The Teacher’s Daughter

On 2 November 1984, Keshav Tripathi woke up with a terrible sinus headache. He lay in bed waiting for the pain to subside. When it didn’t, he called out to his wife and asked for a glass of hot water. She was in the balcony at the back of the flat, putting clothes out to dry. Not getting a reply, Tripathi roared in irritation, ‘Sudha, can you get me a glass of hot water. My head’s hurting again.’ Sudha rushed into the room a couple of minutes later and in a weary voice asked her husband why he was raising a racket this early in the morning. ‘My sinus,’ said Tripathi, pointing to his forehead. ‘It’s acting up again. Can you get me a glass of hot water . . . please?’ Sudha turned around without replying and walked in the direction of the kitchen, muttering something.

Tripathi and Sudha had been married for twenty-five years now but her barbs still retained the power to incense him. He would get so worked up, he would begin muttering to himself. What really got his goat was the lack of clarity: why was she upset with him? What had he done? What was she saying?

Tripathi lay in bed, sipping the hot water his wife had brought for him. ‘It’s too hot,’ he complained. ‘If you grumbled less, and kept your ears open and your mind free of clutter, you would get things right more often.’ Sudha wasn’t in the mood for an argument this morning. There was too much work around the house. Still, she couldn’t resist, ‘If you smoked less, you wouldn’t have the problem in the first place. I am not saying give up, but you can try and cut down at least. Now, did I just say that for the millionth time?’ Not wanting to prolong the discussion, she quickly changed the subject, ‘Jyoti has an exam. You have invigilation. If you don’t get up now you’ll never make it in time and the poor girl will lose a year.’

Tripathi hauled himself out of bed with great effort. He shuffled towards the lone toilet in the house in his round-necked, short-sleeved vest and chequered boxers, only to find it occupied. ‘Hurry up, Jyoti,’ he said in a robotic voice. ‘We’re getting late.’

Jyoti studied at the same provincial university her father taught at. Her parents saw her as a quiet girl with no clear-cut interests. Her elder sister Aarti was the star of the family—head girl in school, general secretary of the students’ union in medical college, now married to a fellow doctor. ‘Aarti is doing so well in Nagpur,’ the mother would brag to the neighbours, ‘but Jyoti’s such a simple girl. We’ll marry her off by the time she finishes her degree. If you have someone in mind, then do let us know.’