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Kamala Das

A considerate man will not park himself on a widow's sofa late in the evening

Most of my readers are housewives who phone me in the afternoon after their chores are done. They confess that they only need to hear my voice. Then, for a long time, I hear only their voices. Each one of them sounds frustrated and bitterly lonely. Some of them would like me to write about them. They tell me that their husbands would not approve of their talking to me. Such confidences do not amuse me. I do not ever ask any of them to phone me a second time. Frivolous talk eats into the time I have rationed out for writing my columns.

Men are more irritating. They only phone at night, waking me from sleep. "I do not agree with you on several important issues," they say, while all I wish to do is return to sleep. Once I flew to Australia via Singapore, halting at a local hotel for the night. At midnight, the phone rang. "My name is Pillay. I am coming to meet you. I am phoning from this very hotel…" a thickened voice spoke. He seemed reluctant to accept the fact that I did not entertain visitors at night. Afterwards, I requested the reception desk to prevent anyone from intruding into my room.

Two days after my husband died, an art-inclined acquaintance visited me at eight in the evening. He had brought with him a stranger who kept staring rudely at me. "What is the reasons for this visit so late in the evening?" I asked them.

"We thought we can have a chat," said the artist.

"After eight pm, I do not ever feel like chatting with people like you," I said.

Widowhood changes one's life. There are methods men employ to exploit the loneliness of the widow. My friend in Trivandrum, the widow of a well-known cardiologist, told me that, in the weeks that followed her husband's exit, men dropped in for no ostensible reason and stayed till she had to ask them to leave. They wanted to charm her with sweet nothings. She was terror-stricken with each such 'condolence' visit. They attempted to touch her arms and shoulders. A considerate man would send his wife or daughter to console the widow. He would not park himself on her sofa late in the evening.

Most widows have a horror of being touched by male friends and acquaintances. Mourning makes a widow an untouchable entity. Remembering is a solitary activity. She ought not to be distracted or disturbed while the process goes on. It is like a honeymoon repeated, but without a visible mate or his physicality. Each memory is fondled and the whole marriage is a film rewound. There is no room for a third person.

When I went to Jamaica for a seminar soon after my husband's death, I took a friend's advice and wore only black. I felt good in black. To this day, although widowed for five years, I still use black. It is as if it has become my costume, my uniform, my style. When I wear colours for any function, I feel uneasy. My husband had liked to see me in exquisite Kanjeevarams of red, green or yellow. I like to see myself in plain black clothes. One can wear black even to the Buckingham Palace. It is both formal and informal.

Most widows of my generation wear white and look radiant. The message is clear -- keep off. They do not long for masculine company. They would rather spend their evenings at a shrine, praying or listening to bhajans. Society approves of such pastimes for widows.

Personally, I would like all widows to get together, crack jokes about the leacherous people they meet and laugh their heads off. I would like them to seem happy. Temples and churches do not seem to be happy places. If happiness is proved by merely a smile, one can wear a laughing mask in company. One must begin the habit of wearing masks to reveal the true feelings or to conceal them, whichever seems best.

Illustration: Laura Fernandes