Of Bala and Me
Bashari Chakraborti
‘What do you mean Bala left? How could she go like that?’ I shout at Ravi. ‘How could you let her go? She has no idea how this world works. What if someone takes advantage of her?’ I just cannot control the shrieking.
‘Calm down, for God’s sake, Jiya! You knew she would have to go one day. We all knew it. It was just a matter of time before this marriage was annulled. It is quite a while the annulment came through. Come on now!’ Ravi seems to struggle to keep his composure.
I turn my wheelchair, press its joystick, speed into my room, and slam the door shut. I know Ravi will try to come in, but I do not want any conversation now. So, I turn the bolt. He pushes the door, knocks a few times, calls out to me, and then gives up. I can hear him huff through the door.
Today, after ages I had been to the office. They had called me to audit the premises for wheelchair accessibility. And I come back to a messy house, and ‘I care a damn’ Ravi and no Bala.
I pick up my phone and dial her. ‘Bala ij not there. Pleej call later.’ I smile at the recorded message. I go back to the day we got this message recorded.
It was a sunny Sunday morning. We were sitting on the balcony. I was in my wheelchair and Bala was on the border of the doorway that led to the balcony. I do not remember where Ravi was. Maybe he was traveling. Maybe he was in his study. I kept teaching Bala to pronounce the words right. Finally, I gave up on the ‘is’ and the ‘please’ and went ahead with recording it anyway. She wanted to hear her recorded voice, so I put her phone on airplane mode, dialled her number, and put my phone on speaker. She kept redialling, kept listening to the message, and kept giggling. And then she started weeping.
‘Didi, I wish my Ma was alive. She would have been so happy to hear me talk in English,’ said Bala in her Maithili-accented Hindi.
‘Your Ma wanted you to learn English, Bala?’ I had asked her, a wee bit proud that I was now able to comprehend her language. Earlier, I was not able to understand a word.
She had looked at me a bit confused and had said, ‘Ma wanted me to be educated. English is the language of the educated, na Didi?’ I did not know how to respond.
‘Bala ij not there. Pleej call later.’ Her voice shakes me back to the present. I wheel myself back to the living room.
‘Why did you marry her, Ravi, if you had to send her back?’ I shoot the question at Ravi.
Ravi looks at me. He does not answer. He goes to the fridge and pours us both two glasses of Coke. I take the glass from his hand.
Bala loved Coke. Sometimes in the afternoon, when I wanted some respite from my laptop and marathon office calls, Bala and I would drink a glass of Coke each. From a customer oriented dynamic role, I had to switch to a mundane back-office role after my accident. And I was not happy. Maybe my irritation and boredom were visible to Bala. So sometimes she would just pop into my room and ask, ‘Didi, do you want some Coco Cola?’ Without waiting for me to answer, she would get us both glasses of Coke. Sometimes we drank it silently. Sometimes we made conversation.
‘Why do you call yourself Bala?’ I had asked her. ‘I saw your Aadhar card. It says Mala Kumari.’
‘Didi, when I was little, I could not pronounce Ma and Na correctly. I would say Ba and Da. I called myself Bala, so everyone called me Bala. My elder brother’s name is Nandan. I used to call him Daddan. People thought it was my loving version of Dada.’ We both had a good laugh.
‘Bala, why did you not study beyond the 8th standard?’ I had asked.
‘Didi, up to the 8th standard, all students pass. I studied the 9th standard, but I failed. Isn’t it better to call myself 8th pass than 9th fail?’
‘Good point,’ I had told her.
I look at Ravi over the top of my Coke glass. ‘You did not answer me, Ravi.’
‘Jiya, I said this to you the day I entered this door with Bala. And so many times after that. I did not marry her. Repeat. I did not marry her. I married you and only you. I was kidnapped and forced to go through wedding rituals at gunpoint.’
‘Wedding rituals including the consummation of the marriage?’ I look straight at Ravi. He averts his eyes.
Ever since that day, almost a year ago, when Ravi had returned from his trip to his hometown with Bala in tow, I had been itching to ask this one question. But every time I want to; I get cold feet. Despite Ravi’s undivided attention to me, there’s this tiny, nagging suspicion that pops up in my heart every now and then. I try to brush it off, blaming it on our practically non-existent sex life post-accident. But it keeps coming back, like a song stuck on repeat in the head.
That day is etched in stone in my memory. The day Bala had entered my door.
I had been missing Ravi terribly. He had gone to Begusarai to find a caretaker and settle his parents after his father’s paralytic stroke. I wished I could go with him. But I knew that I would not have gone with him even if I was fit and fine. Even after two years of marriage, Ravi’s parents had refused to accept me as their daughter-in-law because I was not their caste. More importantly because I did not even know my caste. My lineage could not be traced back to a single caste. Well not even a single religion. My family was probably the best example of India’s secular identity!
Poor Ravi! First my accident. And now this. He had been my pillar rock when my hip broke and left me wheelchair bound. The doctors had said I would recover, but at a snail’s pace. Without Ravi’s unwavering care, attention, and his knack for cracking jokes at the worst times, I might have slipped into depression.
I heard the key turn in the main door lock. Ravi was back! I pulled the joystick of my wheelchair and whizzed to the door. A young woman entered. She seemed not more than sixteen or seventeen. She had covered her head with the end of her saree. A long line of orange-ish vermillion sat on the middle-parting of her hair. Behind her, I could see Ravi with two suitcases and an unreadably severe expression, trying to enter the door.
With the look that Ravi had on his face, I thought maybe his father had passed away and the helper he had recruited for him, he now brought to Bangalore for my help. Anyway, we had been looking for a stay-at-home maid ever since my accident. It was getting tough for Ravi to take care of me and everything else with only part-time help. So maybe this girl is more than eighteen, I thought. Ravi would never bring a minor to work at our place.
Ravi was eerily quiet as he sat on the sofa and removed his shoes. The young woman was still standing, the side of her back against the living room wall. She was looking at Ravi with expectant eyes. Well, that made two of us, I thought. Two pairs of eyes looking at Ravi expectantly.
‘Any food at home? I am terribly hungry. But I will take a shower first,’ said Ravi, marching out of the room.
I wheeled my wheelchair to the fridge and took out the leftovers and two plates. There was not much, just a bit of rice, dal, and a mixed vegetable curry, as I had no clue when Ravi would be back. I divided the food into the plates, heated them, and put them on the table.
‘What is your name?’ I asked the young woman in the best Hindi I could manage. Hindi is not my native tongue, and I still struggle despite my years at IIT Patna. IIT Patna, where I had met Ravi, I think fondly.
She stared blankly at me. ‘Naam,’ I asked, pointing to her.
‘Bala,’ she said, clearing her throat.
‘Khana?’ I asked her, pointing to the plate. She nodded. Spotting the kitchen sink behind me, she directly went there and washed her hands. She took a bit of water in her right hand and sprinkled it on the kitchen floor. She sat down there and asked me to give her the plate. Handing it to her, I looked around to give her a spoon. But she had already polished off the food in about three large handfuls. She got up and went to the sink, drinking or rather gulping water directly from the tap.
I was so engrossed watching Bala that I did not notice Ravi come in and sit at the dining table. ‘Your Baba…’ I hesitantly started.
‘Baba is a bit better,’ Ravi interrupted me mid-sentence. ‘But I am in a soup. Some people kidnapped me and got me married to this woman.’ He gestured towards Bala. ‘They kept me at gunpoint till I and this woman entered the Patna airport. They said they had goons even inside the airport, so I better not try any antics!’
‘But you are already married,’ I exclaimed.
‘But they do not know that Jiya. My parents never acknowledged our marriage! For them I am an IIT engineer with a cushy job in Bangalore. An apt candidate for a pakadwah wedding!’
I had sat numb for I do not know how long. I did not know what to think. What to feel. Here she was at my house, standing in my kitchen, eating my food, drinking from my tap.
Bala. My husband’s wife.
I am still looking at Ravi. Ravi is still not looking at me. I think I have my answer. I turn my wheelchair back to my room. This time Ravi does not follow me.
Ever since Ravi had brought Bala home, he had done everything to convince me that he did not believe in his forced marriage to Bala. He saw a lawyer, applied for an annulment, pasted Harley Davidson stickers on my wheelchair, and got a sidecar attached to his own motorcycle, specially designed and built to accommodate my wheelchair. He took me out on dates and showered me with affection. Most importantly, he hardly acknowledged Bala. We eased back into our couple life in no time.
And Bala? Well, she too eased into a place in our household. She cleaned the house and washed the vessels. She also kneaded the dough for the rotis and put the rice to boil. When Ravi went to the office, she helped me onto the commode and back to the wheelchair. She helped me bathe and combed my hair, patiently removing the knots with her fingers. She exercised my legs exactly as the physiotherapist had taught us. And most importantly, she hardly acknowledged Ravi. Bala and I eased into a life of helper and helped.
Just the thought of Ravi and Bala sleeping together makes me feel nauseous. How could Ravi take advantage of such an innocent girl like her! I shudder as I wheel my chair to the balcony. The balcony where Bala and I would often sit watching the world from the 15th floor. We would gossip about which guard was flirting with which maid or laugh about Ravi wearing two different socks to the office that day.
I rack my brain to remember what she called Ravi. Did she even call him anything? Did she think of him as a husband? What did she think of Ravi planting kisses on my cheek? Was she jealous? Was she even aware of what sleeping together entailed? She seemed so naïve.
‘Didi, the only time I went out of my village was to attend a wedding in the Begusarai town area. And then directly to Bangalore. To your house,’ Bala had said as she walked next to me at the department store where I did my weekly shopping. With Bala exercising my legs daily, I had started moving my legs enough to dare to drive a car. Ravi had always hated shopping, so the moment he felt confident that I could safely drive, and Bala could get me in and out of the driver’s seat, he stopped joining me for shopping.
It was not just the shopping. There were a lot of things Bala and I did together. We learned new recipes on YouTube and tried them out in the evenings. Mostly, I instructed, and Bala did all the work. We often painted together. Well, mostly I sat and posed, and she painted. We went to the society park at night and just sat there. We drank her favourite Coco Cola together, which I had taught her to sometimes lace with rum.
Once, when we were sitting at the park, with Bala on the grass and me in my wheelchair, I saw a Harley Davidson whirr past in the driveway. Bala followed my eyes to the bike and remarked, ‘Jordar Bhatbhatiya, Didi.’
‘I used to ride one of those,’ I told her, watching her eyes pop out in surprise. ‘Yeah, Bala. I have gone on long trips, through mountains and jungles on this Jordar Bhatbhatiya.’
‘Did you fall while riding, Didi?’ she asked, pointing to my legs.
‘I wish I had, Bala. At least I would have been satisfied that I had an illustrious fall. But no, I slipped and fell down the stairs at the office. I was rushing down, simultaneously typing on my laptop and speaking on a call. And I slipped.’
Bala was looking at me with unshed tears in her eyes. ‘Thank God you are alive, Didi,’ she said, putting her head on my lap and rubbing her nose on my thighs. I rested my hands on her head.
‘Didi, my Ma died when she slipped down the stairs at the temple. She rolled from the first step to the last and died. Our neighbours say my grandma pushed her because she was annoyed at Ma for having three girls. My younger sister was just about seven or eight months then. She died a month after Ma’s death. She used to cry all the time, and grandma started giving her boiled poppy seed paste to get her to sleep. One day she slept and did not wake up again. Grandma got Baba married again and sent me and my Didi to Mama, Mami, and Daddan’s house.’
‘So Daddan is not your own brother. He is your cousin,’ I remarked, caressing her head.
‘No, but he is better than any real brother, Didi. He took care of us, bought us gold jewellery, and got us married,’ she said.
‘Really!’ I snorted. ‘A good brother would educate his sister and get her married to a proper guy. Not stop her school at 9th standard, kidnap an already married man and force him to marry his sister at gunpoint.’
Bala looked so miserable that I felt guilty. I should not have brought up this marriage point. All three of us had managed to successfully dodge this elephant in the room for the last ten months.
I made a point to ask Ravi about the annulment. I knew he had applied, but it had been a long time since I had asked. In the initial days, the mound of vermillion that Bala used to apply on her hair parting would remind me to follow up with Ravi on the annulment. But gradually, the amount of vermillion started decreasing and then stopped altogether. Now, in her new kurti and leggings, with her eyes always on the phone and one airdope in her ear, Bala looked like any of the other helper women who came into our apartment complex.
‘Didi, can I look around the building for some work?’ Bala had asked me one day. ‘I want to earn some money.’
‘But why do you need to, Bala? I am giving you everything you need. I can give you some cash if you think you need personal money.’ And there the conversation had ended. I did not give her any cash, and she did not broach the topic ever again.
I really want to talk to Bala now. I come back into the bedroom and look around at her lovely paintings that adorn our walls. Most of them are of me. I was her favourite muse and model. She is such a talented girl. I wonder if I have been taking advantage of her all along. She did so much for me, and I gave her nothing in return—neither money nor status.
I dial her phone again. ‘Bala ij not there. Pleej call later.’
I start crying now, rather bawling. Ravi comes into the room and stands next to me.
‘I never slept with her, Jiya. Please don’t cry,’ he says. ‘I feel hurt that you could even imagine I did it.’ Ravi kneels near me and gives me a hug.
‘It’s not about you, Ravi,’ I say. ‘It’s about me. I want to apologize to Bala. I want to tell her that she means a lot to me. I want to give her an education and enable her to get a job.’
The ringing of my phone cuts through my sobs. Bala is calling. ‘Didi, you tried to reach me? I just landed at Patna airport.’
‘Why did you go away, Bala? Your Ma wanted you to be educated, right? I will get you educated. You wanted to earn money. You will be able to earn money. Please come back home,’ I whine into the phone.
‘That is your home, Didi, not mine.’ Bala says with a soft laugh. ‘Daddan came all the way to Bangalore to fetch me. Remember, you said that a good brother educates his sister and marries her to a good man. I told him that. And today, suddenly he landed up at your place. He got me to pack up and we caught the next flight to Patna. He promised to let me study. Don’t worry about me, Didi. You take care of yourself. Call me when you think of me, but I warn you, the network is bad in our village.’
‘I will call you, Bala. Even if your phone is unreachable, at least I will hear you say, ‘Bala ij not there. Pleej call later,’ I say, mimicking her accent. We both burst into laughter, and I feel a weight lift off my chest.
As I disconnect the call, I feel Ravi tighten his arms around me.
***
Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine
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