by Anubha Mehta
I was still crying when I reached Prakash’s house. He hovered around me possessively, as one does with a newly acquired possession. Now there was no respite—not from him, not from this house, and not from this life.
It was the most painful night I have ever known. Prakash had free rein over my body. There was no stopping him, and his obsession grew stronger each time he penetrated my being and killed a little of my soul. It was endless. The whole night I waited in dread while he took me again and again. After the pain and shock of the first instance died down, I tried to detach my mind from my body to avoid convulsing at his next touch.
These past few days have been overwhelming. Prakash has an ailing mother who needs constant care. Being the wife of the only son, she was quick to delegate the responsibilities of running the house to me. In a way, I welcomed the work as an excuse to avoid Prakash, who seemed to be lingering around corners and passages just for a chance to get his hands on me.
I am happy to see Sheila again. She has helped me note schedules for meals, cleaning, nurses, medicines, grooming, tutors, and entertaining. Most services come to our house, like hair stylists, doctors, tailors, jewellers, and masseuses. So, as I had suspected all along, there is no reason to leave the mansion. But I have discovered this little room hidden under the winding staircase of the rotunda. Its darkness soothes me. I wonder why it is there. But who cares. It is my salvation. I hide there after my day’s chores and write in my journal. I can cry, scream, and curse, and no one can hear me.
November 30, 1949
Ma, Baba, and the girls came to meet me on Diwali with sweets and gifts. They heard about my pregnancy. I guess Prakash told them. They looked well. They said I looked thinner. I dabbed a dollop of face power under my eyes to cover the dark circles and the swelling from crying every night. I wanted to go back with them, but I sensed that there was something distant about them, like a fragile wall of tradition, of societal boundary that kept me apart from them. Maybe they no longer think of me as one of them now. I wanted to scream at them: I am your flesh and blood. I have known no other home, no other parents. I am here because I listened to you, believed you, and obeyed you. And now how can I suddenly belong to others? We just sat awkwardly in the gaudy living room with Prakash and his mother.
Last month, Nargis came to visit. It was like a breath of fresh air to have someone my age to talk to, even if there was nothing important to talk about. She talked about her new family and how much she loved her husband. My mind instinctively drifted, not to Prakash but to Peshawar, to Sachin. It was such a distant memory now.
What does privilege mean for the rich? Was this what Ma and Baba had believed would be good for me? Why do I feel so trapped within these walls, within this life, and with Prakash? Not all women have the freedom to choose their lives. Why should I be any different? Why do I not feel privileged? Why do I feel numb? Especially at night, when I join Prakash in bed. I am afraid Prakash will decode these feelings in my silences, in my disinterest, and in my distant eyes. I am afraid that deep inside Prakash already knows.
December 1, 1949
Ranvir is born. He is beautiful. He has the same milk and honey complexion of those from Peshawar—like Ma, like me. Such perfect fingers, such a mop of hair, such overhanging cheeks, and soulful eyes. All I want to do is hold him tight and rock him in my arms. I don’t need anything else in life now. This is enough.
I am exhausted after two days of excruciating pain. Sheila has been an angel, patting my forehead and feet with iced water, massaging my limbs after the delivery. The days slip by in a blink. I have been so preoccupied with the baby that it has made Prakash impatient. Some days he peaks into a kind of frenzy, fixating on me with dilated eyes, as though he is ready to pounce. He does not even hold Ranvir. He would rather embrace me.
The days when I don’t pay undivided attention to Prakash, when I am distracted with the baby, he curses me. He reminds me of the favour he did me by pulling me out of the slums and gifting me a life that other women dream of. He repeats how difficult it was for him to convince his father to let him marry me, how much his family had to sacrifice to agree to his wishes. I can see the curl of his lips when my eyes flood up. He enjoys his cruelty. Those days, more than feeling claustrophobic, I feel humiliated and exposed. I feel like I deserve this fate for being poor, for not having any other option but to marry him. I am nothing. On my own, I have no social standing, no money, no privileges. And Prakash makes sure that I know this very well. He remorselessly degrades me, and I suspect that it is his way of taking revenge on me. I suspect he knows there still exists one thing he cannot own: my heart. I don’t want to pretend or lie to myself anymore that it will all be okay in the end. With Prakash, I never know how I will be treated tomorrow. Every day is different. In spite of my breathing every moment under his watchful eye, his insane obsession with me is consuming him, and it is growing along with his paranoid suspicions of me. He questions me about every hour of the day now: What did you do? When did you do it? Why did you do it? He is waiting for something to fall, for something to go wrong. And this wait is killing him.
Today Prakash told me to be ready to receive some news from him in the evening when he comes back from work. I dread what is coming next.
September 1, 1950
There is no respite from the heat. The dry air has turned sultry, and there is still no rain. I have been nauseous in the mornings for a few months now, and I know this can mean only one thing. But I am not prepared to share this news with anyone yet.
Instead, the news that Prakash gave me a few months ago has had me completely engrossed.
“Gayatri, I want to give you such a present that all women in Delhi will envy you. I will build a west wing, a grand annexe with every possible feature, as a tribute to our life together.”
At first I did not know how to react. Then gradually, as the feeling came back into my toes and the numbness subsided, I realized the full consequence of this. The thought of living with him alone stifled me.
“And Gayatri,” he continued, “you will help me design it. In fact, I want you to lead the design of it, with your flair. Every alcove and corner, the layout of every room, the colour shading, crystal and chrome accessories, frescoes—whatever you want. I have called the architects for drafting the blueprints.”
With some courage, I asked, “Prakash, if we move there, who will look after your parents?”
“Silly Gayatri, the west wing is only an addition to our main house, where you can come and go freely. We shall continue to live here with everyone.”
I could breathe again.
And so Prakash and I have started working together. He is like a child, asking my opinion of details such as carvings on doors and the choice of wood and stone for the floor and walls. In this past month, working together with him toward a common purpose, I am seeing a very different Prakash. His ghosts have not visited him. I do not mind him now; he is almost like a friend. Some days I impatiently wait for his return in the evening to discuss the next ideas I have. There is only one section of the west wing remaining now.
Drawing on my courage, I have decided to ask him for my dearest wish. I have been thinking about it ever since the construction began. Tomorrow I will ask him to design a music room. A room like no other, my soul room.
September 8, 1950
Ranvir has started walking early. He now sleeps through the night. I don’t know what I would have done without Sheila. She is like a second mother to him, attentive to his every need. She even sleeps in the same room next to his cot.
Meanwhile, my energy is low. My morning sickness is severe, and the bump of my belly has started showing. I had been covering it with loose kurtas and shawls. But it was time to tell Prakash. So I have.
“Really?” he exclaimed. This time he is happy. He took both my hands in his and bent down to put his ear on my belly as if waiting to hear a heartbeat. It is th
e first time he has shown such fatherly affection.
“I will inform the contractors to get the west wing ready before the baby comes.”
I knew this was the only chance I would get. I took a deep breath and asked, “Prakash … I was just wondering…”
“Yes?”
“Now that there is only one section remaining, I would like to design a special room facing the east.”
“What special room?”
“It will be for something I loved to do.”
“What?”
“Music.”
He was silent.
“Prakash, as a young girl I used to sing every day. It made me very happy.”
“Are you not happy now?” It seemed that an invisible wall had risen between us. I think Prakash felt the wall too.
He finally said, “Okay, I will allow your music as long as you do it in private. I don’t want anyone to think that the lady of the Ragsinghania house is on public display.”
Riding on my success I pushed my luck a little further: “Prakash, I have been so out of practice that in order to start again after so many years, I would need a trained teacher. Do you mind if I look for one?” Again, Prakash was hesitant. But I think he saw the hope and appeal in my eyes and gave in.
“Just make sure the teacher is from a respectable background, worthy of coming to our house to teach its mistress.”
“Yes of course.”
I am so excited. For the first time in this house, I have something to look forward to.
September 12, 1950
This pregnancy is different. I feel more carefree with each passing day; I feel a premonition of some release, a moksha, waiting for me in the near future. I cannot explain it.
“If it is a boy, I will call him Umang,” I said to Sheila as she was tucking Ranvir into bed.
“Yes, yes, it is a good name. What does it mean?”
“It means ‘a wish riding on the wave of happiness.’”
“But what if it is a girl?”
“Then I shall call her Diya, ‘the eternal lamp that lights our life.’”
Today I started the design of my music room. It will have a roof made of glass opening into the rising sun of the east, and an oil painting of a Banyan tree, like the one in our Peshawar courtyard. It will be sparsely furnished with only mattresses on the floor, again like in our courtyard in Peshawar. Now all that remains is for me to start singing.
December 22, 1950
Last week Prakash announced the completion of the west wing. My music room is perfect. It is filled with golden rays of happiness. It is a room of windows. I can lie down under the roof and pretend that I am flying in the blue sky above. I am still a trapped bird, but every time I look through the windows, I have the hope of freedom. I have started practising on the harmonium. Prakash does not begrudge me this time in the evening because of my involvement with him during the day. But being out of practice for so long, I am not happy with my voice. I have interviewed many music teachers, but none of them sing in Pashto, the dialect of my heart. It was a difficult qualification to find, especially in Delhi.
But luck never announces its arrival. This evening my luck changed. As I ventured into the library and picked up the daily newspaper, there was a news item about a group of Pashto singers who had just arrived in Delhi.
I immediately called for Sheila and asked her to send someone from our staff to find out if any of them would be interested in conducting music classes for me.
December 29, 1950
I am big and clumsy, and the baby kicks constantly in my belly. Everyday chores are a problem now. But I don’t mind. My heart has a different beat. I feel freer with each passing day. I don’t want to overthink its logic, lest I jinx it.
It has taken less than a week for Sheila to get back with the news. It feels like I have been waiting to exhale all this time. She has lined up three music teachers who sing in Pashto. They are all coming to the mansion this evening.
December 31, 1950
I do not understand God’s sense of humour. As a small girl, Baba always told us that a joke is only as good as the person it is played on. But God does not care if we laugh or cry when the joke is on us. At dusk, I was ready for the music teacher interviews. The first woman who walked in sang in perfect Pashto. I wanted to hire her right away, but she could not start till late next year because of family problems. The second person was an old Pathan. He was from my district. He told me that all the Hindus had moved east and that things were edging back to normal. He said he did not sing but recited prose. I wanted to help him with money and anything else that I could offer, but, being a self-respecting Pathan, he refused.
Now I had only one candidate left. I had decided that if this last person did not qualify either, then I would just drop the idea of taking music lessons. I was looking out of the full-length window with the golden rays warming my face. I heard his footsteps first. Blinded by the sunlight, I could not see who was standing in front of me. I gestured for the person to sit. Instead, I sensed the figure approaching me. Startled, I stepped out of the light to focus.
Then I saw him.
Oh my God! The same curly-toed shoes, the same tall broad shoulders, the same brown eyes, the same face I have been yearning to see for what felt like an eternity. On this last day of this fated year, I have found him! My eyes widened and teared up as Sachin approached me. I swayed with this revelation, and his rough hands caught my heavy body in time. We held each other for a long time. Our trance was broken by an evening bird crying in the open sky before taking flight.
He has aged. His hair is grey, his skin is burnt to an unhealthy shade, and the lines on his forehead are deep and final. But I found in his eyes the same boy I had left in Peshawar.
“How did you find me, Sachin?”
“I was always looking for you. It was only a matter of time.”
“Did you not get my note on the last night?”
“By the time I saw the chit tucked in the window sill, you had already left. I ran to your house, and then waited at the train station for days with the hope that you would return. Hope was all I had.”
“Yes, Sachin, hope is all that we had.”
“I am glad to see that you are comfortably married. You will no longer be hungry or cold. You will always be looked after. You will have more than I could ever have offered you.”
I did not reply to Sachin. I simply smiled. How blind was he? For I am hungry, and I am cold. But now I don’t want for anything more. Each day is a blessing. I live for the evening when time stands still. Prakash, now consoled by the renewed interest I have shown him, has started allowing me the luxury of these music lessons. I feel rejuvenated with every note that syncs with Sachin’s, with every song that we sing together. It seems miracles do happen. And then, as if things could not get better, they suddenly did. There was one last remaining gift from heaven: I saw Om and Shanti. They were perched on the peepal in the courtyard of our east wing. I know it was them; it had to be. They had come with Sachin, they had come to the peepal tree, and they had come home to my music, to me.
I pray every night. Life is perfect. There is nothing remaining. Anything can happen now, I do not care. I laugh at many things. Ordinary everyday things. Things that are not funny. I laugh with him.
There is an urgency within us, as if we have snatched this time from our fate. As the grandfather clock chimes eight, Sachin leaves and I get up and go back to my life. I am no longer worried about what Prakash will say. I am not afraid.
February 25, 1951
I could not find my journal this past week. I was sure that I had left it somewhere in the dark room under the stairs, as I always did, but it had disappeared. I frantically searched for it everywhere, turning all the rooms upside down. Then, as a last hope, I took Sheila into my confidence. After a week, Sheila brought it back to me,
intact. After a lot of coaxing, she finally told me that the butler had found it in the library. I thought of the possibility of Prakash reading it. But I soon calmed myself, thinking that if Prakash had read it, I would have heard no end of it by now.
I was just happy to have it back—my lifeline, my confidante, my journal.
March 24, 1951
Umang was born at midnight three days ago. He looks more like Prakash—the same tall forehead, long nose, and dark skin. I had a very rough three days. The contractions started earlier than expected, or so our midwife said. Today I feel a little strength returning to my back and legs. Sheila has been taking care of both Umang and Ranvir. She is exhausted too. She keeps a junior maid to help her at night, but during the day she does not let any other maid near them. I heard the midwife say that I have lost a lot of blood. I feel very weak. I drift in and out of sleep. It was on such a sleepless afternoon that Prakash finally came to see the baby and me, after three days.
To my bewilderment, it was a different Prakash whom I met today. His flushed face matched his blood-red eyes. I asked him if he was okay, and then I smelled him. He was swaying and reeking of alcohol. He curled his upper lip, and I knew he was about to say something cruel. But at that very moment the nurse entered for my bath and massage. Before leaving the room, he said to Sheila and the nurse, “I will be back to speak to my wife in the evening at seven. Make sure that she is well rested and waiting for me.”
It is almost seven now. I took my bath, played with Ranvir, and fed Umang before I handed him to Sheila for a bath. Then I styled my hair in a high bun with a string of fragrant jasmine around it. I am even wearing Prakash’s favourite white Chantilly lace today, the gown that he gave me on our wedding night.
I am curious as to what Prakash has to say this time. Curious, but not nervous anymore. I am ready to receive him. I am ready for anything. I am not troubled. I am free.
13. ANITA
I DIDN’T FEEL GUILTY for leaving my class early. Why should I have? After all, it was time to complete my last courses at the college of social work and step into the real world. That was why the internship was so important for me. I was exhausted after the stringent interview for the internship position. I could not believe that I was selected. Hey, but who’s complaining? This time my internship will take me to the heart of rural India, where poor artisans are struggling to organize themselves against the feudal landlords and the local police. This time it was difficult, dangerous. Maybe that was why I was selected for this opportunity: because no one else wanted it.