The Scent of Mogra and Other Stories

by Aparna Kaji Shah

  The day finally arrived. Raj left while she was still in bed, pretending to be asleep. As soon as she heard him leave she got up, and looked out of the window to watch him walk away. He turned his head to look back; maybe he had felt her watching him. She stood there long after he had disappeared from view. In spite of the winter chill that had seeped into her bones overnight, she had started sweating. She threw off her wrap, but her hands and feet were stone cold, so she wrapped herself up tightly again.

  When Gulab came in with her morning cup of tea, she broke out of her reverie and finished packing. She rummaged into her dowry chest for a last look — the chest that her mother had had made with much enthusiasm and hope. Expert carvers had been called, and the best teak wood bought. She sat down to survey what was left of her things — things that she could not take — that purple sari that she had bought with her mother, and the ivory in-laid jewellery box; there was no more room to fit them into the small bag she was taking with her. With unsteady hands, she picked up her cup to sip the tea, but before it could touch her lips, it crashed to the floor.

  Gulab, who was tidying her room, rushed to her side. Mira was in tears. “What am I doing?” she cried out in between her sobs. “What will become of me, my parents, Shanti and Kailash?”

  Gulab said, “Mistress, this broken glass can only bring you luck. It is a good omen. You must rest now and calm yourself. You have a long journey ahead.”

  She helped Mira to her bed, covered her with a quilt, and tiptoed out of the room.

  After an hour Mira got up to supervise the lunch preparations; she must stick to her routine. She stood in front of the mirror to do up her hair. Her face was white. How would her skin be dark enough to look like Shanti’s?

  Oh, she had a fever. She felt her forehead; no, it was as cold as the marble statue of lord Krishna at the temple. She looked into the brown pools of her own eyes, and they looked back at her with panic.

  But then she stood tall before her image in the mirror, and folded her arms across her chest. She took a deep breath and said to the reflection, “Mira, compose yourself. Be brave and go in peace.”

  With that, she held her head high, and walked out of her room.

  The bustling kitchen preoccupied her for a few moments. When she saw the cook’s blackened face and hands, she thought of the herbal powder that Gulab would be applying on her soon. She felt the prickling of tears, and she rubbed her eyes, pretending that it was the smoke from the chullah that had made them water.

  She served her mother-in-law her lunch, and sat down with her to eat. The bile in her stomach rose to her throat, and she couldn’t swallow even a morsel.

  “What’s the matter, Bahu?” Raj’s mother said. “You’re going to make me a grandmother soon, I hope.”

  Mira said, “I’m just tired, Mataji,” and escaped to her room.

  After lunch, her mother-in-law went to her room to lie down, and the servants were out. Gulab came in to help Mira put on Shanti’s clothes and jewellery. She evenly applied the powder to her face, neck, hands and feet. The dark kohl around her eyes made them look large and bright. She really did look like Shanti’s sister.

  “Mira, Mira! Where are you? Bahu, come here and massage my legs.”

  Mira and Gulab looked at each other. Mira said, “What shall I do?” Her mother-in-law sometimes came to her room if she did not answer.

  Gulab quickly wiped her hands on a towel, and went to the mother-in-law’s room, which was open. Even through her closed door, Mira heard Gulab saying, “Mataji, she is fast asleep. Poor thing, she is not feeling well. We should let her nap. I will press your legs for you, if you will allow me.”

  Then there was silence. But after a minute, Mira jumped up from the bed when she heard her mother-in-law say, “Your hands are so rough. Ouch, you are hurting me! Wake up Mira, or I will get up and go to her myself.”

  Mira rushed across the room to the dowry chest to try to squeeze herself in, but then she heard Gulab say, “See, this is better, isn’t it? I think, you will be getting some auspicious news soon … we must let her rest.” In her anxiety, Gulab must have pressed too hard for her mother-in-law’s thick flabby calves.

  Why is it taking so long for her to fall asleep, Mira wondered, pacing the length of her room. I must leave, she thought, and picked up her bag. Surprised at how heavy it was, she put it down. I have taken so little; how did it get so full? She picked it up again to leave as soon as Gulab came in, but remembered that she had yet to cover her head with Shanti’s scarf, so she put it down again. Quietly, she opened the door a crack to see what was going on. Just then, Gulab came out from her mother-in-law’s room. She rushed to her mistress and did up the scarf. Now Mira was ready to leave.

  Gulab went all around the house to check that the coast was clear for Mira to leave through the back door. She returned and nodded. Reassured by her mother-in-law’s loud snores, Mira, with a quick look around and a squeeze for Gulab’s arm, walked out of Raj’s home for the last time.

  My marriage is over… it had never begun, she thought, as she tried not to break into a run; she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She took deep breaths, and walked at a brisk but even pace, though her heart was beating fast. Would he rant and rave when he came home to find her gone, or would he be pleased to be rid of her?

  She approached the encampment. Her father’s house was just around the corner; she could just peek in for a last look at them. No, no. She would break down and never be able to leave. Oh, was that man someone her father knew? She crossed over to the other side of the road to avoid coming face to face with him. Thankfully, he had walked past without noticing her.

  Her heart lurched when she thought of what her mother and father would feel. They would first panic, and then mourn for their lost daughter. Her fingers gripped the bag’s handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white in spite of the dark powder covering her skin. How would they explain her disappearance to her brother?

  At the encampment, they were all waiting for her to arrive. Kailash and Shanti had told their group about Mira’s disguise. Some of the Dom looked at her skeptically, while the others smiled warmly, and nodded in sympathy. The horses were well fed and rested. They sensed the excitement in the camp, and were rearing to go. Kailash was busy with last minute preparations. Shanti and Mira sat close together inside the wagon.

  Mira took one last look at the land that was her home, and then tried to focus on the image of her parents that would be forever etched in her memory. Tears threatened to spill out, but she was forced to keep them in check, or her dark skin would turn light again. Shanti gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. The wagon moved forward. The other wagons followed Kailash’s lead, and they were soon on their way.

  Many on-lookers waved goodbye as the eight wagons, all newly furbished, gleamed in the winter sun, their red and green pennants fluttering in the breeze. The horses looked festive, with bright feathers behind their ears, and embroidered fabrics covering their saddles. Someone started strumming a merry tune on an ektara, while Shandar, the eldest among them, joined him on his wooden flute. Mira felt a thrill creep up her spine when she heard the music. But though the others waved back, she and Shanti stayed away from the window.

  Mira’s palms were clammy, but then turned cold since it was freezing inside the wagon without the warmth of the sun. Her eyes were tightly closed, her fists clenched as she prayed. Every prayer in her mind was interrupted by doubts: What if they search the wagons to make sure that the Dom haven’t stolen anything, and they find my jewellery bag, and drag me to the police? What if a guard recognizes me as Raj’s wife? After all, his family is well- known …what if….

  ***

  It was late afternoon when they reached the old city walls, and the light was fading. Since Kailash’s wagon was leading the group, a guard shouted to him in a gruff voice, “Stop!”

  When they came to a ha
lt, three guards came forward with their flaming torches. Mira’s heart sank, and her eyes widened with fear. Shanti put a finger to her lips, and quickly placed the sleeping Syeira in her arms.

  The first guard climbed into their wagon and looked around. Mira and Shanti held their breath as the guard went over to the rolled up stack of quilts at the back. The bag of jewels was in the folds of the second one from the bottom.

  Mira kept her head lowered, and pretended to look at the baby. From the corners of her eyes, she saw the guard bend over the stack to see if there was anything hidden behind. Not finding anything but some battered pots and pans, he turned and started towards the door.

  Mira let out an almost audible sigh of relief, and couldn’t wait to see the last of him. But then he abruptly stopped in front of her and said, “Are you travelling with them?” The guard was too close for comfort, staring at her face.

  She pulled her scarf further down her forehead. She remembered to use some Dom words, and nodding towards Shanti said, “Yes, I’m her phen. My dom left earlier.”

  The guard hesitated. Mira held her breath. For what seemed like a long time, he looked at the sleeping child, and then he left.

  The wagons made their way out of the city, and picked up speed. Kailash grinned and waved from his driver’s seat. Shanti and Mira smiled at one another. Mira softly kissed the baby in her arms, closed her eyes, and refused to look back. Now, she would only look at the road ahead.

  Vidya

  Kishore and the doctors think I’m sleeping, but I know that they are here. A few days, the white doctor had said. Kishore must have looked like death. I heard the white doctor’s voice again. “We are doing all we can for the child-bed fever. She is not responding to penicillin; other antibiotics are still under trial, as you know.”

  My husband is a doctor. Can he not do anything to save me? He has asked an English doctor from Ajmer’s largest hospital to treat me. Soon, there will be no English doctors when our country becomes independent. No English teachers, no police. It will be odd to see only people like us. But I won’t be there to see it.

  Kalindi and Nandita … how will they manage without me? Little Madhu is asleep in her cradle, her long lashes almost touching her pink skin. Oh, I can’t get on my back again; I shouldn’t have turned to look at her. I breathe hard to straighten myself. Madhu. Sweet as honey. That’s the name Kishore had given her, when I was exhausted after a long labour. Another girl, I had thought, and had closed my eyes. Was Kishore disappointed? I will never know what he feels as he raises her on his own.

  He must be thinking of a … a second wife. What am I saying? Oh well, I’m only saying it in my mind, since I can’t get a single word out. He can’t be considering it. Not yet. He will laugh with her, touch her, kiss her. You silly woman, this jealousy is ridiculous; I will have turned to ashes. They will sprinkle me on Ana Sagar lake, or take me to Bombay and drop the urn into the sea.

  Stop being morbid. Think of how good it will be for him and for the girls if he … marries … marries again. But Madhu. She will never know me. You are so cruel, God. Ugg, a strange woman in my bed, in my house. Will my girls call her mother? Please, God, please.

  I hear a soft click, and I peek from under half-opened eyes. Kishore tiptoes to my bed. As he approaches, I see his gaunt, unshaven face. I should tell him … a nice woman … marry … before I doze off. My tongue is frozen. Hurry, before he leaves, but I can’t, I can’t. My lips are stuck together with something gooey.

  My eyes fly open to look at him, to convey what I am thinking. But he only touches my forehead, then flinches. It must feel like the hot tiles on the floor of our verandah in the intense summer heat. Then he sits down on the chair next to my bed, sighing. He is picking at the dry skin around his nails. Yes, it is winter in Ajmer.

  That first winter when we moved from Bombay, I froze to death until we bought woollens. I wanted to go back. But I was relieved to be away from my father-in-law’s gaze filled with lust, from his pretence at being an affectionate father figure.

  There is a hammering in my chest like an insistent warning gong, leaving ripples of fear in its wake. What’s happening? I am afraid of death; something I have never thought about. I must speak to Kishore, about … no, not death. I am not afraid of that … then what?

  God, no. If his parents move to Ajmer to look after the girls, the old man may try to touch them. Kishore must promise that he will not let that happen. I look at him, but his head is drooping on his chest, and he is snoring.

  My poor husband. I have caused him so much anguish. But Madhu will fill him with joy, and the grief over my passing will fade away. Don’t blame the child, Kishore, I want to tell him. The girls will be angry and may harm Madhu; children can be so cruel. Kalindi must keep an eye on Nandita. There is so much I need to say, but time is running out, as are these moments of thinking … straight. Lord of Death, Yamaraj, give me time. I manage to open my mouth and say, “Kishore”. My voice is hoarse. He does not stir. Black out.

  The sun streams in through the window, falling softly on my bed. My eyes flutter open, and I see white clouds gliding across a blue sky. For a beautiful moment I imagine myself lying on the clouds, sailing away. But I’m moaning now. There are explosions of pain inside my head and flashes of intense white light behind my closed eyes, like the firecrackers at Diwali.

  My mother’s face looms in front of me when I open my eyes again. My parents are still here, looking after Kishore and the girls. My mother’s eyes are filled with tears as she wipes my face and tucks my hair behind my ears. Her touch brings back memories. The high fever intensifies every sensation, every emotion.

  “Beta,” she says, and tries to get a few drops of water past my cracked lips.

  I am sitting at the dressing table, my mother behind me, combing my hair. “Which ribbon do you want?” she asks. “The red one today?” My sister and little brother peek in to see what is going on. He toddles over and pulls at the ribbon. I feel the sting of cool water going down my throat. My mother sits down on the chair by the bed.

  I want to ask, where are my brothers and sisters? They are like my children. I, the eldest, looked after them. My long brown hair oiled and plaited, I am ready for the day. I’m not at school; after class six I had to be at home to help my mother, and my father had to save money for my brother’s education. I sit down with my chalk and slate to write. The slate is full, but I don’t want to erase it. I pick up a book from the shelf, and am lost in the story of the Buddha.

  Too soon, my mother yells, “Vidya, come and help me in the kitchen.” How I hate being taken away from my books and my writing. But dutifully, I get up; at sixteen, I am old beyond my years. I need to take care of my illiterate mother, a woman whose home is her whole world.

  I make sure that no one erases my slate, because I want to show it to my father when he returns in the evening. It is only a short poem. He will pore over what I have written and say proudly, “Clever girl. You should have been a boy and helped me with our printing business.”

  I open my eyes and the images from the past are gone. My father is holding my hand in both of his. Where is Kishore? I need to talk to him, I want to yell, but no words come out. My last thought before I sink into sleep is, I can write.

  Kishore. When my marriage was fixed up, my parents had not seen him. They had only seen a photograph that his parents had brought when they visited Surat from Bombay to see me. I had asked them how they could decide without even meeting him. My father had said, “His parents have approved of you.”

  My mother had said, “He is a doctor like his father. He is fair and has light eyes. They have their own clinic.”

  “But you have not met him”, I had said. My mother, exasperated, had left the room.

  My father had smiled and had said, “You will be happy, Beta.”

  A dashing young man, with a twinkle in his eye. It is our engagement ceremon
y at home in Surat. I glance at him furtively and fall in love right away. After a couple of months, we are in Bombay. Kishore and I take a short walk together, and he promises me a tutor to continue my studies once we are married. Am I smiling? I feel my lips stretching, but it may just be a grimace because of my sore back.

  The first year was a happy time. My in-laws were affectionate; Kishore, a caring man I was in love with, and he with me. I had a tutor who brought me a lot of books, and I was in paradise. The nurse brings me a pencil and paper and props me up. But I slide down like a rag doll, and the pencil and paper fall.

  My father-in-law retired from the practice, and Kishore took over the clinic. He was away at work for longer hours. His father would come into my room when I was studying, look over my shoulder, and stroke my back in encouragement.

  Kalindi is at her desk, her book open, and she is gazing out of the window. She turns around, startled, as she feels a warm hand on her arm. “What are you dreaming about?” her grandfather asks, grinning. But his touch does not feel right.

  Another time, his fingers grazed my breasts as he turned a page of the book I was reading. I pushed him away. I feel metal against my teeth, and something thick and warm in my mouth. I push the hand away so hard that the spoon clatters to the floor.

  The nurse says, “She just won’t eat anything.”

  I fell into a heap on my bed and cried. I felt dirty. I am trying to get up to take a bath, to scrub myself clean. The nurse is calling for help as she tries to calm me, to get me to lie down. I am still now, but my cheeks are wet. He was my father-in-law; how could I tell anyone? How could I tell Kishore?

  The nurse holds my hand, looking at me anxiously. I am breathing fast. Then I gasp for air. If he can molest his daughter-in-law, he can molest his granddaughters. No, no, that won’t happen. Kishore won’t let it happen. The nurse rubs my arm, and my breathing slows down. After checking my blood pressure, she leaves. “A panic attack,” she says to someone at the door.