And he fretted. She was making a martyr of herself. She had put everything that mattered to her on the back burner and was trying to become Baishali. She had left behind her lover, her job and her ambitions.

“You are never ever to do THAT again,” his mind wandered to a day soon after his wedding. Piyali was visiting and they had just finished a game of chess.

“Do what?”

“Let me win.”

“Arr… That’s a tall order, Piyali. How can I win every game? I am no Vishwanathan Anand!”

“Don’t pretend ignorance. You let me win deliberately.”

He had mounted a feeble protest, but had to accept his doing, when she questioned him move by move.

“Guilty as charged,” he had thrown his hands up dramatically.

“The whole point of playing against you is that I can improve.”

He had discovered a respect for the fifteen-year old then that had only increased with time. Even if she was childish at times.

“Yes, yes. People shouldn’t have to die in an ideal world. But what is the solution to Pakistan? What is the identity of that country except a hatred for India? If they become good, they lose their identity. There is no option, but to crush them, to wipe them out.”

“When has crushing anyone ever led to peace, my little lady? First they tried to crush Jews, now Jews are trying to crush Palestinians, and it just goes on and on.”

“Not if one side is really wiped out.”

“How will you wipe out entire Pakistan? Even if you dropped an atom bomb on their territory, will you go to Turkey, to every European country, to US, to middle east to find and kill every Pakistani living there?”

“You are taking me literally. What needs to be done is to give them a crushing defeat, and annex the country. They had their rebellious years; now it is the time to come back to their parents’ fold.”

“If only things were that simple.”

“What is complicated about it?”

“Give yourself a few more years, Kiddo. You would know what complications are all about. Not only with Pakistan, but entire world, even our little lives.”

“Thus waxed eloquent Prof. Mukundo Thakur, forgetting that he teaches Psychology, not Philosophy. Anyway, you want some tea? I could use a cup.”

“Sure!”

“I’ll make it,” Baishali had gotten up, “I am more in need of tea to rouse myself after listening to you two defending you political science Ph. D. thesis for hours now. You can continue.”

“She hates me,” Piyali had whispered conspiratorially, “But she doesn’t realize what favour I am doing her. If I weren’t there to discuss Pakistan with you, wouldn’t you eat her head up back home?”

“Undeniably!”

Baishali had tried to play the mother at times. “Great that you can make tea, but that really isn’t enough to feed yourself. Even if you aren’t going to go into a huge joint family, you should at least be able to cook for two people.”

“I will earn enough to employ a cook, Didi, even if my husband is a miser. And don’t worry, I will find a husband who isn’t fussy about food.”

“A nice matrimonial ad it will make – husband wanted, shouldn’t be a miser and shouldn’t want to eat anything decent at home.”

“Let her be, Baishali,” Mukundo would intervene.

“You spoil her most of all. Baba is no help either, but at least he doesn’t stop me from drilling some sense into her.”

“You’d do better to accept that she is different from you and she’d live her life differently.”

“Everybody has to eat!” Baishali had whined and Mukundo and Piyali had grinned.

And now, she was trying to become Baishali. He needed to grow some guts and put an end to this. They were his children. He had to figure out how to bring them up. It wasn’t Piyali’s fault that her sister was dead, nor was his home her responsibility.

—

She fed Sumedha and wondered what to do until dawn. Sleep had eluded her that night. There was no point going back to bed and tossing and turning some more. She sat staring at his face for a long time. It was one thing to admire him as a mentor, a friend, family member and not even think of being romantically involved with him. It was another to be his wife, to be so near and still not being able to love him. Durga Ma was failing her. She was unable to do anything to win his heart and she was unable to bear his indifference. And she was this close to falling into depression.

She needed to hold on to something, else she would lose her bearings soon. Looking at him she knew what it could be. She climbed out of the bed, washed her face and tip-toed out of the room.

The music room was separate from the main house; so she was assured she wouldn’t disturb others with her early morning practice.

She didn’t realize when the darkness faded and sun came up blazing in the sky. After hours of vilambit, she took up drut with

“More piya, ajahun na aaye
Kaise bitaun kaari ratiyaan.”

(My beloved didn’t show up even today. How am I to spend these dark nights?)

That’s when Mukundo couldn’t remain standing at the door listening; he stormed in.

“Who was he, Piyali? What’s his name?”

She went so limp that tanpura would have fallen from her grip if he hadn’t caught it. With her sitting on the floor and him standing, he towered over her fearfully. Her throat turned dry as desert sand. She could not force a single syllable out of it. Not even a startled cry.

He kneeled, but his height still overwhelmed her.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why this misery?”

She felt a sudden chill penetrating her bones and started shaking involuntarily.

“You are… You are shaking. You are scared of me? Piyali! Piyali!”

“You are not well. You have been practising for hours. Let’s put you to bed…” His fury had disappeared. His voice was soft and assuring, like speaking to a scared child. He pulled her up, but felt her entire weight in his arms. She had passed out.

“What have I done?”

—

To be continued