French Lover

by Nasrin, Taslima

  Nila raised her face from the pillow and shouted, ‘What’s wrong with all of you? Why are you all crying so much? Go away.’

  Manjusha sat there and went on speaking. ‘The doctors have stopped treating her; they say it’s no use. Now they just give painkillers but even those have stopped working. I believe the cancer has spread from the intestines to the liver and yesterday he said it has affected the bones as well, and the brain too I believe. Last night didi howled in pain all night long and we could only watch.’

  Now Nila got up from the bed and ran to the bathroom.

  From outside, Manjusha said, ‘Have your bath and come for lunch, Nila.’

  Nila wanted silence. She didn’t want anyone to describe Molina’s condition or wishes in great detail. Nila knew about Molina’s wishes from her childhood—none of them had ever been fulfilled. Molina had wanted a little love from Anirban; she didn’t get it. It’s not that Anirban Mandal didn’t love anyone, he did. But not Molina. He loved Swati Sen. Once Molina had seen a Kanjivaram sari and exclaimed, ‘What a lovely sari. I wish I could wear one.’

  Anirban didn’t buy it for her. But he bought it for Swati, who wore it and went to Simla with him. Molina had always wanted to go to Darjeeling. But Anirban never had the time to take her there. Swati was fairer than Molina. That was the one quality for which Anirban loved her. For as long as she could remember, Nila had never seen Anirban and Molina share a bed. Molina always made her husband’s bed with great care. He came back from his hours of fun with Swati, critiqued every item that was put on the table, crashed on his neatly made bed and snored the night away. That was Molina’s life. She had spent her years in this household by keeping her wishes collared and chained.

  In the evening the house overflowed with relatives who’d come to see Molina. The road in front of the house brimmed over with cars. Molina’s sister, her husband, their son, daughter-in-law and their children, Molina’s aunt, Molina’s cousin, her son Poltu, Anirban’s elder brother, sister, cousin brother, his daughter Mithu and two women from the neighbourhood. The pile of shoes at the entrance grew as they all went into Molina’s room. Some brought her apples, pomegranates, grapes, oranges, some brought Horlicks and some others came with a fish soup or homemade yogurt or even just flowers. Manjusha showed them to Molina and kept them aside. She knew that the smell of flowers was intolerable for Molina and she’d throw up if she had the juice of apples or oranges. Molina looked at her relatives with empty eyes and closed them again, as if she didn’t even have the strength to open them now, after so many years of relentless service. They all looked at Molina and sympathized, some wiped their tears, some fanned her and some even stroked her emaciated body.

  From the crowd the words floated around, ‘She was up and about even a few days ago.’ ‘Dear me, how sick she looks.’ ‘Her stomach looks more puffed up today.’ ‘The eyes are more yellow.’

  Nila waded through the crowd and came out of the room. Some of the throng followed her. Manjusha rebuked Nila, ‘Go and wear the red and white bangles and sindoor. What will all these people say!’

  ‘Have they come here to see my bangles and sindoor?’

  ‘No they haven’t. But they all have eyes. You’ll see, there’ll be talk of this.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Nila had quit wearing all that long ago and she had no intention of starting again. She stood at the window, and looked out at the back wall of her neighbour’s house and the pile of filth at the foot of it. Two stray dogs were picking at the pile. Nila’s stupor broke when Molina’s elder brother’s voice, speaking in English, reached her, ‘Why didn’t he come, Nila?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kishanlal. I thought he was in Calcutta and we’ll have quite a chat. He is quite a gentleman.’

  That’s true. But he wasn’t here. Nila came alone.

  ‘I have never been to Paris. But I know it’s a wonderful city. I’d love to go there. Can I stay in Kishanlal’s house? I am sure he has a beautiful, big house.’

  Nila said, ‘Why are you using so many English words? We are Bengalis and you can speak in Bengali.’

  He always spoke in a mixture of Bengali and English and Nila had never objected to it before. In fact, she had also responded in the same way. He laughed out loudly. His ego wasn’t bruised. Instead, Nila felt, he was rather pleased. He was quite proud that his tongue rolled out more English words than Bengali.

  Anirban’s elder sister drew Nila back from the window. ‘What’s the matter, why are you so quiet? Talk to us. The less you talk, the worse you feel. What can we do? It’s not in our hands to cure Molina. It’s God’s wish . . .’

  Molina’s brother-in-law reclined on the sofa, lit a cigarette and asked, ‘So how is life in Paris? Is your husband a rich man? I heard he earns good money!’

  Molina’s cousin sister held up Nila’s wrists and said, ‘Look at this—bare hands. Why have you taken off all your jewellery and why aren’t you wearing the red and white bangles and sindoor? You’re looking like a widow!’

  Another cousin asked, ‘When are you planning to have children? Whatever you’re planning, do it quickly.’

  Now one of Nila’s cousins spoke, as she shoved the milk bottle in her baby’s mouth, ‘Your child will be a French citizen by birth, right?’

  Molina’s aunt called out to Poltu and pushed him in front of Nila. ‘You said you wanted to ask your didi about Paris, so ask!’ Poltu was fifteen years old. He sidled behind his grandmother. ‘Just try to take this Poltu abroad, Nila. The boy doesn’t want to study here at all.’

  Anirban’s cousin brother, Sadhan Das took Nila aside, heaved a sigh and said, ‘Nila, will you try to do something for Mithu? If you can arrange a match for her . . .’

  Nila guessed that her relatives thought her to be very rich now. They didn’t know that she had borrowed her air fare from Sunil and come home. They didn’t know that it wasn’t possible for Nila to solve anyone’s problems. They didn’t know that Nila had no interest in who wasn’t getting married and who wasn’t studying. She wanted all the people to leave and for her to get some time to sit beside Molina, to gaze at her closed eyes until she opened them; when she did, Nila would show her the shoes she had brought for her, the watch and the face cream to stop ageing.

  Chitra and Manjusha were busy looking after the guests. Tea and biscuits were doing the rounds.

  Nila searched for the rare solitude.

  Mithu stood in a corner of the room wearing a white cotton sari. She came up to Nila with hesitant steps, looked around her cautiously and said in an undertone, ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Not here. Let’s go to your room.’

  Nila took Mithu to her own room upstairs. Mithu shut the door and sat down on the bed. She took Nila’s hands in hers and said, ‘Please do something for me, Nila.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Find me a man, anyone. You know I am four years older than you. Baba was a clerk and that job has gone. Now he is a watchman in that same office. Dada is jobless. Whoever comes to see me for a match, rejects me because of my dark skin. Baba doesn’t have the money to offer me a fat dowry. Nila, you are married and you wouldn’t know what a crime it is in this society to stay unmarried. I have passed my BA long ago and I am sitting at home. I am nothing but a burden to my parents. I am an eyesore. A man abroad . . . I am not particular about religion, anything will do, if only he agrees to marry me. There’s no one in this country who’ll marry me.’

  Mithu’s large eyes were brimming with tears. Her long black tresses covered her back. Fear was stamped on her heart-shaped face. Nila took in the graceful beauty of Mithu’s tall, sparse frame.

  ‘I ask dada why he isn’t getting married. He sighs and says how can I until I marry you off? He isn’t getting any younger. He can’t marry because of me. I am scared, Nila. I can hardly show my face in society.’

  Nila drew her hand back from Mithu’s grip and said, ‘You’ve done your BA.
Why don’t you look for a job? What’s wrong in not getting married? It’s not everything.’

  ‘I don’t want marriage for my sake, Nila. I can scarcely look at my parents these days—dark and hopeless. I see my skin colour on everyone’s face. This is such a big crime of mine. Nila, if someone marries me and then treats me like a servant, I don’t mind—at least please marry me. If you find someone, old, mad . . .’

  Nila didn’t give her any hopes. Mithu went away with the fear still on her face.

  Anirban came home after dusk and called Nila to his room. He was just as he had always been. As usual, he came home and washed up, changed into comfortable clothes and sat on the sofa. He glanced through the day’s news. When Nila came and sat in front of him, Anirban was still reading.

  ‘What’s wrong between you and Kishan?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Anirban took off his glasses, wiped them in a corner of his kurta, placed them back on his nose and said, ‘Can’t you see that life is very short? You are seeing your mother’s condition. If you don’t recognize the value of life, go about doing whatever you fancy and ruin your future entirely, one fine day you’ll find life is over. There’s no time for anything else, to change or build something afresh.’

  This man had always talked of the future to Nikhil and Nila, in just this way. Nila tried to remember if she had ever seen Anirban cry.

  Anirban spoke again in sombre tones. ‘I spoke to Kishan the other day. He said, if you behave yourself, keep your husband happy like most women do, do as he says, then he’s prepared to forgive you and take you back. Otherwise he has no problems in ending the relationship legally. Nila, you have gone and upset this straightforward man. I could hardly sleep, I was so worried.’

  Nila stared at Anirban’s moving lips carelessly and said, ‘Baba, have you ever cried?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  ‘Because I want to know. I want to know if ever, in your entire life, you have cried. Try and remember, have you ever wept for anyone? If not for someone, then at least for yourself, have you ever felt tears in your eyes? Eyes, I’m talking about those eyes behind the glasses, which you just polished and wore again, those eyes. Have they ever shed a single tear? Have you ever felt your heart ache, and suddenly reach up to find your cheeks wet? It happens, you know, your hand gets wet, or your pillow—has it ever happened to you?’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Anirban scolded her.

  Nila’s voice was strangely tranquil, ‘Yes, I have.’

  Anirban took his glasses off again. This time it wasn’t to wipe them but to throw a keen glance at Nila. But she continued, ‘There’s a word—regret. Have you ever heard it? Have you ever felt it? No, you haven’t. There was never any need. You married Ma because you needed money. That was taken care of by her dowry. You used it to study medicine. Ma was like a servant in this house, right? No one said anything because that’s how women often are in their husbands’ house. You’ve enjoyed lording it over her. And you had Swati Sen to give you other pleasures. People didn’t care about that either because men are supposed to have a liaison or two, there’s nothing wrong in it. In fact, everyone thought you are noble because you didn’t throw your dark-skinned, plain-looking wife out. You had to prove that you are not sterile and so there were two children. It was a matter of pride that your children studied and did well; you won there too. You didn’t have to shell out anything for your daughter’s dowry and you were saved. In fact you had the added advantage of being able to say your daughter lives abroad. Naturally no one wants to know how she is because living there is always good enough. If the daughter served her husband the way her mother served hers, the circle would be complete. If the daughter took a divorce and came back to her parents’ home, it’ll be one hell of a mess. Your son has a good job and also dabbles in politics; perhaps one day he’ll be a minister. The cup runneth over. A successful life! Whatever else you may do, regret certainly wouldn’t be one of them, right?’

  She didn’t give Anirban the chance to speak and walked away to Molina’s room. Molina lay there with her eyes closed. Nila picked up her fingers to stroke them and suddenly, like a sunflower bud blooming slowly, Molina opened her eyes.

  ‘Ma, do you want something?’

  ‘Don’t say anything to your father. In times of trouble, he will look after you.’ Molina’s voice was tired, broken.

  ‘Ma, I’ll take you to Paris, treat you there, you will get well. Have I told you there’s so much to see in Paris? I’ll show you everything.’

  Suddenly Molina’s eyes grew bright. ‘I’ll get well?’

  ‘Definitely you will get well. There are such great doctors there. I’ll build us a beautiful house by the sea. There’ll be mountains behind it. You love the ocean, don’t you?’

  Molina nodded like a child.

  ‘There’s so much to see in this country too. I’ll take you to Darjeeling, Simla, Kashmir.’

  Molina’s voice was the same, weary. ‘No, not Kashmir.’

  ‘Okay, not Kashmir, it’s unsafe. Do you want to go to Jaipur, Ma? Goa? We’ll swim there . . .’

  The smile faded from Molina’s eyes. She closed her eyes so hard that her face wrinkled up and looked like a balled up piece of paper.

  Nila hugged her close.

  Suddenly Molina screamed, ‘Manjusha!’

  ‘Manjusha isn’t here, Ma, she’s gone. Tell me what you want.’

  Chitra came running. She said, ‘Didi, give that red medicine to aunty.’

  Painkiller. Nila dissolved three instead of two and gave it to Molina.

  But the pain wouldn’t go.

  Nila woke Nikhil. ‘Dada, how can you sleep like this? Ma is screaming in pain. Wake up. Call the doctor who is treating Ma.’

  Anirban was snoring away. Nila woke him too and asked him to call the doctor. Anirban shouted, ‘What doctor, at this hour of the night!’

  The groans rebounded in the sleeping household. Molina moaned all night long, she could not scream any more. Nila sat by her, helpless. She tried to will her own body to take all the pain from her mother into her own, all her sorrow unto her own heart.

  A-la-s Familia

  In the morning, Anirban peeped into Molina’s room before leaving for work. Nikhil did the same. They didn’t feel a jot of remorse in disappearing for the day after finishing their breakfast and the quick peek. Nila barred their way and said, ‘How can you all blithely leave for the day, when Ma is so ill?’

  ‘But we have work to do.’

  ‘Work? You’ll work all your life and get fat salaries for it. Take a day off!’

  ‘What’s the point? Will Ma become all right?’

  ‘No, but at least be at her side; she can look at you.’

  ‘She, and look at me? She’s sleeping all the time.’

  Anirban rushed Nikhil, ‘Don’t waste your time, you are getting late. Don’t pay any heed to this impractical girl. Just because one person’s life is at a standstill doesn’t mean everyone has to stop theirs!’

  ‘Go! Go and earn money. In fact, I guess you are not even needed here. Just send the doctor and if you can’t, give me his address; I’ll see to it that he gets here.’ Nila spoke wearily.

  In the morning the sunflower bloomed again.

  ‘Do you want to stroll by the Ganga today?’

  Molina’s face had a childlike smile—she would go. It was ages since she’d stepped out of the house. She wanted details of what Nila was being fed. Her voice was weak, but she spoke; her eyes drooped but she tried to keep them open. She was being strong. Nila said she was eating very well, Chitra was cooking excellent fish curries . . .

  ‘Did she put coriander in the curry?’

  ‘Yes Ma, she did.’

  She herself could eat nothing except for a cup of milk and even that she threw up. Nila looked at Molina and thought, once she used to eat the leftovers after feeding her husband and children. She had done what most women did. That’s how she fell ill. She’d never l
ooked after herself, paid any heed to her own pleasure or health. Nila, just like everyone else in the house, had also never spared a glance at what Molina ate, whether she was sick or not. Now Nila wanted to look after her, feed her with her own hands. She wanted Molina to get well. But Molina was beyond her love and tenderness, her respect and adulation. Nila had kept it all back until it was too late. She desperately wanted to turn the clock back, to correct her mistakes. But time swept on as usual, carrying with it all mistakes, all wrongs.

  Dr Prashanta came in the afternoon. Nila’s newly acquired habit made her reach her hand out for a handshake. But she saw the doctor’s discomfiture and drew it back and pretended she was indicating which room was the patient’s. Nila was thankful that she had remembered and not proceeded to kiss his cheeks! Otherwise it would have been all over the town that Nila was not only depraved, she was also crazy.

  The doctor checked Molina’s blood pressure, her pulse and told them to continue with the medicine he had prescribed.

  ‘That won’t do, doctor. Give her something stronger—morphine.’

  The gray-haired doctor with the grimy glasses perched on his nose, shook his head from side to side. ‘Morphine isn’t for now. Later.’

  ‘How much later?’

  He didn’t say how much later, just later.

  The doctor eventually revealed the reason for his reluctance to give morphine; he didn’t think it was good and it could be addictive.

  Nila’s surprise knew no bounds; it trickled down her body and drenched her nerve endings. She shook with rage. How could he bother about morphine addiction for a person who was breathing her last?

  Nila said, ‘Let her get addicted! My mother never had any addictions. I want her to have a morphine addiction. Please prescribe it.’

  ‘There’s something called medical ethics! I can’t overstep them.’ The doctor pushed his grimy glasses back on his nose and said.