Married Woman (8 page)

‘It was the move‚’ the mother kept sobbing. ‘He was never the same after he retired.’

‘He was a saint‚’ said the relatives. ‘Never liking to trouble others.’

‘I kept telling him, do not strain, do not exert yourself, but no. He was never careful. And now he has left me and gone.’

‘You have me, Ma‚’ said Hemant.

‘Yes, Ma. We are all with you.’

As consolation to the widow, now all alone, the relatives said, thank God he saw his child settled, he will rest in peace.

In the months that followed the father’s death, the mother became listless and withdrawn. The evenings Astha spent with her she would desperately try and cheer her up.

‘You are still young, Ma, still working. Think of all the things you can do.’

‘You don’t worry about me, beti‚’ said the mother dully.

‘You can travel, you can do social work, you can do something for the children of the poor, you always said you wanted to help other people. Now you can.’

‘Han, beti. You don’t worry about me.’

‘But I do worry. Why don’t you come and live with me?’

‘You live with your in-laws, and besides where is the room in these government flats.’

That was true enough.

Astha tried to interest Hemant in the problem of her mother. He was a good son-in-law, everybody said so, his own parents in particular, closely echoed by the mother-in-law herself. If there was an illness he would call the doctor, if she
needed money he would offer it, if she needed help in shifting he would provide it. But appeals beyond this irritated and annoyed him.

Then the mother met a swami. She informed her daughter of this casually.

‘A swami?’ repeated Astha, puzzled. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘One of the teachers in school took me. Often she has mentioned him, but when your father was alive I never felt the need for anything more in my life. Also he was suspicious of this kind of thing, your father always thought he knew best.’

‘With reason, Ma. Swamis are known to take advantage of women, especially widows‚’ said Astha.

Her mother ignored this. ‘Why don’t you come?’ she went on. ‘He lectures on the
Gita
at Gandhi Bhavan. He teaches you how to accept things, how to look inside yourself, how to deal with your wants and desires. There are lots of young girls there.’

‘I don’t want to look inside myself‚’ said Astha.

‘Well, I am learning a lot from him. Through him I understand the
Gita,
it is something I have wanted to do all my life.’

‘Really? How come I didn’t know?’

‘Where was the time or place to say I want this or that?’

‘And now you have a swami? Is that what you wanted time for?’

Astha’s mother looked offended. ‘Why don’t you come and see before you start your criticising?’

That evening Astha said to Hemant, ‘Ma has found some swami. She wants me to go to him and look inside myself.’

‘Rubbish. These people just try and sound clever.’

‘That is what I said.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘I don’t know.’

Hemant looked alert. ‘One has to be careful around swamis‚’ he said. ‘Thank God I am handling her money.’

‘I know‚’ said Astha, her wretchedness increasing. ‘But what can I do?’

‘Somebody is putting ideas into her head. People think old women are easy targets.’

‘She doesn’t listen.’

‘Don’t worry sweetheart, once we have a child, she will forget all this nonsense. There will be a new interest in her life.’

Astha smiled her agreement.

Loving Hemant as she did, Astha longed to get pregnant. During sex she imagined his seed spurting into her womb; later she would gather his wet shrivelled penis, adoring it strong, thick and hot, or wet, limp and woebegone. ‘I want to have your baby‚’ she would murmur.

‘You can’t be so old fashioned‚’ remonstrated the progressive husband. ‘This is like villagers, marry, impregnate wife, pack of children. No, no sweetheart, we need to be by ourselves. Time enough for these responsibilities later. With a young wife one can afford to wait.’

Astha looked at him in admiration. Everything about him was so masculine, his decisiveness, his hairy blunt fingers, his tall heavy set figure, his muscled limbs, his moustache that tickled, the bitter tobacco taste from his tongue.

‘These ideas are all from America‚’ said his parents, refusing to see the value of bonding time for the young couple. They had married, now they should get on with it. 

It was two years before Hemant relented, two years before Astha could stop using birth control, two years before his seed found its home.

Astha and Hemant drove to Jangpura on their weekly visit, full of the good news.

‘Ma‚’ said Hemant, ‘You are going to be a nani.’

Tears filled the mother’s eyes. ‘If only he had been here‚’ she said.

Astha thought of her father and felt sad. He had sent her forth, and then left, duty done.

‘Ma, this is a time to celebrate‚’ reproached Hemant.

‘Beta, you are right. May it be a boy, and carry your name for ever. A great son of a great father.’

Astha thought her mother was overdoing it.

‘But Ma, I want a daughter‚’ said Hemant.

‘That’s true, Ma‚’ repeated Astha, ‘He wants a girl.’

‘In America there is no difference between boys and girls. How can this country get anywhere if we go on treating our women this way?’

There was no mistaking the admiration in both women’s eyes.

Astha enjoyed every aspect of her pregnancy. As it advanced, she became more and more bucolic. Teaching was an effort, and she had no energy for any extra activity. At home she slept most of the time.

Hemant adored what was happening to her. ‘My wife is becoming a woman before my very eyes‚’ he said passing his hands over her belly, large and full, over her breasts, certainly larger and fuller than they had ever been. ‘I hope they remain like this‚’ he said holding them possessively.

‘What’ll happen if they don’t?’

‘Another baby, what else?’

‘You’ll get tired earning for all these children you plan to produce.’

‘With you looking like this, never‚’ declared Hemant passionately. ‘A real woman rather than a girl.’

Astha had heard men were revolted by the way women looked when they were pregnant, but not Hemant. He loved touching her belly and breasts, her breasts especially, sucking on them experimentally, drawing a little milk when he
sucked long enough.

‘It’s very sweet‚’ he said with surprise.

‘It’s called colustrum‚’ she informed him knowledgeably. ‘It comes for the first three days, and is full of nutrients to prevent the baby from getting sick.’

Hemant smiled, ‘How full of information my wife is‚’ he said. ‘Where did you find that out from?’

‘Books.’

‘Our baby will be the best looked after baby there is‚’ said Hemant, caressing the taut stomach, gently stroking the raised belly-button, following the linea niger down to her pubic hair with his fingers, before inserting them into her vagina.

Anuradha. Born in March, after fifteen hours of labour at a private nursing home. Six pounds, eight ounces, nineteen inches. Long delicate nails, a head of thick black hair, pink, wrinkled, foetus like.

‘Oh‚’ chorused the new grandparents. ‘Just like Hemant. Same nose and forehead.’

‘Such a straight little nose‚’ detailed Astha’s mother, ‘such big eyes. Handsome like her father. Girls who look like their fathers are lucky.’

Hemant leaned over the tiny baby and kissed her cone-like dome enthusiastically. Astha thought with amazement, he doesn’t see through my mother’s flattery, before tightening her own hold on the child.

The first time Anuradha put her mouth to her mother’s breast and started pulling, Astha was astonished. Hemant’s own pullings were nothing in comparison, mild as the winter sun. Anuradha meant business. She tugged ferociously, and Astha’s womb in response obligingly contracted, spurting out blood into the pad she wore.

A month of wet before the blood ceased to come, before the womb had contracted all it was going to. A time of swollen aching breasts charged with milk that dribbled constantly,
soaking the towel inside her nursing bra, staining her clothes, a time when she had to beg Hemant to drink from them to relieve the pressure.

Hemant always willingly obliged, putting a gentle mouth to the tight breast with its blue veins now clearly marked. ‘It’s very watery‚’ he said the first time, surprised once more.

‘Is it?’ asked Astha, ‘Let me see.’ She cupped a hand under her nipple to catch a drop of the still-oozing milk, and tasted it. It was sweet and watery, bluish-white in colour. ‘I guess we are used to cow’s milk, which has more fat. That is meant for calves, this is meant for humans‚’ she explained pedantically, her new-found knowledge still burgeoning in her mind.

Anuradha yawned in her sleep, and made wuffling baby sounds while both parents gazed at the little variations in her movements, with a joy that spilled into each other.

‘Darling‚’ said Hemant one night.

‘What?’ said Astha preoccupiedly. Anuradha was six months old now, and had just begun to sleep through the night. Astha was looking forward to sleeping through the night too, something she felt she had never appreciated before.

‘Where’s the teddy?’

‘What on earth for?’

‘I wonder how it looks. It’s been a long time since you tried it on.’

‘It’s been a long time since I had a figure‚’ retorted Astha.

‘You have a figure‚’ said Hemant, gazing upon his wife’s fullness appreciatively. ‘Go on, try it‚’ he urged, pushing her stubborn form towards the bathroom.

‘No, no, I don’t want to‚’ expostulated Astha.

‘Why? You think because we’ve had a baby, our life is over. I haven’t touched you in months.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. Soon it’ll stop hurting. And our life isn’t over, if by that you mean sex, but it’s not necessary to have sex with that thing on, is it? What’ll happen to Anu’s subconscious? She might grow up with a problem.’

‘Look at her. She’s totally unconscious. How do you think half the country fucks? You think they have separate rooms?’

Astha knew they didn’t. She didn’t like the leer on Hemant’s face, but she could think of no more reasons for objecting. What could she say? That she was too old? She was twenty-five. That the early days of their marriage were over? They had been married three years. That Hemant should want her without her prancing around in a tight black cut-away garment? But she had worn it before, she had been turned on herself, wasn’t she being rather prudish now? She threw a glance at the baby, maybe she was waking? But no, Anuradha slept peacefully, while her mother made her way slowly to the drawer where the teddy was hidden en route to the bathroom.

She pulled it on. Her breasts spilled over the top, and looked more voluptuous than they were. That was all very well, thought Astha, but the sight of her stomach bulging through the shiny stretchy lace see-through stuff, that sight was not pretty. Also she hadn’t been so regular about her waxing, there was hair growing all over her limbs.

This’ll put him off teddies for ever, thought Astha, surveying herself in the mirror, a little regretful that her body should have this deterrent effect. Finally she wrapped his dressing gown around her waist and emerged complaining, it’s so tight, look darling it doesn’t fit, I’ll never be my old self again.

Hemant saw her point. The teddy was put away and never mentioned again.

‘Once we build our new house, we can start planning for our next child.’

‘Um‚’ said Astha absently, handing her husband the baby oil. Hemant poured a little into his palm and began carefully rubbing it on his daughter, her bath part of his Sunday morning ritual. He insisted on doing this, ideas about fatherhood are so antiquated in India.

‘I want to have my son soon‚’ declared Hemant, looking emotional and manly at the same time. ‘I want to be as much a part of his life as Papaji is of mine.’

‘How do you know we will have a son?’ asked Astha, feeling a little scared.