The man was pressing at her neck, massaging it furiously now and then seductively, and it felt delicious and warm. Manjula was both the seduced and the seductress, as the deliberate sensuousness of his touch both aroused and repelled her. She forgot where she was for an instant and her right hand moved towards his. Just then a sense of shame overcame her. She opened her eyes, and the mirror reflected a middle-aged woman who stared at her, mockingly. She didn’t see the beautiful, almond-shaped eyes or the lips that could curve into a beauteous smile. She could also not see how her hair formed, in perfect symmetry, an inverted letter ‘v’ at her temples, lending her wide forehead the look of a well-read and well-ageing woman. All Manjula saw was the spider’s web forming around her eyes, the slightly sagging jaw and a neck, still feline, but steadily belonging to a potter’s wheel—to be pulled up to its historical splendour.
“Madam, I am done; would you like a back massage also?” the masseur interjected right into her thoughts, crushing them. She nodded.
Manjula, two marriages and two offspring later, was a woman in denial of her substance. In her first marriage, they, her husband’s family, had called her Maya. She had lovingly accepted this name and adopted it. Arun, her husband, would call her Maa occasionally and treated her as one, too. It was a good marriage, as per societal standards. She had left all of herself behind at her maternal home and morphed into Arun’s Maharashtrian wife. She mastered all the regional gear that mattered to Arun and effaced any sign of a one from the north. His culture, she told herself, had more to offer than her own. Bearing a son and a daughter was duly applauded and life was wonderful. She was born to please.
Maya was a professional housekeeper. She maintained the interiors of her home impeccably. The house was always party-ready. They were gracious hosts, and while the parties carried on, Maya and Arun, became complete strangers to each other. In the name of networking, Arun wanted to hold more parties at their house, and Maya would diligently oblige to please him. On non-party nights, they struggled with each other, running out of words during conversations. What had begun as a flirtation and had blossomed into an 18-year-old marriage was stuck on the rusting rails of boredom and near-nothingness. It was only at parties that they would transform into a harmonious couple, dedicated to giving the world what they denied each other—a good time. Having other people around was their means of drowning out other noises that deadened and stupefied them. Drinking, serving, playing cards and chatting up people helped them find happiness.
Maya busied herself with kitty parties and gardening by the day. She judged other women whose husbands had affairs, and those who had affairs themselves, looking down on them as pariah. Gradually, she moved out of that circle because there were none she found faultless, none she deemed worthy of sharing company with. Without a friend, she grew despondent and her life, colourless. The flowers in her garden withered, and the light in her eyes dimmed.
On the other hand, Arun worked harder than before, yet seemed fitter and more contented with his life. She was certain that it wasn’t the life they barely led together, which boosted his demeanour. So what was it that made him so bouncy and jovial, she wondered. She felt sidelined furthermore. He would smile by himself at dinnertime, which annoyed her to no end. His conduct started playing on her mind, and feverishly so. She hatched all sorts of plans in her head; would she follow him one day to see where he went; was he that kind of husband who also had affairs; maybe he was losing his mind and therefore was happier; or maybe she could ask to work at his office to keep an eye on him. Every time a thought came into her head, she banished it, as it would be beneath her to resort to such methods. In her utter loneliness, she became someone she never imagined herself as—one of the ‘kitty-party types’ who she herself defined as petty, gossipy and ever-ready to sleep with any man, younger or older. Of course, this was only in her head, where she dared to do anything.
Then an office party came along, and Maya, as usual, played the good wife because at least she would be out of the hellhole she had created for herself. She would don a new dress, wear make-up and renew herself again.
At the party, well into two hours of socializing, Maya noticed Arun whispering in Sonia’s left ear. Sonia was the young wife of a friend Sanjay. She pretended not to look in their direction, but their laughter rang over other conversations, loud and clear. The intimacy of the exchange was unmistakable. She felt foolish yet she couldn’t just shake it off. Her life stretched out in front of her—the one where she barely felt acknowledged. She saw all the moments of joy dissipating, and getting rapidly replaced with pain and rejection. Arun and she hadn’t made love in months, not even for custom’s sake. Their relationship was formless and in decay.
“Hello, Sanjay; remember me, Arun’s wife?” By then, she had downed the red wine and was holding the empty glass, brandishing the remnants of the red ruby swirling at the bottom.
Then, she lost control, in a trice, shouting, “What the hell is going on between my husband and that bitch?” Maya’s patience was at its lowest ebb and she was ready to burst. Sanjay knew that she was serious, “Look, Maya. There is nothing going on between the two of them. Just a little bit of healthy flirting, I’d say. Moreover, Maya, what say, it’s an office party! And, by the way, she is not my wife anymore. We’ve been long divorced, if you care to know,” he said, fuming now.
“What the…all right. Then it’s all right to flirt, I suppose,” Maya affirmed. She picked up her bag and strode out of the dimly-lit hall.
Arun and Maya’s divorce was amicable. Arun had indeed been having multiple affairs at his workplace, and lost his job as soon as Maya, or rather Manjula, filed for divorce. She cleaned him out and he continued to pay alimony till Manjula met Padmanabhan.
Padmanabhan was Manjula’s neighbour. One day, Manjula headed to her neighbour’s to ask for some cooking ingredient. She knew Mrs Chary was a kind lady. Manjula had stopped cooking for herself, but as her daughter Brijni was going to visit her the following week, she panicked. Padmanabhan opened the door, surprising Manjula. He was a handsome man in his early 40s, with a hint of grey in his hair. There was something utterly sweet about him. They had crossed each other occasionally.
The day Manjula had taken upon herself the task of cooking for her daughter was just a day like any other. Yet it wasn’t. The only reason Padmanabhan was at home was because he himself was the cook. His son Abhi was also visiting. He told Manjula later that his wife had passed away. A quick friendship struck between them and they started seeing each other. Both needy and both caught in the vortex that just circles where it is. It was the right time, and the right place.
As both Manjula’s daughter and Padmanabhan’s son got along famously on their coinciding visits, the scenario for a wedding was created. Padmanabhan’s son made out a proposal, on behalf of his father, for Manjula in the form of a silk sari and a box of ladoos six months since they began courting each other. Manjula graciously accepted without much ado. After they were wed, Manjula moved into Padmanabhan’s cottage, and the two recommenced yet another journey of their lives, this time together.
As soon as Padmanabhan married, he quit his day job to spend time with his beautiful wife, all day, and all the time. They became Padma and Manjul. Many weeks went by.
But when a couple spend all their time together, it can get rather monotonous, and so it did. Manjul found herself wishing to reclaim her old life. Padma had little to offer in terms of conversation, much less in the realm of physical activity.
She then decided to seek work outside of home, which left Padma confused and angry.
“What is it that you want, Manjul? You have everything, don’t you? I love you! Is that not enough for you?” he asked.
“Yes it is but not nearly. Some intellectual stimulation perhaps,” she sarcastically retorted. It was a hopeless situation. Manjula finally called it quits. It was tough and it was impossible. The divorce left them completely exhausted and spent.
Now, as she sat staring at herself, she became aware of the masseur rubbing her shoulders. With a shudder she shook off her sense of shame and revelled in the massage, shutting her eyes. As he pressed hard on the small of her back, pushing her forward, she was face-to-face with herself again, and this time, she drank in her own image. Her reflection smiled back. That’s when she saw the beauty of her visage. She could very easily pass off as someone just hitting 40, or younger even, she affirmed to herself. She was 49. Grinning at the train of wicked thoughts that emerged in her lookalike in the mirror, she quickly embraced her ‘kitty-party reflection’—the seduced and the seductress—lest it disappear. A surge of ecstasy shot through her, as the masseur slapped her back gently cupping his palms upon it, making his way upward. She released all of the tension and relaxed her spine.
“Once more please,” she pleaded.
Onyx, her beloved son, was going to come visiting in a month’s time with his girlfriend. With a gleam in her eyes, she decided that she would most certainly have a boyfriend herself by then.
- Kamalini Natesan
