Kishan got up. Without any reason, he paced the floor. He walked with resounding steps. Then he drank water—one glass, another glass. Finally he spoke gravely, ‘Listen, both Sunil and Chaitali work. They are never at home in the day. Why would you go to a café—make yourself a cup of tea at home and drink it. Why spend money outside? I don’t go to museums, or movies, but if you are so keen on it, I’ll take you when I have the time.’
He left. His steps sounded loudly on the stairs.
The bunch of keys was on the table. Nila took them in her hands many times—Kishan had advised her to use them only if the house was on fire.
‘When will you have some free time?’
Nila was stroking Kishan’s head as she asked him one Saturday morning.
Kishan edged closer towards Nila, threw his right arm over her and said, ‘I have just this Saturday and Sunday to give you some time. All week long I work hard. There’s just these two days for leisure. I want to enjoy my wife’s touch all day long.’ Kishan laughed, trying to hide his buckteeth. This smile was his best. He probably thought this was a lover’s smile. This was how all lovers smiled at their women when they first fell in love.
‘All day you’ll just lie around and do nothing?’ Nila asked. She was restless.
Kishan shook his head—nothing else.
‘Once you’d told me the weekend was for cleaning the house, doing the laundry.’
‘That’s true.’ Kishan was sleepy.
All day long Nila cleaned the house diligently, watered the plants and cooked. She wasn’t used to doing all this, but she did. As she worked Nila wondered if she was doing all this because she loved Kishan or to please him, so that he would be able to love her. There had to be a reason to love someone. His reasons were perhaps her cooking and cleaning. She couldn’t expect him to love her out of the blue, just because she was his wife. Nila could sing very well, she was well read. But these were no reasons for Kishan to love her because he didn’t understand Bengali. If she abused him in this language, he’d not even know she was calling him names and just smile sweetly. If she spouted poetry in this language he’d sit with just as impassive a face. This language was as worthless in this house as broken shards of glass.
After lying around all day, Kishan came to the sofa for the second round of lolling about, and put on a Hindi film in the VCR. Nila had finished cleaning the carpet and she was wiping the glass in the window. She finished it, cooked and then showered. Not just qualities, beauty was needed as well and so she did her face, wore a nice sari and came and sat in front of him: Nila the wife, Nila the beauty, Nila the homemaker.
‘How do I look?’ She leaned closer to him and asked.
‘Nice.’
‘Let’s invite them over once?’
‘Whom?’
‘Sunil and his family.’
‘Where’s the time?’
‘Call them tonight.’
‘You can’t invite people like that. You need to tell them at least two weeks in advance. But why are you suddenly thinking of them?’
‘It’s been ages since I spoke in Bengali.’
‘Hm, that’s true. You should have married a Bengali.’
‘It’s a good thing I didn’t marry one—they can’t be trusted.’
Kishan smiled his lover’s smile, ‘Why don’t you try and pick up Punjabi while you sit at home?’
‘How?’
‘Listen to Punjabi songs, watch movies, talk to me a little—it’ll be easy.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to learn French?’
‘If you have the brains to do it, why not.’
Both Kishan and Nila knew that she couldn’t learn French by sitting at home and going out with him every now and then. So she changed the subject and said, ‘Well, the other day you turned down the invitation to Sanal’s. So let’s invite him over tonight.’
‘Nah. That boy doesn’t know his manners. Didn’t you see how he was fooling around with you that night?’
‘Fooling around?’
‘What else? Even Rajesh commented later that he shouldn’t have done all this. He always covets the other man’s wife. Every time an Indian bride arrives, Sanal pounces on her. I don’t understand why he doesn’t get one for himself instead of eyeing other men’s properties.’
Nila could clearly see that Kishan’s eyes were bright with jealousy. The previous Sunday when Sanal had invited Nila and Kishan, he’d responded with ‘Sure’. Later he said, ‘Let’s see,’ and even later, ‘Perhaps it won’t be possible.’ Eventually he’d said, ‘Sorry mate, I have some urgent work and I have to go to Lyon.’ But of course, he didn’t go to Lyon.
‘That night he shouldn’t have poured you that drink. If anyone had to do it, it should’ve been me. I will see to my wife’s needs.’ Kishan’s hackles rose as he spoke.
Nila said, ‘What rubbish. He’s a friend of yours. He was just joking with his sister-in-law.’
‘You wouldn’t understand. This isn’t just joking. In these fifteen years I have heard some scary stories about Indian men: eloping with others’ wives or having illicit relationships.’ Kishan wrinkled his nose, forehead and lips with distaste. Nila moved away from the wrinkled Kishan and stood by the window, ‘Then, let’s have dinner at your restaurant.’
‘You must be out of your mind. I spend the whole week in that place. I won’t go there tonight. Of course, next week I’ll take you there, to have some fish and meat.’
Nila turned around and walked towards him, one step at a time, ‘Is that a promise?’
‘Of course it’s a promise.’
Kishan pulled Nila’s right arm, placed it on his head and said, ‘An Indian girl has something else in her touch—she tastes altogether different.’
Nila stroked Kishan’s hair and bald pate with a tiny smile on her lips and asked, ‘And how do foreign women taste?’
Kishan shrugged.
She leaned over his face and said, ‘Did any of them run their fingers through your hair like this?’
Kishan shut his eyes. The big fat cat shut its eyes. Purrrrrr.
‘Why don’t you tell me, did someone do this?’
‘They don’t understand these things.’
‘How do you know that?’
The eyes stayed shut. ‘I know, I know—who doesn’t!’
On Monday morning Kishan took Nila to the police station at Îl de la Cité and applied for her citizenship. When they came out after two hours, Nila wanted to go to the Notre-Dame, but Kishan didn’t. Nila wanted to walk along the Seine, but Kishan didn’t. Îl de la Cité is an old colony and a group of fishing folk called the Parisee lived there. The Romans came and conquered the place and built houses along the Seine. Some remnants of those buildings still stand on that bank of the river. Did you know that Paris was named after those original inhabitants? Earlier it was called Lutetia. Kishan didn’t know this and neither did he want to know. He was in a hurry to go to the restaurant. He dropped her home and left. In his hurry he forgot his little address book. Nila picked up the tiny blue notebook and read all the entries from A to Z. Most of the names were unfamiliar. Nila’s name wasn’t there, but Nikhil’s was and beside it their Ballygunge phone number. There were five numbers against Sunil’s name, of his house, two of the clinic, one of his mobile and the last of his Calcutta home.
Nila lay down, picked up the phone and dialled one of his office numbers. A girl spoke rapidly in French. Nila asked if she knew English. The girl said no and slammed the phone down.
She tried the second number, got the same voice and the same treatment. Nila looked above Sunil’s name and found Sanal’s. He also had two numbers. She feared another slamming of the phone and didn’t dial the office number.
Finally she called the Taj Mahal to tell Kishan that he had forgotten his notebook. He wasn’t there. He hadn’t reached yet. The restaurant had just opened. The tables were being laid and napkins were being arranged in glasses. Loban was being sprayed.
Nila asked, ‘
Don’t you hate the smell?’
‘People here like it. I hate it. Feels like someone has died,’ Mojammel replied.
‘What’s the menu for lunch?’
Nothing new was ever cooked. There was always half-cooked food in the fridge. It was fried afresh and mixed in the same old gravy. But the tandoori chicken and naan needed special attention. That’s what was most in demand.
‘Oh.’
‘You haven’t visited us in a while.’
‘I’ll come one day, to eat. I’ve almost forgotten the taste of meat, just chewing greens and vegetables like a goat.’
Mojammel laughed. He said, ‘But you know, they have a lot of vitamins.’
‘That’s true. The cup runneth over with vitamins.’ Nila also laughed.
‘Didi, are you studying or working?’
‘Not studying. But working, yes—running a household. Without pay.’
Mojammel and Nila both laughed.
‘Mojammel, you have worked in many places—could you look out for a job for me?’ Nila’s tone was serious.
‘You’ll work? Why don’t you tell Kishanbabu? He knows many people. I do small jobs and I know nothing of the good jobs.’
Even before Mojammel finished, Nila said, ‘I want a small job. You’ve done your master’s in chemistry and you wash dishes—I may as well sweep the floor after a master’s in Bengali literature.’ Nila’s tone was as serious as before.
‘Oh no, no, didi. I do this because I have no choice.’
‘And do I have a lot of choice?’ They both laughed.
‘Kishanbabu earns a decent living.’
‘So?’
‘But that should be enough.’
‘Mojammel, Kishan earns and that’s his money, not mine.’
Mojammel was embarrassed. He spoke haltingly, ‘If you speak to Kishanbabu, I’m sure . . .’
‘He doesn’t approve of his wife working outside.’
‘But his first wife did.’
‘First wife?’
Mojammel was silent. Then he asked, ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Well, no . . .’
Mojammel mumbled about some customers and hung up.
That evening Nila called Sunil at home and asked about Kishan’s first marriage.
‘But didn’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he had a French wife—Immanuelle. Didn’t Kishan tell you?’
‘No.’
‘Really! I thought you’d agreed to the marriage knowing all about it.’
Nila wondered if this fact about Kishan’s past life affected her in any way. But strangely enough, she didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.
‘What’s wrong with you—sleeping at this time of the day?’ Kishan woke her up in the evening and asked.
Nila stretched and said, ‘Time is my biggest enemy and I’m trying to kill it—by sleeping.’
‘I’ve invited two people for dinner. You have to cook up a few dishes. Why don’t you get going.’
Nila laughed and said, ‘See, you’ve just given me work. Who are these guests?’
‘A Punjabi couple. You haven’t met them.’
‘All these Indian friends—don’t you have any foreigners for friends?’
‘I do, but they’re for the workspace. The closer friends are all Indians.’
‘Was Immanuelle also a friend in the workspace?’
‘Who’s Immanuelle?’
‘Your wife.’
‘Oh. Who told you?’
‘Does that really matter?’
‘Looks like you’re upset.’
‘Not at all—that won’t do, right?’
‘If I hadn’t married Immanuelle, I wouldn’t be a French citizen and neither would you.’
‘But you never told me about Immanuelle.’
‘If I did, would you have agreed to the marriage?’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Yes you would.’
‘How are you so sure?’
‘Because Sushanta, the great love, had ditched you and if I didn’t marry you, no one else would. News travels far and fast. You had slept with the guy, hadn’t you?’
A deluge of cold water flooded her heart.
‘Are you going to go on sleeping? There’s cooking to be done.’ Kishan raised his voice as he loosened his tie.
After Kishan left the next morning, Nila lazed around in bed. She was thinking of the big hubbub with his Punjabi friends the night before. She had heard them laughing and talking until midnight. Kishan told her that the cooking wasn’t up to the mark, the naan was burnt and there was something missing in the daal makhani and although the Punjabi friend’s wife said the cauliflower curry was good, Kishan felt it could have been better. Nila suddenly felt she was her mother, Molina. Anirban used to invite friends suddenly, just like this, and ask Molina to cook dinner. She would slog in the kitchen and then Anirban would criticize it all, just like this. Molina tried very hard to please her husband, but she failed miserably each time.
Nila called Sanal. He didn’t recognize her voice. There was no reason for him to.
‘Nila, Nilanjana Mandal.’
‘Oh, Mrs Kishanlal.’
Yes, Mrs Kishanlal.
‘So, Mrs Lal, what’s up?’
Nila could tell that he was expecting some significant news.
‘I just called you . . . no reason . . . just got your number and I thought I’ll ask you how you are doing.’
‘I am fine. Doing very well indeed. And how are you?’ Sanal’s voice was merry as usual.
‘Oh all right I suppose. Why don’t you come over some day, it’s been a while since we saw you.’ Nila’s voice was fervid.
‘So where is the husband, is he with you?’
‘Oh no, he is busy all the time.’
‘Hm. In this country you have to be busy. So, bhabhiji, I also have a lot of work. I must rush.’ Sanal’s tone was impatient.
‘Oh, fine. I’m sorry for calling you at a bad time.’ Nila hung up. She was angry with herself. She didn’t know why she made that call, to hear how busy Sanal was, so busy that even though Nila called him, not only was he unable to talk, he didn’t even say when he’d be able to talk. He was so busy that even after Nila hinted that she wasn’t fine, Sanal had no interest in knowing why or what was happening in her life. Why did she want to talk to Sanal? Was it just to talk to someone? If that was it, she could have talked to Molina or any of her friends in Calcutta. Although Calcutta was far away and Kishan had warned her that if she made international calls too often, the sharp razor of French telecom would slit their throats, she could have talked to Sunil and Chaitali here in Paris. She didn’t because she wanted to talk to Sanal and no one else, the Sanal who was infamous for fooling around with other people’s wives, pouncing on them and eloping with them—Nila wanted him to take her away from that house, somehow. She asked herself if that was indeed the reason. She didn’t come up with the answer. These days she felt she didn’t know many things. She had no idea why she was lying around all day or why she didn’t even get up and have a cup of tea. She had no idea why she didn’t get up to bathe, eat or even look out of the window, why she started reading the books she brought from Sunil’s and then couldn’t go on.
In the evening the phone rang. Nila turned her back on it and lay there. When she heard Sunil’s voice on the answering machine she picked it up.
‘What’s wrong Nila, why didn’t you pick up the phone?’
‘I was sleeping.’
‘Now? How are you doing?’
‘Okay.’
‘Is Kishan at home?’
‘No.’
‘But he’s not in the restaurant either and he isn’t answering the mobile. So I thought he must have come home.’
‘No, he hasn’t.’
‘How do you spend your time—what have you seen in Paris?’
‘The Eiffel Tower.’
‘And?’
‘And some shops.’
�
�You haven’t been to the Louvre?’
‘No.’
‘Musée d’Orsay?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t seen Picasso or Rodin?’
‘No.’
‘I’d asked Kishan to let you come with us one day so that we could take you to the exhibitions—there’s so much to see here. But he said he’ll take you himself and anyway, the first few months after marriage everyone sticks to their wives.’ Sunil laughed his familiar laugh. ‘I’ve seen it with myself. After my marriage to Chaitali, I didn’t even go to work for two months—we were stuck to one another with glue.’
Suddenly Nila asked, ‘Sunilda, do you know of any jobs?’
‘Jobs? Why? For whom?’
‘For me.’
‘You will work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told Kishan? What does he say?’
‘I haven’t told him.’
‘But that won’t do!’
‘Kishan, Kishan, Kishan—it’s as if there’s nothing else in my life!’
‘It’s not that. But you must learn the language first . . .’
‘Where can I learn the language?’
‘Why don’t you go to the Alliance Française? Just tell Kishan—’
‘Give me the address and tell me how to go there—I can find the place.’
‘Kishan would mind . . .’
Nila sighed.
Sunil said, ‘When Kishan comes home, just tell him to give me a call at home.’
‘Anything important?’
‘Yeah, it’s about that Puja Committee. He had said he’d find some people who’ll give donations.’
‘Oh.’
Nila used the key, which Kishan had advised her to use only when the house was on fire—and walked aimlessly on the street. She had a map of the city and some money in her pocket. She went into that palace called Gare du Nord and saw people milling around, catching the train and getting off it, trains starting and stopping. Nila leaned against a pillar and watched them; she wanted to go somewhere far off. The blue-eyed, blond-eyed princes were dashing off on those trains; no one asked Nila to come with him. Suddenly she wondered if she was visible. She looked at herself, dressed in a pair of new black jeans, a white silk shirt and a pink cardigan, shining black shoes on her feet—Nila didn’t think she was ugly. In fact if she walked like that in the streets of Calcutta many men would have turned to look at her.
French Lover Page 7
