Married Woman (38 page)

Pipee ended up making several trips to distressed areas. Work, she said briefly, and maybe, thought Astha, she keeps coming back because she misses me, though she knew Pipee would never say anything to this purpose. Once she had decided that they were going to break up, that was it.

She called Pipee over one day, and had the pleasure of her approval when she saw her canvases.

‘They are strong and make a very effective statement. I can see how you have evolved, Ant.’ So what if Pipee was leaving, at that moment Astha felt they could never be parted.

‘They really are good‚’ continued the friend and activist, ‘perhaps you can hold an exhibition on your own. It’s time you emerged from the shadow of the Manch.’

Then she returned to her travels, so much is happening.

Astha noticed Pipee didn’t ask her to join her even for a weekend. She would have gone anywhere if Pipee had only asked her.

It was in January that Pipee got the letter confirming her admission to the University of Illinois, Urbana Champaign.

‘So soon, you have got to hear so soon, how wonderful‚’ said Astha over the phone, glad that Pipee could not see her face. ‘They must really want you.’

‘I don’t know about that. The amount they offer will show.’

‘When will you know?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

Afterwards Astha scolded herself, this is the dress rehearsal for the real thing, why should I care, what is she to me, someone I loved, but we both have our own lives. She has chosen larger horizons, it’s her life, this is mine. She told herself this firmly and repeatedly and was surprised that the information did not make her feel better.

Next morning she woke up with a headache. So, what’s new, she asked herself, quickly swallowing a decongestant and a painkiller.

As the pills took effect and the pain receded, she drearily made for the spare room, to try that other cure, work. She pressed her turpentine rag against her face and breathed its sharp smells. She imagined it around her eyes, running under her eyebrows, through her temples, pushing all the throbbing in front of it, sweeping it away, throwing it out, so that it lost the power to affect, now and ever after.

It was a month before the axe finally fell. ‘Oh, Pip, I’m so glad. How much are they giving you?’

‘A full fee waiver, and twelve hundred dollars a month.’

‘You deserve every bit of it. I hope you will be very happy.’

‘Hey, I’m not going yet. And I want to see your exhibition before I go.’

‘I’m doing my best.’

‘I will get Ravi’s wife to review it‚’ said Hemant. ‘She is an art critic for
The
Indian
Express.
She probably knows others as well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure they will be impressed‚’ said Hemant smiling at Astha.

Astha knew Hemant was being helpful because the Manch was not involved and he welcomed the breach between her and any activism, but she had been too long married to linger over the source of his appreciation.

Every morning, the children in school, the servants supervised, Hemant safe with his diet lunch in the factory, and Astha would shut herself inside her painting room. She needed to feel closed in and protected, if by nothing else than walls. There she was with shrouded canvasses, bottles of turpentine and linseed oil, tubes of colour lying in baskets around the easel, and grey rags stiff with dried paint. These were the tools of her trade, these were the things that established her separate life, touching them was comfort.

As her brush moved carefully over the canvas, her hand grew sure, her back straightened, she sat firmer on her stool, her gaze became more concentrated, her mind more focused. A calmness settled over her, tenuous, fragile, but calmness nevertheless. She thought of her name. Faith. Faith in herself. It was all she had.

Pipee too was working. She was looking for a tenant, getting her papers ready, packing away her books, winding up her affairs. She required no interaction with Astha in arranging these things.

There was a time when Astha’s day revolved around being

available to Pipee. The children, Hemant and all her obligations were frantically juggled so that she could see and talk to Pipee whenever possible.

Now they talked, but it was on the surface, both of them reluctant to work at letting go of a connection that would naturally cease when Pipee left.

‘I can’t wait to see your work.’

‘Come.’

‘I’ll come, I’ll come. I’m going to Shahjehanpur. They have called me. I think I ought to go before I leave.’

‘How come you didn’t tell me?’ quavered Astha, the weaker of the two, remembering the time when she knew what Pipee was going to do the second she thought of doing it.

‘You are so busy these days.’

At this prevarication, for the first time Astha felt relief that in a few months she would not have to talk to Pipee anymore.

It was May. The amaltas trees were blooming. Every morning when Astha stepped onto the road, she was forced to step on fallen, perfect, clear yellow flowers, pale green buds, and scattered curving yellow stamens. She stepped on them because there was no way to avoid them, and the flowers forgave her by looking just the same.

This morning Astha was going to Vasant Kunj to pick up Pipee, despite her protests, to take her to the station for the train to Shahjehanpur.

As she drove her hands felt heavy on the wheel. How many times had she travelled down this road in hope and longing, and then rushed back dreading the demands and questions of her children, husband, in-laws. Where have you been, we were waiting for you, this that and the other happened, and you weren’t here to fulfil your place in this house. Soon nobody would have cause for complaint, if there had been neglect, she would make up for it now.

In Pipee’s flat, third floor, no fans or cooler because the
electricity had gone. ‘How hot it is‚’ remarked Astha for something to say.

‘Thank God, I’ll soon be leaving‚’ said Pipee carrying a small suitcase and locking, then double locking the doors.

‘Indeed.’

Pipee looked at her. ‘I don’t mean I want to leave you. You know that.’

At these words hope sprang up in Astha’s breast. The eternal stuff, hope. She looked at it in disgust. Hope looked back coy and stubborn. It did not have to say anything. Its presence spoke for itself.

The suitcase thrown in the car, the two got in and started the long drive to the New Delhi Railway Station.

That summer was the hottest Delhi had ever known. The temperature hit the 40s and stayed there day after day. Astha only felt fresh enough to work in the early mornings. She now woke at 4.45, made herself a cup of tea, and was at her easel by 5.00. As a consequence it became necessary to sleep by 10 p.m. Every day she and Hemant fought about this.

‘This is crazy, you are crazy, your life revolves around those canvases.’

How could she make him understand? Work was the only place she could forget everything, where she could become her mind, her hand, and the vision inside her head. At any rate she was sleeping badly, only by working hours every morning before the demands of the house took over did she know some peace. All this was not explainable.

‘Only for a little while more‚’ she tried coaxing.

‘You’ve been saying that for ages.’

‘You were the one who encouraged me to hold an exhibition, you showed interest, you said you would speak to Ravi’s wife.’

‘But what’s the big hurry? You can have your exhibition later, anyway winter is a better time.’

‘I want it now.’

Astha was feeling too sick at heart to give being sweet and coaxing more than the briefest try.

The hall at the Tagore Arts Centre was rented for five days. There were twenty canvases in all. It was two years work, and from December on, she had worked almost every day. Six canvases were devoted to the Babri Masjid and different forms of protest, another six to various aspects of Pipee and herself, though she hoped they were so disguised no one would be able to identify the women. There were four of her children, and two of men she had modelled on Hemant, one of Mala and Bahadur. Basically my life, thought Astha as she, Hemant, and the children worked in the gallery, putting them up, placing them to the best advantage.

‘Why is this so small?’ asked Hemant picking up one the size of a sheet of paper.

‘It’s for Pipee to take with her‚’ said Astha. ‘I made it small on purpose.’ Then as Hemant said nothing, she continued, ‘Do you think she will like it?’

The painting was an interior, two women sitting on a charpai. The patches of colour came from a red cushion, an open window, the white of a pillow on the bed, the bangles of one, the bag and chappals of the other thrown on the floor. The figures themselves were indistinct and shadowy, one had a drooping head, the other had her face turned away. The small canvas added to the sense of claustrophobia.

‘It’s kind of sad‚’ said Hemant.

Astha was always surprised when Hemant said anything she could remotely relate to. ‘I suppose it is rather‚’ she said. ‘Maybe she should only be surrounded by happy things in Illinois?’

‘I’m sure she’ll like it. Are these women you two?’

‘Of course not‚’ said Astha quickly. ‘They are imaginary. You can’t see their faces. Could be anyone.’

‘Hummm.’

The last paintings to be hung were the Babri Masjid series, six in all, ending with a bare hillock, a trishul and a saffron flag planted on empty earth amid scattered stones, a peepul tree hanging forlornly on one side.

‘I hope it is not too obvious‚’ fussed Astha, knots gathering inside her from the stress of exhibiting, displaying, exposing.

‘Not at all‚’ said Hemant. ‘You need obvious symbols to say obvious things.’

Why is he being so nice to me, thought Astha. He even seems to have changed his political opinions. Is it because all the work is over, no more early nights, early mornings, is it because she’s going in another two weeks?

‘Mama, I’m going to give out the price lists‚’ said Anuradha firmly.

‘Of course darling, I shall depend on you.’

Pipee had returned from Shahjehanpur, but she still had to get her tenant, and decide what to do about her possessions. She couldn’t help Astha with the setting up of her exhibition, Astha couldn’t help her with the disposing of her things.

‘It is rather badly timed‚’ said Astha on the phone, ‘but I am holding this exhibition for you, Pip. So that, before you go …’ She stopped. She didn’t need to finish her sentences with Pipee.

‘I know, I know, Ant. I wish I could be more there for you.’

‘And I for you.’

Privately Astha thought perhaps it was just as well, she couldn’t bear to witness the disbanding of Pip’s house, where they had been skin on skin, mind on mind with nothing in between.

And Pipee thought, it is just as well Ant is not here when I am packing to leave. I don’t think she could take it, and I couldn’t take her not taking it. I wish she hadn’t come with so much baggage, but she did, and well, there it is.

The opening of the exhibition, 1 August.

Pipee said, ‘I had no idea you had been painting so much. It’s wonderful, just wonderful.’

All Astha could say was, ‘Did you like no. 12? It’s for you.’

Pipee looked at her, squeezed her hand, and after half an hour of hanging about, affectionately said, ‘I have to go dearest, I will see you later.’

‘So soon?’

‘I have to. A tenant is coming to see the flat, and could come at no other time. I am getting frantic, I hope this one works out.’

Astha thought of the very long distance between Pipee’s flat and the Tagore Arts Centre, of the rush hour traffic, of the hour it would take her to get back home, and decided she could only be grateful that Pipee had come at all.

‘Bye, see you.’ She blew her a kiss and was gone, leaving Astha to listen to what Hemant was saying and who he was introducing her to.

More than half the paintings sold. Astha made almost two lakhs.