Manjari

     Manjari got up from the teakwood master bed at six in the morning. She didn’t need an alarm clock to announce the time to her. She always woke up early and went straight to the bathroom. After a bath and a change of clothes, it was time for her morning prayers that she performed diligently, never missing a day. The thakurghor was the only place she had to herself; it provided a little peace and quiet away from everyone, since the other members of her family never even ventured near it.

By the time she finished the puja, her husband Shiladitya was up and in the shower. He was the master of the house for all intents and purposes. With the reputation of being an important man amidst their acquaintances, more often than not he had something witty to say. But, he did not believe in luck or the stars or even God for that matter, and thus did not approve of his wife’s religiousness. His disposition was a serious one, and his only misgiving- if you went by the word of mouth- was a short temper; and Manjari had learned, the hard way, to get used to it. All he did in his free time was either watch the news channels or read the newspaper, making pedantic and vehement comments about every issue. In a nutshell, he strived to save the world from its pain, whilst in the comfort of his armchair.

 Manjari went into her sons’ bedroom and saw Arinjoy, the younger of the two, sitting at his reading desk, scribbling down the solutions to calculus problems. “Joy, when did you get up?” she said stroking his wet hair. “Oh, you’ve already bathed?”

“Hmm”, Joy replied, his eyes still on his notebook “Eittoh, I got up about an hour ago.”

“You got up this early to do math?” she asked him with feigned astonishment, secretly happy that he was studying.

“I’ve got my Pre-ISC lurking around the corner, Ma! When am I going to study if not now?”

Manjari smiled in satisfaction. “Okay, but don’t keep at it for too long, you’ll have to get ready. The school bus arrives at 8.”

Joy was the child every parent wanted. 17 years of age, he was in the last year of schooling. Hard-working as well as intelligent, he was consistently among the top students in his class. He was the stereotypical bookworm, but astonishingly quite amiable and boasting a lot of friends. 

Manjari left his side; he did not like to be disturbed while studying. She then went about pursuing the herculean task of getting her 19 year old son Onir up from sleep. He was the quintessential teenage rebel. An average engineering student with a passion for music, he was the bass guitarist in the college band. His inherent introverted nature was often misinterpreted by others as rudeness. He’d given up his christened name of Anirjeet, and adopted the ‘cooler’ version of Onir, which was the way his pet name was pronounced traditionally in Bengali.

“Onir”, she said shaking him, “Onir…get up, you’re gonna be late for college.”

“Hmm”, he muttered in his sleep.

“What hmm?” she shook him again, “Its 7:15 already. Come on, get up and take a shower. You reek of smoke…ish!”

“Uff Ma! I’m not going to college today”, he said and pulled back the covers his mother had lifted off of him.

She removed them once more and exclaimed, “What do you mean you’re not going to college? Huh?”

“I have a jamming session with the guys today; near Kasba.”

“Again? You had one of those just yesterday. I won’t let you bunk your classes every day. Get up this moment, Onir!” she said, quite apparently angry.

Onir knew how to appease her. He sat up on the bed and gave her a bear hug. “Why are you getting hyper Ma? You know we have the performance at the Music Fest next week. We really need to practice, or we won’t have half a chance against the other bands. You know how important this is to me. And anyway, we don’t have any major classes today; no labs even. Please Ma; don’t make me go to college today.”

Manjari displayed her serious face but underneath, her heart had melted. “Okay, just this time. But you’ll have to attend college regularly, starting tomorrow. Do you understand? I never stop you from playing that rock-and-roll or whatever you call it…”

“It’s not rock-n-roll, Ma, it’s rock!” Onir interrupted.

“Yeah, as if you could call that music! Anyway, from now on you’ll practice only after college hours. And I’m not going to hear any excuse; do you get that?”

“Roger that, Ma’am”, he saluted and slumped back into his beloved bed.

“Hey, I let you take a leave from college. I didn’t ask you to sleep all day. Get up now…” she pulled him up.

“Ma! That’s not fair!” he protested while his mother pushed him towards the door of the attached toilet.

“Yeah, yeah I know”, she smiled.

Manjari retreated to the kitchen to prepare food for the three men in her household. She was adding the tomatoes to the curry, when Shiladitya emerged from the bathroom. He had no more than started to dress up when he yelled, “Is this the shirt I asked you to press?”

Manjari hurriedly came to his side, “You asked me to keep your light blue shirt ironed.”

“Light blue, not turquoise you…” he raged at her. “Dumbass” he muttered under his breath.

She gulped down the saliva lodged in her throat, “Oh, I don’t understand all these fancy names for colours, you know that.”

He just shook his head and said, “What are you standing there for? Go, get me the uh… the white shirt” he spat out. Manjari silently complied with him and went back to the kitchen without a word. She knew it was the best way to get his temper back to normal.

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It was 8:30 and Shiladitya, Manjari and Onir were sitting at the table pecking at their breakfast. Arinjoy was already off to school. Meals were often a silent affair in the Mullick household, with the exception of sudden outbursts of the philosophical kind from Mr Mullick. He’d go on preaching in a passionate tone until the others would nod their reluctant heads in agreement. It was the same this morning. The papers were brimming with the controversy regarding the recent case of a heinous gang-rape committed on a girl in a major metropolitan city. The incident had garnered national attention, and the newspaper companies were bent on exploiting it to their maximum benefit, wringing out all the profit they could, from it.

“Jaatah!” Shiladitya remarked suddenly. Manjari and Onir looked up at him for a moment, and then retraced their gaze back to the table with the floral oilcloth on it. It was just a matter of seconds when he spoke up again.

“Did you read the news? A girl has been gang-raped on a moving bus and left to die on the street. Those bastards! Chhi chhi! The morale of the youth of India is deteriorating day by day. Tch, there is no hope, no hope at all. Can you imagine? Such a big and modern city, and yet such gruesome crimes!” he bellowed throwing the paper violently on the table.

There was just silent chewing of food except for Shiladitya’s outburst. He came to his conclusion, “Something has to be done immediately. Na Na, we can’t encourage such crimes against women any more. It’s high time. The government has to give the perpetrators capital punishment!”

“Oh, don’t get too worked up about it now. As it is, your blood pressure is ever on the rise; and all this stress…this way it won’t ever get back to normal”, Manjari interrupted him.

“He’s got to ease down on the paranthas for that”, Onir joined in.

Shiladitya glared. “Onir, don’t try to be sarcastic with you father”, she rebuked her son.

“Who said I was trying?” he mumbled under his breath.

“What’d you say?” his father asked in a fierce tone.

“Me? Nothing, unh unh”, Onir shook his head.

After that it was all back to normal; the sound of food being chewed, coffee being gulped, or newspaper pages being turned- punctuated by sighs from Shiladitya.

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It was mid-morning, and Manjari was alone in their three storey marble floored house. Her husband and sons were off to their respective places of work. She had been accustomed to staying alone through the day for many years and had by now become an expert on how to kill time. She didn’t have any real work to do; and there were many appliances in the house to ensure that. The clothes were in the washing machine being flung around in a whirlpool of bubbly detergent broth. The food was cooked and ready. And as for cleaning the rooms, the maid would turn up in the evening and get to work with the rags and a bucket full of water. Manjari, not wanting to sit idle, took down the showpieces from the shelves and polished their already spotless bodies with a towel. When she’d finished with that, the TV was turned on. It was not even 10 minutes into her favourite family drama, when the cable went off and the screen became all fuzzy. Left with nothing else to do, she sucked the sofa and the cushions dry with the vacuum cleaner that buzzed on full power. There was something about that deafening noise that blocked everything out.

It was about 11, when she went to the terrace to check on her plants. If there was one hobby that Manjari held close to her heart, it was gardening. The very idea of watching something grow and being able to aid it in the process, made her feel wholesome. Apart from the hibiscus and the holy basil that grew in the backyard, the terrace had been converted to a treasure trove of flora, thanks to her. There were the obvious tubs of seasonal flowers. This winter, she had roses- red, yellow and white, pink camellias, orange marigolds, blue orchids, purple pansies and those ever-present boughs of bougainvillea that hung from the wall. In her small herb patch grew lime, coriander, curry leaves, and chilly. And then there were decorative ones like the aloe vera and the prickly cacti which surprisingly grew in all kinds of weather.

She took her metal watering can, and watched contentedly as the water rained down on her plants from its perforated mouth. Just like Nigella Lawson would say about bashing biscuits to rubble, this was somewhat ‘therapeutic’ for her. She liked to drag her fingers over any small sapling that she’d discover, almost like caressing a little one. All the bright colours stood witness to her labour of love, and she loved basking in the winter sun while looking at them.

She was plucking some limes when a man called from the terrace adjoining to hers, “Ah! Mrs Mullick, how are you doing?”

Manjari looked up with a smile, “Ei cholche. What about you, Kundu da? How is your foot now? Hriju told me that you got it sprained after a bad fall?”

Hrittik Kundu was the immediate neighbour of the Mullicks’. A widower in his mid-fifties, with a job as a Professor of Philosophy and a passion for Tagore, he lived with his son Hriju. Like Manjari, he shared an interest in gardening, and his terrace too boasted of many flowers in bloom.

“Pretty good” he said looking at his left foot. “I wrapped it up in crepe bandage for two nights and now it’s back to form. I say, your roses look very pretty. You’ll have to keep an eye on the monkeys now.”

“Touchwood. God knows how hard I’ve worked for the flowers this year. It’ll be very sad if the monkeys attack again. Anyway, it’s good to hear that you’re well now.”

Then she took three of the limes in her hand and passed it over to him, across the wall that separated the two adjacent houses, “Here you go. Gondhoraj limes; very fragrant.”

Kundu da rubbed them between his palms, smelled the citrusy aroma and thanked her. “These will perk up even plain dal-bhaat­, won’t they? Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure. But don’t worry; I will claim my share of the deal in summer. You owe me 3 mangoes” she joked. And they both laughed out at this absurd fruit bartering deal.

“How come you’re home today? Don’t you have classes to teach?” Manjari asked him.

“Vacations come earlier for government colleges, Mrs Mullick!”

“So, you’ll be busy with Tagore for the entire month I guess?”

“Apart from the exam paper corrections, yes. In fact, I have been reading ‘Sesher Kobita’ all over again.”

Then he began to recite a certain verse from the novel, “Aaji majhe majhe amar chhayare, dulaye khelayo taari ek dhare, shey chhayari shathe hashiya milayo koloddhwoni- diyo taare bani je bani tomar chirontoni.” In the meanwhile, she listened to his soulful voice with its impeccable oration of the beautiful lines, absorbing the essence of the poem into her being. She could imagine it all in her mind- the shadow swinging to the motion of the cascade, whose eternal gurgling sounded like laughter. She almost went into a trance for a few seconds. When he stopped, she just managed to give a wry smile and say, “That was…beautiful”, all the time staring intently at his face.

Kundu da said, “Oh! It’s nothing. Bhimroti, these are the fancies of old age! Of course, it was a different thing when your Boudi was alive. I used to write letters to her with excerpts from this very book.” He smiled to himself, maybe at pleasant memories from the past.

Manjari’s face showed a slight flicker of disdain, but she regained her merry countenance, “Well, what do they say? Age is just a number.”

“That it is.” He laughed and added, “Well, I’d be more than happy to lend the book to you if you’d like.”

“That would be great.”

So while he went inside to fetch the book, she brushed her fingers on the rose petals, passing down to the stalk and finally to the thorny stem, where she lingered for a few moments. He came back with the book in his hand, faded light orange in colour, and gave it to her.

“Thank you again. I’ll finish it and return it to you by next week.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Manjari smiled again. Suddenly she said, “Oh! I’ve got the rice on boil. It must have turned to mush by now. I’ve got to go, Kundu da. See you later.” And then without waiting for a reply, she went out of the terrace. About half a dozen of tubs that still needed to be watered were forgotten. Going to the bedroom, she kept the book on the bedside table and turned on the radio. Then she lay down on the bed, while ‘amaro porano jaha chay’ played on.

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Manjari was sitting on the sofa, waiting for her husband to come home. Every light in the house was turned on, and she just sat there all stoic and steady, counting the seconds to when the bell would ring. Everything was in order, dinner cooked, bed made, clothes arranged. She thought of watching television for some time, to help her mind deviate from the melancholy thoughts. Her stomach cringed with the cramps of her time of the month. It was a pleasant summer night, and a cool breeze blew, but she was sweaty. The doorbell rang once. Manjari froze. It rang again. She collected her senses, and turned off the TV, before unlocking the door.

“What took you so long?” Shiladitya asked almost in an uninterested manner.

“I was in the other room.”

He entered and went straight to the bathroom while she set the table. Ten minutes later, the couple was sitting at the dining table, silently eating their food while a news reporter read out the headlines on the TV.

“Do you want some more gravy?” she asked him.

“No, I’m full”, he was apparently not so much interested in the food.

Manjari panicked, “Oma! Won’t you have another spoon of rice? Here, have some.”

“Manjari, I told you I don’t want any!” he said with firm resilience and pushed away the second helping in her hand.

She shut up. Shiladitya finished his meal early. She kept pecking at the grains of rice like a chicken in a coop. A few minutes later, he still found her chewing her cold food, taking all the time she could. “You’re still eating? It’s been an hour since you started.”

“Where? It’s only been 10 minutes. You know I am a slow eater. Anyway, I’m almost done”, she pretended not to notice his impatience.

Reluctantly, Manjari finished her dinner and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then, taking the kitchen soap she began scrubbing the utensils. “What are you doing still now?” he called from the bedroom.

“Doing the dishes.”

“Why’re you doing the dishes at night? Leave them. You’ll wash them in the morning.”

“I don’t like to keep the smelly plates in the sink overnight. I’d rather wash them now and finish the work” she answered back, trying to sound as resolute as possible.

He then came to the kitchen himself, stood behind her and gently removed the bowl she was scrubbing, from her hands. “Come to bed”, he kissed her on the cheek.

She grabbed the edge of the sink for some support, and straightened herself. “You’re going to sleep this early?” she tried to change the subject.

“Don’t make me wait too long”, he rubbed her shoulders and went back.

“Hmm”, she nodded.

She realised all her attempts had been foiled and gave in.

Manjari changed, washed her face a couple of times with cold water and went to the bedroom. Shiladitya was lying down on the bed with his hands behind his head. She brushed her hair in front of the dressing table, trying to extend the act as much as possible. Finally, she turned the lights off and went to bed facing away from him.

He snaked his hand above her waist and snuggled for a few moments before kissing her on the nape of her neck. “I’m tired” she whispered, already knowing that she’d lost.

He did not seem to hear it. Turning her towards himself he smothered her lips with his own. Then his hands travelled from her shoulder bones to her breasts, cupping each and tracing circles before reaching the nipples, which he pinched. “Ach”, she said feebly. He went about undressing her; covering her entire body with the marks of his lips and teeth, but she stopped him as he began to fidget with her petticoat strings. “I’m on my period”, she pushed him off.

“What?” he stared at her, obviously irritated at being interrupted.

“I’m on my period. It’s the first day.”

“You just had your period last week, didn’t you?”

Manjari gulped down the rising bile.

“Take off your panties.”

“What?” she could not believe him.

“Take off your fucking panties! Lying bitch!”

“I am not lying to you”, she said nervously, tears peeping from her eyes. “I’m on my period, I swear. Aah unh!” He was twisting her arm.

“So were you lying then? You think I am a fool, huh? I don’t understand that you’re trying to avoid me? Take off your panties and we’ll see whether you’re lying or not. Take them off, will you?” he raised his hand to strike her.

She was crying by now. She turned her head away and took them off. When he saw that she was telling the truth, he got even angrier. He was aroused, and his wife was bleeding. So, he slapped her hard across the face. Manjari did not scream.

“You think you can get away, you whore! Keep in mind that you’re my wife and obliged to please me. Trying to dupe me with lies, is it?” he grabbed her face and squeezed her cheekbones in his strong hand.

“I’m sorry…I’m really sorry. I won’t ever do it again.”

“Oh, that you won’t. And I’m going to make sure of that.” He released her face and said, “Turn over.”

Manjari could see the very devil in his visage. “W…why?” she murmured.

Without providing an answer, he grabbed her and flipped her over. She knew what was going to happen, but even then she tried to fight him a little. When it didn’t work, she pleaded her husband for mercy, “Please, don’t; for god’s sake. I swear I’ll never lie to you. Listen to me. I’m sorry. Shil...ach!” She wept helplessly.

Her cries were paused for a second, when she let out a short yelp of pain, as he took her from behind. Then, she could plead no more. She clutched the sheet in her fist, trying to writhe out all her pain into it. Her teeth bit into her lips, until she could taste blood. Stuffing her face into the pillow, she drenched it with her quiet sobs.

The phone rang, waking Manjari up from her afternoon siesta. She was still rattled with the phantoms of her past, when she realised it was all a dream. It was at the last ring that she picked the phone up.

“Hello?” her voice was still shaky.

“Hello, Ma. The jamming session dissolved early; I’m going to be home in an hour. I called to ask you to rustle something up for me. Anything, really. I’m famished…” Onir spoke from the other side of the line.

“Oh! Achha, I’ll make something. Ride safely, don’t rush.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, see you.”

“See you, baba.”

She kept the receiver down, and looked at the wall-clock. It was almost two in the afternoon. She felt shaken up. There was only one thing that could ease her. She went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. And as she scrubbed herself vigorously with the loofah, she could feel it scrape out the memories from her body, mind and soul.

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“…hundreds of people have taken to the streets to protest against the incident, a local correspondent reports. In other news…” the television set blurted. Shiladitya was reclining on the pillows, his eyes glued to the screen. The boys were in their room, not to be disturbed, now that dinner was over. Manjari brushed her hair, untangling the ends patiently, and wove it into a loose plait.

The TV was abruptly shut off. Shiladitya let out a deep sigh and shook his head in disappointment. Manjari turned to look at him. “Do you see the condition of the country? Half the policemen are lazy and the other half stuffed with bribes. Sitting around like a bunch of nautch girls while…tch it is shameful to even think of it!” he blabbered on. She switched off the tubelight and got into bed. He was still ranting, “They should be released to the public, and be battered to hell...”

“Who?” she asked suddenly.

“Why? The rapists, all of them!” he exclaimed.

“ALL of them?”

Shiladitya pursed his lips, taken aback by the unexpected question while Manjari turned over and closed her eyes.

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