The Green Room & Devi Collection

by Nag Mani

  Sukhna Prasad threw tantrums initially. The dowry that had been agreed upon was for a jobless man. Now that his son was an officer, the rate ought to be more, something that suited his status. Dharmendar argued that not only had he found the diamond that would have been lost in filth otherwise, but also shaped and polished it. Sukhna Prasad said that the diamond was his, no matter what Dharmendar did. He was not going to give away his jewel for the price of a lump of stone.

  Elders intervened. Eventually, it was decided that promise must be kept. And Manoj was married to Lakshmi in 1990.

  She had waited for the moment for over three years, to finally meet her husband, to see the look on his face when he met the woman who had to sacrifice so much for his success. When he put a garland around her neck, all she saw was disappointment.

  Lakshmi fell off a staircase and died that winter.

  When her mother, Bhagvati Devi, met Aditi in Ufrail, Aditi almost refused to believe that she was the second wife. But then, she remembered the threats Ajay used to give, that she would meet the same consequences as that of the first one. She didn’t bother with formalities with the unexpected guest, just locked herself in her room and cried. This was a betrayal that had shaken her to her core. She stared at the fan churning noisily, while Bhagvati Devi sat quietly on the cot in the hall. Manoj had lied. He and his family had lied all along. They had cheated her father… Ah! Her father! How she wanted to hate him for not investigating Manoj’s history before handing off his daughter to him. But then, why would he? As it was she was not receiving any marriage proposal when the father of a man, that too a branch manager, came to their colony asking for their address. It was almost a miracle. Her father was only too happy to get rid of her. Her father! He was the reason she couldn’t conceive. He was the reason that her marriage was a failure. Yet, she couldn’t come to hating him.

  When Manoj knocked at the door that night, a maddening rage swelled from within her. She did not bother to open it, and when Bhagvati did, she stood at the bedroom door, just to watch his expression when he saw the visitor. He was surprised, to put in plainly. Pleasantries were exchanged. Then, without saying much, he came to the bedroom and began to change, as if nothing had happened.

  Aditi exploded. She didn’t bother about Bhagvati, or her dead daughter. She called him a cheat, a fraud. Let alone the neighbours, she wanted the whole world to know what he had done. She was screaming on top of her lungs. Her voice began to crack. But she didn’t care. She threw things at him. But he continued to undress as if everything was as calm as always. Bhagvati remained seated on the cot, her eyes fixed on the floor. What enraged Aditi even more was that Manoj did not even bother to give an explanation. Like always, he kept quiet and let things take their own course, let her handle it as she willed, because there was nothing she could do now, other than accept it and live with it. She abused him, his family and when she said that her father would have never married her to a family of thugs that he finally said, “Your father knew.” Then, as she stared at him with wild eyes, he wrapped a towel around his waist and began undoing his trousers underneath. “And it was he who told me to keep quiet. You would know, eventually…” She was too baffled to speak. She did not utter a word even when he crossed her to go to the backyard for a bath. Of all the lies he had told, she knew this wasn’t one. Her father knew.

  She didn’t cook dinner that night. She sat on the steps to the backyard and stared at the blackness above. Now could she blame her father for everything? He knew. He knew and it was he who had kept her in the dark. And she was blind, blind towards the many signs that were carelessly thrown at her before she moved to Purnia – weird questions their neighbours sometimes asked, innocent little gossips that she overheard. She was so blind that Ajay even dared to openly threaten and mock her. But was it her fault that she trusted her father blindly?

  Yes. It was. For even if someone had the best of intentions in their hearts, what they perceive to be right, may not always be so.

  The moon rose high in the sky, and when she showed no intention of leaving the steps, Bhagvati went to the kitchen and prepared a meal with whatever she could gather. After serving Manoj in the bedroom, she sat beside Aditi with a plate in her hands. Aditi ignored her requests to come indoors and have her food. She just sat there, out in the open, while torn blankets of clouds swept over the moon and the stars, while the chickens scampered in their coop. Bhagvati sat beside her, equally quiet and still, watching the sky. Aditi went to bed when she felt she might topple over due to exhaustion. She did not have her dinner, and neither did Bhagvati.

  The following days were routine for Manoj. He woke up in the mornings, took his bath, lit incense-sticks and recited prayers. Although he did not find breakfast waiting for him, he walked to his bank only to return at nights. Aditi hardly left her bedroom. She didn’t bother talking or even acknowledging the presence of the visitor and left Bhagvati to her cot. She no longer had the will to cook food even for herself.

  Bhagvati did her best to be useful. To begin with, she let Aditi vent out her anger on herself. She took care of the kitchen and the cleaning. Though Aditi was not speaking to her, or with anybody for that matter, she made sure the chickens were fed and the bedroom swept and mopped. She attended to the small square plots which Aditi had dug up along the boundary wall of the backyard and sowed with seeds of tomato, radish and coriander to keep herself busy. The seeds had already sprouted and tiny plants were growing their way out of the soil.

  When the three girls came for tuition the next day, Aditi turned them away. It so happened that Laila and her family had gone out to visit someone assuming that Aditi would be taking responsibility of the girls for the rest of the day. Again, it was Bhagvati who kept them engaged for hours by telling them stories of jinns and demons.

  Sometimes Aditi thought she was being too harsh on Bhagvati. Bhagvati was in no way responsible for what had happened. Yet, she couldn’t summon the strength or the will, or maybe she didn’t want to, to talk to her and give her the respect she ought to. Aditi did admit many a time that with Bhagvati around, things were a lot better. One of the biggest reliefs was that from Arvind who came to her house every day to replace the battery. Ever since Laila had told her about his illness and his shady history of women, Aditi had grown cautious of him.

  He often came to her house bearing gifts – the roosters to start with, sometimes sweets and once a bag filled with live, crawling prawns (very fresh!). What she initially perceived to be courtesy towards her husband, now seemed to be shrewd, calculated moves to come closer to her. As Laila had said, he did seem ill and haggard. But Aditi also noticed that he always came after her husband had left for office. Most of the times the battery wasn’t even fully discharged. But he didn’t mind carrying it to and fro.

  On the third day since her retreat to her bedroom, she was glad that Bhagvati went to receive the door when she heard the familiar ‘TRING-TRING’ outside. Since it was the second time that morning, Aditi knew he hadn’t come for the battery. This time he had brought two big, alive and gasping fish (super fresh!), to welcome the mother-in-law of the manager. Aditi guessed he thought Bhagvati was her mother, and there was no reason for him to think otherwise. And no sooner had he left, Laila barged into her house and talkative as she was, began chatting her up while Bhagvati left the fish in a bucket of water and prepared tea and snacks for them. Aditi was sick, that was what Laila had assumed, that was what Aditi had told her daughters, and that was exactly what Aditi appeared like. She had grown pale. Her eyes had shrunk and receded into their hollows.

  “Look at you, Madam! Did you see a ghost? If only I had returned earlier. I was away, Madam. In Forbisganj. My uncle lives there, you see. His son is not well. These little kids I tell you, always up to some mischief. They never listen. One time…”

  Laila talked her into leaving her room and taking a bath. While she did so, the other two women sat together to chat as Bhagvati ground mustard seeds on a stone slab for the fish. In
the evening, after Laila had had a good gossip with Bhagvati – “That man, I tell you,” she told Bhagvati at the door when she was leaving, “I have never seen anyone work so tirelessly. But what good are these government schemes? Are they? I am just going on and on. But what can I do, there is so much to say and listen. Oh! You will come to my house, won’t you? We will talk over tea.” – and left, Aditi found Bhagvati in the backyard rubbing her hands in ash, the two fish gasping feebly on the ground next to a large plate and a hansua – a sharp, curved blade fixed on a wooden board. Aditi sat on the steps and watched as Bhagvati clapped her hands, emanating small clouds of ash, picked up the nearest fish and began cutting off the fins. Its gills moved up and down. Its eyes bulged. All the poor fish could do was open and close its mouth as its body was rubbed against the blade and its scales peeled. It was only when its head was cut off that it was released from its suffering. The grey cat watched from the top of the boundary wall.

  “What is that room for?” asked Bhagvati as she pulled out the innards, taking the first step to break the awkward silence.

  Aditi looked at the room before replying. The window was closed. The broken lock was still hanging from the latch. “A well,” she replied, her voice hoarse and weak.

  Bhagvati stopped to look at her, then at the room. Another awkward silence. “You shouldn’t have broken the lock then,” she returned to slicing the fish. “Assuming,” she looked up again, “it was locked before you moved in.” When Aditi did not reply, Bhagvati murmured, “I thought so. No wonder this house is not in peace.”

  “What? What is not in peace?”

  “Your house. Don’t you see it?”

  “See what?”

  “Someone comes to visit your house! Don’t you hear her at night? Or even during daytime, when things turn quiet?”

  Aditi felt a cold wave sweep over her. She had heard it many a time in her bedroom – someone humming, someone passing through the hall. Sometimes, as she lay on her bed reading a book or just contemplating, she felt a presence behind the curtains of the door… watching her, silent and still, though she could not see anything. Sometimes when the door was shut, it would swing open just a little bit, as if letting a breeze pass. One night while cooking dinner, she heard the door of the outhouse open on its own. And through the window, she saw the chickens retreat to the rear of their coop. She had tried to bring up the topic with Manoj, but he never bothered to say anything about it. Maybe because he himself did not know much, did whatever the villagers advised him to, took every precaution without asking for an explanation. But here was this woman, who had said it out loud. “What is with opening the room?”

  “Oh, never mind, my son. What was I thinking! This is the house. Would have happened anyway, either locked or not. But if I had my way, I wouldn’t have let you break it. It is one thing going around meddling…”

  “I don’t understand what you are saying. Yes, I hear it too…”

  “Her…”

  “What?”

  “You hear her too. But why shouldn’t you. This is her house after all. She has claimed it. Why shouldn’t she visit her own house?”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “The Devi.” Bhagvati was done with the first fish. She picked up the second and raised its tail to the blade. “But you don’t know about it, my son, do you? About the legend of the Devi?”

  “I know. About the queen. The sacrifice. Her spirit. These villagers have to sacrifice animals to keep her pleased.”

  “But that is not the whole story,” Bhagvati returned to her work. She cut off the fins and began scaling the fish, dipping her hands in ash every now and then to keep it from slipping. “Do you want to hear the whole story?” The cat rose from its perch and climbed on the roof to get a better view. “It is only fair that I tell you the legend, now that I have been blabbering my stories all over to the girls. But I wonder, why hasn’t anyone told you yet?”

  “Because they think I am an outsider. The less I know, the better.”

  “But if you knew more, you wouldn’t have opened the door.”

  “Maybe they thought it would scare me. As it is, my husband is a bit too possessed with the bank. And I live all alone in the house. But whatever, the point being, why is opening the door so relevant? Why is it so important to keep it locked?”

  “When did I say it was important? But it would have been better to keep it the way it was. You never know what may enrage them. Coming back to the story now, let me tell you about the Devi.” With that, Bhagvati beheaded the second fish. “This region, you see, was once ruled by small kings. As time passed and those white foreigners began to take over the lands, these kings were reduced to rich families with lots and lots of land and peasants working under them. Their lands were divided with each passing generation. They were families with rich heritage and dwindling fortune. But what didn’t dwindle with time was their pride.” She threw the last piece in the plate and then dumped the plate in the tub. The water turned red. She dipped her hands and started cleaning the pieces. “Long before those white people were kicked out, the lands around this village were owned by one such family. In those times a goddess, Ma Puran Devi, looked after all the lands around. She lived in a mango tree. It was during the reign of this family that most of the mango trees were planted here and that old temple built. They kept her pleased and she showered her blessing on them.”

  She drained the tub. Poured fresh water. Started her cleaning again. “There was another such family far to the east, near the Bengal border. Extremely rich. It had three daughters who were famous for their beauty, and also for the dowry their father offered. It was said that every man who even attended their wedding was given a pair of gold coins. Dowry was a measure of a man’s worth. His prestige. In those days, dowries were lavishly given, not asked. It was a social status.” She stopped her cleaning and looked up. Held her eyes. And then smiled slightly. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Society has lost its wealth. But not its greed. What was then given as a gift is now demanded as a right.” She washed the pieces clean, then washed her hands and wiped them dry with her aanchal. She carried the pieces and the utensils back to the kitchen. Then she sat down next to Aditi with a sigh. “The youngest daughter, the third, was arranged to be married to the prince of these lands. But that’s when fate played its own cards. There was a severe draught to the east. Crops failed. Cattle died. Lives were lost. When the marriage actually took place, there wasn’t much that could be given. Our prince returned home empty handed. That is what his people remembered of the wedding. This was an insult. They took no notice of the beautiful bride. And his mother, she took the insult to her heart. She wanted another wife for him. One who could pay his worth. One who could restore his status.

  “But the wheels were turning. The draught spread to her own land. There was panic. The mother saw it as an opportunity. She accused the bride of witchcraft. She blamed her for bringing the curse along with her. People believed her, for she also had influence over the head priest of the temple. Then one wretched day, the young bride, or the queen you can say, was dragged out of her house and brought to the temple. Her in-laws watched as she was stripped naked and washed. And then, she was beheaded. She was sacrificed to appease the goddess.”

  “Her husband?” Aditi asked, her ears glued to the story. Her voice was still frail. “He did not protect her?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. The legend is in shreds. But I wonder if it still would have happened had he protected her. But what did happen was that after she was beheaded, her body was tied to a mule and dragged to the main market. This is where it used to be. There was a well, right in the centre of the old village.” She glanced at the locked room. “And in there her body was dumped. They believed that her sacrificial blood would flow with the water and bring its level up. But that did not happen. What happened was that the ancient mango tree over the temple dried and withered soon after the sacrifice. The Devi, Ma Puran Devi, was angry and left
her seat. And what took her place instead was the soul of the queen. She wiped out the entire royal family in times to come. She began to haunt the village. Farmers would run to their homes come evening and shut their doors and windows. The temple bell would chime after the darkness set in and she would emerge from the shrine and roam the streets. Villagers trembled if they heard her passing by their house, for if she knocked, someone in the house would die by morning. The villagers would huddle together in their houses every night, watching their doors… desperately waiting for the sun to rise.”

  “Was she killing the people who took part in the sacrifice?”

  “Maybe. But soon the village was abandoned. Years passed and she was sighted less and less often, until she disappeared completely. Then came the robbers. They hid in the plantation and looted and killed. It was the perfect hideout. After Independence, a group of Muslims came here to escape the wrath of Hindu communities. And then there was this barrage proposal that saw the construction of the house you live in. The story of the Devi was tainted and torn as it spread from mouth to mouth, for decades. People forgot about the true deity of the temple. Ma Puran Devi was replaced by Devi, who had to be appeased lest something unfortunate happened in the village.”

  “What kind of mother was she?” Aditi spoke louder than she had intended. She was filled with hatred for these uneducated village people. They and their primitive ways of living. “Who killed someone just because she thought her son hadn’t been paid his worth! To earn back his prestige? Wasn’t she a woman herself?”

  “Never underestimate what a mother can do for her child, however misguided her beliefs may be,” Bhagvati replied, “especially, if misguided her beliefs be.”

  “And what about Puran Devi? Why didn’t she stop the sacrifice itself? No wonder they stopped worshipping her altogether.”

  Bhagvati looked at her with astonishment. “Oh! No! No, my son! She is a goddess, not some mere spirit! They have their own ways of doing things. And she is still worshipped. You, of all the people should know that! One of her most ancient temples is in Purnia itself. Haven’t you heard of the Puran Devi Temple in the old city?” There was a pause. “Oh! You haven’t! You must visit it when you go back. You must. Puran Devi Temple. That’s how Purnia got its name! Ma Puran Devi. Purnia.”