So the people of the poor European countries came here to beg. What was the use of communism’s breakdown then?
Danielle said, ‘Under communism they had no freedom.’
‘Freedom to do what?’
‘To go out of the country.’
Nila laughed, ‘To go out and beg?’
Not just begging, many educated women of those countries lost their jobs when communism failed. They were rushing further west and taking up prostitution. Danielle didn’t want to address these issues.
Nila walked all the way to the Louvre and behind it to Rue de Rivoli where Sunil lived.
He was surprised to see her, ‘So early in the morning—where are you living, what do you do, you must keep us posted. Did you get my letter? Do you know how worried we all are!’
So many questions all at once. Nila didn’t answer any of them. She just asked, ‘What has happened to Ma?’
‘I don’t know that. Narayan, the man who went with the Chanel, has come back from Calcutta and said aunty is ill. Nikhil called twice and asked you to go to Calcutta, if possible immediately.’
After some social chit chat Nila came to the real point, her gold jewellery.
Sunil was out of touch with Kishan for a long time. The last time they spoke on the phone was when Sunil called to ask about Nila. Kishan said, ‘Don’t ask me. You must know her whereabouts better than me.’
Sunil was surprised, ‘How would I know?’
Kishan replied, ‘You’ve helped my wife run away; so you must know.’
Kishan believed Sunil had supported Nila in all this and she had taken his advice to leave the house.
‘Don’t mention that whore to me again.’ Kishan had slammed the phone down.
Sunil hadn’t called him after that and neither had Kishan. So it wasn’t possible for Sunil to ask about her jewellery. But he could ask some of Kishan’s friends about it. Sunil believed Kishan wouldn’t give it back.
Nila wanted to blame Sunil for all this, for getting her married to Kishan. But then she thought, would it have been any different if in Kishan’s place another Indian man had been her husband? Perhaps not. Even as she sat there, she noticed Chaitali made the breakfast and Sunil sat down to eat it. After Sunil left for the clinic, Chaitali would drop Tumpa at her school and then go to her own office She would pick Tumpa up on her way back from work. Chaitali would have to bathe and feed the child and put her to sleep. She would have to cook dinner and clean the house. Since she needed to give more time at home, Chaitali worked part-time.
In Nila’s and Danielle’s home there was no inequality. If Nila cooked, Danielle washed up. If Nila did the shopping, Danielle cooked. They paid the rent by turns. If Nila was short of money, Danielle paid and Nila repaid her later.
Nila finished her tea and rose to leave.
‘Where will you go?’
‘To work and from there, home.’
‘And where is this home?’
‘A friend’s place.’
‘How long will you stay with this friend?’
‘As long as I wish.’
‘This won’t work, Nila. You have to take a decision.’
‘What decision?’
‘Either you go back to Kishan or return to Calcutta.’
Nila knew Sunil would say something like this. He continued without pausing for breath, ‘You are doing just whatever you feel like. This doesn’t work in life. There are bound to be some misunderstandings between husband and wife. Time heals everything. I feel Kishan is still waiting for you to come back. And if you try and it still doesn’t work out, you should talk it out with Kishan and do something permanent. Then you can marry someone else and live your own life. What did Kishan do—did he beat you?’
‘No.’
‘Did he have an affair?’
‘No.’
‘Was it the Immanuelle issue?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
Nila gave a wan smile and set off into the misty morning.
She pondered over how to get her jewellery back from Kishan as she walked on the foggy streets. She didn’t take the metro. Instead of going to work, she went into Café Rivoli and drank two cups of tea. Then she took the bus, like all those times earlier, and set off for nowhere in particular.
That day Nila saw something that she had never seen in a bus before. Two inspectors boarded the bus to check tickets. Nila sat right at the back of the bus. The white man came straight to her and asked for the ticket. She couldn’t remember if she’d kept it in her trouser pockets or jacket pockets. She dug into all her pockets and many tickets came out. The inspector took each of them and discarded them as old ones. She would have to show him a valid one. Nila hunted in her pockets and purse and began to sweat as she realized a busload of people were staring at her. She was the only non-white in the whole bus, a strange being who didn’t look anything like the other passengers. If she stood up, she was sure people would check for a tail. The inspector’s lips were twisted in a ‘See, I’m never wrong. I can make out from the colour who has bought a ticket and who hasn’t’ kind of smile.
The new ticket was tucked in behind some papers in her purse. She found it eventually. When she handed it to the inspector, he verified the time stamped on it and then let her off. She felt he was quite disappointed. He didn’t ask the others in the bus for their tickets.
When the bus stopped in front of Hôtel de Ville, Nila got down. She adored this terrace; she could sit in front of it for hours and never tire of watching its architecture, its beauty. She called Danielle from there and told her that she hadn’t gone to work that day because she didn’t feel like it. She didn’t know why she didn’t feel like it. What was she doing? Nothing. Where was she? In front of Hôtel de Ville. Why was she there? She didn’t know. When would she return? She didn’t know.
Danielle said, ‘Stay there. I’m coming.’
Nila hadn’t wanted Danielle to come. She’d wanted to be alone. She wanted to make another call, but changed her mind. Nila didn’t want to answer his questions about where she was, with whom and why she even left his home. She was afraid to hear him call her a whore.
Danielle came and took Nila into a café nearby, ‘What’s the matter?’
Nila laughed, ‘Nothing.’
‘You are upset Nila, tell me why?’
‘Nothing has happened.’
‘What did you do all day?’
‘I’d gone to Sunil’s house and asked about my jewellery. It doesn’t look like I will get it back.’
‘Is that why you look so heartbroken?’
Nila laughed, ‘Is that how I look?’
No, Nila didn’t look like that. In fact, her face didn’t give anything away.
Danielle pleaded, ‘Nila, I love you. Please share your feelings with me.’
Nila had heard the word ‘love’ from Danielle earlier, in their room. It had never made her uncomfortable. Now it did. She was afraid that if anyone heard Danielle they’d know that she was homosexual and her companion must, naturally, be one too. Nila still didn’t understand how two women could be in love with one another and how there could be real sex between them, although on many nights she had lain beside Danielle and experienced an orgasm. But then, she could have given herself that pleasure quite easily and she didn’t need Danielle for it. Nila had never played with herself and she didn’t know it was possible. Danielle had told her that when she didn’t have a lover, she brought herself to an orgasm. Nila was amazed. There were so many astonishing things in the world. Nila had been very shy about sexuality. In fact, all Indian women felt that was one topic which was taboo, secret and private. In her two years with Sushanta, they’d probably kissed about half a dozen times. And for those six kisses there was so much waiting, so many arrangements to be made. Over here, girls and boys kissed anywhere in public and this angered Nila as much as it delighted her. She was happy that they didn’t hide their love and demonstrated it openly. She was angry thinking how much
she had lost by growing up in such a restrictive society. For the longest time, Nila never could do as she pleased. Now, after leaving Kishan’s home, she was doing as she pleased. Or at least, she guessed that’s what living with Danielle and sleeping with her would be counted as, though Nila didn’t think so because that sexual relationship was entirely for Danielle’s benefit and not hers. Danielle had just assumed that Nila also loved her, although she noticed how on the streets or at a café Nila often gazed longingly at the handsome Frenchmen. Even now, as Danielle went on about her doctor’s appointment with Nicole in an hour’s time, Nila’s eyes were elsewhere.
‘What’s wrong? Why aren’t you listening to me?’
‘I am listening.’
‘No, you are not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then why are you looking somewhere else?’
‘That’s where you go wrong. When I listen intently, I don’t look at the face. It spoils my concentration.’
‘So where do you look?’
‘At the walls, tables, chairs, things which don’t distract.’
‘Tell me what I said.’
‘You said you have to take Nicole to the doctor.’
Was Nicole sick? No, no, it was for Pipi. Who was Pipi? Nicole’s cat.
Danielle said, ‘Pipi isn’t peeing.’
So why does Nicole have to go to the doctor?
‘Nicole is very sad and she has to see her psychiatrist.’
Nila was startled. She wanted to laugh out loud, but didn’t. Ever since she’d learnt to kick, Nila had always aimed a kick at cats and dogs. It was a routine for cats to steal into the kitchen, go for the bowls of food and stick their tongue into it. So it became a habit to kick a cat whenever she saw one. If a mangy, stray dog wanted to steal into the house, they always had to kick it out. In this land of civilized cat and dog lovers, Nila rebuked her itching foot and tried to make it charitable.
Danielle’s gaze followed Nila’s and landed on a curly-haired youth. ‘What are you staring at?’
Nila owned up she was taken by his looks.
‘Yuk!’ Danielle burst out, ‘Do you want to go back to your old life? You’ve seen how life is with a man. Hasn’t it taught you a lesson?’
‘Not every man is Kishan.’
‘If not Kishan, then Sushanta. All men are the same. They all exploit women.’
‘Not all men are the same, Danielle. Some of them know how to love.’
‘Love?’ Danielle stirred some sugar into her espresso and said, ‘It’s a web. Men trap women in it. Women think they can’t live without men. That’s not true. Look at me. I don’t need a man.’
Nila’s tea grew cold as she looked into Danielle’s eyes and listened.
Danielle could do without men, but Nila wanted to ask, if everyone became homosexual like her, how would the race continue? Nila sited the example of the animal world; almost all animals felt attracted to the opposite sex, mate with them and that’s how the species continued. Otherwise all would be over, finito.
Danielle said, ‘These are rules created by the men.’
Nila said, ‘In that case I’ll never be able to give birth to a child.’
Danielle was about to sip her coffee when she stopped and said, ‘How many more children are needed in this world? There’re enough. Besides, what’s the point of bringing more children into this world of patriarchy and imbalance?’
‘One day there will be no imbalance. We will all be equal.’ Nila looked into the distance dreamily.
Danielle said, ‘That’s then . . . and for sex, the day women say they don’t need men, will be the day men finally lose. Not before that.’
Nila sipped her cold tea. In this city people dawdled over one cup of tea or coffee in the cafés and spent a few hours chatting. Outside the cafés these same people rushed to and fro claiming to be very busy, frothing at the mouth. Nila often felt the people in Calcutta were far busier, in the truest sense, but they didn’t talk about it so much. Here people had the whole weekend off, when they lazed around, read the newspaper and wiped the sweat off their brows. They knew nothing of hard work. If only they saw the rickshaw-pullers or the porters in Calcutta. The definition of hard work was different here.
For Nila hard work was when someone lifted heavy sacks of sand on their head from dawn till dusk, walked two miles and reached it to the construction site. One day Danielle had said, ‘I’ve worked very hard.’
Nila asked, ‘What kind of work?’
‘I’ve read two books and written reviews for them.’
‘Tell me about the hard work.’
‘That’s the hard work.’
Nila was surprised, ‘That is what you call hard work?’
‘Yes.’
‘But reading is the most pleasurable activity. What kind of books?’
‘Fiction.’
‘Wow, that’s fun.’
‘But I may not want to read that book for fun.’
‘Hm. How many pages did you write?’
‘Two.’
‘If only I had such a job,’ Nila said to herself.
She was drawn to Danielle and also repelled by her. Danielle’s words had logic and also lacked it. Nila swayed between liking and dislike. Whatever Danielle said, Nila couldn’t tear her eyes away from handsome men. She wanted a man to tell her he loved her. She wanted him to kiss her and make love to her ecstatically. But Nila’s wishing didn’t make it any more real. She noticed that no handsome man gave her a second glance. In Calcutta she turned heads. Here, even the idlers didn’t bother to whistle when she passed by; it was as if she was nobody, a strange piece of flesh whom they’d all like to avoid. Back home she was beautiful. But that beauty was of no value here. Danielle valued it; Danielle’s body may be as beautiful as a Rodin sculpture, but her face lacked grace and her voice was harsh. Nila could weave no dreams around Danielle. Did she know that? Nila believed she didn’t.
Danielle finished her coffee and said, ‘Penny for them, Nila.’
She didn’t say what she was thinking about. But she asked Danielle if she could lend her some money.
‘How much?’
‘Say around five thousand francs?’
‘Are you out of your mind? What will you do with that money?’
‘I’ll go to Calcutta.’
‘Why?’
‘Mother is ill.’
‘Oh, that Sunil has stuffed your head with all this rubbish. Go on, go to Calcutta and see how they trap you there.’ Danielle was really irritated.
‘My mother is ill and I’ll go to see her, that’s all.’
‘Will you go and treat her? Are there no doctors or hospitals in your country?’
‘There are, but I still want to go and see her.’
‘There’s no point in going now. You should go when she’s cremated.’
‘It’s not about cremation, it’s about nursing her.’
‘Aren’t there any nurses to do that? You’ve mentioned there are many servants in your house.’
‘They are all there. But I will go.’
‘Go ahead. But I don’t have the money.’
‘Can you borrow it from someone?’
‘No one will lend so much money.’
Nila sank her head into the lap of silence. Her tea was long finished.
‘If you go now and come back, will you go again for her cremation?’ Danielle tried to soften her coarse voice and asked.
Nila gritted her teeth, her jaws were set as she said, ‘Don’t keep on about cremation, Danielle. My mother isn’t so ill that she will die.’
‘Then why do you want to go?’
‘Because she is my mother . . .’
Danielle made a face and broke in on her, ‘My mother, my father, my brother, rubbish.’
Nila paid no heed to it and said, ‘My heart tells me it’s more serious than a common cold—it’s something else.’
Danielle threw the change for her coffee on the table and pushed the chair back noisily. Sh
e held up her middle finger at Nila, slapped her left elbow with her right hand. Danielle was bursting with anger as she strode out of the café screaming, ‘La familia, la familia!’
A Bientôt
Before she left for Calcutta, Nila went to two places: the first was Sandani and the second to a psychiatrist. Rita Cixous wanted to interview her in the gardens of Basilique de Sandani. Serge Santos’s house was in that garden. Sandani was now a crowded suburb where very few white people lived. It was mostly inhabited by blacks and browns, the uneducated and the jobless, and the crime rate was high.
Nila looked at the brightly painted houses and wondered how they defined poverty. She saw the cars standing in front of the houses and asked, ‘Who do these belong to?’ They belonged to the ‘poor’ because they couldn’t afford to buy new models of expensive cars. Nila’s eyes had seen the slums of Calcutta and for those eyes, no other kind of poverty would ever match up. She had seen millions of refugees, homeless, hungry, half-clad, suffering with no treatment in sight. But that man who just came out of that house after a full meal, who got into his car and shook his head in time to the music as he drove off—he was no poor man.
Rita pressed a button, unlocked the gate and drove into the huge garden. It was more like a field. Gravestones were strewn around. Ann l’Or sat on one of them, drinking coffee. Rafael and Benjamin, Ann’s sons, were playing around.
There was a round of kisses. Danielle exclaimed over the house at the foot of the Basilique. It was wonderful to get a house like that. Well, they wouldn’t have got it if Serge wasn’t the bishop at the Basilique.
Two other men had come with Rita; one held a camera and the other a microphone. Nila was scared; she had never faced a camera before. She didn’t know what Rita would ask her. Her palms were sweating, and drops stood out on her nose.
Rita said, ‘Would you like to powder your nose?’
French Lover Page 13
