A Story About Society’s Outmoded Beliefs, Women’s Lives And Identities

A tale about love, loss, second chances, strange bedfellows and finding your own peculiar tribe, The Weird Women’s Club by Aruna Nambiar is a challenge to society’s outmoded beliefs about women’s lives and identities. An Excerpt:

The bus swerves and careens on the highway, inciting squeals from the girls and cheers from the boys. Somebody’s breakfast tiffin scoots down the aisle dropping sambar, chutney, idlis and a boiled egg on its way. There are more squeals and shouts.

Prof Shekhar is standing at the front of the bus expounding on Pallava architecture. After paying token respects to Mahabalipuram’s chariot temples and the bas reliefs of Arjuna’s Penance, he is now talking about the free-spiritedness of the women depicted in some of the sculptures. ‘They are scantily clad, reaching up to kiss their lovers in some panels, provocatively putting hands on the hips in others. Let us not linger there too much eh, Manjunatha?’ he says, picking on one of those students who has been brought up to treat women with respect by never looking them in the eye or speaking to them on matters other than homework and spelling bees. The bus erupts in laughter. A few of the boys pelt Manjunatha with crumpled-up balls of potato-chip packets. VD is sitting by Prof Shekhar’s side, in baseball cap and gigantic sunglasses, shocking-pink lipstick bleeding into her teeth.

‘What a perfect way to spend a weekend, is it not?’ says Manav.

Hema shakes her head. ‘At what point are we supposed to intervene?’ she asks, gesturing towards Manjunatha who is now trapped in a friendly headlock.

‘Oh, they’re on holiday—’

‘Study trip, actually.’

‘…and away from their parents and out of uniform and probably dizzy on cola and chips. So, you give them some leeway and intervene only in the event of grievous injury. Hey!’ he shouts suddenly, making Hema jump. ‘Enough of that.’ The headlocker releases Manjunatha but not before giving him a hearty punch and comradely shove.

‘Masterful,’ says Hema.

‘One of my many talents. Children-taming. Far more complex and under-rated than its lesser cousin, lion-taming.’

‘One of many, is it?’ laughs Hema. ‘And what are the others, may I ask?’

‘Ah that you will just have to wait to find out,’ he says, and gives her a look that makes her redden.

Out of his teacher uniform of formal pants and shirt, dressed in jeans and an indigo dabu-print kurta, feet shod in floaters instead of formal shoes, Manav had caused some nudging and pointing among the flightier of the girls as he arrived in the morning. He too, had done a double take as he caught sight of Hema in a wispy summer dress and sandals, but had said nothing.

Anu had been pretending that she didn’t know Hema ever since they had gathered at school. She had made sure to get into the other bus being chaperoned by the hateful Mudra, who is Class Mom No. 2, Mrs Lobo and a Class Dad whose name Hema has forgotten. Hema is more than a little miffed that Anu has preferred Mudra’s chaperoning to hers.

As soon as they had boarded the bus, VD had instructed them to sit at the back from where they would ostensibly have a vantage point to keep an eye on the children. Saying which, she had settled down next to Prof Shekhar in the front.

‘She just wants to be alone with Prof Shekhar,’ Manav had whispered to Hema as they had made their way down the aisle, and Hema was thankful that he had not caught VD’s meaningful parting wink. Now settled on the last seat, which goes across the breadth of the bus, they are sitting in the central portion, legs outstretched into the aisle. Hema is very aware of Manav’s cologne, which smells like an ocean breeze.

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But the boiled egg is also releasing its aroma around the bus, making people gag. One of the boys picks it up and pretends to shove it down the throat of the offending party. There is more squealing and shouting. In the front, Prof Shekhar continues his speech, which somehow has moved on to the erotic sculptures of Khajuraho.

‘To think I could be having lunch with Jeroo and Avanti just about now…’ says Hema.

‘Ah, your Weird Women’s Club,’ says Manav.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Isn’t that what you call it?’ smiles Manav.

‘Are you referring to our Meetings of the Misfits?’

‘Tomayto-tomahto,’ he says, breaking into a grin.

‘So that’s what you think, is it? That we’re a bunch of weird women? Why? Because we don’t meet your gold standard of what is normal for women?’ She gives him a stony look.

‘Calm down. I was referring mainly to Dr Mishra.’

Hema’s stony look crumbles into a laugh. ‘I’ll give you that. Although, on the behalf of all women, I am offended.’

‘Of course.’

‘What about Jeroo? Is she weird too?’

‘Mad as a hatter.’

She giggles. ‘And I complete the triumvirate of weirdness, is it?’

Manav looks down at her. ‘You, Hema ma’am, are definitely not weird.’ There is something in his voice though that is definitely weird. She wonders if she is reading too much into it—it’s been so long, she’s out of touch.

Some of the boys have started playing catch with the boiled egg, causing more shouting and screaming.

‘But I think your club is not quite complete, is it?’ continues Manav.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You need a pathetic middle-aged singleton to round it off. It’s practically de rigueur if you’re talking of misfits.’

Hema mulls over this. ‘Now where do we find a pathetic middle-aged singleton?’

‘Er, hello?’ says Manav, palms spread.

‘You? In which universe do you qualify to join our club?’

‘I’m forty and single.’

‘Forty, single and male—that makes you raffish, not pathetic or dysfunctional.’

‘Raffish, eh? Good to know,’ he says, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘And only faintly suspicious,’ she adds, quick to cut him to size.

‘And I teach in a school.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Tell me, how many matrimonial ads have you seen that say “Wanted: Over-Thirty Male Teachers, Caste No Bar”?’

‘Read the matrimonial ads a lot, do you?’ teases Hema.

‘Religiously,’ he replies, eyes dancing. ‘Anyway, as manly jobs go, being a schoolteacher is not exactly glamorous. It’s what you do if you can’t be a doctor/engineer/scientist/manager/cricketer (preferably IPL cricketer)/college professor. Half the people I know secretly think I’m doing it only because I’m some kind of pervert wanting to feel up the kids.’

‘Really?’

‘As weird jobs for men under fifty, it’s up there with lingerie salesman and male gynaecologist.’

Hema laughs. ‘What rubbish. And in any case, I think one must be female to be judged a misfit. You know: widower, good; widow, bad. Bachelor, good; spinster: not,’ she explains, paraphrasing Avanti a bit inarticulately.

‘Oh, so it’s The MsFits, then,’ says Manav. ‘With an M, s.’

‘MsFits. Yes, I suppose so,’ she concedes.

Excerpted from The Weird Women’s Club by Aruna Nambiar. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2022.

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