Hats and Doctors: Stories Page 7

  Keshi’s eyes often settled on his mother while he was talking to his friends during the wedding ceremonies, or listening to the women’s banter. She was nearing forty, and her twenty-two years of widowhood had hardened her expression and etched dark rings around her eyes, but the wedding of her only child seemed to have wrought a miracle in her. She looked exquisite in her white sari; to Keshi she was the most beautiful of all the women there. The circles around her eyes had magically vanished. She kept slipping out to decorate the bridal chamber in the midst of carrying out the ceremonies and looking after the guests. Not a trace of fatigue showed on her face.

  Keshi feared that the fatigue and the sleepless nights would make his mother ill. Every night before he retired he would go to her and plead, ‘Ma, go to bed now!’ But far from going to sleep herself, she would instead come to his bed and gently rub oil on his temples and brow until he fell asleep. Then she would go back to her work.

  Keshi had formed a habit of having oil rubbed into his scalp. During his examinations, when he stayed up all night and wanted a couple of hours of sleep during the day, his mother would rub oil on his head. Even then, Keshi, unable to stop gazing at her, would refuse to fall asleep. His mother would press the palms of her hands on his eyes, close them and kiss them. Then she would run her fingers lightly across his forehead, their soft silken touch laden with a love that gradually made his lids heavy with sleep, and at last he would fall into a deep slumber.

  Keshi had learnt this art from her. Whenever his mother had insomnia because she was tired or worried, he would sit by her pillow and softly rub oil on her temples and eyebrows until she fell asleep. When he was younger, thirteen or fourteen, his mother would often pull his head toward her and kiss him on the lips. When he grew older and got his bachelor’s and then his master’s degree, and was appointed lecturer in psychology at the university, his mother started kissing his forehead instead of his lips.

  All through the festivities, Keshi wished he could rescue his mother from the crowd of women who had come to the wedding, bodily lift her up and force her to go to bed. But there she was, as busy as ever, weaving garlands around the nuptial bed. When the flowers ran out, she sent people all over town to bring back more. She squandered money as if it had no value. He wanted to say to her, ‘Ma, why all this trouble at the expense of your health? Your love means more to me than these ceremonial festivities, more than all these festoons and decorations. You mean more to me than such things. You’ll make yourself ill!’ But he knew she’d pay no heed to what he said.

  ‘Son, my wedding just sort of happened, that was all,’ she’d told him when he tried to protest. ‘Your father was only a low-paid clerk; he hadn’t yet taken the exam for government service. I don’t want your bride to have any regrets. I didn’t even get an armlet of flowers. You just wait and see how I’ll decorate the nuptial bed for your bride!’

  His aunt had pushed him on to the nuptial bed and said with a laugh, ‘Now, make sure you don’t waste any of your time expounding philosophy.’ It took him some time to catch her insinuation.

  He’d known this room for a long time and was familiar with everything in it, the bed and the rest of the furniture. His mother’s dressing table had been left just as it had always been, her vanity case, her papier mâché bangle box, her table lamp, for which she’d paid a tidy sum in Bombay. What made it look brighter were the garlands of jasmine buds, the first of the season. They were hung in long strings around the canopy frame like a floral mosquito net. They were also spread thick over the bed and his bride lay across them on the virginal white sheet, a flower goddess, her face half-covered by her veil.

  Keshi imagined the scene of his mother’s wedding. She had been the bride of a low-grade clerk in the canal department. It must have been a hovel, on a coarse stringed charpoy, in the dim light of a hurricane lantern. It all seemed so hazy and dream-like. Later, his father had risen to the post of Executive Engineer and then his mother got everything she’d wanted, but she never forgot the disappointment of her wedding night. She’d adorned her son’s nuptial bed as she would have liked her own to have been; she’d fulfilled her desire. But those same decorations had made trouble for Keshi. No matter where he turned his gaze, old images took form before his eyes.

  ‘Make sure you don’t waste any of your time expounding philosophy.’ His aunt’s words and her laughter echoed in his brain … Was he caught in a web of his own making? What must his bride be thinking? Several incidents swam before his eyes, in which the man’s weakness on the first night had taken a couple’s married life down with it. But was it necessary for a man to prove his manhood on the very first night of his marriage? Why do these women get so worked up about this? Didn’t every single one of them relive her own wedding night by preparing others for their wedding nights? As had his mother as well—the way she worked so hard decorating the wedding chamber; putting her bed there; decorating it with flowers the way she’d hoped her own wedding bed would look, but which hadn’t because of his father’s poverty and absentmindedness …

  Keshi shook his head. What was wrong with him? Why had he said, ‘I want this bed’? But he was only a child then; perhaps his mother had been as well.

  He had come back onto the verandah. Suddenly he saw his bride standing under the arch.

  ‘Are you not feeling well?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  Keshi wanted to burst out laughing loudly. Even his wife was thinking of only one thing. He put his arm around her waist and led her indoors. He decided to lay aside his complex and do what was expected of him. He pushed his bride on the bed a little roughly. He pulled the buttons of her blouse open. He leaned over her, but his bride had put the pillow back in its place: once more Keshi’s eyes fell on his mother’s picture, once more his thoughts grew hazy. He stood up. He turned to go outside when his bride grabbed his hand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Keshi glanced towards the door. How much easier it would have been if his mother had decorated his room instead of her own! His room was now stacked with furniture received as dowry and other odds and ends collected for the wedding. He didn’t even have the key to his room. Keshi cast a dispirited glance towards the verandah. Moonbeams cascaded through the venetian blinds of the verandah. He exclaimed, ‘Look how lovely it is in the moonlight! Let’s take a stroll outside.’

  The bride got up and readjusted her clothing. She took a quick glance in the mirror, tidied her hair, pulled her veil over her forehead and followed her husband.

  They strolled up to the gate and back to the verandah twice, without speaking to each other. Once or twice the bride tried to say something in praise of the moonlight, but Keshi made no reply; the two continued to walk in silence.

  The heady spring moonlight did not change their mood. The bride was perplexed by her groom’s extraordinary behaviour. From her girlfriends, some of whom were now mothers, she had heard of what happens between newly married couples on the first night. Her husband had started off in the same way and then suddenly changed his mind. She had heard people praise his good looks, his learning and his gentleness. He was a lecturer at the university. Her father had made inquiries about him not only from his fellow lecturers, but also from the students, and had only finalized the marriage negotiations after he was fully satisfied. No one had suggested that the boy was eccentric or slightly unhinged. Yet when she thought of him and his efforts to make love to her, her future looked extremely bleak to her. Glancing furtively at him, she continued to walk beside him, barely noticing the lovely moonlight.

  And Keshi felt as though he was stuck in a swamp—he couldn’t find any way out of his dilemma. He continued his monotonous pacing with his hands clasped behind him, as if they were chained together. When they came to the gate again he spoke brusquely, ‘Come on, let’s go out for a while.’

  ‘It’s rather late,’ she protested gently.

  Keshi recalled that one of his
friends, when telling him about an amorous liaison, had remarked that the lane between the water tank and the Grand Trunk Road was lonely and shaded, an ideal place for lovers.

  ‘Only as far as the water tank,’ he pleaded.

  He opened the gate. His bride followed him in trusting silence. Keshi began to explain the landscape: it had once been an exclusive residential area for the senior English officials of the railway; after Independence the bungalows had been taken over by the Indians. When they passed by the flour mill, he explained to her how wheat and corn are ground. At the cold storage plant he recounted how forty thousand maunds of potatoes could be stored there, to be marketed out of season. When they came to the press building, he peered through the window panes and loudly began to explain the miracle of the rotary machine: how a blank sheet went in at one end, and emerged at the other as a newspaper. He was heading for the railway station when he recalled what his friend had said about the lane connecting the water tank and the Grand Trunk Road. They turned towards the gate of the railway crossing. It was closed. Keshi saw the red light and explained, ‘This gate is an awful nuisance. There’s always some train or the other passing through, twenty-four hours a day. The station’s gotten so big, but no one’s bothered with this gate. If they put a bridge over here it would avoid many accidents.’

  There was still some time before the train would come. They crossed the line by the side gate and came to the water tank. The road on the right hand was open and well lit, the one on the left was dark. When Keshi turned towards the dark one, his wife protested, ‘Let’s go home; it’s very late.’ But Keshi put his right arm round her waist. ‘Just a little farther,’ he coaxed. ‘See how the moon shines through the branches!’

  ‘Why not the other side? It’s a wide open road.’

  ‘Are you scared?’ he mocked gently, bending over to kiss her forehead.

  The girl shook herself free in embarrassment, ‘What are you doing … right in the road …?’

  Keshi laughed. Once more he put his arm around her waist and exclaimed, ‘Who on earth will see us here at this time of the night!’ Again he bent over to kiss her, but before he could do so, the headlights of a vehicle caught him in their glare; a truck roared past them. They had barely got the glare of the lights out of their eyes, when another truck came along, followed by a whole convoy of trucks. ‘Lonely, quiet road indeed!’ muttered Keshi to himself. The romantic mood vanished.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ pleaded his bride in a tearful voice. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘This is the main road, trucks and cars run at all hours of the day and night,’ explained Keshi. ‘Let’s go to M.T. Lines. The road up to the church should be quite deserted.’

  ‘I’m very tired,’ she begged.

  He took her firmly by the waist and led her towards the open road leading to the Military Training Lines.

  The bungalows on either side of the road were bathed in moonlight, strangely still, as if taken by surprise. Beneath the trees, the patterns of light and shade formed a web-like design. Just then there was a light breeze full of fragrance. Keshi tried to guess where the Queen of the Night was blooming, smiling in its rivalry with the moonlight, and spreading its fragrance into the atmosphere with its every breath. He twined his arm round his wife’s waist and guided her to the shade of the trees.

  ‘Are you very tired?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but instead put her head against her husband’s chest. He drew her face to his and kissed her on the lips.

  A beam of torchlight flashed from across the road; the couple sprang apart. Keshi went pale; his heart began to beat rapidly. He remembered that no one was allowed to come to the M.T. Lines after midnight.

  A group of soldiers in olive green uniforms came by singing a song from the latest film they had seen:

  Whether you’re the full moon, or the sun

  Whichever one, I swear by God

  You’re matchless in your beauty

  Despite the moonlight, they flashed the light of their torch on the couple.

  Keshi had wanted to take his bride in his arms, look into her eyes and repeat the opening lines of the song:

  Whether you’re the full moon, or the sun …

  But the bad manners of the soldiers quelled his surge of romantic feeling. He remembered an incident involving a friend and his sister who had come to dine at a bungalow in the M.T. Lines. They hadn’t realized how late it was and were unable to find a rickshaw. When they were walking home at half past twelve, they were stopped by soldiers. They had to go back to their hosts to prove they were brother and sister.

  Before his bride could say anything about going back, Keshi turned his steps towards home. When the soldiers had flashed the torch on his bride’s face, Keshi had felt roused to such a temper that he wanted to get one of the fellows by the collar and slap him on the face. But if there’d been a scene and if anyone had asked what the lecturer and his bride were doing at that late hour in a deserted lane, what could he have replied? Instead, all his anger boiled up at his mother, at the bed she had given him and at his own impotence.

  He walked back at a brisk pace; his bride followed, dragging her feet, a few steps behind him. He slowed down when he entered through the gate. The girl, clearly annoyed, went ahead at a quickened pace, straight to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed. When Keshi came in, he saw her lying on the nuptial bed, her feet dangling over the edge, with one end of her sari trailing on the floor and her low-cut blouse revealing the contours of her soft, warm breasts. He wanted to go down on his knees and put his head in her lap. But once again—and without any volition on his part—his eyes travelled from his bride to his mother’s portrait.

  He stood in the centre of the room, lost in thought. The girl stared at the ceiling, her eyes brimming with tears. Keshi glanced at the door to his room. ‘Isn’t that door locked from the outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling.

  Keshi walked around the room twice. ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘Probably with Auntie; she had all the furniture put inside.’

  Keshi went out to the other end of the house. The light in his mother’s bedroom had been switched off. The other women had obviously gone to sleep too. Should he wake up his mother? If his aunt happened to wake up too, she would make fun of him. He came back and walked about the bedroom for a while. He stole a glance at his bride. She was still gazing stonily at the ceiling. He went to the door of his own room and put his shoulder against it. The bottom latch was firm and would not yield. His mother always used the bottom latch. If it had been the upper latch, he could have smashed the glass pane on the top of the door and undone the bolt.

  He stepped back and examined the door. Both sides had three panes of glass each and some woodwork. If he broke the third pane he could reach his hand to the bottom latch. He wanted to smash the glass with his fist; but the thought of waking up his mother dampened his enthusiasm like a cold shower. With his fists clenched behind his back, he paced back and forth, deep in thought. He went around a few times and again stopped in front of the door. He looked at its base. The right side was somewhat damaged. He peered at it more closely. A crack showed clearly through the paint. He squatted on the floor, rested his back against the bed and pressed his heels against the crack with all his strength. The bed slid backward, but the door did not yield.

  The bride lay stiffly on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. She seemed to take no notice of the bed sliding. Keshi stole a glance at her. She turned towards him. Their eyes met. Was there just a trace of sarcasm in her eyes? Did she look at him as if he were a little mad? An insane impulse possessed Keshi; his rational faculties vanished into thin air. He leapt up, and with one powerful blow smashed the third pane of the door. The glass splintered and fell on the other side.

  The bride sat up with a start. A look of astonishment appeared on her face as she rose and stood by her husband. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked irritably
.

  Keshi did not reply. He didn’t even look at her. He put his arm through the broken pane and undid the latch on the other side. The door yielded to his weight. Holding on to it with his left hand, he carefully withdrew his right arm. Even so, his elbow got scratched and blood began to ooze through his torn sleeve.

  ‘Hai, what have you done!’ the girl cried. Her voice was at once full of concern and recrimination. She looked around to see if she could find something to bandage the cut.

  Keshi paid her no heed. He pushed the door open with both his hands and went in. He knew where the light switch was, and turned it on. The room was packed with wedding presents and dowry furniture: a sofa set, a dressing table, an almira, a sewing machine; a trunk and suitcases full of clothes, trays of sweets and dried fruits. The bed that had been sent as dowry was there as well. It was loaded with all kinds of garments. He bundled them up in both his arms and flung them on the couch.

  The bride had come in behind him. In her eyes was not bewilderment but fear. Keshi turned around and put his hands on her shoulders. He gazed into her frightened eyes and then drew her to him and kissed her. Through her fear she felt her husband’s indifference change to passion; she felt his hot breath on her ears. Her petrified limbs relaxed in his warm embrace and she began to caress his hair.