by Dipika Rai
She looks at the old man’s face. It is a pleading face full of confused sorrow. He should have made peace with his son years ago. Such torment in a father is no good. Asmara Didi has come to know the staunchest part of the zamindar. It is a part certainly worthy of respect, perhaps even love.
‘Ra . . . hm Shingh’s ta . . . hlking . . . Lala,’ Singh Sahib’s thoughts are still with his elder son.
‘Why do you let him upset you like this?’ It’s clear the woman has no softness for the subject of their conversation.
‘Look Lok . . . hend. He . . . sh so . . .’
‘Different,’ she completes the sentence for him like she has been doing for years. ‘Some pups are born black, others white. That’s just the way it happens. It’s no one’s fault. Do you really wish Ram Singh was more like Lokend? You don’t really wish that, do you? Having a soul like Lokend’s is a huge burden.’
‘. . . but . . .’
‘Don’t you think Ram Singh wishes he was more like Lokend? Don’t you think he would be if he could? Be nice to him. That’s the least he deserves. He’ll come around.’ She knows it is no more possible to take her own advice than it is to bring back the black into her hair.
The father shakes his head, the only part of his body over which he has any real control. The zamindar may wish for Ram Singh to be more like Lokend, but he cannot accept his younger son or the path he has chosen. Singh Sahib is a temporal man. Lokend’s asceticism incenses him, he feels as if he has been somehow left behind by his son. You live vicariously through the lives of those you help. You remain detached and pure, a rock, loving everyone equally. Loving everyone equally, you love no one. But nothing I say gets to you. You are ice, freezing any water that comes to change you into a shape of yourself.
‘Is it better to spar with one or admire the other always from a distance?’ Asmara Didi asks, reading his thoughts. She knows it is Singh Sahib’s intransigence that keeps him deeply disappointed with both his sons. If he had his way, they would have turned out like him, with his values, playing by his rules, upholding his brand of honour.
* * *
It is that bright blue time of evening when the sky appears deep and close. The big man looks out of his window. It will be some time before the stars come out. How his wife loved this time of day. The cicadas are in full swing, and the house is rumbling with kitchen sounds. He doesn’t eat like they used to, still, the cooking goes on. Asmara Didi presides. She has taken him off garlic and onions and all manner of vegetables with tiny seeds. What does it matter? His tongue is dry from talking and disappointment. It feels like a piece of cardboard in his mouth.
He lets his thoughts return to her. Do you know what your son did today? He went to help those bandits surrender. Don’t shudder, meri jaan, it’s true, they will surrender and fill up the jails like cows returning home from the forests after a fat feed. He is giving away his share of the lands to them, and I can do nothing to stop him. He thinks zamindari is wrong. He said as much. In the eyes of God these lands aren’t ours, is what he said. After all these years he can still remember the parchment frailty of her body. She is as delicate as a deer’s leg. He can see her blood as it travels beneath her skin. She gets that familiar colour in her cheeks for no reason at all and looks so beautiful that he has to stop breathing. He can sense the pulse beating in her neck. That single pulse, up, down, up, down, ticks in unison with his own. Tick, tick, tick. He tries to push her away, but she stays. What can I do? I have to sit here and wait for news like a moulting bird. You are my only companion now. One of our sons gives away our lands while the other never tires of acquiring more. And they both do it in the name of honour! What do they know of real honour? Nothing. How could they, you say? I never taught them about my kind of honour. I should have brought them up after your death.
Talk to Lokend, you say. How can I? He defies me at every turn. That is a strange way to love a father, no? He owns the words, but somewhere inside there is admiration for his boy, so secret that even he doesn’t know it’s there, under the frustration, anger and guilt. Have I been a bad father? Maybe he is standing up for what he believes. I should know all about that, you say. I know what you think, my beliefs . . . my traditions, will be the death of me. You are probably right. That’s what used to upset you the most, our traditions . . .
Perhaps I should have allowed you to change some things around here, then you might have been happy. Oh, meri jaan, I miss you . . . Do you remember how we used to go hunting every winter? I know you cried inside yourself each time I bagged a deer. I’m not hungry, you would say at dinner, just so you wouldn’t have to eat its flesh, my dear sweet love. You were so delicate in so many ways, but so strong when you wanted to be. I remember our chess games, you were much better than me. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you let me win . . .
If you could see me now. Would you pity me? Would you love me? Your boy did this to me. No sooner do the words become a coherent thought than he regrets them. But everyone knows the zamindar blames Lokend for his stroke. I try not to think of it. But I can still smell the stink. There he was, on all fours like an animal, cleaning the shit with his hands. His hands, the hands you and I created, doing a Sudra’s work. It might as well have been my hands that were polluted. We are Singhs, we are not Sudras. I have never let the shadow of a Sudra fall on my family, and there he was, cleaning shit. Bibiji, you are the lucky one, dead before your son could baffle you with his behaviour. An angry tear struggles out of his good eye. Protected by darkness, he doesn’t wipe it away.
Every time he goes to the toilet he is reminded of that other shameful day. His son on his knees, holding a piece of wood piled high with brown human waste, a stinking brown blob with no sense of decency. It was slipping off its perch, sliding to the ground like a slow drip on a spider’s web. A taunting, insulting pile that his own son was handling with his pure, even loving, hands. Neither his son nor his pet mongoose was disturbed by his labour, by the stench of it or the blue flies that settled alternately on the brown mass and face unchecked because the hands that belonged to the face were too busy to wave them off. But that’s not what disgusted his father into a stroke. It was the complete sense of normalcy in Lokend’s bent back, as if he’d knelt to pet a favourite dog, that crippled the old man.
The first thing Asmara Didi did after the stroke was get rid of the squatting toilets. They were replaced with Parryware commodes. Grey and ageing, the commodes now support a brown ring just at the top edge. The flush has never been used. The rusty chain hangs down from the ceiling like a noose. There are always buckets of water sitting in the bathroom to be poured into the cistern. Singh Sahib leaves a hanky hanging on the door handle if there is some big business in the toilet, otherwise, he pours a mug of water in himself to dilute the colour to a respectable, barely noticeable yellow. He is still uncomfortable on the Bakelite seat, and if he could have stood without support, he might have squatted on it. But he can’t, so he sits, properly, legs falling off the edge, cringing every time his skin touches the cold hard surface. Bibiji, in the cities everyone is using these filthy things. Can you imagine? I have to trust Asmara to clean the seat for me. You are the lucky one, dying once . . . I may be alive, but I do not live . . . I die a little every day . . .
‘Brooding isn’t good for you.’ She comes on silent feet. She shakes her head to herself. She can smell it in the room, that air of resignation. She tries to shun her thoughts physically by shrugging her shoulders, but they stay wrapped round her like a warm shawl. She wipes her upper lip and with a smile faces the man waiting for death. Still smiling, she lights the candles and ignores the tear.
He is tempted to tell her to go lose herself in the kitchen, but he doesn’t. ‘Lokend will be back tomorrow. Will you see him?’ she asks.
The big man says nothing, he looks at his feet with great intent. What can he say? Yes, he would love to see his son, nothing would make him happier, but there is so much history in their desperate destinies. How does one w
ash away history? He is in that gully of silence between mountains of anticipated rejection. To climb up one of those mountains he would have to give up his crushingly heavy fear. He might have been able to release his burden to Bibiji for safekeeping, but he has nowhere to put it now. The gully is a safe place. Help me. Please help me, he asks of the dead.
It is the living that replies, ‘Good, I’ll tell him then. I’ll make something nice for your lunch. Lokend loves puris.’ Asmara Didi chuckles. ‘Does he love them, or does his mongoose? What’s its name again? Raja?’
Today it’s just the same. The memory of holding a mongoose pup rushes over the old man unbidden. He feels the tears once again creep up under his skin, thick and strong.
‘Go,’ he says with desperation to the woman.
There isn’t just sadness in his tears, there is also anger.
But as they fall, they become tears of regret.
Lokend jumps into the jeep. ‘Let’s go,’ he says to the mongoose, ‘let’s go find those bandits.’ He starts the engine. The jeep jumps into life, Ram Singh has left it in gear again. The sudden jump jogs Lokend’s thoughts. ‘Better not, my friend. I better take the truck. My brother is all spruced up for the wedding. He’ll kill me if I take the jeep and he has to ride in the truck.’ He chuckles.
Lokend started talking to Raja a long time ago. All through his lonely youth, he knew he was different from his brother who deserved and received his father’s vague attention. If he was someone else he might have been jealous. But he has no time for jealousy, or for that matter sadness. If there is one regret in his life, it is that his mother died before him. He would have liked to have known her.
Chapter 3
WHAT CAN SHE DO ABOUT HER BIRTHMARK? Her mother has suggested a little turmeric mixed with flour. When her father became indebted to the Big House, Ram Singh magnanimously invited him to consult with the widow Asmara Didi. She had silently begged her father to take her to the Big House and get a cure for her birthmark then, but he did not. Why? Acceptance, that’s why. Her father had accepted the birthmark on his daughter’s forehead as finally as he accepted the weather or the bandits.
The dew hasn’t formally evaporated off the mustard leaves outside. Except for the sleeping baby, she is alone at home. Her mother gave her this much. As an excuse Lata Bai left Shanti behind for Mamta to look after. She has an hour before her mother will return from the well.
Mamta runs her hand over her wedding sari. For a minute she considers why it is already lying unwrapped, in precise folds gleaming like a treasure in her mother’s tin trunk, then she remembers her mother had used the wrapping to deliver Shanti. She picks up a corner and looks through the sheerness of the fabric. Everything turns red, the red of love. Mamta smiles. It is as it should be. ‘Keep my world red, oh Devi,’ she prays. ‘Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho,’ she recites her mother’s words. Almost a married woman, she feels she has an equal right to them. The baby stirs in her cot. ‘Shanti, hey, Shanti. I am to be married. I hope Amma will be proud of me,’ she says with a laugh, and then quickly makes a face and adds, ‘and I hope Bapu will be pleased with me for the first and only time in his life.’ Shanti gurgles. ‘You should be happy, your turn will come. I will pray you get many suitors and that each one is more handsome and richer than the next!’ Shanti gurgles again.
Mamta interprets her baby sister’s sounds: ‘Will mine be a handsome hero?’ She cannot afford to indulge in self-doubt. By Gopalpur standards she is already an old woman, her younger sister was married before her. She looked after all her brothers and sisters and she’s still at home. Without the borrowed money, no one would have taken her. What kind of man accepts a woman, almost in her twenties, with a birthmark? It has to be a desperate man. ‘Of course he will be a handsome hero. Do you think Amma could have picked anyone else for me?’
‘He’ll come on a horse and then we’ll ride away together . . .’ I’ll make sure to cover my birthmark with my pallav. She takes the sari over to the baby. ‘Have you ever seen anything this beautiful?’ She rubs it against Shanti’s skin. The rough ersatz silk makes the baby cry.
Mamta scoops up the baby and starts rocking her, automatically. ‘Yes, we will be in love forever like Singh Sahib and Bibiji. What a love that was! Then, when I have my own baby, I will come home and you two can play together.’
She bends her head over Shanti protectively. The baby sees the red birthmark approach. It is a comforting red, it is this patch of red that has cared for her since her birth. The patch of red and her mother’s wiggly nipple, that’s what Shanti knows of love.
Mamta regards her sister carefully, dressed in one of her old converted blouses, now no more than a cartography of spilt meals. She outlines each stain with her finger as she sings.
‘He’ll come on a horse to get me,
He’ll come on a horse to get me,
He’ll bring me a new sari to wear,
He’ll bring me flowers for my hair . . .’
She sings into the baby’s ear. It is the song that the boys from across the river use to taunt her. Delivered by Ramu, the words, sung to the same tune, are much harsher. But singing it to Shanti, she takes the bitterness out of it, much as she does with the wild cucumbers, rubbing one cut end against the other to bring out the poison, as foamy as a madman’s spit.
‘You are not married yet, get back in the field.’ Her father has returned earlier than usual.
Mamta drops Shanti in her swing, and rushes out, forgetting to give it one push before she leaves. The abandoned baby starts to cry. But it has learned not to cry long; no one will come.
Mohit and Sneha are beating the dust out of the reed mats. Prem had hung them up in the Babul tree before he left for the Big House in the early-morning dark. He’d stopped Mamta from helping him: ‘Your hands are already shredded,’ he’d said, ‘save them to massage oil into your husband’s hair.’ For an instant she feels the tips of her fingers on a strange skull of black hair, soft and light, and a timorous shyness envelops her like diaphanous silk.
‘Mamta, come play,’ says her sister. The word ‘play’ sits uncomfortably with her. She is so old that she feels no right to their game, invented to sweeten their work. There is such a gap between them. Their youth makes her feel older than she is.
‘Stop it, you two. Come on. We have to finish here and then help Amma bring water from the well. We have to make lots of tea. Prem is bringing fresh milk today and he is going to try and get a big pat of butter too.’
The golden cry of the koyal calls to them. The children recede into the dust. After a while, they are barely visible from their hut.
Seeta Ram extracts the contracts from beneath his wife’s green sari in the tin trunk. The paper creaks accusingly as he bends the pages open, one by one. He cannot read, but the bureaucratic text still speaks to him. Why did he do it? Because he had a brand-new baby daughter? Because he hoped the crop would be good this year? Because of destiny? Because of nothing? No, he did it to get Mamta off his hands. He can’t come close to her without feeling a deep rage. For her and what she stands for. And for what she has made him do.
He will never look at those contracts again once she leaves, he tells himself. But the sturdy thumbprint in the right-hand corner tells him another story. He knows he might have given away more than he bargained for. He thinks of Daku Manmohan. Lucky bastard. First he lives off the fat of the land, then off the fat of the government. Lucky motherfucker.
The baby whimpers uselessly in its swing while staring at the unfamiliar face. He doesn’t feel any urge to pick her up. She starts whimpering again. Resentment fills his belly, then his lungs and lurches towards his throat, like rising froth on boiling milk.
‘That’s done,’ Lata Bai comes in wiping her hands on her sari pallav. She’s cooked the daal well and is satisfied. ‘How many is he bringing with him?’ she asks about the wedding party. ‘Do you think Jivkant will come?’
Jivkant was born when Mamta was two years old. Lata Bai had praye
d for a boy and Devi had answered her prayers. The birth of a son changed his mother’s fate. Had he been born a girl, Seeta Ram would undoubtedly have taken a new wife, letting Lata Bai find her own way in the world. She had chosen the Red Ruins to have her second baby, far away from the house, for she’d decided that, if she produced another girl, it would be a stillborn birth. It happened very quickly. She hardly had time to smooth Mamta’s freshly washed blanket under her hips as the boy appeared, bright and fat, just like a boy should be. Her heart had leaped out of her body to dance with the pale lemon clouds overhead. She’d clutched him to her breast, coaxing her nipple into his mouth. Through her watery happiness the damaged electric poles danced as they did in the heart of summer, and her whole field had shimmered and sparkled. Still aching, she’d run towards the house, shouting, ‘A boy, a boy. Mamta’s father, you hear? You have a boy. Mamta’s father, come see your boy.’
The hijras arrived promptly. They must have plucked the news of his birth, achieved almost silently close to the Red Ruins, from the wind. This time they conducted themselves differently than the time they had come to bless Mamta. There was a lilt to their song, and they danced for hours in front of the house, wiggling their hips still much too stiffly to be mistaken for true women. Seeta Ram had circled their heads three times with rupee notes without getting annoyed, such was the extent of his happiness. Eventually he chased them off with curses as one always has to.
