The Braid

by Laetitia Colombani

  The bus shudders. Lalita presses her face to the rear window, eager to see everything along the way. Suddenly she springs to life.

  Papa!

  Smita is startled and turns to look: Nagarajan is there on the road. He runs toward the bus, which has just pulled out. Smita feels her strength desert her. Her husband is running after them, and the expression on his face is impossible to read: regret, confusion, love, rage? Very quickly, the bus outstrips him and accelerates away. Lalita begins to cry. She beats on the window, turns to her mother, begging her to help.

  Mama, tell them to stop!

  Smita knows that’s impossible. She cannot fight her way down to the driver. And even if she could, he would either refuse to slow down and stop or force them to get off. She couldn’t risk that. Nagarajan’s silhouette shrinks into the distance; soon he will be a tiny dot far behind them. But still he runs, in vain. Lalita is sobbing. Her father is out of sight now. Perhaps forever. She buries her face in her mother’s neck.

  Don’t cry.

  He will join us in the South.

  Smita wants to reassure her daughter, and convince herself of the possibility, too. But nothing is less certain. She wonders what else they will be forced to let go, before their journey’s end. She consoles her weeping daughter and touches the image of Vishnu beneath her sari. All will be well, she tells Lalita. And there is comfort in her words. There will be challenges every step of the way, but Vishnu will be there, close beside them.

  Lalita has fallen asleep. The tears have dried on her face, leaving faint white streaks. Smita watches the landscape slipping by through the dirty window. Beside the road, makeshift shacks, a petrol station, a school, the wrecks of small trucks and vans, chairs beneath an ancient tree, a ramshackle market, traders sitting on the ground, a shop renting the latest motor scooters. A lake, warehouses, a ruined temple, billboards, women in saris carrying baskets on their heads, a tractor. All India is there, by the side of this road, she thinks. An indescribable chaos of ancient and modern, pure and impure, sacred and profane.

  The bus arrives at the terminus in Varanasi three hours late—a truck had got stuck in mud on the road and blocked the traffic. Immediately, the cargo of men, women, children, suitcases, chickens, and everything the passengers had managed to cram overhead, underfoot, and between them on the seats spills out. There is even a goat, which a man fetches down from the roof while Lalita stares in amazement, wondering how he had managed to get the creature up there in the first place.

  The moment they leave the bus, Smita and her daughter are caught up in the energy of the city. Everywhere, buses, cars, rickshaws, and trucks loaded with pilgrims converge on the Ganges and the Golden Temple. Varanasi is one of the oldest cities in the world. People come here to purify themselves, to meditate, and marry, but also to cremate their departed loved ones, and sometimes to die. All along the ghats—the flights of steps leading down to Mother Ganges, “Gangaji” as the river is known here—life and death, dark and light, exist side by side in an endless dance.

  Lalita has never seen anything like it. Smita has often told her about this city, a place of pilgrimage to which she had been brought several times as a child. Together, she and her parents had completed the Panchatirthi Yatra, an itinerary that involves bathing in five places along the sacred river, in a specific order. They had ended their trip with a visit to the Golden Temple, as custom dictated. Smita followed her parents and her brothers; she let them guide her. The journey had left a deep and lasting impression, an enduring memory—especially Manikarnika Ghat, one of several flights of riverfront steps reserved for the cremation of the dead. She remembers the burning pyre on which the body of an old woman could still be seen. In accordance with tradition, she had been washed in the Ganges, then dried, then burned. Smita had watched in horror as the flames licked at the woman’s body, then devoured her whole with a hellish crackling sound. Strangely, the dead woman’s loved ones hadn’t looked sad. Rather, they seemed to be rejoicing at their grandmother’s moksha, her liberation. Some were chatting, others played cards, and some were even laughing. Dalits dressed in white worked at the site nonstop, day and night. Naturally, it fell to them to perform the cremations—that most impure of impure tasks. It was their job, too, to supply the tons of wood that were needed for the pyres. They brought the logs to the ghats by boat. Smita remembers the mountains of huge tree trunks waiting their turn on the quays lining the waterfront. A few feet away, cows were drinking the river water, indifferent to the scenes being played out along the banks. A little farther along, men, women, and children were making the ritual ablutions—traditionally, pilgrims immersed themselves in the Ganges from head to foot, for purification. Other groups—colorful and lively—were attending wedding ceremonies and celebrating with religious and secular chants. Some were washing their dishes, or even doing their laundry. In places, the water was black, its surface dotted with flowers, oil lamps—the pilgrims’ offerings—and the decomposing bodies of animals, even human bones. After the cremations, the ashes were ritually scattered in the river, but many families could not afford a full cremation and tossed the departed’s body into the water half-charred, or even whole.

  No one is leading Smita today. There is no reassuring hand to cling to, only her daughter’s. Lalita is following her now. They are alone in the anonymous throng of pilgrims, trying to find their way. The railway station is in the center of town, far from where the bus set them down.

  In the streets, Lalita stares in wonder at the items displayed outside the storefronts, each more extraordinary than the last. A vacuum cleaner here, a lemon squeezer there, an entire bathroom, a washbasin, a toilet. Lalita has never seen one before. Smita sighs—she wants to move on, get farther, faster! But the child’s curiosity slows them down. They come across a procession of schoolchildren in brown uniforms, all holding hands. Smita catches her daughter staring at them enviously.

  At last, Varanasi Cantt Station appears, its concourse packed with a frenetic crowd. This is one of the busiest stations in the country. Inside the main hall, a tide of humanity presses toward the ticket offices. Everywhere there are men, women, and children standing, sitting, or lying down to wait for hours, and sometimes days, at a time.

  Smita tries to make her way through, avoiding the ticket touts who take advantage of the chaos and the innocence of tourists to extort a few rupees in exchange for dubious information and advice. Smita takes her place in one of the four ticket lines, each numbering at least a hundred people. They must be patient. Lalita is showing signs of fatigue—they have traveled all day on empty stomachs and have covered barely sixty miles. And the worst is yet to come, as Smita knows.

  It is dark when she finally reaches the ticket office. The attendant looks surprised when she asks for tickets to Chennai that same day. The tickets must be booked several days in advance, he tells her. The trains are always full at the last minute. Hasn’t she made a reservation? Smita’s courage fails her as she contemplates spending the night here, in the holy city, where she knows no one. The Brahmin’s coins are just enough for their third-class tickets and something to eat—a room for the night is impossible, even a dormitory. Smita insists. They must leave now, as soon as possible. Without hesitation she adds almost all the coins she had set aside for their meal. The employee peers at her, hesitates, mutters something between his yellow teeth. He disappears and returns a few minutes later with two tickets for sleeper class, the cheapest there is, on the next day’s train. The best he can do. Afterward, Smita learns that these tickets are sold to anyone who asks—there is no limit to the number of passengers in sleeper class. The railroad cars are permanently overcrowded. The employee has taken advantage of her credulity to relieve her of a few rupees. But by the time she understands what has happened, it is too late.

  Smita carries an exhausted Lalita, who has fallen asleep in her arms. She pushes her way roughly through the crowd in search of somewhere to sit. All over the station, on every platform, people are gett
ing ready to spend the night. They settle in, lie down, and fall asleep—if they are lucky. Smita sits on the ground in a corner, near a woman dressed in white, flanked by two young children. Lalita has woken up now. She is hungry. Smita takes out their water bottle. There is only a little left in the bottom, and nothing else for tonight. Lalita begins to cry.

  Close by, the woman in white is giving her children crackers. She stares at Smita, and the little girl crying in her arms. She walks across and offers to share her meal. Smita looks up at her in surprise; she is unaccustomed to offers of help, she has never resorted to begging. Despite her low status, she has always kept her dignity. For herself, she would have refused, but Lalita is so frail, so thin, she will never make the journey if she does not eat. Smita takes the banana and crackers offered by the woman in white and thanks her. Lalita throws herself hungrily on the food. The woman has bought ginger tea from a passing tea seller and offers some to Smita, who gladly accepts. The scalding, peppery-sharp tea revives her. The woman—her name is Lakshmamma—engages her in conversation. She wants to know where Smita and Lalita are going. Don’t they have a husband, a father, or a brother to travel with them? Smita replies that they are traveling to Chennai—her husband is waiting for them there, she lies. Lakshmamma and her two young sons are on their way to Vrindavan, a small town south of Delhi, known as the City of White Widows. She tells Smita that her husband died a few months ago, of flu. After his death, she was rejected by his family, with whom they lived. Bitterly, Lakshmamma tells her about the miserable fate of widows. They are cursed and held responsible for the deaths of their husbands, for having failed to keep their souls here on Earth. Sometimes they are even accused of using witchcraft to bring about their husband’s sickness and death. They have no access to insurance if he suffers an accidental death and receive no pension if he is killed in combat. The very sight of them is considered an ill omen, even treading within their shadow brings bad luck. The widows are forbidden from attending weddings and festivals, forced to live in hiding, to wear white—the color of mourning—and to show penitence. Often, they are thrown out onto the street by their own families. Lakshmamma describes the cruel tradition of suttee, by which women in the past were forced to kill themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre. Those who refused were outcast, beaten, or humiliated, and sometimes pushed forcibly into the flames by their in-laws, or their own children, to avoid having to share the inheritance with their surviving parent. Now, before being turned out onto the street, widows are forced to remove their jewelery and shave their heads, so that men will no longer be attracted to them. They are forbidden to remarry, whatever their age. In the countryside, where marriages are contracted at a very young age, some little girls find themselves widowed at the age of five and are forced to beg for the rest of their lives.

  “That’s how it is: when your husband is gone, you have nothing.”

  Lakshmamma sighs. Smita knows this. A woman has no property of her own, everything belongs to her husband. When she marries, she gives him everything. And when she loses him, she ceases to exist. Lakshmamma has nothing, except a piece of jewelery she managed to hide inside her sari, which her parents had given her when she married. She remembers that magnificent day, she tells Smita, when she was decked in fine jewelery and taken by her family to the temple for her wedding, amid wild celebrations. She had entered the estate of marriage in fine style and left it destitute. She would have preferred her husband to leave her, she says, to renounce her. At least then, she would not have been a pariah in the eyes of society. Her close family might even have shown her some compassion. But now, she met with nothing but scorn and hostility. She would have preferred to have been born as a cow—at least then she would have some respect. Smita doesn’t dare tell her that she has chosen to leave her own husband, abandoning her village and all she knows. At that moment, listening to Lakshmamma, she wonders whether she has made a terrible mistake. The young widow admits that she thought about killing herself but had finally decided against the idea, fearing that her in-laws would then kill her two sons straightaway, to keep their inheritance—this happened sometimes. Instead, she had chosen exile in Vrindavan, with her sons. People say there are thousands of women seeking refuge there in charitable ashrams or “widow houses,” or living on the streets. For a bowl of rice or soup, they will sing prayers to Krishna in the temples and earn enough to subsist. One meager meal per day—they are allowed nothing more.

  Smita listens to the widow and says nothing. She is barely older than Smita herself. When she asks how old she is, Lakshmamma says she doesn’t know, but she thinks she cannot be more than thirty. Her features are youthful, Smita tells herself. Her eyes are bright, but they express such infinite sorrow, the sadness of a thousand years.

  It is time for Lakshmamma to board her train. Smita thanks her for the meal and promises to pray to Vishnu for her and her sons. She watches as Lakshmamma walks away along the platform, holding her youngest son in her arms, and his brother by the hand, with no luggage but a flimsy bag knocking against her back. As she vanishes into the crowd of travelers, Smita touches the image of Vishnu beneath her sari and prays for him to accompany and protect Lakshmamma on her journey, and in her life of exile. She thinks of the millions of widows who share her condition, abandoned, destitute, and forgotten in a country that has scant regard for women, and suddenly she feels thankful that she is Smita, born a Dalit but whole, upright, and with the promise of a better life, perhaps.

  I wish I had never been born, Lakshmamma told her, before she left.

  Giulia

  Palermo, Sicily

  When Giulia announced to her mother and sisters that the workshop was bankrupt, Francesca began to cry. Adela said nothing—she showed that typical adolescent indifference to the entire world, as if nothing could possibly affect her. Mamma sat in silence, then broke down. She who was ordinarily so pious, so devout, accused heaven itself of turning against them. First her husband, now their workshop . . . What crime had they committed, what sin, to deserve such punishment? What was to become of the children? Adela was in her last years of school. Francesca had made a bad marriage and struggled to provide for her little ones. As for Giulia, she knew nothing but the trade her father had taught her. The father who was no longer even there.

  Mamma spent long hours crying that night, for her husband, her daughters, the house that would be taken from them—she never cried for herself. With the first rays of the dawn, she had an idea: Gino Battagliola had been in love with Giulia for years. Everyone knew he longed to marry her. His family had money, hair salons across the country. Besides, his parents had always shown true friendship to the Lanfredi. Perhaps they would take on the loan Papà had secured against the family house? It wouldn’t save the workshop, but at least they’d keep a roof over their heads. Her daughters would have somewhere to live. Yes, Mamma decided, Giulia’s marriage would save them all.

  She spoke to Giulia, but her daughter rejected the idea outright, and furiously. She would never be Gino Battagliola’s wife, she would rather sleep out on the street! He was a pleasant enough man, she had nothing against him, but he was dull and bland. She often saw him at the workshop. With his lanky, awkward physique and that stubborn tuft of hair that refused to lie flat, he resembled one of the mildly ridiculous characters in Dino Risi’s comedy I mostri, one of Papà’s favorite films. He’s a good boy, said her mother. Gino is kind, and he has money. Giulia would want for nothing, she was sure of that. Nothing except what really matters, Giulia reminded her. She refused to go along with the scheme, to lock herself in a gilded cage. She didn’t want a life of convention and appearances. It was good enough for plenty, said her mother, and Giulia knew she was right.

  Her mother’s marriage had been a happy one, though in truth, she hadn’t chosen the man of her dreams. Unmarried at thirty, she had finally agreed to the hand of Pietro Lanfredi, who had courted her assiduously. Love had come in time. Giulia’s father had a fiery temper, but he was a good man wh
o had earned his wife’s affection. Perhaps it would be the same for her, too.

  Giulia went upstairs and shut herself in her room. She could not accept her mother’s choice. Kamal’s burning-hot skin was all she wanted. She refused to slip between icy sheets, in a cold bed, like the heroine of Mal di pietre, the Sardinian novel that had made such an impression upon her: despairing of ever loving the man she had married, the heroine wandered the streets in search of her lost lover. Giulia did not want a life devoid of passion. She remembered La Nonna’s words: Do whatever you want, mia cara, but on no account get married.

  But what other solution was there? Could she face turning her mother and sisters out onto the street? Life was cruel, she thought, to lay the burden of her entire family upon her shoulders alone.