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The Bed of Arrows


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Kamala could smell the scent of the perfume on Surawhen he returned home from the college that evening.

She turned over on the bed and threw him a questioning

look. Her face was contorted in pain, betraying her

resolve not to let it show, to put on a cheerful smile no

matter what. Or, to at least try to. But her mind was

already awash in self-pity: Whats the matter with me?

Why am I morbidly wallowing in thoughts about my

imminent death? So what if my days are numbered, why

go over it again and again in my mind? Why present my

poor husband with a face of doom and gloom? Why add

to his worry and unhappiness?

Before she could smooth the creases of her face into a

bland grin, Sura was by her side. Kama. He grabbed at

his hair in despair. Is the pain worse? God, how long

will it last!

Pain? She tried to sound cheerful. Nothing that cant

be endured; certainly no worse than before. Dont worry.

Her eyes were so sharp that her husbands face fell, in

defeat. Thats what you always say. Youve become used

to the pain, its second nature to you now. Youre all

alike, you women. You never admit to being in pain, to

suffering. Just what do you think that youll ascend

body and soul to heaven if you sacrifice yourself for your

husband and children? He reached out to caress her


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cheek. She flinched, as if his touch would singe her. Awave of dizziness rolled through her and for a moment

she felt she was floating in a void.

Go take a shower, she said when she was herself again.

You need one at the end of a long hot summer day. Put

on fresh clothes and ask Indra to make tea. She sounded

like a squeaking bird when she called out to their cook

and houseboy, Indramani.

Dont, Sura gently admonished her. Dont tire yourself

out. Even raising your voice a little is a strain. After all,

how much strength is there left in you?

She shut her eyes with a sigh. A moment later she

opened them and found her husband staring at her, his

words still resounding in her ears:How much strength is

there left in you! She caught the unfamiliar scent again;

her vision misted over and then cleared. She could see

her husband through a haze of pale yellow light after a

shower of rain. At forty-five his next birthday, only

days away he was as slim and strong as ever, growing

younger if anything. A high forehead aglow with

intelligence, a strong chin signaling determination to

get on with life against all odds. She sighed. This mans

body had once been hers. All hers, shared with no-one

else. Goosebumps rose on her skin, her face became hot,

her eyes burned, and she looked at her husband hungrily.

He was every bit as desirable as before lithe,


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energetic, full of vigour and vitality.A tiny cloud of suspicion began to form, filling the

skies of her mind it threatened to pour any moment.

Im like the proverbial wine jug. She gritted her teeth.

Fit only to be tossed away once its empty.

What? Why do you say that?

Is what I said untrue? Ive been meaning to tell you

this for some time now: Ill never get better, Ill never be

of any use to you. Why should you continue to have to

go through this? You should . . .

Surprisingly, Sura did not turn away as he usually did,

his eyes did not well up with tears; on the contrary, he

flew into a rage. Why do you always go back to that?

Find it a pleasant topic, do you? Good god!

Her heart skipped a beat. Not because of his

uncharacteristic anger, but because of a sudden

misgiving: Have I upset you? Sorry. Go get washed and

changed. Dont keep standing here and lose your appetite

for nothing. She called out to the houseboy again. Indra,

can you hear me? The masters home and waiting.

Sura stomped off.

For a while the perfume hung heavy in the air.

Outside, the shadows grew longer. The drumstick tree

had already turned into a dark mass; barely an hour ago

its tiny sun-dappled leaves had been aflutter with smiles.


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ago. She had given up on a whole lot of things for thatmatter. All because she had aged into a worn-down

housewife. She had children to raise, and thank god her

efforts had paid off: the two girls, Manik and Suna, had

married well, and Ghana, their son, was in the forestry

college in Coimbatore. He would get married and settle

down as soon as he landed a job. She had sacrificed her

life her body and mind and a feeling of contentment

had been her only reward. Meanwhile the drudgery of

housework had callused her soft hands and coarsened

her complexion; even her long, thick hair had thinned,

now reaching down only to the middle of her back; she

had gotten used to eating any old thing at irregular hours

often long after her husband and children had finished

their meals, to wearing old clothes, to making do with

smelly coconut oil bought in the bazaar for her hair.

Working hard seemed to be all she was good for, but

ever since taking to bed she had been robbed of even

this.

Her illness remained a mystery. No amount of medicine

seemed to do any good; the pain did not lessen one bit.

She grew weaker by the day, and death seemed to be

creeping slowly upon her. A prolonged, protracted

torture.

She tossed and turned. She could smell the perfume

again. Did it float up again and again just to mock and


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mortify her? Perfume on Sura, who had no time for suchself indulgence, was no ordinary occurrence. Preoccupied

with reading and writing, he sometimes forgot to shave

or to comb his hair, and was indifferent to what he wore.

A true intellectual, if ever there was one. Everything sat

well on him. All except perfume. But God be praised, he

was still such a caring husband.

When it was fully dark, she broke down, and her hot

feverish eyes swam in tears, even if only a few drops.

When Indra placed a lamp by her bedside, she was

curious to know what her husband was doing. Indra

said he had gone out for a stroll.

A stroll? Where?

Didnt say.

Hm.

The issue of the perfume began to gnaw at her anew.

Anyone could buy perfume. Whatever brand you wanted,

all you had to do was go to the market and look for it.

Was it the same with human beings? You wanted

somebody and you went for her? Was all this conjugal

love, affection and concern for his wife just a charade, a

show? Could anyone spend a lifetime loving a sick

person?

She turned over and more tears flowed down her

cheeks. The houseboy was still standing beside her bed.

What was going through his mind? Wondering how long


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this sick woman would survive? How long shed fight alosing battle? Indra was considered effeminate, but it

was he, more than anybody else, who seemed most

concerned about her.

What shall I cook for dinner tonight? he asked.

Dont ask me. Do you think Ill be around forever?

Her voice sounded pitiful, even to her own ears.

Dont cry, sister. Youll get well.

Get well! Whats the point of lingering on? Only to

prolong my own misery? The truth is I no longer matter

to anyone. Why go on living?

Indra left. She turned onto her back. There! She had

unburdened herself! Made it clear she wished she were

dead; already she was feeling better. Death was

preferable to being confined to bed, better than having

to fight back tears, better than having to smell perfume

on her husband. But when would the end come? A

familiar sense of feeling rejected was rising up within

her again. Their son might love her, but he was more

worried about his studies and his future. Four months

ago, when he had rushed home after she had taken a

sudden turn for the worse, he had only been able to

spare four days. Of course his father too had been keen

for him to go back: Why should he miss classes? Let

him go back and get on with his studies. Their married

daughters, Manik and Suna, belonged elsewhere they


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had their own families and problems to think about and couldnt be expected to make frequent visits. And

the only person she thought was hers alone had gone

out for an evening stroll without even telling her. Without

bothering to tell her. She wasnt worth the trouble.

She lay still, her mouth half-open. Her mind strayed.

(2)

She thought she had overcome her cravings the birth

of a son and two daughters, the years of running a

household should have completely extinguished the

desire for sensual pleasure. She had been married at the

age of fifteen, and her twenty-two years of married life

seemed to her to have lasted for ages. So many of her

friends had already died; what difference would one

more death make? A similar realization had struck her

at the birth of their son. She had forgotten nothing

the hospital, the pain of labour, the caesarean, the torture

of dressing the wound every day, the unseasonal winter

rains, the chill which had seeped into the core of her

being and robbed her of all warmth, her husbands ill-

concealed irritation at being disturbed in the middle of

the night by the babys crying. Sorry, hes woken up,

shed mutter apologetically. Did he disturb you? Go back

to sleep. A smack on the babys bottom to quiet him


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would produce the opposite effect: hed scream at thetop of his lungs.

She had longed and craved for life, for the thrill of

happiness. Fear of becoming pregnant again would stir

her heart now and then, but she didnt let that determine

her actions. She would let her guard down, throw caution

to the wind, overcome in moments of intense pleasure.

Her body had its own demands, its drives; it could forget

one pain and eagerly await the next, similar to the first.

The results were Manik and Suna, though she knew they

werent the products of overwhelming passion. Why

hadnt she learnt to smother her hunger and craving? It

only leads to pain, she had once confided to Sobhana,

her childhood friend, another sickly woman; they were

so close that they called each other blossom. Only to

pain and suffering, dear blossom. How short-lived the

pleasure is! And where has our happiness gone? The

only time we were truly happy seems to have been before

we were married, when we lived with our parents. When

did we last go for a swim, or collect lilies, or climb trees

and race across fields? Sometimes the past, dim and

distant, seemed to whisper seductively in her ears; the

shadows of lithe young limbs on a strong youthful body

flitted across her vision, and she sighed in anguish. How

hard it was to stifle the billowing waves of bitterness.

Sobhana, who had been in a similar state of poor health


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ever since the birth of her second child, was the onlyperson who had understood her. Sobhana suffered from

a terrible stomach disorder, which made her have to go

to the toilet ten times a day. Unable to digest anything,

she had grown increasingly weak and anemic. Her

husband, a foreman in the steel plant, a smaller edition

of the mythical Bhima, took no notice. How true,

blossom! Sobhana couldnt agree more. Who knew

about the labour pain and all the rest? Why do girls

ever marry and bear babies? How quickly their looks,

complexion and liveliness vanish! In case anyone might

think she was blaspheming against her husband, she

added, Once a girl leaves her parents, theres no one

who loves her enough to force even a bowl of watered-

rice on her! Kamala had nodded in silence, unable to

bring herself to say yes or no. Whatever her husbands

faults, cruelty and miserliness were not among them.

Sura had always handed over his salary, leaving it her to

run the household as she liked. He did not spend money

without her knowing, did not indulge in any bad habits.

No, Sura couldnt be compared to Sobhanas brute of a

husband. Its fate! Sobhana had added by way of

consolation. You cant blame anyone. Her ravaged

health, unkempt hair and dirty clothes had left Kamala

with little doubt about her real condition. She knew too

that Sobhana gaunt-faced, wobbly-toothed, lips


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stained black by betel juice was expressing only afraction of what she really felt. A silent rebel, Sobhana

had learnt to hide the embers of rebellion deep within

her, until she was forced into yet another unwelcome

pregnancy. Her husband wanted a son, so a son hed

have, but then shed get up and go shed had enough.

As she lay dead in a crumpled heap after giving birth,

delivered of baby and blood, her fierce foreman of a

husband busily kissed his precious newborn son under

the doctors baleful gaze; her husband couldnt have

cared less. Kamala had learned the gut-wrenching details

of Sobhanas last moments from Sura, her literature-

loving husband, who couldnt fight back his tears while

describing them. But it took a woman to feel what

Sobhana had gone through in her last moments, and

Kamala was not simply a woman, she was also the dead

womans best friend not just some professor of

literature.

Lying on her prickly bed, she tried to quell the rising

waves of pain wracking her body. When would death

and liberation come? Before the vast open expanse of

her consciousness hung Sobhanas face, her lopsided life-

denying smile, for which Kamala had nothing but pity.

Now Kamala herself had become an object of pity, and

Sobhanas lopsided smile seemed to have acquired a tinge

of sweet sunshine: she wasnt the only loser.


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The truth is, Kamala would remind herself, well alldie. All in due course, some before others. But why this

excruciating, this unbearable pain, which seemed to tear

her to pieces? Had it worsened since that woman had

first appeared?

Meet Chandramidha, said Sura, ushering the woman in

one evening. We call her Usharani. Shes from Siam and

was a visiting professor in Ceylon before coming here

on an exchange programme. Her knowledge of

languages makes her the envy of everyone not only

of English, which she teaches, but also of other

languages, like Hindi, Bengali and Tamil. She spent the

last two months in Puri, before joining our department,

and has picked up a smattering of Oriya too, good

enough to speak and write a little. Shes a child at heart,

as trusting and as innocent. She was able to pick up

Oriya so easily because this is what I explained to her

the language must be in her blood, her ancestors

must have come from Orissa. He beamed at the lady

and then pleaded with his wife: Go ahead and test her

knowledge of Oriya.

Chandramidha was all smiles, her attractive body

swaying in slow motion. She clasped and unclasped her

arms across her bosom, as if doing exercises.

Swagatam! Sura said, turning to the guest.


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Swagatam, Chandramidha smiled. Welcome.Willkommen. Well come in?

Did you hear that? Sura turned to his wife. Down to

the etymology.

Chandramidha made eyes at him. Amo I love

main pyar karti hun amibhalo basi ame bhalu . . . A

stunning display of knowledge of Oriya indeed! Ame bhalu

Im a bear!

Kamala couldnt help chuckling. Sura stiffened.

Well, Madam Chandramidha, Kamala suddenly asked.

How many children do you have?

Sura became grave, his eyes flashed.

What was that? Chandramidhas heart-shaped face

flushed like a champak flower, her liquid eyes darted

like a fish, her wondrous smile lit up her pearly teeth

framed in ruby red lips. What did she say?

Kamala did not even try to sit up. Let Sura do the

explaining.

He took charge of entertaining the guest the rest of

the evening; but every time the ladys tinkling laughter

floated in from the sitting room Kamala was convinced

this woman was in a class by herself. Not only was her

laughter pure music, but it seemed to bring to life the

sound of freedom, the voice of a spirit untrammeled by

shyness or repression. She, Kamala, would never have

what this woman had neither her robust health nor


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her robust freedom. Even as from the narrow ruts of herhide-bound life she watched the ladys progress down

the highway of freedom, Kamala felt the first flickers of

suspicion. Nothing was obvious, but deep down she was

a woman, and a woman can see deep into the heart of

the invisible. For the first time she prayed for an early

death.

Soon there would be her husbands pontifications to

put up with: How one looks at things depends on ones

outlook, ones outlook depends on ones mental state,

and ones mental state depends on ones upbringing,

education and a host of other factors. What did he take

her for, a complete illiterate? True, she had only finished

lower primary school in the village, but she had read

enough on her own: scriptures, much to her mothers

delight; fiction, to flesh out her own dreams about the

man in her life.

The more she looked back at her life, the more she

was convinced Sura had never really loved her. He had

loved only himself and used her as nothing more than a

prop, an accessory, a support, for his self-love to clutch

on to and to grow. But was it entirely his fault? Hadnt

he tried to educate her? He had given up only after his

efforts had ended in failure. So if he had turned away

from her he wasnt entirely to blame, was he? Poor man,

he had sought refuge behind a wall of books,


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withdrawing into a world of his own. No wonder shehad gradually been relegated to the margins, to the outer

fringes of his life.

Then there were the occasional bitter reminders:

Kama, I could have gone places if only Id had a wife to

help me out a little. Getting a D. Litt wouldnt have

remained only a distant dream. How they stung, his

selfish words. Had nothing she had done cooking,

baking, rolling paans, keeping house, raising children

helped him? Had she been completely useless? She

didnt measure up? Well, how high did she reach to

his knees? Fair enough. Now that he had this

Chandramidha woman around, she could help him with

his coveted D. Litt. His words, which had once seemed

so innocent, now appeared loaded: Kama, you Indian

women make good housewives but poor partners;

mentally and academically youre all miles behind your

husbands. He had a way with words, and could hold

forth, with his inimitable flair, on any topic society,

the role of the individual, marital compatibility, morality,

you name it. Take morality once he had pontificated

on this: People have given it a new twist: they only pay

it lip service, but never practice it; they pretend to be

moral beings and keep their lives of lies and deceit well

hidden. And Indian women? All narrow-minded bigots

wallowing in ignorance and darkness, calculating to the


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point of utter selfishness, affecting a liberal image whenanyone can see theyre merely showing their ignorance;

their only passion in life is unearthing the faults of other

people and gossiping about them. Morality doesnt mean

flaunting a husband-is-god brooch pinned to your chest

while in the recesses of your mind you desire other men.

Even physical faithfulness at the cost of mental fidelity

makes no sense. Kamala had nodded in agreement. He

couldnt be wrong. His views must have come from the

scholarly books he read and taught. She had never taken

it into her head to put these views to the test, though

there had been a few opportunities. There was Bishi,

one of Suras senior students, who frequently dropped

in to discuss and debate a point and stayed on to chat. A

handsome young man, his long thick eyelashes behind

his glasses reminded her of sunlight skipping off the

placid surface of a pool in the early morning. She liked

him and looked forward to his visits; his thin sharp face

inspired trust. So she didnt hide from him; instead, she

took care to be well dressed whenever he called. Then,

without rhyme or reason, Sura began to speak ill of him:

Beware, Kama! Bishis a snake in the grass, a sly operator.

From then on she kept away from the young man, for

no other reason than to please her husband. After that,

if there was someone she might come close to liking a

little Sura would begin making insinuations. It had


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surprised and baffled her at the time, but now it madesense: Sura had never trusted her and had poisoned her

mind against anyone she might get close to. Was this

love? Conjugal love? This hollowness? This gold-plated

hollowness? Now her life was over, and shed never be

young again.

That pretty Chandramidha of yours, she wanted to

tell her husband, shes something. After all, shes well-

travelled, been to many countries, seen many things and

met many people. Not narrow-minded like us. Not tied

down like us either. No husband or children to weigh

her down. Nothing to be scared of. Not bothered about

money or where the next meal was coming from. Ifshe

couldnt be footloose and fancy free, who could?

Kamala couldnt bring herself to spit these words out

at Sura. Wasnt his face becoming lined from worry, from

the sleepless nights he spent by her bedside? How could

she be so ungrateful? Besides, there had been moments

of great happiness when they were newly married. For

the sake of those alone she should get over her jealousy

and selfishness and cover him with prayers and blessings,

like petals: let him be eternally happy, let everyone be

ever so happy, let the flame of her life die, let her husband

be free . . .

Even as death seemed to be creeping through her body,

starting at her toes, her mind stubbornly refused to


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accept reality. Were the mind and the body two separateentities, shed wonder in lucid moments, independent

of each other, but joined together at birth by Time? Was

Time the only reality that mattered?

Her mind was in a whirl not the merry whirl which

comes with youth, more like that of a dry leaf caught in

the chilly northern wind and waiting to fall. Without

hope. Without forgiveness also. If she couldnt forgive

herself, how could she forgive others? All she wanted

was for death to come. Only death could liberate her.

How hale and hearty her husband was! Nothing seemed

to affect him. Like a stone with waves crashing over it

yet absorbing not even a drop. Years had passed, needs

and wants had multiplied, but he seemed to have

prospered, to have grown taller, in the face of all odds.

How she envied him his handsome looks, his

attractiveness. All his good habits observed even to this

day: rising early, exercising, taking daily walks. He had

always enjoyed his morning constitutional: the earth

seemed fresh, greener, unspoiled, uncluttered, and the

sky inspired poetry. He had continued to enjoy reading

and writing as much as his sitar practice, activities carried

on until well past midnight. All this while her world had

steadily shrunk, a world ravaged by pain both physical

and mental, a world whose limits were defined by the

bed of arrows she lay on. Her only excursion beyond


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was to the bathroom, where she went once a day,crawling, panting, sweating.

She looked out the window: the uneven green hedge

of plants big and small, the back of a nearby house, a

narrow slice of sky, a water tower, the chimney of the

sugar factory, the tops of buildings of varying heights,

trees. All enclosed in an emptiness, a void. Into which

she would disappear one day?

As long as there was life there was hope. Miracles

could happen. The seasons changed. Crows, sparrows

and kites flew, thinking whatever thoughts birds do. The

drumstick tree became festooned with flowers when the

cloudless sky was at its bluest. The sight of it made her

momentarily forget her pain and disease, and shed ask

Indra to pick a handful of tender young leaves and flowers:

Why not cook something with them? Your master likes

drumstick so much! Her husband had been very pleased.

She remembered.

She loved to hear human voices, even from elsewhere,

from outside her room; silence weighed on her like a

damp fog. Tears would roll down her cheeks. She would

cough interminably, until her stomach collapsed. That

was the only way she could get rid of the lump in her

throat. A sick person derives strength from sickness, a

mad person from madness.

How had she been so foolish as to imagine that her


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husband would have eyes only for her? How could astrong, virile man reconcile himself to a charade of a life

with a skeleton?

What hurt most was that he hadnt been frank with

her. Ive caused you nothing but trouble, she would tell

him. Why dont you remarry? Oh shut up, hed beg

off. You want me to become a laughing stock as well?

Have you gone mad? Yes, indeed she had gone mad.

Ever since Chandramidha he preferred to call her

Usharani and insisted that she do so too had appeared

on the scene. Not a single day passed without her name

cropping up in one context or the other; he did not miss

a single opportunity of singing the ladys praises.

Lying on her bed of arrows, Kamala sensed that Sura

wanted her dead and gone. He had already set his sights

on the rising sun, though it was he who had preached

against lust!

You know something, Indra! shed say, giving vent

to her feelings. The world has always been like this.

Dont ever trust men.

Even if the houseboy hadnt caught the relationship

between the two remarks, he couldnt have agreed more.

Though a man, he wished hed been born a woman.

Dont worry, sister, hed say to console her, sniffling.

Youll get well soon.

Kamala and Indra. What were they but two rickety


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old boats cast adrift on the high seas. Sometimesunspoken words and utter helplessness can be strangely

consoling.

As the days went by she saw her husband change. He

became more and more distracted; he grew indifferent.

He glowed more with each passing day, exuding the

radiance of someone in the first flush of love. His moods

fluctuated a meditative stillness, as if imposed by

magic, one moment, inexplicable tremors and shivers

the next. He played his sitar with a vengeance, trying

out a new raga. He returned later from college and went

out immediately for his evening walk. His initial openness

(I think Ill go see Chandramidha, theres something

about comparative phonetics I need to discuss with her)

had dried up long ago. He no longer mentioned her,

became visibly uncomfortable when her name came up,

and his evening walks grew longer and longer. Although

nobody said anything to her she caught on: life had

triumphed over death, a healthy and beautiful body over

a sickly and dying one.

How strongly he reeked of that perfume! How long

had he been with Chandramidha? What was that ball of

fire in the sky? The moon? Hadnt yesterday been the

night of the full moon? A day had passed but it was still

so round! Wasnt it all smiles? Didnt the drumstick tree

look like a beautiful woman dressed to the nines and


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out for an evening stroll along the riverbank? A tragic wish, maybe, but Kamala wanted to be that beautiful

woman.

A profound wave, filling the horizon, seemed to crash

over her. Her mouth hung open. What did she want to

say? What had she discovered? Was there any need to

say anything at all?

Sura reached home well after nine-thirty that evening.

Life, he had decided, meant joy and happiness. To

enjoyment! With death and mourning went narrowness

of mind.

His wife lay on her back, her neck twisted towards

the moon, her mouth agape with unspoken words.

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Images Download 1201768591-The Bed of Arrows