The Marital Bed

Nobody knew where he had come from and why. All the more baffling was his departure that night, when he ignored the householder’s pleas to stay back till daybreak, as there were wild animals lurking in the alleys. ‘I have to go; I can’t stop for anything. No earthly power can hold me back,’ he said, his mouth barely visible through the dense growth of moustache and the flowing beard—pepper in shade.

Thirty minutes of his stay had changed the destiny of Boral family that evening. My grandfather, Shri Ishwar Chandra Boral, had tied the knot six decades ago. The legendary episode is recalled with pride even today. It is part of folklore in the entire town of Shahidpur. What the mystic had prophesied that evening was heard by all. And they saw it happen later. Ishwar Chandra was envied, obviously, for such a boon is cherished in a patriarchal society.

Perhaps he was a wandering seer who had ventured to unravel mysteries. He wore only a loincloth, with a bracelet made of beads adorning his right wrist. His forehead had an ‘equal to’ mathematical sign, made with sandal paste. A shiver went down the spine each time he let out a grunt. All were scared to look into his scornful eyes, for fear of being cursed or being faced with a buried secret.

The arrival of such a godly representative at an auspicious occasion like marriage was a blessing in disguise. This ascetic had proved different from what holy men usually were. He demanded a hearty, sumptuous meal. ‘Give me lots of sweetmeats, puris, curd, fruits, and chutneys,’ he had stressed, running his tongue over parched lips. He sat down on the floor after washing his hands with water from a brass pot. He was not frugal in his eating habits. He belched a lot after rubbing his flat stomach. People watched his behaviour with curiosity. ‘I want to meet the couple,’ he said, ‘take me there.’ His wish was fulfilled, and he proceeded happily to the marital chamber.

As soon as he entered, he surprised—and annoyed—others by looking straight into the bride’s eyes by lifting her veil, which was my grandfather’s right. Turning his attention to Ishwar Boral, the groom, who was visibly aggrieved, he sat next to him and whispered something into his ear. When a smile descended on my grandfather’s face, the sage faced the crowd and took his hand near his mouth as if he held a microphone. ‘Now listen! This has been transformed into a miracle bed, and consummation on it would forever yield male heirs. Forever.’ he said with emphasis. Slapping the ornately carved arm of the bed thrice, he dramatically raised his hands and made a few creepy sounds. He left, though the relatives asked him to stay back till the rooster woke. When he refused by forcefully raising his hand, all were scared that similar to the way he’d blessed, he could also curse if persuaded against his will. They let him vanish into the darkness. Before he departed, the newlywed couple stood up to touch his feet.

I heard this story from my grandmother who still got goosebumps while recalling that event, and how lucky that bed had proved to be for our family. She had conceived three healthy sons. My father and uncles.One of the uncles, however, met with an untimely death at the age of twenty-one, when he went swimming in the river during monsoon. First, my uncle, Sudhir, consummated his marriage on that bed and then my father, Jogen Boral, followed suit. Both had been blessed with sons. My father did not try for the second issue, as he was happy with one because in those days it had already become fashionable to raise a small family.

My father had also passed the story around, as did my mother, who had prepared the same bed for me and my bride — about to get married in a month’s time. It was expected that I would also beget a son. It was inevitable that we also had to sleep on the bed. My grandmother had issued strict directives that the consummation of my marriage should take place on the ‘blessed’ bed.

*****

Strange things do happen at times. I was pushed into the bridal chamber where the bride sat coyly, on the bed decorated with roses and marigold flowers. I dimmed the lights and started fondling her, and things got heated up. But before we could get rid of our clothes, we fell on the ground with a heavy thud that alerted the entire house. The sturdy marital bed, so famous for producing sons, had collapsed when my turn came!

It was certainly inauspicious, and my wife who had been fed stories of this bed looked worried. She quickly arranged her dishevelled clothes. Nervous, I switched on the lights and opened the door. The entire family stood at the doorstep to witness the pathetic sight. The broken bed was lying on the mosaic floor like an injured elephant. Jaws dropped, remorse spread across the anxiety-ridden faces as if some dear one had suddenly died of a heart attack!

My father looked at me with readable spite through his bifocal spectacles, as if asking me why I had to do it so roughly. When an accumulated weight of a hundred and sixty kilos began to thump wildly, how could a senile bed survive?

We were immediately separated from each other on my grandmother’s advice who looked heartbroken, perhaps more than or at least equal to the grief of losing her husband. It was grandmother’s decree, supported by my mother, that we were to sleep separately till the bed was repaired. So, I retired to my father’s room that night, and my leg at times climbed on the bolster and sometimes on my father, who had to free himself from my heavy grip. This continued for a few days until my father let me have the entire bed and chose the sofa instead. I guess my wife also did some mischief with my grandmother and mother, as she was sandwiched between the two heavyweights! But based on my childhood experiences, grandma, during her sleep, has the habit of kicking away disturbing elements from her vicinity.

Now, the problem arose of finding a suitable carpenter, a task no less arduous than finding a suitable groom. My grandmother had stressed—though there was no valid reason for it—that only someone who did not have a girl child either as a daughter or sister, should repair the bed. After due inquiries and a combing operation, a brigand, a bachelor carpenter was found in the neighbouring town across the river. The history behind the bed was thoroughly narrated to him and he was advised not to take an assistant’s help. He promised to take the necessary precautions and deliver the bed within a week’s time.

The abstinence seemed to stretch, making me feel wretched. Sometimes I felt like eloping with my wife into the jungles, where the mystic had vanished into some sixty years ago. I avoided looking at my wife’s face and chose to be served food by my mother. The wife’s thick red lips ignited passionate feelings, and I did not want to embrace and peck my father and fondle my bolster in frustration. Almost a month passed by, but there was no sign of the carpenter. Servants were sent to find out and they reported bad news—according to the townsfolk, the carpenter had been absconding for several weeks.

*****
 

One day, through the window I saw my wife bathing. I was actually cleaning the backyard junk, where the cattle and piles of haystack were kept. I peeped in through the broken windowpane. Seeing her scrub her luscious breasts I got very excited. I did not alert her of my voyeuristic exploits that climaxed in a masturbatory gratification.

That evening a golden opportunity came my way, as the entire family had to attend a marriage ceremony. I am reputed for avoiding congregations, so my mother thought of taking my wife along. As I suggested to her while she was cooking, my wife feigned a stomachache just prior to departure. She was also desperate for an intimate encounter with me. She was left behind, and nobody thought anything ‘unsavoury’ would happen because our grandmother was present and her vigilant eyes would not allow us to be together. Since, I had decided to utilise the opportunity nothing would stop me. I was ready to use all means, justified or not.

I slipped a sleeping pill in the cup of milk grandmother consumed after dinner. She fell asleep almost immediately. I knew the effect would last at least an hour or two. My wife questioned the ethics behind it, but she relented when I grabbed her in my arms and took her to the roof where we made love, under the moon and the stars. This time, thankfully, the roof did not collapse! We came down and retreated into our separate chambers and feigned sleep, to make it seem that we were obedient.

*****
 

Almost a year passed by and there was no news of the carpenter. One morning when the main gate was opened for the sweeper, my grandmother’s hazy vision detected a man sitting on his haunches with his head held between his hands and a bedspread behind him. She shouted at us to come out and identify the stranger waiting outside. The stranger identified himself as a carpenter and begged forgiveness. He clasped his hands and fell at my father’s feet, seeking mercy. ‘Master, I became greedy after hearing about the magical properties of the bed. For the past year, I have been touring several towns and villages with this bed. I rented it out to couples to conceive male children. Made plenty of money this way, but bad luck haunted me. Many customers came and asked for a refund when they conceived females. I was heckled but I managed to escape somehow. I want to return this to you and run away from here, otherwise, they will kill me. Please, forgive me and take back what is yours,’ he pleaded and sobbed. His sore eyes were proof that he was badly beaten up by irate patrons.

My father was not moved by the carpenter’s confession. He stepped back brusquely and asked him to get lost, with the bed. ‘We do not need this bed anymore. It is polluted. Hence, of no use to us. If you are not interested you had better sell it off or break it and keep the wood for burning during winter,’ my father declared.

 The carpenter was appalled to hear this but a strong wave of my father’s hand muffled his rebuttal. I was quite delighted about the way the matter had finally ended. He left the place with a heavy heart, carrying the bed on a bullock cart. Your guess is as good as mine as to what happened to the legendary bed or what the carpenter did with it, whether he dumped it in the river he had to cross on his way back or sold it or retained it.

How this change occurred in father is interesting. My wife had delivered healthy, male twins last month. She conceived boys without consummating our marriage on the talismanic marital bed, though a storm was raised when her bulge was first noticed. Anyway, the elders were finally convinced that the decisive chromosome was within me, not inside the bed. All males, young and old, finally, came out of the superstitious grip and relished the fact that they had determined the gender, not the bed, an achievement they had never claimed as theirs.