The Lives of Others Read Online Free PDF Page A

this, every single evening, for the last eleven years, but she knows that the possibility of slipping up is infinite. A pleat not smoothed down, the sheets on the bed not pulled tightly enough before being tucked under the mattress, the bolster and pillows not fluffed up perfectly . . . it surprises her that these ambushes can still trip her up. Today, the slowly ticking silence in the room since she has entered it makes her prepare herself for something worse than the usual corrosive nagging. God alone knows from which direction it is going to come. She hears her Mejo-jaa call out to her daughter, ‘Buliiii, come inside, don’t stand on the verandah at this hour, everyone can see you’, weakened and muffled in its passage two floors up, and as if on cue the barrage begins. And, as always, it begins with finding fault with the task at hand.
    ‘Cataracts!’ Charubala barks, ‘have you suddenly developed cataracts in your eyes? Can’t you see the dustball in that corner, or do I need to point everything out to you? Who is doing the cleaning: you or I, hyan?’
    Purba dutifully takes up the broom, resweeps the corner of its imaginary dustball and resumes making the bed. But before she can touch the sheets, Charubala shrieks, ‘Touching my bedsheets directly after touching the broom? You sewer-witch! Go wash your hands immediately. Use soap.’
    Purba, silent, head bowed as always, enters the bathroom, runs the tap at the sink and stands watching it, without washing her hands, for what she considers a seemly duration, then turns off the tap, counts up to five, comes back into Ma’s room and carries on with making the bed. She knows that Charubala’s outburst has been only a prelude, a kind of clearing of the throat before the real singing begins. She continues lifting and tucking, waiting for the inevitable; what makes her jittery is not knowing the particular form it is going to take.
    ‘Have you gathered the dry washing today? It’s getting dark, I have no idea why you leave it till so late. The evening dew will make it damp. You can’t be trusted to do anything properly nowadays. What’s got into you?’
    Purba cannot work out where this is leading, so she hesitates before replying.
    ‘What, someone’s put a lock on your tongue?’
    ‘I was going to do it after I’d made your bed,’ Purba bleats, her head still lowered. If she so much as dares to look up, she will be accused of being disrespectful and intransigent.
    ‘To time it with Shobhon Datta’s cigarette break on his terrace next door. Do you think we’re blind?’
    Purba reddens instantly. The accuracy or incorrectness of what her mother-in-law is accusing her of is irrelevant; the fact that it has been articulated means that a certain set of assumptions has been made about her character and given public existence in the form of an utterance. It is in the nature of flung mud that some of it sticks.
    Charubala takes her youngest daughter-in-law’s blushing as evidentiary proof of a guilty soul. There is no stopping her now. ‘Chhee, chhee! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You are a widow, a mother of two. You’ll bring shame and scandal on our family, more than you’ve already done . . .’
    ‘But, Ma, this is not true,’ Purba manages to speak out, before Charubala cuts her short.
    ‘So you’re accusing me of lying? Oh god, I had to live to see this, accused of being a liar by a girl from another family. Was this what was written on my forehead?’
    Purba hastens to negate this, but knows it is pointless. If she does not choose her words carefully, she will dig herself in deeper, but if she remains quiet, locked in the incredulity at what is being thrown at her, she will condemn herself equally.
    Charubala, on the other hand, is on a roll. ‘Shame! Shame! I see that I shall have to keep a sharper eye on you. God knows what’s going to happen if anyone finds out’ – Purba knows that she is going to make sure that everyone does –