Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  ‘What does that mean? Do you know exactly what you just said?’

  ‘You’re the dialogue writer.’

  ‘Let’s hear it in your own words!’

  ‘In my own words! You want to hear it from me…’ Without warning, his left hand grabbed my hair roughly, pushing my neck down. I could sense his right hand raised high in the air, waiting to strike me.

  The door was latched. My child was sleeping with his grandmother. I was stunned. We had had countless arguments and fierce verbal fights in the past but this brutish behaviour was a first. I was scared for a moment but my self-esteem helped me find my voice. ‘Leave me! Now! If I turn around and slap you even once, nothing, nothing will help you regain your mardaan, your manhood!’

  He froze in that posture. His left hand, still twisted in my hair, remained there, continuing to hurt me. His raised right hand lay fixed in its position. His eyes showed confusion. I met his gaze. And then I felt his grip relaxing. He dropped his right hand to his side and slowly took his gaze away from mine, focusing it on the floor. And suddenly he stormed out of the bedroom like he had been beaten in a battle or something. He returned in two minutes and almost yelled the words at me: ‘A wife like you only deserves talaq. Talaq! Talaq! Talaq!’ and stormed out of the room.

  For a moment I thought this was a scene in a movie. I began to analyse the whole sequence: how he had stormed out of the room, the heavy tread of his footsteps, his stance as he stood before me and the tone in which he had delivered the triple talaq dialogue. And then the tremor started. That he had actually uttered those words. And he was serious. He had just divorced me… Or wait…my mind affixed itself to that one line. I recalled the debate over what actually validated a talaq. Was it valid if the husband pronounced it thrice at one go like he just did or did it take three months—uttering talaq once every month—to validate it? It really didn’t matter. In either case, he had the sole right to pronounce talaq. More fundamentally, the word by itself meant nothing; it was the thought, the mere thought of its application that signalled the beginning of the end of love in our marriage. I was sweating and felt my underwear sticking uncomfortably to my skin. Now I began feeling a little disoriented. I lay down on the bed, scared that I would fall down if I stood for a second longer. I guess I lost sense of time, but I was sure a lot of time had elapsed when I heard the sound of Amir’s scooter starting. He’s going somewhere. He hasn’t told his parents about this conversation. However angry, he uses discretion—he knows his mother won’t let him continue our marriage if he as much as mentions this by a remote accident. I felt a little relieved. It was a dialogue. He didn’t mean it. He was simply threatening me, but then he had said the dreaded word and nothing could erase it. And for the first time, I felt that a definite crack had developed in our marriage. After sometime, I began to recall the exact rituals that were performed during our wedding. Then, I hadn’t fully understood them. I had only opposed converting to Islam. One of the options I had suggested was to get married at the registrar’s office without either of us changing our religions. But how easily I had believed him when he told me: ‘Look Lakshmi, my parents and my community won’t ever agree to this condition. And then there’s nothing special about a wife converting to the husband’s religion. But I know and you know that your conversion is a farce, a mere show to convince these religious simpletons that we’ve let them have their way. Neither of us believes in religion.’

  And now, by pronouncing talaq he’s used the special privilege reserved only for men in his religion. I began to boil with rage and gritted my teeth involuntarily. I felt betrayed. My mind conjured the analogy of a powerful, untameable beast, which he had trapped into his bone by deceit and was now torturing at will.

  He returned very late that night. One-and-a-half-year-old Nazir was sound asleep in his cradle. I didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything either, but lay on the bed next to me. His hands didn’t reach for my body like they always did. My self-respect, which was beaten when he was away, suddenly awoke when I felt this man’s presence…my husband, sleeping barely two inches away…how could you even bring yourself to say talaq, an unparalleled device of female oppression? My mind rewound this line repeatedly but my pride refused to let me initiate conversation.

  And thus it stopped—all conversation between us. We slept next to each other now at a distance at which we wouldn’t even feel each other’s breaths. His parents still didn’t know. And when I couldn’t bear it anymore, I asked him one night, ‘You might as well tell me what’s in your mind. It’ll be better for both of us than being crushed by silence.’

  ‘It’ll be even better if we separate and live in peace than live together like this. I’ve already completed the first round of talaq. Two more to go. I’ll complete that formality in the next two months. I’m sleeping next to you only because it is also part of the formality during the duration of Iddat—by not touching you despite sleeping next to you, I’d have proven that we are not compatible.’

  I felt like weeping right then. But I didn’t want to do it in front of him as that would mean admitting that I’ve lowered my dignity. I held back my tears but immediately rushed to the washroom. I broke down and sobbed my heart out the instant I bolted the latch. Damn these tears—overflowing like milk as soon as it reaches its boiling point. Keeps simmering, but doesn’t overflow again. I spent the next half hour inside the bathroom, weeping, till I was sure there were no more tears inside me. I resolved never to cry again, then returned to the bedroom and slept on my side of the bed.

  There was no point now in waiting for his two ‘remaining’ talaqs. I could get out of his house sooner, rent some cheap flat for myself and stay there alone. I mentally worked out the costing: deposit for the flat, rent and the very basic monthly household expenses. It gave me confidence. I decided I would be able to make it work with my current earnings but…Nazir? Who would Nazir belong to? I realized again—painfully—how little I knew about Islamic law. Besides, Nazir had really taken to his grandparents, thanks to my erratic work schedules. Who had the right to his custody—they or I? He shared my umbilical cord, not theirs. But did that really matter, according to their law? I turned to Amir’s side: he was sleeping. I silently got up and went to Nazir’s cradle, and looked at my sleeping baby for a long time. I bent down and gently kissed his forehead. If I was granted his custody, I decided that I would hire an ayah to take care of him.

  I was now prepared for the inevitable talaq. But first I had to talk to Professor Sastri and tell him that he was an indirect contributor to my present plight and he owed some moral responsibility. However, what I really wanted was his help, a solution. He was from my village, plus he was the son of Shesha Sastri, my father’s close friend.

  My mind drifted back to the days at the Pune film institute…‘Falling in love’ is such a meaningful phrase in English. I had fallen in love: I told myself this a thousand times back then. To fall in love is to abandon oneself. The mindless excitement I had felt was real. To fall in love is to be foolish. Thoughts about the future and consequences were reserved for the pusillanimous. To fall in love is to instinctively trust that same recklessness to show the way for the future. After we had taken our diplomas, returned to Bangalore and faced the real prospect of getting married, then faced familial opposition from each other’s parents, it was Professor Sastri who had stood rock-solid by our side. He had played a great part in making our marriage a reality. Not just that. He was a role model of sorts—his higher education in England, his marriage to a white Christian girl and the guts he had shown in facing his orthodox father’s bitter hostility had made him a fierce revolutionary who was worthy of emulation in the academic and intellectual circles. He was not the first Indian to marry a foreigner, but none of his predecessors had the kind of revolutionary halo he did. His advice was eagerly sought by couples who wanted to marry into a different caste or religion. We had followed suit…no, actually, I had approached him first. I was meeting him after several year
s. We were alone in his chamber at the university.

  ‘Lakshmi! It feels so wonderful to see you after so many years! How tall and how pretty you’ve become! Your beauty is a rare blend of the natural, rugged charm of Narasapura and the intellectual maturity of Bangalore!’ He embraced me. I wasn’t new to random and impulsive physical displays of affection. I used to feel embarrassed in the beginning but gradually grew to accept it as an inevitable part of my professional life, starting with my years in amateur theatre and later in the film world. But his embrace was coated with a warmth that hinted at something beyond mere affection…he had managed to feel up my body, if only for the pathetic duration that the embrace had lasted. I behaved as if nothing happened and said, ‘Thanks, uncle!’ taking advantage of the fact that he was older to me by ten years.

  ‘Uncle!’ he exclaimed and after a long time, emitted a painful sigh. ‘When will you ever learn? Our Progressive movement won’t progress a millimetre until you erase from your mind these ugly bourgeois relationship labels: uncle! Call me Narayana. Or Sastri. Or professor.’

  ‘I think “professor” sounds natural,’ I said.

  ‘That’s good! So what’s the latest from Narasapura? I can’t go there…I’m banned from visiting.’

  ‘Oh well…I guess I’m following your lead then.’

  ‘Really? Great! Who’s that lucky fellow? Tcha! Now I think I was hasty. I wouldn’t have married a white woman if I had only known that this flower was blossoming in my own backyard! Anyway, I suppose marriages are really made in heaven.’ His face was beaming with happiness, his eyes radiating desire. I told him my problem and he listened with the kind of attention that seemed to suggest that my problem was the only reality that existed for him. It felt oddly comforting. When I finished, he leaned forward and looked into my eyes directly. It was as if he was poised to reveal all the hidden truths of the past, present and the future. This wasn’t new to me. I had spent most of my growing-up years listening to his fiery speeches both on stage and off it, in more casual settings. He was an actor who outclassed professional actors. Nobody I knew had mastered the art of elaborately enacting every word he spoke with the perfection of Professor Sastri. When he spoke at last, his eyes were prophetic. ‘Lakshmi, listen carefully. Every step that a committed revolutionary takes is a gigantic stride in the onward, unstoppable march of the history of the Progressive movement. You’ve already put your foot forward. Don’t take a step back. I’m there. The entire force of the intellectual class is behind you to propel you. An inter-religious marriage is far more revolutionary than an inter-caste marriage!’ He leaned forward, took my hands in his and squeezed hard.

  Then he called Amir. ‘I know she has agreed to convert to Islam to satisfy an unavoidable social requirement. I won’t restrict her freedom. Besides, we’re both committed to the Progressive movement and aspire to grow together in our careers in the film world. I know better than her that neither of these goals is achievable if she sits in the zenana like any other Muslim wife,’ Amir assured him.

  After this, the professor called me separately. ‘There are no pre-defined methods to achieve complete revolution. The path itself reveals the way. We need to alter our methods to meet every changed or new circumstance. Flexibility is the key. In your case, you need to “convert” in order to get inside the system, know it intimately and then find ways to slowly dismantle it from within. The urgent need of the hour is to destroy the traditions of the Hindu society because it is the majority community. Equally, we need to apply this to the Muslim society. You must view your “conversion” in this light. Revolution must spread from all directions. Lakshmi, for all its faults, Islam stands for equality. Share whatever you have in equal proportions. If a revolution ever occurs in religion today, it will be on these principles that Islam already embodies. Hinduism is just a feeble relic incapable of anything.’

  It began to make sense. Professor Sastri’s reasoning was entirely in line with what I had learnt in my amateur theatre days and later in more detail at the film institute—film-making was a form of enabling social change, and not just a mere medium that provided food for deeper contemplation on art and life and similar, outmoded interpretations. I was convinced. To show his solidarity, he even organized a small function at the university after my nikah ceremonies were completed. The function was held under the banner of the Revolutionary Students’ Association, which he had founded. It was rather grand, given the occasion: just a marriage. A huge open-air theatre, elaborately decorated. Professor Sastri gave a stirring speech about how Amir and Lakshmi (now Razia) represented the courageous rebellion against antiquated social and religious norms. He encouraged others to emulate us and finished his speech by making us exchange garlands. All Bangalore-based newspapers carried our pictures on their front pages, accompanied by well-worded reports. Two Progressive journals wrote glowing editorials on this path-breaking event and described it as another victory of the role of the art world, and the intelligentsia as agents of social change.

  ~

  I hadn’t met the professor for sometime now. But the worrying turn of events in my marriage made me seek his advice immediately. The automatic directory service told me that his home phone number had changed. I called his office at the university and, as expected, nobody answered my call. In the end, I managed to get his new home number. He was out of town, in Calcutta for a seminar, after which he would leave for Peking next Saturday. I could meet him at the university between Monday and Friday. After he returned, I decided that going to the university wasn’t really a good idea. I knew he’d be buried in work. It would be nearly impossible to catch him alone. But I went nonetheless and saw a huge throng of admirers and students and favour seekers, all young people. He saw me and smiled warmly before introducing me to the group.

  ‘I’m sure you all know Razia, the rebel and popular film personality.’

  The girls in the crowd looked at me with their collective mouths agape in admiration.

  ‘Do all of you lovely ladies wish to become like your heroine or will you remain content just looking at her with wonderstruck eyes?’ Professor Sastri’s tone was teasing. And then he addressed me directly, ‘Lakshmi, if you’ve come to see me personally, I’m sure there’s something really serious. I’ll finish with these budding Progressives and see you at four. Why don’t you go to the library and read something till then?’

  I went to his office sharp at 4.00 p.m. after spending nearly five hours in the library.

  ‘Not here. Let’s go for a drive. If I’m here, I’m sure one of these pests will find an excuse to disturb us.’ I thought that was a sensible idea. As his car left the university campus, he put his left hand on my right shoulder and began stroking it casually. I had expected this kind of behaviour.

  ‘It’s been a while…so, are you okay? How’s everything? Shall we go to Big Banyan Tree? It’s relatively private at this hour. We can talk undisturbed.’

  I nodded. His hand didn’t stop the stroking. Without showing my discomfort, I said, ‘I…umm…I don’t know where to start… Oh well! I converted to Islam just so I could marry Amir and…and in an enthusiasm to dismantle its moth-eaten core. But now I realize that I can’t stay within that religion without becoming a part of that same moth-eaten core.’

  ‘Really? That’s sad! But why did you convert in the first place? Both you and Amir could have walked out of your respective religions. You could have opted for a civil marriage. You would have then become the pioneering role models as a progressive couple,’ he said.

  I was stunned by his response. This was the same man who had stimulated me four years ago on the urgent importance of ‘getting inside’ the system to wreck it. I didn’t show my shock but reminded him of that conversation.

  ‘Oh yes yes yes! I remember…sorry…tell me the details now. What went wrong?’

  I told him and by the time my tale of four years ended, we had reached Big Banyan Tree. We sat on a stone bench under the sunlight-blocking branches of one o
f the banyan trees. We didn’t speak for several minutes. Then he turned to me and summoned that same prophetic look that I now felt was patented by him.

  ‘Do you see how this banyan tree is an eminently fitting metaphor? The primal banyan tree grows and grows and spreads its aerial roots over a large area. These aerial roots, over the years, patiently descend until they touch the earth and beyond. Then they become roots and give birth to a hundred similar banyan trees, which in turn begin to spread their aerial roots. To us, it appears like this enormous tree is standing on hundreds of roots. Can you show me the original root of this tree, that which gave birth to this foliage? I’ll tell you. In reality, the root of that first tree has died ages ago. Think about it, Lakshmi—how long can any root live? But then, every aerial root that touches the earth and then goes underground likes to proclaim that it is the original root. Now tell me, isn’t our religion exactly like this?’

  As always, I felt mesmerized listening to his words. It felt like he was blessing me with a new vision, a fresh insight, despite my fully knowing by then that his words were designed to charm and persuade. What I didn’t know was the fact that charm was often superficial. I was lost entirely in that banyan tree imagery. He was sitting to my left and I suddenly felt his right arm on my shoulder. In the next instant he put his arms around me and pulled me into a light embrace, in a posture that felt like it was not merely physical but the intermingling of two intellects absorbed in the same vision. He whispered in my ears, ‘Lakshmi, trust me, this is spontaneous…it happened because I know that at this precise moment we’re both wrapped in the same intellectual revelation. This embrace is a profound stamp of that shared revelation.’

  I didn’t protest, but turned my neck around and fixed my eyes on a slowly-decaying banyan tree. After sometime I said, ‘Sir, you told me that Islam is the only religion rooted in egalitarianism. Because my questions made Amir uncomfortable, he pronounced talaq just like that on the wife who had abandoned everything for him because his religion gives him that privilege. Where do I now stand, sir? Do you have any solutions for me?’