What can I do? How am I at fault? How can I reject someone who is madly in love with me? Why should such strength be expected from me alone? I am human, I am a woman. I have a body of flesh and blood. And if it actually is my fault—suppose I do take the blame upon myself and admit that Nayonangshu wanted nothing but what was good for me, admit he loves me in his way—that at least he feels for me what he means by love (though his kind of love is not to my taste at all). Suppose I admit that I’ve been—how do you say it?—unfaithful—even though anyone would laugh to hear such a serious word—what then? All right, I admit everything, but after that—what comes after that? Do you want to teach the unfaithful a lesson, Nayonangshu? Fine, go ahead, give me the punishment I deserve. I won’t let out a whimper. Listen, Nayonangshu, I’m calling out to you, I’m asking you to rise, now that you know your wife is unfaithful you can do whatever you wish—throw her out of the house, strangle her to death, sink a dagger into her breast—anything. Revenge, Nayonangshu, take revenge. Prove you are the lord and master. But no—it’s no use talking rubbish. Things don’t happen that way any more.
What then is the way out? Divorce? No—that’s much too complicated. And besides, there’s Bunni, my Bunni, my precious Bunni! I’ll not give up Bunni, never. I’ll do anything for her. I’ll beg Nayonangshu, fall at his feet and plead, ‘Don’t drive me out, just let me stay here—’or I’ll go my separate way, taking Bunni with me. I’ll work for a living. I have my jewellery. I have my BA degree—I can answer Nayonangshu’s fury if it comes to that. I just want Bunni, Bunni has to be with me! But suppose he isn’t willing to give her up? Who knows what Nayonangshu is thinking. Shall I wake him up and ask, ‘Now listen, I’ve done these things, tell me, what are you going to do now?’ Don’t be silly, Maloti. Stop being stupid. Or should I say, ‘Angshu, your famous “love” is fake, just rubbish—the main thing is the family. You married me. We’re husband and wife—we still are—we neither have to sleep in the same bed nor go out together, nor is there any need for much conversation—why not just let our entire lives pass like this, like the lives of countless others.’
Would that be possible? Or wouldn’t it? But then—no more of your ‘but–then’s’, Maloti. What has really happened to cause you such worry? The roof hasn’t fallen on your head. You haven’t been struck by lightning. The sun will surely rise tomorrow. Everything is all right. Just stay quiet. Let the days pass, some sort of solution will materialize, or maybe it won’t. It’s all in the hands of fate, anyway—it’s best to leave the matter to time.
If Nayonangshu comes over now and wants to know whether what he suspects is true, if he asks me a thousand times over, I’ll reply a thousand times, ‘As the Lord is my witness, I place my hand on Bunni’s head and swear that what you’re thinking is not true. It’s a lie!’ Then it will be dawn, once again another day, then another, and yet another—my life with someone to whom I do not respond, either in body or in mind. Just keeping up appearances, clinging to a dry and lifeless frame, no more—such is my life with him. How much longer, how many more years do I have to live—and just how shall I exist, how shall I smile, talk, breathe? O God, why have you punished me so?
four
There are some things one just can’t say in Bengali. While translating a story from a foreign language, I pause and ponder whenever someone would tell someone else, ‘I love you’ or ‘Do you love me?’ I was obliged to write in Bengali exactly that—‘I love you’ and ‘Do you love me?’—even though they sounded most artificial to my ear. For us, these are phrases from poetry, the language of thought but not of actual speech. There is so much we express through gestures only. Instead of saying ‘good morning’, we just give a little smile. We express our love with our eyes, in a touch of the hand, and through commonplace words that conceal deep feelings. And in a country where even now countless people go for arranged marriages and accept those marriages as permanent for the rest of their lives, the occasion for asking such an absurd question as ‘Do you love me?’ presents itself to only a handful of ill-fated individuals.
I am one of these unlucky ones. Recently I have had to ask that very question a number of times. Yet I couldn’t really find the correct words for it—it’s so difficult in Bengali. ‘Maloti, don’t you love me any more?’ Silly, crude, affected, yet I stammered out those words, or something close to them, not once, but quite a few times. At first Maloti would say, ‘What sort of ridiculous question is that!’ But when I’d push the matter further, she would answer in a sharp voice, ‘Yes, yes, I love you. Okay? Now go and do whatever you’re doing and stop interrogating me like a detective!’
Ah, love! As if it depends on what people say in words, as if it does not well up in the eyes, or is not perceived in the heightening of colour, in the movements of the hands, or even in the manner of pushing aside a curtain and entering a room, in the way one bends over while pouring tea! It is as plain as day, as unmistakable as the sunlight. It is beyond argument. One can instantly recognize where love is. I tried to explain this to Maloti, with a great deal of trouble, talking around it: ‘If you truly love me, why don’t I feel that love?’ ‘How should I know why you don’t!’ And that was that, one could say nothing further. A wall, a dumb wall—if you beat your head against it, all you would hear would be the echo of that sound.
Jayanto had been coming to this house for a month or so then—already a permanent fixture in the household. One night I had a dream. Jayanto, Maloti and I—the three of us were waiting for the bus. We’d had to let two buses go because they were packed. As soon as the next one came to a stop, Maloti hurriedly got on, then Jayanto, but just as I got a handhold, the bus pulled away. Jayanto gave an uncanny smile as he waved at me. I suddenly realized that that was precisely what they wanted. Maloti went off with Jayanto, leaving me behind—she left me standing there. I started to run after the bus, but the huge double-decker disappeared instantly. In the dream I felt my heart breaking, as if I had just lost everything, as if I no longer had a heart beating within my breast. Never before had I experienced a feeling of such great loss. And with that anguished sensation I awoke in the darkness. Blindly I stretched out my hand towards Maloti (we were still sleeping on adjoining beds then). My hand touched her. I still wasn’t reassured. I nudged her and called out, ‘Maloti, listen.’ She replied in a sleepy voice, ‘What’s the matter?’ I sat up in bed and explained, ‘I just had a dream in which Jayanto babu ran away with you.’
‘What are you talking about!’ Maloti said nothing more. In the darkness I squinted in order to get a look at her eyes, but she turned over saying, ‘Go to sleep.’ After that there was no further sound from her. A little later I, too, fell asleep. I don’t know whether Maloti remembers it, but I haven’t forgotten that dream, and won’t forget it, ever. It still hurts me terribly to think of it. Even now I feel that I no longer have a heart beating in my breast. In comparison, what I am suffering now is nothing at all, nothing makes any difference any longer.
Maloti loves Jayanto. I understood that even before she realized it herself. I understood it by looking at her eyes, by observing the way she looked at him. Moist eyes, the two black pupils seemed to contract slightly as if attempting to see something far away, and sometimes they’d become half-closed as if sleepy. I was familiar with that look. Before we were married and for some months after, she used to look at me in exactly the same way, her teeth would glisten when she smiled or started to say something. It was clear, so clear to me—as if it was a banner headline in the papers, or printed in bold letters on a placard and pasted on the wall of my room. But Maloti could not see it herself. Her own eyes were unknown to her, and that’s why I had had the opportunity to observe her those first few days, in a most detached manner, as if I had no part in the matter at all. But gradually I saw the innocence fade from her eyes. From time to time there were fine lines on her brow. The corner of her mouth would twist in a peculiar way when she talked to Jayanto. And then she suddenly became much too concerned about
my meals or my clothing or something else. Until then she’d thought she was merely accepting Jayanto’s devotion, that she wasn’t giving or wouldn’t have to give anything in return. But now she couldn’t fool herself any longer. And from then on, there started to materialize, within these walls on Jhautola Road, in this elegantly furnished flat, day after day—a war.
A ‘cold’ war, never actually declared, a war with eyes, a war in each and every step, an archery of words hidden in trivial utterances. There are many things which just can’t be said—not in Bengali, not in any language—things which we can say only by saying something else, or which everyone understands even if left unsaid. Once a washerman caused a lot of trouble. He had taken two silk saris of Maloti and not returned them—a month, a month and a half, almost two months passed. Maloti sent the servant twice—once it was reported that Jagai, the washerman was suffering from fever, the other time he wasn’t found at all. ‘Can everything be done through a servant! The head of the house won’t stir himself the least bit—and, after all, what’s it to him if the two saris are lost!’ After hearing this short soliloquy from Maloti a few times, I said, ‘Why not send Keshto again and see what happens?’ This time Keshto came back and reported that Jagai would come the next day. After that, when ten or twelve days had passed, one evening Maloti gave a lecture on the baseness of washermen—Jayanto was there, along with many others—how readily they lose clothes, tear them, withhold them, use them themselves, store them wadded up and let mildew grow on them, rent out the good pieces, scorch things when they’re ironing, and yet when it comes to collecting their fee, they won’t settle for one paisa less. While this long song was being sung that evening, others put in their bit from time to time. It was evident that many had suffered similar tyrannical behaviour.
Jayanto asked, ‘What’s this rascal’s name? The one who took your saris and didn’t return them?’
‘Jagai.’
‘Jagai, the washerman. Where does he live?’
‘In Dhakuria.’
Jayanto said nothing further. I was getting annoyed at having to listen to the behavioural traits of washermen for so long, so I look the opportunity to try and change the subject. ‘Well, was our renowned poet Chandidas’s companion Rami really a washerwoman?’
The next day was Sunday; it was about two o’clock. We’d finished our meal a short while before. It had suddenly turned hot in Calcutta. The fan was whirring, the windows were closed. Maloti had spread a reed mat and was lying down with a few magazines. I sat down to work on the translation of a Hemingway story. At about that time I heard footsteps in the sitting room. First Maloti, then I, got up. Jayanto had entered. With him was a very dark-complexioned man whom I couldn’t quite place. Then I figured it was probably that washerman, Jagai. ‘Mrs Mukherji, here are your saris,’ said Jayanto. ‘Are those the right ones?’ Then he gave Jagai a rap on the shoulder, ‘Look who’s in front of you!’ Jagai looked at Maloti and mumbled something unintelligible. Of course there was no need to comprehend what he actually said. I saw how Maloti was staring at Jayanto. His eyes were reddish. He was streaming with sweat. It was obvious he’d taken a lot of trouble to recover the saris. Not just the saris, he had produced the guilty washerman in the flesh before Maloti. ‘See who’s here!’ As if some thief was being brought before the queen for judgement, as if Maloti had absolute power of life and death over Jagai, as if it was expected that Jagai would fall at Maloti’s feet sobbing. And Maloti, how well she adapted to the role of queen, as if she realized there was absolutely nothing her slave, Jayanto, would not do for her, as if, had she so wished, he would put an end to the very existence of this washerman—all this I saw in a flash, understood in an instant. Maloti’s appearance on that day remains etched in my mind: in a sari with a bright red border, her hair streaming down her back, she was standing there striking a pose that combined both pride and compassion, her lips were bright red from chewing paan, and her eyes—her eyes didn’t move from Jayanto’s face. A deep hue spread over her cheeks. Her pulse quickened and a rush of colour spread over her entire face—red, bright, triumphant.
Another day I returned from office to find Bunni had a fever. Jayanto was sitting at the head of the bed massaging her temples. As I entered the room, Maloti said to me, ‘She came home from school with a fever, has a sore throat too—will you go and bring Dr Kumud?’
I responded, ‘Why don’t you phone him from the flat next door?’
‘I did—the doctor wasn’t in then, and you can’t call repeatedly from someone else’s phone.’
‘Dr Kumud doesn’t get to his office before seven. I’ll take a quick shower.’ When I came out of the bathroom, Jayanto wasn’t around.
‘Where’s Jayanto babu gone?’
In answer to this Maloti said, ‘He doesn’t spend the whole day just sitting around. He’s a man of action—he’s gone to fetch the doctor.’ She said this in a calm voice, not angrily but in a matter-of-fact tone. Something happened inside me that instant—I felt blind with anger, with sorrow, blind with rage. A poisonous insect began to whirl about in my brain: ‘You spend the whole day just sitting around, just sitting around the whole day!’ I descended the stairs silently, came to the main street, and on an impulse boarded a tram. I got down at the Gariahat intersection, went into a tea shop and had a cup of tea, then stood on the pavement and watched the crowds. I started to walk towards the Lake, came back to buy a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, then proceeded again to the Lake and sat on a bench for a while. Then I got slowly to my feet, returned to Gariahat, and boarded a tram heading home. As I climbed the stairs, I felt tired, utterly exhausted. I paused for a moment by the door to the sitting room to catch my breath. From inside came the sound of hushed voices. You couldn’t hear the words, but only muted utterances—like venomous little bugs buzzing about, insubstantial, very soft and indistinct at times.
When they caught sight of me, both of them immediately fell silent.
Jayanto said in a light-hearted tone, ‘Hey there—where did you go all of a sudden? Don’t worry—I fetched the doctor right from his house. Bunni’s fine. She took some medicine and has fallen asleep just now.’
From inside came a muffled sound, ‘Ma!’
‘Here I am!’ Maloti got up and went to Bunni. A moment later Jayanto too stood up and, pausing at the door to the bedroom, said: ‘Mrs Mukherji, I’m going now. Remember to give her another dose of the medicine at eleven.’ I almost felt like detaining Jayanto a little longer. I dreaded the thought that Maloti and I would have to spend the entire night alone in the flat. Thank goodness Bunni wasn’t well—at least there would be an excuse to avoid conversation. A few days after that, Maloti moved our beds apart and arranged the bedroom a little differently. I raised no objection.
That occurred at a time when I was still trying to come to some sort of an ‘understanding’ with Maloti. Those were trying times indeed, trying for both of us. Neither understood the other. We’d start to talk and the words would break down, or come back like counterfeit coins. The dumb walls, the cold walls. You’d beat your head against them, and all you’d get was the echo of your head pounding. Maloti had a pat answer: ‘If that’s the way you really feel, you could throw Jayanto out by the scruff of his neck. Why don’t you?’
‘I don’t simply because that won’t get me anywhere. I won’t get you by doing that because, for us human beings, the mind is all. Desire is the main thing. Whether it’s fulfilled or not in actual deed is irrelevant. Suppose I throw out Jayanto and you mope around half-dead because he isn’t there. Tell me, what would I gain?’
But of course, these are things one cannot say in words. One can think the logic out in one’s head, or write them in a letter, perhaps, but not say them aloud—not to one’s wife at any rate. And it’s really no use expressing all this, because it’s a truth Maloti could never refute. And so she’d get more angry. Maybe, without even hearing me out, she’d shout, as she does now and then, ‘Do you know what the real trouble i
s? You’re just extremely jealous, extremely selfish. You want everybody to be totally engrossed with you all the time. Not only me, but Bunni as well—you do not appreciate it if someone shows Bunni a little special attention!’
And that’s another thing you speak of, Maloti, jealousy—as if it’s mine alone, my monopoly or at least that of husbands, some characteristic of the male of the species—like the beard or something, which is non-existent in you, or among women in general. Do you remember when we went to Darjeeling the year after our marriage and met Doriya? That Punjabi girl, she was fourteen but looked eighteen, beautiful features, spoke English fluently—she came with us to the station the day we left. I was talking to her as we walked and quite enjoying her company. Naïvely, I failed to realize that you were getting angry because of that. And that’s why on the train you didn’t say a single word to me the whole night. Your face was silent and as dark as the charred insides of a charcoal stove, and I sat there in that lonely compartment and beseeched and implored you and even then I couldn’t quell your anger—remember? Yet who was Doriya for whom you ruined that lovely night on the train, and the beautiful memories of Darjeeling? What do you have to say to that? If a husband behaves like that, it’s jealousy, and if a wife does, it’s good sense, isn’t it? ‘It doesn’t matter to me, but it’s just so that someone doesn’t get the wrong idea about you—’ Isn’t that what you’d say? And that other time when your father went to Allahabad and had a stroke there. You got the telegram and left immediately. I was alone in the house. That evening there was a knock on the door. A young woman entered and introduced herself, ‘Perhaps you don’t recognize me—I’m Nilima.’ I recalled she was a relative of yours. I’d seen her at your father’s house a couple of times. You had told me that she’d had problems with her husband from right after the wedding. I couldn’t quite remember what else you’d said. Faltering slightly, I replied, ‘Maloti—is not here—she went to—well, to Allahabad—could I—would you—’
It Rained All Night Page 9
