Rounded, smooth, taut. And now she looked the way a balloon does when it is over-inflated, bulging disproportionately. The sharpness of her nose, the edge to her jaws, the exquisite lines at the corners of her eyes, the twist in her lips—all of them seemed to have been dulled.
She wasn’t to blame. It had happened after her hysterectomy. The doctor had warned about something like this. It had been difficult for Ari to talk about it because it had been a sensitive subject for a long time. Still, he dropped some hints occasionally. Neelam was not a fool. But what could he do if she pretended not to understand? She didn’t even bother to take all the medicines prescribed. They were forced to use injections at times. ‘If I’m going to lose what matters, I might as well lose everything. What’s the use of holding on?’ That’s what she would say with wistful eyes. Then she would suddenly come to him at midnight. ‘Ari, Ari, I’m frightened. I’m turning cold with fear.’ Aritra would say, ‘How many times have I told you to take the medicines?’ Evening came early. Neelam had turned numb with suffering.
The doctor understood these things. He had said, ‘If you let things go on this way, uterine cancer will develop nine times out of ten. What do you want to do?’
‘She is only thirty.’
‘Which is exactly why I’m asking.’
‘What are the after-effects of this operation?’
‘Her health will improve remarkably. She will be able to work more, she won’t fall ill easily. She may turn into an Amazon.’ The doctor hadn’t lowered his cigarette from his lips for a long time. ‘But.’
‘What?’ Aritra had asked impatiently.
‘She will no longer be a wife.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Instead, you may get a mother.’
‘What do you mean, doctor?’
‘Your wife will reach middle age very early, Mr Chowdhury. In her appearance, in her nature. Housewife, mother—these will be appropriate roles for her. She may not be able to play the role of a young woman very well. She will lose interest in that kind of life. In one sense both of you will end your youth with this operation.’
‘But I am not ill. I am a full-blown man.’ Aritra had jumped out of his chair.
The doctor looked grim. His eyes were sharp, a professional, expert look that bore deep into Aritra Chowdhury’s heart. He said, ‘That is why. That is why I’m asking. Do you want her life or her youth at this moment? You can’t keep both.’
The fundamental truth of Aritra’s married life was on the stand. The accuser looked at him with suspicion—at the beating of his heart, at the wails of his soul, his leaping rage, his fears. In a choked voice Aritra said, ‘Of course I want her . . . her life. That is the first consideration,’ and then, after a pause, ‘and also the last.’
The doctor’s chamber seemed to have been holding its breath. Now it breathed. The doctor spoke softly, sympathetically, ‘But whether it’s life or youth, everything is joint property, community property, belonging to both of you, don’t you think? Talk to your wife, Mr Chowdhury. Find out what she wants. I’m saying that ninety per cent of cases are dangerous. But that still leaves ten per cent. She could be among them if fortune favours her. What she wants is also very important. Go to her, explain everything.’
Neelam was silent for some time when she heard. Then she said, ‘Of course not. There’s no question of surgery. I have to take the risk. Forgive me, Ari.’
‘But Neelam, you will enter this stage of life in natural course one day or another. It’s only a change in the way you live. Isn’t that a life too? Perhaps this will open the door to other joys. Why be afraid of it? The alternative to an operation is cancer, do you understand? And unbearable pain, and the end.’
Her voice choking with agony and doubt clouding her eyes, Neelam had replied, ‘I don’t fear for myself, Ari. I am afraid for you. Of you. What use will I be to
She wasn’t to blame. It had happened after her hysterectomy. The doctor had warned about something like this. It had been difficult for Ari to talk about it because it had been a sensitive subject for a long time. Still, he dropped some hints occasionally. Neelam was not a fool. But what could he do if she pretended not to understand? She didn’t even bother to take all the medicines prescribed. They were forced to use injections at times. ‘If I’m going to lose what matters, I might as well lose everything. What’s the use of holding on?’ That’s what she would say with wistful eyes. Then she would suddenly come to him at midnight. ‘Ari, Ari, I’m frightened. I’m turning cold with fear.’ Aritra would say, ‘How many times have I told you to take the medicines?’ Evening came early. Neelam had turned numb with suffering.
The doctor understood these things. He had said, ‘If you let things go on this way, uterine cancer will develop nine times out of ten. What do you want to do?’
‘She is only thirty.’
‘Which is exactly why I’m asking.’
‘What are the after-effects of this operation?’
‘Her health will improve remarkably. She will be able to work more, she won’t fall ill easily. She may turn into an Amazon.’ The doctor hadn’t lowered his cigarette from his lips for a long time. ‘But.’
‘What?’ Aritra had asked impatiently.
‘She will no longer be a wife.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Instead, you may get a mother.’
‘What do you mean, doctor?’
‘Your wife will reach middle age very early, Mr Chowdhury. In her appearance, in her nature. Housewife, mother—these will be appropriate roles for her. She may not be able to play the role of a young woman very well. She will lose interest in that kind of life. In one sense both of you will end your youth with this operation.’
‘But I am not ill. I am a full-blown man.’ Aritra had jumped out of his chair.
The doctor looked grim. His eyes were sharp, a professional, expert look that bore deep into Aritra Chowdhury’s heart. He said, ‘That is why. That is why I’m asking. Do you want her life or her youth at this moment? You can’t keep both.’
The fundamental truth of Aritra’s married life was on the stand. The accuser looked at him with suspicion—at the beating of his heart, at the wails of his soul, his leaping rage, his fears. In a choked voice Aritra said, ‘Of course I want her . . . her life. That is the first consideration,’ and then, after a pause, ‘and also the last.’
The doctor’s chamber seemed to have been holding its breath. Now it breathed. The doctor spoke softly, sympathetically, ‘But whether it’s life or youth, everything is joint property, community property, belonging to both of you, don’t you think? Talk to your wife, Mr Chowdhury. Find out what she wants. I’m saying that ninety per cent of cases are dangerous. But that still leaves ten per cent. She could be among them if fortune favours her. What she wants is also very important. Go to her, explain everything.’
Neelam was silent for some time when she heard. Then she said, ‘Of course not. There’s no question of surgery. I have to take the risk. Forgive me, Ari.’
‘But Neelam, you will enter this stage of life in natural course one day or another. It’s only a change in the way you live. Isn’t that a life too? Perhaps this will open the door to other joys. Why be afraid of it? The alternative to an operation is cancer, do you understand? And unbearable pain, and the end.’
Her voice choking with agony and doubt clouding her eyes, Neelam had replied, ‘I don’t fear for myself, Ari. I am afraid for you. Of you. What use will I be to
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