The Color of our Sky: A novel set in India

by Amita Trasi

Before she died, Amma told me dreams aren’t meant for our kind. Desire, aspiration, hope, love—everything that a person talks about—isn’t meant for people like us. I was ten when I watched her die. I watched how her breathing grew softer and softer and her eyes closed slowly as if she didn’t want to go, as if she didn’t want to let me go. She held my hand tightly, and all I could see of her face was blood dripping out of every wound. But I remember her eyes. I remember what I saw in them one last time—fear—the fear that my life would be just like hers.

  -MUKTA

  Two

  Village of Ganipur, India - 1986

  We are like the datura flowers that unfurl at night—intoxicating, blossoming in the dark, wilting away at dawn. It’s something my grandmother, Sakubai, used to tell me when I was a child. It sounded so poetic to me back then. I used to like listening to it, even giggling at it without understanding what it meant. It’s the first thing that comes to my mind when people ask me about my life.

  For a long time I did not know I was the daughter of a temple prostitute, that I was born into a cult that followed the sacred tradition of dedicating their daughters to the Goddess Yellamma. When the British ruled our country, Sakubai used to tell me the kings and zamindars would act as our patrons and support us with money. People used to revere us as if we were priests. We danced in temples, sang songs of worship, and villagers sought our blessings for important occasions. The tradition is no different today. Except that patrons owned us and supported us then, but now there aren’t any kings and very few upper caste men who are willing to support us. Lower caste girls as young as eight are married to the Goddess in a dedication ceremony. In this tiny village of South India we are also called Devdasis—servants of God.

  Coming from a long line of Devdasis, I was bound to become one eventually. But as a child I did not know that. I did not know my body did not belong to me. I sometimes forget that I was a child once, that everything was foolish and naïve to my eyes. It all seems like a dream—those serene mornings, waking up in the village when all you could see were clear skies, sunshine pouring in—it’s slanting rays so thick you would be convinced that was all life had to offer. Our village had a lot of farms filled with rice, maize, and millet. Greenery swayed in every corner of the village. With every gentle whiff of wind that caressed my cheeks, Amma would say God’s hands were patting my cheeks. She used to tell me that God overlooks my every move. I believed it then and feared God would punish me every time I plucked mangoes from the trees that did not belong to us. It was such a different life as a child, back when I didn’t know what was coming for me.

  My Amma was a beautiful woman. I once told her that her clear, honeyed complexion was like glittering gold, and the whites of her eyes shone like diamonds set in that gold, and she laughed. I didn’t look anything like her. Sakubai used to say I was too fair for a lower caste, and it was clear I had inherited my looks and my green eyes from my father who was an upper caste Brahmin.

  When I think back to that time, I think of my Amma’s soft brown eyes and the way she told me stories or sang to me. How her eyes portrayed every emotion in a story, how they would move with the music in her voice. She would sing to me in her smooth, melodious voice. I can still hear her at times.

  The wind races through the woods,

  Over the mountains and over the sea,

  I hear it now, I hear it clear,

  For all it does is whisper in my ear,

  Of giant kingdoms, of gallant kings,

  Of pretty princesses and their gentle grooms,

  Oh! The wind, it speaks to me.

  When I listened to her, my thoughts would race along with the wind, crossing our village, whistling through mountains, between boulders and rocks, ruffling the leaves on trees, flying with the birds, and reaching the city where my father lived. And I would wonder what my father was doing at that very minute. Was he looking out a window searching for my face, crossing the street thinking about me, or was he on his way here to meet me?

  I’ve never met my father. Whatever little I knew of him I learned from Sakubai. Amma never spoke of him much. Whenever she did, there was a distant dreamy look on her face—the glow of love. I never asked her where my father was or who he was, although I yearned to ask. I was always afraid I might say something that would remind her of my father, and at times, when I did ask, her eyes would melt into that forlorn, heartbroken look. So I let her continue with her stories, never stopping her to ask if my father wanted to meet me.

  I lived with Amma and Sakubai in a house situated on the outskirts of our little village, Ganipur, at the foothills of the Sahyadri near the border of Maharashtra and Karnataka. It was a very old house built many years ago for Sakubai by the zamindar who owned the land and was her patron at the time. It wasn’t a very big house—just two rooms. One of the two rooms belonged to Sakubai and the other was where Amma and I slept at night. In the corner of our room was a kitchen—a small space surrounded by blackened walls where we stoked the furnace. The house was fenced in, but the wooden fence in the backyard had rotted and fallen down long before I was born. Now the backyard was just an empty, open space.

  Once Sakubai opened an old trunk and brought out a tattered black and white photograph of a house that looked different, a far cry from the house we lived in. When she showed me the snap, I gaped at the house in the photograph and refused to believe it was ours.

  “That is not this house,” I said stubbornly.

  “Yes, it is,” Sakubai insisted. She looked out the window as if looking at a different world, and I followed her gaze.

  “There,” she said, “that was where the garden was. Do you see the roses there by the gate and those patches of white flowers here on the side of this fence?”

  I looked but still couldn’t see. Nothing was remotely as beautiful as the house in the picture. Sakubai told me that this house—the house in the picture—had a lovely roof, a red tiled roof with fresh cream paint. When she told me this I imagined the paint to be so fresh I could almost smell it. The house we lived in now . . . the roof was broken and leaked and the color of the walls was faded. Whenever I saw this house from a distance, I could see how the creepers had grown over the walls and climbed onto the roof; the cracks on the wall looked like a painting that came with the house.

  For some reason I always thought the house we lived in was very sad. I don’t know why I could never see this house the way Sakubai saw it; the way that photograph captured it. The window facing the gate was broken and drooped on the side like a wilting flower, much like a sad face. And when it rained we had to keep a bucket under the leaking roof. As a child I would watch the raindrops fall like tears into that bucket and imagine the roof was crying. It should have, I thought, because nobody looked after it well.

  I could tell Sakubai was always sorrowful when she spoke of our house. “He left me for the younger devdasis,” Sakubai said with a sigh. When I looked into her eyes she lowered them and rubbed off her tears with the end of her sari pallu. Amma explained to me that our broken down house was a reminder of the love she once had, one that had withered away.

  On days when I thought of it that way, I felt sad too.

  I never let Amma know that the evenings were what I hated most about the day. Every evening, shadows would creep up to our doorstep—upper caste men, often a different man every night—and offer Amma half a bag of grain or some clothes. There were some who brought furniture or vessels or a bag of coconuts. I wondered if any of these men ever noticed Amma the way she wanted them to. They were too drunk to notice that she had let her hair fall loose on her shoulders, that she wore a bracelet of jasmine flowers on her wrist, or that the fragrance in our house was because of the lotus flowers she had spread on the floor.

  At such times, I wasn’t allowed to enter the house. I was to sit in the backyard, eat my food there, and sleep there. It was a ritual I never questioned. I didn’t know any better. But sitting there, watching the moon as lonely as me, I would often no
tice the ache that crept in my heart. In the morning I was to enter the house only after Amma allowed me, only after the man left. But one day, out of curiosity, I opened the backdoor and stood silently in the doorway. From there I could see into the room—the crumpled, unmade bed, the smell of perfume mixed with alcohol, the jasmine flowers strewn on the floor. I could also see the feet and hairy ankles of a man entwined with Amma’s. I didn’t know what to think or feel. I felt numb. I turned around and left. I sat in the backyard waiting for Amma to let me in. When Amma knocked on the back door as usual, opened it, and called out to me, I ran to her. She swept me in her arms and kissed me, apologizing for the night. Most days, that would have been enough. In a minute my pain would be gone; any anger, any questions would disappear. But that day the questions remained. And I didn’t have the courage to ask Amma. So I decided that Sakubai could answer them for me.

  That evening, Amma was churning butter in the backyard; the paddles inside the wooden container were spinning the milk inside it, the sound of agitation in that container similar to mine. Sakubai was in her room, playing the tanpura, singing a song to the Lord:

  You came in light

  You came at night

  My Lord, My Parameshwara

  From your heavenly abode to my humble home.

  I tiptoed to her room and waited outside. There were days when music would echo through our house as if the house had a heartbeat, and my ears would fill up with the lilting tunes, my body full with the vibration of that music. But today I stood solemnly, waiting for her to finish.

  “What do you want now?” Sakubai groaned, placed her tanpura beside her. It wasn’t easy to ask, but I knew that, like a dry roti stuck at the back of my throat, I had to spit it out in one go.

  “Why do these men come to visit Amma? Is one of them my father?” I asked softly, so softly it sounded like a whisper.

  “Women in our community do not know who their fathers are. They don’t deserve a father. What makes you think you deserve one?” Sakubai yelled.

  The words rang in my ear. Even when Amma yelled at me or beat me for my naughtiness, the pain wasn’t as much as it was now. I ran outside and sat in the backyard, watching the evening as it filled with darkness. It was peaceful outside, away from the noise of that house. There was no one to talk to, so I looked up at the sky, the full moon shining brightly as if smiling down at me. I talked to the moon and told him I thought I deserved a father, and if he thought so too, he should carry my prayer to God and send my father back to me. I thought that one day the moon would just get weary of listening to me, of watching over me, and offer me a solution to ease my confusion.

  Back in my village, when I didn’t know what my life would be like, all I did was gallivant on the rocky terrain of the Sahyadris. I did not have any friends. The villagers did not allow their children to wander into the community of devdasis on the outskirts. Before I was born, there was a large community of women on the outskirts who were just like us—women who were destined to be slaves. But many years ago, they had moved away after a drought had affected our village. Amma had refused to go. So our house stood lonely on the outskirts just like me. The Sahyadri Mountains were my only friends. I climbed the rocks of that mountain as fast as a monkey climbs a tree. Amma was always scared I would get lost, hurt, or even injured by a wild animal. But those dense forests were my solace—the sounds, the air so fresh. Wandering in the scent of wild flowers, what did I have to fear? At night, the fireflies would light my way, and I ran after them while they led me out safely.

  All my troubles started the moment Madam first came to see us. I was nine years old then. She arrived at our doorstep, her bangles clinking together, creating their own music as she knocked on our door. A strong, well-built man accompanied her. It was a gloomy day. Raindrops had begun falling early that morning and, as the day had progressed, the clouds thundered above us. The mud outside was pitted and slashed by heavy rain. I was looking out through the window, enjoying the sweet smell of earth, when they arrived with their muddy footsteps in our doorway.

  Sakubai had been lingering by the door all morning. She was twirling the edges of her sari pallu as if anxiously waiting for someone. When she saw them through the window, she limped towards the door hurriedly. Her eyes lit up, and her face broke out in a smile. She waved to them to come in and gave both of them a long hug. I was standing behind Sakubai, hiding behind her, peering out briefly. Madam folded her umbrella and left it by the side of the door, then folded her hands in greeting.

  “Namaskar Sakubai, it has been many years. You are doing well?”

  Sakubai nodded. She led Madam to a corner where they both sat cross-legged on the ground, facing each other. The man stood in the doorway, leaning against the door. His bloodshot eyes wandered around the house, stopping to look at me. His unshaven face gave him an unkempt appearance. He grinned at me as he loosened the handkerchief tied around his neck then rubbed the triangle of hair on his chest that peeked through his half-unbuttoned shirt.

  “This must be Mukta, your granddaughter?” Madam tilted her head to look at me. I peeped from behind Sakubai.

  “Come here.” Madam held my arm and tried to pull me away from Sakubai. I squirmed and held onto Sakubai’s sari.

  “It’s all right. She is our friend,” Sakubai said and loosened my grip from her sari. I found myself standing before Madam, her bright orange sari reflecting on her skin. Her lips shone red as if blood was oozing out of them. Despite the thick white powder on her face, her plump cheeks showed scars as if somebody had taken the time to carve very small holes into them.

  “Look at how beautiful you are!” She gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Green eyes and a fair complexion. Sakubai, you have won a lottery!”

  “Go inside, Mukta, and don’t come out until I call you.” Amma appeared from nowhere. I wriggled out of Madam’s grip and ran inside.

  I stood in the next room, my cheek against the wall, trying to listen. Every now and then I peeked from behind the curtain into the room.

  “What is this? No namaskar, no nothing. Have you forgotten who I am, child?” Madam asked Amma.

  “No, I haven’t forgotten at all. How can I forget?” Amma crossed her arms over her chest; the hostility in her voice echoed through the room.

  “Come now, we don’t treat guests like that.” Sakubai tugged at Amma’s arm.

  “You should think about sending your daughter to Bombay with us; you know that is why I am here,” Madam told Amma.

  “I am not sending my daughter anywhere. I will offer you tea, and then I would like you to leave.”

  Sakubai sighed. She pressed her hands to her knees and massaged them, then sighed again.

  “I will not be treated this way,” Madam told Sakubai when Amma disappeared inside.

  “You know my daughter. She is hot tempered. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”

  Inside, Amma made tea. I watched as she poured the thick, brown liquid into short glasses that rattled in her hand as she placed them on a plate. I could see how her breath had quickened, how her eyes blinked rapidly. Outside, Sakubai and Madam chatted as if Amma’s rudeness had been forgiven.

  “So how is everything in Bombay?” Sakubai asked.

  My heart skipped a beat. Bombay. They were from Bombay, the place where my father lived. Suddenly, as if I had forgotten what had happened, I wanted to jump, run outside, and ask them if they knew my father. I had questions, several of them. Did they know where my father was? Had they ever met him? What did this city, Bombay, look like? Several thoughts entered my mind, all of them together. Were they here to take me to Bombay? Had my father sent them here for me?

  Everything seemed to be going well for a while. Amma had served tea and Madam was slurping hers with delight. Sakubai and Madam were so involved in their talk that I didn’t think they could see me hiding behind that curtain.

  Madam called out to me, “Come here.”

  I looked at Amma and she gave me a look which meant I wa
s going to be in trouble for not listening to her.

  “Come here!” Madam’s voice was louder now, almost threatening. It prompted me to come out from my hiding place and walk towards her.

  “What do you want?” Amma asked Madam, stopping me midway, her hands on my shoulders.

  “What do I want?” She signaled to the man who left his place in the doorway, strode towards Amma, and held her hands behind her. Amma struggled and yelled at him.

  “Let me go,” she said, and I pounced on him, my shaky hands trying to assail him with blows. Of course he was stronger and looked at me as if I were a mere fly to be swatted away. He picked up Amma like she was one of my cloth dolls and carried her inside, tied her hands with rope, and left her bound there. Before I knew what was happening, Madam had uprooted me and placed me before her. She held my jaw in her hand and tilted my head from side to side, looking for something on my face. Then she unbuttoned my blouse and loosened the nada on my skirt so it fell to the ground. Her hand slithered down my neck and crept down my body like a snake. I could hardly hold back my tears. I looked at the hazy form of Sakubai through my tears, waiting for a sign—any signal that would let me know what to do. But she wasn’t looking at me at all. She kept looking out the window. Outside the rain still lashed against our roof, dripping into the bucket.

  “Hmm, you are young,” she said, looking at my naked body.

  “What do you think?” she asked the man who looked me up and down. His eyes wandered slowly over my body. Shame rose in me like a violent storm.

  “She is ready, I think. If not, she will be in a year,” he said, giving me a grin and patting my cheek.

  Madam then picked up the blouse and skirt and dressed me delicately, as if she wasn’t the woman who had been so harsh just a minute ago. ”Do you know how much money you can make if you come with me to Bombay?” she asked me. “Oh, don’t cry; look at your eyes, like emeralds. They don’t look good when you cry.”