by Manil Suri
Short Ganga had left behind the dupatta found that morning, draped prominently over the grinding stone outside the kitchen. Mrs. Pathak, not wanting to handle it herself in case it had been infected by Vishnu, had asked Short Ganga to place it there. Mrs. Pathak had a hunch that the key to the mystery of Mr. Jalal lay in the dupatta, and she was keeping close tabs on it to try and catch either Mrs. Asrani or Mrs. Jalal picking it up.
The game had by now shifted to dacoit pilots chasing terrorized villagers through mountain ravines. And killing them. The score was roughly a dozen villagers each, though Rajan had scored extra for decimating a herd of cows as well. It was Shyamu’s turn, and he had an idea. They would drape the dupatta over some tins to represent a buxom village belle (the kind Reshma played in the movies) and then riddle her body with bullets.
Since there were no more empty tins left, they dragged two containers of rice and stacked them one on top of the other. These were covered with the dupatta to produce a passable belle. Shyamu got into his cockpit and started spraying everything with his imaginary machine gun, and Rajan toppled the belle over after she had been hit what seemed like a sufficient number of times.
This was not enough fun, so Shyamu decided to make it more realistic. The belle would be Kavita, since it was her dupatta anyway. And Rajan could be Salim, though he would have to kiss the belle first, for realism’s sake. They would be running away from home, and Shyamu would be the police chasing them from the aeroplane, with orders to bring them back alive, or preferably, dead.
The game started, but Rajan didn’t want to kiss Kavita, even the rice-container-and-dupatta version of her. Eventually, he was persuaded to, and just as he was locked in embrace, Shyamu’s plane zoomed in, and he said, “Run, Salim, run, Kavita, or the police will catch you.” Mrs. Pathak, who looked out that instant to see if the dupatta was still there, was horrified to see her son kissing it, and absorbing God knew what type of germs into his mouth. She came running out, just as Shyamu, still shouting, “Run, Salim, run, Kavita,” deployed his newly acquired grenade launcher at his sister, and blew her up into bits by smashing two of the empty ghee tins into her. Perhaps he underestimated the force of the grenades, because Kavita the belle literally did fly to pieces, losing her head and showering rice all over Rajan, Shyamu, Mrs. Pathak, and the landing.
When Mrs. Asrani was awoken from her already troubled unscheduled morning nap, she found first of all that her best Basmati rice was lying scattered all over the floor outside the kitchen. She also found that Shyamu had, in an effort to explain his game to Mrs. Pathak, told her not only that the dupatta belonged to Kavita, but also that his sister was missing, and had probably run away with Salim.
“Did you get any news yet?” Mrs. Pathak asked, her voice oozing with sympathy that barely concealed the titillation.
“What news? There’s no need for news. Don’t believe everything Shyamu is saying. Kavita’s just gone to visit a friend.”
“Yes, it must be. Mr. Jalal says that Salim too has gone to visit a friend. I wonder what it all means.” Mrs. Pathak slipped in her little lie to see what Mrs. Asrani’s reaction would be. She was not disappointed.
“Mr. Jalal told you that? When did he say it?” Mrs. Asrani’s jaw was set in a grim line.
“Well, Mr. Jalal was saying all sorts of things this morning. Something about a walnut, and that Vishnu was an incarnation of God come down to earth. Who knows what all he said—he was quite incoherent. And then wearing that dupatta—do you know he even tried to attack me?”
“Yes, yes, but what did he say about Salim?”
“Something about visiting a friend,” Mrs. Pathak said vaguely. “He was saying two hundred things, though—you should have heard him. It’s as if he’d really seen something. We led him upstairs, and my husband asked him, Mr. Jalal, you’re a Muslim, how strange that you are talking to us about our Hindu gods. And you know what he said—he said if people like us didn’t realize when a god came down, they needed someone like him to open their eyes. Imagine—Mr. Jalal, a prophet.”
“And you said he was wearing Kavita’s dupatta?”
“He had it wrapped around his head.”
“How strange, how very strange.”
“If there’s anything I can do, I know what a difficult time this must be for you, if there’s anything…”
But Mrs. Asrani was already turning back towards her flat, trying to decide which she would do first, gather up the rice or give Shyamu his beating.
Years later, when you are still young, when this union has produced a little one,
Together we’ll look back and sing, about this, the first night of our union.
The actual night only came a week later. By then, Vinod had reconciled himself to the fact that his wife clacked her teeth in her sleep. When he mentioned this to her, she complained that he snored every night, and that that was much worse than her clacking, which was due to a misalignment in her mouth, and which only occurred on some nights, and which wasn’t as loud or as hard to adjust to as snoring, anyway.
The monsoons had been delayed again that year, and the heat had been building up night after night in their room. Vinod took off his shirt, hesitated, then took off his pants as well. “It’s so hot,” he explained apologetically, as he got into bed. “Too hot for my pajama suit.” Sheetal, who was wearing a nightie, didn’t say anything. “Why don’t you take your nightie off as well,” Vinod suggested.
“What, and be naked?”
“You’ll be much cooler.”
Sheetal was quiet for a moment. “Okay, but don’t look,” she whispered.
Vinod felt her get out of bed. She returned in a moment, and drew the sheet up to her neck.
“What’s the point if you’re going to cover yourself with a sheet? You’ll sweat even more than in a nightie.”
“I have to put something on. I’m completely naked otherwise. You have your underclothes on.”
“Okay, I’ll take them off.”
Vinod took off his undershirt as Sheetal watched. He rubbed the cotton cloth over the hair on his chest to soak up the sweat, then threw it into a corner of the room.
“You’re still not naked. What about those?” Sheetal pointed her chin at his briefs.
“Look the other way, and I’ll do it.”
“See, you’re embarrassed, too.”
“It’s not the same. It’s different for men.”
“You expect me to take off my sheet, yet you won’t take off your underwear.”
“Oh yes? Well, here.” With one quick sweep, Vinod tried to pull his briefs off, and got them all the way to his feet, where they became entangled in his toes.
A cry escaped Sheetal’s mouth, and she covered her eyes with her hands. She looked through her fingers and began to laugh as she saw Vinod try to cover himself by crossing one leg over the other.
“What do you have there?” Sheetal said, pointing at his nakedness and laughing.
Vinod uncovered himself to show her. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”
Sheetal screamed as he placed her hand on his cock and closed his thighs over it.
He held it there. “It feels so good,” he said, and Sheetal’s face turned a dark crimson.
Still holding her hand in his crotch, so that she couldn’t move away, Vinod sidled next to Sheetal. He slipped his leg under the sheet and rubbed it against hers, feeling the coarseness of his hairs against her smooth skin. Hooking his foot around hers, he slid closer, until his chest was touching hers. Carefully, he peeled the sheet off her body, as if uncovering a sleeping child.
Sheetal pressed her arms over her breasts. She crossed her legs just as he had done a minute ago, keeping her gaze focused on the pillow next to her head. She bore his kisses silently, in her hair, at her brow, on her lips. As his mouth left hers, she turned to face him. Visible beyond the reticence, Vinod was surprised to see, was the unmistakable glint of curiosity.
He couldn’t remember the instructions his brother ha
d given him. Something about kissing, something about caressing, something about pressing their bodies together until they fit correctly. He kissed Sheetal’s cheeks, her nose, her lips, but that didn’t seem enough. He tried rubbing himself against her body, but stopped, because it was bringing him too close to the edge. He suddenly became terrified that he would ejaculate all over her body. He imagined his white semen squirting uncontrolled over her abdomen, like some pubescent emission, pooling in her navel, running down her thighs.
Apparently, Sheetal had received some advice as well, because she took him in her hand and guided him into her body. He felt the warm compactness of her, and smelled her odor, like freshly cut yams, that he would forever associate with sex. He came almost immediately, his body twitching, eyes rolling back in his head, Sheetal holding him tight in her arms, so tight he could hardly breathe. He pulled out and managed to focus on her, and was embarrassed at the confusion flushing her face.
“Next time will be better,” he said, unable to bring himself to watch if the confusion was giving way to understanding, to disappointment.
“It’s okay,” Sheetal said, as she wiped herself clean. She got out of bed and put on her nightie.
“Good night,” she said, as she got into bed and turned to face the window.
“Good night,” he replied, looking at the small of her back, unable to reach out to comfort her. As the minutes ticked away, he stared at the motionless contour of her body and waited for a dog, a car, a mosquito, anything, to break the silence that hung over the room.
WHEN MRS. JALAL opened the door and saw the expression on Mrs. Asrani’s face, she knew it was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
“Could I speak to Salim?” Mrs. Asrani asked, in a tone that was polite, but as primed as a sitar string.
“Uh, he’s not in right now.”
“Oh, where is he, may I ask?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone away for a little while.”
“Do your children often go away without telling you where they’re going?”
“My son is an adult. He can come and go where he wants. I don’t insist on keeping tabs on his every move like some people.”
“Well, maybe you should. Unless you think being an adult means he can carry away other people’s daughters.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“You heard me. Carry them away in the middle of the night. Like a dacoit, in the darkness, when everyone is asleep.”
“Keep your voice down, please. My husband is not feeling well.”
“And maybe your husband would like to explain what he was doing with my daughter’s dupatta wrapped around his head?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. You know what you’ve done. Taken my Kavita from me. As soon as you learnt she had accepted a good proposal, a proposal from a proper, decent family. You’ve kidnapped her. Father and son and mother together. Is this what you people came here to do, steal our daughters from under our noses?”
Mrs. Jalal slammed the door in Mrs. Asrani’s face.
The doorbell sounded angrily, as angrily as its tinkling sound would allow. Then there was the sound of fists pounding on the door. “Open this, you coward. Come out, daughter of a swine, and answer my questions.”
Mrs. Jalal looked at the door, backing away from it as if it would burst any moment. What should she do? Ahmed was still quite useless. What if Mrs. Asrani managed to break down the door? The woman seemed deranged. Who knew what these Hindus were capable of? She remembered all those nights in Dongri during Partition, cowering under the bed with Nafeesa as Hindu gangs roamed the streets outside. Just yesterday there had been a news item in the paper about an entire Muslim village in Bihar being massacred. Perhaps she should call the police.
Abruptly, the banging on the door stopped. Mrs. Jalal heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
So the worst had happened. Salim had run away with Kavita. All those trips to the mosque over the years, all those lectures on what was right and what was wrong, and this is what it had amounted to. Her only child doing a thing like this. Where had she gone wrong?
And what was the business about the dupatta? What had Ahmed been up to? Why had he been wearing Kavita’s dupatta over his head? Mrs. Jalal had not known what to make of it when they’d told her this morning. She could make out even less now that the dupatta had turned out to be Kavita’s.
She had to speak to Ahmed. Coherent or not. Find out what had been going on. She had seen him come back upstairs and go back to their bedroom.
Mrs. Jalal knocked on the door, then opened it and went inside.
THE FIRST MORNING Vinod headed back to work after the wedding, Sheetal was waiting at the door, his tiffin box packed and ready. Vinod felt like kissing her goodbye, but didn’t, because his mother was watching. That evening, he hurried home to be with Sheetal, even though he hadn’t seen his friends at the café for two weeks. It was not long before he began to resent this routine, however, and had to remind himself that Sheetal remained cooped up at home with his mother all day. Living under one roof did not seem to be fostering the loving relationship he had envisioned between the two of them. Few days passed without his mother grinding in a subtle pinch of criticism about Sheetal to flavor the evening meal.
They were finishing breakfast one morning when Vinod noticed the untouched omelette on his mother’s plate. He asked if something was wrong.
“She’s put onion in it,” his mother said sadly, in a whisper loud enough for Sheetal to hear. “She knows I’m not allowed onion on Wednesday because of my fast.”
“Why didn’t she remind me?” Sheetal asked from the sink, without turning around. “What kind of fast is this, anyway, that one can eat meat and egg but no onion?”
“See the way she talks to me? This is how I’m treated day after day while you’re away.” His mother’s eyes had misted, and a tear was threatening to roll down one cheek.
“Tell her not to pretend so much. It’s all for your benefit. We’ve all seen what her tongue is like—it could cut holes through cloth.”
“Sheetal!” Vinod exclaimed, getting up from his chair, as his mother dissolved into sobs.
“I’m tired of trying to satisfy her. She’s never happy with anything I do. Tell me why she can’t make her own eggs, if she doesn’t like the ones I cook for her.”
His mother’s sobs rose to a wail, and Vinod found himself striding to where Sheetal stood. He felt a sting in the fingers of his right hand, saw a flash of disbelief light up his wife’s eyes. Then, head lowered, hand pressed against her reddening cheek, Sheetal left the room. Behind him, his mother blew her nose into a handkerchief.
Afterwards, Vinod went to work as usual. He sat at his desk the whole morning, his head burning as if ravaged by some disease. He returned home early, bringing along two cups of ice cream in the flavors Sheetal liked best, choconut and pista. His mother was taking a nap in the living room, and he crept past without waking her. Sheetal was not in the bedroom. A stack of his clothes, neatly ironed and folded, lay on the bed.
He put the cups on the dressing table and went to the kitchen to look for Sheetal.
“She’s gone,” his mother said. She had awoken, and was sitting on the couch, preparing herself a paan. “She went to her mother’s, I expect.”
“But why didn’t you stop her?”
“What am I, crazy, to stick my nose between husband and wife? Don’t worry, she’ll be back when she cools off—she only took a few clothes.” His mother cracked some betel nut between the blades of her nutcracker. “Today’s girls. Such temper. Such arrogance. We were taught to touch our husbands’ feet and thank them whenever they saw fit to teach us a lesson.”
His mother folded up her paan and popped it into her mouth.
Sometime that evening, he remembered the ice cream he had bought. It had all melted, so he put it in the freezer.
Sheetal did not return for seven days. His
mother kept assuring him that she would come back, and that he had done the right thing.
“It’s best to make things clear from the beginning only,” she said. “That way, they don’t get out of hand.” He nodded in agreement, but every night his spirit grew wearier as he made his way to the empty bedroom.
One week after the slap, Sheetal’s father escorted her back in the evening. His mother received them in the living room, as she would any guests, and his father talked to Sheetal’s father about the price of petrol. Her father did not stay for dinner but hugged Sheetal and left at about eight o’clock. No mention was made of the slap.
Dinner was quiet and tense. Sheetal didn’t look up once, eating everything with her eyes lowered towards her plate. His mother started to say something once or twice, but caught the warning glance in Vinod’s eyes and kept silent. Afterwards, his parents cleared out of the room more quickly than usual. Sheetal took the dishes to the sink and started wiping the food off them.
“You don’t have to do that,” Vinod said, coming up behind her. “The ganga will do it in the morning.”
Sheetal did not turn around. She turned on the tap and started washing a plate.
“Leave them and come with me,” Vinod said, wrapping his arms around hers.
“Let me do the dishes first. After all, isn’t this why you married me?” Sheetal turned around. The accusation was so strong in her eyes that Vinod had to look away.
“Isn’t it?” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, then said it again. “I’m really sorry. I’ve missed you. I’ll never let it happen again. Please forgive me.
“Please forgive me,” he repeated. His voice felt so weak that he wondered if he was going to cry. “This has been the worst week of my life.”
She softened but didn’t forgive him, not quite then. When he brought out the two cups of ice cream, she ate the pista one first, then the choconut one as well, not offering him any, and not smiling when he joked about the crystals formed because of refreezing. That night in bed, she maintained a gap between their bodies, shifting away with a start whenever he touched her, even accidentally.
