Water: A Novel (Bapsi Sidwha) Read online

  Praise for Bapsi Sidhwa

  “The author’s capacity for bringing an assortment of characters vividly to life is enviable. Pakistan’s finest English-language novelist.”—New York Times Book Review

  “Sidhwa is a superb storyteller.”—New Internationalist

  “Bapsi Sidhwa is a writer of enormous talent, capable of endowing small domestic occurrences with cosmic drama and rendering calamitous historical events with deeply felt personal meaning.”—New York Newsday

  “A powerful and dramatic novelist.”—The Times

  “An affectionate and shrewd observer . . . a born storyteller.”—The New Statesman

  “Sidhwa is a rarity even in swiftly changing Asia—a candid, forthright, balanced woman novelist. Her twentieth-century view of Indian life can only be compared to V.S. Naipaul’s. Sidhwa is among the most invigorating Indian writers.”—Bloomsbury Review

  “Sidhwa writes dramatically of marriage, loyalty, honour and their conflict with old ways.”—Publisher’s Weekly

  “There is a Kiplingesque quality to Sidhwa’s writing, the congenital ability to make one feel the ambiance of the locale.”—Houston Chronicle

  “Bapsi Sidhwa writes with immense vigour and liveliness.”—Good Housekeeping

  Also by the Author

  An American Brat

  Cracking India

  The Bride

  The Crow Eaters

  WATER

  A Novel Based on the Film by Deepa Mehta

  Bapsi Sidhwa

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2006, Text by Bapsi Sidhwa

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

  (800) 520-6455 / www.milkweed.org

  ISBN-13: 978-1-571319-16-6

  First published in Canada by Key Porter Books Limited, Toronto, Canada, 2006.

  First published in the United States by Milkweed Editions, 2006.

  Interior design by Marijke Friesen

  The text of this book is set in Adobe Garamond.

  06 07 08 09 10 5 4 3 2 1

  First American Edition

  Milkweed Editions, a nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from Emilie and Henry Buchwald; Bush Foundation; Patrick and Aimee Butler Family Foundation; Cargill Value Investment; Timothy and Tara Clark Family Charitable Fund; Dougherty Family Foundation; Ecolab Foundation; General Mills Foundation; Greystone Foundation; Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts, College of Arts and Sciences, University of Notre Dame; Constance B. Kunin; Marshall Field’s Gives; McKnight Foundation; a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, and private funders; an award from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art; Navarre Corporation; Debbie Reynolds; St. Paul Travelers Foundation; Ellen and Sheldon Sturgis; Target Foundation; Gertrude Sexton Thompson Charitable Trust (George R. A. Johnson, Trustee); James R. Thorpe Foundation; Toro Foundation; Serene and Christopher Warren; W. M. Foundation; and Xcel Energy Foundation.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sidhwa, Bapsi

  Water : a novel based on the film by Deepa Mehta / Bapsi Sidhwa.

  I. Title.

  PR9540.9.S53W37 2006 823’.914 C2005-906158-8

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  For Deepa Mehta

  And for Mohur, Parizad and Baku,

  the other beloved women in my life

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  1936

  Setting: A village on the Bihar–Bengal border

  All at once, Chuyia tired of playing with her clay dolls. Her mouth craved something sweet. She knew exactly where she would find some ripe gooseberries. She packed up her toys and pushed the box against the wall of the neglected thatched hut that lay at the far corner of their compound. The forest that came right up to the edge of their wall had claimed the hut with swathes of china-rose and a tangle of thick-stalked creepers.

  Chuyia squeezed through a hedge of castor-oil trees and skipped along a path in her bare feet. A couple of days back, she had discovered the gooseberry bushes just off the narrow path that ran through some mango and jackfruit orchards and led into the jungle. She had walked a long way into the forest with her brothers but had never come to its end. The path held drooping clusters of fruit on the tamarind trees, and, once, she had come upon a clump of wild leechee trees. Chuyia soon found the gooseberry bushes and, after savouring the fruit’s tart sweetness, began collecting the berries in her skirt for her mother to pickle. But this proved cumbersome, so Chuyia ate the gooseberries instead.

  Chuyia had wandered deep into the forest in search of wild leechees when she became aware of the distant whining and whimpering of an animal; it was in distress. Abandoning her search for leechees, she made her way through the undergrowth, which was for the most part taller than she was. Although it was midday, the rays of the sun barely penetrated the thick green canopy that formed a roof over her head.

  Every now and then Chuyia stopped to listen to make sure she was heading toward the source of the cries. She had little fear of the forest, and was as familiar with it as a child brought up near the ocean is familiar with its shores.

  As she drew closer to the sound, she became puzzled. Muffled by the dense vegetation, the yelping and mewling seemed to surround her—and yet she couldn’t locate the terrified creature. Chuyia pushed back branches and crouched to search through the thicket of plants mouldering underneath for want of sunlight. She thrashed through the young bamboo saplings and skirted the ancient drooping clumps.

  Chuyia came upon a small clearing and, after parting the foliage and pushing back the creepers that concealed the ditch, she discovered a scruffy little pup that had fallen through. Barely distinguishable from the bed of decaying leaves, it was feebly trying to scramble up the steep sides of the ditch and slipping back.

  “Tun-tun, Tun-tun,” Chuyia called softly.

  Tun-tun was the generic name given by the village children to all the local mongrels that prowled the neighbourhood and from time to time attached themselves to the houses that fed them scraps. With their short, dun-coloured fur and straight-up tails, they were almost indistinguishable from one another, except for the grovelling bitches with swinging teats who slunk around with their tails between their legs.

  The puppy cocked its pointy ears to look at her and increased the volume of its yelping. Holding on to a supple young bamboo, Chuyia lowered herself down the incl
ine. The startled pup growled and backed away from the alarming proximity to the stranger. It bared its tiny teeth. Chuyia noticed the small protrusion low down its belly and decided it was a boy. She squatted at the base of the ditch and remained still to give the nervous animal time to get accustomed to her. She wanted Tun-tun to know she wouldn’t harm him, and was prepared to get acquainted with him on his terms.

  After a while, she edged closer and held out her hand. “Tun-tun, Tun-tun,” she said softly, making gentle kissing sounds. “Come to me. Come,” she cajoled.

  His tail wagging tentatively, the animal cocked its head to look at her but held its ground.

  Wary of the sharp little teeth, Chuyia slowly reached out to touch its grubby head. At her touch, Tun-tun rolled over on his back and, his little tail thumping the dirt, twisted his body this way and that, as if posing for the cutest effect. Still squatting, Chuyia waddled closer and gingerly stroked his belly. The dog’s little tail thumped harder. What an adorable face he had. She tried again to stroke his head and the pup quickly licked her fingers with his wet tongue. Chuyia retracted her hand reflexively.

  Bit by bit, each sized up the other.

  Chuyia felt an overwhelming surge of tenderness and longing and, reaching out with both hands, picked up the pup. She did it so clumsily that the discomfited creature wiggled free and fell to the ground. She hunkered down on her heels, and the puppy began to sniff at her dusty feet. All at once, it braced its tiny paws against her knees and licked her face. Chuyia laughed. She cradled the little fellow in her arms and allowed him to lick her neck. Stroking and kissing the puppy, covering him with the flap of her blouse to protect him from the prickly twigs, she carried Tun-tun through the forest.

  Chapter One

  Bhagya sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, grinding rice with a mortar and pestle and adding it to the flour she stored in a brass jar. Dusk had thickened into night outside the kitchen window, and the hectic twittering of the birds had given way to the muted sounds of nocturnal animals of the forest and the sudden orchestration of cicadas. Her day’s chores done, her family fed, this was Bhagya’s hour of solitude. The rhythmic pounding of the pestle and her automated movements had a meditative quality, and she often chanted or hummed holy passages from the Bhagvad Gita or the Mahabharata at this time.

  Somnath came into the kitchen with the box of betel nut and, after adjusting his crumpled night dhoti, quietly squatted beneath the pots lined up on a shelf nailed to the wall. Although Bhagya had her back to him, she was aware of his presence. She brought her sari forward to cover her bare shoulder and head. Somnath waited patiently. Even though her body had thickened with child-bearing, she was as beautiful as the Goddess Bhagyalakshmi, whose name she bore. And with the passion of youth diluted by the daily grind of household tasks and the passage of time, she was surely as pure as the Goddess Sita.

  Bhagya wondered what had brought her husband to the kitchen. He usually left her alone to finish her chores. She sensed it had something to do with his visit to the widower Hira Lal’s house earlier that morning. On his return from the house, he had barely spoken to her or to the children. Hira Lal’s mother had sent for him, and Bhagya had assumed it had to do with the prayer rituals Somnath often performed at their house. Now she wondered what it was; she would find out soon enough.

  Bhagya added the last lot of ground rice to the jar and pushed the pestle and mortar against the wall. She placed the lid on the jar and turned her head slightly.

  “You wish to say something?”

  Somnath patted the clean clay floor. “Come, sit by me.”

  Bhagya wiped her hands on her sari and sat down cross-legged where he had indicated. She pulled the box to her and started spreading the red katha paste on the betel leaf. She glanced at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Why should anything be the matter?” Somnath said. “Don’t look so serious, I bring you good news.”

  Bhagya searched his face from the corner of her eyes. Although he was trying to smile, the drawn lines on his face belied his words. Something was the matter.

  “So, tell me,” she said.

  Holding his hand out to receive the betel leaf, Somnath breathed out in a way that was almost a sigh. “Hira Lal’s mother wants our Chuyia to marry Hira Lal,” he said.

  Bhagya lifted the edge of her sari and lowered her head to disguise the sudden tumult that agitated her heart and left her short of breath. She waited for him to continue.

  “I have agreed,” he said. “Their horoscopes match. We have looked at some auspicious dates. They want the marriage to take place before Diwali—in September or October. The monsoon will be over and our guests can sleep outside.”

  “She is only six,” Bhagya said, her quavering voice so low Somnath had to strain to catch her words. “I’ve heard Hira Lal is a grandfather.”

  “He’s younger than me, about forty-four,” Somnath said. “They don’t want a dowry; they will pay for the wedding. She will be well cared for. Hira Lal’s mother is a kind woman. She will be good to our girl.”

  “Shouldn’t you have consulted me?” said Bhagya.

  Somnath stretched his legs out and, adjusting the fall of the sacred thread that ran diagonally across his bare chest, leaned back. Although the flesh on his chest was spare, his stomach protruded in a small, spongy roll. He swallowed the juice that had collected in his mouth and, tucking the betel into one cheek, said, “How could I refuse Hira Lal’s mother?”

  Bhagya drew her sari forward so that her face was in shadow. “It is settled then! Why bother to tell me? So what if I have never set eyes on the man?” She had not spoken to him so harshly in a long while.

  “He’s not bad-looking. The family is of noble Brahmin lineage. We should be honoured,” Somnath said, and, in an attempt to placate her, he added, “Our little mouse will remain with us until she comes of age. She will play with her friends, have a normal childhood.”

  “Ishh, Bhagwan: may she never come of age!” Bhagya spat out the words.

  “Don’t speak such ill-omened words,” he said uneasily, shaking his head reprovingly. “A girl is destined to leave her parents’ home early or she will bring disgrace to it. She is safe and happy only in her husband’s care.”

  “She is safe and happy enough in our care.”

  “In the Brahmanical tradition,” said Somnath, shifting into the soothing and at the same time authoritative mode he adopted when speaking to his clients, “a woman is recognized as a person only when she is one with her husband. Only then does she become a sumangali, an auspicious woman, and a saubhagyavati, a fortunate woman.” And, as if recalling a passage from a holy book, he half-closed his lids to add, “A woman’s body is a site for conflict between a demonic stri-svavahava, which is her lustful aspect, and her stri-dharma, which is her womanly duty.”

  Bhagya jerked her head up so that her sari fell from her hair and stared at him. “And you think that man will be able to satisfy her stri-svavahava? By the time her womanhood blooms, he’ll be old and spent.”

  Somnath was shocked. Although he well knew his wife’s passionate nature and discreetly relished it, her lust was contained within the parameters sanctioned by marriage. But to hear her speak so crudely about his daughter’s sexuality violated the principles upon which his ideas of sanctity were based. The Brahmin elders were right: women were dangerous. They sapped a man’s strength and stood between him and salvation. He leaned forward to stare at the woman confronting him.

  The hard glint in her husband’s eyes pierced Bhagya like an arrow hurled by the God Arjuna; he had never looked at her this way before. Frozen with the weight of a hoary tradition that brooked no deviation, his look chilled her blood.

  “You are the wife and daughter of Brahmin priests; surely you are aware of our traditions,” he said. “Outside of marriage the wife has no recognized existence in our tradition. A woman’s role in life is to get married and have sons. That is why she is created: to have sons! That is all!”


  Bhagya, overwhelmed by her husband’s fury, knew she had overstepped her bounds. She dropped her eyes. Her husband was right; his words bore the cumulative wisdom of gods and ancient sages, and who was she to challenge that august pantheon? A girl carried within her the seeds of dishonour, and the burden of responsibility was to be borne by her parents until she was married. “I am sorry,” she said humbly, duly chastened. “It’s just that I hadn’t thought about her marriage. She scampers all about the place like her namesake, Little Mouse. I need time to get used to the idea of her absence from our house. It will be as you say—you are her father.”

  Bhagya carried the kitchen lamp into the children’s bedroom. Her sons Prasad and Mohan were asleep on the thin mattress on their hard bed. She sat down on the edge of Chuyia’s cot and held the earthenware lamp so that its light bathed her daughter’s face in a coppery glow. Her curling eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her face was full and round like the moon that had arisen and now shone through the window. Her mouth was an inlaid bud in the moon of her face. Impulsively, she bent to lightly kiss the sweetness on her daughter’s lips. The wash-worn rag that served as Chuyia’s tiny sari had ridden up her thighs, and, with her sturdy, rounded limbs, she looked like one of Krishna’s cherubic gopis.

  Bhagya was not given to looking at her daughter so closely. She often gazed upon her sons as they slept. She covertly observed them when they were absorbed in school work or having the extra portion of food she had saved for them, and then her heart brimmed over with love and the special pride that was her due as mother of sons. She fretted about them because they were pale, and their thin limbs and stalk-like necks gave them an appearance of fragility. Bhagya never worried about her robust daughter and, scolding her for her playful and wilful ways, plied her sturdy little body with work—fetch the water, carry the firewood, sweep the yard, feed the cow.

  Bhagya pried loose a strand of hair from Chuyia’s neck, and with her sari patted dry the moisture that had formed in the crease where her neck joined her collarbone. Chuyia’s hair, which already fell to her waist, spread about her in a velvet tangle of curls. Bhagya knew she must have looked like this at Chuyia’s age. Then why did she not lavish on her the affection and attention she lavished on her sons? Feel the same surge of love and pride for her daughter? Was it because her heart knew that a daughter was only a guest and never belonged to the house into which she was born? As she looked down at her daughter’s baby face, Bhagya’s eyes became moist and she was swept by a wave of tenderness and pity she had not allowed herself to feel before. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and brushed her eyelids with her lips.