Geeta Prakash Dwivedi was miserable in her middle class existence. She watched the shadows take shape and fade away on the hastily painted off-white walls. She rocked the unsteady cane chair back and forth in impatience; its constant creaking was driving her insane. It reminded her of just how much was wrong with her life. She got up much too suddenly and the blood rushed to her head. She wobbled a little bit and then took a cautious turn around the tiny room she’d spent her life in. Geeta had grown and learnt within these four walls. Learnt to cook, clean, sew, mend and bandage. Learnt to weep with sorrow and indignation, turn coy at insistence and fierce on demand, flutter eyebrows and breathe heavy, like the matinee idol did. Dress and undress. Quicker each time and for longer. There was no time for leaky cracks in the walls then. The comfort of a thousand arms for eighteen long years had been her solace. The slow trail of fingers along the inner seam of her cotton skirt had rippled through her flesh. Imprint of five fingers on her neck, hands, stomach, legs, breasts, back. Slow motion of lust in the tiny blue room. Not for a moment had Geeta been afraid. It had seemed so beautiful, the shapes cast on the off-white walls on warm September mornings. She smiled to herself silently as she remembered the first bed spread she slept on was covered with pink petal impressions. Then she cried softly for falling out of lust, and falling in love.
He had first appeared with a broken guitar under her balcony, singing a love ballad that didn’t rhyme. He had then appeared in that tiny room and seized her without pay. She had never felt so used, so corrupt, so filthy. She’d never felt so satisfied. Then on, Manoj’s face appeared in her cracked bathroom mirror every Monday and Wednesday. Sometimes, he spent Saturdays with her, tangling his longish fingers in her scented love locks, biting her lips and drawing blood. He always spat it out, with little pieces of masticated betel nuts. He always had his way with her, making all the other girls, of the little alleys and big dreams, jealous. Geeta guarded over him with audacious authority, while he wasted away on her blue silk bedspread, making deer and dog shapes with his hands, on the off-white walls. When they lay together, he measured every inch of her body with his longish fingers, warbling a strange mixture of Shakespeare and Ghalib. Geeta pulled his hair and pinched his cheeks, like an errant schoolboy, which always annoyed him. He would turn away and knock her hands aside in mock disgust. They would lie like that for hours, without moving closer or farther away, without sex. The next morning, Geeta would always find no one under the blue covers. All day, she was tempted to think it was a dream. Till he returned in the evening for chai and sex. Geeta was his mother’s age, maybe even older. Age felt weightless, without gravity. They never spoke of it with concern.
Soon enough, the illicit honeymoon began to wane and campus politics took up all of Manoj’s time. Now he played other games. The lover died a natural death at the hands of the politician and Geeta was smeared into her off-white background and blue bread spreads. She still waited and poured several cups of tea into dirty, cracked porcelain. But he seldom came, and when he did, his starchy white jarred against the walls. Geeta was intimidated, even scared as the sex became strictly business. He never stayed for more than an hour, he never chewed betel nuts in warm September sunshine. He never used Shakespeare again. He never undressed her anymore. The last time he came, he left a rose and a five hundred rupee note beside the cracked mirror. She lay like stone within her blue confines. She couldn’t rush after him. She was too ashamed and he, too important. And then one night, she caught sight of him, walking into another arched gateway, where Geeta had often seen a livelier, fuller, a younger version of herself.
Three years later, Geeta’s bread spread hadn’t changed. But all around her cracks and leaks had begun to fill her mind. Her green bangles caught the warm September sunlight, but she had no one to share it with. One by one, her patrons had left, for fear of offending Manoj Tiwari’s mistress, whom he hadn’t slept with in years. Geeta was older; her cracked mirror couldn’t lie very well anymore. She climbed down the wooden steps and practiced the art of luring, something Manoj had killed in her. Make hasty eye contact, smile slowly, indicate the ware. After all, the roof needs to be mended. The leak was ruining the blue bread spread.
He had first appeared with a broken guitar under her balcony, singing a love ballad that didn’t rhyme. He had then appeared in that tiny room and seized her without pay. She had never felt so used, so corrupt, so filthy. She’d never felt so satisfied. Then on, Manoj’s face appeared in her cracked bathroom mirror every Monday and Wednesday. Sometimes, he spent Saturdays with her, tangling his longish fingers in her scented love locks, biting her lips and drawing blood. He always spat it out, with little pieces of masticated betel nuts. He always had his way with her, making all the other girls, of the little alleys and big dreams, jealous. Geeta guarded over him with audacious authority, while he wasted away on her blue silk bedspread, making deer and dog shapes with his hands, on the off-white walls. When they lay together, he measured every inch of her body with his longish fingers, warbling a strange mixture of Shakespeare and Ghalib. Geeta pulled his hair and pinched his cheeks, like an errant schoolboy, which always annoyed him. He would turn away and knock her hands aside in mock disgust. They would lie like that for hours, without moving closer or farther away, without sex. The next morning, Geeta would always find no one under the blue covers. All day, she was tempted to think it was a dream. Till he returned in the evening for chai and sex. Geeta was his mother’s age, maybe even older. Age felt weightless, without gravity. They never spoke of it with concern.
Soon enough, the illicit honeymoon began to wane and campus politics took up all of Manoj’s time. Now he played other games. The lover died a natural death at the hands of the politician and Geeta was smeared into her off-white background and blue bread spreads. She still waited and poured several cups of tea into dirty, cracked porcelain. But he seldom came, and when he did, his starchy white jarred against the walls. Geeta was intimidated, even scared as the sex became strictly business. He never stayed for more than an hour, he never chewed betel nuts in warm September sunshine. He never used Shakespeare again. He never undressed her anymore. The last time he came, he left a rose and a five hundred rupee note beside the cracked mirror. She lay like stone within her blue confines. She couldn’t rush after him. She was too ashamed and he, too important. And then one night, she caught sight of him, walking into another arched gateway, where Geeta had often seen a livelier, fuller, a younger version of herself.
Three years later, Geeta’s bread spread hadn’t changed. But all around her cracks and leaks had begun to fill her mind. Her green bangles caught the warm September sunlight, but she had no one to share it with. One by one, her patrons had left, for fear of offending Manoj Tiwari’s mistress, whom he hadn’t slept with in years. Geeta was older; her cracked mirror couldn’t lie very well anymore. She climbed down the wooden steps and practiced the art of luring, something Manoj had killed in her. Make hasty eye contact, smile slowly, indicate the ware. After all, the roof needs to be mended. The leak was ruining the blue bread spread.
