The Wedding Drums

by Marilyn Rodwell

  ‘It’s a miracle. All of it. The babies are so perfect.’

  ‘She is lucky,’ Devinia said. ‘Lucky you were there. Are you coming home now? Because it’s dark. And late.’

  ‘I’m staying. I can’t leave them. Sumati’s so tired. She’s fast asleep. Elsie too.’

  ‘Well, you take care. You want me to bring anything?’

  ‘No, Ma. I’m fine. I’m so pleased she’s come through this safely.’

  ‘Maybe teaching is not the thing for you. Maybe it’s something else,’ her mother said. ‘I can’t believe what you did today. People are talking. I don’t know what to say, I’m so proud of you. You wanted to be the first Indian woman in Granville to be a teacher – to teach Indian women to read English, and change their thousand-year-old traditions. But look what you’ve done instead. And still only twelve years old. But remember, you don’t know enough about babies. Wake up Elsie if anything looks wrong. You hear me?’

  Devinia left, and Amina remained alert for most of the night. When Elsie didn’t wake, Amina put the crying child on one of Sumati’s breasts to suck. Both babies sucked frantically, even though Elsie had said they weren’t really getting any milk. But it looked to Amina like they were getting something.

  When the moon crossed the window, it was partly overshadowed by a cloud, and the wind rose, only just, but fell again as quickly. Amina eventually lay down at the foot of the bed, listening to Sumati’s breathing, and must have fallen asleep. When she woke, it was around six o’clock. The cock next door crowed loudly as it walked below the open window, making her jerk awake to see the orangey-pink sky behind the coconut trees. The girl rubbed her eyes, forgetting where she was for that split second.

  Elsie remained to care for Sumati and the babies, but neighbours brought in cooked food, cleaned the house, swept the yard, even fetched water from the standpipe. The house rang with voices chirping and singing, nattering and gossiping, and cooing at the babies. Roopchand took on extra work as a water carrier on the road to pay for the clothes and blankets for the babies, and for Elsie. He began to feel lighter in spirit, even though his heart weighed heavy at times for the loss of Daya, and he regretted treating her how he did. She would have enjoyed seeing her grandchildren, despite the shame and guilt.

  It was strange to think how different it was now, as if the black cloud had been eclipsed by the gift of babies, bringing hope. In her heart, Sumati knew that the reckoning would come, but she was not going to think about it.

  FORTY-THREE

  When Amina returned home, Sankar looked at her admiringly.

  ‘You are worth a thousand jewels,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, Pa?’ Amina asked, bemused.

  ‘I have heard all about it! You – delivering babies – at twelve years old? Mr Clifford was right. I have to admit I am a very stupid man for not believing him and not seeing the priceless jewel that you are. My own daughter.’

  ‘Pa?’ Etwar said. ‘Are you feeling well?’

  ‘If I am not well, your sister will see to it that I am cured. Many months ago, Mr Clifford came here and said Amina could be a doctor. And I was too selfish to even think about it. What a fool I was. Well, no more.’

  The family stood staring at Sankar.

  ‘How did you do it?’ her father continued. ‘Delivering not just one baby but two? I am the proudest father that took breath on this earth. How did you know what to do?’

  ‘Pa,’ Amina said, ‘I really don’t know. I didn’t. It was as if something or someone was there with me. I did not do it on my own.’

  ‘Are you saying it was this God you have been talking about to your mother? That Christian God? I have never heard of such a thing before.’

  ‘It was something, Pa . . . but I don’t really know.’

  ‘Give yourself some credit, child,’ Devinia said briskly. ‘You did well.’

  ‘She will have the best,’ Sankar said. ‘You are not going to be the wife of any San Fernando businessman if you can perform such miracles at your age. You will have your wish and remain at school and I will put aside money for your doctor training. If it means sending you to England, that is what I will do.’

  Amina, Devinia and Etwar stood like statues, staring at him.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. I am not too proud to admit when I am wrong,’ he said. ‘I am a selfish man. And I do not care if I come back as a dog or cat. Or not go to heaven. For me, this is the right thing to do. My daughter does not deserve to wash pots all her life, even in the home of a rich man.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Devinia said. ‘You are going to cancel the wedding? But you promised them . . .’

  ‘And a bad promise can be broken,’ her husband replied. ‘I have come to realise that her future is not mine to promise to someone else. She has earned the right to choose her life. At least I have learnt that lesson. I am proud of you, my daughter, and I want you to make me even prouder. We don’t want to have to rely on the white-man doctors all our lives. We stand in their shadow and we treat our own children like fools when all the time they are shining like stars under our noses. I can make many jewels for you, but you can only wear them on the outside. I want to put the money to that jewel that is inside of you.’ He turned to his wife. ‘So, yes! I will go up to San Fernando and cancel the wedding. I am sorry, my sweet flower, if that upsets you, but the girl has more in her than we can see. I thought you would be pleased.’

  ‘But they will not be pleased,’ Devinia said apprehensively.

  ‘Do I care about what they say? What is better – to do what is best for them, or for our daughter? I am not doing anything else except the right thing to do. We have changed our mind. That is all.’

  ‘I can’t believe it, Pa,’ Amina cried. ‘I can’t believe you are actually going to cancel the wedding, and everything else. You have just changed everything you believed in yesterday, in one day.’

  ‘Maybe Rome can be built in one day,’ he joked, and chuckled. But Amina cried most of the evening, unable in her joy and relief to say anything coherent.

  On Saturday morning, Sankar took a trip to San Fernando to do what he had promised, and returned home pleased that he had succeeded.

  ‘Well,’ he told his family, ‘the father understood in the end, but the boy . . . he was very disappointed. In fact, I saw a different side to him. He wasn’t the same as when he came here, meek as a lamb. Put it this way, I wouldn’t want him for a son-in-law anyhow.’

  Devinia looked worried.

  ‘The father will talk him round,’ Sankar reassured her. ‘He’ll get over it. But I will tell you this – it may not be that easy. The boy seems to think he is more important than even the father. And the mother was no better. She didn’t even try to tell her son to show respect.’ Sankar sat down and took a sip of cocoa tea. ‘All I can say, is that fate is working. That boy was never meant to be part of our family.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  The same evening that Sumati went into labour on her way home from talking to Parbatee Singh, Kamal Singh returned home from work bringing a letter addressed to Rajnath Kamalsingh.

  ‘You opened my letter?’ his son asked, annoyed.

  ‘You will need me to more than open your letter by the looks of it,’ Kamal said. ‘I knew something like this would happen.’ He stamped his foot hard on the wooden floor, shaking the whole house.

  ‘I have lost my job at Galapados,’ Rajnath said, his hand trembling as he read the letter.

  ‘I didn’t think they would lay you off because you were ill,’ Parbatee said. ‘I thought your father went and explained to the overseer at Galapados. Didn’t you take the certificate Doctor wrote out?’

  ‘I did,’ Kamal said grimly. ‘But you know what they’re like. They would do anything to get back at me.’

  ‘Creole nor white man like coolie when coolie is equal,’ Parbatee said. ‘It’s because you are an overseer just like them, but you don’t do the crookedness they have learned from the white man sinc
e they were slaves. But even so, they should know what it feels like, and not do it to my son.’

  ‘They did it because he is my son, not yours,’ Kamal said.

  ‘Pa? Ma?’ Rajnath said, in a quiet, tearful voice. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘What, son?’ Parbatee asked fearfully.

  ‘They filed a case in court saying that he was malingering,’ Kamal said. ‘That’s what. They don’t believe him even with the doctor’s sick certificate. Expect the worse, boy. You will get a summons to go to court.’

  ‘No,’ Parbatee said. ‘The doctor will tell the truth. Most definitely he will tell them what is what.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ her husband warned her. ‘The doctors are the ones that send people back to work, still sick, too soon. They just do what the planters say. If you had gone into the Plantation Hospital you would have probably died or run away. It’s so bad there. And that is the truth. But I think if the nicer one, Dr Crow, had visited earlier, this might not have happened.’

  ‘Pa, there was no way I could have stood up, let alone be forced back to work.’

  ‘But none of them saw you,’ Kamal explained. ‘See, son, they have no proof from their own eyes. Dr Boyle never offered for you to go to the Plantation Hospital – maybe because he knows what it’s like there. I will see what I can do, but don’t hold out hope.’

  A few days later, Parbatee went up the village to see someone about buying a goat. She went past the post office, when she heard someone calling her name.

  ‘Hello! Rajnath-mother! Hello!’ Parbatee looked up to see Miss Lottie, the post-mistress, waving frantically and running down the post office steps towards her. She was carrying something in her hand. When she got close, Parbatee saw it was a brown envelope.

  ‘Here,’ Miss Lottie said, puffing out of breath and stretching out her hand. ‘It looks like it is important. But I didn’t open it.’

  Parbatee snatched the envelope from Miss Lottie’s hand, annoyed that the woman had admitted to even having thought about opening the letter.

  ‘In whose name is it?’ Parbatee asked, annoyed even more that she had no idea what it said. And triply annoyed that Miss Lottie knew how to read, and would be the person she would have to ask to read it if she wanted to know immediately.

  ‘It is addressed to Mr Rajnath Kamalsingh,’ Miss Lottie informed her.

  Parbatee took the letter and left Miss Lottie looking frustrated, her curiosity unsatisfied.

  Rajnath was recovering. He woke early, on a bright yellow morning, feeling refreshed and stronger. He got out of bed and walked onto the veranda, stretching and yawning, amused at two kiskadees fighting over a piece of stale roti in the yard. Neither would give in and fly off. It was the spot where he remembered dropping the bike that night when he had returned from the ordeal of a journey from San Fernando: he had then struggled towards the steps before blacking out completely. Now he remembered a bad feeling about Dillip, a lot of money and a fight. Then he remembered, and went frantic. He scrambled around the yard looking for the bike, but couldn’t find it, so he went and shook Annan till he woke up.

  ‘You don’t have a bike,’ his brother replied, without opening his eyes. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Wake up! Where’s the bag from the bike?’

  Annan sat up reluctantly. ‘As I said, you don’t have a bike. Now why you don’t go and brew me a nice strong coffee.’

  ‘You know something!’ Rajnath narrowed his eyes. ‘You and Dillip! Uncle too. I don’t trust any of you. When was the last time you saw Dillip?’

  Annan yawned, pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I hardly know them. You’re the one that goes up there – too often, if you ask me.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Rajnath asked suspiciously.

  ‘You need to be careful. The police are sniffing around that place.’

  ‘Police?’ Rajnath began to think. ‘The bike,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me where it is?’

  Just then Parbatee came in, breathless from her brisk walk home in the hot sun.

  ‘I have a letter here for you,’ she puffed, wiping the back of her neck.

  Rajnath took the letter and went outside to read it.

  ‘What is it saying?’ Parbatee enquired. ‘Who is it from? Miss Lottie said it looked important.’

  ‘Miss Lottie should mind her own business,’ Rajnath grumped, throwing the letter on the table outside under the canopy.

  Annan picked up the letter. ‘Ma, it’s a summons. They say Rajnath Kamalsingh is required in court on charges of desertion from the Galapados Plantation.’

  ‘That is a lot of nonsense,’ Rajnath said impatiently. ‘I was dangerously ill. Everybody knows that. Didn’t the doctor write a sick letter? And Pa took it in for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parbatee said, ‘but you know what these people are like when they have it in for you. They will get you somehow.’

  ‘Look, I don’t care about that right now,’ her son said urgently. ‘I am looking for that bike that I left right here that night I came back from San Fernando.’

  ‘That bike you borrowed?’ Parbatee asked. ‘The boy came and took his bike back a few days after you fell ill. He was annoyed that you left it in that condition.’

  ‘There was a bag hooked up on the tray in front,’ Rajnath said.

  ‘There was no bag.’

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘There was a bag. Who took it?’

  ‘You are going out of your mind with worry,’ Parbatee said soothingly. ‘I can see that.’

  Rajnath went in search of the bag all over the house. Then he checked the sheds outside, where he knew he would never put it, but it was worth looking. There he found the striped cloth bag in which his uncle had put the money. But it was empty, and lying on the floor of the shed half buried in the dust and dirt. Devastated, he dropped to the ground with his head in his hands.

  As he crouched there, in utter despair, he saw a tobacco tin shining between two pieces of wood. He reached out, and his heart skipped several beats as he stared at the familiar gleam of the pattern on the tin. He opened it to find the wad of money Amrit had given him before he had put it in the stripy bag. Getting up, he pulled the door shut, and sat inside, counting out the banknotes in the dim light. How the tin had got there, he still couldn’t fathom. But then a sliver of memory returned – of him opening the shed door before a feeling of being drowned in the darkness that overcame him. The money was all there, and he felt relieved. Nothing mattered now. He didn’t care about the court summons or what it could mean. When Annan looked outside and saw Rajnath emerge from the shed looking oddly pleased, he put two and two together and realised why the police were sniffing around Amrit’s place.

  Parbatee talked to her husband that night. ‘I’m worried about the boy,’ she said. ‘It’s like he’s going mad.’

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ Kamal said. ‘You know how many men I know that happened to? And not their fault either. I tell you, Parbatee, this place is no good for us. We should have gone back to India; taken our chance on those ships like others did. At least we wouldn’t be treated like slaves.’ Kamal’s eyes watered. ‘It’s out of my hands.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do? I don’t want my son to go to jail. It will finish him.’

  Kamal looked at his wife’s anxious face. ‘Make some cocoa tea for him. Put plenty of sugar and condensed milk in it to build him up. I’ll have a cup too. I need it. And put some rum in it too. It will help him sleep.’

  Parbatee begged Rajnath to look for a job elsewhere, but her son was adamant. He returned to work after his illness, clocked in and did a normal day’s work. Everyone seemed pleased to see him. On the second day, the driver came up on a donkey cart.

  ‘So you came back?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rajnath replied.

  ‘Brave man!’ the driver said, spitting on the ground.

  Rajnath worked as normal that morning, stopping once or twice to catch his breath. By eleven,
the driver returned.

  ‘The overseer wants to see you down in the next field after work,’ he told him.

  The day was hot, and Rajnath worked well apart from twice when he paused for a few minutes to gather his strength. At the end of the day he went along to the next field to see the overseer after work at four o’clock, feeling pleased with himself and ready to face whatever awaited him.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Evening class. Mr Clifford perched on the edge of the front desk, unrolled his sleeves from his elbows and buttoned up the cuffs.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘English literature. Wuthering Heights. Characters: Catherine. What do you think of her? She seems so polarised in her behaviour towards Heathcliff.’

  ‘This bit,’ Amina said. ‘Grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing. It bothered me why someone who was so much more fortunate than the others in the village, would be so cruel to someone else who was clearly less fortunate. And to a stranger in the household too. Catherine is unkind and impolite. Definitely.’

  ‘Maybe something to do with him not being white?’ someone suggested.

  ‘Well, it’s a likely reason,’ Mr Clifford said thoughtfully. ‘Non-whites will always be seen as a slave in the white man’s household. And Emily Brontë knew it, eh. She wrote him in deliberately.’

  ‘Do you think that might change some day?’ Amina asked.

  ‘Good question,’ Mr Clifford said. ‘But hundreds of years have compounded that attitude. It will take a lot more than time to change it, if it is ever possible. The best way is to rise above it in a different way. Which is why I am an advocate of education – as you might have noticed.’ There were a few grunts and giggles. ‘I see you know why you’re all here. Laugh if you must, but it’s a legitimate means of getting ahead of that kind of prejudice. Heathcliff did not have that opportunity. So what did he use his God-given brains to do? He became a manipulative man, driven by hatred to get revenge. But he went beyond those who had actually wronged him, to take revenge on their whole families. That hate took hold of him and drove him into self-hatred, to the point where he couldn’t even love his own son. His own offspring.’