Nila wiped it with the back of her hand and said, ‘No, it’s okay. I haven’t brought any powder with me anyway.’
Rita blushed with embarrassment.
Danielle brought her mouth close to Nila’s ear and muttered, ‘Powdering your nose doesn’t mean that literally. It means going to the toilet, peeing or shitting.’
‘Why couldn’t she ask me that then?’
‘No, that’s shameful.’
‘Shameful?’
Nila could never understand what construed as shame in this society. It wasn’t even summer yet and the girls walked around half-dressed. Clothes were a problem.
Before she came in front of the camera, the cameraman said, ‘It’d be good if she powdered her face.’ This time it was real powder. Ann l’Or took her in to dab powder on her face. Nila saw the perfectly arranged home and said, ‘Have you been married for long?’
‘Oh but we are not married.’
‘So what is Serge to you?’
‘He’s my lover.’
‘You live together?’
‘Sure. We have been together for the last six years.’
Nila looked into the mirror and brushed powder on her face. Today she had worn a sari on Rita’s request; dressed in a sari and a bindi, she looked the complete Bengali girl. In her mind Nila swiftly went to Calcutta and came back.
Two chairs were placed in the field. Rita checked if Nila’s face and the Basilique in the background, the famous landmark of France where all monarchs were buried, were seen clearly through the lens. Now, they sat face to face and the questions began. ‘Tell me, Nila, that symbol you have tattooed on your forehead is a mark to indicate that you are married, right?’
‘No.’
Rita was flustered, but she sported a pitying smile as she waited for Nila’s explanation of why not.
‘This is not a mark of marriage. Most women wear bindis even before marriage, because it looks good.’
‘Isn’t it a permanent mark on your forehead?’
Nila laughed and took the felt bindi off. ‘See, it comes off. Here now, gone next.’
Cut.
Rita didn’t like the bindi magic. She’d have been happier if a permanent, red marriage mark was tattooed onto Nila’s forehead. She glanced at the written sheet of questions on her lap and asked Nila the next one, ‘You are from India and you have come from so far away to Paris, to live with your husband, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve heard that you have left your husband. Will you tell us why?’
‘Because I don’t get along with him.’
‘But why not?’
‘We are two different kinds of people.’
‘But your husband is also Indian. Why do you call him different.’
‘We don’t think the same way.’
‘I’ve heard that your husband tortured you. Tell us what he did to you.’
‘He’s not really done anything that’ll qualify as torture.’
‘Your husband beat you—what did he use, whip, sticks or his belt . . .?’
‘My husband has never laid a finger on me.’
Cut.
Rita raised her hand and stopped the camera. She came up to Nila, knelt down in front of her and said, ‘Perhaps you didn’t understand my question, Nila.’
Nila was in an awkward position. Rita noticed her discomfort and shouted for some water. Ann l’Or ran and got a glass of water. Nila wasn’t thirsty, but she had to drink it and she kept half of it at hand for later.
The camera was aimed at Nila. Rita started again. ‘You must be in touch with other Indian women like you here who have also left their husbands. What kinds of torture did their husbands inflict on them?’
Nila replied innocently, ‘I don’t know anyone like that.’ Cut.
This time Rita went up to Danielle. She sat on a gravestone and conferred with Danielle for a long time; then she came back with a smile plastered on her face and said, ‘You’re looking very pretty in a sari. I have seen you in Western clothes more often, but I think the sari suits you best.’
Rita’s next question, ‘I’ve heard of the custom of sati in your land. So when your husband dies, you’ll have to jump into his pyre, right?’
‘That is an ancient custom and it was banned in the last century.’
‘It’s customary to pierce the girls’ clitoris in India. So what percentage of girls have this done to them?’
‘That is not an Indian custom.’
‘Tell us more about your married life—you had to do all the housework, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Cook, clean, do the laundry and the dishes.’
‘Which of the chores at home did your husband do?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Did your husband ever cook?’
‘No.’
‘Clean the house?’
‘No.’
‘What did he do when he came back from work?’
‘Watch TV, drink . . .’
Rita nodded, ‘And? What else did he do?’
‘What else? He ate and slept.’
‘Both of you contributed to the household income, right?’
‘No. I didn’t. My husband paid the bills.’
‘But your husband didn’t want you to work.’
‘No.’
‘So your husband kept you locked in, didn’t he?’
‘He didn’t want me to go out. But he didn’t really lock me in. I had a set of keys as well.’
‘Your husband has retained all your gold jewellery, right?’
‘No, he hasn’t. I forgot all of it and left it behind.’
‘Didn’t your husband pressurize you to maintain purdah and cover your head?’
‘No. That happens in orthodox Muslim families, not in Hindu households.’
‘Your husband didn’t let you eat fish and meat. He forced you to eat according to his wishes, didn’t he?’
‘That’s true. He was vegetarian and he wanted his house free of meat.’
‘But if you disobeyed him what did he do—beat you up?’
‘No, he’s never beaten me.’
‘Did he abuse you?’
‘No.’
Then what did he do?’
‘He’d be upset.’
Cut.
When they left Sandani, Danielle said, ‘You seem to have a lot of sympathy for Kishan.’
Nila said, ‘What should I have said? What would have proved that I don’t have any sympathy for him?’
Danielle shrugged, ‘Forget it.’
‘What is this documentary on?’
‘About women and how they are exploited.’
Nila had more questions. ‘Which women? Any woman, even French women?’
‘I’ve already told you that, it’s foreign women.’
‘Foreign? German, Swiss, Belgian?’
‘They don’t come to live in France. It’s about those who come here to stay.’
‘So it’s women from Rwanda, Mali, Somalia, India, Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan, right?’
Danielle was silent for a long time. The metro was unbearably crowded and as they jostled around, Danielle said, ‘You don’t know about the custom of clipping the clitoris? It happens everywhere, even in France this atrocity is being perpetrated in the name of culture. You seem to support it.’
Nila spoke vigorously, ‘Why should I support it? But I spoke the truth—it doesn’t exist in India.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t, but other things do. You could have spoken about those. This was the best platform to let the world know how women are deprived and discriminated against in the Third World. Normally you speak of so many issues.’
Nila said, ‘I answered the questions that she asked.’
‘To tell you the truth, Rita isn’t very happy with your interview.’
Nila wanted to ask when and if at all she’d get the five hundred francs. But she held her tongue. Sometimes that wa
s the best thing to do.
‘Why are you so quiet?’ Danielle’s vexed brown eyes were on Nila’s.
‘What should I say, you haven’t asked anything.’
‘Your interview is over, now come back to earth, be normal.’
Nila laughed, just for the heck of it. She decided if Danielle asked her why she laughed, she’d say for no reason. And if she said only mad women laugh for no reason, Nila would say she was crazy.
From the Basilique Sandani they reached the Concorde. From there they’d have to take line number one and go to Charles de Gaulle Etoille. But the metro wasn’t running in that direction. It wasn’t running from either Concorde or Etoille. Danielle and Nila came up to the surface. They would have to catch a bus. They waited at the Concorde bus-stop. Buses were coming, but they wouldn’t stop because there was no room in them. Some people at the bus-stop said it was because the metro had stopped. Danielle was trying to thumb down a taxi, but none of them stopped. Nila felt as though she was back in India. In a way she was relieved to see buses or trains running late. Here, where even the taxis were punctual, Nila felt stifled with the perfection. This chaos made her breathe freely again.
Very soon the police arrived and surrounded the Concorde metro station. Danielle asked one of them, ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing much. Two suicides.’
‘Reason?’
‘Same as usual. Spring.’
Nila’s jaw dropped. Danielle shoved a pile of facts into that open mouth.
Spring was the season of suicides. Two youths had jumped on to the tracks. They wanted to die and so they did. It happened every spring. People killed themselves under the rail tracks.
Nila wanted to know, ‘Why do people feel like killing themselves at springtime?’
As far as she knew, the people of the West were happy when spring came.
Danielle said, ‘Those who are lonely, who don’t have a partner, they kill themselves at this time. In the spring your loneliness taunts you because it tells you that summer is here; summer, which is the time of joy, of loving and enjoying life. All summer long lovers walk hand in hand, have fun and those who are alone feel even lonelier when they see so many happy couples. The distress drives them to suicide in spring, even before summer arrives.’
Nila didn’t understand.
‘Of course you wouldn’t understand. What would you know of someone else’s misery?’
Danielle’s gibe didn’t affect Nila. She grew pensive as they walked towards Equadore. She thought of those two youths lying on the rail tracks, their brains all over the place and their bones crushed to powder.
They killed themselves just because they didn’t have a lover, because they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the next months! Nila wondered if she’d do the same for the lack of a partner. She wouldn’t. Love was not the only joy in life. There was so much more: listening to the sound of falling leaves, floating with a transient cloud, reading an entire book of verses in one long evening, so many ways of fulfilling life.
‘Nila, learn to understand people, to appreciate their concerns.’
The throng of patients at the clinic in Equadore made Nila quite nervous. She wanted to know what ailed all these people. Some were reading journals, some talking to their neighbour in low whispers, and some others were dozing. Nicole had come here to rid herself of the agony of her cat not peeing. Danielle came because she wanted to get over her misery at Nila’s impending departure to Calcutta. Nila assumed that the man who dozed was probably there because he hadn’t slept well a few nights and the one who spoke in whispers was probably there because he normally spoke too loudly. The sixteen-year-old girl who sat gazing out the window, Nila was sure, had come because she was having trouble with her lover. The people of the First World couldn’t have their minds in a less-than-perfect condition. It had to be a hundred per cent fit. The body may well be a little weak, but the mind had to be in the pink of health.
Danielle took about two hours at the clinic. She tottered out like a drunken Catholic would from a confession box. She walked towards the door and didn’t glance at Nila, who had to wade through the crowd and get her attention. Danielle tore herself from Nila’s arms, which held her, and said, ‘Leave me alone.’
Nila didn’t leave her alone. She wasn’t used to leaving someone alone if they were upset. If she was ever upset, Molina would stroke her back, wipe her tears and all that love took care of the sorrow. Nila had never needed to see a shrink.
Nila held Danielle’s chin, turned her to face her and said, ‘Why did you have to go to a doctor? If I am the reason, talk to me, tell me what’s on your mind. You love me, don’t you? So talk to me!’
Danielle screamed, ‘I’ve told you, just leave me alone.’
‘You’re upset and if you’re alone, it’ll get worse. It wasn’t so bad before you went in to see the doctor.’ Nila hugged Danielle again. Danielle tore out of her arms and went and sat on a bench. Nila sat down beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder very gently and said, ‘It’s such a lovely city, so pretty; everyone has food to eat, a roof over their head and clothes to wear and security. Why then do they run to psychiatrists?’
Danielle’s eyes brimmed with tears. When Nila tried to wipe them, she snatched her head and her tears away.
‘You wouldn’t understand, Nila. Food and clothes are not everything. You want to judge the world with your Third World vision. There’s such a thing as the heart and about that you know nothing.’
Nila said, ‘The Third World also has a heart, Danielle, and it isn’t made of stone. I know you are suffering. I also suffer often but I never have to see a doctor. Why are you so afraid of suffering? I have never heard of our people going to a doctor to cure themselves of sorrow.’
Nila didn’t speak for a long time and Danielle tried to hide her tears.
‘Let’s walk on the Champs-Elysées; you’ll feel better.’
Danielle didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to go home. Alone.
Nila pulled her hand, ‘Let’s go to the cinema.’
‘No.’
‘Let’s go to a café.’
‘No.’
‘Walk along the Seine?’
‘No.’
‘Theatre?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll treat you to dinner.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, go to hell. You and your melancholia!’
Calcutta as Usual
Calcutta was just the way Nila had left it. Yet, she felt it looked a little dingier, there was more filth on the footpaths, the air was a little more polluted, there was more traffic on the roads, the incessant honking seemed a little louder. The houses looked more worn out with paint peeling off, the shops smaller, more cramped, damp and the people darker, there was less grass in the fields. As Nila was driven home from Dumdum, she said as much to Nikhil, ‘Calcutta has changed a lot.’
Nikhil tried to find the signs Nila talked about and the driver, Ramkiran, wiped his neck with a dirty handkerchief and said, ‘Didi, you have changed. Calcutta is exactly the way you left it.’
Nila entered her home in Ballygunge and felt that too had shrunk in size. Once, Nila had gone to see her old school building after she was grown up. But she could hardly recognize it. She was looking for the huge field where she had run around once, the immense pond that she remembered, had looked like a small tarn.
On her way home, Nila hadn’t asked Nikhil or Ramkiran what was the matter with Molina. When she came in, Chitra ran to tell Molina, ‘Didi has come, didi.’ That’s how it had always been, if Nila ever came home a little late, Chitra ran to give the news of her arrival to Molina thus. Today Nila felt as though she had come home a little late: there was traffic on the way; she’d gone to see Aparna Sen’s new film.
She did what she always did when she returned home, called out for her mother. If she didn’t find her in the bedroom, she’d look in the kitchen and then try the puja room. If Molina wasn’t there, Nila would try the sma
ll patch of vegetable garden in their backyard and then she’d know that Ma was up on the terrace, drying out the clothes.
Today Nila called out to her and entered the bedroom. Molina lay there under the fan at full speed, sweating. She was sleeping.
‘Ma is sleeping at this time of the day? Wake up, I’ve come.’
Nila has come. Molina, wake up. Give her some cool water, sit her down beside you and listen to her stories—she has lots to tell you. If her voice chokes as she talks, draw her head upon your lap and stroke her lovingly and say, ‘Don’t ever leave me, darling.’
Nila sat at the head of the bed and found Molina’s long dark tresses had flown out the window and a skeleton swayed under that whirring fan.
‘Didi, would you like some tea?’ Didi didn’t answer.
Chitra burst into tears. Nila didn’t ask why she was crying. She got up and went into her own bedroom upstairs. Chitra followed her, wiping her tears on her sari, ‘Didi, don’t go to sleep. Have a bath and eat something first.’
‘Chitra, just go away. Leave me alone.’
Chitra continued to stand at the door and said, ‘God knows what has happened to aunty! She was fine one day and bedridden the next. Now she can’t even stand up. She just takes those sleeping pills and sleeps all the time. It’s a good thing or else she’d be screaming in pain. You won’t be able to stand that, didi.’
‘Why are you talking so much? I haven’t asked you anything!’ Nila yelled at her.
Chitra moved closer to Nila, step by little step. ‘Aunty was constantly asking for you, didi. Before she fell asleep she was giving us nonstop directions to cook three kinds of fish and get some sweets because you are coming today.’
Nila buried her face in the pillow. ‘You go away from here, just go for a while.’ She felt Chitra was hurling not words but balls of fire at her.
Chitra sobbed again, ‘So many people came to see her, but no one could cure her. So many doctors. They gave so many medicines. But she isn’t getting better. Every day she’s getting worse. Until a few days back she could eat a bite of rice if it was overcooked and soft. Now even that she can’t have.’
Soon she was joined by Manjusha. ‘You have come home at last, Nila.’ She burst into copious tears.
She wept noisily and said, ‘Why didn’t you come sooner? She said she’d cook so many things when you came home, because you didn’t get them abroad. But now I don’t think you’ll ever taste her cooking again . . .’
French Lover Page 14