Rita came to visit me today, late in the afternoon, full of tension.
“Don’t ask me to sit down, Vasu,” she said in a thin, worried voice. “I have just come to return your knitting needles.”
I had forgotten all about my needles, which I had lent her around four months back, when it was still winters. I realized that she must have needed some excuse to visit me.
“What is the matter?” I asked sympathetically.
“Why don’t you ask what is not the matter?” she said, suddenly aggressive and petulant. “Day after day it is the same routine. He simply vanishes in the evenings. Just goes off without bothering to see whether I have had my meals or not, whether the children need anything or not. Oh, I am so sick of life, Vasu, that I want to commit suicide.”
I detected tears in her voice. I also remembered that in our undergraduate psychology course we had been told that a potential suicide case always gives a fair warning to the people around. I decided that Rita needed counseling. Hence I told her to sit down and brought her a glass of water.
She really looked upset. The problem, as usual, was the raw deal she was getting out of life on account of her husband. Her husband preferred staying out late in the evening playing cards with his friends, to spending his time with his family. Rita and Subroto Chakroborty live behind our house, on the other side of the lane. Like us, they too have two sons. Only ours are five and three years old, while theirs are ten and eight. We know the Chakrobortys slightly better than the rest of the neighbors because Subroto works in the same office as my husband.
Rita had sat down on the sofa. She gave the room a keen survey and asked, “When did you buy the new cushion covers?”
It struck me as a funny question to for a potential suicide case to ask. Nevertheless, I satisfied this minor curiosity of hers and added some other bits of interesting information of my own. Rapport, we psychologists call it.
“What right does he have to enjoy himself?” she hissed at me, de-establishing the rapport, so to say, and making me jump. “I haven’t been out for the whole of last month and he goes every evening to play cards. Guests keep dropping in. The children have to be looked after. I have to do everything - I take them to school, I help them with their homework, I buy the groceries, I get the vegetables - in fact, it was I who got the ration card renewed. I even have to buy the kerosene and the meat, two things I never liked doing.” She panted with stress on each “I”.
I felt sorry for her. I put myself in her position and sighed with empathy. How much can a woman be expected to put up with? Cloistered in a small two-roomed flat with two children, both exceptionally noisy, and a husband who was mostly not at home. I imagined Harsh coming back only for meals and bed, and shuddered. True, they had a touring job, but still, one is entitled to some consideration. In fact, a touring job makes it even more difficult for the wife.
“You are lucky, Vasu,” said Rita, apparently following my line of thought. “Look, how much Bhai Saheb does for you. At least, he comes home on time and stays with the children every evening; at least, you don’t have to bring them up single-handed like me. He even takes you out quite often.”
I protested that Harsh is quite asocial and preferred to be by himself after office hours. Besides, going out was becoming so expensive that we couldn’t afford it more than say, twice a month - which was not “often” by any standards.
“Theek hai, at least twice you do go out, don’t you? And the children can have their meals with their father, can’t they?”
I tried to explain, as I always did, that Harsh, like Subroto, was generally on tour, but she brushed this aside.
What right does he have to enjoy himself?” she reiterated her complain viciously. “It is always the same story, always. He says he has to go the Moorti’s or to the office for some urgent discussions of work. And invariably he lands up at Singh’s or Moorti’s and they play cards.” She leaned towards me conspiratorially. “Do you know how much he lost last week?” she asked in a confidential undertone.
I said no, and backed away a bit.
“Six hundred and ten rupees!” Rita said in a shocked whisper.
Even I was appreciably shocked.
“Really?” I asked unbelievingly, simultaneously estimating the amount of household expenses we would have to cut down if Harsh, or for that matter I, had squandered six hundred rupees all of a sudden. The school and bus fees for children came to six hundred. Why, the milk we took every month cost us six hundred rupees.
“Of course,” said Rita, visibly delighted to discover my reaction. “And he didn’t even tell me about it himself. Do you know how I found out?” She leaned precariously further.
I said, no.
“Some women from the Bengali association came over last evening. They told me.” She had started looking positively radiant. Her eyes shone with excitement.