Authors: Anita Nair
Ladies Coupe (17 page)
A hysterical laugh ran up my throat. But I swallowed it down as I had all these years swallowed my sense of pride. Suddenly I felt suffocated by my marriage.
That night after everyone had left and I had washed up, I lay on my side of the bed watching Ebe go through the rituals of the night. The anger in me bubbled but there was little I could do apart from letting it bubble. I thought of how he had turned the evening into another moment of triumph for himself. I thought of Alfred Arokiaswami and the poetry of chemicals. I thought of all that was good and noble about my life that he had destroyed. I thought of the baby that died even before it had a soul. I thought of how there was nothing left for me to dream of and the words rose to the surface again: I HATE HIM. I HATE HIM. What am I going to do?
By the window was the goldfish bowl in which Ebe kept his goldfish pair. Another theory he advocated: fifteen minutes of watching goldfish twice a day as they swam hopelessly in circles relaxed the nerves, reduced stress and revived the spirit. His. Not the goldfish’s.
Ebe clucked in annoyance. What was wrong now? I
wondered. Had the fish failed to swim in the mandatory circles?
wondered. Had the fish failed to swim in the mandatory circles?
‘Poor James. He got too greedy. I knew he wasn’t well. He’d slowed down for the past couple of days and seemed to be almost dragging himself. But this is unfortunate. Now I’ll have to find another James.’
I raised myself on my elbow. A dead fish.
Ebe called the pair James and Joyce. A private joke, he said, but nevertheless he made sure that everyone knew about it and chuckled at the principal’s sense of humour. And now James was dead. Of some fish-disease. Or perhaps of greed and over-eating.
James floated on top with his belly split open. I stared at the dead James and the living Joyce who seemed sleeker and friskier, frolicking happier than I had ever seen her. A tiny scale of suspicion tickled my throat. Had Joyce managed it so?
I felt a smile stretch my lips. An airiness. A sense of calm.
Am I being unfair? Am I letting my hate cloud my sense of shame? If so, let be it. There is nothing fair about love or war, Ebe often said. And this was war.
I am a good cook. When I want to be. I am a sensitive cook and when I wish it so, the ingredients heed my commands. But for long, I had cooked like my art-inclined students did their chemistry experiments. It had to be done and so it got done. With neither a sense of joy nor any pride in what the results would be. Not any more, I thought. My cooking would have a sense of purpose now. But first, I had to persuade Ebe to let down his defences. To open his senses and taste buds to me.
When Ebe came to bed, I pretended to be asleep as usual. I did not remember when we last had sexual intercourse. I don’t even remember who turned away first. Was it he, disgusted by my body; folds of flesh, unclear lines, sagging muscles and my woman’s bush? Or was it I who wanted an
equal in bed and decided that I could no longer keep up the pretence of being a little girl?
equal in bed and decided that I could no longer keep up the pretence of being a little girl?
But that night when Ebe had settled into sleep, I turned to him and ran my tongue down the side of his neck. I let my fingers tease and pull the hair on his chest. Ever so gently, like a little girl would … I wooed him, as I knew how. With stealth and cunning. With butterfly kisses and bold caresses. With a child-like naïveté that made an ‘O’ of my lips and shaven skin. With steely resolve and parted legs.
In the morning, I rose at dawn and rushed into the kitchen. Your time begins now Ebe, I told a sleeping Ebe. Your time begins with this breakfast. Puris fried in ghee and a potato, peas and cauliflower korma. Two fried eggs sunny side up and a tall glass of cold creamy milk into which I stirred two big spoons of sugar.
Ebe stared at the array of dishes before him and said, ‘What is all this? Do you expect me to eat it all? Take it away.’
‘Oh come, come,’ I teased. How easy it was to seem playful and little-girlish now that freedom was in sight. ‘You’re a big man. And you need to eat a big meal. And it isn’t as if you don’t exercise. Besides, you need your strength, don’t you,’ I smiled coyly.
It was easy to flatter Ebe. He never perceived it to be false. To him, flattery was merely the truth. And so Ebe ate the first of his many big breakfasts with gusto and relish.
Ebe ate. Breakfasts. Lunches. Dinners. An evening snack as soon as he came home from school. A late night snack as he worked on his files. I wasn’t expecting a miracle, an overnight transformation. It wasn’t going to be as easy or as simple as it had been for Joyce. But I was willing to wait.
Almost a year later, fat found its home. What was mine became his. The sleek lines began to blur. The breath shortened and the pace slowed. Folds appeared around the neck. A second chin. A belly that jiggled. Ebe no longer strutted. He waddled. When he climbed a staircase, he gasped. He no longer roamed the corridors of the school
restlessly as and when the whim took him. Instead, he limited himself to two rounds, once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
restlessly as and when the whim took him. Instead, he limited himself to two rounds, once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
Ebe slowly became a fat man. A quiet man. An easy man. A man who no longer needed the coterie or defaced books. A man whose fondness for eating blunted his razor edge. Since I was the one to appease his appetite, he sought me more and more. I tantalized his appetite for food and occasionally for sex, in every which way I knew. He needed me like he had never before. And Ebe became a man I could live with once again.
For the second time, I became pregnant and my baby was born. A girl. I looked at her fine, chiselled features just like Ebe’s. Her long slender fingers so like Ebe’s. And then I saw the naked innocence of her pubis and I felt a great, dark shadow loom over us. I remembered a night when Ebe woke me up with his fumbling. The strange note in his voice. How he had touched and probed, crooning, ‘My little girl, my darling child.’
I knew fear then. Fear as I have never known before. My baby was untainted and clean. Just the way Ebe liked his women to be. It became imperative that I keep Ebe from reverting back to his earlier self. For if I did, I couldn’t even begin to think of the evils that would be visited upon us.
So, if I had cooked before to take charge of my life, I now fed Ebe to shackle him. I began to hate the smell of fried foods and of meat and fish. But I cooked rich and splendid meals that Ebe would not be able to resist. I fed his hunger and greed. I let the flesh drip from my bones and gather between his. And when he wondered why I seldom ate what I had cooked for him, I flattered him with, ‘You have the build to carry extra weight. When a man puts on weight and he is as tall and broad as you are, it gives him an air of authority. A presence. But if I put on weight, I’ll look like a dumpy hen.’
Ebe would smile and take an extra helping. And I would smile back happily. For when Ebe remained fat, there were
no adrenaline surges; no power struggles. All was quiet and calm and watered down in our lives.
no adrenaline surges; no power struggles. All was quiet and calm and watered down in our lives.
When you add water to sulphuric acid, the acid splutters at first. But soon it loses its strength; it loses its bite. The trick is to know when to add it, and how much.
Akhila lay on her back. Her eyes felt heavy and yet she couldn’t sleep.
Margaret had got off at Coimbatore. Before leaving, she ran a comb through her hair and adjusted her sari pleats, then said, ‘Akhila, if there is one virtue I have, it is immunity to what people think of me. Naturally this makes them dislike me even more. People don’t like to think that their opinion of someone means nothing to that person. And when it is a woman … the thought is intolerable. But like I said, I don’t care. I’m not saying that you ought to think like I do. But you’ll discover that once you stop worrying what the world will think of you, your life will become that much easier to live.’
She said, ‘Just remember that you have to look out for yourself. No one else will.’
Akhila had smiled, not trusting herself to speak. What could she say to this woman who she wasn’t even sure she liked? Who, in fact, scared her a little. How could anyone be so impervious to what people thought of her? Did she really mean it? Or was it merely bravado to cover up the anguish she felt for being seen as a misfit?
Akhila was suddenly struck by a notion. All these
women, she thought, all these women – Janaki, Sheela and even Margaret, who wears her self-sufficiency as a halo – are trying to make some sense of their own lives by talking about them. And I thought I was the one trying to define the reality of my life. They need to justify their failures as much as I do. And by preying on the fabric of each other’s lives, and seeking in it a similar thread that in some way will connect our lives, we are trying to feel less guilty for who we are and what we have become.
women, she thought, all these women – Janaki, Sheela and even Margaret, who wears her self-sufficiency as a halo – are trying to make some sense of their own lives by talking about them. And I thought I was the one trying to define the reality of my life. They need to justify their failures as much as I do. And by preying on the fabric of each other’s lives, and seeking in it a similar thread that in some way will connect our lives, we are trying to feel less guilty for who we are and what we have become.
Akhila turned on her side and cradled her head on her arm. The metal wall of the coupé was cold to the touch. What was it that Margaret had said?
Love is a colourless, volatile liquid. Love ignites and burns. Love leaves no residue – neither smoke nor ash. Love is a poison masquerading as the spirit of wine.
How could love turn like this? Would she too have been consumed with bitterness, as Margaret was, if she had chosen to marry the man she had loved? Would she too have sought ways to negate his role in her life once she fell out of love? How did one know when you didn’t love any more?
Margaret made love seem as if it were a wild beast she had domesticated. A docile creature that lay at her feet and could be saddled any time she chose. But is that what she wanted from life? A watered-down love?
Suddenly Akhila turned her head and glanced at the woman asleep on the opposite berth. Here was Janaki who after pretending for most of her adult life that security was love, had grappled with her inner self and grabbed at her last chance to love and be truly loved. And that girl Sheela … even she had allowed her instincts to rule rather than do what was expected of her – the sober dictates of good conduct.
Then, for the first time in many years, Akhila thought of Hari. Of the shaping of what had been her first chance …
In those first years of being an employed woman, when
everything else seemed to be in a state of flux around her, Akhila sought comfort in routine. As long as she stuck to the habitual and the predictable, she knew that she still had some measure of control over the direction her days were taking.
everything else seemed to be in a state of flux around her, Akhila sought comfort in routine. As long as she stuck to the habitual and the predictable, she knew that she still had some measure of control over the direction her days were taking.
Akhila took the 7.20 train to Madras every morning from Ambattur, which meant that she had to leave home exactly at seven. Something about that time of the morning filled her with delight. It was the hour of peace and new beginnings. Even the sun and the moon stared at each other from opposite sides of the horizon without willing the other away. A gentle breeze blew, ruffling the tree tops with a father-like caress. The doorsteps were swept clean and the lines of the kolam gleamed.
At that time of the morning, the roads were empty. Akhila’s companions were the newspaper boys and milk vendors, the kerosene man who pulled his cart had hailed her with an extra vigorous cry of ‘Krishnoil’ and the rock-salt seller who carried his load on his head and grunted ‘uppu’ as he went from street to street. And the man with a towel around his hips who stood by the water pipe at the street corner working a film of soapy lather into his hair and skin, while his wife furiously pumped water into a bucket. All of them knew her by sight and reserved a glance, a smile and a nod of the head, or a sound for her. They knew that she wasn’t one of those early morning walkers who was out only for exercise. They knew that like them, if she didn’t leave home early, a family would starve. That was their bond.
‘Why do you have to leave so early?’ Padma grumbled at being woken up at the crack of dawn. For when Akhila woke up at five in the morning, she insisted that the others get up too. Or, if not at five, they should wake up early enough to get a head start on their day. It bothered Akhila to leave home when they still hadn’t rubbed the sleep out of their eyes.
‘The 7.20 is not so crowded. The trains after that are
packed and I’ll have to stand all the way to Central,’ she said.
packed and I’ll have to stand all the way to Central,’ she said.
In those first years, the train ride was part of the routine. Akhila knew every station, every landmark, every level crossing, every ditch they ran alongside. Even before the train sped through Korattur, she would take a deep breath and screw up her face to prevent the stench from the milk pasteurizing factory from riding up her nostrils. At Madras Central she would cross the road to the bus stop near Madras Medical College and catch a bus to Nungambakkam. By 8.45, she was at her desk. On time always.
Even after the boys and Padma left home, Akhila clung to her routine. She was thirty-eight years old and she knew no other way to structure her day.
Later when Akhila thought about it, she couldn’t remember what the reason was, but for the first time in almost nineteen years, she missed both the 7.20 and the 7.35 trains. She walked to the bus stop and had to force herself to squeeze into a bus. There was no time to wait for a less crowded bus. Akhila had to push her way in and that was how she found herself pressed against the steel pole. She clutched it to prevent herself from being propelled any further and then stood there trying not to let the sensation of being pressed against so many bodies bother her.
There were a few women in that mass of skin and scents. But what caught at her throat and filled her senses was the smell of hair cream and coconut oil, Lifebuoy soap and tobacco. After Appa died, Akhila hadn’t smelt these masculine fragrances from so close. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
At first, when the back of a hand brushed against her waist, she dismissed it as an accident. There were so many people packed into the bus and its motion threw them against each other.
Akhila felt it again. This time the hand, as if emboldened by its previous foray, let itself rest on her midriff. She sucked in her breath, as if by doing so she would repulse the
marauder. The hand lifted, scared by the clenched muscle, the million pores that screamed: leave me alone. Only to return a few seconds later.
marauder. The hand lifted, scared by the clenched muscle, the million pores that screamed: leave me alone. Only to return a few seconds later.
Akhila wore her sari like all women of her age did; an inch below the navel. Only old women and pregnant women wore their saris above the navel. Between the blouse and the skirt of the sari were almost eight inches of exposed skin veiled by a layer of the sari. And it was here, protected by the cover of the fabric, that the hand chose to gambol and play.
Five fingers. Slightly coarse skin. Closely cut nails except for the nail of the little finger which stretched about an inch long, slightly curved, a frisson of savagery on an otherwise gentle hand. It drew lines as it let itself dribble over the skin of her midriff. Akhila felt a warmth rush over her … She had never known anything like this before. An unfurling. Beads of sweat. A rasping edge to her muted breath. A quiet flowering.
Akhila stood there, willing enough, and let the hand send a thousand messages to her almost dead nerve ends: wake up, wake up.
For a fortnight, the hand and Akhila encountered. She began to take the bus, morning after morning. No matter where she stood, the hand would find her. Gentle at first. Then exploratory and finally demanding. So that she knew what it was to feel the ball of a thumb against her lower spine. The bony arc of knuckles as they traced the curve of her waist. The extended nail of the little finger as it skated in circles and figure eights. The tip of a forefinger as it circled her navel and then plunged into it fleetingly …
Sometimes Akhila allowed herself to lean against the body that stood behind her and the hand would pause in its wanderings and just lie there, supine, comforting, a presence that she had begun to seek.
When Akhila got out of the bus, she put aside the sensations the hand aroused in her and didn’t think about what she was doing. She knew that she was behaving like
no self-respecting woman would. But there was gratification for her as well. She felt desired. She felt as if she had fed a hunger. Akhila felt like a woman.
no self-respecting woman would. But there was gratification for her as well. She felt desired. She felt as if she had fed a hunger. Akhila felt like a woman.
Sometimes she thought that she would like to know the owner of the hand. And then immediately, she would quell the thought.
One morning, as Akhila stood there with wide-open senses and downcast eyes and the hand loved her body, the bus jerked to a stop. She looked up and caught the eye of a man who was watching her. The conductor. She dropped her eyes when she saw disgust in his. He had seen the trespassing hand and he had seen her welcome the trespasser. What woman would let a stranger take such liberties?
‘There is a vacant seat there. Why don’t you sit down?’ he said, pointing to the seats.
Akhila flushed and tried to pretend to be grateful to him for having rescued her from the hands of a vagrant creature.
As she moved towards the empty seat near a woman, he said, ‘There is really no need for you to squeeze yourself between all these men when there are seats set aside for women. Try catching an earlier bus. It is never this crowded.’
Akhila pretended not to hear him and sat in her seat feeling the yellow, watery bile of mortification rush into her mouth. What am I doing? How could I let my wanton senses rule me? How can I forget who I am?
Akhila went back to the 7.20 train and because she could no longer bear the thought of the fortnight when the madness had taken over her, she bought a first-class pass and travelled in almost solitary splendour. There were no bodies to taunt or tempt.
In the evening, Akhila took the 5.55 train back. It went up to Arakonnam, which was a railway junction an hour away from Madras City. It was a fast train with few stops and most people preferred to travel by it. But the first-class compartment always had a few empty seats.
At first, Akhila didn’t even notice the man who always chose the window seat. Since the train started from Central station, they had the pick of the seats. She chose a window seat and he chose the one opposite her. But Akhila was oblivious to him or anyone else. All she could think of was the look on the bus conductor’s face. When she saw a man, she wanted to hang her head and cover her face. She worried: would he too see what a wanton creature she was?
One evening, Akhila was a little late and she thought that her window seat would be gone. There were no reservations in the suburban train but there was an unspoken understanding among the passengers that if a book or even a handkerchief had been placed upon the seat, it meant it was occupied and that the occupant would be there in a moment’s time. Akhila saw a magazine and a handkerchief placed on her usual seat and as she turned to find another place, a voice called, ‘Madam, your seat is here.’
Akhila turned in surprise. The man who sat by the window smiled, gesturing to the seat opposite. ‘When I didn’t see you in your usual place, I thought you must have been delayed and I put my things there so no one else would sit in your place,’ he explained.
‘Thank you,’ Akhila said as she sat down. ‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she added.
‘I needn’t have,’ he said. ‘But for many weeks now, I have seen you sit in the same place and I thought you probably had a fondness for it. Besides, you can hardly call placing a handkerchief on a seat a bother,’ he grinned.
He was younger than she was. Many years younger. Probably her younger brother Narsi’s age. But there was an honesty in his face which Narsi lacked. Narsi resembled a jackal; with narrow eyes and a pointed face forever sniffing out an opportunity to gain from. This boy had an open face with widely spaced features and a pleasantness that was beguiling. Akhila sighed in relief It was men she was scared of, not boys.
‘What is your name?’ Akhila asked, putting on her older sister voice.
‘Hari,’ he said.
‘Just plain Hari. Not Hari Prasad or Hari Kumar?’
‘Yes, just plain Hari,’ he said. ‘And what’s yours?’
She wondered what she should tell him. Akhila? Akhilandeswari? Eswari?
‘Akhila,’ she said, because that sounded the closest to Akka. Akhila was defining the boundaries of their relationship rightaway. Akka. Older sister. Treat me as one. That is how I see myself. I do not want to be seen as a woman. To do so would be to open a Pandora’s box within me.
They became friends. It was as easy as that. An instant camaraderie that they nurtured in the thirty-five minutes he and she sat opposite each other. Soon they began taking the same morning train too. She told him about herself and he drew a word picture of his life for her.
Twenty-eight years old. He was a draftsman in the railway engineering department. He was a north Indian from a small town in Madhya Pradesh but he had lived in Avadi, the town next to Ambattur, almost all of his life. His father had a sweet shop and his sister was studying at Queen Mary’s College. His Tamil was as good as his Hindi, he said. His parents were keen that he get married soon. Every once in a while they insisted that he meet a prospective bride. But he found the whole business repugnant. ‘How can you decide to marry a woman by just looking at her?’ he asked Akhila.
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