The One Who Swam with the Fishes

by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

  ‘Is this island blessed by the gods?’ I asked, quite awestruck.

  ‘Yes – and no,’ she said. ‘But now isn’t the time to explain it. Won’t you have some breakfast?’

  After that, I settled into a sort of routine with Dvipaa. She said I could use the cave to sleep in and asked remarkably few questions, rare for an adult. She didn’t want to know what explanation I had used to come away, or where my family thought I was. In return, she evaded all my questions. I couldn’t ask about the island – although I was longing to – or what she was doing there all alone, or where she went on her long mysterious walks every day. I had offered to go with her at first, but she refused so vehemently that the island threw up thorn bushes in a neat little circle around my cave.

  On the whole though, I could live with this arrangement. I liked the way we lived, how the freshwater stream gurgled conveniently between my cave and her hut. I liked how each day there would be a new surprise for me to discover. ‘Gifts from the island,’ said Dvipaa-ma, and they really were gifts. One day, the fruit trees would change so I could feast to my heart’s content without getting bored, another day, I’d wake up to find my spare sari, which had always been rather ratty and old, transformed into a beautiful new one, on a third, I’d run out to find a perfect kith-kith square inlaid with glittering gems which I could play on. My favourite was a long swing that just appeared, right by the stream, and I loved it so much, the island let it stay, so it was something for me to do in the hot afternoon while Dvipaa-ma slept. But the afternoons were never that hot, nor the nights so cold, and her cooking pot must have been made out of the same magical material that the island was, because it was never empty and always contained a different food. I grew fat in the right places and sleek like a well-fed horse. Although I never had the urge to know how I looked now, once as I was walking I stumbled upon a field of strange pale reflective sheet-like rocks in which I could see myself as I moved. Sometimes the island liked to show off for me too, like a child clamouring for attention, and I always talked back to it then, I’d say, ‘Oh very clever, smarty!’ or ‘This fruit is delicious, thank you.’ I know it sounds stupid, talking out loud to yourself, but I really felt like the land itself heard me and appreciated it.

  It wasn’t so much that I had forgotten about the Chedi kingdom and confronting the king there, it was just that the days seemed to have slowed down. As Dvipaa-ma kept saying, ‘Where is the hurry? Life will still be here tomorrow.’ And then, when I’d look at her doubtfully – for she was very old – she’d cackle and say, ‘I’m not ready to die yet, my girl. I’ll go when I’m ready.’

  And then there was the smell. It had receded a bit into the background; Dvipaa-ma had all but lost her sense of smell, although her other faculties seemed as sharp as ever, and since it didn’t roll off me in great waves of odour, I ignored it. It was like an itch that I forgot to scratch. Still there, but not bothering me as much as it used to. When you have a toothache for a long time, after a while the fact of an aching tooth seems normal, as though you were born with a sore jaw. You learn to live around your toothache, bringing food only to the unaffected corner of your mouth, not drinking water that is too cold. The pain is dull and throbbing and constant, but it’s part of your body as much as your skin, so all your thoughts aren’t around your toothache any more. That was what the smell had become to me – part of who I was. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I remembered what Dvipaa-ma had said to me about fixing it, but maybe this was her cure, living on this island with her, doing as I pleased.

  Some mornings, I would go down to the river to bathe, and then I could see my old village from where I stood. Once I even saw Chiro, and I waved frantically at him calling, ‘Chiro! Chiro!’ But he didn’t hear or see me.

  That was the day I discovered the caves by the waterfall. Another path opened up where before there had been none, and I was suddenly at the centre of the island, a huge waterfall thundering above me and a low cave set on the slope over which it roared. I climbed up to the cave with some difficulty. The path was so narrow that I had to crawl into it, through a tunnel, and once the tunnel widened out, it was still only high enough for me to sit cross-legged. What I saw kept me there for several hours though; the cave walls were shiny and figures had been drawn on them – just the barest outlines of figures, but ones that kept moving and changing.

  First, there were beautiful maidens in the water, then an old man with a bald head came to the river. Then one of the maidens swam to him and pulled him underwater. The figure of the old man appeared to curse her, she fell further and further, smaller and smaller, till she was a fish.

  I watched till my eyes grew tired from watching, till the light outside grew dim and purple, till the little girl grew up, watched people move away for her, watched the mother kick her out of her house, watched her getting into a boat. I thought the drawings would stop then but they moved some more, showing a woman and a man with a crown on his head – a king! – showing the woman marrying the man, showing war, so many men dying, showing the woman again, standing alone in a palace, looking out over the river. ‘Is this me?’ I whispered, touching the woman in the drawing. She looked so alone. ‘Is this me?’ I asked again, and in response the drawings vanished, leaving me alone in a dark cave.

  Now

  It’s a long walk to the women’s side, and I am tired from the long day so my soldier escort and I do not say much to each other. I try to see if I can spot Baana but he is keeping himself hidden from me. By the time we reach the first colourful tent, my legs are shaking underneath me and it’s all I can do to keep standing.

  A large woman dressed in a bright red sari comes out to talk to us. She’s wearing anklets that jingle and her round eyes are lined with kohl.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she asks the guard. ‘Have you brought me another dancing girl? I’m overrun as it is!’

  The guard is embarrassed and so becomes gruff. ‘Be quiet, woman!’ he says. ‘This is the king’s special guest – Lady Satyavati. The king sent me to ensure she is taken care of. He will visit her later today.’

  ‘Will he now?’ The woman looks amused. ‘And a special guest, my, my. Yet, a special guest who travels without any luggage or servants of her own?’

  ‘Her brother is in the healer’s tent and cannot be moved,’ says the guard. ‘Now will you look after her or must I tell the king that Kaarika-bi will not tend to his guest?’

  ‘Oh, go away, Malla, you’re boring me,’ says the woman, who I assume is Kaarika-bi. ‘Come along, my lady. I will have to assign you some of my own servants, so they may not be what you’re used to.’

  I am so tired I can barely speak, but I still have my tongue so I say, ‘Anything you provide will be more than adequate, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have much of a choice, do you?’

  She leads the way to a smaller tent and waves to some passing women. ‘Here, Jhumeri, Laalika, clear out the storage tent and get some bedding into it. We have the king’s favour with us now.’ The women who have been idly beautifying themselves jump up and do as they’re told. In no time at all, the storage tent is cleaned up and a bed made up for me. I want to crawl into it and close my eyes, but force myself to stay upright as long as Kaarika-bi with her mocking eyes is watching me.

  ‘You go have a rest,’ she says. ‘You look like you need it, and young or not, the king is not going to fancy someone who looks like death. I will wake you up to dress you later. Do you have any other clothes?’ I shake my head, and she rolls her eyes. ‘Of course you don’t. Well, I’ll get my girls to gather their finery and see what we can do for you.’

  I sleep for an hour, although it feels like a mere moment. By the time I wake up, it is dusk outside and the cows are lowing as they’re herded back into their pens. I lie in bed, wondering what exactly has woken me up – Kaarika-bi hasn’t returned and the sounds around me are peaceful. Then I hear a giggle and whispers going, ‘Shhh!’ and then a head pokes in to look at me. ‘Oh!’
says the head, surprised. ‘You’re awake!’

  I nod sleepily and sit up. The head – attached to a girl who I take to be around my age – comes in and smiles confidingly at me. ‘We wanted to take a look at you.’

  ‘Who is we?’ I ask.

  ‘Mohini, Ila and me. My name is Paranjaa, but you can call me Pari. Everyone does. It’s easier to remember.’

  Another girl slips in, this one a little younger than this Pari/Paranjaa person, and behind her an older girl who tries to grab her by the arm but fails. They’re all standing in a row, staring at me so I look back at them, taking them in. Pari is pretty – plump in all the right places, dimples dancing in her cheeks, a mischievous expression in her eyes. The younger girl – ‘Ila,’ Pari introduces – is about Chiro’s age and has a watchful expression on her face, which is as flat as a plate. Even her nose seems to have been set so that it would make the least angle, her eyes are large and tilt at the sides; she is busy looking at my my old sari tossed in the corner. The older girl is Mohini, as dark as I am, and sensual, her lips plump and full, her eyes sleepy when you first perceive them, but if you look closer you see a sharp look in the depths of their heavy lidded-ness.

  They sit around me, examining me from all angles. Pari and Mohini are careful to drop their eyes when I look directly at them but little Ila is shameless, lifting my hair up to see how heavy it is, running a finger down my arm, saying very loudly, ‘She has rather small breasts, doesn’t she, Pari?’

  ‘Hush,’ says Pari uncomfortably, but I look Ila straight in the eye and say, ‘Some say women who take longer to blossom are the most beautiful.’

  ‘Well, the king thinks you’re beautiful and that’s all that matters,’ she says, grinning at me. ‘Are you going to be our new queen?’

  I stutter and stumble over my words, and Mohini thankfully grabs Ila’s arm and drags her off my bed. ‘If you can’t be quiet, we’ll send you outside,’ she threatens, giving Ila a shake. Ila sits down, subdued, but is soon amusing herself by stringing together some beads on a thread.

  ‘We were told to make you beautiful,’ says Pari. ‘If you’d like, we can show you where to wash up? And we have some clothes for you.’ She indicates a bundle behind her that I hadn’t noticed. I let them lead me to a small clear spring, a little way from the camp, where Mohini assures me they can have water brought into my tent as well, should I require it. ‘In fact, maybe we should have done that now.’ She looks worried.

  ‘Oh no, don’t worry, I like the walk,’ I say. It’s good to be out in the open air after my stuffy tent, good to be in the company of people around whom I don’t have to pretend. They seem very young, probably the youngest three in the women’s camp, and therefore they have been sent to me. It’s probably an insult but I’m happy to have laughing girls rather than a sullen, sneering maid.

  The water is so cold it makes me gasp but also wake up, and by the time I have washed my face and hands and rinsed out my mouth, I feel able to take on the world again. I’m also, I realize, extremely hungry, and again I’m thankful to have these three with me as I tell them this. Maybe being hungry isn’t ladylike? Kaarika-bi would know.

  ‘Of course!’ says Pari, delighted to be of service. ‘We’ll fetch you something hot to drink and some food. Go to the food tent, Ila, and ask for a tray.’ Ila is off like an arrow, while we three make our way back to my tent more leisurely. By the time we reach, the dusk has turned milky grey and someone has hung lanterns around the small room so patterns dance off the cloth walls and the interior feels like a fairy tale. Mohini indicates that I should sit down, and as soon as I do, she’s behind me with a wooden comb, pulling at all the snarls in my hair. Meanwhile, Pari is unfolding all the clothes and holding each one out to me for approval. I don’t know much about clothes so I go by her expressions – some she keeps her face averted from, as though they have a bad smell, others she cradles like newborn babes. I pick all the ones she likes and she smiles approval at me.

  ‘What will you wear now?’ she asks.

  I’m about to say, ‘I don’t know,’ but I catch myself and swiftly change it to, ‘What is your opinion?’ Mohini has paused in her combing, but at my answer, she continues, humming under her breath.

  ‘I like this one,’ says Pari, holding up a silver-grey tunic, the colour of a rainy sky. The neck is embroidered with gems that shimmer in the light and the rest of it hangs straight down. Plain, but not ordinary. I have the first hazy sense about why clothes are so important. I want to put on the tunic immediately, no, I want to live inside it, build myself a tent made out of this tunic, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. My reactions show on my face because Pari says happily, ‘It is lovely, isn’t it? The treasury presented Kaarika-bi with all sorts of clothes last time, but she told them she’d rather have the money so she could choose the clothes herself. She said old men who only thought about money wouldn’t know a good piece of cloth if it bit them on the bottom.’ Here she giggles and I laugh too, and behind me, Mohini lets out a very unladylike snort and that sets us all off so we’re rolling about on the floor holding our sides with the happy ache of it.

  I’ve never had female friends before – I’ve never had friends – the other girls in the village are either too shy or too proud to talk to me, and I’ve never missed it. At least, I thought I never missed it. Now with the easy camaraderie that comes with being around people your own age, I feel buoyant, light and other sensations I can’t even begin to describe, except that my face is flushed with happiness, my eyes feel like they’re sparkling, and I can’t stop smiling.

  ‘I am glad you’re not all proud,’ says Pari. ‘I thought you might be, being in the king’s favour and all.’

  ‘I don’t even know if I am in his favour,’ I say glumly.

  ‘Oh, you are, to be sure! Kaarika-bi said you were, and she knows everything. Besides, why would he have you bed down here and ask for us to make you comfortable and come to visit? He never visits us! Kaarika-bi just sends some girls to dance for the rest of the men in the royal tent and they say that the king usually leaves about halfway through.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m a bit puzzled, because why would the king have this huge crew of women attach themselves to his camp if he wasn’t even interested. I ask, and Pari shakes her head at my ignorance. ‘It’s not for him, silly, it’s for the other men. Kaarika-bi says if you have so many men together in the same place it’s like having a bucket of tomcats. Everyone will hiss and yowl and fight. The women are here to make the men … well, happy, I suppose. They don’t visit us. Kaarika-bi says we’re still in training, but Mohini’s almost done training, aren’t you, Mo?’

  ‘I’m sure the lady doesn’t want to hear all this,’ says Mohini from behind me, where she’s taking sections of my hair and braiding them.

  ‘No, I do!’ I say. ‘I’d like to hear all about it. We don’t get that many stories about all this where I’m from.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Pari interjects, her eyes wide.

  I make a vague gesture. ‘Oh, just by the river, a few kosas away. My father is the fisher king of our tribe.’

  ‘A fisher king?’ Pari makes eye contact with Mohini behind me and wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, forging forward. ‘He is very well respected.’ Unlike your fathers, I think but do not say. My voice implies it though, and there’s a hard little silence in the tent. I let it lie for a few breaths and then ask again, ‘So, you were about to tell me about the training?’

  ‘There is not much to tell,’ says Mohini softly. ‘We’re taken from our homes – usually poor families who cannot afford the burden of another mouth to feed – when we’re young, and given to one of the children’s homes that the king has installed all over his kingdom. It feeds and educates us, and eventually we find spouses amongst ourselves and live decent lives.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound such a terrible fate,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not, at least compared to what we had. We’re allowed
to see our families if they choose to visit, but most families prefer to forget that they gave away their child. Pari there hasn’t seen hers since she was three, whereas my family all died of influenza.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘All.’

  ‘And how is it that you came to be here?’

  ‘The children’s homes have an understanding with various tradesmen, where they look out for talent. Some children go to apprentice under tailors, some others are marked as soldiers, and Kaarika-bi takes the promising girls.’

  ‘It’s boring in the homes,’ interjects Pari. ‘Same clothes, same food, same bedtime. With Kaarika-bi, there’s always something happening. There’s always someone to look after us, the other women are like sisters.’ She smiles at me and I smile back, happy that we’ve gotten over that awkward silence.

  ‘And we’re trained in the arts of keeping men happy,’ says Mohini. ‘We learn to dance, to sing, to cajole. Some of us receive separate training. Pari shows an aptitude for dressmaking, so she is learning to sew and embroider, whereas I am less talented on that front.’

  ‘She’s being modest,’ Pari tells me. ‘She’s the best dancer of them all. Kaarika-bi is very proud of her.’

  I almost want to be part of their world, whisked away from the complications of my life, to do nothing but learn the happy art of being good company and sit around with women and giggle late into the night. As if she’s reading my thoughts, Mohini says, ‘And when we finish our training, men can pay to spend the night with us. They pay heavily for such a chance, and that money goes into feeding and clothing us. So, don’t envy us too much, my lady, for if I had a chance, I’d change back to being just a poor farmer’s daughter, ready to be married and raise some poor farmer’s daughters of my own.’ When I don’t – can’t – reply, she taps me on the side of my head gently with her comb and says, ‘There, your hair is done, you can put on the clothes now.’