The Green Room & Devi Collection

by Nag Mani

  But Laila’s comments about the educated was still resonating in her ears. Aditi wanted to prove herself the difference between the educated, who have the ability to question, and the non-educated, who excel in acceptation.

  Treading on dry leaves and branches, she made her way through the gnarled trunks of the mango trees, never losing sight of the rooftops on her right. The trees ran into oblivion on her left. The air was hot and humid. She began to sweat. Aditi noticed patches of a broad mud-path, with embedded pieces of bricks here and there, peeping through the layers of dried and rotting leaves. She should have turned back when the first branch snapped and fell somewhere on her left. But the sunlight seeping through the leaves above and the general din and chatter of human lives coming from the village put her at ease. After all, she wasn’t walking through an actual forest – it was just a stretch of mango trees planted at ample distances. In fact, it was even difficult to get lost. She just had to continue walking straight, southward, and emerge near the market; and there was no fence or anything that could hinder her path.

  Carrying a jute bag with a tiffin box and rolled chapattis wrapped in aluminium foil, she hummed a tune to herself. The branched off in every direction, forming grids, and continued straight towards the market. She suddenly realized what she was humming and stopped immediately, for it was the same tune she had heard on sleepless nights in her bedroom. And just as she was pondering over it, she was taken back to the time she had first heard it.

  It was in Naugachia. One evening, she was lying on her bed, staring at the still fan above when she heard a group of women sing. It was a common practice for old women to sit together and tell tales of their lives and sings songs that only existed in memories. But this one was different. Its tune was all that was needed to melt her heart. From the patches of the verses she could hear in her room, she interpreted that the song was about a mother missing her daughter. How she raised her. How she loved her, knowing all along that one day she would have to leave, and like her mother, serve the ego and pride of her husband. And eventually, her daughter, a flower, was plucked off and married to the prince of a distant land. He came with a thousand horses riding behind him and took her away. The mother now roams the empty corridors of her house and asks the eastern winds of the news of her daughter and prays to the stars for her well-being.

  Tears had begun to roll from the sides of her eyes as Aditi was taken back to her childhood. Her playing in the rain with her sisters, the innocent time when an elder sister was dearer than vanity. Her going to the market, holding the little finger of her mother. Her wriggling in between the warm bodies of her parents on cold winter nights. Her stealing carrots from a farm that was on the other side of a canal and the black, ugly face of the farmer in red shirt chasing her with a sickle in his hand. Her going to school… and it all ended with the memory of This-Boy – his girl-like face, his wavy hair, his captivating smile.

  She rose from her bed to kill the restlessness that had begun to creep into her soul and went outside. She was in the front porch when the song ended. She still remembered the last verse – in spite of the hardships the mother faced to raise her daughter and their ill-written fate, she prays to the gods that she is blessed with a daughter again. And Aditi also remembered what she saw. First, she had thought that something terrible had happened in her neighbourhood. A ringing silence hung in the air. Women and girls stood like statues at their doors, on the streets, on the roofs, all looking in the direction from where the song had been emanating, their glittering eyes focused way beyond the horizon, their thoughts way back in time. Nothing happened for a few moments. Everything was still and quiet. Even the air was stiff. The white cow next door wasn’t blinking. Then one woman on the street wiped her eyes. Then someone coughed. And slowly, everyone melted back into their houses. But the song lingered.

  The houses had vanished behind the foliage when Aditi looked up. The path had disappeared under leaves and undergrowth. But she did not need it for guidance. From the view she had from Laila’s rooftop, she knew she had to keep walking straight. But all she saw ahead were more trees, their foliage denser and darker. She began to wonder if the path she had been following gently curved inwards and that she had actually failed to notice it. Yet her instincts told her that she had been going southward all along. She looked back, but couldn’t see the houses she had seen earlier. Only a bright edge of the plantation. It could only mean that she was quite deep into the orchard and market couldn’t have been far. She had taken only a few steps ahead when she saw the path again… only this time it was going away to her left. Another branch ran ahead, in the direction she thought the market was in, but it was narrower and barely visible through the leaves. The path going left was broader and cleaner, a sure sign that it was trodden more often. Also, the foliage above was less dense. Rays of sunshine fell on patches of grass struggling to reach out. Aditi would have been convinced to turn left had it not been for the view she had from the roof. But the signs… it was as if the forest was telling her to take the left path.

  A branch above began to sway, even though there was no breeze. Aditi clutched her jute bag and peered intently. Then a wind suddenly rose from the path ahead, carrying with it dead leaves, and ended at her feet. Panic overtook her thoughts. She knew she was lost. She could run and run forever and never see the sun again. She thought of the dacoits that lived in the trees. Their ghosts that were probably looking down at her. She wanted to run back. Drop the jute bag and run for her life…

  Footsteps.

  She heard crunching of leaves. Snapping of twigs. It came from the road ahead.

  Someone was approaching.

  She made a dash for the nearest tree and hid behind the trunk.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Aditi held her breath.

  It started again, slowly this time, more cautiously. Then came a booming voice, “Madam!”

  Aditi flinched and nearly lost her balance. She stepped out to see Arvind glaring at her, bewildered. “Madam! What are you doing here?”

  She sighed with relief. Calmed herself. Settled her sari. “I was going to the bank…”

  “Here? Through this forest?”

  “Yes. That main road is so long. I was trying to cut some distance.”

  “Oh Madam! You gave me heart attack!” he clutched his chest. “Come. I will take you to bank,” he bit his lips and turned around. “I was like, what hell is hiding behind tree! I thought…” Arvind continued, chuckling to himself. “You mustn’t come through here Madam. Not safe.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Aditi asked mockingly, giving one last glance at the left road as she passed. It had suddenly become barely visible, as if the leaves had rearranged themselves to cover the path.

  “Oh! Me? You know my house? Right on other side of village. I come through here if I don’t have my cycle. I know my way around here, Madam. And I know ways of this forest.”

  Aditi remained silent. The last sentence struck her sharp. Ways of this forest… Laila’s words echoed in her mind, that Arvind’s community was known for dark arts. With him wandering around the forest, it was no wonder the village thought so.

  “Tell one of Razzak’s brothers if you want to come here Madam. That tiny brat, Salman. Does nothing but sits on cot all day. Or tell children to run along and fetch you tempo.” The foliage above began to thin and almost at once they emerged out of bushes on the periphery of the forest and behind a line of shops and houses. People watched them curiously as they walked up a narrow path and came out in the market.

  The crowd at the bank’s gates parted to give her way. Manoj was seated on his straight-back wooden chair. His face lit up when she entered the room. He rose from his seat and so did the customers seated in front of him. “Arvind,” Mr Sharma, the clerk who was months away from retirement, took out some cash, “why don’t you get some jalebi for Madam. And samosa. And what would you like, Madam? Tea? Lassi?”

  “There is no need for all this, Mr
Sharma.” Aditi declined politely. “I have…”

  “Run to Munna and tell him to make the best lassi. Tell him it’s for Madam!”

  The three of them sat in the office and talked while the customers peeped in through the door. Arvind returned twenty minutes later and the manager’s office was closed for ‘lunch-break’. Aditi took out the contents of her jute bag and served her cake to the bank’s staffs. Then, in the closed room, with impatient customers waiting outside, she had lunch with her husband.

  Aditi sat in one corner and watched her husband work till evening. The sun had already set when Mr Sharma came in. “It’s getting late, Sir. Why don’t you call it a day and take Madam home?”

  Manoj was in a dilemma. On one hand, he had a wife waiting to be taken home, while on the other, numerous files of the recently launched government scheme awaited his approval and time was running short. Arvind came to his aid when he arranged for a ‘personal’ auto-rickshaw from a milkman living nearby. Manoj dropped her on the main road near their house. The auto-rickshaw took a U-turn and drove away.

  Aditi needed to use the toilet. She walked briskly to her house. On the way she saw Zeenat sitting on a cot in her front yard. Zeenat waved at her and Aditi smiled back. Sitting with the girl was an old woman who lived with their family – probably her grandmother – and another elderly woman with her back towards Aditi.

  It was only when Aditi saw the luggage on her front veranda that she slowed down. An old briefcase with an army-print cloth cover and two medium size air-bags. She turned around to see the elderly woman walking towards, beaming from ear to ear.

  “My son! My son!” The woman grabbed Aditi’s forearms and studied her from head to toe. “How beautiful you are! Manoj is so fortunate to have you as his wife!”

  Aditi was speechless. She could feel eyes peeping from the windows of Laila’s house.

  “Where is Manoj? He didn’t come home?”

  “No. He…”

  “Oh! Caught up with work, isn’t he? Always a busy man. Never had time for his wife.”

  “But I… you…”

  “Of course you don’t recognise me! You can call me your mother, my son!” She bared her big, stained teeth. “But then, I am your mother, aren’t I?”

  Aditi tried to gather her memories. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t place this woman. Maybe a friend of her mother? Relative? “Are you from Bhagalpur?” she shot a blind arrow.

  “Oh no, my son! Kishanganj. I am from Kishanganj. Lakshmi was my daughter.”

  “Lakshmi?”

  The woman eyed her for some time, eyebrows raised, as some realisation struck her. When she spoke, she did ever so slowly, “Your husband’s first wife…”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LEGEND OF THE DEVI

  Aditi had cried when the first family came to see her for marriage in 1992. She had been twenty then, and in second year of college. It had happened all of a sudden. She came back from college to find her mother waiting at the door. She was ushered into the house through the back door and told to get dressed. Before she knew what was happening, she was serving snacks and tea to three women and two aged men before her parents.

  “Isn’t she a bit black?” was the comment one of the women made. Back in college, Aditi never bothered about her appearance. Any dress would do as long as it was clean. She usually kept her hair oiled and neatly tied back. She didn’t mind being dark of skin, but it pinched her when someone pointed it out and judged her.

  She served the guests and returned to her room. Her sisters were hopping with excitement, asking her all sorts of questions about her little encounter with the guests. The son of the visiting family was a well to do doctor. Owned a house in Lucknow. Big house, and servants. She was summoned again. An elderly woman with leathery skin, who, Aditi now knew, was the doctor’s sister’s mother-in-law and a school teacher in a village, began to ask her questions.

  What was her name?

  Her father’s name?

  Her educational qualification. (Her marks-sheets had to be produced because the women refused to believe her boards’ marks which, Aditi sensed, were more than that of the doctor himself.)

  Her hobbies.

  Her height.

  How much would she have to pay if she bought two and a half dozen eggs if the cost of one egg was Rs 2.5? When Aditi promptly replied Rs 75, the woman looked at the men for answer. The men whispered among themselves and nodded in agreement.

  If she bought 2 kg onions at Rs 8 per kg, 1 kg potato at Rs 4 per kg and 1 kg cabbage at Rs 10 per kg and handed the vendor a hundred rupee note, how much will he return? Rs 70. This time the men agreed without whispering.

  Finally, she was asked to write an application to the ward commissioner requesting him install a hand-pump in the locality. It was while she was writing this application that everything turned upside down. Her mother thought it was time for another round of tea, and since Aditi was busy, she asked her younger sister, Aakriti, to serve the guests. The women looked up in awe when Aakriti entered the room. They smiled unconsciously as she served them. They looked at each other, nodding, beaming, eyes glittering. They didn’t bother to read Aditi’s application.

  Her parents quarrelled over the marriage proposal that night. It wasn’t for Aditi, it was for her sister. The women had made up their minds the moment Aakriti had entered with cups of tea balanced on a tray. No questions asked. No applications written. It did not matter how much money a vegetable vendor returned if a woman was pretty.

  Her father was worried about the society. Her mother didn’t want to miss the golden opportunity. So what if Aditi missed it, it was still open for her sister. The marriage took place four months later. Her father convinced himself and his beloved society that he did it for Aditi, that it was she who wanted to continue her studies and he was only supporting her. Of course, Aditi didn’t want to be married off so soon, but she didn’t like being put up for sale either, and then be rejected for a better deal.

  In the early 1993, about seven months after the marriage, another proposal came from Indore. This time the suitor was a handsome police officer. Aditi was made to hurriedly pack her clothes and leave with her father for a mutual relative’s house in Patna. They arrived late in the evening. Aditi was resting in her room after dinner when her father was requested to come down to the guest-room. When he returned, the excitement had vanished from his face. The police officer was indeed a good-looking specimen. But it was Smriti, the third sister, his family was interested in. Apparently, they had seen her during Aakriti’s marriage and had decided on the spot that she would be the bride of their trophy son. But assuming her father would simply decline their offer as he had his eldest daughter to take care of, they planned to call him to Patna and first show him what a complete package their son was and then place the offer.

  The plan worked.

  A heated debate followed back at home, at the end of which it was decided that Aditi should continue her studies she was so interested in, and Smriti be married instead, lest the handsome man changed his mind and found someone else for himself. Aakriti attended the wedding with her husband, all dressed in heavy gold and a pregnant belly. Aditi attended to the guests who asked her innumerable questions and eyed her with suspicion.

  Proposals came crashing in after the wedding, but all of them for her youngest sister, Urvashi, the prettiest of them all, now that the world knew that Shyamlal Prasad was open to marrying his younger daughter first. But this time, he had had enough, for he heard whispers every time he stepped out of his house. Aditi felt surveying eyes look her up and down every day in college, girls and teachers alike.

  Years ago, in 1985, when Aditi was still in seventh standard and her younger sisters still adored her, somewhere in the city of Khagaria, Dharmendar, an auto-rickshaw driver happened to be invited to Bhagalpur for a wedding ceremony of someone close. It was there that he learnt that one of his childhood friends was settled in Naugachia. He took a steamer across the Ganga
and set off to find his friend. He didn’t have to search for long, for everyone knew the raj-mistry, or the head mason who had built half the houses in the locality. The two friends sat together and talked through the night. And while the moon was high and bright, Sukhna Prasad, the raj-mistry, told him tales of his woes and plights. How he was blessed with two sons, but alas, none of them lived up to his expectation. The younger son, Ajay, was nothing more than a spoilt brat. He had made friends with boys who did no work and borrowed and stole for living; and the elder one, Manoj, was too obsessed with studies. Although Manoj had passed class XIIth, he had no intention of applying for a job. He wanted to study further. And what good would that be? Sukhna Prasad had no money, he said, or intention, he didn’t say, to afford his son’s college. Manoj wanted to graduate and then work in one of those high offices. He used to lock himself in a room with candles and books come evening – when his friends called him out to play and his mother sent him for errands. His younger brother often tore off his books, and Manoj would spend hours collecting the pieces and gluing them back.

  The following morning Dharmendar saw the boy for himself. Manoj was young, innocent and bright and had passed the XIIth exams with First Class. Dharmendar offered to pay for his education, should he agree to marry his daughter, Lakshmi, once he secured a respectable job. Sukhna Prasad didn’t object. It was nothing but free money for something that was inevitable. Dowry was agreed upon and Dharmendar left beaming from ear to ear.

  Lakshmi’s name was withdrawn from her school. She stayed back at home and helped her mother with all the chores. She lost touch with her school-friends and everything a teenager holds dear. She spent her days learning whatever her mother deemed would please her husband-to-be.

  Three years passed. In March, 1989, a letter arrived stating that Manoj had been offered the post of probationary officer in State Bank of India.