Married Woman (24 page)

Ready to feel cold, ready to drink, dance, smile, laugh, talk, ready for anything the last day of the year might bring. She had made a gesture of some significance before Rashtrapati Bhavan, it made her more amenable to the evening now. Having something of your own makes you strong, she thought.

‘All set?’ asked Hemant picking up his wallet and car keys.

‘Yes‚’ replied Astha. She was pleased that he had put the unpleasantness over her involvement in the demonstration behind him. They were going to have a nice time.

‘You look very nice‚’ he commented admiringly.

‘Thank you‚’ said Astha, feeling a small flush of pleasure.

‘I thought we would go to the manager’s house first. It is bound to be the dullest, we can leave quickly.’

The senior bank manager lived in a large house in the older part of South Delhi. Clearly he believed in doing things big. The little front lawn, shamiana draped, the verandah, the drawing, dining room, all were devoted to the party.

‘Gosh‚’ said Astha, as they were bumped constantly by people, avoiding glasses, and lighted cigarettes, ‘there must be five thousand people here.’

‘More like two hundred‚’ said Hemant smiling indulgently.

Astha could see his mood had further lightened. It had taken two hundred people but still she was glad.

She put out her hands to warm over an angeethi and tried not to breathe the thin spirals of acrid smoke coming from it, the coals were obviously wet. Other women holding soft drinks and glasses of juice were also standing around the angeethi. Astha smiled at them uncertainly, noticing the jamawars and pashminas flung over their shoulders, their smooth white waxed arms, glittering jewellery, and beauty parlour done hair. They looked perfect, perfect in a way she could never hope to look, lacquered and finished. She wished she could say she despised that look, and she did despise it, in theory, while crumbling wordlessly before it in practice, never able to hold her own.

She took a deep breath, turned to the woman next to her, and remarked, ‘Cold isn’t it?’

The woman smiled her agreement, ‘What does your husband do?’ she asked in her turn.

‘He manufactures television sets. And yours?’

And so the phrases flowed on, till Hemant, one double whisky down, gestured to her that it was time to leave.

The next party was at the house of the parents of the NRI. The place was full of men slapping each other on the back, counting the years they had been acquainted, walking down memory lanes, those lanes always so evident at this time of year with the foreign returned, the come back for two-three weeks when the weather is good and the kids can stand it, returned.

The food was mostly chaat and snacks. There was all kinds: papri, gol guppa, and for those who couldn’t eat cold things in cold weather, hot tikkis, with green sour chutney and red sweet chutney, fat and swollen bhatura served with spicy channa, laced with halved green chillies and onion rings, dosas, idlis and vadas, and finally jalebis floating in hot oil, crisp, sweet, inviting to be crunched up ring by ring. There
was even tea in earthen mugs which all those who weren’t drinking sipped gratefully.

‘Oh, can’t we go home, now?’ moaned Astha, who thought she would burst if she had to eat another thing.

‘One more party, darling‚’ said Hemant over his whisky glass. ‘Chin up.’

I hope he is not too drunk to drive, thought Astha, the glow the food had given her fading, as she thought of the drive to Greater Kailash II where Hemant’s closest school friend resided.

Ankur’s party was on the terrace of his two-roomed barsati. Ankur had divorced after ten years of marriage, and was now discovering the joys of an affluent single life in an emphatically male environment. He fancied himself a cook, and with flushed face offered earthen mugs of mulled wine, mulled wine going ethnic, he said genially. On one side of the terrace a barbecue was set up. Seekh kababs, paneer, mutton and fish tikkas were being served with thin romali rotis, folded into triangles, on flimsy silver paper plates. There were four dead-looking salads, all smothered in shiny glutinous mayonnaise: pink (thousand island?) green (herb?) two whites (garlic? yoghurt?). As Astha jabbed at bits of paneer, it was easier to seem to eat than to argue with her host, she wondered it was only five hours ago that she had stared at wax dripping onto an identical foil plate.

Inside the music was loudly drowning everything out.

‘Come, darling, let’s dance.’ Hemant’s alcohol-aided spirits were high.

Astha obediently swayed, her sari palla slipping, looking covertly at the others doing their stuff to popular numbers pounding through the dimly lit smoky room.

‘Are you OK?’ shouted Hemant above the din.

‘Yes‚’ she shouted back, automatic response-cum-smile.

‘Good‚’ he said, his voice slightly slurred, and in the dark he came towards her and pecked her cheek. His breath smelt
of whisky, and she let her head tilt towards him, imitating reciprocity, before a couple bumped into them and forced them apart.

‘Now, now‚’ they shrieked, ‘no kissing between husbands and wives.’

How stupid they all are, thought Astha. No kissing between husbands and wives. As though we were something besides conservative, strait-laced, middle-aged Indians. Should an unmarried couple kiss, I would like to see the reaction, I would just like to.

Early next morning Astha rose, made herself a cup of tea and went out. It was another year, and she wanted to mark it in some way special to her. New Years should be private affairs, she thought, thinking of all the partying she had done last night. They had screeched Happy New Year, hugged, kissed, danced, eaten relentlessly, drunk this and that, and finally at 2 a.m. made their way home, Hemant slow and careful because he was trying to appear in control, and Astha silent, because she knew Hemant had drunk more than he should have, and there was no tone sufficiently neutral in which she could convey this.

It was cold in the tiny garden. Astha grabbed the mali’s jhaaroo, and began to sweep the dead leaves into a pile. She wanted to make a fire. A fire was a good New Year’s thing. Burning all the old year debris away.

As the flames smoked through the wet leaves, Astha cupped her hands around the mug of tea. It was Flowery Orange Pekoe, a delicate and flavourful smell. She smiled, thinking of the year ahead. She had found what she really wanted to do, something she was good at, she was lucky. She now felt established enough as a painter to give her art the time and energy that was its due. She was ready to leave her job. She had been teaching almost fifteen years, staying because it had been a good occupation for a woman.

She finished her tea, and went into the spare room. It was early, but she wanted to begin the first day of the New Year with work important to her. She took out her file and started visualising scenes for a March for Justice. The idea had grown last night among the candles. The canvas would be dark, with a group of people huddled before the gates of Rashtrapati Bhavan, which loomed remote and massive in the background. The bright spots were going to be the candles the marchers held, the yellow of the halogen street lamps and the red and white lights of the cars on Rajpath. The rest would be in shadow. Astha hummed as she worked. There was no one to tell her how tuneless her singing was.

Pipee stumbled into the New Year alone in her flat, staring at the two-rod heater, nursing a small rum and coke. It had been a year since Aijaz’s death, and as every day in the past year, she had been fierce in her desire to be alone, turning down well-meaning invitations that friends, colleagues, relatives and acquaintances showered her with.

Her mother-in-law had phoned from Shahjehanpur asking her to visit. But she couldn’t. Not yet. The one time Pipee went, she had hardly been able to stand the memories that swept her every inch of the way. In every face she saw traces of Aijaz, and their sweetness to her had made it even harder.

She and her mother-in-law had cried and cried together, but conversation had been difficult, everything they had in common was in the past. She only stayed a few days, and as she was leaving, the mother-in-law gave her a cheque for one lakh. ‘I didn’t spend on your marriage, now you take this.’

‘I don’t want it‚’ Pipee’s voice trembled, there seemed no limit to the number of times they could cry together.

‘Please, for him‚’ replied the mother. ‘He would not like to think we did not look after his wife. I want you to know you will always have a home with us.’

Dully, and with Neeraj’s help, Pipee bought a flat in Vasant Kunj. She had the money from Shahjehanpur, life insurance, and dollars sent to her by her brother.

It usually takes a lifetime to possess a place of one’s own.

‘You can’t go on like this‚’ Neeraj had remonstrated on New Year’s Eve at the office. ‘It is not healthy. You are still young.’

‘I don’t feel young. I don’t feel anything.’

‘Make an effort, you are not even trying.’

Pipee turned away. What did Neeraj think, that she liked feeling the way she did? In fact she would give anything to be free from the thoughts that haunted her. Only since Aijaz’s death did she realise that how you die is as important as the loss itself, and can make all the difference to the ones left behind.

There was no relief from the pain of his final moments. She couldn’t get rid of the thought of him trapped in the Matador, suffocating with the heat, burning bit by bit, screaming for help perhaps, trying to break the windows, wrench open the doors, and then the terrible moment when he realised he was going to die, him along with nine others, those nine there because of him. What had it felt like? Had he been able to think of her, their love, their lost future?

Till now not a single culprit had been brought to book. Perhaps if the assassins had been identified and punished, a bit of the horror might be stilled; she didn’t know, she only knew it wasn’t likely to happen. As for that Sampradayakta Mukti Manch, she hated it more than anything. What had they done to ensure justice? Had they worked on bringing pressure on any government organisation? No, they had a platform in his name which they called freedom from communalism, and all they did was hold exhibitions, raise money, and indulge in cultural nonsense. She hated them, each and every one of them individually, but above all she hated Reshana Singh, who had surfaced out of the woodwork, from god knows where, after Aijaz’s death and taken over his memory. She managed to imply that theirs had been a deep connection, she was practically masquerading as his wife. How well had she known Aijaz, she was so much older than him, that any attraction on her husband’s part must have been a purely passing phase.

What should she do, should she leave Delhi? Her mother had tried to get her to relocate in the south, you can find an NGO in Bangalore or Madras, there are slums here as well. You need to put the past behind you, start a new life, you will
be near me, come, come, she persuaded in letter after letter. Pipee now looked at the last one:

Maybe, she thought, staring at her mother’s letter, she really should make more of an effort to go out. Although it had been a year she didn’t feel any better, perhaps she never would. But to go on refusing to meet people, always to be alone, that was not the answer either. Her life stretched before her, long and dreary. What her mother was advising was to form a new relationship. But how? Aijaz had been hard enough to find. And there had been Samira when she was young. She had never loved anybody else.

Perhaps she should go to the States, leave Aijaz to the Reshanas of this world. The whole of last year Ajay had been
calling her insistently for a Ph.D. programme, you will be surprised what a difference a complete change of place will make.

Yes, she would be surprised. Ajay had no imagination, but still she, who had lost everything and had nothing more to lose, could give it a try. In the meantime she might travel with Ujjala.

With these thoughts, in front of the heater, eating her dinner of scrambled egg on toast, Pipee passed into the new year.

Waving saffron flags, Hinduism marched across the country in the following months, marched in time to film songs converted into bhajans, to Leaders trying to convince the masses that the glory of an ancient land could be resurrected by their united hands. Young men, show your manhood, rescue mother India from the influence of the Muslim invaders, whose long shadow falls over us even now. The wrongs of the past have to be righted.

These hoards, gathered mostly from the Hindi heartland, become the face of militant Hinduism, armed with tridents, swords, and a determination to die if necessary for the cause entrusted to them. This behemoth turns it head towards Ram’s Janambhoomi. A temple needs to be constructed on the sacred soil of Ram’s birthplace, burdened for so many years by a mosque. A date is fixed for the event.

As they converge upon Ayodhya, a cordon is drawn around the city, roads are blocked, trains and buses denied entry, any leader suspected of creating trouble is carefully watched.

But there are always the fields and villages, always people to give food, water, rest, and show the way.

And likewise there are leaders to hide in the lanes of Ayodhya to mastermind the breaking of the cordon around the city, there are officials in the state police who feel it their duty to personally assist all those similarly inclined.

The kar sevaks declare that neither guns nor bullets can stop them. They prove this when in defiance of all barriers they climb the mosque, plant a saffron flag on the highest dome and claim it for their own. They are fired upon by the police, hundreds of them are injured, many are killed. Videos are made of this, and are later shown around the country as an example of the threat to Hinduism.

The government falls, and for the time being further crisis is averted, but only for the time being, promise the forces for Hindu Restoration in India.

Give us three places in India, that is all we want, Ayodhya, Varanasi, and Mathura where the Muslim invader built mosques on our sacred sites. If necessary we will bathe these mosques in blood. Why should Hindus give up their position of dominance in the only Hindu country in the world? If it is mosques the Muslims want, let them go to the many countries where Islam is the official religion, we are not stopping them.

The Sampradayakta Mukti Manch were doing what they could in the face of resurgent communalism. They prepared pamphlets, organised marches with other Left groups, and decided to go to the banks of the Saryu to talk directly to the people of Ayodhya to counter the growing rhetoric of religious fanaticism. As they planned their trip, Reshana suggested that Astha also come. ‘Between you and me I wonder if academics sometimes have the impact we desire. How I wish Aijaz was with us today. He could capture a crowd like no one else.’ She sighed and continued, ‘If you could give a small five-ten minute speech? I think it might make a difference to the women. If they realise they have some kind of voice, it will be a useful counter thrust to violence and aggression. After all they stand to lose the most. It’s worth a try.’

Astha agreed. Now that she was no longer teaching she welcomed brief respites from the house. And yes, any contribution to the cause was worth a try. In her association with the Manch she had been exposed to detail after detail of atrocities
perpetuated in the name of religion. She had made paintings for this cause, she had been part of debates that worried about the far-reaching implications of fundamentalism, she had seen the spread of the worst kind of jingoistic rhetoric and it gave her both a platform and a focus around which she built her work. When she looked back it seemed amazing that she had come such a long way in two years. The detour she had taken between home and school had now become the road she travelled.

‘I hope it won’t be a problem, leaving your children‚’ Reshana ended.

It was a rhetorical statement, but Astha responded with a dry laugh, ‘Since when has the personal been allowed to interfere with the need of the hour?’

So far her mother-in-law had not commented about her activities. But Astha’s going to Ayodhya was a different matter.

‘You know I never interfere in whatever you decide to do. Today young people feel they must live their own lives. But there are times when it is necessary to listen to the advice of elders. What is the need to leave your family, and roam about like a homeless woman on the streets of some strange city?’

‘To protest.’

Mummy looked nonplussed. ‘But why go to Ayodhya?’ she returned after a pause. ‘You want to say something you write a letter to the newspapers. That is much better. People get to hear. You used to write.’

‘Long ago.’

‘This is all politics, you should not get involved. Besides have you thought about what you are going to protest? Lord Ram’s Janamsthan is in Ayodhya, is there any country in the world where the birthplace of their god is not honoured? Hindu tolerance does not mean you accept everything and anything. Is this the pride we have in ourselves?’

‘But Mummy, if the temple is constructed, thousands of people will die agitating over it. Why they could feed hundreds
of poor children on the money they are collecting for the bricks.’

Her mother-in-law looked at her. ‘It is not a woman’s place to think of these things‚’ she said firmly.

Astha remained silent, her mind full of her husband. She had mentioned her trip as a possibility in a casual conversation with Hemant. Was this his way of letting her know he did not want her to go? He did not even have time for a discussion with her.

Meanwhile Mummy was repeating, ‘You know I never try and stop you from doing anything. Even when you neglect the children, and are busy in your paintings and meetings, I do not say anything. I am not the type to interfere. I am glad my daughter-in-law does not feel she has to sit at home. Till I have the use of my hands and feet I will help you, but it is my duty to point out that you are going too far.’

‘You won’t have to help with the children this time, I will take them‚’ said Astha wildly thinking of Anuradha’s sulky face, and Himanshu’s bewildered expression. ‘It is good if they are exposed to such things early.’

‘Exposing them to what? Filth and crowds? Don’t you care about your children or husband? But he is too good, he will say nothing. If you were living in the conditions Sangeeta is, you would better value what you have. I hope you never regret this.’

Astha was struck dumb. Her mother-in-law had never spoken so openly before. And where did Hemant have the time to notice what she was doing, let alone mind? But he had noticed, he had minded, and so had others. Mumbling something non-committal she retreated downstairs shaking with rage and hopelessness. With a mother like that, what chance that Hemant would ever support her? She dreaded trying to convince him and the possible scene. And because she dreaded these things, she became all the more determined to go.

The argument started that night when they were getting ready to go to bed.

‘I have decided to go to Ayodhya‚’ she said.

‘As my wife, you think it proper to run around, abandoning home, leaving the children to the servants?’

Astha went into familiar distress. As his wife? Was that all she was?

She tried to interest him in the issue, pulling out a pamphlet from her bedside drawer, ‘Look at the stuff they are publishing. It’s so inflammatory but people fall for it.’