Susanna's Seven Husbands

by Ruskin Bond

  On our second day back in Meerut, I looked over the wall, expecting to see Shah Rukh or even Susanna, but it was the Goonga standing in the driveway, making faces at me!

  Shah Rukh explained. ‘He got tired of living in his village and the village got tired of him. He was always a little cracked, you know—and he kept getting worse, doing crazy things like keeping snakes for pets, talking to cows and donkeys and even teasing the village girls. Finally, the villagers chased him away, and here he is, back with us. Miss Susanna has made him her messenger, but he doesn’t deliver any messages. He just wanders about the town and spends his money on gulab-jamuns.’

  ‘No better way to enjoy one’s retirement,’ I remarked, as the Goonga strolled away, whistling. He could whistle even if he couldn’t talk.

  I took my young wife to meet Susanna.

  Susanna had been invited to the wedding, but she hadn’t come. She hadn’t even sent a present. That seemed strange to me. It was unlike her.

  Her attitude, when I presented Shashi, was stranger still. She seemed positively hostile. Never before had I encountered jealousy in a woman like Susanna. I hadn’t realized that she felt so possessive of me. Of course, we had been friends for years, and I think she felt that she was losing me in some way. I had been a companion in a way that her husbands had never been.

  She was very polite to Shashi, but I could see there was no warmth in her greeting.

  ‘Well, I hope you will be very happy together,’ she said. ‘You must let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘All we need is your blessing,’ said Shashi.

  Susanna smiled at her, but the smile was not in her eyes. And she did not look at me at all.

  She did not ask me to visit her, and whenever I passed her on the road or met her at the club, she was remote, even cold towards me. How could I have guessed that beneath her indifferent exterior there simmered unfulfilled desires and a frustrated passion that was fast turning into resentment against me and mine. In an imperfect world, love soon turns to hate. And the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

  When the Goonga left a basket on our veranda, salaamed quickly, and walked off with a swagger, I thought Susanna had relented and sent me a basket of guavas—for old times’ sake.

  ‘Has she sent me a present?’ asked Shashi innocently; for she did not know much about Susanna or her history.

  ‘Must be some fruit,’ I said. ‘Take a look.’

  Shashi removed the lid from the basket and exclaimed, ‘Oh, mushrooms! I love mushrooms!’

  I got up from my easy chair and took a look at the mushrooms. They looked innocent enough.

  ‘Yes, she grows mushrooms,’ I said. ‘But at this time of the year—the end of the rains—the poisonous type sometimes get mixed up with the good ones. Better not eat them.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll be all right,’ said Shashi. ‘They look perfectly all right.’

  I took the basket from her. ‘You mustn’t take any chances,’ I said. And I emptied the basket into the garbage can.

  ‘Oh, you’ve thrown them all away,’ she cried. ‘She’ll feel terribly insulted!’

  ‘Well, we won’t tell her,’ I said. ‘We’ll say they were just fine.’

  Shashi was upset and did not talk to me for several hours. It was our first quarrel! But she was never angry for long, and that same evening she made my favourite halwa, and after dinner we went for a walk along the Mall Road. Diwali was approaching, and the night air was cool and balmy. On our way home, Susanna drove past me, but she did not stop. Perhaps she had not seen us; or maybe she was in a hurry.

  A few days later, as we were about to sit down for breakfast, Shashi looked out of the window and exclaimed: ‘Oh look, another basket! More mushrooms, I suppose.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘We didn’t thank her for the last lot.’

  But I joined her on the veranda, and together we inspected the basket. Impulsively, Shashi stooped and removed the cover.

  ‘Guavas!’ she exclaimed. ‘How nice of her. And look, here’s a card. It says: “To remind you of old times …” What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing much. When I was a boy, I used to climb her guava trees and pinch the guavas. That was how I first met her.’

  ‘Well, let me try one,’ said Shashi and selected a juicy-looking guava. I took one too. And then, as Shashi lifted the basket, a black snake—a four-foot-long viper—emerged from beneath the top layer of guavas, uncoiled itself, and raised its head to strike.

  I knocked the basket from Shashi’s hands. The guavas rolled down the steps. The snake fell too, and glided away. Another viper fell out of the basket, and the pair of them wriggled away across the path and disappeared into the bushes.

  I caught Shashi as she fainted. Picking her up, I carried her indoors. When she recovered, she said, ‘And what was all that about? To remind you of old times?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I’ll find out.’

  Later that morning, I confronted Susanna on her veranda.

  ‘What do you mean by sending us that basket of guavas with two vipers hidden amongst them?’

  Susanna was taken aback. ‘I never sent any guavas.’

  ‘Well, somebody tried to kill us. Thank you for the fruit—but no thanks for the snakes!’

  ‘I would do nothing to harm you. Surely you know that.’ She looked up at me with the old affection in her eyes. ‘You do believe me?’

  ‘And my wife? Why should anyone want to harm her?’

  ‘No one that I know of—’

  But she paused, and seemed lost in thought. ‘The Goonga—he’s going quite mad—and only he could have handled those snakes.’

  ‘If it was Goonga, he’ll have to go.’

  And the Goonga went. He simply disappeared. Some said he’d gone back to his village. Some said he was in a lunatic asylum. Some said he had drowned himself in the Ganga canal. Susanna had no idea of his whereabouts. He had simply gone away, never to be seen again.

  We were invited to dinner.

  Susanna was desperate to hold on to my friendship, and she went out of her way to be nice to Shashi.

  It was the evening of Diwali, and no sooner had dusk fallen than the air was crackling with fireworks, the sky alight with rockets. While we sat down to dinner, Shah Rukh was busy on the veranda steps, letting off a variety of fireworks—crackers, fountains, sparklers, rockets. It was hard to believe that Susanna was facing financial difficulties. She appeared to have emptied her bank account in order to have a good Diwali.

  It was a candlelit dinner, partly out of choice and partly due to a power failure which lasted for some time.

  Susanna and Maggie had together prepared a sumptuous dinner—all the things I liked: koftas, kebabs, biryani, bitter gourds … No mushrooms! There was nothing suspicious about the meal, although Shashi ate very little; she was a little apprehensive. The stuffed gourds did taste rather strange, and I could not finish mine.

  Everyone was in a good mood—until a storm broke outside. A sudden gust of wind blew out the candle. Maggie rushed off to find a kerosene lamp. A roll of thunder was followed by flashes of lightning. It started raining, and Shah Rukh had to put an end to his fireworks display.

  It was then that Shashi started complaining about feeling unwell. She was feeling giddy, she said, and felt like throwing up.

  It may have been the food, or it may have been psychological, but she was definitely in some discomfort.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ I said, and supporting her, I walked her home in the light rain that was beginning to fall.

  After I had put her to bed, I looked out of the window and was surprised to see Susanna’s house lit up in a blaze of light. Had Shah Rukh started a bonfire or had a corner of the house been struck by lightning?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shashi from her bed.

  ‘I don’t know. There seems to be a fire at the house.’

  ‘You’d better go and see.’

  �
��Will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘Yes, I’m feeling better now.’

  As I watched from the window, the fire seemed to have spread. One end of the old house was ablaze.

  As I stepped out on the veranda, I saw someone running out of Susanna’s front gate. I couldn’t be sure, but in the distance it looked like the Goonga.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ I wondered. ‘I thought he’d run off weeks ago.’

  There was no time to go after him. Shah Rukh was running towards me.

  ‘Phone for the fire brigade!’ he called. ‘Our line is down.’

  My line was down too. So was the battery of my mobile phone.

  We watched helplessly as the fire spread through the house.

  ‘Where’s Susanna?’ I asked.

  ‘She ran into her father’s room to save some of his things. Maggie is with her.’

  ‘We’d better get them out before they are trapped inside.’

  Shah Rukh and I ran back to the burning house, shouting for Susanna and Maggie to come out.

  They did not appear.

  The storm wind had helped the fire to spread rapidly, and the entire house was ablaze.

  ‘Susanna, Susanna!’ we called, but there was no answer.

  By daybreak there was nothing left of the building except a few blackened walls and twisted iron fixtures. We found one charred body. It was unrecognizable. But from the gold bracelet still on one wrist we knew it to be Susanna’s.

  There were just a few people at the funeral, for Susanna’s circle of friends had been a limited one. She was buried beside two of her husbands, Jimmy Rogers the pop singer, and Sammy Das the entrepreneur. Beyond them were the graves of the Begum Samru’s paramours.

  It’s hard to decide my feelings as I saw that coffin being lowered into its grave. The loss of a lifetime’s friend is always hard to bear. But was Susanna more than a friend? Had our attachment grown to a point where we had become closely related—not as marriage partners, not as lovers, but as two people bonded together by shared experiences. I had, in a way, been the sharer of all her secrets. An ideal husband. Now there were no more secrets, no more bonding. An emptiness stretched before me.

  And that evening the roads too were empty, as the first winter rains swept across the city. I wandered down familiar roads, beset by memories—Susanna in her youth, Susanna in her maturity; Susanna looking up at me in the guava tree, laughing; holding my hand; taking me for a drive along the Ganga canal … So many memories, covering so many years … They passed before my eyes in rapid succession.

  And now I was at her gate, and her car was standing there. Because of the rain, I could not make out who was driving it.

  The front door opened, and stepping out into the light from the street lamp was Susanna.

  At first I thought I was seeing a ghost. I stepped back. And she stepped forward and took my hand. Hers was a warm and living hand.

  ‘I was at your funeral this morning,’ I said.

  ‘I know. But that was Maggie. It was she who died in the fire.’

  ‘But your bracelet—?’

  ‘I had given it to her the day before. I had already decided to leave.’

  ‘And where were you when the house burnt down?’

  ‘I was in the Naag Temple. I had kept some jewellery there. All that I had left. But enough for me, now that I’m going away.’

  ‘Why must you leave?’

  ‘Because too much has happened here. Too much unhappiness.’

  ‘But you were happy sometimes.’

  ‘Only when I wasn’t looking for happiness. All those men I married … Imperfect beings, all of them.’

  ‘None of us is perfect.’

  ‘True. But we can aim for perfection. You came closer to it than anyone else. You were always there beside me when I needed you. Better than a husband. Perhaps, even now …’

  There was a pause.

  ‘There are no imperfect horses,’ I said. ‘Only imperfect men.’

  ‘And imperfect women. I was always looking for the right person in the wrong place.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘Far away, where no one knows me.

  ‘Well, I hope you do find the right person, wherever it is you’re going.’

  ‘I’m not looking for the right person.’

  I shrugged. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Bye, Arun. I’ll write to you.’

  We stood there in the lamplight for several minutes, just touching each other, whispering our goodbyes. Had I been older, had she been younger, things might have worked out differently. And if they had, I wondered, would I have become Husband Number Seven? Or had I been that all along?

  ‘Well, here’s looking at you,’ she said, with her familiar, slightly wicked smile.

  Then she got into her car and drove away.

  The swords were at my place—a parting gift.

  I did not see Susanna again. I’m still waiting to hear from her. I wonder if she married once more. Who knows? Perhaps the number seven would prove lucky for her.

  Sometimes I visit that grave in the cemetery, which is supposed to be hers. Her name is inscribed on the tombstone.

  I have even placed flowers on the grave, knowing full well that she is not there. Never mind, the flowers are for Maggie as well. She provides a link with the living Susanna.

  I must be the only person who knows that the occupant of the grave is not Susanna.

  Gravestones don’t always tell the true story.

  7 KHOON MAAF

  A screenplay by Vishal Bhardwaj and Matthew Robbins

  Based on Ruskin Bond’s Susanna’s Seven Husbands

  Int. Office. Day.

  On top of a neatly organized office table, next to a couple of Buddha idols, lies a jet black revolver. A few moments pass … We see a hand casually approach the weapon and pick it up.

  We see a lady place the barrel of a gun to her temple. We will come to know her as Susanna Anna-Marie Johannes, 53–54. She has a grim expression as tears flow down her face.

  Hesitating for a brief moment, she pulls the gun away …

  Then within moments, the barrel is placed back to her temple, and this time she has made up her mind. She slowly begins to squeeze the trigger, each micro-second tormenting her. The vibrations of the chamber revolving ever so slowly send waves of fear through her skull.

  Suddenly BANG!!!

  We see blood splatter on a wall. It slowly begins to flow downward as music creeps in.

  Fade to:

  The title of the film—7

  Fade in:

  Int. Forensic laboratory. Day.

  Tracking shot. A steel box placed on a rolling cart is pushed by a technician down a series of spotless corridors in a high-tech research centre in Mumbai.

  Int. Private office. Day.

  The box arrives at the office of a senior researcher who’s bent over a microscope and surrounded by chemical test equipment.

  He glances up at the technician, then signs a receipt for the box.

  It’s Arun, very official here in a lab coat and name tag. As the technician exits, he reads the tag attached to the box.

  He freezes at what he sees.

  Insert.

  The tag reads: SUSANNA JOHANNES.

  Int. Conference room. Day.

  At the head of the conference table, the Department Head, with a cop besides him, flicks through a stack of documents while addressing Arun and another lab official.

  Arun is seated. His face is pale but impassive.

  DEPARTMENT HEAD. Susanna Anna-Marie Johannes—

  COP. She must’ve been one hell of a lay …

  The lab official lets out a snicker. Arun tries to suppress his emotions.

  DEPARTMENT HEAD.

  Suicide … Recovery—some bones and ashes. DNA profiling . Dr Kumar, ?

  ARUN. , I’ll do it.

  DEPARTMENT HEAD. Her make-up kit and hair brush … Priority case , police wants to be sure th
at she’s dead.

  Arun looks at the box.

  Cut to:

  Int. Arun’s bedroom—Mumbai. Night.

  Nandini, Arun's wife, wakes up and realizes that Arun’s not in bed by her side.

  Int. Arun’s kitchen. Night.

  Arun’s on a step ladder, rummaging in a cupboard above the refrigerator. He brings out a dusty carton, wipes down the lid and opens the carton.

  He lifts out a stack of dog-eared binders and spiral-bound workbooks. They’re covered in colourful, boyish scribbles.

  Nandini walks up from behind him, watching as he goes through the carton.

  Under a tattered football jersey, Nandini spots a framed class photo of Arun at age 14 in a white shirt and tie. Meanwhile, Arun produces a bulging photo album.

  Opening the album, Nandini points out a picture of Susanna, standing with some party-goers in 1982. She is young, vivacious and stunning.

  NANDINI. Susanna …?

  Arun speaks with a heavy lump in his throat.

  ARUN.

  Arun is holding back tears, as Nandini takes his hand. The camera moves to the photo album.

  Dissolve to:

  Super—

  Ext. Stables. Day.

  The year is 1978.

  Four ragamuffin farm boys are dragging bales of hay from an ox cart into a stable well stocked with thoroughbreds. The boys’ bare feet and clothes are caked with mud.

  A graying dwarf stands on an overturned bucket, issuing orders. Deaf since birth, he’s known as Goonga. His speech—no more than guttural locutions—is incomprehensible, but the boys follow his instructions well enough.

  The scrawniest of the kids, pausing to rest for a moment, winces as the Goonga jabbers his name and whacks him on the butt with a riding crop.

  As the lad scampers back to work, it becomes clear that … it’s Arun, age 8–9.

  A tall, handsome Army officer pulls up in an open top Land Rover. He’s accompanied by an immaculately dressed servant, Ghalib, who leaps out and holds open the car door.