Madhumati Dutta
A Bus Ride
They were at it again. He could not understand how she could be so selfish. How she could determine his life and yet keep hers intact. Resentment constricted his throat; his young body throbbed with helpless passion.
They had married without the knowledge of her parents. The parents had decided he was not a good prospect for their daughter. He belonged to a lower caste, nor did he have a well-paying job. As a clerk in a bank, his future did not appear too bright.
In the fiery heat of summer, they had convinced the two witnesses, both friends of the groom, to make the trip to the marriage registrar’s office. She was wearing a yellow cotton sari with a maroon border; he was in a red kurta. They were all sweating profusely as the couple signed the documents and the witnesses followed suit. The ceiling fan in the registrar’s room whined away as it revolved–too slowly to keep away the heat. It was too hot to celebrate. As soon as the formalities were over, everyone returned to their respective homes.
Post-marriage, he had hoped that she would inform her parents and leave her childhood home to set up their small household. But that did not happen. She could not muster up the courage to tell them. She wanted to become independent first–that would give her the leverage to argue for herself. She applied for jobs, appeared at interviews. The months passed at a languid pace–until a year had gone by. In the meantime, he rented a small one-bedroom flat and moved out of his parents’ house. But he could not tolerate being there alone: without her, it was a soulless waiting hall.
One morning she called him at his workplace. She had news for him. He had to go to the manager’s room to receive the call. They agreed to meet near the statue of the hero on a horse that seemed to be readying itself to jump. She told him that she had got a job in a school in Bhutan: she wanted to take it up. Bhutan! He was taken aback by her enthusiasm. But what happened to our earlier plans, he said. How can she shift track without any prior notice? What would happen to their married life, their having a child, he asked. He tried to reason with her: you will surely get a job in Kolkata, he said. But she would have none of that. Of course, he wanted her only for himself. He was the selfish one. Why could he not understand that she needed a career as much as he did? That this was an opportunity she could not ignore? And at this stage of her life, the very thought of having a child was scary.
They walked from one end of a street to the other, jumping over dirty puddles of water and dodging street urchins begging for small change, stepping off the footpath to make way for an emaciated labourer carrying steel rods and stepping on again to avoid being run over by a cyclist with a load of live poultry hanging from ropes tied to the back seat. He hated this city and he hated her.
He had isolated himself from his family, leaning heavily on her. Sometimes she turned up at the flat–where they would draw the curtains and make fervent daytime love. He had not told his neighbours about his marital status, as they would then ask why his wife was not living with him. She was therefore distressed by the glances that would spot her going up the stairs, ringing his bell. As if she was having some sleazy affair, she would think. And so her visits were infrequent. He too would drop in at her home, ignoring the cold glances of her parents and siblings. The couple would go up to the roof, and sit on a cement seat shaded by a Gulmohar tree, its branches heavy with fanned out leaves and sindoor red flowers. Apart from her inability to break the news of her marriage, she was comfortable with her family, and they doted on her. They tolerated him as if he was a fly on her back. To him, her family appeared enormously self-sufficient, well-versed in the affairs of the world. Their gestures and their clothes exuded a sophisticated confidence. He felt ugly, uncouth, incomplete in their genteel presence.
She did not bother to appease him. She was gone already, far from his pitiful nagging. She could smell the air of this new country, untouched and yet familiar. She could feel the freedom, the limitlessness of it. She could sense the alien eroticism of its men and women.
In the middle of their unfinished argument, they boarded a bus that would take them to the railway station. From there they would take separate trains to their separate homes. He was tired of the struggle. He knew that acceptance was the only available option. Of her departure, her betrayal. But what about love? Did she at least love him? He could bear it all as long as there was love.
The bus was chock full of people. Those who were standing held on to stainless steel rods bolted onto the tin ceiling. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat seeping from exposed armpits. He managed to get some standing space in front of a bench reserved for women. The four women occupying it exuded a satisfaction born of the fact that they had been able to grab a seat amidst so much competition. It was not ideal to be standing there, as he was jammed in by women waiting eagerly for one of the seats to fall vacant. He had to be very careful: any one of them might decide at any moment that he was molesting her. And, of course, his chances of getting a seat there were nil. Anyway, he would be getting off soon. He grabbed the rod above him with his right hand, his thoughts on the recent conversation. And then, in the crowd, he felt her presence close by. A deep hurt welled up within him. His eyes did not wish to meet hers: he stared out of a window at the rapidly changing cityscape. Suddenly he felt the little finger of her left hand that was also holding the rod above them, lightly touch his. Fire passed through his body. He surrendered himself to her and to their uncertain fate. He forgave her. He allowed her fingers to gently but confidently caress his, his body giving in to the pleasure. His fingers reciprocated. The two of them immersed themselves in this activity, revelling in the fact that the crowd around them remained oblivious. Let her go then: she will come back to me, he thought.
When suddenly his impassioned world was shattered by a voice that irritatedly called his name from the front exit. He looked and spotted her there, countless sweaty bodies between them. His hand freed itself from the other and dropped from the rod in perplexity and guilt. He hurried in the direction of the door, pushing and shoving to make way before the bus arrived at their destined stop. AQ