Married Woman (39 page)

‘It is a good beginning‚’ said Hemant, quite the manager of his wife’s career. ‘Ravi said his wife is going to give it a positive review, and talk to some other art critics so they mention it too. Exposure is what counts at this stage.’

‘You must mail me the reviews‚’ said Pipee. ‘I’m sure they will be very good. I look forward to reading them.’

Oh, Pipee, don’t talk like a stranger to me, I can’t stand it. I only want to talk about how sad I am feeling.

But the wall between them was by now quite high, and from time to time they both threw another brick on it. They were doing this now.

‘How is the tenant?’

‘Just what I wanted.’

And so on.

‘I will take you to the airport‚’ said Astha on the phone.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Please, Pip, don’t be insulting.’

‘I only meant what about Hemant, won’t he mind?’

‘Hemant will understand.’

With Pipee about to go, it was guaranteed that Hemant would understand anything.

The night of 6 August. The last time Astha would drive to Vasant Kunj. The weather was hot and still, it hadn’t rained since the night of her opening. She parked, climbed the three flights to Pipee’s flat, rang the bell, and contemplated the bars, bolts and locks on the wooden and screen doors. Last time, for the last time, rang irritatingly in her mind. Was there anything about this night that was not going to be drenched in significance? She wished it was over, that she did not have to go through it step by painful step, Pipee’s departure from her life.

She thought of how they had both been ants together. And now Pipee was journeying eight hours to London, ten hours to Chicago, two hours by bus to Urbana, to be an ant somewhere else.

‘Hi!’

‘Hi.’

She entered. The flat was bare, with just the things Pipee had sold the tenant. The bed, the cane chairs, the small wooden dining table.

Astha sat down and looked around. ‘What’ll you do when you come back?’ she asked. ‘About bedding and stuff?’

‘Oh‚’ Pipee sounded vague. ‘Buy new, I guess.’ Astha could tell it was far from her mind, her return, why was she hurting herself by looking for clues?

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

‘The chowkidar is coming. I have to give him the keys and he’ll take down the stuff.’ Pipee wasn’t quite looking at her, and Astha realised she was making Pipee uneasy, the way
she sounded, sad, heavy, teary. She said nothing more as she watched Pipee doing last-minute things.

‘It’s a good thing that weight is not important when you fly to the US‚’ said Pipee as the chowkidar staggered out first with one heavy suitcase, then another. ‘They go by the number of bags.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘Come, let’s go.’

The long drive, their car one of a stream going to the International Airport late at night, all saying good-bye to people they loved. As Astha drove, she imagined the misery in the cars around her. Join the queue, Astha, join the queue.

The crowd at the Indira Gandhi International Airport was as usual overwhelming. Astha drove up the ramp to Departure, nosing through the cars, coaches, taxis, and thousands of people.

‘I’ll get a trolley‚’ said Pipee, jumping out.

‘I’ll get the luggage‚’ said Astha moving towards the dickey, and fumbling with the key. There was Pipee with the trolley, the luggage unloaded, there was a policeman waving her car away – no standing allowed, and Pipee saying go, sweetie – where will you park – it’s so crowded, and Astha, wailing but I want to see you inside – they won’t allow you – and the policeman – not moving towards any of the other parked vehicles on the ramp but threatening her with traffic violation – Pipee propelling her into her car – a last kiss, goodbye, goodbye, take care, and she was lost to the eye even before she had wheeled her trolley through the entrance door.

‘So, she’s gone‚’ said Hemant when Astha returned. Awake at that late hour and witness to his wife’s face and eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Was the plane on time?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t stay.’

‘How was she?’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend, who else?’

Astha could not reply. ‘I’m tired‚’ she said, ‘I want to sleep.’

Mechanically she changed, brushed her teeth, put cream on, got into her side of the bed, pulled the sheet up, and turning to the very edge lay absolutely still. Motion of any kind was painful to her. Her mind, heart and body felt numb.

It continued like this for days. She felt stretched thin, thin across the globe.

Many people have been particularly kind in sharing information that I found invaluable. In this regard I would particularly like to mention Anshu Balbir, Mita Bose, Ranjan Dhawan, Jamal Kidwai, Vinay Minucha, and Jay a Srivastava. This book could not have been written without their help.

Masooma Ali, Sunanda Ali, Bharati Bhargava, Nidhi Dalmia, Nilanjana Dalmia, Christopher Fruean of Walt Disney World, Vijay Kapur, Vimla Kapur, Fauzia Khan, Angela Koreth, M. K. Raina, Maseeh Rehman, Saswati Sen Gupta and Jaya Sharma were badgered about numerous details, and responded with patience and generosity.

Jaya Srivastava, Sharmila Purkayastha and V. Karthika were generous with pamphlets and books I would not have been able to get otherwise.

Penelope Anderson, Janet Chawla, Katyayani Dalmia, Anuradha Marwah, Ira Singh, Ramya Sreenivasan, and Addison Ullrich contributed encouragement, interest, enthusiasm and criticism.

Anuradha Marwah helped in crucial ways during the final stages.

Julian Loose, my editor at Faber, bestowed a clarity and vision upon these pages that much benefited them. Heather Schroder showed faith in me by becoming my agent on trust.

Roma Bhagat Baraya helped with legal aspects of the text. Sanjeev Saith, my publisher at Indialnk was a model of patience and tact. His meticulous attention to detail was greatly appreciated.

Ira Singh’s repeated readings and comments helped shape the characters. Her other contributions defy exact description.

Gun Nidhi Dalmia, my husband, was astute and reassuring in his reading of my manuscript. My hours at the computer would not have been possible without his support.

My children, Maya, Amba, Katyayani and Agastya were with me throughout in body and spirit.

During the research for my novel I consulted the following books for their spiritual commentary:
The
Secret
of
the
Kath
Upanishad,
Swami Krishnananda, The Divine Life Society: Tehri-Garhwal, UP, India, 1974; Maharishi Mahesh Yogi on the
Bhagavad-Gita,
A
New
Translation
and
Commentary,
Chapters 1-6, Penguin, 1967.

For the political events that form the background of the novel I consulted:
Ayodhya
Imbroglio:
T. P. Jindal, Ashish Publishing House, New Delhi, 1995;
The
Demolition:
India
at
the
Crossroads,
Nilanjan Mukhopadhyay, Harper Collins, 1994;
The
People’s
Verdict:
An inquiry into the December ‘92 & January ‘93 riots in Bombay by the Indian People’s Human Rights Tribunal Conducted by Justice S. M. Daud & Justice H. Suresh published by The Indian People’s Human Rights Commission, August 1993; Pradeep Nayak,
The
Politics
of
the
Ayodhya
Dispute,
Commonwealth Publishers, New Delhi, 1993; and
Cry
the
Beloved
Country,
a PUDR pamphlet.

In section VI, the advertisement by Ramjanambhoomi Nyas (a non-political body affiliated to the VHP) in The Pioneer, May 11, 1991, has been taken from Pradeep Nayak,
The
Politics
of
the
Ayodhya
Dispute,
(details mentioned above) p. 167.

The Hindustan Times was consulted on microfilm, accessed from the Teen Murti Memorial Library. I am grateful to the library for allowing me this facility.

The actual events leading to the destruction of the Babri Masjid have either been fictionalised or used in imaginative reconstructions.

This book went through several of its many drafts during a three month stint at the Universities of Kent and Stirling in the UK. I am indebted to the Charles Wallace Trust, India for granting me a fellowship to these places.

Manju Kapur is the author of four novels. Her first,
Difficult Daughters
, received tremendous international acclaim, won the Commonwealth Prize for First Novels (Eurasia Section), and was a number one bestseller in India. Her second novel
A Married Woman
was called ‘fluent and witty’ in the
Independent
, while her third,
Home
, was described as ‘engaging, glistening with detail and emotional acuity’ in the
Sunday Times
. Her most recent novel,
The Immigrant
, was called ‘intensely readable’ in the
Daily Mail
and ‘admirable and enjoyable’ by the
Guardian
. She lives in New Delhi.