“No, you don’t. And if you don’t mind, please don’t come here again. What will people think? I care about my reputation. I have a family, a husband, a son, and I can’t just talk to strange men.”
“But I am not a strange man,” he said unsteadily.
“You are a strange man because I don’t really know you. Now if you will excuse me . . .”
“I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
I stifled the tears and nodded hastily before blindly stumbling back to the staff room, leaving Prakash standing alone under the banyan tree.
I was shaking with anger and relief. He had apologized, and if I had not been caught so off guard, I would have demanded what he was voluntarily apologizing for.
I was sorry, too. Sorry that he was such a miserable excuse for a man. Sorry that I had loved him once and really sorry that I had ever been married to him.
FOUR
ANJALI
All I could think when Divya Auntie introduced me to Captain Prakash Mehra was that he was even better looking than Dev Anand. He was an engineer in the Electrical and Mechanical Engineers Corps. His hair was cut in a stern crew cut, but his face was full of mischief and life. He had been singing nursery rhymes with Babli and her friends when I entered Divya Auntie’s house. When he saw me, he stood up and smiled.
That was all it took to get stars in my eyes.
Divya Auntie’s house was a typical ex–army officer’s house. There were things from everywhere: a wooden idol of Krishna from Baroda, a cane screen from Assam, beautiful hand-woven carpets from Nepal, a huge brass tank barrel that Divya Auntie had arranged dry flowers in, and furniture collected from all over the country.
Since two-year-olds were unpredictable, Divya Auntie had moved the glass vases and glass tea trolley and had replaced them with plastic toys and balloons. I always thought that since Divya Auntie’s husband had retired as a brigadier, her house exuded wealth and sophistication. It was not real wealth, but she managed to make her drawing room and the rest of her house look like they belonged to a rich family. Somehow army wives knew how to do that. They had class and elegance, which we civilians seemed to lack.
Divya Auntie was an amateur painter, and on the off-white walls of the drawing room hung vivid paintings of bullock carts and villages, of women carrying earthen pots on their heads, and, in the painting that I liked most, Omar Khayyám lay luxuriously under a tree, holding an ornate glass of wine, while a beautiful woman sat beside him playing the harp.
Divya Auntie had promised to give me old Omar as a wedding gift. After seeing Prakash, I yearned for that painting as I had never before.
“What do you want to do now that you have finished your B.A.? Work? Go back for an M.A.?” Prakash asked, and I smiled gently and shrugged. It was not important for me to go to work or get a better education. I had other plans, glorious plans. I would take care of my husband, my house, and my children. I would cook great meals and invite people for dinner. In the army everyone threw big parties and I would make it my job to be the perfect hostess.
“Where are you posted now?” I asked, changing the subject. Men liked to talk about themselves and I wanted to know more about him.
“I just got my transfer papers to go to Bhopal. There is an EME Center there. I was in Udhampur before that.”
“Udhampur?” I couldn’t contain my joy. He had been to places I hadn’t even heard of before.
“It’s in Jammu and Kashmir, about fifty kilometers above Jammu. It’s a nice place, close to Srinagar.”
“It must be fun to travel and see new places,” I said playing with the edge of my sari. I leaned against the wall of the balcony, where Divya Auntie had sent us to “talk.” Some children peeped through the glass doors and then slithered away as Divya Auntie stood guard.
“Yes, it is. Do you like to travel?”
My eyes hit the floor. “Act demurely in front of a man,” my grandmother would always say. I wanted to be Mrs. Prakash Mehra, but I couldn’t be overt; I couldn’t just tell him that he was what I wanted. What if he wasn’t interested?
“I love to travel,” I said, raising my eyes slowly and looking into his with confidence. “I haven’t done much though. Just a little. I went to Bombay for a wedding last year and . . . a friend of mine got married in Madras a month ago.”
“In the army there is constant moving,” Prakash seemed to warn me. “You think you could deal with constant moving?”
I was dumbfounded. He was so direct. He was almost proposing to me and that was not how marriage proposals were made. He first had to speak with his parents and they would speak with my parents and then the matter would be arranged. Ordinary men didn’t speak like this, only an army officer did, I thought happily. My lips broke into a genuine smile.
“I could deal with it very easily,” I said.
That was all it took. A few minutes of conversation and the date of the marriage was fixed.
FIVE
ANJALI
I was still seething when I got home. How dare he come to my school and embarrass me? Mrs. Gujjar had asked all sorts of questions after Prakash left . . .
Who is he?
How do you know him?
Does your husband know him?
Does your husband know you know him?
Is he an old friend?
How long since you’ve known him?
I had answered each question patiently and unconvincingly. By the time I got out of my afternoon class, everyone in the staff room wanted to know about the brigadier who had come to see me. If I had said ex-husband, they all would have shut up and it would have also started nonstop gossip. No one in the school knew I had been married to someone else besides Sandeep.
If people at school found out that I was a divorcée and that I had spoken to my ex-husband again, the scandal would force us to leave Ooty. This was a small city and our circle was even smaller as he was a professor and I was a teacher. Everyone in the education community knew everyone; nothing went unnoticed, definitely not an army officer in full uniform looking for a teacher in her school.
It was when my friend, Mrs. Rita Chaddha, a geography teacher, wanted to know who Prakash was, that I lost my temper. Rita and I were friends (well, as close as we could be). We had known each other for the past four years since she and her husband had moved to Ooty. Our social interaction was limited to the spare time we had during school hours. We didn’t share secrets, but she knew how things were in my house, who Komal was, everyday stuff. And I knew about her life, how much money her husband spent on drinking and why she sometimes sported a black eye.
Rita had been astounded when I told her to mind her own business. A man wanted to speak with me and I knew him from long ago, why was that such a big issue? It was Rita’s response that shook me up.
“You look like you did something wrong and that is the issue.”
I was glad when I heard the school bell ring. I didn’t wait for the school bus as usual, even though I knew it would raise eyebrows. I had had enough silent accusations for one day. Hopefully, something else would happen the next day and they would forget about Prakash.
I walked the two kilometers home, dragging my feet, angry and scared. Would it become a big issue? Had I made it a big issue?
It was startling to know that the society I lived in was so fragile and my place in it was contingent on innumerable things.
As soon as I got home I heard Komal calling out to me. I wished she would nag me right now because I would, I definitely would, snap her head off. I had been patient long enough with too many people and all I got in return was a long walk back from school.
“The school bus came an hour ago—”
“I am not in the mood,” I snapped, and walked past her into the house.
“Mala’s sister’s friend, Shobha, whose brother’s wife teaches in your school, said that some army officer came to see you.” Komal’s hands were curled into fists and rested on her waist. Her eyes were suspicious, her chin adama
ntly rigid, as if whatever I had to say would not change her mind.
I was not surprised by her behavior; what surprised me was how fast the news had spread.
I glared back at her and decided to outstare her. I had put up with enough. I was not a fifteen-year-old adolescent who had to be warned against evil men. I was old enough to know whom I could speak with and when.
“You told everyone that he is an old friend,” Komal accused. We stared at each other with unblinking eyes in contest.
I blinked.
What was the point? Komal had made up her mind anyway. I walked to Amar’s room and knocked gently. His voice (it sounded strong) welcomed me in.
I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He looked healthy today. He didn’t look like he was ready to spring out of bed like all children his age, but in his case, it was relative. Today his pallor was not yellow, even though it was not rosy. His eyes were shining and didn’t look . . . dead.
“How have you been today?” I asked, sitting next to him on the bed after I shut the door on Komal, who had been following me to probably demand more answers regarding the army officer.
“I started reading Catch-22,” he said with a broad smile. “I think I understand some of it.”
I smiled. He probably did. My genius son. I had picked it up for him a few days ago from the library. They had started showing the television series M*A*S*H on cable TV, and we had talked about the Korean War. I mentioned Catch-22 and he said he wanted to read it.
“It is funny and I am glad you find it funny, too.”
“I said I understood some of it, not that I found it funny,” he corrected me, and I laughed.
Amar was fascinated by stories and read as many books as he could. Every Sunday, Amar would go to the library with Sandeep or me, and we would bring back dozens of books. By the end of the week he had either read or browsed through all of them. If he was like the other children his age, he probably would go to school and learn like all normal children. But Amar couldn’t go to school so Sandeep and I tried to play the role of tutor for him. But it was difficult to impose formal education on him when he was fighting for his life.
“Do you feel like a walk?” I asked him. We tried to get him out of the house every day, so that the sun would kiss him and he would get some fresh air. Amar got into the wheelchair and looked up at me.
“Maybe I can walk today,” he suggested, his eyes pleading.
“We won’t go too far,” I agreed.
Anything he wanted, I would give if I could. If he wanted to walk, then he would walk. I also knew that each time he walked, he tired in a few minutes, and sometimes I had to carry him back home.
I helped him into a sweater and wrapped his woolen shawl around him. He was tall, my son, like Sandeep, and he was beautiful. When he grew up to be a man, Sandeep and I would have to beat eager, lovesick girls away with sticks.
Our walk entailed a small twirl around our garden. If Amar was in his wheelchair, I usually took him to the park half a kilometer away, where we would sit and talk. We would buy roasted peanuts from the vendor who sold them in newspaper cones.
He refused to hold on to me as he walked around the garden. He bent down awkwardly to touch an errant rose bud, which would probably die before it could bloom. It was September, not the right month for roses.
By the time Sandeep got home, Amar was fast asleep. The walk had tired him and he had barely managed to eat the dal and rice I mixed for him when we got back. I fed him and then helped him take a warm bath before putting him to bed. It was like he was still a baby, and in so many physical ways he still was. But Amar fought, fought hard to do the things twelve-year-olds were supposed to do. He understood the limitations of his body, yet I could see him struggle to understand why this was happening to him. Why couldn’t he go to school like the others? And why couldn’t he take a walk without feeling the life wheeze out of him?
Komal and I were watching the Hindi news on television when Sandeep came home. The atmosphere was chilly and I knew Sandeep picked up on it as soon as he saw our grouchy faces.
I went into the kitchen and started to make tea, wanting privacy to talk to him about Prakash before Komal started her nagging routine.
But Komal was a step ahead of me. I heard her shrill voice tell him about the army officer I was “gallivanting” with. I was glad that no one in Sandeep’s family knew about my first marriage. I had told Sandeep about Prakash in the beginning, long before we fell in love. He’d told me that my past was my business and he couldn’t and wouldn’t judge me for it.
“Before you say anything . . .” I held up my hand as soon as Sandeep stepped into the kitchen.
“Prakash came to see you in school,” he supplied warmly, and kissed me just as warmly on the mouth.
“I didn’t invite him,” I told him belligerently.
“It wouldn’t matter even if you did,” he said, sitting down on the kitchen chair. “He is from your past and . . . you can’t just ignore how you feel about him.”
I flew into a rage. “I feel nothing for him but distaste and I told him that. How dare you suggest—”
“I suggest nothing,” he interrupted smoothly, his eyes alight with amusement. “Why are you so defensive? He came to meet you. I don’t care, so why do you?”
I had no idea why. In a way I felt guilty because I had wanted to see Prakash again after meeting him in the market.
“He came to apologize.”
“Hmm.”
“I didn’t ask him for what,” I said, handing him his cup of tea. “I made dal and cauliflower sabzi for dinner. I just have to cook the rice. It will take fifteen minutes.”
“Why don’t you put the rice on the stove and then come outside with me?”
I did as he said. I ignored the triumphant look Komal gave me as we walked past her to go to the veranda. The woman knew nothing about her brother. Sandeep would never suspect me or accuse me; he was a fair man who wouldn’t jump to conclusions without knowing all the facts.
“Amar’s always asleep when I come home,” he complained. “I only get to see him on Sundays now. It will be nice to spend more time with him in the winter holidays.”
“He wanted to walk today. That’s why he fell asleep so soon,” I told him.
We sat next to each other in the wicker chairs, looking straight ahead into the night. He didn’t say anything and soon I was uncomfortable with the silence.
“About Prakash—” I began.
“I don’t want to talk about Prakash,” Sandeep groaned. “I just want to be with you for a while. I am tired and I don’t want to discuss your ex-husband and his motives.”
I wanted to yell at him again, but he did look tired and he was right, there was nothing to say. Prakash came to see me and apologized, end of story.
“I am buying train tickets for Hyderabad,” Sandeep said after another period of silence.
I sighed. “Let me write a letter to my mother and see if they will come here. I don’t want to tire Amar more than necessary.”
Sandeep nodded in agreement.
“They gave me a tough time at school,” I blurted out, my eyes filled with tears. “I feel like I have committed some crime and you don’t even want to talk about it because you think I have.”
“You have what?”
“Committed a crime.”
Sandeep laughed and stood up. He held his hand out to me and pulled me to my feet into his arms. He rocked me gently and we stood there for a long time, listening to the crickets and the whistle of a train far away. The sounds of the night blended into each other and soothed me. It didn’t matter that Prakash was back in my life, or that Mrs. Gujjar had interrogated me. It was enough to have Sandeep.
We stood there until we heard the sharp whistle of the pressure cooker indicating the rice was done.
After dinner Komal went to her room, unhappy that Sandeep didn’t seem interested in the man who had come to see me. We checked on Amar, who was blissfully sleeping, be
fore we went to bed.
Our bedroom was right next to Amar’s. I liked it because it was ours. This was something Sandeep and I shared in its entirety. The cupboard had my clothes and his. In the small bathroom attached to our room—the landlord had told us what a luxury it was to have our very own bathroom—our toothbrushes lay next to each other. My Pond’s powder sat next to his shaving cream, my razor touched his, his cologne rested against my perfume bottle. Just like our lives, our bedroom entwined us together.
Sandeep read the newspaper and I read through the next day’s lesson plan. We lay in bed reading, enjoying each other’s presence without being intrusive.
Like I usually did, I put my textbook away and yanked the newspaper from Sandeep. He pushed his reading glasses up his nose and looked at me in mock enquiry. I smiled and he turned out the lights.
Sex with Sandeep has always been nice. A term the romantics detest to use, but I was not a romantic anymore. We made love with relaxed passion, as if we had all the time in the world. He took my clothes off slowly and I watched as he took his off. It was easy to make love with Sandeep because he was patient, kind, and generous. Bells didn’t go off and the earth didn’t shake, but I climaxed pleasantly.
We were never caught in the throes of passion. Sandeep never dragged me down to the floor and ravished me. We never had sex half-clothed because there was no reason for haste.
He touched my nipples gently and even though I sometimes wanted him to exert more pressure, I didn’t ask him to. It was comforting to lie back and enjoy his hands on me. Other times he lay back to let me have my way with him.
When I came, he usually kissed me or clamped his hand on my mouth to silence me. The walls were thin, the house small, and both Komal and Amar could hear us. As far as unabashed passion went, my small squeaks were the only proof of it. Sandeep was always quiet. Besides his accelerated breathing nothing gave him away.
I held him after he was done, stroking his shoulders as he got his breath back. We had it almost down to a science, a procedure, not that we minded.
We lay in each other’s arms and talked after we made love. He told me how beautiful I was, and how he loved to make love to me. I told him how I liked to feel him inside me. I kissed his chin, he played with a nipple. I ran my foot against his leg, he stroked my inner thighs. I caressed his softening erection and he played with my clitoris.
A Breath of Fresh Air Page 4
