Malati’s restlessness, her lack of peace, touched all of us. She was outspoken, rude, aggressive, it’s true; yet we had lived for years in some sort of harmony. How could that aspect of our life together have vanished entirely? In the middle room of the old house where she and I used to sleep, sometimes we’d chat late into the night and she would confide in me. She told me about her college, her classmate Vandana, whose stepmother served her leftovers, and who was in love with a boy they called Koli Ramesh. It was Malati who carried letters between them. In the new house, we were locked in the cells of individual rooms, and there was no opportunity to exchange casual confidences. Lying alone in my room, I sometimes wondered if Malati’s happiness would have been better served had Sona Masala not existed at all.
It isn’t easy for a woman to leave her husband and live in her mother’s house. In our case, the trouble was not so much the people who lived there—we were ultimately on Malati’s side after all—but others: guests who visited home, people we would run into at weddings, well-wishers ever eager to put us on the defensive, busybodies. We all grew a little paranoid, suspecting malice on the part of anyone who spoke to her. Terrible stories spread about her after she got back her gold from Vikram’s house, stories in which she was made out to be an incarnation of Phoolan Devi: she had led a band of goons and ordered them to vandalize the house; she had herself held a knife to her husband’s throat. I know she could have done without all the talk. I’m sure she, too, wanted to live a regular, happy life, but things had somehow gone awry. I’m not sure how. Perhaps it isn’t right to place the entire blame on Sona Masala, I don’t know.
SIX
Now, what can I say of myself that is only about me and not tied up with the others? Wherever I try to start, I quickly run into one of three women—Amma, Malati, or Anita—each more fearsome than the other. I sometimes wonder if their every moment is spent sharpening their tongues, silently accumulating resentments for later use. And then, when they’re in the mood, they’ll whip up a storm that gives me the shivers even to think about.
It might start when I finish my bath in the morning and call out casually, “What’s for breakfast, Amma?”
Amma says: “I’ve made avarekaalu upma because you like it.”
It seems an innocuous enough statement. An outsider may not be able to see its explosive power. But as someone who lives in this house, I know just how grave the consequences can be. I start hurrying to leave the house before it erupts. I jump into my clothes, scramble for my bag. And right then Anita might say to me, just loud enough for the others to hear: “I hope the prince will eat in comfort. So what if the rest of us starve.” The reason: she can’t stand avarekaalu, to the point where she throws up every time she smells the beans. It’s true I like them, but I don’t need to have them. But ever since Amma learned that Anita despises avarekaalu, she buys them every time she spots them in the vegetable market. She can do this because she controls the kitchen. There’s a daughter-in-law, there’s a daughter who’s left her husband and set up camp here, yet Amma clings to the kitchen. It’s not her fault—it’s all she knows. In any case, Anita doesn’t like to cook. It’s not that she can’t; she doesn’t want to. Then there’s Malati, about whom Anita often says, “If she wasn’t like this, the situation in our house would have been so much better.” I wouldn’t dare agree even in private, but I know in my heart that she’s right.
Even if Anita’s jibe about princes and so on is made to me, it is directed at Amma. Amma flares up every time Anita speaks disrespectfully to me, or makes barbed remarks about my sloth or my tendency to procrastinate or brings up the fact that my rightfully earned personal income is precisely zero. It’s also Anita’s often-repeated allegation that this last fact was not properly revealed to her before our marriage.
These three address each other indirectly—that is the prelude, the shot fired in the air to challenge an adversary to battle. The idea is to inquire if the enemy is prepared and willing to fight. If there’s enthusiasm on the other side, a reply is heard. That, too, is aimed at no one in particular.
“Oh, since this house is crawling with cooks, each member of the family can be served a different dish,” says Amma. How can Anita stay silent? She drags her sister-in-law into the ring: “The house has turned into a shelter. This is what happens when all sorts are taken in. People should live in their own houses . . .”
This, of course, is a reference to Malati. Malati might wait to see if Amma comes to her defense. If not, she’s perfectly capable of holding her own: “Why just a shelter, it’ll soon be a brothel. When the men in the house aren’t firm, the women will stand at the windows.”
This particular arrow from Malati is aimed jointly at Anita and me. It’s a canard built on Anita being friends with a man in the neighborhood. They were at school together in her town and happened to meet again here. I’m certain there’s nothing between them, of course. But it turns out that both Malati and Anita find it unbearable that I’m not in the least a suspicious husband. Anyway, at this stage of the conflict, Anita can rope my father in as well. “Hmm. It takes some talent even to joke. Mindless babbling doesn’t make anyone laugh. But then, these things are in one’s blood perhaps . . .”
That might sound like a tame comeback, but the sword of insult seldom cuts on the surface. No, it lacerates from within and leaves wounds that reopen with remembrance. Anita’s remark is a savage mockery of Appa. He attempts compulsively to say something funny all the time, and this has turned him into an object of laughter. No one is amused by his quips; making matters worse, he laughs at his own jokes. That laughter, too, has increasingly grown feeble and nervous and altogether pathetic. All this is perhaps not unrelated to the fact that a while ago, he grew so listless that he was prescribed a course of antidepressants. Anita’s remark about jokes feels innocuous, but it carries with it painful associations. The rest of us become flustered and try to ensure Appa doesn’t hear any of this. Anita sees victory in our flapping about. Doesn’t she know our entire future is perched on a will Appa hasn’t written? What can one say about such suicidal behavior?
After all this blowing of war bugles over the upma, I don’t even eat it. I rush out and arrive at Coffee House just as it is opening. I sit down, order a vegetable cutlet and a coffee. I make some small talk with Vincent: “So, Vincent, what news?” He says, “Holes in dosas in everyone’s house, sir.” A common enough adage, it’s true, but am I to believe he brought it up with no knowledge of the morning’s events? In any case, I sit there with my coffee and brood over what might have happened after I left.
The day’s routine at home is a matter of speculation to me. I leave in the morning for Coffee House, carry on with my day, and only return after dark. I stay out all day like any other office-goer, killing time with great dedication. I wasn’t always like this. It started after I finished my degree and a position was created for me at Sona Masala. I even got an office to myself. Chikkappa had once told me while I was in college: “Come join us after your studies and help us grow the business. Don’t go and work for just anyone.” And I didn’t work for just anyone. Nor did I work at Sona Masala. I didn’t work at all.
How did I slip into this way of life? I can only look back and wonder. I recall a time when I received daily lectures about how I had to study well and find a job. The pressure eased when Sona Masala began doing well. The family no longer looked to me as the person who’d one day have to provide for us all. Instead, there developed an unspoken understanding that I’d end up helping Chikkappa with the business. I began going to the warehouse when the time came. But it was clear from my very first day that they had no real need for me. They’d assign me a few trivial tasks because I was there, but nothing of significance ever got done without Chikkappa’s approval. Soon I was bored out of my wits. At times I’d come into a fit of enthusiasm and try to change something, but I didn’t know enough about the business and would only end up burning my fingers.
My attempts at actually working there lasted no longer than six months. I eased myself out, almost without realizing it.
But still, it is the duty of the family to preserve my self-respect. I would be married one day, and I shouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of holding my hand out for money while my wife watched. So, a monthly deposit began to be made to my bank account. It goes on to this day. Who would work when they get paid for doing nothing? With the exception of Chikkappa, of course, who knows nothing other than work.
This is my typical routine: I finish my bath and, on peaceful days, eat breakfast; I get ready and leave home for Coffee House at the appointed time. From there I go to the warehouse, sit in my office, and read three newspapers from beginning to end. Lunch. A nap on my office sofa. Tea. As the sun goes down, I set off again for Coffee House. From there I saunter about for a bit and eventually drift homeward. No one at the warehouse has a reason to enter my office except whoever cleans it before I arrive in the morning. I don’t step out, either. From time to time, I sign wherever Chikkappa jabs his finger, and that’s all the work I do. My business cards are reprinted every year. They say I’m the director of the firm.
• • •
I didn’t put up a fight when the family began efforts to get me married. None of my attempts at romance had gone anywhere. Chitra was the only one with whom I’d even gotten as far as having long conversations, and that was over. Because Malati’s marriage had ended badly, Amma was more circumspect when it was my turn. “Let’s not get entangled with rich people,” she said, and so when we received word about the daughter of a college lecturer in Hyderabad, she was inclined to pursue the matter. The alliance was brought to us by a friend of the family named Sripati.
It was a Thursday, at about ten in the morning. I was about to leave home for the day when Sripati arrived. “Wait, wait, wait, don’t go!” he said. “It’s you I’ve come to talk to.” He chatted with Amma about mutual acquaintances, reported on his visit to the Raghavendra Swamy temple, delivered gossip from the attached monastery, ate dosas, proceeded in stages to make himself comfortable, and finally broached the subject. “Look, this girl is good as gold. She’s done her BA. The father is well respected. He has made his name in the university. We were actually looking at her for my sister-in-law’s brother, but he never turned up from the United States. There’s some talk he might have married there, but who knows . . . Anyway, if you all agree, I can put the matter to the girl’s father. Of course, I can’t guarantee they’ll say yes. Times have changed, it’s not like the old days . . .”
I looked at her photograph and found her prettier than the other girls I had seen. I decided to make her mine before other proposals came her way. It all went quickly from there.
When we came to the matter of seeing the girl, I corrected Sripati with what I had picked up from Chitra’s feminist talk: “We should speak of the boy and the girl both seeing each other.”
He said, “Yes, yes! Of course! I meant exactly that. Is it even possible these days to arrange a marriage with only the boy’s consent? I must say you are well-matched. Her father, too, thinks along these lines.”
A couple of days later, on Sunday, we booked a car and set off for Hyderabad. Sripati accompanied us. Anita and her parents met us at the hotel we were staying in, and it wasn’t long before the match was agreed upon. I took Anita down to the restaurant for a coffee; that was the only time we had to ourselves. The wedding date was fixed before we left Hyderabad. It had all gone by like a dream.
On the journey back, Sripati told us at great length about Anita’s father’s idealistic views. This was probably meant to soothe Amma, who had taken offense at something he said. When Anita and I were away, having coffee, Amma had announced grandly that we didn’t expect a dowry. It seems Anita’s father said, “I wouldn’t give my daughter to you if you asked for one.” Amma, who’d been enjoying her own magnanimity, was not pleased. As we were returning to the room from the restaurant, Anita had told me she would visit Bangalore soon so we could meet again. But her father had a heart attack shortly thereafter, and she couldn’t leave Hyderabad. We next met at our wedding. I did call her on the phone before that, though.
“When are you coming here?” I would ask, trying to sound flirtatious.
I wanted her to say, “Now,” but received only a matter-of-fact “The day before the wedding.”
I’d persist: “Come right now.”
“Don’t be silly,” she’d say, dousing my ardor with cold water. I couldn’t help wondering at times if she was truly enthusiastic about the marriage.
Our wedding day was a momentous one for me—a woman entered my life for the first time. Until then I had never even held a woman’s hand. That day I discovered the exhilaration of getting married in the traditional way. What I’m saying might be incomprehensible to couples who have spent time together before marriage and for whom the wedding comes as a formality. They’d probably just laugh and call mine a case of sour grapes. And maybe they’re right—it’s true that things didn’t happen this way because I wanted them to. But a few details from the wedding day might help explain what I mean.
In the days leading up to the wedding I couldn’t resist gazing at her photograph from time to time. That’s when I would call her on the phone. I had two photographs of her, both brought by Sripati when he first proposed the match. One of them showed her standing in a pink sari. Somewhat curly hair. Thick eyebrows. Broad shoulders. She seemed to be glowering at the camera, but there was something hypnotic about those wide eyes. I found it hard to look away. She was in profile in the other photo, wearing a salwar-kameez, looking out a window. She held a window-bar with one hand. Her face glowed with light. This photo drove me wild. That slightly upturned nose, the swell of her breasts discernible through the fabric of her dupatta. I suppose Chitra was right when she said men were incapable of seeing beyond the bodies of women.
On our wedding day Anita looked more beautiful than I’d been able to imagine her. She carried herself with poise. Her thick braid hung down to her waist. She was wearing lipstick. The first chance I got, I stole a sideward glance at the blouse under her dark blue sari. We had few opportunities to speak during the wedding ceremony, which we used to say things like: “So much smoke”; “Who’s that teasing you? A classmate?” There was a strange charm even in exchanging inanities. The ceremony required me to hold her hand at times, or touch her arm with my index finger, and these brief moments of contact caused an immense thrill. When it was time to tie the taali around her neck, I leaned in close and a whiff of fragrance went straight to my head. The scent of flowers and her close presence were almost too much. For a brief instant I felt unsteady on my feet. She stood there with her head bowed; flecks of turmeric dotted the down on her cheek. My fingers brushing the back of her neck, I tied the knot.
At lunch, when we had to feed each other sweets, the tips of my fingers touched her lower lip for a moment. The jolt this produced took a while to subside. I was still helpless when she brought a piece of jalebi to my mouth. I seized her hand and pretended to bite off her fingers. A few girls nearby went, “Aww, so sweet,” and I felt embarrassed by my own antics. The wedding photographer, hankering for such moments, made me feed her again.
While we were still at lunch, a large group from Anita’s side came up to us and introduced themselves one by one. Then, in the afternoon, an army of elders from both sides took turns sitting on a chair so we could fall at their feet and seek blessings. In the evening we went home exhausted. Fortunately, the more annoying relatives didn’t follow us home. We could have dinner in peace and retire to our room upstairs.
I had on a white cotton kurta bought specially for the night. My mind swirled with the possibilities that lay ahead as we made our way to the room. I found it hard to even look at her. I tried to act casual as I closed the door behind us, but slid the bolt in slowly so the others in the house wouldn’t notice. When I turned aro
und she was standing by the bed. The light switch was next to the door and I turned it off. The room was now faintly lit by the haze from the streetlamp outside. I walked up to her. I took a step closer. I could smell her scent now. I didn’t know what to do next and I paused for a moment. Then I raised my right hand and placed it on her shoulder. One thing alone gave me the courage to touch her: we were married now. My hand lowered itself along her arm and stopped at her elbow. My left hand went to her waist and drew her closer. She moved toward me as well and we embraced. Her touch, her smell, the fragrance from the flowers she was wearing, the press of her chest on mine, her lips against my neck.
That single moment’s intensity hasn’t been matched in my life before or since. A woman I didn’t know had chosen to accept me, in body and mind. Perhaps it is this instant that forms the basis of traditional marriage—a complete stranger is suddenly mine. And then, I am hers, too; I must offer her my all. I want her to wield her power over me as an acknowledgment of my love. The rush of these feelings all at once is too much to describe. Language communicates in terms of what is already known; it chokes up when asked to deal with the entirely unprecedented.
Similar feelings must have welled up in her, too. Her face was buried in my chest. Her arms tightened around me. I could feel the bangles on her arms pressing into my back. Through touch, through the giving, yielding closeness of our embrace, this unknown woman began to be known to me. I’ve often longed for a comparable experience, but there seems to be none. That sense of strangeness, surrender, dependence, compassion, entitlement, and a hundred other sentiments bundled together cannot possibly be relived.
Ghachar Ghochar Page 5