This extract from Mridula Garg’s Country of Goodbyes, translated from the Hindi by Manisha Choudhry, is about a scholar whose husband steals her research, her imagination and her storytelling ability.
‘My partner,’ he said as he hugged me tightly and rained kisses all over my face.
I heard, ‘My partner, this novel has been written by both of us, it will be published in both our names.’
But there was still something that kept me from speaking about Ruth.
Many days passed. Every night Irving would repeat his plea that the novel was our soul’s offspring, a child created from our joint consciousness. Every night I heard him say that the novel would be published in both our names. Even so, I stood my ground and refused to be checkmated.
Then one night...he finally said, check; he thought up such an infallible move, it must have sprung from the passion buried in the pages of my journal. How else could he have figured out just what to say so that I would surrender? Caught in his web of clever words I read consent in coercion. I don’t know whether it was the depth of my pain or his piercing eye—whatever it was it was enough to checkmate me.
‘Listen to me, Marianne,’ he said as he caressed my satiated, sleepy body, ‘as soon as the novel is printed we will make another baby. Won’t you give me a real baby, in flesh and blood, a symbol of our union, of body and soul? You also want one, don’t you, your own child, flesh of your flesh, born of your body? Our very own, sprung from our blood and sinews?’
The next day I handed over Ruth’s diary to Irving.
The novel was published. Woman of the Earth. I picked it up reverentially as I would my own child. A wave of awe and excitement rose in my body, then crashed into an abyss. What popped out of my mouth was, ‘But this has been published in your name only.’
‘Naturally—what else?’ said Irving.
‘You said it would be published jointly, in both our names.’
‘When did I say that? You must be mad.’
‘Didn’t you say this was the child of our joint consciousness? Then my name...’
‘A child is known by its father’s name,’ he said, delighted with his repartee.
But I couldn’t let go. Still in denial, I repeated stupidly, ‘You said that I had sowed the seed and you were carrying the baby. Didn’t you say that?’
‘Maybe I did,’ he replied carelessly, ‘when you are in the throes of creation all manner of images float across your mind.’
The illusion shattered and anger replaced the dream.
‘It was all lies! You were just using me.’
‘Using you? What use could I make of you?’
‘I collected all the material...’
‘Gratitude!’ he said with sarcasm. ‘You cannot write a novel simply by collecting facts, my dear. There is a difference between sociological research and creative writing. I haven’t stopped you from writing your thesis.’
But I wanted creation. You led me to believe that I was creating, that I had already created and you were just there with me. Why did you lie to me? Why did you say again and again that this was our joint creation, our spirit child, and that it would be known as such? I gave you everything, all my work, those detailed diaries of the four women in whom you saw my image. No. I kept Ruth’s diary hidden from you for a long time. So then...was this elaborate charade played out just to get your hands on that? You say you cannot write a novel only by collecting facts. But you had all the facts about Ruth, didn’t you? Only her emotional journey remained with me. Which means that this work is mine, far more than it is yours.
As I turned the pages listlessly and all this welled up inside me, I raised my head to spit at Irving but he had left already.
As I burned in rage I turned the pages, looking for any hint of salve to soothe the wound. Nowhere in the entire book, neither in the beginning nor the end was there any acknowledgement of my contribution to it. Even the dedication was in the name of Everywoman. I recalled that I had said we would dedicate our novel to Everywoman. All I had known then was that it was our novel, born of the two of us.
I had lived a long time with the energy generated from creating the novel, I couldn’t bear it when that illusion was shattered. I fell into an abyss of depression. As I struggled to keep afloat I started to read the novel.
I must have reached the halfway mark when I felt Virginia’s arrogance and rage creep up my ankles till it reached my head. Fraud! Incompetent fool! Thief! There was not a single meaningful page in the novel which had not been taken in its entirety from my journal. Irving had only played around with the language. In this creation, I had not only sowed the seed, I had carried it in my womb and birthed it. Irving had merely swaddled it and stolen it. This was my child which he had kidnapped.
When Irving returned I hissed at him with rage and contempt. I hadn’t known I could hurl so much vile abuse with such force—I was Virginia’s daughter after all.
‘You cunning, sly, impotent bastard,’ I hissed, ‘You lifted my entire journal and had it published. This is out and out theft, I will never forgive you, you sleazy bastard, never let you get away with this.’
‘Don’t shout,’ he said calmly,’ I haven’t committed a crime. You gave me your journal of your own free will, no more than that. D. H. Lawrence, Scott Fitzgerald and many others used their wives’ journals when they wrote their novels. Zelda Fitzgerald didn’t even give hers willingly. She went to court to register her protest, but then she was half-mad. And what happened? The court granted Fitzgerald legal permission to use her journal. You know the history of literature but you’re still railing and protesting.’
‘You son of a bitch! You impotent bastard!’ I seized the collar of his shirt and shook him, ‘So you think you will have me committed to the asylum like Zelda! That was then, this is now. I’m going to get you for this! I will have you in prison on charges of plagiarism. This novel will be sold only when it has my name on it. Get that into your head.’
‘What proof do you have of your contribution to it?’ he asked me dispassionately.
‘My journal, what else?’
‘What journal?’
‘The one that...I gave...you,’ but before I could complete my sentence I knew that he had destroyed it.
As my head spun I steadied myself by twisting his shirt in my fists. It tore and I drew blood from his chest and shoulders with my sharp nails and teeth.
Irving freed himself with great difficulty. He managed to push me to the ground but didn’t lay a finger on me otherwise.
My anger passed. The tiredness which follows violence sat heavily on my body. Zelda Fitzgerald’s words rose from my subconscious and burned my ears.
Women are so adept at bearing injustice that the most sophisticated of them behave like peasant women—weeping and wailing but unwilling to fight.
What else could she have said? She was even more helpless than Roxanne, Susan, Elena and Ruth. The salt of tears, the smell of coffee, the magic of embroidery and relentless work were not options she would exercise; all that she had as a basis for her identity was her journal. As soon as that was stolen from her she lost her mental balance. She had already suffered a nervous breakdown; now she spent her last days in an asylum. My journal had been taken away from me, I hadn’t even made a copy. Irving first committed rape, then murder. He murdered my child. He killed Susan, Roxanne, Elena and Ruth. But I didn’t want to go to the madhouse. An intense sadness descended on me. Darkness before my eyes. Why was I not able to cry? My hands and feet grew numb, I lay on the earth, twisted and tortured like a wounded animal. Irving stood at my head. I looked up at him with difficulty. Blood was dripping from his torn shirt, the blood of my unborn child. I tried to scream but fell down unconscious. When I came to, Irving had vanished. Surprise, surprise. He had departed without a fuss. Despite my spitting and scratching Irving hadn’t lifted a finger against me. Was he ashamed of what he had done?
Fool! What was the point of displaying Virginia’s arrogance for a brief moment when I was so worked up by the attack on my identity? When had I ever acquired her mastery of technique? I wasn’t Virginia at all, I was Zelda, cowering in the margins. No, not even Zelda, Marianne. Oscillating between protest and tears, whining and complaining, unable to get past betrayal, unwilling to acquire feminine wiles. A mere woman.
After freeing himself from me Irving had gone straight to the police station. He had his abrasions photographed and filed a petition in court to the effect that his wife was subject to hysteria and fits of mental disturbance, and consequently grew violent. Therefore he wanted a divorce.
Excerpted with permission from Unbound: 2,000 years of Indian Women’s Writing, edited by Annie Zaidi, Aleph Book Company.
‘My partner,’ he said as he hugged me tightly and rained kisses all over my face.
I heard, ‘My partner, this novel has been written by both of us, it will be published in both our names.’
But there was still something that kept me from speaking about Ruth.
Many days passed. Every night Irving would repeat his plea that the novel was our soul’s offspring, a child created from our joint consciousness. Every night I heard him say that the novel would be published in both our names. Even so, I stood my ground and refused to be checkmated.
Then one night...he finally said, check; he thought up such an infallible move, it must have sprung from the passion buried in the pages of my journal. How else could he have figured out just what to say so that I would surrender? Caught in his web of clever words I read consent in coercion. I don’t know whether it was the depth of my pain or his piercing eye—whatever it was it was enough to checkmate me.
‘Listen to me, Marianne,’ he said as he caressed my satiated, sleepy body, ‘as soon as the novel is printed we will make another baby. Won’t you give me a real baby, in flesh and blood, a symbol of our union, of body and soul? You also want one, don’t you, your own child, flesh of your flesh, born of your body? Our very own, sprung from our blood and sinews?’
The next day I handed over Ruth’s diary to Irving.
The novel was published. Woman of the Earth. I picked it up reverentially as I would my own child. A wave of awe and excitement rose in my body, then crashed into an abyss. What popped out of my mouth was, ‘But this has been published in your name only.’
‘Naturally—what else?’ said Irving.
‘You said it would be published jointly, in both our names.’
‘When did I say that? You must be mad.’
‘Didn’t you say this was the child of our joint consciousness? Then my name...’
‘A child is known by its father’s name,’ he said, delighted with his repartee.
But I couldn’t let go. Still in denial, I repeated stupidly, ‘You said that I had sowed the seed and you were carrying the baby. Didn’t you say that?’
‘Maybe I did,’ he replied carelessly, ‘when you are in the throes of creation all manner of images float across your mind.’
The illusion shattered and anger replaced the dream.
‘It was all lies! You were just using me.’
‘Using you? What use could I make of you?’
‘I collected all the material...’
‘Gratitude!’ he said with sarcasm. ‘You cannot write a novel simply by collecting facts, my dear. There is a difference between sociological research and creative writing. I haven’t stopped you from writing your thesis.’
But I wanted creation. You led me to believe that I was creating, that I had already created and you were just there with me. Why did you lie to me? Why did you say again and again that this was our joint creation, our spirit child, and that it would be known as such? I gave you everything, all my work, those detailed diaries of the four women in whom you saw my image. No. I kept Ruth’s diary hidden from you for a long time. So then...was this elaborate charade played out just to get your hands on that? You say you cannot write a novel only by collecting facts. But you had all the facts about Ruth, didn’t you? Only her emotional journey remained with me. Which means that this work is mine, far more than it is yours.
As I turned the pages listlessly and all this welled up inside me, I raised my head to spit at Irving but he had left already.
As I burned in rage I turned the pages, looking for any hint of salve to soothe the wound. Nowhere in the entire book, neither in the beginning nor the end was there any acknowledgement of my contribution to it. Even the dedication was in the name of Everywoman. I recalled that I had said we would dedicate our novel to Everywoman. All I had known then was that it was our novel, born of the two of us.
I had lived a long time with the energy generated from creating the novel, I couldn’t bear it when that illusion was shattered. I fell into an abyss of depression. As I struggled to keep afloat I started to read the novel.
I must have reached the halfway mark when I felt Virginia’s arrogance and rage creep up my ankles till it reached my head. Fraud! Incompetent fool! Thief! There was not a single meaningful page in the novel which had not been taken in its entirety from my journal. Irving had only played around with the language. In this creation, I had not only sowed the seed, I had carried it in my womb and birthed it. Irving had merely swaddled it and stolen it. This was my child which he had kidnapped.
When Irving returned I hissed at him with rage and contempt. I hadn’t known I could hurl so much vile abuse with such force—I was Virginia’s daughter after all.
‘You cunning, sly, impotent bastard,’ I hissed, ‘You lifted my entire journal and had it published. This is out and out theft, I will never forgive you, you sleazy bastard, never let you get away with this.’
‘Don’t shout,’ he said calmly,’ I haven’t committed a crime. You gave me your journal of your own free will, no more than that. D. H. Lawrence, Scott Fitzgerald and many others used their wives’ journals when they wrote their novels. Zelda Fitzgerald didn’t even give hers willingly. She went to court to register her protest, but then she was half-mad. And what happened? The court granted Fitzgerald legal permission to use her journal. You know the history of literature but you’re still railing and protesting.’
‘You son of a bitch! You impotent bastard!’ I seized the collar of his shirt and shook him, ‘So you think you will have me committed to the asylum like Zelda! That was then, this is now. I’m going to get you for this! I will have you in prison on charges of plagiarism. This novel will be sold only when it has my name on it. Get that into your head.’
‘What proof do you have of your contribution to it?’ he asked me dispassionately.
‘My journal, what else?’
‘What journal?’
‘The one that...I gave...you,’ but before I could complete my sentence I knew that he had destroyed it.
As my head spun I steadied myself by twisting his shirt in my fists. It tore and I drew blood from his chest and shoulders with my sharp nails and teeth.
Irving freed himself with great difficulty. He managed to push me to the ground but didn’t lay a finger on me otherwise.
My anger passed. The tiredness which follows violence sat heavily on my body. Zelda Fitzgerald’s words rose from my subconscious and burned my ears.
Women are so adept at bearing injustice that the most sophisticated of them behave like peasant women—weeping and wailing but unwilling to fight.
What else could she have said? She was even more helpless than Roxanne, Susan, Elena and Ruth. The salt of tears, the smell of coffee, the magic of embroidery and relentless work were not options she would exercise; all that she had as a basis for her identity was her journal. As soon as that was stolen from her she lost her mental balance. She had already suffered a nervous breakdown; now she spent her last days in an asylum. My journal had been taken away from me, I hadn’t even made a copy. Irving first committed rape, then murder. He murdered my child. He killed Susan, Roxanne, Elena and Ruth. But I didn’t want to go to the madhouse. An intense sadness descended on me. Darkness before my eyes. Why was I not able to cry? My hands and feet grew numb, I lay on the earth, twisted and tortured like a wounded animal. Irving stood at my head. I looked up at him with difficulty. Blood was dripping from his torn shirt, the blood of my unborn child. I tried to scream but fell down unconscious. When I came to, Irving had vanished. Surprise, surprise. He had departed without a fuss. Despite my spitting and scratching Irving hadn’t lifted a finger against me. Was he ashamed of what he had done?
Fool! What was the point of displaying Virginia’s arrogance for a brief moment when I was so worked up by the attack on my identity? When had I ever acquired her mastery of technique? I wasn’t Virginia at all, I was Zelda, cowering in the margins. No, not even Zelda, Marianne. Oscillating between protest and tears, whining and complaining, unable to get past betrayal, unwilling to acquire feminine wiles. A mere woman.
After freeing himself from me Irving had gone straight to the police station. He had his abrasions photographed and filed a petition in court to the effect that his wife was subject to hysteria and fits of mental disturbance, and consequently grew violent. Therefore he wanted a divorce.
Excerpted with permission from Unbound: 2,000 years of Indian Women’s Writing, edited by Annie Zaidi, Aleph Book Company.
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