again upon that ravaged beauty.
"Stare your fill," she said scornfully. "You always lacked graces, Rukmani."
I averted my eyes hastily. I hardly knew what to say.
"I have come," she continued, "not to be seen, or to see you, but for a meal. I have not eaten for a long time."
I went to the pot and stirred it, scooped out a little, placed it in a bowl, handed it to her. She swallowed it quickly and put the bowl down.
"I must have some rice too. I cannot come every day. . . as it is I have waited a long time to make sure you were alone."
"There is no rice to be given away," I said. "I must think of my husband and children. These are not times of plenty."
"Nevertheless," she replied, "I will have some. The damage will never be repaired while I hunger. There is no life for me until I am whole again."
She is mad, I thought. She believes what she says; does not realise there is no going back for her.
"Listen," I said, "there is none, or very little. Drink our rice water, come here daily, but do not ask for rice. I have a daughter and sons, even as you have, to consider. What I have belongs to us all. Can you not go to your sons?"
"My sons," she said, looking at me speculatively, "are not mine alone." Seeing my bewilderment she added, "They have wives. I would never approach them now."
"What are sons for --" I began.
"Not to beg from," she interrupted with a flicker of contempt. "I can look after myself; but first the bloom must come back."
I was mute: I had said all there was to say and now there was nothing more.
"Well," she said, breaking the silence, and with an edge to her voice. "How much longer have I to wait?"
She came close to me and put her face near mine. I saw the grey, drawn flesh and the hooded eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, and I made to turn away but she held me.
"I have not so much patience," she said. "I will have the rice now or your husband shall hear that his wife is not as virtuous as he believes -- or she pretends."
"He believes what is true," I said with anger. "I do not pretend."
"Perhaps he has not seen what I have seen," she said, and there was menace in her voice and threat in the words. "Comings and goings in the twilight, and soft speech, and gifts of milk and honey such as men make to the women they have known."
"Stop," I howled at her, and put my hands to my ears. Thoughts kept hurtling through my head like frenzied squirrels in a new-forged cage. With sudden clarity I recalled my daughter's looks that far-off day when I had gone to Kenny; my son's words: "Such men have power, especially over women"; remembered my own foolish silences. I closed my eyes and sank down. She came and sat by me.
"Which is it to be? Which is it to be?. . ."
Her words were hammering at my brain, the horrible syllables were beating the air around me, the whole place was full of their sound.
I need you, I cried to myself, Nathan, my husband. I cannot take the risk, because there is a risk since she is clever and I am not. In your anger or your jealousy, or even because you are not yourself after these long strained months, you may believe what she says and what she means. Because I have deceived you and cannot deny all she proclaims, you may believe the more. I will kill her first, I thought, and the desire was strong. I felt myself shaking. I raised my hands to my eyes and there was a quivering redness there. Then I heard a cry, whether of bird or child or my own tortured self I do not know, and the redness cleared. I felt the water oozing through my closed eyes, through my closed fingers. I took my hands away, and there was Kunthi waiting by my side with the patience of one who knows what power she wields, patient, like a vulture.
The ration of seven days to Kunthi, and eight already eaten. There is still enough for nine days, I thought, not with comfort but with desolation, and hatred came welling up again for her who had deprived me of the grain, and contempt for myself who had relinquished it.
I
"Stare your fill," she said scornfully. "You always lacked graces, Rukmani."
I averted my eyes hastily. I hardly knew what to say.
"I have come," she continued, "not to be seen, or to see you, but for a meal. I have not eaten for a long time."
I went to the pot and stirred it, scooped out a little, placed it in a bowl, handed it to her. She swallowed it quickly and put the bowl down.
"I must have some rice too. I cannot come every day. . . as it is I have waited a long time to make sure you were alone."
"There is no rice to be given away," I said. "I must think of my husband and children. These are not times of plenty."
"Nevertheless," she replied, "I will have some. The damage will never be repaired while I hunger. There is no life for me until I am whole again."
She is mad, I thought. She believes what she says; does not realise there is no going back for her.
"Listen," I said, "there is none, or very little. Drink our rice water, come here daily, but do not ask for rice. I have a daughter and sons, even as you have, to consider. What I have belongs to us all. Can you not go to your sons?"
"My sons," she said, looking at me speculatively, "are not mine alone." Seeing my bewilderment she added, "They have wives. I would never approach them now."
"What are sons for --" I began.
"Not to beg from," she interrupted with a flicker of contempt. "I can look after myself; but first the bloom must come back."
I was mute: I had said all there was to say and now there was nothing more.
"Well," she said, breaking the silence, and with an edge to her voice. "How much longer have I to wait?"
She came close to me and put her face near mine. I saw the grey, drawn flesh and the hooded eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, and I made to turn away but she held me.
"I have not so much patience," she said. "I will have the rice now or your husband shall hear that his wife is not as virtuous as he believes -- or she pretends."
"He believes what is true," I said with anger. "I do not pretend."
"Perhaps he has not seen what I have seen," she said, and there was menace in her voice and threat in the words. "Comings and goings in the twilight, and soft speech, and gifts of milk and honey such as men make to the women they have known."
"Stop," I howled at her, and put my hands to my ears. Thoughts kept hurtling through my head like frenzied squirrels in a new-forged cage. With sudden clarity I recalled my daughter's looks that far-off day when I had gone to Kenny; my son's words: "Such men have power, especially over women"; remembered my own foolish silences. I closed my eyes and sank down. She came and sat by me.
"Which is it to be? Which is it to be?. . ."
Her words were hammering at my brain, the horrible syllables were beating the air around me, the whole place was full of their sound.
I need you, I cried to myself, Nathan, my husband. I cannot take the risk, because there is a risk since she is clever and I am not. In your anger or your jealousy, or even because you are not yourself after these long strained months, you may believe what she says and what she means. Because I have deceived you and cannot deny all she proclaims, you may believe the more. I will kill her first, I thought, and the desire was strong. I felt myself shaking. I raised my hands to my eyes and there was a quivering redness there. Then I heard a cry, whether of bird or child or my own tortured self I do not know, and the redness cleared. I felt the water oozing through my closed eyes, through my closed fingers. I took my hands away, and there was Kunthi waiting by my side with the patience of one who knows what power she wields, patient, like a vulture.
The ration of seven days to Kunthi, and eight already eaten. There is still enough for nine days, I thought, not with comfort but with desolation, and hatred came welling up again for her who had deprived me of the grain, and contempt for myself who had relinquished it.
I
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