Difficult Daughters by Manju Kapur Page A

tell her mother …’ Here the Professor choked, and looked terrible in his wife’s eyes.
    ‘What is she telling you that her mother doesn’t already know?’ asked the woman as snappishly as she dared. ‘You lie down. I will make you some desi tea.’
    She started to peel the potatoes. She would do the tea things later. Dinner had to be served, her family had to be fed, no matter what Virmati had done.
    The sight of her peeling shook the Professor into articulation. ‘I’m telling you to go, and you sit here cooking!’ he cried.
    ‘To say what?’ she asked, still not looking at him.
    ‘Tell them she’s gone to Tarsikka – perhaps to drown herself in the canal. They must move fast to save her!’ The Professor’s voice broke and wordlessly he pushed his wife out towards the other house.
    He watched her out of sight, then shut the door of his room and let his head fall heavily against its smooth wooden surface. His foremost feeling was impotence. He had only a cycle. Why had she gone so far? Tarsikka was sixteen miles away. He had to rely on them – what else could he do? He was … he was nothing now … not a rescuer, not a lover, nothing in this matter of life and death. Why had she decided on this awful step? Didn’t she trust him? Didn’t she know how much she meant to him? He had told her of his love a thousand times. Now it could no longer be a secret, he had to tell his wife so she could tell that family. Well, let everybody know. With Viru not there, nothing mattered. With no strength to remain standing, he gradually slipped onto the floor, where he remained a long time, his head cradled on his arms.
    *
     
    The first thing that flashed into the woman’s head was ‘Good.’ And then, ‘But she’ll make sure we are never free of her.’ She had made certain of this with her letter, clinging to her husband even in death, making them all suffer.
    And then fear took over. Here she was wishing evil of others. Surely this would rebound on her, just as Kekayi’s evil wishes had in the end destroyed her in the Ramayan. A person’s life or death was in God’s hands, and in an effort to collect herself and avoid her thoughts she hurried to Kasturi’s house. The woman knew she would find Kasturi with her older daughters in the kitchen across the courtyard, preparing the evening meal. She walked towards the back entrance, dread mixed with righteous triumph at this opportunity, wondering what phrases to use. Hadn’t her husband himself sent her? If there was any irregularity here, it was not her fault.
    In the kitchen, Paro was bothering her mother. ‘When is Pehnji coming, Mati, when? She promised to bring me something.’
    ‘How do I know where your sister has gone and died?’ asked Kasturi irritably, wiping the smoke tears from her eyes.
    ‘Tell me, na ,’ said Paro insistently, dragging her mother’s palla off her.
    Kasturi turned to take a tired, half-hearted swipe at her youngest daughter. ‘Didn’t you hear? Just wait till she does come. She should be here at this time instead of out of the house. She is old enough to know better. Really, I give my daughters too much freedom. And this is the result!’
    ‘Come here, Paro,’ said Indu, as Paro prepared to sulk. ‘Here, help me knead this dough.’ She tore off a piece and gave it to her.
    Paro sat down, and absently started to pinch and pull the damp dough between her fingers. ‘Oh, there’s that Pabi from the other house,’ she remarked, half to herself, half to the others.
    As the woman came in, Indu nudged Paro to give her a wooden patla. Kasturi felt a little surprised. This was not the time for neighbourly visits.
    The woman meantime was wondering how she was going to break her news, among the sisters and everybody? The bearer of messages from her husband about their daughter? It wasn’t fair she should be put in a situation like this, she should also be at home cooking. That was her right, to be able to cook for her family, to be