Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

“Hey,” Bakul said to Mukunda’s buried head when he did not reply. “Come on, it’s bad, but not so bad. He says they won’t spoil it all.” She felt alarmed by his stifled sobs and got up saying, “Let’s go, it’s late.” She was frightened of the darkness and the black shapes in the trees but could not admit it to Mukunda. Out of the night-time forests came foxes and leopards, she knew. She had seen pairs of foxes, curiously dog-like, sometimes even in broad daylight in the fields.

They started to run down the tree-filled path back towards the fields. It was still easy to see the ruts in the pathway and leap over them in the soft purple light. The darkness seemed to gather and snuff out the shapes around them, making everything look bulky. They could smell crushed eucalyptus, sharp and fragrant, over one part of the track shadowed by the lean trees. Soon it became difficult to see exactly where they were stepping. They held each other’s hands as they scampered on as swiftly as they could. When Mukunda stumbled, Bakul clutched his sleeve harder and said, “Careful, there’s a big stone there!”

Mukunda looked back. Was someone following them, someone from whom they had to run? He could see nothing but the snarling tiger on Mrs Barnum’s bed. Over the sound of their panting and their flapping slippers, he could hear it — something behind them. He held Bakul’s hand tighter and whispered, “Don’t be scared!”

“I’m not,” she whispered.

They reached the fields. There was more light in the open, away from the trees. Bakul tugged at Mukunda’s sleeve as they ran down the humps that separated one field from the other.

“Look,” she exclaimed. “Look! Up there!”

He stopped running and looked up. Above them, as far as they could see, the blue-black sky was sequinned with stars, so many stars that the sky did not seem to have the space for them, and yet it seemed endless, a vast, sparkling dome arched over the star-washed field, so many stars that if you stood looking up for a while you felt dizzy. Through the stars streaked a white, flaming trail of light, light of a kind they had never seen, arcing downward until it disappeared into the horizon.

Hand in hand, they stood in the middle of the empty fields under the star-filled sky, their troubles, fear, and the long way they still had to go before reaching home, all forgotten.

* * *

Meera sat in the kitchen, not noticing that she had not switched on a light, that her midriff and arms and feet were aflame with mosquito bites, that in fact if she had tried switching on the light it would not have worked because there was a power cut.

She could think of nothing but the terrace at dusk, ten days ago, when Kamal had come up to her with an unobtrusiveness she wouldn’t have thought him capable of, and said, “You really work too hard.”

She had smiled a polite smile. “Not at all, I’m just taking in the pickle bottles. I didn’t want to risk the servants breaking any.”

“I was just thinking how difficult it must be for you, how lonely.”

She had laughed, bemused more than disconcerted, and said, “I’m used to it.”

“Oh, but it’s a great pity, the dreadful rules our society makes, and the blindness with which we impose them on ourselves. I think we need to rebel a little.” He was absorbed in brushing off a bit of blackness his white kurta had picked up from the terrace wall.

“I should collect the bottles.” She edged away from him to the corner of the terrace where bottles of mango pickle stood ranged in a row, still warm from the daytime sun they were storing.

As she bent to pick up the bottles, she felt a hand on her back where her blouse dipped, scooping out bare skin. She leapt away, startled.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Kamal said, “I just wanted to … say that if you need anything, tell me. Don’t think twice.” She saw his gaze travel over her as if he were mentally unfurling her sari and unbuttoning her blouse.

He paused. Then looked skyward and said, “We should have some rain soon, shouldn’t we?”

Ten days had passed since that evening. He had said nothing more, made no move to touch her, but if he looked at her, she knew he was looking beneath her clothes. When his eyes travelled over her body she shuddered as if a lizard had slithered over her skin. Why had he done this, she asked herself again and again. She had lived in the house so many years and he had never attempted anything of the kind before. What had unleashed this sudden lechery? She thought back to the past fortnight and could recall nothing out of the ordinary. Their conversations, if they could be termed that, always took place at the dining table, when he asked for a second helping of something and she served him.

It struck her like a blow. Of course! He must have caught wind of her friendship with his brother! And decided he too would try his luck. She stood up in agitation. Of course! That was it, it was how men thought: friendliness with a man could be nothing but flirtation, and if you flirted with one you were easy, a slut, game for more.

What was she to do? The only woman she had to talk to was the man’s wife. Making accusations to Nirmal about his brother was impossible. What if he said she was overreacting to friendship and sympathy? What if he did not, and confronted Kamal instead?

Meera lit a lamp when she realised there was no electricity, then pulled out the rice canister and poured three cups onto a plate. Methodically, she began to sift through it for stones, trying to quiet her mind and decide what to do.

* * *

A little while later, when Mukunda and Bakul stole back into the house that evening from the fort, they saw Meera hunched over a plate in a pool of yellow lamplight, her shadow tall on the opposite wall. Her rigid back and bent head discouraged questions. They crept past her, knowing they were in for a scolding. Even in the wide verandah on the first floor that ended in Amulya’s stained-glass window — one of the panes had cracked and been replaced by one in plain blue that was thought to match — there was nobody. This was where Kamal sat drinking tea every evening. A lamp had been left there, darkening the sooty cobwebs high up in the ceiling. Bakul and Mukunda edged closer to each other. They padded out onto the small terrace that led to Manjula’s quarters, hearing an indefinable murmur of voices emerging from there.

“I think she’s right,” they heard Kamal’s voice saying, “it’s been a mistake all along.”

“It’s not a mistake because they’re late one evening.” This was Nirmal.

“Come, come, Nirmal, all of us make errors of judgment. Don’t you remember Kundu Babu? First he got his daughter married off to that man who turned out to be impotent, to top that they say he had just one eye, then she came back to her parents and they couldn’t look at anyone for the shame.”

“What has Kundu Babu got to do with this?” Nirmal sounded irritable.

“What I mean is that elders make mistakes, don’t you see?” Kamal’s voice sounded placatory. “If you ask me, the first error was our father’s. We were not that rich anyway, what was the need to act the godfather?”

A match struck. Kamal said something more, too low to hear. A faint cigarette smell floated out towards Bakul and Mukunda. In the far distance, they could hear the lonely cry of a fox calling to its mate. They sank to the floor of the terrace, still warm with memory of the daytime sun, and leaned side by side against the wall. Sweat made their clothes stick to their backs.

“We need to be practical, Nirmal.”

“Practicality’s not everything.”

There was a brief silence. Above Bakul and Mukunda, a pimpled half-moon had struggled up into a sky fragmented by the canopy of leaves that hooded the terrace. Cold, white, distant stars stabbed the trees. The fox called again, closer, this time answered by an echoing cry. In the distance, they could hear the faint tuning of Afsal Mian’s tanpura.