Preventing conception is the only subject of importance, I suppose! Raman reflected, but did not utter it. A home, in Daisy’s view, was only a retreat from sun and rain, and for sleeping, washing, and depositing one’s trunk. Her possessions were limited to this ideal - in some ways, very much like Aunt. If Aunt’s worldly possessions could go into a little jute bag, Daisy’s filled a small tin trunk and a BOAC air-travel bag which the missionary had given her before leaving for the Congo. Her furniture consisted of a folding chair, a stool, and a small bamboo table full of nails. She had a roll of mat and one pillow, and slept on the hard floor. Raman had once suggested to add a grace to living, ‘Why not have a few simple items of furniture?’
She shook her head. ‘Not for me. These have been my furniture for years and are quite adequate. You may do what you like for yourself... I don’t know.’ He did not mind her own bare minimum in all things. But what disturbed him was her habit of separating ‘his’ from ‘hers’ and her lack of interest in any joint venture. She didn’t even try to convert him to her point of view. It shook all his notions of a life of ‘togetherness’ but he told himself, That is her constitution, mental make-up, like the curve of her nose or the straight line of her lip, and can’t be helped, and not my business really. Such things do not matter in love.
All this should have suited his way of living too. He himself slept on the floor too, but on a mattress; she dispensed even with the mattress. ‘Why should we live differently from a million others? I have lived in a hut and know how our people really live,’ she would say. But after she came to live with him, he hoped he could cajole her to lie on a mattress, a separate one for her if she was likely to object to a double mattress on the floor. He himself did not mind or notice that he had slept on a mat whenever he spent the night at her apartment. Now why should he think of all sorts of new things when they were to become husband and wife - terms which he could not pronounce before her for fear of upsetting her. She would go on saying, ‘Nothing extraordinary for a man and a woman beginning to live under the same roof.’ It rather bothered him, but he accepted everything she said. He realized that the path of peace lay in not contradicting her. Two drivers cannot be at the steering wheel of a motorcar, he often thought. He was quite prepared to surrender himself completely to her way of thinking, and do nothing that might leave him in the plight of Santhanu. No questioning and the wife stays, but any slight doubt expressed, she flies away forever. He had agreed even to surrender their hypothetical child, just to keep her in good humour.
Raman went through his house to make sure that it was clean and spruce. He had the kitchen wall scrubbed and whitewashed. A whole week after Aunt’s departure was taken up in these tasks. However undemanding Daisy might be, it was still his business to provide her a tidy home. The old mud oven which had served them would no longer do. He got an electric hot plate, discreetly moving the old oven out of sight, to be kept only out of sentimental considerations. Most probably, he told himself, I shall be the one to work in the kitchen, and let me fix it to suit my convenience. He bought aluminium and glass utensils; the ancient rice-pot of bronze could have only an antique value. The little room beside the dining-room, hardly ten feet wide, had served as a puja room for his aunt. This was to be allotted to Daisy; she could put up her table and folding chair, and keep her office papers and files. The room had a small window which admitted enough light and air. If she wished to be isolated, she could shut the door, and he could knock, if he needed her; he would keep his own room with his books and roll of bedding untouched. He could order another roll of bedding stuffed with pure silk cotton for her, his room could accommodate both the beds on the floor, and they could feel cosy like a couple of birds in their nest. He had a passing idea that he should name his home ‘Nest’ and hang a board on the door; the banality of the name could be mitigated by artwork; he’d choose a design and calligraphy indicating the branches of a tree in whose fork two birds nested. And when the eggs came - no, the surrender would not come at the egg stage, only when it was hatched; she could prevent it at an early stage; but somehow she wanted to wait for the baby to come and then hand it over to a home. If another baby came the next year, again another gift; and if she displayed the normal fecundity of our country-women, she would be handing out babies at a fast rate to a hooded nun or a bearded bishop in some charity home! And no question asked, at the slightest hint of a query, she would melt out of sight and be gone forever. She was indeed a great puzzle at every turn. Sometimes he paused to wonder how he was going to carry on with her a whole lifetime, without any knowledge or understanding of her at all. He was perhaps making a fool of himself by this marriage. But it was Gandharva-style marriage, as easily snapped as made. In any event they’d have to go up before a registrar, if not for anything but to protect the child’s nomenclature. The child was not to come, and so why worry, what a muddle? Whatever it was, their signature before a registrar would be inevitable.
Aunt’s puja room in the process of conversion into Daisy’s room was stripped of the gods she had worshipped and left behind. Now Raman took them off their stand and stored them away in a cupboard.
Daisy paid him a visit rather unexpectedly late one afternoon. He took her round the house explaining the various improvements he would be making to suit their needs. She took no interest in the changes planned and often remarked, ‘Everything seems to me all right as it is. Leave them alone.’
But he said, ‘Leave me alone to set up this house for our comfort. I won’t listen to your advice on this one subject.’
‘Please yourself,’ she said and lapsed into silence as he kept describing how he was going to colour the walls of the hall, the scheme for the kitchen, and so forth; she nodded mechanically to everything he said. When they peeped into the puja room and he had said, ‘This’ll be your room, you can put up the table and chair,’ she looked in and remarked, ‘I remember seeing your aunt’s gods on the stand here, where are they?’
‘Safe in that cupboard there,’ he said.
‘Is it safe?’ she exclaimed in a mock fright. ‘Will the gods not smite us for this effrontery?’ Raman laughed at the notion, rather loudly and artificially. Following this they engaged themselves in theological jocularities.
‘Can you lock up a god?’ she asked.
‘Why not?’ Raman said, falling into the mood.
‘What locksmith can produce a lock strong enough? While human safe-breakers work their way through the strongest lock, can’t a god do as much?’ She seemed to be in an extraordinarily frivolous mood now.
‘Why, would you be afraid to stay alone in the room? I’ll transfer them to another cupboard in the hall.’
‘You find a story for every occasion in the puranas. Have you none in which the god in the almirah comes out and twists the ears of the man?’
‘More likely the god will come out and give the woman a child - such incidents are common in the Mahabharata, of gods straying among mortals and producing demigods,’ Raman said. He wanted to sound a note of the utmost blasphemy in the hope of gaining her approval. ‘Well, we might create a story on those lines. After all, someone like you and me will have produced all those stories.’ He wanted to sound super-rational, although he had not really made up his mind as to whether the legendary gods were real or imagined allegories. In any case when he remembered the absolute faith his aunt had displayed and her acceptance of a Divine Will and the various forms of divinity, he said, ‘Anyway, my aunt has complete trust in the gods and possesses greater serenity than anyone else I have known.’
‘If so, why move the gods? Leave them undisturbed in their old place,’ she said lightheartedly.
They were now at the threshold of the room. The street door was shut and bolted, and the hall had dim light from the ventilator high up, a beam of the afternoon sun coming in from somewhere. Far off over the river leaves of a peepul tree rustled; the atmosphere of poetry and half-lit privacy suddenly provoked his desire. He shot out his arm and tried to sei
ze her. She shook him off unceremoniously with, ‘Time and place for everything. What is the matter with you?’
What a fool I am not to have noticed her mood! he said to himself. Smiling mood and non-smiling one, talking mood and silent one, caressing and non-caressing. How on earth am I to judge when to do what, when to say what, and how to do the right thing at all times? Big problem for me, since I do not wish to offend her in any manner. He quickly drew away from her and assumed a prosaic business-like tone. ‘Can’t help a few changes to suit changing conditions. However, I hope you will feel comfortable in this room.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Of course, no need for you to worry too much about anything. I’ll be all right.’
‘This is your home as much as mine, and so don’t have any hesitation.’ She remained silent when he said this; he pointed out the small front hall and said, ‘If you like we may order a few chairs, and you may receive your visitors here, if you like.’
She just said, ‘Let them come to the office, no visitors after office hours,’ with finality. He showed her the kitchen and the hot plate he had fixed. She looked at it all without comment. He was dying to know if she approved of the hot plate. But she said nothing. Making food and eating seemed to her worthless occupations.
‘After all,’ he said apologetically, ‘we must have a place like this kitchen so that — ’
She cut his sentence short with, ‘I can pick up anything, anywhere, to eat. I am not particular about eating, cooking, or storing things. Millions of our people have nothing to eat all day. Anyway, any sort of food from a restaurant will be adequate for me.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s true, after all, restaurant-keepers are professionals, full-time food-makers. No need for us to bother about such things.’
‘Waste of energy,’ she added. He wondered if at any time she would say ‘Let us’ or ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ and ‘me’. He threw his mind back to recollect, but she specified everything for herself and always seemed to say, ‘Do what you like, I don’t care and I do not need your attention or arrangement.’ What sort of married life is this going to turn out to be? Separate lives and separate everything! Only the roof was to be common, and perhaps the bed - even of that he was not certain how long. She might want to lock herself in her room and forbid him to enter. Should he write a No ADMISSION sign and present it to her as a wedding gift? These thoughts coursed through his mind, as an undercurrent, while he tried to talk over details. He wanted to ask at this point whether he could get a small dinner table, just sufficient for two, but checked himself. She might reiterate her contempt for food, and the plight of the-hungry millions and that might upset him and drive him to say something, a rash joke perhaps, that might upset her. Dutifully he led her to his room, with its roll of bedding on the mat floor. All that she said was, ‘You and your strange books!’ He suppressed his desire to declare that he intended to make it their bedroom. Time enough to settle it. He had a fear that she might even say, ‘I will stay in my own apartment and you stay here and we will meet by appointment, from time to time moving equidistant from either end.’ This would surely be a most original way of living as a married couple.
He then took her to the back yard. She peeped into the well and then across the short wall at the river: ‘I love this river behind your house.’ He noted with some slight pain that she still said ‘your’ house, rather than ‘our’.
‘This is my work-shed,’ he said rather unnecessarily, pointing at the planks, wood chips, and the cans of paint.
When they came back into the house, she sat down on the mat in his room, leaning on his roll of bed, and stretched her legs. ‘Tired?’ he asked solicitously, sitting down at her feet, careful to give no hint of making a pass at her. He noticed her feet were unattractive and the skin had cracked at the heels. ‘Do you walk barefoot?’ he asked.
‘Yes, when necessary,’ she said. Her proximity and that peculiar aroma of some herb about her were intoxicating, but he held himself away resolutely. As if reading his mind, she said, ‘You don’t have to sit so far away, come nearer if you like.’
He grinned gratefully and moved up and sat beside her, leaning on the roll, and gradually his arm encircled her shoulder and he said softly, ‘Now I feel better. After all we are a married couple.’ He avoided the words ‘husband and wife’. Such a precaution seemed to please her, and she nestled close to him and let him caress her body. She shut her eyes and remained still. It was a moment of profound harmony between them. One part of him was afraid to speak for fear it might tear the gossamer-texture of this moment, but the practical part of his mind urged, This is the time to clarify matters, don’t waste it. He whispered, ‘Are you sleepy?’
‘H’mm, h’m,’ was all she said without stirring.
‘I want to ask you something.’
‘What?’ she asked almost inaudibly.
He said, ‘When do you want to move over here?’ No reply. She was breathing softly, rhythmically. He kept looking at her for a while and repeated his question and added, ‘Now the house is ready, you know.’ Another pause, silent, rhythmic breathing. He waited and asked again, avoiding every trace of impatience, ‘Are you giving thought to it?’
She nodded. He again waited, and she murmured, ‘The tenth will be all right. The lease for my flat is to be renewed that day ...’
‘Not at all necessary. You may close it. I’ll get Gaffur’s taxi, good fellow, I know him. It’ll hold all your things, and you can move first thing in the morning - six o’clock in the morning?’
‘Make it eight,’ she murmured. ‘So the tenth, at eight o’clock; must tell Gaffur. Today is the seventh ...’ he repeated, becoming incoherent with joy. ‘We will not have to be running after each other any more — ’ He was not quite clear as to what he wished to say, but concluded, ‘Obviously we won’t be separated, isn’t it so?’ He waited, but she had fallen asleep. Poor thing, must be feeling exhausted, must have something for her to eat and drink, when she wakes up. He was overcome with tenderness. He stroked her gently, letting his hand rest on her breasts; as he watched, her face wore a serenity he had not noticed before. Her angularities and self-assertiveness were gone. He was struck by the elegance of her form and features, suddenly saw her as an abstraction - perhaps a goddess to be worshipped, not to be disturbed or defiled with coarse fingers. Very gently he withdrew his hand and edged away. But she suddenly turned over on her side and with her eyes still closed, threw her arms around his neck and drew him nearer and lay unmindful as his fingers fumbled with her clothes. He was overwhelmed by her surrender and essayed to whisper, ‘This is our true moment of consummation. No need to feel stealthy or guilty any more, under my own roof. The bride has come home.’
On the evening of the ninth Raman went to Daisy’s office. She was apparently counselling a group of women. He waited in the corridor, and as soon as the women trooped out, went in. Daisy sat in her chair and looked up inquiringly. Raman had believed that a subtle intimacy had been established between them and that she would carry traces of the earlier afternoon’s ecstasy about her. But she displayed no such sign, and remained aloof and official, after motioning him to a seat. He felt as if it were their first meeting and he was there to take her order for a sign-board. He explained, ‘I was passing this way. I’d to deliver a board to ... in this same building downstairs.’
‘Have you done it?’ she asked, once again the precise business-like automaton, functioning within an iron frame of logicality - cold and aloof like an eagle circling high up in the skies.
‘Yes, I have also received the money for the work — nowadays I am business-like, have to be, you know!’ And he simpered uncertainly.
Daisy didn’t smile, but said, ‘Those women you saw now, they are from Nagari.’ She unrolled a chart and said, ‘Mainly mat-weavers and forest-dwellers there ...’ Looking at a report she added, ‘The situation is alarming. Its population was just nine hundred last year this time, today it is just around twelve hundred; that means a thirty-
per-cent increase.’
‘A lot of nuptials must have occurred,’ Raman said, unable to contain himself. She looked through him without a smile. ‘It is a serious matter, you know. Something must be done immediately about it. Those women are coming back to take me there this evening. I must go and see what’s happening.’
Was she going to force her way into every bedroom and shoo the partners apart? But he asked aloud, ‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘Not necessary.’
‘No wall messages?’
‘No. Not suitable for them. Literacy is only one per cent; direct talk is the only possible communication.’
‘Do you mean to say that you will speak to everyone of the one thousand two hundred?’
‘Why not? I can, if I live in their midst. I am wiring to Delhi to send a medical team immediately. In all, the total population to be covered would be ...’ She hardly looked at him, completely absorbed in the statistics before her, drawing a pencil over a sheet of paper and adding up. ‘An average of - mind you it is only an average - four hundred adults in each village may have to be sterilized or fitted with contraceptives, and at least twelve villages in this lot. That is attending to about five thousand in all in this sector. And then I shall move further into the interior, perhaps on foot, as no roads are likely to pass through those forest villages.’ She was like a general, planning a campaign.
Raman asked dolefully, ‘Do you see an end to it?’
‘No. How can there be an end to it? There are a million villages in our country and even if I devote myself to this task every day of my life-’