by Manil Suri
I could tell right away that it had been opened. The edge of the flap was crinkled and bumpy, the line where it met the envelope yellow with clumsily applied glue. Paji’s letters were always perfect in their appearance—he would get a new envelope rather than send one with the slightest blemish.
I had been waiting for a response from Paji ever since writing to him some weeks back. On the phone, I couldn’t mention the letter I had sent because Hema would always be next to me, her ears twitching like a gazelle’s. Paji never volunteered anything, not even an acknowledgment that he had received my note.
“Dear Meera,” his letter read. “To say that I am speechless at your request would be an understatement. However, you are my daughter, and I feel responsible for you, as if all the mistakes you keep committing are in some way my own. We will discuss things when I accompany your mother to see you on the delightful occasion of Karva Chauth, in which I understand you will be participating. Love, Paji.”
I knew that whoever had read the letter (my guess being Hema) would fail to detect the sarcasm behind the word “delightful.” But the way Paji had referred to the impending event filled me with dread.
“Have you heard from your father recently?” Hema was unable to refrain from asking the very next morning.
ON THE DAY OF THE FESTIVAL, Sandhya woke me at five. “We have to hurry,” she whispered. “Mataji was supposed to get us up an hour ago but she overslept. The sky is beginning to change already, we only have a few minutes left before it starts to turn red.” Dev stirred as I rose, but did not open his eyes.
Mataji was in the kitchen, frantically heating the potatoes. “I can’t believe I didn’t wake up,” she told us. “The prayers will have to come afterwards, there’s almost no time to eat.” She ladled the steaming potatoes onto three plates. “And to think I was going to make fresh parathas this morning. Now we’ll have to make do with doubleroti.”
Sandhya got the package of Britannia bread from the fridge and began to put slices to toast on the griddle over the fire. Mataji rushed over and plucked them off with her fingers. “We don’t have time for that. Bring the doubleroti to the charpoy outside, we can make sure from there that the stars have not died out yet.”
Outside, the sky was a reddish black. The iron rails were catching light from the lamps on the station platform to gleam portentously in their tracks. The three of us sat along the same side of the charpoy, facing the clearing for the new colony flats in the east, where Mataji said the first signs of dawn would emerge.
“Try to eat as much as you can,” Mataji said, stacking our plates with slices of bread. “The moon won’t show until at least eight forty-five tonight.”
We began eating. The potatoes were very salty and Sandhya had put too many chilies in them—my stomach rumbled in protest at receiving them so quickly after awakening. I noticed both Mataji and Sandhya eating the centers of the bread first, which were easier to swallow, so I did the same. We ate quickly and efficiently, concentrating on getting the food in, not wasting any time on talk. Every few seconds, Mataji would glance up warily, as if on the lookout for enemy planes. There were birds beginning to chirp from the trees, announcing the brisk determination of the dawn to progress.
“Oh my God, I forgot the sev,” Mataji said, and rushed towards the fridge. She came back with a bowl of sweet vermicelli and three spoons. “I’m glad I remembered in time—it’s part of the fast, you know—the ritual is not complete without it.”
We began spooning up the creamy mixture from the bowl, alternating it with scoops of potato and bread from our plates. The food seemed to be taking forever to ingest—causing Mataji’s sense of urgency to grow. “Fruit!” Sandhya exclaimed, and ran into the kitchen, returning with three bananas which she peeled with dexterity. The combination of bread and chilies and banana and vermicelli started making me a little sick.
By now, there was a definite redness in the east, though not bright enough to create shadows behind us. The stars above us had acquired a tired dullness, as if preparing, after a hard night’s work, to retire for the day. I felt I couldn’t eat another bite, so I put down my plate. Mataji and Sandhya stopped as well, and we all leaned back on the charpoy to watch the dawn progress.
The clouds above the horizon were just beginning to appear as brooding outlines when Mataji stood up, horrified. “The water. We forgot to drink anything. Hurry, we must have just seconds to spare.”
We ran to the fridge, all three of us, and pulled out the whiskey bottles filled with water from the rack. In my hurry, the water streamed down my neck—Sandhya giggled as some dribbled over her chin as well. Babuji woke up with a start and watched us gulping down the contents, then turned over on his charpoy and went back to sleep.
“That’s it,” Mataji declared, like a headmistress signaling the end of a test, and we put our bottles down. She led us back outside and heaved a sigh of relief when above us, a star still twinkled feebly. A minute passed, and then several more, the dawn drawing closer but never quite arriving. Mataji looked skyward. “First you make us rush, then you go slow. What are you going to do, play games with us now?”
Sandhya climbed up on the charpoy, and I noticed how full of vitality she seemed today, from the glow on her forehead down to her feet flexing limberly against the ropes. She put a hand on my shoulder and one on Mataji’s to support herself. Her hair hung free, her eyes turned luminous and the first rays curved up from the horizon to burnish her neck.
“I think I can just see it. The dawn,” she said.
WE TOOK OUR BATHS later that morning, even though we were supposed to have done so before sunrise. “Remember, don’t let any water pass your mouth by mistake,” Mataji instructed. “If even a drop were to splash through your lips…”
Hema emerged sleepily at 9 a.m. “I haven’t eaten yet. Can I join the fast as well?” She sulked when Mataji told her it was too late, then went to the kitchen to make herself a large omelet. “Oooh, this is so delicious,” she said, taunting us with exaggerated smacking sounds from her lips.
“See this?” Mataji said, pulling out a squat pot with a stem from several folds of cloth. “This is the karva that my mother used—not even a crack in it after all these years.” She started arranging the ingredients for the ceremony that night—rice, vermilion, saffron, and black gram, along the rim of a thali. Hema’s eyes lit up when Mataji unwrapped the tissue from the glass bangles she had bought at the fair and put them on the steel platter. “Don’t touch them,” Mataji warned. “They’re only for those who wake up early enough to keep the fast.”
By eleven, most of the preparations were done. My bridal sari had been laid out on the charpoy in the bedroom, together with the gold I would be wearing that evening. For Sandhya, Mataji took out one of her own earring and necklace sets, whispering not to tell Hema that these were some of the pieces earmarked for her dowry. The mehndi man stopped by and decorated all our hands in delicate black-green filigree patterns. Hema drew her palm to her face and wrinkled her nose at the odor of the henna paste. “How can something that looks so beautiful smell so bad?”
The sun which had been in control of our lives since morning had long driven us indoors with its scorching rays. There was nothing much we could do while the mehndi set, so we lazed on the sofa under the ceiling fan. Sandhya occasionally broke into a snatch of song—I didn’t know the words, but tried to hum along. Although my hunger hadn’t returned after all the food that morning, the thirst had begun to assert itself. The dryness in my throat was spreading drought-like through my body—my lungs felt depleted, even my skin felt parched. “It’ll only get worse in the afternoon,” Mataji assured me.
The men came home for lunch after the mehndi man had left. “You must have made parathas for the fast. Where have you kept them?” Babuji called out, as we heard him searching among the thalis in the kitchen.
“I didn’t have time. Today there’s just doubleroti.”
Mataji sat where she was, baring her neck to the bre
eze from the fan.
“I remember how excited I used to be the first few years, sitting around waiting to serve Babuji his lunch, all dolled up from daybreak in my heavy bridal things. The kitchen would be like a furnace, but I would still make the chappatis fresh. Then one Karva Chauth I began to wonder why I was torturing myself—surely fifteen hours of fasting so that he could live longer should be enough. I kept making the chappatis until the dough had all been used up and waited until he had eaten his fill. Then I told him this was the last time—next year, he’d have to fend for himself.”
Mataji sighed. “Of course, the following year I felt guilty, so I started making extra parathas for him in the morning when I made some for myself. But at least during the day I no longer go into the kitchen. And some years, when there are no parathas, he has to eat Britannia bread.”
THE AFTERNOON BLAZED ON. We drew the curtains across the windows, which didn’t help too much since the air inside was already hot. “The good thing about not being able to drink water is one doesn’t sweat as much,” Mataji said. She turned her face up towards the ceiling. “Thank God we have the fan.” A few minutes later, the electricity went off.
We sat where we were, immobilized by this new adversity. The henna paste was still on our hands, so we couldn’t even use newspapers to fan ourselves. Mataji stood up. “It’s time to wash off the mehndi,” she announced. “Let’s use the water from the fridge before it gets warm. We can’t drink it, but at least it can cool us off.”
The water felt so cold and reviving against my palms that I splashed some on my face. Sandhya did the same, then playfully dribbled some drops down the back of my neck. Hema sneaked her bottle into the kitchen so we didn’t have to watch her drink—since her taunts that morning, she had acquired a new sensitivity to our thirst.
Afterwards, we compared the henna patterns left behind on our hands. It occurred to me that the last time all our palms had been decorated like this was at my wedding, when we hardly knew each other. How amazing to be all related now—not just through marriage, but also through this shared experience of fasting. Sandhya sensed the intimacy as well, because she blushed when I caught her eye. For an instant, I wanted to take her hand in mine, press my lips against the design on her skin. “My mehndi is the prettiest, and Meera didi’s is second,” Hema declared.
The relief from the water was temporary—it soon evaporated, leaving my face feeling desiccated. The thirst was now a fire inside—I could monitor it raging through my body, trying to consume every thought in my mind. How did people go for days on end without water? I wondered. Gandhiji had done it for three weeks from his prison cell to demand freedom for the country. And here I was, doing it for a day, just so I could fit in.
I looked at the henna, a map of lines stretching across my palm. Could these be new fate lines, drawn to determine my future, these stylized shoots and twining flowers? I imagined myself in the midst of the pattern, tendrils curling around my ankles, ferns reaching out to caress my face. Leading me through a forest of strokes till I am standing at the edge of an orange lake. I cup my hands to take a sip but it is sand that they come up with. It is a desert I am gazing at, the waves simply furrows from the wind. Then the furrows deepen and shift, and I see wrinkles cut into human skin. It is the face of the woman from the station steps, telling me everything will be fine again. “God will grant you…” she begins to say, but then I see her in the door of a train.
“Meera didi, are you all right?” It was Sandhya, anxiously dabbing at my forehead with a wet cloth. Behind her, Hema was asking Mataji in an excited whisper if I had fainted.
“Yes,” I said, even though I felt dizzy and disoriented.
Sandhya put her hand on my forehead. It felt cool against my skin. I looked at her face in wonder—instead of withering her, the thirst seemed to make her glow. “Only a few more hours. Time we started getting ready,” she said.
AT THE FIRST SIGHT of my parents, I started crying. How extravagant my tears were, I thought, how reckless to be wasting moisture like this. I ignored the parchedness in my throat, the light-headedness from the heat, and fell upon Biji in an embrace. Paji hugged me as well.
“All those days I didn’t see you,” Biji wept. “Stay happy, that’s all I prayed. I asked Devi Ma to bless my daughters with long-living husbands. What else does this old woman have to give?”
Mataji came out and accepted the offering of a silk sari that the bride’s mother traditionally gave for the fast. “It’s very modest, but come, let me show you around the house,” she said. “All the gifts you’ve given us to brighten our lives—most of all Meera, of course.”
Afterwards, Paji asked permission to talk with me alone. We sat on the courtyard charpoy where nobody could hear us. I felt feverish, but tried to smile and look alert for Paji.
“So this is the condition I find you in. Hands painted and fasting obediently like some fantasy Hindu wife. You look like you’re about to pass out, so you can stop twisting your mouth into that grin. All those years I stopped your mother from degrading herself like this, and the first chance you get, you dive right in. Surely you know that medical science has found no evidence that starving yourself is going to prolong your husband’s life? Couldn’t you have told them no, if not for your own sake, at least for mine?
“And this hovel you’re living in. Is this why you left your father’s house? Two rooms for seven people—where did they set up your bridal suite, on the kitchen floor?” He waved his hand around. “Look at it all—that filthy toilet, that ramshackle door, that…good God, are those cow dung patties drying on the wall?”
I wanted to defend my surroundings, defend Dev’s family, protest that the dung had been there a long time, and they didn’t use it anymore. But I couldn’t summon enough moisture to facilitate the words through my throat.
Paji ran his fingers over his brow and slowly exhaled. “I was afraid it might be bad, but I could never have pictured this. You can’t imagine how it pierces a father’s heart to see his daughter starved like a caged animal.” He looked away from me, as if the sight was too painful to bear. “I have to blame myself too, you know. I could have tried to change your mind, I could have refused to let you go.”
He turned back and earnestly grasped my hand. “When I got your letter, I was too stunned to respond. Greed has made her blind, I thought to myself. Or, more likely, the husband’s greed. I now see how wrong I was—what a desperate situation you were writing from. There’s only one thing that matters now, and that’s for you to escape the life these barbarians have in store for you. Otherwise it will be like committing sati bit by bit while your husband watches on.
“So I’ve decided. I’ve decided you’re going to Bombay. I’m prepared to pay what it takes. Over and above what they’ve already squeezed out, just to get you away from their clutches. If you must cart along that singer husband of yours, fine. That’s your choice, not mine. The important thing is for you to break free, to make your own life. That’s going to be my only condition. I’ve decided you’re going to college, Meera. That you’re going to study as I’d planned. That you’re not going to sit at home and become fat like some bovine wife.
“Did you know that Roopa’s pregnant? She called just yesterday with the news—the ‘good’ news I should say. Two months of marriage and already she jumps off the cliff. And here I am, looking for universities in Visakhapatnam for her to complete her B.A. All those promises I made to myself that if I did nothing else, I would educate at least one of your mother’s daughters. Can you believe it—my own Roopa—disappointing me like this? And Sharmila’s not bright enough, which only leaves you.” Paji looked at me as if he had just paid me a compliment.
“But I suppose it’s time for tonight’s extravaganza. I shouldn’t keep your relatives waiting, not to mention all the gods and goddesses they must have invited down especially from heaven. We can make the arrangements some other time. Why don’t you call that husband of yours so he can hear my offer too?”
>
My mind whirling, I stumbled away to find Dev. He was thrilled. “As her husband, I couldn’t agree more that Meera should study,” he declared to Paji. “You have my word she’ll go to college when we get to Bombay.”
Dev was gushing to Paji about how grateful he was, how this was going to be such a wonderful opportunity. Had my mind been clearer, I might have anticipated his next action and had time to warn him. But after listening to Paji’s plans for my future, I was as mentally drained as physically exhausted. Before I could stop him, Dev bent down to touch Paji’s feet.
With the alacrity of a cobra, Paji’s hand shot out to apprehend his wrist, twisting it so sharply that Dev cried out in pain. Hema, who had been spying on us from the kitchen, came running out. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“Sorry,” Paji said, releasing his grip. “It’s a reflex action—I should have warned you. A custom I simply cannot abide.” Paji’s lips started curling into the familiar smile that was not a smile. “I suppose there’s one more condition, then, to my offer. I don’t know what type of ceremony you have planned for tonight. But if I see my daughter touch your feet, that’ll be the end of your dream. I’ll walk out that door and my offer will walk out with me.”
BY EIGHT, THE GUESTS were all gathered in the courtyard. Mataji had invited her friends to share in the auspicious occasion of my first Karva Chauth. “There’s Mrs. Sampath,” Hema said, pointing at a woman sitting on the charpoy and kneading her chest. “She says she’s going to get a heart attack since she can’t take her blood pressure pills during the fast. Last year she fainted and the ambulance came and took her away, but people said later it was just to show off.
“And that’s Mrs. Gangwal. She still keeps the fast even though her husband ran off with her niece four years ago. And next to her, Mrs. Pota, whose husband no one’s ever seen. The rumor is he’s dead.”
