Chapter 6: Provoked

It was Saturday evening and Ritu drove back home. A lone policeman in a white shirt over blue trousers gesticulated at the cars, trying to direct the traffic, with little effect. She rolled up her windows to shut out the impatient Delhi traffic and turned on the radio. She heard the last bars of a song she knew but couldn't place it.

An RJ on steroids took over. "You are listening to Oye FM and this is your host and dost Sanaa. Our topic today: how to keep the romance fresh in a relationship. We have a caller." A man in a girlish voice whined about his wife not being interested in sex any longer. She imagined a reed thin guy with effeminate mannerisms, who said samjha karo na every ten minutes while flicking back hair from his forehead.

The over enthusiastic response from the RJ was predictable, "Take her on a long drive, treat her like you are out on your first date and—"

She couldn't take it anymore and switched it off. Everyone over twenty was an expert on relationships these days.

The week had been hectic because of board meetings and the anticipated visit of Tim Reynolds, Global Head of Finance. She had to spend all Saturday catching up with her routine work.

She let out a loud yawn. She needed a restful Sunday. Perhaps she could ask her mother to take care of Aayush for the day. Or better still, Ritu could spend the day there, at her parents' and get pampered by her mom.

The seat belt whooshed as she released it and stepped out of the car. Her neighbor from the flat above, the shadylooking Ramesh ji, was parked right in front of her. He eyeballed her in his rearview mirror, drumming his fingers over the steering wheel, a ring on each one of them. She pulled together the powder blue wool jacket close over her chest. Suddenly conscious of the tight fitted cream polo-neck she wore over her jeans. She hated wearing sarees on weekends. Tall and slender, she pulled off both the western and traditional attire with elegance.

"Aunty, side please!" The little boy on the bicycle shouted. He would have hit her had Ramesh ji not put out his arm out of the car window and pulled her flat against his car.

"Aaj kal be bacche" Ramesh ji grinned and shook his head.

Ritu clambered up the stairs to the apartment, glad to have Ramesh ji's fingers off her waist, when the phone rang. It was Sunil, in his usual surly tone, "Have to do the night shift today. Vijay's sick."

"When'll you be home?" Ritu asked, slowing down on the landing after the first floor. The landlord still hadn't fixed the broken windowpane. A gust of cold air made her shiver.

"Morning. Around nine. "

She was accustomed to these sudden changes of shifts. Spending the night at her parents seemed even more attractive. She told him.

As she turned the key at the door of their apartment, she looked at the two wooden masks they had brought from Indonesia - Rama and Sinta, as Ram and Sita were known there. Right above where it said Mathurs. Arched eyebrows, serene eyes, and high forehead in a batik print of maroon flowers over a darker background. They exuded calmness. Reminded her of the good days.

Inside, it was warmer. She peeled off the jacket and draped it on the back of the one of the dining chairs and kicked off her shoes. The dining table, solid teak, with an inlaid carving of cedar on the borders, also brought back from Indonesia. A crystal vase stood on the table with an arrangement of dried flowers.

It was a typical Malviya Nagar matchbox apartment, built on a plot size of hundred square yards. The nine hundred square feet held a decent sized living cum dining room at the front, a narrow kitchen and two smallish bedrooms with baths at the back. It met their needs, however. They wanted to be in South Delhi for nearness to her parents, Aayush's school and Sunil's work. However, since she hadn't wanted to let go of any of her possessions, the entire apartment had to absorb the furnishings of the much larger one they had had in Indonesia.

An hour later, as she was preparing to leave, the phone rang again. She looked at the number. Sunil's office.

"Haan?"

"Bhabhiji, Vijay speaking."

She had met Vijay when Sunil had invited him to their home. He was single and lived alone. An uncomplicated, amiable guy, who got sentimental with two drinks down his gullet. He had gone on and on about how she looked at least ten years younger than her thirty four years.

Why was he calling?

"How are you, Bhabhiji?"

She winced. She wished he would stop calling her Bhabhiji. It was so old world. That's what the neighboring men called her mother.

"Is everything alright?" She asked.

"Haanji" She sensed a bit of a hesitation. Everything was not alright.

"I don't know how to say this. Kuch batana tha aapko," he said.

She pulled out the dining chair and sat down, her heart pounding. "Is Sunil alright?"

"Haanji, he's fine," he said, sensing her concern. She let out her breath."But there is a problem."

What's wrong with this guy? Why can't he just get on with it? Her heart raced again.

"Woh there is something going on between Sunil andPoonam, you know our receptionist."

It took her a moment to register what Vijay meant. Her fear morphed into anger and shame. She remembered Poonam vaguely. Plain but busty. Excessive make up. Vijay had mentioned her repeatedly when he was drunk at their home. She had asked Sunil later if Vijay had a crush on her. He had shrugged his shoulders in response.

Vijay went on, "It's not good Bhabhiji. I tried to reason with Sunil but he got mad. At first, I didn't know if I should tell you but then I thought you should know before it's too late."

She wanted to die right then. Of the humiliation of hearing her husband's escapades from someone she barely knew. The implication that she wasn't good enough for him. That he needed another woman to make him happy.

The bastard! How could he? She had lived with his continuous grouchiness, the drinking, the insults, for years now.

How long is he going to punish me for a crime I didn't commit?

"Is Sunil at the factory?" Her eyes were on the little dolls in the wooden curio cabinet in the living room right beside the faux-leather tan sofa. The Thai dancer, the Japanese Geisha, the Balinese bride - they all seemed to be mocking her.

"No bhabhiji. They areboth not here."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her head throbbed.

Vijay was pissed at his married colleague scoring with the girl he had wooed.

There had been another girl before. She had worked at the factory too. She had seen them together on his bike, acting a little too familiar. Though he had denied there was something going on, she knew he hadn't told her the complete truth.

She called Sunil's cell. It was switched off. She called again, pointless though it was. She dialed her parents' home. "Ma, I'll pick Aayush tomorrow. Am too tired today."

How dare he? She should leave him; she earned enough to support Aayush and herself. There wasn't any love left in the marriage anyway.

But she knew she couldn't. She couldn't cut off Aayush's oxygen. He loved Sunil; thrived in his company.

She sat there a long time, slumped in the chair.

She didn't remember when she went to bed. But in the morning, that's where she lay, when she heard him turning the key in the door. Her eyes shifted to the clock on her bed side table beside the photograph of two-year-old Aayush. It was eight.

He came into the bedroom and was surprised to see her. "You didn't go?"

"No."

"Where is Aayush?"

"Still there."

He seemed to smell the disquiet in the room.

"What happened to Vijay?" she asked.

"Fever," he replied, taking his shoes off.

"Must be tiring working two shifts together?"

"I am exhausted," he said, getting under the covers on his side of the bed.

She marveled at the fluency of his lies.

He had two days' stubble on his face, there were bags under his eyes, and his paunch strained against the shirt. What did the women see in him?

"How's Poonam?"

She noticed the almost imperceptible stiffening. "Fine."

"How was the sex?"

"What?"

"Bastard!" She cried and pounced on him.

The physical attack surprised him. She was on top of him, trying to hit his groin with her knee. Then he took control; her legs locked beneath his, her hands held across her chest. He looked down, guilt and anger bottled up in his fists, and started hitting her.

"Bitch! You hit me? Itna maaroonga saali you'll not recognize yourself."

He continued landing punches on her face and body till he was breathless. "Open your ears and listen," he said, panting, "I'll do what I want and you can't do a thing about it."

Pinned under him, immobile and impotent, Ritu cried. She lay sobbing, even when he freed her, bitter with the helplessness of her situation. This was the man she had loved.

She was overcome with disgust. Disgust at him, his whisky onion breath, his spittle on her face. Disgust at her inaction. Disgust at what their marriage had degenerated into. Her body writhed in pain as she crawled out of the bed. She glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The lower lip had started to swell; there was a cut on her right cheek caused by the stone on his ring. She tidied herself up, changed and went out to the car. The drive was aimless. All she wanted to do was to put distance between him and her.

After what seemed like hours of random driving, she ended up on a familiar route, a familiar place. The office.