Draupadi
Razia Khan
Published by: Bangla Academy, Dhaka-1000
First Edition: May 1998
Noyon
brought me to her drawing room. I had never expected
that my presence would create much excitement in the
apparently happy life of someone I had worshipped
silently over the past two decades. I felt neither
despair nor any exhilaration. There had been some
comfort in loving her from a distance. I wondered at the
way I sat calmly so close to the person who used to stop
my breath, freeze my speech. It seemed I was watching,
not Noyon, but my own bygone youth, on a cinema screen.
It looked unreal. The tall woman drawing the olive green
curtains aside, used to occupy the major portion of my
thoughts those days.
: Please make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a
minute.
During those days whenever we met I was filled with
great trepidation. To think I was lolling coolly on her
white sofa, with the grave of that love within my heart!
A search of that region would now only reveal a dry,
tearless grey desert. Contact with women, frequent
loveless intercourse had hardened me into emotion - less
concrete. Yet Noyon, after so many years of marriage,
still looked like a fresh flower-bud. The freshness of
Bengali women who have borne children has a tranquil
restful quality. Noyon seemed to have gauged my thoughts
with her sixth sense. She said as she sat down beside
me;
: This visit to Lahore gave me a strange feeling; as if
I was going there for the last time.
: I knew you were psychic but why entertain such unholy
premonitions?
I deliberately used my West Bengali style of speaking to
tease her. Mihir and Noyon used to constantly pull my
leg over this at the university.
: No, seriously, the political atmosphere there seemed
very stormy. Some members of the People's Party were
after me to meet Bhutto. To avoid them I stayed in my
hotel-room after the conference on the plea of a
headache.
: Why should you hobnob with politicians - you had gone
to a Writers' Guild Conference.
She was startled by the softness of my voice. To woo her
I would use this tone in the past. The habit had
persisted although I had no ulterior motive.
: What have I said now, to annoy you?
: Your voice reminded me of my childhood - adolescence,
my parents' house. It was like a forgotten song. Well,
to come back to what I was saying…
She fell into a silence, ruminating with a dreamy haze
in her eyes. Noyon's two-year old son rushed into the
room, jumping into her mother's lap and breaking the
spell. Playwright, brilliant debator, radio and
stage-actress Nazneen Rahman whose life even now seemed
full, should not have been moved by the tenderness in my
voice. Was it possible that she lacked love and
affection? I was shocked. Noyon's maid entered with a
tray of fruits. Light-complexioned like a European, the
woman wore a gorgeous sari. Her eyes betrayed a certain
cunning. No one could imagine more welcome snacks on a
summer afternoon, pieces of milk white keshor, (white
sweet potatoes, eaten uncooked) and round, succulent
leechies. I smiled and complimented the hostess;
: Very original!
Touched by my tribute Noyon turned to me with a strange
look in her eyes. Then she suddenly withdrew within
herself, concealing her loneliness. She gave the child
to the maid saying: The fruits are from the garden. We
got this house at a bargain price.
: You've done it up beautifully. I had no idea, there
was a pretty locality called Monipuripara here. Tell me
more about your Lahore trip.
: Last year, the Writers' Guild met at Karachi where I
met Bhutto's disciple Ahmed Kaiser. Her has a golden
voice but has left singing for politics. He sang such
enchanting ghazals (verses put to melody)! When you came
I was reminded of something Kaiser told me. I have no
idea as to why he should have chosen me to narrate his
first experience with a woman! To be more precise what
he described was the aftermath of that experience. In
the morning he felt a wave of disgust and repulsion. He
was in a hurry to run away from the woman he had slept
with. You are going through-
Her unfinished words made me flinch. She had put her
finger on my malaise. My peculiar aversion to the female
physique was something that I never talked about. How
did Noyon sense it? All these years she had been so
distant. Now she was drawing closer to me with quickened
steps. Nor did she seem annoyed by this untimely visit.
I stifled a sigh and said;
: Let's not talk about me. Are you all right?
: I have put on chains on both feet.
: Marriage would seem a bit like that.
: A bit? Entirely, absolutely!
I did not find it in good taste to continue this
subject. There was a ring of unexpressed pain in her
voice. She said again;
: There was a terrible row over my trip to Lahore. I was
accused of seeking fame, neglecting my soon…. She
stopped realizing the tone of complaint might lower her
in my eyes. I rose to go.
: Please stay. I'll run upstairs for a minute.
Noyon's drawing-room was divided by two colour-schemes;
olive and white. The carpets, walls, light-shades, all
matched. Mauve clusters of Parul blossoms peeped through
the windows. The entire room emitted cosmopolitan taste;
there was no jarring element, present like a fridge or
family photographs. On entering the place a visitor
would normally conclude that the couple who owned it,
lived in perfect harmony and happiness. Perhaps that is
how things were. Had I not carried the carcass of a
bygone love in my heart, that possibility might have
aroused my envy. But as it happened, the picture of
Noyon's married happiness did not produce any regrets in
my soul. I felt only goodwill and a great wave of
tenderness for her - the kind that is given to people
younger than oneself. Those innocent lips and eyes that
I had adored day and night, in my dreams and waking
hours - if they were to come close now I would be
revolted. I might even be capable of insulting Noyon
with cold withdrawal.
Noyon seemed quite taken up with this Ahmed Kaiser. It
would hardly make any difference to me now even if she
had been in love with him. During the time when I loved
her intensely I only wanted what was best for her. I
wanted her to realize herself completely. It was strange
the way my ennui and desirelessness had turned me so
paternal towards her. We were of the same age.
I had heard Ahmed's speech when he came to London with
Zulfiquar Ali Bhutto. They put up at Claridge's. I went
to see them with a Pakistani journalist friend. With all
his good looks and energy Ahmed had seemed a bit dim
beside Butto's sharp and brilliant presence; at least
that was my impression. Bhutto had extraordinary mastery
over the English language although his accent was faulty
and voice cracked. Ahmed had the more polished voice. On
returning to my room in London I had again considered
these two men. Ahmed seemed more honest and Bhutto the
master of manipulation. His towering ambition and sharp
intelligence would perhaps use the simple,
impressionable young man to his own advantage, only to
discard him like the unwanted rind of a coconut. My
journalist friend Asrar was also of the same opinion.
The two popular Urdu newspapers the Jung and The Daily
Hurriet were open on the table. I was startled by the
blown-up portraits of Noyon in them.
: Do you know the lady? Asrar asked, adding: the
daughter of Sir Sadruddin Mirza.
As I had no Urdu I could not read the stories about
Noyon. What I gathered from Ahmed was that Noyon had
come to attend the Writers' Guild conference. She had
charmed the Karachites with her innocence and clear
English. The stories were about her personality and
writings. Later Asrar informed me that it was Ahmed
kaiser who had projected Noyon in the Urdu newspapers.
They might have wanted to use the image of Sir
Sadruddin's daughter for political purposes. Sir
Sadruddin along with other leaders had fought for
Pakistan. On hearing this I laughed and said to Asrar in
English: what I know of Noyon, tells me politics is
never going to be her cup of tea - she is straight like
a eucalyptus. Asrar, another genuine admirer of Noyon,
used to visit Sir Sadruddin's residence in Lahore. I had
seen Noyon receiving two volumes of Anna Karenina,
gold-lettered and bound in Morocco, sent to her by post
from Asrar on her 21st birthday.
Noyon came down in a white cotton sari with a thin black
border, wound carelessly around her body. She had worn a
printed sari when she went upstairs. Her hair was wet
from a recent bath. For a moment that freshly washed
face without make-up seemed as dear as ever. The bath
had obviously improved her spirits. She said, her face
lighting up with a smile: Good, you are here.
The old teasing tone of our university days had crept
into her words.
: Tell you what - I used to feel like an orphan with you
and Mihir away. I am such a misfit in Arif's
business-circle. I am not myself anymore ; all this
furore about trade and commerce! Ugh! I feel totally
eclipsed.
: Is that possible?
: What do you mean?
: You used to shine all the time! However much we tried
we found it impossible to eclipse you! Arif is spoken
of, as a very harmless person!
: Indeed!
Her smile was full of sarcasm. I took a piece of the
cool white fruits, chewed it and got up. Noyon said in
her old, demanding tone: Come and have lunch here on
Sunday.
: Isn't that supposed to be a family day? Why me on that
day!
: I wouldn't hear of any lame excuses. You are coming. I
haven't had a good chat with you for ages. On top of
that I left you for a bath. Why are you in such a hurry?
I could not find a suitable answer to this. Although I
gave no definite promise about Sunday. I did not want to
eliminate the possibility of that visit, either, from
Noyon's. I went straight to the Registrar's office. A
new flat in Fuller Road had been allotted to me. I had
come to get the key to this. Everybody here was
familiar. They had seen me graduate, go abroad and then
join the university as a teacher. The Chief Engineer was
good enough to offer me a cup of lemon-tea. In front of
our block were a couple of Palash trees in full blossom.
At the back was a great Shireesh tree with its branches
and leaves constantly dancing in the breeze. The British
Council and my former hostel, Sir Salimullah Hall were
close by.
Mihir's servant, Kadom, who practically raised him, had
arrived from the village to take charge of me at his
master's behest. He squatted in front of my flat, dozing
and mumbling curses at me for not turning up earlier. I
gave him the keys and declared: From now on you are the
master of this place..
