All the Tomorrows

by Nillu Nasser

  She was trapped in a nightmare. She had fought for permission to go to university and agreed to the marriage to step away from her mother’s sphere of influence. Now it had become all too clear how she fell short of her mother’s vision of a good Indian woman. The ropes of ancestors and her own mistakes bound her to a future she no longer controlled. If she voiced her fears, she would seem ungrateful, and likely lose the fragile support of her parents. A good Indian woman did not complain; she was a dutiful daughter, she served her husband, she bore children, she worked herself to the bone not for her own progression, but for the progression of her loved ones.

  Anger unfurled within her, pulsing, uncontainable. Jaya could not live her life within a box, but lighting the match had severed her chances of escape. She lowered her feet carefully off the bed. Her legs were still partially bandaged. Her strength was returning and Dr. Tarpana was pleased with her progress. Even her toenails were growing back. The missing digits on her left foot reminded her of what she had lost. Beauty. Love. Hope. A wretched smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Will I ever be touchable again? Will I ever determine my own fate? She hobbled over to the mirror, allowing bitterness to pool in her mouth. Her reflection mocked her in the half-light: a young woman burdened by her body. To the right, Sridevi’s flawless beauty in a traditional dance pose had been immortalised on the poster. With a spark of rage, Jaya scooped a carved wooden jewellery box off the dresser and hurled it at the mirror, shattering the glass and the peace of the pre-dawn house. Her image fractured into dozens of pieces at her feet.

  “You can’t hide away forever, Jaya,” said Ruhi, kneading feet sore from a Kathak dance class.

  They sat on a small patio at the rear of the house, overlooking a triangular piece of yellowed turf. Two steaming cups of chai flavoured with cardamom, cinnamon and creamed milk rested on a crescent table before them. At twenty years old, Ruhi had finished her secondary education and had hopes of becoming a Bollywood dancer. It was a dream their parents tolerated, as long as Ruhi contributed to household expenses with wages from her waitressing job at the bazaar. It helped Ruhi had already been promised to an eligible man, one she happened to be besotted with.

  Bombay was booming, and many parents encouraged real estate for boys and tourism for girls as safe job options. Jaya had been studying hotel management, though she would have preferred art. Now, the thought of returning to her course repelled her.

  “I can’t go back to my old circles. How would I face them? Everything has changed. The deal was that I make myself useful. We can’t afford both university and medical bills, and I’ve missed too much anyway,” said Jaya. “Besides, I am content.”

  Ruhi raised her eyebrows. “Rubbish. After smashing the mirror this morning, you can’t look me in the eye and say that.” She eyeballed her sister, her dewy skin make-up free, her hair scraped back into a bun at her nape.

  Jaya stared back then dropped her gaze, her cheeks flushing. “I will find my way.”

  “Where’s your fight? It’s been five months. Five months of sorrow, anger and blaming. Only you can rebuild your life, Jaya. No one else but you.”

  Their mother appeared at the patio door, her hair wrapped in a turban, bringing the stench of henna with her. “Jaya, I thought you were going to cook roti. I’m colouring my hair. Your father will be home soon.”

  “I was just—” said Jaya.

  “I can’t have a grown child not pulling her weight,” said her mother.

  “Maa, we just sat down, give us a few minutes,” said Ruhi.

  “Now, Jaya!”

  Jaya hurried inside, followed by Ruhi. Together, they added ghee, water and a large pinch of salt to the flour to make the roti dough. They kneaded the mixture, dusted the work surface and rolled the dough into perfect circles. Jaya breathed through her rising panic as she heated a griddle on the stove. I can do this. Too soon to be near the flame, too soon to overcome her need to escape into nothingness. She placed the dough in the pan and watched while bubbles appeared on the topside, remembering the surface of her skin when she had burned, the singed, sizzling pain of it. Akash loomed large in her mind’s eye, watching the flames ravage her with a curl to his lip.

  Ruhi lay a hand on her arm. “You okay?”

  Jaya flinched and held her sister’s gaze. Ruhi could see through her lies, she knew, but it didn’t deter her. How could she lean on her little sister? “Of course.”

  Another deep breath. She flipped the rotis with quick fingers, swallowing her panic though it bloomed in her throat, and transferred the bread to a plate. The stack multiplied and Ruhi buttered each one in turn. Both girls worked in silence. Their togetherness soothed Jaya at least: the rhythm of the roti-making brought order to the chaos of her mind, the coolness of the dough contrasted with the heat she still remembered. Finally, Ruhi spoke.

  “You are not their maid, you know. You’re strong. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Jaya laid her head on Ruhi’s shoulder. “Are you ashamed of me?”

  Ruhi wrapped her lean arms around Jaya. “Of course not. I wish you could hear my voice in your head. I wish that was all you heard for now. It all feels dark to you, but I have an idea though to help you find joy.”

  That evening they squeezed into a rickshaw painted the colours of a bumblebee. The streets of Bombay heaved and spluttered, and the driver wore his recklessness like a badge of honour. He weaved in and out of the traffic as the girls held on for dear life.

  Ruhi giggled. “We’ve not been out together for a while. I thought this would be fun,” she said. Her dark hair flew out behind her like an arrow.

  The rickshaw driver rounded a corner in haste, and Jaya’s voice came out like a gasp. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Will I have to speak to anybody?” She didn’t need any more judgement.

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “There won’t be much walking?”

  “No,” said Ruhi.

  “We can leave if I want to?”

  “Yes,” replied her sister.

  Jaya’s disquiet eased. She had tied a navy-blue headscarf at her chin, and wore a navy-blue salwar kameez hemmed with lace, with loose kurta underneath. The trousers masked the angry red scars that looped around her legs, but the waistband irritated her torso. She covered her head with the matching dupatta, trying her best to avoid attention from passers-by. It would have been the norm for sandals to complete the outfit, but Jaya had chosen lace up shoes despite the humidity to conceal her abnormalities.

  Soon enough they reached their destination, an apartment block near Mahim Bay. Ruhi gave the driver a handful of crumpled rupees and the two women stepped out onto the road. A sliver of moon lingered behind a bank of clouds.

  “So, where are we then?” said Jaya, trepidation colouring her voice.

  “This way,” said Ruhi, cupping her sister’s elbow. “This was meant as a birthday gift for you, but it’s perfect for now. A friend told me about this place.”

  They entered a rickety lift. The cabin swayed and lurched as it ascended to the top floor. The doors ting-ed and opened out into one big space with bright white walls and wood flooring. In the middle of the room a small table was decorated with an aquamarine scarf and a vase of forget-me-nots. Scattered here and there were artist’s easels. At some, women stood painting. Silence reached across the room apart from the scratch of paint brushes and the odd murmur.

  A slim man crossed the room to greet them, smiling a welcome. “Hi, I’m Firoz.” Smudges of colour dotted his hands. “How nice to see new faces here. Are you both here to paint?”

  Ruhi laughed. “No, I can barely draw a line. My sister, on the other hand, is an artist. Or should be. It’s been a while, I think. I’m just here for moral support.”

  The man turned to Jaya and in his eyes, she saw kindness. “Is that right?”

  Jaya nodded her head, her heart clamouring inside the walls of her chest. It seemed too so
on to be stepping out of the comfort of her home environment, but then, often home felt like a prison.

  “Follow me and we’ll get you set up,” said Firoz.

  They stayed. Jaya sat on a stool and painted while Ruhi watched and encouraged in gentle whispers. For the first time since the fire, Jaya found a way to direct her attention wholly outwards, towards the cloudy vase filled with the forget-me-nots and the little teak table it was perched upon. In that hour, she found peace.

  Chapter 7

  Jaya had spent hours alone in her room as a girl with a sketchpad and pencil, scratching intricate designs into the paper. Soon she graduated from pencils to paintbrushes. Her father had been artistic in his youth too, though now he ran a video rental shop. To her mother, art represented a down and out’s dream. Song and dance, she could stretch to—Bollywood movies, after all, appealed to the masses—but who made money with art? Her mother grew irritated at her pursuit. Any of Jaya’s artwork she uncovered inevitably disappeared, most likely slung out with the household rubbish. So, Jaya took care to conceal her portfolio under the bed, wrapped in a scarf so it could be mistaken for crumpled clothing.

  Ruhi’s gift to her could not have come at a better time. Jaya came to love her art classes at the penthouse. Once a week after sundown she sat at her easel, reminded of the promise of an empty canvas. First, the colours she chose reflected her mood: inky blacks, swirling greys, deep blues. Soon, encouraged by Firoz, they evolved to a more joyful palette. She created fresh perspectives and new worlds, losing herself in colour. Slowly, she realised there remained room in her life for beauty and promise, even when life seemed cheerless, her prospects bleak.

  Her subconscious thoughts were a different matter. That morning, Jaya woke slick with sweat from a recurrent nightmare. Fiery knives slashed at her in her dreams. As always, a distracted Akash stood half-watching her plight, reluctant to intervene. Her dream self-willed him to help her. She prayed for him to be her knight in shining armour. Instead, he receded from view, dissipating into a blank space and leaving her alone to pull the knives out one by one, a silent scream on her lips.

  Ruhi slept through Jaya’s night terrors, but when morning came she tutted at the blue-green circles under her sister’s eyes, touched her wan, clammy skin and appeared to know of Jaya’s battles.

  This morning, stickiness and the heavy musk of sleep pervaded the room. Jaya’s legs lay above the sheets. In public, pride led her to shield from prying eyes, but here, in the sanctity of her bedroom, she could not bear to have them covered. Her skin no longer welcomed the cocoon of the covers; the warmth of her bedclothes instead triggered flashbacks to her ordeal and phantom burn pains. The sight of missing toes left an acidic taste in her mouth. The fire had waged war on the once-smooth skin of her legs, now raw and ravaged. A stitch rose in her chest where it stubbornly lodged.

  Jaya sat up in the grey morning light and reached for her sketchpad. Underneath her fingers, a man’s face took shape. She let her pencil flow, allowed instinct to create the picture. Beside her, Ruhi stretched her lithe limbs and opened her eyes. Jaya pushed aside her pencil.

  “What are you working on?” said Ruhi, her voice thick with sleep.

  Jaya handed her sister the sketch pad. Black smears marked the tips of her index and middle finger where she’d smudged the lead. Akash’s face stood out against a charcoal background, his features unmistakable: dark, long-lashed eyes, prevalent cheekbones, hair cut short, ears slightly too big for him to be classically handsome.

  “Oh.” Ruhi passed back the pad and sat up, eyes bleary with sleep. She looked her sister full in the face. “You’re good, you know.”

  “Thanks.” Jaya held her breath, hoping Ruhi would ignore the subject of her drawing.

  “You know why you’ve drawn him, don’t you? Why your subconscious can’t let go?” said Ruhi.

  “Do tell.” She had grown tired of people extracting her emotions for her, as if she did not know herself, as if their opinion mattered more than hers.

  “You love him.”

  Jaya stiffened, anger clawing at her throat. “I hate him.”

  “Yes, but you love him too. Those feelings you had for him, they don’t disappear overnight.” Ruhi’s clarity infuriated her.

  Jaya’s cheeks grew hot, her head throbbed. “Next you’re going to tell me everyone makes mistakes.” She didn’t want conflict with Ruhi; her sister had stood by her without flinching. It riled her that Akash was the root of their discord.

  “I’m on your side,” said Ruhi. “I get it, that’s all. I know you, you fall deeply. Like that time when we were kids and you played Carrom with Saif while the rest of us were tearing around. It took you months to forget him. When you give your heart, you don’t just take it back. That’s not how you work.” Ruhi flung back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, effortlessly graceful. “Look, if it were me, I’d need some answers. I wouldn’t let him off so easily. Go find Akash, Jaya. Show him what happened, give him a chance to explain. It might be he disgusts you, or you discover your story is not finished. Without that, you won’t be able to move on.”

  The monotony of doing the laundry depressed Jaya. Her mother was meticulous about standards in the house, like any good Indian woman. Those standards translated into tasks for Jaya. Washing machines were the preserve of Europeans and the wealthy. Three times a week, Jaya separated the dirty clothes into lights, colours and darks, and washed them by hand in a bucket. She sat on a stool, as her mother had always done, grateful for the support for her legs. Even so, the labours pained her back and her neck, leaving the pads of her fingers wrinkled but her nails sparkling. Above all, she loathed washing saris. The endless yards of material, with running colours, were impossible to turn out to her mother’s satisfaction. She had already ruined two beyond repair.

  She heard muffled voices downstairs as she toiled, rhythmically kneading her father’s shirts, lifting them in and out of the water. Her mother called up the stairs.

  “Jaya, there’s someone here for you.”

  Jaya’s heart lurched. She let the shirt slide back into the water and wiped her hands on her thighs. From her mother’s neutral tone, the visitor was unlikely to be Akash. She looked down at her clothing: her long, shapeless dress; her misshapen, socked feet. A cursory glance in the mirror revealed a halo of frizzy hair. She smoothed it down and sighed, then made her way unsteadily down the stairs. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight that greeted her.

  The woman wore a slim-fitting salwar kameez with tapered sleeves and elegant silver sandals with a slight heel. Her hair hung loosely just above chin level. Jaya had only seen her once, but she would remember that face forever. Her blood rushed to her face and her heart leapt to an irregular drumbeat in her chest for all to hear.

  “Isn’t it nice to have a visitor?” said her mother.

  Jaya resisted the urge to run and hide. “Maa, could we have a moment please? To be alone?” Her voice croaked and she struggled to form the words.

  “I’ve tried, I have really tried to teach her manners,” her mother called out over her shoulder as she departed.

  “We haven’t met. Not properly. I’m Soraya Mansoor.” The woman’s hands rested on a slight bulge at her midsection. Not perfect after all.

  Jaya clung to the bottom of the bannister, fury and embarrassment unfurling in her belly. She resented how unclean and unfashionable she happened to be in comparison to the other woman. She lifted her eyes to meet Soraya’s, anger and resentment coursing through her veins. “I might not have known your name, but I know who you are.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Are you? Then why did you do it?” The words came tumbling out, an affront against the laws of Indian hospitality.

  “Because I could, I guess. His attention was a balm to my ego.” Her callous disregard for another woman’s happiness fuelled Jaya’s anger.

  “Do you love him?” Jaya spat the words out.

  “No.” A tiny word, a wo
rld of meaning.

  Jaya drew herself up to her full height, but still came up only to the woman’s chin. “You ruined another woman’s marriage and it wasn’t even for love.” Her voice crescendoed. “Get out—now!—Before I do something I regret.”

  A shadow hovered behind the glass door leading to the kitchen. Her mother emerged.

  “Jaya, what is wrong with you? Is that any way to treat your guest?” She turned to Soraya, all cheap perfume and backcombed hair. “Do come in, have some chai or water at least. We do not treat guests that way in this house.”

  “No!” Jaya’s voice bellowed, clawing any attempt at congeniality away from her mother’s face. She jostled past Soraya to throw the door open, gripped the other woman’s arm and manhandled her onto the street. Her throat was raw with unshed tears. “You’re leaving.”

  Soraya nodded, not a line between her fine eyebrows, her expression wiped of passion. She cast her eyes over Jaya. “As you wish.” She turned on her heel, hips swaying as she negotiated the littered pavement.

  Jaya flushed. “Stop!”

  She ran out onto the dusty street in her house dress and socks, gesturing wildly, restraint abandoned. Without doubt, she looked mad to passers-by: one crazed, unkempt woman; one sane, elegant one.

  Soraya pivoted, glossy hair spinning in an arc, almond eyes questioning.

  “Why come here now?” said Jaya.

  “At first I didn’t know what happened. I haven’t seen him—“

  “I’m supposed to believe that?” Jaya’s insides clenched.