be sixteen in September. The moral policeman could hardly believe it. How had the years gone by so quickly?
It was then that he saw it. Shoved underneath the pile of dirty clothes on the chair. The moral policeman drew it out and glanced through it. No wonder the boy hadn’t shown it to him. He had failed in three out of five subjects. His report card was full of red circles. The teacher had neatly written ‘Meet me’ in the note-to-parents section along with the date and time.
He looked at his son again, wondering how he should react. A part of him wanted to shake him by the shoulders and shout at him. Did he not care about his future? Why did he think his father was slogging away at work if not for his sake? But the more he looked at his son, the more the energy drained out of him. The boy was close to his mother. They shared secrets, laughed together, went on outings. He envied their closeness and longed to be a part of it. But whenever he tried, his son brushed him away, muttering that he was busy. He hated the look his son gave him when he made his excuses. The careless scorn that laced his eyes.
The moral policeman took the report card and went to his wife.
‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, watching her face closely.
His wife took the report card from him and read it. ‘No,’ she said, handing it back.
‘The boy has been hiding it from us. Look here, the teacher has asked us to meet her tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ said his wife, stirring the sambar she was making.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ he asked.
She sighed and turned towards him. ‘He has been having problems at school,’ she said. As if that explained it all.
‘What sort of problems?’ asked the moral policeman. Why did they speak to him in riddles? Why did he have to ask them a million questions for every simple thing? Could they not just tell him for once?
‘You won’t like it,’ said his wife, concentrating on the sambar as though her life depended on it.
He grabbed her arm and turned her towards him again.
‘Let go of me,’ she said, her eyes flashing.
The moral policeman obeyed. ‘I didn’t mean to – to hurt you,’ he said, apologizing. ‘I just want to help. Tell me.’
‘Okay,’ said his wife, taking a deep breath. ‘But first, promise me that you won’t speak to him about it.’
‘All right,’ said the moral policeman. ‘I promise.’ A familiar sense of isolation crept over him.
‘He’s in love,’ she said, ‘with a classmate.’
The moral policeman’s head reeled. Please god, not this, not this, he thought.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked his wife, feeling foolish.
She stared at him for a moment and then said, ‘Of course I am. He told me.’
‘He’s only sixteen,’ said the moral policeman. ‘We can reform him. There’s still hope.’
His wife frowned. ‘This is not a case for your office, do you understand?’ she said cuttingly. ‘Stop acting like they own your life!’
‘But—’ faltered the moral policeman. He imagined his son kissing this girl, this classmate of his. In a park. Or in a seedy theatre. The crush of their limbs. Wet tongues. He imagined them getting caught. His son peeing in his pants, begging for mercy. ‘I can’t allow this,’ he said.
‘You are nobody to allow him to do anything,’ shot back his wife. ‘What has happened to you? You used to be so … such a…’
The Lesson Page 4