It was colder than usual, not a one-blanket night. Misra, wishing to snuggle up to his wife, moved his body to the left where she usually lay. He sat up with a start, searching the empty bed, first with his eyes adjusting to the early morning light, then with both hands, desperately seeking her, as if she were a bodiless being.
Shanta wasn’t on her side of the bed this morning.
His wife always seemed to be running a fever, her soft skin hot to the touch. One body, cadaver-like, and the other, incredibly alive. This was a couple that had seen some trouble, but had descended into a routine after years of incompatibility of their minds, and great rushes of passion of the carnal variety by night. This was a couple that stayed apart by day, and glided as one into the dark womb of the night. It worked mostly, except when the kids were adolescents and their daughter needed her mommy to sleep in with her. Boy troubles, Shanta had told her husband. He had conceded and a few months of not being clung to were blissful ones for the woman. Even then, on many mornings, very early, having lost patience, and unable to push down an overriding need for his woman, Misra would grab her for the ritual of undoing her composure. Shanta began her kitchen work earlier and earlier. Misra would call out to her in the afternoon sometimes, when the kids were away. He would make torrid love to her and be rid of his pent-up desires. She could then get back to whatever it was that had kept her away. He had to merely call out to Shanta. She was his wife, and that was that.
Years had gone by thus. Today’s dawn arrived with Shanta missing; not in the kitchen boiling milk and rolling out the daily rotis for breakfast; not on the verandah listening to the radio and birdcalls. She was clearly absent. Had the world he knew, folded upon itself? Misra’s eyes burnt, and his nose hairs twitched. He felt an unrecognisable hollowness. A pounding heartbeat, was the only sound heard, clamouring in his chest. Pulling on a pair of trousers, and the crumpled t-shirt flung un-ironed on the back of a chair, his mind whirled with ideas of where Shanta might be. His mind now made up to go look for her, he strode towards the main door, undid the lock, hung the key on the ornate key-hanger concealed behind a framed picture of Goddess Lakshmi. Then, bowing hurriedly at the threshold, in an attempt at piety, he pushed back the metal door loudly behind him.
‘Shush, quiet please, my Guptas are still asleep!’ the pretty Mallika, grumbled. She was the thirty-year-old, unmarried daughter of the elderly Guptas next door. She was clearly off on her morning jog, nattily dressed in a designer track-suit, a vision Misra took in, as disgruntled as he was.
‘Sorry, just that…’ and he decided against betraying his anxiety.
‘Yes?’ Mallika distractedly asked. She wasn’t about to engage in a long conversation, that was certain. She didn’t think much of him, but was friends with his wife. The sight of this old ‘rake’ just before a jog bothered Mallika.
‘It’s just that I’m in a hurry to get on with my morning walk,’ Misra responded, forcing a smile.
‘You walk?’ Mallika asked with a sneer.
‘Uh, on occasion.’ Misra wanted to impress her, yet guilt of the untruth washed over his mien. They both knew that Misra never got out of the house before dusk to watch others. He would have his hip flask hidden in his pyjamas, and stroll from one end of the gulley to the other, just once. Thereafter, he would sit on the balcony, pretending to read, sipping from his flask. The neighbours knew his routine, as he did theirs.
‘That’s strange, I haven’t missed a morning jog for over a year now Mr Misra, never seen you,’ Mallika added dismissively.
‘On occasion, and timings don’t match perhaps, anyway, I’ve got to go now, and so do you, no?’
Leaving Mallika to her thoughts, Misra sped off in the opposite direction. He sensed her distaste of him acutely. He liked her and would have loved if the girl observed him too, saw how fit he was for his age, how virile even. Her disapproval stung.
For reasons unknown, Mallika followed and jogged on behind him.
‘Tell me Mr Misra, you are not going for a walk to the park, are you?’
‘I’m walking, that’s all. But since you ask, I’m looking for Shanta, she seems to have rushed off on her walk without waking me up. She usually doesn’t walk in this park, she strolls here and there.’
He continued on a steady foot. For a seventy-year-old, Misra was indeed well maintained, with a stride to rival a far younger man’s. A straight back and a near wrinkle-free face, one could tell that years of yoga, a nutritious diet and a routine of nightly sex had worked well for Misra. But where was she? Thanks to a growing friendship with Shanta, Mallika understood Misra well beyond his vanity and his good looks.
‘Show some compassion, please Mr Misra, the lady clearly wants some time out,’ the young woman mocked.
Misra cringed, swallowed his spit and for a while, stayed dumb, unable to muster a befitting response to the insistent woman who wouldn’t let up. She continued jogging beside him, at his pace. They made an odd duo – an oldish man in pyjamas and a crumpled t-shirt, at a brisk trot, comical at best, and a beautiful, young woman, in a bright purple designer tracksuit, jogging by his side.
‘I don’t quite know what you mean Mallika,’ at long last Misra spoke. What did she want with him? He was aware that Shanta and Mallika were friends, Maybe the woman knew more than he imagined Shanta to have shared. Maybe Mallika knew he was a stud even at age seventy.
Maybe Shanta had confessed to the girl how much she enjoyed ‘bedtime’ with her husband. Perhaps his wife shared details of their lovemaking with this beauty, and maybe, she wanted him too. Now, Misra was all hot and excited. But what did she mean by showing Shanta some compassion? As he grasped the import of what the girl might have meant, his ego deflated.
Shanta was sitting on a bench by the road up ahead. Mallika spied her first.
‘Look who we have here, your only wife Mr Misra … look!’
‘Shanta, Shanta! What the…?’ Misra was fuming now that he too saw her up ahead.
There was no quick turn of the head, no visible signs of recognition, there was just the semblance that it was Shanta from the scarf he recognised as one he had gifted her in their youth. She still wore it? His glance softened.
‘SHANTA! Can’t you hear me?’ Misra’s voice was urgent as they were closing in.
‘Aunty?’ Mallika called.
There she was, perfectly poised, staring into the distance. There was a clearing in front of the bench and birds were picking at seeds that passers-by had tossed. She didn’t seem to be watching them, yet her gaze was fixed upon something.
‘Haan?’ she whispered, barely turning her head.
‘Shanta, where the hell, I mean what is this? You didn’t bother telling me you left home this morning ... and…’
‘Shush, listen, look, can you hear it? It’s the rain.’
‘Aunty, it’s not about to rain I assure you. It’s seven thirty and the sun is up, look,’ Mallika pointed at the sky. The sun’s rise was visible, if not hazy.
‘Shanta, stop being stupid and silly. Get up, let’s go back home. Breakfast, lunch, and whatever else it is you do every day … you can’t just…’
‘Mr Misra, calm down, show some compassion, please, can’t you see she’s onto something. Move.’ Mallika pushed him aside to hold Shanta’s right hand. It was hot. ‘I think she’s has a fever Mr Misra, feel this,’ she placed Shanta’s hand in his. Shanta remained, as she was, unmoved.
‘No, this is Shanta, she’s hot!’ Saying so Misra suppressed a rising desire. The heat of her body excited him in spite of the circumstances.
Mallika, who loved Shanta, was concerned. Who was this? This woman who looked like a friendly neighbour but felt like an alien. As anxious as she was, Mallika’s jog was sacrosanct and she was running out of time.
‘Aunty, maybe it will rain, so it’s better to return home, right?’
‘No. I must wait for the rain. I shall wait.’
‘Okay, you wait here, I am off, I have to get to work and I can’t be late. Good luck Mr Misra,’ she called turning toward Misra, who was filled with anger, even as he felt desire well up for his wife. He made to pull at her arm, and dug his nails into her upper back instead.
Mallika was off like a hare, her concern for Shanta now replaced by the pressing need to keep to her routine. The world around her could take care of itself. She wasn’t wasting anymore of her morning. These two could sort it out and she would speak with her Shanta aunty tonight.
‘Shanta,’ Misra said, now calmer but still smarting, relieved to have Mallika off his case, ‘Chalo, let’s go home. It’s not going to rain,’ under his breath he mumbled ‘you stupid woman.’
‘If I say it will rain, it will rain. Go away you pitiable skunk of a man!’ Shanta spat it out, fiery, undaunted and confident.
Astounded, Misra cowered, at this abrupt transformation. Slouching, he whimpered with quivering lips, mouthing Mallika’s words, ‘Show some compassion, please,’ and swallowed hard.
Even as he struggled to regain his composure, he felt a droplet upon his arm, and he turned to look at his wife. Had she spat, was she dribbling? It was the start of a drizzle from the sky above. And just like that, more drops, fat drops of water fell on his arms and hers. He glanced upward, sharply, disbelieving. A few dark clouds had moved into the sky above their heads, and a steady drizzle had begun. He held Shanta’s arm, as she too got up from the bench.
‘Okay, it has rained, now I can return,’ Shanta was smiling, benevolent in her stance, the spitfire gone. Then, Misra’s wife and companion of many years, unlinked her arm from her husband’s grasp and began to stride toward their home. They were both getting soaked to the skin in the untimely and unseasonal rain. Misra paced himself to join her stride, but somehow stayed behind the whole way.
*
Kamalini Natesan’s debut novel, Naked Beneath the Midnight Sun, Olympia Publishers, was released in September 2019. She is a French teacher and an Indian classical vocalist (Hindustani). Other than her professional training, she speaks several languages, and loves travelling, and cooking for family and friends.
Currently she is a resident of Bangkok, Thailand.