Water: A Novel (Bapsi Sidwha) Page 12

  “You must take care of yourself,” Madhumati cooed, and Kalyani noticed she was stroking her thigh. “You are the jewel of this house,” the woman said, gazing at her fondly. “If you are happy, our clients are happy. And when they’re happy, I am happy!”

  Kalyani couldn’t take it anymore. “This is an ashram, didi, not a brothel,” she said quietly.

  The affection and good cheer drained from Madhumati’s flabby face, as spite and cunning narrowed her eyes. Kalyani slipped away before Madhumati could get back at her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chuyia became their secret emissary, ferrying little notes from Narayan and conveying Kalyani’s verbal answers to him. She took her role seriously and delighted in it, and that is how, some days later, Kalyani came to be riding in an elegant four-wheeled carriage with Narayan at dusk. Narayan directed the driver to take a turn, and they clip-clopped along a stately boulevard in the British cantonment. Graceful eucalyptus trees stood erect in orderly rows in their appointed grooves along the pavement, and the bases of their trunks were painted white. A ribbon of red paint circled the white at the top, and the same red ran along the side of the pavement. The atmosphere was serene and orderly: a world apart from the crowded, raucous city with its temples, food stalls, animal and human traffic, lean-tos and open drains.

  Kalyani sat at a suitable distance from Narayan, which, given the narrow width of the carriage, was not large. She was overwhelmed by the novelty of the experience. She touched the rich leather of the seat in wonder, then turned and lifted the closed blind to peer timidly out the carriage window as they passed ornate stucco mansions, lined with formal rows of box shrubs, sitting amidst immaculately kept grounds. Her head was uncovered, her dark hair shining, and her young face fresh and dewy.

  Narayan, beside himself with joy to have Kalyani in the carriage with him, watched her reactions eagerly. “We are at the edge of the city,” he explained. “Where the British live.”

  Kalyani looked at him apprehensively, worried that she did not belong here; what if someone recognized that she was a widow?

  Narayan guessed the cause of her alarm. “They don’t care if you’re a widow,” he assured her.

  “Why? Don’t they have widows?” Kalyani asked.

  “Of course they do. But not like ours; they don’t treat them like we do,” said Narayan. “It must be hard for you,” he said, unable to conceal the compassion that laced his voice.

  Kalyani kept her head slightly bowed and did not look at Narayan. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” she said. “‘Learn to live like a lotus . . . Untouched by the filthy water it grows in.’ Krishnaji says it in the Gita.”

  Narayan stared at Kalyani thoughtfully. “Krishna was a god. Not everyone can live like the lotus flower,” he said.

  “Yes they can,” Kalyani stated simply. She avoided meeting his eyes and looked out the window instead.

  They rode in silence. After a while, Kalyani shyly turned towards Narayan and, their bodies swaying with the movement of the carriage, lightly touched a black stain on his shirt pocket: “What’s that?”

  Narayan was sheepish. “It’s ink. I didn’t have time to change. I was applying for a job in Calcutta.”

  Kalyani was stunned by the revelation; it had never occurred to her that Narayan could be anywhere else. She stared fixedly at her lap.

  “What’s wrong?” Narayan asks.

  “When do you go?” Her voice was small.

  “As soon as they call me.”

  Kalyani distractedly wound the edge of her sari in and out of her fingers. “And when will you be back?” She gave him a sidelong glance.

  Narayan reached over and gently untangled the fabric she had wound around her hand, and took both her hands in his.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you,” he said with quiet certainty, as if he were uttering an oath.

  Kalyani looked into his eyes, and then lowered her regard. Narayan edged a little closer and gripped her hands more tightly. Kalyani felt her blood turn to water and her legs tremble: then everything in the world ceased to exist except his hand in hers.

  Late that night, Kalyani quietly entered Shakuntala’s room. The floor was covered with the old widows Shakuntala had taken under her wing, now that Bua was no longer there to take care of. Kalyani crept over to Chuyia’s mat and lightly touched the girl’s heel. Chuyia’s foot jerked reflexively, but she stayed asleep. Kalyani knelt beside her and shook her gently by the shoulder to waken her. When this, too, failed to rouse her, Kalyani leaned in close to Chuyia’s face and blew on her. Chuyia awoke, and a huge smile broke on her sleepy face as she saw Kalyani hovering over her.

  Chuyia quietly followed Kalyani up the stairs to her room. Kaalu greeted them excitedly. They lay down on their mats with Kaalu prancing between their legs, licking their laughing faces. Kalyani, propped up on an elbow, stroked the spiky stubble on Chuyia’s head and whispered to her the wonderful things she had seen, what she and Narayan had said to each other, and all the other details of her magical evening with the man she loved best in the whole world.

  “More than Krishna?” Chuyia asked.

  Kalyani became thoughtful. “Yes. More than Krishna,” she said after a pause, and became confused. “Krishna is a god. I can’t love him in the same way,” she said.

  Chuyia looked at Kalyani, wide-eyed, and through a kind of osmosis felt what she felt: a strange, heavy sweetness filled her body, and she became still, intent, as if listening to music.

  Chuyia felt closer to Kalyani than ever before and she wanted to know everything about her. Gently, her mood contemplative with the music within her, Chuyia began to ask Kalyani about her past. It comforted her to discover that Kalyani’s story was much like her own. Kalyani’s family was very poor and had no landholdings. She had two brothers and two sisters, all older than she. Her mother had always been weak, and the five pregnancies had taken their toll on her health. Kalyani’s mother had died before she had reached her first birthday.

  With three daughters on his hands, her father had been anxious to marry them off. Word of Kalyani’s beauty had spread, and she was married off to the highest bidder, a man of sixty, when she was six. After that, her life story was much like Chuyia’s. She had lived in the village with her family. Her husband had become ill, and Kalyani had accompanied him to the ghats. He had died a few days after they had come to Rawalpur and the widowed child had been dumped at the ashram. Kalyani said she had also fought and screamed like Chuyia at first, but had soon realized that it wouldn’t do her any good.

  “They didn’t shave your head?” Chuyia asked.

  “They did, but Madhu-didi let me grow it back.”

  “Why?” Chuyia asked, running her fingers through Kalyani’s silky strands.

  “You’re as inquisitive as your namesake, aren’t you?” Kalyani, who spoke to Chuyia as an equal, seldom adopted the adult, dismissive tone of voice she used now. “You will understand when you’re older.”

  The mechanizations of the adult world were a mystery to Chuyia. She had been told this so often that she didn’t question the statement. Experience had taught her that no amount of pleading would persuade adults to divulge their secrets. “Madhu-didi is kind to you. She likes you,” Chuyia said

  Kalyani kept quiet. Madhumati had been only too delighted to take in such a young beauty and had immediately made arrangements to sell her services. She fetched an unheard-of price, for in addition to her rare beauty, she had been a virgin-widow. Kalyani had been nine at the time.

  “Will Madhu-didi let me grow my hair if I ask her?”

  Kalyani raised herself on an elbow and looked earnestly at Chuyia. “Promise me you will never ask her that.”

  Chuyia looked at her in surprise. “Why?”

  “You trust me, don’t you?”

  Overwhelmed and upset by Kalyani’s uncharacteristic gravitas, Chuyia nodded.

  “Then say it. Say, ‘I promise I will never ask Madhu-didi to let my hair grow.’”
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  Chuyia, perplexed, solemnly repeated the words. “I promise I will never ask Madhu-didi to let my hair grow.”

  “You won’t break your promise?”

  “No.”

  Kalyani kissed her forehead and lay back, relaxed.

  After that, Kalyani and Chuyia talked far into the night, giggling and sharing stories, and then, as is the way with children, Chuyia suddenly fell asleep. Kalyani lay awake, lost in romantic fantasies.

  SUNSHINE FLOODED THE ROOM. Although Narayan had slept very little, he got up refreshed and full of vigour. He put his favourite morning raag on the gramophone and hummed along with Omkarnath Thakur, shaking his head at the maestro’s virtuosity, as he worked his shaving cream into lather. He was applying shaving cream to his face when there was a sharp knock on his door. “Come in, Ma,” he said, recognizing the knock.

  Wrapped up in a bright yellow sari and covered in gold jewelry, Bhagwati sailed into the room. “I was waiting for you to get up,” she said, picking up Narayan’s clothes from the various places they were strewn and moving about restlessly. She looked disturbed.

  Narayan smiled at her, amused, as he wiped the lather off his face with a towel.

  “Did you have a fight with baba?”

  “He’s never here to have a fight with!” Bhagwati complained. She sighed and continued to walk about the room, folding and refolding his clothes, attacking the few specks of dust Sadhuram had spared. She noticed Gandhi’s photograph was hung a bit off-centre and she straightened it. She stared at the Mahatma.

  “What does he preach?” she asked, curious.

  “That’s Gandhiji. Not some crooked priest, Ma,” Narayan corrected her.

  “So what does he say, then?”

  “He talks about freedom, about truth.”

  “To talk about freedom is easy, but to live by it, is not,” Bhagwati replied tartly. There was silence between them for a moment.

  Bhagwati sat down on the chair at his desk and, looking at him directly, divulged the reason for her visit. She had rehearsed her choice of words. “The girl’s father is getting impatient.”

  “What?” said Narayan, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Turn off that gramophone!” said Bhagwati, exasperated by his attitude.

  Narayan complied.

  “I want a straightforward yes or no. They won’t wait forever.”

  “No!” Narayan said definitively.

  Bhagwati’s face fell. She looked perplexed. She could not understand why her son, amenable in all other respects, refused to comply with his parents’ wish to see him settled. By now he should have provided them grandsons! He had received fine offers. She had shown him the photographs of only the prettier girls, the ones with substantial dowries. He had rejected them offhand.

  “Don’t you want to set up a family?”

  “It’s not like setting yogurt,” Narayan quipped. Then he flopped down on his bed and, reclining comfortably against the pillows, pulled out his flute. He began to play a cheerful folk song.

  Bhagwati, riled, grabbed the flute out of his hands.

  “If this is your attitude, how will I ever find a girl for you?” She was almost in tears.

  “You don’t have to. I’ve found her myself,” Narayan said calmly.

  Bhagwati’s face registered shock. “Really?” she said in disbelief.

  Narayan nodded “yes.” Bhagwati’s irate features underwent a transformation as she relaxed. She touched his face tenderly and, leaning in, weighed in with the questions.

  “Who is she? Do I know her?”

  “No.”

  “Is she Brahmin?”

  “She could be.”

  Bhagwati looked at him sharply, “You want to marry her and you don’t even know her caste?”

  “Ma, caste doesn’t matter to me. You should know that by now.”

  It was the influence of this wretched Gandhi. “Well, tell me more. Is she fair?”

  Narayan laughed. “Is that all that matters? Light skin?”

  “Other things also matter,” Bhagwati said, offended.

  “Like what?”

  “Morals, health, family. Well, is she?”

  Narayan smiled. “Yes, she’s fair.”

  He became serious. “Ma, she’s beautiful.” His words ended in an involuntary sigh.

  Bhagwati’s expression softened, as she gazed upon her son. If he loved the girl so much, she would love her too.

  “Even if she was dark, she’d be beautiful,” Narayan said poetically.

  “You aren’t lying, are you?” Bhagwati asked suspiciously.

  “No, Ma. She’s as fair as you’d wish.”

  Bhagwati was relieved. Her son had an eye for pretty girls; she should have known he wouldn’t land her with some swarthy creature she’d be ashamed of toting around. Aloud she said, “Your father will not like this insult.”

  “What insult?”

  “It’s a smack to our faces. We have done everything for you, yet you don’t trust us to make the right choice for you?!”

  “It’s not a question of trust, Ma. It’s just that . . . I’ve found her.”

  Bhagwati sat on the bed near his feet. She understood what was left unsaid. She began stroking his legs in a light massage as she was used to. “Who is she?”

  “She’s a widow,” said Narayan.

  Bhagwati’s head jerked up. She stared at him in horror, and then she covered her face with her hands. It couldn’t be true. “You are joking,” she said and smacked Narayan’s feet in disgust.

  Narayan looked at her calmly.

  “Hai Bhagwan! You’re serious! How will we show our face to the world?” Weeping and wiping her tears on her sari, she scolded him, “Gandhi has turned you into a lunatic! Marry a widow? How can you even think of it? It’s a sin! You should know that!”

  Narayan had expected this reaction. He understood exactly how intolerable the thought of his marrying a widow was to her, and she could be relied upon to enact tempestuous scenes. In the end, though, she could deny him nothing. He was her only son, and she adored him. He said, “It is not as terrible as you think, Ma—old ways and ideas have changed. Raja Ramohan Roy says widows should get remarried.”

  Bhagwati wiped her nose on her sari and retorted disgustedly, “And Raja Whoever—what does he know about our traditions? What will your father say?”

  “He’ll be pleased. He’s a freethinker,” Narayan replied calmly.

  “You’ll find out how freethinking he is when he hears this! He’ll throw you out of the house! Hai Bhagwan, show mercy,” Bhagwati said, weeping. Narayan offered her his handkerchief, but she pushed it away, wailing, “Stop it!”

  Narayan picked up his flute again and began to play.

  Bhagwati snatched the flute from his hand. “Oh, God! What will happen to your sisters? Have you thought of that? Who will marry them?! No one wants a girl whose family spits on tradition and religion!”

  “They’re pretty, they’ll bring big dowries. I wouldn’t worry about them.”

  Bhagwati was outraged. “You wouldn’t worry? As long as you get what you want, your sisters can rot in hell?” She smacked her head and thumped her chest. “Oh Lord, break the ground and swallow me! You might as well give me poison!”

  “You should get a gold medal for drama, Ma,” Narayan teased, trying to jolly her out of her state.

  “You think this is drama? I will swallow my diamonds and bleed to death! I will stab myself with a knife,” she wailed, jabbing herself with the flute.

  Narayan got up quickly and wrestled the flute from her, saying, “Stop it, Ma. You’ll hurt yourself.” He tried to embrace her.

  She pushed him away. “You’ll know what drama is when I kill myself!” she shrieked, and ran from the room, weeping.

  Narayan placed his hands behind his head and, reclining on the pillows, closed his eyes. “She is beautiful,” he said softly, to the empty room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gulabi, in a
breathtaking clash of colours, stood at the window eating a dish of puris and potatoes from a bowl made out of dried palm leaves.

  “You look like my Mitthu today,” Madhumati mumbled from her bed.

  Gulabi cast a preening glance at her vivid-green sari and peach blouse with its yellow trim. She ran a swarthy hand over the ornaments in her hair, fastidiously adjusting them.

  “But my Mitthu is better-looking,” Madhumati mumbled conclusively.

  Madhumati had adopted her usual position for this time of day. Stretched out on her stomach like a satiated sea-lion, her head turned to one side, she lay still, listening to Gulabi’s gossip and offering an occasional comment. Chuyia was at her regular task, dutifully massaging Madhumati by walking up and down her buttocks and thighs. Every short while, her nose picked up the spicy fragrances wafting in from the window, and her attention wandered to the food being daintily picked at by Gulabi with her fingers.

  Poking her arms through the bars, Gulabi offered the dish to Madhumati. “Have some, didi?” she said, between mouthfuls.

  “I’ve been farting non-stop since morning,” Madhumati complained, refusing the offer. “Perhaps I ate too much last night.” Lifting her behind slightly, she passed a bubbling volley of wind.

  Awestruck, Chuyia wondered how she did it—she could summon up the artillery at will.

  Chuyia carefully negotiated Madhumati’s buttocks and came to stand on her back. She stared as Gulabi licked the juice from the vegetables off her fingers and all the way up her forearm. Gulabi caught her watching and offered her half-eaten puri to Chuyia.

  “Here, eat some,” she said.

  Hanging onto the bar above her with one hand, Chuyia reached for it, but was stopped by Madhumati’s shrill cry. “Are you mad?” she scolded Gulabi. “Giving a widow forbidden food!”

  Gulabi merely shrugged her peachy shoulders and finished off the food.

  “So what? I’ll eat a hundred puris at Kalyani’s wedding,” Chuyia defiantly boasted.

  Gulabi’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, while Madhumati’s back gave a convulsive little jerk beneath Chuyia’s feet.