The Wedding Drums

by Marilyn Rodwell

‘All right. I’ll look into it.’

  The rest of the lunchtime, the girls talked but worried about Sumati, how much they hated boys in general, teachers, fathers, history, geography, and the advantages and disadvantages of learning Sanskrit and reading English novels. Early marriage had the edge when compared to the boredom some felt at school. But not for all.

  While they were talking, Farouk turned up and handed Amina a piece of paper tied round with brown string, with Sumati’s name written on it.

  ‘Make sure you give this to Sumati as soon as you see her,’ he said, and walked off.

  Amina took it – a risky act if either were caught. She put it in her pocket before she could think, and hoped no one had seen her taking a note from a boy. Especially Etwar. If her parents found out, she was sure to be in even more trouble. She wondered whether to return to see Mr Clifford, but it had been a long day and she was worn out with a sore head. She decided the next day would be better.

  ELEVEN

  Roopchand, Sumati’s father, arrived at the school around half past nine the following morning, smelling like a rum distillery. He stopped when he saw two of the older girls outside at the drinking taps.

  ‘Where he? That modderarse teacher-man what touch up my daughter!’ His voice grated as if he’d chewed gravel half the night. ‘Sumati’s teacher? Sumati Balgobin. My daughter.’

  ‘That’s Mr Mortimer,’ one of the girls replied, pointing. ‘His class is just down there.’ Roopchand Balgobin stomped towards the classroom. His voice and presence drew the attention of those inside, and all eyes turned to him. Teachers were looking anxious. Mr Mortimer had already dropped his chalk and started briskly walking towards a quick exit from the back. But he headed straight into Roopchand, who had already spotted him and was powering ahead.

  ‘You are Mortimer?’ Roopchand demanded.

  Mr Mortimer half-nodded.

  ‘Who-who-who do you tink you is?’ Roopchand couldn’t stutter fast enough. ‘Touching up my daughter. . . in the backside. Who tell you that you could do that?’

  ‘I don’t know what Sumati came home and told you, Mr, but . . .’ Mr Mortimer began. He looked round at the class of pupils who were all gaping at them, open-mouthed.

  ‘Ask the class,’ he said.

  ‘If you wanted my daughter, you should have had the manners to ask me first. You black people have no respect for the coolie man?’

  ‘Mr Balgobin,’ Mr Mortimer said, smiling in a superior manner. ‘I don’t know why you think I want your daughter in that way. And I didn’t touch her anywhere private.’

  ‘So tell me where you did touch her,’ Roopchand asked, his voice a tad calmer.

  ‘She was giving me a lot of lip, and I punished her. That’s all.’

  ‘Punished her – that’s all?’ the man mimicked. ‘You lift up my daughter skirt to punish her? What make it right for a man-teacher to lift up a girl’s dress in school? If my daughter needs to be whipped in the backside, that is my job. You understand?’

  ‘You want to go and see the headmaster?’ Mr Mortimer asked.

  Amina stood up. ‘Mr Clifford said he didn’t agree with it. He said he would . . .’

  ‘You went to the headmaster?’ Mr Mortimer glared at Amina fiercely. ‘I should have given you a good whipping too! You won’t get away with it, I promise you.’

  There was a sudden hush across the whole school. Mr Clifford was marching towards them through Standard Four class.

  ‘What seems to be going on here?’ the headmaster asked tersely, his eyes piercing.

  ‘My daughter is going to get married and Teacherman here. . . he gave she a good whipping. Who will want she now? He really hurt her badly!’

  ‘I don’t think it happened quite like that,’ Mr Clifford replied, with dignity.

  ‘Putting my daughter’s backside on show for the whole school to see, is all right with you? My daughter is a woman, by all rights. And besides, he damaged her body black and blue all over! Legs, back, arms . . . He beat my daughter like a jackass!’

  ‘He lyin’! De man lyin’.’ Mr Mortimer was screaming in colloquial language now, sucking his teeth loudly, his eyes fierce and wide. ‘He come to make trouble. De man drunk. Smell the liquor on ’im!’

  ‘Mr Mortimer?’ Mr Clifford said. ‘Please go and wait in my office. Now.’

  The headmaster used a restrained tone, but his nostrils flared, and his expression was dark with suppressed rage. Mr Mortimer walked off, shrugging his shoulders and swinging his arms carelessly. Mr Clifford put his hand out to Mr Balgobin, but Roopchand did not respond. The headmaster kept his hand out, waiting till the other man stuck his hand out awkwardly and allowed Mr Clifford to take it, and to shake it vigorously.

  ‘I am the headmaster here at Granville RC School, and I want you to know that I am aware that something occurred, but I have not yet gotten to the bottom of the matter,’ Mr Clifford told him. I promise you, though, that I will. You say Sumati is getting married? When exactly? Please come.’

  Mr Clifford led Roopchand away from the classroom and the two men disappeared outside. As soon as they left, the babble started and rose through the open-air school, so that no one could hear the teachers bellowing at the pupils to be quiet.

  Mr Clifford reappeared ten minutes later. ‘Standard Five!’ he roared. ‘Open your books and read. Amina, I want you to sit in front of the class until I come back. And if I hear a whisper from any of you . . .’ He scanned the whole class with his steely eyes, ‘I will thrash you myself and see which one of your parents will come for me!’

  TWELVE

  There was a noise in the back yard in the middle of the night. Sankar Banderjee got up and stumbled towards the bedroom window. He opened it and peered out.

  ‘It’s me, Daya,’ a voice called up softly. ‘Your neighbour. Is Sumati here?’

  ‘Why would your daughter be here?’ Sankar said, turning to Devinia. ‘Is Sumati in the house? Her mother is looking for her.’

  Devinia called out through the house, but Amina was already awake and came running across to her parents’ bedroom.

  ‘She was really upset yesterday in school,’ Amina said.

  ‘Yes, the teacher whipped her,’ Etwar said. ‘He really hurt her. And he did it in front of the whole school.’

  ‘She must be with some other friend,’ Sankar shouted out of the window. ‘You want Devinia to go and help you look?’

  ‘No,’ Daya replied. ‘We already went to everybody we could think of.’

  ‘Leave it till light,’ Sankar advised. ‘She’s probably staying with a friend.’

  Daya Balgobin returned home. She sat in the hammock watching, waiting and listening. Dawn came. She stared through the branches at the birds noisily breakfasting, her eyes wet with worry. Then she pulled the blanket over her legs and closed her eyes until the wheels of the first donkey cart rolled past, taking chattering workmen to the cane fields. She got up and looked out just in case, then decided to start the day. As she returned from the bathroom to the kitchen to cook, she felt drained. Amongst the thoughts spinning in her head, not one brought a glimmer of hope. She would never wish ill on her child, but it could be the one time when a dead child would be a blessing compared to the fate that could befall them both. Roopchand, her husband, had vowed to kill her if Sumati ever brought shame on them. But Daya buried those thoughts.

  The sun rose and shone through the kitchen onto her glowing face, freshly scrubbed almost raw with the loofah. She kneaded the flour with tears for her fate in life. In a way, her daughter was an extension of herself. A projection of who she might have been. Sumati was pretty, and had inherited her own good looks. But Daya was a modest woman, who never saw beauty in herself. Never saw the smile that lit her face, or the gleam on her lime-washed hair. It grieved her that Sumati’s looks brought abuse from the neighbours, especially Meena, who never spared her a single one of her mean thoughts. Meena should know better, with a daughter of her own. A growing girl who was losing her pi
mples and developing breasts that showed through layers of a chemise and a cotton dress. But it wasn’t just her neighbour Daya would have to endure. Unless he was true to his word and killed her, Roopchand would torment her forever with threats and misery till she could take no more. Daya held her head high. She was a respectful woman and wife, who would never respond with argument. She balled the dough and covered it with a cloth. With her skin burning and hair still dripping, Daya prepared herself to pray. She poured some oil in a tiny clay pot around the wick, lit it, and took it to the corner of the room where she sat in front of the picture of Lakshmi Mata. And it wasn’t long before she heard footsteps she recognised, coming down the side of the house.

  ‘Ma!’ A sudden whisper behind her. ‘You cook yet?’

  Daya’s eyes remained closed, focused on her prayer. Her heart calmed on hearing the familiar voice. When she was finished, she returned to the kitchen and back to her daily routine, to cook for the day, but wondering how to talk to Sumati. She needed to explain to the girl about the kind of trouble she had brought upon herself, her mother, and the whole family. Daya wondered why she had never before felt the need to be explicit about the curse that would be upon them if Sumati ever spent the night out without them knowing where she was. Now she tried to imagine any innocent cause – but realised that the scenario facing her could only mean the worst. So Daya didn’t want to know. She said nothing.

  ‘I was over at Amina’s house,’ Sumati said. Her voice rang out the lie as clear as a bell.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ Daya asked.

  ‘You know – about Mortimer and what he did.’ Her hands went involuntarily to her bruises, and Daya’s face dropped. ‘Then it got late and everybody was sleeping, and Amina said to stay with her in her bed. I slept with my friend, Ma. We’re like sisters. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  Daya felt her heart begin to flutter and fall like a bird shot from the sky. How, she asked herself, had she managed to bring a daughter into this world who could lie so easily? If only she could turn the years back to Sumati’s childhood so that she could see when the lies began, so that she could catch them and teach her differently. If Roopchand ever found out, life wouldn’t be worth living. She wondered whether to tell Sumati outright that she knew she was lying – but this would cause an argument that was bound to wake her husband. A sure way to end the family as they knew it.

  Daya was a quick thinker, and had already worked out a plan that would ensure everyone involved was protected.

  ‘You say you’re like sisters? I wish you were more like her. I hope she talked some sense into you. You’re too much like a butterfly. A pretty one, but here one minute, and gone the next.’ She looked deep into Sumati’s eyes, hoping the message would reach her silently.

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause you to worry,’ Sumati said. ‘It’s just that time passed so fast. Everybody was already sleeping, and no one could have walked home with me.’

  ‘Go and bathe,’ was all Daya said, knowing that Sumati was like a cane field on fire when she was opposed or exposed. In that, she resembled her husband. She had his wrong and strong behaviour. ‘And when you’ve finished, come and help me make the roti.’

  Roopchand was getting ready for work. Sumati was sitting in the lotus position in front of the altar in the corner of the room. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘She home?’ Roopchand asked. ‘And praying? Did she explain where she was?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you she was with her friend, Amina?’ Daya lied.

  ‘You went there last night but you didn’t tell me she was there.’

  ‘You were sleeping,’ Daya said sweetly. ‘I didn’t see the point in waking you up.’ The less fuss she made the better.

  ‘Well tell her never to do that again! Staying out like that! Otherwise I will cut her arse worse than what Mortimer did. And another thing, if she ever gets herself in any kind of trouble to bring shame on me, I will hold you responsible. You! You may as well be dead. I hope you understand that.’

  ‘You told me that already,’ Daya said quietly. ‘I know how you think.’

  His eyes pierced into hers, and Daya felt a stabbing pain. Her heart could no longer bear this burden she had carried for so long. She knew what had to be done, and she was ready to do it.

  Roopchand and Kesh, their son, left together. Daya served breakfast while Sumati hung her washing on the clothes wire between the coconut trees. Daya brought the plates and the two of them sat in the bamboo lean-to at the side of the house, she on the bench and Sumati in the hammock. The girl was ravenous. While she chomped and chewed, Daya waited for the right moment.

  ‘You are eating like an animal,’ she said. ‘I am thinking that you are just sitting at home doing nothing. You are not in school or working. Your father wants to bring the wedding plans to the end of this month.’

  ‘So soon? I haven’t had a chance to swallow my food and . . .’

  ‘It has nothing to do with a chance to swallow food.’ Daya’s voice was calm, but her heart was heavy.

  ‘I wanted to stay at school, but I can’t do that now. Amina wants me to do the evening classes.’

  ‘We cannot go back and undo what happens in this life, beti.’ Daya stared at clothes hanging in the yard and swallowed. She didn’t want to be told why Sumati was so anxious to do her washing that early. ‘We have to go forward, and make sacrifices for what is best for the future.’

  ‘And what do you want, Ma? You want me to get married to an old man who already has children with another woman?’

  ‘You have no choice, beti. We have no choice. The whole village is gossiping about you. You have to change what you do to show that you can be a respectable wife and mother now.’

  ‘You mean that it will make you a respectable wife and mother!’ Sumati was spitting bits of food with her loud, angry words.

  ‘You see why I can’t deal with you?’ Daya said. ‘I can’t even talk to you. You need a strong man to keep you quiet.’

  ‘I need what? You crazy bitch!’

  ‘Sumati, don’t talk to your mother like that.’ Daya’s voice was breaking. Her heart was already broken, or her hand would have at that moment raised a weal on her daughter’s face. Wringing her hands, she continued. ‘Tell me what I have left in my life, when my own child has no respect for me? But you will have to have respect for Baljit, because he is an older man. If you want your father to deal with you, you know what he’ll do. He will beat you till you can’t move. He has already threatened me.’ Daya looked at Sumati to read her expression. The girl was gazing down at her plate, not moving. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what is going on,’ Daya burst out. ‘You are my daughter, and I know when you are telling the truth. And when you’re lying.’

  Sumati put her plate down on the floor still half full of food and began pushing it around with her foot, whilst rocking herself on the hammock. Daya looked at Sumati’s foot kicking the food she had cooked, and felt alienated and rejected. She longed to put her arm around her, but feared sending the wrong signal. She hadn’t approved of her daughter staying out all night, or lying, and a stone wall was rising between them.

  ‘You will marry this man!’ Daya exploded. ‘Soon! Because I care what happens to you. And I can see that you don’t care about anybody.’

  ‘Ma, I feel that you and Pa have never trusted me. Ma, I have to tell you something. The truth is, that I want to get married.’

  Daya’s mouth fell open and her eyes brightened hopefully.

  ‘But to someone else,’ Sumati said.

  Daya’s body wavered backwards as if a rock had hit her, and she almost lost her balance, but she never took her eyes off Sumati. She let out a scream. ‘Who? There is no one else! And how can we go back on our word? We said yes. Turning on our word will bring bad luck. And disrespect. How many more pujas must I do for you? You will be the end of me. We have no more money to give the pundit.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ Sumati’s eyelids were drooping.

&
nbsp; ‘Well, go and lie down. And when you get up, you will think differently.’

  Sumati went off and rolled herself up in a blanket as if she was ill, and Daya eventually struggled up in despair, to get on with her day.

  Amina returned home from school that afternoon, surprised to see Daya sitting with her mother on the bench at the far end downstairs. She was pleased to see the two women becoming good friends, and although they were chatting very quietly, she could hear the Bhojpuri tone of conversation in the breeze. Something occurred to her, so she hastened over.

  ‘You know, Ma, if you talked more English, you’d learn more words.’

  Devinia looked up sharply, her cheeks reddening. ‘We are talking,’ she snapped.

  ‘In Bhojpuri. But I can teach you to read English. Both of you.’

  Devinia looked at Amina sharply again, the green in her eyes glinting angrily.

  ‘Where did you learn to be rude? In school?’ she asked. ‘You think we have nothing to do all day but read storybooks? You live in a different world.’

  ‘I wish Sumati was in your world,’ Daya said regretfully.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Amina said apologetically. ‘But perhaps you could manage half an hour, after school? I could start next week!’ She turned around to go, but Devinia called her back.

  ‘I found this in your pocket when I was washing your skirt.’ She handed Amina a folded piece of paper. ‘Good thing I checked the pockets,’ Devinia said. ‘What’s it say on the paper?’

  Amina was suddenly grateful that neither her mother nor Daya could read English.

  ‘Oh, it’s something Mr Clifford wants me to do. Some wall charts for the school’s inspection. It will help him get permission for me to start Part One of the Pupil Teacher Training early. Next September.’

  Devinia looked taken aback.

  ‘It’ll take two years,’ Amina warned her. ‘Then Part Two.’ Aware that it would conflict with their wedding plans for her, she swiftly changed the subject.