Beauty

Illustrated by Sabyasachi hazra

Kamala was dark-complexioned, her lips did not resemble orange pips. She was not considered a great beauty, but rather was healthy. She was the mother of two children, a bit slow-moving, but in my eyes she was appealing. Kamala had passed her BA in English. I myself had obtained my degree with the help of her notes. She had not been like other women in college who had chased glamour, and whose bodies had not distracted me from Kamala. I had felt then that too much love was a disease. I had never suffered from that problem. In our married life, Kamala's body had been sufficient for me.

After ten years of marriage, however, my long-repressed thirst for beauty and grace sprang up suddenly when I became a private tutor of Trishna. I found myself becoming strongly attracted to other women, specially to Menaka, the mother of Trishna. In fact it was Menaka who rekindled desire in me for other women. She was pretty. She looked different. It was the combination of her body, fair complexion, hair, and sweet voice that had an overpowering effect on me. As a matter of fact, soon in my mind Menaka's beauty began to far overshadow Kamala's I began to feel guilty: various questions began to prick me. With the appearance of a beautiful woman in one's life, does morality and ethics begin to disappear? Would lust overwhelm my previous lifestyle? The beloved wife at home seemed unappealing! Unwanted! It was derogatory to Kamala, but I also reasoned that it was not always a question of being ethical or unethical, that such incidents were bound to occur occasionally in life. That was only natural, life's warp and woof was woven of these two poles of life: love and lust. Still, I felt low: there had been no dearth of happiness in our ten years of marital life, so what was I dong? My conscience seemed at times unable to tolerate its opposite. Yet, when I came home from Trishna's house, nature would take hold of me. I felt no interest in Kamala.

I started to ignore her.

The other day after I had returned home from teaching Kamala exclaimed, 'Look, I have found a girl who will do the work.'

We required extra domestic help. We had been searching hard for such help. We had one daughter in class four while our son was less than a year old. We had told our existing maid to be on the lookout for another one to look after our children. In life all needs cannot be fulfilled all at once. However, the news of having gotten someone to look after our children did not make me happy. Instead, my voice sounded harsh even to my own ears, 'What the hell good will that do?'

Kamala was startled. She stared at me for a long minute. Then recoiled and walked away. I felt ashamed. Repentant. What had I done?

I thought that I should cease giving tuition lessons to Trishna. But that tuition gave us some much needed money; three hundred rupees for one-and-half-hour. Besides, for me, Menaka was an added bonus. I seemed to have become addicted to giving Trishna lessons.

I knew I should not behave as I did with Kamala. I debated long and hard about being just and unjust, but I felt helpless. It was a fact that Menaka was more beautiful than Kamala. Menaka's husband Manoj Babu was a policeman, the officer-in-charge of a police station. Though he was not a good looking man, his manners were those of a perfect gentleman.

He took tea with me if he was at home when I was also there. I asked him once, 'Manoj Babu, you are a resident of Burdwan. Your wife is from Dinajpur. How come? Here you ever been there?'

He laughed for a long time and then replied, 'Mine is not a love marriage. It was an arranged one. And what about yours?'

I laughed in reply.

How could I casually talk about how I got married? Was it a story to be told to everyone, that I had married Kamala after a courtship? I had joined a school as a teacher. The headmaster had asked, 'Rathin, would you like to sit for a Bachelor's degree?'

'I plan on giving it.'

'How?'

'As a private student.'

'So you don't have contact with a regular student?'

With grief in my voice I had replied, 'No, sir. That opportunity is not there for me.'

'Is that so? My sister Kamala will be appearing for her BA. Do come to my home this evening. You will get somebody to study with.'

That contact led to marriage. Both of us cleared our respective examinations. No doubt Kamala's notes had helped me a lot. We were not unhappy. Our years had passed swiftly. So now it was hard for me to figure out why our love life seemed to have reached the point of no return. While I would teach Trishna, Menaka used to appear and stand before me holding the back of my student's chair. I was not sure whether she used to do that just to make an appearance before me or not, but I would a experience a pang of lust every time I looked at her Menaka in fact complained to me the other day, 'Your student couldn't tell the meaning of 'tigress' in English when she was asked by her father.'

I just kept on watching Menaka. Her hair was tied in a topknot. She had not changed her sari from last night, which clung to her. I kept on looking at her, not really listening to her, though Menaka kept on talking, 'I had told her father that her tutor teaches her everything. The teacher has been trying, but your daughter is dull." Menaka laughed, and a ripple coursed through her body. I began to think that Kamala also was dull-headed too: how could she not have noticed a sudden change in my behaviour towards her?

Then it struck me that perhaps she had. Perhaps I was the one who did not understand. Kamala had patience. She was not the type of woman who got angry time and again. She had a BA degree after all, and was not like any other ordinary housewife. Her language too was different. Kamala had told me the other day, 'Please, you must give up your tuition work. You have to work so hard. It's too much of a strain on your health.' I had noticed that she did not discuss family matters with me like she used to. I could feel the gap between us. There was now a crack in our family life. Let it be, I had thought. I could not even conceive of the thought of stopping the tuition. That meant that I would be prevented from enjoying Menaka's beauty. During lesson time, as I mentioned before, Manaka always appeared in front of me on some pretext or the other. Just the other day she came and shouted, 'Putul! Putul!'

I saw a girl of Trishna's age eating puffed rice and black tea. Putul could not reply immediately as she had a mouthful of puffed rice. A newcomer, I thought.

Menaka said, 'Look at her, sir! Trishna does not like to eat. She only had four sweets in the morning. But look at this girl, how she is gulping down the food."

'Who is that girl?" I wanted to know.

'A maid. I got her yesterday. A good-for-nothing. She only eats.' Menaka then barked at her, 'Go! Bring the milk for Trishna from the kitchen.'

Putul left her food and brought Trishna a glass of milk. Putul was wearing a torn frock. Her hair was unwashed and uncombed. I asked Menaka, 'Where did you manage to get this girl?'

Menaka replied in the sweet voice she used with me, 'Police personnel have never any problem getting a girl for work. Her father is a culprit.'

A daughter of a culprit! If the wards of culprits are treated in this way, I thought to myself, there is every possibility that the girl we had hired was a culprit, too.

I returned home to find our new maidservant Pakhi and Kamala sitting together eating tiffin. Kamala was sharing her food with Pakhi. I had not previously enquried about Pakhi. Now I thought God forbid if Pakhi's father turned out to be a culprit. I had a fear of criminals. I enquired of my aunt, who lived with us, 'Aunty, where did we get that girl? Who is her father?' In reply she said, 'Pakhi's father is dead. Her mother works. After sending her to school her mother goes to work. Pakhi has no interest in school. She plays truant. Her mother prefers her getting engaged as a housemaid.'

The next day Menaka as usual came forward bringing two cups of tea and some biscuits after I had gone to their house. I dipped the biscuit in the tea but the moist, fragile biscuit crumpled on to the floor. Menaka became busy. She yelled for Putul who was busy washing kitchen utensils at the well outside.

She came running. Menaka directed her to pick up the biscuit from the floor and eat it so as not to waste food. I was startled and said, "How can you ask her to eat that biscuit from the floor, which is full of dust?' Putul was hesitating. Menaka instead shouted at her, 'Don't just stand there. Eat that up.' With a frightened expression on her face, the girl put the biscuit in her mouth.

That day I returned home with the sad face of Putul rather than that of Menaka's ravishing beauty in my mind. Tired, I sat down in a chair and asked for Pakhi. Kamala appeared smiling, 'What made you call for Pakhi?'

'Where is she? Gone? Just as I thought. Well, I would like a glass of water."

I did not notice Pakhi standing behind Kamala, who pushed her in front of me. 'Here is Pakhi! I could not recognize the girl. She was wearing my daughter's frock. Her hair was neatly arranged. She was holding a slate and a book, her face beaming with delight.

Kamala said, 'I got her admitted in the local Shibkali school. Two hours of classes and that too only in the morning.'

'When is she going to do her work?'

'After school. It is time she attended school. But she has to work for her living, too. Poor girl.'

Something like an earthquake shook my body. Menaka's body, which had created a veil before my eyes, fell away before Kamala. My little aberration regarding Menaka was rectified. Kamala again began to look very beautiful to me, yes, much more than Menaka.

A. Mannaf lives and writes in the small town of Birbhum, West Bengal. He received the Sampritir Manush award in 1998. Rabindu Biswas lives in Kolkata.