A TOUCH OF INFIDELITY

Prose - Short Story - A TOUCH OF INFIDELITY

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

His loud, sing-song call set their feet in motion. Najma and Salma came rushing down, covering their head with a dupatta. Bibi Ji sat on her charpoy placed in the middle of the courtyard of the haveli purchased by her father-in-law. Never the one to sit idle, she cracked betel nuts, munched salted pistachios and kept a hawk’s eye on human traffic and dress code, not letting go of an opportunity to crib despite reminding herself almost every day that she had lost all control over the household where she once lorded over unchallenged for three decades, making her own adversity fade away by comparing herself to kings and emperors who had to abdicate everything in favour of the next generation.

Ever since the bangle-seller found favours with the charming ladies of the house by presenting before them a dazzling collection of bangles and other fashion accessories, the matriarch became bitter and accusative. She directed Razia, her confidante, attendant and servant rolled into one, to open the door whenever he came. She pretended to remain busy with her prayer beads while she was actually all ears. By contorting her eyebrows she expressed disapproval if the interaction spilled beyond ten minutes. If words coated with profound sweetness rolled off their tongues. Barbed comments were exchanged with Razia in the kitchen.

Asif and Zafar were hard-working traders. They left early in the morning after a hurried breakfast of bread and eggs prepared by Razia Chachi. Their wives were not allowed to violate the sanctity of the kitchen until they went for a bath. Happy to be relieved of the domestic burden, Najma and Salma stayed holed up in their rooms till noon. This arrangement worked well for Razia Chachi who left the preparation of lunch to the young wives while she just had to carry the lunch boxes to Kashish Wholesale Cloth Stores in Nurpur, since the brothers could not hamper their business by taking a break. Small traders from adjoining towns insisted on being delivered goods on time, to catch the evening passenger train.

Najma came first – as Asif’s wife. Three years later entered Salma – as Zafar’s wife. Bibi Ji was not in favour of marrying both her sons into the same family. Najma encouraged Salma to trap Zafar in the web of love. She brought her to stay with her to end her loneliness after her miscarriage. For some months Salma got an opportunity to ignite his passion and go out with him on Thursdays when the shop was closed.

A confrontation erupted but Zafar conveyed to Bibi Ji that he would either marry Salma or stay single. On being served this choice, Mumtaz Bibi saw through Najma’s flawless planning. She sank into a depression like the one that spreads across the sky for days. As sisters, their blood-related bonding remained strong and marginalized Bibi Ji’s importance. A charge levied on Najma was fended off by Salma and vice-versa.

The sons made it a point to enter Bibi Ji’s room to enquire about her health every evening after returning from the shop. Those five minutes was all that she got to discuss family matters. This ritual was added after marriage since they did not want to appear henpecked in her eyes. Their wives waiting upstairs were curious to know what their mother had fed them with. Thankfully, the bangle seller had not been mentioned yet. No explanation sought regarding where those attractive bangles came from.

Najma and Salma had gone to see their ailing mother for a week. In their absence came the bangle seller one fine morning. He was accorded a surprisingly warm welcome because Bibi Ji wished to communicate that her house was no dargah he came to so often.  Ordering Razia to fetch a glass of rose sherbet, she asked him to come in. He left his basket near the threshold and stepped in gingerly. She scanned his physique. Well-built, fair-complexioned, the bangle seller seemed to hail from a family that had fallen on bad times. Her sons, though not much older, were already pot-bellied.

 “Are you married?” she fired.

“No,” he replied.

“Your family?” she asked.

“I lost parents in childhood. I live with my Chacha who works in a bangle factory.”

 “You seem to come here frequently. But we can’t buy every time. Don’t you have other areas to tour with your items?”

The glass of sherbet lay untouched. Razia was drawn to the basket and she glowed about the wonderful collection he carried.

Restoring her focus on the bangle-seller, Bibi Ji rallied forth, “See, bangles are not vegetables. We can’t buy every day. Moreover, we are upper class. Gold suits our status. Not this cheap, breakable stuff worn by the working classes. I can’t stop you from coming but would like you to make it less frequent. There are other chores to do apart from wasting time checking the items you carry. Your arrival every morning is a distraction.”

The bangle-seller got the message. He stood up and took leave, promising to honour her request. Razia had withdrawn herself from the basket, observing closely the sad look on his face when he lifted the wicker basket on his head. She gave a look of pity for the young man.

                                                                  *

Najma was standing near the window that opened on to the street. She was peering out to see the boys playing marbles. Suddenly her eyes fell on the bangle-seller who was quietly passing by. She called out so loudly that even a deaf person would hear it.

Since it was quite some time that he had turned up, almost a fortnight, he paused and said, “No new stock to show.”

“You come first. I will see that for myself.”

He could not turn down her plea.

She pulled Salma from the corridor and ran downstairs, forgetting her dupatta.

“Where were you all these days?”

 “Stayed home, down with fever,” he lied.

 “Having fever?” Najma asked, touching his forehead.

 Salma touched his wrist to feel the pulse. The sisters looked into each other’s eyes and shared the conclusion. The bangle-seller drew himself back.

Bibi Ji, who had gone to her room to take medicines, returned earlier than expected. She saw the scene and collapsed on the charpoy. Ignoring her dramatic outburst, Najma asked him to slide the orange bangles down her right wrist. Salma followed suit with her own choice. She placed an order for purple ones to match her new suit. Pulling out a small pouch from the farthest reaches of her breast, she paid him without bargaining.

When Bibi Ji saw the heaving bosom of Salma, she exploded in anger at the bangle-seller.

 “Did I not warn you the last time? But you are here again so soon.”

The bangle-seller took it calmly. The sisters urged him to tell the whole story. He tried to lighten up the atmosphere with a smile and gathered his belongings to leave immediately, fearing the matriarch’s onslaught. He chickened out without responding to their queries.

Prior to marriage, they had a number of male friends: Ahmed, Firdaus and Tanveer. They shared jokes, played together and went out for excursions. Salma realized late that Tanveer had a soft corner for her. During her recent trip to her Ammi’s house, she saw he had brought home a beautiful bride, more beautiful than her. Apart from their husbands now, the bangle-seller was the only male they conversed with once or twice a week.

No sooner did the bangle-seller leave than Salma cast a furious glance at her mother-in-law. Unable to understand what her problem was, she lashed out in a manner stripped of all sobriety and deference. Najma pulled her by the arm as a conflict would make matters worse. They retreated upstairs.

Bibi Ji ordered Razia to apply almond oil to relieve stress. It was high time now. Better to inform her sons of their wives’ subtle strokes with infidelity, how they teased an outsider and enjoyed his touch. She decided to do so when Asif and Zafar came to meet her in the evening. There was a gap of six hours and in this period changes are possible. This disgust should simmer within her.

The meeting downstairs was a prolonged one. With bated breath Najma watched the clock tick. When Asif entered the room, she was stitching a cushion cover.

“Came late today,” she asked just to pretend that she was unaware of his arrival.

“No, with Ammi, discussing,” he said.

“Wash your hands first. I’ll get tea for you,” Najma said.

As he picked up his towel from the bedstead, the sound of screaming pierced his ears. It emerged from the adjacent room. Najma rushed out first as she was nearer to the door. When she lifted the curtain she saw an upturned table lamp. Salma was sobbing in a corner. Zafar hobbled out of the room but was intercepted by his brother who demanded an explanation.

“Just held her hand and she says it hurts, wrenches it away.”

Every resident of the house heard his voice. Najma suspected Bibi Ji had poisoned him. If it was so, why did Asif not look disturbed? There were several doubts assailing her mind.

The next morning Najma entered Razia’s room and demanded to know whether the bangle-seller had been discussed. On being promised a gift, she revealed that Bibi Ji did not do so but hinted that they needed to exercise more control over the wives, comparing the two of you to kites, not to be given much freedom to soar high.

The sons grew close to Bibi Ji all of a sudden, entering her room to enquire about her health, advising Razia Chachi to pour less sugar and use less salt in every cooked item. Zafar suggested that a Hakim should be consulted to seek opinion on the medicines she was taking.

Bibi Ji was thrilled to gather such attention. She rejected consulting any medical practitioner. The unconditional love of her sons would keep her fine.

After a fortnight, the bangle-seller came to deliver the purple bangles. The door took unduly long to open. Bibi Ji stopped Salma in her tracks, firing a threat.

“If this door opens for him today, the doors of this house will be shut forever on you.”

Hammering the floor with the new walking stick Asif brought for her, Bibi Ji maintained an aggressive stance. Salma proceeded to open the door after weighing the pros and cons, defying her order. No person stood waiting outside. She rushed to the main road and caught a fleeting glimpse of the bangle-seller taking a turn into the next lane. As she turned back her eyes fell on the box of purples bangles placed near the door.

Salma realized that the bangle-seller would never venture here again to face insult.

“What you did was wrong,” she hollered as she entered with the box.

“What! Now you will teach me right and wrong, kal ki chhokri,” Mumtaz Bibi shot back, “Who’s he to you? You are insulting me for a stranger. I know what you sisters are doing. Why did I agree to bring you home? You sisters have ruined my sons’ lives.”

Salma was unstoppable after hearing this allegation. She could match her mother-in-law and even cross her limits. Najma, the more prudent one, clutched her hand and led her away. Though they had left the courtyard, Bibi Ji poured out her residual anger, sharing her grief with Razia, ordering her not to serve any food. She shouted first and then wept at her misfortune in a bout of self-pity. Razia bent forward, being of almost the same age, to console her. Bibi Ji noticed her glossy pearl ear-rings and asked where she got it from. Instead of answering, Razia started sobbing as well.

 “Why did you argue like that? If she spices it up, can you imagine what our husbands will do? I suspect they are keeping us under watch,” Najma scolded her sister.

“What to do? She spoke so rudely that I could not control myself. Do you think her behaviour was tolerable?” Salma asked.

“We need to have some ground to defend ourselves,” Najma said, looking worried.

“We have done no wrong. We are not sleeping with the bangle seller. Why should we remain afraid then?” Salma reasoned as she felt surprised that her sister was needlessly concerned about how this simple matter could snowball.

                                                                      *

The Almighty could not have been more kind to them. When Razia opened the door after much deliberation since no guest was expected at the odd hour, she was pleasantly surprised. She lifted her hand for salutation, probably long as an elephant’s trunk and let it oscillate for a while. After spending years in Iran, Hasrat Mian was back. Razia flattered him while welcoming him in.

“Since you left Bibi has not stitched a single suit for herself. The other day she was remembering you. The one she is wearing is also sewn by your able hands.”

Encouraged, he came and sat beside Bibi Ji on the charpoy, enquiring about her health and children. From the balcony upstairs Najma saw a guest she had not seen before. She thought that a new Hakim had come to examine her.

The intimate posture and the uncovered head reminded her that it was easier to preach than practice. Bibi Ji's dupatta was lying aside. Her sagging breasts were in full frontal view. Stealthily Najma came into the kitchen and stood beside Razia, extracting details about the guest.

“He is Hasrat Mian, our family tailor. Stitched Bibi Ji's clothes ever since she came here married. Was a friend of Asif’s father. Very handsome in those days. Very stylish too. Went to Iran just before your marriage.”

Najma kept noting how frankly they spoke, how Bibi Ji had ignored his query about being introduced to the daughters-in-law of the house. Razia had prepared badam sherbet and poured it in a special glass.

“Let’s go inside. It’s hot here. These crows and pigeons will shit on our heads,” Bibi Ji said.

She stood up with Hasrat Main holding her arm, staggering a bit more than she usually did, preferring this form of support to the walking stick that lay abandoned on the floor.

“Arrey Razia,” she called aloud, “bring sherbet to my room and also the measuring tape.”

The rolled up coir-made drape in front of her bedroom door was lowered.

                                                                     _________

About the Author

He works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata, India. His short fiction and articles have been published in Earthen Lamp Journal, The Bombay Review, Open Road Review, Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Readomania.com, The Assam Tribune, and The Statesman.

His first novel, Pal Motors, is getting published this year.