by Nillu Nasser
She continued to live with her parents, bound by daughterly responsibility. She was the eldest child, after all, and her focus on them freed Ruhi from similar bonds. Jaya serviced their needs first thing in the morning and last thing at night: cooking, laundry, cleaning. They demanded it, and she gave it, but not without restraint.
“The food has finished, Jaya,” said her mother with a frown.
“I cooked first thing.” She woke each day at the crack of dawn.
“We ate it for lunch.” She offered no apology for devouring all the contents of the saucepan without leaving any for her.
A swell of anger, quick, like lightening in a storm, at the servitude and selflessness expected from her. “You can cook, Maa.”
“We’ve run out of flour and potatoes. I had nothing left to make.” Had her mother always been this helpless or had encroaching old age taken away her last remnants of independence?
Jaya’s patience snapped, an elastic band pulled too tight. “You could have gone to the market.” She had been job-hunting all day, and her art class took place tonight. That she would not compromise.
“The kitchen is your domain now, I’ve served my time.” Keen eyes glowered over pursed lips.
“Maa, I give gladly when I choose to give, but you and Papa are able to look after yourselves. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
They locked horns, time and again, two women in a too small space, one vying for independence, the other for authority. Through it all, not once did her mother acknowledge the resilience it took for Jaya to face the room where the fire had consumed her.
Only Ruhi knew the strength it took, the techniques she used to calm her racing heart, to quell the avalanche of memories that returned without warning.
“I am loved.” Again and again, alone in the bathroom, she chanted the affirmation aloud, moon eyes reflected back in an ageing mirror.
“I can do this.”
“I am enough, just as I am.”
She spoke the words until they came involuntarily, an echo in her mind, a reaction and a balm in moments of panic and despair, the rhythm and syntax imprinted on the shreds of her pride.
To her surprise, she won. Not overnight, but gradually, as a basin fills with river water. The flames of the stove ceased to echo in her mind, and only in the nightmares of her sleep did they resurface. And still, she kept the secret that Akash had been there when she had burned, a morbid spectator in her hour of reckoning. She protected him, though he had failed her, and her sacrifice gave her strength.
Despite it all, she refused to accept her life was over, not even when pitying stares from fellow women pierced her thin armour.
“Where is your husband, Jaya? Was it your poor cooking he ran away from?”
“It’ll be too late for you to have children if you wait too long.”
“Women aren’t made to be alone.”
They gossiped, in their tired old circles, neither elevating the other, each satisfied with the frisson of excitement other people’s bad fortune brings. She should have thanked them. Over time, she grew stronger, and noticed only on the periphery of her consciousness when thoughtless or spiteful old ladies at temple threw verbal missiles her way.
“There she is,” came the whispers. “Her sister is so beautiful, she has done so well, a fine man for a husband. This one was married once. Who knows where her husband is now.”
“She grows old, like us. And she is her father’s burden.”
“It’s not right when a woman puts herself before family.”
In some ways, she was grateful. Exposure to the toxicity of small communities drove her out of her shell when she had wanted to cut herself off from the world. It made her artful, able to manipulate when before she might have bowed to the pressure of belonging.
She played her role, as best she could, but in between, she lived. She found a job at a small community theatre, which fed into small television productions. First as a secretary, then as a costume and set designer. She enjoyed being in the shadows of the performances rather than centre stage, took comfort from the lights going out and all eyes being on someone else, and from the interactions with the cast. The theatre became not only her livelihood, but her lifeline. Still, she looked for Akash in the faces of strangers who filled the auditorium and walked the streets. One day, perhaps, her own life would play out like a perfectly scripted play.
Chapter 10
The years sped past and in the blink of an eye, the buoyancy of youth settled into heavy-footed middle age. In many ways, Jaya was a pariah. An Indian woman in her mid-forties, deserted by her husband, childless, scarred.
That morning, her chores complete, Jaya stood in front of a long mirror in the bedroom she had once shared with Ruhi, who now was mistress of her own home and family. Despite the hand fate had dealt, or perhaps because of it, Jaya had shed the remnants of a submissive younger self. In its place emerged a woman borne of complexity and trauma. Gone was the meek woman, gone the drab salwar kameez she had chosen after the fire, gone the headscarf she had used as a curtain to avoid the glare of strangers.
In their place was the costume she had adopted, the one her ageing mother, ever the bringer of harmony, rolled her eyes at. The folds and dimples in her discoloured skin were hidden from view beneath a long, full skirt in turquoise. She dressed in bright colours, a deliberate attempt to obscure the dark wounds of her past. Heavy kohl lined her eyes, complementing the straight line of her mouth and giving her the look of a warrior. Her hair had always been her crowning glory, thick strands of curly jet black, now peppered with grey. She didn’t dye it; she didn’t see the need. Her naked mirror image pained her, but she had learned to distract from the scars on her lower body with elaborate clothes that lifted her spirit and made her feel stronger. Showing her true self was anathema to her. She needed neither pity nor judgement; in fact, they enraged her. Only her feet looked odd, perpetually clad in closed shoes, even when her socked feet grew damp in the Bombay heat. She liked to joke with Ruhi that it took her half the time to paint her toe nails.
Jaya took equal joy and pain from how life had turned out for Ruhi. Her sister had a loving husband, a ten-year-old son and her own home. Casting agents still chose her to dance in Bollywood blockbusters, such as Rangeela and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. She had Shah Rukh Khan on speed dial. Jaya, for her part, preferred a quieter life, the shadows to the sunlight. She took pleasure from her role as an aunt to her nephew, and showered him with kisses and gifts. Spending time with him never failed to remind her how different her life could have been.
Jaya threw a shawl around her shoulders, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Downstairs, she peeked into the living room where her mother and father watched a talent show on the television. The curtains hadn’t been opened. She hurried over to open them, not wanting to be late.
“See you after work. The okra curry and puri are on the stove ready for your lunch. I’ll make some fresh rotis later.”
“Thank you,” said her father.
Her mother appeared to be too engrossed in the programme to look up. She often sulked when Jaya left the house. Hers was, as her mother would say, a non-job. Well, thought Jaya. It’s a non-job that makes me happy.
Away from home, Jaya breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of the city, spices mingling with exhaust fumes. She boarded a bus towards Juhu and reached her destination a half-hour later. She walked the short distance to the Tara Theatre, her head high, gentle curves wrapped up in her colourful ensemble, her step light, balance slightly off centre due to her disability. A single storey building, which extended back like a wormhole, housed the theatre. Outside, faded lettering stretched across the facade, and a small window showcased flyers from past productions. Inside, a long corridor led from the front desk to dressing rooms, washrooms and a large practice area. At the end sat an intimate performance space containing seats in worn green velvet for 150 people and a half-moon stage.
Jaya made her way to a small workspace containing two s
mall desks. She collapsed into a swivel chair, discarded her shawl and grabbed a pen. Swatches of fabric, a pot of pencils, a small set of water colours, and a stack of newspapers from the past week lay scattered across the desk. Jaya picked up a script buried under the fabric and annotated it, immersing herself immediately in the drama of the piece.
She was chewing the biro, working out a design concept for their forthcoming play, when a touch on her shoulder startled her.
“Ravi, you scared me.”
“Always straight to your desk, Jaya. You know I miss you when you don’t come and say hello.”
In his late-thirties with slicked back hair and terrible taste in fashion—too high trousers, gaudy, printed shirts—Ravi had been showing her a lot of attention over the past few weeks, and Jaya didn’t understand why. Any hint of romantic attention sent her into a frenzy of self-doubt. Besides, Akash might not be here, but she was still his wife. She belonged to him.
“Can I borrow yesterday’s newspaper? I didn’t manage to watch the cricket and I want a wicket by wicket account.” He grinned and reached over her for the paper.
“No, I’m not done with that yet,” said Jaya.
Her sharpness wiped the smile off his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a nuisance.”
She struggled to keep her voice level. “Don’t worry.”
“Listen, I was thinking, why don’t we go for food together after work tonight? There’s a restaurant I’ve been meaning to try. It’s supposed to be really good.”
It was the second time he had suggested going out together. It sounded oddly like a date. Jaya grimaced, and a look of upset flashed across Ravi’s face. Now she had wounded him twice. She tried to extricate herself from the situation.
“I have elderly parents, they’ll be waiting for me.”
“I know how good you are to them, Jaya. I admire that, but surely they can look after themselves for one night? They can always call you if they need you.”
She had an old Nokia phone precisely for that reason.
“You must have someone else you can go with,” she said, fumbling for any reason to stay within her trusted environments.
“Not really.” Ravi shrugged.
It bothered her to fall foul of the rules of female decorum, schooled as she had been by her conservative parents. Male and female friendship existing outside of the security of chaperones or groups constituted a dangerous game to play, especially without concrete intentions. She paid little heed to gossip but it seemed silly to needlessly fuel it. She threw a glance at Ravi. He had not accepted her excuses and standing her ground would make her seem churlish. It’s not as if anyone would believe Ravi happened to be romantically interested in her anyway.
“Okay. Just this once.”
“Great. Come find me when you’re ready,” he said, his smile lighting up the dark interior of the room.
When he had gone, she scooped up the pile of newspapers and pulled them to the middle of the desk. Then, painstakingly, as if her life depended on it, she waded through the papers as she had done for twenty years, lingering in particular at the death notices, looking for any sign of the husband who had been lost to her.
Ravi chose a restaurant called Arjun, situated a stone’s throw away from Juhu Beach. Above the door awning to the restaurant hung a golden statue of an archer. He held the door open as they entered. Jaya flushed at his attentiveness. He happened to be the same height as her in his suit shoes with a block heel. She herself wore simple, flat, lace-up shoes. In bare feet, Akash had been at least a head taller. Not that Ravi was a suitor; they were nothing more than friends.
The restaurant overflowed with people, unusual for a Tuesday evening. The room, rectangle in shape, with a large window facing the street, was packed full of tables. The lighting was dimmed, deviating from the slapdash Bombay eateries she was accustomed to. This was a restaurant for special occasions, for special someones. Diners—many of them couples—leant forward in animated conversation, voices booming, making Jaya even more conscious of her reticence, her unease. She sat opposite Ravi, willing him to speak first.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” said Ravi, looking at the menu with satisfaction. “Aren’t you glad you came?”
“Of course.”
During the work day, she had concocted a multitude of graceful excuses not to attend, but anything she came up with seemed tinged with untruth, obviously so. In the end, she had decided to get this evening over and done with, but worried that Ravi might see more into tonight than she wanted. She found comfort in her work, art, long walks, and in Ruhi and her nephew. Spending time with Ravi took her away from her carefully curated existence, unnerving her. Her weakness, her lack of cool, irked her. A strong woman, whose Achilles heel happened to be men. She laughed at the irony. Every second person walking on the streets had the ability to throw her off kilter. She resolved to do better, whether Ravi wanted friendship or more.
“I’ve been wanting to spend time with you away from work for a long time, Jaya.”
For a brief moment, Jaya considered fleeing the restaurant. Ravi reached out across the table and she balked, snatching back her hand from where it had lain next to the gold-embossed menu.
“I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” The corners of his mouth folded downwards. With his slicked back hair, he resembled an unhappy seal.
Jaya strove to reassure him. “No, no, I’m not...” Her voice trailed off.
“I won’t do it again.”
She hid her embarrassment behind the menu. “Why don’t we order? It looks nice.”
They ordered a dish each—aloo gobi for her, mutter paneer for him—and a naan bread and plain rice to share. She turned down his offer of wine and they settled on water. She didn’t want to get too friendly, and she drank so infrequently she couldn’t trust herself to remain sober. When the food arrived, they ate with their fingers in stilted silence. She scooped the curried cauliflower and potatoes up with her naan, wondering how quickly she could leave, while Ravi devoured his cheese and peas with astonishing speed. They each took a breath and started speaking at once.
“Listen—” he said.
“So—” she said.
Ravi smiled, revealing shiny, even teeth. “No, you first.”
She nodded, eyes downcast. Twisting her finger in a wayward curl, she tucked it behind her ear, playing for time. “I don’t want to mislead you, Ravi.” He did say he liked me, didn’t he? He’s younger than me. Why would he be interested in a washed-up woman like me? She needed to nip this in the bud. “The truth is, I’m not looking, you know, for anything romantic.” She hesitated. “I’d like to be your friend, though.”
Ravi folded his napkin in silence, his brow furrowed, then looked up to pin her with his eyes. Jaya squirmed in her seat.
“Yes, let’s be friends, but can you keep everything else open, Jaya? Don’t decide yet. Give it a chance.”
She shook her head, the faintest of movements. I’m married! The words filled her mind, a silent assault she hid from him. How could she be truthful when it would only open the gates to gossip and ridicule? Her status as a deserted wife was nobody’s business but her own. She drew in a shaky breath. “I have to get back. My parents will be waiting.”
Ravi averted his gaze, looking around the room at anything but her. “I’ll order the bill.” He beckoned a waiter. The man, dressed in a simple black uniform with high-collared shirt, balancing four plates, nodded to indicate he would be over soon.
Jaya fidgeted in her seat.
A second man approached, this one in a dinner jacket. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. His manner was self-assured; he was clearly not a waiter. “Did you enjoy the evening, Sir, Madam?” he said.
Something about him struck Jaya as familiar, something in the curve of his lip, the look in his eyes.
“I’m Arjun. My mother and I own this restaurant. This is your first time here, I think? I make it my busin
ess to know my customers.” He smiled, and something stirred in the deepest recesses of Jaya’s memory.
Ravi stretched out his hand to shake Arjun’s, his strained demeanour thawing. “I’ve wanted to come here for quite some time. We enjoyed the food.”
But not the company, Jaya thought. She mumbled her agreement.
“That’s my mother Soraya over there,” said Arjun. “We’d be happy to see you back anytime. I’ll arrange for your bill.”
Ravi thanked him while Jaya’s eyes drifted over to Arjun’s mother. Her hands became clammy as she stared at the woman.
The woman stood tall, talking to a customer as she handed over a jacket. Her sari showed off her svelte body, a bit on the skinny side. She held her chin high, and her hair had been cropped shorter than the last time Jaya had seen her twenty years before. Slowly, she shifted her gaze to Arjun, and she understood now why he had seemed familiar.
There was no question in her mind; the physical resemblance of this man to his parents could not be mistaken. He was the son of Akash and Soraya. Jaya reeled, the food in her stomach threatening to make its way back into the world.
Ravi was paying the bill. “Jaya?” He pierced through the litany of thoughts racing through her head, yanking her out of her ever-present past.
“Get me out of here. Please.”
He took one look at her, stood up and took her arm, nodding his thanks to Soraya.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, as they passed. “Wait.” She grasped Jaya’s arm. “Do I know you?”
“No,” said Jaya, without stopping, manoeuvring through the door, under the archer, to the street where the air filled her lungs and her breath caught in her throat in the shape of a sob.
