J’wai

The dream haunted her. Several times, she caught herself thinking about it; in the middle of her cooking, her washing. But try as she might, she came no nearer to an understanding of her unease.

Vaguely she discerned that the root of it lay in the increasingly bitter quarrels that had begun. It was then that she had started seeing the dreams.

Kamala dreamt it again that night. She was standing with her daughter before the dark doorway of the house. Rohini slips from her grasp and runs in shouting Baba Baba, where are you! She runs after her. Inside, the walls are weeping and mouldy. She holds her struggling daughter fiercely, almost cruelly, as the windows swing open letting in a blast of wind; she can hear a howling outside, she flails at the window. Three black Ambassadors are crouched before the porch. Another snarls up, horn blaring, tires screeching; followed by another, and still another, until, as far as the eye can see, the ground is flooded by a sea of cars with steaming black bonnets.

Then she woke up.

I came home with the shopping. There is no one in the kitchen. My mother and the family were gathered in her bedroom. A wall of grave faces. I look my surprise.

"Ganesh phoned from Darjeeling; Jwai has met with an accident." The faces closed in.

Sympathetic arms fluttered about my shoulders, led me to a chair. Through the murmur of commiseration I make out the fragments of a conversation.

"I could not get the rest of the message… the line went dead halfway through… only made out that it was a serious accident…"

So that's it, I thought, that's what the dream was all about. He must be dead. Why are they going on so, do they take me for a stupid woman who keeps on hoping against hope till the end? Yes, accident, that's how they would describe it, trying to break the news 'gently' so that I will not faint or have a fit. Or am I supposed to tear my hair and rend my clothes? That's what they called it too, when Bua's body was brought to the police station. Just an accident, they said, nothing to worry about.

"Don't take it so seriously, am sure Jwai is all right," my mother is at point of blubbering.

"C'mon, didi, you're getting needlessly worried, he's probably had a few cuts and bruises at the worst," said Sisir, but the furrow between his eyebrows will not go away.

That dream. I should've known it was coming, that he would die. O, why didn't I see it then! No wonder I've been uneasy all this time. I remember Ama seeing dreams just before Bua was run over by that truck…

But now I must get into the car; it's time to go. Why do they break off their hushed conversation at my approach? Why do they revert to inconsequential remarks in overbright tones? They all think he's dead–no, they know he's dead, they've known it all along.

What a tedious journey this is. I wish this old Land Rover would move faster. If Bishnu is alive, he'll need me there by his side. O God, I wish I knew for certain whether he's alive. Heaven knows what I'll find. Perhaps an end to many things including my ordeal. How swirling and chaotic are the waters of the Tista. Not like the early days of our marriage…

No, those were happy days when we were so close to each other. Bishnu used to help me then, in little ways, at home, in the kitchen, outside, everywhere! It couldn't last—it didn't. Something happened which changed him. Not suddenly. Not overnight. But gradually his kindness and consideration evaporated. When I asked for his help, he responded with a gruff, Do let me finish this newspaper in peace! Or a plaintive, Just when I want to watch the news! I didn't mind though, did I? I put up with it all doggedly, did all the housework, helped Rohini with her lessons.

But I couldn't buy peace; he became more ill-tempered and impatient. And cruel. I still cringe at the memory of his sarcasm over my stupidity or ignorance and his wounding remarks about my family. How silly I was to be provoked into defending them. But he has a way of drawing out the worst in me. We quarrel as never before. I break into tears afterwards. And then he's contrite and makes it up to me. Why do I smile at the thought? Do I still love him? Do I miss his bumbling pawing and clumsy timing? He would want to do it just as I was dressing to go to work, or when I'd left something on the chulha. I dared not refuse. I would submit to his selfish thrusting rather than bear the vicious lash of his tongue about my frigidity or about how I secretly hated him. Occasionally, when I didn't respond, he relapsed into a sulky silence, refusing to speak to me for the rest of the day. My days now coalesced into an endless agony. Sometimes, I was on the point of leaving him but the thought of Rohini stopped me; I couldn't afford to be selfish.

It's cold…we're almost there. There are only a few people on the streets. The shopfronts are already shuttered. And now we've arrived. Everyone is getting out. I've come back home. But why home? Why not the hospital? I ask Sisir. We had to come home and find out, he explains rather lamely. My dread is sour in my mouth. He must be dead. That's why we have come home. I am alone now. I must work harder. I have a daughter to look after. I'll put Bishnu's life insurance into a deposit in the bank for her. I'll take boarders, do tuitions, knit sweaters. I am full of plans—and guilty about such unholy thoughts at a time like this.

My sasura is at the door. He doesn't speak to me—he thinks its my fault the marriage broke down. He thinks I walked out on his son. Silently, he leads us into the bedroom.

Dear God, he's alive! Bishnu's alive! His leg is in a cast, his head is bandaged, but he is leering at me.

"Surprised, eh? Thought you were well rid of me?"

Why are my legs giving way, why are they helping me once again into a chair? Why, deep down inside am I devastated by my disappointment? And why am I gripped by this nausea?