by Meira Chand
The taxi made its way between the piles of twisted metal, past the goat pulling at a stalk of maize. It turned into the road beside the vegetarian restaurant, and eased forward at a steady pace. Rani sank back in the seat with relief. She urged the driver to speed, anxious to put distance between herself and the black, rich, flowering passion she had seen in Mrs Samtani. She remembered the woman’s deep-set lizard eyes, disturbing in their stony vision. And she felt sick at the thought of Lakshmi, held tight and helpless in that place, bereft of initiative through illness and misfortune. However fast the taxi rattled along, there was no way to create distance between what she now knew of Lakshmi, and the ignorance there had been before. The darkness of it all clung to her. Once more at the traffic lights the beggars rushed forward, filling the open windows of the taxi. They came at her singly or in groups, cripples on crutches and on trolleys. At a crossing, a legless man sat upright on the pavement, the stump of his body like an impudent chess piece. He tipped over suddenly, propelling himself away like a rolling barrel, the sliced-off stubs of his thighs resembling two whirling breasts. It seemed she had looked all her life at such sights, offered up by the city each day, and had never seen them before. Only now, breathing the terrible passion of Mrs Samtani and seeing its reflection in Lakshmi, did she understand the grim density of life, in places like the Pumnanis’ cramped rooms.
She bit her lips, twisting the gold chain at her neck in agitation. She must do something, a real gesture, to show Lakshmi how she felt. Her fingers became still about the chain. It was thick and upon it hung a good luck charm. She would give it to Lakshmi, to sell or to wear. She would do it right now. She leaned forward and ordered the taxi back the way he had come. She took the chain from her neck and judged the weight of it in her hand. She took off the flat, enamelled gold bangles she wore on her wrists and added them to the chain, tying them up together in a handkerchief.
Soon, the taxi drew up again amongst the piles of rusting metal. She told the driver to wait and ran up the outside staircase, past the goat and the canna lilies. The house was already deepening in shadow, the red and green neon lights of the vegetarian restaurant flowed in alternate blasts of colour through the dusk from the further road. The front door opened at a push, she entered Lakshmi’s home again. The door clicked shut behind her.
18
Before leaving the factory Sham had phoned home, to check about Lakshmi’s return. ‘I’m worried,’ Rekha told him, explaining the situation. ‘I should not have let Rani go there alone, her mother will be angry. Go and bring her back,’ she implored.
‘I may not get there in time,’ Sham replied. He did not add that Mrs Murjani might be no better pleased with this solution than with Rani’s sudden journey to Mahim.
It took some time to reach the Samtanis’ home. Sham entered a nearby sweet-meat shop. It was always important, he felt, to show his goodwill, and not arrive empty-handed. In the shop flies swarmed about trays sticky with sugary residue. Sweets of almond, cashew and pistachio were piled under glass cases. He chose a box of Lakshmi’s favourite, hoping she would be given a taste. He turned out of the shop but could not get far for a sudden crush of people about a passing procession. Boy scouts and a loudspeaker van preceded holy men in saffron robes, carrying red banners of advertisement for a newly opened temple. An elephant lumbered behind, swinging its trunk, decked with garlands and upon which rode a fancy-dressed Radha and Krishna. White ponies with embroidered trimmings drew open carts topped with coloured parasols, piled with mountains of people. Alone in the last cart a fleshy, half-naked holy man reclined, long-haired and bearded, with a carmine forehead. Behind him walked a line of devotees. The swami waved his beads in lethargic blessing, and yawned behind his hand.
The sweets were fresh and moist; oil spread quickly through the cardboard box and stained the thin wrapping paper. Sham carried it carefully, fanning away the flies that attempted to settle. He passed the new vegetarian restaurant, already alight for the night in a blaze of red and green neon. He turned into the scrap-metal yard before the Samtanis’ house and saw a waiting taxi; Rani must still be there. He began to climb the stairs. In the bare yard below a servant shelled peas, in preparation for dinner. Dusk was settling, blurring the foliage with deepening shadow. The staircase curved towards the upper balcony and the Samtanis’ front door. In a protruding back wing of the house, the small netted windows of the kitchen faced the staircase. There was a smell of frying onions.
Sham sniffed and his appetite stirred; he had had only a snack at lunch. Perhaps Mrs Samtani would allow Lakshmi to fry him something to eat with the soft drink he would receive. The noise of cymbals and trumpets made him look back from the staircase to the procession. It had drawn to a halt in the street. The elephant threw up its trunk, knelt and bellowed irritably; Radha and Krishna dismounted. The swami was helped from his carriage, and dispensed more blessings with a further swing of beads.
Sham looked back to the kitchen window and for a moment saw his sister’s face, unclear in the darkening room behind the dusty netting. He thought their eyes met as he smiled and waved, but afterwards he could not be sure she saw him. A cry burst from her. Her head was flung back in a sudden rush of terrible sound. At the same instant a halo of fire engulfed her, in the small frame of the window. The light rose from below, suffusing the room, flaming about her. Her scream broke, welled and then broke again, shriller and shriller in pitch.
He ran to the front door, thumping upon it, shouting to the servants in the yard below, calling out Lakshmi’s name. He ran back to his view of the window. She stood there still, brilliant as an image he had once seen in a film, of a god who appeared out of a sheet of fire before a group of peasants. She was vanishing now as that God had vanished, consumed and drawn into the core of the flames. There were yells below and the movement of servants, and the elder Samtani family coming up.
He called her name again but the flames ate higher, obliterating her. The dark room behind was illuminated and showed him, for a moment only, another figure. In the doorway stood Mrs Samtani, unmoving. Sham sensed the still purposefulness of the woman. He saw her turn away, into the corridor beyond the doorway, once the fire was beyond control, once it was too late.
He ran again at the door. It swung open as he reached it. Rani stood before him, her face distorted. He pushed roughly past her and immediately came upon Mrs Samtani.
‘Help! Help!’ she screamed, throwing her arms about. She ran up to her brother-in-law who had appeared from his home downstairs, panting heavily, followed by his family and servants. Sham pushed past them.
Through the flames he could see her now, turning like a dancer in her agony. The fire did not spread to the room, intent only upon Lakshmi, engrossed in its consummation. Sham burst into an adjoining room, pulled a sheet from a bed and doused it with water. He dived into the kitchen, into the flames, and flung the wet sheet over Lakshmi, pulling her from the room.
Then there was the commotion of cries and commands and water sloshing about, drenching everything, as Mrs Samtani’s brother-in-law took over. Sham carried Lakshmi out of the house. In the corridor Mrs Samtani sat upon the floor against the wall, moaning, her hair dishevelled. He did not remember such emotion when she had flashed before him in that frame of illumination, moments before. The sweetmeats lay where he had dropped them, the box crushed, its contents trampled about the wet floor in a sticky mess of crumbs. In the open front door Rani stood as if paralysed. The sight of Sham struggling with Lakshmi roused her suddenly, and she darted forward.
‘My taxi is still waiting downstairs. Oh quick, let us take her to a hospital. Get her out of here.’ She turned and sped ahead of him, opening the door of the taxi, alerting the driver from his dozing. Sham laid Lakshmi on the back seat and climbed in beside her, Rani took the seat beside the driver. Mr Samtani’s brother appeared, and, sticking his head through the window, gave the address of the nearest hospital.
‘I will follow,’ he said. ‘I will call my brother
from the shop.’
Slowly, they moved forward, hampered by a crowd of people who had suddenly appeared at the commotion. They banged on the bonnet of the car and the windows, pressing excited faces up against the glass. At last the car broke free of the crowd and sped forwards, greasy nosemarks left plastered upon the windows. They passed the elephant still swinging its trunk, and the swami amidst a crowd of devotees, eyes wily behind his beard. He gave an omnipresent wave in the direction of the taxi.
‘Hurry,’ Sham urged.
He could not bear to look at Lakshmi, stretched out, barely conscious, the charred rags of her sari stuck to the burnt flesh of her limbs, slipping into deeper shock.
‘What happened?’ he demanded, Rani shook her head.
‘I had only just entered when it started. I came back to give her something.’ Rani gave a sob.
*
They shook their heads, a nurse and a doctor smelling of raw onions and with a blood stain upon his grubby white coat.
‘Too late,’ they said and drew the sheet over her and turned away. Sham gave a gasp, beside him Rani shrank back against the wall.
‘It cannot be,’ Sham whispered.
*
He was unable to follow the sequence of events. He remembered the faces of Mr Samtani and Hari appearing suddenly, and Mr Samtani’s elder brother. He remembered the hoarseness of his own voice as he shouted at Mr Samtani. ‘She did it. She hated Lakshmi. All she wanted was to be rid of her.’
‘He has taken leave of his senses, it is the shock,’ Mr Samtani spoke quietly to the doctor. ‘We are not a family to do such things.’
‘Her mother-in-law set her alight,’ Sham yelled at the doctor, but the man shook his head.
‘Take these sedatives, they will help you,’ he said. Sham knocked them from his hand.
‘I want nothing.’ He remembered people holding him back, pinning his arms to his sides. Beside him Rani shivered, her teeth chattering with shock.
‘An accident,’ Hari Samtani said. The doctor nodded and wrote something on a paper. ‘My mother did everything she could. She was lucky to escape the blaze herself.’ He shook his head sorrowfully, sat down on a chair, and dropped his face into his hands. Behind his closed fingers Sham sensed no emotion.
*
Later, he remembered a police station. Only Rani was there with him. He repeated his words.
‘I tell you it was the mother-in-law. It was not an accident or a suicide.’
The officer was patient, kindly in his glance. He did not ignore Sham’s words. ‘You saw anything? Any proof?’
‘I saw her through the kitchen window. The mother-in-law did nothing. She only watched as Lakshmi burned.’ Watched. Only watched. The words formed a rhythm in his mind. He repeated them silently, like a mantra, that could tie Lakshmi to him still.
‘You must take hold of yourself,’ said the officer. A glass of tea was put before him, but he could not swallow. The officer observed him from small, patient eyes. He leaned across the desk.
‘Before a room of fire most people will only stand and watch. How will they enter such a room without danger also to themselves? That is a normal attitude. Such watching is not proof of anything.’ He turned to Rani. ‘You saw anything? Any proof?’
At first she shook her head, and then drew her breath in a sob. ‘It was her mother-in-law,’ she whispered.
‘You saw something?’ asked the officer.
Sham leaned forward. ‘What did you see?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know, it was dark when I went in. I could hear them cooking in the kitchen. She was shouting at Lakshmi, “The oil is not hot enough, stupid girl. Turn up the flame.” I saw the shadow of Mrs Samtani, it moved on the wall, stretching bigger and bigger. Then Lakshmi screamed and the room lit up. Mrs Samtani ran back to the door and watched Lakshmi burn. I shouted at her, but she pushed me away. Her face was so terrible, I thought she would kill me too. Then I heard a thumping on the door and Sham was there. She did it. She threw kerosene over Lakshmi.’ She began to cry, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘That’s what it looked like.’
‘You saw some shadows. You were prevented from entering a room full of fire. These things are not proof of anything. I too would prevent you from entering such a room.’ The policeman sighed, leaned back in his chair, and fiddled with a pencil.
‘These affairs of bride-burning by in-laws happen. I cannot say they don’t. But also, many young brides who cannot adapt to their new families, or who suffer there too much, do away with their lives. Often the first is made to look like the second; there is usually no way to prove otherwise. Always, either the family colludes or the house is empty of witnesses. It is so easy,’ the officer sighed and took a drink of tea. ‘A naked flame, a pan of oil; the easiest of accidents. And who can say afterwards how it started? Unless there is a witness you will never know. I will take your statement if you wish, but I doubt it will help. Without witnesses, we can do nothing. Probably it was an accident; most of these cases are. An accident is not our affair. I would advise you to consider the case as such, in distress our minds magnify and distort things.’
Sham felt suddenly dizzy and dropped his head in his hands. The moment he shut his eyes Lakshmi was before him in the halo of fire, and again stretched out on the hospital bed. The sheet they had drawn over her in death fell short of her feet. They had protruded below it, charred and blistered. He looked up and clenched his fists until his knuckles were bloodless. He was conscious suddenly of the pain of his own burns, and the wad of hospital dressing beneath his scorched shirt where he had held Lakshmi to him, dragging her from the room, willing his own life into her.
For the first time now he thought of Rani. He looked at his watch and saw it was eight o’clock. There was nothing more he could do for Lakshmi. ‘I will take you home,’ he said to Rani, rousing himself.
‘I should have phoned them,’ she whispered. She felt she had been absent for days from Sadhbela. She had not once thought of phoning – even now her mind was full of Lakshmi.
‘Should we not stay with her,’ she whispered, unable to break away.
‘There is nothing we can do,’ Sham said slowly. ‘It’s all over.’ But even as he walked with Rani, out of the police station into the night with its warm, dung-like smell and the occasional odour of jasmine, he was sure he struggled in a dream.
19
After the storm the heat had returned, drying up the sudden first rain. They drove to Lakshmi’s funeral in three cars from Sadhbela. Mrs Murjani cursed the bitter timing of the event, that eroded the bloom on her daughter. She had explained to Mrs Premchand the impossibility of meeting any further young man and his family at this moment, however eligible. But Mrs Premchand had been insistent about the suitability of her new acquaintance, far superior to her previous introduction a few days before. Mrs Murjani was forced to agree to a meeting.
Chachi sat in the Murjanis’ car, between Rani and Mrs Murjani. Lokumal and Jyoti drove behind with Sham, Padma and Veena. Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas travelled together in Mrs Bhagwandas’ car, with Rekha secured between them.
Chachi sobbed, her body slack as an ancient pillow. ‘From the beginning I told them that woman was a devil. Nobody listened to me.’ Mrs Murjani nodded, full of soothing words. She had not wanted Rani to come to the funeral, the girl was upset enough already; she sat vacantly in a chair all day, saying and eating little. Another round with death would do no good, would bring the thing back to her; but Rani had been insistent and become hysterical. Mr Murjani had gone on business to Delhi, and left his wife with the matter. Bad luck seemed never-ending.
‘The first time I saw that Mrs Samtani I told them what she was,’ the old woman screamed and buried her face in her veil. Mrs Murjani patted her hand.
Rani leaned back and closed her eyes, not wishing to see again the roads she had journeyed along with Lakshmi so recently. They had been about to call the police to Sadhbela, when she did not return that evening, and the ph
one rang unanswered at the Samtanis’. Mr Murjani himself was preparing to drive to Mahim in search of his daughter. He had grabbed Sham roughly as they entered the door.
‘Leave him alone,’ she had shouted. ‘His sister is dead.’
Mr Murjani hesitated. Behind him the family and servants stepped back in shock, then surged forward with fresh inquiries. She could not speak, and had collapsed in sobs. It was Sham who explained, wooden and calm. They heard him out and saw that Rani had suffered no damage. They allowed him to go to his mother. Mr Murjani went with him to sympathize, terrorizing Rekha by his presence even before they broke the news.
Each time Rani shut her eyes she heard again Lakshmi’s scream, and saw the elastic shadow of Mrs Samtani stretching up, huge and dark on the wall, before that sudden burst of fire. In the court, at the inquest, she had told them these things, struggling to keep her voice even. They had taken no notice of her. Mrs Samtani stood up at the end grim-faced, a gleam of triumph in her eyes, before a show of grief. Hari had released no emotions, stoic between his parents. Accidental death. The verdict had echoed about the dusty courtroom, swept into each corner by the slow, turning fan. The words echoed still in her head.
Because of the inquest several days had passed since the fire in the Samtanis’ kitchen. They had not burned Lakshmi by the first sundown. Instead her body was cold from the hospital morgue, with a smell of antiseptic. She had been carried in on a bamboo bier, and laid out on the stone floor of the Samtanis’ living room. Incense and oil burned at her head, a priest chanted at her feet. Lakshmi’s elder sisters huddled together, heads bowed beneath white saris. Through the open front door Lakshmi was exposed to the gaze of the curious who jostled for a view on the outside staircase.
