A Sister's Promise

by Renita D'Silva

  I balk, not wanting to go further than ‘Dearest Ma’, but my eyes drag down the page, swallowing her words like brinjal soaking up oil in the cooking pot. She has given me permission after all.

  Feeling like a voyeur, I lean back, my head nestling amongst the drug-permeated, linctus-scented pillows and start to read in earnest.

  SHARDA—CHILDHOOD

  RECIPE FOR A HAPPY FAMILY

  Extract from the school report for Sharda Ramesh, Upper Kindergarten, Age 4.

  Sharda is a quiet, shy, eager-to-please child who is a delight to have in the class. She is very hardworking and extremely bright also, being proficient at reading and writing, and showing a natural aptitude for numbers.

  Dearest Ma,

  When I think back to my childhood, this is what I remember:

  The dark hut, which Da had to bend to enter, with its soot-etched kitchen and the one room where we lived and ate and slept, the mud walls which cracked in summer and leaked during the monsoons, the hay which dripped in the rains, and we had to keep pans throughout the house to catch the drips, the tangy odour of disintegrating manure, the rotting stink of the woodlouse-ridden beams barely holding the thatch up. We would eat our meals to the music of the rain tangoing on the roof and drumming onto the pans. The smell of wet hay tickled my dreams.

  The toilet and the cramped cubicle where we washed were in a lean-to outside—that coconut frond topped and walled shed—where the dog slept and where the coconut husks and twigs were stored. If I close my eyes now, I can almost inhale the smell of hot water and soap and dog and kindling and contentment as you lobbed warm mugfuls of water onto my wriggly body and scrubbed it clean of the adventures of the day.

  Every once in a fortnight or so, we would have fish, when Da had saved up enough to negotiate for the rejects from the boats—fish too small and too plagued with bones to sell. I remember being shaken awake at the crack of dawn and taken to the fish market, the soft air, saturated with the drowsy dream-infused aroma of night, whispering lullabies as I dozed on Da’s shoulders.

  I hear the tantrums of the waves, the crashes and the rumbles as they collide with the rocks, long before the coconut fronds part, a swaying curtain, to reveal the rush of greenish turquoise depositing select gifts onto the moist, cream beach. Boats bob black on froth-capped blue. Yellow nets flash as they get closer to shore. The scales of thrashing fish glint in the sun. Seagulls swoop and crabs scurry into sandy shelters.

  Da sets me down and I try to grab a crab with both hands, but it scoots into a hole and disappears, too fast for my clumsy efforts. The boats anchor in a rush of noise and smell, salt and ammonia. Fisherwomen are ready with baskets, haggling for fish.

  Afterwards, Da and I would swan home with a bagful of rejects, a bargain for less than five rupees. I can almost taste the fish curry and fried fish we would eat later that evening; I see myself carefully prying the last sliver of flesh clinging stubbornly to the multitude of bones, a rare treat.

  I remember long days steeped in joy spent at the little stall, Ma, that you and Da used to man in the patch of earth beside the highway that bisected our village, and which the villagers had appropriated for market in the hope that the buses that shuddered past would stop once in a while, affording business. I would place the vegetables you had coaxed out of our sorry-looking patch of land into their waiting bags, and carefully count out the change, and you would grin at me, pat my head, and mouth, ‘My wonderful girl’.

  We would eat red rice and pickle most days. We would only eat the vegetables you grew if we did not manage to sell them and they started to go bad. The milk we got was so watered down that we couldn’t even make curd from it. But, despite all this, I was completely, incredibly content.

  And then came the day which would mark the end of my life as I had known it, the day everything would change forever . . .

  You haven’t been yourself for some time, Ma. You have been sleeping a lot and when you wake, your face is the greenish yellow shade of the underside of banana leaves. I often hear you retching in the lean-to.

  ‘Are you not well, Ma?’ I query many times.

  And you smile a smile that is a tad weary at the edges and assure me that you are fine.

  One day, you sit me on your lap, cup my face in your palms and say, ‘Since you’re growing up so quickly, Sharda, into such a wonderful little girl, it is time you learnt a bit of cooking.’

  I jump off your lap, skipping with delight at being treated like a grown up.

  ‘We’ll cook the okra we couldn’t sell yesterday, what do you say?’

  We squat together on the kitchen floor and you show me how to handle a knife. You give me a blunt one so I don’t cut my fingers and patiently, you teach me to chop onions, garlic and ginger.

  ‘The holy trinity of our cuisine,’ you say smiling and I smile along, although I do not quite understand.

  You heat the oil and add the mustard seeds and the curry leaves. I love the heady scent of frying curry leaves and put my face too close and one of the popping seeds nicks me in the face. I cry out, Ma, and you gently rub my cheek with your magic fingers.

  You ask me to add the onions and I notice, as you thrust them at me that you have gone green again. I hear you heaving as I add the onions and watch them go from pinkish white to translucent gold, the piquant, tart reek of raw onion replaced by the heady aroma of comfort.

  By the time you come back, I have added the garlic and ginger as well and am in the process of stirring everything together.

  ‘Well done, my darling, you’re a natural cook,’ you beam and I preen as delight floods my being.

  You ruffle my hair and together we add the okra, and you show me how to keep stirring it until the sticky gooey strands disappear. You add just a smidgen of water, put the lid on and leave it to cook.

  ‘Now, since you’re being such a star, shall we make kheer,’ you say, ‘just for today, as a treat? I feel like something sweet.’

  I am beside myself. We are only able to afford one cup of watery milk a day and there is never enough for kheer, which is my favourite sweet in all the world.

  ‘I’ve been saving milk for the past few days,’ you say, smiling, ‘for you, for this. Because today is a special day.’

  ‘Why? Is it a feast day?’ I go through the list of feasts in my head, wondering which one it is that I have missed. We did not get the day off at school, so it cannot be a major celebration, definitely nothing to do with any of the gods.

  ‘No sweetie,’ you say softly. ‘It is a special day because I have to tell you something very important.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, itching to get on with the making of the kheer, breathing in the spicy smell of the okra, pleased that I am good at cooking like you, Ma.

  I am given the very important job of opening the cardamom pods and crushing the seeds. The dog pokes his nose in the kitchen doorway, drawn by all the smells wafting into the courtyard. Outside, the coconut tree fronds romp in the sudden wind that has started up, heralding rain; dust swirls marigold in the sunshine and the dog sneezes, his expression one of great surprise and I laugh and you say, ‘What’s so funny then?’

  Your sari is dusted with flour from kneading chapathi dough to go with the okra. Our little hut smells of roasted cloves and cinnamon, of caramelising sugar and sweetening milk as it thickens into kheer.

  ‘What did you want to tell me, Ma?’ I ask unable to wait any longer.

  Caressing your stomach, you look at me and smile, and your smile is radiant, even though your face is tired. ‘You are going to have a little sister or brother soon, Sharda. A baby is growing in my tummy like you did not so long ago.’

  I am going to be a big sister!

  ‘Your da and I,’ you say, ‘will need your help in looking after the baby. Big sisters have big responsibilities, you know. They need to set a good example.’

  I nod solemnly, excited and pleased. I touch your stomach and then kiss it, whispering, ‘Hello, baby. I am your Big Sister and I p
romise to look after you, always.’

  You laugh, Ma and tell me how lucky this baby is to be blessed with such a wonderful big sister. ‘And are the cardamom seeds ready?’ you ask.

  I rush to finish the task assigned to me and in my haste, bring the pestle down hard on my hand instead of the cardamom seeds I am supposed to be crushing and scream with the agony of it and the dog barks and thunder growls and there is mayhem.

  You take me in your arms, Ma, so I am settled in your lap right beside the growing baby and I wish, how I wish, that I was the one curled up within you, safe and free from the pain that has claimed my hand and will not ease no matter how hard you blow on it and ply it with cold water and rub it with your magic hands.

  Recipe for a Happy Family:

  A man

  A woman

  A little girl

  Grow the little girl in the woman’s belly until she’s ready. Bring her into a world where she’s the sun, the brightest star lighting up the stormy sky, the full stop that completes the man and woman’s world, the angel who is their greatest wish granted, the laughter in their life, the word that makes up their sentence, the meaning to their existence, the sugar in their kheer, the spice in their curry.

  No garnish necessary. No seasoning needed.

  * * *

  How is the little girl to know that she is not the full stop, the ending that makes their story complete? That there is more to come. A brighter sun, a shinier star, a more delightful angel, a better word, a zestier condiment, a more potent spice . . .

  After the day you tell me I am going to be a big sister, Ma, the life I have become accustomed to disappears; drastic changes render our cosy household unrecognisable. As the baby grows in your stomach, it seems to take you away from me. When I wake up to go to school, you do not wake with me. I learn to heat up last night’s rice with water to make conjee, which I eat with pickle for breakfast. You say I am a brilliant girl, a godsend, but you don’t beam at me like you used to; you smile with great effort and then close your eyes and go to sleep again.

  You do not accompany Da to the market like before so he is always rushing, continually busy and does not have time for me. A worried frown permanently creases his forehead. You are always lying down. Your face pale, your eyes heavy, one hand cradling your stomach.

  I worry that the baby is hurting you, that it is taking you over. I worry that this is the ma I will have for always, that the laughing, active Ma I have known and adored will become a distant memory.

  I try very hard to put a smile on your face, to turn you back into the ma you were before. I bring you food I have carefully prepared myself, and I try gently to get you to sit up. But your face goes green when you see the food and you say, sighing, ‘This looks wonderful but I can’t today, sweetie.’

  ‘Were you like this when I was growing in your stomach, Ma?’ I ask.

  Perhaps all babies do this and when the baby comes out, the ma I remember and greatly yearn for will be back.

  You smile and pat your stomach fondly, and I wish it was my face you were touching. ‘No, you were such an easy child, both inside my womb and when you came into this world. This one is giving me so much trouble.’

  I beam at the thought that I was good even in the womb and then I am puzzled, Ma, that you are not upset with the baby for troubling you. But I am. I try not to be, but I am so mad with it at times. At school, I cannot concentrate, although I enjoy learning. I am thinking of how this baby is stealing you and the carefree da I knew away from me. I cannot remember the last time I heard Da laugh or even saw him smile. I cannot remember the last time you were up and about.

  I do not know if I can like this baby who is already changing so much around our house, making me feel invisible sometimes, even though I try so very hard to be noticed, to be good, to help. I feel like I am fading away into the background, with this baby hogging the limelight and your affections, which until now had been focused brightly and solely on me.

  I don’t want to feel the hurt that makes my stomach cramp at night when I am lying next to you, Ma and you do not hold me close like you used to, because you have to lie on your back now, to be comfortable. I do not like the feeling I get when you stroke your stomach, when your face lights up as you speak about the baby, the feeling I cannot yet identify as envy.

  I do not know if I even want this baby. Then I push the thought away. No, I cannot think like this. I am going to be a good big sister. I am going to love this sibling, look after it and make you and Da proud.

  And then it is that time of year when exams loom. The last time I had an exam—my very first—you sat with me, Ma, massaging my hair, cooking my favourite dishes and feeding me as I practised my words and numbers. You and Da, although uneducated yourselves, believe very much in the power of education.

  But now, even though my exams are forthcoming, I have to cook for Da and myself, I have to look after you, Ma. Despite this, I work extra hard as I do not want to let you and Da down.

  On the day I get my report card, and find that I am at the top of the class, I skip the whole way home from school. This is the day you will forget about the baby for once, focus on me instead, I think. As I near our hut, the dog comes rushing at me, hurling his body at my feet, raising a tornado of dust.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, scratching behind his ear. I never usually get this reception.

  The hut is quiet, eerily so. I tumble inside anyway, holding out my report card, shouting breathlessly, ‘Ma. Ma?’

  Our hut is empty and I feel foreboding shooting daggers up my spine, rooting my legs to the ground. I look in the lean-to, behind the hut, in the fields, even inside the well. All empty.

  Then I am running, bare feet flying, to the market, gulping in the smell of decomposing vegetables and raw fish, soil and spices, choking on the briny taste of fear. Our market stall is empty, Ma. I knew it would be, somehow, but I was holding out desperate hope. I stand there, in that stall bereft of you and Da but still haunted by Da’s scent of stale sweat and hard work, and tasting salt and snot and panic with every gasping inhalation, I finally give in to the sobs that have been building in my chest, huge wheezing moans that rend my throat, and steal my breath.Soft arms envelop me, and for a brief minute, I think it’s you, Ma. But the overpowering odour of dried fish, the crinkly feel of the sari, is all wrong, and I cry even harder, afraid to open my eyes, to acknowledge the fact that the world has turned upside down and I have lost you and Da. I fight the irrational conviction that this strange smelling woman whose embrace does not feel remotely like yours will be my mother from now on.

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetie? Sharda, what is it?’ The woman whispers in my ear.

  At her use of my name, I open my eyes. It is Sumatiakka, who squats in the mud next to our vegetable stall and sells fish.

  ‘I don’t know where Da and Ma are,’ I hiccup.

  Her worried face relaxes into a smile.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asks, wiping my eyes with her sari pallu, and I don’t mind that the fish smell is now all over my face, that there might even be a fish scale or two stuck to my cheeks, my relief is so huge and all encompassing.

  ‘Your ma went into labour suddenly, sweetie, earlier than expected. There were complications. The baby was stuck the wrong way and your ma had to be rushed to the clinic in Dhoompur. It all happened so fast, you see, so you must have slipped their mind . . . ’

  They only care for this baby. I am invisible to them.

  Sumatiakka arranges for Modduanna to take me to the clinic in his rickshaw. At the clinic, I breathe in the alien, bitter odour of pills and I want to be sick. Then, I see you and Da and I run all the way up to you, my hurt and anger forgotten, as relief, sweet and golden effervesces in my chest.

  ‘I thought you were lost,’ I sob, trying to bury myself in your chest, Ma, yearning for the soothing luxury of your arms around me.

  But you hold me at bay, even though your eyes shine with remorse as you knead my hair like you h
ave not done in ages. ‘I am so sorry, Sharda. It all happened so quickly, the baby was stuck, it almost died. Your da had to bring me here. By God’s grace, the baby is fine. A real miracle.’ Your voice softening, your gaze dissolving as you talk about the baby.

  I want the comfort of your lap, Ma. I want to press my ear to your heart and hear your voice reverberate as it makes its way out of your throat.

  But there is a bundle in your arms that is obstructing me from doing so and as I stand there, it emits a series of tremulous wails, much like the emaciated kittens that sometimes wander into the market in search of food.

  I am intrigued by the bundle, but I have something important to tell you, first, Ma, something that will make you shine.

  ‘I got my report card, and I came first,’ I say, flapping the now crumpled sheet of paper in front of you.

  But you are distracted, Ma, not paying attention to me. Not even looking at me anymore. Fuming and desperately hurt, my eyes stinging and fresh tears bubbling, I stare at the cause of all my upset. And my tears dry on my cheeks, and my distress is forgotten as I take in the perfect little being swaddled in cloth, with its miniature scrunched-up face that emits those plaintive mewls.

  ‘Do you want to hold your sister?’ you ask, Ma, and that is when I know the baby is a girl.

  ‘She is very special,’ you’re saying. ‘She almost died, you know. The nurse had to swing her upside down and slap her a couple of times, gently, of course, before she started breathing. She is a real miracle this one.’

  Your words barely register as I hold the squirming, wiggling bundle in my arms. Her hands are tiny, with diminutive fingers bunched into delicate fists that she waves in the air as if railing against the world. And then, she turns her minuscule face in my direction and tries to open her eyes. She struggles to focus her new-born gaze on me and when she does, opens her little mouth in a huge yawn, a perfect ‘O’, displaying startling pink gums and a rosebud of a tongue. And just like that I fall in love with this vulnerable being.