by David Hair
Ramita and Huriya stared at each other, realised the other was crying. They looked back at Ispal. This was nothing like the story they had been told before; the tale of Raz and Ispal they knew was colourful and funny. But this dreadful story rang true.
Ispal gave them both a measuring look. ‘I have told you different versions of that story before, to protect you, but that is the true accounting of how Raz and I became brothers. I brought them south with me, for though he was burned dreadfully, Falima never left his side. She married him, and bore his children: she was as heroic as he, Huriya. Your parents loved each other with a love that towers above we mortals. Be worthy of them.
‘Ramita, I tell you this tale to honour my friend, my brother Raz Makani, but also so that you know what your husband-to-be has let loose. I do not believe him evil, but he permitted an evil thing to happen, and he is tormented by this. He seeks to give recompense to the world. You must help him. Respect him, but do not fear him.
‘Remember also the reason Captain Vann Mercer gave me for this treacherous assault: “Orders”. Daughter, you are going to meet men who give “orders”. Beware of them, I beg you. People do the worst evil when they do not have to take responsibility themselves but can blame others.
‘And third, I want you to remember that these ferang, for all their power and strangeness, are also people. That captain, and others I have met since, have been as much a mix of good and ill as any person I could name here in Baranasi. Condemn an evil deed, but know that few men are fully evil; most just follow “orders”.’
He shook his head. ‘I hope this tale will help you understand the world a little. It is a muddled, complex place, and anything can happen, with no clear moral or purpose. Sometimes I wonder if all the gods are blind.’ He looked up at the moon. ‘Maybe the moon has made them all go mad.’ Without another word he leant over the girls, blessed them both and left.
The girls were silent, stunned by this new version of family history. They clung to each other for hours, but neither slept for a long time.
When Tanuva shook Ramita awake it was still dark outside, but the moon was on the other side of the sky and dawn was beginning to glimmer in the east. ‘Come, daughter. It is your wedding day.’ Her voice sounded haunted.
Huriya snored on in the corner, her head thrown back in abandon. Ramita envied her, exhausted from vivid nightmares of witches with burned-out eyes. Ispal was waiting downstairs in the kitchen and together they knelt beside the tiny fire he had kindled. The twins were asleep there, wrapped in blankets, since their room had been taken over for the wedding. Pashinta let herself in the back door. There was water and a bowl of curd into which Tanuva was stirring rice flakes. But first they had to bathe in Imuna one final time. Ramita wrapped herself in a blanket and they walked through the pre-dawn alleys, treading the familiar path to the ghats. In Lakh there were always people around: men stumbling home drunk or servants scurrying about some task while their masters slept. Traders, sleeping in the streets to guard their tiny stalls and shops, from sturdy buildings to holes in a wall, even just space for a blanket on the ground. A lonely cow, mournfully watching them pass. The alleys were smoky and filled with rivermist.
Other women joined them, rising from their doorways as they passed: Tanuva’s friends, come to share in the final preparation of the bride. Ramita had known them all her life, but now she loved them, wanted to be one of them, to grow old among them – but the gods wanted her to go north with a strange old man who had doomed the world.
There were ten women, the most auspicious number, clustered about her as she disrobed and walked into the Imuna, letting the cold water stroke her thighs, her belly, her breasts, her face. Wash me away, Imuna. Wash me away, and leave just a husk to go on. Let my awareness remain here always, whilst an empty shell lives out my mortal life. Hear this prayer, Holy River. But if Imuna heard, she did not care to grant this wish. Maybe the river was listening only to the women about her praying for her to enjoy a happy and fruitful marriage. Her soul remained firmly in her cold, wet body as she emerged from the river into a warming blanket. The chanting women waited for the sun, which rose golden and burned through the mist, pouring light upon all the other hundreds and thousands of people here, to the left and to the right, all with their hands raised to greet the dawn.
At last there were no more excuses, nothing that remained to be done. She felt numb, in no way ready, despite all the prayers and privations. Her mother and Pashinta took her hands and pulled her erect. Their faces were stony. Time did not wait, even for her.
At home her parents fed her with their own hands, then Ispal led her quietly back to the bedroom, where a fresh nightdress lay, a new one, not even a hand-me-down from Pashinta’s daughters. She squeezed his hand, then shooed him away, pulled off her sodden shift and put on the virgin linen. Within a short time she was snoring as deeply as Huriya, who hadn’t moved.
When Ramita woke again it was well into the morning and Huriya was lying there waiting for her eyes to open. ‘Sal’Ahm,’ she murmured.
‘Sal’Ahm,’ replied Ramita, a lump in her throat. My wedding day. Her stomach felt queasy. She would not be able to eat again until the wedding feast. The next time food passes my lips, I will be married to that dried-out old man with dead eyes.
‘Let’s go and see the gifts,’ urged Huriya, ‘and pick out what you’re going to wear.’ However sorry Huriya might be for Ramita, she was eager to go north and see the world.
She wouldn’t lift a finger to stop this wedding if she could.
Hand in hand they went downstairs, where the kitchen was in full flow. Cakes and biscuits were piling up in heaps as they were swept off the griddle by gap-toothed aunties. Pots of daal were being stirred, perfuming the air with chilli and garlic. Jai and his friends were outside playing cards in between chores. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the yard. Ispal was at the centre of things, giving instructions, paying helpers, but her mother was the one really in command, giving ‘hints’ to her husband whenever something specific was needed. Everyone was singing or gossiping, the noise so loud she wondered how on earth she had slept so late.
When her parents saw her, they both came and hugged her. ‘Every day is a gift,’ Ispal whispered, ‘but you will remember this one above most others. Cherish it, my dear daughter.’
How can I? Yet she put on her dutiful face as they all went upstairs to the twins’ room, a stale little cell with no windows now piled high with mounds of vegetables and piles of bundles, her wedding gifts, unwrapped by her parents. Ispal lit a candle, then lifted a blanket covering a lumpy mound on the bed. Ramita caught her breath as Huriya clapped her hand excitedly. The light of the candle was reflected everywhere, in golden brocade, glittering jewellery, silver chalices and brass statuary.
‘Gifts,’ Ispal said hoarsely, ‘from Antonin Meiros to his wife-to-be.’ He wrapped an arm about her. ‘You will be the finest bride in Baranasi.’
She gaped, speechless at the sight of more riches than she had ever dreamt of.
‘Vikash Nooridan was given money,’ Ispal murmured. ‘He went with his wife to the finest shops, the ones the princes use – that bull of a ferang captain went with him. Vikash says that his wife nearly fainted with the pleasure of it. Come, choose jewellery; you too, Huriya, you also are my daughter. But remember, Ramita, you will wear your mother’s wedding saree. These others will be for other occasions. When you are visiting the princes of Hebusalim, perhaps.’ He looked almost happy for a second. Then he turned and left the room.
Tanuva picked up first one item then another, staring at them with glassy eyes, then she simply fled, her eyes streaming. Ramita went to follow, but Huriya caught her sleeve. ‘She needs to be alone, sister.’ The Keshi girl picked up a necklace, fondled it greedily, then thrust it at Ramita. ‘Try this on!’
They spent a long time going through it all. Ramita was too stunned to comprehend that all of this was hers, but she enjoyed Huriya’s almost ecstatic pleasure at the weal
th spread about them. The Keshi girl was in her element, and her boundless enthusiasm drew Ramita in. They sorted through the earrings, nose-rings and lip-studs, the bangles, anklets, rings and the necklaces, until rubies and diamonds and even pearls seemed as common as the chickpeas and lentils in the kitchen below. They caressed the silken saris and salwars and dupattas, stroking the heavy brocade as they marvelled at the intricate patterns and vivid colours. Ramita gave to Huriya the things she most drooled over for the sheer pleasure of her reactions.
‘Isn’t this worth it?’ Huriya demanded. ‘He’s just an old man – he’ll die soon, and then we’ll be free and rich.’ Everything was ‘we’ for Huriya now she was permitted to accompany Ramita north, but Ramita was grateful for that. She needed a ‘we’ because she couldn’t do this alone.
Late afternoon, the Rondian soldiers arrived, stepping into the colour and frenzy like steel bugs. Captain Klein tramped through the gate and his jaw dropped at all the garish ribbons and the brightly attired women of the ghats. His brutish face loosened into a hint of a smile as he took it in, though he was clearly still nervous about the press of people. Everyone stared at him, this outlandish creature straight out of a story; he certainly looked the part of a ferocious Rondian giant.
Only once all day did she think of Kazim, after a disturbance in the alleys, when she thought she heard him call her name, but nothing happened. Meiros’ guardsmen kept everyone away, even the curious street-toughs sent by Chandra-bhai, the local crimelord. Ispal would need to hire guards to stop other men from robbing them – they had never had possessions worth stealing before. For the first time it occurred to her that this new wealth might be a mixed blessing. How would the princes receive a newly rich trader? She began to chew her lip as every new difficulty occurred to her.
No one noticed her silence with so much going on. Some of the older men and women were dancing gently, and the smell of cooking was drawing people of all description. Ragged skin-and-bone children were begging at the gate and whenever she appeared, everyone stared at her. When it became all too uncomfortable she went back inside and slowly, reluctantly, began to prepare in earnest for the evening’s ordeal. Time was both frozen and racing past.
She and Huriya washed in the tiny privy with a bucket of hot water. Once they were dry, an army of women crowded into their dressing room, gushing over their saris. Then they saw the jewellery, and were struck dumb. Ramita saw their faces change as it dawned on them that however mysterious this marriage was, there were very material reasons why it was happening. Some of the faces turned envious, peering at Ramita as if wondering: Why her, why not my daughter? Others fawned over Tanuva, praising her motherly skills, reminding her of past generosities. Her mother, sensing the change in mood, chased everyone out, declaring that the girls needed time and room to get ready. Only Pashinta was allowed to stay, her tough face sober as she helped clear the room. Tanuva looked on the verge of tears as she called out to Jai to watch over the gifts.
The girls dressed in silence. Only Huriya took pleasure in the riches they hung about themselves. Ramita’s handed-down wedding saree was a richly patterned maroon and gold piece, the best – indeed, the only fancy piece of clothing the family had owned before today. It was a family treasure; this would be its fifth wearing in eighty years. For all that, it was the plainest saree here, outshone by the new ones purchased with Meiros’ money.
Ramita felt strange to be hung with gold and gems when all she had worn previously was cheap brass and cut glass. The big looped nose ring piercing her left nostril and fixed to her ear by a chain felt especially uncomfortable, as if it might pull her ear off. The gold and glass bangles on her arm clattered with every movement. Pashinta powdered her face, rouged her cheeks and coloured her eyelids in black kohl. They took a bowl of sandalwood paste and marked her face in a dot pattern sweeping from cheekbone to cheekbone, in the traditional bridal patterns. It took for ever.
Pashinta looked at her critically. ‘You are a pretty girl, Ramita. Your groom will be well pleased.’ She knew who that groom was, of course. Tanuva trusted her with such secrets. ‘Ramita dear, you are doing a brave thing,’ she murmured, ‘but I don’t think this is an auspicious wedding. You are being asked to fly too high. We are simple people. We are not meant to have gold and gems and silks and riches and to walk with princes. Ispal, Vikash and all the other men, they are thinking only about money. I pray you will not be the one who pays the price for their greed.’
‘We’ll be all right, Auntie,’ Ramita said in as firm a voice as she could muster. ‘Father has done a good thing.’ The assertion sounded hollow, even to herself. I have to believe I am doing this for the good of my family. I cannot afford to doubt.
Pashinta looked away. ‘You are a good daughter, Ramita. Parvasi watch over you.’ They heard a blast of trumpets outside, and everyone froze. Pashinta looked from the window, her face stricken. ‘By all the gods, he is here.’
Ramita sat on her piri stool in the kitchen, her henna’d hands clinging to Huriya’s so hard her knuckles were pale. She could hear everything and see nothing as Pashinta, in the traditional role as female friend of the house, greeted the groom. Beside her, Father was perspiring thickly. Conch shells blew and the assembled women chanted as they sprinkled rosewater over her groom as he entered the courtyard. She shut her eyes tight and began to pray. This was no dream. Instead of marrying Kazim, as she had prepared her life, she was to be given to a elderly stranger and taken to another land.
‘Where is Kazim?’ she whispered to Huriya.
Her friend whispered through her veil, ‘He’s at the Dom-al’Ahm, with Father’s body. He told me to tell you that he misses you, that he loves you, that he will be yours for ever.’
She peered through her veil, not fooled. ‘What did he really say?’ she demanded.
Huriya hung her head. ‘Stupid, foolish things,’ she said in a flat, unforgiving voice. ‘He’s angry. He has these new Amteh friends and won’t talk to me any more.’ Her face hardened. ‘If he doesn’t need me, then I don’t need him.’
Oh Kazim! Don’t hate me. I will always be yours, whatever happens.
And suddenly there was no time left. Her mother brushed the back of her hands with trembling fingers, then went upstairs. It was bad luck for mothers to watch their children wed. Huriya handed Ramita two banana leaves, one for each hand. She drew them under her veil, then lifted them to cover her face. She quelled her mounting panic. I will not disgrace my family.
Jai and his friend Baghi came in, clad in gleaming white and orange, their faces grim. They bent over her and seized two legs each of her piri stool. ‘Ek, do, tin,’ Jai muttered, and they straightened. She had to let go of Huriya’s hand as they carried her awkwardly into the courtyard to the sound of conches and deafening ululation. She could see the outline of her groom in his pale robes, standing in the middle of the tiny yard, his guards about him. Jai and Baghi bore her around him slowly, the seven turns required by ritual. Meiros, his face hidden deep in his hood, followed her progress. Through the veil, she caught fragments: Father’s face, beaded with sweat; Huriya’s greedy eyes; a sea of straining faces. Finally the seventh circle was completed and she was held before him. The marigold garland about her shoulders filled her nostrils. She hid behind the two banana leaves and waited.
Meiros raised his arms and pulled back his hood. The entire crowd sucked in their breath, finally able to see the mystery groom. Whoever they had been expecting, it wasn’t a whiteskinned old man. She heard gasps of pity and anger as they compared his ancient features to the youth of his bride, and murmurings: how dare Ispal sell his daughter to this old pallid creature? It was an affront to nature. She felt the tension rise about the crowded courtyard.
Pandit Arun stepped through the soldiers and laid a garland of marigolds about Meiros’ neck. She cowered behind the banana leaves and closed her eyes. She felt Jai and Baghi lift the front of her veil and settle it over Meiros’ head, and the world shrank to a tiny space. The
torches and lanterns cast a reddish light through the lace. She could hear his breath, smell his rosewater scent. He smells old …
Vikash Nooridan’s voice intruded, speaking Rondian words to Meiros, explaining the ceremony. ‘My lord, this is the unveiling of the bride. You must await her. She will lower the leaves when she is ready and gaze upon you. Then you must exchange garlands.’
She was not obliged to hurry. For a second she thought about remaining motionless for ever.
‘Well, girl?’ came that dry, rasping voice, speaking in Lakh.
She swallowed. ‘My father does not think you are an evil man,’ she found the courage to say.
A small chuckle. ‘That puts him in a minority. I suppose I should be grateful.’
‘Is he right?’ she dared to ask.
That made him pause. His eventual reply was reflective. ‘I’ve never believed that a man is good or evil. Deeds might be, but men are a summation of their actions and their intentions, words and thoughts. I have always done what I thought was best.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Not everyone agrees.’
She opened her eyes, stared at the trembling leaves. ‘Will you treat me well?’
‘I will treat you with respect and dignity and honour. I will treat you as a wife. But do not expect love. I have none of that left. Death has claimed those I loved and left that river dry.’
‘Father says you had a wife and a son?’
‘My wife died many years ago. My daughter is barren. My son … My son was murdered. They bound him so that he could not reach the gnosis and then tortured him while he was helpless. Then they butchered him and sent me his head.’ His voice lost its flatness. It was tinged now with loss and anger. Then emotion fled, and the dry voice said, ‘I am sorry to take you from the life you thought to have. I cannot give you that life, but I can make this one comfortable, and filled with beautiful things.’
