Nandini SahuWe surely were annoyed, rather uncomfortable, looking at the PDA of the middle-aged couple.
Dr.Harihar Panda and his wife Mrs.Savita Panda were my guests that evening, along with two other friends from Odisha—Dr. Manas and Dr.Shubhra. All of them except for Savita were in Delhi to attend a conference. Manas and Shubhra were my old friends, so I invited them over for dinner after the conference. Harihar and Savita came along; in fact they got self invited and I didn’t mind that, because the four of them had come from Bhubaneswar as a team. I had booked three rooms in the university guest house for them—one for the couple and two for the other two.
Savita had nothing to do during the day when her husband and his friends were busy in the conference. She was restless and very worried about the food, medicines, etc of her husband. She always remained worried about these trivial matters— like many housewives—starting with what he should wear any given day to how much tea he should consume in the evening. Should he apply oil on his hair today? What if he catches a cold from a head bath? Should he eat chicken more than once a week? What if it upsets his stomach? Is he talking too much on the mobile? He may get a migraine, so the phone should be switched off. And why is he taking such a long walk? It’s windy today.
Their children were settled, grown up, and the sixty year old wife’s only concern, focus, topic of discussion, life, love, happiness, worry–just everything–was her sixty-plus husband.
Throughout the past couple of days, we were noticing Savita’s overwhelming care and concern for Harihar. Initially, we found it cute. But later, we were annoyed, as expected.
My friend Manas was a writer, an emotionally charged, intelligent person, somewhat close to my heart. Shubhra was a chirpy, witty, pretty woman; she was most talkative.
That evening, my friends got introduced to my son Sonu, a humorous, intelligent and sober teen. They were happy to receive his hospitality. I had cooked quite a few dishes for them, and the guests thoroughly enjoyed the food. We chatted about Odisha; in between Manas talked about his new stories. He knew I loved his stories, he wanted my complete attention, which I, too, was willingly giving. Shubhra was keen on knowing every detail of my friendship with Manas—when and how did we meet? How come we were so compatible with each other despite him having a happy married life in Odisha; and neither was I his lover or anything like that. She was trying to understand this special bonding.
Harihar was eager to get the attention of me, his hostess; he tried to give his opinion about everything around, talked about his achievements, his admiration of the excellent life I had made for myself in Delhi. In between, he never forgot to praise each dish I had cooked; and I had to thank him politely every time he praised me. Overall, it was a pleasant evening.
Beyond all of these, oblivious of us, Savita was in her usual fidgety disposition – checking and serving food on Harihar’s plate, chiding him for eating more of one dish or less of one, restricting his intake of coffee after food. She even asked him if he washed his hands before food.
I requested, “Madam, you please eat, Sir will help himself; if he needs any help, I’ll look after him.” I guess as the hostess, that was my duty.
“No no!! How can he eat if I don’t serve? I’ll eat later; as such I had a lot of snacks (‘snakes’, she said) in the guest house when you all were at the conference. ”
Shubhra has this crooked, uncontrollable sense of humour, which will make anyone laugh. She said, “Arre Savita madam, do you always take care of Sir like this? Is he a domestic animal?”(she actually said, ‘gruhapalita pashu’!!).
Unbelievable!! Incorrigible Shubhra!!
I couldn’t control my laughter, nor could Manas and Sonu. I rushed to the kitchen to laugh in the guise of getting some pickles. In the kitchen,while laughing my guts out, I remembered Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth. Lady Macbeth said, “Unsex me today”. This statement paralleled negativity to manhood and power. Was this her reverse feminism?
Was this over-consciousness Savita’s reverse feminism? What a drama queen! I joined them back with a desire to see a little more of domestic drama, I must confess here.
Dr.Harihar, who was an Associate Professor, and was waiting for his CAS promotion to a Professor’s position, of course did not like this ‘domestic animal’ adjective. He had to make his stand clear. By then, Savita had started eating, relaxed, after feeding her husband to her heart’s content.
Harihar cleared his throat and said, looking at me, clearly avoiding Shubhra, “Madam, do you know, Savita is the most loving and caring wife I have ever seen. She takes care of everything. From morning to night, twenty-four into seven, she is there for me. She takes care of my home, my children, and me. She cooks, cleans the house, arranges my shattered books, shabby study tables, irons my clothes, and feeds me. I simply depend on her for every single thing. In fact, for every small thing I need her.”
Savita had a beaming smile on her lips. “I even make him wear his dress. Else this mindless man would go to his university in his underwear—he is so offhand,” announced Savita proudly.
“What the …!!!” Shubhra was unrelenting. She wanted more spice for the dinner table. “I mean, Savita Madam, do you actually make him sit on the chair semi-nude, and do his shringaar before he goes to the university? Every day?! ”
“Oh yes! Definitely. I even give him a bath every morning. I have been doing that forever!”
I looked at Harihar covertly, scornfully to see if he was feeling embarrassed. But he had a blank, nonchalant expression on his face. Like the Monalisa painting. I couldn’t understand what exactly he was thinking at that moment of humiliation.
Savita got up, washed her hands quickly, and came back to her husband, wiped his mouth with her dupatta, arranged his scanty locks on the bald head, set his shirt collar right, and sat closely beside him, in the most lovey dovey position, making all of us uncomfortable.
Sonu is one more witty boy here. He added, “Wow uncle and aunty! You both are young and happening, like characters from a Bollywood film.” And then he left the dinner table, laughing, and went to his study, to my utter relief. I didn’t want him to watch this family drama of Savita-Harihar, neither did I want him to give his expert opinions.
Seeing my awful discomfiture, Manas tried to change the topic. “Leave it Harihar bhai and Bhabhi. Let’s plan something. Shall we all go to Agra, Mathura, Vrindaban over the weekend? We have our flight on Monday morning, so the weekend can be utilized with Madam and Sonu. All of us can fit in a bigger cab.”
I thought, thank God! The topic changed.
But no! Savita and Shubhra didn’t stop there.
“So, Savita Madam! It’s most impressive that you help your husband so much! My husband will give me a divorce if he sees your example…Haha!! What else do you do for Harihar Sir?”
That was quite an ego booster for Savita. “I got married to him when he had just passed his Masters Degree and was newly appointed as a lecturer in a government college. He was lazy-number-one from day one, I could see that. He did not have the training to pick his wet towel and put it in the washing machine, nor did he know how to make a cup of tea. I took charge of him. Ask him, I am the one who made him do his PhD, I am the one because of whom he wrote his research papers and books. Because of me he got his promotions. Tomorrow if he is promoted to a higher position in his workplace, it will also be because of me. Minus me, this man is a big zero.”
“I see…”. Shubhra was enjoying the conversation with a crooked smile, and in between winking at me and Manas.
At least now I expected Harihar to object to the discussions around him and his career. But he kept quiet. Nonchalantly he took two rasagollas in a small bowl. Savita quickly removed one from the bowl, and looked at him like a disciplinarian Principal ma’am of a primary school, chiding her naughty pupil.
Harihar pleaded for one more rasagolla, with a guilty smile. “No!! You cannot eat more than one.”
Savita went on boasting about her contributions to Harihar’s life, family and career. She took the credit for everything that he had been doing since their wedding some thirty-five years ago—she claimed that he owed her his living and breathing.
I was feeling sick, nauseated. I wished the evening would end there. Manas could see that. He finally got up, wishing me good night. Others too had to leave along with him.
Till late night I thought about this complex human behavior; to be precise, about this objectionable supremacy of a woman. It was surely a kind of male-harassment to me. The gender theorist inside me was concerned. The humanist in me was thinking, weighing the characters of Harihar and Savita from a Masculinity Studies standpoint. To me, it looked like poor Harihar was under a panoptic surveillance. Savita was inspecting him from all directions. I felt he was getting breathless with her attention, but he talked nicely about her love, dedication for him just to save his face before us elites. Maybe he didn’t want us to judge him or Savita.
Poor thing. He earned my sympathies that night. Next morning, I called Manas indicating my inability to go to Agra with them as I had some urgent work in the university. I also told him what I felt about Dr.Harihar. He didn’t take much interest in their matter; rather he was upset that his poetic evening with me was spoiled because of the couple. It could have been an evening of reading good literature, listening to good music, and a peaceful dinner with me and Sonu, had those stupids not been there.
He had a point. Even I would have preferred that.
***
Time flew.
I almost forgot Harihar-Savita. Manas and Shubhra called me sometimes, but we made it a point not to discuss the couple. It was, we decided, none of our business. Because Harihar had apparently no objection to whatever was happening with him—though I had serious doubts about it. Anyway, Manas asked me to forget them.
So be it!
Yes, after five months of their visit to Delhi, I happened to visit Utkal University, Bhubaneswar, to deliver a lecture. Dr. Harihar was eager to meet me; but I had no time, being the high-flyer. So I informed him over WhatsApp that I won’t be able to meet him.
I mostly have morning-evening-round-trips. Padmashree poet Jayanta Mahapatra was in Bhubaneswar that day, and his car was scheduled to drop me at the airport in the evening. I always have never ending chats with Jayanta Sir, and I was elated spending a couple of hours with him on the long drive. And lo! Harihar was waiting for us at Bhubaneswar airport! He had gathered this information from someone in the university, that Jayanta Sir would accompany me to the airport. I wasn’t pleased to see him there; anyway both Jayanta Sir and I exchanged formal pleasantries with him, maybe for a few seconds only, before I proceeded to the check in counter. Harihar toldus that he wanted to click our photographs, and Jayanta Sir agreed. So he quickly handed over his mobile to some passerby and got a photo with us, with a grin. I left Bhubaneswar after touching the feet of Jayanta Sir and a casual ‘namaste’ to Harihar. After a couple of days, I found Harihar had tagged me on Facebook, posted that picture with a long tag-line, “Wonderful time spent with Padmashree Jayanta Mahapatra and the unparalleled poet par excellence, Nandini Sahu, in Bhubaneswar. Had long dialogues with the poets on contemporary Indian literature, and possible future collaborations with both poets.”
I rather felt pity than contempt and laughed it off. All I remembered was, we spent a maximum of one minute with him in Bhubaneswar airport, that too, he was an uninvited presence.
Harihar sent me courtesy messages on festivals, functions, special occasions, to which I responded with a wordless ‘namaste’ emoji. Technology sometimes makes life simpler.
After eight more months or so, once Harihar called me with a request to book a room for him in our guest house. He had some work in North-East Delhi. I told him, we are in extreme South Delhi, so he’ll have to travel so much to reach his meeting venue. He said, it was okay, there were no rooms available elsewhere.
The moment he reached our guest house, he called me. In fact he wanted to meet us the same morning. Anyway, I was busy; also I was trying to avoid him. That day, at 5 pm when I reached home, he was already seated comfortably, settled, in our living room. Sonu had offered him tea. He came to our place without an appointment, uninvited, and said he was getting bored in the guest house. I said, “Dr.Harihar, people who get bored in their own company seem to be in danger.” Maybe I wanted him to talk about his distressed life, or maybe I despised him. He still had my sympathies. Of course, I did not respect him for being such a meek and mild man.
He took his sweet time, sipping his tea, savouring the snacks we offered. This time he looked relaxed, unlike last time when he was anxious even about a cup of tea or a rasogolla.
Poor thing.
He was relaxed till Savita called him after an hour (apparently, she called him every one hour!). I guessed, he lied to her about the network, and disconnected the phone. Perhaps put that on flight mode after talking to her for a minute.
“Sir, please call her from my phone. I too can wish her my regards.”
“No no Madam!! Let it be. I’ll anyway call her after an hour.”
He talked restlessly, stridently for an hour about his work, his university; poor Sonu had to sit with him nodding his head all the time, as I utilised the time in cooking dinner, and pretending to be listening to his blabbering. I was, clearly, impolite. And I wanted him to leave. It was a waste of time for me to have such meaningless talk.
He called his wife sharp at 7pm and told her that he was in the guest house, waiting for dinner, and then put the phone again on flight mode.
I understood. He didn’t want his wife to know that he was sitting with us. Precisely, with me. A single woman.
Sonu asked, “But uncle, you are at our place!! Why did you lie?”
It was awkward.
Then I lied to him in order to throw him out of my house. “Sir, you may have to please excuse us. Sonu has a lot of homework, and we’ll have to study now.”
“No mama! There is no homework today!”
I looked so stupid.
Harihar said, shamelessly, “Madam, can I have dinner before leaving? I didn’t have a proper lunch in the guest house.”
We had a silent, quick, early dinner. Then I offered to drop him back in the guest house in my car, though he was in no mood to leave at 7.30 pm.
He reluctantly said goodbye to Sonu and sat in my car, of course without forgetting to praise an independent, super-successful woman, driving a car all by herself. How disgusting was that!
Now that I was alone with him in the car, I had no reason to suppress my infuriation for him being an enslaved, spineless man. He owed me an explanation for lying to Savita that he was eating dinner in the guest house.
“Dr.Harihar, I do not teach any kind of lie and deception to my son; so what you did at my place was seriously objectionable. I do not know much about you or your family or the values that you people follow. You were introduced to me by common friends. I wanted to respect you, but unfortunately, I could not. I cannot. How can you allow a person to dominate, control you to such an extent? How can you lie to her in front of me, sitting at my place? You have humiliated us and our hospitality. I don’t know for what I should reprimand you, nor do I know if at all I should talk to you! You are so laid-back! You don’t have the courage to tell Mrs. Savita that you are having dinner with a respectable family! And last time your behaviour was so shameful in front of all of us!! How can a man tolerate it if a woman steals the entire credit of his life and career?? Have you no dignity? No shame? Are you not suffocated? How do you live such a life??”
I was gasping angrily. I stopped the car in front of the guest house and got down. He too got down and stood at a distance.
He said, quietly, considerately, “Madam, I thought you are an extremely intelligent person, and you can see the subtext behind this text. Behind this story of ‘subjugation’. But to me, now you sound like Gandhari. To be born blind is not a crime, but to turn a blind eye? How can you not see the hidden depths of this story?”
Ahh…one more drama.
“Excuse me? I am still not getting what nonsense you are trying to explain. Come to the point.” I was rude.
“Ok, let me come to the point.”
He scratched his head, searching for words, and then said, “My wife Savita is an empty-headed foolish woman; an erudite woman like you may not understand the mindset of such people. She is class three pass (or fail..haha), she cannot even sign in English. She puts her thumb impression on papers I ask her to. She is from a lavish, extravagant family where she had seen women being dominated by men. She got married to me when she was 18 and I was 25. Her parents offered me a fortune for dowry, and see the bonuses I have! A mansion and a couple of nice cars. She can never understand what unproductive stuff she is engaged with. She has no time to think of anything except me and my needs. She cooks, cleans, takes care of all my wishes— I get great food, clean bed, clean tables to work, fresh towels, clean book shelves, healthy tea, health care, in fact everything for a comfortable living. In return, I ignore her foolish talks, her self-styled supremacy. She feels emancipated, empowered by ‘dominating’ me. Can you believe–she signed her entire property in my name—I mean put her thumb impression—without an inkling of what she was doing. I told her that she had to sign the documents to secure her property.”
I was amazed. My mouth agape, eyes wide open. What a revelation!!
“And Madam, which qualified person in my friend circle will believe that a class-three-fail woman, who looks like a dumb fool, who opens her mouth only to reveal her imprudence, her foolishness, has actually shaped my great academic career? Rather, some laugh at her foolishness, and some, like you, give me their sympathies!! Actually, it’s a win-win situation for me.”
I sat in my car without a goodbye or a good night. Reached home absent-minded, with a void in my cognizance, rethinking, swotting ‘masculinity’.
