Forty Rupee Plastic Comb (With Hair Stuck In Its Teeth)
Anjana Kishore takes us to the staff room of a school in small-town Kerala, where a young teacher often rearranges her brittle confidence around expectations and convention.
Photograph by Priyadarshini Ravichandran for Soup
The tea on Manju’s desk cooled fast. There was a thin milky film on it already. The rain was drip dropping outside her window. She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the drooping plantain leaves. Molten emerald rolled off the leaves. It twisted and turned on the surface, inviting the unwary hand to feel the gems on its surface.
She would have to finish grading the answer sheets if she wanted to get on with her evening plans.
The staffroom was large and spacious. Its floors were panelled with wood that had become permanently dusty and secretive. All the professors had their separate areas; she was lucky to get the corner with the window all to herself, even though she was only an associate professor.
“Manju, does Viswanathan Saar have today evening off?” Manju froze at the question that Babu Saar casually threw at her.
“I do not know. He did not mention anything to me.” Manju mentally winced at the feigned nonchalance in her voice.
“Oh, well. I thought you would know since you help him out with the play for the Youth Festival.”
Babu Saar’s eyes were focused on his own answer sheets; she could not understand if he was needling her for more information. She imagined a snide note in his voice and grew uneasy at the sight of the milky film on the surface of her long-cooled tea.
“I am helping him out with the play.”
Her curt response ended all conversation.
She suddenly could not bear to sit in the staffroom anymore. The rain was still beating down on the earth without mercy. The peculiar kind of sweat that blossoms on one’s skin, the kind that only rain can bring out, started running down the back of her neck.
Her answer sheets were unceremoniously stuffed into her bag. The tea on her desk lay forgotten; it’s milky film forlorn. She could not get to the car fast enough.
Vishwanaathan looked up in surprise when she slammed the car door shut. His hand was poised to reach for the stereo, eager to play whatever music he liked at the moment.
“I thought you weren’t going to be done for another half an hour. I thought I’d wait in the car till then.”
“Never mind, I got done early. Did you cancel the rehearsal?”
“Yes. I told the kids that I had to run some errands for my wife before she gets back from Madras next month.”
Manju’s mouth tightened. He could have told them any number of lies. Spinning tales came easily to him. He would keep her guessing whether the stories he told her ever happened, while they lay in bed together, exhausted but satisfied. He would insist that each of them had happened to him.
Instead, this was his not so subtle reminder to her.
She looked over at him sitting. His hands were resting on the steering wheel now. Hands rough and calloused with making the sets of the plays he directed. That was the first thing she had noticed about him when they first met. There was something so strange about his calloused fingers gripping a pen and coaxing words out of it. His eyes were unreadable now. They only lit up when he directed his actors. His hair looked a little unkempt, undoubtedly from the wind and rain of the day.
She closed her eyes.
“Let’s leave then.”
“Alright”
They pulled out of the small parking space into the unforgiving downpour.
* * *
The curtains were dusty and worn. They sieved the light into the bedroom through their coarse fabric.
“Don’t forget to take your comb when you leave.”
Vishwanaathan’s back was turned to her. He was leaning against the open window.
She did not know if he smoked a cigarette every time after they were finished to get away from her body, or if he really enjoyed smoking. The smoke curled away through the open window, drawn to the perfect violence of each drop crashing down to meet the earth.
“But I need to comb my hair before I leave.”
A cool breeze drifted into the room, uninvited. The thin bedsheet was not enough to keep her body warm.
“Carry it in your bag then.”
Manju looked away from his unrelenting form. Her eyes wandered, for the hundredth time, to the barely-there furniture in his room. One chair. One desk covered with books and loose sheets of writing paper.
“You should put up some picture frames on the walls. And maybe get new curtains.”
“I really have to start working on the script. It needs some tightening here and there.”
Tiny droplets of rain, illegitimate children of the well-formed ones, landed on the ends of his hair.
She picked up her clothes from the floor and headed to the bathroom. Her comb was in the usual spot by the basin.
The mirror told her that she didn’t need to comb her hair really. It was not that messy. It would look fine if she gathered it all up and put it in a bun.
“I’ll get a cab.”
“Did you take the comb?”
“Aah”
“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He had already sat at his desk. His pen struck out whole sentences in the script without hesitation.
“Yes.”
* * *
The rain had left mud plastered all over the front porch of Manju’s house. She took off her shoes and stepped over the mud, trying to avoid looking at it.
Her father looked up from the newspaper he was reading. He was spread out on the wooden chair, legs put up on the planks running through its sides. He went back to his newspaper wordlessly.
There was a glass of tea on the dining table. It was covered by a small steel plate, and visibly cold. One side of the table was taken up by bunches of spinach. Her mother methodically took each bunch in her hand and brought down the knife on it.
“Always coming home late in the evening. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I told you before I left, I have to stay late for drama rehearsals.”
Manju managed to close the door of her room before her mother undoubtedly left her a scathing reply.
Of course, her parents suspected that something was going on between Manju and a man, most likely from the college. They always suspected a man and his sordid charm. Her mother had regular telephone conversations with Vijaya teacher in the department; Manju suspected that her mother had become friends with Vijaya teacher only to be constantly kept in the loop about Manju. She could not stand the thought of not knowing what her daughter did when she stepped outside the house.
The rain had faded to a gentle, slanting drizzle outside. She quickly stripped off her muddy clothes and washed off Viswanaathan’s touch with cold water.
* * *
The next day, there was a buzz in the department when Manju finally decided to get the paper correction over with. All the professors were huddled around Sheela teacher’s mobile phone.
“She has a dancer’s eyes.”
“Oh, she is a dancer and a brilliant one at that. Viswanaathan Saar had invited me along to one of her performances last year. What a sight she was…” Babu Saar’s words and thoughts had trailed off to places filled with distasteful pleasure, not a trace of shame.
“Apparently, she’s coming back from Madras sooner than planned. Viswanaathan Saar missed her too badly, he told me this morning.”
“Anyone would if they were married to her.”
The conversation came to an unnatural death when everyone suddenly turned their eyes toward Manju’s table.
“ Look, Manjula. That’s Viswanaathan Saar’s wife Madhavi. She’s coming back from Madras day after tomorrow. Isn’t she beautiful? She is a dancer as well!” Sheela Teacher’s eyes were boring into Manju’s face, furiously searching for any hint of the chagrin and shame she wished would be there.
“Oh, yes. Beautiful.”
Manju’s lips were twisted into a cold, amused smile.
“I thought you would be interested to know.” Sheela Teacher was making one last attempt to coax some reaction out of her.
“It’s terribly interesting. But more interesting than that are my answer sheets which remain to be corrected. As do yours, judging from the pile on your desk.”
Her easy laugh was met by silence.
All eyes turned away, having lost interest in the secret loves that blossomed under their punishing gaze.
Manju took the plastic comb that she had put in her purse that morning; it looked dejected now, obscene even. She had bought the comb for forty rupees from a “ladies fancy store” on the way back to her house after her hair was tousled from the sheets on Viswanaathan’s bed. Tousled, messy hair shows a loose woman’s character, her mother used to tell her.
She dropped it into the waste bin outside the department. She had no use for it now. Neither could she bear to keep it, and look at the loose strands of hair caught in its teeth.
The rain started up again as she walked to the bus stop to catch the 5.30 bus home.
Anjana Kishore thinks of herself as a human jackfruit; prickly on the outside, kinda okay on the inside. She is a 20 something independent writer who has a complicated relationship with Kerala. She enjoys monsoon, biriyani and wearing sarees. She’s @anjana.kishore on Instagram.