The wind roars in my ears. Lalit is driving far too fast.
“Whoa,” I say. “When did you get your pilot’s license?”
He doesn’t come back with a joke, the way I’d hoped. Instead, he says, staring straight ahead, “All those things you said about yourself, you were only saying them to force Ashok to stop loving you. Right?”
My throat hurts as though I’m coming down with the flu. “Is that what you think?” I say.
We ride the rest of the way in silence.
Uncle says, “Every monsoon, the Tista used to flood. My friends and I would play hooky from school and go to see it. The water would be swollen, with brown foam from all the washed-away earth. You could hear the roar of the river from half a mile away. The best part was the whirlpools.” His finger makes circle shapes on Dayita’s palm, tickling her, and she laughs. “We’d throw sticks in it, watch them disappear.”
They’re sitting on his bed, my daughter and the old man whom I’ve started calling Uncle. It’s been two weeks now since we made our secret plan. Already he looks stronger. He can walk to the bathroom, holding on to me, dragging his left foot. He can sit up in bed and eat by himself. He’s set himself a strict regimen: breakfast is followed by a few stretches in bed; then a brief rest; then I help him into his wheelchair and take him to the living room window so he can look out on the view. After lunch, which he takes at the table with Dayita and me, he sleeps. A few easy exercises when he wakes. Then tea. After that I read to him, or we listen to music. He’s surprised me with a fondness for jazz. In the evening he plays with Dayita or tells us stories. Yesterday he asked me to look in his suitcase. Inside was a wooden box that opened into a chessboard. The carved figures were dressed in British uniforms and in Mughal garb. The queens had tiny tiaras that winked with real jewels. I’ll teach you next week, he said. My job is mainly to see that he doesn’t overdo things and to be a listener. For after his long silence, he can’t get enough of talking about the place he loves more than any other place on earth.
By the time Myra and Trideep return from work, he’s back in bed, quilt drawn up to his chin, eyes closed. He’ll whisper an anemic hello and pretend he’s too tired to respond when they try to talk to him. He’ll only eat his dinner after they’ve given up and gone away. “Let me have my little secret,” he told me with an urchin’s grin when I protested. “The day when I can walk by myself to the living room, I’ll tell them!”
My own life is bleaker. No reply from Anju to the note I sent her last week. When he calls, Lalit seems distant and preoccupied. Abrupt. I guess that Ashok has returned to India, but there’s no one I can ask. My sleep is knotted with complicated dreams I can’t remember when I wake. They leave a faint bitterness in my mouth, as when one has had a fever. I have thrown out Sunil’s tape, but sometimes I think I hear his voice, Sudha, Sudhaaa, how can you abandon me? The phone number he spoke is imbedded in my brain, refusing to be forgotten. My disobedient fingers yearn to dial it.
Torn strips of a story that Pishi told us years ago come back to me. Once there was a man who was addicted to thievery. One day he met a saint who convinced him to repent—yet the man found that he could not stop stealing, even though he no longer wished to. I forget the middle of the story, but it ends with the man chopping off his right hand, to save himself from himself.
To save myself, I pour my attention into preparing Uncle’s meals. I nag Myra until she goes to the Chinese market for fresh catfish. I sauté it with black jeera and turmeric and make jhol, the traditional clear soup one drinks after a long illness to build strength. I curdle milk and make fresh paneer sprinkled with sugar. I soak almonds overnight in warm water until they are soft and give them to him for breakfast.
Uncle says, “There used to be elephants in the Duars forest when I was growing up, and cheetahs, too. And the trees—shal and shegun and deodar—so huge that even in the daytime you couldn’t see sunlight. A lot of them have been cut down nowadays by the lumber companies, but it’s still something to see.”
He says, “Sometimes the bigger cheetahs would come into the Madeshia hutments and grab a goat or a calf. The tea estates were still run by the English then, and an officer would take his rifle and go into the forest, accompanied by a group of coolies with drums. Secretly, I was always on the cheetah’s side!”
He says, “We’ll take a boat to where the Karala River meets the Tista, to watch the sunset. There are so many rivers, each one different. We can go fishing on the Angrabhasa. On the Dudua. We’ll rent a jeep and go up Assam Road to the tea gardens, to see the mist coming over the Bhutan hills. Do you think you’ll like that?”
Under the excitement, a brief tremor in his voice, as though a part of him still cannot believe this will come true. I make myself nod. Smile. He’s telling me that when Dayita’s old enough, he’ll make sure she gets into Holy Child, the best school in the area. There won’t be a problem, he knows the principal well. It’s close to his house, too. He can walk her there when the weather’s good. Other days Bahadur will call a rickshaw from the marketplace. I try to visualize it: an old man with energetic steps and a silver-headed cane, hand in hand with a little girl in a blue-and-white uniform, her hair in a neat braid with a white bow at the end. The wrought-iron gates of the school open inward to let them in. There’s a line of eucalyptus trees, a gravel drive, then the fragrant white gardenias the nuns planted half a century ago. But where am I? In this picture, where am I?
Fourteen
Assignment
Write a piece in which you reinterpret a mythic/epic character by envisioning him/her in a scene of your own creation (i.e., not from the original work). Develop the character with fictional devices such as setting, dialogue, and imagery, and use these to indicate your attitude to this character.
Draupadi’s Garden
by
Anju Chatterjee
English 3353
Creative Writing
Prof. S. Liu
She was born from fire. Perhaps that is why, throughout her life, wherever she went, she left scorched footprints. The men she looked at felt a burning inside them long after she was gone, particularly when they remembered that she—unlike all good women—had five husbands. Some say she brought about the destruction of the Kurus, the greatest dynasty that ever was. Some say she corrupted her noble husbands by her insatiable longing for revenge. I think her only fault was that she wanted—and got—what was forbidden to women. For that, she would have to pay a steep price.
All this was a long time ago. Or was it?
Imagine this scene, one of the most famous from the epic Mahabharat: Draupadi’s husband, King Yudhishthir, is invited to Hastinapur, to the kingdom of his envious cousin Duryodhan, to take part in a gambling tournament. The crafty Shakuni, Duryodhan’s uncle, has enticed Yudhishthir to gamble away his wealth, his kingdom, his brothers, even himself—and, finally, his wife. Duryodhan sends for Draupadi—she must serve him as a maidservant now. But Draupadi refuses to come. She sends back a question, instead: what right has a man to gamble away his wife as though she were a mere piece of property?
The question is ignored by the court, and continues to be ignored down the ages. Change gamble to any verb of your choice, and you’ll see.
Draupadi is dragged by her hair to the court by Duryodhan’s younger brother, who attempts to pull off her clothes. Why not? She is now the Kurus’ maidservant, their sexual plaything. They can do with her as they wish. The entire court—grandfathers, teachers, the old king, her husbands—watches in horror, held paralyzed by the conviction that if a man owns a woman, he is entitled to do whatever he wants to her.
Draupadi is saved by divine intervention, but through the next thirteen years, as she wanders through the forest with her exiled husbands, she will not forget her humiliation. She will leave her hair untied and uncombed, a shroud of knots to remind her husbands how they failed in their most important duty. She is the fire inside their lungs, blazing up each time they consider forbearance.<
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After the great battle of Kurukshetra, after every member of the Kuru dynasty is killed, Draupadi will finally tie her hair, gilded with the blood of Duryodhan’s brother. Is she happy? Who can say. Her own sons have died in the aftermath of Kurukshetra. The land is reduced to rubble. Soon her heartsick husbands will hand over the kingdom to their last surviving grandson and, together with Draupadi, start on their fated journey up the Himalaya Mountain, where she will perish.
But I imagine Draupadi in a different, earlier scene. Here she is, in a corner of the women’s courtyard in the royal palace of Hastinapur—for she is now queen here, in this palace that is too large, where the wind wraps itself around the domes at night and calls with familiar, wounded voices. She kneels on the dark, wet ground—there was an unseasonal rain last night—unmindful of her jewel-studded sari. Her nails are mud-encrusted as she places a seedling in a hole, as she gently tamps the earth into place around it.
What would Draupadi plant in her garden? Would it be the agnirekha, flame-flower, flower of virtuous courage, flower of the heroes her husbands have become? Would it be a sprig of the parijaat, the tree of fragrant bliss which their mentor Krishna wrested from Indra, the king of the gods? Is it the asha-lata, the mythical desire vine which gives you whatever you wish for? No, none of these. For she has learned that it isn’t enough to be the wronged one. It isn’t even enough to be the wronged one who emerges victorious. Revenge is like spiced mango chutney: delicious at first, it leaves your tongue stinging. How long can you enjoy the suffering of your enemy before you notice that you are bleeding, too? The asha-lata gives what you wanted, but it always turns out different from what you imagined it to be.
I will leave Draupadi in her garden, watering her mysterious plant. I can’t give you its name, because I haven’t figured it out myself, what you reach for when the consolation of righteous rage no longer consoles you. But I hope it grows into a tree so huge its roots crack the foundations of the old palace. I hope the wind blows its seeds across the land, giving birth to more trees, and more, so that long after Draupadi’s bones are covered by glaciers travelers everywhere will rest under their shade, and bless that which comes after vengeance.
Ms. Chatterjee,
Though I was looking for a fiction piece rather than nonfiction, I think you have captured the spirit of the assignment very well. You have an original and powerful writing style, and though I didn’t understand every reference here, it made me want to find out more. The images you use are strong and evoke emotions successfully, making us sympathize with a complexly portrayed character. I think you have quite a gift for writing, and I wish you success in developing it further.
Shana Liu
Fifteen
Letters
Berkeley
October 1994
Dearest Anju,
I am writing one final time to let you know that I am leaving for India. I’m going to take care of Mr. Sen, the old man I was looking after here. He lives in Jalpaiguri, up in the north of Bengal I think we’ll be happy there—or at least peaceful, which is perhaps better. He is very fond of Dayita, and has offered to pay me a generous salary. Apparently he is very well off, which I did not know earlier.
I want to see you before I leave, to say good-bye, and to tell you what happened (my truth of it). This may be our last opportunity, for I doubt very much that I’ll be returning to America. But perhaps this no longer matters to you.
Sudha
Berkeley
October 1994
Dear Lalit,
Imagine this scene, from last night:
I set the table for dinner with an extra plate, and when Myra asked why, I said that Uncle would join us for dinner.
“Uncle?” Trideep says. “Which uncle?” Myra’s staring at me as though I’ve lost my mind, and in walks Uncle, right on cue, just as we’d planned. He walks quite well with a cane now, though he still drags his left foot. The stupefaction on their faces! Uncle and I couldn’t stop laughing. Later he said it was almost worth being sick so long, just to see that look.
Anyway, once they’d got over the shock—and the elation—they were quite positive about the idea of my taking him back to India. I suspect they’re secretly relieved to be rid of us both, though I believe Myra when she says she will miss Dayita. She’s been spending much of her evenings playing with her, and speaks intermittently of adoption. However, knowing Myra, I doubt that will happen!
Uncle tells us more stories of Jalpaiguri each day. No place can be as beautiful as he makes it out to be, and Trideep has warned me that it’s actually a sleepy little hill town where very little happens. Still, I’m excited. Myra has bought us piles of woolens—we’ll get there right at the start of the cold season, and she’s convinced that without central heating, we’ll freeze to death. They plan to come and visit us soon—perhaps in the spring. Myra has asked me to keep an eye out for things she might want to buy for the boutique, where she’s become a partner.
Trideep’s bought our tickets. We leave two weeks from today. Hard to believe that my ill-fated stay in America (ill-fated except for you, that is—you’ve been such a good friend) is coming to an end.
The other night I asked Uncle that riddle you’d once asked me— What’s the difference between a soldier and a lady? I thought forsure he wouldn’t know the answer. I was getting ready to tell him when he said, “There’s no difference at all, my dear. You of all people should know that.” From time to time, he startles me like that.
When are you coming to see Dayita and me? Since our last meeting—when you took me to talk to Ashok—you’ve been awfully quiet. I’m afraid to ask why.
Sudha
Berkeley,
October 1994
Dear Pishi,
I am sorry I haven’t written to any of you for so long—but whatever I could have written would have only made you sad.
Maybe Anju has told you what has happened, the four people that made up her household scattered like chaff in the wind. I cannot claim to be innocent. But at least I was the first to leave. And though I could have done it, I didn’t go with Sunil.
I was so scared the day I left Anju’s flat with an empty purse and a child to take care of, going to work in a stranger’s house as a maid. Yes, that’s what I was, though they were nice enough never to behave toward me in that fashion. It was more frightening than when I left Ramesh. Then at least I had you to run to, and Anju, though she was physically far, was always with me in my heart. Now she is only an hour’s drive away, but we might as well be on two different planets.
I’m coming back to India, Pishi, but not to Calcutta. I must start over—without the memories, the whispers. And this job I have, taking care of old Mr. Sen, who is recovering from a stroke, will allow me to do so. He is a kind man, and old enough that I need not fear him in that way. Dayita likes him, too.
I was going to say that must mean he is a good person. Then I remember how attached she was to Sunil.
But I cannot say Sunil is a bad person. He just wanted what he was not supposed to want.
Do you think I’m making a mistake by coming back?
But think of this: for the first time in my life, I’ll have my own bank account. It makes me feel—finally—like a grown-up!
Please tell Gouri Ma and my mother. I will write to you again from Jalpaiguri.
With love and pranams,
Sudha
Berkeley
October 1994
Sunil
I write this letter the way one performs an exorcism, so that I can start on my new life. I do not ask to forget you. There is a fear of repeating that which is forgotten, and I pray that neither of us repeats the mistakes we made, the words we left unspoken until too late, the things we should have held inside that exploded out of us.
We were both to blame—but blame isn’t the right word. We both wanted too much, wanted the things life had decided we shouldn’t have. You longed for the perfect romance, and looked to me to fulfill that l
onging. And I—I came to America in search of freedom but was swept away by the longing to be desired. How mistaken we were to think that such things could make us happy.
I will not think of you in anger—if you will not think of me with hate.
Sudha
Calcutta
October 1994
Dearest Sudha
I am so thankful finally to receive a letter from you. The scenes one creates inside one’s head, worrying, are usually worse than what is real.
No, my child. I don’t think you are making a mistake by returning. It is a fine thing for a woman to have her own, self-earned bank balance! If the times had allowed me, I would have liked to have one, too! How things will turn out no one can guess. Your motives are good—as they were when you left Anju’s home. God and the world will decide the rest.
It is a pity that your American plans did not work out. You went there with such high hopes of being reunited with your sister, of making a fortune—or, if not a fortune, at least a decent living. We Chatterjee women are not lucky that way, I guess. But we always pick ourselves up and go on.
Sunil came to see us before he returned to America. That was a brave and decent thing for him to do—it must have been difficult for him to face us. He was very quiet. I think his father’s death has changed him in ways that have surprised him. He spoke alone with Gouri for a while. She says he intends to meet with Anju when he returns, if she will agree to it. He wants there to be no ill feeling between them. But whether that is possible, I cannot guess.
Gouri Ma sends you love and blessings, as do I. Your mother, as you might imagine, is quite distraught, going on and on over thrown-away chances, impractical foolishness, and “that nice surgeon boy.” She imagines the worst of old Mr. Sen. But as always, she will get over it.
The Vine of Desire: A Novel Page 29
