House of the Sun

by Meira Chand

  ‘How can we eat here, so far from Lakshmi? At this moment they are operating. It is our duty to be near her,’ Mrs Hathiramani protested, looking aggressively about the waiting room and its few occupants. It was a hospital still run upon British lines. Mrs Hathiramani was used to hospitals of a more Indian atmosphere where relatives crowded corridors, stretching out on the floor to sleep, change babies’ nappies, or to boil up tea upon Primus stoves.

  ‘How must the mother be feeling so far from the daughter? Can you not imagine?’ Mrs Hathiramani demanded, pointing to Rekha, small and tearful, trailing far behind them.

  ‘Waiting is only allowed here,’ the nurse replied. ‘That is the rule.’

  Defeated, the women drew a table up close to a couch. They dismantled the tiffin carriers, laying out the metal compartments filled with a variety of foods, and set out some plastic plates.

  ‘Eat. Eat,’ ordered Mrs Hathiramani, picking up a chapatti and attacking some spinach and potatoes in a ravenous manner. The room, which had resounded with her deep voice, became suddenly silent. Mrs Bhagwandas too set her eyes upon her plate. Jyoti had no appetite and mauled a chapati about; she felt tired and trapped amongst the women. The smell of antiseptic, and the sound of feet echoing in the corridors beyond the waiting room, depressed her with knowledge of Lakshmi’s plight.

  ‘Dieting?’ Mrs Hathiramani inquired, squinting up at her from small, preoccupied eyes. Jyoti shook her head.

  ‘Always this dieting nowadays. It produces only weakness,’ Mrs Hathiramani continued, without a pause in chewing. Her bare midriff flopped over her hips in concertinaed folds.

  ‘For this dieting they eat only raw food and boiled vegetables, like the English, with no taste,’ Mrs Bhagwandas enlightened them.

  ‘So I have heard,’ Mrs Hathiramani nodded. ‘Without oil food is not going down properly. It is getting stuck, here.’ Mrs Hathiramani prodded her oesophagus, just above her breasts. Mrs Bhagwandas nodded. Both women helped themselves to more food from which oil settled in a yellow glaze about the perimeters of their plates.

  ‘It is better you eat something, sister,’ Mrs Bhagwandas encouraged Rekha, who sat in silent distraction.

  ‘I cannot eat,’ she whispered, pulling at the end of her sari, tears in her eyes again.

  ‘You will feel weak,’ Mrs Hathiramani warned. ‘This dal is good, it will give you strength. At least this much that donkey Raju has learned to cook.’

  Soon Mrs Hathiramani began, with the help of Mrs Bhagwandas, to stack up the tiffin carriers again. She did this deftly, the fingers she had dirtied in eating never touching the containers. She belched in a loud and satisfied way, and Mrs Bhagwandas echoed her more discreetly.

  ‘Raju. O, Raju,’ Mrs Hathiramani called, her voice echoing across the room. Raju appeared immediately from where he had been awaiting summons in the corridor. He held his head in a stiff, serious manner. He rarely entered places of such importance, entrusted with such responsibility. He walked carefully towards them, his chin up and his shoulders back. Mrs Hathiramani handed him the tiffin carriers, dispensed a return bus fare to Sadhbela, and watched him depart disapprovingly.

  ‘The whole time all he wants is education. “Please, Memsahib, give me education,” he says. He eats my brains up morning to night. Why should I waste money on him? Soon he will leave me. If he does not leave me, I shall throw him out,’ Mrs Hathiramani argued. ‘Servants never last.’

  ‘You have employed him for work. You give him clean clothes, food and a salary. There is no need for education,’ Mrs Bhagwandas advised. Suddenly both women remembered Lakshmi.

  ‘Why are they taking so long?’ Mrs Bhagwandas asked. Mrs Hathiramani shrugged.

  ‘I know these doctors, they are only taking money and doing nothing. If they finish too quickly, then how can they ask for so much money?’ she replied.

  ‘That is true,’ nodded Mrs Bhagwandas, and stood up with Mrs Hathiramani. They ambled together towards the bathroom, sticky hands held out before them.

  Throughout the meal Rekha and Jyoti had sat in silence, side by side upon a couch. ‘Why do they not go home?’ Jyoti asked, weary with tension.

  ‘They are good women. They mean nothing bad,’ Rekha sighed. ‘I am glad you are with me. Lakshmi too was glad.’ She gave a sad smile. In her eyes Jyoti saw the same look of mute appeal Lakshmi had given, and that had tied her to them all these hours.

  A nurse appeared and beckoned. Lakshmi had been returned to the ward beneath tubes and hanging plastic bottles. Rekha’s hand went to her mouth. Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas crowded in behind, pushing Rekha out of the way to assess the situation.

  ‘She is not yet in her senses,’ Mrs Hathiramani observed.

  ‘Once, Mr Bhagwandas had an operation. When he returned to the room he was already awake. Immediately, he asked for a cup of tea,’ Mrs Bhagwandas informed them.

  ‘I have heard the more important the doctor, the longer they make them sleep. All these things are only to get money,’ Mrs Hathiramani remarked.

  ‘She will not come round for a while. She had a deep anaesthetic and a major operation,’ the doctor said briskly, walking into the room without a glance at Mrs Bhagwandas and Mrs Hathiramani. They fell back before him with sullen respect. He was still dressed in green operating clothes. He bent over Lakshmi and gave some instructions to the nurse.

  ‘She’ll be all right now, Mother,’ he assured Rekha. ‘A word with you, Jyoti,’ he said and drew her outside the door.

  ‘I’ve done what I can,’ he said. ‘I won’t upset you with details. She’ll be all right. But you’d better let them know at the right moment that she won’t be having any more children. I’ll look in again at the end of the afternoon.’ He walked away down the corridor.

  She thought they spoke privately, but found the women had stepped up to the door to listen. They stood silent and tight-lipped before her.

  ‘It cannot be,’ whispered Rekha, sinking down upon a bed provided for an attendant relative, in a corner of the room.

  ‘Without delay she must be returned to her husband’s house. If they learn of this they may refuse to take her back,’ Mrs Bhagwandas insisted.

  ‘Sooner or later they will know,’ Rekha sobbed.

  ‘For what reason has she done this thing?’ Mrs Hathiramani asked. ‘It is only a first child, and it would have made her place with them secure.’

  Jyoti turned to the window in distress. The hospital was cool and white. Before it was a lawn, and beyond a wall the sea, stretching luminously beneath the sun. She understood only too well the desperation of the dilemma. Rekha continued to sob upon the bed.

  ‘There is a mistake. It was a simple miscarriage, nothing more. At the time she phoned me. She was frightened and needed reassurance. She spoke with me sincerely,’ Rekha cried.

  ‘Maybe then, it is the fault of the doctor. Only for the sake of getting money he has done this operation, and ruined Lakshmi’s life,’ Mrs Hathiramani offered at once.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Jyoti yelled at her.

  They sat in silence about the unconscious Lakshmi, waiting for the arrival of Mrs Samtani. It had been impossible to contact her again. She knew only that Lakshmi was in hospital. She was unaware there had been an operation.

  Sham and Padma arrived first with Chachi, who waddled in awkwardly upon stiff, arthritic legs and seated herself upon the bed beside Rekha. She had brought with her various string bags of edibles, a tiffin carrier and a thermos flask.

  ‘They will give her only boiled foods and English tea in this place. How will she regain strength with such food?’ she inquired. Before she could be answered the door opened, and Mrs Samtani appeared followed by Hari and her husband. The small room bulged with agitation.

  ‘Without even our presence so many things seem to have been decided,’ Mrs Samtani icily observed. ‘In Mahim we have a very good lady doctor. Already she has attended to Lakshmi, and given medicine. On the phone I gave Mr Hathiramani instructions.’

>   ‘It was a matter of life and death, an emergency. You were not available.’ Rekha tried to raise her voice, but it seemed instead to disappear within her.

  ‘This morning she was all right. There was nothing wrong with her,’ Hari said, pushing out his lower lip. He stepped up to the bed to glance at Lakshmi. He shrugged and turned away. Mr Samtani concentrated upon his bare toes in open sandals.

  ‘A few days ago there was a miscarriage. Our lady doctor came to see her. There is no need for a hospital, we will take her home. Why waste money here?’ Mrs Samtani spoke shrilly.

  ‘She has had an operation.’ Sham’s voice was curt. Jyoti had explained things to him when he arrived.

  ‘For what has she had an operation?’ Mrs Samtani shrieked. Behind her Hari glared. ‘Who is to pay for this? We have no money to squander on unnecessary operations. No more than medicine was required. What is the meaning of this?’ There was a sudden silence in the room. Rekha began to sob again. Only Chachi raised her voice.

  ‘From the beginning I was against this match. But my voice was not heard.’ She sniffed and pulled her veil over her head, and began to count her prayer beads.

  ‘I demand an explanation,’ Mrs Samtani screamed. The room remained silent about her. A nurse entered to take Lakshmi’s blood pressure, and Mrs Samtani turned upon her with the same demand. The nurse looked surprised, but spoke in a matter-of-fact way after a quick glance about the silent faces. At her explanation a shadow passed over Mrs Samtani’s face. As the nurse shut the door she broke into a wail.

  ‘She has dared to deliberately deny me my grandchild? I thought it was a natural miscarriage. What kind of girl is this? For what reason has she done this thing?’ Mrs Samtani began to sob and had to be helped to a chair before she spoke again.’

  ‘She is a wicked girl. I will tell you why she has done this.’ Her face was charged with fierce expression. ‘From the beginning she has refused to adapt to our family. Every love has been shown her, but we are not good enough for her. She is a devil who makes my son’s life a misery.’ Mrs Samtani smothered more sobs in her handkerchief before continuing. ‘When she found she was expecting, she knew she would have to remain with us: this she could not bear. She got rid of the child herself by some method, so that she would be free to run back to her family. Our doctor told her there was a danger of miscarriage, she saw this as an opportunity to end her pregnancy. Oh God, what karma to have such a girl in our house, and not even a full settlement given.’

  Suddenly everyone in the room began to speak at once. In the noise Lakshmi stirred, opened her eyes and whimpered. Another nurse appeared.

  ‘Clear this room at once,’ she ordered. ‘The patient must rest. How will she do so in this circus?’

  ‘I shall stay the night with her,’ Mrs Samtani decided. ‘In spite of all, I am not a woman to neglect my duty.’

  ‘I am the mother, it is my duty to stay.’ Rekha remained determinedly seated on the spare bed. If Mrs Samtani was allowed to stay she would twist it about, and claim Rekha had neglected her duty as a mother. She was besides too dazed by all Mrs Samtani had said to have strength enough to leave.

  ‘I shall also remain,’ Chachi announced. ‘While Rekha sleeps, I will watch.’

  ‘Let only the mother remain,’ the nurse ordered firmly, standing, hands on hips, to see them all depart.

  *

  The sun was sliding in a fiery blaze over the horizon, when Jyoti returned to Sadhbela. The sea had turned grey with approaching night, and had a cold, repelling look. The children, long since returned from school, had been fed and attended to by the ayah. During the day Jyoti had spoken over the phone several times to the servants, ordering a lunch for Prakash and Lokumal, issuing instructions about the children. She had told the cook to do as he wished for dinner, too tired to think herself. She had forgotten the chicken, cooked that morning, and found now that he had ignored it, storing it away in the back of the fridge. He had prepared instead a meal of Lokumal’s favourite dishes.

  ‘What about the chicken?’ Jyoti asked, holding open the door of the refrigerator, feeling slighted.

  ‘I have cooked according to the children’s suggestions. They have ordered me to prepare these things in secret, as a surprise for their grandfather,’ the cook replied.

  As soon as Jyoti had entered the flat the sound of Lokumal’s voice, still intoning his prayer, had engulfed her. Frankincense smoked in a corner of the lounge, billowing up in clouds from a small clay brazier. Thin sticks of incense were stuck in profusion about the room in every possible container. Jyoti coughed and waved her handkerchief about.

  ‘This also has been done with the children’s instructions,’ the cook informed her. ‘They are with Lokumat sahib now, in his room.’

  Jyoti pushed open Lokumal’s door. It stuck halfway upon a draught protector she had once bought him, at a school bazaar. The smell of frankincense hit her again, as did the loud and hollow magnification of Lokumal’s voice, rising from a tape recorder.

  O Parabrahma, Paramatma

  You are the beyond God

  The highest of the high….

  He sat upon his bed. Astride the bolsters sat the children, as if they rode plump animals. They bounced up and down, reciting the prayer with Lokumal, in sequence with the tape recorder. Lokumal’s eyes were closed in concentration as he conducted with a single finger, held up high before them all. Nobody noticed Jyoti.

  *

  When they were free of the routine of the day, the children had run to Lokumal’s room. They climbed upon his knees as he sat on his bed, amidst the leafy piles of Swamiji’s writings, and the drone of prayer. It was some days since they had been allowed to visit him in their usual manner.

  ‘Tell us stories, Grandad,’ they cried. ‘Tell us something exciting, like you always do.’

  He had settled down at once with them to an old favourite. The children rested against him, sucking their thumbs. Lokumal loved to recite the old religious legends, as real to himself as to the children. The three bodies amongst the bolsters tensed as one, bracing themselves for the next, terrible, well-loved scene.

  ‘And then Ravana sat in fury, devising means to conquer Rama. He gnashed his teeth and bit his lips and then laughed and went with Big-belly, Squint-eye and Great-flank to the field of battle, boasting, “I shall make an end of Rama and Lakshman today.” Nor could the monkeys stand before him, but were destroyed like flies in fire. But Sugriva engaged in a single fight with Squint-eye and made an end of him….’

  Beneath Lokumal’s impassioned voice, the sound of prayer from the tape recorder continued as a low, background hum. When the story was finished the children had asked him, ‘Will you sit to eat dinner with us tonight?’

  ‘If the table is pure,’ he replied.

  ‘If your favourite food is there, you promise you will eat with us?’ Bina demanded, and Lokumal nodded and kissed her.

  ‘If the house too is pure, then you cannot say no,’ Ravi added, and Lokumal nodded and bent to kiss him too.

  They had run from the room and ordered the cook to make a special dinner, and demanded the lighting of frankincense in a clay brazier. They themselves lit thin incense sticks, thrusting them into convenient containers, to perfume the room still further.

  ‘There is a chicken,’ the cook had pointed out.

  ‘Such things are impure,’ they replied, looking regretfully at the bird as it reclined upon a dish, for they liked a piece of chicken.

  ‘It is to be a surprise,’ they said, and pressed their fingers to their lips until the cook agreed.

  *

  Jyoti retreated quietly to her room and turned on the light, glad of a few moments by herself before Prakash returned. Her head thumped painfully. She returned to the living room, extracted from a cupboard a bottle of brandy secreted there, and poured herself a glass. Soon, she thought, such things need no longer be ridiculously hidden, but displayed in splendour for all to see. This triumph refused suddenly to yield any pleasu
re.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, depressed. In the course of the day she felt as though she had grown old, sullen and enfeebled. It had all to do with Lakshmi. She was exhausted by involvement, and unsettled in a painful way. She took a sip of the brandy, feeling its fire attack her, and lay back upon the bed. Above her hung a new and expensive lamp. She had been well into her modernization drive when she had bought it, doing what she could to herself and the house, working up courage to tackle the bigger moves forward. She wondered now what the lights were like in Lakshmi’s home upon the seventh floor, where not even the luxury of daylight was profuse. In their way the Pumnanis had thought of pushing forward, when they married Lakshmi into the Samtani family. And the relentless Samtanis had also desired a certain grim progress in their lives. Jyoti thought then of her own life in Lokumal’s house, of the love and kindness she had always known she could depend upon. There might at times have been grumbles, but never wilful obstruction. Thinking again of Lakshmi, Jyoti felt her own desires, sweeping her along so fast, to be in some way ephemeral.

  Lokumal’s voice penetrated the closed door to settle gently about her.

  You are the Ocean of Love

  The Source of Truth, you are….

  She tipped the brandy down her throat, angry again on Lakshmi’s behalf.

  16

  May seared the city. Sweat streamed from Mrs Hathiramani even as she sat beneath the fan, cleaning her chutney jars. In the heat before the rains the ants were a plague, and became glued to the rims of bottles. At intervals Raju spread containers upon the living-room table, for Mrs Hathiramani’s inspection. On a hot day in late May she faced the jars industriously, Raju attentive with a wet cloth. Mrs Hathiramani scraped a crust of dead ants from each bottle with a knife, her tongue thrust out with purpose. She squinted down into each jar, to pick out on a long-handled spoon any ants she spied within. Each vessel was wiped and recapped by Raju. From where she sat at the table Mrs Hathiramani had a clear view of her husband, sprawled upon pillows on their teak bed. The front door stood open as always. Every so often the clanking of the lift grew near, came level and passed on. Mr Hathiramani looked up lethargically and did not record these sightings; the work of translating Shah Abdul Latif engrossed him entirely. He had grown tired and irritable lately, and was caught by a thirst no amount of liquid assuaged.