‘Let me see what you look like.’ Shankar reached for her sari.
Alarmed, Mala jerked back.
‘Your innocence is really exciting,’ he moved closer, oblivious to her trapped expression.
His fingers were upon her sari now. She stared in horrified fascination at the long, large-jointed, bony fingers against the crimson silk.
‘Remember, your married life will be hell if you displease your husband on your wedding night,’ her mother’s words rang incessantly in her mind.
Shankar was sitting so close to her that she could feel his breath on her skin.
A shudder went through her as the image of a furry spider crawling up her untouched body darted through her mind.
‘Beautiful . . . really beautiful . . .’ murmured Shankar gleefully, as he seemed to drink in her beauty with his lustful eyes.
Much later, as Mala stared at the long snake-like back of her sleeping husband, she was unable to come to terms with what had happened. She had expected Shankar to go into raptures over her beauty, proclaim his undying devotion to her, maybe even say a poem in praise of her. Instead, he had simply violated her. It seemed like a nightmare. But the searing pain was real. Numbly, she looked at the whirring fan overhead, waiting for the agony to subside.
After a while, Mala dragged herself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She bathed vigorously, trying to wash away all traces of her husband.
Later, restlessly tossing and turning, she tried to sleep. But her mind was too agitated. Thoughts of running away plagued her. Had she married an animal? How could Shankar have been so insensitive, so selfish, so callous? Mala had never been treated so badly in her entire life.
The fact that Shankar had utilized her for his gratification in such a coarse, barbarous manner distressed her.
Gradually exercising all her willpower, she calmed down. Consoling herself that in time it would be better, she fell asleep.
But it was not to be. In the early hours of the morning, rude hands woke her up abruptly. And once again she submitted silently to the torture her husband meted out to her.
When, after several weeks of the daily torment, Mala protested, Shankar countered pompously, ‘Any other woman would be pleased to get so much attention from me. But you! If it weren’t for your beauty, I would never come near a cold woman like you!’
Mala began hating her looks. She wished fervently that she would turn into an ugly hag. Then perhaps she would be spared this daily humiliation by her husband.
One day, when her mother persistently questioned Mala about her constantly sad expression, she broke down and related everything.
‘But, my dear, this is the fate of every woman. I had thought that by now you would have learnt to accept it,’ her mother counselled.
‘But, Maa, I hate it—and I hate him. How can he be so insensitive to my feelings?’
‘Stop pitying yourself. You are not the only woman in such a position. It’s a wife’s duty. Be thankful that he has not strayed but has provided you with everything any woman can ask for. Look at your status as an IAS officer’s wife!’ her mother’s tone hardened.
‘Oh Maa! You don’t know what it’s like . . .’ Mala wailed piteously.
Cutting in, her mother retorted, ‘I know what it’s like. Do you think your father and I live as brother and sister?’
‘Maa!’ Mala was shocked. ‘But Papa is such a tender, loving man,’ she protested.
‘Isn’t Shankar extremely gentle with his nieces and nephews?’ her mother countered.
At this, Mala was left speechless, trying to come to terms with her mother’s words.
After a while she said, ‘But Papa . . . I don’t believe it.’
‘Believe me, all men are the same,’ her mother said bitterly with pursed lips.
So it was, day after day, year after year. It was just as T.S. Eliot had said not so long ago:
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defense;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
Over the years, Mala endeavoured repeatedly to establish a semblance of some kind of friendship with Shankar. But all her efforts came to naught. Shankar was simply not interested in her as a separate human being. For him, she seemed to exist only in her capacity as a beautiful wife to display and for his own pleasure. She was supposed to be a useful extension to himself. Her role was to smoothly run his home and be an exemplary hostess to his relatives, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. And, of course, cater to his needs in the bedroom. Apart from that, there was nothing that Shankar wanted to do with her.
Shankar never talked to her—really talked to her—about anything. There was no friendship, no camaraderie, no companionship. All their conversations were perfunctory, related to whatever he needed her to do for him. There was only the mundane that they ever talked about. There was nothing of the profound or the sublime or the intellectual in their talks—ever. There was no fun-filled repartee or light-hearted banter either.
After years of futile attempts, entreaties, tears, cajoling and begging, Mala gave up trying to establish a deeper connection with her husband. She withdrew further into a shell. She began existing at a superficial level, while the real Mala disappeared—bit by bit, and then completely.
With the passage of time and the birth of two children, Mala indeed lost all her charm and vitality. She always looked pale, depressed and her mouth perpetually drooped.
Yet her sharp features and fair colour remained . . . And Shankar still did not stray . . .
Then Ketaki entered her life. The smart, savvy, unflappably cool Ketaki ran her own garment export unit. They hit it off at their very first meeting and, in an incredibly short time, became very close friends. Ketaki was everything that Mala had ever wanted to be. Ketaki, on the other hand, was drawn to the vulnerable softness that enveloped Mala like a mist. Somehow, it seemed but natural that they exchanged their innermost secrets.
Ketaki had never married, being put off men after seeing her hard-working mother abused every day by her unemployed, alcoholic, brutish father. She was further alienated from the male species when a cousin whom she had looked up to molested her. Ketaki had vowed that she would never allow any man to gain control over her in any way—least of all her heart.
Mala could not help but admire the manner in which Ketaki had taken charge of her life. By now they had started meeting every day for lunch. At times they giggled like schoolgirls and, at others, exchanged their pain and anguish.
At last Mala had found someone who understood and empathized with her. They shared the same interests and had a similar outlook towards life.
Slowly Mala became infected with Ketaki’s verve and energy. She seemed to flower for the first time in her life, while Ketaki lost some of her tough businesswoman facade and smiled more often.
Ketaki urged Mala to get back her individuality, her identity. Mala did not even know what that was.
‘Think back. What did you love doing most in school, in college? There must have been something,’ Ketaki coaxed fervently.
‘Er . . . it . . . it was oil painting . . .’ Mala spoke diffidently.
‘Well, there you have it. You are going to become a painter!’