MY STORY SERIES – 11

Afternoon

Sarojini Sahoo

What happens when a woman still has not reached menopause after 60?  Anyone may relate this condition to the role of excessive sex hormones or may find out all sorts of funny conclusions but for some women, it's real and a source of pain, shame, and distress - both physically and emotionally.

My main character in this story is one such woman.  Come and journey with her as she gives us a better idea of what goes through her mind and tells us her experiences in relation to the world in which she lives.

The original story was written in the nineties and was included in my Odia anthology Dukha Apramita (ISBN: ISBN: 978- 81-7411-483-1) under the title "Aparanha" and so far has not been translated in to any other language besides English. The story may provide a self-assessment test to help my readers to determine psyche of a woman after her menopause.

‘For shame,’ she thought. Shame overcame her. Inhibition swept over her. Her face blushed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt as if she had committed a crime. She sat with her head down -- in shame. But she couldn’t express her helplessness to anyone. When her daughters-in-law would come to know about it, they would surely laugh at her. The youngest daughter-in-law, in particular, was very upfront with her views and thoughts. If she did not care for others, she laughed in their faces. It was really shameful. She pondered why it happened to her. All her friends and contemporaries had been bereft of this responsibility, but not her. But she was entangled in all these things just like a newlywed bride. Sometimes she accepted it as her destiny and sometimes she consoled herself as if it were the law of nature. She felt hurt with the jokes of her daughters-in-law but she wouldn’t say anything. As the mother-in-law, she had never used her implied authority to stop them, as if it was her weakness.

Even when her husband was alive, she would keep these things to herself and never discuss them with him. The old man was a different kind of person. He didn’t even like being addressed as ‘old man.’ She wondered if he would have been able to tolerate the ridicule of his daughters-in-law. Even at an old age, he would become romantic when the dew drops appear. He would sometimes ask his son to book a room for himself and his wife in the forest guesthouse, so they could stay there for three or four days. He would say to his son, “Please make packets of oil, ghee and basmati rice. I can get good chicken in the village there. There is no need to worry about that.”

The youngest daughter-in-law would smile and say, “Dad, are you planning to go on a honeymoon?”

“Why? Are honeymoons meant only for you folks alone?” he would respond in kind.

The daughter-in-law never said another word after that. Their ridicule and taunt was indeed disappearing in the air but they could not understand someone was being terribly hurt.  How could they?

Once, her scalp was aching and she rubbed the juice of the aloe vera plant into it. The eldest daughter-in-law asked, “Maa, does this help to keep your hair black? Here, my hairs near my ears have started graying. You don’t even have a single grey hair. How old are you anyway? You must be nearing sixty, 'na?'

What could she reply to the daughter-in-law? She was not aware whether rubbing the plant helped in keeping one’s hair black but she had read once in Laxman Mishra’s book that it kept the head cool. She was having a terrible headache so for a little respite; she got a piece of stem from the neighbour’s garden and was rubbing it on her scalp.

The youngest daughter-in-law asked, “How could you think the cells can be kept fresh by applying or rubbing something onto them? These things are all in the mind. It indeed depends on how the mind can be kept fresh and young and on how you can live for love.  The other day there was an essay about it in the newspaper.  Didn’t you read it? It said that in America, people there get old later in life and the reason behind it is they are sexually active until seventy years old and beyond.”

While talking to her sons, daughters-in-laws, and grandchildren she could understand the meaning of English words by guessing. However, she could never understand these references to sex and she dare not ask the daughters-in-law as it would give them cause to laugh at her either behind her back or directly in front of her.  They never realised how much it hurt -- much like a knife cutting into sensitive skin.  Even then, she never brought these things to the old man’s attention.

Seeing their mother in law being shaky, the elder daughter-in-law stopped the younger one but both of them laughed.  Their laughter cut her inside like a saw yet she remained powerless to do anything about it. Even then she did not bring these things to the attention of the old man. Just like an important paper is tied unto a wire she kept the words tied onto her heart. Is love really a bad thing? Who should one love if not one’s husband? How could they ever defame the love of husband and wife?

Her husband worked as a clerk in a foreign fertilizer company. Even though his status was that of a clerk, he had the responsibility of taking care of the club and the guesthouse as well. In fact, as he was the favorite of the officers, he was always in charge of the dining and entertainment, and in due course, he left the office work completely and became involved only in the concierge duties at the club and guesthouse.

During that time, he became close to many local and foreign delegates. Every day, he used to talk about the dance and drama as well as many scandals which took place at the club. The description often centered on picnics and boating events on moonlit nights where some couples disappeared with each other for hours. All these secrets of the families of the officers were known to him as they held him in their confidence. These incidents also influenced the old man’s thinking for he also wanted to live in style like the officers lived. That is why even though he belonged to the middle class, he had led a fashionable life. That was also the reason why their quarters stood out among all the other quarters around them. In addition, his employer always motivated their employees to lead a fashionable life.

There was the time Sen Saheb saw him in front of the Durga Pooja Pandal. They did not talk to each other; both went on their own way. The next day Sen Saheb called him to his office in the excuse of some work and told the old man, “Das Babu, does the value of the diamond lie in being hidden inside the house? You should display it outside sometimes.”

The old man could not understand what Sen Saheb really meant and responded, “I am a middle-class man. Where will I get diamonds from? Those things look good only on people like you.”

“I was talking about your Mrs. You know, your wife is really beautiful.” Saheb responded, a bit taken back by the old man’s ignorance. That day,the old man had been very proud but on the other hand, he was a bit scared as well for Saheb’s attention was indeed a matter of which to be afraid. After that incident he loved her more as if he had a possession with him, as if she was a trophy or prize. After that day, he never met Sen Saheb again but he never forgot his words. Sometimes when he remembered those words, he felt a strange kind of happiness.

The daughters-in-law would never understand why the manager of the fertilizer company had named her as a diamond. Yet everything had its own time; the law of this world was to change with time. It was also an eternal truth beauty also disintegrated with age. However, with her, the change had come at a very slow pace, an embarrassingly slow pace. But was she responsible for that? The thing that was once her pride had gradually become a burden for her. Everyone had so many questions about her but she did not have an answer to any of them. On the other hand, when there was any reference to womanhood or motherhood, she would go back to her childhood and adolescent days.

She remembered her mother’s lips were bright red from the juice of the paan. She remembered she had round and fat arms. She remembered how her mother roamed around in the kitchen, or in the courtyard, or sometimes in the room for the family deity, or in the place where rice was pounded. She had twelve children who hovered around her like chicks following their mother in gardens, fields and even in drains and streams. But she had no idea of how long her mother’s womanhood stayed alive as she had left her parents’ place a long time ago.

The other day she could not sleep because it was very humid, but her husband was sleeping soundly. She got up and sat on the verandah. Her son and daughter-in-law perhaps had not fallen asleep either as she could hear her daughter-in-law laughing and talking in a low voice. They were talking about many things. Her daughter-in-law laughed and said, “Do you think that I am like your mother and I will be a fruit bearing tree till sixty years? Don’t you think your mother’s condition is a bit abnormal? I had never heard a thing like that before. At best some people get it till they are fifty but she is crossing all bridges and moving farther than anybody I’ve ever known. Why doesn’t she consult the lady doctor?”

In very low voice, her son replied irately, “Are you mad? Could you let me know how you are affected by it? Why are you getting so intolerant? Have you tried to see her within herself? Moreover, as a son, how can I take her to the doctor for such a thing?”

She could not listen to any more of their conversation so she got up from the verandah and went back inside. She felt bitter about her life. She could not understand. Even though she did not harm anyone, why did people make her life so miserable? The rules of the world were really strange. All this love, all this affection, all this attraction; are these all pretensions? Otherwise, why would people become intolerant if the daughter did not get a suitable husband at the right time? Or if the son does not earn his living at the right time? Or if a woman does not become a mother at the right age? How could people wish someone’s death when someone didn’t die at the right time?

Why didn’t the right time ever come for her? Unlike her husband, her blood sugar and blood pressure never increased. She never had the need to visit the doctor. She never ever suffered from indigestion.  She never felt tired. From dawn to dusk she tended her garden. Everything, including papaya and cabbage, grew with her care. She would make small flower beds with different kinds of local and foreign species in the garden in front of the house. She would dig the ground herself and put fertilizer and chemicals to protect the plants from insects. She would put support for the tendrils to grow. Yet she was never tired. She would make sweaters for her granddaughter, would make dry snacks for her daughter-in-law, and even manage to do a few household chores. She had the habit of bathing twice everyday throughout the year, irrespective of whether it was summer, rainy, or winter season yet she never suffered from cold or fever. She was herself surprised at this.

What kind of an afternoon did she have? She had not lost her brightness in the sunlight nor was she getting ready to progress towards setting down. Once while giving a speech on TV, a spiritual leader mentioned that no one had come into this world without a purpose and that everything in this world had a purpose. If that was true, then what could be the reason behind her present state? Why was she still flowering like a teenage girl at her age?

She remembered her mother when her mother was pregnant during her mother’s marriage. Even though no one said a word to her mother, she always felt as if the whole village was talking behind her back. Her mother had stopped going to the village pond to take her bath. If someone ever asked her about her unborn child she would be in tears. Sometime she would secretly rub something on her lower abdomen. Perhaps she was getting some home remedy to destroy the child in her womb. She had asked the laborer from the farm to get the stem of the lotus from the pond. When the laborer asked the purpose she became irritated with him and said, “You just have to get it. Why do you want to know anything else?” Somehow it felt as if her mother was at times very affectionate toward her unborn child and yet at other times, she appeared very cruel to it. When she was getting married her elder sister and her husband had come with their two daughters. She remembered clearly her mother never used to go in front of her brother-in-law; it was as if she was a criminal.

She felt very sad for her mother then. She wanted to console her by being next to her but she had gotten married and had gone to her in-law’s place to live. Whenever she wrote to her mother, she felt like asking her mother about the unborn child. Is the child growing steadily or had the child died? Yet she could never ask for fear of hurting her mother. After a few months, her mother-in-law questioned her, laughing while she asked her, “Do you know your mother has a son?” She was burning with rage when she heard her mother-in-law’s words. She was shivering all over. Had she not sat down she would have lost her balance. She could not look at her mother-in-law. Was there ridicule in her mother-in-law’slaughter? She could not ask how her mother-in-law got the news. She felt shame, but shame for what? She felt ashamed. She felt as if she could not stand it. Even though nobody ever told her anything, she still felt very ashamed.

The other day, her twelve-year-old granddaughter clung to her crying, thinking that her grandmother had an accident. Her daughter-in-law came out to enquire as to what happened and was overwhelmed with both joy and sorrow. Before she could put her hand on her granddaughter’s head and explain her that these things are natural in a girl’s life, her younger daughter-in-law laughed and commented, “Really wonderful! We have young women from three generations in this household.” She was shocked; the elder daughter-in-law was also shocked and the younger daughter-in-law was shocked too by her own words. The elder daughter-in-law gave the younger daughter-in-law an angry look and left with her daughter. The younger daughter-in-law made an excuse she had work to do and snuck out.

The words ‘young women’ hurt her but she could not give a fitting reply. She could have complained to her husband but she did not. She could have told her son to ask his wife to be more careful with her words but she could not. She was offended and engulfed with shame.

When her husband was alive he used to always think his wife was as young as ever. He treasured the words of Sen Saheb when the boss had heaped praise about her beauty. It was not that others did not appreciate her beauty, but Sen Saheb was unique. The old man always wanted her to be dressed up like a doll. Since the time when the children were young, a glass of milk had been arranged for her every day. Many times she had asked, “What is the need for me to drink milk? It feels like I am taking a share from the children.” The old man would get irritated and say, “How is it taking the children’s share? The children are drinking their share. I asked you to have milk so just have it.” When the old man bought books and stationary for the children, he would get cream, powder, and other fashionable things for her.

As the children got older, those life styles somehow changed. She did not require the dressing table anymore to tie her hair knot. The children got involved with their own jobs and business. The daughters-in-law would come to the household. The house was full of grandchildren. With the change of the ruler, it felt as if the rules also changed. She did not visit the kitchen frequently anymore. Also, no one bothered to give her a glass of milk. Yet the old man never forgot to get a box of cream or powder for her. Sometimes she would put cream on her face. When she had to go out, she would conservatively put on some powder. Yet most times, the things the old man bought for her would lie on the self; dust would gather on them. If the old man noticed, he would get upset and would say, “Did I get them to keep on the selves? I should not get anything for you.” She would laugh at his words. She would feel proud. She would consider herself lucky to think that she had gotten so much love which few women ever got, even in their younger days.

She would not accept the fact her husband was not in her life anymore. She felt as if he had gone for his morning walk and would come back with his cap on and with his walking stick in hand. Sometimes she felt he would come back with fish from the market and she should grind the spices and get everything ready for cooking. Other times she would think he must be in Goswami’s shop at the road crossing and would come back at nine o’clock, coughing his way home. But her husband never returned.

The biggest room in the house had belonged to the old man and her. There were windows in front of each other. Light and wind swept through the room. Next to the window on the other side, there was the Juhi creeper. In the middle of the room was the double bed with clean sheets and pillows. Every day, she would keep fresh flowers in the vase on the shelf. After retirement, they spent most of their time in that room than during their pre-retirement years. Suddenly he had died and she was left in the room -- alone.

The most miserable incident in her life had also taken place in that big room. It had happened all of a sudden. Her husband had taken a peg or two of wine and had his dinner with bread and cheese. Before going to sleep, both of them had talked about many things, just like they did every day. She was not aware what time it was but she had felt the old man pulling her. She was used to the old man’s habits so she turned to her side and tried to sleep. She could hear the sound of mumblings as if someone was suffering. She turned around and saw that the old man was out of control. She got up and had asked him what was going on. 

“Severe pain in my chest,” he moaned as he rubbed his chest.

“Why do you take all these things at this age?” she remembered asking him.

“Give me water.” he got the glass of water and had attempted to drink it but the water came out from his mouth instead of going down.

“Press my chest,” he had urged. She took him to her lap and pressed his chest. However, after some time, she had realized that the old man had died. She could not believe one could die so suddenly. She thought it was all a big lie. But the old man’s death was not a lie!

After the old man’s death, she had left the big room and moved into the small room next to the kitchen out of her own will. If anyone asked her the reason she would reply, “I am alone now. Why do I need a big room?” She would spend her afternoons in that small room. In front of the window of the small room was the old wood apple tree.

The tree had been there since the time they had bought the land. They had eaten the fruits of the tree for several years. She did not notice that in the meantime, the tree had become old with its branches looking lackluster and dilapidated. There were still a few leaves here and there but the tree appeared like an old woman awaiting her death, all naked. Had she not shifted into that room, she would not have noticed the tree. She felt as if the tree was telling her, “You have spent a longtime under the illusion of the Juhi creeper; now turn your glance towards the real truth of life.

After she had shifted rooms, the elder son occupied the big room and the younger son took over the room of the elder son. Their household had taken the joys and sorrows in their stride. However, she had become lonely. She changed her style and habits.  She now wore pale sarees instead of colourful ones. Her mother-in-law’s religious books, in which never showed interest before, were now taken out.  The books had been hiding inside a colourless box for a long time, bereft of all colour and shape. Since they had not been touched for a long, as soon as she tried to touch them they fell into pieces.  Was this yet another symbol or sign? When the old man was alive, he had never even opened the box for a single day; what was the point in opening the box now? Was it a change of role? The books shattered into small pieces as if they were smirking at her.

Once she told her younger daughter-in-law, “When you go to college, get me some good books. I am bored at home sitting alone.”

The younger daughter-in-law replied, “Father-in-law is not there anymore but aren’t we all here?”

Why couldn’t she see anyone? There were some very pleasant memories about her sons yet she could not see anything beyond the old man. His memory seemed to rule her life. The younger daughter-in-law brought her a book after all. She turned over the pages. She read through a paragraph and felt as if she had read a lot. She could not get any pleasure from the book. She was surprised at her own attitude and read only a few pages every day.

When the old man was alive, she could never keep track of time; it just flew. The daughters-in-law would comment, “Our father-in-law goes crazy if he does not see her every moment of his life. We take care of his food, bath and everything so why does he need our mother-in-law?” The daughters-in-laws would conclude the old man was hen-pecked, always dancing to his wife’s tune.

In fact, she was not aware if the old man really danced to her tune or not but he had definitely left behind a huge void in her life and that void could never be filled by anyone else, not even by her sons, daughters-in-law, and even grandchildren put together.  She felt very lonely and very scared now. It was not that way when the old man had been alive. He would take her side and would fight for her then; his presence like a shield.

The new moon was approaching. Two or three days after the new moon, that day would again be there. She felt helpless; yet again she would have to face an unpleasant situation. A fear was slowly and steadily building within her. Again that inhibition. Again that shame. Again she would have to listen to someone’s painful words. When the telenga washerwoman would come to take the clothes, she would give her a look of surprise and ask her, “Aunty, are you still getting stronger?”

No one said, “How much does she have to suffer at this age? What kind of atrocities is God inflicting upon her?” No one ever tried to understand the physical and emotional pain. On the other hand, they hurt her feelings. She realized the daughters-in-law did not appreciate her, as if there was a secret indecency behind that. Their imaginations would go wild. She took in a lot of insults and ridicule. The younger daughter-in-law said, “There is a tradition in our mother-in-law’s family. Watch out, in case a thing like that happens in this family. If it does, we will not be able to face anyone.” They talked about worse things.

She had yet to understand how she had harmed anyone. Even though she was the mother-in-law, she had never shown her authority, even for a day; and this weakness made her so vulnerable. She did not remember when she had started treating that as her weakness and felt inhibited about it but it was clear now everyone had taken advantage of her weakness. She should have held her head high and walked around like a lively woman. Instead, why had it all turned upside down?

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Almost twenty days had passed since the death of the old man. All the relatives who had come to attend the funeral had gone back. Her sons and daughters-in-law had resumed their own lives and schedules. She should have become like the discarded wood apple tree yet she was becoming aware the day was approaching. All her nerves from her toes to her thighs were being pulled. The pain around her waist was like the sting of the scorpion. It was if a storm was brewing in her lower abdomen. She could not concentrate anymore on “enlightenment.” She was not attracted to her children’s lives. She was seeking help from the wood apple tree which stood on the other side of the window but the lackluster and lifeless tree had dozed off.

She folded her arms and touched her forehead in pain. “Oh Lord, I don’t need it anymore. Why are you dragging me into the illusion? Am I that big a sinner? Can I not get freedom? The old man is not here anymore. Why are you chaining me to this illusion? How will I face my sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren? Make me disabled, Oh Lord! I don’t want my womanhood.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. At that very moment, she realized her prayers had not reached the Lord.

In the meantime, her granddaughter came to her, “Grandma, are you crying? What happened? Are you missing grandpa? Are you not feeling well?”

She could not find words so she just embraced her. The young girl had just stepped into the illusory world as well but how could she understand the pain of a human heart and destiny? The human being is nothing but a toy in the hands of the Creator. She wiped her tears and said, “Why should I cry? I have become old so my eyes and nose water. Don’t go and tell your father about it. He will become unnecessarily worried.” She reproached her, “Why are you running around in this hot afternoon? Go and take a nap.”

After her granddaughter left, she took her clothes from the clothes rack, quietly opened the door, and picked up some cow dung lying outside the gate. She needed some oil and turmeric paste. But she did not want to let anyone know about her from her yellow face tainted from the turmeric so she quietly entered the bathroom. She did everything without a sound. No one should come to know about what she had done. She did not leave her clothes in a corner. Instead, she washed them and put them on the clothes line to dry. All her rites and her habits had paled out. She got rid of her sense of sin based on impurity with her menstrual period. God was now relegated to the background. She now felt that living was the most important thing in this world.

(Translated by Gopa Nayak and edited by Paul McKenna)

MY STORY SERIES - 10

Proxy

Sarojini Sahoo

(In her book Women’s Madness: Misogyny or Mental illness?, physiologist Jane Ussher argues: “Psychology has developed as a singularly male enterprise…thus it is time to redress the balance…I shall focus on women, with no apology!”

Here is my effort to paint feminine psychology which shows how the connection between patriarchal oppression and women’s psychic melancholy is complex and  alienation is an inevitable outcome for women suffering under patriarchal constraints. 

The original story  ‘Bikalpa’ was written in 90’s and is included in my Odia anthology Srujani Sarojini and so far has not been translated in to any other language.) “

It was almost 7 a.m. by the time Suparna got up from her sleep. Although light from the window was trying to conquer her sleep, she was not able to free herself from the grip of slumber. Jaydev’s thighs were resting on her and she could feel the pain the weight was causing her. Slowly she moved his thighs away from her. She wished she could get a cup of tea! This was one of her longings. How she wished she could be greeted by a hot cup of tea in the morning! After all, her mother used to do that. But that was twenty years ago. Her mother was no more. Now she had her own life. Now she had her own role of mother to play with her own family.

It had been quite late by the time they went to bed the night before. There was the dandia dance programme in the club throughout the night. Of course she was back by midnight but she was not at all used to this kind of culture since her childhood. However, in this patent age, culture does not have anything patent. She could not get sleep for a long time after her trip to the club. Whatever little was left of the night was spent under the collage of dreams. Within no time it was dawn and the sun had come out in full force. All the routine went topsy-turvy.

As the sweet cool breeze of the winter entered her lungs she was reminded that it was Dussehra that day. “Oh my God, it’s Dussehra and I am still in bed?” The sun had come out since a long time. She got up in a scurry.

Jaydev still half asleep said, “What happened? Let us sleep.”

“No. I have been sleeping for too long and you are asking me to go to sleep some more? It’s Dussehra today.”

“So what?” Jaydev muttered, still half asleep.

Slowly, Suparna’s past was coming back to her... We would get up early in the morning. We did not want to get up that early but we had to. It was a town in the princely state of India surrounded by hills and mountains from all sides and engulfed in fog. All of us brothers and sisters would sleep under two blankets clinging to each other like puppies of a litter.

Mother would shake us up from bed shouting, “Get up, you have to see the inception. Get up.” I did not want to get up. Who would like to get up that early in the morning in the cold month of November anyway? Mother shook each of us by our hands and legs to wake us up. It would still be dark. No one knows what time it would be nor did we care. We would come out to the outside door still half asleep. Parama, an old man would be sitting with his new basket.

There would be a clean towel covering the basket. He would take off the towel and tell us “Children, see the fish?” Live fish would be swimming inside a glass jar. There would a jewellery box next to the jar. He would open the box and show us gold jewellery and other gold trinkets. Next to it in small containers would be bright paddy, yoghurt, and a small water-filled vessel with mango leaves on top as kalash. He would show us everything one by one. 

Sleep vanished as we saw the fish but still we would come back to cover ourselves under the blanket as it was still before sunrise. Father would give him tips. Parama’s words would strike our ears, “I have come here straight after the royal household. How can you give only ten rupees?” Like this, one after another would come to show us the auspicious inception early in the morning. We would get up to see each of them and again go back under the warmth of the blanket.

Mother used to say if Dussehra went off well then the whole year would go well. We would finish our bath early in the morning. There would be gun salutes from the royal household around ten in the morning. Mother would say, “The gun salutes can be heard, let’s put the saja.”

“You’ve only talked about saja once. What is it? Jaydev inquired.

“Wait. I will explain. Let me put water on for tea.” She then left the place with those words.

Suparna came back to the present for a moment and explained, “Saja means the measuring weights, the balancing, and the other things. Actually the soldiers put their swords for two days near the goddess Durga and participated in the worshipping ceremony. After the Dussehra pooja was over, they would take their swords and kept away from the site. But we didn’t have swords; business was the main activity in our household. So we put our business-related things and decorated them near the goddess. This was how Dussehra was celebrated in our town. Whatever you say, the days of our childhood were the best.”

 “Do you realize that the past is always pleasant?” commented Jaydev. The children had not yet gotten up from their beds and both Suparna and Jaydev sat in the garden taking their morning tea.

”We used to have a feast on Dussehra day” said Suparna.

“Why haven’t I ever been treated to such a feast?” complained Jaydev, trying to make fun of her.

“Have you ever been to our house during Dussehra? I have no idea if there’s still a feast nowadays. The situation is not the same as before” She became sad as she spoke those words. Just then, the hawker threw the newspaper near the gate. While Jaydev engrossed himself into the newspaper, Suparna drifted back into her past again. There became a distance where none of them could communicate with each other.   

There were often a thousand errands to run in the mornings. However, Suparna was unable to get out of the world of fish in a jar, the gold in the box, and paddy in the small bowl. Were those days really that good, not dull like now?  Her mother’s face flashed in front of the images Suparna saw from time to time. She remembered her mother had some similarity with Singhali, the cow her mother got from her parents’ house when it was only a calf. Like mother, Singhali was also very short tempered and we were scared of entering the cowshed. When mother used to get angry, she would throw and break everything that she could put her hands on. Both of them also had glances which were quite similar, innocent yet full of complaints. Singhali was also thin like my mother.  There was also some similarity between mother’s hanging breasts and the breasts of Singhali. Both of them appeared as if sweet motherhood was dripping from them.

What happened to Singhali? Did she die a normal death? Did they sell her or was she lost? Suparna did not remember. However, she still remembered the angry and innocent faces of both her mother and Singhali.

There had been one of those Dussehras like the present one. Mother had been so angry she caused a storm and it became very difficult to handle the situation that day. What class had I been in then? Was I still in school? No, maybe I had already joined college. Preparations for Dussehra had begun the night before. The cleaning, the washing, the shopping; everything was underway.

Father used to get new clothes for all his workers and servants during Dussehra. There would be dhoti kurta for those who wore them and shirts and trousers for those who wore those kinds of clothing. Father would buy everyone’s clothes from the shop of Biranchi Seth. After everyone got their choice of clothes, a saree would be bought.

For many years that had become a tradition from the time when father had started his shop with very little capital. That was apparently Dussehra when he had started his life as a shopkeeper. After the priest had performed all the prayers and rituals, the first customer who came to the shop was a woman. She was from the community of pot makers. What did she buy? Dal? Rice? Salt? Tea leaves? Suparna didn’t know. However, the shop made a profit after that. Father’s shop had actually been the forerunner to the modern-day department store. He had gradually become a wholesaler. Every year before the Dussehra, someone would go and give the message to the lady from the pots to do the first shopping on Dussehra day. What did she buy on Dussehra day? Soap? Notebooks? Perfume? Ajinomoto? Hair oil? A pressure cooker? A bone china set? A kilo of rice? A half-kilo of sugar? A quarter-kilo of pulses? What did she buy? The pot lady must be very happy to receive her gift of the saree that used to be bought for her.

That was what had been going on for many years.  There was nothing bad behind father’s intention of giving this woman a saree. It was not even a secret matter. However, mother was not aware of it. Maybe she would have never been aware of it. Then there was the time where there was the new servant -- Suparna thought his name was Nakula -- arranging everything for the occasion on the verandah inside the house. He had to get mango leaves, flowers, grass, and leaves of the winter berry tree. Mother was taking out the big utensils from the store for the big feast and she asked him, “Nakula, what kind of shirt and pants did your master give you?”  Nakula was about sixteen or seventeen years old and mother was very fond of him because he used to run errands for her. He answered in a complaining tone, “I asked for a pair of trousers but Babu, the master, didn’t give me any; I didn’t get what I wanted. Babu must have asked the shopkeeper to show him clothes within a limited budget. Why would the shop keeper show him the good clothes?” Then mother asked Nakula, “Show me what kind of pants and shirt you have brought.”

Nakula took out all the clothes, one by one, from the bag. The piece of saree peeped through the other clothes. The saree was blue with a red border. Mother pulled out the saree from the lot and asked him, “Did your master buy this saree for me? But what kind of saree is this? This is a very old-fashioned saree. He should have bought a printed saree instead!”

Nakul started laughing aloud when he heard the master’s wife. “Ma, do you think this saree is for you?”

Mother was very irritated and asked, “Then for whom?”

“Ma, you do not know the woman who takes a saree every year?”

“Takes every year? Whom does your master dress up in a saree every year?”

“She is the potter woman, indeed!”

“Which potter woman?” my mother asked, becoming upset.

“I don’t know her but how is it that you don’t know?  Everyone else does” Nakula commented.

After that, anger and suspicion had accumulated inside mother. As soon as father reached home, she made him restless, attacking him with her shooting questions. Not only that, she created chaos that day as well, throwing and breaking things. “Who is that potter woman? Why do you give her sarees? Is she an epitome of Laxmi, the goddess of wealth and I am Alaxmi, the rival goddess of her? Never have you given me a saree for Dussehra. Look at the audacity of the woman, every year she wears a saree on Dussehra for no reason. Why don’t you live with the potter woman? Why have you kept me?” Gradually the situation turned from bad to worse that day.

Not only did Suparna’s mother not approve of this tradition but Suparna did not approve of it either. She sympathized with her mother but could not support her openly. She felt, ‘What is the point in giving a saree to a person who was in no way related to them?’     

Father never found a suitable answer to calm mother down that day either. He became very helpless. He went to the shop and returned with a few sarees for mother. No one could make out whether she did not like the sarees or she did not want them out of anger. She did not even look at the sarees. At last Suparna went herself to the shop and selected a beautiful saree and got it for her mother. However, her mother did not put on the saree that day. As a result, Suparna also felt sad for her father.

No one was happy because such an incident happened on Dussehra. Indeed there was a feast in the evening but neither her mother nor her father was happy. Mother’s jealousy for the potter woman started increasing gradually from that day forward. Whenever she wanted to hurt my father, she used this potter woman as a weapon.

Suparna felt very sad. She could never understand why her mother was so angry. Her father had no relation with the potter woman; he only had a blind belief based on a folktale.

Suparna was making breakfast as her thoughts traveled in her past. Suddenly the telephone rang, rousing her from her thoughts. Suparna thought maybe Jaydev would answer the phone call. However, Jaydev did not want to give up reading the newspaper and the children were still sleeping. So she put the gas burner on slow and ran to pick up the phone.    

“Hello.” There was no sound only complete silence from the other side.

“Hello, Hello, Hello,” Suparna made her presence felt but there was still no response from the other side as if someone was trying to test her patience. Finally she could hear the sound of the receiver being put back.

In the meantime the paratha, the hand-made butter-fried bread, had turned hard on the pan. Suparna turned it to the other side and got involved in her chores. After ten minutes, the telephone rang again. Suparna was walking through and answered the call.

“Hello.” Even this time the receiver was kept away. Suparna got irritated. Where were those blank calls coming from anyway? Suparna kept the receiver back. Jaydev who was reading his newspaper asked, “Who is there?”

“How would I know?” Suparna replied quite irritated. She quietly kept the receiver back without saying a word.

“It must have gotten cut. Maybe it was one-sided and that could be reason why nothing could be heard,” Jaydev said.

“No,” said Suparna with certainty. “I can understand when it gets cut. I have heard the sound of the receiver being kept.”

“Why do you bother? It could be some wrong number,” Jaydev replied.

Suparna returned to the kitchen. In the meantime, the seeds in the pan had already burnt into smoke after spluttering.  Now she was very irritated. She washed the pan under the running water from the tap and started muttering to herself, “I am the only one in this house who does everything. I have to cook, clean the showcase, answer the phone, and serve tea a number of times each day. No one wants to get up from their seats.”

Jaydev was used to these complaints. He did not pay any heed to the words or maybe the words did not reach him. There was a phone call maybe a blank call. Why was she so disturbed and irritated about that? Was she becoming like her mother?

She knew a few things about Jaydev too. She had read some of his mails without his knowledge.  She had read all the stuff Jaydev wrote to that girl. Jaydev chatted on the net after everyone went to bed. She was aware of that too. Sometimes he drafted the letters and kept them in a secret file to send them when he got a chance. She hoped it was not that girl who was calling. Jaydev had once written to her, “My dearest Sephali darling, your boobs are……..your…… your …..”

                                            ###############

Jaydev and the children were sitting around the dining table then and Suparna kept the breakfast for everyone on the table. Jaydev enquired, “Why didn’t you have any for yourself?”

 “I’ll have it afterwards. I have to take a bath and do my pooja, my prayers. I will have it after that.”

 “Do you think God will not listen to your pooja if you eat your breakfast first and then offer Him prayers second?”

“How could you say such a thing?” said Suparna quite irritated. “First of all, I got up late on Dussehra day and on top of that, I will have my food without taking my bath and without offering my prayers?”

“All right then. You finish your pooja. We will have our breakfast together.” Jaydev got up from the dining table and went into the other room.

 A short while later, Suparna suggested to Jaydev, “It will take a long time. Why don’t you go ahead and eat?”

 “How long can you take? It’s a holiday today. I’m going to wait.”

Suparna could not think of any response. She did not want to get into an argument on Dussehra day, afraid of picking a fight. She entered the bathroom in a hurry. She finished her bath as soon as possible under the shower putting oil but without any soap. Until that day, they had always had their breakfast together. There was no exception to that unless there was any real inconvenience. They shared the curry, the fries and the pickles; everything was shared. Jaydev would quickly finish his food intentionally, leaving behind the best bits like pieces of liver or cheese. He would eat a single piece of fish and leave three pieces for Suparna. He would never listen to her even if she shouted at him.

When Suparna came out of the bathroom, the children had finished their breakfast and Jaydev was on the sofa reading the newspaper. On the shelf, Suparna had kept all the idols of the gods and goddesses. Some were in the form of pictures and some were in the form of sculptures; some were made of terracotta and some were made from china clay; some were in silver and some were made of aluminum. She put a flower on every one of them as they were all different from each other. She put chandan and sindoor, the sandal paste and vermillion spots. She chanted different mantras for each of them.

When Suparna went to collect water for the pooja she saw that Jaydev had thrown away the newspaper and switched on the TV. On the table, the food was still lying in the same way as she had served them. Suparna was feeling uneasy because Jaydev had got up from the breakfast table. Then she thought, ‘was Jaydev trying to placate her? Was he able to understand why Suparna was so upset early in the morning? Or maybe that was not the case at all. The phone call may have been a wrong number. There was the possibility of a one-sided call as well. A mere phone call should not shake her confidence. And the incident about the incident, it could be ignored. Who does anything serious on the ‘net anyway? That’s just play. How would anyone know whether it was really a man or a woman; young or old? Whether it was a Sephali or Deepali? What guarantee was there that a person with that name really existed?’

During pooja, Suparna fell into a different prayer that day. “Do you realize, my Lord, how my mind is getting filled with stupid things?” Suparna prayed as if trying to make HIM a witness as she offered oblation in the brass plate. “I am also a human being like Jaydev, no? Please let this life pass through without any calamity! Otherwise like mother, I will never be able to understand the love Jaydev has for me.” Suparna uttered these words as a soliloquy.  

Suparna thought back after mother’s funeral, on the tenth day sraddha ceremony, the priest who had performed the rites told Suparna, “Dear, there was tremendous love between your parents.”

“How would you know that?” Suparna had asked him in a sad voice.

“Would the fire burn so bright in the pot if there was no love?” he had responded, looking at the fire.

Suparna was not aware of the relation between fire and love. However, she could imagine her mother was always anxious to get the love of her father throughout her life. Was it also possible her mother could never understand the love of her husband either?

No, Suparna would never let that happen to herself. She and Jaydev would belong to each other throughout their entire lives, during happiness and sorrow; when they were in the midst of emotions and imagination; and in all adversity. Suparna smiled to herself and thought, “Oh my God! Am I praying or indulging in something else?” She started ringing the bell vigorously while performing pooja and prayed as if trying to control her feelings. She realised it was already ten o’clock. By now in her parents’ town, the guns must have been fired in the royal household. There must have been shows of the soldiers fighting. Suparna said “Did you know that during the Dussehra festival, the Kanaka Durga deity, the golden idol of mother goddess from the royal household, is taken around the town and then the statue is installed in the temple. After that, the guns are fired and soldiers fight with their rusted swords jumping around and instigating fights.”

 “I have heard these things almost three hundred times now,” Jaydev laughed.

“I still listen to your stories even after hearing them a thousand times,” Suparna responded in kind.

The clouds which had hovered over her in the morning had now disappeared from her mind. Suparna said, “We should go and get some sweets. It is Dussehra. Someone may come over.”

Jaydev replied “Let’s go to a restaurant for dinner this evening.”

“That’s not a bad idea. We have not been able to go out for a long time.”

As Jaydev was going out, the phone rang loudly. It was not Suparna but Jaydev who picked up the call this time.

“Hello?” he asked and became quiet for a while. His back was towards Suparna so he could not notice the way she was looking at him. She could only hear Jaydev saying, “I’m busy now. I will call you back.” And he replaced the receiver hurriedly.

Suparna now realized, like her mother with her father, it was totally impossible to understand the love Jaydev had possessed for her. She imagined, after their deaths, people would say they were made for each other just as they had said about her own parents.

(Translated by Gopa Nayak

Edited by Paul McKenna)

MY STORY SERIES - 9

Conjugal Vignette   

Sarojini Sahoo

(The original story was written in 90’s and is included in author’s Odia anthology Deshantari (ISBN: 81-7412-147-0) under the title ‘Dampatya’ and so far has not been translated in to any other language. The story may provide a self-assessment test to help readers to determine psyche of a woman after her menopause.)

Mrs. Chowdhury reminded me of my mother. It was not that her face had the resemblance of my mother’s but it was her wild uncombed hair, the loose knot, the smeared sindoor, the vermilion spot which gave the colour of the sunseton the forehead, and the saree which she had on for the whole night. All these things reminded me of my mother. This is all about her appearance. Actually, I am not really focusing on the outside appearance. I want to talk about those things which stirred my delicate sentiments as soon as I saw her.

When I looked at her, she appeared as if she had been weeded-out like an unwanted plant of the garden or perhaps like a waste paper shredded into pieces and thrown away.She appeared as if she would be blown away or swept away if no one held her hands tightly. I had seen my mother like this about twelve to fourteen years back. My mother, like her, also would have been around fifty years old at that time.

I had never seen her before. We had only known each other over the phone. She used to call me at home to enquire about her husband. Her husband had gotten transferred but sadly, she was stuck at the old place because her son was in his final year of school in the science stream and her daughter had paid a donation to get into a management course. But she often worried about her husband. Was he getting his bed tea in the morning? Was he boiling his drinking water? Would he suffer from chest pain if he became too stressed? All these things worried her and she would talk about them when she would call. I tried to console her over the phone.

She would call up and would let me know when her daughter had fever, or when her son was bitten by a dog, or when her neighbour fought with her, or when the car was sent to the garage to be repaired. If her husband did not call her for a long time or did not go home on holiday, she used to cry and complain to me over the phone. Once or twice, she would even ask me, “What is the attraction there that Mr.Chowdhury does not come home?” Sometimes I would take her husband’s side and argue, “Maybe he is busy with work. Why do you worry so much? All right, I will let him know that you were worried.”

I was not very close to her husband; on the other hand, being a colleague there was a feeling of intolerance between us. He was not my nearest neighbour. His living quarters werefour or maybe five quarters away from me. Everyone had the inter connected phone given by the company but no one else had taken the line for an outside connection except for me. So people from the seven to eight quarters surrounding my quarters had expectedto use my telephone to keep in touch with the outside world.Mrs. Ram Murthi was an extrovert so no one went to her house. And Mrs. Ansari was so proud of her status that no one dared to enterher gates either.

The newlywed Binay Panda’sfather-in-law, employed with the police department, called up every other day to enquire about his daughter’s well being. He used to send messages asking whether the washing machine was working or the microwave oven would be sent within a few days. Sometimes he would call up to consult with his son-in-law aboutbuying something or getting him transferred. He would say, “I have urgent business. Could you please call him?”

I had to attend to these phone calls because I used to be at home. I would send my maid to people’s houses to inform them their phone call would come after ten minutes. As mobile phones were not commonly used at that time, I would let them know by calling them on the company phone.Sometimes, someone or the other had to wait for the phone in the drawing room. Samiran, my husband, would ask me to tell those calling, “No, I can’t inform them” or just tell them there is no one at home or their house was locked. Even though I was fed up attending to the neighbours’ phone calls, I could not betray their trust or lie to them.

Within the last one-and-half years, there must have been at least more than two hundred phone calls for Mr.Chowdhury. And every time, Mrs.Chowdhury, the caller, would express her apologies for troubling us. She maintained the formality of asking about my children’s well being and about my visits to my parents’ place. Over time, we had gotten to know each other probably better than other callers. Moreover, Mr.Chowdhury was also treated to a cup of tea or coffee while waiting for the phone calls from his wife. Perhaps to mitigate our irritation, he used to bring chocolates or toffees for the children. Samiran kept the conversation with Mr. Chowdhury to a minimum. I only sat and chatted with Mr. Chowdhury out of courtesy. I tried to imagine his wife by listening to his conversations.But perhaps that imaginary person had no resemblance with the real Mrs.Chowdhury.

As I had never seen her before, I would have never guessed she was the real Mrs. Chowdhury and that she too was in a distressed state.Even though I never asked her, she must have seen the amazement and the questioning look on my face, so she introduced herself. “I am Mrs.Chowdhury.” After introducing herself, she nervously looked behind her and said, “He must be following me.” And before I could understand and say anything else, she said, “Please tell me, what I should do.”

“About what?” I asked, even though I knew a bit about the possible answers. During these few months there had beengossip about her husband. Even I had to come to know about an affair between her husband and Mrs.Gomej. Maybe she wanted to ask me,“All these things happened and yet you never informed it to me, even though I called you so many times over the phone?” I had decided to tell her it is better to think twice before commenting on anyone’s character.

I looked at her face. I felt as if my mother was sitting in front of me and asking “Can you tell me my dear daughter, will your father really be able to leave her?” 

Mrs. Chowdhury showed me both her hands and said “Can you see how he has hit me?” The skin had been cut by the glass from broken bangles and some places had stains of blood. “See, he was pressing my neck to kill me.” She showed me her neck. There were marks of fingers on top of the necklace mangalsutra.Once he brought cold water from the refrigerator and poured it into my ears.” As she was describing her physical agony, she was trembling with fear like a scared deer. She would get up in between her monologue and look around, checking to see if Mr. Chowdhury was coming there. She said, “He has no decency. Who knows, he may come here and create trouble.”

“He will not come here. You can be sure of that,” I consoled her. I ordered my maid to get some water and a cup of tea for her and told her, “In the meantime, Mr.Chowdhury and my husband Samiran have had a big fight in the office. Their relation is so bitter that even in the club they had thrown glasses at each other over an argument. So don’t worry, Mr.Chowdhury will not come to our place.”

After she felt a bit more at ease, she opened up to me. “What should I do? He is saying that he will divorce me and marry her. Our daughter is twenty-two years old. Instead of thinking of getting her married, he is thinking about his own marriage. He is not giving a single penny to the household. I heard that he was riding around with Mrs. Gomej in his car. He has even givenhera saree worth 1,600 rupees. And Mrs. Das saw them both in a jewelry shop. And you know what is most pathetic of all? The other day he took me to hotel called ‘The Dream Bar’ just to placate me. But really, the love is not there anymore. You know when he had gone out for a few minutes, the hotel boy came up to me and asked me about my relationship with him. I enquired why he was asking me and I told him that I was his wife. He replied that another lady came regularly with him. Does that mean he has two wives?I immediately asked Mr. Chowdhury about this when he came back. After that, he created so much trouble in the hotel. He almost thrashed that boy.” After a pause, she continued. “Tell me the truth, haven’t you seen them together?”

I did not know how to answer this direct question from her so I said, “See? I have not seen anything; I have only heard about it.”

“You are trying to cover up for him”, she smiled and said, “Many incidents have happened in the office. Your husband did not tell you anything?”

“My husband belongs to another section. He has not seen anything either. The real truth is no one has seen anything. We have just heard things. However, my husband had seen them once going out in the car together. Everyone also knows about the photos he took during the picnic. Everyone talks about their disappearance during the moonlit night picnic.”

She started crying when she heard these things from me. I was repenting like a criminal. I hated myself for it. I should not have said them. But the fact was she confronted me and I could not help myself. Perhaps it would have been better to avoid this by resorting to a little lie.

It was fifteen days since she had come to this place and sinceshe had come to my house and narrated her own sad story and took out all information from me. When she arrived there was a lot of gossip going on about her husband but who dared to inform her about her husband?

As if she could read my mind, she wiped her tears and said, “He said, ‘the womenfolk here are really bad. They are instigating me.’ But I could imagine that something like this must have happened here.”

“When he came home during the holidays as soon as he put his bags down, he started talking to his daughter praising the woman.  And then later, my daughter came up and excitedly told me, ‘Mama, thataunty is really nice. She has good looks as well as a very good nature. She has sent this orange cake for you. You cannot forget the taste of her Chilli chicken and Gobi kebab.’

“And he used to tell me, ‘She has saved my life. But for her, I would have lost my life during that heart attack.’ Then he would ask our daughter, ‘My dear, please write a letter to Aunty.’ He even forced our daughter to write a letter.”

“One time, when he stayed with us for a month, I got hold of a letter from that woman. She had written a love letter saying she was missing him. As if the whole department was going to collapse without Mr. Chowdhury, as soon as he got the letter, he left, even though our son’s final examinations were coming up. What magic she has! What has she got in her flesh that I don’t have?”

“Your children are grown up. Why don’t they talk to their father?” I tried to reason.

“What will they say? She responded.“If they say anything, he gets angry and attempts to hit them. He tells them, ‘I will just feed you like I feed the dog.’And that’s it.”

She was perturbed when she heard our gate opening. I immediately got up and saw that the milkman had come. I came back with two packets of milk. She regained her calm after she saw me return with the milk. Gradually she became comfortable with me. She got up from the sofa and came over to me and held my hands and said “You are like my younger sister; that’s why I am telling you all this. Please, can you advise me on what I need to do?” Sheappeared as if she had found some hope even though her face still looked pale and helpless. In fact, I could not understand what kind of help she was expecting from me.

Her helplessness took me back to a time when I was about nineteen or twenty years old. The fights between my parents had been increasing then. I was in my final year of my B.A. degree and there was the pressure of the honours syllabus. There had been a similar incident between my parents over domestic help. Initially, I was very cross with my mother. Sometimes they would fight over dinner; sometimes there would be fights in the middle of the night and my father would leave the house. These things had become a regular occurrence. As the eldest in the family, I had to take care of my younger siblings. Two of my youngest siblings could not understand what was going on and would look at me with shock. ‘Extramarital affair’ did not exist in their vocabularies. I could understand but never believed; I never wanted to believe. My mother had become anemic after giving birth to six children. Her veins appeared like blues rivers and canals under her bright fair skin. She had gone through menopause.

I had come to know about menopause from a book. This event happens after forty-five to fifty years old in the lives of women and it makes them feel worthless for their husbands and they suffered from a complex. So I used to think that my mother was just being suspicious of my father without any reason.

My mother didn’t want the maid servant working for us anymore. But we were not ready to get rid of her. In fact, we all had become so dependent on her we thought we could not manage without her. There was no pump in the well and the cooking was done by burning wood. The maid would cook and fill up about fifty buckets of water in the tanks in the bathroom, kitchen, and even for the dishwashing. She would wash the clothes and the dishes, fry rice, and even comb our hair. She would massage our bodies with mustard oil. She would stitch buttons and quilts. She would water the plants in the garden. She would sometimes cut wood into small pieces to be burnt for cooking. She was like a machine ready to work as soon as you switched it on.  Yet my mother didn’t see her in that light.

My mother knew the reason behind our desire not to throw her out. She knew her children would not agree with her. Sometimes, she would fight with our father and leave the house and go to her sister’s who lived in the other corner of the town. She would stay at her sister’s place for the whole morning or sometimes the whole afternoon and then her sister and her husband, my uncle and aunt, would console her and bring her back to our house. Once she locked herself in a room. My father was so angry that he punched the door hard enough for the nails to come out and half of the door was hanging out. I was not at home when that incident happened but my younger brother, who was in seventh grade during that time,who could not ride a bicycle properly, pedaled it to my college that day. He waited for a full forty minutes until my class finished. I was scared to see him because my mother was always threatening she would take poison. My younger brother told me about my mother’s brooding and my father breaking the door. I immediately took a rickshaw and came home. When I came home, my mother was eating her wet rice in a corner and my father was reading the newspaper on his bed.

After that, many unpleasant incidents took place. Once I was awoken by the sound of glass bangles. At three in the morning my mother was filling up the tanks in the bathroom and the tank for dishwashing with the water from the well.

“What are you doing?” I had asked her.  “Why are you filling up the tanks at three in the morning? Are you mad? Who wants you to do this?” I took away the bucket and the jug from her hand. She would not give them to me. She did not lose her temper; neither did she cry. On the other hand, she told me, “None of you really listens to me because you have to fill up the tanks, wash the dishes, and mop the house.”There was a strange wetness in her voice; more than the tears in her eyes. I sat down with my hands on my head. I could not understand what had to be done.

My mother would talk about her misery to all our neighbours just like Mrs.Chowdhury did. She could never understand she should not be talking about her private life in public. She could not understand everyone was laughing at her.

Once, she was shouting at my father at the top of her voice. I could not tolerate anymore and tried to put my hand in front of her mouth and stop her. She pushed my hand from her mouth and saidto my father, “Go ahead. You can hit me.” My father’s image was slowly and steadily getting tarnished and we could not do anything about it.

One day, I realized why should there be so much fuss over a maid. Someone else can be employed in her place. I called the maid and told her to go back to her village. We would pay you all that we owed her and on top of that, we would give hera hundred rupees more.

“Aunty is just creating a mountain out of a mole hill,” she said and started crying out loud.

“No one wants you to worry about that,” I said.

It was my final year before Igraduated from graduate school. My younger sister was doing her undergraduate workand my younger brother was doing his secondary school finals.I asked myself then, why do such strange incidents take place? Why does a smooth simple life suddenly become complicated? Why does it all get changed in a span of a few seconds? Why does trust,built over years, suddenly dissolve? Why does a person who was so dear suddenlybecomes a stranger? These questions came back tohaunt me when I thought of my mother and saw Mrs.Chowdhury in front of me.

I freed my hands from Mrs.Chowdhury’s grip and said, “I am connecting you to the General Manager. You tell him everything. He is your husband’s superior so he can drive some sense into your husband.”

She agreed to my proposal. It appeared as if she had become impatient to share her children’s problems over the dinner table; to enjoy the timeless pleasures of bed like the autumn rain; or maybe to live again the conjugal life that had started some twenty-five years back.

As soon as the phone rang on the other side, I handed her the receiver. She narrated her misery from beginning to end. When she put the receiver back, her face appeared clear like the sky without a single cloud. I asked her, “What did the General Manager say?” She stood up intending to leave. “He told me that he will talk to Mr.Chowdhury today.” I consoled her not to worry and everything would be all right.

Later on, we realized it did not benefit Mrs.Chowdhuryby asking for the General Manager’s help. That evening, she came to meet me secretly. She told me talking to the GM over the phone did not serve any purpose. On the other hand, he called me up in the internal line and explained to me, “Don’t irritate your husband. Don’t fight with him all the time. It is not good to suspect your husband. He may have lost his temper and said something. In real life, how can one divorce one’s wife?” She appeared very tired and helpless. She asked me, “Could you please tell me, is it possible, that the GM does not know about his affairs? Everyone knows yet why doesn’t anyone want to admit it? Why is everyone taking it so casually? Don’t they find it indecent?”

“I got paid back by complaining to the GM. ‘How will I describe his atrocities?’ He questioned me. ‘You have gone to the GM and complained about me, isn’t it? I will marry her. I will see what you will do. If you want to stay here, just keep quiet and live. Otherwise leave this place.’”

“Tell me, is it possible to remove this woman from this place?” she asked me.

I replied, “MrsGomej has been here for a long time. Her father was an old hand in this company. She was born here. Not only Mr. Chowdhurybut many people pine for her even today,” I smiled.

She spread her lips and said, “She indulges in style; we don’t otherwise...”

I replied, “No, it’s not really that. Her genes have made her different from us. Her golden hair, blue eyes, and bright complexion do not belong to this place.”

“She can be transferred. Tell me, who should I ask?”

I tried to make her understand. “Everyone has a boss. Why are you so worried?”I could not help her much that day. I could only promise her I would give her the necessary telephone numbers.

This was my first experience in fighting for someone. Let alone fighting, I did not even participate in the college strike because my father had a very bad temper. Whenever there was a strike in the college, Iwould stay at home and enjoy my meals. I did not get to see the effigy being burnt nor did I see the buses set on fire. I just heard about the stories of black flags on top of the court buildings. Again, when the schools and college came back to normal, I would listen to the stories of bravery and their stories of food in jail. I felt as if they had participated in the struggle for independence. From that point of view, my life was really colourless.

The next day also she came to our place without the knowledge of her husband. As soon as she came, she was eager to go back. “He knows that I’m visiting you. Did you get the director’s number?”

I had written the number on a small piece of paper. After looking around for a while, I found it and gave it to her. She was nervous to phone the director; in fact, I was a bit nervous as well. She asked me to connect and I did so. As soon as there was the ring from the other side I quickly gave the phone to her. She asked me, “What should I say?” In the meantime she had to talk to the director. She was repeatedly narrating her misery to him. She had exhausted herself painting herself as helpless as she could. She asked whether Mrs.Gomej could be transferred and when she put the receiver down she was almost in the verge of crying.

Like a person who has lost confidence, she had lost her capability to gather herself and said “Nothingelse can be done.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He told me, ‘Why are you washing dirty linen in public? Try to explain everything to your husband and help him get back to track.’”

“What did he say about the transfer?”

“He said, ‘a transfer is not as easy as you think. It cannot be done according to your whims and fancies. Try to adjust to your family.’”

“What does he mean by ‘adjust?’” I inquired.

“I don’t really understand what he meant by ‘adjust’ either. He asked me what evidence did I haveabout my husband’s relations with her. Is this a movie or a detective novel? Is it a court that I will have to provide evidence? I have seen lipstick marks on his chest, arms and thighs. These marks don’t stay for long time where I could show them? But they were there; I’ve seen them.”

“Don’t lose your confidence. Have faith in God. He is the mightiest of all,” I said.

In fact, I had lost my own confidence. I had never been addicted to sports. During my school days, I used to sit in one corner of the school field offering one excuse after another. I was never affected by winning or losing a game. But now, this was the first time I experienced the pain of losing.

As soon as she heard God’s name, she took out atabeez , a talismanic locket she had been wearing under her blouse. “Someone has given this tome. If I put on this one, I will get him back.” I tried to remember if my mother had also put on some kind of magical tabeez to get back my father.

Suddenly she asked me, “Do you know who his enemies are?”

“Enemies?” I asked with surprise.

“I will ask help from his enemies,” she said.

Even though I did not approve of her plan, I couldn’t help but appreciate her intelligence.

Then she asked me, “Who is Avidutt? Did he ever have a fight with Avidutt?”

I was surprised to hear Avidutt’s name.I knew Avidutt but he never comes to our place. I had never spoken to him.

I explained, “He had had a fight with MrChowdhury a long time back. He is from a famous mafia gang. At that time, he had threatened to defame Mr.Chowdhury and Mrs.Gomej by writing their names on the walls.”

Hearing this information, she was very pleased and asked me, “Do you have his phone number?”

“I can look in the directory.”

 “Please can you find it and keep it for me, I will come by tomorrow.” And with that she left.

For sometime there had not been a normal routine in my house. The first day when Mrs. Chowdhury came to my house and shared her sorrows with me, I could not give my children breakfast; seeing the stranger in the house they quietly took their chairs to the garden and sat there. By the time she left, it was time for school. Most of the days she would arrive around the time the children would be coming from school. I could not help the children in taking off their school uniforms. I could not put jam on their toasts or give them their afternoon milk. They took their food as they could. I could not water the plants in the garden nor could I finish my novel. All my chores were getting delayed as well, yet I could not say no to her.

The next day, she came back to plead with Avidutt about her misery. Avidutt was not at home. I was thinking there was still time to keep her out of that. But she started talking about Mrs.Gomej and the discussion took another turn. She said, “I am insulting her in streets wherever I encounter her. I shouted at her in the club by calling her a whore.”

“And Mrs. Gomej did not say anything back to you?” I asked. “When did you say that? Where was I?” I felt as if she was just imagining saying it. Can anyone really say such things to a woman’s face? Has she started fighting and shouting in her imagination?The next day, she came to phone Avidutt.

“Is Mr.Chowdhury not at home? How could you come?” I asked politely.

She replied, “The old man was going out for a walk. I thought he was going to her place and followed him for sometime.Half way through, I realized he was going towards the stadium so I returned. I will make the call and leave quickly.”

After her conversation with Avidutt that day, I saw her smile for the first time. She was very happy and commented, “We call these people hooligans but when it comes to helping someone, these people will give their lives.”

Somehow I felt whatever she was saying could be true. The well-placed people are very selfish. Really, she had narrated her misery to everyone but no one had come forward to help her thus far.

After speaking to Avidutt, she did not come to our place for a few days. I thought maybe the man threatened someone and set things straight. But I was wrong. She came again to me and said, “I am really troubling you.”

“Not really”, I said trying to conceal my feelings.

“Do you know what MrChowdhury is up to? He has been taking that wicked Avidutt to drink for the last three days. He is coming home at midnight. I was thinking he had been going to Mrs.Gomej’s place. Gradually I came to know the truth during our quarreling. The other day he hit me and said, ‘You have employed hooligans to come after me. The hooligan whom you had approached is drinking with me for the last three days.’”

“There is another way,” I offered.

“What, are you referring to? The union? The old fellow has also got them all on his side” she said with a sense of hopelessness in her voice.

I replied, “No, I know a journalist. We will talk to him. You will see he will be back on track.”

“Strange”, she said. “Everyone knows they have a close relationship. Yet how could everyone pretend as if there is nothing going on?Everyone is blaming me that I am suspicious; that I am trying to defame him. What kind of wife will defame her husband unless she feels insecure?Am I mad? Don’t I have a daughter to give in marriage? Don’t I love my family? No one is coming forward to solve the problem. On the other hand, everyone is arguing that there can be no breakdown in such a strong household. Is anyone able to understand why I am having sleepless nights?”

As I pondered the situation, I then realized my mother must not have gotten up at three in the morning too, as I had thought. She must not have been sleeping at all at night. It is not easy for one person to seal the cracks in any household.

Mrs. Chowdhury left our house very unhappy that day but I tried to put my ideas into action. I spoke by phone with the journalist whom I knew. I asked him what could be done about such cases. The journalist listened with great attention to everything very sympathetically. He also did not fail to condemn Mr. Chowdhury.

Then he asked “Do you have any proof? Any letters or pictures? We cannot publish anything without proof. A defamation suit could be filed against us.”

I promised the journalist I will discuss these things with Mrs. Chowdhury and inform him at another time, even though I knew it was not possible to get those things.

Mrs. Chowdhury never came back to our house after that day when she had left our house so very unhappy. In the meantime, a week had passed. One day I was sitting on a chair outside when I saw her going past our house avoiding looking towards the house. I had this desire to run and ask her, “Do you have any letters or pictures?” The next moment it occurred to me, she had walked past our house smiling; she had not even bothered to look towards our house.

As days passed, I started getting more and more interested in her. Yet I never went to her place to find out what was going on. How could this person who came to my house everyday suddenly become so quiet and ignore me? I had helped her without any motive. Isn’t it proper on her part to at least let me know what happened?

I asked her nieghbours about her just out of curiosity. I heard these days she was going out with her husband. She was going out from evening until midnight all decked out with kajaal in her eyes, big earrings, lipstick, sleeveless blouses, and dark nail polish. Still people did hear her shouting from their respective quarters at night.

I was trying to remember what had happened in my house, how had peace come back.I could not remember anything clearly now. For a few days, the maid had sat down as if she had lost her sense. Our maid had blamed my mother. We were fed up with all that was happening and had lost interest. How the maid got out of our lives we did not even realize.  One day, she just wasn’t there anymore, either physically or in our minds.

Somehow I came to realize that life does not end like a fiction story where the culprit gets punishment and the innocent goes to heaven. Perhaps life is always like this. I was assured, after all, everything would become all right in time.But would it be?

(Translated by Gopa Naik

Edited by Paul McKenna)