A Sister's Promise

by Renita D'Silva

  ‘We weren’t sure if you could eat proper food, else we would have got rice and chicken curry with boondi laddoo for afters; we know it is your favourite meal . . . ’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say through the lump in my throat.

  They are out of place in this medicine-suffused room as they crowd the space around my bed. What do they see as they look down at me? Me, whom they used to look up to, whose every word they would act upon. Me, their leader, used to being independent, in charge, always on the go, and now reduced to this . . . this invalid whose body has let her down.

  They used to admire me. Do they pity me now?

  I understand now what Ma used to say to me about putting myself in others’ shoes. This experience has made me vulnerable. I hate having to depend on others for the smallest thing. Now I know why some of the girls who came to me for help wouldn’t listen to me. It is hard to have everything taken from you, including your own sense of self. It is frustrating to have someone else dictate what is best for you.

  I am awash with shame. I do not want the villagers’ pity. Anything but that . . .

  And fast on the heels of shame comes the rage, a welcome fiery blast, towards the people who did this to me.

  ‘Kushi,’ my visitors mouth my name as if it is a dedication, a celestial gift.

  Not pity, no. Thank God. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. And I realise from their benevolent gazes, that despite the fact that my kidneys have failed me, despite the fact I am horizontal and incapacitated, they still admire me. In the villagers’ eyes, I can do no wrong.

  And just like that, I discover again the confidence I thought I had lost along with kidney function. If I can cajole the Chief Minister of Karnataka into doing my bidding, surely I can persuade Puja to donate a kidney to save her niece’s life?

  ‘I am going to get better,’ I assure them. ‘And then I am going to go after the people who did this to me.’ I mean it too.

  Their eyes widen in veneration. ‘Kushi, you are amazing. Anyone else in your position would be bemoaning their fate. Not you. You are an inspiration.’

  I smile, for the first time since I woke up in this strange, anxiety-ridden, malady- soaked bed.

  ‘The police are pretty sure that the people in that car were goondas hired by one of the parents of the boys who were expelled because of your letter. Now they only have to find who . . .’ they say.

  I can give my inflamed fury no outlet except to grip the sides of the bed as hard as I possibly can.

  Once again, the villagers come to my rescue.

  ‘Everyone in the village is asking after you. They send their love. If this hospital wasn’t so far away, they would all be here, keeping vigil.’

  ‘I know,’ I manage to whisper on the back of a wave of gratitude.

  ‘Everyone is praying for your well-being. The temple is flooded with people offering prayers for your recovery. And the Catholic Church in Dhoompur even dedicated a mass for you. It seems the church has never seen so many worshippers even at Christmas; the parish priest was amazed!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll let you rest. If there is anything you need, you let your Ma know, and we’ll get it to you, okay?’ They squeeze my hand and then they are gone.

  I am loved, I think. I am going to get better, I think. I need to, I have to.

  And for the first time I believe I will.

  SHARDA—FISSURE

  THE SQUELCHIEST OF SEATS

  Dearest Ma,

  Puja was sunshine and moonbeam, star sparkle and fairy dust. She was the glue that held our family together. She danced into our life, dispersing laughter, bestowing love and robbing it, nonchalantly, from me.

  And now she is gone.

  The weeks that follow are some of the worst of my life.

  Da won’t look at me. He won’t look at anyone. He is a mere shell, going through the motions, existing but not living. He does not talk, will not eat.

  When he returns from the market, he sits on the stoop and stares into the distance, as if the horizon contains all the answers to what he is looking for. He doesn’t swat at the circling flies, or the whining mosquitoes. He ignores the dog who comes up to lick his face. He doesn’t move until the dark drape of night takes the fields hostage.

  You cook Ma, frenziedly, all of Puja’s favourites, even though we can’t afford it, as if by the very act of cooking for her you will bring her back to us again. You cook, using up all the ‘good’ ingredients—the garam masala that Janakiamma gave you when her son visited from Bangalore, the raisins from Muthamma, a thank you for helping her when her child was gravely ill—that you have been saving for celebrations.

  You cook and none of us can bear to eat. For we take one bite and taste loss. Everything, even the kheer you have made with watered down milk and nutmeg and jaggery—just the way Puja likes it—is salty, flavoured with your sorrow, seasoned with your yearning for the daughter you have lost.

  Once, when we were younger, in the days when Puja used to follow me everywhere, she and I crouched under the stippled awning of coconut trees at the very edge of Suggappa’s field, to take shelter from the sudden shower that had ambushed us.

  ‘You are my favourite person in the world, Sharda. I love you to the sky and back,’ she said, as we breathed in the sweet scent of ripe paddy and moist earth, cut off from the world by the curtain of rain that enveloped the bower that shielded us, making the ears of paddy dance and swish. Every once in a while, the wind splattered warm, perfumed drops onto our wet bodies and the soggy mud shifted to accommodate us, making the squelchiest of seats.

  ‘I love you too, and am so lucky to have you for a sister,’ I replied.

  She’d run into the rain then, opened her arms wide and pirouetted, a magenta ballerina glimpsed through the screen of a glittery, auburn tinged monsoon.

  I looped my arm through hers and we ran home to you, Ma, our feet flying in unison, our laughter echoing above the patter and rumble of the rain.

  * * *

  I alternate between hating her and missing her, between wanting to hold her close breathing in her honey and milk scent and never wanting to see her traitorous face again.

  ‘Who gave you the right,’ I want to ask her, ‘to steal him from me?’

  ‘You have always had everything, looks, love, charm,’ I want to say. ‘Whereas I . . . I have had to work for every single thing. Why do you think I studied so hard? To get Ma and Da’s approval, the approval you had with just the flash of a smile, the gift of a hug. I don’t have the face, the figure or the allure you have. I do not attract love like you do. Ma and Da knew this, that is why they arranged for me to marry someone who might learn to love me. Gopi was mine. He was given to me by Ma and Da, he was their gift to me, their act of love for me. You had no right to take him from me.’

  ‘The landlord wants to see us,’ Da says, not looking at me.

  His face is drawn; he is a shadow of the man he once was. He is pining for the daughter he has disowned, and blames the one who caused the rift. I can tell he holds me responsible from the way his gaze does not rest on me for any amount of time, how it wavers and dips.

  ‘Does he know, Da?’ I ask, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can rein them in.

  Finally, for the first time since Puja left, he looks at me. I shrink from the cold emptiness in his eyes, all that is left, now that all feeling has been sucked out of him.

  I was wrong. He doesn’t blame me. He blames himself.

  ‘The whole village does,’ he says shortly, his words bitter as lime pips.

  ‘Do we have to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says shortly, the word ending on a sigh.

  Crushed dreams and scattered hopes, I think.

  Gopi’s face, once beloved, now maligned, looms before my eyes.

  * * *

  We walk up to the landlord’s house together, my defeated parents and I. Seagulls screech and the air tastes of rain.

  As we near the imposing
gates, you falter, Ma, almost tripping. Da pretends not to notice and keeps on walking.

  I put my arm around you and squeeze your hand. You squeeze back and straighten your shoulders, ridding them of their defeated slump.

  I look at the drive leading up to the mansion and realise that the landlord has made us come here to emphasise the difference between us, to show what a favour he was doing us by agreeing to have me for a daughter-in-law.

  The security guard looks us up and down, chewing his paan and spitting noisily, not giving any indication of opening the gates.

  He flicks a pebble at a stray dog sitting atop a mound of sand across the road opposite the gates. The dog yelps and limps away.

  ‘You’re the ones with the slut for a daughter, eh? You think sending her to the next village will stop her whoring?’ he says, insolently.

  My cheeks bloom as hot as the sun with embarrassment.

  Put him in his place, please, I will Da in my head.

  But Da’s body droops, as if he agrees with the security guard.

  I understand then why he comes home beaten every day, why he sits and stares at nothing at all every evening. Perhaps this is what is happening at the market as well, everyone making fun of his cherished daughter, mocking her.

  The taste of disgrace is as bitter as amaranth leaves in my mouth. Your grip on my palm tightens and I realise that you are still holding my hand.

  ‘Open the gates. The landlord is expecting us,’ I say to the security guard, keeping my voice level, refusing to acknowledge his derision. ‘And while we’re in there, I’ll be reporting your foul mouth to him.’

  He throws back his head and laughs, affording us a glimpse of rotting teeth and paan-ravaged gums. His laughter follows us all the way up the path to the house: the path I had once thought I would be walking up triumphantly as a married woman.

  A pack of four dogs are tethered to the wall by the kitchen and they strain at their leads as they build up to a crescendo of howls. A servant comes out, her hands glinting with fish scales, yelling at them to shut up, asking them what all the fuss is about. They smell the fish and turn towards her, but her gaze is riveted by the sight of us.

  ‘Oh,’ she says and I can tell by the way her eyes widen that she too has heard about what has happened with Puja.

  ‘What’s all the commotion? Sumathi, can’t you quieten the dogs?’ the landlord’s unmistakable voice booms from inside and Da flinches.

  The landlord emerges, hitching up his lungi, his face flushed and his expression irate as he recognises us.

  ‘I rue the day I agreed to join our two families in marriage,’ he yells, pinning us with his arrogant gaze, as if we are dirt under his feet, pebbles that have lodged in his shoe. ‘I wanted an educated girl for my son so I overlooked the fact that your family is not of the same ilk as mine. It has brought me nothing but disrepute.’

  I have had enough. Da is standing there taking it, but I will not. We may be poor, but I am damned if we are going to be treated as if we’re not fit to clean his shoes. How dare he make out we are at fault when his Casanova of a son is to blame?

  I pull myself up to my full height, which is not much to speak of and looking right at him, I say, ‘Yes, we’re not of the same ilk and thank God for that. At least we have the good manners to invite the people who come to our doorstep inside the house, instead of insulting them in the courtyard, especially when you’re the one who asked us to come here.’

  ‘Sh-Sh-Sharda,’ Da stammers.

  What’s happened to you, Da? It is as if everything you are drained out of you when you hit Puja and sent her away.

  The servants collect outside the kitchen, one by one, to watch the show. The dogs are still going strong. The security guard walks up the drive hitching his lungi.

  The landlord is red as a chilli left too long to dry in the sun. He opens his mouth but before he can find his voice and break off his son’s betrothal to me, making a big production of it, which is why he has ordered us here today of course, I say, ‘And I do not want to marry your womanizer of a son, thank you very much. He’s the one who caused all of this and everyone knows it, however much you stand there abusing us, and trying to shift the blame.’

  ‘It is your whore of a sister who led my son astray with her wiles. After all he’s only a man. Everyone knows your sister’s reputation precedes her by a mile.’ The landlord sputters sounding much like his son’s motorbike.

  I smile up at him, ‘So does yours, sir, for meanness and cruelty. So does yours.’

  And with that, I turn on my heel and walk away, to the servants’ admiring titters, to the security guard’s open mouthed amazement, and to the landlord’s speechless shock.

  You and Da follow, Ma.

  Da is pale as the milky sap bleeding from a bruised bush; he looks fit to faint.

  But what allows me to keep putting one foot in front of the other despite the fact that my whole body is trembling with rage, is the almost-smile playing on your face, Ma, a face that has been marinated in tears and poached in grief since Puja left.

  RAJ

  THE HUSKY PINK OF ROSE BLOSSOM

  ‘Your father didn’t!’ Raj says.

  ‘I’m afraid he did.’ His mother’s eyes radiate ache and melancholy. Her voice bleeds from old wounds oozing fresh hurt as the scab of time is picked off. ‘He was such a gentle man; it came as such a shock . . .’

  ‘I bet.’ Raj shakes his head, and his hands bunch into fists. He is surprised at how angry he feels on behalf of his mother.

  ‘And that is why, when I slapped you . . . I am no better than him. I understand now how he could have done it, in the heat of the moment, with fury blinding him to love and what was right.’ Her voice breaks.

  ‘But that was different, Mum. One slap is different from lashing the skin off your daughter’s back! He hit you and then, did he really kick you out?’

  His mum nods, unable to speak.

  ‘Would you like the chicken or the vegetarian meal?’ the air hostess asks.

  They both decline the meal although Raj asks for another Coca Cola.

  The little airplane on the tiny screen in front of him is more than half way between England and India. Raj is gradually getting a picture of this land he has never visited, despite the fact of his father inviting him over so many times, even going so far as to send Raj the tickets for a round trip which Raj had returned unused.

  Raj had refused because he’d always felt that India robbed him of his father.

  He did not begrudge his dad for leaving his mother. He understood why he had done so. He even did not begrudge his dad the family he subsequently had. But he begrudged his father for going to India. That had felt final, like his dad was leaving him. He couldn’t forgive his father that.

  Before his father left for India, Raj had always nurtured the secret hope that one day he could leave his unfeeling mum and go stay with his dad. But when his dad emigrated, that option was taken away from him. He used to see his father at least once a month when his dad was still in the country. After that, Raj didn’t see him at all, except for the one time his father made the trip to the UK to see his son, after Raj had spurned all his father’s summonses and pleas.

  ‘I can’t afford to keep coming here to see you, Raj,’ his father had sighed. ‘I run my own business as you know and I . . . ’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Raj had said. ‘And you haven’t kept coming. You’ve only come the once.’

  ‘Why don’t you visit me over there? You’ll love it, I promise. It’ll make a nice change from your usual.’ His father had implored.

  But Raj had remained implacable, truculent. His father had given up, and had gone back to India defeated, and did not invite him there again.

  He phoned Raj once every week, stilted conversations that said nothing at all, that resounded with all the things unsaid, with old upsets and new reproaches.

  You left, and abandoned me to my robot mother. You had the choice to leave. I didn’t. Why d
idn’t you take me with you?

  Perhaps, Raj muses, his mother is not the cold automaton he’s always assumed her to be. He is beginning to suspect that she’s full of feelings that she has damped down, love that she has parcelled away, and affection that she shies away from, as a result of what happened to her, the full extent of which he is yet to find out.

  And India—through his mother’s story, he is gradually getting a picture of a land of contradictions, of people who love completely and judge harshly, of tempers as hot and frayed as the weather, of prejudices lingering in a closed society, and affection too, oceans of it.

  He can see the appeal it might have, this humid, sweltering land. He thinks he understands now its hold on his father; why he went back. From what Raj has learned in the course of listening to his mother’s tale, everything about this land is fierce: its weather, its people.

  He loathes what it has done to his mother, and hates the fact that he has been denied the loving woman she could have been if events had not conspired against her. But, despite that, he is beginning to like the image of the country he is glimpsing through his mother’s eyes. He thinks, in time, he might grow to love it. His feelings for this land he is linked to but hasn’t yet seen seem to be flowering, while the resentment and anger he’s harboured toward his mother is dispelling.

  ‘My da loved me the best,’ his mum whispers, bringing him back into the present. ‘And I let him down.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault! You loved Gopi. Your father did not even give you the chance to explain.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. And that hurt most of all. That is why. . .’ Pain tints her voice the husky pink of rose blossom, ‘I did what I did afterwards . . . ’