The Plunge (7 page)

Anjali could not sleep that night. Random thoughts crowded her mind, bothering her.

Why think of all the bad men in her life when she had eventually met her ideal man?

Siddharth was different, she was sure. She had imagined she could remain happy and content loving him from afar.

“It’s possible for a grown man and a woman to share a close relationship without engaging in physical intimacy.” Hardly a week had passed since she had argued that idea with Swapna when she called up.

Swapna. Was she still very angry with her? She was certainly shocked and disappointed with her lack of restraint after her confession in the morning.

“Anjali, no…”

“How could you?”

“Why?”

Strangely, she felt too excited to be bothered by Swapna’s annoyance.

What would her mother say? And her father, if he were alive? Achchan would have gone mad. “You won’t marry, but you’ll sleep around! Bitch.”

How her father lost his temper with the slightest provocation! A control freak, achchan, senior accounts officer with the state government, preferred a disciplined family. At times, even amma got beatings when she tried to stop him.

It was a kind of therapy, cane therapy, and probably not just for those who were being hit. It also cured him, the punisher, of stress, frustration, or even boredom.

Swish…the free end of the cane closed in whenever achchan went mad with anger. It left red imprints on her forearms and honey-coloured thighs, and quivered in her father’s grip like a captive dragonfly.

Anjali had accepted the blows gratefully, though not always gracefully. She would shriek and howl, more out of fear than pain. But for some weird reason, she also felt an odd thrill the moment the cane struck her. It acknowledged her identity. Yes! She was somebody. Somebody, not just ‘a nobody’.

Achchan thought he was hurting her with the whacks. How wrong he was!

The episodes left marks on her skin that turned greenish-blue after a while: sometimes long stripes, otherwise, smaller marks. Anjali usually got them on her forearms or the back of her thighs when she managed to flee. Her crime was mainly answering back, which he classified as rebellious behaviour.

She cared for her own wounds, as if they were her children. She provided tender loving care while they healed, stroking them with her alert fingers, whispering comforting words.

“Did it hurt much?” Amma would ask her, moving her hand over Anjali’s dishevelled hair. She would not touch the freshly swollen marks. She knew they would hurt.

“No,” Anjali would lie, feeling needles all along the fresh bruises.

She would pamper her wounds; and admire them as they changed colour and healed themselves. It was like a miracle. It made her believe that she had divine powers.

“Anjali is a brave girl. She sleeps alone,” amma used to proudly tell relatives. But whenever there was a thunderstorm at night, amma would be with her until she fell asleep, before retiring to her own room.

Sometimes she shared Anjali’s room for the entire night. That was when achchan would return home late. Amma would be in a nasty mood when he did that. She would be rude to him and say insulting words. “Womaniser!” she would hiss, as if calling him names in private could hurt him.

The fights usually ended with him beating her. Achchan would stop amma’s tirades with slaps. She would cry for a while and then withdraw into some corner of the house, mostly to the kitchen. Amma would stare at the marks on her fair skin, the swollen, red marks. She would not speak to achchan for a few days.

She would not comb her hair or dress up for him. Amma had curly hair, not just wavy like hers. The scabs on amma’s skin eventually peeled off, fresh skin appeared; and the fight was forgotten.

Anjali secretly felt like a proud owner of her own wounds; she had earned them by speaking her mind.

The welts had drawn her attention to her body, and made her realise that she was real. She was not just a silly mind thinking silly thoughts. There were bones and flesh that had grown out of it, and these made her visible to the world, to other people, including men.

But men were disgusting creatures. Some intrigued her, while most were intimidating. Siddharth was different, of course. Others, such as her brother Anup, were only passing thoughts.

Amma must be enjoying a peaceful life with Anup and his family in Dubai. She was grateful to Anup’s wife for taking care of amma after achchan had passed away two years ago.

Anjali never got along with Anup during school days. They were in the same convent in primary school. Then her parents had moved Anup to Saint Joseph’s, since Holy Saints Convent allowed boys only up to class four.

They barely saw each other except during vacations. Summer vacation was a two-month break. Christmas and Onam were short breaks, ten days each. She liked the break from studies, but missed her friends during vacations.

Her father was transferred to a new city every two years. His job was what they called transferable. Her mother went with him wherever he was posted: the hills, the coast. Like the mythical Sita who followed Ram to the jungle or Savitri who followed Satyavan even after his death, her mother Nivedita followed Kesavan Kutty, her father. Women were meant to be led forever, into love, temptation, abuse, misery and torture.

Whenever they were together during vacations, Anjali fought with Anup over petty things, including who got to fetch the warm eggs as soon as the hens cackled away and who would sit in the front seat of the car. They quarrelled more during monsoon, when rain restrained them indoors.

Monsoon in Kerala was a ferocious affair, and vacations were mostly wet. It rained heavily, or rather, poured. The saying was: “One drop was big enough to fill a pot.” The thunderstorms would continue throughout the night and into the morning, even as early as March and April, a couple of months before the official monsoon. Sometimes this would last for a few days before sunlight finally rushed in to lick the ground dry.

Anjali loved the rains. She loved the way they poured down the eaves during the day. Strangely, she was scared of the same monsoon curtain at night. The heavy downpour during nights would stoke fear of ghosts in her mind.

Monsoon was also the time when Raju trapped fireflies in glass bottles for her. The twelve-year-old boy lived with them. He helped amma with the house chores, and fetched groceries from the local market, among other errands.

Raju was an expert with fireflies, known locally as
minnaminungu
. The insect had a torch at its rear end, a fluorescent green light that shone at night.

Minnaminungu
were a common sight during the monsoon months in Pallode, the hill district where achchan was posted when Anjali was in class five. They lived in a spacious house in the middle of a large rubber plantation. It was quiet and secluded but exciting, since they had a large area around the house to explore. There was only one other house in the vicinity.

Anup did not consider Raju an equal, and rightfully so. He was a servant. Anup carried an attitude like a woman her vanity.

Raju would join them only in the evenings, when they walked down the lane to the shallow stream that separated the plantation from the paddy fields, which, in turn, ended at the main road. They sat on the split tree trunk, which was flattened on the upside and laid across the stream, as a crude bridge. Sitting on it, they would lure fish to the water surface with rice. The stream would come alive with numerous ripples as fish jostled with each other for the feed. Small circular ripples grew bigger and bigger still, until they disappeared across the river.

“One…two…three….” She liked to count the slender fish that would break the placid surface of the stream. They had a silver line all along the back of their transparent bodies. They also had curious eyes, turned skywards, which made them look perpetually alarmed. The fish were aptly named
manathukanni
, sky gazers.

But why was she reliving her childhood tonight? Crazy! Focusing on the breath helps to calm the mind, straps it to the present, they say. Deep breaths should help. Breathe in, breathe out. Anjali felt the warm air slide across her upper lip.

.

9
    

CHAPTER

Desperation

A
njali woke up with a heavy head.

This was happening most days for a month now, ever since Siddharth’s visit. Stress, perhaps.

Priya handed her a mug of tea. She smiled at her, taking in the concerned look.

She did not regret having made love to Siddharth. She did not think Swapna was right. Siddharth was not looking for some woman to bed. They were meant to meet. It was inevitable. She had to realise love with Siddharth. Siddh was her man.

The mobile ring jolted her out of reverie. “Hello,” she heard Swapna’s soft voice at the other end.

“Hi, Swapna….”

“I am worried, Anjali. I was going through your mail and… are you serious? You really want to move to Shimla? It must be his idea, I’m sure.”

How her tone changed in excitement! Swapna was feeling helpless, Anjali knew. Of late, even when she tried to have a calm conversation, it became emotionally charged in no time.

“I can’t even work, Swapna. He’s on my mind all the time. Sometimes I’m afraid he might lose interest in me if we stay apart for too long. What if some other woman seduces him!”

“Wait a minute. You mean you think you have seduced him? Have you completely lost it?” Swapna’s words did not sound friendly anymore.

Anjali sensed panic. “Don’t worry, Swapna. I’m fine. I just feel this desperate need to be near him. That’s all.”

Swapna was quiet for a while, before she said, “Anjali, this man is forty-five, and married to someone he describes as “a beautiful person”. He keeps telling you that his wife and sons are “wonderful things”. Why, then, does he need a relationship with another woman to complete his life, which he claims is complete already? What is he looking for in this relationship, and what is he taking? You see what I mean? Mark my words. He is a skirt chaser. Stay away.”

Skirt chaser, like Rasheed, the hedonist colleague from her advertising agency days? No way.

“Swapna….”

“Listen, Anjali. You’re simply bored. Pack your bags and come here. We’ll find a job for you. Please don’t relocate to Shimla. You’ve never been to that side. Why would you want to go to the hills for this man? It’s crazy!”

“There’s a limit,” Priya yelled, staring Anjali in the eye.

“Twice a day is enough, Anjali,” she said sternly.

Almost two months since she had met Siddharth, Anjali was forever restless, and hopelessly in love.

“How can you be so impatient? You emailed him just this morning. And you are already expecting a reply!”

Priya placed her hand on Anjali’s shoulder. “Listen, Anjali, he’s not single, like you are. He has a job, one with a great deal of responsibility, you said. And, he has a family to spend time with. Don’t be so desperate.”

Priya did not know her lover was Siddharth, their former colleague.

Anjali signed out of her email and stared at the incomplete story on the screen.

The office was empty except for them. It would be at least half an hour before the reporters would come in with stories from their respective beats.

How often could she skip work?

Anjali tried to focus on her story.

“It’s just a press conference, publicity material in the garb of news. No byline, anyway. Just key in what the minister had said,” suggested Priya.

Anjali was preoccupied, yet again. Why was there no message from Siddharth?

“I need a break. I really need one,” Anjali said, stretching her arms. She threw her head back, chin up, and shut her eyes.

“Me too,” court reporter Reena called out in her shrill voice from behind her desk. Anjali realised that she had spoken her thought aloud.

The office was coming alive. Copy editors came in one by one, except for those on late shift. Reporters showed up, toting messily scribbled notepads, press releases, name tags, sweat, and irritability.

Vishnu, a staff photographer, approached Reena’s desk. “Is it OK to caption this photo: Commissioner against illegal erections?”

He showed a photo of the city commissioner overseeing a demolition drive, with workers pulling down an illegal construction.

Anjali struggled to stifle her laughter as Reena fixed her with a stare.

“What’s so funny?” Reena asked.

“Why should the commissioner be against erections of any kind, legal or illegal?” Anjali asked, bursting into laughter.

Reena’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Stop it,” Priya hissed into Anjali’s ear, taking in the pun.

“See this, Anjali,” she said, changing the topic.

Priya placed a pamphlet from the People for Ethical Treatment for Animals on her desk. It showed a man and woman in bed. The man in the picture, with only a cloth thrown over his loin, was shown staring down between his thighs, dejected. The accompanying literature from the activists advocated vegetarianism. The leaflet carried the message that meat eaters were more likely to be impotent.