King Solomon's Wife

  

“He sleeps with my wife...” the husband pointed at the lover, rising from his seat, eyes red, nostrils flared, lips quivering, his mask slipping down to his chin, “and...I should apologise to him?”

Shekhar stood up too. He reached for a pouch by his side. He used a hand sanitiser liberally, then took out a new mask with a gloved hand and approached the angry man.

“Put this on. The elastic in yours seems to have worn off,” Shekhar said.

The husband changed his mask and also accepted a dollop of sanitiser.

“Anyone wants this?” Shekhar asked the others. Two extended their hands.

There were seven people in the courtyard of his house, beneath the canopy of fruit trees. Shekhar returned to his seat in front of the door. The others sat suitably socially distanced.

“This corona...when will life be normal again?”  the Panchayat president said. Looking at the two men whose case they were there to deal with, she continued, “Maybe, life is as usual...”

The Panchayat secretary was there too, disinterested, just as in office, waiting for some incentive. The husband was with a friend. The lover did not have a companion.

Shekhar’s younger brother Unni sat on a ledge near the car-shed; his dog Spike, a boxer, by his side. The guests kept an eye on the unleashed dog.

“You have to apologise for assaulting him,” Shekhar said.

The husband’s friend started to protest. The husband raised a hand to quell that. He glared angrily at Shekhar and mumbled an apology. Shekhar shook his head.

The husband stood up, faced the lover of his wife and said, “I am sorry for hitting you.” His fists remained clenched even after he sat down. The lover kept his eyes on Shekhar during the apology.

“We thank you, sir,” Shekhar said.

He shifted his attention to the lover who returned a defiant look.

“As for you, sir...” Shekhar said, “you know that you deserve the punishment you will get, don’t you?”

“You...the village King Solomon...in this house...deciding my punishment?” the lover spat out those words and laughed. “What wrong have I done that has not been done here? Go on, punish me...but, first tell me why there is no punishment for the people of this house.”

Shekhar leaned back in his seat. Unni stood up, folded his mundu (dhoti). Spike growled, teeth bared. The others rose too, eyes darting from Shekhar to Unni and the dog.

 

xxx

My name is Gayathri and Shekhar is my husband. I first met him under similar circumstances, but without Unni and his dog there then to give me a scare.

My father has a plot of land in this village of Puratheymuri (Outside Room). For a decade or so, a poor distant relative named Vasu lived there with his family. He then asked my father for a portion of the land, citing the legal right of a kudikidappukaran (tenant). My father refused.

Another relative, a member of the village Panchayat, suggested mediation. “Do you two want to make some lawyers rich? Listen to me...let’s have a meeting with Shekhar.”

“Who is Shekhar?” I asked.

“Shekhar is a teacher in the village school,” the relative replied. “He is good with these kind of talks.”

Later, he confided just to us, “The village uses Shekhar for such stuff. Not just disputes...managing the temple, the festival, the community meals...for what? Who wants the trouble...who wants to bear the extra expenses?”

“Sounds like he is an idiot,” I said.

“Well, Shekhar is not that...he too must be profiting...somehow...we just don’t know how...”

I went along with my father for the mediation meeting too.

It took place in the conference room of the Panchayat office. Shekhar was there before us. We had to wait an hour for the Panchayat president and secretary. Shekhar informed us that the wait was to make sure we felt like contributing to the Panchayat President’s Fund, an euphemism for a bribe.

“Your land is lovely,” Shekhar said, “next to the river, with little streams.”

“You seem to be familiar with the place,” my father said.

“My great grandfather gifted it to your grandmother,” Shekhar said. He looked at me for the first time and added, “You should take care of the land.”

The others arrived then. Shekhar sat away from the conference table, merged with the shadows. The rest of us crowded around.

“Do you have any suggestions?” the president asked Shekhar.

“No, Vasu has the law behind him.” Shekhar paused. “Vasu, where do you live now?”

The president butted in. “He has inherited his mother’s property. It’s in between your land, Shekhar. Don’t you remember...the land your father gave Saradamma? Vasu is her son.”

“Oh...do you have access to the road, Vasu?”

“No, sir,” Vasu said. “We go via the paddy field.”

Shekhar slipped into thought for a while.

“I have a suggestion,” Shekhar said, “say yes if you agree, it’s not open for discussion.”

The president nodded. My father and Vasu remained silent.

“Vasu, I will give you ten cents of my land adjacent to your property, equivalent to your claim on their plot. You will then have access to the road. Drop your claim on theirs. Let them have it whole,” Shekhar said. “Is that ok?”

“Yes,” Vasu and my father said.

The president announced the meeting closed before I could ask about our costs. She spoke to us about other matters till Vasu and my father made contributions to the President’s fund. Shekhar disappeared from the scene.

A week later, I understood his deal-making.

Shekhar spoke to my father on the phone, “Will your daughter accept me as her husband?”

My father was surprised when I told him, “Tell him I need a few days to think.”

 

xxx

 

I was thirty one.

My parents' was a love marriage, inter-caste, inter-class, quite an event then. My father got to be a middle-level manager before he opted for a voluntary retirement scheme. My parents used his severance pay and a bank loan to build our house. My mother retired as a general manager of a public sector bank.

My sister older by two years was my nemesis, not by any deed or malice from her end. She is pretty and fair and has JLo's rear. I am dusky and have broad shoulders. In school, she was the teachers’ pet and an overall star. I thought of cooking up a nervous breakdown to explain my low marks.

Situation improved after school. She chose to become a doctor and I an engineer. I was in the top five per cent of my batch, my project on audio-visual systems got a gold medal and even a mention in the local rags. I had dreams: a MBA from Wharton, front cover of Forbes, a role-model for women entrepreneurs.

I got a job in a telecommunications company. I worked hard, asked for tough tasks, did not take leave in my three years there, endured spells of migraine and debilitating cramps. I watched men get the best opportunities. When I complained, a lady in Human Resources gave me a lecture. I left the company and enrolled for a MBA course in a top-tier Indian institute.

My sister had a love marriage around then, her guy a handsome and brilliant batchmate. My parents were glad at first to be spared the troubles of arranging a marriage for at least one daughter. My sister’s in-laws accepted my sister wholeheartedly. But, they did not offer to foot any bill related to the wedding expenses. They also hinted to my parents that my sister’s financial independence should be ensured. My parents gifted gold, fixed deposits, a Honda car and also promised our house. When my sister got pregnant, my parents bore all the medical expenses at a five-star clinic. My brother-in-law remained oblivious of all that was gifted to him. My sister did not complain either. I told my parents what they needed to hear then, that marriage was the last thing on my mind.

I used all my savings for the MBA course. I got involved with a batchmate from the north, a nice good looking chap. That affair ended when he called me frigid.

Through campus recruitment, I joined a consultancy firm with projects in India and abroad. I stuck to my old routine of working hard, appearing asexual, building a career. I used the new skills learned during MBA: I was deferential when it served some purpose; and, I did not complain to anyone.

There were days when I revisited my schoolgirl plan of having a nervous breakdown. There were also more days when I pined for company.

I met Markus, through a colleague, when I was posted in London. Markus was a gentle bear of a man, a motivational speaker, a vegan with two grown-up kids from an early marriage. That lasted three years and ended when I accepted a job back home, with greater challenges and at a higher level.

My old set of four friends had all married and migrated. My best friend was a cardiologist in the US and with two kids; the other three were doing equally well in Australia, Dubai and the Netherlands. They could not understand why I had returned to live with my parents. Neither could I.

That was the situation when Shekhar proposed.

 

xxx

 

I found out more about him and his family with help from the relative in the Panchayat.

Shekhar was about forty years old then, the eldest of six kids. He has four sisters, all married. The brother is about twenty years younger than him. Their parents died soon after Unni was born. Their main source of income is agriculture.

“How does he have so much land?” I asked.

I was given a brief history of the village Puratheymuri.

Sometime in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, a prince with exquisite tastes in music and arts, a rare royal who had dared to cross the seas, brought home a friend from foreign lands.

The foreigner was of medium height, stocky build, languorous movement, with skin the colour of ancient dark wood. The coal black eyes of the visitor were the most captivating.

The prince had a palace artist capture just those eyes. I visited the City Museum and found that canvas titled ‘Depths of Comfort’ in a far corner. I felt I could sleep well with those dark eyes watching over me.

Back to the history lesson.

The royal family made it clear that the dark person from Lanka or Africa or wherever was not to be entertained on palace grounds. In retaliation, the prince announced that he was giving his friend land not less than one thousand acres. In fact, that was the last thing the prince did. He died prematurely. Recent studies suggest that he had advanced syphillis.

The royals were advised to declare the last gift null and void citing mental infirmity. The royals did not want to set such a precedent.

They gave the foreigner the promised land in the godforsaken Puratheymuri.

The long-forgotten people of the village were ready to be the beasts of burden of the new landlord. They were surprised, and uncomfortable, to find their landlord working with them every day, a dark beast wearing a cotton wrap at the waist with loin cloth beneath, a cap made of palm leaf on the head and, worst of all, sharing the food their lowly women cooked near the fields.

He married the daughter of the second-most richest man in the village. She died young after giving him couple of kids. A widow who worked in his kitchen became his companion. They too had couple of kids. His kids were good workers like him. They found companions in the village and outside, some by marriage, most by mature consent. A few generations later, there was not a house in the village untouched by the foreigner, by way of genes and customs.

Shekhar is his descendant.

I wondered if he wanted me to be the first wife who dies young or the companion in his kitchen.

 

xxx

 

Two days after I raised the green flag, he came with two sisters to meet me and my folk. Shekhar and I went to my room. He sat when I offered him my chair. We sat in silence for a minute or two.

A smile crept into his dark eyes and lips. I must have frowned.

“Any questions...observations?” he asked.

“Aren’t we a total mismatch?” I blurted out.

“How so?” The smile on his lips broadened to a crooked grin.

“First, my work...I do not want to give up my career. Second, background...I am not at all suited for village life.”

“First, your office in Technocity is equidistant from the city and Puratheymuri. Second, true...life in Puratheymuri is different,” he replied.

“You don’t mind me continuing with my career?” I asked, not hiding my surprise.

“I should be the one wary of you stopping my current activities,” that came with a wry grin. “Gaia, you will be fine there.” Those comforting black eyes!

“My name is Gayathri.”

“Accept me as your husband if you can tolerate the name Gaia...with an i, not a y.” He stood up.

“That’s it?” I queried.

He laughed, a hearty laugh I would have liked to share.

“Shouldn’t we talk more...what you want from me or...our past?” I asked.

“I want to be your husband, Gaia...with time, that want might become a need,” he said. “As for the past...Gaia, I hope the day won’t come when our present is intolerable and the future seems hopeless that we will have only the past.”

I liked the way he kept on saying Gaia.

Matrimony might be designed in heaven but it has been decided more often with such whimsical observations.

The wedding was a middle-class affair with about thousand guests. My four close friends came from abroad. We have to attend to believe you are doing this, they said.

Shekhar and his people came in six cars and twenty buses. The rustic lot wore cheaper costumes. They could not beat the city rush to the dining hall either.

I was quite pleased when my friends were rather impressed with Shekhar. You are the rustic one and not he, they whispered to me on stage. I scowled. That was captured by the photographers. That was not the first embarrassing shot of the day. For the first photo, after the wedding vows, he had his right arm around my back, hand at my side, a warm farmer’s hold, dark tan on dusky hue, his thumb touching the blouse, near my right breast, the palm and other fingers on the bare curve from the blouse to the saree at the waist. Girl, you looked like a beet root, my friends later squealed in my ear.

When I reached Puratheymuri later that day, I was more a pale yam. His sisters rushed through the welcoming ceremony and took me to one of their bedrooms.

Shekhar came to the room after I had refreshed and changed saree.

I must have looked as if I was in pain.

“Are the cramps bad? Please lie down. Should I get some medicine?” he asked.

“No,” I mumbled.

“You can skip the reception dinner if you are not up to it,” he said.

“I am fine...surprised...that’s all.”

“Then, why are you looking so worried?”

I felt like kicking him. I could see he was trying to hold back his loud laugh.

“Gaia,” he smiled, “I don’t know how it’s like in the city, but in a village a woman might be slightly worried on her wedding day only if she has missed her period.”

I must have glared well. He went out with a chuckle and sent his youngest sister to escort me to the reception party.

His sisters helped me to settle in before they left for their homes.

The ground floor was vast, with Shekhar’s and Unni’s bedrooms, two guest bedrooms, the living room, the dining and kitchen area and Shekhar’s office-cum-study. The first time, I hesitated at the door to his study. He noticed.

“It’s your house,” he said.

The first floor was being refurbished.

“The finishing touches need your input,” he said.

I was surprised. The first floor was mine: a King-size bed, a lounge with TV and seating, wardrobe, bathroom, walk-in closet, prayer room, office space and what really floored me, a library.

That was ready for me on the thirteenth day. Shekhar stood by the door while I swirled around, giddy with delight.

“May I enter?” Shekhar asked.

“It’s your house,” I replied.

Shekhar shook his head.

“Oh, come in, you idiot,” I responded, then ticked myself off with, “...oops!”

Shekhar laughed.

He removed his house slipper before entering what he described as “the sanctum-sanctorum of the house with you installed within”.

The consummation happened on my King-size bed that night. Shekhar took his time, he was gentle. I had two doubts after that and he had one.

He asked me if it was ok for me. I replied it was great. I asked him whether it was ok for him. Oh yes, he said. But you didn’t, I smothered the rest. Don’t worry about that, he said, a guy gets the most pleasure when the girl’s happy. I didn’t fake it, I exclaimed without any need for such a declaration. I loved how his dark face glowed. I did not voice my second doubt, whether he had noticed that I was not a virgin. As he once said, that is the irrelevant inconsequential past.

 

xxx

 

When I returned to office, I did not feel any major change. Some days I drove to work, other days I used the driver Shekhar appointed for me. I took care of my new home. Shekhar, Unni and a few part-time helps did their part. Initially, I was wary of returning home late or staying up late in my home-office to complete work. Shekhar did not disturb me then and slept in his bedroom downstairs those nights. At times, Shekhar and Unni too left early and returned late. I was one of the gang.

Three ladies in the village took the place of my old set of four urban friends.

Meena’s husband is in the Gulf and she manages their business in the village, a ‘hotel-cum-bar’. She took me around the village in her open Jeep.

Sindhu is single, a gossip, an expert cook and has a catering business.

Rekha is a bank manager. Her husband is an Undersecretary in the State Secretariat. They had tried living in the city but after a few years decided to commute from the village.

Through them, I got to know about some ‘rural legends’ about my menfolk.

“Ah, Unni...isn’t he a lamb? But, don’t be around if he folds his mundu...” Sindhu said.

Meena rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Meena, what happened in your bar? Gayathri...” Sindhu included a dramatic pause for special effect. “Shekhar was there to settle some issue with another bar owner. Someone said something derogatory about Shekhar. Unni was sitting quietly till then. He got up. And, folded his mundu...phew, who knows how many were admitted to hospital that day.”

Sindhu knew she had my attention.

“Then, Shekhar...” the same old pause, the protests from the other two and my conspiratorial silence, “if he says let’s walk to the river for a talk, run in the opposite direction!”

“Stop it, Sindhu,” Meena warned.

I laughed nervously.

Sindhu took that as consent. “There was this guy Vamanan...a rascal who took loans not only from the bank but from all of us. He used to be in the temple committee. It’s when some temple funds went missing that Shekhar took him for a walk to the river for a talk...”

“And...?” I urged.

“We never saw Vamanan again...his family complained to the police but that investigation went nowhere.”

“Don’t fill her head with...” Meena said.

“It’s true,” Rekha said softly.

With their help, I slowly understood the ways of the village.

“The freedom you...we get is unbelievable,” I told them once.

“What’s that old cliché?” Rekha muttered, “With freedom comes responsibility.”

“That’s a bit too troublesome at times,” Sindhu added.

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything else,” Meena said.

I thought a lot about my troubles with that freedom and responsibility.

 

xxx

 

My career was going well. Shekhar did not interfere. Corporates love such married employees, especially when they do not get pregnant. As for Shekhar’s career, if one could call it that, I gave suggestions about teaching, problem-solving, mediation. He listened. He nodded. He smiled.

At home, everything was (almost) great. My husband was good company, attentive lover (with the same old handicap, though) and a (too) stable personality. Even though he got involved in disputes and settlements, he tried to avoid it (especially at home).

Shekhar continued to ask permission to enter my space. When his footwear was outside, no one else knocked at my door; the same with Unni.

Unni has his problems. He did not do well in studies. He has no problem in interacting with people (if one ignores the rural legend). His devotion towards Shekhar is phenomenal but then, that is reciprocated. Work is one area where he competes with Shekhar and likes to win.

They take me on rounds of their plots. The best view is from the hill Paramala.

“Can you make out something interesting in those fields?” Shekhar asked.

I studied the view more closely. “There’s some pattern in those fields,” I said.

“That’s Unni’s handiwork,” Shekhar said with pride. Unni grinned. “His experiment with farming...tell her...”

“G3....” Unni started shyly. That is what he calls me. These men just cannot say the three syllables that make Gayathri! “That central plot there...it’s the traditional periodic planting. On others, I tried aperiodic and even quasi-periodic...”

“Well, he has not yet proved to me that’s more effective farming...isn’t that so, Monay (son)?” Shekhar said, giving Unni an affectionate shove. Unni boxed back.

“Didn’t you tell me he finds it difficult to learn?” I whispered, when Unni was out of earshot.

“Leave him with his own thoughts and he’s capable of doing anything. Only problem is that it’s not to be evaluated, not the usual way,” Shekhar said.

Unni’s relationships came with the same caveat. In his own way, he was great; not by normal standards. He would never be marriage material.

Unni loves to flop down on the floor cushions in my library. He told me that Shekhar used to read books to him when he was younger. I continued that practice. After a few months, he too joined in the storytelling.

We used stories to talk about ourselves. I was surprised and thrilled when Unni deftly used objectivity, deception and eroticism. My stories were plain vanilla in comparison.

With him, I could talk about my past, my biggest fears and plans. He sulked when I was busy. And he allowed me to throw tantrums. I tried it out on Shekhar too but he was imperturbable. Unni was volatile and fun.

Shekhar was the rock I could lean on. And Unni, the unpredictable waves that crashed against me. I was in deep waters, enjoying the different sensory perceptions.

The physical attraction was inevitable. The toughest part was in conveying the permissions he needed. Finally, quite exasperated, my heroine in a pulp fiction begged her guy not to remain an idiot. He smiled shyly and left my room.

Next day, I could feel his eyes on me. I stared back with mock outrage and modesty. He laughed. The teasing got bolder. He let it smoulder.

Till the day he said, “I need you.”

I moved towards him to kiss his lips. He moved away.

“Thank you,” he said.

I felt like banging my head, and his, against a wall.

“I will talk to Chettan (elder brother),” he said.

I must have moved back or screamed silently.

He stood up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To talk to him,” he said, a little bemused by my question.

“Now?”

He smiled. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” I muttered to myself as I followed that man downstairs to Shekhar’s office.

He knocked on the door and entered. I waited outside. Shekhar saw me and nodded.

Shekhar leaned back in his office chair, his attention totally on Unni.

Unni stood in front, within arm’s reach of his brother.

“I love her,” Unni said. I felt my legs go weak.

“Who?” Shekhar asked.

“G3,” Unni replied.

Shekhar closed his eyes for a while. He blindly reached for his brother’s hand. Unni went closer. They remained that way for a long time, holding hands, Shekhar resting his head against Unni’s side.

“Let me talk to her,” Shekhar said.

Unni nodded.

They came out together, towards me.

“Let’s go for a walk to the river,” Shekhar said.

 

xxx

 

He took me to Moonattumukku, the lovely shallow part of the river with the confluence of three branches where my friends and I went swimming.

We sat on a rock, side by side. I thought about what had happened to Vamanan.

“I am sorry,” Shekhar said.

I must have let out a strangled cry for help. Shekhar looked at my trembling self with surprise.

“Gaia...are you ok?”

I shook my head. He reached for a handful of water and splashed it on my face. I spluttered.

“Please don’t...” Did I cry?

“Don’t...what?”

“Don’t kill me...not like Vamanan, please...” I must have said.

“What else did your friends tell you...am I a serial murderer?” Shekhar wiped my face with his mundu.

I collected what was left of my senses.

“Then, why did you say sorry?” I asked.

“I guess we have reached that stage when the past matters,” he said.

About twenty five back, Shekhar did exceedingly well in the school-leaving exams. His parents decided to send him abroad. Shekhar was lucky to get into an undergraduate program at Columbia, that too with a generous scholarship.

Shekhar stayed with his mother’s best friend from childhood Supriya who lived and worked near the University. An affair developed between the eighteen-year-old boy and the forty-two-year-old lady. It resulted in a pregnancy. They informed Shekhar’s parents. His parents got their visa a month later and boarded the first available flight.

His mother fought with her best friend. At first, she refused to speak to her son. She stayed on and took care of them. His father left for the village after a fortnight and returned only a month before the due date. Shekhar’s father informed the village that his wife had been advised not to travel.

There were complications due to premature birth and age-related reasons. Supriya died after giving birth.

Shekhar, his parents and the baby returned to the village. This time, his father told the village that there was surprising news, that his wife had had another baby, made in the USA.

Shekhar’s parents died in a road accident around then. Shekhar, at the age of twenty or so, became father, brother and everything to his sisters and the latest addition to the family, Unni.

No one other than Shekhar and I knew of this story.

He continued, “With any other couple, in such a case, I would tell the husband in my position to disappear from the scene. But, it’s complicated with Unni. I can’t shirk my responsibility towards him. And, more importantly, if I leave...he might respond in ways I do not want to think of, not just to himself but to you too.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

I nodded. I had understood that much about Unni.

We remained silent for a long while.

“But...isn’t it wrong when I am his stepmother?” I asked.

“Gaia, you are not a label,” Shekhar said.

With a sigh, he got up. He helped me rise to my feet.

“What should I...we do?” I asked.

“We will do what adults do,” he said. “Let time play its part.”

We have two kids now. Everyone knows about our arrangement.

 

xxx

 

That is why the lover of the married woman dared to ask my husband,  “You...the village King Solomon...in this house...deciding my punishment? What wrong have I done that has not been done here? Go on, punish me...but, first tell me why there is no punishment for the people of this house.”

I watched the proceedings in the courtyard from my perch on the first floor.

Unni and his dog were ready to go for the jugular. Shekhar pursed his lips. He looked at Unni, shook his head. Shekhar turned to face his accuser.

“You have raised a valid point,” Shekhar said.

“She consented,” the lover said. “What did we do wrong?”

“You know the ways of our village,” Shekhar said. “She does not have to ask her husband for consent or anything. But, that’s not the case with you, is it?”

There was no reply.

“Is it?” Shekhar asked again.

“No,” the lover said.

Shekhar addressed the group. “Someone neutral should handle the punishment, be moderate, talk if you can.”

They left our courtyard. Shekhar walked over to Unni. They talked about the fields they had to attend to that day. They looked up, saw me. They smiled.