16.24
Dearest Lata,
I have been thinking of you often since you’ve been away, but you know how busy I always succeed in making myself, even in the holidays. Something, however, has happened which I feel I should write to you about. I have been torturing myself about whether to tell you, but I think the thing to do is simply to go ahead. I was so happy to get your letter and I dread the thought of making you unhappy. Maybe what with the election mail and the Christmas rush this letter will be delayed or will disappear entirely. I don’t suppose I’ll be sorry.
I’m sorry my thoughts are so scattered. I’m just writing on impulse. I was looking through my papers yesterday and came across the note you wrote to me when I was in Nainital, saying you had found the pressed flower again. I read it twice and suddenly thought of that day in the zoo, and tried to remember why I gave you that flower! I think it unconsciously was a seal to our friendship. It expressed my feelings for you, and I’m glad I can share my joys and sorrows with this wonderful, affectionate person who is so far away from me and yet so close.
Well, Calcutta isn’t so far away really, but friends matter all the time, and it’s good to know you haven’t forgotten me. I was looking at the photographs of the play again while I was sorting things out in my mind, and was thinking how wonderfully you acted. It amazed me at the time and still amazes me — especially from someone who is sometimes so reserved, who doesn’t often talk about her fears, fantasies, dreams, anxieties, loves and hates — and whom I would probably never have got to know if it hadn’t been for the good luck of sharing the same hospital room — sorry! hostel room.
Well, I’ve avoided the subject long enough, and I can see your anxious face. The news I have to give you is about K, which — well, I should just give it and be done with it and I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. I’m just doing the unpleasant duty of a friend.
After you left for Cal, K sent me a note and we met at the Blue Danube. He wanted me to get you to talk to him or write to him. He said all sorts of things about how much he cared for you, sleepless nights, restless wanderings, lovelorn longings, the lot. He spoke very convincingly, and I felt quite sorry for him. But he must be rather practised at that sort of thing, because he was seeing another girl — at the Red Fox — on about the same day. You told me he doesn’t have a sister, and anyway, it’s clear from my informant, who is completely reliable, that he wasn’t behaving in a particularly brotherly way. I was surprised how furious I was to hear of this, but in a way I was glad that this made things quite clear. I made up my mind to fire him up face to face, but found he’d disappeared from town on some university cricket tour, and anyway now I don’t think it’s worth the stress and bother.
Now, please, Lata, don’t let this open up all the old wounds. Just treat it as confirmation of the course of action you’ve chosen. I’m sure we women make things far worse for ourselves by dwelling endlessly on matters that are best pushed aside. This is my professional opinion too. Some moderate mooning is OK, but please, no perennial pining! He isn’t worth it, Lata, and this proves it. If I were you, I would just crush him with the flat of my spoon into mashed potatoes and forget him entirely.
Now for other news.
What with elections coming up, everything is bubbling and swirling around here, and the Socialist Party is mapping out policies and strategies and quackeries and sorceries with the best of them. I attend all the meetings, and canvass and campaign, but I am rather disillusioned. Everyone is involved in pushing himself forward, spouting slogans, making promises, and not bothering about how these promises are to be paid for, let alone implemented. Even sensible people seem to have gone off their heads. One fellow here used to talk a good deal of sense before, but he froths so much and makes such ‘big-big eyes’ that I’m sure he is quite certifiable now.
And yes, women have been rediscovered: one pleasant side-effect of election fever. ‘The time has come when Woman must be restored to the status she occupied in ancient India: we must combine the best of the past and the present, of the West and the East. . ’ Here, however, is our ancient lawbook, the Manusmriti. Take a deep breath:
‘Day and night, women must be kept in dependence by the males of their families. In childhood, a woman must be subject to her father, in youth to her husband and in old age to her son; a woman must never be independent because she is innately as impure as falsehood. . The Lord created woman as one who is full of sensuality, wrath, dishonesty, malice and bad conduct.’ (And, sadly, now, the vote.)
I don’t suppose anything is going to bring you back here before the term begins, but I miss you a lot even though, as I said, things are so busy that I find it hard to think even half a thought through.
Love to you, and also to Ma, Pran, Savita and the baby — but you don’t have to give them my love if you’re afraid they’ll start asking you all about my letter. Well, you can give Uma my love anyway.
Malati
P.S. Amongst the inmates of Paradise women will form the minority, and amongst the inmates of Hell a majority. I thought I’d be even-handed, and give you a quotation from the Hadith as well. ‘Hit or myth’: that, in a nutshell, is the attitude to women in every religion.
P.P.S. Since I’m in the mood for quotations, here is something from a short story in a women’s magazine, which describes the symptoms I want you to avoid: ‘She became an invalid, a moth-eaten flower. . A cloud of despair was roosting on her pale moon of a face. . A red and violent anger bubbled out of her. It emanated from the headache hatching in her heart. . Like a humbled monarch, bowing its head, the car cringed away, the swirling dust in its wake portraying her emotions.’
P.P.P.S. If you decide to sing him out of your system, I would recommend that you avoid your favourite ‘serious’ raags like Shri, Lalit, Todi, Marwa, etc., and sing something more melodious like Behag or Kamod or Kedar.
P.P.P.P.S. That’s all, dearest Lata. Sleep well.
16.25
Lata did not sleep well. She lay awake for hours, racked with jealousy so intense it almost forced the breath out of her and misery so complete she could not believe it was she who was feeling it. There was no privacy in the house — there was no privacy anywhere — where she could go and be by herself for a week and wash away the image of Kabir that she had, despite herself, stored away with the most treasured of her memories. Malati had said nothing about who this woman was, what she looked like, what they had said, who had seen them. Had they met by chance just as she herself had met him? Was he taking her for dawn jaunts to the Barsaat Mahal? Had he kissed her? No, he couldn’t have, he couldn’t have kissed her, the thought was unbearable.
Thoughts of what Malati had told her in their discussions about sex came back to torment her.
It was past midnight, but it was impossible to sleep. Quietly, so as not to disturb her mother or the rest of the household, she entered the small garden. There she sat on the bench where in the summer she had sat among the spider lilies and had read his letter. After an hour she found herself shivering from the cold, but she hardly cared.
How could he? — she thought, though she was forced to admit to herself that she had given him precious little encouragement or comfort. And now it was too late. She felt weak and exhausted, and finally went back and lay down on her bed. She slept, but her dreams were not calm. She imagined Kabir was holding her in his arms, was kissing her passionately, was making love to her, and that she was in ecstasy. But suddenly this disturbing ecstasy gave way to terror. For his face was now the deranged face of Mr Sahgal, and he was whispering, almost to himself, as he panted above her: ‘You are a good girl, a very good girl. I am so proud of you.’