Manikya Veena

One summer afternoon in Hyderabad, when the temperature soared to a sweltering forty-two degrees Celsius, Pari’s husband, Ashok, announced to his parents and wife that he hired Sunil, a young man of twenty-six, on a gut feeling, and that Sunil would be staying with them in the guest room. A temporary arrangementuntil Sunil found his bearings in his new city.

The Sharmas were speechless. Recovering herself, Mama said, “He’s a stranger, beta. Howcan you let someone stay here with your young daughters in the house? What if he steals everything and runs away? You hear all kinds of stories in the news nowadays, you know.” Ashok continued eating, not making eye contact. 

Ashok’s father said, “Do you even know where this boy is—”

“What, what if he’s a murderer?” Mama said, not letting Papa finish. 

“Or a Yarra-banker?” said Pari. “You know, a loafer.” She used her dupatta to wipe the sweat off her forehead.

“Moreover, Pari will soon have the baby,” Mama said, forgetting that baby Priti had been born four months earlier. “What will people say?”

The heat and the conversation had depressed their appetite, and everyone seemed eager to rush through their meal.

“Enough of excuses, Mama,” Ashok said, wiping his hands dry. “You’re all just narrow-minded darpoks. For all the Poojas you do, Mama, you don’t have a basic generosity of spirit.  What kind of God do you pray to? I know Pari will be okay with this,” he said without a pause. “I’ll send Ravi to help you clean and  have the room ready.” Ashok left, not noticing Pari’s stupefied silence. 

The Sharmas, everyone but Ashok, spent the afternoon cleaning the guest room, relieving it of children’s toys, the spare shalwar suits Pari stored in the closet, and some of Mama’s spiritual books. The house echoed with Mama’s commands: Ravi, pack this, throw this out, donate this.There was a brewing sense of the calamity and the futility of convincing Ashok to reverse his decision. “He thinks this house is a Dharma Sathram, free lodging, and boarding? This is my house. He lives in it,” Mama mumbled. Papa tried to ssh her, but Mama pushed him out of the room. Pari pretended not to hear. “Mama, I’ll take care of this, you don’t worry,” she said, getting to work.” 

The room on the east side of their home was the best.  It had a large window that overlooked the backyard and had outdoor access to the large yard with fruit trees: sapota, mango, pomegranate, and banana. The room wasn’t large, but sufficient for a queen-size bed, a chair, and a study table. How often Pari wanted to claim the room as her own. A place she could practice her music or take a nap unmindful of anyone’s attention. Now it was gone, and she was irritated. She imagined explaining to Ashok what people would say about a man living with them, but she knew an open discussion with Ashok never worked.

Over the years, Pari had become the daughter her in-laws wanted her to be. She was lean and petite at five-feet two and looked far too young to be a mother of two children; she was often mistaken for her in-law’s daughter, making Ashok furious. Once, he had even taken her to the local bank manager and grocery store owner to let them know Pari wasn’t his sister, but his wife. Her soft voice, pleasant tone, and fair and gentle manner made it easy for her in-laws to take her side, chiding their son as if he were a young boy and telling him how women should be treated. Pari played it to her advantage, rarely showing her anger, her dark eyes only glaring when she complained to them in a discontented, fearful way begging for help. Although they seemingly empathized with her, they advised her to let go of small things, that it was the bigger picture that mattered. They knew Ashok was as obstinate as a donkey. It was what made him who he was.

In the evening, Sunil came home for the first time. He was tall at six-feet-two. He wore a collared T-shirt with short sleeves, and his muscles bulged through. His low forehead was made prominent by a crew cut.  His black eyes were cold and direct.  He carried himself upright and steady, chin up with military bearing. Baby Priti was asleep, and four-year-old Prema, who was playing with her toys, took him by his hand and said, “Sunil, you’re Sunil, Papa told me. Come for chai to my house,” and so he did,  heading to her doll-house. Pari pretended to be preoccupied, nodded, and walked away without so much as a Namaste or hello, at the risk of being reprimanded by Ashok for being impolite.

Pari hoped to drive Sunil away. Men’s egos were fragile and seldom withstood hostility from a woman. A cold air settled between Pari and Sunil.  

To friends and family who asked about Sunil’s strange and constant presence in the household, Ashok said, “Sunil is like a brother to me,  my right-hand man.” Much to Pari’s chagrin, Ashok’s mother grew delighted by the arrangement. She came up with an astrological calculation that justified Ashok’s decision. “Remember the day Sunil came to our home, how loud the temple bells from theHanuman temple were ringing? Lord Hanuman came to our house in the avatar of Sunil,” she said, excited. Pari didn’t remember loud bells ringing that day, but she had no choice other than to accept Mama’s spiritual seal. 

Ashok started his textile business a decade earlier when he was nineteen, not because he was a prodigy but because he wasn’t. Though his parents were both accomplished lawyers, Ashok didn’t have an aptitude for education or skills on the classic familial trajectory. However, he compensated with his street smarts and long work hours. Ashok didn’t let anything distract him from his goal of becoming rich, and the economic boom in India accelerated his success.  

His mother gloated. “Oh, Ashok bought us this new Honda and also hired a chauffeur for us!  I said, no need, Ashok, we are old, we don’t need anything, we already have a car, but you see how stubborn he is. A gift from a son is so much better than buying one for ourselves, no?” she said, showing her friends the bright blue car. 

As if Mama’s life were fulfilling the cliché, when it rains, it pours, Ashok had even agreed to an arranged match with Pari, a girl of nineteen, pretty and educated, the only child of a well-to-do, reputable family. “Better to train a girl young. She’ll learn and mold her ways to suit the family,” Mama said to those who chastised her for cradle-snatching. The senior Sharmas were retired. Papa mainly indulged Mama, happy to be silent when she wanted him to, and speak when she demanded it. Mama was plump and tall, loud and brash, and who, like a mother hen, protected her family, petting and scolding them as if they were pet dogs. She was formidable, intimidating, and convincing, like a reigning warrior queen. It was these qualities that Ashok inherited the most. 

At first, Sunil was like any other employee at the Sharma office, working nine to five, five days a week, though unofficially, all employees were assigned additional family chores.  Ashok who rattled off instructions to Pari before he left each morning, or called her via phone: “Irfaan will come to collect the papers. Have him deposit the cheque in State Bank, not Andhra Bank. Give him the cash I gave youthis morning,” and so on. 

Sunil, for his part, did small chores for the family without being asked to. During his first summer with the Sharmas, he brought mangoes each day, washing, peeling, and cutting them, especially for the senior Sharmas and the girls. What a cunning way to bribe his way into their hearts, Pari thought, but she couldn’t really imagine Sunil being obsequious. 

Sunil took on more duties as a family member. He drove the girls around to piano and dance classes, took the senior Sharmas on social visits, and often dined with them. 

Pari accepted Mama running the household and immersed herself in the girls’ activities, making playdough or baking with them, volunteering at their school, hosting her book club, or practicing music, her melodious voice reverberating through the house. 

With the employees, Pari chitchatted about their interests and their families. They talked of movies and of media portrayals of women in Indian films, and male-female dynamics. “How can she fall in love with a man who rapes her?” she might say. 

In turn, the employees told her their troubles—a mother ill in the hospital, an unmarried sister, a sick child— Ma’am this and Ma’am that. 

“Nothing is permanent, this too shall pass,” she’d say to console them, or “Patience is a virtue—hang in there” or “What goes around comes around, don’t you worry” or “What you do care what others say, do what your conscience says is right. “Pari-Ma’am says—, and they repeated these snippets with each other and to others. She mesmerized and intoxicated them by her presence but remained distant from Sunil. She hated the intruder in their lives, a Khabab-Mein-Haddi– a bone in meat.  If her husband was stupid enough to invite Sunil to live with them, what was wrong with Sunil? Didn’t he have any self-respect? 

Ashok’s export business in textiles was doing well and he traveled to various countries for work.  Money was pouring in, and Pari wished her husband would come home early and play with the kids. She imagined the children finally attending a private school, the one with a pool, horseback riding, chess, and tennis courts; she imagined opening her own music school when the girls were a little older. She sensed she and Ashok were on the cusp of something bigger, better. But now this man. She was convinced he stole her husband away from her. 

Ashok gave his employees attractive salaries and hard-to-resist perks, never mind the occasional slaps he doled out for incompetence. And the employees stayed: for the motorcycles, for the cars, the interest-free house loans without collateral, for education and weddings in their families. 

On a day when Ashok took Prema to the office, she returned home running into the house. “Ma’am, Ma’am,” she said, addressing her mother like the staff did, her voice high pitched, “Daddy hit Irfaan, slapped him tight on the face, like this.” She slapped her own face, “Chapak,” she said, adding sound for effect. “I saw it, Ma’am. Chapak, chapak.” Prema was so excitable, she could barely breathe. “Then, Sunil stopped him. Tell her, Sunil, tell Ma’am.”

Irfaan was the oldest and foremost employee who had been with the company since its inception. He was loyal and trustworthy. 

“What happened, Sunil?” 

“Ask Sir,” he said and walked away.

When Ashok got back, Pari asked him in the privacy of their bedroom. 

“He back-answered me,  too smart for his own good, so I hit him.”

“But in front of the child? And it’s Irfaan, Ashok.”

“So? I’m the boss. They can eithertake it or leave it.” 

One day at breakfast, two years after Sunil moved in, Papa Sharma said to Sunil, “Son, you should change your surname to Sharma. You are practically our son.” 

Sunil coughed. “What’s in a name, Uncle? It’s the spirit that counts.” 

“I know! You’re so correct, Sunil,” Mama said. “What’s the point of these Naam ke vaasterelatives, useless people who don’t even care about us. And then people like you, total strangers, manifest in our lives.” Mama blathered on about Sai Baba, and how he manifested, seemingly out of nowhere, as a boy of nine, just as Sunil had in their lives.

Why was everyone, especially Ashok, crooning over Sunil and ignoring Pari? She interrupted their conversion. “Mama, how can you even begin to compare a Holy man like Sai Baba and Sunil, or Hanuman and Sunil?” Sunil smiled slightly, but it went unnoticed. “…and Papa, we don’t even know his real name.” She was unafraid of Ashok, who was engrossed in reading the newspaper. “Now,” she said, tapping Sunil’s shoulder, “is Sunil even your real name? What’s your surname, or should we just call you Sunil Ji, respectfully?” Pari noticed that Sunil looked downward. She wondered if it was to avoid eye contact. Or was it because he was smiling or tearing up, and then wondered if Sunil was capable of being emotional, and imagined a scene in which he cried. 

Papa and Mama Sharma looked at one another, amused as if it were a TV show. They found the banter endearing and perhaps even calming, a feeling so different from how they felt when Pari and their son Ashok argued. They endured several sleepless nights wondering how long it would take Pari, who was educated and came from money, to quit the grind of living with Ashok. God forbid a divorce, they thought. 

Mama scolded Ashok for harassing Pari about less salt in the food, for laughing too loudly, talking on the phone, getting breakfast late.  Mama reminded him Pari was young, had dreams and aspirations, he should treat her with care. During one such conversation, Ashok shoved Mama out of the way. Her head hit the wall, and she bled. Instead of tending to her or apologizing, Ashok told her to mind her own business. Papa looked on helplessly and simply said he was ashamed. Then Papa and Mama carried on as if Nothing happened. 

“So, Sunil Ji,you have no siblings, or what?” Pari continued.  

“I’m an orphan, Ma’am,” he replied, looking at Mama and Papa.

“Ayyo,”Mama said, rubbing Sunil’s back, “you poor thing, don’t say that Sunil beta, you have us.”

“Mummy, what does orphan mean?” Prema asked as she put on her backpack, getting ready for school.

“I want to be an orphan,” Priti said, her baby lisp barely able to pronounce the word. “Make me orphan, make me orphan, Ma’am.” She tugged at Pari’s salwar Kameez.

“Hush now, don’t ever say such things,” Mama scolded. 

“And Priti,” Pari warned, “don’t call me Ma’am. Call me Mummy. Isn’t it enough that Prema calls me that too?”

She turned to Sunil. “You didn’t answer my question. Orphan means no parents. I didn’t ask you about your parents. I asked about siblings.” 

“Yes, Ma’am, two brothers, but we are not in touch.”

“Aha, see, Mama, you heard that?” she wriggled her index finger at Sunil. “Papa, don’t feel sorry for him. He’s got a family.” 

“Ma’am,” Sunil continued looking at the faces around the table as if seeking approval, “my brothers are gang members, and I ran away from that life.”

“What?” Pari asked, flummoxed. “So, you belong to a gang? What kind of gang?”

“Ma’am,” Sunil said, perhaps trying to explain, but Ashok interrupted and said, “Sunil, remember to go to the Agarwal site at noon today; they are waiting for the documents.” 

 One day Sunil and Ashok were in the dining room discussing business, and the girls were playing with their grandparents when the doorbell rang. Pari opened the door. She saw a young woman in a long skirt and a blouse, carrying with her a pile of journals and brochures. 

“Is that you, Pari?” the woman said. “Oh my god, it is you; you look the same.

It took Pari a few moments to recognize Sheba, her classmate from high school. “Sheba? What are you doing here?”

“Is it okay to come in? I’m thirsty, been walking all day.” 

“Of course,” Pari said, inviting her in, and  after some small talk about their lives after school, Sheba asked Pari, “Do you believe in God, Pari?”

This wasn’t a question Pari ever considered, except once when she was thirteen, and she figured it was easier to believe than not to, so she did. Her belief wasn’t doing daily Poojaslike Mama did, nor was it a weekly visit to the temple, although she was fascinated by their home’s proximity to a Hanuman temple with monkeys all around. Lately, she found herself going to the temple for solace. Nonetheless, she was annoyed at displaying religion, loudspeakers early mornings with Bhajans from the temple, and Namaz from a mosque. Her belief in God was a part of life, like breath. Yet Sheba needn’t be privy to this. 

Sheba gave her a brochure and told her that she ought to Take thy Lord unto your life and that, if one didn’t accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior, they would die in sin. “You Hindus have thousands of Gods. It’s Paganism,” she argued, and then went on about how Hindus were perverts, how sex was all over Indian temples and in books.  Pari now understood that Sheba was a missionary converting people to Christianity. 

“How dare you come into my house with such disrespect,” Pari said, getting up. Sheba, still seated, continued trying to convince Pari. “Up, get up, just go. If you cannot take time to understand the meaning and the depths of ancient texts, you’re worth a piece of shit,” she yelled. Sunil and Ashok, who had been in the next room, came charging in, wondering what was going on. Sunil apologized to Sheba and let her out the door.  He went inside, leaving Ashok and Pari to themselves.  

Pari wasn’t sure what had come over her. “Can’t people respect me for who I am? Why does everyone want to change and mold me into their ways? Did Sheba even bother asking me about myself. . . just coming in like that, and trampling all over me? I am so fed up, disgusted with people. . ..” Pari said in between sobs, her voice loud and crackling. She couldn’t stop crying. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” said Ashok, who wasn’t sure how to handle Pari’s raw emotion.

One afternoon Sunil came home early, looking agitated. He approached Pari, who was making samosas for the evening snack. Rubbing his hands together, he stood at a distance hovering around in the kitchen, as if he were a hungry child waiting to be fed. Pari, having been used to Sunil in the kitchen, making himself coffee or tea, or cooking an omelet for himself and the girls, said, “What’s the matter?” 

“Such perfect weather for samosas, Ma’am.” Sunil said, looking out of the kitchen window. Rain pounded the earth, and the aroma of rainwater on the parched soil filled the spaces between them.  

“Surely you didn’t come to tell me it’s raining outside, did you?”

Sunil looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, and then whispered, “Ma’am, can I borrow some money? I will return it as soon as I get my salary.”

“What? Why? Don’t you have enough? Also, it’s not like you’re paying rent,” she said, as she continued stirring the samosas in the hot oil and gingerly placing them on old newspapers 

“I can’t explain, right now, but you cannot tell Sir,” he said. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude with the comment about paying rent; that was horrible,” she said. Wait.” She wiped her hands on her apron, went to her room, and despite the awkwardness, she returned with a plastic bag with the amount of cash Sunil requested, a sum she didn’t have to account for to her husband. She wondered if she was doing the right thing. What if Ashok found out? What if Sunil vanished, never to come back, or still worse, what if he used it for something she didn’t approve of— drugs or for prostitutes.  Later that night in bed, before they slept, Pari asked Ashok.

“Sunil is an engineer; he must be getting paid a lot, no? How much do you pay him?”

“Ah, I decided not to pay him directly. He lives here, so no expense for boarding and lodging.”

“Yeah, but….” She was tempted to let him know Sunil’s plea for money, but decided against it. 

“I told him I’ll invest his salary for him, and when I sell the company, he will have a 10% share. I can give it to him when he gets married or wants to buy a house.” Ashok said. 

“You told him that? Is it on paper? He agreed?” Pari scrunched her face, thick lines forming on her forehead. 

“He asks me for money if he needs it, for petrol or anything else. I give him 300 rupees a month for general expenses.”

So he gets three hundred rupees a month for expenses? That’s less money in hand per month than what Ravi the peon, gets. 

“He’s family, he’ll ask.”

“He’s an adult—even kids want pocket money, Ashok,” she said and immediately rubbed his hands to prevent angering him. 

“He’ll have so much money, he’ll thank me for it. Moreover, don’t meddle with my affairs,” Ashok said, turning over to sleep. 

Soon the Hyderabad monsoons came, and rains washed over thoughts that enveloped Pari. She found herself wondering if Sunil was a gangster. At 6’2″, he was like Hanuman; robust,  valiant, and loyal to his cause. What that cause was, she wasn’t sure.  

Once Pari asked, “Sunil, were you in the Service? Army or Navy?” 

“Ma’am, Priti is calling you,” he said, dodging the question as he had done all the others. 

She noticed how Sunil woke up early, made his bed, cleaned his mess, was punctual, and taught the girls the importance of being on time. He was reserved and spoke minimally and was keenly aware of his surroundings, listening intently. He smelled fresh too. She imagined him in a uniform, and how he saved injured men, carrying them on his shoulders, how he didn’t hesitate to kill for his country. The more she imagined, the more she wanted to know. She inquired about his favorite movies, food, or his familial background. He gave her little. “I eat everything that crawls, alive or dead,” and they continued their banter this way, playing a silent game of chess. 

One day late in September, Sunil and the girls were outside playing hopscotch when they saw a group of a hundred people or so chanting RamNaam Satya Hai, the Lord’s name is the truth.  Pallbearers wearing white robes were carrying a dead body and walking towards the local Smashanto cremate the body. Prema ran outside and joined the chorus, chanting Ram Naam Satya Hai while walking behind the pallbearers.  Priti ran behind Prema, and Sunil ran behind both of them, shouting above the din of the chant: “Prema,  Priti, please come back.” Prema looked behind, ignored Sunil, and continued chanting and walking alongside the mourners, holding  Priti, who chanted along with her sister. Sunil ran toward them, picked them up one in each arm; the girls kicking and screaming, and carried them home. 

“I want to be dead too,” Prema cried, “I want to be dead. Decorate me with garlands and flowers.” 

“Shh, you little devil,” her grandmother said.

“Okay, come. Let’s play dead,” Sunil said. “You be dead. That means you cannot talk or move. You have to sleep-act okay? He took Prema to her room to play dead with Priti tagging along. 

Over the two years that Sunil stayed with them, as a house guest, a family member, a friend, and foe, Pari noticed how he could become the kind of man just right for Papa and Mama. He wanted to please them, but not in an unctuous way. Sunil could become a working man with a severe demeanor for Ashok Sharma, or a perfect nanny and caregiver to Priti—putting her to sleep, feeding her, playing with her, or being Prema’s playmate. With Pari, he was either distant or responsive, like it was a call of duty, Nothing more, Nothing less. And when she teased him, as she did often— “You must have been a cook in a Udupi hotel, no?” Sunil didn’t seem to mind at all. 

It was hard not to like Sunil; it wasn’t just Papa and Mama; the girls adored him, especially Priti. Sunil took them to the temple, and when the monkeys followed them home, he shooed them away or fed them coconuts and bananas to keep the girls entertained. They splashed in the puddles of water during the rainy season and watched Disney movies during the cold dark nights. Whenever Priti threw tantrums and Pari threw her hands up in despair, Sunil knew how to calm the child, taking her out to watch cars or people on the street right outside their house or to the temple close by. There, Priti loved ringing the temple bells, doing a Pooja, applying kumkum on her forehead, or eating Prasadam. At nights when Priti woke up, she’d walk into Sunil’s room and fall asleep with her head on his chest. 

“Ma’am, Priti is dead to the world, sound asleep when she’s with me, not sure why she wakes up so many times when she is with you,” Sunil would say the next morning. 

“Keep her then,” Pari would respond, pretending to be furious and jealous. But it didn’t stop her from allowing the girls to play with him or stop cooking his favorite dishes— sambar, idli, or dosas, information she pieced together like he was a jigsaw puzzle.

One night after Pari put down the Cosmopolitanmagazine, in which she read articles she was embarrassed to read during the day, such as ‘How to Seduce Your Man,’ ‘How to Stay Happy in a Relationship,’ she stayed in the living room thinking of Sunil, of the four of them together—her daughters, Sunil, and she. Then Pari went into the bedroom, showered, and slipped under the sheets. In bed, she clung to Ashok and caressed his back. 

“I want you,” she said, feeling his arousal. They made love quietly in the silence of the night, mechanically, and as a habit pleased each other. They hadn’t done this in months.

During the ten-day Dasarabreak in late October, Pari told Papa and Mama she wanted to take the children to the zoo. “We are too old, beta, all of you go.”

Priti, who overheard this, ran towards Sunil, who was in the backyard reading a book. She twirled around in circles and sang, “Ma’am is taking us to the zoo, we are going to the zoo.”

Priti, now almost three, clung to Sunil. Hetook her into his lap and said, “How exciting. You and your sister will have a wonderful time.” 

“Ma’am said ALL of us, so you too, Sunil.” 

Pari was embarrassed and quickly said, “Papa and I will take you, beta.Let Sunil relax.”

“No, I don’t want Papa, I want Sunil to take me,” Priti cried.

Ashok walked in on the tantrum. “Papa, you go away, go away,” Priti cried. Ashok picked her up and said to Pari, “Why don’t you and Sunil take the kids. I have calls to make, so I won’t be able to go anyway.” 

“Fine,” said Pari, “if you don’t want to hang out with the kids, fine. I can take them by myself. I don’t need a male chaperone.” 

Pari couldn’t fathom why Ashok didn’t care to hang out with the kids, or how and why he wasn’t possessive or jealous of Sunil taking over their kids’ lives. Nothing made sense to her. 

On a Friday night before Diwali, when the sky was filled with smoke from fireworks and firecrackers’ noise rebounded, the staff gathered to watch a movie in their living room, a weekly team ritual Pari put into place for a few of the staff. She didn’t participate, but she came in with a plate of snacks or drinks for everyone from time to time. She overheard everyone teasing Sunil about a girl from his town, asking about his engagement. She wondered if he had borrowed money to buy this girl a gift. 

She slowed her pace, trying to eavesdrop, wanting to know more. She wondered if Sunil promised to marry this girl or if the girl was trying to trap Sunil. She desperately wanted to tell him to be careful. Her protectiveness about him surprised her. She wondered if he had sex with this girl,  if he’d marry her and bring her to the city, or if they’d find their own place and find himself another job? What if his new wife didn’t like her and insisted that Sunil find another job and maintain his distance from them? How would Papa and Mama live without Sunil? What would the girls do? That night she went to bed early, leaving them all to fend for themselves. 

Pari invited her friends over for high tea the next day to celebrate Diwali, as was their tradition. Since Sunil came to live with the Sharmas, Pari’s friends often commented on Sunil. “Will we have a sightingtoday, Pari? Oooh! What a body he has, Pari, so sexy yaar,” they’d say, how fortunate you are,” they’d tease occasionally. 

 “Shh, stop it, ya,” Pari replied in good humor. “You girls are so shameless!”

 “Ah, now for some eye candy and other snacks,” Mala said, smacking her lips while the others rolled their eyes.

“Remember, Sita?” asked Nita, not to anyone in particular. “She  got divorced, I believe, ran off with her tenant.”

“Gosh,” said Pari.

“Everyone has affairs, yaar, it’s so crazy,” said Mala. “They have husbands and still have affairs, and look at me, ready with open legs. Even so, no husband, no affairs.”

“Shut up, Mala,” said Nita. We know how your legs are glued together—stop faking the fast talk.”

“Where is Ashok, these days? We barely see him.” 

“He works late. Business keeps him busy,” said Pari.

“Hey,  Pari, I totally forgot to tell you,” Nita interrupted, “I saw Ashok the other day at the Taj; he was with this hot chick in a business suit. Business must be good, haan?” Nita laughed. 

Pari changed the topic. “Look at our lives, all this domestication. Remember, we were the smart girls our professors thought would make it big, wearing those business suits and all, but look at us now. Glorifiedayahs.”

“I know, washing shit off our kids’ bums,” said Nita. 

“Well, least you got a pair of bums to look at,” peppered Mala. 

Though Pari tried to get rid of Ashok’s image with a sexy woman sitting in the Taj, it bothered her. She remembered the recent night when Ashok was especially nice to her. He reached over to her and asked, “Jaan, are you happy with me? Do I satisfy you?”

Pari gave him a quizzical look. “Huh? What’s with you today?” 

She would have liked to tell him how unhappy she was, with the distance growing between them as if he had fallen off a speeding boat and couldn’t get back on. But where would she begin?

“Nothing’s the matter, just saying that if you are bored with me, you can explore possibilities, you know, have a fling. You have my permission. I think it’ll do you good.”  

“Have you gone mad?” Pari said, raising her voice. 

“Shh, just saying, why are you so  mad?”

“I don’t even recognize you now. Why would you say that? . . . unless you . . . ,” Pari said, her thought trailing. Pari got off the bed. “I forgot something,” she said and left the room, not eager to follow the trail of her interrupted thoughts.  

She remembered thinking then about the warring —between Sunil and her, between Ashok and her. She’d wanted a war between the two men, and yet now she felt like a victim. 

“Yes, ayahs,” Pari said when Nita snapped her fingers at Pari. “Glorified ayahs.”

Pari soon found that her life mainly revolved around the girls, Mama, Papa, and Sunil. Ashok was an outsider who came and went as he pleased, their conversations limited to logistical issues. 

“Ashok,” Pari said one day when Sunil played with Prema and Priti in the living room. “Remember we have to visit the Naidu’s tomorrow; it’s Priya’s 40^th, and Madan is having a surprise party.”

“Sorry, I have work to do and can’t make it.  You should go, Pari.” 

“But, Ashok, you’ve already skipped three social events this month. I can’t keep going alone by myself, or substitute Papa and Mama for you, na?”

“So now you’re keeping tabs on my life, counting my failures? It’s Anu and Sam’s wedding next month. We’ll go to that one, okay?”

“So, you’re doing me a favor? What will people think?”

“And who are these people you’re so worried about, Pari?

“Your friends and family, not mine.”

“Then, don’t go. I don’t care, and neither should you.”

“I’m supposed to behave like a widow, going alone to all these events? Tell me, Ashok.”

“Pari, you’re free to do whatever pleases you. Tell them your husband is dead, okay?”

“Papa is dead,” Prema interrupted. “Let’s all chant Ram Naam Satya Hai, Ram Naam Satya Hai. Say it, Sunil, and she chanted. 

“Sunil, get them out of here.” Ashok pointed to the door outside, and Sunil took Prema to her bedroom. “Time to play dead.”

“Maybe if you did die,” Pari said, “I wouldn’t have to lie for you all the time—oh, I’m so sorry, but Ashok so busy with work. Lies lies lies!” Pari said and went into her room. 

Later, when Ashok was gone, Sunil told Pari, “Ma’am, your status is not just being Mrs. Sharma. You are not defined by anyone else. Find yourself, Ma’am.” 

Sunil had become a part of her life. But how dare he take liberties by giving her advice? And even though he was there for her when Ashok wasn’t, she hated him for it. 

“Sir, let me travel to Mumbai instead, so you can spend time with Ma’am and the girls,” Sunil would sometimes say, but Ashok insisted on traveling, and Pari hated him for it. 

The possibility that Ashok was cheating on her made Pari uneasy. Yet discussing infidelity was out of the question. 

Anu and Sam’s wedding was in a resort a hundred miles away. Ashok and Pari promised to bring the wedding cake, which Pari carefully packed and loaded into the car along with a bouquet of flowers and a suitcase containing a change of clothes for the wedding and reception. Pari was excited about their friends’ nuptials but even more excited to have Ashok all to herself for the weekend. He was fun to be with when they were with friends.  She loved his humor. It was this and his helpful nature that she loved the most. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would host a stranger in their home for this long.  The highway to the resort was remote, and en route were fields and small villages and roadside vendors selling food. Pari sang along to music Ashok played on the CD. 

 “I have property there and there.” Ashok pointed to land between paddy fields. 

 “Oh, I didn’t know you bought property here.”

“Yeah. It’s going to appreciate big time; Hyderabad is expanding. 

And though Pari thought he sounded more like her business partner than her husband, she felt proud of his excellent business acumen and foresight about investments, things she was clueless about.

“So, whose name did you buy it in? Because I didn’t go to the registrar’s office to sign documents,” 

“Oh, I bought it for the company to avoid taxes.” 

“Ah, makes sense,” she said, despite the unease this information caused her. She knew so little of what her husband did, unlike her mother, who knew everything her father did.  

“Maybe we can build a farmhouse there,” Ashok said. 

 “This is so nice, isn’t it? Just you and me after so long,” she said, taking his hand.

“I have a lot of plots. I’ll sell it when the time is right.”

“Remember, Ashok, how we’d take long drives this way after we were engaged, lying to our parents about where we were?”

“I never lied. You did.”

“Of course, I did. You encouraged me to! My parents would not have let me out if I told them. It’s not our custom to meet by ourselves before the wedding, hai na? After we got engaged and during that month before our wedding, we just couldn’t be without each other. Remember those all-nighters talking to each other about everything under the sun. I had dark circles on the wedding day.”

“Wonder what we talked about? That was a long time ago.”

“It’ll be nine years this weekend, nine years since we first met each other.  Feels like yesterday. Feels like another lifetime ago. You remember?”

“How do you remember such things? You women, all of you, with dates and times—just to harass us when we forget!” 

Pari laughed. “Oh, I remember everything—I was so excited,” she said, still holding onto his hand, stroking it gently with her other hand. “And what do you mean all women, as if you know so many of them.”

“Yeah, it’s one thing to live in that world and quite another to live in reality,” he said, taking his hand away to change the gear.  

“You’re so unromantic,” she said.

“And you live in La La Land. Life’s not about long drives and remembering silly dates. Life’s about putting food on the table, making enough money to be secure.”

“Security is an internal feeling,” she said.” Life’s about  small things that matter, like this ride together.”

When they arrived at the resort, a bell boy approached them to carry their things. As the cake was lifted from the seat, it toppled slightly, and Pari let out a scream. The edge of the cake had broken off. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Ashok yelled.

“I didn’t break it! The bell boy did!” 

“You had one responsibility—bring them the cake. A whole cake. Not a broken cake,” he said, loudly enough for people to turn and glare towards them.

“I’ll fix it,” Pari said and used the cake knife to glue the cake back together and then carried it inside to hand it over to the event reception desk. Then, for the rest of the weekend, Ashok and Pari busied themselves with the festivities— she socializing, and he getting drunk. Pari had imagined she and Ashok would be on their second honeymoon, but instead, they turned onto their sides and went to sleep. The next morning, Ashok woke up to news that Papa died of a massive heart attack in his sleep. 

On the drive back, Pari sobbed until she couldn’t anymore. She remembered Papa’s last words to her. “Be happy beta.”  It was his unwavering presence and constant support and how he cared and protected her, for which she truly felt like his own daughter. Papa encouraged her to continue her music, bought her a harmonium, and even found her a teacher. “Music is a divine distraction. Make it your life.” He’d said like it was a prophecy of times to come. 

She knew that no matter that Mama actually scolded Ashok, it had been Papa who understood her and cajoled her. In his silence, she recognized a forbearance that came with living with people like Mama and Ashok, who were stubborn, selfish, and egoistic.  Papa was her pillar, and now he was gone, and for the first time, Pari felt like an orphan. Then she thought of Sunil and how, now, they had in common, the shared feeling of being orphaned.

One early evening, not yet a year since Papa’s death, Ashok came home with a bouquet of flowers. She was surprised and gave him a hug. She’d noticed Ashok was happier lately, more jovial and light-hearted. He seemed to enjoy the role of being a patriarch. Mama was glad that Ashok was content taking over the part. He talked more, played with the girls when he was home. Now that Papa was no more, he engaged in long conversations with Mama, making Pari happy. “Let’s go out to a movie or for dinner together,” he said to her and went in to shower. 

“Yes, I’ll wear the new saree Nita gave me,” Pari thought, also heading inside the bedroom.  Just then, Ashok’s phone beeped. She picked it up, considering the message might be urgent, and read the text.  Ash, my Love. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

Pari’s hands quivered. She dropped the phone and ran barefoot to the temple nearby. In quick steps, she circumambulatedLord Hanuman, her head spinning. She wiped the sweat off her face with the sleeve of her kurta and hurried back home, afraid Ashok might notice she was gone. If Papa were alive, she might have gone to him, put her head on his lap, and cried. Papa’s death seemed to unleash Ashok as if he had been a dormant volcano.

When Ashok was getting ready the next morning, Pari said, “Are you having an affair?” 

And before he responded, she said, “I read the message on your phone yesterday; you left it on the dining table.”

Ashok grabbed her hair and yanked. “How dare you read my messages.” He dragged her by her hair, out to the dining room, and outside to the gate, yelling, “Get out!” Pari felt as if her body soared above, and she looked down at herself and a familiar-looking man, screaming and cursing. She saw another man, tall and handsome, walking in on them. She saw the first man stepping away, releasing the woman, saying no more, then grabbing the tall man by his shoulder, taking him back inside, talking to him now in a soft sweet tone. Pari came back into her body, reclaiming her hair, and then, looking downward, slowly walked to her room. There, seated on the edge of the bed, she looked at her feet, hoping she could quietly sink in and escape to a place under earth where no one could find her.

The next day Sunil returned early from work and did not come out of his room. Usually, he’d wash up and sit down to play with the girls. Pari found this endearing and funny. But somedays, when Priti held on to Sunil’s leg, asking him to play, he barely looked, released himself, and went to his room. Sometimes he stayed quietly in his room, reading, taking a nap, or doing pushups. “What do you do so early? I hear you panting,” Pari had teased Sunil during one of their conversations. Sunil responded directly, instead of playing the cat-and-mouse game they usually played. “Doing pushups are my way to relax,” he said, and then surprisingly added, “It helps me cope when I am annoyed or angry.” It was the most he’d revealed about himself, and she didn’t know how to respond, but she felt like his confidante. She knew something annoyed or upset him when he didn’t come out to play and instead did pushups. Later, when he stepped out for some chai, she asked, “Sunil, what’s the matter? Are you upset with me?”

“Ma’am, why did you marry Ashok?” he demanded, and before she could respond, he went out, and she didn’t see him again that day or the next.  

Why did she marry Ashok? She was only nineteen. It was arranged, and she accepted. Ashok, at 5’7,” was fair-skinned with a stubby nose and a broad forehead. His small round eyes seemed shut most of the time, and he had an odd habit of scrunching up his nose to lift his glasses. She wasn’t particularly attracted to him, but when he smiled, you could see the light in his small eyes. He had made her laugh, and that was all she remembered. About what, she couldn’t remember, but it was what made her say yes. He could be funny. But he could also be uncouth and selfish, insensitive and indifferent. She couldn’t understand his sadism —frightening Priti by tossing her in the air, teasing Prema, or shoving Mama, or emasculating and humiliating Papa. It was as if she married a man with multiple personalities, and it was her job to juggle them.  

One day Sunil came home to pick up a document Ashok had forgotten on the dining table. Pari was home alone, sitting quietly in the living room. Sunil might have left quietly, but he noticed she’d been crying.

 “Ma’am, is everything okay?” 

“Sunil, I think he’s having an affair, tell me the truth,” she said, not willing to reveal things she already knew about Ashok but wanting to learn more. “You know something I don’t, right?”

“Nothing like that, Ma’am. Sir likes to act like a kingpin, Ma’am, like a godfather with money and power. That’s all acting, Ma’am, don’t worry. He loves you very much, Ma’am.” 

“Love? How would you know that?” Pari said, her voice cracking. “Do you even know what love is, Sunil? You’re like a block of ice. Dry ice. You know that burns, don’t you?” 

“Ma’am,” was all Sunil said.

You have a fiancé, and you don’t even tell me? Go to her, go.”

“No, it’s not like that, Ma’am,” Sunil said, standing with his hands crossed in front of him. 

“Just go, go get lost,” she screamed.” And don’t fucking call me Ma’am.”

It had been four years since Sunil moved in with them. The same staff walked in and out of the house, the same banter between Sunil and her went on as if they were an old married couple or pre-teen siblings. He still called her Ma’am, and she still asked if he knew her name. Ashok’s presence still made everyone tense. It was as if Ashok wanted to prove to all of them, to her in particular, that he was not his father —neither weak nor docile.  Pari was still eager to please him and to keep him from being displeased or upset. She still breathed life into her daughters, hoping for their future as strong independent women.

“Ma’am,” Sunil said one day after a long, dreary time of silence between them. “Ma’am,” he continued hesitantly, like a child tugging at his mother’s skirt demanding attention. “Nothing is permanent. This, too, shall pass. Please be patient, Ma’am.”

Pari looked blankly at him. He was quoting her.

“Please, can you not call me Ma’am,” she said. “I have a name. Do you even know what it is?” 

“Ma’am?”

“Ugh.” Pari threw the dishtowel she used to wipe the dishes on the table and stormed back into her room.

December brought in shorter days, extended and colder nights. Except for hope in the new year ahead, Pari didn’t have much to look forward to. She missed Papa. Be Happy beta, he’d said but she couldn’t be. 

For New Year’s Eve, although Pari never did enjoy the parties, where men laughed and teased each other, where married men and married women flirted with each other, where the smell of alcohol on their breaths or cigarette smoke filled her nostrils, she and Ashok did socialize. She remembered teasing her parents for enjoying a quiet evening at home, watching fireworks over TV, and realized that with the New Year’s Eve  celebrations being commercialized,  she was becoming her mother—boring and predictable. Yet, Ashok had no problem finding new friends and attending new parties. This year, Ashok wanted to go to a celebrity’s house, an actor he’d befriended. “I’ll send the driver to come to get you, be ready,” he said, leaving to attend another business party.

She wondered what it could be about her that allowed Ashok to make assumptions of compliance. Why he didn’t ask if she was interested? Why couldn’t she refuse? So much was unspoken. She disliked arguing with him, knowing the futility of it. She couldn’t debate him in a language he didn’t understand, the language of the heart. 

That evening after she got ready, Pari came into the dining room to check on the kids. Mama hoped she could have dinner with Ashok but went to sleep disappointed. She envied Sunil, who had a choice in these matters, how, like her, he preferred to stay home and be with the family. She saw Sunil and the girls watching a movie, Prema laughing, and Priti falling asleep on Sunil’s lap while he rocked her back and forth in the rocking chair Ashok bought for Pari when they had their first child, the chair on which she nursed both her daughters, long ago.

Pari heard a sing-song tone, a voice different from those on TV. Sunil was murmuring. It was the kind of voice lovers used over the phone to compress distance. His voice evoked an inexplicable emotion.Was he talking to his girlfriend? Pari stood at the door frame, her feet glued to the marble floor, her curiosity overpowering. Was this what he did in the presence of children? Talked to his girl, whispering sweet nothings, or about sex?  Pari wanted to go right in, snatch her girls away. But she stood behind the door, staying quiet as she could, listening to the cadence of his words. 

“Pari, how could I not know your name,” Sunil whispered. “How could I not? Can you not see it? Do you not know? I know you hate politics and fights and tantrums. I know your worries and the fine lines of worry on your forehead. I know it amuses you that Priti calls you Ma’am. I know your friends comfort you, as music does. I know more of you than of myself…. I know you love old Hindi music and Kathak dance and movies. Oh Pari, dear Pari.” His voice was a lullaby. 

Pari gripped the door frame tighter, steadying her feet. Outside, she heard Ashok’s driver honking, announcing his arrival, waiting to pick her up. Her heartbeat seemed to fill the room, while outdoors, fireworks ushered in a new year.