Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  As he stepped away to speak with a crewman, a history lesson from my father came to mind. “Our land is golden. Europeans have been crossing the seven seas for millennia to reach here. They want their share of our wealth. They kill, loot, burn homes, and take our freedom away. Already the Portuguese occupy land on the west coast and the Dutch have built trading posts in the east.”

  Seeing my questioning gaze, Tariq told me that the Englishman who cut such an impressive figure had embarked on a long dangerous voyage from his country, bidding farewell to his loved ones, knowing full well that ships were often lost at sea. He had first sailed to Sumatra, looking for spices to trade and arrived in India later.

  “How old?” I asked, sounding foolish to my own ears.

  Admiration and fear mingled in Tariq’s eyes; he glanced over his shoulder at his superior who was still busy speaking with a crewman. “He left home at seventeen. You see, the sahib is a self-made man. He worked his way up to becoming a tradesman, landed on our shore, and opened up relations with the local Mughal Government. The sahib even studied Persian on his own so he could transact business easily with the Royal Court.”

  Again, I didn’t follow much, except for the mention of Persian, which my father believed to be the language of culture. Job Charnock, the culturally inclined, high British official, joined us just then. He must have overheard snatches of Tariq’s praise, for he glanced at him with pleasant acknowledgment. I looked at him again. I’d never mistake him for a mere merchant, this man who fairly radiated brilliance.

  “The sahib is a kind man,” Tariq said. “He’s saved you from burning. You wouldn’t be here were it not for him.”

  Tariq seemed extra deferential in his use of the word sahib.

  His words annoyed me. My swollen, blistered feet were reminders enough of my experience. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was parched, my tongue felt like a dried leaf. I placed my hand at the base of my throat and tried to swallow again.

  Job sahib stepped up to me and held out a tin flask filled with water. “Please drink.”

  I observed the calloused hands, powerful wrists, and the care with which he poured water into my cupped hands. I drank the sweet warm water, glancing at his features as I did. Many years later, I’d remember what I had observed. With his thick neck, oval face, and powerful legs, he was an intimidating figure. He must have been in his thirties, vigorous for his age. I had seen his capacity for violence, how quickly he’d changed, and I didn’t fully trust him. If only I’d known then. It would take a rustic young girl like me months before I could begin to understand him or his actions. Yet, at that moment, in that boat, I had to admit that despite being a stranger, a foreigner even, he’d made a generally good impression.

  My thirst somewhat quenched, I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and tried to hide my discomfort. Although I mumbled a few words of gratitude, what I really wanted to ask was: Why did you save me? You could have been killed.

  The sahib glanced at me and then stood staring at the river. He must have sensed the question in my mind. “You’re too young to die,” he said.

  It surprised me again that this foreigner could speak my mother tongue, although with some effort and not always correctly. “Drag a woman to the burning ghat to be sacrificed like an animal?” He continued. “What a horrible custom. I couldn’t go along with that.”

  I put a hand to my mouth, stung by little tremors on my lips.

  “I am a Muslim,” Tariq said in a superior manner. “We don’t burn our widows or take away their property. It’s just as shocking to me, sir.”

  The sahib looked curious. As though feeling encouraged, Tariq continued. The sati practice was limited to upper caste Hindus only. A Brahmin widow, one whose husband owns property, had to undergo sati. Untouchables and those of low birth didn’t observe it.

  “And for those who escape sati?” the sahib asked me directly.

  They were forced to wear the coarsest cotton, given only leftovers to eat, and shunned from all social and community activities. Speaking to such an import-ant person, keeping my head bent, all I could say was, “They might as well be dead.”

  “Such a custom is outrageous, sinful, and criminal,” Job sahib said. “We had to come to your aid.”

  Tariq turned to the sahib. Acting as though he was privy to inside information, he said, “Isn’t there more to it?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Job sahib spoke quickly, above a whisper, as if wanting to guard his private feelings. “Besides, that was over a year ago and in a remote village, as you well know, Tariq.”

  Curious, I mumbled, “What happened?” It helped me to concentrate on his life, rather than my own misfortune. I only wished I didn’t feel so awkward.

  “Oh, dear God!” Job sahib exclaimed, his voice a tad shy and breathy. “I was riding my horse, galloping over a desolate farming area when a beautiful deer jumped in front of me.”

  This foreigner rode alone in the countryside? Brave, but also foolish. Noticing from the corner of my eye that Tariq had moved to the front of the boat, I asked the sahib, “You fell off?”

  “Aye.” His features crumpled. “The horse reared up, I was unable to rein it in and was thrown from the saddle onto a pile of rocks.”

  I could tell he still hadn’t recovered from the shock of it.

  “I was struck by a sharp rock and bled heavily.” A farmer who was harvesting rice carried him to his hut and sent for the local physician. He and his wife gave him food, shelter, and loving care for over a month and taught him many words and phrases of the local dialect of Bangla they spoke. “They didn’t ask for anything in return.”

  Job sahib turned his face to the distant shore. The strong wind ruffled his hair and threw him off balance as it rocked the boat. In that unguarded moment, through the symmetry of his features, I detected turmoil in his eyes, as though his mind had flown back much further in the past.

  Job sahib turned back to Tariq who had come back to us and consulted with him in English before turning to me. “What are you called?” His voice had a gentle quality whenever he addressed me directly.

  “Moorti.” Saying my name helped me feel like myself, even though I wasn’t sure where this was going. Who were these people? What would my husband’s kin do if they found me in the company of strangers, moving gradually away from the place I’d known?

  “Does Moorti have a meaning? I understand most of your names have meanings and even stories behind them, perhaps even an association with one of your gods.”

  “Yes, I am named after a consort of God.”

  I didn’t tell him that Moorti was the consort of God Dharma, the deity who embodied order in the universe. Moorti exemplified serenity, luminosity, power, and harmony. That day, I couldn’t lay claim to any of those qualities.

  “You’ll come with us, Pretty Consort,” Job sahib said. “We’re heading toward Cossimbazar, the ‘Great Market Town’ in the district of Murshidabad.”

  My father had once told me about the famous town filled with landmarks. How much I’d wanted to visit the sprawling bazaar where one could buy anything. “But, but my husband’s relatives will come after me no matter where I go.”

  “They won’t find you, or us,” Job sahib said. “If they do, we’ll know how to handle them.”

  “As a foreigner, the sahib doesn’t have legal power in the town where we live, but he has much influence,” Tariq said.

  Legal power. What did that mean?

  “What age are you?” Job sahib asked.

  “Seventeen.”

  Years later he would tell me how my response had churned up an old memory that day.

  Job Charnock sighed. How could he have told this stranger girl that he, too, had begun a new life at seventeen, kicked out of home with no place to go, no job skills, and no experience beyond his town? No, he told himself, he mustn’t let that influence his thinking. He would simply offer her employment. Yet, he shuddered in the warm river breeze as he considered the hard labor
she’d have to endure, the pittance she’d be offered in return. What other choice was there? She couldn’t go back to her village. If cast out in a city like Cossimbazar, she’d end up in a brothel. Of course, it would be good for the Company too. His primary responsibility, as a loyal agent, was to run a profitable operation, keeping expenses as low as possible, even if that meant exploiting the poor servants.

  He had looked back at the girl he had helped escape fate. She sat erect, waiting for him to speak. He’d never met a girl so resilient, so spirited. He looked again at her lovely, young face. She was elegant, had a way of maintaining her poise despite being traumatized.

  “Do you cook?” Job sahib asked me.

  I inclined my head in affirmation. I was capable of doing much more and was thankful to my father for it. He taught at a pathshala for boys affiliated with our village temple. There was no such facility for girls, so he taught me at home; Sanskrit, History, Literature, Geography, along with various Bangla dialects, so I would be better prepared to live my life. Under the shade of a tree, sitting on a low stool, he would often read classical Sanskrit poetry by Kalidasa to me. “You must develop both your head and heart,” he would say. I would sit on a mat and practise arithmetic using pebbles. I would write sentences on dust with a twig because we couldn’t afford to buy paper made of jute.

  The sahib was again engaged in a muffled conversation with Tariq. I bit my lip. A cook? Gazing out at small silvery fish weaving through the blue depths of the water, I contemplated diving into it and swimming to the shore. Perhaps the river would cradle me, deliver me to safety. Then I’d sprint through the woods, but with these two men guarding me closely, that would be next to impossible. And then, there were crocodiles in the river. The very thought turned my blood cold.

  A strong wave rocked the boat and broke into my thoughts, drenching my face. Job sahib and Tariq drifted away to consult with the oarsmen. The sahib walked with a slight limp, favoring his left leg over the right. “His heart is not in sync with his body,” my mother would have said.

  A cluster of white lilies released by devotees at a nearby temple floated down the river. Turning, I saw a young crew member approach, the one who had been watching me earlier, bearing a leaf plate heaped with rice, flat bread, and wilted greens.

  He handed me the plate and said, “My name is Sal, short for Saleh.” Thin and dark, with gentle eyes and a mole above his lips, he looked only a few years older than me. “Here, you must be hungry. Allah be praised!” He turned.

  “Please wait.” Feeling the weight of the plate, my mouth salivating, for I hadn’t eaten since the day before, I gave Sal a thankful gaze. “I am a Hindu. We never eat on the river.”

  Sal surveyed my face; he must have noticed the confusion of pain in my gaze. “I’ve worked with Brahmins. You see the water as your mother and you show respect. But this is a most unusual situation …”

  So my companions consisted of foreigners, Muslims, and various Hindu castes. Would I, a Brahmin girl, be required to cook meat or even forced to eat it? Rattled by the thought, I found it difficult to taste the food or even swallow it. Yet, touched by Sal’s friendly approach, I motioned for him to sit.

  He dropped down on the other end of the bench. “We have a long journey ahead against the current,” he said. “We’re going north to Cossimbazar, also situated on the Bhagirathi River, and a part of the Bengal province. Although Dhaka is the capital of our province, Cossimbazar is an important town because of its silk industry. If you walk the streets where silk is being produced, you’ll smell mulberries. Silk means money and we have many rich people. On the streets you can tell them by their brightly colored, embroidered silk robes. They live in big houses, with lots of servants. The biggest house in town is a palace that belongs to Haider Ali, our regional governor. It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.”

  I could hardly bear going so far away from my family and in an environment more opulent than the one from where I came. Sal must have understood, for he nodded gently and said, “You’ll like it there; the weather is milder. There’s always a river breeze. In my village, which is near Cossimbazar, we say that our land is a child of the rivers.” He further informed me that Job sahib’s trading station was called a Factory although no goods were manufactured there. The Englishmen were called Factors or Agents. They were clerks and bookkeepers. They also received and dispatched goods. “In the Factory, our job is to serve them. We get one meal a day and a place to sleep. We can occasionally visit the big market. But whenever I manage to get time off, I go back to my village.”

  One meal a day. He did look rather thin. “It’s all very strange to me,” I said. “I don’t know how I will manage.”

  “I’ll help you, behen.” Behen. Sister. I felt a little less scared. “I’ll be back presently,” he said. Refreshed by the meal and the new friendship with Sal, I settled on the bench and imagined the trees, fields, and the river banks of my village. I could see it all clearly. By now, my wicked in-laws had slunk back to their houses. Soon they’d pay a visit to my mother who lived a mile away, carrying gifts of flowers, coconut, and sweetmeats. Unable to admit defeat at the hands of strangers, they’d cover up the facts of my rescue and concoct a story for her.

  “Your daughter is a sati,” Bipin would sing. “She left the earth in a state of grace. We’ll worship her for generations to come. Please accept these gifts in her name.”

  Mother would stare blankly at Bipin. If only I could appear before him, look him in the eye, and point to the door. “Not another lie! Leave! Don’t disturb my family.”

  My thoughts were interrupted as Job sahib and Tariq approached me. Job sahib stood tall and impassive, holding much inside; Tariq, on the other hand, gave away his intentions easily by his sour expression, sly glances, and sneer. The empty space of his missing eye radiated mischief.

  “Job sahib says Moorti is difficult to pronounce, especially our soft T sound,” Tariq said. “Job sahib’s great grandmother’s name was Maria, which is what we’ll call you. Isn’t it a pretty name? Maria?”

  My jaw tightened. How could they even consider asking me to make such a drastic change? My parents had chosen that name for me on the day I was born, after consulting with a jyotishi. When I was seven years old, the same astrologer had also created a birth chart for me. In an excited voice, he had recited a roster of good fortunes that awaited me: riches, progeny, a loving spouse, a shining position, and high regard from friends.

  “Position?” my mother had asked in disbelief. “For a village woman?”

  The astrologer’s lips had parted in a smile. “Did you forget we have the tradition of valiant queens and women of high status in the Royal Court?”

  Happily, my mother had paid him double his fee. How could she have known that he was delivering a false prophecy?

  A butterfly blew past me. “I was given my name at birth,” I said to Job sahib. “The name I was supposed to have according to the stars.”

  “Consider yourself reborn.” He sounded as though rebirth was a natural phenomenon.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” Tariq added.

  One day I would smile as I remembered the obstinacy of that young girl, “I answer to Moorti and Moorti only.”

  “You’re a lovely girl, Maria.” His one good eye flashing in anger, Tariq began speaking to me in a local dialect, which I presumed Job sahib wouldn’t grasp. “Lovely but mouthy. You must impose control on your tongue if you don’t want to be thrown into the river.” He turned to his master, switched to a polite tone of voice, and translated what he’d remarked to me.

  “Couldn’t you find a local name for me?” I asked Job sahib.

  He gave me a tender look. “Maria, beautiful Maria,” he whispered in Bangla, “Welcome.”

  He strode away with Tariq scurrying after him.

  I gripped the edge of the bench. As the boat plunged upstream, the oars dipping and making splashing noises, a light of realization burst inside me. They were right. I could
never return home. What was that saying? Marriage was a woman’s destiny. Her primary duties consisted of fidelity and devotion to her husband. End of marriage, end of woman. Moorti, a widow destined to die, had been reborn in the next life as Maria.

  Henceforth, I would have to forge a new direction and make my way upstream, like this boat.

  The river stretched before me, vast, blue-black, and turbulent. I watched its flow, a girl of seventeen, alone, in the midst of nowhere, with nothing left, not even her name. The back of a huge crocodile, sleek, dark-olive, deadly, parted the surface of water.

  THREE

  We climbed out of the boat, all ten of us, under a cloudy sky, and stepped into a vibrant town that stretched as far as the eye could see. Amazed, I took in the wide streets of Cossimbazar teeming with pedestrians and oxcarts. Food vendors crowded into whatever empty space was available to hawk their specialties. One man had set up shop only a short distance from the quay and did brisk business ladling a fragrant lime drink into clay cups for thirsty passengers. Close by, another offered chunks of delicate, milk-based sweetmeats on small leaf plates which were snapped up as fast as he could fill them. So many different kinds of fancy food items! In my village, they’d be served only on special occasions, if at all, and in limited quantities. Here anybody could buy them. Sal was right. This was truly a wealthy town. Some day, I said to myself, some day, I’d be able to afford these pricy items myself.

  Listening to people’s chatter and the rumble of carts, and still caught in the boat’s rocking sensation, I walked behind Job sahib as he led the way along a footpath next to the river bank. We passed by an ancient sandstone pillar and a brick watchtower. Standing at a distance was a temple with a conical roof, its façade animated by carved deities. I’d never been to any place of this size or this historic importance. A pleasant wind brought in a pungent yet sweet smell, mostly mulberry mixed with that of seasonal flowers.