Married Woman (23 page)

‘I want to watch the Gulf War. In school everybody watches the CNN and the BBC.’

‘I doubt everybody in school has a dish. You can talk to your father when he comes.’

‘How was the day?’ asked Hemant when he came home that night.

‘Terrible. Anu has her period.’

‘Oh? Poor little thing. Was it very bad?’

‘Yes. I had to give her two Brufen. I hope she doesn’t become dependent on them. How will she bear pain in later life?’

‘She’s still a little thing. Why should she have to suffer so much?’

‘She’s not so little, and it’s part of nature.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘In bed with a hot water bottle, reading Nancy Drew. And she has a test tomorrow.’

‘Poor baby, let her be‚’ repeated Hemant quickly, pouring himself a drink and making for Anu’s bedside.

‘Oh Papa, I want some chocolate‚’ murmured Anuradha in a babyish voice, snuggling next to her father.

‘Tomorrow, all right?’

‘All right.’

He never sounds or looks like that when I have a headache, thought Astha, and then struck that thought from her consciousness. The father-daughter bond could not be compared to the rocky terrain of a marital relationship.

A few weeks later a dish appeared on the terrace. Astha was informed of this casually the night before.

‘A dish? But it is so expensive.’

‘It is good for the children. They will see the BBC, the CNN, they will know what is happening in the world. Who can watch Doordarshan? Two channels, I ask you. Now at least they will have competition.’

‘But such a lot of money, to have a dish in our own house. We are not a hotel, or something.’

‘Arre, I am in the TV business, I have to keep up with these things.’

Astha’s mind travelled to the little silver box in Mapusa, only five thousand, while the dish was at least eight times that. But it was useless to say or feel anything, the children and the business ensured the non-comparable nature of any

argument. If she knew how much money they had, she might be on surer ground, but she never did.

31 December. Constitution Club. 6.30 p.m. A slight mist was beginning to add to the general chill. Astha had not realised it would be this cold, and she stood shivering in her sweater and shawl. Nearby was a peanut seller, roasting his peanuts over a small fire but she didn’t dare advance towards him, in case it looked as though she thought more of her appetite than the cause.

It was the anniversary of the massacre of The Street Theatre Group. It was also a protest against the Hindu Samaj Andolan decision to construct a temple at the site of the Babri Masjid.

‘Come and help me, Astha‚’ said Reshana, approaching with two big plastic bags. Squatting on the pavement, they poked candles through tiny foil-coated plates to prevent wax from dripping onto the hands that carried them. Absorbed, Astha could forget the scene she had had with Hemant before she left.

Ten days ago, Hemant had asked, ‘What shall we do this New Year’s Eve?’

Astha looked wary. Last year they had spent over two thousand to go to a five-star hotel with friends, and Astha had disgraced herself by getting a headache and throwing up at one o’clock in the morning with the discomfort of everyone’s concern directed towards her. ‘Leave me at home‚’ she had pleaded when Hemant had taken it up with her. ‘I can’t help myself.’ But that was not socially acceptable either.

‘I don’t know‚’ she now said. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I’m not sure‚’ said Hemant leafing through brightly coloured invitations sent by various hotels and clubs about Xmas Nite, New Year’s Eve Nite, dinner and dance. ‘The Delhi distributor has invited us, they have booked a hall at the Sayonara club.

But it’s not very personal, they call all their clients, and it is one big tamasha‚’ said Hemant looking disgusted.

‘Can’t we stay at home‚’ asked Astha tentatively. ‘That’s really personal.’

‘Stay at home on New Year’s Eve? No thank you.’

‘Tell me then, where are we going?’

‘We’ve got several invitations, let’s see how many we can take in‚’ said Hemant, his pride at being socially sought after showing in his voice.

‘All right‚’ said Astha, not bothering to ask who the invitations were from. Some friends, some place. Eating, drinking, laughing, talking. It made no difference to her. Her mind was always not quite there.

She didn’t tell him about the demonstration, also planned for New Year’s Eve. She felt this information would not be well received.

Now she was about to be proved right. Hemant saw her getting ready to leave and demanded, ‘Where are you going? I am free, you know that.’

Astha thought of all the evenings she had been free and waiting, and wondered if there would ever be a day when she could feel the same right to complain that Hemant did. Now she tried to be conciliatory, she didn’t want tension on a night of heavy duty partying. ‘I am not going to be away long, just an hour.’

‘Where are you going?’ Hemant repeated.

‘To a demonstration outside Rashtrapati Bhavan. It is the anniversary of the massacre.’

‘You seem to forget that your place as a decent family woman is in the home, and not on the streets. You also forget that this is New Year’s Eve, and we are going out.’

‘No, I do not forget. I will come back in time, what does it matter what I do one or two hours before?’

Hemant’s face assumed its shut-in aspect. Astha knew she was equivocating. It mattered because going out with her
husband must be the highlight of the day, not something she was squeezing into the rest of her activities, unregarded, unimportant, done for the sake of doing. She left the house, hoping the anticipation of parties would do its bit in removing Hemant’s ill humour.

Back at the Constitution Club. By 7 p.m. about three hundred people had gathered. ‘Good turnout‚’ said Reshana to Astha as they finished with the last of the candles, and gathered themselves up from the pavement. ‘And that too on New Year’s Eve. We did contact everybody but you can never be sure.’

‘Many might think this is the best way to spend it‚’ said Astha with feeling. ‘To do something you believe in makes other things a little easier.’

Reshana drew back. Astha flushed. There she was trying to give Reshana her heart and soul, behaving inappropriately. She must remember that everybody was here for the cause, and if the cause also had a personal impetus, discretion demanded this be shrouded in silence.

Down Rajpath they marched, candles glowing. They carried placards that declared they were for a united India, that secularism was part of our Constitution and traditions, that communalism was the scourge of the nation.

They chanted as they went:

Up towards Raisina Hill, candles dripping wax on the paper plates, holding a memorandum, on which they had
been gathering signatures for the past month, protesting the attacks on the Muslims, protesting the bid to demolish the Babri Masjid.

Around them swirled cars and pedestrians, irritated at having to stop in front of aggressive placards and glowing candles, while the procession marched across as many roads as it could, hindering traffic, drawing attention to its message.

Towards Rashtrapati Bhavan, home of the President, home of previous Viceroys. Huge, mammoth, it towered in the distance, far from the high and massive wrought-iron gates that barred unauthorised entry. There the processionists halted, lit by TV cameras that dimmed the candles they were focused on. From Raisina Hill Astha could see the lights of cars swishing up and down Rajpath. How few we are, how many indifferent on this one road. She looked towards the former Viceroy’s Lodge. Designed as a regal sandstone testimony to British glory, it had served its purpose for only seventeen years, before becoming a testimony to illusion.

The protest songs and slogans continued. Finally an official arrived, and a side gate opened a suspicious crack. The memorandum along with two spokespersons squeezed in; two people and a thousand signatures of mainly school and college teachers, artists, painters, and film people. A lot of the marchers had brought their children, who looked as convinced as their parents as to the justice of their cause and the usefulness of their protest, never mind how few they were.

While they were waiting a letter was read out. Worded in English – objection – it should be in Hindi. The writer, an English academic, quickly explained in Hindi that the letter would be in both languages, and sent to all the leading newspapers. For now he begged their indulgence, he would read the letter in English, pending its immediate translation.

The letter proclaimed that the Sampradayakta Mukti Manch, and the teacher and artist community were united in condemning both the BJP and the Congress in encouraging
Fascist forces in the country, and in failing to take quick action against the threats to the Babri Masjid. Were these threats actualised, secularism would be at grave risk, and communal hatred unleashed on a scale that would be difficult to control. To take no action was tantamount to encouraging social divisions along religious lines. Weaker sections would suffer. This was not to be tolerated. We appeal to the government to do something before it is too late.

Signed—

A resolution was then formed to establish a core group that would see to further action, the first being to circulate more petitions.

This done, the songs resumed:

Half an hour passed without any sign of the spokespersons. The last night of the year was wearing on. Astha kept surreptitiously looking at her watch.

‘Arre, will we ring in the New Year here?’

‘Let’s go, they can come later.’

‘No point hanging around.’

The TV crew began to pack up. The candles had burnt down. As the procession started back towards the Manch office, Astha lagged behind, keeping a sharp look out for an empty scooter. She had to be home by eight-thirty, or things would be worse with Hemant. At one point where the procession had stopped the traffic she found one, and by quickly agreeing to pay his price, bumped her way home.

It turned out they were going to at least three of the parties they had been invited to. Senior bank manager, dear friend, and American NRI come to visit his parents.

Astha hurried towards a thick dressy silk sari, peeling off her woollens. The sari was green with a broad red and gold border with woven flowers, hearts and peacocks. A matching deep green blouse was dotted with tiny gold paisleys. Her ordinary jewellery would have to do, she hadn’t had time to go to the bank locker to take out some of her heavier stuff. Hopefully Hemant wouldn’t notice. She threw her mother-in-law’s maroon pashmina shawl casually over her shoulder, and thus guaranteed to freeze in the manner of women partying in Delhi winters, she was ready.