The Book

T'hese days I am troubled by a niggling doubt. Just who 1. am I? Yes. Yes, I. know I am a wife, a mother. But these are roles assigned to me by social sanction. I want to peel off my identity. layer by layer. and arrive at the quintessential me. Descartes had been struck by a question very similar to mine. He wanted to know if he really existed. So he shut himself up in a large Dutch stove and emerged with the proposition "I think, therefore I am." Now that's all very well. But they don't build stoves like that anymore. And even if I found one and sequestered myself in it, who would do the laundry and put out the trash can?

These days my life consists of removing lice of the kids, defrosting the fridge and deducting how much the grocer short-changed me. My conversations with hubby Vinay have become restI:icted to monosyllables. He is paranoid about his coin-sized bald spot he saw last week on the mirror. I hide the age-defying cream in the bottom drawer and pummel my thighs under the shower. Can't be too careful about cellulite.

If I was four inches taller and about twenty kilograms lighter I could have been sashaying down the ramp. Now all do is eat my heart out as hubby stares at Pamela Anderson cavorting on the beach with a shell shocked' expression on his face. I could swear that he forgets to blink.

HAS YOUR MARRIAGE LOST ITS PEP?, screams the questionnaire in Reader's Digest. Surprise him. Change your hairstyle. Ask him to zip your dress, get naughty lingerie. leave love notes around. mark your erogenous zones with lipstick. do it under the dining table, in the bath-tub, on the terrace. Desperate times call for desperat measures. I know who I am-a soul pining for romance., I broach the subject of a week-end in Shillong, just the two of us, minus the kids. My husband is a practical

man. Where would we keep them, he growls. With the neighbours, in a home for delinquents, an orphanage? Well, alright. I concede, we"ll take them too. Something was better than nothing. The 'kids let out whoops of glee.

The trip starts on an ominous note. The suitcase refuses to close, the dicky refuses to open. When we finally start, it begins to rain cats and dogs. As we ease out of the lane I am beset with doubts. Have I really turned off the gas knobs, has Vinay really locked the front door? These unsettling thoughts are diverted by the sight of a bulky package Vi nay deposits mil-the backseat.

i "What's that?" I ask suspiciously. "Oh!" , he says airily, "Just some files I must look through at Shillong."

I clench my fists, grit my teeth, swallow the expletive that teeters on the tip of my tongue apd take a deep breath.

The car speeds on, swallowing the grey winding road.

Vinay nearly runs over a dog, narrowly missed an oncoming truck, swerves violently to the left and generally behaves as if the cops are after him. And all the while the Aerosmith guys are screaming on the stereo as if their innards are being twisted by a knife. As if this is not enough Chintu throws up his breakfast allover the backseat. Vinay and I have a short and nasty argument about who would clean up the muck. As always, yours truly gives in. Four arguments, one tyre-puncture later we are at Nongpoh. I can feel a headache coming on. Chintu loudly demands a coke and some chips. Pintu makes funny faces at the fruitsellers. With a vicious little dick, I silence Aerosmith.

It is then that I see them. A silver Cielo glides to a stop next to our battered Fiat. A tall distinguished looking man with greying side-burns gets out of the car, hurries to the other side and opens the door. Out steps an attractive woman, obviously his wife. She says something and he smiles and nods genially. They make a striking couple as they stride towards a Kong selling pineapple slices in a glass jar. They bite into pineapple slices, standing close together and chatting animatedly. When they finish I see the man wipe his wife's fingers with a large white handkerchief. It is an intimate little gesture carried out

at a very public place. Laughing, they get back to the car. Once again he holds the door open and she slides in. They drive off. When a man opens the car door for his wife, I think bitterly, either the car or the wife is new.

We reach Shillong at noon. Hunting for a suitable hotel frazzles our nerves. Some hotel rooms have a bath-tub but no cable T.V. or vice versa. The kids want both. Ultimately we check in at Centerpoint which has both. I'm neurotic about getting stuck in the lift so I huff and puff three floors. The little devils jump up and down the spring beds with their shoes on while Vinay mutters darkly about the tariff rates.

It happ.ens when I open the door to let in the waiter.

The door of the room opposite ours is ajar. And what do I see but that distinguished man and his wife standing in the middle of the room, locked in a passionate embrace. I slam my door and walk vengefully towards my spouse.

''You don't love me", I say in a deceptively gentle tone. "Come on", drawls Vinay. "If I didn't love you, where did these two little devils come from?"

'That's only procreation", I say brusquely. "Cockroaches multiply. As do pangolins, stagbeetles, not to mention amoeba."

"Alright, alright", he says testily. "You don't have to rub it in. Have you packed my pyjamas?"

What a fool I had been! Why did I think that Vinay would suddenly turn romantic just by being at a higher altitude? Why did I kid myself into hoping for passion under the pines, sweet nothings at Shillong Peak, Eros at Elephant falls? My husband didn't need a refresher course on romance. A beginner's course was what was needed.

We bump into the perfect couple everywhere-in the lake, at restaurants. Shillong Peak, Hydari Park, Golf Links. We smile and even exchange pleasantries. The man is so suave, so dapper, so nattily turned out that Vinay looks like a country bumpkin next to him. I now remember that little incident at the Chinese shoe store. The couple is there and the woman is examining a pair of stylish pumps. Just when the salesman is about to hold her foot to help

her into the shoe the man barks out. "Get your hands off." He then bends down and lovingly guides his wife's dainty foot into the shoe. In a moment of insight I decide that probably the man didn't let the tailor take his wife's measurements either.

Meanwhile Vinay and I have not had a single intimate moment. Back in our hotel room the kids watch a late night movie on the telly. It is Sholay. I glumly settle down on the bed and mull over certain things. Like there were two kinds of love, in Sholay. The earthy obvious kind like that between bharmendra and Hema Malini. And the subtle understated kind like Amitabh and Jaya's. I was acquainted with neither.

Two hours fly by. Just when Sanjeev Kumar is setting about stamping Gabbar to death I look at my kids. They have not changed their clothes. They have not prayed before going to bed. But they had done some thing for which I am deeply grateful. They have fallen asleep.

But there is a catch. Vinay is asleep too. I can hear his whistling snores on the far end of the bed. There is not a moment to lose. Groping in the darkness I change into my gossamer nightie, unpin my hair, spray perfume behind my ears. Then I climb in beside him and trying to make my voice husky I murmur, "Darling, wake up .....

Vinay stirs and sits up. "Are they asleep?" He asks warily.

''Yes'', I give a throaty little laugh and squeeze his arm.

'Thank God", he sighs gustily. "Put on the light." "Oh .. ." I am overcome by shyness. "Should 1, really?" "Of course", he says. "Otherwise how on earth can I

go through those files?"

* * * * *

It is our last evening in Shillong.Chintu and Pintu are hooked on Wrestlemania on Star Sports. Vinay and I go out to eat at Broadway. As expected the perfect couple are on a nearby table. Their heads bent low, they are engrossed in conversation. Suddenly the man sees us, smiles and says pleasantly, "Why don't you join us?"

I accept with alacrity. I want to observe them up close, discover what mantra they have for their enduring romance.

"How long have you been married?" I ask, doing away-

with the preliminaries.

The woman looks uncertainly at her husband. "Sixteen years", he says smoothly.

"Any kids?"

"We'll ... no ..... she says.

"We have a fifteen year old son."

That's what I meant", she says hurriedly. "Our son is not a child anymore."

I sip my gin and lime and begin to feel light headed. 'You look very happy together." I say wistfully. ''You could win a match made for each other contest."

"Thank you", they say in unison.

"What", I begin to hiccup, "Is the secret of a happy marriage .....

The man then says something whose significance

was to realize later at night.

"Madam, hanging and wiving go by destiny ... "

"We make the most of these weekends", says UrmiIa. "Right", nodded Aveek Chowdhury. "I just remembered

this Urdu couplet. It goes like this. 'The need of the bud is to bloom today. Why rely on the breeze of tomorrow?"

By now I am pretty much sozzled.

"Are those real?" I ask loudly pointing to Urmila's chest.

"Of course." Urmila blushes furiously. "What did you eArpect, sillicone implants?"

Chowdhury shakes with laughter. Vinay kicks me under the table.

"What I meant", I mumble awkwardly. "Were your pearls."

After some mundane pleasantries we have our dinner and retire to our rooms.

It is around midnight. I wake up suddenly to hear a door being banged, a hysterical female voice urging someone to open the door. sounds of a scuffle, swift footsteps, alarmed shouts. Slipping into my dressing gown, I timidly open the door.

Aveek Chowdhury is standing at the entrance to their room. His hair awry, his jaw slack, his Bermudas askew and a look of abject misery in his eyes. Next to him Urmila is ineffectually trying to save herself from the verbal onslught of a short fat woman.

"I can explain ... there has been a mistake ... it's not what you think ... "Chowdhury is pleading incoherently.

With the agility of a Sumo wrestler the fat woman swings around and delivers a fiendish blow on his solar plexus.

"Aaargh .... " gargles Chowdhury. All along the corridor doors open and disgorge a horde of sleepy bleary eyed guests. The Sumo wrestler is now divesting Urmila of handfuls of her hair. Chowdhury's mouth opens and closes like a goldfi·sh but he makes no attempt to save Urmila. A far cry fr9m the man who wouldn't let a shoe salesman touch her foot.

The manager is a smart chap. Anticipating trouble, he has already called the police. Two uniformed upholders of the law plough through the crowd. The inspector barks out questions. Certain startling facts emerge. Aveek Chowdhury's lawfully wedded wife is the Sumo wrestler, U rmila is his secretary.

Half an hour later, Chowdhury, now suitably attired meekly follows his wife out of the hateI. He pretends not to see me, though 1 guess that with his black eye he can't see much.

Urmila goes off separately. Who cares if her pearls are real. Her marriage is fake.

* * * * *

We leave Shillong the next day. It happens when we are reaching Barapani. Vinay clears his throat, pats my knee and says awakwardly.

"I'm not good at saying these things. I can't remember a single Urdu couplet .... but I care about you .....

He reaches out, switches on the stereo. Slowly, hauntingly, Beethoven's music sweeps into the emptyj spaces of my heart like a surging wave.

"I picked it up at Police Bazar", he grins lopsidedly "It's Valentine's Day, today, remember?"

This was it. The shimmering waters of Barapani 0 the left. The swaying pines to the right, the sun and shade dappled road in front, my love beside me and and the tw little devils behind me .. ;. if this isn't romance, I don't kno what is ....