The City of Good Death

by Priyanka Champaneri

  “How long must a man be married before he can be alone with his wife without someone commenting about it?” Pramesh asked. There was something odd in his voice, and Shobha allowed herself a sideways glance. He squatted a few paces from her and pulled at the grass beneath his feet, elbows resting on his knees, face turned so she saw only his profile. Her heart twinged. His wife, he’d said. Perhaps he did feel bad about leaving her for an entire day.

  “Much longer than a week,” she said. “A year. I suppose it depends on the rules of the place you are in.”

  “Then we are lost. Five years here, at the very least,” Pramesh said with a thin laugh.

  Her bangles clattered as she scrubbed the chai glasses with ash and rinsed them with fresh water. She waited for him to speak. All the things she wanted to say and ask rose to the back of her throat, choking her. Pramesh continued to pull at the grass, gazing off and saying nothing. She realized something very clearly: she had to ask him. And the way he chose to respond would tell the future of her marriage for all its years to come.

  “I was asleep yesterday. In the house. And I heard something.” She looked his way. His eyes were on the ground. She took a breath and continued. “Gossip, really. But they said—the woman said your elders had picked someone else out for you. Someone for you to marry.” Still, he said nothing. He stopped worrying the grass. He dusted his palms and then held the fingers of one hand with the other. Fear made her heart beat wildly, and her hands trembled, but she focused on scrubbing the last dish with ash and forced out the last question. “Is that why you haven’t yet taken me to meet them? Is that why you left me here for the entire day?”

  The silence stretched on. She finished the last dish, rinsed it clean, set it on the cloth beside her and looked at her husband. He stood, still looking at the ground, hands on his lower back. “It was a surprise to me as well,” he said.

  Shobha stood, wiping her hands on the ends of her sari. “What happened?”

  Instead of answering, he took in the sun’s position. “Sagar said he would come in the morning, first thing after completing some work. And he is bringing Bua—they were eager to meet you.”

  She tried to smile. At least his cousin wanted to meet her. She remembered the pura, still in her bag, no longer fresh. Perhaps she could make them again now, if Champa-maasi would let her. Still, her heart dipped a little. “And your father, your uncle? Are we not going to your home?”

  “It isn’t what you wanted, I know,” Pramesh said softly. She caught the pleading in his voice, and she noticed the lines beneath his eyes that she hadn’t seen last night, a pall that wasn’t there the previous day when he’d brushed her hand in full view of the train’s occupants. He rubbed the skin on his forehead, the fingers drifting down to trace his eyebrow. “A whole year … nothing changed.”

  What did he mean by that? She stepped closer, about to ask, but voices rose from the house, and Divya came clattering out, laughing and followed by her mother.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you so long—oh, Pramesh-bhaiya, missing your bride already?”

  Shobha bent to gather up the clean dishes, but Champa-maasi took them from her, chiding her for working and instructing her daughter to throw out the dishwater. With the tray balanced against her hip she put a hand on Pramesh’s shoulder.

  “Pramesh-beta, lucky you! Fresh paneer made yesterday. And laapsi—your favorite still, nah?”

  “So much trouble for us,” Pramesh said, his voice overbright. “And we will continue to trouble you, I’m afraid. At least one more night in your house, Maasi. And more guests for dinner—Sagar-bhai and Bua.”

  The woman put her arm around Pramesh’s waist and walked with him back to the house. Her manner with him was relaxed and affectionate, as if he were blood. Watching them, Shobha suddenly wished that these were her in-laws, with their easy manner and generous ways. Pramesh turned to catch her eye before he was pulled into the house. Perhaps he wished for the same thing, too.

  Champa-maasi readily agreed to letting Shobha make pura, even going so far as pulling Divya in to watch. “I try and try to teach her, but her mind is like a butterfly—from one thing to the next, never paying attention,” the woman complained. Mother and daughter chatted away, asking Shobha about the fashions in the city, how she spent her days, what the markets had. Shobha allowed herself to be lulled as she stirred the batter and flipped the pura, pushing her anxiety to the back of her mind. Once cooked, the new puras formed a tempting stack that made Shobha forget about the ones still sitting in the steel tin at the bottom of her bag.

  But then the hours passed, and there was no sign of Sagar. She watched Pramesh walk from the back of the house to the front many times, shading his eyes against the sun. Soon it was time for the midday meal, and she could tell that Champa-maasi did not know whether to serve everyone, including her husband hungry from work in the fields, or wait. “Maasi—you and Maasad should eat; there is more than enough for when Sagar-bhai comes,” she said, and the older woman threw her a grateful glance and began to set out the food.

  “He was always late for everything as a child,” she said to Pramesh once he’d come in for a bite. “You know he is no different as an adult. But he will be here.”

  In the late afternoon, as Champa-maasi was making chai, Pramesh walked into the kitchen. “I’m sure he’s just delayed, perhaps in the fields,” he said. “If he cannot step away, at least I can bring Bua.”

  There was a false cheer in his voice that made Shobha uneasy. She followed him outside. “Shall I come with you?”

  He waved his hand at his side, a gesture he sometimes made when declining an offer of help from her father. “It’s better if you stay.” From the front of the house, she watched him, with his familiar straight-backed gait, striding alone and away from her.

  Inside the house, she settled herself next to Divya with some sewing she took from the mending basket despite Champa-maasi’s insistence that she leave the work to the family. Working the needle in and out of the fabric, fixing a tear, putting in a new drawstring, kept her busy. She assumed her husband would be gone until evening, just like the previous day.

  But Pramesh was back in an hour, startling her when he walked in the door, straight through to the back of the house and out again. She set the sewing aside and ran to dip him a glass of water from the clay pot just inside the kitchen. He quickly drank, the steel tumbler hiding his face. When he gave it back to her, his hand was trembling.

  “What is it?”

  “Tomorrow,” Pramesh said. “We will leave first thing in the morning.” His voice had an undercurrent to it, as if he were holding poison in his throat and speaking carefully so that nothing spilled out.

  “What’s happened? Is anyone ill? Your aunt?” He shook his head and turned away from her, and she was seized with uncertainty, her heart pounding. She realized what had been in his voice. Fury. Her hand rose to her throat. “Your father, your uncle—what did they say? When they found out you were married to me?”

  His back was to her, motionless, his hands were clenched. She reached out, not bothering to check if anyone was watching. Slowly, her husband’s fingers unfurled as she held them. He turned to her. “What they say … what they do, what they are. None of that matters. That life is finished.”

  And before she could respond, he walked back to the house. She followed him inside and heard him telling Champa-maasi that they would stay one more night but would leave first thing in the morning. “It was only to be a short visit,” he said, his voice almost normal. But she could see a vein twitching near his temple. “Her father is alone at the bhavan; he hasn’t been well. We need to return to him.”

  He continued to explain, the farmer’s wife doing her best to convince him otherwise, and Divya echoing her mother’s insistence that they must stay at least for a few more days. But Pramesh would not budge. And then they converged on Shobha, planning her ne
xt visit, talking over her to discuss what food to pack for the journey, making her feel like she was their family, even though Shobha doubted very much that she would ever see the two of them again.

  That last night in the farmer’s house, Shobha stared up at the thatched ceiling, unable to sleep. Pramesh had been silent most of the rest of the afternoon and during the evening meal. The anger had dissolved into sadness so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it, those clenched fists, the hum of fury beneath his words. There must have been an argument. Scenarios of what might have happened spooled out from her imagination. Had they fought about her? And what about his cousin, his aunt? Had Sagar-bhai really wanted to meet her, or did her husband lie about it to soften the blow?

  She turned on the straw mat. Her eyes fell on her bag, stuffed into a corner of the room to make space for the other sleeping women. She’d forgotten to remove the old pura. They’d eaten the new ones with the evening meal, Champa-maasi loudly exclaiming over them and asking Divya what she’d learned from watching Shobha make them, everyone praising the food while staying silent about its intended recipient.

  Four people in her new husband’s family, and Shobha hadn’t managed to meet a single one. Get their blessings, her father had instructed her. She turned again, blinking in the dark.

  The next morning, Shobha made her goodbyes, coming to Champa-maasi last, bending to touch her feet for one final blessing—not the one she had come for, but the one that would have to last her for the rest of her marriage. When she stood, the older woman grasped her face between her palms and kissed her forehead. “Be happy,” she said.

  “Yes, Maasi.”

  The woman slid her arm through Shobha’s and walked with her the few steps to the cart, asking her if she was sure she had everything, telling her about the pickles and vegetable dishes she had packed for them, with an extra packet of sweets for Shobha to take back to her father. At the cart, she fussed over Shobha once more, telling her to take care of herself, to come back and visit soon. Shobha kept her eyes down, shy and demure as everyone said a bride should be, but feeling a tremendous sadness well up within her.

  She felt a palm on her cheek, the strange skin warming hers, the hand directing her to look up. The farmer’s wife looked into her eyes. “You’ve married a good man.”

  “Yes, Maasi.”

  “It was best he was able to leave this place and meet you in the city. His new life with you will be good—promise me you’ll make it so?”

  Heart aching, Shobha swiveled her chin slowly. Still, the older woman did not take back her hand.

  “Things have been difficult for her as well, you know.” She said this quietly, so that none but Shobha would hear.

  “For who?” Shobha searched the woman’s face. For a moment, she was startled out of her sadness. The farmer’s wife said nothing and instead turned to the cart and made a show of opening some of the bundles and rearranging the contents. She tied up the bundles again, set them firmly in the cart, squeezed Shobha’s arm, and walked back to her family, where she waved for as long as Shobha could see her, the cart traveling back the way it had come.

  She made up her mind as they neared the train station. She’d mustered her courage once, just yesterday—she had to do it again. On the train platform, she waited while Pramesh bought their tickets. But when he returned, the question was lodged in her throat. If she asked, she realized, she would not be able to keep the pain from seeping out as well. And she was too proud to cry here, on the train platform, in front of strangers. A new bride missing her family already, people would tsk.

  “My cousin will marry her. In my place.”

  Her eyes sprang to his. He avoided her gaze. “The woman meant for you?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Her name is Kamna.”

  A low whistle sounded in the distance. They both looked to the left and saw the train approaching. Once they boarded, she wouldn’t have another moment alone to ask him for many hours. The older one. She wanted him specifically. Her mind raced. “Did she accept?”

  “That sort of woman doesn’t have a choice,” Pramesh said bitterly.

  “What sort of woman? What happened?”

  He stared straight ahead. “He told me to forget this place, all those years ago. And I was foolish, and returned anyway.”

  She felt the shiver of the platform and gripped her bag tighter.

  “Do you believe in not looking back?” He was looking at her, meeting her eyes fully. The question surprised her.

  “Your elders,” she faltered. “Your cousin. Those aren’t ties you can simply cut. Not because of a single argument.” She couldn’t imagine doing the same with her father. And then she realized that Pramesh had never talked about the Elders in her presence. She knew nothing about his father and uncle. “Whatever they are … they are family.”

  He continued to look at her, the platform rumbling more urgently as the train came closer. “When we get on this train—I cannot look back.” His voice faltered, filled with pleading, and she was shocked to realize that he was asking her, begging her, to say she’d do the same.

  She thought of how she avoided thinking of her mother lest the pain overwhelm her, preferring to wall off the past to protect herself. Back at Champa-maasi’s she’d felt bereft, a loneliness so keen that her bones ached. She would continue to feel that way if she allowed herself to think of all the questions Pramesh had not answered, all the things he had not told her. Or she could agree to do the same, shut the door on this event in their newborn marriage, and embark upon their life as if it started now.

  She dipped her chin. “Nor will I. I won’t look back.”

  Was he relieved? She couldn’t tell. He reached over and took her bag.

  When the train arrived, pushing forward a breeze that sent her sari end flying off her head and streaming behind her, she followed Pramesh, keeping close behind him. With her right foot leading she stepped onto the train, her lips whispering the great God’s name for good luck on their journey, just as her father had taught her.

  Her father was neither better nor worse when she returned home, but she kept the story from him, focusing instead on the food she’d eaten and her impressions of the village, things she knew he would listen to with only half an ear. Days later, however, she told Mrs. Mistry everything. “Do I ask him what happened?” she asked her neighbor.

  “You can try.” Mrs. Mistry said after listening in silence. “Watch him closely and pick your moment. Some men simply cannot say the things that are easy for us to say.” She poured more chai for Shobha and pushed forward a plate of fenugreek mathri, still warm. “But better, I think, to leave it as he has left it. You have just started a new life together. Unless it comes up again, leave it. Leave it in the past.”

  She followed her neighbor’s advice, and as time passed, she came to understand that Mrs. Mistry was right. Shobha picked her moments, offering nothing but the comfort of her touch when Pramesh was mired deep in that black hole within himself, going about his work but stuck in some personal sadness that would disappear the next day. And she accepted his warmth when her father died months later, and when the baby they lost buried them both in grief. When Rani was born, those episodes of sadness became less frequent. As the years unspooled, as they built a life of their own, the old fears, the old questions, no longer seemed as important to her, and soon faded away.

  At least, she thought they had—until the day that her husband’s cousin drowned in the river. And the fear Shobha had felt all those years but had allowed herself to forget returned. Kamna never had a say in her family’s choice of groom. She had been promised a husband, and a life, in Kashi, and instead she’d remained in the village, bound to another man, and was now a widow. Indirectly, Shobha had taken something from this woman she had never met, this woman who apparently did not forget. And she knew enough of the universe to understand that one day the scales
would balance and she would lose something precious in return. A response, some detail about Kamna, would at least arm Shobha with information for when that moment came.

  “Three rupees,” the old shopkeep said, having emerged from the sea of brass and incense and red spangled cloth surrounding him in the puja stall. The copper lamp vibrated in his palsied palm.

  “A half rupee,” Shobha said without hesitation.

  “A half?” the man spat. “I would not give this to my mother for a half. Two rupees.”

  “Half a rupee,” she said again as if the shopkeep hadn’t uttered a word.

  “I tell you, woman, I will be begging tomorrow if I give this to you for a half. Why not simply give it to you for free? I will go to one and one half. No lower.” Shobha turned, sandals grinding into the dirt road as her body twisted in one smooth movement, and before the shopkeep could blink, the manager’s wife was halfway down the market lane. “Hey!” he yelled after her. “One! I can do one rupee! No, I will give it to you for a half! Are you listening? Half a rupee, but only because you are like a daughter!” She did not turn around. Grumbling and spitting the great God’s name beneath his breath, the shopkeep grabbed his cane and hobbled after her, the gleaming copper lamp held aloft in his hand as if to light the entire world.