‘I know. That rule is not legally binding…more to do with entitlement to married quarters. It presents no real obstacle to our plans. We can still have his barat when he’s seventeen, eighteen. In any case, Veena will be of child- bearing age when he is twenty-five.’ Murari embraced Motilal. ‘Don’t forget dowry my Veena will bring him and you? He’ll be the richest young officer in the Indian Army.’
Motilal waved a hand. ‘Then it’s settled.’ With a spring in his step and a sense of well-being he took his leave. It was time for the midday meal. Rukmini would be waiting for him. He folded his hands and raised them to heaven. The fates had been kind to him, and he was particularly pleased that Rukmini had supported him in the matter of not letting their son Krishna cross the kala pani, the black waters. ‘He’ll lose caste and respect in the community,’ he had told her. ‘We are not royalty. They are a law unto themselves. They have no one to answer to.’
In agreeing, she had saved him much embarrassment because it was known that he, like Murari, was anti-British. With a son in England he would have had much explaining to do at the village council. It suited Rukmini to give in to her husband on some occasions, and this was one of them; also, to have her beloved son away from her would have been hard for her to bear. Besides, since Motilal owed her much and her father even more, she knew she could always get her way—though it was not in her nature to take advantage of the imbalance her influence had created in a Rajput household that ought to be exemplary in the sight of the Fatehpur community. As a Rajput she was orthodox enough to know that a Hindu wife is twice blessed by the respect and obedience she gives to her husband, her lord and master. And it was the commitment she made when at their wedding they ate off the same silver thali, knowing full well that it was the first and last time they would eat together. From then on she had to be pleased to serve his meals, squat on the floor by his side and gently fan him and keep the flies off him, while he ate. Motilal, in turn, would feel unable to begrudge those occasions when he gave in to one used to a more sophisticated life-style than he could provide. Nor could he analyse his own feelings for Rukmini. If he was told, as he stood by her funeral pyre, that his tears proved there had existed a deep and binding love in their relationship, he would not have understood what that meant. Of one thing he was certain; no woman would take her place, not in his life, not in his home. Rajput widowers are encouraged to remarry, for a man should not be without a woman, but Motilal, Headman of Fatehpur, was not to be pressed.
Krishna was still at school when his mother died. She had succumbed to the small-pox epidemic, which had decimated the population of Fatehpur, twenty-six years ago. Motilal’s heavily pocked-marked face, while it still bore the memory of being handsome, and evidence of his own lucky escape, reminded the villagers of his heroic conduct during those dreadful days. His reputation of being a hard man was revised when he strictly quarantined his home and the homes of the infected, thereby controlling the death toll. He rationed the grain and asked people distributing it, to leave a grain ration outside the homes of the stricken. The men were also told to watch, at a safe distance, those who came out to collect the food, and report any improvement in their health and situations…
Krishna’s disappointment at not schooling in Britain was offset by the thought that an army career kept him away, for much of his time, from village life, which he found increasingly tedious, and though, at first, father and son were estranged by Krishna’s decision to a serve in the British Indian Army, they were reconciled when he agreed to marry the girl Motilal chose for him. Veena, the eldest of Murari’s three daughters was no stranger to Krishna. As children they had played together, till, aged thirteen, Krishna left Fatehpur to school in Rajnagar. A year later, so that Veena would not be educationally disadvantaged, Murari sent her to a Convent school, in Lucknow, where she stayed with an aunt until she returned to be Krishna’s wife.
In their early years of marriage, the young couple moved from one military post to another and Veena soon grew to dislike army cantonment life. She found excuses to return to her father in Fatehpur and it was not long before she realised their marriage was failing. There never was passion in their relationship, nor anger, nor exchange of accusations: simply a dying fall, a fading away of commitment. Krishna had been far too ambitious to mind Veena’s absences. An unhappy wife was an inconvenience, if not a hindrance, but fortunately for him, even before active service took Krishna to Burma, Veena had already moved back to her father’s house—the grandest and the only two-storied building in Fatehpur.
Before leaving Krishna, Veena was determined to have a child. In a business-like way she overcame their sibling-like relationship and set about fulfilling her father’s desire for a grandchild—a strategy in which she succeeded.
Murari, even more anti-British than Motilal, hated the idea of any Indian fighting for them; and he and the Anglicised Krishna were seldom long together without sharp exchanges about the British, War and national politics. Murari believed a Japanese victory would rid India of British rule, insisting, when Krishna said he would rather be ruled by the Brits than the Japs, that Japan had no long term plans to rule India. Yet, like everyone else, who knew Krishna, he too was charmed by him and when the tragic news came that Krishna was no longer missing, but had been captured and executed by the Japs; he genuinely was broken by the news. However, when there was talk of Veena’s suttee, Murari reacted with fury. A wife’s suttee is correctly performed on her husband’s funeral pyre, and Krishna’s body was never found. Besides, Veena was pregnant and he urged the priests to remind the villagers that mothers were exempt from suttee. This the priests did. The talking ended only after Murari left his mansion in Fatehpur and took his widowed daughter and grandson to live with him in Biwara, returning once a week, every Tuesday, for a few hours in the day, to keep an eye on his business interests…
Krishna’s only contribution to the life of his village had been the setting up, ten years ago, of a shop for bicycle sales and repairs. But though he was able to locate it in the clean and spacious market square next to the temple, it made little impact. The villagers came, stood, gaped at the bicycles in wonder and then slipped away. ‘Arrey they’re waiting for two things,’ his father said: ‘firstly, the completion of the road to Biwara, and secondly, someone to teach them how to ride a bike. The price of a bike is lot of money to them. Your customers are likely only to be Veena’s brothers, and are a useless lot when it comes to outdoor activity. In any case they live in Biwara.’
But Veena had inherited her father’s business acumen and on taking over her husband’s legacy, she had the good sense to realise that the road linking Biwara to Fatehpur was at least a decade away, and transferred the bicycle shop to her town, permitting Chotu Ram, the village durzee, to move into the vacated premises at a rent that was a tenth of his income. The village tailor had another condition to meet before he took over the shop. Veena had taken to designing women’s clothes, and Chotu Ram had to make and display these prominently, and a third of the sale price was to be handed to her.
With the Vishnu Temple as its hub, Fatehpur radiates from there to its perimeter walls in concentric circles. These were designed to serve as caste boundaries, which were meant to keep its lower caste inhabitants to the outer rings. But an over-spill of menial workers around the West Gate broke the scheme and a bulge in the west of the village led some pariahs, that is people without caste, to encroach into the inner circles. In time, and entirely for commercial reasons, even the protected temple area could not remain exclusively for the priestly Brahmins and warrior caste Rajputs. Lower caste bunias or merchants had to be allowed to set up shops and to live in their premises. Among them, Mangal Singh, the halwai, or sweet-maker, who took on the role of a medic, and dispensed borax eye-drops free to children suffering from mild conjunctivitis and brown fennel and dill seed placebo pills for those with minor tummy upsets.
The Maha Narayan Temple to Vishnu is rai
sed on a square pyramid of steps. It was on these steps that Motilal’s mother, Girja Devi, had found the abandoned baby six years ago…Regularly at about two o’clock in the afternoon, the old woman would draw water from the temple well, which lay under the shelter of a sacred pipal tree. There she would bathe, change into a clean white sari—as mother of the village headman she could do this at the well without raising objections—then climb the temple steps, enter the porch of the temple, ring the large bell that hangs from its central arch, fold her hands and bow her head in prayer. On that day, when the sound of the bell died down, she heard the crying of the child. Girja started, listened and, having located where the crying sounds came from, went down the temple steps and behind the main entrance. The child had been left on the lowest step. Girja Devi was a kind and wise old woman. Many young mothers-to-be had turned to her for advice and help and now she knew at once why the child had been abandoned. Girja Devi cradled the boy in her arms and rocked him till he stopped crying. She looked around and called out. ‘Are you there? Come out. Don’t hide. I can help you. I’ll care for you and your son.’ She put the child down, waited, and called out again. The boy started to cry and jerked his hands. She picked him up and the child tugged at her lose bodice. ‘You must be hungry,’ the old woman whispered.
On her way home, she passed the pan shop. The panwalla, a coarse, rather loud man, called out to her. ‘Arrey Mataji!’ (All the villagers addressed Girja Devi with the respectful title of “Mother” or “Deviji”.) ‘I saw the mad woman leave that bundle there. She did not return to collect it. Is it a child? Must be her child.’
The woman stopped. ‘Look, it is a beautiful boy child.’
‘Chee! Chee! He’ll be some untouchable Bhil baby; unclean and defiling to touch. Keep him away from me. Let not even his shadow fall on my person. Or I shall have to bathe seven times.’ The man held up his Brahmin string, which ran across his bare chest, by his thumbs, and waved his hands, as if to ward off evil.
‘Not so,’ said the woman. ‘Here, look at the boy. He has a light complexion and no untouchable or low caste child will have such fine features. Do you presume to teach me about caste matters? Bhils are almost black. You should know that, if you have eyes in your head. Arrey, I dangled you in my arms when you were born. And even you were not half as beautiful as this boy.’
‘But Mother, there must be some bad reason for any child to be left there. I have been watching for some time. It is a wonder the langurs did not pick up the child?’
Langurs, the black-faced, long tailed, grey monkeys, lived and frolicked in the branches of the large, spreading banyan tree, near the Temple and under which the panwalla sets up his stall every morning. The woman drew nearer. ‘Arrey, speak of the monkeys with respect. They are sacred children of Hanuman. And have you not noted, when they gather together there are never more than seven? Every Brahmin knows seven is an auspicious number…’ She hesitated as if in doubt. ‘But long time now I have not seen that number. Don’t seem to be seven left, now.’
‘That’s because the main colony moved to Biwara. Hast thou not seen them at the Biwara railway station? It is festooned with monkeys.’
‘Biku, why would I go to Biwara?’
Biku rolled his head. ‘Believe me, they have become a damn nuisance. They raid the trains and harass the train passengers. Children of Hanuman! Huh!’
‘Biku, if you drove them away, some evil fate will befall you. Mark my words.’
‘Mother, I don’t believe in all that nonsense. My protector is goddess Lakshmi.’
‘Spoken like a bunia.’ The old woman shook her head, pressed the child to her breast and moved on.
But her son Motilal was unhappy. ‘Mother, what have you done? See, the boy is hungry. See how he searches to be fed.’
‘My dugs may be dry!’ Girja Devi shouted, ‘but…’ Her son gestured her to keep her voice down. She took a deep breath. ‘I have thought with great care. I’ll not let this child die. Hai Ram! Padmini is full with milk. She can suckle the boy.’
‘Our cook Padmini? She has her own child to feed.’
‘She can spare a little. Seen how big her breasts are? Like melons. All that ghee she robs from us…’ Girja Devi was interrupted by the sound of Motilal striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Don’t do that! Lately you have been showing a lot of impatience. Listen, whenever Padmini can’t,’ she continued, ‘I’ll dilute cow’s milk with water that has been blessed by the temple priest. It’ll be doubly sacred— gow mata, mother cow, is holy—and will give the boy strength. Just leave me to it… to…and since when does a man know more than a woman? My maternal instincts have never failed me.’
Motilal threw up his hands. ‘Well, do what you want. Old age, they say, truly casts its spell of madness. Anyway, that child won’t live. Not without his real mother.’ Motilal left the room.
‘See! As I said, you know nothing.’ She shouted after him.
Motilal returned with frowning deeply. ‘What do you mean? I can’t be the village headman and be accused of knowing nothing. Mother you do…’
‘Arrey, just you wait. The boy will live…he’s Bhagwan Vishnu’s gift to me. For too long my life has been loveless. All that’s been left for me till now is to patiently await death. Evil spirits took away my grandson, Krishna. But now, great god, Harè Ram a, gives me a gift to bless my last remaining days.’
‘Then, ungrateful mother, pray that the gods give you a long life, because once you’ve gone, I’ll not have a fatherless child in the house. I can’t. I am the village headman and my role is an example to all. Understand?’
‘I shall call him Balaram, the child of Rama, Lord Vishnu’s gift to me.’
‘Make up your mind. Rama or Vishnu?’
‘Fool. They are the same. Lord Rama is an avatar of god Vishnu.’
‘And in time he will be called Bal for short. Thought of that? Bal means child. Fancy how he’ll feel to be called “child” all his life. Yes, yes, it also means hair. That is even worse. But have you heard? I said I’ll not foster him. He will be homeless. Better to let some low caste woman bring him up in a permanent home. I’ll make enquiries when the elders meet. I’ll find a mother for him. I am not headman for nothing.’
‘I will not let you do that. With my dying breath, I will see to it that he goes to my brother’s house.’
Motilal hooted. ‘Randhir Singh?’ He laughed derisively. ‘Krishna called him Uncle Randy. And randy he is. You know what randy means? You’ll understand when I tell you he keeps a woman in Biwara. Sujata found that out and wanted her brothers to give him a good thrashing. I saved him from that indignity. Did I not?’
‘You! It was me. I told his wife, Sujata. I reminded her that I knew she did not care for my brother. I told her not to listen to empty gossip and rumour and as she didn’t care why should she mind even if the rumours were true? “Why,” I said, “why upset peace of a home? Apji,” she calls him Apji. I said, “Apji gives you clothes and jewellery. Be content and enjoy that.” She loves Bombay halwa. Loves sweets, that’s why she’s so fat. He brings her packet after packet.’
‘If that boy lives, he won’t thank you for it. Randhir will make him work at the oil mill, morning, noon and night. And he’ll beat the boy soundly for every mistake he makes. You know, if he wasn’t afraid of her brothers, he would like to beat his wife too. So he’ll take it out on the boy, when he is drunk. Why do you think their son ran away? First chance he got, he went. God knows where he is. Randhir is…’
‘My brother is not a bad man. It’s the demon drink. It makes him do bad things. And you don’t have the guts to stop Murari selling drink.’
‘He spends more time in Biwara. That’s where he does most of his drinking.’
‘You forget. If it wasn’t for Randhir we wouldn’t have a railway station. And still you did not make him an elder in the panc
hayat.’
‘We were happy without the station. He also wanted a post office and a Tar…a wire…telegraph office. We don’t need all that. Fatehpur is well without the modern world knocking on our door. And Biwara is near enough if we need…I know he’s your youngest brother, but you and your mother spoiled him…now Randhir is an old saand…a servicing bull. A violent man, who drinks and still chases women.’
‘Well, then, you tell me what should I do for the boy after I’m gone?’
‘Give him up, now. I’ll pay a bhil woman to bring him up and soon she will let him beg for his bread like any orphan does. And work for whoever will hire him, like that other village orphan. That – that musalman boy, Asif. He’s lucky to be here. Thanks to Rukmini, this is a kind village. There are villages where orphans and low-caste people are ill-treated, abused…sometimes even killed.’
‘I would rather he was free than to be brought up by some low-caste woman.’
‘Why not, mother? Most likely he’s low-caste too.’
‘Let it be. I know he’s not. Look at his face. His skin is light and his features are sharp. That is not the face of a low caste child.’
Motilal bent over, and pulling the child’s blanket down, started. ‘Fair? Yes, much too fair. I hope he’s not some Britisher’s child? Half-caste.’
‘Nonsense. He’s no lighter than our Krishna was. Oh, what a beautiful baby he was. Remember? Moti? I used to call you “Moti” my little pearl. For your son’s sake, give this child…Hai Raam! ’ Girja Devi held the child up like an offering.
‘All right! All right, mother. But let Sujata find a dai, a wet nurse. Another thing to remember, Sujata gets little house money from Randhir. That boy will starve.’
‘I will give her my money for the boy. I will leave, in his name, all my javery.’
‘Your jewellery?’
In the Shadow of a Dream Page 2
