by Bali Rai
‘My daughter, how are you?’
‘I am well, Gianni-ji. And you?’ replied Kulwant, taking a break from washing clothes at a pool used by some of the villagers to wash and by others as a watering hole for their water buffalo. Set amongst trees and high banks which shielded the rice paddies on the other side, the small waterhole afforded Kulwant a little privacy, alone with her thoughts.
‘Daughter, what can I tell you? I am as well as my Lord allows and happy for that small blessing.’
‘May you remain so for a long time, Gianni-ji,’ smiled Kulwant.
The priest saw something in Kulwant’s eyes. A feeling, a fleeting emotion. He studied her face so keenly that she found herself forced to look away. Realizing that he had embarrassed her, the priest too looked away for a brief moment.
‘Tell me, daughter,’ he said, ‘does something trouble you?’
Kulwant looked to the ground. ‘Nay, ji,’ she replied.
‘Are you sure, my child?’
‘Yes, Gianni-ji.’
‘It is just that you seem troubled. As if your mind were weighed down by some great vexation.’
The priest looked once more into Kulwant’s eyes, as a wasp buzzed against his turban. He swept it away with a flick of his wrist.
‘I am only a child, Gianni-ji. What vexation could befall me at such a tender age?’ asked Kulwant, unsure of the priest’s intentions. Had he discovered her love? She shuddered at the thought.
‘You are no longer a child, my daughter. Could it be that you are worried about something?’
‘No, Gianni-ji,’ answered Kulwant as sternly as respect for her elder would allow.
‘I’m sorry, my child,’ said the priest. ‘Forgive me for being so direct.’
‘No, no, Gianni-ji. Forgive me for speaking out of turn,’ countered Kulwant, suddenly aware that she might have upset him.
‘Whatever your reasons – just remember that I am here at your service. If ever there is something that troubles you, no matter what it may be, my door is as open to you as it is to your father.’
The priest smiled in his quiet, friendly way, and gave Kulwant a hug. ‘God bless you, child. May you live a long life,’ he said.
Kulwant smiled weakly, feigning renewed interest in her chores, as the priest went on his way to prayers. Careful to allow him time to walk out of sight, she then set down her washboard and block of soap and ran to the edge of the pool, retching from the very base of her stomach and expelling her breakfast. She retched again and then again before soothing her brow with a cupped handful of water. She sat back and sighed.
And then she began to cry.
Later, as she sat in the same spot, wondering if her family had missed her yet, she thought about Billah Bains, her love. Her lover. Would he pass by the watering hole that afternoon, on his way to help his father and brothers tend to their crops? The father for whom she would give her all to have as her own, so that she might take on the family name that she held as dear as her own life. The thought of not being wed to her love filled her with a dread, a fear so sharp that it bit into her during the night, as she lay and thought of her beloved. And during those long days when she could not find an excuse to go out to meet him; could not get away from the constant chores allocated her by her domineering mother and dumped upon her by her older sister, Preeto.
Occasionally, as now, she would sit and dream of being far removed from her family. Taken away somewhere distant and dreamlike by the man she called her life. A place where there were no chores to eat away the time that they could spend together. Where each moment was a lifetime long and her family could not dictate which of those moments she was allowed to spend with her love. Where they could lie at night, in each other’s arms, and gaze at the celestial charm that Billah had claimed as their own. A dreamland that seemed so close when she touched his skin and felt his breath on her cheek. A place that was snatched away from them with every parting, every return to separate homes.
‘Shall we tell them that we are in love?’ Kulwant often asked Billah.
‘One day,’ he’d reply, ‘I will approach your father and ask for you to be mine.’
‘And he will agree with love in his heart.’
‘Unless he discovers us too soon.’
Kulwant shuddered again at the thought of being discovered by her father or brothers. There were so many stories of ill-fated love, of lives destroyed by dishonoured fathers and raging brothers. Of lovers separated or forced into exile, beaten and murdered. Yet she felt a calmness when she considered her own love, fated by the stars. There was no one on Earth, either in her family or in his, who could part them from each other. There was only One who could achieve such a thing, and it was He and His stars that had brought them together. Why would He do such a thing – bring them together – only to tear them apart again? Calmed by her reasoning she stood up, walked over to the pile of clothes she had forgotten about and, picking them up, headed back to her father’s house, each step taken slowly.
Being the youngest of a family of six children, and a girl, meant that Kulwant was forced to spend the better part of her evening seeing to the needs of the others. The job of feeding her father and four brothers belonged to the women, Kulwant, Preeto and their mother, Jagdev Sandhu. The male appetites of the Sandhu household were enormous, fuelled by the daily grind of farm life, and it was not unusual for each of the men to eat ten chapattis every night, with whichever seasonal vegetable or staple pulse had been prepared and, on the occasions when meat was cooked, two or three goats between them, over two nights.
Of her brothers only Mohinder paid Kulwant much attention, partly because there was only a year between them and three between Mohinder and the next sibling, Preeto, but also because Mohinder was a sensitive and happy young man. Jagdish, Kewal and Sohan were men rather than boys, each waiting to get married and dreaming of a new life in faraway England, the mother country, as their father Harbhajan called it. They had all three taken on the overbearing, tyrannical nature of their father and concerned themselves only with what they determined to be ‘men’s’ affairs. That they had yet to find a husband for Preeto, who had reached nineteen years of age, was a cause of constant shame for the men of the Sandhu family, although they had recently exchanged betrothal pledges with a family from a nearby village so that this shameful state of affairs might be put in order.
Jagdish and Kewal were both due to be married later in the year, to sisters from the next village – brides who would spend at most a year with their husbands before the grooms emigrated to England for work. Sohan had also been promised a wife, a quiet girl from the same village, whose father was the local sarpanch or land sheriff, but he would wait a few years to follow his brothers overseas, remaining behind to tend the land while Jagdish and Kewal set up homes and lives in that faraway land. Kulwant’s father Harbhajan was full of pride at the thought of his sons taking the family name overseas to set up a new line. It was the natural thing to do as far as he was concerned. The engrezi were calling for workers, the money to be made was good, and the rise in living standards would be a bonus. With Kulwant and her sister married off into new families, their parents could enjoy their old age flitting between India and England.
But as Kulwant lay awake that night, after finishing her chores for the day, she dreamed of a different fate for herself. An alternative life based on her own happiness rather than duty to her father or her family. A future with Billah. But how to broach the subject with her family? She could not go to her father or her brothers. Could not approach her mother or her sister. To say what? That she was already in love with a boy? That she was already the woman they had not wanted her to become until her wedding night? That was something she could never admit to – for fear of her life and that of her lover. Sometimes, as now, she felt as though she could curse the day that she noticed Billah for the first time. The day when they both turned fifteen, on that cold December morning eight months earlier. She did not curse the day, however, because
to curse the day would be to curse her kismet, deny her fate. And in doing so would she not be denying her life, her jaan, too?
Instead she thought about Billah’s eyes and the way he smiled. The way in which he had followed her to the waterhole days after their birthday and watched her do her chores. The way he hid and threw pebbles into the water, smiling as she tried to work out where they were coming from. The instant she looked into his eyes as he stepped from his hiding place and smiled at her. The feeling that her heart had taken flight right there and then, stolen away by the light-skinned, hazel-eyed boy who stood, grinning, before her. And then, as she fell softly into sleep, she felt that first touch, that first surrender to fate. A fate that would see her happy or see her dead. There was no in-between.
RESHAM BAINS SAT at the edge of the watering hole, keeping a close eye on his father’s herd of water buffalo as they stood in the murky green water. Earlier in the year two calves had edged out further than they should have, towards the centre of the lake where the water was deeper, and drowned. Resham and Billah had tried in desperation to pull them away but the calves had panicked and begun to kick and flail, making rescue impossible. Indeed, had it not been for Resham’s quick thinking, grabbing Billah’s arm just in time, his brother’s fate might have ended up mirroring that of the calves. Since that day Resham had carried a stout stick with him to the watering hole, ready to wade in to prevent any of the rest of the herd from wandering out too far. Not that he needed to. Perhaps, he thought to himself, these dumb beasts had more brains than they were given credit for, because they did not wander far at all, and often looked almost scared of the water.
The sun was high up in the bright blue sky and Resham felt hot enough to want to join the herd in the cooling water, put off by the layer of scum and flies that floated across the surface of the lake where it was unbroken. Instead he drank clean water from a small gourd that he had brought with him. Looking across the water to the opposite bank he saw Mohinder Sandhu waving to him. He stood and waved back, hoping that he could return the herd to the house and go and explore with his friend. A few days earlier they had found a disused hut out in the midst of some woods, well past any land owned by either family. Mohinder had told him that the hut was haunted; it had belonged to a witch who had died there. Being a churayal, he’d said, meant that she hadn’t been cremated with God-fearing people in the sacred grounds, the seveh, but wrapped in cloth, burned without ceremony and dumped out in the woods as a feast for the wild animals. The stone hut had stood empty ever since but was visited every night by the ghost of the witch as she sought revenge against the men who had sent her to the spirit world without the proper formalities, leaving her soul to wander restlessly for eternity.
Mohinder, who came over and sat down by his friend, was holding a stick of his own. Thinner and longer than Resham’s, it was the kind of thing you’d use to beat your way through dense undergrowth.
‘What is that for, bhai?’ asked Resham, already aware of what his friend’s answer would be.
‘It is to find our way back to that churayal’s house,’ replied Mohinder.
‘Let me take the herd back to our house first,’ said Resham, gesturing with his head towards the water buffalo.
Mohinder nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, and try not to let any of them drown today, bhai,’ he teased.
‘If you did any work,’ Resham replied, after swearing at him, ‘then perhaps you would know how difficult it is.’
‘Salahyah, I do as much work as you,’ countered an indignant Mohinder, cursing his friend.
‘Oh theery bhen dhi . . .’ swore Resham. ‘I am only joking with you, bhai.’
Having returned the herd to his father’s house, Resham didn’t wait around for anyone to give him another chore. Instead, he refilled his gourd with water and, carrying it along with his stick, followed his friend out of the village, past the watering hole, through the copse of trees to the south and then out across the cornfields towards the woods. The path they had beaten a few days earlier had grown over already and they had to begin the process of finding the hut all over again. Careful not to step on any snakes that might be lingering in the dead leaves and wood on the ground, they pushed back the undergrowth with their sticks, sweltering in the humidity, their brows wet with perspiration and their shirts clinging. Mohinder led the way, trying to recall which route they had taken previously. Twice they thought they were close but twice they were proven wrong.
The humidity was increasing and they were beginning to tire as they smashed back branches and thick stalks, when all of a sudden they emerged into a clearing, the supposed witch’s hut ahead of them. Exhausted, both boys fell to the ground and caught their breath. The air they were breathing felt as though it had been wrung from a hot, wet towel. Flies wriggled in the layer of sweat on their necks and their hair itched. Resham took his small gourd and offered it to his friend.
‘Drink, bhai.’
Mohinder took the water and drank a small amount before handing it back. Standing up, he held out his hand to Resham, who accepted, and together they slowly edged towards the hut. The clearing was open but dimly lit, slivers of light breaking through the canopy above their heads. The effect was eerie, with the dimness broken by narrow beams of sunlight that a person might almost walk between. A forest of trees made of sunshine. In the midst of this forest stood the stone hut, dull and grey, and unlit. A rotting wooden door hung open, a gateway to the darkness within. And all around the friends, birds chattered, insects buzzed and leaves rustled.
‘Bhai, I am scared,’ admitted Mohinder.
‘There is nothing to be scared of,’ replied Resham with fake bravado. He was as frightened as his friend.
‘If you are so brave then why are you standing next to me and not going in?’ asked Mohinder, clutching his stick tightly.
‘Chall feh,’ challenged Resham. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘Nah, bhai – after you.’
Resham looked at his friend and swore. Holding his stick like a truncheon at his side he moved through the forest of light and towards the hut. Somewhere amongst the real trees a twig snapped, an animal shrieked. Resham gave a start, gathering himself when he saw the smile on Mohinder’s face, and repositioning his weapon in front of him. He took a step forwards and then another. An eagle’s cry pierced the air.
This time Mohinder jumped. Resham gripped his stick and moved closer to the hut’s entrance. Something at his feet made a gulping, warbling sound. Resham looked down in time to see a brown toad hop away into the darkness. He realized that there must be some water nearby. A well behind the hut perhaps, or maybe a stream. He edged closer, the smell of rotten wood assaulting his senses. From inside the hut he heard a soft sound like a gentle breeze through leaves. Dismissing it, he moved to the entrance and peered into the darkness of the hut. Mohinder came up by his side and did the same.
‘Can you smell that?’ Resham asked.
‘Yes, bhai. It smells like something has died here,’ replied Mohinder.
‘The churayal,’ said Resham. ‘God knows how many things she killed here.’
Mohinder shuddered at the thought.
‘I’ve smelled this before,’ added Resham.
Something inside the hut made a sound – a mouse perhaps. A sort of sliding, scratching noise. Resham held out his stick, alert to any sudden movement. The noise stopped and then began again, this time accompanied by a gentle hissing.
‘It’s the smell of dead rats,’ whispered Mohinder. He moved into the darkness a bit further.
Resham heard the scratching, sliding sound again. Whatever it was, it was moving nearer to them. He tried desperately to see in the darkness, but he could make out nothing. No shape that might belong to an animal or a person.
And then Mohinder moved further forward. A sudden silence was followed instantly by a sharp hiss. Resham, panicking, realizing what it was that lived in the dark, cool, dank hut, pulled his friend back with his left hand and swung the stick with hi
s right. Mohinder cried out. Another hiss. And then a cracking sound, teeth on wood. Both boys fell backwards, Resham struggling to hold onto his weapon as something tried to pull it from his grasp. As he fell backwards and the stick caught a beam of light, he made out the powerful jaws and jet-black head of a cobra, its teeth embedded in the wood. He let go of the stick, throwing it back into the darkness, and sprang to his feet before pulling Mohinder up.
‘Bhai – are you all right?’ he asked Mohinder who, although shaken and frightened, was fine.
‘You saved my life, bhai-ji,’ replied Mohinder, shaking.
‘Never mind that now,’ answered Resham, as he saw the giant head of the cobra emerge from the darkness. ‘RUN!’
They sprinted from a standing start to the edge of the clearing, turning to see the irate cobra rearing up, ready to attack, its hood fanned out in anger, hissing and dangerous. They stood and watched it, thinking that they were safe, but suddenly the giant reptile, all eight black feet of it, sprang forward to the ground, heading in their direction. Resham turned and ran, tumbling headlong into the undergrowth, Mohinder crashing his own path through the vegetation right behind him. With no stick to smash a path through the plants and bushes, Resham stumbled and fell over a number of times as he tried to run, his legs catching against thorns and his feet slipping over dead roots and fallen branches. The humidity was closer still and he felt as though he was wading through water at times, but despite the burning in his legs and the thumping of the blood as it pumped through his veins, he managed to reach the edge of the trees, coming out into a cornfield. There was no sound behind him. No crashing through undergrowth, no breaking of twigs. Where was Mohinder?
