‘Just think of it, it’s no easy task to run a weekly that way!’ I had to smile when I heard this description of a ‘man of action’, but I knew how easily Angshu could get excited about someone or something and, faced with such enthusiasm, I was forced to conceal my real feelings.
‘He came to you for ads, I suppose?’
Angshu nodded. ‘I was thinking I’ll do what I can for him. After listening to him speak, I was really rather impressed with the man.’
‘He speaks somewhat abruptly, doesn’t he, almost rudely!’
As if his new ‘discovery’ were being somehow disparaged, Angshu immediately fired back a protest—‘Well yes, his outward appearance is not exactly suave, but he’s got what it takes.’ And from that began the comings and goings of Jayanto to our house. Nayonangshu himself ensured it.
Within a few days it became evident that Jayanto was more interested in me than in Angshu. He didn’t try to conceal it at all. No pretences whatsoever—on every occasion he’d make it clear that he was showing up daily at this house because of me. Sometimes he’d came over in the morning, just when Nayonangshu was about to leave for office—he’d settle comfortably into a sofa and say, ‘Okay, Mr Mukherji, you go to office—I don’t happen to have a job so I’ll just sit a while with the lady.’ This sort of behaviour from a not-so-well-known male acquaintance is hardly what a married woman would appreciate. But twelve years of indoctrination by Angshu had had some effect on me. Besides, if Angshu didn’t object, what was there for me to worry about? And who’s to say that Angshu himself wouldn’t have come down hard on me if I’d treated Jayanto discourteously?
One day, about a month after Jayanto’s first visit to our house, I said to Angshu, ‘Your new friend has become somewhat of a problem.’
Angshu, though he well understood, asked, ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Jayanto babu sometimes comes in the morning and stays on—and I have housework to do around here. Bunni comes home from school, Ranga-di comes over sometimes, today Charu mama, your uncle was here—and all in this little apartment. It’s difficult for me.’
‘Well, if you didn’t pay any attention to him, maybe he’d stop coming by in the mornings.’
‘It’s not a question of my paying attention, is it? If someone is sitting right in front of you, you can’t pretend there’s nobody there.’
‘If he can’t figure out for himself that it’s awkward for you if he hangs around, you’ll have to explain it to him.’
I hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Won’t you have a word with him some time?’
‘He doesn’t come to see me. What would I have to say?’ replied Angshu as he sat down and opened a book.
But no, why should I lie any longer. Now there’s nothing for me to fear. Speak up, Maloti, speak the truth. Was the ‘awkwardness’ really because of Jayanto? Wasn’t it because of those relatives who would drop in from time to time and disrupt your conversations? And the way you told your husband, ‘He comes and just stays on’—implying that you knew nothing at all about what was happening, that you were not responsible in any way, while in fact you were testing Angshu on the sly, trying to find out in which direction his mind ran—wasn’t that it? Fear that your husband might get angry, fear that you might show disrespect for your husband’s ‘teaching’—was that what you thought about while you sat with Jayanto, face to face, hour after hour, by day, at night, nearly at any time whatsoever? You would forgo your coveted afternoon naps and get right up if you heard his voice, and you never felt sleepy if he was there, even if it was one o’clock in the morning. And you’d practically given up going out, for fear that he might come at some odd hour and leave, not finding you home. Who doesn’t understand the real meaning of all this, Maloti? Don’t drag anyone else into this. Speak, no one’s listening, in this deep, dark night, in words interfused with the sound of rain. Say that from the first day onwards you’d really surrendered to Jayanto—that part of yourself which Nayonangshu had never been able to touch—where you wanted to be, in flesh and blood, simultaneously both slave and queen—the very part of you that Jayanto had awakened—and instantly all your youth and femininity erupted and overflowed.
But why didn’t Nayonangshu object? Why didn’t he utter a word, ever? Not that he didn’t, exactly. He even warned you. Jealousy, pure jealousy. His intolerance of anyone valuing me, thinking I’m special. One day he said, ‘I think Jayanto babu has fallen in love with you.’
I frowned and said, ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m not blaming him. His family life is not happy, but how far this thing goes depends on you.’
I couldn’t stand this father–confessor tone of his. I flared up, ‘What are you trying to say, let’s hear it!’
‘It’s rather difficult for a gentleman to say what I’m attempting to say—please try to figure it out for yourself.’
I shot back, ‘You call yourself a gentleman—aren’t you ashamed of yourself, making such a filthy insinuation about your own wife! Jayanto babu is your friend, not mine. You ask him to come here again and again—not I! Why don’t you throw him out of the house?’
‘Would that make you happy, if I threw him out?’
‘What difference does it make to you whether I’m happy or not?’
‘Which means, you wouldn’t be happy?’
‘Don’t you shout at me like a barbarian—it’s late, let me sleep.’ My body was trembling with rage. Nayonangshu seemed like poison.
The next day I kept myself closeted in the bedroom from seven in the evening. I could hear people entering the sitting room—a moment later I heard Jayanto’s voice, ‘Where’s the lady? I don’t see her.’ I couldn’t hear Nayonangshu’s reply, but all of a sudden I saw the curtain being pushed aside and Jayanto coming into the bedroom. ‘What’s this! You’re lying down?’
A little white lie slipped out—‘Headache.’
‘You have a headache? Fever too?’ enquired Jayanto as he placed his hand on my forehead—his hand was huge, like an animal’s paw.
I sat up hurriedly and said, ‘Let’s go into the other room.’
‘Why, this is fine.’ He pulled the chair from Angshu’s writing table over to the bed and started to chat.
This is why I love you so. You speak out your desire, you’re not timid, you’re not even careful—you play with all your cards face up on the table, and that’s why no one has been, or will be able to, hinder you. My light, my sunshine, my Jayanto! How did you know exactly what I could not get from Nayonangshu, the inner lack from which I was withering away? Nayonangshu had wanted his young wife, for his own satisfaction, his own comfort pure and simple. He never thought of my feelings. He showed no interest in my family or my background. But you, Jayanto, you wanted to know about my childhood, about my parents and brothers and sisters. You even listened sympathetically to the story of our old family servant, Ganga. Nayonangshu has a schoolmasterish attitude towards me, though affectionate—he wants me to be something other than what I am. But what I am, whatever I do and say gives you pleasure, Jayanto. I’ve said so much to you, and been happy talking to you—about commonplace, domestic things, gossip—things I’ve never said to Nayonangshu because he never wanted to listen. You asked me one day, ‘Don’t you have a nickname?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What, let’s hear it.’
‘Lotan. That’s what they call me at my parents’ home.’ A little later you recounted an event in your life—and you introduced a heroine by the name of Lotan. I could sense that you were making up the story as you went along, just for the pleasure of saying the name, Lotan, over and over again. Nayonangshu calls me, courteously, Maloti. In his more tender moments he makes up a lot of names, but he won’t call me Lotan. It’s his opinion that the name doesn’t become me. It’s too affected, he says, which means he would like to brush aside the twenty years I’d lived before our marriage. But you became a participant in my whole life, my present and my past. You never see
med to tire of hearing about me. I could sense that your life now revolved around me, and you had simply and easily accepted that situation without any shame or fear. How direct and straightforward you were when you took my hand and whispered in my ear, ‘Lotan’, or when you addressed me with the more intimate ‘tumi’ while no one else was around. It seemed as if I’d always heard that ‘tumi’ from you, and that’s why that day when you first put your arms around me and kissed me, I wasn’t really surprised. I didn’t even stop to consider whether it was right or wrong. My whole body just started to tremble, as if I were a sixteen-year-old virgin.
When, how long did it take, how was it that we arrived at this stage? One night it was almost ten o’ clock. The session in our sitting room hadn’t broken up yet. Angshu and two or three of his friends were talking about Tibet, China and Nehru, and Angshu was saying that Jawaharlal had made a big blunder—just then we heard a knock on the door. I’d been fidgeting since sundown, inwardly restless. I got up before anyone else and went to the door. It was ajar. As I drew near I saw a tall black-and-white shadow. Instantly—or perhaps even before that, from seeing only a bit of him—I recognized, from just the way he stood there—that person because of whom, because of whose absence, I’d been feeling strangely empty. That morning, too, Jayanto hadn’t come by. He hadn’t turned up the whole day—how many months had it been since I’d spent a day like that? As the evening progressed, I’d been working myself into a state. I had got up once to give Bunni her supper. I had lain down in the dark beside Bunni, but kept alert for the sound of that familiar voice. And after Bunni had fallen asleep, I’d tried again to listen to Angshu and the others.
I was amazed that countries like China and Tibet, which we would never see except on a map, could cause so much excitement on Jhautola Road, Calcutta. Weren’t the buses or trams running today? Were all the taxis off the streets? Was it illness? Some other calamity? But was there any guarantee he would come each and every day, that he would have to come no matter what? Yet if there wasn’t, then why had he teased me all these days? Why did he waste my time? Why did he cause this rift between Angshu and me? Why did he wade through three miles of flooded, muddy streets to come to Bunni’s birthday party? Was all that just child’s play—he would come or not come according to his fancy? Let him keep in mind that we have no need of him, we can leave him any day we want. Let him not forget I’m a happily married woman, with a husband and child. I’ve parents and relations and a full and rich life—what do I care about the editor of some silly magazine, a man who can bear no comparison with my husband! It was we who had given him shelter. It’s because my husband is such a nice person that he’s able to come into our house, to become a part of the family. If he doesn’t understand the value of all that, to hell with him!
Precisely in the heat of this quiet rage, I saw Jayanto’s shadow at the door. I was a little surprised that he had knocked, despite the door being open, and more surprised that he didn’t come inside even on seeing me. I stepped aside so he could enter, but he just stood there. The light in the stairway wasn’t bright. It seemed to me that Jayanto looked a little strange. He stared in my direction, but—even though I was standing quite near, it took him quite a while to fix his eyes upon my face, as though for some reason he suddenly had trouble seeing. His eyes were slightly red, I thought, and there was a weird smile on his lips. The lower lip appeared much too wet and glistening. I was further amazed that he simply stood there quietly. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Then all of a sudden he took two steps towards me, stretched out his hand—but his hand landed on the door. In a strange and unsteady voice he mumbled, ‘Lotan! Will you meet me alone once? Tomorrow at two—in front of Metro Cinema?’ I was able to guess at what he said. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t decide what I should do.
Suddenly I saw Angshu standing next to me. He didn’t even look at me. In a stern voice he said, ‘Jayanto babu, come with me’, and took him by the hand and started down the stairs.
Jayanto resisted slightly at first, ‘Lotan, Lotan’, he called back a few more times.
Rather than stand there, I turned back and went into the bedroom. I was hoping that Angshu’s friends would stay on a long time, but the excitement over Tibet and China had subsided. It wasn’t long before silence fell on the house.
We ate dinner in silence that night. After dinner Angshu said a few words to me. I was very upset, almost in tears. I didn’t even understand exactly what had happened, but I had a suspicion that I was to be punished for it. Angshu could have drawn me close and comforted me. I’d have felt much better had I been able to cry on his chest. Maybe our life together would have taken a different turn from that moment—but Angshu didn’t do anything like that. He sat there at his desk, turned on the desk lamp, lit a cigarette, and said just a few words.
‘Jayanto babu was drunk. I put him in a taxi.’
I replied, startled, ‘Drunk!’
‘Why, didn’t you realize that?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t realize that?’
Angshu raised his eyes, but didn’t look directly at me. I had no desire to reply. Inwardly I felt maybe Angshu didn’t believe me, but he should have known that never in my entire life had I seen liquor or a person who was drunk (except in the movies). Even if I’d seen a drunk, I hadn’t realized the fact. From childhood I’d been brought up in an atmosphere where just hearing the word ‘liquor’ frightened me. A little later Angshu continued (his lips pursed, without looking at me), ‘After all, Maloti, he’s not such a heroic fellow, if he has to get drunk to declare his love.’ I was sitting on the bed with my legs folded, resting my chin on my knee, staring at the floor. My whole body felt like it had turned to stone. A little later I heard Angshu’s voice again, ‘I told him it would be better if he didn’t frequent this house any more—of course I don’t know whether that sank into his head or not.’
Angshu tilted the lamp so that the bed was in shadows. Then he set a book in front of him and began to write something—probably a translation of some foreign story, what he’d chosen as a means to earn a little extra money. He wrote until one-thirty or two that night (how much he actually wrote, I don’t know, but he sat there, burning up cigarettes). I lay with my eyes closed, listening to him striking a match and the rustle of paper as he periodically turned another page in his notebook. Once in a while I opened my eyes and looked at the profile of his face—it looked unfamiliar, as if belonging to someone who meant nothing to me. I said to myself, ‘Angshu, I’m feeling lonely, terrible; I can’t take it, come to me, please.’ I didn’t think about Jayanto, carefully avoided any thought of him. The littlest thought of him sent a shiver down my spine—alcohol, disgusting! A drunk—how utterly revolting! In order to suppress this mental anguish, I numbed a portion of my mind.
Finally, Angshu shut his books and got up from the chair (very cautiously—did he think I was sleeping?) and tiptoed into the bathroom. I could hear him rinsing his mouth (he never forgot to brush his teeth before going to bed). He gulped down a glass of water and turned off the light, then got into bed, lying down with his back to me. I couldn’t help but cry, but Angshu didn’t react at all—perhaps he had really been writing and had fallen asleep. At least I didn’t feel he was aware of my existence then.
But I—the whole of that night I didn’t sleep a wink.
One day, two days, three days went by, and I said to myself that the deplorable affair was over. There wouldn’t be any further trouble. I would go out every evening—on some days with Bunni to my mother’s, sometimes to a relative’s or neighbour’s house, or get a girlfriend to go to the movies with me, or do some shopping at Gariahat for no reason at all. When I’d come home I wouldn’t go into the sitting room, and Angshu wouldn’t look for me either, wouldn’t ask where I’d been. ‘The man’s not such a heroic lover, after all, if he has to get drunk to make a declaration …’—Angshu’s words hovered about the apartment like cigarette smoke in a closed room in winter. I felt I cou
ldn’t breathe, for I could have said the same words. I had never thought that Jayanto—I felt an emptiness in my breast—no, I won’t think about Jayanto any more. I’ll get a pet dog or a cat. I’ll enroll in music school again. I’ll take a diploma in Indian music and start teaching on my own. There’s so much in life. I have Bunni; I could have more children. Even though Angshu is dead set against it, I could force the issue.
A week went by, maybe two. Suddenly it struck me that I might have been too harsh on Jayanto. Can someone who got drunk one day be called a drunkard? Jayanto had been coming over daily for a long time; if he were really a drunkard, wouldn’t that have come to light long ago? He’d been wanting to tell me what was on his mind all this while—even though there was no need to say anything, it was so obvious anyway, still men need to put their feelings into words—but found it difficult to summon up the nerve. After all, I’m married, a mother, my husband had helped him out—he had plenty of reasons not to find the nerve. He can’t be blamed for this timidity. It just goes to prove he’s a conscientious man, and is he really at fault if in order to overcome his shyness he did something to remove his inhibitions? Wasn’t it because he respects my marriage that he was forced to behave in so ungentlemanly a manner that day? Besides, is it really rational on my part to hold that thing called liquor in such dread? Just think of the superstitions men suffer from: in this country we don’t eat beef, but those who eat it are quite all right, in fact, they’re a lot better off than we are. In their country, liquor flows freely—and I shiver at just the mention of the word, but that’s because I’m not used to it, that’s all. Right after our marriage, when Angshu was trying to teach me poetry, he used to tell me about the poets’ lives (you really should have stayed a teacher, Angshu, you so dearly love to talk)—some died of drink, one ran off with his professor’s wife, and for them Angshu didn’t show any lack of love or devotion. On the contrary, there wasn’t the least suggestion in his tone that such behaviour was even improper. Just because they wrote poetry, were all their sins to be pardoned? And just because Jayanto had had a drop too much to drink one day, I was to be debarred from seeing him again? Jayanto may not be a poet, but does that mean he doesn’t have any good qualities? Angshu himself used to praise him so highly—because Jayanto had spent some time in political detention, and after Independence had visited Dandakaranya and the Andaman Islands to look into the refugee situation. And Angshu didn’t hesitate to call his life an adventure—on the whole, Angshu had sung quite a few praises of Jayanto, and now, what had really happened? To this day what actual harm had Jayanto done to the family? Rather, he’d been very helpful. He’d done a lot of the domestic chores which in fact were Angshu’s responsibility. If there’s anything in that heart of his—if he’s fallen for me—that’s in his heart, it’s not hurting anybody. At least he’s worthy of pity, isn’t he?
It Rained All Night Page 6
