Padma almost tripped as she caught the bus. Damn, it is that half broken toe-nail, she thought in frustration. I forgot to cut it once again. The bus is almost full - wait though, the last seat in the back row is empty.

She squeezed past an ample lady in a Punjabi dress and an old man seemingly asleep with his head nodding on the oily vinyl seat. Even with the normal traffic, it would be an hour before she reached Nariman Point. A full hour of being off her tired feet! Oh what Bliss.

Last night had been a real killer. Appa had been coughing his lungs out almost the whole night. When he was not coughing, he was muttering non-stop to himself. Padma was never sure whether he was actually muttering to himself or at her. Muttering was infinitely better , than those bursts of shouting though, loud enough for the neighbours to hear every word clearly.

’Who would have thought that I, Appasaheb Joshi, would have to rely on a strangers’ daughter in my old age? What respect I had from each and everyone! No nonsense for me, Thank you Sir. The Boss himself respected me. ’You are one of the finest,’ he would say. And look at me now, what paap did I commit that I have to rely on this sullen girl’?

The sullen girl walked around wordlessly, re-arranging the pillows behind the old man’s back, clearing away the kidney tray, mechanically noting that once again there seemed to be flecks of fresh blood in it. One more visit to Dr Padhye, she thought.

In the corner of the room lay her mother in law. Radhabai was in reasonably good health, but her mind had taken to wandering even further than her husband. From time to time, a girlish laugh would escape her, startling anyone who happened to hear it. A strange and spooky sound out of a mouth-full of crooked teeth, and dried up lips with dried crust of saliva bracketing it.

A sigh would escape Padma as she curled up on her bed. Oh God, please let him fall asleep now, don’t let him start gagging again, so I have to rush in with the tray and a warm up some water for him. What was the last time I slept through a full night without having to get up at least a few times?

At her bank, there were young women like herself, who also complained about not having had a good night’s sleep. However, their reasons were far different than hers. Many of the younger set mock-complained that their new husbands didn’t allow them much sleep. The ’nail-polish, new sari every month set’, Padma thought of them. They giggled in a corner, mouths whispering tales of amorous nights, at times showing off their love-bites, the purple-red bruise marks made by greedy, sucking lips.

After the bank hours were over, the new husbands would come to collect them. Padma would see them going off, hand in hand, for the mandatory walk along the sea-side promenade at Chowpatty, where presumably they would eat the bhelpuri and kulfi, before heading off to their homes and families.

Padma’s older colleagues would also complain in mock frustration about not having a full night’s sleep. The culprits here though, were the children, fretful from teething, fevers or just plain old nightmares. Every story would be met by knowing nods and a ready reckoner of remedies from the other older ladies, ranging from jadi-booties to homeopathic pills.

Padma would just bend over her keyboard and try to block out the ongoing talk around her. Why, oh why did she have to have a different life? The endless lines of numbers on the screen would wobble in front through her eyes brimming with tears of exhaustion and as always, the feeling of being left out.

Why can’t I have a husband who just works round the corner and who comes to collect me in the evenings? Why can’t I be like these young girls, who steps out with my husband, putting the fresh gajra in my hair while others looked on in shared understanding? And when would I ever have a child of my own, a little girl maybe, to dress up in pink frilly frocks and pass around photographs of?

Padma’s father had been a mill worker, which means that for twenty years of his life, he had been jobless. She had to start working soon after finishing school. Those days the banks were accepting non-graduates and she got through the entrance exam. A few years later, her only brother ran away to marry a Muslim girl and the household seemed to crumble further. Years passed on and her father died ..maybe choked by the lung-full of cotton fibre or maybe finally giving up on a dry, hopeless life. Mother, not too healthy to start with, didn’t make it for too long afterwards. Padma was suddenly all alone in the world, with nothing much to her account but a steady job, to which she clung tenaciously and the one room in the chawl that she was born in.

She was almost thirty when some far off aunt suddenly came with the marriage proposal.

’Prashant Joshi, Working in the Gulf for a handsome salary’, said the aunt, plump body puffed even further by the importance of her mission. Her tongue flickered as she chewed on the biscuits Padma served her along with the tea.

Padma felt a sudden thrill at the prospect. Could she actually get married? For quite a while now, she was quite resigned to being a spinster all her life. After all, what did she have going for her? She was not particularly pretty, neither did she have an attractive dowry. That, combined with the lack of parents who generally do the needful, scouring around for a suitable match, her dreams of getting married had faded.

And then suddenly today there was Shaku aunty, dipping the biscuits in the tea-cup and finally finishing off the tea with loud slurps.

’So when shall we organise a meeting? I have to give a date and time to the Joshis this week.’

Padma made a pretence of looking at the calendar - the coming Saturday?

Shaku Aunty looked satisfied with the day.

’And where shall I say we are meeting? I would have organised everything at my house. But you know how it is with your Uncle’s health these days....... Why don’t we go out somewhere?’

Out came a handkerchief from the bulging blouse to mop up the remaining stray crumbs. Padma looked on fascinated.

‘ My neighbour, Mrs Sathe was saying that new Sukhsagar has nice airconditioned family room. I think that the place is quite lucky too!” Here Aunty’s voice lowered conspiratorially.

“ The Sathes arranged a programme for their daughter there, and she was accepted by her in- laws right away. And I hear that they serve an excellent Chhole Bhature too’.

Out came the pink tongue again, licking at the imaginary chhole bhature in anticipation.

So that’s how Padma came face to face with Prashant Joshi, working in the Gulf for a handsome salary. Both looked at each other and looked away quickly, staring being considered an unwelcome activity on such ’occasions’. Prashant looked decent enough, if not exactly an adonis.

’Who am I to say anything’, thought Padma, ’I am no Miss India myself’. Prashant’s job did not allow a ’spouse’ to join him in the Gulf, so Padma would have stay back in Mumbai. Moreover, his parents needed someone to look after them - he explained.

’Nothing much’, he hastened to assure as her face clouded over a bit, ’Just that my father suffers from a bad cough’.

’And mother’? Asked a daring Padma looking into his eyes for a brief moment. ’Mother.....’ Prashant hesitated, ’She is okay...... just a bit tired that’s all’.

Padma went to visit Prashant’s house and met his parents. As she bent down to touch the feet of her father-in-law to be, he patted her head absent mindedly and muttered something. Padma took it to be a blessing of sorts. The ma-in-law to be sat in a chair far too small for her bulky body and giggled as Padma bent to touch her feet.

’I also have a yellow sari’, she crooned, fingering the folds of Padma’s sari, ’but it has a red border’. Shaku aunty bustled around importantly, flesh jowl quivering in self congratulations - after all, but for her, these two poor young people would never have met!

Prashant suggested that Padma give up her small rented home to save the money. Joint accounts were opened and Padma came to live in the Joshi household after the marriage. A brief honeymoon to Mahabaleshwar was planned before Prashant would leave again for Kuwait.

The hotel-room, which had promised a vista of a valley below turned out to be a poky one with grubby pink curtains on the window. After taking a brief peek outside, they decided that the curtains were better left in place. The valley was a raw red gash in the side of the hill, littered liberally with plastic refuse. The promised garden was a concreted over surface with about a dozen potted plants.

And on going to bed, Padma discovered that if the first intercourse was not as painful as she was led to believe, then neither was the pleasure anything to go into raptures over. It was all kind of - okay. Fumbling in the pink gloom, Padma discovered that sex was nowhere as exciting as it was touted out to be. From half closed eyelids she saw Prashant’s face contorting as if in pain before he gasped aloud and a warm gush filled her. Afterwards he did seem to be in a happier mood, humming to himself as they went boating. During the days, they rode horses and handed their ’khatak’ camera to other honeymooning couples for pictures. In the nights, there were more clumsy couplings.

Like the other millions of his fellow country-men, it did not even occur to him to check whether his wife had felt any pleasure.

Back to Mumbai and Prashant left for the Gulf. The only reminder of their honeymoon was the photo, Prashant standing with his arm around Padma, who looked sheepish to the point of guilty, wearing un-accustomed attire of a straw hat and a T shirt borrowed from Prashant.

Soon after his leaving, the ’helper’ that he had employed to look after his parents left too. There was a brief spell of utter panic. No way, she could look after Prashant’s parents, she had a job! Thankfully, another helper was found, but she could work only during the days.

’I have to leave your house latest by six pm’, she warned Padma. ’Don’t go out for parties and cinemas and expect me to stay the night here, I am telling you. I have to reach Dombivali by 8’, she warned.

’What Parties’? Padma wondered. In the corner the ma-in-law laughed and fingered the mogra gajra that she had managed to pin to the scanty hair.

Days stretched into weeks and weeks into months. Prashant would call every Thursday night. The talk was the same - how were the parents, and her bank? He was fine, the Kuwaiti boss had fired a Bangla Deshi colleague and no, it would still be at least a year more before Padma could join him. In the meantime though, he would try to see whether he could take her over for a holiday of a week or so. The photo from Mahabaleshwar gathered dust behind bottles of cough syrups and coconut hair oil (scented).

Padma got into the routine of living her ’married’ life. Get up, cook a lunch for Appa and Ma, pack her tiffin, get ready and wait for Mrs Ratna to come so that she could leave for her job. After that, a brisk walk to the bus stop and hope that she got a place to sit. A place to sit, so that she could try to supplement the meagre night’s sleep by an hour’s nap.

Today, she was so tired that she dozed off almost as soon as she tucked away the bus ticket under her watch strap. She didn’t even wake up when the fat lady got up and lumbered down at her stop. Her head rolled this way and that and a soft snore came from her half open mouth. Towards Worli, the bus came to a grumbling halt.

Traffic jam - a collective sight went through the bus. The passengers who had found a place to sit looked irritated and triumphant at the same time. ’We may be stuck’, they thought, ’but we at least have a place to sit’, they seemed to thank their stars and gloat at the others. The others, who were standing in the aisles, clutching sweaty leather straps just wobbled and looked pained. How long before the bus would start moving again?

It got increasingly hot and muggy in the stationary Bus. Padma’s tired mind slowly registered that they were at a standstill. She kept her eyes closed, hoping to go back to sleep again. She heard a fly buzzing around uneasily in the damp heat and felt a few drops of sweat popping up on her forehead. If I sit still and don’t open my eyes, I will drift off again..

Before she could doze off agin though, she felt something - there was something touching her right breast.

What is it, she wondered, her eyes still closed. ’Feels like an elbow’ - the answer came up in her mind. ’Maybe the owner of the elbow doesn’t know it is there’, she thought. Just then, there was a subtle increase in the pressure of the elbow. Not only that, but the elbow, emboldened by the lack of resistance, crept on till it covered a larger portion of the breast.

Padma’s eyelids fluttered. Living in big city all her life, travelling by public transport all her life, she has had her share of elbows and knees which ’accidentally’ brush against breasts and veer towards crotches. But this one is different - she concludes. This one is gentle, not greedy and she is loathe to open her eyes and shake away the elbow. The pressure of the elbow is steady, and to Padma, welcome. A small flame of fire seems to leap from the elbow into her breast and spreads slowly through her body. A warmth suffused her body and her eyelids became heavy under the spell of the unfamiliar sensation. Her heart started to beat faster with irregular beats and her nipples stiffened into almost painful hard points.

The left breast protested being left out and she felt like grabbing the other hand and placing it on that. No, she feels like grabbing the whole body of this.... this man and try and intensify the waves of pleasure starting up in her body.

Just then the vehicles in the front seemed to move on a bit and Padma lurches towards the right, settling even more firmly against the intruding elbow, half by the movement of the bus and half on the demand from her own body. The elbow, sensing the eagerness of the breast, now hesitates - is she awake?

A minute later, it knows the answer. For Padma, dull old Padma, married, but not really, rearranges her capacious, sensible handbag so that now the bag covers both her breast and the elbow. Behind the large, cheap vinyl bag, shielded from the public gaze, is the secret place - just for the elbow and the breast.

The elbow pauses, could this be right, that she is enjoying this as much as I am? Mr Elbow then crosses his arms on his chest so that the right hand now joins the left elbow in claiming Padma’s right breast. This would be the crucial point.

A tentative thumb, shielded now from the public eye, brushes gently against the heavy under-curve of the breast and Padma almost cries out her pleasure. Her breathing is shallow and in her agitation, her chest heaves up and down, increasing its allure to the elbow.

The right thumb becomes even more bold - it circles the warm weight of the breast before coming to a stop near the taut nipple. Padma has to bite her lower lip in an effort to remain in her seat, ’asleep’. Suddenly, there is an increased din from the outside as the bottle-neck of traffic starts to open up. With a geriatric whoosh, the bus lurches into motion.

Behind the handbag, the thumb gently squeezes Padma’s nipple. Somewhere deep within a body, some muscles she didn’t know she possessed, turn to liquid fire. It needs a herculean effort from Padma to stop herself from grabbing the hand and pressing it even closer to herself. Suddenly she knows how people can inflict the purple-blue bruises on each other.

The thumb kept on the gentle caressing and time became irrelevant, as did all the worries and thoughts from Padma’s mind. The very core of her mind seemed to have been poured into the little area that the hand was caressing.

Gone were the thoughts of writing to Prashant, taking Appa for his check-up. It was as if nothing else existed in the world but the elbow and the thumb and the amazing clamour of reactions in her body.

The bus took a sharp turn and a salty, briny smell of the sea rushes into the bus on a light breeze. Marine Drive, Padma’s mind registers groggily. At once she felt a different sensation from the thumb. The pressure of the thumb diminishes and the hand withdraws slowly ... till after a gentle farewell tap, it is gone completely. Behind the capacious bag, now there is a yawning space, left empty by the withdrawal of the hand.

The vinyl seat sighs a gentle raspberry as the owner of the elbow gets up. Padma’s whole body wants to protest - don’t go, oh please don’t go!

Slowly the outside world creeps into her consciousness once again. The conductor shouting at some school kids jostling one another, flirtatious young girls getting in at the Girls’ hostel. The bus reached the last stop and Padma still sat on her seat, eyes clenched shut, loathe to get up.

In a minute, the bus empties and people hurry down, hurrying about, their minds already on the day ahead. The irate conductor noticed Padma, still sitting with her eyes closed and shouts rudely, ‘Aho Baai, get up, you think this is your bedroom or what?’.

Finally she opened her eyes and got down from the bus. Soon she was a part of the jostling, chattering crowd that swept her along.

Nobody would have given her a second glance - apart from the slight tremor in her knees, a faster pulse and a huge hole in her heart, she was fine. She was just another woman, going about her daily routine.


~*~