Chapter 17 of Stubs & Roses By Irene Dhar Malik, Mumbai, India
RECAP
Memories of Nihar and their life together sneak up on her as Dipta and Ila go shopping for bed sheets one day. Uncannily a sheet with the same pattern that she had once bought and Nihar had laughed at appears in this shop in a remote Assam town. Later, they witness an accident where a little boy dies and Ila gets the feeling that she had an odd premonition before the event actually happened. Feeling stunned, she also realizes that she hasn’t yet told Dipta about her pregnancy.
CHAPTER 17
“Did you know about this when we left Calcutta?” was Dipta’s first question when she told him about her pregnancy late that evening.
“Yes.”
“I wish you had told me.”
“Why? Wouldn’t you have asked me to come along then?
“Maybe, maybe not, but I should have known.”
“Because he is another man’s child?”
“Because now I no longer have a choice.”
“You do. I could go back.”
“No Ila, I don’t want you to. Its alright, we’ll have the baby. Its just… maybe it’s not fair to deprive the child of his own father. The life we’ll be offering, and the life that’s rightfully his... they are poles apart and -”
“I want a girl”, she said flippantly.
“Yeah, but she should have been ours. I wish you had told me.”
“I am sorry, I’m not sure why I didn’t – everything happened like in a dream, as if I didn’t have to do anything to make things happen. I just drifted with the flow.”
They were quiet for a while and then, as Ila got up to see to dinner, he asked,
“And what about him?”
“What about him?” she repeated, and walked away because she didn’t like thinking about the marriage that she had walked away from. But the memories would stay stashed at the back of her mind, and occasionally nudge their way out. Memories need to fade away on their own, she thought; they cannot be made to.
Sleep refused to come that night for as soon as she’d shut her eyes, the boy with the red balloons appeared before her, silently reprimanding her for letting a premonition go waste, for not saving his life. She wondered if she could have saved him, but how was she to; she didn’t even know that it wasn’t the real thing the first time she saw the accident happen. Maybe it had just been a foreboding – she tried not to think about it, it was too uncanny, but she could think about little else.
When sleep finally came out of sheer exhaustion, she dreamt that it was her child getting killed, and she was watching hopelessly paralyzed. She woke up terrified and held on to Dipta for the rest of the night.
Dipta woke her up with tea the next morning, the first time he had done that. He had so far behaved that the kitchen was strictly her domain.
“I guess I’ll have to take good care of you now. We don’t even have a hospital here for any emergency. I’ll be worrying about you all the time.”
She told him not to worry as these were still early months and that when the time came, she would ask him to be there for her. He said he knew she was scared; he could make that out last night. She insisted that last night was because of the accident and that she would be alright in a day or so.
“You know how pregnant women are supposed to be extra sensitive”, she joked.
He was still worried and must have told some of the women something because they came and took her along in the afternoon. She actually learnt a few more words, a bit of a song and a bit of the intricate weaving process that they did so effortlessly. She wondered if they knew about her pregnancy as no one seemed to mention it. When she came home in the evening, she felt a bit of contentment at the slight feeling of belonging that she had experienced that afternoon. She softly hummed to herself the lines of the song she had learnt.
As the darkness slowly crept up on the village and she lit a lamp, she remembered her mother lighting an evening lamp before her Gods. Those Gods lived in a small wooden home made to specific instructions and the abode had always looked like a doll’s house to her. In fact when she had been young enough to play with dolls, she used to find it very unfair that her mother had one and she didn’t. She had outgrown her dolls, but her mother never had. Every morning and evening, she devoted two hours of her existence to her deities. She used to bathe them, clothe, feed and talk to them and her husband’s laughter and daughter’s atheist leanings had never discouraged her. Maybe her mother used to talk to her Gods because they were her only friends, the only acquaintances who didn’t threaten to become judgmental, the only constant factor in her life, and she must have needed to clutch to something.
The lamp cast a feeling of gloom over everything and as she heard the rains begin again, she wished Dipta would be back tonight but he had said he wouldn’t.
To Be Continued .....
Irene,
Haven't analysed why, but this chapter is one that I shall remember... maybe becoz you have captured so well the emotions assailing a pregnant woman ....
This is one amazing analogy,the typical Bengali poojo ghor to doll's house!
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Thanks dear loyal reader...
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How true is the dictum, 'guilt is the mother of psychoanalysis'!
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Thanks as usual, for reading. Best wishes for a great 2008.
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So Dipta took it well, though I don't think all's gonna go well with that(looking at the first few chapters).
The memories of Ila's mother coming to her as she lights the lamp in the evening, the way you've put the whole thing is really touching.
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Thanks for reading Ila... yet again... and have a great 2008!
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The story moves on ... and u can write a thousand lines with such a delicate setting ... this is precisely a moment when all women get tied up between the past and future!! Good going ...
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Thanks for reading...
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On the face of it Dipta seems to have taken the news of her pregnancy well..but am not sure if he ahs actually accepted the fact that Ila hid something so major from him.. Hope things go well for Ila..
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Its a tough bit of news to accept of course, but Dipta is an unconventional man...
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"She had outgrown her dolls, but her mother never had."
A gem of an observation...Irene, you deserve the cake for just this.
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Thanks Suneetha, and wish you a great new year. Looking forward to eating the cake...
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Appreciate the beautifully portrayed thoughtfulness of Dipta... by stating that the rightful place of the baby is be with his/her biological father. Whatever one may think of Dipta having left Ila alone at the begining, or returned to wean her away from her husband, he sure does stand high here.. Great going!!
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I find it so interesting to read the various reactions to Dipta. Thanks for reading.
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Irene,
I would have been the first one to post the comment, but didn't know what to say. This chapter is so beautiful that I just wanted to enjoy what was written without trying to analyse it. Now that I've read it 5-6 times (in fact, I read it every day whenever I find time), I just want to say I love your writing!
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Thanks so much Neha, thats such a nice thing to say.
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"but she should have been ours"
what can i say, Irene?
Good Writing.
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Thanks again Nadi, for caring to read and comment...
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i thought i'd see the next chapter due today! but good that i've missed less than what i would if the new chapter were posted, for which i can come back. good reading; it sustains the reader's interest. i see along the course of the novel some of the author's persona reflected in Ila's character, which to my mind is absolutely natural, perhaps inevitable too. Say what?
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I don't know... maybe unconsciously... it would be inevitable that a bit of the author's persona seeps in... there's a week's break and the next chapter is next week. Thanks for reading.
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Finished reading whatever you have written of this story upto this point. The story has power, bacause I felt anger surging up inside me every now and then. Let's wait and see where you go.
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Why anger, I wonder...
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I am angry because I feel nothing but contempt for the Diptas. And to some extent for the Ilas. As I said, your story carries conviction and it is hurting me as I read on. I see reality, I recall selfishness of men who took advantage of women and then left them to perish when their desires were satisfied. Most of them were revolutionaries. Relatively few men in this world are honest towards the women whose hearts they capture. Yet, the majority of women would rather be mistreated, because they consider simpler people, people without the fat bank balance of Dipta's father, to be not worth their love. I recall the story of Indranath Guha, who was accused of murdering his wife. Of course, he was not a revolutionary -- the only good thing I have to say about him. But before he married, there was another girl whom he used to his heart's content. And then left her the day things became inconvenient. I don't know what happened to her, but I am willing to bet everything I have that even today, she would walk away with Indranath Guha, like Ila did with Dipta, if the situation arose. I don't understand this. To quote from Wilde, I guess I am feeling the rage of Calliban on seeing his face on the glass. This explains my anger, hopefully. And no, I don't agree with you that Dipta would run away with Ila if she had been in my Manisha's conditions. On the other hand, my Sandipan, who is a simple human being, honest, caring towards Manisha, would never leave her. Never. But then Sandipan is no revolutionary. Which reminds me, Lenin suffered from syphillis. I will yell and scream, but I will keep reading your story, because you are writing about people I know very closely. And mind you, I am not averse to Marxism as such and am reasonably well-read in Marxist literature. Sorry, I am too much involved in your story. It's partly your fault that you have made it painfully real, for me at least.
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I guess your anger is justified... its anger at injustice. I am actually flattered to have evoked such a response. Please keep reading.
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