by Ruth Vanita
Her purity, nurtured in the lap of Indian ideals, lay wounded on the ground, weeping like a destitute outcast. She thought, ‘Had this blot not smirched my name, had I been from a high-status family, could he have spoken these words? But I am lowly, oppressed, fit to be thrown away—anything can be said to me. Oh, what a hard heart!’ Could she, under any circumstances, have attacked Ramendra so harshly?
The electric light was on in the veranda. There was no sign of distress or regret on his face. His face was still distorted with anger. Perhaps Sulochana’s wounded heart would have found comfort had there been tears in his eyes, but all she saw was a drawn sword. The world seemed empty to her.
She went back to her room. Kunwar Sahib’s eyes were still closed. In these few hours, his bright face had lost its light. His face was streaked with dried tears. Sulochana sat at his feet and shed tears of true devotion. Alas! He has suffered so many hardships for unfortunate me, endured so many insults, sacrificed his whole life for me, and now this is the heart-rending end.
Sulochana then looked at the baby, but even its face, blossoming like a rose, did not arouse a wave of motherly love in her heart. She turned her face away from it. ‘This baby embodies the humiliation I have endured for so long. Why should I bear the agony of life on its account? If its merciless father loves it, let him rear it. And may he one day cry as my father has to cry today. God, if you give me birth again, let me be born in a respectable man’s family …’
6
Another tomb now stands next to Zuhra’s. Grass has sprouted around Zuhra’s tomb, and the paint is peeling off it, but the other tomb is clean and well decorated. There are flower pots all round the grave, and the paths leading to it are lined with rose creepers.
It is evening. The feeble, sad, yellow rays of the sun seem to shed tears on that tomb. A man carrying a three-year-old girl comes up and begins to clean the tomb with his handkerchief. He picks up the leaves that have fallen on the paths, and sprays perfume on the tomb. The little girl runs around, chasing butterflies.
This is Sulochana’s tomb. Her last wish was that her body should not be cremated but should be laid to rest next to her mother. Kunwar Sahib survived Sulochana by only six months. Ramendra was left to do penance for his injustice.
Shobha is now three years old and she believes that her mother will one day emerge from this tomb.
Family Break-up
WHEN BHOLA MAHTO MARRIED AGAIN AFTER HIS FIRST WIFE DIED, HIS son Raghu’s troubles began. Raghu was only ten years old. He happily spent his time playing gulli-danda and roaming around the village. As soon as his new mother arrived, he was forced into harness. Panna was a good-looking woman, and pride goes with good looks as bread does with butter. She wouldn’t lift a finger to do any work. It was Raghu who gathered the cow dung and he who fed the cow. He had to wash the dishes as well.
Bhola changed so much that he now could see nothing but faults in Raghu. In accordance with well-established tradition, he accepted everything Panna said without question. But Raghu’s complaints he ignored completely. The result was that Raghu stopped complaining. To whom could he complain? Not only his father but the whole village had become hostile to him. ‘He’s a very stubborn boy; he cares nothing for Panna; the poor thing is so affectionate to him and feeds him so well. Well, this is the result of spoiling him. No other woman would have put up with him. They manage to live together only because Panna is so simple and good.’ Everyone listens to the complaints of the powerful, but no one hears the pleas of the powerless. Raghu’s new mother broke his heart daily. Eight years passed, and one day the messenger of death came for Bhola.
Panna had four children—three sons and a daughter. So many mouths to feed and no earning member in the family. Raghu would care nothing for them now. That went without saying. He would bring his wife and live separately with her. The wife would fan the flames further. Panna saw nothing but darkness all around, but whatever happened, she was determined not to live in the house as Raghu’s dependent. She would not be a slave girl in the house where she had once reigned. She would not bow to the boy she had treated as her servant.
She was beautiful and not very old. In fact, she was still in the bloom of youth. Couldn’t she marry again? People might laugh. Let them! Remarriage was allowed in her community. They were not Brahmans or Thakurs who would be dishonoured by remarriage. It was only in those upper castes that people did what they liked at home and kept everything veiled in public. She could openly marry again. So why should she submit to Raghu?
Bhola had died a month ago. It was evening. Panna was thinking along these lines, when she suddenly realized that the children were not in the house. It was time for the bullocks to come home—what if one of the children got trampled? Who was there now to sit at the door and watch out for them? Raghu hated the sight of her children. He never smiled at them or talked to them.
As she stepped out of the house, she saw Raghu sitting in the shed in front of the house, chopping sugarcane. The children were standing around him, and the little girl, with her hand on his neck, was trying to climb on to his back. Panna couldn’t believe her eyes. This was something new. Perhaps he wanted to show the world how much he loved his brothers, while he hated them in his heart. He would probably kill them if he could! He was a black snake, yes, a black snake! Harshly, she said, ‘What are all of you doing there? Come inside, dusk has fallen, the cattle will be coming home.’
Raghu looked at her humbly and said, ‘I’m here, Mother, why do you worry?’
The oldest boy, Kedar, said, ‘Mother, Raghu Dada has made two carts for us. Look, Khunnu and I will sit in this one, and Lachman and Jhuniya in the other. Dada will pull both carts.’
And he pulled two small carts out from a corner. Each had four wheels. They had platforms to sit on and arms on both sides.
Panna was astonished. ‘Who made these carts?’ she asked.
Kedar repeated, irritated, ‘Raghu Dada, who else? He borrowed an adze and chisel from Bhagat and made them in no time. They run really fast, Mother! Sit, Khunnu, and I’ll pull you.’
Khunnu sat in a cart and Kedar began to pull it. The wheels began to whirr, as if the cart too was entering into the spirit of the game.
Lachman sat in the other cart, and said, ‘Pull it, Dada.’
Raghu made Jhuniya sit in the cart too, and ran along, pulling it. The three boys clapped their hands in glee. Panna looked on, in a daze, wondering whether this was the same Raghu or someone else.
In a little while, both carts returned, and the boys came into the house, recounting their experience of the ride. They were as thrilled as if they had travelled in an airplane.
Khunnu said, ‘Mother, truly, the trees were racing along.’
Lachman added, ‘And how the calves ran—all of them went scampering!’
Kedar: ‘Mother, Raghu Dada pulls both the carts at once.’
Jhuniya was the youngest. Her powers of description were limited to her eyes and limbs—she danced about, clapping her hands.
Khunnu: ‘We’re going to get a cow too, Mother! Raghu Dada has told Girdhari to get us a cow. Girdhari said he would get one tomorrow.’
Kedar: ‘She gives three seers of milk, Mother! We’ll drink lots of milk.’
Just then, Raghu came in. Glancing at him with indifference, Panna asked, ‘Raghu, have you asked Girdhari for a cow?’
Raghu replied apologetically, ‘Yes, I have, he’ll bring it tomorrow.’
Panna: ‘Who’s going to pay for it? Have you thought about that?’
Raghu: ‘I’ve thought it all out, Mother! This locket of mine is worth twenty-five rupees, and the calf will be worth the remaining five rupees. Then the cow will be ours.’
Panna was stunned. Now even her mistrustful heart could not but acknowledge Raghu’s love and goodness. She said, ‘Why should you sell the locket? Where’s the hurry to get a cow? Get it when you have the money. It won’t look nice for you to be bare-necked. We haven’t had a cow all this time, a
nd the children have survived, haven’t they?’
Raghu said, like a philosopher, ‘Mother, this is the time for the children to eat well. If they don’t eat at this age, when will they? In any case, I don’t like the idea of wearing a locket. People will think, his father’s gone and he wears a locket.’
Bhola Mahto had died with his wish for a cow unfulfilled. He never had the money to get a cow. How easily Raghu had solved the problem. For the first time, Panna felt confidence in Raghu; she said, ‘If you’re going to sell jewellery, why sell your locket? Take my necklace.’
Raghu: ‘No, Mother! It looks very nice on you. It makes no difference whether or not a man wears a locket.’
Panna: ‘Go on, I’m old now. What do I want with a necklace? You’re still a boy; you should wear something round your neck.’
Raghu smiled and said, ‘How can you be old so soon? Who is there in the village to compare with you?’
Raghu’s simple comment embarrassed Panna. A flush of pleasure spread over her downcast face.
2
Five years passed. There was no peasant in the village as hard working, honest and true to his word as Raghu. He never went against Panna’s wishes. He was now twenty-three years old. Panna kept telling him, ‘Fetch your bride from her parents’ house. How long can she stay there? Everyone must be blaming me, saying that I am the one not allowing the daughter-in-law to come home.’1 But Raghu kept putting her off. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he would say. He had heard other people talk about his wife’s temperament. He didn’t want to disrupt the peace by bringing such a woman home.
Finally, one day, Panna demanded, ‘So you won’t bring her?’
‘I’ve said there’s no hurry.’
‘You may not be in a hurry, but I am. I’ll send someone today.’
‘You’ll regret it, Mother. She’s not good tempered.’
‘Don’t worry about that. If I don’t argue with her, she can hardly quarrel with the wind. She’ll do the cooking, at least. I can’t do all the work, both outside and inside the house. I’m going to send for her today.’
‘Send for her if you must, but don’t say later that I can’t control my wife and have become her slave.’
‘I won’t. Go buy two saris and some sweets!’
Three days later, Muliya arrived from her parents’ house. Drums were played at the door, and the sweet sound of pipes echoed all around. The ritual of showing the bride’s face was completed. She was like a stream of pure water in this desert. She had a wheaten complexion, long pointed eyelashes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and magnetic eyes. Raghu was enchanted as soon as he set eyes on her.
When she set out at sunrise, with a pot of water, her skin glowed golden in the gold rays of daybreak, as if Usha, the goddess of dawn, was walking along, smiling, with all her fragrance and intoxicating bloom.
3
Muliya had been smouldering with annoyance even in her parents’ house. Why should her husband work night and day, while Panna sat idle like a queen and her sons roamed around like princes? Muliya would not be a slave to anyone. When one’s own sons could not be relied on, how could one trust a brother’s sons? As long as they were like nestlings who cannot fly, they were all over Raghu. As soon as they came of age, they would flap their wings and take off, and wouldn’t look back.
One day, she said to Raghu, ‘If you want to work like a slave, you may, but I am not willing to.’
Raghu: ‘Well, tell me, what else can I do? The boys are not yet fit to even work at home.’
Muliya: ‘They are princes, not your children. This is the same Panna who used to starve you. I have heard all about it. I won’t live like a slave girl. I am not given any account of the money. I have no idea how much you earn and how much she spends. You think the money is in the house and so it’s fine, but I’m warning you, you won’t see a penny of it.’
Raghu: ‘If I start giving you the money, what will people say—think of that.’
Muliya: ‘Let people say what they like. They have no control over me. Clean out the oven and your hands will turn black. You may want to die for your brothers, but why should I die for them?’
Raghu did not reply. His fears had materialized sooner than he had expected. Now all his efforts could only result in their pulling on together another six months or one year. This boat would not sail longer than that. After all, how long can a goat’s mother be carefree, when her offspring is destined for slaughter?
One day, Panna laid the seeds of mahua flowers out to dry. The rainy season had begun. The grain in the granary was getting wet. She said to Muliya, ‘Bahu, keep an eye on the grain, I’m going to the pond for a bath.’
Muliya replied indifferently, ‘I’m sleepy, you sit and watch it. What difference will it make if you don’t bathe today?’
Panna put away her sari and did not go. Muliya’s offensive failed.
Several days passed and, one evening, Panna returned home after transplanting paddy. Night had fallen, and she had not eaten all day. She thought her daughter-in-law would have cooked, but she found the stove cold and the children wild with hunger. She quietly asked Muliya, ‘The stove hasn’t been lit yet?’
Kedar said, ‘The stove wasn’t lit in the afternoon either, Mother! Bhabhi didn’t cook anything,’
Panna: ‘Then what did you eat?’
Kedar: ‘Khunnu and Lachman ate the rotis left over from last night, and I ate some parched grain.’
Panna: ‘And Bahu?’
Kedar: ‘She is asleep, she didn’t eat anything.’
Panna immediately lit the stove and sat down to cook. She wept as she kneaded the flour. What a fate was hers! To scorch in the sun all day, and at night to scorch before the stove!
Kedar was in his fourteenth year. He had been observing his sister-in-law’s behaviour and had understood the whole situation. He said, ‘Mother, Bhabhi doesn’t want to live with you any longer.’
Panna was startled and asked, ‘Did she say so?’
Kedar: ‘No, she didn’t say so, but that is how she feels. Why don’t you separate from her? Let her live as she wishes. We have God to look after us.’
Panna bit her tongue and said, ‘Quiet, never say such a thing in my presence again. Raghu is not just your brother, he is your father. If you ever say this to Muliya, I will take poison.’
4
The festival of Dasehra arrived. A fair was held in a small town not far from the village. All the boys of the village were going to the fair. Panna got ready to go with her sons, but where would the money come from? Muliya had the key.
Raghu said to Muliya, ‘The boys are going to the fair, give them each a couple of paise.’
Muliya replied haughtily, ‘There is no money in the house.’
Raghu: ‘We have just sold the oilseed crop, has all the money been spent so soon?’
Muliya: ‘Yes.’
Raghu: ‘On what? It’s a festival day—shouldn’t the boys go to the fair?’
Muliya: ‘Tell your mother to take out her money. What’s the point of keeping it buried?’
The key was hanging on a hook. Raghu took it down and was about to open the trunk when Muliya caught his hand, and said, ‘Give me the key or you’ll be sorry. They want money for food and clothes, paper and books, and now for the fair too. Our earnings are not for others to spend and enjoy.’
Panna said to Raghu, ‘Let it be—there’s no money. The boys won’t go to the fair.’
Raghu got irritated. ‘Why shouldn’t they go? The whole village is going. Should only our children stay at home?’
So saying, Raghu freed his hand, took out the money and gave it to the boys, but when he tried to give the key back to Muliya, she flung it into the courtyard, and then lay down and covered her face. The boys did not go to the fair.
Two days passed. Muliya did not eat anything and Panna also fasted. Raghu tried to cajole one and then the other, but neither would get up. Finally, he got exasperated, and asked Muliya, ‘Why don’t you clearly
say what you want?’
Muliya said, as if addressing the ground, ‘I don’t want anything. Take me to my parents’ home.’
Raghu: ‘All right, get up, cook and eat. I’ll take you there.’
Muliya lifted her eyes to Raghu. Raghu felt afraid when he saw her face. That sweetness, that enchantment, that charm had vanished. Her teeth protruded, her eyes were bloodshot, and her nostrils fluttered. Looking at him with eyes red as burning coals, she said, ‘So this is what Amma has advised you to do? Don’t take me for such a fool, though. I will stay here and teach both of you a lesson. What do you think of yourselves?’
Raghu: ‘Fine, teach us a lesson. Only if you eat and drink something will you have the strength to do that.’
Muliya: ‘I’ll put water in my mouth only when the families have separated. I have put up with a lot, I can’t bear any more.’
Raghu was stunned into silence. For a whole day, he did not say anything. Even in his dreams he had never imagined that it would come to this. He had seen a few families in the village break up. He knew that when kitchens are divided, hearts are divided too. One’s own people become strangers for ever. They relate to each other just as they do to any fellow villager. Raghu had resolved that he would not let this disaster befall his home, but events had proved too much for him. Oh! He would be disgraced; people would say that the family could not stay together for even a decade after his father’s death. And from whom was he to break away? Those who had played in his lap, whom he had raised like his own children, for whom he had made so many sacrifices! Should he turn his own loved ones out of the house? He felt suffocated. In a trembling voice, he said, ‘You want me to part from my brothers? Will I be able to show my face anywhere?’
