She
has started to look like a crazy person. Her sarees have given way to striped
pajamas that remind him of asylum inmates, or maybe convicts. When did she stop
wearing her sarees? He could not remember. She has even stopped wearing her
kurta-churidar sets – the ones that she bought after careful scrutiny of the
cheap stores at Dakshinapan. Her more expensive sets, bought from the mall, now
sit in the darkness of their almirah, never to be worn, unless she decides to
go to a party. She does not go out these days. He has stopped asking her if she
wants to go with him. Sometimes he feels relieved; her presence beside him on
every occasion used to please the people around them, but made him uneasy. At least
that is over now. But his arduous journey is not over yet. She is still there,
with her strange new likings and tastes. He squints at her from the distance as
she combs her freshly shampooed hair. She wears pajamas now – a hundred bucks a
set – courtesy Gariahat hawkers. The one she is wearing now is blue and white. He
wants to cry out, visualizing a concentration camp. She is still combing, at
peace and expressionless.
Tomorrow
is Friday. She will ask him to go to the bazaar. He will buy some fish, some
vegetables and some masala. She will slip into another set of pajamas after her
bath and go about her chores. He can almost remember the colors and patterns of
all her pajamas. They are etched in his memory like a scar that refuses to go
away.
He
does not know why her pajamas bother him so much. He can try to fix the
problem. He can ask her to wear her old and normal clothes again. She may
rudely decline at first. But he knows that she will wear them if he asks. She knows
he is her only source of any opinion or request. But an unseen force holds him
back. He sees her move in front of him in quick, agile movements, setting the
washing machine to the delicate level. Is it for her soft pajamas? She is
pouring in some expensive detergent meant for woolens. It cannot be her
pajamas. They are too cheap to demand so much care. He fights off an
overwhelming desire to go and investigate. She will get suspicious. Her laundry
is not his business. Nothing she does is his business, if he thinks about it. She
has changed into her white pajamas – the one with tiny lavender flower motifs. Her
full-grown body in that absurd print suddenly reminds him of autism. Slightly nauseated,
he turns away and tries to make a mental list of the things he will buy
tomorrow.
She
is having lunch. He watches intently as her jaws work on her mouthful of rice
and cauliflower curry. Her nimble fingers work skillfully to strip the piece of
bhetki of its few bones. A drop of curry falls on her pajamas. She makes a
barely audible noise to convey her annoyance and keeps eating. He cannot
concentrate on his lunch. He wants to strip her of that defiled garment much
like she removes the fish’s undesirable parts. She looks like a filthy child. He
imagines stains of food on her neat mouth and chin. It becomes difficult to
swallow the yellow mess on his plate.
As
the afternoon gets hotter, she goes into the bedroom – their bedroom – and turns
the AC on. She lies down for a nap. In that claustrophobic setting comprising
tasteful furniture and demurely painted walls, she lies like a disfigurement. Yet
she looks like she is totally at home. He can almost hear her gentle snoring. Her
curry-stained pajamas are nowhere in sight. She has changed into the dull green
one. She looks like a mossy block of stone on the pale blue bedsheet.
He
slowly walks out, almost on tiptoe. Out of the 22 degree Centigrade air, a
wave of 33 hits him like a sandstorm. Beads rising on his forehead, he lights a
smoke. Tilting his head towards the window, and looking blankly at the sky
outside, he recollects how it all started. He realizes that when she talks to
him she is quite animated. She is a happy woman, satisfied with her own life. He
knows this, yet it surprises him no end whenever he realizes it. Does she
notice what he wears? Maybe his shift to wearing Bermuda shorts
had bothered her too. He shakes off that thought. He berates himself from
digressing from his original train of thought. He was thinking about how it had
started. – It was an ordinary evening,
when she had mentioned how hazardous Indian clothes were becoming for her. Sarees
needed regular washing and starching, salwar kurtas were too much of a hassle
to wear and take off. She had noticed women buying cheap pajamas on the streets
– cheaper than her Dakshinapan kurtas. He had nodded perhaps. She had been true
to her word…
His cigarette is almost entirely burnt to
ashes. His eyes shine madly for a moment. Discarding the butt, he storms into
the cold bedroom. The temperature is down to 20. She sleeps in peace, her green
pajamas wrapped around her. Her sleep is deep. He does not trouble himself to
be quiet. He yanks open the almirah door exposing three levels. The top level
holds her expensive garments – he steals a quick glance at her purple kanjeevaram.
The level below that displays her kurtas. He fondly eyes her red and white
kurta churidar set. At the lowest level, her pajamas lie bundled up in neglect,
faded with overuse. He pulls the pajamas out with all his force and carries
them out of the room. He finds her discarded pajamas from today’s lunch behind
the bathroom door and adds it to the pile. Running to the store cupboard, he
pulls out a large polythene bag from Food Bazaar, and puts the abominable
pieces of cloth in it. He stops for a moment, trying to think of the best way
to get rid of them. Then suddenly he remembers something. He has to get them
ALL. Or this will make no sense. Dropping the bag on the floor he takes a deep
breath. A sense of calm spreads within him. He walks up to the bedroom and
reaches for the door.
