Married Woman (22 page)

‘We are going to Goa.’

‘Goa! Why Goa? The monsoon has begun there.’

‘Arre! You were the one who wanted to go.’

‘That was in winter. In season.’

‘Exactly. And do you know how expensive it is in season?’

‘Not if we had stayed in a cheap place. There are plenty of those.’

‘Why go if we have to slum it. Now I’ve got an excellent package deal.’ His eyes softened and he squeezed Astha’s arm. ‘It’s been fifteen years since we married. It’s an anniversary present for you.’

‘Our anniversary is over.’

‘O-ho, May-July same thing. Either it’s hot or it’s raining. And the rates are off-season. I’ve got reservations for the Taj. When one goes to a five-star, the hotel becomes the destination then you really get your money’s worth.’ Hemant looked pleased with himself. ‘Off season rates‚’ he repeated as they settled down to dinner.

‘But Hem‚’ said Astha, managing to get excited at the idea of staying in a five-star hotel, if it was raining outside, so what, five-star was five-star. ‘It will take two days to go there, two days to get back, almost as long as the stay itself, is it worth it?’

‘We are flying‚’ and pride swelled his chest, and filled the room.

‘What? Have you won a lottery?’

‘I have to go to Bombay to see a dealer, the children’s tickets will cost half, yours is the only ticket we have to pay for. We will spend the money you earned for your painting.’

‘But darling, you could have asked me if I wanted to spend the money on a plane ticket, and that too when it is off season.’

‘You have a bee in your bonnet about seasons. I am telling you it will be very nice, you don’t trust me.’

‘I do, really I do.’

‘Then show it.’

It was fair, she told herself later, that her money should go towards paying for a family holiday, after all why should Hemant have to pay for everything. There was no question of any choice in the matter. Everything was already decided. They reached Goa in the rain, they drove to the hotel in the rain, the children ran towards the beach in the rain.

‘Why don’t we go too?’ asked Astha. ‘It might never stop raining.’

‘No, you go.’

‘I don’t want to go without you,’ said Astha. There was a possibility he would remind her they were on holiday, and why did they holiday if not to be together? She glanced wistfully outside. In the distance was the sound of the sea, and she could make out a thick grey and white undulating line.

‘You are such a child‚’ said Hemant indulgently moving to her. ‘Remember this trip was to celebrate our anniversary?’ He started tugging at her sari.

‘What are you doing? The children may come in any minute.’

‘Just a quickie. They won’t come for another fifteen minutes at least.’

Quickies. It seemed that was all they ever were. They completed the act within the specified time, the sound of the rain and the more distant noise of the sea mingling with Hemant’s breathing in Astha’s ears.

The next day it was clear in the morning.

‘I have been talking to reception and they say that we should sight-see now as it will probably rain in the afternoon. I have hired a taxi.’

‘Where are we going?’ demanded Anuradha.

‘Mapusa, and then some beaches.’

They set off. Husband, wife, two handsome children, riding in a taxi, sightseeing in Goa.

The town of Mapusa was small and barring a few traces of Portuguese influence, not very interesting. The Mediterranean colonial style of architecture could be seen here and there in old houses surrounded by lush green gardens, colourful bougainvillaea and hibiscus spilling over boundary walls, or flinging themselves with abandon on the houses.

After driving them around a bit, the taxi stopped in front of a hideous shopping arcade with concrete circles plastered all over for decoration. The traffic was chaotic and noisy, taxis, cars, cycles and motorbikes driven by scantily clad foreigners whizzing around.

‘Cashew nuts, Goan wines‚’ said the driver firmly as the family hesitated inside the car. ‘Antiques, silver, jewellery‚’ he continued gesturing at the dark spaces behind open doors.

‘Might as well see what this town has to offer‚’ said Hemant.

Perhaps that was a mistake. Because one of the things the town offered was an antique silver box, priced at five thousand rupees. It was so beautiful Astha fell in love with it immediately – old, blackened, intricately carved, and totally useless.

‘Please, can I have that box?’ she asked Hemant.

‘You must be out of your mind‚’ said Hemant.

The tone, the refusal both hurt her. She was an earning woman, why couldn’t she have a say in how some of their money was spent? She never said anything when he chose to squander money on airline tickets, why couldn’t she buy a box she liked? Maybe it was too expensive, but she was sure if they bargained, it would become cheaper. Besides silver was silver.

‘It’s so pretty. It would also be a memento of Goa.’

‘It’s too expensive, these people are all cheats.’

The shopkeeper sensing indecision, urged the box upon them, very nice, old box, old price, now it will be twice as expensive if you go to buy.

‘See?’ said Astha. ‘Old prices.’

‘How can you believe him? They all lie.’

‘I also earn. Can’t I buy a box if I want, even if it is a little overpriced?’

‘You earn!’ snorted Hemant. ‘What you earn, now that is really something, yes, that will pay for this holiday.’

I have earned for my ticket she thought, but this was not the place to bring it up. The children pottering about in the shop had fallen silent. Anuradha went and stood at the doorway staring at the traffic. Himanshu was fiddling with the cashew nuts they had bought to take back to Delhi.

Astha let out her breath in jerks so that nothing was audible. ‘Let’s go‚’ she said almost to herself.

They went to see the other beaches, and on the way back from Vagator, Hemant put his arm around her for a conciliatory moment in the taxi. She could feel the solidness of his body next to hers. She felt limp, attacked and baffled. She didn’t want his touch, his nearness to compete with the pureness of her despair.

She got through the rest of the day somehow, sick and wretched. The beaches were lovely, and she felt resentful of their beauty, resentful at being forced to register anything besides the pain within.

Back in the hotel, the children beat against her mind, forcing attention from her through their shells. ‘Look, look at this one – you’re not looking – see, mine, put it to your ear, can you hear the sound? – not like that, you have to put it like this, can you hear the sea now? – I want to take all these shells to Delhi, they will look so pretty – I’m not putting sand everywhere, they are perfectly clean – that’s my shell – she took my shell – it’s mine – I saw it first – no he did not – she’s always taking my things – you are always taking his side …’

Another hour and Astha’s head was splitting. By the time the children had eaten their dinner and changed she was ready for the waves of pain that submerged her consciousness.

The night passed. Twice, thrice she staggered to the bathroom, clutching the walls for support to retch into the pot. Each time she hoped the pain would lessen, but it didn’t, and her nausea continued until the birds started chirping, and the dark sky turned silver with the day. Finally with nothing left in her stomach, nothing left of her, she managed to close her eyes and sink into a calm exhaustion.

Once or twice she was aware of Hemant asking from his side of the bed, expressing concern in a strained voice, ‘Are you all right?’

She acknowledged its tokenness by replying in a voice hoarse from vomiting, ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. The pain will soon go.’

It was late next morning. Hemant had given the children breakfast, and he was now sitting with Astha on the verandah, in front of a tray of tea and papaya. Astha looked over the undulating grassy patches to the sea line. She could hear the thundering of the waves. Above, the sky was rolling with heavy grey clouds. She couldn’t remember seeing a miniature of the sea. Maybe miniature painters traditionally lived inland.

‘Feeling better?’ Hemant asked. She nodded. He held out his hand, and she put her own in it. The feel of it was dry and warm. There was a certain comfort she associated with this hand.

‘I had hoped that with the sea air your headaches might become better, not worse‚’ he continued, a careful, mock blame in his voice.

‘That would have been nice‚’ she managed just as carefully.

Inside, the children’s voices could be heard trading shells, with a few brief snatches of argument.

‘I think the children really like it here‚’ remarked Hemant, letting go of her hand to pour her a cup of tea.

It was tepid, but Astha sipped it gratefully, aware of the residual heaviness in her head with every motion.

The bill for five days and four nights was nine thousand five hundred rupees. Hemant was triumphant.

‘That was money well spent‚’ he said as he came back to the room after settling all the accounts at the front desk.

Nine thousand five hundred rupees spent on one of the worst weeks of my life, thought Astha, as she stepped into the hotel bus for the airport. She thought hopelessly of all the things she could have done with that money, of the beautiful silver box she could have possessed and admired for ever. But their money spending was decided by him, not by her.

‘Oh, God, you look terrible. Have you been ill?’

Thus was Astha greeted by her colleagues on the first day of school.

‘The holidays were tiring‚’ she replied. ‘My maid was away.’

Everybody understood what this meant.

‘I tell you, after one’s servant takes a holiday, it should be understood that we get a holiday too. Look at Astha, poor thing, it is obvious she needs a break.’

Take a break, how they all said it like a mantra, as if taking a break would make any difference when you always came back to the same thing.

Colleague two was talking of her sister-in-law, settled in America, who had discovered that her husband was cheating on her, and who now wanted a divorce. This brought about the usual virtuous reactions centring around Us and Them, East versus West.

‘There they go on divorcing – marrying till the age of 60–70.’

‘They do not understand the concept of family. They only think of themselves.’

‘The divorce rate is three out of four.’

‘They don’t know what it is to be a woman, what it is to sacrifice.’

Well, Astha was a woman, and she was sick of sacrifice. She didn’t want to be pushed around in the name of family. She was fed up with the ideal of Indian womanhood, used to trap and jail. Excuse me, stop the juggernaut and let me off. I have had enough.

‘It may not be a bad thing‚’ she said tentatively. ‘If a marriage is terrible, it is good to be able to leave.’

Everybody stared at her. Astha fiddled with her notebooks. They would be wondering whether her marriage was all right. ‘Take my sister-in-law, for example‚’ she added quickly. ‘Her only time off is with us in the summer. She is not allowed to work, rather her in-laws make her slave inside the house, she is nothing but an unpaid servant. If she complains, her husband sides with his parents. If she were in the West she could contemplate divorce without the social and economic death that would follow here.’

The bell rang. Astha got up carrying the forty notebooks of her students and headed for class. She had a job, there was no doubt as to that, but she doubted whether that made her any less trapped than poor Sangeeta. She should have kept her mouth shut about divorce. Its sole result would be speculation about her.

Meanwhile Anuradha turned thirteen and started menstruating. She did not take kindly to this, and Astha grew to dread her periods, interspersed as they were with bouts of rage, pain and depression. She could not remember ever attracting so much attention to herself during these times, even when it had hurt unbearably.

‘It is a woman’s lot‚’ she explained.

‘Why, why is it a woman’s lot, it’s not fair‚’ moaned Anuradha, as she clutched her hot water bottle, tears flowing from her eyes, wetting the corners of her face, disappearing into her hair.

Where does fairness come into it, thought Astha. It hurts, you bear it. That was the end of the matter. ‘It happens so you can have children‚’ she tried again.

‘I’m never going to have children, I’m going to adopt.’

‘We’ll see when the time comes. You might want your own children.’

Anuradha glared at her mother and did not deign to reply.

‘What’s the matter with Didi?’ piped up Himanshu, who was watching his sister wail and scream with great interest.

‘She’s got a stomach ache. Go and see what is on TV, beta.’

‘Nothing is on TV. Why can’t we get a dish and watch the Gulf War?’

Astha turned to stare at her son. Anuradha forgot her pain long enough to point out how spoilt he was.

‘What’s wrong with
Chitrahaar?
You have always liked it.’