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‘Oho, what are you doing?’

‘Why? There is no one here.’

‘How can you be so shameless?’

‘How can a man be shameless with his own wife? You want me to be shameless with some other woman?’ he demanded.

‘Chut,’ scolded Rupa, playfully pushing away his hand, but sitting close so she was within arm’s reach. She pulled the tray towards herself and started pouring tea.

Her husband looked admiringly at her. There she was, hair still thick and black, skin still smooth and young, dressing gown carelessly tied so he could see the large, heavy breasts swaying against the soft material with every movement she made. As she bent down to put the tea on the little table next to him, his eye followed the way they swung out and down, and then his hand followed his eye.

Rupa went on with her routine struggle. ‘You are not listening about Raju, ji,’ she complained.

‘I am,’ said her husband, as he increased his caresses. He caught his wife’s pouting lip between his own and sucked it. He massaged her heavy buttocks towards him. Let’s try it on a chair, he suggested, increasing the pressure and spreading open her legs.

‘I don’t know where you get your ideas from,’ said Rupa. ‘Thank God no one knows what all you make me do.’

‘Who else do I have in the world but you? God intended it like this.’

‘Still.’

‘No still. Why else did he not give us children? Otherwise you too would be dancing attendance on some Raju, day and night. Where would be the time or place to do anything?’ asked the husband as he got up to lock the door.

As the rhythms between them became faster on the chair, her husband pressed her straining body towards himself, and whispered, ‘Tell me, does your sister get this, and this, and this?’ while she cried and told him to stop, she didn’t know, and why should she care. But he went on, because it excited him, and he wanted her to know that her sister was not rich in everything, there were other things to be had. ‘Ask her,’ he moaned, and she moaned back that he was a shameless man.

Later Prem Nath suggested, ‘Why don’t you invite Raju to spend a few days with us? Then I can see to his studies in the evening.’

Rupa looked at her husband lovingly; really, the man was too good to be true. How he shared all her concerns!

She passed that concern on to her sister the very next day. Having Prem Nath teach Raju was so much better than putting the burden on Nisha. But Sona was not interested in handing over her other child, even for a day.

‘It will be good for Raju,’ persuaded the sister, expansive from last night. ‘He will learn from Nisha’s example.’

‘He is very sensitive, if I send him away he will feel I am punishing him. He can learn from her example right here,’ said Sona heavily, looking at the dark, dusky glow of her sister, the diamond she had given her when Raju was born, glinting in her nose.

Strange were the ways of Fate. She had been the one with the good looks, the lucky marriage, and now she was the one feeling sad all the time.

Rupa caught Sona looking at her. Was the act of sex apparent? She blushed, quickly frowned, and began talking of her troubles. She suspected the woman working with her was stealing. Really, these people had no loyalty; who can supervise all the time?

Sona did not reply. If Rupa wanted to grumble about a business where she was earning almost as much as Prem Nath Bhai Sahib, she would have to do it alone.

IX

Asha and Vicky

Five years have passed since Asha, Vicky’s wife, was installed as a bride in the barsati. When it became appropriate for her to unbend her head, and take stock of her situation, she could not but notice the general meanness of her own quarters compared to the rest of the house. Her husband, on questioning, demanded tartly who was she to complain, did she come from a palace?

But her intention was not to complain. She was talking about differences. As her husband never tired of pointing out, she did not come from a palace. The barsati was enough for her needs, but it was too separate. How could the strange, lonely feelings of a bride be alleviated if there was no convivial sharing of space, nobody coming up with knitting or stitching to settle on her bed prepared for talk?

She did not know how to convey her uneasiness to her husband. How to ask him, where do you belong, tell me so I can place myself there. With whom to share the responsibility of a husband? Vicky got angry with her questions, behaving as though she was betraying him by a desire for information.

As they ate downstairs, she directed her allegiance towards Sona’s kitchen, and laid the duty of a daughter-in-law at her feet. Her link with this woman would make her place in the house stronger, and in establishing her usefulness Asha was planning her future.

She cooed over Raju, she pressed her grandmother-in-law’s feet, she ran with the grandfather-in-law’s tea when he came home, she practically lived with Sona next to the stove. She had no airs, no graces, she was humble, obedient and helpful. From time to time Sona couldn’t help thinking that Murli had chosen well.

A month into the marriage Asha became pregnant. She threw up, looked pale, and went off her food. Vicky had no idea of what to do with her. He was only twenty, it had not been his idea to get married, and he could not be held responsible for any consequences. Asha knew this as clearly as if it had been spelt out.

It was through her own treatment that Asha fully realised her husband’s marginal status. She was careful to be especially sick in front of Sona and the grandmother, but their responses were slow. Days passed before they asked her if something was wrong, and when her pregnancy was confirmed they talked of sending her to Bareilly for her confinement. Asha didn’t care if this was tradition, she could only feel the indifference of a plan that involved going home to a mother who could not afford modern treatment for her delivery. She got around this by saying she could not leave Sona Maji for even a day, her heart would break.

Eventually they did arrange for a nursing home, did insist she work less. But when her son Virat was born, she didn’t feel the importance that should have been hers. She had borne the first grandchild, still there was no appreciable increase in her status. They didn’t send her family presents, they didn’t have an elaborate naming ceremony, she got nothing beyond a silk sari. Would they behave the same if one of those other sons produced a (male) grandchild?

When she shared her thoughts with her husband, he asked curtly, ‘Where do you get your ideas from? Your mother was supposed to send gold sets for everybody, plus money for Virat – did she, huh? I even heard Sona Maji say how can one extract anything from the gullies of Bareilly?’

Mortification struck Asha. ‘Who do they think they are?’ she retaliated weakly.

‘Quite,’ responded her husband, adding, ‘What is it to us what they think or do?’

These pronouns. Them, they, not us, we. It was a little daunting, and not what Asha had expected from marriage. As long as they were in the barsati she would have to exhibit devotion to her husband’s family, but there were times when that devotion was saturated with poison.

Above all, she was determined not to have another child, ensuring this through a quiet visit to a local lady doctor. Not for her more humiliation. Proper in-laws would have appreciated Virat, given him due importance, made her feel she was adding to the family, not depleting its resources. Maybe one day … if they had their own place …

This was Asha’s dream. An independent place. Her mother and sister could visit her, something inconceivable at her inlaws. To this end she nagged:

‘Why can’t they pay you a decent salary?’

‘They don’t own you.’

‘You can still work with them and live elsewhere. Are you listening?’

Vicky tried to explain to his wife the reasons why they were already so beholden to his uncles. Despite their practice of investing all profits back into the shop, they had built him a small room on the terrace with an added toilet for his own use, a luxury none of the others had. Due to them she was living in Delhi instead of Bareilly. But his wife’s discomfort in that tiny room had eroded her sense of obligation.

‘Why should we be so grateful for this hot, hot room?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t know what it is like running up and down with a baby. There is no place for me to rest downstairs, nor can I leave the baby sleeping and come up – they will say, what kind of mother are you? If I lie there on the floor, I feel I am in the way, not that I am complaining, but you only tell me how am I to manage?’ She felt so sorry for herself her eyes filled with tears.

Vicky finally installed a little stand-up desert cooler in their room. If you put your face next to it, you felt some cool, moist air, but it made no difference to the child’s prickly heat.

When her complaining got too much, Vicky threatened to send her back home. Where did she think she came from to exhibit such airs and graces?

‘I think you deserve better, that is all.’

‘I am fine here, I wasn’t born in a palace like you.’ He had not yet learned to hate his living quarters. They ate their meals downstairs and he liked sleeping on the terrace even during the heat of summer. After midnight the air grew gentle and they had privacy.

Vicky yearned for more children. He had been alone as a child and he did not want Virat to suffer that loneliness. ‘My son should have brothers in case anything happens to us,’ he insisted.

‘Where will you keep them? On my head?’ demanded his wife.

‘I can build another room up here.’

‘Yes, they are really concerned about your comfort. Who will give you money to build?’

‘They.’

‘They!’ commented Asha bitterly. ‘They will go on taking advantage of you, that is all that will happen.’

‘You go on talking, talking, understanding nothing. It’s not as though you have come from anywhere great.’

His standard argument reduced Asha to temporary silence. She knew she couldn’t push him beyond a certain point, he knew that ultimately he could insult her into restraint. Still, she was his ally, and the knowledge that somebody in the house considered him a victim was balm to his soul.

His dreams were different from his wife’s. He wanted to start a part-time business making Baba suits. Sets for children used little cloth and profit margins were high. If his uncles built him a shed on the barsati, he could hire a tailor, and get Asha to oversee the designs. If it did well he could even open a boutique. Ready-made clothes were beginning to come into fashion, and as for the cloth, he could get it at wholesale prices from his uncles. He had already thought of a brand name: Virat Baba Suits.

Of course, all this could only happen with his uncles’ consent. He ignored his own certain knowledge that business initiative had to trickle down from up. He was not trying to change anything, he declared during imaginary discussions, he was only branching out into an inoffensive sideline.

If they did object, he would demand his fair share and leave. He had to think long term for the sake of little Virat. There is a time when the joints in a joint family become visible, and as far as he was concerned there never had been a seamless merging. He spent nights restlessly tossing, arguing with the figures of his grandfather and uncles, forcing them to recognise his years of unrewarded toil.

He mentioned his plans to Asha. She was enthusiastic, yes, yes, she would supervise, the stars in his head connecting to the stars in hers. It was when he mentioned his alternative strategy that she baulked. ‘I am not leaving. Where will we go? What about Virat’s education?’

‘Since when are you so interested in education? I have never seen you open a book.’

‘So what? It is not my education that my son needs, but his own. He will be an MBA.’

‘Huh. Father not even high-school pass, and son will be an MBA,’ remarked Vicky cynically. ‘Where do you get your ideas?’

‘From all around me. You could not be high-school pass because you had to work. But Ajay is almost finished college, Vijay is in first year, Raju will go, even Nisha I am sure they will send. If girls can go to college …’

‘Bas, bas, you are always talking. Learn to keep quiet.’

Asha kept on. ‘Arre, if you have no ambition for him, I do. How can he be part of this business, with so many boys in the house?’

‘There is his grandfather’s shop in Bareilly.’

Asha snorted. ‘Grandfather! There is not enough for you, how will there be enough for your son? I’m not going anywhere. You go if you are so keen.’

This argument drove Vicky to tackle his grandfather more forcefully than he might have otherwise dared. ‘Please allow me to build on the roof. I want to make Baba suits. Give me a chance to show I too can do something. My mother would have appreciated it, she always said your grandparents love you so much, they will look after you when I have gone. Besides, I have to provide for my family.’

He chose a time when his grandfather was alone, hoping the memory of his dead daughter could be worked to good effect. Lala Banwari Lal looked troubled, his gaze wandered, he would talk to the boy’s uncles, they understood the market, he himself had no experience of children’s clothes, and wasn’t his family being provided for?

Vicky took these comments for the bad signs they were. It was a small request, why couldn’t his grandfather agree straight away? He was the head of the family, if he wouldn’t help him, why would his uncles? He would be forced to live like this for the rest of his life.

It was after seven-thirty and the shop was shut. Lala Banwari Lal and his sons were sitting on the takht in front of the cash box. Vicky and the assistants had left, the shutter outside was half-down, there was only one light left on. Pyare Lal was counting money, Yashpal was making entries in a ledger. The grandfather mentioned the conversation he had had with his grandson.

‘What is the matter with Vicky? Does he need his head examined?’ grunted Pyare Lal, snapping elastic bands around bundles of five thousands.

‘The boy wants to set up something on his own; it is natural,’ said Lala Banwari Lal mildly. ‘Maybe we can permit him one shed on the terrace.’