Nectar in a Sieve

by Kamala Markandaya

  "She is that," Kali said handsomely. "Therefore look to her even more closely." There was no subduing Kali, as I well knew.

  Thereafter, although we did not admit it to each other, we were more careful of Ira. Poor child, she was bewildered by the many injunctions we laid upon her, and the curtailing of her freedom tried her sorely, though not a word of complaint came from her.

  CHAPTER V

  IN all the years of our tenancy we never saw the Zemindar who owned our land. Sivaji acted for him, and being a kindly, humane man we counted ourselves lucky. Unlike some, he did not extract payment in kind to the last grain; he allowed us to keep the gleanings; he did not demand from us bribes of food or money; nor did he claim for himself the dung from the fields, which he might easily have done, stipulating only that Kali and I should gather our share on different days to avoid arguments. This way we got fairly equal quantities and there was no bad blood between us.

  One morning, so early that the dew still jewelled the grass and the clamour of the tannery had not yet begun, I went out on my errand. It was as well to go out early, otherwise you could never tell how much had already been taken by urchins, for dung was easy to sell and commanded a good price. Several times before, I had seen boys on the land and had chased them from it, but without succeeding in getting hold of their loot.

  That morning there were a lot of pickings; I soon filled the small basket I had with me. As I bent down for the last handful I became aware that someone was watching me.

  It was Kenny, thinner than when I had last seen him, but how could I ever forget him? Leaving my basket, I ran to him, dirty hands and all, with a glad welcoming heart.

  "My lord, my benefactor," I cried. "Many a time I have longed to see you. Now at last you come," and I bent down to kiss his feet, shod as they were in leather shoes. He withdrew them quickly and told me to get up.

  "I am not a benefactor," he said, "nor a lord. What ails you?"

  "You are my benefactor," I said stoutly. "Have I not five sons to prove it?"

  "Am I to blame for your excesses?" said he, grimacing, but his eyes were alight with laughter, no doubt at my crestfallen face.

  "Come with me," I said, recovering myself. "You shall see them, excesses or not."

  "For a few minutes only, I am busy," he replied, and as I picked up my basket he peered in. "I see you collect dung and take it with you. Is it not for the land?"

  "Indeed no. Dung is too useful in our homes to be given to the land, for it is fuel to us and protection against damp and heat and even ants and mice. Did you not know?"

  "Too well," he answered shortly. "I have seen your women forever making dung cakes and burning them and smearing their huts. Yet I thought you would know better, who live by the land yet think of taking from it without giving."

  "What substitute then?" I said quietly.

  He made no reply but came after me. All the children were awake, waiting for their morning meal of rice water. Nathan was working in the fields, and I sent one of the boys to call him in. For Kenny I spread a mat and he sat down while we grouped ourselves about him, but I could see he was not accustomed to sitting crosslegged on the floor, for his knees instead of resting on the mat sprang up aslant like the horns of a bull, and 1 was uncomfortable for him, and distressed that I had nothing else to offer.

  Ira strained the rice water into wooden bowls for us -- the rice itself we kept for our midday meal -- but to one bowl she added a handful of the cooked rice and a little salt, which we could not afford for ourselves, and this she handed to Kenny, stooping low and keeping her eyes down.

  "My daughter Irawaddy," I said, proud that she should know her duties to a guest.

  Kenny took the bowl from her with a smile.

  "You are a good cook for one so young," he said, laying his hand for a moment on her head. She did not raise her eyes, but her face kindled, and I was pleased too that he should notice my child. He spoke to each of the others in turn until Murugan, my third son, came bouncing in leading his father by the hand.

  "You have heard me tell of Kenny often enough," I said. "This is he, friend to my father's house." So much I said, and left the other unsaid.

  My husband made namaskar.

  "I have," he replied formally, "and I am happy that he should honour our poor household by his presence."

  "Yet not so poor," the other replied politely, "for the women of your house do you credit, and you have begotten five healthy sons."

  My heart quailed at his words for fear he should betray me, yet no betrayal, since how could he guess my husband did not know I had gone to him for treatment? Why had I, stupidest of women, not told him? I waited, gnawing my lip, but he said no more.

  Kenny came often to our house thereafter. Of himself he did not speak, of wife or children or parents or home. I held my tongue, for I felt to ask would be to offend him. Yet he had a love for children; mine were always eager to see him, making great fuss of him when he came, and he for his part would suffer them patiently, often bringing with him half a coconut, or ladus made of nuts and rolled into balls with jaggery, which the children loved. Once he came when I was suckling Selvam, my youngest son, who had turned three, and saw that my breasts were sore where the child's mouth had been.

  "The boy is long past weaning," he said frowning. "Why do you force it?"

  "We had to sell our goat," I said. "I can no longer afford to buy milk, but while my son is young and needs it I will give it to him."

  Thereafter he brought me a little cow's milk when he could, or sent it with one of the children from the village, who were always glad to help him, for he had a way of attracting children; there was ever a troop following him about.

  As before, he came and went mysteriously. I knew little beyond the fact that he worked among the people of the tannery, treating and healing their bodies during long hours and then going to his lone dwelling; but when he left the village, for days or years at a time, nobody knew where he went or what he did, and when he returned he was more taciturn than ever and none dared ask.

  CHAPTER VI

  I KEPT Ira as long as I could but when she was past fourteen her marriage could be delayed no longer, for it is well known with what speed eligible young men are snapped up; at it was, most girls of her age were already married or at least betrothed. The choice of go-between was not easy to make: Kali was the nearest to hand and the obvious one, but she was garrulous and self-opinionated: rejection of the young man she selected would involve a tedious squabble. Besides, she had sons of her own and might well consider them suitable husbands, which I certainly could not, for they owned no land. Old Granny, on the other hand, would be the ideal go-between: she was old and experienced, knew very well what to look for and never lacked patience; but for some years now I had not traded with her and she might with every justification refuse to act for me. But in the end it was to her I went.

  "A dowry of one hundred rupees," I said. "A maiden like a flower. Do your best for me and I shall be ever in your debt. This I ask you," I said, looking straight at her, "although Biswas takes my produce and for you there has been nothing."

  "I bear you no grudge, Rukmani," she replied. "Times are hard and we must do what we can for ourselves and our children. I will do my best."

  Thereafter never a week went by but she brought news of this boy or that, and she and I and Nathan spent long hours trying to assess their relative merits. At last we found one who seemed to fulfill our requirements: he was young and well favoured, the only son of his father from whom he would one day inherit a good portion of land.

  "They will expect a large dowry," I said regretfully. "One hundred rupees will not win such a husband, we have no more."

  "She is endowed with beauty," Old Granny said. "It will make up for a small dowry -- in this case."

  She was right. Within a month the preliminaries were completed, the day was fixed. Ira accepted our choice with her usual docility; if she fretted at the thought of leaving us and her brothers she
showed no sign. Only once she asked a little wistfully how frequently I would be able to visit her, and, although I knew such trips would have to be very rare since her future home lay some ten villages away, I assured her not a year would pass without my going to see her two or three times.

  "Besides, you will not want me so often," I said. "This home, your brothers, are all you have known so far, but when you have your own home and your own children you will not miss these. . . ."

  She nodded slightly, making no comment, yet I knew how bruised she must be by the imminent parting. My spirit ached with pity for her, I longed to be able to comfort her, to convince her that in a few months' time her new home would be the most significant part of her life, the rest only a preparation . . . but before this joy must come the stress of parting, the loneliness of beginning a new life among strangers, the strain of the early days of marriage; and because I knew this the words would not come. . . .

  Wedding day. Women from the village came to assist. Janaki, Kali, many I hardly knew. We went with Ira to the river and, when she was freshly bathed, put on her the red sari I had worn at my own wedding. Its rich heavy folds made her look more slender than she was, made her look a child. . . . I darkened her eyes with kohl and the years fell away more; she was so pitifully young I could hardly believe she was to be married, today.

  The bridegroom arrived; his parents, his relatives, our friends, the priests. The drummer arrived and squatted outside awaiting permission to begin; the fiddler joined him. There should have been other musicians -- a flautist, a harmonium player, but we could not afford these. Nathan would have nothing we could not pay for. No debts, he insisted, no debts. But I grudged Ira nothing: had I not saved from the day of her birth so that she should marry well? Now I brought out the stores I had put by month after month -- rice and dhal and ghee, jars of oil, betel leaf, areca nuts, chewing tobacco and copra.

  "I didn't know you had so much," said Nathan in amazement.

  "And if you had there would be little enough," I said with a wink at the women, "for men are like children and must grab what they see."

  I did not wait for his retort, hearing only the laughter that greeted his sally, but went out to speak to the drummer. Arjun, my eldest son, was sitting next to the man, cautiously tapping the drum with three fingers as he had been shown.

  "There is plenty of food inside," I said to him. "Go and eat while there is still some left."

  "I can eat no more," he replied. "I have been feasting all day."

  Nevertheless he had made provision for the morrow: I saw in his lap a bundle bulging with food; sugar syrup and butter had soaked through the cloth patchily.

  "Join your brothers," I said, hoisting him up. "The drummer is going to be busy."

  He ran off, clinging tightly to his bundle. The wedding music began. Bride and groom were sitting uneasily side by side, Ira stiff in the heavy embroidered sari, white flowers in her hair, very pale. They did not look at each other. About them were packed some fourteen or fifteen people -- the hut could hold no more. The remainder sat outside on palm leaves the boys had collected.

  "What a good match," everybody said. "Such a fine boy, such a beautiful girl, too good to be true." It was indeed. Old Granny went about beaming: it was she who had brought the two parties together; her reputation as a matchmaker would be higher than ever. We none of us could look into the future.

  So they were married. As the light faded two youths appeared bearing a palanquin for the newly married couple, lowered it at the entrance to the hut for them to step into. Now that it was time to go, Ira looked scared, she hesitated a little before entering: but already a dozen willing hands had lifted her in. The crowd, full of good feeling, replete with food and drunk with the music, vicariously excited, pressed round, eagerly thrusting over their heads garland after garland of flowers; the earth was spattered with petals. In the midst of the crush Nathan and I, Nathan holding out his hands to Ira in blessing, she with dark head bent low to receive it. Then the palanquin was lifted up, the torchbearers closed in, the musicians took their places. We followed on foot behind, relatives, friends, wellwishers and hangers-on. Several children had added themselves to the company; they came after, jigging about in high glee, noisy and excited: a long, ragged tail-end to the procession.

  Past the fields, through the winding streets of the village we went, the bobbing palanquin ahead of us. Until we came at last to where, at a decorous distance, the bullock cart waited to take them away.

  Then it was all over, the bustle, the laughter, the noise. The wedding guests departed. The throng melted. After a while we walked back together to our hut. Our sons, tired out, were humped together asleep, the youngest clutching a sugary confection in one sticky fist. Bits of food lay everywhere. I swept the floor clean and strewed it with leaves. The walls showed cracks, and clods of mud had fallen where people had bumped against them, but these I left for patching in the morning. The used plaintain leaves I stacked in one heap -- they would do for the bullocks. The stars were pale in the greying night before I lay down beside my husband. Not to sleep but to think. For the first time since her birth, Ira no longer slept under our roof.

  CHAPTER VII

  NATURE is like a wild animal that you have trained to work for you. So long as you are vigilant and walk warily with thought and care, so long will it give you its aid; but look away for an instant, be heedless or forgetful, and it has you by the throat.

  Ira had been given in marriage in the month of June, which is the propitious season for weddings, and what with the preparing for it, and the listlessness that took hold of me in the first days after her departure, nothing was done to make our hut weatherproof or to secure the land from flooding. That year the monsoon broke early with an evil intensity such as none could remember before.

  It rained so hard, so long and so incessantly that the thought of a period of no rain provoked a mild wonder. It was as if nothing had ever been but rain, and the water pitilessly found every hole in the thatched roof to come in, dripping onto the already damp floor. If we had not built on high ground the very walls would have melted in that moisture. I brought out as many pots and pans as I had and we laid them about to catch the drips, but soon there were more leaks than we had vessels.... Fortunately, I had laid in a stock of firewood for Ira's wedding, and the few sticks that remained served at least to cook our rice, and while the fire burnt, hissing at the water in the wood, we huddled round trying to get dry. At first the children were cheerful enough -- they had not known such things before, and the lakes and rivulets that formed outside gave them endless delight; but Nathan and I watched with heavy hearts while the waters rose and rose and the tender green of the paddy field sank under and was lost.

  "It is a bad season," Nathan said sombrely. "The rains have destroyed much of our work; there will be little eating done this year."

  At his words, Arjun broke into doleful sobs and his brother, Thambi, followed suit. They were old enough to understand, but the others, who weren't, burst into tears too, for by now they were cramped and out of humour with sitting crouched on the damp floor; and hungry since there was little to eat, for most of the food had gone to make the wedding feast, and the new season's harvesting lay outside ungathered and rotting. I hushed them as best I could, throwing a reproachful glance at my husband for his careless words, but he was unnoticing, sunk in hatred and helplessness.

  As night came on -- the eighth night of the monsoon -- the winds increased, whining and howling around our hut as if seeking to pluck it from the earth. Indoors it was dark -- the wick, burning in its shallow saucer of oil, threw only a dim wavering light -- but outside the land glimmered, sometimes pale and sometimes vivid, in the flicker of lightning. Towards midnight the storm was at its worst. Lightning kept clawing at the sky almost continuously, thunder shook the earth. I shivered as I looked -- for I could not sleep, and even a prayer came with difficulty.

  "It cannot last." Nathan said. "The storm will abate by the morning
."

  Even as he spoke a streak of lightning threw itself down at the earth, there was a tremendous clap of thunder, and when I uncovered my shrinking eyes I saw that our coconut palm had been struck. That, too, the storm had claimed for its own.

  In the morning everything was calm. Even the rain had stopped. After the fury of the night before, an unnatural stillness lay on the land. I went out to see if anything could be saved of the vegetables, but the shoots and vines were battered and broken, torn from their supports and bruised; they did not show much sign of surviving. The corn field was lost. Our paddy field lay beneath a placid lake on which the children were already sailing bits of wood.

  Many of our neighbours fared much worse than we had. Several were homeless, and of a group of men who sheltered under a tree when the storm began six had been killed by lightning.

  Kali's hut had been completely destroyed in the last final fury of the storm. The roof had been blown away bodily, the mud walls had crumbled.