The Hero's Walk Read Free Page B

good.”
    Nirmala came back to the balcony to take Sripathi’s empty tumbler and looked indignantly at him. “I didn’t listen. Krishna Acharye himself told me. How bad I felt, you can’t imagine.”
    â€œWhy should you feel bad about some stranger’s bangle ceremony?”
    â€œDon’t pretend you don’t understand. That girl could well have been Maya, and I would have been the one talking to Krishna Acharye about buying green bangles and saris and all. What an unfortunate woman I am!” She waited for him to say something in response. But Sripathi had decided to put an end to the conversation, so she peered at the letter on the table.
    â€œWho are you writing to?” she asked.
    Sripathi quickly covered the letter with a blank sheet of paper, making sure that it was thoroughly concealed from Nirmala’s prying eyes. “None of your business,” he said. He saw the hurt look she gave him and added, “Just some office work that I have to finish. Now stop disturbing me.”
    Nirmala hid a smile and turned away, but not before Sripathi spotted it.
    â€œWhat? What? It makes you laugh to see me work? Henh? I will take retirement today itself, and let us see if you will smile then. Maybe you can support us with your dance classes.”
    A year after Maya had left for the United States, Nirmala had agreed to teach a friend’s daughters Bharat Natyam two evenings a week after school. She herself had studied this traditional dance form until she got married. “It will be good for me to pass on what I know,” she told Sripathi obstinately when he teased her about capering around the house with her bulk. Soon the number of students swelled to six, and the living room resounded with the slap of bare feet and the tap-tap of her baton as she beat out a rhythm on the floor. Two of Nirmala’s students were granted entry scholarships to a Bharat Natyam school that a famous dancer from Madras had started, and that was attended by people from all over India and abroad. Word spread in Toturpuram that Nirmala was a good person to get basic lessons from before trying for the school. When more parents arrived at her doorstep, she decided to charge a smallfee. She was glad to be making the extra money, although she never told Sripathi that his income was not enough any more. A good Hindu wife had to maintain the pretense that her husband was supporting the family.
    The telephone started to ring again. This time Sripathi slapped his letter pad down and hurried across the room, his heels touching the cold floor over the worn ends of his rubber slippers.
    â€œAs if we cannot even afford a twenty rupee pair of slippers,” Nirmala remarked. “You might as well not wear anything on your feet!”
    â€œWhy should I waste money? These are okay for the house for another year or two. If I am comfortable, why should you be bothered?” Sripathi argued over his shoulder.
    He went down the stairs to the landing and picked up the receiver. “Yes? Sripathi Rao here,” he said.
    In the bedroom Nirmala shook out a sheet. Snap! Snap! So hard that the sound travelled outwards as sharp as a bullet. She spread the sheet out on the bed, collected an armful of clean shirts, trousers and saris piled on a trunk that doubled as a table, and heaped them in the centre of the sheet. Then she drew the four ends together and tied them into a loose knot. The dhobi’s boy would be here any minute to collect the clothes that needed to be ironed, and she didn’t want him to run away before she had given him instructions on how to press her silk saris. Not too hot, she would have to remind him. The last time the dhobi had scorched a dark patch on one of her favourite saris.
    She smiled again. She knew all about Sripathi’s letters-to-the-editor business, had discovered his secret quite by accident while searching the waste baskets for a receipt for a piece of material