The Selector of Souls

by Shauna Singh Baldwin

  The weight scale shows Goldina is too thin. Malnourished, probably anemic. She says her eyes hurt.

  “Is there a window in your cookroom?” says Sister Anu. “Or a chimney?”

  “No window, no chimney. The government is offering free chimneys for low-caste people, but now they tell us, oh, you’ve become Christian and Christians don’t have high and low castes, so you can’t have a free chimney. I said I’m also Hindu, but the government says you can’t be both.”

  So Goldina’s eyes are smoke-damaged.

  “Close one eye and tell me which way the bars point on this chart.”

  “My eyes are different,” says Goldina. “I see patterns, movements, the outlines of things.”

  Seeing patterns and outlines doesn’t help Goldina discern any directional bars past the third line. Sister Anu writes the results in her ledger and asks, “So you believe in the gods and in Christ?” She hasn’t met many who believe as she does.

  “Goddesses,” says Goldina. “Mary Devi, mother of god, is an avatar of Anamika. She only named Yeshu; Anamika named all the other gods. Amanjit-saab, the SDM—all of us give Anamika respect. She protects our village.”

  “And Lord Golunath?” asks Sister Anu.

  “Sometimes,” says Goldina. “But when I talk to Anamika, she brings justice if Golunath-ji’s power has failed.”

  Sister Anu fastens a blood pressure sleeve on Goldina’s bared upper arm. She closes the valve on the rubber bulb, feels for a pulse in front of Goldina’s elbow joint and places the diaphragm of her stethoscope over it. She squeezes the rubber bulb. With the cuff pumped up, she releases the valve on the rubber bulb and begins listening for a beat.

  Goldina is watching the needle fall. “I told Samuel, we should become Sikhs. They also make offerings to only one god and say all castes are welcome.”

  “That seems much like being Christian.”

  “Only inside their gurdwara,” says Goldina. “Outside, dalit Sikhs and dalit Hindus get the same treatment from the respected castes. I said, at least we could get a free chimney—but Samuel’s too proud.”

  “You have excellent blood pressure,” Sister Anu reports, noting it on Goldina’s record.

  Goldina glows. “It’s better to be Christian,” she says, as if reassuring Sister Anu. “We only spend on offerings to one Jesus-god, and only on Sundays.” After a moment, she says, “Don’t give me any medicine that might make me sleepy or unable to work, or Samuel might slap me.”

  “Does he?”

  “If I complain too much.”

  How much complaining is too much? Sister Anu’s experience of violence pales by comparison with women in Gurkot. They seem accustomed to being slapped, pushed, and punched, not only by men but by older women—but who can become accustomed to humiliation? Yesterday she helped Dr. Gupta wash the stomach of a woman who “mistakenly” took insecticide. To protect her children from retaliation or loss of inheritance, she would not charge her husband or in-laws with emotional cruelty. The day before, she helped Dr. Gupta put a cast on a woman whose father-in-law smashed her patella because she served him cool tea. Men of Gurkot beat the women in their families hardest when women are most vulnerable—often when pregnant. Yet the women here don’t divorce their husbands or leave their children as Anu did; they laugh and joke and carry on working.

  “If I had a daughter old enough,” says Goldina, “I could make her deliver and cut the cord for this baby, but Samuel and I just married off our eldest two. Now we have to take loans and start again.”

  “We can do it here. Did you ask Damini to come and cut the cord for you?”

  “A slow child can do it.” She purses her lips. “But Damini won’t. She’s respected, she’s too much high-up.”

  If I learned to overcome disgust, to clean my own toilet and deal with bodily fluids during my nursing courses, Damini can too.

  “And if she did it, we Christians would have even less work.” Goldina says, “Besides, I don’t want her to—she makes me afraid.”

  “Why?” says Sister Anu, placing her stethoscope bell against Goldina’s back ribs.

  Goldina tilts her chin. “Buss aise hee,” she says. Just because—which is no answer. Sister Anu folds away her stethoscope, and says. “Come to Bread of Healing as soon as you feel contractions. You mustn’t walk uphill after your water breaks.”

  After a tetanus injection and some iron pills, Sister Anu ushers Goldina outside, back to Damini and a longer line of patients.

  “Damini,” says Sister Anu. “I will attend Goldina when it’s her time, but you must help and learn.”

  “Of course, Sister-ji,” Damini’s servile tone is a Delhi-sound in the pine-scented air of Gurkot.

  After Goldina, Sister Anu has so many patients she has no time for lunch. At teatime she crosses the clearing to the school. Father Pashan is sitting cross-legged on a dhurrie spread on the veranda. His diary lies open on one knee and he’s reviewing a list of Catholic girls and boys of marriageable age. Beside each, he has written their caste name or tribal origin, to help him arrange marriages.

  Bethany brings three glass tumblers of milky tea on a tray, along with some artificial sweetener for Father Pashan. “Mix them up, Father!” she says, as she offers the tray. “Intermarriage will rid us of caste.”

  “Slowly-slowly, Bethany,” says Father Pashan, taking his tea. “It will happen as people begin to follow Jesus’s example. He was the rebel of his day, you know.”

  Bethany says, “Do you ever wonder if he thought he was god and then, in Gethsemane, learned he was merely a man?”

  “Even if he was only a man, his story would be inspiring,” says Father Pashan. “Now then, give me some ideas. How do we explain that illness is not caused by spirits and angry deities? I want us to discourage people in Gurkot and Jalawaaz from attending ceremonies with the ojha.”

  “Oh, the ojha!” says Sister Bethany. “I don’t know what I was expecting but he doesn’t look very different from anyone else.”

  “Except for his tattoos,” says Sister Anu. “All over his arms and neck.”

  “He had a jacket on, so I only saw a wiry man with greying hair. He seemed like a bottle of Pepsi—full of compressed energy.”

  “Why did he come to Bread of Healing?” says Pashan. “Everyone in Gurkot says he can heal every ailment.”

  “He said he can’t heal those in his immediate family,” says Sister Anu. “He said that’s why he was unable to heal his wife and granddaughter. The wife wasn’t sick, just argumentative. I was more worried about his granddaughter.”

  “I didn’t meet his wife or granddaughter,” says Bethany.

  “Because they weren’t with him. I told him Dr. Gupta would want to examine them and talk to them, but he said they had too much work to come. He was annoyed too because he let me know he would give them ‘takat pills’ instead, by which I think he meant vitamin supplements. He said his cousin-brother sells them in Vancouver.”

  “Dr. Gupta, Damini and I drove to his village the next day, but he wouldn’t let me talk to either woman. Finally, he opened his door to us because Damini offered some madhupatra for his wife, and told him the sweet leaves would make her kinder.”

  “And the granddaughter?”

  “Dysentery. Dr. Gupta prescribed oral rehydration solution and an antibiotic. I’ll return to check on her soon.”

  “So very pagan—” says Father Pashan, “these beliefs in plants and spirits and spirit possession.”

  “People do things because there is some benefit,” says Sister Bethany, taking her glass from the tray.

  Father Pashan says, “You’re right, Bethany. Other people’s beliefs are real to them. We mustn’t mock or judge. Our strength comes from reliance on Jesus, theirs from reliance on spirits. But our god is theirs, there can be no doubt—and their gods are all facets of Jesus.”

  Sister Anu crosses her ankles and drops into lotus on the edge of the dhurrie. “We should pray to the Holy Spirit to help us stop the v
illagers from believing in spirits,” she says with a smile.

  “Good idea,” says Father Pashan, with ever-ready optimism. Bethany hides a grin.

  “There’s another matter. We now know we have a case of AIDS.”

  Father Pashan says, “In India?”

  “There must be thousands of cases of AIDS in India,” says Sister Anu. “This one is a trucker.”

  “AIDS doesn’t happen to married men,” says Father Pashan.

  Sister Anu says, “This man is married and a father, but it’s definitely AIDS. He needs antibiotics by IV and different blood tests. We need to order antiretrovirals, and I can’t find any companies that are donating such medicines …”

  “He must be a married homosexual,” Father Pashan is speculating out loud. “Families arrange marriages believing it will cure such men, but they go on sinning. We can’t treat AIDS—tell Dr. Gupta.”

  The coma ward at Snowdon … a white shirt … brown blood … Snowdon Hospital doctors didn’t ask how much of a man Bobby was before they treated him, but then, Snowdon isn’t a Catholic institution. “Dr. Gupta enrolled him in an experimental trial of zidovudine,” says Sister Anu. “Which is better than doing nothing.”

  “All right, continue the trial, then. But we can’t condone homosexuality.” Father Pashan adjusts his collar.

  “I don’t think Chunilal is homosexual,” says Sister Anu. “But even if he were, we can’t turn him away!”

  She had not thought Pashan capable of withholding treatment from a poor man like Chunilal, no matter what Church doctrine says.

  The priest runs his fingers through his hair. “If anyone in Delhi comes to know we are treating AIDS, we could lose funding.”

  She can’t argue with Father Pashan, but is she an obedient daughter of the Church first, or is she a nurse? Sister Anu rises and busies herself with saucepans, tea leaves and tea glasses.

  When the priest is gone, Sister Bethany opens a packet of mail from Shimla. “For you,” she crows holding an envelope out of reach. “Guess who it’s from?”

  “Give it here! It must be from Rano.”

  But it’s from Mumma, forwarded by Mrs. Nadkarni. Sister Anu talks to Mumma on the phone every week, but Mumma doesn’t usually write. Anu slits the envelope, unfolds several newspaper cuttings within.

  Roman Catholic church attacked by RSS workers.

  Hindu movement pays dowry to prevent woman’s conversion to Christianity.

  Christian preacher attacked in Jaipur.

  Mass reconversions of Christian dalits to Hinduism.

  There is no note. “Nice of Mumma to be worried for her daughter,” says Anu.

  “Now, Sister, no sarcasm,” says Bethany. “She’s a mother; she’s concerned. She just has … strange ways of showing it.”

  September 1996

  ANU

  SUNSET BURNISHES THE CHURCH BELL FRAMED IN THE window above Sister Anu’s desk.

  Dr. Gupta has left for the day and she is about to finish her paperwork and go home as well. But here’s Damini, pushing open the gates of Bread of Healing. She leads in a doubled-over Goldina.

  Sister Anu helps the young woman to a bed in the women’s ward, then draws the curtains. When she returns to Goldina’s side, Goldina’s strong hands grip hers as contractions come. No need for Pitocin. Damini unbinds the woman’s hair, loosens her sari.

  Anu wipes Goldina’s brow with a wet towel. She’d feel more comfortable if Dr. Gupta were here to advise, but reminds herself she’s usually the one delivering the babies because women prefer being attended by a woman. It won’t be long now—Goldina’s pelvic muscles are stretched from earlier births, her body supple from squatting. Sadly, only the mother of god can give birth without dilating her cervix.

  Damini begins massaging Goldina’s stomach to move the child downwards, but Sister Anu stops her. “Massaging can cause the womb to fall forward later on,” she explains. Damini looks unconvinced, but steps back.

  With a last howling contraction from Goldina, the baby comes through, into the world.

  Damini sniffs as if she expected a sewer smell, but there’s only the usual. She checks that the infant is breathing, then pats Goldina’s shoulder.

  “Shabash!” she says, in congratulations.

  Sister Anu holds the child up to confirm—sometimes genitalia can be swollen—but it is a boy.

  She holds the baby up before Goldina, “Kya hai yeh bachcha?” she says, asking the mother to identify the sex of the child.

  “A boy,” says Goldina. No joy in her voice—well, she must be tired.

  Damini holds the child still for the cutting. Sister Anu works quickly, clamping the cord with a toothed artery forceps and cutting it with surgical scissors.

  Please notice, Damini. Women of our caste can and do perform polluting acts.

  Sister Anu drops the afterbirth in a receptacle for incineration. Damini stands beside the waste bin as if guarding it.

  “Come here and help, Damini,” says Sister Anu.

  Anu clears the mucus from the baby’s nostrils with a suction tube. She adjusts the pads beneath Goldina to soak up the blood. Damini doesn’t come forward to help.

  After Sister Anu takes the baby’s footprint, then wraps him in a sterile swaddling cloth, Damini leaves her corner and takes him from Sister Anu. She places the child on his mother’s breast. His skin is wavy and puckered from swimming for nine months. He looks like a sheaf of pale wheat lying across his mother’s honey-brown belly. He will turn darker as he gets older and works in the sun.

  He’s sleek, strong and demanding, already moving to suckle. Sister Anu lets him—ignoring Damini’s silent disapproval. “Have you decided on a name?” she asks Goldina.

  “Moses,” says Goldina, caressing the baby’s cheek with her finger.

  “Hein?” says Damini. “Already you’re naming?”

  “Yes, he’ll live. Daughters don’t.”

  “Actually, more girls survive than boys,” says Sister Anu. “But you don’t have to name the child today. You can name him officially when you apply for a birth certificate—you have a few weeks’ time. And Father Pashan will be here in a few days—he’ll baptize your baby.

  “No, not in a few days,” says Goldina. “I’ll baptize him myself.” She takes a water bottle from her cloth bag and pours a little water on the baby’s head. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” she says. The baby stirs slightly, yawns. “Now,” she says, “Father Pashan can’t refuse to bury him if he dies.” She glances at Damini.

  “He won’t die, Goldina. And Moses is a very nice name.” Sister Anu takes a seat beside Goldina. She has to weigh the child, fill in the birth record, write in the nurses’ log, record birth weight … she passes the back of her hand across her brow.

  Goldina must be even more exhausted. She’s taking in the presence of the baby, gazing down at the boy with half-closed eyes. But after a few minutes, Goldina rises up, supporting herself on her elbows, black hair unbound and silver nose rings jingling. “Now I will go home, sister.”

  “Now? Doesn’t Samuel know you’re here?”

  “Yes, he knows.”

  “Are you worried about him or your children?”

  “Oh, no—his mother, his sister are there to look after him and the children.”

  “Then rest.”

  “No—” Goldina’s eyes redden and fill. Her tears are falling on Sister Anu’s hands.

  “What are you afraid of?” Sister Anu asks.

  “Nothing,” Goldina swallows, then makes a wide arm-gesture that includes the baby. “The worst has already happened.”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  But Goldina won’t say.

  “It’s gabrahat,” says Damini.

  That word describes everything from anxiety to worry to madness. Maybe it’s postpartum shock. Goldina isn’t usually weepy. “You can’t walk downhill in the dark with a newborn,” says Sister Anu.

  Damini says, “I’
ll sleep beside her.”

  Goldina says, “No need.” Nevertheless, Damini lies down on the foot carpet beside the bed.

  It takes all Sister Anu’s gentle coaxing to draw Moses from Goldina’s arms. She places the baby in a crib in the corner of the ward then brings Goldina a glass of warm milk with honey. “Rest now.” Authority colours Sister Anu’s voice. She leaves a Petromax lamp burning and turns off the lights to conserve electricity.

  In the adjoining room, she turns the coals in the bukhari and takes her seat at her desk. She hopes Bethany ate dinner without her, and hasn’t fallen asleep waiting in the reading chair. Oh, for the warmth of her cotton quilt and her own bed.

  “Kholo, Kholo!” Someone is banging on the door.

  Sister Anu’s nurse cap has come unpinned—she must have dozed off.

  A car is honking right outside the clinic.

  She gropes beneath the table. The cap has rolled almost under the bukhari and is streaked with ash. She glances through the door into the women’s ward—Damini is on her feet, startled awake too. Goldina sits up, sweeps her hair back into a bun.

  “I’ll see—you sleep,” says Sister Anu.

  Mr. Amanjit Singh’s driver is at the door with Mr. Amanjit Singh beside him. When she opens up, Amanjit almost drags her down the path to his car. A moaning body wrapped in a cotton quilt lies on the back seat, illuminated by the dome light in the roof. At her approach, the quilt opens to reveal a pink nightie and large furry pink slippers and Mrs. Kiran Singh, crying, panting, almost unrecognizable without sunglasses.

  Mr. Amanjit Singh helps his wife from the car. Kiran leans on Sister Anu.

  “She’s not due yet, not for a whole month,” Amanjit says as they stagger back down the path like a six-legged animal. “I can’t get her to Shimla. Not in this condition.” He is wide-eyed with worry, the pleats on his forehead rising into his turban. He helps Kiran up the stairs to the veranda and deposits her on a chair. He strokes his rolled beard as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Dr. Gupta said she needs a Caesarean.”