Babyji

by Abha Dawesar

  “I’ll kill him,” I replied.

  “But Babyji, you are only a child,” she said.

  I didn’t respond. Did my lover think I was a child? I felt hurt. I kept swabbing her skin.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Babyji,” she said after a little while.

  “What did you mean?” I asked.

  “He can hurt you, he’s big, he’s an animal,” she said.

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “No, he doesn’t know your house. Anyway, he’s lying drunk on the floor.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. I didn’t let him touch me yesterday when he came home. After being with you I couldn’t. I said I was thinking of leaving the jhuggi altogether and living here. He hit me and hit me when I said that. Then he went out and drank.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The woman next door took me in and told her husband to sleep outside.”

  I felt a pang of jealousy that someone else had helped her first. At the same time I felt gratitude toward the woman for being there. I wanted to go to the slum and give her my pocket money savings as a reward. My head was splitting. Was I really having thoughts about paying people for goodness? So many people believed that anything could be bought. I had loathed them all my life. But now I was thinking like they did. Love had unhinged me.

  “Are you okay, little mistress?” she asked, raising her head from my bed. I realized I’d been taking care of her the way she had of me earlier, when she massaged my legs. She looked comfortable on my bed. The unease from before had gone.

  “I’m okay. Thank God for your neighbor. I will speak to my mother. You’ll stay here.”

  “Little mistress, are you sure? I don’t want you to take the trouble.”

  “I’m sure,” I said confidently. But I wasn’t. I would have to work on my mom from every angle. I’d have to argue for women’s rights and threaten to leave home if Rani could not stay. I was certain India would keep me and even keep Rani.

  I looked at her. There were deep, dark craters under her eyes.

  “You’re very tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep last night.”

  “Sleep now.”

  “I have to wash the vessels.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Rani suddenly propped herself on her elbow and said, “Little mistress, what time is it? Your mother will be here soon.”

  “She won’t come for another hour and a half, just sleep.”

  I covered her with a thin sheet and stroked her hair for a little while. When she fell asleep I kissed her forehead and tiptoed out of my room. I made my way to the kitchen and did the dishes. I imagined what would happen when my mom came back. It was one of those days when my father was going out to play cards with his colleagues. I knew I could get my mom to agree to let her spend the night, but I also knew that in the long run she’d defer to my father.

  After the dishes were finished I called India. “Rani got beaten,” I said.

  I didn’t want to call her a servant even though India had never heard me call her Rani before. The idea of asking India to keep Rani if my parents refused was terrible in some ways, but it was better that she have a roof over her head at India’s than that she go back to the jhuggi .

  “Who did it? Her husband?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mine used to beat me, too. She should leave him.” India had not told me anything about her ex-husband before.

  “I hope my mother lets her stay here.”

  “She’ll be okay. Are you coming tonight?”

  I hesitated a moment. If Rani was spending the night with me, I couldn’t go to India’s. But I wanted her to be as well inclined toward Rani as possible, should the need arise.

  “I’m going to try, but it’ll be a bit risky. My father might come home late.”

  “Don’t take the chance.”

  “I won’t. Even if I can’t make it tonight, I’ll definitely come soon.”

  “Listen, if this maid needs a place to stay I’ll take a look at her. How does she work?”

  “Superbly.”

  “Don’t worry then.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on to make some tea. I put two china cups on a tray, got out a packet of tea biscuits, and took everything to my room. I liked the fact that our roles were reversed, that I was suddenly no longer a brat.

  When I woke Rani she jumped up and said, “What are you doing?”

  “I made chai,” I said.

  She eyed the cup tentatively, since she always used the glass my mother had given her. I thought she was going to protest, but she said, “You’re very kind to me.”

  “Eat some biscuits,” I said.

  “Are they good?” she asked. She had served us these biscuits many times but had never eaten one. She picked one up and ate it. Then another. And another.

  “You haven’t eaten since last night,” I remarked.

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I was not hungry. I felt ill.”

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes.”

  By the time we finished our tea it was time for my mother to return. Rani carried the cups back to the kitchen. I changed my clothes and followed her. She washed both cups and returned one to the shelf, leaving the other to drain. She wiped the vessels I had washed and put them back on the shelf. We had gone back to master-servant mode without saying a word.

  Soon the bell rang.

  “Sit on the veranda. I will bring her to you after I’ve spoken to her,” I said.

  “All right.”

  I unbolted the door from the inside to let my mother in.

  “Mom, Rani’s husband beat her.”

  “All these women put up with too much from their men.”

  “He beat her black and blue. If she goes back he’ll kill her.”

  “No, he won’t kill her. He’ll only beat her again.”

  “What do you mean only?” I couldn’t believe my mother could be so callous.

  “She should leave him. She earns. If she works in a few other houses she’ll have enough money.” My mother had ignored the emotion in my voice and had just gone on speaking.

  “We can let her stay here,” I said.

  “You know we can’t. There’s no space.”

  “Mom, you’ve always said how it would be so convenient to have a full-time servant. She’ll cook even in the mornings and wash all the clothes.”

  “That’s very well, but where will she sleep?”

  “She can sleep anywhere. She’ll sleep on the floor in the living room.” I didn’t want to be the one to suggest that Rani sleep in my room.

  “You know Papa doesn’t like these servant types going around the living room.”

  “Mom, she can sleep on the floor in my room.”

  “It’ll disturb your studies.”

  “No it won’t. I find it easier to study late when someone else is around.”

  “We can ask your father,” my mother said.

  “Of course he’ll say no. He’s a man, he won’t understand.”

  “What’s wrong with you? You have such funny ideas.”

  “So can I tell her she can stay the night?”

  “Where is she?”

  “On the veranda.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  I followed my mother to the veranda. Rani, who had been squatting on the floor, got up.

  “Namaste, Memsahib,” she said.

  “Did he beat you badly?”

  “He beat my legs. He said he would break them, and he hurt my back.”

  “Let me see,” my mother said. Rani lifted her sari slightly to show her calf.

  “Let me see properly.”

  She lifted her sari higher.

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

  “No.”

  My mother looked at me and s
aid in Hindi so that Rani could understand, “We’ll take her to the doctor and get her some medicine. Then we can buy some rotis and sabzi from the corner shop for dinner since there won’t be time to cook. I want you both to eat and go to bed before your father comes home. I’ll speak to him in the morning. It’s best she stay in your room tonight. Let’s see what we can do.”

  We trooped out of the house together. I was afraid her husband might be lurking around the house. Rani looked afraid, too.

  “What’s the matter?” my mother asked, looking at Rani.

  “Memsahib, my man might come for me. This is dangerous for you.”

  “What rubbish! I’ll call the police. He dare not raise a finger when we are around.”

  I had never seen this side of my mom. Our lives were fairly sheltered, and there was no need for her to get defiant about anything.

  “Which doctor should we take her to?” I asked.

  There were a dozen doctors running private evening clinics in our locality. Our own, Dr. Iyer, was expensive. My parents would not have been able to afford him on a regular basis, but they got reimbursements from their jobs for medical expenses. There were several cheaper doctors, but we weren’t sure who was good since a lot of quacks had set up practices.

  “Dr. Iyer, of course. We know he’s reliable,” my mother said.

  I could not help being surprised. I wondered if I had known my mother in all these years. She put up a tough exterior, but Rani’s suffering had reached her.

  We showed up at Dr. Iyer’s clinic and waited in the waiting room. Rani made her way to the corner to squat on the floor.

  “You sit on a chair when you are not well,” my mother said to her in Hindi.

  We had our turn after fifteen minutes. I was usually made to wait outside, but my mother did not say anything when I walked into the consultation chamber with both of them.

  “Mrs. Sharma, what can I do for you?”

  “My daughter will explain the full story,” my mother replied, looking at me.

  I felt more nervous talking to Dr. Iyer in front of my mother than I did addressing the school assembly every morning in front of six thousand children. He had known me since I was a child.

  “Is she only bruised, or was there also some bleeding?”

  I had noticed only grazed skin, but just to be sure I translated the question for Rani.

  “No. No blood,” she said in Hindi.

  “In that case she doesn’t need a tetanus shot. We’ll give her some painkillers.”

  He usually gave us a prescription, and my mother and I would walk to the nearby chemist to get it filled. But today Dr. Iyer went up to the cabinet behind him and stared at the vials behind the glass, rubbing his hands. After a few seconds he opened it and got out two tubes of an antiseptic.

  “Tell her to apply these to her skin. And here are some pills for the pain,” he said.

  “How much, Doctor?” my mother asked when we were done.

  “For her? Nothing.” He smiled. I’d never seen him smile that way. He had been my doctor since I was born, given me all my vaccines on my bum, even administered a glucose drip to me at home when I was dehydrated. Not once had he shed his stern exterior. My mother seemed to find nothing odd about his manner. She smiled back and said, “Thank you.”

  As soon as we had walked out I asked my mother, “Why didn’t he charge us?”

  “Everyone wants to do a good deed.”

  “Why did he smile like that?”

  “Look at her. She looks devastating. There’s nothing as moving as a beautiful woman who is suffering.” My mother finished her sentence abruptly, and her face took on a look that made it clear I was not to talk for a little while. There was a tiny smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

  I had become aware of the feelings of love and lust only after meeting India at the parent-teacher meeting. Since then the meaning of longing had revealed itself. Previously, reading the word in books, I had only been able to imagine it. With Rani and with India I now felt it myself. Suffering and beauty had taken on new meanings in my life. Delhi became suffused with a trembling beauty when the breeze blew or when I saw a blooming flower. Everything around me made me think of the two women I loved. I felt my heart ache to be with one or the other. If the dim yellow light in our dining room cast a shadow with a jagged edge, I could not help thinking of love. From the way my mother had just spoken about Rani, I had to wonder if she knew these feelings, too. Was it possible that my parents longed for each other? I had never noticed any indication of this before. After my life had taken off a few weeks ago I had assumed that my lovers and I were the only people in the world who felt the way we did.

  My mother and Rani had picked up the pace and were a few steps ahead of me. They turned onto the street where the market was. I walked faster to catch up. We went to the dhabawalla to order hot rotis and dal and sabzi. The dhabawalla’s tandoor oven was facing us. It generated a lot of heat, so I turned my back on it and faced the wall. I heard my mother pay for the order, and then I heard India’s voice say, “Pack three of the soft rotis, please.”

  I whirled around. Sure enough she was there. She saw me the second I saw her. Even before I had seen her face, I could tell it was her from the way her hair fell on her shoulders.

  “Hi,” we both said in unison. Then I turned red. What would I tell my mother? How did I know a grown-up woman in the colony?

  But India’s social graces could be counted on to save any situation. She turned to my mother and said, “You must be Anamika’s mother. I met her in school. I had gone to get admission for my son. You must be really proud that she’s the Head Prefect, so intelligent and mature.”

  “Yes, we’re proud,” my mother said, staring at me unabashedly.

  Rani, who could not understand the conversation, nevertheless understood that it was about me. She added her two bits in Hindi, “Little mistress is the best.”

  India and my mother smiled at her and then looked at each other again.

  “We just came back from the doctor. Her man beat her,” my mother said to India.

  “All men are alike,” India said in English, then added, “Mine was super-educated. He went to Doon School and St. Stephen’s, and he still beat me. I left him.”

  I wondered how my mother would react. It was better it was out right away that India was divorced. If my mother minded she could end all association now, should she suspect that as a divorcée India was out to get everyone’s husband.

  “I think she should leave him, too,” my mom said.

  India took a long look at Rani. My mother looked at Rani, too, and so did I. It was dark, and the streetlights were no stronger than candles. In the flickering light of seven o’clock, Rani looked broken and beautiful. I wanted to take her away and tell them they could not like to see her broken. When she was in high spirits she was prettier.

  “I’d be happy to keep her if you want me to,” India said.

  “We’re thinking of keeping her. Anamika is very determined. I’ll speak to my husband.”

  My mother sounded enthusiastic. It was almost as if they both wanted to be knights in shining armor. India nodded to my mother. I stared at my feet. I was afraid that if I made eye contact with India I’d catch a slightly disapproving glance at my keenness for Rani.

  “Well, you can let me know. I can give you my phone number,” India said.

  “We should get your phone number anyway. We can have you over for dinner,” my mother said warmly.

  Then she looked at me and asked, “Anamika, do you have a pen? We can take . . . this lady’s number.” My mother looked embarrassed at having to call her “this lady.”

  India laughed and said, “Mrs. Sharma, if I hadn’t met your daughter I wouldn’t know your name either. I’m Tripta Adhikari.”

  “I don’t have a pen, just say it,” I said, looking into India’s eyes.

  “Will you remember?” my mother asked.

  “Mom!”

  “Your
daughter is brilliant,” India said. I wondered if she was mocking me.

  “Stop,” I said. I used the tone I used when I spoke to her alone. The tone of a lover. I was afraid my mother would notice. It was bad enough I had not called India “Aunty” even once during this whole episode. But my mother did not notice. We finally said bye to her and walked away.

  When we got home we went to the dining room and sat down to eat. Rani sat cross-legged on the floor and put the rotis on her plate. My mother and I sat at the table. We were lost in our own worlds and didn’t speak much. While we were eating there was a powercut.

  “Let me get some candles from the kitchen,” Rani said immediately.

  “Just keep sitting. We don’t need any light,” my mother said.

  It was almost pitch black in the dining room. I wished I were sitting on the floor with Rani so that I could touch her. I slid to the end of my chair and brushed my knee against her shoulder.

  “It’s so peaceful even though it’s hot,” my mother said.

  “Yes,” I replied, feeling a bead of sweat trickling down my chin.

  “I really liked that friend of yours, Mrs. Adhikari.”

  “My friend?” I wanted to protest just to keep myself in the clear.

  “You’re the one who knows her.”

  “I guess you’re right. She’s nice.”

  “When Papa goes out for cards next week we should invite her for dinner.”

  “Why when Papa’s out?”

  “I just thought it would be more fun to be all women. It is possible to be genuinely good friends only with a woman. Real friendship with men is difficult. Moreover, tongues wag if a man and woman are friends.”

  I grunted. On the one hand, having three of the women I loved in one room would be great, but the thought of my mother and India getting along like a house on fire made me squirm.

  The phone rang. It took me a long time to make my way to it without banging into furniture, but it was still ringing when I got there.

  “I thought you would never pick up,” Sheela said.

  The house was quiet, and her voice was loud and clear over the telephone wire. I was sure my mother could hear her. I cupped the earpiece in my hand to muffle the sound and responded softly.

  “So can you stay for Sports Day practice?”