Hunger - Struck
She sighed with satisfaction as she finished her fourth tikki and reached towards the glass of orange juice. Prashant reached out and took he hand, touching her fingers gently, one by one. A thrill went through her fingers and spread lingeringly up from her chest, making her shiver. “Agony and ecstasy” sprung to her starved mind. Voluptuously she savored the words. Agony and ecstasy... ecstasy...
He held her hand and encircled an arm around her. Then he kissed her, soft and long and loving. She laid her head on his broad chest dreamily and succumbed to the lazy sensation of his fingers rushing through her hair. She closed her eyes and murmured, “Prashant...”
She suddenly became aware of her greasy fingers still holding the glass on the table, arrested in the movement of picking it up. The sight of the juice was soothing and cool. It made a bright spot of color in the blue and green room. The blue and green combination was her husband’s idea. She didn’t like it much, but she didn’t really mind it either. As long as he was satisfied with things, it was fine with her. She took up the glass and gulped down some juice.
She looked towards the empty plate regretfully and licked her fingers. She always ate with her fingers now - it was so much more satisfying than eating with forks and spoons. Hindustani food was actually meant to be eaten with one’s hands. Close to cultural heritage. More practical, as it saved up on the washing up later on.
Swallowing some more of the juice, she wondered what time it could be. Somehow she never knew the correct time, except through her hunger. There was no other way to know it actually. There was a clock in the house, which she was expected to wind up, but it involved climbing up on a stool. And she had misplaced her wristwatch. Well, it was somewhere in the house, probably in the wardrobe. She would look for it one of these days.
Besides, how did it matter, not knowing the time. There was no hurry about anything. Time was relative and immaterial. Even static, according to the clock. She liked the idea of not being unnecessarily disturbed by watching the time. In fact, she kept all the doors and windows closed all the day, in order not to be unduly disturbed. The house was quite dark, specially in the daytime, when she was alone.
There was always a flurry of activity when Rajiv returned, at 6 p.m. or so. He would go around opening the doors and windows, complaining about the darkness and stuffiness. She would then withdraw into the kitchen or bedroom, busying herself with one thing or the other - cooking, adding dishes for the last minute guests, answering Rajiv in careful and balanced words. Going around, moreover, with a smile on her pretty face.
She estimated dully that it should be approximately 4 O’clock right now. Another two hours to start cooking.
“Do you love me, Prashant?” she asked him, more out of habit than anything else. She was very sure of his love. It was unconditional and eternal - elemental, almost. He said, “No, I don’t.” Teasing her, of course.
He kissed her again. He had often told her that he liked her as she was, as a whole. She found in him everything she had hoped to find in a man - he was tall and dark and incredibly handsome.
Debonair. That was the word she was looking for. She rolled the word in her mouth, and chewed its ardor and imagery. When he was there, she was the pretty, intelligent, graceful, dignified woman of her own dreams, taller than her five ordinary feet. Not that he minded her being short. Her shortness made her look petite as compared to his all male physique. They were the envy of everyone when they went out. There was also the delightful secrecy of an affair which made life so much more exciting and meaningful...
He was always there when she wanted him. Near her, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, watching her cook, watching her dress or undress. With him, she had completely lost the cloying shyness she always experienced with Rajiv, in spite of eleven years of marriage. It was mainly because of his understanding and admiration of her that she could work at all in the house, at all those monotonous tasks that so sapped her energy. This was what she liked - complete and unquestioning attention. Compatibility and love.
She picked up her glass and drained it, waiting for the last drop to fall into her open mouth.
As she reached out to put the glass no s stool, she knocked the stool over, just about managing to save the ill-fated glass. Without moving from her place on the settee, she tried to straighten the stool, and knocked down a tumbler of water that she had brought for herself and not drunk. There was a muffled thud, and a puddle formed quickly on the carpet.
She sighed. Well, it always happened. She was perpetually dropping things, knocking them down, scattering them, or getting herself scratched or burnt, or bumping into something painfully. Rajiv said he was disgusted with her, as he himself was rather meticulous and neat. Till about three years ago, he had been concerned about her hurts, band-aiding them, applying anti-septic creams to them, and admonishing her to take more care. But these incidents occurred more and more frequently, and finally he gave up bothering about them. He also stopped listening to her descriptions of how she got hurt. It exasperated him, he said. It was too much to expect from him anyway. He had a lot to do, work to finish, being the sales manager in a relatively large and reputable firm.
And she did have such a lot of things around her all the time. She always collected whatever she might possibly need in the next one or two hours, in order to avoid getting up. And most of her waking time she spent in straightening up, mopping up, clearing up, whatever she had left behind earlier.
She realized that he was watching her with a wry smile. She got up and dabbed at the carpet ineffectually with a convenient duster.
“Mopping up my past, my instant past,” she said, aloud. It still surprised her that she could speak aloud to herself. She was not so fluent or coherent when she was with Rajiv. But with him, yes. With him she could laugh, talk and cry.
Even with her own son, Somu, she could be quite spontaneous and gay. But with Rajiv, and his numerous friends and acquaintances, she experienced a kind of block in speech and thoughts, which made her very guilt-ridden. She would say the most stupid and incoherent things, and her conscience would prick her for weeks afterwards. This, in spite of the fact that she was more highly educated than Rajiv. He was extremely fluent and verbally agile, quick to grasp and witty.
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