Fasting, Feasting

by Anita Desai

  Retreating to her room, she sank down on the floor, against the wall, and put her arms around her knees and wondered what it would have been like to have the Lord Shiva for a husband, have Him put His arms around her. 'Did he touch you?' Aruna had wanted to know. No, he had not, and sitting there in the dark, Uma tried to imagine what it would have been like if he had.

  Nine

  UMA is alone. MamaPapa have gone to the club to play bridge. Uma has her supper on a tray; the cook has gone home early and left it for her on the veranda table. After she has eaten it, she goes to her room. She looks around for something to do that she cannot do when MamaPapa are at home, needing her every minute as they do. She opens her cupboard, humming to herself musingly as she runs her eyes over her folded saris, her boxes full of matching bangles, the lace-edged handkerchiefs. Of course she knows what she wants to do: she reaches to the top for a shoebox full of old Christmas cards. Over the years, the collection has grown to a sizeable one. She carries it across to her bed and sits there cross-legged, looking through them—the cards collected for her by Mrs O'Henry, the Baptist missionary's wife, by Mother Agnes, and friends and neighbours. She runs her finger along the gilt crosses and embossed poinsettias, she plays with fragments of ribbon and lace, and reads through the merry little jingles that make her smile: they are so loving and bright with goodwill and friendship. She binds them all up again with string and stows them away like treasure—to her they are treasure. If anyone were to touch them, their magic would be somehow defaced: that is how she feels about them.

  She wanders through the house which is shadowy, a bit sinister; when MamaPapa are out, all the lights are switched off save one, of very low voltage, to save electricity, and there is only just enough light to allow Uma to make her way past the heavy, dark pieces of furniture. She stops at a three-legged table on which the telephone stands. She lifts the ear phone, taps at it, humming. Then her fingers fit into the openings for the numbers and she is dialling. The phone rings in some other dark, shadowy house. She bites her lip at her own audacity and stealth. This is not something she can do when MamaPapa are present: their avid curiosity and their disapproval would prevent her.

  At last the ringing of the phone is answered. Uma's face falls: it is the servant who has answered. 'O'Henry memsahib, is she in?' Uma finds herself enquiring. She fears Papa might spring out of the shadows and grasp her by the shoulder and demand an explanation for her deceit, or payment for the call. To risk so much just to hear the servant boy's sleepy, sulky voice saying no, she is not. 'Where has she gone?' Uma cries, and bangs the phone down. The furniture looms up around her, threateningly. She pushes past it and goes out on the veranda.

  At least the air is clearer here and has something free about it, still as it is. Over the top of the dusty trees, there is a new moon to be seen, very pale and far away. The jasmine bush at the foot of the stairs is in full bloom, releasing its perfume in white clouds in the dark. She plucks one and, with it on the palm of her hand, goes across to the swing and sits there. She gives herself a little push with her foot and sets it in motion. She hums a tune from a film she was once taken to see by the neighbours. 'Sweet, sweet moonlight,' she sings as she had seen the heroine do, in a garden garishly lit by an electric moon and with paper roses tumbling down from a cardboard trellis. 'Pale pale moonlight,' she sings to the flower in the cup of her hand.

  Then the headlights of the car appear at the gate, two probing white eyes: MamaPapa are back. Abruptly, Uma gets up from the swing and goes into her room. When they come up the stairs to the veranda, the swing still rocks, creaking back and forth as if a ghost has sat on it.

  Mama goes and bangs upon Uma's door. 'Uma, Uma, we're back.'

  Uma stands on the other side, holding the white flower. She bites her lip and does not answer.

  Mama bangs and rattles for a while, then stops. Uma hears her go off to her own room, grumbling, 'Already sleeping, always sleeping....'

  ***

  NO one was at all surprised but everyone was gratified when Aruna brought off the marriage that Uma had dismally failed to make. As was to be expected, she took her time, showed a reluctance to decide, played choosy, but soon enough made the wisest, most expedient choice—the handsomest, the richest, the most exciting of the suitors who presented themselves. So exciting were his dark, saturnine looks, the curl of his lips and the way his sideburns grew right down to the line of his jaw, and so lavish the future predicted for him, that MamaPapa were actually a little perturbed. Prudently, they wished for someone a little less handsome, a little less showy (they were neither, after all), and bade caution, suggested waiting to see who else might turn up. But when Aruna had made up her mind, then no one could stop her, and she had her way.

  The wedding was a splendid one—not like Uma's drab, cut-rate affair. At Aruna's insistence, the reception was held in the lobby of the Carlton Hotel. Instead of a brass band from the bazaar, she had Tiny Lopez's band play dance music. What was more, she persuaded Papa to throw what she called a cocktail party to welcome Arvind and his family the day before the wedding. This was to be an event so chic—and untraditional—as had never been witnessed before in the town, at least by their relatives. Unfortunately, Uma spoilt it considerably by her appalling tendency, developed—they were all certain—during her stay at the ashram with Mira-masi, of throwing 'fits'. The guests were milling around in the most elegant chiffon saris and sherwanis, the air was thick with the fumes of tuberoses and whisky, when Uma, who had been sent to fetch a fresh trayload of party snacks, instead stood rigid with the empty tray in her hands, staring ahead of her. When Mama gave her a little nudge to rouse her and hurry her, she simply keeled over as if she had been cut down with an axe. She fell heavily at the guests' feet, managing to strike her head against the tin tray so that it was cut open dramatically, and when they ran to help her up, she began to roll on the ground, just as she had done at the ashram, her eyes fixed, her teeth clenched, jerking her shoulders and drumming her heels uncontrollably. That is what they told her she did—till Dr Dutt was fetched from the other end of the marquee and came at once, thrust a handkerchief into Uma's mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, washed her face with a glass of cold water, and then had her carried to her bedroom, all so quickly and efficiently that not everyone in the marquee even became aware of the incident.

  Uma, sitting up in bed that night, tried to picture the appalling scene that she could not at all remember. She listened to Aruna's voice lashing at her, flailing her with accusations. She had spoilt the party, the cocktail party. What would Arvind's family think of them, of Aruna who had a sister who was an idiot, an hysteric? She should be put away, locked up, Aruna sobbed. 'I should be locked up,' Uma moaned, along with her. 'Lock me up, Mama, lock me up!' They howled together till Mama came marching in. 'What is going on here? Go to sleep, Aruna. Be quiet, Uma. I don't want to hear another word. Tomorrow is the wedding day and I've had enough trouble already. Now be quiet and go to sleep, you two.' Uma lay down obediently but could not hold back another moan: 'Oh, Mama, please!' while Aruna hissed one last threat, 'Don't you dare do that at the wedding, don't you dare!'

  Uma did not, and the wedding was as chic as Aruna had planned it; the ceremony itself brief, its chief features being Aruna's elaborate sari and jewellery and the groom's maharaja-style turban. Bakul Uncle and Lila Aunty approved, although Lila Aunty sighed, 'If only Anamika could be here, but that family just want her with them all the time,' and sighed again. No one mentioned Ramu; he was not considered fit for society any more and had not been sent an invitation.

  The Carlton Hotel provided the dinner, and even if some relatives refused to touch food cooked by who knew what low-caste cooks in what polluted kitchens, most of the guests were profoundly impressed and grateful and said so in heartfelt tones as they left, compensating Papa somewhat for the shocking expense. Only Dr Dutt had nothing to say to the parents except, 'And how is dear Uma? I'm glad to see she is looking a little better today
but I think she needs a tonic,' but then Dr Dutt was known for her abrupt ways and was excused because she was a doctor.

  And Aruna was whisked away to a life that she had said would be 'fantastic' and was. Arvind had a job in Bombay and bought a flat in a housing block in Juhu, facing the beach, and Aruna said it was 'like a dream'. These were the words that Aruna used in her letters. They were not words anyone in their town used, either because they did not know them or because nothing in their town merited them. But such words, such use of them did seem to raise Aruna to another level—distant and airy as Uma imagined must be her flat overlooking the sea. She wondered if she would ever see it, but Aruna was so busy either visiting Arvind's family in Ahmedabad or having them visit her in Bombay that there never seemed a time when she could have Uma and MamaPapa to stay, or even just Uma by herself. She did visit them from time to time—she even returned there to have her first child as custom dictated, but the second child was born in a modern nursing home in Bombay because Aruna could not bear to repeat that experience. Mama begged Papa to write and ask her to bring the children on visits, but perhaps Papa's clipped, official style of correspondence did not convey sufficient family feeling, and Aruna came only at long intervals so that every time they saw the children, they had turned into strangers again and were unrecognisable.

  The earlier visits quite terrified Uma because she was sure she could not handle such small and precious infants while Aruna handed them over quite matter-of-factly, clearly expecting her, as the maiden aunt, to do so. Had she not helped to bring up Arun? Yes, but Uma could not explain how it was different to care for someone in one's own family and why it was altogether different to be handed Aruna's babies in their expensive and unsuitable clothing and expected to feed them their strange 'formula'. When Aruna casually asked her to bathe them, she did not dare place them in the basin of water provided, she was so sure she would let them slip out of her fingers and drown. So she just wiped them with a damp towel and handed them back, pretending they were bathed. Aruna did not notice. She was out most of the time, visiting her girl friends, showing them her Bombay acquisitions.

  ON one of these visits home, Uma walked into her room to find Aruna sitting in front of the mirror and applying her make-up. She came over to watch and Aruna showed her: 'See, this is for the eyelids, and this for the eyelashes, and here is something for outlining the eyes. Then for the cheeks—first this cream, then this lotion, finally the powder and just the lightest, lightest touch of rouge—this one, or perhaps that one—' Uma had a pile of washed, folded nappies in her arms; she watched for a while, grew impatient and said, 'So that's what you've got all over your face. We were wondering.'

  Aruna slammed her make-up kit shut. 'Yes, this is what women in Bombay use. They don't walk around looking like washerwomen unless they are washerwomen,' she told Uma. 'Now you sit on the stool, here, and let me try and do something about you. Why do you still wear your hair in a pigtail, like a schoolgirl? Let me cut it for you—'

  Uma gave a shriek and ran giggling to the door. 'Cut my hair? You can't! Mama will kill me—'

  'Mama won't kill you! I cut my hair and here I am.'

  Uma had fled, holding onto her pigtail and dropping nappies all along the way. The thought of having her hair cut, like a film actress, made her giggle. But later she teased Mama, 'What if I cut off my hair, like Aruna?'

  'Cut it off? You want to look like a—' Mama wouldn't say the word, preferring to just suggest it. 'You want the neighbours to say you've become a—'

  Aruna gave an angry snort and walked off, saying, 'You people are villagers!'

  Uma quickly grabbed the advantage of the moment. 'She wanted to cut it off,' she confided slyly. 'She's picked up all these ideas in Bombay. She may even try to make you cut off your hair, Mama!'

  Mama and Uma collapsed against each other on the swing, giggling.

  WHEN her daughter was a little older, Aruna could use her new expertise on the child, curling her hair and designing her frocks. Aisha looked like a doll, but was given to frightful temper tantrums and would throw things at the wall and kick and scream with rage if anyone suggested she drink her milk or go and wash her hands. Mama and Uma were awed by the amount of temper the small thing could contain and release, but when she was through with it, she would become quite docile and sit on Uma's bed, going through her box of bangles or the Christmas cards—although Uma could not help hovering nervously over her while she did so, not sure when she might decide to tear one up or throw all of them away.

  It was Dinesh who was more worrying, although, on the surface, much more tractable. He spent most of his time sitting with his schoolboy uncle Arun's collection of American comic books and reading them with his mouth open and his hair falling into his eyes. He would stir and show signs of life only when he had gone through the whole collection and there was not one left to read. Then he had to be taken to the bazaar so he could buy some more. Arun would come home from school and angrily bundle up his comics and put them out of reach.

  The air gun was another matter. Papa had bought it for Arun, who never used it, and Dinesh found it behind a heap of old shoes in the cupboard, and was greatly intrigued. Arun flatly refused to show him how to use it but, one afternoon, Uma was woken out of her sleep by some sharp cracking, splitting sounds in the next room, and got up to see what it was. She found Dinesh standing there with the air gun in his hand, looking down at a pigeon he had shot off the skylight ledge and which now lay dying in a tumult of bloodied feathers on the floor. It was not wounded badly enough to die and made helpless efforts to bring its wings together and rise to its feet. The way the beak hung open and the eyes bulged, however, did not seem hopeful signs, and it tottered around blindly. Uma cried to Dinesh, 'Shoot it, quick! Kill it, please!' Dinesh was watching it with a curious expression on his flushed face; he put out his tongue and licked his lip, then grinned at her, a little frightenedly. Uma continued to scream at him till at last he did what he was told. Then he enjoyed telling his furious mother and his appalled grandmother that it was Uma who made him kill it. 'She told me to shoot it,' he kept repeating with pleasure, seeing it made her face pale with anger each time.

  Uma did not look forward to his next visit but he proved less offensive when he came again, perhaps because he hardly stayed at home. She noticed he was always slipping off in a furtive manner through the guava trees and the gap in the hedge, to the neighbours'. There was no cause for concern in this except there were no children of his age in that household and there was no knowing what the attraction was. Tactful enquiries brought forth a blank look on Mrs Joshi's face since she had not seen Dinesh around.

  Then Uma glimpsed him, through the dusty guava tree foliage, and the pale, twisted branches, with the driver's young son, behind the neighbours' garage. She peered and peered from the edge of the veranda but was too shortsighted to see what they were up to. Another time she saw Dinesh balanced on the crossbar of a bicycle ridden by the boy, going round in narrow circles, both boys leaning into each other's arms and laughing hilariously. It seemed innocuous enough but Dinesh was old enough to ride the bicycle himself and did not need to be driven around.

  That evening on the veranda, Uma mentioned Panna, the driver's son, to him, and Dinesh looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, then ruffled his hair so it came down over his forehead. Papa scowled: he had never allowed his children to play with the servants' children, it was a rule of his, and Arun had never played with Panna. Seeing that, Dinesh shuffled his feet on the floor and made off. No one said anything more and Dinesh continued to spend his time in Panna's company, but always out of sight. If anyone did catch a glimpse of them, they looked up with bland, practised looks of innocence followed by sharp bursts of laughter when left to themselves. Mama did not urge Dinesh to come again.

  ONCE there was a chance Uma would visit Aruna in Bombay. At least, her optician, on giving her a check-up, said quite solemnly, 'There is something there that needs more testing. I can't do it h
ere'—he gestured to his little clinic in the bazaar, patients crowded upon the benches along the walls, stray dogs and vendors pressing in at the door—'you really need to consult a specialist. See if you can visit one in Bombay.' Uma flushed hectically at the thought and hurried home to give the news to Papa. Papa's brow blackened visibly and he sank into a morose heap on the swing, and had to be reminded by Mama of Uma's news. 'Harumph,' he said, choking. 'Harumph. No need, no need. Why waste money on a trip to Bombay? Our optician is good enough, good enough. No need to go to Bombay, no need at all. Harumph.'

  THEN Aruna brought along her mother-in-law and other relatives of Arvind's who wanted to bathe in the holy river. It was a fraught visit, Aruna frantic that Mama and Uma spruce up the crumbling old house and make it presentable, and acquit themselves well as hosts and her family. She spent the entire visit hissing under her breath at Uma, 'Can't you bring out a clean tablecloth? Don't you see this one is all stained?' or following Mama to her dressing room to complain, 'Why have you washed your hair in the middle of the morning? Couldn't you do it at night instead of sitting here with it all open? It looks so sloppy!' or dashing into the kitchen to show the cook how to make a salad—'All he does is slice up tomatoes and cucumbers and onions and spread them flat on the plate—where's the dressing?' As for Arun, she took one horrified look at him, at his drooping khaki shorts, his unlaced gym shoes, his uncombed hair falling over his forehead, and gave up, with a dramatic rolling of her eyes; she could not believe he existed, as he did, and preferred to act as if he did not (which suited him very well). Even Papa, not easily shaken in his profound conviction of his status and authority, seemed uneasy and sat upright and tried to converse instead of scowling into space as was his habit and one from which no one in the family had ever tried to pry him loose (being even more afraid of his words than his silence). Aruna scolded him, 'Don't you ever get the house painted, Papa? Look how the walls are peeling. It's just falling down,' and, 'What happened to the driver's uniform? He used to wear one, where is it?' If MamaPapa had once had qualms about her marrying into a family she could not keep up with they need not have worried—every trace of her provincial roots was obliterated and overlaid by the bright sheen of the metropolis. It was they who could not keep up.