by Ruth Vanita
Umanath wasn’t willing to give up so much money so easily. He was skilled at trickery and deception. He decided to hatch a plan to get hold of all of his mother’s jewellery. He did not want Kumud’s marriage to be discussed until he had done this, because he did not want to provoke his mother. Kamtanath shook his head and said, ‘I don’t like such tricks.’
Umanath said shamefacedly, ‘The jewellery is worth at least ten thousand.’
Kamtanath said, unmoved, ‘However much it’s worth, I don’t want to be party to unethical plans.’
‘Then you stay out of it. But don’t interfere, either.’
‘I’ll stay out of it.’
‘And you, Sita?’
‘I’ll stay out.’
But when Dayanath was asked, he said he was willing to help Umanath. He would get at least two and a half thousand of the ten. He thought it pardonable to indulge in some deceit for the sake of so much money.
3
Phulmati had just had her dinner and was planning to retire for the night when Uma and Daya came and sat by her. Both looked as if some major calamity had descended on them. Phulmati asked, ‘You both seem worried?’
Uma scratched his head and said, ‘It’s a very risky job to write for the newspapers, Amma! However carefully you write, you get caught somehow or the other. Dayanath wrote an article. He has been charged and needs to produce a bond of five thousand rupees. If it’s not deposited tomorrow, he’ll be arrested and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.’
Phulmati beat her head and said, ‘Why do you write such things, Beta? Don’t you know these are bad days for us? Can’t the bond somehow be avoided?’
Dayanath answered in a guilt-ridden voice, ‘I didn’t write anything bad, Amma—it was just bad luck. The district administration is very harsh; they don’t show the slightest leniency. I tried my best but it was no use.’
‘So have you asked Kamta to arrange for the money?’
Uma pulled a face. ‘You know his nature, Amma. Money is dearer than life to him. He won’t give a paisa even if it means Daya being sent off for life.’
Dayanath agreed, ‘I haven’t even mentioned it to him.’
Phulmati got up from her bed, saying, ‘Come, I’ll talk to him. How can he refuse? Money is meant to be used in such crises; it’s not to be buried.’
Umanath stopped her, saying, ‘No, Amma, don’t say anything to him. He won’t give any money, but he’ll make a huge fuss. He has to safeguard his job—he won’t let Daya stay in the house. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes and tells the officers about it.’
Phulmati said helplessly, ‘Then what will you do about the bond? You can take my jewellery and pawn it to pay the bond. And promise that you’ll never write another word in the papers.’
Dayanath put his hands over his ears and said, ‘I cannot take your jewellery even to save my life, Amma. At most I’ll be sentenced for five or ten years—I’ll survive that. In any case, it’s not as if I’m doing much, sitting around here.’
Phulmati beat her breast and cried, ‘Don’t talk like that, Beta. No one can arrest you while I’m alive. I’ll burn their faces. Jewellery is meant for such crises. If I lose you, what use will jewellery be to me?’
She brought the basket and put it in front of him.
Daya looked at Uma with appealing eyes and said, ‘What do you think, Bhai Sahib? This is why I told you we should not mention this to mother. After all, it’s only a matter of going to jail.’
Uma said, as if pleading a case, ‘How could we not tell mother about such a major crisis? I couldn’t keep quiet about it; but it’s difficult to decide what to do now. I don’t want you to go to jail but neither do I want to pawn mother’s jewellery.’
Phulmati asked tearfully, ‘Do you think the jewellery is dearer to me than you are? I can give up even my life for you; the jewellery is nothing.’
Daya said firmly, ‘Amma, I won’t take this, regardless of what I may have to suffer. I haven’t been able to do anything for you so far; how can I take your jewellery now? A bad son like me should not have been born to you. I have given you nothing but trouble.’
Phulmati said, equally firmly, ‘If you don’t take it, I will go and pawn it myself and pay the bond to the district administration. You can put me to the test if you want. After I die, God knows what will happen, but as long as I am alive, no one can harm you.’
Umanath said, as if doing his mother a favour, ‘Well, there’s no way out, Dayanath. There’s no harm in taking it, but remember, you must redeem the jewellery as soon as you have enough money. It’s truly said, motherhood is one long sacrifice. Who but a mother could show so much affection? We are indeed unfortunate—we don’t have even a fraction of the devotion to our mother that we should.’
The two took the basket of jewellery as if they were in a great moral dilemma, and off they went. The mother looked at them with eyes full of tenderness, as if eager to draw them into her embrace and shower them with blessings from the depths of her heart. Today, after many months, her wounded mother’s heart had got the priceless opportunity to joyfully sacrifice her all. Her image of herself as mistress of the house led her always to look for ways to sacrifice and surrender herself. There was no element of power or greed or selfhood in this desire. Sacrifice was her joy and her right. Today, having recovered this lost right, and having sacrificed her all to this restored image of herself, she was indeed happy.
4
Three months passed. Having stolen their mother’s jewellery, the four brothers tried to keep her pacified. They also told their wives not to upset her. If a little courtesy could give peace to her soul, where was the harm in it? The four continued to do as they pleased, but they would consult their mother or lay a snare in such a way that the simple woman would be persuaded and agree with everything they said. She felt bad when the orchard was sold, but the four spun such a web that she agreed to sell it. But they could not reach an agreement on the matter of Kumud’s marriage. The mother had her heart set on Pandit Murarilal and the sons on Dindayal. One day, conflict erupted.
Phulmati said, ‘A daughter also has a share in her parents’ earnings. You got an orchard worth sixteen thousand, a house worth twenty-five thousand, and twenty thousand in cash. Doesn’t Kumud have a share of even five thousand?’
Kamta said mildly, ‘Amma, Kumud is your daughter and our sister. You will depart in a few years’ time, but we will have a long relationship with her. As far as possible, we’ll never do anything to harm her. But since you talk of a share, no, Kumud has no share. When father was alive, it was a different matter. He could have spent as much as he liked on her wedding. No one could stop him. But now we have to try to save every paisa. What sense does it make to spend five thousand when we can manage with one thousand?’
Umanath corrected him, ‘Not five thousand—say ten thousand.’
Kamta frowned and said, ‘No, I’ll say five thousand. We cannot afford to spend five thousand rupees on one wedding.’
Phulmati said stubbornly, ‘She will be married to Murarilal’s son, whether it costs five thousand or ten! These are my husband’s earnings. I saved the money with great pains. I’ll spend it as I like. You are not the only ones born of my womb. Kumud too came from the same womb. All of you are equal in my eyes. I won’t ask any of you for anything. You sit by and watch, I will do it all. Five of the twenty thousand belongs to Kumud.’
There was now no way out for Kamtanath but to take refuge in the bitter truth. He said, ‘Amma, you are dragging this out for nothing. The money you think is yours is not really yours. You cannot spend any of it without our permission.’
Phulmati said, as if stung by a snake, ‘What did you say? Just say it again. I cannot spend the money that I myself saved?’
‘That money is not yours, it has become ours.’
‘It will be yours, but after I die.’
‘No, it became ours when father died.’
Umanath said shamelessly, ‘Mother doesn’
t know the law, and she makes an unnecessary fuss.’
Phulmati was infuriated and said, ‘To hell with your law. I don’t care about such laws. It’s not as if your father inherited wealth. I saved up this money by depriving myself of food and clothing, otherwise you wouldn’t have a roof over your heads today. You cannot touch my money while I am alive. I spent ten thousand on each of your three weddings; I will spend the same on Kumud’s too.’
Kamtanath too grew hot under the collar. ‘You do not have the right to spend anything.’
Umanath reproved his elder brother, ‘Bhai Sahib, you are arguing with mother for nothing! Write a letter to Murarilal telling him that Kumud will not be married into his family. That’s it. Amma doesn’t know the law and argues needlessly.’
Phulmati said in a controlled voice, ‘All right, what is the law? Tell me.’
Uma said, with indifference, ‘The law is that after a father dies the property goes to the sons. The mother has a right only to subsistence.’
Phulmati said, in anguish, ‘Who made this law?’
Uma said in a calm, quiet voice, ‘Our sages, and Maharaj Manu, who else?’
Phulmati was speechless for a moment, and then said in a pained voice, ‘So I am living at your mercy in this house?’
Umanath said with the impartiality of a judge, ‘Look at it as you wish.’
Phulmati’s whole soul seemed to cry out at this great injustice. The words came from her lips like sparks of fire, ‘I built the house, I gathered the possessions, I gave you birth and raised you, and today I am an outsider in this house? This is Manu’s law and you want to abide by such a law? Fine. Keep your household. I don’t want to live as your dependent. It would be far better to die. What injustice! I planted the tree but I can’t stand in its shade; if this is the law, may it burn in hell.’
The four youths were unaffected by their mother’s anger and pain. They were protected by the iron armour of the law. How could these pinpricks hurt them?
In a little while, Phulmati got up and went away. Today, for the first time in her life, her tender motherhood had become a curse and turned against her. The motherhood she had considered the treasure of her life, at whose feet she had always sacrificed all her wishes and desires, and counted herself blest, today seemed to her like a pit of fire, in which her life was burning to ashes.
It was twilight. The neem tree at the door stood silent, with bowed head, as if distressed by the ways of the world. In the west, the god of light and life was burning on his own pyre like Phulmati’s motherhood.
5
Phulmati went and lay down in her room, feeling as if her back was broken. She had never dreamt that as soon as her husband died her own sons would become her enemies. The boys whom she had fed on her heart’s blood had ripped that heart apart. The house now seemed to her like a bed of thorns. It was unbearable to her proud nature to live like an orphan, eating what she was given, in a house where she had no status and counted for nothing.
But what else could she do? If she lived apart from her sons, whose reputation would suffer? Whether the world spat at her or at her sons, either way it was she who would be affected. People would say that even though she had four sons, the old woman lived on her own and worked to support herself. Those whom she had always considered beneath her would laugh at her. No, that dishonour would be far more painful than this insult. It was better to keep herself and her house behind the veil. But she would have to adjust to the new circumstances. Times had changed. She had lived so long as mistress, now she would have to live as a maidservant. This was God’s will. One’s own sons’ insults and abuses were preferable to those of outsiders.
For a long time, she lay weeping, with her face covered. She spent the night in pain at this loss of self. The winter morning arose from the lap of Usha, Goddess of dawn, like a prisoner who has escaped from jail. Today, breaking her usual rule, Phulmati got up at dawn. She had undergone a mental transformation in the span of one night. As the whole house slept, she began sweeping the courtyard. The ground, drenched with night dews, stung her bare feet like thorns. Panditji never allowed her to rise so early. The cold was harmful to her health. But those days were gone. She was trying to change her nature to suit the times. When she finished sweeping, she lit the fire and began to clean the rice and lentils. In a while, the boys woke up. The daughters-in-law got up. All of them saw the old woman, shrinking in the cold, and working, but no one said, ‘Amma, why do you trouble yourself?’ Perhaps all of them were pleased at the old woman’s pride being shattered.
From that day, Phulmati toiled ceaselessly but remained emotionally apart. The self-respect that used to shine on her face was replaced by a deep sadness. Instead of an electric light, there was now a flickering oil lamp, which a light gust of wind could easily blow out.
It had already been decided to write Murarilal a letter of refusal. The letter was written the next day. Kumud’s marriage to Dindayal was arranged. Dindayal was over forty years old, and did not have a very good reputation, but he was quite well off. He immediately agreed to the marriage. The date was fixed, the groom’s party arrived, and Kumud was sent off. Who knows what Phulmati’s heart endured or what Kumud’s heart suffered; but the four brothers were glad, as if they had got rid of a thorn that had been plaguing them. A girl of a respectable family—how could she open her mouth? If happiness was written in her fate, she would enjoy happiness; if she was destined to suffer, she would put up with it. God’s will is the ultimate refuge of the helpless. He to whom her family marries her, even if he has a hundred vices, is her lord and master. Revolt was beyond her imagination.
Phulmati did not interfere with any of the arrangements. What Kumud was given, how the guests were entertained, who sent what gifts—she had nothing to do with all of this. If anyone tried to consult her, she said, ‘Beta, whatever you do is right. What’s the use of asking me?’
When the palanquin came to the door for Kumud, and she embraced her mother and wept, Phulmati took her to her room. Putting the little bit of money and the few ordinary ornaments she had with her into her daughter’s hands, she said, ‘Beti, my heart’s desires remained in my heart, otherwise would you have been married like this, and would you have been sent off like this?’
Phulmati had not told anyone about her jewellery. Even though she had not fully understood the fraud her sons had perpetrated on her, she knew that the jewellery would not come back and to ask for it would only heighten ill feeling. But on this occasion she felt the need to justify herself. She could not bear Kumud to leave with the thought that her mother had kept her jewellery for her daughters-in-law, so she had brought her into her room to tell her about it. But Kumud had already heard about the trick that had been played on her mother. She laid the money and the ornaments at her mother’s feet and said, ‘Amma, your blessing is worth millions to me. Keep these things. Who knows what troubles you may yet have to face?’
Phulmati was about to say something when Umanath came in and said, ‘What are you doing, Kumud? Hurry up. The groom’s party is anxious to leave. You’ll come to visit in a couple of months; then you can take whatever you want to.’
Phulmati felt as if someone had rubbed salt on her wound. She said, ‘What do I have left to give her? Go, Beti—may God preserve your suhag.’
Kumud left. Phulmati collapsed in a fit of grief. Her last remaining reason to live was gone.
6
A year passed.
Phulmati’s room was the largest and airiest in the house. Several months ago, she had vacated it for the eldest daughter-in-law and moved into a small cell, as if she were a beggar. She had not the slightest affection now for her sons or daughters-in-law. She was just a slave in the house. She had no interest in any person, any event, or any situation that arose in the family. She lived only because she had not died. She had become immune to both happiness and sorrow.
Umanath’s clinic opened, and he gave a party for his friends, dancing girls came and entertained the gue
sts. Dayanath’s press was inaugurated, and there was another party. When Sitanath got a scholarship and went abroad, there were more festivities. Kamtanath’s eldest son’s thread ceremony took place with much pomp and show. But no shadow of joy appeared on Phulmati’s face! Kamtanath lay ill with typhoid for over a month and nearly died. To increase the circulation of his paper, Dayanath actually wrote an offensive article, and was imprisoned for six months. Umanath took a bribe in a criminal matter, and prepared a false medical report, for which he lost his accreditation. But Phulmati showed no sign of sorrow. There was now no hope, no interest, no anxiety in her life. To work like a beast of burden and to eat were the only two dimensions of her life. An animal works when it is beaten, but eats wholeheartedly. Phulmati worked without being told to, but ate as if each morsel was poisonous. For months, she did not bother to oil her hair or wash her clothes. It was as if she had lost all awareness of self.
The rainy season had set in. Malaria was spreading. The sky was covered with dun clouds and the earth with muddy water. The wet winds bore colds and fevers around. The maidservant fell ill. Phulmati washed all the dishes and did all the housework, getting soaked in water as she did so. Then she lit the fire and began cooking. The sons had to be fed on time. Suddenly, she remembered that Kamtanath did not drink tap water. She set out to fetch water from the Ganga, although it was raining.
Lying on his bed, Kamtanath said, ‘Let it be, Amma, I’ll fetch the water myself. What a day for the maid to take off!’
Phulmati looked up at the sky and said, ‘You’ll get drenched, Beta, and catch a cold.’
Kamtanath said, ‘You are already drenched. You might fall ill.’
Phulmati said hardily, ‘I won’t. God has made me immortal.’
