You Are All I Need

by Ravinder Singh

  His vanity requires no response,

  And makes a welcome of indifference.

  Over the years, Mala endeavoured repeatedly to establish a semblance of some kind of friendship with Shankar. But all her efforts came to naught. Shankar was simply not interested in her as a separate human being. For him, she seemed to exist only in her capacity as a beautiful wife to display and for his own pleasure. She was supposed to be a useful extension to himself. Her role was to smoothly run his home and be an exemplary hostess to his relatives, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. And, of course, cater to his needs in the bedroom. Apart from that, there was nothing that Shankar wanted to do with her.

  Shankar never talked to her—really talked to her—about anything. There was no friendship, no camaraderie, no companionship. All their conversations were perfunctory, related to whatever he needed her to do for him. There was only the mundane that they ever talked about. There was nothing of the profound or the sublime or the intellectual in their talks—ever. There was no fun-filled repartee or light-hearted banter either.

  After years of futile attempts, entreaties, tears, cajoling and begging, Mala gave up trying to establish a deeper connection with her husband. She withdrew further into a shell. She began existing at a superficial level, while the real Mala disappeared—bit by bit, and then completely.

  With the passage of time and the birth of two children, Mala indeed lost all her charm and vitality. She always looked pale, depressed and her mouth perpetually drooped.

  Yet her sharp features and fair colour remained . . . And Shankar still did not stray . . .

  Then Ketaki entered her life. The smart, savvy, unflappably cool Ketaki ran her own garment export unit. They hit it off at their very first meeting and, in an incredibly short time, became very close friends. Ketaki was everything that Mala had ever wanted to be. Ketaki, on the other hand, was drawn to the vulnerable softness that enveloped Mala like a mist. Somehow, it seemed but natural that they exchanged their innermost secrets.

  Ketaki had never married, being put off men after seeing her hard-working mother abused every day by her unemployed, alcoholic, brutish father. She was further alienated from the male species when a cousin whom she had looked up to molested her. Ketaki had vowed that she would never allow any man to gain control over her in any way—least of all her heart.

  Mala could not help but admire the manner in which Ketaki had taken charge of her life. By now they had started meeting every day for lunch. At times they giggled like schoolgirls and, at others, exchanged their pain and anguish.

  At last Mala had found someone who understood and empathized with her. They shared the same interests and had a similar outlook towards life.

  Slowly Mala became infected with Ketaki’s verve and energy. She seemed to flower for the first time in her life, while Ketaki lost some of her tough businesswoman facade and smiled more often.

  Ketaki urged Mala to get back her individuality, her identity. Mala did not even know what that was.

  ‘Think back. What did you love doing most in school, in college? There must have been something,’ Ketaki coaxed fervently.

  ‘Er . . . it . . . it was oil painting . . .’ Mala spoke diffidently.

  ‘Well, there you have it. You are going to become a painter!’

  Brushing aside all of Mala’s protestations, Ketaki hauled her to the market and bought her easels, paints, brushes and all the paraphernalia needed for painting.

  ‘But what will Shankar say? Will he allow it?’ Mala was apprehensive.

  ‘Nonsense. You just need to be smart about it. You have to present this to Shankar as another feather in your cap.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Mala was confused.

  ‘Meaning Shankar would be all too glad to show off to the world that his trophy wife is not only gorgeous but an artist too.’

  ‘Er . . . do you think it will work?’ Mala was hesitant.

  ‘Of course! I know exactly how men like Shankar think. Just do as I say.’ Ketaki was confident.

  Mala nodded. Her being began to fill with a long-forgotten excitement at the thought of using the paintbrush after years.

  ‘Now the first thing you do is convert one of the guest rooms of your sprawling bungalow into a studio. After that, all you have to do is paint. Paint like never before. Pour all your angst, all your emotions, everything, into your paintings,’ Ketaki spoke passionately.

  Mala looked at Ketaki in wonder. Was she a goddess, the thought came to her, and tears almost welled up in her eyes.

  A month later, Mala invited Ketaki to her studio when no one was at home. Ketaki went from painting to painting exclaiming in delight. ‘This is better than I expected.’

  ‘Really? You really think so?’ Mala’s art teachers in school and college had always loved her paintings—but that had been so long ago.

  ‘Yes.’ Ketaki was firm. ‘Now I want you to make about thirty more, in addition to these six, and then we will exhibit them in one of the art galleries.’

  Mala was speechless. For the first time in her life, she began to dream . . .

  To Mala, Ketaki was everything she never had. She was her mentor, her best friend, her brother, sister, girlfriend, boyfriend, buddy, doting mother, indulgent father, partner-in-crime, confidante—everything. Bit by bit, Ketaki began filling the painful void—the humungous aching crater within her that had swallowed up the real Mala eons ago.

  They felt like long-lost soulmates united at last.

  One afternoon while sharing their daily lunch, Ketaki said, ‘I don’t feel like going back to my office. Let’s go back to my apartment for a nice siesta.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mala was all too ready. In any case, her children returned at six after attending school and subsequent tuition classes. And Shankar returned only by nine or much later.

  Later, lying in Ketaki’s eclectically designed bedroom and holding hands, they felt at peace.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve taken time off since I started working,’ Ketaki broke the companionable silence.

  ‘And I feel free for the first time in years.’ Mala smiled.

  ‘I love your hair.’ Ketaki softly caressed Mala’s silky locks.

  ‘Hmm . . . that feels so good!’ Mala purred languidly as a heavy lassitude overcame her limbs. Her eyes grew heavy and a contented smile curved her mouth. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull Ketaki into her arms. Ketaki’s arms embraced her tenderly. Mala experienced gentle vibes enveloping her. From somewhere deep within her, copious tears started flowing down her cheeks and heavy sobs racked her, as years of anger, sorrow and frustration rolled out of her. The calm that followed left her with only one deep feeling—of being loved and cared for as never before.

  Holding Ketaki close, she whispered, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you . . .’

  ‘I know. I love you too,’ cooed Ketaki.

  The hours passed in sheer bliss. At last Mala understood the ramifications of her own being. Finally she had become true to herself. She was complete now.

  In the ten years of marriage, Mala had never formed any kind of attachment with Shankar. Whereas here, within a few hours, a lifelong irrevocable bond had been formed.

  Ketaki emerged from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea, and Mala was brought back from her ruminations. They smiled at each other mischievously, sipping their tea in silence. Words were unnecessary, for they knew that each belonged to the other in an immutable union. Till now their lives had been like a parched desert, but at last they had been blessed with the nourishing rain of love and life. This was their own cocoon of love, which no one in the world could breach. And as evening fell, they left the apartment, hand in hand, towards their separate destinations, with joy in their hearts and a spring in their step.

  5

  The Matchmaker

  Anuj Dutt

  It was winter and I was sitting in the lawn waiting for the school bus to drop my daughter Amaira home. The bus came and the little lady got
off. When she saw me she came running. I was really proud of my fifteen-year-old.

  ‘I am going to be Samyukta, and Rohan will be Prithviraj Chauhan!’ she shouted before breaking into her favourite jig. Well, she had landed the role she wanted in her school play, Chand Bardai’s Prithviraj Raso. For me it was a dazzling tale of medieval romance. However, I knew that the authenticity of the Samyukta episode was in history’s grey area of sorts.

  The legend is that Samyukta, the headstrong princess of Kannauj, and Prithviraj Chauhan, a Rajput king, fell deeply in love. On finding out about the love affair, Raja Jaichand, who was Samyukta’s father and the king of Kannauj, was livid that a romance had been blossoming without his knowledge and that, too, with a king he could not stand. Jaichand decided to insult Prithviraj and arranged a swayamvara for his daughter, an event where she would garland a husband of her choice from a galaxy of invited royalty. Prithviraj was, of course, not invited. To insult him further, Jaichand commissioned a clay statue of Prithviraj in the form of a lowly guard of his court and installed it at the entrance.

  Prithviraj, on hearing about the ceremony, devised a plan. Now there are two versions of how things went after that. One version says that Prithviraj hid behind the statue and another says that he removed the statue the night before and stood in its place. On the day of the ceremony, Samyukta walked through the court holding the ceremonial garland. Ignoring the gaze of her ardent suitors, she passed through the door and put the garland around the neck of Prithviraj’s statue. The ‘statue’ magically came to life, sweeping Samyukta off her feet, literally, setting her on his horse and riding away with her to Delhi, his kingdom. Till date, I believe this is what a true swashbuckling romance is about!

  Coming back to the present, as per the deal struck with Amaira a few days back, it was agreed that if she landed the role, I would narrate to her and her little sister, Naina, how I’d won my ‘Samyukta’! They knew patches of how Rekha, their mother, and I got married. My in-laws and my parents had strictly censored the uncomfortable bits and had told them their own versions. I wanted both my children to hit their teens before I could share the true chain of events that had transpired so many years ago.

  After dinner, we were all to curl up on the sofa for the grand narration. I had serious doubts about my storytelling skills. While revising the narrative in my head, I recalled how, in those days, the messengers of romance were PCO and STD booths, and how, for arranged marriages, the girl’s photo was sent to the boy’s by speed post and a pre-arranged match under intensive parental supervision was the done thing. And I wondered if I would come out at the end of the narration as dashing as the Prithviraj Chauhan of history lessons. In the world that Amaira and Naina lived in, mobile phones had replaced STD booths, and it was not just the girl’s photo that was sent any more, it was the boy’s too—for which they used WhatsApp and email. And meetings took place in one of the numerous coffee shops that had sprung up, of course after their respective profiles were vetted on LinkedIn, Instagram and Facebook.

  After dinner, I was called to the living-room sofa. Both Amaira and Naina had worked on the setting—a dim lamp in the corner and soft Kenny G music coming from the speakers. I was nervous.

  I told myself that in the story I was about to narrate, I had won—fair and square—and that I was very proud of my victory. And unlike Prithviraj Chauhan’s story with Samyukta, which was supposedly pure fiction, I had over a dozen friends and relatives who had witnessed my amazing win. On top of that, I had two wonderful daughters and a soulmate of nineteen years to show for it.

  I sat down, cleared my throat and began my story:

  This isn’t a tale about people living together peacefully in a small residential colony. It is not a story that has a lesson to be learnt at the end. It is a story about how I won your mother from the matchmaker.

  The place where this story takes place is a peaceful neighbourhood. Back when it happened, it was a place where bureaucrats during their service years bought small plots and constructed their retirement havens. A mini kingdom for all the retired subjects of ‘babudom’. Their children stayed with them. Some of the children left for jobs or higher studies elsewhere. Some, like me, waited for their fathers to pull the right strings and press the right buttons to get jobs. It was an easy life. We were a pretty big group of eleven guys, to start with, but slowly our group grew smaller as our fathers found the right connections that made things work for us and got us jobs.

  This was at a time when about five of us were waiting for one of those ‘we have a post just for you’ calls. To pass time we would play chess and carom at each other’s homes from about five in the evening to about seven. And then it was off to the local market to meet Ruchi, Rekha and Rohini.

  After all, we were young men with hearts. Three of us had our soulmates identified. The other two were still searching. And, no, the three R’s were not sisters. There was talk of marriage, of undying love—all hidden from parents, of course. But we were all sensible people, who wanted good pay packets before dowries.

  Then came the matchmaker.

  As I have already said, people who retired came to settle in our colony. So did the matchmaker—Mr Shastri, a widower. Having retired from some obscure department somewhere deep in the state secretariat, he’d come to spend the rest of his life in our peaceful colony. At the very beginning he gave us the idea that he was there just to do some gardening and play a round of rummy every now and then. It was the rummy that started all the trouble. From the terrace of one of my friends, Anil, we would see this man in a kurta pyjama and a brown blazer walking towards Mr Sanyal’s house. Mr Sanyal was Rohini’s father. And Anil was in love with Rohini.

  Mr Shastri, in one of the rummy sessions, mentioned a close friend of his in Lucknow whose son worked in Germany as an engineer. He would be the perfect match for Rohini. Would the Sanyals be interested?

  The Sanyals were, of course, very interested! STD calls were made and a postcard-size colour photograph of Rohini—taken some months ago for this very purpose—was sent by speed post to Lucknow. The reply, too, came by speed post. The match was made and accepted. A month later, Rohini Mitra, née Sanyal, left for Germany.

  Anil first contemplated suicide; then came Ghalib, followed by vodka. Vodka, because that was the only bottle left in his father’s liquor cabinet. But within a month he was back to his normal self. A few weeks later, he got that lucky phone call and was off to Mumbai to work for a big MNC.

  Mr Shastri, who had received a lot of fame in our neighbourhood for fixing such a good match, was well rewarded—a gold wristwatch from the bride’s family and a Mont Blanc pen set from the groom’s. However, I think it was the fame that spurred him on. The kind of fame that he must have always dreamt of achieving while working for the government, but which had always eluded him. He went on to arrange more matches.

  Preeti, the daughter of Mr Gupta, was married off to a chartered accountant from Chennai. The chartered accountant was the son of another of Mr Shastri’s friends. He was obviously well rewarded here as well, because a few days later we saw him on a shiny new moped. And then he turned his attention to Ruchi, Shekhar’s sweetheart. This time the match came from England. Shekhar tried to convince Ruchi to elope but she was swept off her feet by the lad from London. I enjoyed all this because I knew Rekha was devoted to me, and a job for me was not far. I knew Rekha would wait, but would your grandparents? They wanted a match for her from any country that was a member of the United Nations and carried a passport that did not have the Ashoka emblem on it.

  Mr Shastri began his search; I began to prepare for war.

  Rekha and I couldn’t talk to each other any more as your grandfather began to accompany her on her trips to the market. My friends told me to give up. But I struggled on. I decided to vent my frustrations on anything that reminded me of Mr Shastri. On Sunday mornings I would join Pinto, my dog, in ripping apart the matrimonial columns of the newspaper. One dark night I punctured the tyre of the m
oped. I threw rocks at his windowpanes. And as if to spite me, a few days later, he brought a match for Rekha—a doctor from Australia. He didn’t know about her and me. I wondered what he would have done if he had.

  So now the groom’s family were to come to see your mother soon. I had a plan. I was desperate, and so the rumours started. It was in the market that I saw them both talking—Mrs Prasad and the matchmaker. I came home and set the wheels rolling. I told your dadi how I had seen them together at so many parks, cinemas and restaurants. What was happening to good old middle-class morality? It was a plain lie with not an ounce of truth to it. Mr Prasad was an alcoholic and Mrs Prasad a devoted wife. But the die had been cast. Thanks to your grandmother and her loyal maidservant, the rumour spread.

  Suddenly people did not want to play rummy with the matchmaker any more. He received no more invites to any tea or dinner parties, and people began to avoid him at the market. And your mother’s parents were also not interested in this lover avatar of the matchmaker. They made it clear that they would join the matchmaker’s social boycott—but only after their daughter’s marriage.

  I was in a hopeless situation. My sweetheart was about to become part of India’s beauty drain.

  I was alone at home that day when the bell rang. It was the matchmaker. Over the past few weeks he seemed to have aged quite a bit. He walked in. I told him that my parents were not at home.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘You love Rekha?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So it was you who was behind the broken windowpanes, the deflated tyres, the obscene phone calls and, of course, the rumours.’

  So he had found out, from God knows where. I remained calm. He had dark circles under his eyes. Sleep, it seemed, had eluded him for a long time. Served him right. But I was still overcome with pity. We were sitting in the drawing room. I offered him a glass of water.

  ‘The rumours must stop. Think about the lady, at least. That husband of hers is an alcoholic; he has started hitting her. Your prank has snowballed into something bigger—or should I say . . . revenge.’