pink earthworm, was stacked on a small chair next to the machine. A square window with iron bars looked out on to the black Cross in the garden.
The wall was lined with built-in cupboard doors: but this was false cupboarding, meant to imitate the home of a man with more money – behind the doors were six green metal Godrej almirahs , where Purnima had stored everything from her wedding jewellery to the ledgers in which she did the household accounting. Masterji had only been allowed to watch as she went through a thick set of keys, found the right one, opened an almirah , and took out what she wanted. He knew that one shelf in an almirah was for her saris; one was for saris in which bundles of coins and notes were hidden; one was for saris in which chequebooks were wrapped; one was for documents relating to their children’s education; one for their finances. A month after her death, Gaurav had called to ask for her diamond necklace, the one she had bought at the Vummidi store in Chennai; Sonal was eager that her mother-in-law’s jewels shouldn’t be lost. Masterji said he did not remember any such necklace, but promised to look in the cupboards. His son’s coldness, he was sure, had started from this time.
Masterji opened one cupboard, and stared at the Godrej almirah inside, on which he saw himself reflected. A narrow full-length mirror had been set into the body of the almirah. Hundreds of red dots (brick red, mud red, and blood red) covered the mirror’s upper half; his wife used to stick one of these bindis on her forehead each time she left the house. Masterji thought the mirror made him look like a man with diseased skin, or a flowering tree.
In the kitchen the old calendar began to tap against the wall: once again he had the sensation that his wife was right there, chopping onions.
A key had been left in the lock of the almirah ; he turned it to find the shelves empty, except for one that was paved with newspaper and defended by camphor mothballs, with just an old silk sari lying in it.
Her wedding sari.
He closed his eyes and brought his hands near the gold border of the sari. He breathed in the camphor-tinted air from the shelf. He thought of the time he had not defended her from her brothers in Suratkal. The old calendar began to hit the wall faster, tap-tap-tap , and now he was sure that Purnima was speaking to him. Tap-tap-tap . She did not want to know about the past. She wanted to know about the girl next door. The journalist.
He breathed in more camphor-tinted air for strength, and confessed. A human being at sixty-one is shining lusts in between old bones, Purnima. The girl next door disturbed him, it was true. He thought his wife would be angry, but she was some place beyond anger now. The calendar tapped again: she was telling him not to agitate himself. She understood now that a man cannot punish himself for his desires, which are sent to him from another world, and she knew he must have felt the same feelings for other women – his colleagues at school, perhaps even some who lived in Vishram Society – but he had repressed those urges and stayed true to her, and this self-control was meritorious, something that helped her on her journey over the oceans. Why, she asked, now that she was dead, did he feel shame at being aroused? Shame and guilt, he replied, with a candour he could never have summoned when Purnima was alive, they had been more than half of a man’s life. For his generation, or for his type of man within that generation, this was always the case. True, she said, true, beating her wings and rising over the ocean. She understood that her husband’s life had bent to black magnetic poles marked ‘Shame’ and ‘Guilt’: yet one of the grey wavelengths in between must be Conscience. That faint line was the one he should find. To guide him through what was coming next.
The vapours of mothballs, old newspaper, and silk sari made him drowsy.
Instead of the image of his wife’s
The wall was lined with built-in cupboard doors: but this was false cupboarding, meant to imitate the home of a man with more money – behind the doors were six green metal Godrej almirahs , where Purnima had stored everything from her wedding jewellery to the ledgers in which she did the household accounting. Masterji had only been allowed to watch as she went through a thick set of keys, found the right one, opened an almirah , and took out what she wanted. He knew that one shelf in an almirah was for her saris; one was for saris in which bundles of coins and notes were hidden; one was for saris in which chequebooks were wrapped; one was for documents relating to their children’s education; one for their finances. A month after her death, Gaurav had called to ask for her diamond necklace, the one she had bought at the Vummidi store in Chennai; Sonal was eager that her mother-in-law’s jewels shouldn’t be lost. Masterji said he did not remember any such necklace, but promised to look in the cupboards. His son’s coldness, he was sure, had started from this time.
Masterji opened one cupboard, and stared at the Godrej almirah inside, on which he saw himself reflected. A narrow full-length mirror had been set into the body of the almirah. Hundreds of red dots (brick red, mud red, and blood red) covered the mirror’s upper half; his wife used to stick one of these bindis on her forehead each time she left the house. Masterji thought the mirror made him look like a man with diseased skin, or a flowering tree.
In the kitchen the old calendar began to tap against the wall: once again he had the sensation that his wife was right there, chopping onions.
A key had been left in the lock of the almirah ; he turned it to find the shelves empty, except for one that was paved with newspaper and defended by camphor mothballs, with just an old silk sari lying in it.
Her wedding sari.
He closed his eyes and brought his hands near the gold border of the sari. He breathed in the camphor-tinted air from the shelf. He thought of the time he had not defended her from her brothers in Suratkal. The old calendar began to hit the wall faster, tap-tap-tap , and now he was sure that Purnima was speaking to him. Tap-tap-tap . She did not want to know about the past. She wanted to know about the girl next door. The journalist.
He breathed in more camphor-tinted air for strength, and confessed. A human being at sixty-one is shining lusts in between old bones, Purnima. The girl next door disturbed him, it was true. He thought his wife would be angry, but she was some place beyond anger now. The calendar tapped again: she was telling him not to agitate himself. She understood now that a man cannot punish himself for his desires, which are sent to him from another world, and she knew he must have felt the same feelings for other women – his colleagues at school, perhaps even some who lived in Vishram Society – but he had repressed those urges and stayed true to her, and this self-control was meritorious, something that helped her on her journey over the oceans. Why, she asked, now that she was dead, did he feel shame at being aroused? Shame and guilt, he replied, with a candour he could never have summoned when Purnima was alive, they had been more than half of a man’s life. For his generation, or for his type of man within that generation, this was always the case. True, she said, true, beating her wings and rising over the ocean. She understood that her husband’s life had bent to black magnetic poles marked ‘Shame’ and ‘Guilt’: yet one of the grey wavelengths in between must be Conscience. That faint line was the one he should find. To guide him through what was coming next.
The vapours of mothballs, old newspaper, and silk sari made him drowsy.
Instead of the image of his wife’s
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