The Heart Is a Shifting Sea Read online

When Maya went to Powai for her second day of training, Subal asked if they could meet again so he could show her something. “Okay,” Maya said, but thought: What am I doing? A married woman did not fraternize with married men, much less allow them to take her places. Subal wanted to show her Chhota Kashmir in Goregaon, a secluded area spread over four thousand acres, with lakes and gardens and paddleboats for two. Chhota Kashmir meant “Little Kashmir,” and it did look a little like that beautiful valley region whose beauty was overshadowed by politics and conflict. Maya felt nervous as they walked around. What does he want from me?

  Finally, she ventured aloud, “Why have you brought me here? Do you want to kiss me?”

  “What if I say yes?” Subal said.

  Maya felt drawn to him—his low voice, easy smile, and eyes that gleamed when he spoke. But she didn’t like this setup: two married people in a clichéd landscape of seclusion, having the kind of cheap conversation that appeared in romance novels. “It will ruin everything,” she said, her voice flat.

  “But I like you more than a friend,” he persisted.

  “But I am not comfortable,” Maya said, and she knew it was time to go home.

  The next day, Janu fell sick, and Maya used the excuse not to go to the third day of training in Powai.

  * * *

  At night, from the inside of Maya and Veer’s apartment, the bass of car stereos could sometimes be heard from the street, pumping out old Hindi ballads and new Bollywood songs. Lately, all the drivers had been playing the soundtrack of Ishqiya, and especially the song “Dil Toh Baccha HaiJi,” which meant “My Heart Is a Child,” and whose instrumentation sounded foreign and hypnotic. Bollywood was always making metaphors about the heart: My heart is a child. The heart is a madman. This heart is a thug. The heart is like the sea.

  The distant clatter of aging trucks could also be heard from the apartment, because they often ferried goods after the traffic had died down. And there was the unsettling howl of stray dogs that couldn’t find enough scraps to eat that day.

  Veer could fall asleep to the discordant sounds with Janu curled up in his arms. But Maya often sat awake in the living room, looking out at the city.

  From her perch on the couch, she could make out a cluster of palm trees, encircled by the dozen buildings in their apartment colony. Beyond these lay hundreds of intersecting roads, zigzagging cars, and a ridge of hills off in the distance. But the nearby apartment buildings were most interesting, because each one contained some twenty windows in a grid. At night, many of the windows lit up, each window like a tiny play. A full scene was never visible, but Maya could catch glimpses.

  People went out, watched TV, and had dinner. Husbands sat at the dinner table with their wives and children. In the windows, the husbands always seemed to come home on time. Maya was reminded of an old adage: The family that eats together stays together.

  In one window, a child was up late, and her mother seemed to be shushing her, then dragging her across the room to bed. In another, a man sat in his undershirt on the couch, his tubby stomach lit by the glow of a TV screen. In a third, plates were being cleared, though the clatter could not be heard from across the way. Maya could see big TVs in some of the apartments and small ones in others, AC units or open windows, the outline of a washing machine or upturned bucket—each an indicator of a family’s wealth.

  After an hour or so, the lights would shut off, and the sounds of the city’s millions would die down. Sleep was necessary if work was to be done and two-bedroom apartments in the suburbs paid for. A light in one room would dim, and then in the next. Families mostly went to sleep together.

  But outside the gates of the apartment colony, Maya knew one woman might still be awake. If she was, she’d be standing in the middle of the rubble-filled lane, dressed in a raggedy red sari. It was the same sari she wore every day. The madwoman in the lane hardly slept.

  On some days, the woman picked petals off a flower and scattered them in the road. On others, she sat listlessly on a big rock. Her hair was always wild and unbrushed, and her cheekbones were sharp. Lately, her hair was cut short, like she had had some kind of infection. Her sari was often dirty and crumpled at the edges. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in days. It was said that she once had two big flats and a family nearby but went mad after her husband left her for another woman.

  Maya wanted to stay awake longer watching the last of the window plays, but she was tired. After another light shut off, Maya got up to go to bed. A few pigeons landed on the tin-roof porch, making a gentle “whoo, whoo” sound at her. She looked back at them for a moment and then shut off the lights to go join Veer and Janu in bed.

  * * *

  It was Subal who suggested The Resort to Maya. He had been there for conferences and meetings before. Maya had been to The Resort once for Veer’s birthday. Now, she and Subal met there for breakfast, in December, when the air in the city was cool.

  The Resort was more magical than Maya remembered: the whitewashed building standing tall against the clear, blue water of the hotel pool, the palm tree fronds dangling in the soft breeze. Subal listening intently to what she had to say, though he was not pushy. She found herself tracing lines in his hands—life line, head line, heart line—and it did not seem like a cheap romance novel at all.

  Afterward, they walked back to the parking lot. In the car, Subal leaned over without warning and tried to give Maya a kiss. Maya moved away, and his lips fell on her neck instead. For a moment, they stayed there, his mustache brushing against her skin.

  This is bad, she thought, and if it were an old Hindi film, this would be when the playback singer would start to warble, her voice thin and shrill. I want to go home. But also it feels so good, Maya thought. It has been so long.

  If it were an old Hindi film, there also would be no kiss; it would never make it past the censors. And there was no kiss now.

  After a minute, she pulled away, and they drove out of the gates past the twisting banyan trees, back toward Maya’s home.

  The following month, when Janu turned two and Veer thirty-seven, Maya did not get them anything special. It didn’t feel necessary, because Veer had been spoiling Janu with plenty of gifts from abroad: dress shirts from J.Crew, pants from the Gap, sneakers by Nike. He brought them back from work trips to China and Qatar, along with branded clothes for Maya. “Top of the line,” he’d say. “Best quality.” He enjoyed buying items that would last a long time, especially international brands, which everyone in India wanted. Soon, there were so many new outfits Maya had to pile them in Janu’s crib, which had barely been used. The apartment was cluttered with everything Janu.

  On the walls were pasted marker drawings he had done in preschool and posters of Chhota Bheem, the kid-aged, Indian version of Superman. In the corners were stuffed animals, toy cars, and rolls of Mickey Mouse and Winnie-the-Pooh stickers. On the TV stand, beside the photo of Maya and Veer in Mussoorie, sat framed photos of Janu at three months, six months, and a year old, with his hair falling into his eyes.

  Janu had grown into a bright but naughty child who liked to discard his clothes and run around naked or dress in odd costumes he cobbled together from his closet. He loved disobeying Maya especially when it was time for a bath. He listened more often to his father, who was sterner with him. He had a smooth face and shiny hair just like Veer and big, wistful eyes like Maya. The effect was so charming that people stopped her on the street to ask if he was a child model.

  Though Maya hung the letters J-A-N-U on the wall for Janu’s birthday, she and Veer more often referred to him by his nicknames. They called him “beta,” which meant “son,” or “bana,” a Rajasthani word for “little prince.” Veer’s favorite nickname was laddoo, which was a delicious sweet.

  When Maya began letting Subal visit her apartment, Janu was almost always home. Janu accepted this new man in his life without question and got excited when Maya said he was coming over. From the beginning, Subal—who had two school-aged children of his own�
��helped Maya change Janu’s diapers and heat up his steamed milk. As Janu grew older, he played game after game with him and answered his many curious questions.

  To her family and friends, Maya began referring to Subal as her “best friend.” She introduced him to the teachers at her school. She pinned a picture of her and Subal to her office wall. And she informed Veer when she went out with him. She also encouraged the two men to spend time together, and sometimes they did, even without her.

  Veer didn’t question Subal’s role in his wife’s life. If Maya needs a friend, so be it, he thought. Perhaps it would take some of the pressure off him. I should give her space, he thought, and then didn’t think about it anymore.

  At first, Maya was surprised Veer didn’t question this new relationship. But then she decided it was more proof he did not care about her. She was certain Veer stayed married to her out of duty. Duty to her. Duty to Janu. Duty to some antiquated notion of family. Duty, perhaps, to pursuing the goals of any good Hindu’s life—dharma, artha, kama, moksha. Duty, means, pleasure, freedom. Through marriage, you fulfilled a moral duty, acquired means, and enjoyed pleasure. And in the end, you died and became free.

  She considered no longer seeing Subal. She could stop now, before it turned into something. Before she let the attempted kiss slide into other territory. But if she did, she’d be alone again. And Veer would not come back to her. Over the years, she might go wild with loneliness, like the madwoman in the lane.

  No. She’d keep her sanity and spend time with Subal when she pleased. Subal, who was open-minded and charming, with his baritone voice and witty comments and his willingness to discuss philosophy, politics, and religion. Subal, who treated her like a companion in the way Veer had forgotten how to do. She would keep seeing Subal even though he’d begun calling her “baby” in English, which was maybe as intimate as the Hindi word jaanu, or “darling.”

  And she decided she would expand the preschool as another way of keeping sane. Before long, she recruited a vice principal, Ashni, to help her do it. Ashni was smart and clever and spoke frankly. She had an open face, thick hair she wore pulled back, and a motherly but exotic beauty. She was about Maya’s age and had a son the same age as Janu. Maya saw in Ashni a future friend.

  The two soon became close, and Maya entrusted most of the preschool’s daily tasks to her. In addition, Ashni helped Maya retain teachers, which was often a problem at India’s schools. Female teachers often left the job after they got married, facing pressure from a new husband or in-laws. Many of these girls were the first in their family ever to go to work. Economists and sociologists debated why more Indian women weren’t entering the workforce or were dropping out, but Maya thought she understood. Despite better jobs for women and more women wanting to work, the opinions of husbands and in-laws had not changed. A woman was needed to run the home, care for her children, and cook for her husband’s family. She was still expected to live up to the ideal of pativratya—of total devotion to her husband.

  Though she knew they wouldn’t last long, Maya hired these girls anyway. She wanted to give them a chance to see what the working world was like. When they told her they were quitting, she and Ashni would try to coax them to stay. Sometimes, this would work, but mostly it wouldn’t. Even if they left, Maya was proud she had given them several months of employment and freedom.

  Veer had far fewer female employees than Maya. There was just a handful at his factory. The rest were all married men. But these men’s marriages presented their own problems; his factory manager, for one, was always taking leave to go collect his wife from her parents’ house, where she went whenever they had a fight. The lower-level employees at Veer’s factory, almost all of whom were local men, had their own marital problems. But Veer was proud of how far he’d come with them. He had set up his factory in a tribal area at a time when no one else in Mumbai would. People warned that the adivasis, or tribals, were violent. But Veer had not feared them, and instead had come at Diwali time, given them gifts, and offered jobs. Now, more than a decade later, the tribals had acquired skills and were paid well. Still, there was much for Veer to worry about at the factory. Often, he worried how much rain would come. The amount of rain determined the number of people who’d get sick, which in turn determined how much medicine people would buy, and the amount of aluminum foil needed to package it. When there was a high demand for foil, Veer sometimes didn’t come back from the factory for over a week or more, not telling Maya where he’d gone. At home alone, Maya often grew anxious, and then upset or angry.

  * * *

  Ever since she was a child, Maya had visited International Society of Krishna Consciousness temples. Hare Krishna temples, which preached an ecstatic love for Krishna, existed all over the world. In Mumbai, the temple was in Juhu, a tree-lined suburb along the sea. Maya wasn’t a Hare Krishna follower, but Krishna remained her favorite god, and she always felt a presence when she visited the temple, which she described as a kind of strong vibration. She often gave offerings and prayed for her preschool to continue to do well.

  Soon, Subal began visiting the temple with her. They made it a habit to go together every Friday. Subal wasn’t a follower either—he professed himself an atheist—but Maya liked that he was willing to come along.

  And soon, Subal changed jobs, joining a financial company in the suburbs, so Maya’s house was now on his way to work. A crass saying in Mumbai went: People fuck based on location, because the traffic in the city is so bad. She and Subal were not having sex. They hadn’t discussed it. But still.

  Subal began stopping by Maya’s apartment almost daily. He would come up for a cup of coffee or just to talk. Or Maya cooked him her specialty, rajma chawal, its rich ginger-garlic smell filling the apartment. Often, he sat on the ground in the kitchen playing with Janu, giving him a playful knuckle on the ear. Maya never worried that Veer would come home while Subal was there, because Veer rarely showed up until after dinner. Or he was away for many days at the factory or weeks in Africa.

  When Veer was away, Maya often sent Subal meals packed in tiffins. It started after he told her that his wife cooked one meal a day and other than that expected him and the children to eat leftovers. Maya was aghast. She knew how much Subal valued food. Just look at his stomach, she thought. Maya also considered good food essential for a happy life. Why do we earn? she thought. For food, for shelter.

  Subal and his wife had been married almost two decades, but he told Maya he hadn’t been happy for a long time. Once, he implied to Maya that his wife had a man on the side, someone from college, but didn’t say more. Even his family knew his marriage was in trouble; they had for a long time. He said he didn’t care if it ended or who knew.

  One afternoon when Subal stopped by Maya’s apartment, Maya had just gotten a call that Janu was sick at school. It was a call she received regularly. Like his father, and like many children in Mumbai, Janu had an array of health problems caused by the pollution.

  Subal was sitting on the living room couch next to the porch, where the honeybee hive had come and gone. Maya sat on the couch opposite his. After she hung up, Subal said that they should have sex. Maya looked at him steadily.

  “Boss, I need to pick him up soon,” she said.

  “As much time as I have, I don’t care,” Subal said.

  The Bhagavad Gita was clear on the subject of adultery. A wife who slept with another man destroyed the family. The Vishnu Purana, another ancient text, said an adulterer was reborn as “a creeping insect” and “when dead he falls into hell.” Manu, an ancient Hindu lawmaker, saved special disdain for the female adulteress: “Through their passion for men, through their mutable temper, through their natural heartlessness, they become disloyal toward their husbands, however carefully they may be guarded in this [world].” The consequences were also worse for a female adulteress: a woman who strayed was to be “censured among men,” and in her next life “born in the womb of a jackal” and “tormented by diseases.” In the old texts
, men sometimes kept multiple partners, but a woman who cheated was past reproach.

  It had been so long since Maya had had sex.

  And Radha was a cheater. This part was played down in the Krishna-Radha stories, and Maya had not considered it before, but it was true. Radha was a married woman when she had met Krishna, and she was still married when he undressed her on the Yamuna River banks. Of course, Krishna was also a philanderer. He snatched away the clothes of all the milkmaids, which was the source of Radha’s anguish. But Krishna was a deity and could do what he pleased. Radha was just an ordinary woman, and her infidelity could not be denied. Or perhaps it did not matter when your lover was a god.

  According to the myths, Radha was married to a dark, dull-witted man named Abhimanyu. He was apparently no match for Radha’s beauty and intelligence, and he did not recognize her great gifts.

  The poet Jayadeva wrote of the moment before Radha and Krishna’s lovemaking: “The darkness of night deepens, and with it Krishna’s passion . . . There’s no point in waiting any longer, innocent girl—now is the moment for the tryst.”

  His language suggested something had been sullied: Radha’s “breast had been scratched, streaked scarlet by his nails,” and “her eyes were bloodshot from sleeplessness.” Her lipstick “was smudged”; flowers had “fallen from her disheveled hair.” Even her skirt “had slipped loose from its golden girding cords.”

  Centuries later, Krishna and Radha’s affair had been reduced to metaphor. Now, the pious people said their passion was an allegory of man’s desire to connect with his god. They said that Abhimanyu had never existed.

  Maybe. Or maybe Radha was a cheater.

  * * *

  Veer noticed that Maya now saw or mentioned Subal every day. Pallavi also noticed it, but Pallavi was a loyal maid, and Maya knew she would not stir up trouble. Many maids in Mumbai kept secrets. And Veer did not tell Maya to stop meeting him. One thing’s simple, he told himself, with the twisted logic he sometimes employed to make things right between them. If she wants to have her life her own way, then that’s the way. It’s her choice, why not.