Saturday, 10 May 2014

The couple opposite

A cockroach walks over the floor of the train carriage, pausing to inspect the plastic-jewel encrusted shoe of the woman in black. I presume she is the wife of the man sitting beside her, but I see little love. She is wearing black, with a black scarf over her head, but it's not a dark garment. The scarf and dress are embroidered with lines of beads and flowers. She wears bracelets and anklets and an expression of defiant resentment, staring ahead at the children of the Hindu family opposite and responding to her husband without looking. When she wants something from the bag beneath the bench she is pushed back into place by her husband without a word. This gets my attention and I stare intently at the man but he wont acknowledge my gaze. She isn't allowed to go to the bathroom alone, and when necessary receives a sharp push. The husband has a black thread tied around the big toe of his right foot. There is nothing in his appearance to tie him to any religion, he is but one of the legion of Indian men wearing a check-pattern shirt and grey trousers. His moustache is short but present and his rough chin is covered with a few days stubble. He looks older than the wife, probably over 40. The wife is harder to place, she could be 30, but I suspect she has aged in fewer years. His dark skin shines in the light, it's nearly 40C and at times the train stops and the air is still. I hope he waters her well.
But he doesn't. Later, when the train briefly halts at nowhere, the vendor from the sleeper-class coaches climbs into general with bottles of cold water. The man buys a bottle, and instead of drinking water poured from a bottle held above his lips, as is the Indian custom, he takes a small metal cup from his bag. He fills the cup, and drinks it slowly. The wife is watching, he pours another glass, and drinks this. A few minutes pass, he packs the cup away. His wife picks up the bottle, but he takes this away from her with a sharp movement and places it back on the seat. The wife doesn't struggle, it's some form of communication, implicit, a routine. He gets up and walks towards the doorway, pausing at the open door to the general coach as the train rumbles along. The wife takes the bottle and begins to drink, encouraged by the Hindu family. He is watching but doesn't react. She drinks about a third of a litre. In this way one trains a dog to understand the master.
I think she feels ashamed, she looks older now. She is still watching the noisy brightly coloured Hindu wives and children. She might be Hindu herself, but without the brilliant clothing it appears as a very different religion. South Indian Hindus cast menstruating women out of houses, temples or food places with a greater warmth than this man eventually allows his wife when she leans her head on his shoulder.

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