No Love Lost and Other Stories

  No Love Lost and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  Book 2

  Shobhaa Dé

  No Love Lost and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  May 2020

  Cocooned in our small little worlds yet living through the most precarious and awful times – this has got to be a first in the collective memory of the whole wide world. Untouched by the footsteps of migrant workers in the hot sun we rave and rant on social media. And as always what helps us to retain our sanity in moments like this are words. Our own words and words from loved ones but even more than that, words from gifted writers who spin stories out of universal experiences, from thoughts and ideas half-formed in our minds.

  Simon & Schuster India is happy to bring to you short stories by the inimitable Shobhaa De as she captures the fragile zeitgeist of the pandemic in her own unique way – through stories that don’t provide an escape into la la land but rather stories of love that will make you sometimes smile, sometimes frown but at all times understand the subterranean world of shifting human emotions. The author, and her stories, don’t shy away from the tremulous uncertainties of the world as we know but rather help us to confront and understand it all, just a little bit better.

  There is an exhausted woman who wishes her husband saw her as something more than an outlet for his sexual needs, there is a weaver in Benaras who has a magical relationship with his loom which changes as the lockdown proceeds and there is a young married couple who grow increasingly disenchanted with each other as the lockdown shows no signs of letting up. Read these stories and more, in this moving and relatable collection of love stories by Shobhaa De.

  I hope all of you enjoy reading the stories in this anthology and remember in these difficult times to be kind to yourselves, to the people you meet in the pages of this book and to those in your life and in the world outside.

  LITTLE, JOYFUL THINGS

  LITTLE, JOYFUL THINGS

  I loved dancing. He couldn’t dance. I loved singing. He couldn’t sing. I loved birds. He was put off by them. I enjoyed colour and clothes and textures and plants and flowers and water bodies and gulmohurs and sunsets and moonrises and stars and perfumes and books and mountains and laughter and fairy lights and nice table settings and candles and breads and seasons and lilies and all sorts of silly things. They fascinated me. But none of this interested him.

  I once asked, ‘What interests you, in me?’ And he laughed like I had cracked a joke. I felt very hurt because for me it was a really serious question to which I wanted a serious answer. A thoughtful answer. I asked him again.

  And he replied, ‘You never refuse me sex. You give it when I want it’. That was his answer! I was stunned. Was I no more than just an opening in a soft wall? I tried again.

  Not immediately, of course, but after a few days. ‘Tell me frankly, when you think of me, what exactly comes to your mind?’

  He answered promptly, ‘Your downstairs thing.’ That’s it? I asked. Nothing else?

  He looked up from the newspaper, his expression was one of great irritation, ‘Why do you ask such stupid questions? I am reading an important article written by a Nobel Laureate. Now my trend of thought is broken.’

  Aah. I never refused him sex. But come on… sex during this awful lockdown period? Was he totally bonkers? Who has sex during this ghastly period? I had unwashed dishes and a pile of unironed clothes on my mind! Not sex! Besides, had he said what he said sweetly, and with tenderness… even if he had been lying blatantly just to have sex at that instant, I would still have obliged. I thought about our love making - minus any love. Had he never observed me while he was at it? Me! Us!

  I recreated our too-many-to-count sexual ‘contacts’, can’t call them anything else. Let me start. Did he notice my eyes? Tightly shut. My mouth? Dry. My forehead? Creased with anxiety. My legs? Wide open. Because I didn’t want to waste more time. Every fibre of my being at that moment would be giving out the same message: Please dear God… let this ordeal be over soon. That was then. During ‘normal’ times. This was now! When we were trapped. And I was bone tired and brain dead.

  Did he not sense my utter lack of interest? How’s that possible? He’s a pretty sensitive man. He prides himself on his immaculate taste in the fine and beautiful things in life. How could this same man not notice my tears when he lay on top of me, his face just a few centimetres from mine? Did he not observe my haste in ‘getting it over with’? Did he not care I never ever touched his organ? Or the few times when he forced me to, I did so with barely concealed revulsion. That revulsion was multiplied many times over during this pandemic thing.

  Yes, once he had asked me in an off-hand way, ‘Do you enjoy sex at all?’ And not waited for my answer. Another time he had looked up between mouthfuls of ghee rice and said, ‘You must be a lesbian. Yes. I think so. Have you ever… you know… with a woman?’

  I had laughed self-consciously and changed the subject. But that remark had made me wonder. Maybe I was a lesbian, and didn’t know it. Maybe at some point in my life I would find out. But for that, I would have to meet a woman who attracted me sexually and who was attracted to me. Where would I meet such a person?

  My life revolved around my husband’s life. I did not find his life interesting at all. Because I didn’t find him interesting. Now that we were stuck together 24x7 this became crystal clear. We had zero things in common. I think this happens to a lot of women, but they don’t admit it. I am sure my own mother did not like my father. I could tell. But my grandmother definitely loved my grandfather. She would touch his face so tenderly, even when he was so sick and lying lifelessly on a hospital bed. I had never seen my mother touch my father. Just as I never touched my husband. There was no need! Touch him for what purpose? He also never hugged me or caressed me. In fact, the only time he touched my body was when he wanted sex.

  The day he touched my hand as I served him daal during dinner, I knew I would be under him that night. It is true, there were times when I too experienced pleasure during intercourse. But my pleasure had nothing to do with him. I would enjoy an orgasm on my own! Sometimes because it was a particular time of the month and at other times because inside my head I was seeing a different movie from the one I was acting in at that moment. In my imaginary world, anything was possible. There were no taboos. I could be with one man or many. Or I could be with a man and a woman, or many men and many women. I heard those sort of things were called orgies. I liked such fantasies. Occasionally, I would imagine having sex with animals also. Maybe I was a pervert. But there was nobody I could discuss this with. And that left me confused.

  I nearly brought it up with him when he was sprawled out on the couch watching some Turkish series on Netflix. Thank god I kept quiet. He was in a lousy mood because the takeaway pizza guy had turned up really late. And I had not cooked dinner. Our building society was also being really sticky about delivery guys, saying they were spreading the virus and we should all be cooking our own food. I didn’t agree at all. I mean, I could be a carrier, too. And I wasn’t a delivery boy. So mean to target these people. Anyway, I kept mum about my fantasies. His reaction would have been, ‘Are you serious? You want to fuck the neighbour’s dog? That Rocky? Maaaan… you are so sick!’ I ask you - who decides the definition of sick? I think he is sick to want to bed a woman who shrinks from his touch.

  I kept feeling there has to be more to sex than what I was experiencing in my marriage. I also felt that I needed to find out for myself what else there was which I had zero knowledge of. Was I going to die not knowing anything but this awful experience? One day, during yet another dull Covid afternoon, when he was
staring at a football match on television without really watching it, I asked casually, ‘Do I satisfy you sexually… Or do you miss something in particular?.’

  Maybe my timing was off. I had accidentally burnt our quinoa with broccoli when he had actually wanted Thai curry with black rice. I was shitting bricks and about to tell him when he shouted ‘Goal!’ and pretended he had not heard my question. I repeated it loudly this time, and he glared, with his bulging eyes bulging even more. I got scared and left the room. I was hoping the lousy meal would put him off sex. But guess what?

  That night, as he dug his elbow into my waist and suggested with his eyebrows that I should lift up my nightie, I decided to lie. I told him my monthly period was on and that I was suffering from terrible cramps. He didn’t believe me and demanded proof. I found that very insulting and refused to let him examine me - you know, like the way doctors do when a woman goes for check-ups during pregnancy. He roughly shoved me aside like I was a bundle of the dhobi’s unwashed clothes.

  This was too much. I screamed, ‘You are an animal. You can’t dance, you can’t sing… you are useless.’

  He sat up in bed and bellowed, ‘Why didn’t you marry a bharatnatyam dancer or a roadside singer if you wanted a husband to entertain you… all this nautanki nonsense. A man and a woman marry to be comfortable. To live in harmony. Not to sing and dance. Understand?’

  I wanted to tell him to just give himself and me a chance to enjoy something together – something beautiful and pleasing. A monsoon raag… a walk in a forest… a simple meal shared from the same thali. Was I expecting too much? Or was I actually settling for too little?

  But I kept quiet and shook my head penitently, ‘You are right, ji, life is not about naach gaana. And I am sorry I lied to you about my monthly period. If you still want to… I will undress… and we can carry on with your plan.’

  He smiled broadly. After a long time, he appeared pleased with me. I also smiled back, even though the smile was missing from my heart. I decided I would wait. Tonight was not the right night for decisions. I needed to prepare myself better. Where would I go? No travel, no transport, no flights, no interstate buses, no cars on the roads, no trains – except for migrants. But even though I knew I was stuck… I still did what was needed.

  I packed away the fairy lights I had bought with so much enthusiasm from the local market. I put away my volumes of verse - from Rumi to Kaifi Azmi. I would not be needing them for a while. I was packing away my dreams and memories and hopes as well. At least, for the time being. Till I could look up at the sky again, and hear a koyel sing, heralding the rains. What a loss, I thought to myself, staring at my husband’s prone figure as he snored in deep sleep. There was so much he could have learnt from me… little things, joyful things.

  Our lives would have been enriched and happier. Why did he think my little quirks and habits were only for me? Had he been open to receiving and sharing pleasant experiences, his life too would have improved. Which human being does not enjoy music! Why did he stick his fingers into his ears to shut out the melodies playing on my phone? How could music anger him? It took me a while to understand. It was not music that angered him. It was me. After some time, I understood more - it wasn’t me that angered him. It was him! He was constantly angry! Why did I blame myself for his anger? He was not the only angry person during the pandemic. The whole world was angry. Having sex calmed him down temporarily. That is why he needed it frequently, like some people need blood pressure tablets. I didn’t want to be his tablet. I wanted to be his loving wife and partner. I wanted to share his life. Not his prescription.

  RASAM AND WEED

  RASAM AND WEED

  I had fallen for her because she was nuts. Nuts, in a nice way. I enjoyed her nuttiness. I mean… she was the one who had suggested a wedding in Ladakh… at a time when only serious adventure seekers went there. I hated the idea but said okay, because I didn’t want to sound boring and gutless. My parents were most upset and said they would not attend. Nor would any of our relatives - most didn’t know where Ladakh was. Which was the main reason for picking it!

  I was the first son of my family - the only son. I was christened ‘the golden boy’ by my grandfather, while my mother called me ‘Gopal’ referring to Krishna, our family deity. My girlfriend – now wife – was wild and wonderful.

  When I brought her home to meet my parents and sisters, she said, ‘I keep changing my name periodically, because I don’t like being trapped in any sort of box - caste, community, religion, language… so feel free to call me by any name you choose.’

  My mother and father exchanged looks and said, ‘Please wait… we need to think.’ They left the room and came back with a broad smile, ‘In our family, you will be called Radha - Gopal’s consort.’ She smiled back ( I used to call her ‘J’ - just ‘J’ - the alphabet she had picked for her name when we met). J looked at me and gave a thumbs up.

  ‘All good… I like Radha, for now. She and that Krishna dude were never married, right? She was like, a permanent girlfriend? Older? Married? Perfect!’ It was my cue to break it to my parents that ‘J’ was five years older and had been previously married.

  They were gracious enough not to react right away. My mother’s smile was strained and I could recognise her old expression from my childhood - when Appa said something critical in the presence of his battleaxe mother - the formidable ‘Amma’ of our house. My mother was demoted to ‘Akka’ (sister), even for me, her only son. I used to feel sorry for Akka. She was my Amma, but I could not address her like that. My father was too terrified of his Amma. He said such feelings were common in his family where women were more domineering and controlled everything.

  I was not sure what ‘J’ would do next. She had laughed uproariously when I had told her about meeting my folks. I could see her bright, wide-open eyes surveying our neat but modest home, taking in the protective plastic covers on the sofas and the plastic doilies on the dining table. Amma liked to cover everything in plastic. Even the table fan. I had asked, ‘How can we get air from the fan when it is covered in plasic?’ Amma had glared and Akka had kicked me under the table. I watched ‘J’ warily as she strolled around the drawing room, like she was taking an inventory. I knew she had noticed all the plastic coverings and would mention them later.

  ‘J’ went to Appa’s bookshelf and picked out a hefty volume - studied the spine of Mein Kampf and put it away. ‘Germans!’ she said scornfully. Appa looked on - his eyes expressionless. After the traditional tea service and eating a spoonful of payasam to mark the auspicious occasion, J and I left for our B-School campus on her Royal Enfield. My parents came to the gate to wave to us – which was very sweet of them.

  Six years after that fateful meeting, there we were, ‘J’ and I, spending the lockdown period in my parent’s home. We were stuck! We had nowhere else to go… as research scholars, we had to vacate our campus accommodation and leave hastily when the date was announced by the Prime Minister. We were the last to leave. We enjoyed our campus life together, smoked a lot of weed, watched strange movies - mainly those made by obscure European or Korean directors - and felt very good about ourselves. We had escaped the middle class, mediocre, predictable roots which could so easily have been our destiny. Here we were - two amazing young people sharing amazing ideals and living on our own terms. How did we know a crazy virus was about to turn our world upside down?

  Akka had taken me aside on the first day itself - hours after we had flung our backpacks on what used to be my old bed - large and comfortable, despite the lumpy mattress. She had told me firmly but also softly, that we would have to ‘adjust’. Now ‘adjust’ was a word both of us hated. We felt we were too good to have to ‘adjust’ for anyone .

  Akka looked at me and said evenly, ‘Covid… Covid… danger.’ She asked searching questions about our personal habits, which were embarrassing, and had nothing to do with Covid. She also said Amma was ‘too old’ and fell into the ‘danger zone’. We should avoid inter
acting with her. ‘Remember, she has diabetes and high blood pressure. She could die in two minutes if she gets the virus.’ For a moment I thought there was a hopeful note in my mother’s voice.

  Akka leaned forward and whispered, ‘Radha has been sneezing… she is not positive, na?’

  I scoffed, ‘What a thing to say, Akka. It’s your rasam masala that is irritating her nostrils. Mine, too.’

  Akka made her sarcastic face and said, ‘Oh… now my boy’s nostrils have also become sensitive to our rasam? Next you will say you hate curd-rice. Rasam was like mother’s milk to you... now suddenly the aroma bothers you?’ I calmed her down, but just then, ‘J’ emerged from my old room wearing cut-off shorts and her favourite ganji.

  Akka’s eyebrows shot up, ‘If Amma sees her like this… no, no, please wear decent clothes here… we are all decent type people.’ ‘J’ ignored her completely and asked me for a cigarette. Akka covered both her ears and left the room. I told ‘J’ we would both have to… before I could complete the sentence she said, ‘Adjust?’

  She lit up, ‘Just sit down and listen to me. Look - you and I didn’t invent or unleash Covid-19 on the world. We are not guilty. Nor are we responsible. We are forced to live here because there is no other choice. It’s a temp thing, yaar. Tell them to chill… can’t suddenly behave all goody goody... If we feel like a doob, we should enjoy one.’

  So we both lit one. Suddenly, the familiar rasam aroma surrounded us in a cloud of spices. My appetite raged… so did hers. Our Lockdown Baby project was launched that night. We just knew it had happened and joked our baby would arrive nine months later smelling of rasam and weed. And we would not name her Corona. We would drink gallons of it, instead. Good for breast milk production, our friends had once told us… as if we didn’t know!