The house they had found was in one of the poorer
neighborhoods in town. They had the
entire ground floor, which consisted of a living room, dining area, kitchen,
bathroom and one bedroom. There were
four boys and two girls (Subadra’s stomach lurched when she heard this; this
fact would definitely have to be concealed from Mrs. Iyer who would make it
known to this neighborhood and beyond that Subadra’s daughter was – and her
voice would drop here, Subadra could just imagine it – living with strange men,
and foreign ones at that, everyone knew what kind of morals they
had) and the only saving grace was that they were all from Mallika’s
university. There were three dancers, a
poet, a violinist and a singer (this last being Mallika, the
physicist-turned-singer). Only Mallika
and one of the boys was Indian, the others were American, French and
Australian.
Subadra did not even try to placate her husband. Pacing up and down, he ranted that he would
fly to America to force Mallika to change her mind, he would personally wring
the neck of whoever put this wild scheme into his daughter’s head, he would tear
down that bloody house with his own hands so that they would have to abandon
their whole blasted scheme and finally get some sense hammered into their
heads. Then he went to bed, knowing fully well that in the battle of wills, his
daughter would out-duel him any day, and that he had no choice but to live with
this mad-cap idea of hers.
Two weeks later, Mallika and her friends arrived. It had been a wearying two weeks for
Subadra. Her husband was in a foul mood
all the time. He felt that his daughter had deliberately defied him by forging
ahead and refusing to change her plans. Subadra worried constantly about how Mallika
would cope. Mallika hadn’t the slightest
inkling of what it took to run a house, and from her description of her
friends, it appeared that they were equally, if not more, hare-brained. To top
it all, the neighbor, Mrs. Iyer had been completely unbearable. With gleaming eyes and fake sympathy, she
drank in the news, tut-tut ting and piously declaring how good God had been to
her, that her daughter would never try anything like this, and anyway, all her
worries were over, she was going to marry this amazing boy from Harvard who had
seven-figure job offers falling out of his ears.
At the airport, Subadra and her husband were the only people
to meet Mallika and her friends (what sort of families did these friends come
from, her husband muttered darkly, that they didn’t even check out where their
children were staying). Subadra, who had
not seen her daughter in two years, marveled at the change in her, her
newly-acquired poise and even the barest blooming of self-assurance. She seemed happy among these friends,
although their appearance did not do much to inspire confidence. All looked badly in need of baths and
haircuts and clean new clothes.
Introductions were made. Subadra
fought the urge to laugh when one of them, in response to her husband’s formal
hand-shake, extended his fist with a hearty “Yo, whattup!” To his credit, her husband did not flinch,
but continued down the line, his hand-shake and “Nice to meet you” as crisp and
firm as ever.
The first minor storm erupted when Mallika refused to go
home with her parents. They had hoped
that she would spend a couple of days with them first (during which her father
was convinced he would open her eyes to the sheer folly of her plans) when they
could pamper her and take her to her favorite restaurants and shops. She was going to her new “home” (Subadra
cringed when she heard the word), she had a lot of stuff to get done and she
might be able to spare the time to visit her parents in a few weeks’ time. Thunderclouds
gathered again when Mallika refused her parents’ offer of a ride to her new
place. She was going to manage everything on her own, she insisted, she was not
a baby any more. Her friends tactfully
stood aside while her father glared at her in furious disbelief and Subadra
fluttered around trying to act as if nothing was amiss, aghast that this
reunion was so vastly different from what she had fantasized. In the end,
Subadra and her husband went home alone, having extracted a promise from Mallika
that she would call as soon as she reached her…erm… home. It was a silent ride back, with both of them
lost in their thoughts.
Mallika did call to tell her parents that she had reached
safely and then after that there was only the occasional quick phone call to
say all was well. Subadra could hear the
beautiful sounds of a violin in the background, and she was sure she heard the
laughter and shouts of children, but Mallika always hung up before she got
around to asking her about it. It was
not an easy time for Subadra. Her
husband most decidedly did not like this new independent streak in his daughter
(like father, like daughter, thought Subadra. Of course, her husband would not
be amused if she pointed that out to him).His hot, rant-and-rave rage had
subsided to a sullen simmer, and their evenings were spent in frosty silence.
Subadra simply did not have the energy to boost his spirits, to make him see
that this was probably just a phase, that what Mallika was doing was not all
that awful. Subadra’s lack of energy was
as a direct result of Mrs. Iyer. She had
become a daily visitor to Subadra’s house now.
Oozing insincere solicitousness and sincere curiosity, her every
question and comment was like a poisoned-tipped dart aimed directly at Subadra’s
heart. Talking to her and listening to
ever-more-fantastic details about Mr. Harvard-the-Perfect, Subadra felt her
vitality slowly drain out of her and she, too, became morose and depressed.
A month passed this way.
Subadra almost succeeded in forgetting that Mallika was in town (not so
hard to do since both her husband’s bad mood and Mrs. Iyer’s curiosity had
eased) and she settled back into her old routines. Then, one afternoon, when Subadra was fast
asleep again, the oblivion of dreams her getaway from the searing heat, the
phone rang. It was Mallika, in a chatty
and communicative mood. She ended the
conversation by inviting her parents (adding, in a sly twist, that Subadra
could bring Mr. and Mrs. Iyer along as well if she wanted to) for lunch the
following Saturday.
All that week, Subadra wrestled with whether to tell Mrs. Iyer or not. Her husband, whose bad humor revived the instant he heard about the invitation (why couldn’t she come home for lunch, he had no time for a bunch of communist artists, if he heard his daughter say Yo……), paid no attention to Subadra’s hand-wringing about what to do about Mrs. Iyer. Every morning, Subadra started the day firm in her resolve to invite Mrs. Iyer. After all, that was what Mallika wanted. But when the time came to actually cross the road and knock on her door, she quailed and put it off until the next day. Until Friday, when she took advantage of a short period when she emptied her head of its demons and doubts and marched over and told Mrs. Iyer in plain and simple words that Mallika was having a lunch tomorrow and had invited them along as well. Mrs. Iyer, unaccustomed to this firm and confident new Subadra (she usually succeeded in reducing her to a quivering mass of uncertainty and diffidence) managed only to say yes, of course, before Subadra turned and returned home. All her questions would have to wait until tomorrow.
To be continued.