It was a particularly hot day. As Ganga stood before the stove, sweat plastered the back of her blouse and rivulets flowed down either sides of her forehead. Her cheeks had a rosy flush and she pushed back the damp ringlets that teased her forehead carelessly. She ran her hands down her satiny waist and hips and remembered wistfully how her beloved husband had felt them when they were alone, just the two of them, and commented “so soft, just like silk.” She remembered those strong and tender hands and longed for their embrace. She turned the dosas on the pan, as she remembered how at this precise moment every day for 20 years she had stood making him his afternoon coffee and a snack while he sat at the kitchen table regaling her with titbuts picked up from his morning walk and interesting news items from the day’s paper. How could she wipe away 45 years of memories in one fell swoop? How could he have let her down so badly, after all those promises of living into his nineties? Ganga experienced loss at so many levels that she peeled each layer to discover many more. Everyday he had praised her cooking, the clothes she wore, the jewellery that she adorned her dusky body with, always noticing something new, always praising, teasing and loving. What hurt the most was her de-feminization as a result of his passing. Not just at the societal level, where she would be stared down if she wore flowers in her hair, henna on her hands, or anklets and toe rings. She continued to colour her hair and to wear her large red dot since those appeared to be acceptable transgressions of the Code that society set out for Hindu widows today. However, anything else could cause a stir and have “friends” treat her as an embarrassment. What Ganga missed the most was being woman to a man – as a companion, friend, intimate partner – one to walk beside, to reach and hold on to for solace, someone to banter, bicker and budget with. She also guiltily yearned for the time when she had dressed with care gracefully and modestly accentuating every feminine feature of her gorgeous face and form, dusky satin skin, delicate features and graceful limbs all still very youthful.
Today, a year later, Ganga had learnt to live with memories, thousands of them. She liked the solitude and resented any disruptions in the quiet moments that she shared quietly romancing her husband as if he were away on a trip and would send for her soon.
This afternoon, Ganga was expecting a visitor. A voice from the past, a faded memory. She had last seen him forty years ago. A kind man who had been a paying guest in the humble flat that she and her husband had shared with their child. She remembered how he had helped take care of the child while she cooked the evening meal on that small kerosene stove. He had told the child stories and had gone on all fours taking her on donkey rides around that small hall. Unlike other men, he had made conversation with her, asked after her family, also telling her about his, why even exposing his vulnerabilities regaling her with accounts about his tough boss and his hearbreak over his inability to marry his neighbour’s daughter because she belonged to another caste. She had devoured his stories sometimes shocked, mostly flattered over his trust in her and entertained by his uncensored, often funny narration of events and experiences. A moment passed and the glimmer of a smile on her face was replaced with a look of deep sadness. A memory long suppressed of the events leading up to his sudden departure from that humble flat and life resurfaced. Her daughter bore the mark on her forehead like a tattoo, emblazoning the end of a cherished memory, of the only time she had come close to living a little dangerously, talking so freely, even flirting with a man other than her husband. As the cobwebs parted from over that picture of a cheerful kitchen, him, her and her daughter she shuddered at the memory of her husband entering that house and taking in the scene of cozy domesticity. He silenced the two adults in that room with one look and pointing his finger at the paying guest said “you get yourself another place tonight” No explanations offered, none asked for – just like that. The paying guest startled, knew better than to protest, put on his outdoor clothes, grabbed his purse and left in a huff leaving behind his meager belongings. The child started to cry at the sight of the departing back of her beloved companion of the past year. Ganga had been transfixed from fear and shock. Her mother had drilled it into her that she should obey and never argue with her husband or elders. The muscles in her face tightened and she had gritted her teeth at the memory of her husband blatantly flirting with his brother’s wife, her arch rival. Why he had even taken her out, leaving Ganga behind to care for his mother. Outings that continued from before when they were married, since the said brother in law was preoccupied with other women. Ganga was not dumb or mute but she had stood there swallowing her words along with her pride and indignation and made a valiant effort to forbear. For where would she be, if he threw her out with just a gesture of his finger? She had felt sorry that he wanted to possess not just her beautiful body but every thought on her head as well. Maybe that was his right? Who was she to question him, uneducated dependant woman that she was?
After her husband had left for work the next morning, the paying guest had come back to pick up his belongings. The child could not contain her joy and bolted towards him, crashing instead into the door knob of the half opened door. He scooped the child in his arms and rushed out to hail a cab, his shirt soaked in her blood. He contacted her husband, from the hospital, and the latter arrived there in the nick of time to stop the nurses from disfiguring that pretty young face with sutures. Handing the child over to her father he left never to be heard from again. Until today. He had called her this morning saying he had just learnt about the death of his dear friend and wondered if he could come over to offer his condolences in person?
Ganga had a moment of pause over the request. What should she say? Would she be betraying her beloved husband’s memory and going aginst his wishes, she wondered? However, her curiosity got the better of her and she proceeded to give him directions to get to her flat. She decided to make some dosas and coffee so she could offer him something to eat and drink. She casually mentioned his proposed visit to her daughters, when they called, to guage for reaction. She was somewhat relieved when there was none.
Now in about half an hour he would be in her home. She showered and took care to dress choosing a crisp cottee saree for the proper look, somber yet graceful. She carefully combed her hair and patted talcum on her face and body. She wore a large dot on her broad forehead. She felt ready to make the desired impression of an independent woman, smart and poised. She felt guilty about the lightheadedness she experienced from this new found independence. This was now her domain and she made All the rules. It was a heady feeling and she sought foregiveness, for her vile thoughts, from her husband’s picture which hung on the wall facing the entrance.
The bell rang and there he was looking quite distinguished, tall, tanned and fit in white kurta pyjama, a full head of silvery white hair. He was five years younger than her husband and therefore five years older than her. Life had been kind to him, she thought wishing suddenly that she could have shown off her fit and handsome husband to him. He sat on the seat beside the door, head bent. After a few moments of silence, he tentatively raised his head daring to catch her gaze, his large expressive eyes filled with compassion. The words “I am so sorry..” came out in a tremor. He seemed to be apologizing for all those years of silence, for leaving without so much as challenging her husband, offering an explanation, putting up a fight. In a sense he had abandoned her that day and a curious anger welled up in her bosom against him. How dare he have done that? Now he asked her “how did he die?” She spoke with a strong voice conveying the depth of her love for her beloved husband and the breadth of her loss – words gushing out, tripping over each other in a rush of a hurried account – of the diagnosis, the hospital stay and the painful end.” He hung on to her every word, only nodding his head, murmuring words of regret and sympathy.
Several minutes passed and by now they felt somewhat at ease with each other. She offered him coffee and dosas, both of which he readily and graciously accepted, any reason to prolong his visit, it seemed to her. As she served him, she bucked up enough courage to ask after him, his life, the past 40 years. He had never married, he said. He quit the bank soon after he moved out of their house and took up an assignment in Africa. He then joined the United Nations Development Agency and worked on projects all over the world. One year here, another there. He made friends everywhere he went, but never kept them. She would have loved some of those places, he let it slip. As their conversation became more and more animated, their genders became irrelevant. They were just two souls in close communion, sharing and entering into each others’ spheres of reference, listening, exploring, processing, joyous in their newfound kinship. His eyes sparkled with life and his unabashed adoration of her. She was not shocked. She took it all in cherishing this secret between them, her eyes telling of her fondness for him, the chasm of 40 years disappearing in an instant, for what was time, but a creation of thought.
Her heart lifted when she heard him say he had moved to Chennai and lived within 5 minutes walking distance with his younger sister who had also been recently widowed. He would bring her over he promised. He asked if she would be interested in joining him and his sister on a tour of South India in his car the following month? She was already making plans for him to meet her daughters. She just hoped they would not think she was dishonouring the memory of their beloved father. For the first time since her husband’s death, she felt a twinge of excitement a sense of her own womanhood. As the door clicked shut, she leaned back against it and pressed her hands against her hot cheeks first and then her bosom – What had she done?!
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