‘And this Nnutasha—what does she do there?’
‘Oh, she does chakra-healing and Reiki and numerology,’ he said defensively. ‘She’s Pooonam’s friend. Your friend Pooonam.’ He looked me straight in the eye as he said this. ‘Pooonam has been co-ordinating the group—its called INSPIRE. She said she had mentioned it to you . . .’
I looked at him carefully. Was this leading to a confession?
‘Wake up and smell the coffee, Priya Kaushal,’ I told myself. I sniffed at the cappuccino, hopefully, out of habit. Nothing. I couldn’t. Smell the coffee. I can’t smell anything since I returned from Mumbai with a cold. It’s disorienting, and confusing.
‘What is the subject of this conversation?’ I asked Suresh, very slowly, but with an edge of menace that had never entered my voice before in three decades of marriage. It surprised even me, that tone. ‘Why are we discussing these pushy political groupies?’
The coffee was cold. The waiter wasn’t budging from earshot. ‘Madam, can I do anything for you?’ he said ingratiatingly, zooming into close-up range again.
‘You could leave us alone for a start,’ I retorted sharply.
Suresh was staring at me with cautious fascination.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked again, after a moment’s deliberation. ‘Pooonam is your friend—but you don’t seem to be able to accept that. Pooonam and Nnutasha are both your well- wishers!’
‘Don’t dare to bring up that Cowshall business again,’ I said implacably. ‘Nothing, but nothing, is going to persuade me to change the spelling of my surname, do you get that? Buddy?’
‘We’ve moved on from that page,’ he explained patiently. ‘You must understand that INSPIRE isn’t about mere individuals, its about national harmony—international harmony, cosmic harmony!’
I stared at him open-mouthed, but he was in full spate. ‘It’s about India . . . You see, the numbers just don’t add up. We can’t have harmony and growth and prosperity as long as we are called India. The numerology doesn’t work. So Nnutasha, who is a very highly evolved soul, has suggested that we start a movement to change the name. It should be called Indyaa—with a ‘y’ two ‘a’s—and then the aggregates will add up at last.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Suresh?’ I demanded grimly. It was a serious matter. My husband was losing his mind. We would have to consult a psychiatrist.
‘Yes for Indyaa!’ he continued wildly. ‘Look at the world around us. It’s self-destructing. Look at the Sensex—it’s falling exponentially. There are cyclones in Chennai. Drought in Vidarbha. It’s all the fault of the British! It’s they who named this country India. But if we were to become Indyaa, no one in the world could compete with us. We would become a real superpower—the biggest and the strongest superpower in the world! It’s all quite scientific, if you approach it in the right way.’
There is no known history of insanity in his family. Had he been drinking? Was he on drugs? The victim of black magic?
Reinforcing mutual self-esteem. That’s supposed to be the rule in marriage.
‘It’s a very good idea, Suresh,’ I said, reaching out for his podgy hand and stroking it supportively, with all the love I could commandeer.
‘Numerology works, you know,’ he said confidingly. ‘Let me explain.’ Suresh was blowing on his coffee now.
‘But your coffee’s already cold, Suresh,’ I chided, to distract him.
‘It doesn’t matter, it is important to start the right vibrations, even in a cup of coffee,’ he replied. ‘The universe is composed of energy, and all energy has vibrations. These vibrational patterns are coded with numbers.’
I nodded encouragingly. No negative signals.
‘Pythagoras understood the truth of numerology—he invented it! And Einstein was a believer too. American presidents have followed it. Ronald Reagan did. Spanish dictators have survived because of it. Why not Indyaa?’
‘Why not, indeed?’ I echoed, stirring the tepid coffee with icy matrimonial resolution.
‘Think of Pooonam,’ he continued. ‘She was plain old Punam earlier, with a single ‘u’. She worked with an events management company then, and sold Tupperware in her spare time. Three moons was all it needed to change her destiny. And look at her now—one of the richest women in India. And possibly one of the most beautiful . . .’
Things were getting out of hand. ‘Are you in love with Pooonam?’ I asked firmly. ‘We have been married for over thirty years now. You can tell me the truth. You must tell me the truth.’
I held his hand as I said this, gently at first. Then harder as the tension mounted within me. He winced and pulled his hand away.
‘I love you, Priya,’ he said despondently. ‘You know I do. You do. Know that I do.’
And I did know. He was not lying. He did love me. And (this came as a surprise to me) I sort of loved him too. From duty, in default, from habit, but I did. I do.
‘And Pooonam? Have you slept with her?’
I had to ask, I couldn’t contain myself. I was burning with proprietary outrage. Suresh is my husband, he belongs to me. Pooonam can’t have him, ever, however many extra moons she might add to her name. I began stroking his knee, but the waiter was hovering around us again. ‘Tea, ma’am?’ he asked, smiling to display teeth the size of an Arctic ledge.
‘We have just had coffee, why would we order tea after that? Get us a bottle of wine. The house red, please,’ I said to him. Then, I turned to Suresh again.
‘So have you slept with her or haven’t you?’ I asked adamantly. I was tired of pussyfooting around the truth. ‘Make up your mind and tell me. Quickly. Now.’
My husband’s face crumpled. He extracted a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and buried his face between its gray borders. He was sobbing helplessly. ‘Not Pooonam,’ he whimpered. ‘It wasn’t Pooo. It just happened. She threw herself at me. She seduced me. I was weak, I didn’t mean to!’
A hot flush was creeping across my body, like an advancing fire. A blue and purple haze was swimming before my eyes, and on the far shore, my husband Suresh, bathed in a sudden fierce flame of desire. My man.
‘Who is she?’ I demanded. ‘Tell me who she is! It’s that Nnutasha!’
‘No, not Nnutasha,’ he whimpered on. ‘And not Pooo either. I confess I was attracted to her, but it remained just that. An attraction . . .’
‘Who is this other woman?’ I persisted, unbending. It’s the sort of dialogue meant for the theatre, or English films. Not for me and Suresh.
‘No one you know. She’s a divorce lawyer—from Mumbai,’ he said wildly. He was still sobbing, his face half hidden by the oversized handkerchief. ‘She was blackmailing me! She threatened she would tell you. I have never been unfaithful before . . . and I promise I never will be again. If you forgive me. Darling, I’m so ashamed!’
‘What’s her name?’ I continued uncompromisingly.
As a lawyer, Suresh is a master cross-examiner; he knows all the tricks of partial admission.
‘Her name? Does it matter? She’s in the past, let her remain there. Let’s look at the future, Priya. Together.’ He finally looked up at me. He had really been crying.
My resolve melted. She was in the past. The future was in my own hands.
‘Lets forget about her—and Pooonam and Nnutasha and all those wicked chudails!’ I whispered. ‘It’s time we returned home. Let’s go now.’ I deposited a thousand-rupee note on the table and ignored the waiter as he approached busily with the wine.
What is it about men? Jealousy can be a turn-on, sometimes. That’s why women forgive men when they are bad, and hold on to them.
In the car Suresh blabbered a little more, about how sorry he was, how afraid he had been that he might lose me. Then we were back in Dara Shikoh Marg, in his bedroom, and it was as though we were on our honeymoon again—except that we had never been on a honeymoon then.
Late at night, when his rhythmic breathing had broken into a contented snore,
I crawled out of bed and sneaked into the bathroom with his cellphones to scroll through the messages. There were none, Suresh had deleted them all. Relieved rather than disappointed, I rearranged the phones beside his bed, with his watch and the glass of water and the pills he had forgotten to take.
A single determined fly was buzzing around my face. It didn’t disturb Suresh, but woke me up everytime I lulled myself to sleep. Unbearable—and when I reached for the fly-swatter to whack it by the light of the dim blue nightlamp, it would settle on the surface and start buzzing again. An infallible strategy, I noted mentally—the fly on the fly-swatter.
POOONAM IS REALLY THE MOST INSISTENT, PUSHY PERSON I HAVE EVER met. She called again today. Her voice sounded more cautious than usual, or perhaps it was my suspicion at work, projecting things.
‘Hello Priya, my dear,’ she cooed. ‘And how are we this lovely morning?’
‘I’m well, Pooonam, though I wouldn’t know about you,’ I responded, trying to sound as normal as possible. I couldn’t let my suspicions show through.
‘This is about the Botox brunch we had planned. Let’s do it next week my darling,’ she continued. ‘My hairdresser is helping organize things. Idli and sambhar and scrambled eggs and croissants— the Intercontinental could do the catering. There’s this team from Thailand, they do a massage and makeover at the same time, and a Thai girl who strums the lyre to relax the facial muscles.’ I listened carefully; I had to keep track of her movements. She was not to know that I knew. Not that there was anything to know.
‘Your face doesn’t need any Botox, Pooo,’ I said, soaking my words in sugar. ‘You have such naturally lovely skin!’ I could play the game too.
‘Pooo?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘You’ve never called me that before, Priya . . .’
‘But your close friends do,’ I said. ‘I’ve overheard them.’
Pooonam let that pass. ‘Actually, I’m getting my derriere done,’ she said.
‘Your what?’ I exclaimed. ‘The line is cracking up!’
‘My derriere—as in my bum, my bottom. It’s begun to age. Time to enhance it, just a bit. And smoothen out the sag. Maybe we could both get it done. On discount.’
All sorts of unwelcome thoughts and images began to crowd into my imagination. ‘Count me in for lunch, Pooo my dear,’ I said, crooning out the words with venom in my heart. The fly on the fly-swatter, that was my new approach. I’d watch out for the predators that way.
I took a deep breath, looked up towards the high ceiling and recomposed myself. There was a trail of dangling cobwebs I hadn’t noticed before.
‘See you—oo . . .’ Pooonam warbled.
A pigeon sat on the ledge of the skylight, its beak bent attentively, as though in conversation with its mates. The straggly nest was silhouetted against the dusty glass. Wasn’t there a season in which pigeons build their nests?
‘Oh, another thing,’ said Poonam just as I was about to end the call. ‘It’s the mating season. The birds and the bees are at it. Time to get your twins married. Have you thought of introducing them to Suki?’
‘Keep your beak out of my nest,’ I replied, calmly, still considering the pigeon.
‘What was that again?’ she asked.
‘Keep your beak out of my nest, Pooo,’ I repeated.
‘What?!’ she asked again. Couldn’t she hear me?
‘I’ll discuss it with Suresh,’ I said, and disconnected the line.
As I walked out into the back verandah, the spring on the wire-mesh door caught on my chiffon dupatta, leaving a long tear in the fabric. I’d cut it out and stitch it up again where the tear had been. That was the way to deal with these things.
Kush and Suki? Would she be any good as a budding politician’s wife? Her money might be useful, though; politicians need lots of money. Not like artists.
No, not Suki. But we had to find a suitable wife for Kush. I wished he would help out in the process, like Luv did.
I’d be a mother-in-law soon. My husband was having an affair. It was all too confusing, and disturbing.
‘Take a long hard look at yourself, Priya Kaushal.’ I said the words out loud. There was nobody to hear them, except perhaps the pigeon in its nest.
The mirror in the verandah is the truest one in this house. It’s more flattering in the afternoons, but the harsh morning light is always faithful. I looked at my face, but was distracted by the white rattan chairs reflected in the glass. One of them had a dirty hand towel draped over it. I smiled at the reflection of the neem trees that skirted the back garden, swaying slightly in the breeze. And at the clear blue sky, which seemed to press across the mirror in which I stood reflected.
‘You will be a mother-in-law soon, Priya Kaushal,’ I said to myself. ‘You’re getting older but no wiser.’ The face, the features that have announced me all these years, seemed a bit startled by my scrutiny. My skin still firm, though etched with new lines around the eyes—two delicate creased fans. And a ravine between the nostrils and lips, quite elegant really, I decided. It disappeared as I tested out my smile.
‘Smile more often,’ I instructed myself. ‘That’s the way to remain happy. And to keep your family happy.’
I don’t usually to talk myself. I save my confidences for these silent pages. But today, I needed to speak out, to sort things out with that mirror. The dhobi’s daughter, Daya, was gliding in from the servant quarters. A model’s gait, as though she were on the ramp in a fashion show. A stack of freshly ironed clothes was balanced carefully on her bangled arms. Had she heard me muttering to myself? She placed the laundry on the white rattan chair, very carefully, and flashed me a smile. A confident young smile, no fears or wrinkles or shadows in it. ‘Wait a minute, aunty,’ she said, to my relief, in Hindi. ‘My Papa has told me to offer you sweets. We are celebrating today! But I wasn’t sure if you were at home.’
She was back in a minute with a sticky kilo-box of Agra ka Petha. ‘We are very happy to be distributing sweets today,’ she explained. ‘My father’s brother, my Tauji, has won the by-election in Agra—he has become an MLA!’
I was suitably impressed. A Member of the Legislative Assembly! ‘Badhai ho beta,’ I said, congratulating her, already modulating my voice. ‘And where is your father?’
‘Papa is in Agra organizing the victory rally.’ I had a moment of social dislocation. She was our washerman’s daughter, now the niece of an MLA. ‘Which party?’ I asked cautiously, though I knew already what the answer would be.
‘Of course Didi ji ki party,’ she replied. ‘The party of social change. We all voted for the chariot. Though my mother’s family—they are still loyal to the Congress party. Purane Congresswale hain!’
The times they are a’changing. People who reach the top of the heap find it is only until the next general election. Even as people like us get used to the comforts of our colonial bungalows, everybody in the real India is pushing and pulling to get in. What if . . . I wondered. What if Kush were to fall in love with Daya?
What if Daya’s uncle became a minister? Or a chief minister? ‘Perfectly acceptable,’ I reassured myself. India is a fair and free democracy.
But still.
So far, Suresh has managed to sidestep general elections and remain in power through the Rajya Sabha route. He’s been lucky, I think. But he will have to face up to the public some day. And so will Kush. Would our dhobi vote for them? Would Daya?
POOR SURESH HAD A BAD MORNING. HE WAS ALL SHAKEN UP WHEN HE returned from North Block, where he had been summoned for discussions with the Finance Minister. This always depresses him, as he compares the viceregal grandeur of North Block with the filthy, shabby environs of Shastri Bhavan, where his office is located. The marblex tiled floors they are laying on his floor in SB might make it look less drab than before, but it still has no style (but then, does he?!). When he had finished with his meeting, as he waited outside the pillared gates for his car to drive up, one of the rampaging monkeys that flock around the Fin Min, intent o
n creating havoc in the very heart of the Indian administrative empire, jumped on him from behind and decamped with his spectacles.
It was a half-blinded husband who staggered home, very nervous and upset. ‘Everybody began laughing at me,’ he said aggrievedly. ‘All the drivers and peons and chaprasis, and some babus who were hanging around. I just hope that the FM doesn’t hear about it, or the whole cabinet will be mocking me next.’
I soothed him, found him another pair of spectacles, made him a cup of masala tea. ‘Of course nobody will laugh at you,’ I said. ‘It could happen to anybody, this monkey business.’
We watched television together, after lunch, and there was Paromita conducting a spirited interview with the new Magsaysay award winner. ‘She will be an asset to our family . . .’ Suresh said fondly, ‘just as you are!’
‘Oh, me . . . I’m just a housewife!’ I protested. But it feels good to be appreciated.
Later, I decided to tidy our bedroom. I marched ahead, flourishing a cotton jhadan, with Ramdhan following in my wake, waving a feather duster. We discovered dhool and grime in all the expected places, on the windowsill, on the bookshelf, behind the giant TV screen.
A red leather suitcase was stowed under the bed. I checked it for dust, before unzipping it. Inside it was stacked with pale-orange thousand-rupee gaddis, neat piles of freshly minted currency notes bound together with black rubberbands. I shut the bag, and hastily dismissed Ramdhan before opening it again.
Those cheerful piles of cash, stacked with clinical precision. I went into a little rhapsody. I could still remember the first suitcase I had encountered, a few years after my marriage to Suresh. It had belonged to a trusting property dealer client who was about to be raided. A Samsonite bag piled with hundred-rupee notes had been left for safekeeping in our flat. The rupee notes looked thumbed and dirty, and a stale smell rose from them and wafted and settled around the room. It was a smell of sweat and stagnant water. For many years after that I associated that precise odour with the scent of money, the fragrance of hard cash.
Priya Page 13
