The Madras Affair

by Sundari Venkatraman

  “I'm hungry.” The voice was too close for comfort.

  Sangita turned her fearful gaze to him. “Dinner's ready. I'll set it on the table,” came the timid reply. She saw to her relief that Sandeep's eyes had closed in slumber and tried to make good her escape.

  “Not so fast.” A hard hand clamped over her shoulder, stopping her mid-stride. The other arm circled her body, his fingers pushing her sari away to clamp over the bare breast that seemed to taunt him. He squeezed hard; revelling in its softness, not caring that Sangita's body trembled in revulsion and fear.

  “Let me go,” she begged, holding her body still, fully aware that any struggle would only incite him further.

  “No,” came the vehement reply as Giridhar bent down to bite the soft flesh between her neck and shoulder.

  Sangita bit her lips to gag the revolt that her body wanted to scream out. She forced herself to relax. When Giridhar's hold slackened, Sangita shoved him away to run into the hall. She heard his heavy steps following her and gave in to the inevitable. At least they wouldn't be disturbing her sleeping son.

  Giridhar pulled her into his arms forcefully, while clamping his lips to her breast and biting hard. Sangita winced in protest. He lifted her bodily and kicking open the door of his bedroom, threw her on the bed. He furiously ripped her clothes off.

  Sangita held her arms against her chest.

  “Don't tell me you feel shy,” he snarled. “What about the times when you frolicked with your bastard's father?” Sangita turned pale on hearing that. “Don't tell me that he was a better lover than me.”

  Sangita crushed down the hysterical laughter that tried to gush out from her throat. Did he even know the meaning of 'lover'?

  She closed her eyes tightly as Giridhar pushed her flat on the bed. “I'd better use a condom. Unless I want to catch whatever you might have got from the other guys, considering that you have the morals of an alley cat,” he said.

  Sangita wasn't in a frame of mind to appreciate the humour in his statement. She just waited for him to finish what he had come for. She felt her gut wrench as she heard his groan of satisfaction. The core of her femininity burnt in pain and humiliation. She felt filthy and degraded.

  She got off the bed the moment she felt her husband's body moving away. Gathering her discarded clothes she ran to the bathroom. She was violently sick.

  She turned to catch a glimpse of her naked body in the full-length mirror and shuddered. She closed her eyes tightly to shut out the image of her hourglass shape. Many of her friends at college had envied her well-formed figure. She had been rather conscious of her small breasts, which had become lush and full after childbirth while the rest of her body had regained its pre-pregnancy shape.

  But Sangita didn't see any of this in the mirror. She only saw a body, which tempted a man like Giridhar. She just hated it.

  She turned the shower on and scrubbed herself twice with soap trying to remove the imprint of Giridhar's touch. She felt like trash everytime he touched her.

  'But what about my heart and soul that he tramples on again and again?' she thought bitterly as she pulled a nightdress over her head.

  Sangita came out of the grip of her morbid thoughts when she saw the flash of a shooting star in the clear sky. Her lips curled in a bitter smile. The myth was that a person's wish came true on sighting a shooting star. So what should she wish for?

  'My husband dead, what else?' came the unbidden thought.

  Sangita shuddered. She wasn't given to such violent thoughts normally. But that day, Giridhar had surpassed himself. She just had no escape from this marriage. Divorce was out of the question. Her parents would never agree to it. They had their heads buried firmly in the sand, not wanting to acknowledge the failure of their daughter's marriage. What would their friends and neighbours think? That counted more than their daughter's torn self-esteem.

  So, the best thing would be if Giridhar died. Sangita reined in her foolish thought. 'What kind of madness was this?' She was too restless to go to sleep and sat down at the writing table to pour her pain into her diary.

  It was past midnight when the doorbell rang. Sangita put her pen down, startled. That was strange. Giridhar usually carried his keys. Who could that be?

  She got up reluctantly, a sense of foreboding attacking her. The bell rang again. She switched on the corridor light and opened the inner door to look through the glass window on the outer door. She saw two policemen standing outside.

  “Yes?” she asked questioningly, her gaze wary, her heart thumping away anxiously.

  “This is flat no.11, is that correct?” asked the younger of the two who was a constable, appearing confident that he had got the right apartment.

  “Yes,” replied Sangita in a timid voice.

  “Mr. Giridhar?”

  She nodded, wondering whether she should inform them that he wasn't at home. Even if they were policemen, she wasn't sure that she should let them know that she was all alone at home with a small baby. It was, after all, the middle of the night.

  “Well, madam,” the older of the two, who was wearing an inspector's uniform, cleared his throat. “Could you please open the outer door?” he requested, flashing his identity card. Sub-Inspector Pandian, it read.

  Sangita hesitantly opened the lock and stood at the doorway, blocking the entrance.

  “Well...madam, we would like to...inform you...well, there's been an accident. A man riding a motorcycle crashed into a lamppost and died on the spot.”

  The constable took over. “The company identity card says that his name's Giridhar and this is his residential address...”

  Sangita shivered in the cool air that blew from the open balcony. She just couldn't believe her ears. 'Giridhar dead, could it be true?'

  “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  The policemen were quite worried about her. SI Pandian had a married daughter of about Sangita's age. He felt extremely sorry for her.

  “Here are the watch, wallet and gold chain that were found on the body. Do you recognise them?

  ”The chain with a gold medallion and the expensive watch flashed before Sangita's eyes. They were part of the dowry Giridhar had demanded and taken from her parents.

  Her heart jumped up to block her throat while her hands and feet chilled in nervous excitement. She was free! Free from the bastard who had ruined her life for the past one and a half years. Free at last! Her mind sang with joy, her spirit soaring to the heavens. “

  Madam...” the policeman was hesitant. He wasn't sure how the lady in front of him was connected to the dead man. He had presumed that she must be his wife. But her reaction was rather strange. Her eyes were glittering in the light shining down on them. “Madam,” he called out once again, “you're…”

  “Sangita Giridhar, his wife,” she answered in a daze. She didn't quite know what to do or say.

  SI Pandian felt a terrible sense of remorse for her. “Well, Mrs. Giridhar, we're extremely sorry to be bearing such bad tidings. Is there someone we can contact? Your parents or his or...may be some other relative?” he questioned gently.

  Sangita looked at him, as if to wonder why he was interrupting her moment of elation. “Oh, yeah, okay. Will you please come in and call my parents?” she requested him, not wanting to talk to her mother just now.

  The two men walked in, leaving the door ajar. By now a nosy neighbour put his head in to find out what was happening. The constable was only too happy to give him the necessary information. In a short while many people had gathered at Sangita's flat, some of whom she knew only by sight and the others not at all.

  A piercing shriek tore into the night as Radha came howling to her daughter's side, followed by her husband Gopal, two sons and her daughter-in-law, Rekha. She wept loudly much to Sangita's embarrassment. She was also worried that her mother's lament would wake her sleeping son.

  Radha ranted and raved at her daughter's loss, her wails seeming to go up and down like the waves of a turbulent sea. San
gita watched the drama in front of her eyes, feeling quite removed from the scene.

  Sandeep slept through it all, totally oblivious to the situation.

  Her brothers Raghavan and Rakesh arranged for Giridhar's body to be brought home after the post mortem. The final rites were to be performed the next afternoon. Radha bawled her guts out, screaming at and chiding her daughter for becoming a widow. Sangita sat stonily through the whole proceeding, finding comfort in her sister-in-law's arm around her.

  The relatives and neighbours kept commenting at the lack of tears in Sangita's eyes.

  “Must be the shock, you see. He died so suddenly. Poor man. Didn't have the luck to see his son grow up. Hmm...” sighed Pankajam Maami, Radha's neighbour.

  Giridhar's parents arrived by the late morning flight, piling abuses on Sangita and their grandson, Sandeep, holding them responsible for their son's death. 'The child had brought him bad luck,' they said. No one really acknowledged or mentioned the fact that Giridhar had been stone drunk when he rammed his bike into the lamppost, causing the accident and consequently his death.

  There was no change in Sangita's expression. It was expressionless as ever. Rekha was disturbed on noticing that. She took her sister-in-law to her bedroom and shut the door.

  “Sangita, my dear,” she spoke gently, “are you feeling alright?”

  Sangita looked up at her sister-in-law, “Manni,” her eyes were clear; totally undisturbed by the events that were taking place, “I think I'm in a kind of daze. I still can't believe that he's dead. I feel as if an extremely vicious curse has been lifted off me.” She gave her sister-in-law a small, nervous smile. Rekha had some idea about what Sangita had undergone as Giridhar's wife. They had become quite friendly when Sangita had gone to her parents' home for her delivery.

  Although a mite startled by Sangita's reaction, Rekha could understand that her sister-in-law was relieved by her husband's death. She gave her a small smile and hugged Sangita as the door burst open and Radha barged in.

  Radha looked at her daughter for a second with something akin to hatred on her face before crying out again. Sangita felt the whole impact of the situation over the next few days as Hindu priests walked in and out of the house, performing the last rites for the departed soul. She rather wondered how her mother could sob so consistently.

  The word 'widow' which was mentioned in a whisper at the beginning grew louder by the day.

  People were quite vociferous in their opinions. Someone said that Sangita should stop wearing a caste mark. Another said that she should stop wearing colourful saris and stick to only white ones, so on and so forth. With the treatment being meted out to her, it seemed as if along with her husband, Sangita had also given up her life. All that remained was perhaps just a body without soul. There could be no joy, colour or hope left for her; after all she was a widow!

  The crowning glory was the suggestion given by her father's aunt who had come from the remote village of Kandamangalam in Tamil Nadu. She was insistent that Sangita's hair should be shorn off on the tenth day after the funeral.

  That outdated ritual, mostly prevalent in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, stemmed from the idea that widows must avoid any kind of temptation. Hence their heads were shaved off to make them unattractive to men.

  But who followed it now, at the turn of the twenty-first century? Raghavan raised his voice in protest. He was quiet by nature, always giving in to his parents' wishes. But he thought this idea was absolutely ridiculous and exceedingly unfair to his young sister.

  But his parents were not only keen but also adamant. They didn't want to go against the old aunt and earn a bad name in society. Rekha was absolutely shocked and left in tears when she heard of this.

  Help came from unexpected quarters.

  Ganapathi was a friend of Gopal's. They went to the same temple. He was the chairman of the trust running the Trilok Hospital at Besant Nagar and was considered quite an influential member of the society.

  “Gopal,” said Ganapathi softly. Sangita's father looked at him. “What are you people talking about? Sangita's so young. How can you even imagine doing such a terrible thing? She's so hauntingly beautiful. What an awful thing to do! Please remember that this custom died at least half a century ago.”

  Gopal's aunt pushed him aside and spoke out. “The reason why a widow's head is shaved off is to detract men from her beauty. Even you agree that Sangita is very attractive. She shouldn't catch the attention of men towards her, you see,” she said, her gaze triumphant, confident that she had got him there.

  Radha nodded her head vigorously, forgetting to wail for the first time since the death of her son-in-law. “Athai is right,” she agreed.

  Vimala, Ganapathi's wife, was a warm-hearted and open-minded lady. She watched the scene in front of her, wondering whether the people surrounding her had any compassion at all for the young widow. Tears filled her eyes looking at Sangita's dark head that was bent low. How could her mother consider doing this to her own daughter? She looked at her husband beseechingly.

  Ganapathi turned to Gopal and tried appealing to him once again. Raghavan joined him in his pleas. “Please Appa, whatever happened is done. We can't undo it. Giridhar's gone away for good. Let's not do this to Sangita.”

  Gopal glared at his son who had dared to argue with him for probably the first time in his life. But for once Raghavan refused to budge from his stance. The argument went on for a while with Athai's and Radha's voices rising by the minute.

  Ganapathi very rarely lost his temper. But he did, just then. His dark eyes glittered furiously as he looked at Gopal and Radha, ignoring the old lady hovering around very importantly. “Frustrated old bag of bones,” he muttered under his breath. The old lady was probably the same age as he. “Well, Gopal, I don't want to argue with you any further. Sangita,” he called out. “I'm sure you're aware of your legal rights. You're over eighteen. You don't have to put up with this, my dear.” Sangita moved closer to the elderly couple and Vimala put a loving arm around her.

  “If it's alright with you, you can move into our home along with Sandeep, my dear. You both are welcome.”

  Silence reigned in the room for a few seconds just before pandemonium broke out. Ganapathi stood back to watch the uproar he had created. Raghavan looked at him with gratitude.

  Finally, Gopal and Radha were forced to see sense and give up the silly idea much to the chagrin of their disgruntled aunt. She felt cheated out of the free entertainment show she had planned at her great niece's expense. Looked like her melodramatic soap opera would have to wait for another time!

  Sangita moved back to her parents' home with her son. It was like falling back into the frying pan from the fire as she continued to live a restricted life there. The only cheerful thing was the presence of Rekha.

  3

  Sangita completed answering the interview questions and mailed the document back to Aarti. She felt emotionally drained. Thinking about her marriage to Giridhar and life after he died wasn't easy. But Sangita had come a long way from her sordid past to her beautiful present. Her cell phone rang in the latter half of the day. Aarti said, “Sorry to bother you. Just one more question, Ma'am. How did you cope during the years after Mr. Giridhar's death?”

  It looked like a day to recall her past life. Sangita smiled to herself as she went back to the exact day when she met Gautam.

  2000...

  Sangita and her son lived with her parents, her brothers, sister-in-law Rekha and niece Ramya.

  Her father had retired from his job as branch manager of a scheduled bank. He had managed to purchase a small duplex at Adyar pitching his and Raghavan's savings. Two more bedrooms were being built on the second floor to accommodate the growing family.

  Her mother Radha was very old school. Not a day went by without her lamenting over her daughter's loss. She either began in the morning, forcing Sangita to choke on her breakfast or managed to wait until she entered the house in the evening and start her te
arful rendition of Sangita's life without Giridhar.

  It was ironical that Sangita had been a widow for almost five years now while she had been married to Giridhar for less than two. She wasn't even sure she could recall her dead husband's face clearly, not that she complained. She had been married at nineteen, had become a mother at twenty and had been widowed three months later.

  Today, she was twentyfive years old and had no complaints against her life. She had got this job at the hospital within a few months of her husband's death. Rekha had been an angel and looked after her son with Radha's help. Widow remarriage was an unheard concept in their orthodox family. Sangita had no such aspirations after her disastrous first marriage. It had left a really bad taste in her mouth.

  That morning Sangita rushed into the hospital reception. It was five minutes to nine o' clock.

  She had been working at the Trilok Hospital at Besant Nagar in Madras for the past four and a half years as a receptionist. Her timings were from nine in the morning till five in the evening. She was usually at her desk latest by 8.45 am. Today she was late by ten minutes.

  But Sandeep had been very cranky that morning which was unusual for him. Her eyebrows puckered in a frown as she recalled the way he had clung to her sari, refusing to allow her to leave for work.

  She smiled at her friend Rithika who was already at the reception.

  “Sorry, Rithika, I'm late.” Sangita stated the obvious.

  “Relax, Sangita. This is probably the first time in all these years. Everything's under control. No emergency so far.”

  Sangita took a deep breath before settling down in the swivelling chair behind her desk.

  “Hi beautiful, can you help me?” There was an American accent in the voice that asked the question.

  Sangita looked up, startled to see a stranger—an exceptionally handsome one—standing in front of her desk, his face grimaced in pain. She couldn't help staring at his sharp features, unable to take her eyes off his face. Had he just called her beautiful? She instinctively got up from her chair and said, “Yes, Mr...”