Puja pulls her salwar down, brushing off the dust accrued from the walk home and bounces into the house, abruptly grinding to a stunned halt as she takes in the scene before her.
Sharda is all decked up and sitting next to Gopi. She is wearing a sari Puja has never seen before, a beautiful garnet and gold affair, and Puja realises, her shuddering heart slowly catching up with her brain, that it is a new one bought for this occasion with money her parents can ill afford. Hasn’t she heard her parents and sister worrying time and time again about how to make ends meet? So why spend money they don’t have on a new sari for Sharda, when Puja has begged and begged for new clothes but has had to make do with Sharda’s drab hand-me-downs which her ma alters, letting down the hems and tightening the waist as Puja is both taller and thinner than Sharda.
Sharda is wearing flowers in her hair and kumkum on her forehead, all of Ma’s jewellery twinkles on her neck and glitters on her arms. She is not wearing her spectacles. She is the picture of a blushing bride.
Gopi is unrecognisable in a lungi and white shirt, a far cry from the checked shirt and trousers that make up his daily uniform. His gaze meets Puja’s once briefly before it drops onto his lap, his face going red as his mates’, and he squirms uncomfortably on the mat beside her sister.
Da and Ma are laughing the laugh they reserve for visitors and Sharda is coy. Her bangle-laden hands join demurely on her lap.
There is another mat on the floor heaving with laddoos and bondas, bhajis and pedas. Ma has gone all out it seems. The air is heady with excitement and with the smell of fried onions, condensed milk and spices. The landlord is stretched out on the only bench like a snake undulating dreamily after having swallowed a human.
‘What is going on here?’ Puja asks and her voice is sharp with shock.
‘Puja,’ Ma says in a voice as false as a wig, ‘the landlord has asked for your sister’s hand in marriage to his son.’
No! Puja’s dumbfounded brain screams in the confines of her head. No, no, no!
But, with gargantuan effort, she tries to keep her smile in place and says, charming as ever, looking right at the landlord, her voice steady and not trembling, not even a tiny bit, ‘Why can’t I marry your son instead?’
And everyone, with the exception of Gopi, who still refuses to meet her gaze, bursts out laughing even though Puja is not joking, even though she is crying inside, her lovesick heart a big bottomless cavern, wet and saturated in tears.
The day after his betrothal to her sister, Gopi, as always, waits for Puja outside the shops, and when she walks past, he has the gall to offer her a tentative smile, as if nothing has happened, as if their world has not just shifted on its axis leaning heavily towards her short, squat, bespectacled sister. She ignores him and walks down the road, looking straight ahead.
Instead of keeping pace on the opposite side of the road, as he usually does in order to avoid scandal, he catches up with her.
‘Puja,’ he calls, in a prayer-like chant that gives her name the meaning it is ordained.
She walks on, pretending he isn’t there.
He speeds up and stops right in front of her, blocking her path.
‘Fancy a ride?’ he asks, his voice slightly breathless.
Puja lifts her hand, and with all her strength, slaps him right across his arrogant, thoughtless cheek.
There is silence. The tinkle of bicycle bells, the honk of the lone, overstuffed, on-its-last-legs rickshaw ferrying schoolchildren home, the chatter of youth, the song of the boatmen, and the laughter of the fisherwomen, pauses in the ringing aftermath. Mouths are agape, welcoming receptacles for swirling particles of grime and inebriated insects drunk on nectar and sunshine. The bitter, woozy smell of shock pervades the dust-bruised air.
Puja’s hand smarts and she holds it a bit away from her so it doesn’t brush her salwar as she walks away, her head held high. Gopi is the handsomest, coolest boy in all of Dhoompur. The other boys look up to him. And to him, appearances matter.
Puja wills away the tears collecting in her eyes, knowing she has irrevocably jeopardised her chances with him by slapping him in front of his friends. But then she never stood a chance. He is betrothed to her sister.
She fights the waves of nausea that threaten to overcome her at the thought of it.
And yet . . . she loves him.
All through the previous evening—as she endured the smiles and the celebrations, as she waved goodbye to the landlord, refusing to meet Gopi’s eye, as she hugged her sister and pretended to be pleased for her, as she forced her mother’s specially prepared, celebratory sweetmeats down her salt-clogged throat, as she lay on the mat beside her sister and her mother—she had fought her feelings for him, tried to tamp them down, squish them dead.
But they had refused to acquiesce.
She loves him. But she wonders what possessed her to think he cared for her like she has grown to care for him? And now . . .
Her hand stings. She can feel the welts, engorged pink, rising on her palm. Now he will really hate her for daring to humiliate him in front of the entire population.
Well and good.
All those girls waiting in line to win his favours can up their game now, not that he will ever belong to any of them either. That honour has been bagged by her own, nerdy, bug-eyed sister. Acrid bile rises in her mouth.
‘Puja.’ A hot hand on her sore palm.
She winces, and pulls away.
Despite being slapped, he has persisted in following her, throwing the caution, in which they have always shrouded their relationship (ha!), to the wind.
Everyone is staring at them, noting their every move with keen eyes, gossip antennae bristling. There’s an imprint of her palm on his face, red and inflamed. She looks away, unable to meet his gaze. The hurt at his treachery bubbles in her chest, a bitter cocktail that she can taste in her mouth, that congests her nose, and threatens to flood from her eyes.
He has abandoned his precious motorbike, his ubiquitous companion. She sees it lying on its side by the shops, forlorn and discoloured by mud, no longer shiny.
‘I am sorry. I didn’t know, I swear.’ His voice desperate, pleading.
‘Leave me alone,’ she is pleased that the turmoil she feels is not reflected in her tone, which as she intends, is cold and detached. She gags on the next few words but squeezes them out. ‘You are promised to my sister.’
‘But I don’t want to be. I didn’t know . . . ’
Is that a wobble in his voice? At last, she looks at him.
His eyes shine as they return her gaze, his luxuriant eyelashes iridescent and glinting in the golden sunshine. As she watches, one perfect little teardrop traverses the wounded landscape of his abused face.
Her aching heart jumps, infused with dawning hope, despite her many doubts.
He cares, sings her foolish heart. He does. He cares enough to not worry about his status, about how he looks pleading with me in front of the whole street. He cares.
Gopi senses he is getting through to her and says, urgently, the words tumbling over each other in their hurry to get told, ‘I went home yesterday afternoon as usual to change before coming back up here to meet you, but Da was waiting for me. That was surprising in itself as he is never home early. And on top of that, he was in an unusually good mood. He said we were going somewhere and since it was close by could I take him there on my bike? You know, with him, it’s always a command, never a request. I gave in, thinking that whatever it was I could finish it quickly and still have time to see you. When he asked me to park by the fields leading down to your house, I started to panic, wondering if he had guessed about us and this was his bizarre way of punishing me. But when we got there and I saw Sharda all decked up . . .’ He takes a deep, quaking breath. ‘I am so sorry, Puja, I could not tell them, I didn’t know how. Especially after I found out that my da had verbally promised me to Sharda long before this . . . ’
Really? Puja opens her mouth, suddenly unable to breathe. S
o this is the secret Ma and Sharda were keeping from her. She understands now why Ma was not stressing about getting Sharda married. The realisation stings like vinegar scooped into the parched mouth of a thirsty man.
‘The betrothal yesterday was just the confirmation of that promise my da made to your parents and Sharda without my knowledge. I didn’t know! I did not know.’ Gopi’s voice is choked with emotion, and brimming with fury at his father.
Neither did I know.
‘Your parents and your sister looked so happy that my mouth just clamped up . . . how could I tell them that it was not Sharda but you that I wanted?’
Puja does not need to hear any more. Blood rushes to her face and her heart, raw and injured just a minute ago is humming now. The air tastes of happiness, and the drab mud-smudged surroundings are suddenly wreathed in vivid colour.
He cares for me. It will be all right. We will make it all right.
But she has to ask. ‘Do you like Sharda? I’ve heard rumours that you are friendly with her too, but I ignored them before. Is this your latest trick, trying to win over two sisters at once?’
He takes another deep breath. ‘I do like Sharda. She’s a very good teacher. It was only because of her coaching that I passed Maths in Second PUC.’
His honesty hurts; it is a dart lodged in her heart, skewering it open again, a throbbing wound.
‘You pursued her, took it as a challenge to win her over.’
‘I . . . I just wanted her to like me, because she is your sister . . .’ His voice is urgent, tortured. ‘You know me, Puja, better than anyone . . . ’
‘Do I? Turns out I know nothing at all.’
‘Puja . . .’ Her name a longing on his lips.
She crushes her sore hand against her thigh, and the jolt of physical pain gives her the courage to ask, above the howling of her heart, ‘Do you want to marry Sharda?’
‘No!’ All the anguish Puja feels is reflected in his voice. ‘Puja, you are my soulmate. You make me laugh. You incite feelings in me I have never known. My da gave me no warning. I am tired of doing his bidding, bending to his will. How could he not inform me of my betrothal until I was actually being betrothed? How does he know what’s best for me? Why not ask me what I want before deciding my future, making plans for the rest of my life? Why did he not tell me he promised me to Sharda? He has always done this, mapped out my life for me. And I have taken it. But not this time. Puja, you are the one I care for. We complement each other. We are made for each other.’ He looks right at her with that golden gaze that opens her up and lays her bare, that gaze that takes in who she is and proposes what she can be with him. ‘You make my heart come alive. I love you and want to marry you. We’ll tell my Da and Sharda. We will.’
Puja’s heart swells. She opens her mouth and tastes the jubilant air. Not heeding the watching population, she links her arm through Gopi’s and laughs, the sound rivalling the temple bells, which is echoed by Gopi laughing right along with her.
KUSHI
A HAND DROPPED AT AN AIRPORT
When I have finished reading, I rub my eyes and fingers trembling with eagerness, I open the next letter. I am absorbed in Ma’s story.
I do not recognise this picture of Ma, this vulnerable, studious girl, battling her envy of her beautiful, carefree sister. I want to know what happens next.
These letters are allowing me to meet Ma as a child, and the girl she was before she became the woman I know—the strong, kind woman with her huge heart, her generosity, and her capacity for caring; the woman who tided me through the death of my father despite the fact that she was grieving her husband. The woman who loves me and has lied to me all my life. The woman who shunned her sister for so many years.
I am reading Ma’s story as if my life depends on it. Perhaps it does . . . The way I figure it, if I find out what happened to drive Ma and Puja apart all those years ago, perhaps I’ll be able to appeal to Puja’s better nature, convince her to donate her kidney to save my life (if it is a match, that is) . . .
The truth is that I prefer to lose myself in Ma’s story because it distracts me from my own. When I read Ma’s letters, this frantic, fear-splashed present loses its hold on me; it is like a hand dropped at an airport when the person saying goodbye crosses the barrier into another country, another world.
The truth is I am terrified. I don’t want to die. I love my life. There is so much I want to do.
I push away the anxiety that threatens to swallow me whole, the dread I am holding at bay and engross myself in my ma’s words.
SHARDA—FISSURE
TWITTERING POSSE OF BUSYBODIES
Dearest Ma,
For a very long time I blamed Puja. I refused to see my part in it all.
Then Kushi came along, innocent, so sweetly perfect in all her human imperfections and my heart flooded with love, crowding out the hate, the hurt, the simmering wrath. My little girl taught me to love again and it was an easing, a great relief. I held her in my arms, this girl with her whole life ahead of her, an empty page awaiting words, and I had an epiphany.
I realised something I should always have known, that we make our own destiny. I understood that I had a choice. I could continue to indulge my hate-shrivelled, rage-tarnished heart. Or I could change. I could wipe clean the half-filled page of my life so far, populated with hurt and hate and regret, and start over. Anew.
Somehow, holding Kushi in my arms made me see beyond the wrongs that had been done to me, to the mistakes I had made. She imbued my soul, which had been blackened by wrath, soiled by upset, and dirtied by vengeful thoughts, with the soothing balm of acceptance, and the cleansing gel of forgiveness.
Ma, I have visited this day I am about to narrate a thousand times in my mind. And a thousand times, I have chosen for it a different ending . . .
You know the fights all siblings have: ‘She started it.’ ‘No, she did.’
Now I can say for sure that it was me.
Perhaps Puja set things in motion. Or perhaps Gopi did.
But in the end, it was I who lit the wayward match that started the fire, it was I who put events into motion that broke us apart.
It was me.
When the matrons come calling I am washing clothes on the granite stone by the well in the dappled shade of the tamarind tree, indulging in fantasies of Gopi now that I am betrothed to him, dreams I denied myself when I was younger due to Sister Seema’s dire warnings. And also because I never dared imagine that he would be mine.
Even after you told me of the landlord’s intention, Ma, I was nervous, in case it all fell through. I kept pinching myself when you told me of the match, and asked me to keep it a secret from Puja. I was tempted to tell her about it several times, but was worried that by uttering the words out loud, I might jinx my betrothal to Gopi.
When I saw the look on Puja’s face when she entered the hut and stumbled upon Gopi and me being promised to each other, I felt guilty for having kept mum. It was the one small cloud in an otherwise perfect day. Puja had recovered though, made us all laugh. What did she say? I can’t quite remember. But that’s Puja for you, isn’t it, ever the charmer.
Ma, you are at our market stall with Da, flush from the success of a match arranged and sealed for me, your eldest daughter, the one you were secretly worried about.
No such worries on Puja’s account; in her case, given her looks and charm, provided she manages not to smear her reputation, you know that you will be warding off suitors.
The matrons descend en masse, surrounding me as I rinse the clothes and twist them into ropes, bashing them on the marbled granite stone to bleed out all the water. I feel a finger of dread play up and down the bones of my spine.
You’ve called me intuitive, Ma. But I suppose I am just cautious.
Everything has gone right for me lately. My medical degree is proceeding smoothly, the expense of tuition and sundries (including the cost of the bus pass to travel to Hosahanapur, where the medical college is, and back), is
being paid for by the college because of my brilliant performance in the entrance exam.
‘You’ll be the first doctor this village has produced,’ Da has marvelled countless times, pride burnishing his voice a radiant gold. ‘Tell me again, what’s the starting salary for doctors these days?’ The pride he used to reserve exclusively for Puja.
And when the previous day, the landlord and Gopi graced our hut to formally ask for my hand, the looks on both of your faces were as if you had been bestowed the gift of eternal life.
Gopi had been curiously shy during our betrothal. He would not meet my eye, but looked down and fiddled with his clothes instead. I saw his hands trembling at one point. Did that show the depth of his feelings for me? This softer side to the cocky boy I had known (and begun to care for) at school endeared him to me all the more.
Gopi. My intended. Mine.
Wow! To have an arranged marriage where love is already blooming—isn’t that serendipitous?
But even in the midst of this joy I cannot tamp down the worry that it is all too good to be true. And so, when I see the matrons Ma, I am petrified. Have the gods realised that I have had more than my share of good fortune and sent this twittering posse of busybodies to prick my bubble of unmitigated happiness?
The matrons flap and chirp and cluck like flustered birds, swamping me with their smell of sweat and spices as they wipe their faces with their pallus and spit their half-chewed paan into the blue sudsy water beside the washing stone, turning it to brown sludge.
‘Where’s your ma, child?’ they ask. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
I lead them inside and they crowd our hut, filling it with bustle, making it seem smaller than ever; the news they are bursting to impart gives their substantial bosoms heft as they hold it close for the last few moments before they have to dilute it by sharing it with me.
A Sister's Promise Page 13
