A Sister's Promise

by Renita D'Silva

  Although Puja is lost in her own world much of the time, she is very perceptive and picks up on the slightest fluctuations in emotion. Puja, who doesn’t give a jot about her reputation and does exactly as she pleases. Puja, who you say, Ma, only half-joking, is the cause of your prematurely grey hair. Puja, who, from the moment she entered this world, a squalling infant, not breathing at first, captured Da’s heart, so he won’t hear a bad word about her, won’t see that she is, in fact, running wild.

  You receive a visit from the village matrons every other day, Ma, with a blow-by-blow account of Puja’s transgressions.

  ‘She is growing up,’ they say, spitting slivers of chewed paan with each grave word, their eyes like puris. ‘She can’t go around doing what she likes any more. She is so beautiful, and you will get her married very easily, perhaps even for no dowry at all, but she needs to guard her reputation.’

  When Puja swans home, clothes torn, hair dishevelled, you begin to admonish her, but she grabs your hands and dances you around the courtyard and when your head is spinning and you are breathless, she kisses your cheek and says, ‘Ma, I’m hungry, what lovely feast have you conjured up today?’

  And you follow in her wake, smiling and sighing at the same time.

  When Da gets home from work, you tell him about the matrons’ visit, urging him to intercede. ‘If you talk to Puja, she’ll listen.’

  But Da only laughs, his eyes softening as he looks at his favourite child, ‘Oh she’s still a kid. She’ll grow out of it. Won’t you, lovey?’

  The choicest endearments for Puja. Endearments Da has never used on me.

  Puja throws her arms around Da, kisses his ear. ‘I was only playing, Da. The girls didn’t want to play lagori, so I asked the boys.’

  ‘She’s only little. Why can’t those witches mind their own business?’ Da grumbles then.

  You sigh, Ma. ‘She’s growing up,’ you say, unintentionally echoing the matrons.

  ‘If it was me doing that, you would be cross, Da,’ I say.

  ‘Oh but, Sharda, you wouldn’t dare,’ Puja says, laughter bursting out of her—a starry shower.

  Now, I look up from the book I am pretending to read, adjusting my glasses—the ones with the rectangular, too-large frames, which Puja says do not do my face any favours, but which are the only ones you and Da can afford, Ma.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ I query, closing my book after carefully marking the page with a sliver of blue cotton torn from your old sari.

  Puja clicks her tongue, and swipes at a mosquito alighting on her arm. It squishes in a splat of blood. ‘Oh, why can’t you just answer my question for God’s sake! Are you in love?’

  In the winking light of the lamp, her eyes are radiant, her skin glows gold and she looks even lovelier than usual.

  ‘Love. It is not for the likes of us,’ I say, finally, and push thoughts of Gopi firmly away. I mean it too. Gopi might intrude into my thoughts, but I know I will one day marry the man you and Da choose for me, Ma, as is my duty. ‘Love is an indulgence only city girls can afford.’

  ‘Who says so?’ Puja scoffs.

  From the kitchen wafts the sound of sizzling onions, and the smoky, slightly burnt smell of frying spices. You are cooking dinner, Ma. Da is washing himself in the lean-to. He is murdering a Kannada film song in his tuneless voice, snatches of which drift up to us. The dog flops in his habitual place, head on the kitchen stoop, long ears flapping, looking at you with mournful eyes, hoping you’ll lob a crumb his way.

  ‘Love causes havoc, Puja, tears a family apart. Remember when Sampa ran away with the butcher’s son?’

  Puja scrunches her face.

  ‘You must have been too young to remember. Oh the scandal it caused! Sampa’s mother committed suicide. She could not take the ignominy, the stain of disrepute.’

  ‘Pah,’ Puja mutters, looking disgusted. ‘She obviously did not value her life enough.’

  ‘Look at every woman in the village. Their husbands have been chosen for them. None of them have married for love. It is just not done,’ I say, watching the play of shadows on the wall.

  ‘That is why they always have their nose in other people’s business, especially mine. They are forever trying to escape the depressing reality of their lives, their bullies of husbands . . .’ Puja’s voice is steeped with a bitterness I have not heard until now.

  I look at her, curious. Where is this coming from?

  ‘Look at Ma and Da,’ I try. ‘They only met properly on their wedding day. They’re happy aren’t they?’

  Dusk has fallen outside and a soft breeze is rustling the aboli bushes. Now the smell of rising dough and boiling potatoes assaults my nose, making my stomach growl.

  ‘Oh Sharda, there’s no point talking to you. All you care about is doing your duty,’ Puja huffs, saying the word duty as if it is something to be abhorred. ‘And studying.’

  Despite her obvious disgust, I decide that this is as good an opportunity as ever to expound the benefits of an education, as you are always urging me to do, Ma.

  ‘Please talk to Puja,’ you have begged, ‘If you do, Sharda, she’ll listen, perhaps.’

  ‘A good education is important, Puja. Why do you think Da and Ma send us to school even though it would be easier if they took us out and put us to work like half the children of the village? They can’t afford a huge dowry and if we have a good education, we’ll get good husbands.’ I parrot the words you have recited a thousand times, Ma, hoping Puja will take heed this time.

  ‘I will find my own husband thank you very much,’ she snaps, her rust coloured eyes flashing.

  I take Puja’s hand in mine. Her palm is warm and slightly moist. ‘Puja, you are so bright but you don’t apply yourself. If you only . . . ’

  ‘Huh, stop lecturing me . . . First Sister Seema and now you.’

  ‘Oh, she’s given you that lecture, has she?’

  Puja rolls her eyes, meeting my gaze and we laugh together, tiff forgotten, recalling how all of us girls were herded outdoors, one class at a time, far from the boys, to the middle of the fields with only the languid cows and the singing stream, whispering coconut trees, and a gaggle of crows for company.

  ‘You are growing up,’ Sister Seema had squawked self-importantly piercing each of us with her prickly gaze. ‘You will have thoughts about boys, and be tempted to sin with them. I have seen the looks some of you girls give the boys, as if inviting them to have their way with you. It is wrong. Forget about touching boys, even entertaining lustful thoughts about them is a sin. Banish wicked thoughts. You have to save yourselves for your husbands. It is your duty to keep yourselves pure.’ Her vinegary voice had risen with each pompous word. ‘Beware. Boys are not to be trusted. They will befriend you, bring your guard down and then try to steal your honour. Remember that your reputation is the most important jewel you own, more precious than all the gold your parents are setting aside for your dowry. Don’t treat it lightly. Think of God when you are tempted to sin. He is watching your every move, keeping tabs on your immoral thoughts.’

  Now, Puja says, chuckling, ‘I asked Sister Seema who she was saving her reputation and honour for. You should have seen her face. She looked like she was choking on a frog she had accidentally swallowed!’

  I start to snigger uncontrollably, as I imagine Sister Seema’s gobsmacked face. Puja and I roll around the floor. Our laughter, like pealing bells, makes the dog bark, and ladle in hand, you come out of the kitchen, Ma, smelling of spices, with sweat from the cooking fumes beading your face, to ask us what in the world is so funny.

  And just at that moment we overturn the lamp—oil spilling, the reek of kerosene, the stench of burning and the startled jitters of shock as our clothes catch fire—and if it had not been for Puja extinguishing the flames with her fingers and burning herself in the process, (I see her flinch and her fingers blaze red), our hut would have gone up in flames taking us with it.

  A premonition, Ma, of what was to come. A dark, smok
e-flavoured cloud to douse our mirth.

  RAJ

  A SPLASH OF VIBRANT COLOUR

  ‘Mum, I cannot believe you let those poor temple-goers get their feet scorched!’ Raj says, looking quizzically at his mother, trying to find in this woman, whose face he has searched for clues that she loves him, this woman he has loathed for what he believes is her neglect of him, that little girl who was loved by an entire village; the minx who hid devotees’ shoes.

  She laughs—a splash of vibrant colour on an arid landscape.

  He doesn’t think he has ever heard her laugh in this carefree way. It is as if, by reminiscing about her childhood, something coiled tight inside her has sprung loose. It makes her look younger, he thinks. And yet, even in this softer version of his mother, he cannot see the girl she once was. She must be in there somewhere.

  ‘I can’t equate that girl you are telling me about with you, Mum,’ he muses.

  ‘I know,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t either.’

  ‘How could you have changed so much?’ Raj asks, not really expecting an answer, thinking his mother will ignore him or change the topic as she always does when faced with difficult questions, or things she doesn’t want to talk about.

  ‘Life. It squeezes you, wrings you out, until you don’t know if you are facing forward or backward, until you don’t recognise yourself.’ Her voice is melancholy, a haunting melody. Her laughter gone.

  Raj cannot recall the last time his mother had merited one of his queries with such an honest answer. He is surprised by the pang of sympathy he feels for her.

  What happened to you? He thinks. What happened to the girl you once were?

  The air hostess pushes her trolley down the aisle, offering drinks.

  Raj takes a gulp of Coca Cola. His headphones have slipped off his ears and disappeared somewhere in the space around his seat but he couldn’t care less. He is properly curious now, absorbed in his mother’s story. He wants to know more about the girl she is telling him about; he wants to see if he can find something of her in the woman beside him, and to discover if that feisty child has left a small imprint of herself behind.

  ‘You were close to your sister,’ he says and she flinches, her face flooding with pain. ‘She was such an important part of your life. Why didn’t you speak of her before now, tell me about her?’

  You haven’t told me much of anything, up until now. I am surprised you are opening up so much to me today.

  ‘I . . . I couldn’t.’ Distress dyes his mother’s voice the inky black of old regrets and heartache.

  ‘You haven’t spoken to her, or been in touch with her, for years, have you? Before that phone call, I mean?’

  ‘I haven’t been in touch, no.’ She says softly.

  ‘Something major must have occurred to drive you two apart. What happened?’

  His mother rubs at her eyes. ‘I . . . I don’t know if I . . . ’

  ‘Oh mum, come on!’ He cannot help the anger. He jabs his Coca Cola onto the tray, not caring when some of it spills, a fizzy brown blob against the dull grey of the tray.

  His mother flinches again.

  He digs around in the pocket of the seat in front of him looking for his headphones. He bends down, groping about by his legs, almost upending the tray and spilling more of his Coca Cola.

  Typical of her. Just when he was getting interested too. He’s had enough. At least his music doesn’t stop and start at anyone’s whim but his own. Where on earth are his headphones?

  ‘You can’t start telling me and then decide not to. God, you are dragging me halfway across . . . ’

  ‘It’s hard for me, Raj, to revisit it all.’ She bites down on her lower lip, hard.

  He’s sure it will split and start to bleed in a minute. Good.

  ‘Then why are we going to India if not to revisit it all? Surely you owe me an explanation as to why you are taking me there, against my will, if I may . . . ’

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Yes. You are right. I owe you.’

  He is so surprised by her capitulation, her admitting that he’s right, that he bumps his head on the tray and spills the rest of the Coca Cola. He swabs ineffectually at the spreading mess with the measly napkin provided with the drink while his mother takes another deep breath and settles into her seat.

  ‘I had skipped school . . . ’ she begins and Raj gives up trying to clean up the gloopy spill with the disintegrating serviette and sits back to listen to his mother’s story, her voice painting a picture of an audacious, devil-may-care girl, who she claims was her once upon a time . . .

  PUJA—CHILDHOOD

  GREEN-TIPPED LULLABIES

  Extract from school report for Puja Ramesh, Ninth Standard, Age 15

  Puja has done marginally better this year but her poor marks show that she still has a long way to go. Puja is a bright girl who needs to concentrate more in class. She is easily distracted and daydreams through her lessons, her mind clearly somewhere else. That said, Puja is a natural leader and is loved and looked-up-to by everyone.

  Puja has skipped school and is spending an illicit, luxuriously lazy afternoon by the lake, with the soft musical lick and splash of gentle waves communing with the reeds rocking her to sleep. The bluish emerald expanse is dotted with heart shaped leaves and water lilies, white with yellow middles, are perched like offerings on top.

  Eyes closed, she leans back against the banyan tree, its perfumed branches whispering tender green-tipped lullabies as the soft breeze fans her face. A frog croaks hoarsely nearby, and she pictures it squatting on a lily pad, fat and slimy green, its bulbous eyes on the lookout for flies. A dog barks somewhere close and chickens squawk in uproar, sounding very much like the indignant fisherwomen squabbling with haggling customers at the market. Cooking smells drift up to her: roasted cinnamon and caramelising sugar. She thinks that Janakiamma, whose hut adjoins the lake, must be making kheer to celebrate her son’s appointment as a taxi driver in Bangalore.

  Puja imagines a mouthful of kheer, biting into syrup soaked raisins and ghee-coated cashews, the nutty sweetness exploding in her mouth. Her stomach rumbles.

  When was the last time Ma made kheer? She can’t remember. She hates being poor, she decides, uprooting a handful of the weeds beside her. A coconut tree branch tumbles to the ground with a crash in Janakiamma’s orchard, she assumes. She drags her eyes open and turns to check. Yes, she is right.

  The water in the lake undulates as the frog jumps in. She idly picks up a stone from beside her and throws it in, wishing she could make it skim. Dappled shadows play hide and seek with the sun.

  She closes her eyes once more, giving in to the exquisite pull of sleep.

  Thud, clunk, thump! A burst of noise explodes the languorous afternoon, a thunderous sound that careers closer and closer to Puja. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, trying to still her pounding heart.

  The hurtling sound stops directly in front of her. Someone pants, in noisy gasps, right next to her.

  ‘Hey, this is my secret place. What are you doing here?’ A man’s voice. Gruff and croaky as the frog, and curiously familiar. ‘Skipped school, have you? Why am I not surprised?’ Laughter threads through the croakiness.

  Puja opens her eyes and takes in grazed toes, endless legs, and a long, well-built torso culminating in a face she knows.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Stealing chappals from unsuspecting devotees; cutting school. Are you a Catholic? These sins could send you straight on the blazing path to hell, unless you confess of course . . .’ His muscles ripple as he puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head, setting his floppy hair dancing.

  ‘Are you a spy for the village matrons?’ she snaps, enormously angry with him for disturbing her peaceful, indolent afternoon.

  He throws back his head and laughs. ‘I had forgotten how funny you are.’

  She is still thinking up a suitable retort when he bends, rolls up his trousers and wades into the lake.

  ‘What do you think
you’re doing?’ she calls as she watches his legs disappear. ‘It’s deep in there. Can you swim?’

  He turns and squints at her. ‘No,’ he grins. The water laps at his waist.

  He takes a couple more steps, treading water backwards while looking at her, and then he slips, arms flailing. His grin freezes, mutating into bafflement and then, for a brief second, fright, before his body disappears underwater.

  ‘No!’ she yells, rubbing at her eyes, unable to believe what she is seeing. Puja can’t swim either. What to do?

  The air is yellow with fear. It tastes of horror, inky black.

  Oh dear God, what will she do? She closes her eyes and starts to pray. Please God, please.

  ‘Boo!’

  Puja jumps. He is standing before her, dripping water from head to toe, and smelling slimy, of pond weed and algae.

  ‘You lied!’ she screeches. ‘You . . .’

  She lifts her hand to hit him, but he brings a wet hand from behind his back and holds out a posy of sopping water lilies.

  ‘For you, ma’am,’ he executes a mock bow, spraying droplets everywhere.

  She laughs then, and accepts the water lilies, while her galloping heart slows to a canter. She lightly smacks his moist palm. ‘Thank you. Did you come here by bike?’

  He nods in the direction of the road and she sees the bike gleaming beside a peepal tree.

  ‘I will only agree to a ride once you are completely dry,’ she says, and he throws back his head and laughs.

  The next day when she comes out of school, he is waiting for her.

  ‘Fancy a ride?’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ Puja says.

  As they zoom away, her arms around him, she rejoices in the heady sensation of freedom from the constraints of the village, and the narrow minded people.

  ‘Why me?’ she asks him.

  ‘You make me laugh,’ he says simply.

  ‘You know, this hanging out with you is not good for my reputation.’