Married Woman (19 page)

‘Didn’t you know this man?’ asked Hemant looking through the papers three days later.

‘Which man?’ asked Astha indifferently, her life an arid desert so far as men were concerned.

Hemant flapped the papers in front of her. There, in the middle of page three were the headlines,
THEATRE GROUP
BURNED ALIVE IN VAN
, and below the story:

There followed a list of the other members of the theatre group, along with their survivors, but Astha could not read further for the tears in her eyes. What a way to die, what a horrible, horrible way to die – and for what? Because the man was trying to reach people and do some good. She hadn’t even known he was married. She turned away her head to cry some more.

Hemant, watching her, immediately lost his temper. ‘Why are you crying?’ he demanded. ‘What was he to you?’

‘Some murderers trap and burn a whole theatre group in a van and you ask me why I am crying?’

‘This kind of thing happens all the time, I don’t see you wasting your tears.’

‘I can’t weep for the whole world, only when it means something to me. Maybe I am deficient, but I knew him, he was always working for everybody’s good, even the children loved him. And he has been burnt to death. Isn’t that reason enough?’ she sobbed rocking to and fro with rage and grief.

‘Don’t get me wrong, this should not have happened. But if you meddle in things that do not concern you, you have to take the consequences. He was a Muslim, he should have kept to the issues within his own religion.’

Astha stared at her husband in revulsion. Ten men had died in the most ghastly way possible, and this was all he could say. Did he have no feelings?

After Hemant left for work she started phoning. Identification of the bodies was being done at Willingdon Hospital, they would probably be released the next day. A condolence meeting was being held that afternoon at the Constitution Club. The next day there would be a funeral procession that would start at the Club and go all the way to the electric crematorium.

Numbly Astha put on a white sari, she would go straight from school to the meeting, at least she would be with people who felt as she did. She would meet his wife, what would it be like to be her at this moment, and to have your husband dead like this. Could you ever get over it, should she arrange for the driver to bring her children there after school, they had known Aijaz, they would grieve with her, they should be exposed to the political realities of this country, but then to be exposed to such violence, such mindless hate, how could she explain it, she could barely deal with it herself. Political realities could wait, Mala would look after them, if she was late they could go upstairs.

At the Constitution Club mourners were gathered on dusty lawns, standing on sidewalks, dressed in white, with black armbands, sombre faced. There were many speeches:

We are witnessing crimes deliberately stoked by the forces of communalism. Neutral voices are seen as threatening, the voice of secularism is not tolerated. Can ten men be burned alive, taken from the mohalla in full view of everybody without connivance from the authorities? What has the State done so far, what have the police done so far to apprehend the criminals? Is this the message for the citizens of this country, live in fear, do not raise your voices for they will be stifled by fire, murder and violence.

This
is what the state provides,
this
lawlessness,
this
disregard for life,
this
brute force.
This
is its protection for its citizens.

To speak and be heard is the freedom that is at the heart of a secular nation, this is the right for which these brave young men gave their lives. Now we must carry on as though they were in our midst, forcing us to resist repressive fascist forces. This is the struggle that lies before us.

Astha saw Mrs Dubey, her eyes damp and swollen, she went to her and touched her on the shoulder, they stared wordlessly at each other, and then Astha’s own tears, soaking her hanky, her nose running.

It grew dark. Candles were lit and passed around. They started singing. Songs of protest, songs that Aijaz had penned, songs that many had sung in different circumstances. They ended with
We
Shall
Overcome
in Hindi. Word went around about the funeral arrangements. Tomorrow they would start at noon from the Club and walk all the way to the Crematorium with the ten bodies. Let the city see the atrocity that had been committed, let the traffic come to a standstill, let the line of death be visible in slow motion.

Next day there was a crowd of thousands waiting for the bodies to be released from the hospital. Many had not known the ten men, but it was not necessary to have known them. They came to protest an outrage, to arouse similar protests from an anaesthetised public. Artists and innocent men have been murdered without any provocation during a performance in broad daylight. Today them, tomorrow us. How can this happen? What can we do?

Finally the procession started. On and on they walked, blocking traffic, creating havoc, silent, disciplined and determined. The police tried to stop them, they did not have permission, they would have to turn back. The news spread – they are trying to stop us, we are going to defy them, nothing can turn us back, we will fight if necessary and then the police had to give
in, escorting them instead, as they walked down the streets of Daryaganj, past the Jama Masjid, turning right towards Ring Road, then on to the electric crematorium, where thousands more were waiting to receive them.

It took six hours to reach their destination. The vast room quickly filled while the rest of the crowd waited outside. The families of the men laid the bodies out, and two by two their charred remains, indistinguishable from one another, were slid into the massive fires and the doors clanged shut. They had been together in life, and they were together now. Silence occupied the hall. Astha watching from a squeezed-in place near the door remembered the Aijaz she had known, and that once she had thought he smiled too much.

Four days later a massive protest rally was organised from the Red Fort to the Prime Minister’s house.

‘I shall be late coming home from school today‚’ said Astha to her husband that morning. Her tone was cold; she had still not forgiven him.

‘Why?’ he asked busy with his own preparations for the factory. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a rally to protest the circumstances of ten men’s deaths.’

Hemant looked at Astha. Astha returned the look.

‘Whenever did rallies do any good? Goondas hire people from neighbouring villages at ten rupees a day to come and make trouble, block traffic and show their muscle.’

‘It’s not the political, made-up kind of rally. We want to draw attention to what has happened. How does one speak so that one is heard? You tell me a better way.’

‘Rallies!’ snorted Hemant ignoring the question. ‘No matter how big – who cares – who remembers what they are about?’

‘Besides, we don’t want their memories to die.’

‘I’m sure you don’t.’

Astha left the house without a further word.

By the time school had finished and Astha reached Red Fort, the air was thick with banners. Some of the marchers were carrying posters with Aijaz’s photograph hugely blown up. Some were carrying banners with Leftist slogans. Black armbands were being passed around.

The rally set off. Down the road, shouting slogans, they marched, blocking traffic in a way that Astha found most satisfying. Cars were standing still, motorists were fuming, and people were getting late because of her. She shouted with the others:

Why did they have to die like this, thought Astha, trapped in a van, what were his last thoughts, he who had lived for others. How was there any fairness in the world when such a man could be murdered so brutally? Tears came to her eyes, but tears were not an adequate tribute to Aijaz, they were too ephemeral.

He had seen talent in her, what was it like to live with a man who saw you as having something to offer? If only there was some cause to which she could devote herself, maybe she would not feel so lost and dissatisfied, but what, and how? Knowing what to do was so difficult, and brooding over her life she continued to shout and raise her fist with the others. Down Red Fort Road, past the Asian Circus, past the Centre for Tibetan Refugees, past the Kashmiri outlet for woollen shawls, past the police chowki, past water sellers, lemonade
sellers, past bhelpuri wallahs down Connaught Place and Janpath marched the procession. Compressed into half the road, cars were inching along, staring at them, curious, sympathetic, frustrated, annoyed.

They reached the boat club. Astha sank under one of the trees, extremely hot and tired. She had not realised her clothes were unsuitable for marching in the sun, she was wearing a thick black polo neck sweater, with Hemant’s vest on underneath. This meant that though damp and hot, she couldn’t possibly take it off and be exposed in her underwear.

The speakers on the stage were beginning to talk about state atrocities, an endless list. After that were impassioned recitals of Brecht’s poetry in Hindi. Fists were clenched, defiance was hurled towards parliament looming above the tree tops behind the boat club.

An hour later the procession set off towards the prime minister’s residence. Three roads away they met a police block. ‘No further‚’ said the policemen. ‘Question of security.’

They handed over their memorandum, and were forced to disperse.

As Astha was leaving, her principal stopped her. ‘Astha meet Reshana, she used to be a singer for The Street Theatre Group. She was especially close to Aijaz.’

Astha stared at the direct eyes, the face still with sorrow. Especially close – how close was that? What about his marriage – was she close before or after?

‘I am trying to meet all those who worked with him‚’ Reshana was saying through swollen lips. ‘We have to make sure his memory does not die, are you interested?’

‘There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him‚’ breathed Astha.

‘Good‚’ said Reshana. ‘I will inform you of our first meeting.’

As Reshana left, Astha turned to Mrs Dubey, ‘Who is she?’

‘Reshana Singh. She is a classical singer from an old and
established family. She has many connections, it is good she is taking such an interest in this cause.’

‘Is Aijaz’s wife not here?’

‘Poor thing, I only saw her at the funeral. I don’t think she is able to cope with the shock of it all.’

‘I would have liked to meet her.’

‘When she recovers, we can arrange something.’

In the evening Hemant asked somewhat testily how it had gone. Astha was too full of the day to continue angry with him. If he was limited, that was his misfortune, she could be generous. Where should she begin, the crowd shouting slogans, the palpable determination to do something, singing
We
Shall
Overcome,
the sense of togetherness, her excitement at Reshana asking her to be part of the new society.

‘The traffic arrangements were terrible as usual‚’ said Hemant, not realising she had an answer. ‘I had a meeting with the distributor in Connaught Place, and getting there was totally impossible. Why do they allow rallies in the middle of the day, in central Delhi, I’ll never know. Arre, you want to protest, protest, who is stopping you? Let the ordinary tax-payer lead his life, that’s all I ask, but no.’

Astha’s generosity was not required, her sharing could keep. She could not enter into his frustrations, he could not share her enthusiasm.

For the rest of the evening, they talked of the children, Hemant’s concern about his mother’s arthritis, his father’s blood pressure, his forthcoming trip to South Korea, and maybe they could all go abroad next year for a holiday, and finally something that was beginning to bother him more and more, the increasing competition in colour TVs.

In Noida alone where Hemant had his factory, eight others had come up. He was making 1,500 black and white, and 1,200 colour TVs a month, but the market had become so cut-throat that he was forced to reduce his profit margin to maintain his position.