“What do you need a man for? What matters to you most is your freedom. You f------ don’t need me. Your books and your seminars and your literary blah blah can’t satisfy my man needs.” Surojeet shouted. It was 10pm, Diva had just gone to sleep. It was the other woman in his life who needed him. She was totally dependent on him and he loved that. She needed him and knew how to please a man. “You have no idea how to please a man!” Surojeet ranted. “Of course, I don’t know how to please men”. She had screamed back. “I am not a trained geisha. I am your wife”.
“Wife? wife?” he had howled. How about stitching buttons on your husband’s shirt?”
BUTTONS ON HIS SHIRT. She had been honest before they married. “Surojeet. I don’t know how to stitch. I won’t be able to knit you a sweater.” Then Surojeet had kissed the top of her head and said, “You nutty female. I am not marrying a tailor!” How had things changed? She was happy to live with Surojeet and Diva the fruit of their love. She was happy enough to pack his lunch for office, take care of his clothes, draw out his bath water and cook his dinner even when her toes curled up like fatigued ferns. And at the end of the day, she hugged him and slept like a child.
Surojeet was unhappy all these years? He was now telling her.
“Stitch buttons? Oh bullshit! That’s the stupidest excuse I have ever heard. He must have found a woman hot in bed.” Kiran had crackled with bristling anger. “Must be giving him a good …”
“Please don’t Kiran, I don’t want to hear all this”. Paraneeta stopped Kiran from completing the expletive. “These stupid men! Going about with their tongues hanging out.” Kiran was unstoppable.
“I wish somebody would hang his tongue out for me.” Paraneeta tried to laugh.
“For YOU? For YOU? A fuddy duddy academic? No way. My dear it’s those simpering butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth variety that gets under their skin. You know the kind that can only cook brinjal bharta and that awful yellow kadi chawal and fake multiple orgasms in bed. It is those frauds who get under their you know what…They really make me sick.
You and me my dear are independent, we look independent. We are absolutely fine for their corporate image. An educated career woman.”
Paraneeta could have laughed. But now all she could manage was a whine. “It hurts me so. Shuroo left without a word. Every time the doorbell rings my heart races.”
“Expecting him back, are you? More fool you. And anyway, if he tries coming back after that other woman kicks him out, and I am sure she will, please don’t stand around with the red carpet. You really make me sick. Going on and on about somebody who doesn’t want you. HOW CAN YOU? A bum is a bum is a bum. Come to think of it you remind me of Vijay. He used to behave just like this. ‘Please come back. Don’t leave me Kiran … I love You..” I threw Vijay out. I would never sit around waiting for a man to throw me out. You my dear should have taken off a long time ago.”
Everything inside of Paraneeta winced. Yes. It was true. Shamefully true. It was Surojeet who had left her. Kiran was brutally right. She truly wasn’t good enough. She hadn’t been able to please her husband. Her mind sent out laser beams which poked and prodded the past and bore a hole into her brain so that she could see right through. Right through that gaping abyss she saw herself cleaning ugly crawly prawns, her hands itchy with the salty sea. All because Surojeet loved eating prawns. She had never before touched these crusty creatures whose pulpy worm like inside was considered a delicacy. As soon as they were fried in batter or dropped into chilly red curry, they curled up comfortably into reddish snail-balls.
“Parineetu, this is Sameer my best friend from Mayo.” “This is my colleague Sooraj.” “Shekhar and I were in college together”, Neetu “Sujoy and I were inseparable mates. Remember Sujoy that time when we……” And the best friends and the colleagues and the college friends and the hostel mates came like the oysters. More and more and more. Gajendra, Sanjeet, Michael, Navin, Sujoy, Saleem, James, etc.etc.etc.etc. They came, they drank litres of liquor, ate mounds of rice and dozens of back breaking chappatis and chewed on heaps of goat meat and pork ribs and pomfret fish. And they sang loud and lustily. And they sprawl-slept on her bed and on Diva’s and on the carpet and on the divan and on the sofa. 300 days of the year.
They adored the lisping Diva and they called Paraneeta, bhabhi. Their brother Surojeet's wife. She was their mother. Bhabhi was akin to mother. They were her children and it was her duty to look after them. They never asked her to join them in their revelry. Mothers are best in the kitchen. Their love peeping out of curries and poories. They respected her too much to drink and smoke in her presence. They were happy mother Paraneeta, Surojeet’s Neetu fed them and tucked them into bed and cleaned their whisky and rum smelling vomit.
When the cracks appeared which now threatened the walls, they had leaned on they were too drunk to notice.
That is why no one knew when it happened. The slim, doe-eyed Paraneeta (whose long dark tresses and kohl lined eyes had turned Surojeet’s eyes dark with passion) metamorphosed Kafkaesque like into a frump.
The eternal bhabhi now cooked and heated and reheated daal makhani. Malai paneer, dum aloo, murg mussalam, and mutton biryani. They sprawled on the carpet, dropped cigarette ash all around and left rum smelling glasses under chairs, on window sills and behind the divan. Smoke, smelling of cigarettes hung limply like a damp rag in the toilets mixed with beery stenchy urine which sat stagnant in the commode.
“Bhabhi, you are the greatest.” They chorused. And Surojeet, swaying on his liquor filled hollow legs put his arm around her and smile slurred, “Thankkkyouuuu pppooch. You really are the shweetesht. There ish no better woman I mean wife in the whoooole world.” She had believed him.
Surojeet had left. Left her with a suffocating pain in her chest which wouldn’t go away. As if unknown to her an elephant had walked over her bosom cracking her ribs and grinding her heart into a paste. How did that clown in the circus survive? What was the trick? The huge pachyderm had lumbered across his puny chest and he hadn’t died. He had Just sat up and skipped away humming. Why wasn’t she able to do that? How and when did big round elephant feet plant themselves inside of her?
Nobody visited their bhabhi Paraneeta anymore. Well, that’s not entirely true. One of them did. But he was not calling her bhabhi. He was saying, “Paraneeta, what beautiful…..eyes you have”. It hurt. Everything hurt. Even the sweet smell of the hashnahanna which filled the air at night hurt. Even the cool breeze touched Paraneeta’s cheek with stabbing fingers of pain. Paraneeta’s eyes dammed the tears which waited impatiently for the dark sentinel of the night to lift the barriers. Often the barrier stayed rigidly in place. The gate keeper drowned in hemlock.
A mud pike let out a scream of pleasure. The moon smiled full faced. Somewhere outside in the goblin filled night trees walked hand in hand. Thank God they wouldn’t be able see her. Her. They wouldn’t recognize her. Daylight would tear the fragile veil behind which she cowered, dressed in vulnerability. It exposed her to the greedy gaze of carrion men. She knew why the rasping voice on the telephone raged its angry lust at night. Women like her wanted a man.
That is why the telephone never stopped ringing? “Come Baby. I can make you feel good.”
The voices echoed other voices known and forgotten. Scorpion-like suspicion stung her mind. Could it be Mr. Kalra her so polite neighbour whose thin-lipped wife had gone to the States for her daughter’s delivery? Could it be that awful pompous Retd Brig Sohni who had cordoned off community land, The one who had raved and ranted when she had protested. Could it be? Could it be? Could it be Mr Kakkar, that greasy fat woman Sonia’s husband? The one who always stood on the terrace slowly rubbing his palm on his crotch? Or was it that quiet bespectacled Bengali gentleman Mr. Dotto who put his head down every time she passed him by. He lived alone and had a telephone.
The werewolf faces didn’t fit the names. A stranger lurked somewhere in the congested cluster of houses. A stranger who knew who she was. Raindrops lashed the windows of her soul, soaking the pillow where Paraneeta hid her face. It was 11 PM. Saturday the 3rd of March. Seven months after Surojeet had left. The way people do when a train halts at some wayside station. Just like that... Pick up your baggage and leave. Leave co- travelers without a word. Forget the intimacy of the long journey. The shared experiences. Forget the togetherness of a common destination.
Paraneeta snatched the shrill receiver off its cradle. Lust splattered the night in a continuous spurt, penetrating the hymeneal resistance of Paraneeta’s ears. Unbridled orgiastic shrieks hammered the inky night. The venomous violence in the stranger’s voice shredded its dull quietness. An anonymous putrid breath escaped the pores of the mouth piece. Spermslime
slipped greenly over her convulsed body.
“You swine! You dirty filthy creep! How dare you call up here again”.
Sea-waves of nausea and a wet taste of salt. Surojeet had left her to these snarling sex starved jackals.
“Para-neeeta?”
Oh God! They have now got my name! She shut the tears deep inside her eyes.
Her heart drummed into her ears.
“Paraneeta? Paraneeeeeta. Are you all right? What is the matter? Paraneeta”, a voice from far away familiar spoke. Its concern brought the hot drops of nimbus rain to fall out of her dark eyes. The stone hearted marble didn’t soak them up.
“Noth….nothing.” She stammered.
“What is the matter? Paraneeta” It was Kiran. Her old friend.
“Oh! Just a cockroach.”
“A cockroach?”
“I hate cockroaches. I hate them! They are disgusting.”
Get a hold on yourself. Letting a cockroach get you into a state.”
“On second thoughts”, Paraneeta giggled with relief, “I think I will turn and live with cockroaches. Do you know they survived the atom bomb?”.
“Really Paraneeta! Where on earth do you get your information from?”
“From the National Geographic.”
“Oh really! I must say your humour hasn’t dulled. I can see you are cracking up, aren’t you?” Kiran guffawed.
“I am okay. It’s just all the work and looking after Diva.
Anyway, tell me what have you been up to? why haven’t you come to see me?”
“Oh! This has been a really busy week”. Kiran sounded grim, “My Chairman is here from New York. And I am running up and down to the Ministry. I had a real filmy style dhishum dhidhum with the Secretary to the Government of India. This stupid man I told him what I thought of his ridiculous plans for improving tourism in the country. Honestly, we are really making a fool of ourselves.
Imagine this man, he can't even speak English correctly …He was saying “Madam I have no timu to breathu! Oh my God! What is going to happen to this country if people can’t even speak proper English.”
“Kiran, nothing is going to happen. This country will go on.
We have lived without the English language for five thousand years.” Paraneeta’s voice took on a consoling note.
“And look what we did? All kinds of people who can’t even use a fork and knife are ruling this land! Anyway, how come you are taking this fat salary for teaching English and are taking the sides of these Ramloos and Kambloos?”
Paraneeta looked at the grandfather clock, its monotonous pendulum swinging slowly and surely. It was past midnight. She couldn’t let Kiran drag her into some crazy debate.
“How’s Rajan?” she asked, tucking her aching feet under her as she sank inside the softness of the red bean-bag Diva and Surojeet had gifted her on her birthday. This was going to be a long conversation. There was no stopping Kiran. But tonight, she too wanted Kiran to talk. The stalker was out somewhere.
“Rajan?” the efficient metallic voice slipped into subtle sadness. “Well, he has finally agreed to the rehabilitation program. He lounges around all day long making innumerable telephone calls. He is so stubborn.”
“It’s not easy Kiran, you know that, to pick up the pieces of one’s life.”
The desert was red with an ominous sand filled sun. The solitary cactus stark green. Each thorny spike stood out threateningly. Paraneeta stared at the painting on the wall.
“One must be strong.” Kiran's voice sounded defeated.
“We can’t all be strong in the same way.” Paraneeta whispered.
Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a poet, writer, academic and social justice activist. She taught English and Creative Writing at Delhi University. She has featured in peer-reviewed journals, and served on academic panels around the world.
Her poetry is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives. Co-founder of Saraswati Ezine for Literature and Arts and Poetry Editor for AWS Ezine, a columnist for E Journal Different Truths. She is consulting editor for Different Truths and Director of The Backyard Book Club.
She lives in Meerut, India with her Veteran military spouse and three rescued dogs.