Two Women, and Then Another Two!

by Anupama Krishnakumar

[box]Savithri moves into a new apartment and soon, her neighbours, Mrs. Bose and Mrs. Iyer have lots to talk about. How do women perceive women? Do they really understand that the needs and ideas of one woman could be different from another? Anupama Krishnakumar explores this perspective through a short story.[/box]

When Savithri had first moved into the apartment, where she was living now, Mrs.Bose, who lived in the opposite flat, had scanned her, much to Savithri’s irritation, from top to bottom. She had barged into the house, bursting with nasty curiosity, the very day Savithri had moved in, and asked all about her. Introducing herself as Mrs. Bose, the lady had pointed to the opposite flat and said she lived there with her family. Savithri guessed Mrs.Bose would be perhaps in her late-40s – a typical homemaker, with cooking, tear-jerker soaps and family being the only three items to be ticked off with a sigh of complete satisfaction in her daily existence. Attend to these and your day’s karma is done.

‘Not married?’ Mrs. Bose had posed the obvious question. The 35-year-old Savithri had worn a forced smile on her radiant face that moment and mentioned – ‘Divorced’. Mrs. Bose had grown pale and even shivered visibly as if she was having an attack. But what amused Savithri even more, in retrospect, was that the lady’s curiosity had not subsided yet – she had indeed deftly warded off any further signs of panic attack and effortlessly dropped the next question like jamuns into sugar syrup – ‘Children?’ ‘None.’ Mrs. Bose had rolled her eyes and left, and like Savithri thought, with the response weighing heavily on her chest – rock heavy. The word ‘Sinner’ had boomed and echoed through the insides of the not-so-friendly neighbour, who hadn’t even offered anything by way of courtesy.

The apartment which was part of a society that had eight such flats had yet another interesting occupant. The day following her brief interaction with Mrs. Bose, Savithri was climbing the stairs after getting back from work. Mrs. Iyer (and Savithri figured out her name thanks to the name plate), who lived downstairs, and another woman, had given her menacingly piercing looks, enough to burn down a mortal to mere ashes, well, in poetic terms. And what’s more – they had talked in such hushed tones. The gossip mills had already started working. Savithri of course hadn’t cared a damn and still didn’t. A week later, Savithri had found out that two of the eight flats were locked for whatever reasons, two more housed two young couples who lived in their own worlds and in the last one lived a certain Ms. Ruby D’Souza and her unmarried son – the only friendly souls that Savithri had seen in the entire building – so far.

***

Savithri had first run into Reema at a common friend’s book launch. They had this typical book lovers’ common talk and had exchanged numbers and their respective blog URLs. And thus began a journey of an intellectually driven friendship. Reema realised that Savithri was captivating in a beautiful sense – hers was a story of independence – she had shown the world that she could do very well without a man in her life. Savithri had lived thus for ten years already. At 35, Reema believed, Savithri had all the maturity to take on the world that one could not find even in a 60-year-old. The icing on the cake was that both she and Savithri shared so much in common – charming personalities for one, and well, books, writing, music, wine and that unique taste for a prized independence – the drive to chart their own inspiring journeys, too featuring in that list of commons.

Reema, 28 and single, after completing her post-doctoral research in domestic violence, worked with an NGO that focused on women empowerment. Over her interactions with Reema, Savithri realised with wide-eyed wonder that she was almost looking at her younger self when speaking to Reema. While Savithri’s role as a copywriter with an ad agency fetched her the money to meet her roti-makaan-kapda motives of life, it hardly had anything to appease her intellectual hunger, to live her feministic ideology. The answer to this intellectual question came in the form of her relationship with Reema. Over days, Savithri understood that she and Reema fitted like a perfect two piece puzzle. So, when Reema had mentioned that she was looking for accommodation, Savithri had jumped in with a suggestion, a subtle request – please move in. Savithri had spoken to her landlord, promised him higher rent and won the deal.

When Reema had walked into Savithri’s housing society for the first time, she had worn a big white daisy, right above her left ear, over finely straightened hair. She was dressed in an ink blue sleeveless top and had matched it up with a floral wrap around. The street urchins round the corner didn’t miss her white stilettos and her perfect figure. Neither did Mrs.Bose and Mrs.Iyer. They had stared open mouthed at her and their mouths had grown even wider so much so that their mouths would have ripped apart at the corners, when they saw her knocking at Savithri’s door.

“That slut,” Mrs. Bose had whispered loudly, referring to the new visitor, “I am not surprised, she is Savithri’s guest.”

A few days later, when Mrs. Iyer, the faithful friend of Mrs. Bose, realised that Reema was not a visitor but was moving over to share the apartment with Savithri, she had bawled loudly. Mrs. Iyer now constantly wondered how she would protect her only son from those ‘awful ladies’ – she was trying her best to go the arranged marriage route for her son, find a bride who would be a dutiful wife, catering to the needs of her husband’s family and be someone who would duly stick to their family traditions preserved over time. Most importantly, she wanted a woman who would relieve her of her own duties and give her one or more chubby grandsons. But Mrs. Iyer panicked at the very sight and sound of the ‘ladies’ upstairs. When they walked down, she froze. When they laughed in their apartment boisterously, she trembled. And soon, she began praying to God with a shameless request – do something and get them out of here.

The young Miss. Shwetha Bose too had received her dose of threatening advice from her mother. ‘Don’t even talk to them, they will mislead you’. Honestly, Mrs. Bose needn’t have gone that far. The girl had grown up learning that women were meant to be docile and subdued and any breach of conduct would land her in utter misery. So, she, by default, began in the ‘hate those women’ mode with her first sighting of Savithri and later, Reema. And whatever she dreamt of being and couldn’t be, translated to verbal assaults on the women among her own friends. One night, the young Miss. Shwetha Bose had run to her room, shut the door, turned off the light, and in the cool darkness of the night, muttered with slight hesitation – BITCH …and had covered her mouth, shaking with guilt, lest the word would escape her mouth, penetrate the wooden door and travel out, tarnishing her good girl image….she hated her mother, the victim of the swearing, for not letting her be. Just like them.

***

On a warm Friday evening, back home after a not-so-eventful day at work, Savithri sat on the plush leather sofa with her long skirt tucked neatly under her legs. Resting her chin on her knees, she lazily browsed channels on the television, waiting for Reema. Suddenly, Savithri’s gaze fell on her black personal diary thrown carelessly on the sofa. Looking at the calendar, Savithri realised that it was four months already since she had moved into the flat. And three months since she had met Reema. About a fortnight since Reema had moved into her apartment. As she sat musing, she heard the sound of Reema’s car reverse alarm. Savithri went into the kitchen to quickly make some tea for the two of them.

Reema chirpily climbed up the stairs, whistling a tune and twirling the key in one of her fingers. As she headed to her flat, she saw Mrs. Bose, Mrs. Iyer and another new woman outside Mrs. Bose’s door. And then, the twirling key set off its pivot – her finger, and flying high, landed a foot away from the women. When Reema bent down to pick the keys, she revealed ample cleavage, a colourful tatoo and a significant portion of her breasts. The three ladies gasped in horror and their lips quivered. Their faces turned pale.

When Reema walked away and shut the door behind her, Mrs. Iyer began in a low tone.

“Shameless. I can’t stand these two.”

“You know..,” Mrs. Bose spoke slowly, “I have heard some weird sounds and laughter coming out from their flat…”.

Mrs. Iyer and the new woman gasped.

“Do you mean…?” Mrs. Iyer spoke knowingly, a mix of pride and fear blossoming on her tired face – pride for the fact that she thought she guessed it, fear for the fact that she was letting a sinful thought cross her mind.

“Yes, I think so…” Mrs. Bose answered matter-of-factly, “Otherwise, why would that Savithri pinch that whore of her friend in her waist near the gate, and that too in front of the security guard? Surely, there could be a better way to laugh at a joke?”

“You never told me about this…” Mrs. Iyer began on a complaining tone.

“Ah, come on, I just forgot..” Mrs. Bose said, sounding a little irritated. “My husband saw it too from the balcony…” she continued, as if it was a very valuable piece of information.

“You must speak to the other residents… and their landlord… Think of your children!” suggested the third woman nonchalantly as if it was such an important business of hers to share a suggestion.

“We should speak to our husbands,” the other two ladies chorused. They made up their minds.

Inside, Savithri raised her porcelain tea cup in a toast. Clank, Reema joined in. ‘Cheers!’ they sang – and laughed loudly, well aware that Mrs. Bose and Mrs. Iyer would be tearing their hair apart, wondering what their ‘weird’ neighbours were now up to.

Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her four-year-old son, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything!

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