The Wedding Drums

by Marilyn Rodwell

  Pryia and Ramona called at the house not long after Etwar had come home.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Pryia told Amina. ‘Ma warned me to come straight home.’

  ‘I keep dreaming,’ Amina said. ‘All kinds of bad things. That all of us went down by the sea, and one giant wave just came and lashed against us, tumbling us around so hard. And the water was full of sharks. And I couldn’t find any of you. Then I got dragged into the sea . . . the tide pulled me in.’

  ‘We were talking at school – we couldn’t sleep either,’ Pryia said. ‘People are saying that somebody poisoned Daya. That is why her lips and face went black.’

  ‘My mother said Daya was a good woman,’ Ramona said. ‘Too good for the rest of them.’

  ‘People say that Sumati ran away with a boy,’ Pryia said, in a low voice. ‘If she did, it must be because of the beating from Mortimer. She couldn’t face school anymore.’

  Amina lay in her bed that night with all the windows closed up tight, but the knocking and banging from the house of the dead down in the village travelled up to her room, haunting her. Her parents had gone there. She pulled the blanket over her head, but each bang shook the house like a small earthquake. Hundreds of voices in the distance competed with the hammering of wood, and thoughts flew through her head like a tornado blowing the pages of an open book. She lay wide awake, frightened to close her eyes, wondering if the doctor had been, and what he had said. Had he called the police? Had Sumati returned yet? She needed to know. She couldn’t be that selfish.

  Amina sat up and swung her legs from under the hot sheets. She put her feet flat on the cool floorboards, wishing it wasn’t night, because she wanted to go down to Sumati’s house despite being scared of the dark. She got out of bed and eased open the wooden window. Moonlight lit through the clouds like gauze. A flutter of heavy wings suddenly cut the air and Amina ducked. A dark shadow passed over the house, and she shuddered.

  She wondered if that was Daya’s spirit, and she worried for Sumati. Her friend had spoken about wanting to turn Catholic. Was this her punishment? But by which god? Catholic or Hindu? She twisted her wrists till they hurt. She couldn’t bear the loneliness.

  Her father went to help them make the coffin, and she worried for him when he found out what Roopchand had really done to her the previous afternoon. Why did he go? His hands were not made for knocking and hammering. He had soft hands, that easily attracted splinters. Not like her mother’s, which were used to outdoor work.

  She shut the window quietly and crept back under her sheets, shivering, scared of roaming spirits, afraid even to go and wake up Etwar. She lay still, sinking like lead into the mattress, trying to imagine the sensible advice Etwar would have given her. She must have fallen asleep because she realised it was morning when she heard the cockerel in their yard responding to the one in the distance.

  Her head throbbed and her mouth was dry. Her first thought was Sumati. And Amina swore then that whatever Sumati had or had not done, she would do just the opposite.

  EIGHTEEN

  The funeral procession left Sumati’s house in the one o’clock heat of the following afternoon. The coffin bearers included Sumati’s father, brother and uncle and Ramona’s father. Most of the village turned out. Children walked in line behind the immediate family, in school uniform, together with Mr Clifford and some of the teachers. No one had expected this, but Mr Clifford had talked the previous day about showing united support for a pupil of the school. He didn’t care what anyone said or thought. But he knew that he had to set a good example.

  Amina wasn’t in uniform. She wore an English-style navy dress with white flowers and a white sash around the waist. It had been a gift from her father, passed on to him by a customer, a seamstress who had made it for the child of a white family in Port of Spain. The child, however, had refused it because she had wanted a white dress with blue flowers, not a navy one with white flowers. Amina was pleased to have the dress, but had never had the opportunity to wear it before. She joined the procession, walking next to her mother. Etwar had gone ahead with the schoolchildren. It was about one and a half miles to Granville Cemetery. Sankar was at work that morning as he had pressing appointments.

  Mr Clifford looked sombre in his black suit, white shirt and black tie. His face looked scrubbed and shaven to a blunt blueness, smooth and matt. He wore a black trilby hat as comfortably as a Victorian gentleman in English magazines. He had a white handkerchief crumpled up in his hand, occasionally wiping away the perspiration that ran down his face. Amina felt proud to look at him, neatly dressed, like a white man. Professional.

  It was the first funeral Amina had ever attended. Of course she’d seen the processions pass the house. Some were full of singing, dancing and drumming, and when you looked more closely at the mourners’ faces, they seemed weirdly happy. Her mother explained that those Indians belonged to a lower caste which embraced death because it was the only way their souls could finally find a better place to rest, to reincarnate.

  Daya’s funeral was not like that. Amina looked round, hoping to spot Sumati. Hoping that nothing evil had taken her away. At a time of death, anything was possible: every folklore tale, every fearsome religious story could materialise. Her mind raced.

  ‘Ma? How do we know it’s Daya in the coffin?’

  ‘Who then? A jumbie?’ Devinia replied crossly.

  ‘I heard something fly across the house last night.’

  ‘Her spirit.’

  ‘But if you are Catholic, can you turn into a jumbie?’

  ‘I don’t know. Her face was badly discoloured.’

  ‘What did the police say?’ Amina whispered.

  ‘It isn’t the police you want to worry about,’ Devinia said quietly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When you take your own life, it’s as bad as killing someone else, so your spirit cannot rest. She will always be with them.’

  ‘Well that will be good for Sumati then. And Kesh, and her father.’

  ‘No, not at all!’ Devinia sighed. ‘It’s best that people don’t shed tears now. Too many tears create too much water, which will make it more difficult for her spirit to cross the river to the other side.’

  ‘You’re frightening me,’ Amina said. ‘Anyway, there is no water on the other side. I still want to know what the police said.’

  ‘What for? To put her in jail for hanging herself? That’s the least of their worries. Hush now, child.’

  The procession stopped.

  ‘Why are they stopping?’ Amina asked.

  ‘It was her parents’ house. They will stop anywhere that was important to Daya when she was alive.’

  The pundit began chanting, and threw a handful of rice towards the house.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ Devinia continued, tearfully, ‘but at least it isn’t Sumati that’s dead. I’m sure she’s high and dry somewhere.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  Despite the dilemma about the arranged marriage, Amina ached for those few months to return – when things were normal, and when Sumati was still around, and her friend’s mother was still in the house doing the things that mothers did, cooking the roti and talkarie, and throwing handfuls of dry corn for the chickens in the yard on an evening. Sumati had tried to change her fate and her future, but all she did had ended up bringing woe on herself and everyone around her. Both of them, Sumati and Amina, had wanted to change their fate. But Amina could now see that one wrong action, however small, could change someone’s life and those of the people around them, forever.

  Was this a sign that she should accept the way things were?

  The low-pitched beats of the tassa drums made things at least sound normal. Everything was done as it should be. Rice balls were placed over the coffin so that Daya’s spirit could eat when it was hungry. Roopchand let out groans deep from his belly when the coffin was lowered into the ground, but tears were mostly subdued to allow the quick passage of Daya’s spirit across the wide rive
r into the next life. A few couldn’t help themselves. Kesh bawled for his mother, and his aunt and a few others held him back from the edge of the grave. There was a lot of sniffing from Sumati’s friends. Even Mr Clifford was wiping the corner of his eyes. People stood over the open grave for quite some time. Roopchand had his arm around Kesh, their heads bowed.

  After the pundit finished, people scattered around the cemetery, walking, talking, laughing, leaving. Some were just arriving from work and went to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. While Devinia went to greet the other mourners, Etwar stood talking to one of the older boys who had left school.

  Moments later, that same boy walked towards Amina and addressed her. ‘I’m sorry about your friend’s mother,’ he said. Amina nodded. She wasn’t allowed to speak to boys unless someone was there. He should know that. Who was he, with his shiny shoes, talking to her as bold as brass? She began to walk away. But then he spoke again. ‘Your friend. Do you know where she is? She’s not here at the funeral.’ Amina was surprised he knew about Sumati, but then again, everyone knew everyone else’s business in the village. ‘When you see her, tell her I’m so sorry. For everything.’

  Then Amina looked up at him, straight in the eye. Her lips were stuck. He looked genuinely upset as if he knew Sumati well, but she had never said anything about him. He walked off, leaving her staring in his direction wondering what it was about.

  Etwar came up to her, and Amina asked who he was.

  ‘He was the school cricket captain,’ Etwar said. ‘Don’t you remember? His name is Kamalsingh. Rajnath Kamalsingh.’

  ‘Oh.’ Then she remembered Rajnath was the rogue who put Mortimer in his place before leaving the school. Now she couldn’t forget his shiny shoes and the curl over his forehead. Before she could ask another question, her brother was gone again.

  She looked around for Etwar, and froze in terror. Roopchand was standing so close to her that she couldn’t see his face. Just his legs astride. She stepped back and looked around for help, but everyone else was busy talking to someone.

  ‘Does your mother know you are chatting with boys?’ he said. ‘I was watching you! The panch will be interested.’

  Amina stared at his wild, red eyes, his watery lips twisted with an anger so bitter, she could barely understand him.

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me,’ he hissed. ‘Where has Sumati gone? Tell me and I won’t tell the panch about you.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I say, tell me! You and your father think you’re better than we?’ Roopchand’s hand shot out and clamped down hard on Amina’s shoulder and he started to shake her.

  ‘Hey!’ a voice shouted. ‘What’s going on here?’ It was Rajnath again.

  ‘I-I don’t know,’ Amina stuttered.

  ‘She well know!’ Roopchand yelled in Bhojpuri, as he pushed Amina, causing her to stumble. ‘Jagabat.’

  ‘Take that back!’ Rajnath said to him. ‘Who are you calling filthy names?’

  Roopchand laughed at him. ‘Boy! Who do you think you are talking to? I have known you since you were two foot high, running around naked. You think this jagabat makes you a man?’ He looked sneeringly at Amina.

  Amina could feel her blood boiling. ‘It’s no wonder Sumati ran away! She hated you!’ Tears were rolling down her face.

  ‘Look what you’ve done!’ Rajnath said to Roopchand. ‘Take it back.’

  As Roopchand opened his mouth to laugh, Rajnath threw a punch straight at the man’s last front tooth, making him roar out with pain.

  ‘Don’t you ever talk to this girl like that again,’ the boy told him. ‘Watch your mouth. You – you caused everything! You tried to foist somebody else’s old husband and children on Sumati. What kind of man does that to his own daughter? You know how many boys – men – would kill for that girl? But you! You treated her like a piece of old rag that washed up on the beach. And shame on you for bullying this other young girl here. I say take it back or I’ll knock you head-first inside that open grave.’

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business and leave the jagabat to me?’ Roopchand said.

  ‘I see it looks like there’s only one way to shut your ugly mouth,’ Rajnath said as he delivered another blow to the same side of Roopchand’s face, knocking his tooth clean out of his mouth and sending it flying into the air.

  ‘What is happening here?’ Devinia came running.

  Amina was shaking like a leaf.

  ‘Ask him,’ Rajnath answered instead. ‘Ask that man what he’s calling your daughter.’

  ‘But why did you hit him, boy?’ Devinia asked. ‘You can’t go around hitting people. This is a funeral. Show some respect.’

  ‘Ma, Sumati’s father said everything is my fault.’ Amina burst into tears.

  ‘How is anything your fault?’ Devinia put her arm around Amina and looked at Roopchand. ‘It is time you left my daughter out of your family mess. I’m warning you.’

  Roopchand spat out a mouthful of blood on the grass. ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Mister?’ Rajnath said. ‘Are you talking to me? You want me to show you what I will do to you?’

  ‘This is not your business,’ Roopchand mumbled.

  ‘As from today, it is my business.’ Rajnath stood firm, staring unrelentingly at Roopchand.

  ‘Daya might be cold in the ground,’ Devinia said, ‘but her spirit is watching you. She told me about your threats to kill her.’

  ‘She was my wife!’ Roopchand yelled.

  Devinia took Amina’s hand and led her away. Together, they walked out of the cemetery.

  ‘Who is the boy?’ Devinia asked her daughter.

  ‘Etwar says he was cricket captain at school. But I never knew him.’

  NINETEEN

  Amina slumped in the hammock downstairs when they returned from the funeral.

  ‘Where’s your poem book?’ Devinia asked. ‘Read Lucy Gray for me. There’s a nice one about . . . a butterfly. Stay near me, do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight . . .’

  Amina stared, surprised, at her mother. ‘How do you know about that poem?’

  ‘From hearing you say the words out loud. I like them.’

  ‘I’ll teach you to read it yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know anymore. Daya is not here.’ Devinia’s eyes filled up. ‘Everything’s going wrong.’

  ‘We can’t undo what has already happened, Ma. But I promise you, if you keep learning English, things will become better. You will understand more things, and be able to use your brains.’

  ‘Something happened to you since that typhoid. I know.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how I know you must learn to read,’ Amina said, her eyes sparkling. ‘Don’t let Pa hold you back, or that panch. They’re afraid you’ll know more than them. And you are a woman – with no brains.’

  ‘No brains?’ Devinia frowned at her daughter. ‘Don’t think I am stupid.’

  ‘I don’t, Ma. They think so. Use your brain to learn something and you will be happy.’

  ‘You heard what Roopchand said about you? That makes me so angry, because mud will stick.’ She shuddered. ‘I’m glad what the boy did. I hope Roopchand leaves you alone now. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘That boy causes trouble,’ Amina commented. ‘He just lashes out.’

  ‘Yes, but Roopchand deserved it.’

  Amina needed to get away for a while. ‘I’m going to get water.’

  Amina picked up the bucket and went down to the standpipe only to find that Rajnath was there. Placing her bucket under the tap, she tried to fill it quickly.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s you again. Remember me?’

  ‘I can’t talk to you,’ she reminded him.

  ‘But I can talk. Your bucket’s overflowing.’

  She picked it up and turned to leave.

  ‘Did you ever wonder where your friend went to when she ran away?’

  ‘No.’

  But that was a
lie.

  Amina walked off, angry. Of course she wanted to know, but she was trapped between loyalty to Sumati, and being truthful. And because she chose to be truthful, she now had to live with the guilt of Daya’s death.

  She balanced the bucket on her head, and kept walking. When she turned around, Rajnath was still in the distance, watching her. As much as she wanted to return to talk to him, she kept walking so fast and furious that when she got home the water from the bucket had sloshed all over her clothes, and she was soaking.

  The evening light was dim, and the two gravediggers were the only ones left at the cemetery, packing up ready to leave, when a young woman appeared.

  ‘Where is the grave?’ she asked.

  The man looked up. ‘Daya Balgobin?’ He pointed to the far right. ‘Over there.’

  The girl set off in that direction on the other side of the cemetery.

  ‘You’d better hurry up,’ he called after her. ‘The police are looking for you.’

  She turned, a plea in her eyes. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you, God help you. Hope it was worth it.’

  Stumbling on, she hastened towards the fresh grave strewn with flowers.

  ‘You going to be alright?’

  She watched as the two men left the graveyard and disappeared around the corner in the twilight. Alone, she dropped to her knees in the mud.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ she cried. ‘What happened, Ma? Talk to me! I had to go – you know why I couldn’t stay. I don’t know what to do. I need help. Who can I talk to? You’re not going to be there anymore for me. Give me a sign, Ma. Say something. Talk to me!’

  Frantic, she banged at the mound with both fists.

  ‘How could you do this? What about me? You can’t just go! You know I can’t live how you and Pa want me to – I’m not like you. I’m not like anybody else! I’m me. There are things I need to tell you, Ma. Ma? Ma! Help me!’ The darkness dropped silently from the evening sky like a black silk curtain, separating her even further from her mother. An owl fluttered and hooted nearby. Sumati held still for a moment. Then she began pulling at the neck of her dress, tearing the front, sobbing, ‘I’ll kill myself, and then I can be with you. There’s no other way.’