The Green Room & Devi Collection

by Nag Mani

  Laila marched around the hall, giving orders. “Oh Madam. These girls will take care of it. Now you don’t want to work overload and fall sick. I tell you these bus journeys. You are tired for days and days and that’s why I avoid them. I have heard train journeys are no better. You want tea, Madam? You drink tea?” And without waiting for a reply, “You girl,” she ordered Zeba, “go to the kitchen at make our Madam a cup of tea.”

  “No! There is no need,” Aditi protested. “Why don’t you…”

  “Ah Madam,” Laila held her arm and led her into the bedroom. “Sit Madam, and let the girls do the work.”

  “But there is no milk here…”

  “ZOYA,” Laila shouted and the young girl with lovely cheekbones appeared instantly, “run to your house and fetch a bowl of milk.” It was only when Zoya had gone that she asked, “You do have tea, Madam?”

  “It must be in one of those boxes.”

  Zeba didn’t wait for an order to open them and go through the contents.

  “But the utensils are all dirty. How will she…” And Aditi knew she would make a terrible negotiator, for one nod from Laila and Zeba went to the kitchen, carried all the utensils out to the hand-pump and began scrubbing them clean.

  Tea was served about twenty minutes later, and by that time Aditi was beaming with gratitude. The initial shock of four persons almost barging into her house had begun to wean and she went about the house helping the girls place the items from the boxes. When Laila made a remark that there were too many dirty clothes in the house, not to mention the dirty bed-sheet that needed rigorous cleaning, Aditi knew she couldn’t let them help her anymore. They had done enough for one day. So she told them that she had no detergent.

  “Go run now, Zoya,” Laila ordered her youngest daughter, “run to your uncle and tell him to bring some detergent from the market. And don’t you forget to tell him it’s for Madam,” she yelled after her. “Lest he brings the cheap brand we use!”

  By mid-afternoon, the house was all arranged and cleaned and the women watched the girls do the laundry from the veranda in the backyard. Aditi had never felt so happy before, to be treated with so much care and respect. She was telling Laila about her house back in Purnia when Laila noticed the rose stems in the drain. “What are those Madam?”

  “Those? Those are rose plants I brought from Purnia. I never got time to plant them…”

  “Red roses?” Laila asked, cutting her out rudely.

  “Yes. Red roses. I will send you a few plants…”

  “Ah! Madam! Madam! You see, we don’t plant roses out here.” Before Aditi could understand what she was talking about, Laila had already crossed the backyard and snapped a stem into two. The girls stopped their scrubbing and looked up.

  “Stop!” Aditi shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry, Madam,” Laila smiled at her, still breaking the remaining stems. “Why do you want to keep these wild plants in your home? Not good, I tell you.” Aditi watched in shock as Laila broke every stem, one by one, smiling at her all along, as if she was just plucking weed out of her yard. Aditi could do nothing but watch, muted by the obligation for her help. She eyed the broken stems on the ground, mud still clinging to their bottom ends, and pondered if they would still survive if she planted them back the moment Laila left. The village woman seemed to have read her mind, for she collected the broken stems and threw them over the boundary wall.

  “There you go, Madam,” Laila said calmly to a bewildered Aditi, “what’s in these red roses? Why don’t you plant some chameli in your yard? I will send you some plants. Very good fragrance, I tell you. Sweet fragrance. And there is this Raat-Ki-Rani. There was one in your house some time ago and we could smell it right in our own rooms! There is nothing better than Raat-Ki-Rani! But they had to cut it because it attracted snakes and what all. Now you don’t want snakes sunbathing in your campus. One bite and you are dead! But Madam, let me tell you, if a snake bites you here, I know an old remedy – bite it back! I have seen it happen! It transfers the venom back and the snake dies instead. And look at this yard, now that I have come to it. All mud and dust and all of it will blow into your house. Oh, Zeba! Run to your aunty and ask her for a good lot of dung!”

  Aditi watched quietly as Zeba began to plaster the backyard with a freshly prepared amalgam of cow-dung and mud, reinforced with husk. She tried to let go of the rose incident, assuming it to be something related to the beliefs of these uneducated village people. After all, Laila had helped her only so much. What would have taken at least a week to do by herself was done in a couple of hours. She tried to smile to show that she hadn’t taken offence with Laila, and she also continued to smile when Zeba finished with the plaster and washed her hands and feet. The backyard looked all neat and clean and wet, except the corner in which stood the locked room. Zeba had avoided going anywhere close to the room. Laila noticed it but did not say a word. Aditi noticed it too, but kept smiling.

  Aditi cooked herself a modest lunch of chapattis and kheer after her neighbours had left, and was lying sweating on the bed, trying to catch a nap, when she heard a TRING-TRING outside. She chose to ignore it the first time. Then she heard it again, TRING-TRING, followed by a knock. She opened the door to find a big, swarthy man standing on her veranda. He had thick, curly hair and moustache and a round face that was beaming at her with the greatest excitement in the world.

  “Namaste Madam!” He folded his hands, greeted her and bit his lips.

  “Namaste…” Aditi replied uncertainly.

  “Myself Arvind,” he said in a booming voice. “I work with Sir in the SBI bank of India.”

  “Sir is not here. He will be in the bank right now.” Aditi cut him. Manoj had warned her about Arvind and she had no intention of getting into a conversation with him when she was all alone in the house.

  Arvind let out a laugh, which got caught in his throat. “I know Madam. Hectic day it is, that’s why he couldn’t come home for lunch…”

  Someone said something and the two of them turned to look towards Laila’s house. A man was sitting on a cot, talking to another short, thin man, all dressed in white, making his way towards them. Arvind waived at the approaching man, “Hello Razzak!”

  It was only when Arvind moved that Aditi saw two roosters, all colourful feathers and shiny tails, tied upside down from the handle of a cycle. They hung quiet and still, but their eyes were wide and alert. The view was filled with the thin frame of Razzak and his fair, wrinkled skin. He too folded his hands and greeted her. “Welcome to our village, Madam,” he said, his voice weak and airy like his body. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Sir talks a lot about you too.”

  Razzak blushed. He, like his wife, was shorter than Aditi, his hair dense and black. Other than a thin, neatly trimmed moustache, his face was clean shaven. “He has been caught up with some work. He is a hardworking man. See, he is working even during the lunch break. But I was like, no, I have to meet Madam! I hope my wife helped you settle this place. She lives right there,” like Laila, he too pointed at his weirdly constructed house, “you can call her whenever you need any help. Just call for Zeenat.”

  “Yes, Laila told me…”

  “Laila? They call her Zeenat here. In villages we…”

  “…call a woman by her eldest child’s name, I know. But I will call her Laila, now that I know her real name. She has been of great help, and thanks to her and your beautiful daughters, I can now invite you in for a cup of tea!”

  “Oh no Madam!” Arvind said in his booming voice, “Take no trouble! I came here to give you gift.”

  “Gift?”

  Arvind untied the roosters and carried them back, still hanging upside down, frantically flapping their wings. “Here Madam. Welcome to our village,” he repeated Razzak’s words.

  Aditi eyed at the chicken, all restless and flapping their wings. She had seen how they were cut and skinned. It was messy and required quite some effort. Those li
ttle birds put up a hell lot of struggle, because all weaklings can do is struggle. But even if she did manage to do it, she didn’t have the strength for the laborious preparation, which included running to the market to buy the required ingredients. Razzak seemed to have sensed her dilemma. “What Arvind? You did not cut them?”

  “They’re fresh, Madam. Healthy, not like cities where they sell dead meat.”

  “Fresh? Could they be any fresher? They are so fresh that they are bringing the whole place down with their wings! You expect Madam to kill them? Don’t you know in cities they are all cut in pieces when you buy them?”

  “No. I mean…” Arvind blurted out, then bit his lips, clearly embarrassed. “No, Madam, you don’t need cut yourself. You see Ali there?” He shouted at the man sitting on the charpoy – at which Razzak added, “My younger brother!” – and raised the chicken in his hand, “For Madam.” Ali rose immediately, as if a soldier called for duty. “Cut neat and clean when Madam tells you! No feather. No blood. Small pieces, Madam? You heard. Small pieces. Okay?” There was a distinct nod after which Arvind turned back to her and smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. He handed over the roosters. The men folded their hands and left. Aditi watched them leave, the chicken wriggling in her hands, still upside down, before closing the door. Ali returned to his charpoy

  The usual jitters of human life faded with daylight. Night fell. Three lanterns flickered in the house – one in the hall, one by the toilet and the brightest one in the bedroom. Aditi had fed the roosters earlier than evening – she felt pity for them, that they might be hungry after their not-so-comfortable journey – but they left the grains untouched and huddled together in each other’s warmth, their eyes blinking stupidly. A diesel generator puffed somewhere far away. Manoj was still in the bank. She waited for the sounds to stop, for the bank to close…

  PHUT… PHUT…PHUT…

  And she dozed off.

  Someone knocked at the door. She opened her eyes with a gasp. “Who’s there?”

  Someone cleared his throat. Manoj had returned. He never answered to her calls, only cleared his throat in acknowledgement. She laid out dinner for him, watched him eat, asked continually if he wanted anything, and finally washed all the utensils for next day’s cycle. By the time she retired to bed, he was already snoring. She watched him for a while, wondering what had he brought her here for. If cooking and cleaning was all that bothered him, he could have hired someone. The bank actually paid him to hire someone. And if he needed her in bed, not that either of them was interested, well again, he could have hired someone. She didn’t mind. She let her thoughts drift away. Six years into the marriage, it wasn’t that she had got used to him, it was just that she had stopped caring.

  She was no longer sleepy. She took out a notebook and flipped its pages. The content made her smile. Hand-written notes. Years of study… dedication. But what use was that. She remembered her school days. Her teachers, how they always told her she would grow up to become a woman of substance, of power. She remembered her exam times. How she studied by candle light at night and helped her brother and sisters study during the day. Her father never wanted her to study. What was the use, he always said. Nevertheless, he sent her to school only because he also wanted to appear as a ‘modern man’. The world had moved forward, he would say. He didn’t differentiate between his son and daughters, he would say. Then he married her off to a man without even asking her once. But that didn’t reflect poor upon his image.

  And here she was, after all her struggles and achievements, serving the whims and fancies of a man in this remote village.

  A sudden crow of the roosters tore across the dead night. Aditi lifted her head. Then there was frantic flapping of wings, then scuffling and scampering. She would have returned to her notebook had she not heard those footsteps. Someone was on the roof. She wasn’t sure that she actually heard it, more of thought-she-heard-it, but the sudden restlessness in the chickens could be a sign of an intruder. She prodded her husband and picked up an iron rod resting in a corner. The hall was dimply lit. She turned the knob of the lantern. The flame rose higher. She tip-toed to the backdoor and opened it, ever so slightly, and peeped.

  Silver moonlight illuminated the courtyard. The chickens were scampering in the shadow of the guava tree – flapping their wings, running in random directions, only to be rudely pulled back by the strings tied to their legs. She looked around. The moss-covered walls rose on three sides in front of her, carving out the little space she was in from the never-ending expanse of glittering stars. The silence of the night was absolute, its freshness a relief from the suffocation inside. There was no sign of anyone else. She opened the door completely and stepped onto the veranda, casting a shadow in front of her. She studied the area for some time. Judging by the frantic behaviour of the chickens, there could be a cat hiding somewhere. She tightened her grip on the rod and took one round of the courtyard, just to be doubly sure that her chickens were safe. And when she returned to the veranda, her eyes fell on her shadow.

  It hadn’t moved!

  She stared at it. The oval shape of her head, her shoulders, wondering about the abnormality of the angle they were cast at.

  She stared at it a bit too long – for it began to recede, flowing back into the straight shadow of the roof edge.

  Panic struck, she turned around to look for the intruder. But her eyes fell on something midway.

  It was the outhouse. Its window was open.

  They lingered there for a fraction of a second, and when she did look up, she saw the top of someone’s head recede.

  “Who’s there?” she shouted. Her voice came out feeble and scared. She raised the rod and stepped back. “Who’s there?” she cried again, this time determined to sound bold. All she saw were the billions of stars stare back at her. She ran through the hall, lifting the hem of her night-dress with one hand. She could not let that person get away. He could be a thief, a robber, or even a goddamn rapist. Out of years of experience, she knew she could not rely on her husband for her safety.

  She barged open the door. A dog, the same cream coloured dog, that had been sleeping on the veranda, leapt on his fours, his tail between his legs. Aditi ran out into the open and looked up, backing away towards the field to get a wider view. No one. She checked the sides of the house. The dark line of the mango trees stood silently about fifty metres away. The area in between was all grass and small bushes. Even if the intruder had jumped down, he could not have run fast enough to hide in the trees. Nor were there any movements or signs of intrusion in the cornfield. And damn it, the dog would have definitely barked had someone jumped down the roof.

  He had just disappeared!

  Panting and shaken, she returned to the veranda. The dog sniffed at her, keeping his distance. And when she locked the door, he returned to his spot beside the front wheels of the motorcycle. Her husband was waiting in the hall. He had witnessed the whole incident but had not dared to come out. “What happened?” he asked, quite un-boldly.

  Aditi knew it was time for him to become the man. Now that the intruder had fled, he would go out to investigate. “Someone was trying to get inside from the roof,” she said as she sat on the bed. She wanted to tell him that he was still hiding somewhere, just to see if he would still go out. But she was too tired for these petty games. She closed he eyes and concentrated on her breathing.

  Inhale. Exhale. 109.

  Inhale. Exhale. 108.

  Inhale. Exhale. 107.

  On 60 she heard a match-stick being struck and a tiny fire roared to life.

  Inhale. Exhale. 59.

  Inhale. Exhale. 58.

  Inhale. Exhale. 57.

  Inhale… Along with it came the fragrance of sandal incense-sticks. She opened her eyes. Her husband sat hunched on the floor. He had lit up an oil-lamp in front of the gods and goddesses they worshipped, his lips silently moving in a prayer.

  Aditi closed her eyes again. She decided to give that dog a chapatti the f
irst thing the next morning, make him stay on the veranda from then onwards.

  Inhale. Exhale… Where was she?

  Oh, damn it!

  Inhale. Exhale. 109.

  Inhale. Exhale. 108.

  Inhale. Exhale. 107.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MAN IN THE DARK

  One humid night in Ufrail, Aditi was lying on her bed by the window, her back wet with sweat. She could hear the dog scratching furiously on the veranda. Manoj was talking with Arvind outside. All bank jargons.

  The first ten days in the village were far less distressing than she had anticipated. She had initially asked Laila to arrange for a milkman, but it turned out that almost every household in the village had a cow or a buffalo or a goat. The very hut across the road had an underfed red cow and a furry calf. The lady of the house, a tanned woman with big eyes and bigger teeth, all yellow and stained, caught up with her once. “Namaste Memsahib!” Her little son, naked, protruding belly and dirty, watched from the door, thick, greenish slime flowing out of his nose and over his lips. “You want milk. My Gomti gives milk. How much milk you want?” Aditi told the woman that she would consult with her husband. “Tell me when I send you milk,” said the woman. “I Ranbir. My husband, Hari Mahto. Fisherman.”

  Aditi later found out from Manoj that she had no choice but to accept the offer. Since Ranbir was their neighbour, it would only offend her, and the community, if they approached someone else for milk. A different Ranbir, a boy of around fifteen, began to deliver milk in a can from then onwards.

  Aditi often went to the bank in the afternoons, just to pass her time and to get to know her new surroundings. She had to walk all the way, following the wide curve around the forest. Inside the bank’s building there was a small hall where all the transactions took place. Mr Sharma, the clerk who was just a year away from retirement, took all his time reading forms and putting his signature. He was thin and short and even though the shirts he wore were old and worn out, they were crisp and well ironed. A young cashier sat behind a dirty counter. There was no space for a queue, so he would collect all the passbooks and forms and call out names one by one. Villagers of all colour, size and age sat on wooden benches along the length of the hall and waited for their turn. A small impatient crowd hung perpetually about the counter, struggling to catch a glimpse of their form in the pile and relaying the names the cashier called out to others. Another young man roamed lazily around the bank passing files and registers from one desk to another, as well as stained glasses of tea and water. He was the sweeper, but spent most of his time searching for and taking bribes from those who needed some out-of-routine work done, like requesting for a new passbook or a demand draft.