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Stories
Geetli smarted from Ravi's blatant flirting with her attractive little sister and the Bigger Betrayal at home.
It had taken her days to
digest that bitter truth. Ravi claimed that Thakurda knew about it. "
Why didn't Thakurda or someone else tell me ? " Geetli wondered.
Thakurda had gleefully
pointed out " you'll have a proper Bharat darshan with a husband in the
civil service, no hassles on the home front. Raj karegi tu, betiya." Geetli remembered frowning with perplex ion when Ravi had said " Ask Beeji " the first time when she asked for the safe keys to change her bangles. But then, since Beeji handled all the transactions and the housekeeping, perhaps it made sense to keep the jewelry in her safe. Beeji seemed to be running the whole show, down to the clothes prepared for Geetli -- she recognized the bygone designs of an older generation. Geetli had not deemed it fit to question who she was, perhaps a particularly close or favored relative, whose close ties gave her the right to take decisions, no doubt. Then everyone started to take their leaves; everyone, save Beeji, who seemed comfortably permanent in the household. Geetli could not recall how and who told her the bald truth : that Beeji was her Saut, Ravi's obligation to an elder brother who died early. But for the deception which rankled, Geetli got along well with Beeji who handled the chores, leaving the younger woman free to devote herself to building up her marriage. With a wisdom beyond her years, Geetli decided to put the humiliation of Ravi's wedding day flirtation with Prema behind her, to concentrate on building up a relationship with her husband, of the kind that he obviously did not share with his first wife. That was no mean task. At times, he was so easy to get along with; at others, as nerve wracking as walking on eggshells, for no-one knew from one moment to another what Ravi's reaction would be. She sometimes thought he made a conscious effort to undermine her confidence, what little she had of it. One day he approved of Geetli in lemon yellow; the next time he'd fling " it gives you a TB patient look " at her.
He was always
impossible. If Geetli sat, he would ask why she couldn't stand up. and
if she stood, he would laugh at her for not sitting down. If she napped
in the afternoon, he would snap at her for waste of time. if she spend
the noon making pickles or knitting, he would scold her for not resting
and not letting others rest. In company, he " loved " western food; threw tantrums over baked dishes in the menu at home. He was in his element in groups, but needed a crutch, a whipping boy to be the butt of all his jokes. Geetli sometimes wondered who had served earlier; now she was IT. The gregarious social evenings were a prolonged torture that would haunt her for a long time to come, even after they ended -- the day after Dada came to visit. The memory of that day was etched in Geetli's memory. " It was difficult. To this day, I wonder how I managed to hang on to my patience and my play acting of a wife. That Geetli, who could whip up 24 types of pickle and 32 different snacks to serve up to his never-ending flow of guests, the Geetli who snapped to attention at the sound of Her Master's Voice and jumped to do his bidding at all times and at any time, day or the middle of the night. Whilst I did it all, I simmered with growing resentment and bided my time malevolently : He always said that our personal affairs should remain ' is char diwar ke andar '; never discuss family affairs with anyone; and he himself cuckolded my father. showed off his peccadilloes to the whole world at the expense of my Thakurda and his honor. That determined my revenge : that he should never see the face of his beloved again. This is the man, who kept me on tenterhooks all throughout our marriage, demanding not merely service and respect but obedience and loyalty. And what was the sum total of his loyalty ? flirting with my stepmother, landing her with child and foisting an illegitimate child on my father, causing his death. Every day I prayed for an end to the waiting. A year passed since Thakurda;s death and one day Dada appeared at our doorstep. It was a Sunday and Ravi was at home. I shot Dada an anxious querying look, his response was reassuring, but I remained on tenterhooks. Perhaps that had become a habit...being on tenterhooks all the time. Ravi was his usual hearty self. " So, how is everyone at home ? " " All's well. I have taken personal charge of everything now.." " You shouldn't have bothered. I could easily have handled things while you were away on duty...." protested Ravi. " I have already put in my papers. my duty now lies with my family." I had expected this, but Ravi was stunned; no chance of getting his grubby fingers into Thakurda's pies now. Ravi recovered quickly. " Laajjo must be pleased. With such a large establishment, one needs a man about the house." "She'll soon learn to be a man herself, where she has gone." Dada was abrupt. Ravi blanched . " Where has she gone ?" he asked sharply. " I just saw her and the children off. There are better prospects there for Baby too and the children will keep Laajjo busy between them." " Who is Baby ? " the tone was now distinctly shrill. I held my breath. Dada's reply was painfully careful as he looked into Ravi's eyes. " Baby is my youngest sister, born to my stepmother six years ago." |
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Ravi himself was the
centerpiece of the negotiations as the prospective groom was his
cousin's son.
