Love was scarce in the village of Dhavali, mainly because there was no one to love. The lack of money, the unfashionableness of farming and the frustration of village life had inspired a Steinbeckan migration west—from this small unknown village in the Sahyadris to Mumbai.
In search of gold; in search of jobs; in search of people to marry.
But the mad rush to Mumbai hadn’t carried Poonam with it, who chose to stay put in the village. She was of the opinion, about the sprawling, daemonic megacity, that it was a place where humans had forgotten their humanity, and she’d promised herself never to set foot in it after her first visit. She preferred being at home with her almost-deaf grandfather, for anything was better than Mumbai in her imagination. The young woman spent her days reading, mainly Marathi and Hindi books and newspapers, and occasionally helping a child in his mathematics lessons to figure out how to calculate the L.C.M., or the lowest common denominator.
At fourteen, Poonam had defied her parents’ wishes (and commands) and left home to live in a girls’ dormitory in Satara so she could complete her education. At that time, it was her grandfather whom she had begged (or, rather, emotionally blackmailed) to pay for her schooling. Her grandfather would still tell everyone how Poonam had grown an alarming shade of purple when she held her breath for ‘a whole half-hour’ (as per him) when he said no, again and again.
For his investment, however, Poonam’s grandfather had expected some returns.
‘When will you get married?’ he had shouted to her. The deafer he got, the more he shouted.
‘When all the men here die,’ replied Poonam plainly. ‘And then I’ll marry a biptya or an asval.’
You weren’t a true Dhavalian if you hadn’t had your dog carried away by a biptya, a black panther, or if an asval, a bear, hadn’t paid a visit to your farm at night.
Poonam had resolved never to get married. It was difficult to get along as a single woman in those parts. There was no work in Dhavali—and where there was no work, there was even lesser work for women. But that didn’t matter to Poonam. She preferred poverty and Dhavali to Mumbai and its riches. Besides, although she had no claim to the little land the family owned, she had her mother’s jewellery.
She knew that by avoiding the occasion to wear it, she was avoiding the occasion to sell it.
One day, in the middle of the monsoons, when the rain had halted for a few hours, Poonam decided to sit outside her house reading a book.
‘Poonam!’ she heard her name being called.
She looked up to see a young man approaching her, and thought she recognized him.
‘Vishal!’ she exclaimed. ‘How come you’re here? Are you here to visit?’
As he walked up very close to her, jumping over puddles to avoid the slush, Poonam didn’t fail to notice that he took a moment to respond.
‘Yes,’ he said, when he was in front of her. ‘Yes, I’m here to visit.’ He smiled.
‘For how long?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘You mean you’re here for as long as you please? I can’t imagine some rich businessman in Mumbai could be so kind. Listen,’ she said, closing her book, ‘all rich families run charities, but no rich family is as charitable to anyone as it is to itself.’
Vishal, lost in thought, did not laugh. He said after a pause, ‘Well, I’m here long enough.’
Poonam frowned. Vishal was two years older than her, and she had known him all her life. He had been her brother’s friend, and had walked with him and Poonam to school. At seventeen, Vishal and Poonam’s brother had disappeared to Mumbai to make their fortunes. But while Poonam’s brother, when she had last seen him a year ago, had changed drastically and grown aloof and irritable (‘It’s the pollution,’ Poonam’s grandfather would say), Vishal didn’t seem to have changed at all. He still had a nervous air about him, as if he was afraid he was being judged.
‘Come in,’ said Poonam, getting up, but then stopped mid-step. ‘Ajoba is inside, asleep.’
‘We can sit right here. I don’t mind,’ said Vishal, sitting on the step next to her.
Two boys ran past them. They had been down to the waterfall. One of them had a string with a crab tied to its loose end. It suddenly struck Poonam that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been down to the waterfall.
‘Were you fired?’ Poonam asked Vishal in a low voice.
‘What?’ said Vishal, a little taken aback. ‘No.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘I quit the job,’ Vishal continued. ‘Not because I was bad at it—’
‘I’m sure not,’ Poonam interposed.
‘ . . . But because I hated it. Poonam,’ he said, turning to look at her, ‘the first day I reached Mumbai with your brother, I hated it. I hated the crowd, the noise, the people. They don’t even speak Marathi there. Can you imagine that? They’re in Maharashtra, and they don’t speak Marathi.’
‘Big deal. You know Hindi, right? Why, all you and Dada did was watch Akshay Kumar!’
‘I kept trying to like it, I kept trying to work all these years. But I couldn’t take it any more. The city just wasn’t for me. I saw that eventually and returned.’
He noticed that Poonam was unaffected by his story. She had taken a long stick and was drawing something in the mud. She didn’t rush to offer him her sympathy or support.
‘What do you plan to do here?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I own land. I could farm fruits and vegetables, maybe.’
‘There’s a lot to farming, it’s not easy. Starting from knowing what your soil’s like, and what you can plant there and when, to irrigation, how to sell your fruits and vegetables and where. The people who ran to Mumbai,’ she said, gesturing at somewhere in the distance, ‘they knew this. They preferred Mumbai to all this.’
Vishal laughed nervously.
‘You’re smart. But I hadn’t thought of all that,’ he said.
The compliment brought no smile or blush. Poonam kept drawing in the mud.
‘I’ll take my leave now,’ said Vishal, getting up. ‘I suppose I won’t get to work immediately tomorrow. You and I can talk often enough.’
‘Okay,’ said Poonam, without looking up. Something in the way she said it gave Vishal the feeling that she meant the opposite.
For the next few days, Vishal kept his distance from Poonam. It was a week later that he came to visit, and even then it was ostensibly to meet Poonam’s grandfather, not her, with news of what Poonam’s brother was doing. The only interaction Vishal had with Poonam was the exchange of a nod. This made Poonam angry, but she was quick to realize that the distance between her and Vishal was her own doing, and decided that she should try to be more friendly with him. As she saw him to the door, she addressed a few sentences to him, and even smiled.
Vishal didn’t fail to take the message, and over the next few weeks he visited frequently, perhaps a little too frequently for Poonam’s liking. It was a strange business—when Vishal was absent, she waited eagerly for him to visit, and when he was present, she wanted him gone within the first five minutes. But she kept this contradiction to herself, and tried not to think about it.
Over time, Poonam and Vishal grew close to each other, though Poonam never cared to admit it to herself.
One evening, after one of their now-routine dinners together, Poonam and Vishal set out for a stroll to walk off the post-meal heaviness.
‘Poonam,’ said Vishal, ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘About farming?’ asked Poonam. ‘Because the other day I asked Tatyaba, and he said he has some spare seeds. You know, the hybrid ones they make in labs. He said he’s not planting them—he’s too old to do any planting anyway—and he doesn’t mind giving them to you for nothing.’
‘No, no,’ said Vishal, amused. ‘I was thinking about us.’
Poonam felt something drop in the pit of her stomach. She had an awful feeling she knew where this was going.
‘I think . . . you know . . .’ started
Vishal. ‘I was thinking . . . it might be good to get married. You and I, I mean. No, and before you say anything, hear me out. You are unmarried, I am unmarried. We can work together, and make something for us here. Because you and I have nothing here. Very soon you’ll be alone, and—’
‘Vishal, I am happy the way I am,’ Poonam cut in. After staring at him a moment, she continued, ‘And I don’t have nothing here—I have everything. Or at least I have enough for myself. I am happy and secure as I am. I don’t need to marry because I am scared of being poor if I don’t.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘That’s exactly what you meant. That’s exactly what everyone means when they advise me to get married,’ Poonam turned to him and said hotly. ‘I’m going home.’
And she turned around and started to march back home in the dark.
Poonam felt insulted by the proposal. She knew in her mind that she was far too good for Vishal. Here she was, the best-educated person in the village, the most well read. And he! Why, he had gone to Mumbai only to return with his tail between his legs, and with no money! Poonam knew that were she to ‘help’ him run his farm, she would soon find herself responsible for the entire thing. She was far more competent and intelligent than him.
In the following days, Poonam didn’t see Vishal at all. Neither had she the time to think of him, for her grandfather’s health declined rapidly, and she was occupied with nursing him. But the old man’s time had come, and when the doctor was finally called in from Satara, he came home only to declare him deceased.
Poonam’s grandfather was cremated. When the pandit performing the rituals told Poonam that only men could be present at the ceremony, she snapped that she had seen her grandfather die, and only she deserved to watch him burn. She had her way.
In the days that followed, Poonam sank into depression. People offered her condolences and tried to make her feel better, but to no avail. It suddenly became apparent to her that she was really, truly alone. Those who said they were there for her knew nothing of the heavy, hurtful something that sat on her chest and made it difficult for her to breathe at times. If ever she tried to speak to someone about this sadness, it felt as though she were speaking a different language, for she could never get them to understand her pain. Poonam became increasingly short-tempered, and with every fit of anger sank deeper into sadness.
Sadness and anger—always a great combination for rash decisions. One day, as Poonam was sulking, too agitated to read, she got up from her chair and walked to Vishal’s place before she knew what she was doing.
She saw Vishal transplanting rice saplings into the ground, sweating from the labour. When Poonam called out to him, he looked up and smiled. He stepped across the rice bed, careful not to step on the saplings, and walked over to her.
‘I meant to come and see you, but I’ve been busy,’ he said, gesturing at the saplings. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Poonam. ‘Even my brother wasn’t sorry. Said his employers didn’t give him a day off for his grandfather’s cremation.’
Vishal looked confused.
‘You are working your land?’ asked Poonam, ignoring the look on his face.
‘Couldn’t sit idle forever,’ said Vishal, rubbing his hands. After a pause, he said, looking at Poonam with a sidelong glance, ‘You thought I could.’
‘I didn’t—’ Poonam stopped short. ‘I just thought that you, maybe, underestimated how hard it was going to be!’
‘Well,’ said Vishal, ‘you definitely can’t overestimate how hard it’s going to be, because it’s harder than you can ever imagine.’
‘Vishal . . .’
‘Poonam . . .’
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’
Vishal’s smile disappeared.
‘ . . . Maybe we should get married.’
Vishal wiped his hands on his pants absent-mindedly, staring into the distance. He then let his gaze settle on Poonam, and did not take his eyes off her for a long time, even though it made Poonam a little uncomfortable.
‘Poonam, you don’t know what you are saying,’ he declared at length.
For a second, Poonam thought she detected a hint of anger in his voice. But only for a second, for she soon realized that it wasn’t anger but gentleness. For the first time, Poonam had seen that beneath the characteristic nervousness, there was something far more profound in this man standing in front of her. It was a certain gentleness sprung from strong, unwavering love and respect.
‘I do,’ said Poonam softly, at a loss for what to say.
‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You are saying this because you are sad and lonely.’
‘No, Vishal, I—’
‘Do you love me?’
Poonam was caught off guard.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked him, a little incredulously.
‘I think you know the answer to that,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Poonam, I’m not good at putting things into words, I’ll be the first to admit that. But be assured that my proposal came from love and not from wanting a business partner.’
‘And now you are rejecting my proposal?’ asked Poonam, irritated.
‘Did I say that?’ asked Vishal calmly.
Neither of them said anything for a few moments.
‘Do you love me, then?’ Vishal repeated.
‘Does anyone love anyone when they’re getting married?’ cried Poonam.
‘You don’t, then,’ he muttered. He looked at his dirty hands, and then at the sky.
‘Well then,’ Poonam said haughtily, ‘I shall take that as a rejection. Goodbye.’
She turned around to leave.
‘No, Poonam, wait.’
‘What?’ cried Poonam. ‘Look at you. You say you want to marry me, and then you say you don’t. I don’t—’
‘Look,’ he cut in, ‘I’ve been thinking about some things since I started farming. And I realized I was happy you rejected me. Not because I don’t love you, but because when your life is changing, it’s the worst time to change it more. As in, it’s the worst time to get married. So how about we wait? I’ll work the land and make something of myself so I can support us. And you can find something to do—you’re the smartest girl I know. But if not, you can wait till your life settles down, till you’re not so sad. Till then we can wait and see if we, well, can stand each other enough to get married. What do you say?’
Poonam stared at Vishal for a moment, and gave him a slight nod and a smile. Then, without saying anything, she turned and left. Already, she felt the sadness settle back on her chest. But she knew that Vishal couldn’t feel it for her. When she returned home, she sat on a chair and opened a book. And thus she resolved to wait out the sadness till her life settled down.
3
The Doors of the Closet Are Now Open
Sai Nithin
The room was more or less the same since our last visit. A painting of a half-naked man hung on the wall. The same certificates, neatly framed, hung beside the painting. The same red-blue-green wind chimes tinkled near the window. The same hourglass stood on the desk; the same old chair creaked behind it; and the same counsellor sat on that creaking chair, helping us solve our problems. It had been fifty minutes now. But what caught my eye was the new picture of a quote that hung on the wall behind the counsellor’s head:
That it all began in the days when the love laws were made.
The laws that lay down who should be loved.
And how.
And how much.
—Arundhati Roy
‘So, you guys said . . .’ Dr Anitha Subramanyam, our marriage counsellor, began, but when she saw me staring at the quote behind her, she changed the topic. ‘Have you read the book?’ she asked me, adjusting her glasses.
DK, my husband, didn’t bother to look at me, or her. So it was on me to carry on the conversation.
‘Er . . .’ I began. ‘Sorry, Anitha, but which book are you talking about?’
Anitha
stood up, turned to the framed quote and said, ‘The God of Small Things, of course.’
‘No,’ I answered.
She looked disappointed.
‘Nevertheless, aren’t these lines beautiful? You should read the book sometime,’ she said.
I nodded, knowing that I would probably never do it.
Anitha picked up her notebook from the table, opened it and said, ‘Well, you said that you both met for the first time in school, right?’
DK and I nodded, paying attention for the first time. We had been visiting Anitha Subramanyam for a few days now, without any obvious results.
Anitha placed her notebook on the table. She lifted the hourglass and shrugged, ‘Well, your session is done.’
These counsellors are very particular about their session timings, aren’t they?
‘However, let me tell you this,’ she continued. ‘Needless to say, there are problems in every relationship, but the solutions to those problems are surprisingly simple. You just have to, you know, look back at the happy times you spent—and I am sure you must have had happy memories too—which now are locked up in your closet. Just open the closet and reminisce.’
Reminisce? Who even uses that word?
DK and I thanked Anitha and started for the door, when she gave us her message of the day, like she usually did at the end of her sessions.
‘Sometimes, for love to rekindle, you need to add a pinch of innocence to it.’ She sighed and touched the tip of her thumb to her index finger. ‘Just a pinch.’
For some strange reason, she sounded like Professor Trelawney of Hogwarts.
We smiled and left the room. Once outside, DK took out his mobile phone from his pocket, like always, and got to booking a cab, in which we would sit silently on either ends of the seat and pretend like we are invisible to each other. And that’s why the whole marriage counsellor thing happened.
‘Don’t book a cab,’ I said.
DK looked at me, puzzled.
‘Can we walk home instead?’
‘That’s like an hour’s walk from here,’ he said, an eyebrow raised quizzically.
‘Can we? Please?’ I persisted.
You Are All I Need Page 2
