Do you want me to tell you that I don’t love Angshu—not any longer—and that I love Jayanto? No, all that love business is just a piece of fiction, a fabrication of people like Angshu, an idea, a figment of the imagination, an ideal, perhaps, which no one is able to approach but everyone talks volubly about in order to hide their failures. Is there a human being anywhere who can satisfy each and every desire of another person? When you’re young you have one sort of outlook on life, you have a vibrant yet unused body. It is then that you may, in a flash, find yourself enchanted by everything about some person or the other. You set him or her apart from all other people. You feel that if you could have that person, you’d need nothing more. But when you do actually get him or her, let’s suppose through marriage, that infatuation withers and falls in the span of one summer, is washed out in one monsoon. What remains is self-interest, attachment as a result of living together, habit, comfort, the comfort of wearing old slippers—and the body remains. Yet how easily the body, too, becomes tired, unwilling. How easily we start to dream of some other happiness—unless someone has the good fortune to be born simple-minded, or has blinders fixed to his eyes so that he sees only one person before him. Jayanto has said many things to me, but he hasn’t once uttered the word ‘love’—and for that I’m thankful to him. On the other hand, Angshu has driven me crazy, prodding me, trying to find out if I ‘love’ him.
Suppose I was like Jharna—my friend from college. After her marriage, she came over to our place one day with her engineer husband. She hardly took her eyes off him the whole time they were here. She nodded her head like a mechanical doll at anything he said and gave us such meaningful looks as if something utterly profound had just been spoken. Her husband commented, ‘Black marketeers should be rounded up and shot.’
And immediately Jharna nodded echoing, ‘Definitely! They should be shot.’
The husband declared, ‘In our country, my good man, all this socialism stuff won’t do. We need a dictatorship.’
To which Jharna added, ‘But it’s true, you know, we really need a dictatorship.’
And again: ‘What’s all this crazy talk! I ask you, can physics and chemistry be taught in Bengali?’
Nayonangshu replied, ‘Why not? The Japanese teach these subjects in their own language.’
‘Leave all that aside—we simply cannot do without English.’
‘But of course! How can we do without English?’ rejoined Jharna as she looked around at all of us.
And so it went on the whole time. ‘I hadn’t realized Jharna was so dumb,’ was what I said to myself, but then I reflected that she’d married a little late in life. The intoxication of marriage hadn’t worn off yet, but it would, eventually. Five years later, however, I noticed that Jharna was just the same. She’d become fat in the meantime, and a mother of three children. She would drop in unexpectedly in her husband’s car now and then. As long as she’d be here, she wouldn’t let a minute pass without talking about her husband. She referred to him with the respectful ‘He’: He does this, He likes that, these days He ‘drinks’ in the evenings, on Sundays He doesn’t get up before ten o’clock—as if all these were weighty matters to be acclaimed before the public. I really had a good laugh at Jharna’s expense—to myself, of course. Yet who knows, maybe she’s right in her stupidity. Maybe the marriages that hold together involve one party who lowers him-or her-self and accepts a subservient role—and in most instances that’s the woman. It becomes her so. And if happiness be the aim of life, why bother about how the happiness is achieved. Jharna is fine with her ‘He’ and ‘His’ and ‘Him’. They will never know any strife or pain. In the final analysis, aren’t they the winners? But the difficulty is that I’m not Jharna, and Nayonangshu, being a man obsessed with ideas, would have found a wife like her terribly insipid.
One day there was a discussion about Jayanto’s magazine. Nayonangshu said, ‘This time you ought to change the Bartaman block you use for printing—the small “n” looks like the capital “N”.’
Jayanto answered, ‘Does it really matter?’
‘It would cost very little—best to change it. It’s right on the front cover, isn’t it—looks bad that way.’
Jayanto gave a twisted little smile and lit a cigarette. For a moment Angshu glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘And another thing, your magazine almost always has a printing error in the word kutsit—“uncouth”—using the closed “t” instead of the open “ta”, and usually the word hashpatal—“hospital”—is spelt in a way that gives it a nasal tone, which is wrong. You could correct these.’
Before Jayanto had a chance to reply, I said, ‘Why, kutsit is written with a closed “t”, isn’t it?’
‘The first “t”—not the final one.’
Jayanto laughed softly, ‘But I write it that way all the time—with two closed “t”s.’
‘And a lot of other people write it that way too, but a mistake’s a mistake.’
‘Why is it a mistake?’
‘It’s purely a Sanskrit word. It has to be written according to Sanskrit spelling conventions.’
‘And if I don’t, what’s the harm? Won’t the meaning be clear if I spell kutsit with two closed “t”s?’
‘Then you’re saying that there’s no difference between what’s correct and what’s incorrect?’
‘According to you there is, but I see things differently. I see spelling as a superstition, just like our being wary of the tik-tik sounds of a lizard or sneezing when you’re about to leave the house.’
‘But the Bengali language is no one’s personal property—you and I cannot do what we please with it.’
To this Jayanto replied, ‘Look here, sir, I have to work hard to make a living. Each week I’ve got to write fifteen columns. I simply can’t afford to worry about spelling. That’s a luxury for you gentlefolk.’
I could see Nayonangshu’s face turning red. ‘Very well, as you please. But if you’ll excuse me, I have something to do.’ Saying this, he got up and went into the bedroom.
I detest arguments. When Nayonangshu is in a bad mood, I just keep quiet. But that night after we’d finished eating I couldn’t help but say, ‘Why did you suddenly get up like that and leave?’
‘I wasn’t enjoying myself there.’
‘And so you must be impolite?’
‘Why, was Jayanto babu inconvenienced by my not staying?’
Pretending that I didn’t understand his insinuation, I said, ‘Spelling is not a very serious matter, after all. How could you lose your temper over that! Don’t be childish.’
‘Maybe spelling is nothing to you people. To me it is extremely important.’
I didn’t like the way he said ‘you people’, but I restrained myself and replied, ‘Very well, it isn’t you who’s making spelling mistakes, so why worry? What’s the need for you to play schoolmaster to other people?’
‘Precisely! No need at all.’ Nayonangshu got up from his chair and started to pace up and down the floor. ‘It doesn’t matter one jot—printing errors, spelling errors, wretched Bengali language—“belaboured bondsmen”, “puissant proletariat”—all the worst clichés—and if anyone points out an error, they won’t even admit they’re wrong! Huh!’
‘But you had praised Jayanto Ray to the skies as a “man of action”, hadn’t you? You yourself gave Bartaman a lot of financial support through ads, didn’t you?’
‘I hadn’t read the magazine then—after merely listening to him, I had decided I ought to help him out.’
‘Help him out? You mean out of pity? You mean you squander the money of the advertisers!’
‘Don’t talk about things you know nothing about!’
Nayonangshu’s eyes had become red, and pulling at his hair distractedly, he said, ‘And the views! There’s no making head or tail of them! Today they’re Congress, tomorrow communist, the next day the Swatantra Party—whichever way the wind’s blowing!’
This time I raised my voice, ‘No
w you’re trying to find fault with Jayanto babu—just tell me why! What’s happened?’
Pursuing his own thoughts, Nayonangshu responded, ‘The sales are the main thing. Not a concern about anything except how to net a few extra rupees. Misspellings won’t hamper sales, so let misspellings be. And if you can get more sales by printing lies, then you print lies. No conscience at all, no decency!’
‘Enough of your conscience!’ The blood rushed to my head. I blurted out whatever came to my mind at that instant, ‘And you—you dole out ads with your right hand and with your left you play your own little game—you call that conscience? You’re after those few extra rupees, too, aren’t you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Nayonangshu whirled around and stood facing me, his body rigid. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t you get money from the magazines you give ads to?’
‘NO! NEVER!’ Nayonangshu’s throat fairly split with the shouting—‘I write. These days everybody gets paid for being published. That has nothing whatever to do with the advertisements!’
‘Even so, you do only lousy old translations—you can’t write anything original!’ As the words left my mouth, Nayonangshu’s face turned ashen. His breath became heavy for a moment, then suddenly I saw his face contort, convulse. He hid it behind his hands and collapsed on the chair. I heard the gasps, the sobs as he cried.
It was maybe February then. We’d met Jayanto only two months earlier. Angshu hadn’t yet had the chance to call him a ‘drunk’ and throw him out. At that time I still didn’t know how I really felt. I liked Jayanto, of course, but wasn’t aware exactly where I was heading. I enjoyed the way he was becoming increasingly devoted to me. I was experiencing a new sensation which was benefiting me greatly while hurting no one else in the least. This is the way I thought about it then, but that night as I got into an argument with Nayonangshu, a ray of light suddenly fell upon a hidden corner of my mind. From the standpoint of reason and actual fact, Nayonangshu was probably right in what he said—why probably, definitely so— but what I could not endure was that he should have said the right thing. It seemed to me that because he had a better education and was financially better off, and because he was now in a position to be Jayanto’s benefactor, he was unjustly attacking Jayanto—a person whose life is not particularly happy, whose wife is a poor wisp of a thing and sickly on top of that (Jayanto had told us that within a few days of our meeting him). He didn’t have a permanent job. By struggling really hard he just barely managed to make it in this world, independently. I was deeply angered by Nayonangshu’s contempt for such a person. But if this object of ‘contempt’ had been someone else, not Jayanto? No—my blood danced as it gave the answer—it’s because it’s Jayanto, Jayanto himself!
At that time I couldn’t imagine that all this might have any consequences. I was just pleased to think that I had ‘conquered’ a man—I never entertained the possibility that the question of requital might come up some day. By that time, my manner and attitude had changed greatly as a result of associating with Angshu’s friends. I looked upon the former ‘good wife’ of Beleghata almost with pity. I relished it if I could sense that a man was drawn to me and didn’t feel there was anything wrong in it. From observing different people in different circumstances, I realized that there was scarcely a married woman alive who didn’t enjoy acquiring an innocent, harmless male devotee. But that day I suddenly realized Angshu was deeply wounded by this, and almost immediately, without my realizing it, my respect for Angshu diminished. I felt he was insincere, a hypocrite. For all his lecturing on my ‘individuality’, he in fact couldn’t stand it if I expressed that ‘individuality’.
I felt terrible that day, seeing Nayonangshu break into tears. I had been wrong, unjust—he’s really earned somewhat of a reputation as a translator, quite a few editors solicited his work. His original stories, too, were published from time to time. He was held in high esteem at office, made rapid advancement at his job—I knew all this. But I had wanted to say what I did. I wanted to hurt his feelings and shatter his arrogant notion that those who didn’t think as he did were either fools or illiterates. But I’d never dreamt that he would break down so miserably. I had never seen him cry before, and had no idea how helpless and weak and rotten others feel in the presence of a grown man crying. I went to bed with a horrible feeling. Later that night I got up and went over to his bed. Women possess this one elixir, this restorative power, and at that time I was still under the impression that I ‘loved’ Angshu. Peace was established for the time being.
So you realized you were on the verge of real danger, Maloti—why weren’t you more careful? But what could I have done. Everything was out of my hands. Was it, really? On the one hand you claim to be a person with an independent will, yet you want to place the responsibility on your husband? You hold on to Jayanto, and you want Angshu to rescue you from danger—isn’t that a bit too much to ask for? But that’s what Angshu did, called him a ‘drunk’ and threw him out. Were you happy with that? What difference does it make to Angshu whether I’m happy or sad—he has changed so much. He treats me almost like a stranger—but who can I confide in, to whom can I explain my position, who will understand me?
Take the fact that Jayanto did leave and come back again, and Angshu didn’t stop him, or even object. From that point on, my married life began to fall to pieces. It’s as if we were playing a game, Angshu and I, play-acting on the stage, avoiding each other’s eyes as much as possible, being extremely polite to each other, trying our utmost not to speak at all. Still, at times things would suddenly flare up, for a small reason or no reason at all—sometimes even in front of Bunni or Durgamoni, the poison hidden in our hearts would spew out, the concealed spite would spill over. Angshu would be sarcastic, wouldn’t mention Jayanto’s name—if the fish curry was too hot or if he couldn’t find a particular book, he’d keep harping on it until it got on my nerves. But of course I could see very well what was on his mind. My voice would rise and my head would throb. I’d hurl insults at Angshu, the corner of his mouth would curl up in that disgusting manner, and then suddenly an oppressive silence would fall on the house. Revolting, crude, those quarrels!
Until then there had been at least some solace in the body, but alas, even that respite was no longer available to us. From that time on I couldn’t bear the thought of bodily contact with Angshu. It wasn’t that Angshu didn’t try from time to time—very timid, very pathetic attempts. I would turn him away rudely, and sometimes I would neither respond nor move away from him. I would painfully prepare myself, concealing my abhorrence with all my effort. My insides seemed to turn cold and hard like stone. I closed my eyes and counted the seconds. And I guess it was for this reason that Nayonangshu, too, would collapse after a little while, and as soon as the act would be over, I would sigh in relief and return to my own bed. I was aware of what I was doing, but couldn’t think of a solution, for it seemed to me there was no way out of the tangle. For me to tell Jayanto, ‘Please don’t come any more,’ or to tell Angshu, ‘Come on, let’s go away from Calcutta’—would have been rather theatrical, unreal, not one statement worth anything. And besides, why would I give up Jayanto, when my life was once more at high tide because of him?
It’s not that I didn’t try. I battled all I could. How many nights did I say to myself, ‘I’ll ask Angshu to forgive me, I’ll fall at his feet. He’s suffering—I don’t know whose fault it is, but I will dispel that hurt.’ Yet immediately the eyes of another, outlined with glasses, would float before me, and Nayonangshu would become a mere speck blending into the great void. All the doors to my mind would close and block Nayonangshu’s approach. I thought: I look after Angshu’s home, take good care of his child, keep track of the household accounts, send clothes punctually to the washerman—I have not failed in the least to tend to his comforts and arrange things to his liking—can I not in return for all this ask for a measure of personal satisfaction? We do not forget our fathers
once we are married, nor our brothers. If another man can give me something my husband can’t, or doesn’t want to, why should the world come to an end over that? Are my thoughts unjust? Am I being immoral?
And what about the way Nayonangshu’s poisoning the atmosphere in this house—doesn’t anyone see that? Sometimes—usually after an explosion—he shrinks and withdraws into his shell. He comes back late from office, avoids my eyes, goes out of the house for no reason at all. We talk normally only when Bunni is around—and even then it’s strained. These days his natural voice or a little bit of laughter is heard only when his friends come by (at one time his highpitched laugh could be heard three apartments away)—and even his friends’ visits are far less frequent than before. I can sense it’s because of their aversion to Jayanto. Because Jayanto has carved out for himself such a large place in this family, the others envy him—but I, a normal, healthy woman, not the smouldering type like Nayonangshu—wouldn’t I feel stifled in such an environment! Then again, some days pass by normally. It seems as if everything is all right, but at heart we both know that this naturalness itself is unnatural, fabricated. Behind it lies such mental effort that it is impossible for this calm to continue for long. At such times I grow furious with the whole world. I feel as if I have nobody but Jayanto, as if my husband has abandoned me and is not making the least attempt to get me back. It’s he who is driving me, has been driving me through all these years, into this situation.
Yes, I will say it a thousand times, what’s happened is because of him. The fault is his—it’s his weakness and lack of understanding that has brought us where we are. Tell me, why did he snatch me away from the protective confines of the joint family, why did he draw me into his circle of friends, why did he teach me that there’s no greater thing than ‘love’ (even though no one knows what it is), why—even though he understood everything from the very beginning—why was he silent, indulgent, why didn’t he exert force, ever, instead of merely skewering me with his words once in a while—why, while there was still time, didn’t he thrash out the matter, why, even when the degree of disharmony was rising, did he maintain a show of ‘goodness’ towards Jayanto? Were appearances more important to him than his wife, did good manners matter more than happiness? If so, it only means he has no true affection for me. I am just a means to satisfy his physical appetite, some sort of machine to provide him his comforts—and once I became convinced of this, was I still supposed to remain his gentle Sita-like wife? No, I want love—love in every sense of the word. I want to be flattered, worshipped. I want devotion, I want to see myself as larger than I am. I’m not like Nayonangshu, the book-reading, ruminating type. How can I cheat myself, and others, with mere ideas?
It Rained All Night Page 8
