She still caught her breath when he walked by. To her utter and everlasting shame, when he trailed a finger down her bare arm after dinner as they tried to locate the full moon from her bedroom balcony one night, she had scooted away without any noticeable grace. It had been instinctive. She had also—she tried never to remember this—made a funny illiterate sound deep in her throat, like a hunted animal that got its foot out of a snare in time.
Thankfully, he seemed to have forgotten the incident by breakfast the next day, where she met him with the same wifely concern she had unfailingly evinced from day one. She served him his breakfast and gave him piping hot tea. She smiled and made small talk till her throat hurt. He treated her with his customary indifference, cutting into her chatter with unrelated instructions. When he left she collapsed in her bed. Why was she not a seductress like those seductresses in the books she read in secret? Those fluttery women whose exposed backs are kissed by men.
She got up and took out the satin slip from her trousseau trunk. She shook it open and held it against her, letting the fabric flow to her knees. She moved towards the mirror on dainty tiptoe, swaying her hips like she imagined a femme fatale would. The woman in the mirror with tilted chin and puffed mouth was too ridiculous to be borne; falling to the floor in giggle fits, she forgot all about her husband.
She thought then they had all the time in the world. That one fine day he would take off his daily everyday ‘husband’ mask and turn to her ardently with ‘now, tell me everything about you’. That day he would fall irrevocably in love with her because everyone always loved her forever. And then. And then all the other mysterious stuff would follow—what books said happened only in beds.
For now she knew that she would always, always shiver at the first sight of moon at night, with its oily practiced stillness and simple round face.
*****
During one of his many travels away from home, she was invited to a beautiful party, a party everyone was going to. Her husband would have wanted her to go, she told herself, and wrapped herself in tinsel yet again. She liked that ordinary people seemed to light up when she spoke to them. Her kindness she exercised like a weapon. It gave her the luxury of actually doing nothing; she only watched as whole adults unspooled just because she listened, murmured softly, paid attention. Lovely to meet you, they said; lovely to be met, she said. An admirer once told her, ‘You have such an open way of meeting eyes.’
She arrived fashionably late at the party, and joined a group of men who fell silent as she approached. She soon had them all roaring with laughter, and was about to move away when one of the men, someone who worked with her husband, turned towards her in such a way that the rest of the group was excluded.
‘And, my dear, how do you find marriage to be?’
She laughed delightedly. With a light hand on his arm, she leaned in to confide, ‘Like I am a farmer growing rapture on my land.’
For a split second, just before the man laughed back, she spied a look. With spite in it and malice.
‘What is it?’ A shot in the dark, but disconcerting how quickly her tone changed to a tight knot. The man before her felt as if his neck was in a noose, as if he had to tell her everything he knew or bleed from the nose.
He just about managed to scoff, as if joking, ‘Tell that husband of yours to behave more married, that’s all.’ And Nena smiled stiffly, aware of his misstep.
Discreet enquiries soon yielded results. A love triangle; two business partners and the woman who ran the staff kitchen. Her husband, she was told in measured whispers, one of the two suitors.
She almost laughed. How clichéd! How entirely expected! She could forgive anything but doing the done. A rival of stunning looks, of legendary wit, of such enormous reading that each word of hers a book in itself, she could just about take—but this? Sounded paltry, like armed robbers making off with an empty jewellery case, leaving the necklace behind.
Those were the days women seldom worked. If they did, they were considered fair game. In connected matters, like elopement or a love child, there would be no support ever—not social, not legal, not familial. The woman was said to have won only if she could manage to convince her paramour to leave everything and everyone he knew behind and set up home with her in exile, and then too she would have to watch him with bated breath for signs of further straying. What the other woman fears most is other women; having won a man with wiles, male idiocy is a scientific fact to her.
After that party her thoughts grew noisy, pebbles in a tin dragged on rocks. It was not like she feared being left, or neglected, or done out of her share of real estate. The house she lived in was huge, filled with the prettiest of things, and belonged entirely to her, deeds and all. Her father had stipulated that much, since it was made with his money and came to her in dowry. Any husband who shared it with her, incidental.
She had no clear idea what to do with the information that had fallen into her lap; in her heart she could not believe it. The way she saw it, she was an unparalleled beauty (too many people said this to her with annoying regularity), had a head jam-packed with wisdom (she knew what anyone was going to say long before they did and it took all her effort to patiently wait for them to find their fullstops), and, well, she had this house, didn’t she? She thought, she really did, that fidelity to her was a cakewalk.
***
Extracted from Can’t: A Novel by Shinie Antony. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2024.
She still caught her breath when he walked by. To her utter and everlasting shame, when he trailed a finger down her bare arm after dinner as they tried to locate the full moon from her bedroom balcony one night, she had scooted away without any noticeable grace. It had been instinctive. She had also—she tried never to remember this—made a funny illiterate sound deep in her throat, like a hunted animal that got its foot out of a snare in time.
Thankfully, he seemed to have forgotten the incident by breakfast the next day, where she met him with the same wifely concern she had unfailingly evinced from day one. She served him his breakfast and gave him piping hot tea. She smiled and made small talk till her throat hurt. He treated her with his customary indifference, cutting into her chatter with unrelated instructions. When he left she collapsed in her bed. Why was she not a seductress like those seductresses in the books she read in secret? Those fluttery women whose exposed backs are kissed by men.
She got up and took out the satin slip from her trousseau trunk. She shook it open and held it against her, letting the fabric flow to her knees. She moved towards the mirror on dainty tiptoe, swaying her hips like she imagined a femme fatale would. The woman in the mirror with tilted chin and puffed mouth was too ridiculous to be borne; falling to the floor in giggle fits, she forgot all about her husband.
She thought then they had all the time in the world. That one fine day he would take off his daily everyday ‘husband’ mask and turn to her ardently with ‘now, tell me everything about you’. That day he would fall irrevocably in love with her because everyone always loved her forever. And then. And then all the other mysterious stuff would follow—what books said happened only in beds.
For now she knew that she would always, always shiver at the first sight of moon at night, with its oily practiced stillness and simple round face.
*****
During one of his many travels away from home, she was invited to a beautiful party, a party everyone was going to. Her husband would have wanted her to go, she told herself, and wrapped herself in tinsel yet again. She liked that ordinary people seemed to light up when she spoke to them. Her kindness she exercised like a weapon. It gave her the luxury of actually doing nothing; she only watched as whole adults unspooled just because she listened, murmured softly, paid attention. Lovely to meet you, they said; lovely to be met, she said. An admirer once told her, ‘You have such an open way of meeting eyes.’
She arrived fashionably late at the party, and joined a group of men who fell silent as she approached. She soon had them all roaring with laughter, and was about to move away when one of the men, someone who worked with her husband, turned towards her in such a way that the rest of the group was excluded.
‘And, my dear, how do you find marriage to be?’
She laughed delightedly. With a light hand on his arm, she leaned in to confide, ‘Like I am a farmer growing rapture on my land.’
For a split second, just before the man laughed back, she spied a look. With spite in it and malice.
‘What is it?’ A shot in the dark, but disconcerting how quickly her tone changed to a tight knot. The man before her felt as if his neck was in a noose, as if he had to tell her everything he knew or bleed from the nose.
He just about managed to scoff, as if joking, ‘Tell that husband of yours to behave more married, that’s all.’ And Nena smiled stiffly, aware of his misstep.
Discreet enquiries soon yielded results. A love triangle; two business partners and the woman who ran the staff kitchen. Her husband, she was told in measured whispers, one of the two suitors.
She almost laughed. How clichéd! How entirely expected! She could forgive anything but doing the done. A rival of stunning looks, of legendary wit, of such enormous reading that each word of hers a book in itself, she could just about take—but this? Sounded paltry, like armed robbers making off with an empty jewellery case, leaving the necklace behind.
Those were the days women seldom worked. If they did, they were considered fair game. In connected matters, like elopement or a love child, there would be no support ever—not social, not legal, not familial. The woman was said to have won only if she could manage to convince her paramour to leave everything and everyone he knew behind and set up home with her in exile, and then too she would have to watch him with bated breath for signs of further straying. What the other woman fears most is other women; having won a man with wiles, male idiocy is a scientific fact to her.
After that party her thoughts grew noisy, pebbles in a tin dragged on rocks. It was not like she feared being left, or neglected, or done out of her share of real estate. The house she lived in was huge, filled with the prettiest of things, and belonged entirely to her, deeds and all. Her father had stipulated that much, since it was made with his money and came to her in dowry. Any husband who shared it with her, incidental.
She had no clear idea what to do with the information that had fallen into her lap; in her heart she could not believe it. The way she saw it, she was an unparalleled beauty (too many people said this to her with annoying regularity), had a head jam-packed with wisdom (she knew what anyone was going to say long before they did and it took all her effort to patiently wait for them to find their fullstops), and, well, she had this house, didn’t she? She thought, she really did, that fidelity to her was a cakewalk.
***
Extracted from Can’t: A Novel by Shinie Antony. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2024.