137

In the bed, like every day, under an unceremonious compulsion, Mr. Biswas began to count.

It was by 137 he stopped. Mrs. Biswas opened her eyes to see Mr. Biswas was weeping.

Her husband was a sensitive fellow, she knew. Who had written a love poem on her last birthday and bought her the Banalata Sen by Das, an old Bengali poet. She didn’t care to read the book but was thrilled to find her name on the second blank page.

“In the lotus hands of darling Nirmala” handwritten in cursive by the husband and that was enough for her.

“What happened? What happened?”

She asked him with furrowed brows. The hollow of her eyes had sunken in mild anxiety. The loose end of her sari was unfurled on the Mickey Mouse bed cover.

“I was smart once, Nirmala. My IQ was 137, once.” Mr. Biswas said, crying.

Mrs. Biswas got up in the bed, coaxed her hair back with her fingers and sighed.

It was an old story fashioned by her husband, now an every day one.

When Mr. Biswas was young, he was a brilliant student- particularly in mathematics and geography. As much as when a psychologist from Calcutta had visited the school, he had found Mr. Biswas in possession of an abnormally high IQ. Higher than everyone in the class.

It should have settled the boy’s future, ensuring him a rewarding and peaceful life. The enthusiasm in the teachers’ room on that day and the affection that had been showered upon him thereafter was tremendous. That Mr. Biswas would end up being a private tutor of English- in this small sub-divisional town, for a monthly sum- was nobody’s prediction.

The mean-hearted relatives who had followed his career path went as far as calling it a psychological disaster.

Mr. Biswas believed the psychologist though. He had believed in the old man’s esoteric theories, his seemingly strict science. Even now he felt a great surge of emotion just below his rib cage that felt no less than a thud of a hammer that he fondly called inspiration, that would wake him up time to time.

It would be magical. The days would then seem suddenly colourful and cheery. His town-folk: friendly and capable. The town itself would look like preparing for the Puja. The unkempt shrubs at the front garden would seem at ease and in wait for a benevolent sun.

Those days would not last. He would wake up to hear the old mother cursing, in the morning, for not buying her a tout medicine for running nose. For receiving a son’s disobedience instead of the loving service of her dead husband.

His friends- acquiring permanent work- of teachership, peonship- by bribing the school board, through political canvassing- making Mr. Biswas jealous. The god-fearing wife (his marriage was below his intellectual capacity and lack of faith), with a slivered face and buxom legs applying Fair & Lovely to her skin before going to bed and coaxing him to join her- not with words but with a befuddling elbow nudge. The spell of romance long broken, Mr. Biswas found an escape from the hopelessness, by alienating and hating the world, especially her.

In fact he had devised a silent but an elaborate torture. He had decided he would remain aloof when he would be inside her.

It was a difficult plan to execute.

Thinking about myriad topics during the intercourse, geography, for example- all the springs and fountains of the world – invariably took him to the finish. Pondering upon literature took him to the memories of his favourite actresses. Their imaginary faces- the dolled up looks of the movie starlets made him hurry up.

Many trials later his studious pride came to his rescue. He began to count his thrusts.

As the act progressed he became more and more shrouded in a cloud of supremacy and with every count became imperiously separated from her. That he broke down today was surprising, even to himself. The emotional defeat made him distraught.

Mrs. Biswas could sense her husband and begged, “You were smart. You are smart. You will always be. No one can take that away from you. But enough about yourself. Now that you have a daughter, think about her.”

Mr. Biswas snarled.

“Don’t talk about daughter. She is only like you. An idiot. Doesn’t even know the capital of Mongolia.”

Mrs. Biswas said, “But she passes her exams.”

“Everyone passes exams!” he said, in a fury.

Mrs. Biswas was obstinate.

She said, “She passes her exams and she studies everyday. She tries and tries, never complains. May be she will go farther because she doesn’t carry any of your burdens- ”

That made Mr. Biswas calm.

Mrs. Biswas- God knows how- was making sense.

He said, “We will teach her English well, Nirmala. We will send her to Calcutta and then to Sweden- that’s in Europe if you don’t know- for more studies.

The education is free and they speak English there.”

The mood lifted.

As the moments passed, as he became more and more confident with his plan, Mr. Biswas strode upon Mrs. Biswas again, and penetrated her.

This time he chose not to count his thrusts.