Married Woman (7 page)

‘You need to work‚’ said her mother.

The teaching job she had never considered with interest loomed large. Now that she was married, Astha could see that its hours qualified it as the ideal job, a fact her mother was even now pointing out.

‘As a teacher you will earn some money, but you will only be out half the day so the home will not suffer.’

Astha looked resentful. Her future suddenly seemed very pedestrian.

It was some evenings later that Astha’s mother brought up the subject with Hemant. ‘She needs to be occupied, beta.’

‘Yes, Ma, I know‚’ said Hemant. ‘I myself was thinking.’

‘What about your painting and writing?’ asked her father. ‘You can make use of these talents in journalism.’

Mother and husband expressed scepticism.

As they walked back through the colony to their own house, Hemant repeated, ‘Journalists have to stay out late, they have very odd hours. We must see about a teaching job. You read quite a lot.’

‘I don’t think that alone will equip me‚’ said Astha, briefly wondering whether all women were destined to be teachers or nothing.

Hemant laughed. ‘You will probably know more than anyone‚’ he said.

With the newly introduced 10+2 system, it was not difficult to get a job teaching elective subjects to classes eleven and twelve. In answer to the combined wishes of Astha’s relatives one of her college teachers phoned with news of a vacancy at St Anthony’s School, and if she was interested she should go and see the Principal, Mrs Dubey.

Astha’s in-laws approved. ‘It is a good time pass.’

‘It’s near enough. You won’t have to spend much time on the road‚’ commented the mother.

Her father merely said, ‘It will do until you decide to develop yourself in other ways.’

Her husband said, ‘With a job you won’t be so fidgety if I am a minute late.’

‘Oh, I am to work so you can do what you like?’

‘Who says I want to do what I like? It will benefit you to
leave the house in the mornings. When the children come we will see whether to continue this.’

At the interview Mrs Dubey made it clear that a teacher at her school needed to show commitment to the institution, foster students’ interests in extra-curricular activities, and make sure they did well in the tenth and twelfth board exams, the reputation of a school unfortunately depending on results. Astha agreed to everything and was hired. Later she thought that since the job fell into her lap, her destiny must be teaching.

Being a teacher meant the languor of her days was over. No longer did she have the luxury of leisurely brooding over her love, she had to get up early and go to work. She had exercises to correct, and lessons to prepare. She started a reading club, a writing club, a painting club, directed by the principal’s suggestions and followed through with her encouragement. The peripheries of her world now stretched to include many schoolgirls. Life was shaping up nicely, with her mind and heart gainfully employed.

Hemant dropped her occasionally when she was getting late for morning assembly. Both families exclaimed at his devotion as a husband.

A day, as usual, with Hemant coming in late. Astha had been waiting the whole evening, and now took this opportunity to gaze at him, her soul in her eyes, the soul that she was waiting to hand over on a platter.

‘How are you, darling?’ he asked, looking at her affectionately. ‘How was your day in school?’

‘They have asked me to edit the school magazine‚’ she managed, but even those few words were difficult, so heavy was the passion weighing her down. Her tongue felt useless in her mouth, unless it was activated by his.

He sat down on the sofa, and Astha knelt to take off his shoes. She unlaced them, and pulled off his socks, gathering the day’s dust in her lap. At that moment she loved Hemant
so intensely, that every fetid, stale, sweaty smell that came from his foot was a further nail in the armour of her love.

‘How was your day?’ she asked. ‘Why are you so late? I have been waiting hours.’

‘The director called a meeting‚’ replied Hemant looking disgruntled.

‘At this time?’

‘What does he care? Slow, pompous, ass-licking fucker.’

‘What has happened now?’

‘The latest directives for distributing loans. Our target has been increased, and he is worried we might not make it. Then his head will be on the chopping block.’

Oh dear, this was not going to be a happy subject.

‘This percentage for cottage units, that for farmers, this for small scale units, that for backward classes, and without any security! No collateral, no third-party guarantor, because the government has to look good in the next election while we bear the losses. How can any bank function in this manner? This is what happens when you nationalise banks, constant meddling and interference.’

How long would it take for him to notice her? ‘I kept thinking of you in school‚’ she started, but Hemant hadn’t finished.

‘How are we encouraging any initiative, if these buggers get money for free? And how do you make sure someone is scheduled caste, for fuck’s sake? Just a few months ago I had a branch officer complaining that the local bigwig was demanding a larger than usual cut for supplying the bank with certified scheduled caste people. He was falling short of his target and he had to give in. Bloody country, this is why we never progress. In America such interference would be unheard of.’

‘Well, this is India, dearest‚’ said Astha, not wanting Hemant to start on the subject of America versus India. ‘This is the way things function. If you get angry, you will only harm your health. My father got blood pressure because he hated his job. Fire burns itself‚’ she added, a saying she had grown up with.

Hemant deflated. ‘When I think of how my classmates are doing, how much money they are making – with an American MBA you can do anything, but there are no opportunities in this bloody country, none. Sometimes I wish I had never come back.’

‘Money isn’t everything darling. Look, you have your family, me, our parents.’

‘Maybe we all emigrate, huh? Seema’s husband keeps calling, he’s willing to sponsor me.’

Live abroad? ‘Yes, let’s go‚’ she said excitedly.

Hemant sighed, ‘No, Az, I came for Papaji and Mummy, I have to stay. Papaji knows I am being wasted here, and he tries his best to make me happy, but still, what can he do about the job? This is not satisfying work, it is a clearing division, clear this loan, that loan, deal with union demands and government meddling, nothing is allowed to become efficient.’

Astha’s desire receded. She felt cold, dreary, and distanced from him. She had been waiting for him all day, thinking of their being together, but nothing of this was reciprocated. He was a criminal, destroying her anticipation, ruining her happiness.

Her subservient position struck her. She had no business kneeling, taking off his shoes, pulling off his socks, feeling ecstatic about the smell of his feet.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ said Hemant as her hands stopped moving. He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. ‘Leave my shoes, I’ll do it.’

He got up, put them away, and catching her by the elbow sat her down next to him. Poor man, thought Astha softening, he must have had a hard day in the office, was that anything to mind? She must make his home a haven for him, not a place of recrimination.

‘So what were you saying about school?’ he asked, passing his hand down her back, gently pressing the dividing line between her haunches.

Astha sidled closer to him, and the pressure became a little firmer. ‘I kept thinking of you‚’ she whispered. ‘I missed you every minute.’

‘Baby‚’ he murmured, accepting this as his due. ‘And school, how was that?’

‘Well, they have asked me to help with the school magazine, as I am the teacher for the senior elective English classes. And I thought, why not?’

‘Do they know you write?’

‘Of course not. Anybody with reasonable English is enough for this job. My class XI girls got really excited, they want to organise a creative writing competition. We can publish the best poems and stories, maybe even send them to the children’s page in the newspaper.’

Hemant wasn’t really listening. Astha stopped talking about creative writing as he got up to lock the door.

‘They are waiting‚’ objected Astha.

‘Just a quick one‚’ said Hemant.

‘They will know what we are doing‚’ said Astha, already imagining what was to come, even if it was a quick one.

‘Let them know. We are married.’

Astha lay back, aware of every inch of her skin, aware of every thread she wore, now about to be dislodged. The day, with its petty vexations flowed away from her. This, what was going to happen, was the central thing in her life.

The last year of Astha’s father’s service drew to a close. They would have to leave their house soon. Hemant threw himself into their plans, politely suppressing his surprise at their unworldliness.

‘Az‚’ he said frequently to his wife, after visiting his in-laws, ‘how come Papa didn’t plan more for his retirement?’

‘He was planning‚’ said Astha hopelessly, ‘in fact they were always planning.’

‘Then, what happened?’

‘They kept trying to buy, but it was always too expensive. Then this housing society thing came up and they were allotted land trans Jamuna. They thought once the bridge was built and prices went up, they could sell the plot and buy a small flat this side.’

To Astha now, this seemed like not very much planning.

‘As an investment, Az, this is not good strategy‚’ said Hemant, banker. ‘The bridge is nowhere in sight, you can’t depend on government promises.’

‘Well, I don’t know, that is what they did‚’ said Astha pettishly.

‘They can still live on it, though. People are building, after all. Then when prices rise, their property will be worth even more.’

‘How can they? It’s still so undeveloped it’s not safe. No infrastructure, no nothing. You should see it, it’s just a patch of mud. In one of the nearby colonies, the owner was alone in the house when dacoits broke in, stole everything, and beat him till he almost died. You want this to happen to them?’ Astha’s voice rose slightly.

‘Now, now, baby, don’t get upset, of course they shouldn’t go if it is not safe. We’ll help them all we can.’

‘OK‚’ said the wife, feeling momentarily soothed, pushing away the knowledge that it is one thing to offer help, another to give it, still another to take it, and that her father was a very proud man.

Astha’s father retired, and in six months they had to vacate the house in Lodhi colony. It had been central and inexpensive, the rent 10 per cent of the father’s salary. Now they were thrown to the outside world. While the mother was at school, the father trudged around various colonies with property dealers. The private colonies near Lodhi Colony were all too posh, there was no question of trying Sundar Nagar, Golf Links, or even Defence Colony, where army officials had
bought plots for a song not so many years before. Finally he found a small two-room apartment in Jangpura. Its advantage was a large terrace, its disadvantage that it was on the first floor.

‘You will have to go up and down everyday‚’ said Astha, ‘are you sure your health can take it?’

‘Climbing stairs is good exercise‚’ said the father.

‘When you have high blood pressure?’

‘I will be all right.’

What choice did they have? The flat was comparatively cheap, the location comparatively central. The landlord was kind, only demanding three months’ rent in advance, not insisting on a company lease.

Dismantling the house in which they had lived for fifteen years was not easy. They took the furniture the new flat could accommodate, the rest they sold. The father’s books were put in boxes which were then placed so as to make two beds and a living-room divan. They would still be with him, that knowledge would have to replace the pleasure of seeing them every day. The bed linen, the small pieces of bric-a-brac that Astha’s mother had stored through the years were given to the daughter. ‘I don’t need them anymore‚’ she said.

‘But these are brand new‚’ said Astha looking at the carefully preserved things, wrapped in soft, old saris. ‘Why don’t you use them?’

‘No, no, I do not need‚’ insisted the mother.

Hemant helped them to move. ‘I don’t like asking him to do so much for us, beti‚’ said the father.

‘He is your son-in-law, Papa. It is all right‚’ said Astha.

Again they had no choice.

In the small flat, near the highway, noisy, confined, far from tree and grass, alone for half the day while his wife was at work, eating things he was not supposed to, the father wandered through his life, looking at what was left behind
and what lay ahead, and decided there was no use living. Other people decide that with less success.

They had been in the new flat a little over a year when one evening after dinner he complained of a slight chest pain. That night he died in his sleep. Through the period of shock and mourning, Astha and her mother clung to each other.