Water: A Novel (Bapsi Sidwha) Read online

  Chapter Six

  Chuyia sat on the steps, playfully kicking up the water. Nearby, knee-deep in the shallows, Kalyani was bent over, vigorously soaping Kaalu. The little dog squirmed and barked. “Stay still, you rascal,” Kalyani scolded. She included Chuyia in her playful glance as she splashed water on Kaalu and muttered, “We must get rid of your fleas . . . Sins, too, while we’re at it.”

  Close to them a grey-haired woman was absorbed in a washing and prayer ritual. She appeared not to notice them.

  “There,” Kalyani said, hauling Kaalu out of the water and holding him aloft. “Both fleas and sins washed away!”

  Chuyia laughed out loud, and the woman turned around. Kalyani began to murmur an apology, but the woman, realizing they were widows, glared at her in a way that made Kalyani blush and stop mid-sentence, guiltily clutching at her wet sari. Clasping Kaalu to her chest, Kalyani waded up the steps and sat down next to Chuyia. Kaalu yelped and whined as he tried to get away, and Chuyia burst out laughing.

  “Chuyia! Stop laughing!” Kalyani whispered fiercely.

  Chuyia was perplexed. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what!” Kalyani said impatiently. The woman had moved further upstream. “Give me the towel.”

  Chuyia handed over the frayed blue-and-white cotton cloth. Kalyani, keeping a firm grip on the whimpering and wriggling Kaalu, rubbed him thoroughly, trying to scour the fleas off his hide.

  “Kalyani,” Chuyia cried, “you’re hurting him!”

  Alarmed by Chuyia’s distress, Kalyani flung the towel aside. She gently stroked the dog’s wet fur with her hand. Her lovely shoulders were limp, and, for just a moment, Chuyia glimpsed of kind of apathy in her eyes that she had not noticed before, the same resignation that dimmed the eyes of the other widows.

  “Let me wipe him,” Chuyia said, extending her arms toward Kaalu. Kalyani hesitated. He was becoming difficult to restrain. “Be careful,” she said, handing the puppy over, but Kaalu, grasping the opportunity, leapt from her arms and bounded up the steps.

  “Kaalu!” Chuyia cried in panic, and immediately raced off after the dog, following him quickly up the steps. She waited for an instant by the arching wall of a small Shiva temple for Kalyani to catch up, and then ran off behind it and down the steps on the other side.

  Her wet hair flying behind her, widow-decorum out the window, Kalyani ran in frantic pursuit of Chuyia, yelling, “Come back! He won’t get lost,” and slammed into a stout, colourfully attired woman returning from the river. The woman groped at Kalyani, trying to keep her balance, but immediately released her. “What filth!” she hissed, an ugly expression distorting her harsh features. “You have no shame.” Huge loop earrings dangled from her ears, and she had a damp towel over a shoulder. A mangal-sutra necklace that cut into her neck and the outsized bindi blazing between her brows proclaimed her married status. She grabbed Kalyani by the arm and said, “You have no morals! You are a widow, and yet you run around like you are an unmarried girl?” Then she yanked her arm away as if she’d been stung and hissed, “You’ve polluted me. I have to bathe again!” She retraced her steps to the river.

  Chastened, Kalyani lowered her head and pulled the pallav edge of her sari right down to the tip of her nose: if she could, she would have burrowed into the earth.

  Chuyia and Kaalu had disappeared. Kalyani sat down on the edge of a stone bench that circled the enormous trunk of a majestic old banyan tree in front of the steps leading up to the Shiva temple. She waited patiently; Chuyia would have to pass this way to get to the ashram.

  HOT IN PURSUIT OF KAALU, Chuyia raced past the temples that lined the river and down a narrow lane, scattering a cluster of hens and disturbing a magnificently feathered rooster, who squawked haughtily after her retreating back. She ran right through a batch of brilliant red peppers spread out to dry on a mat, scattering them in all directions, and rounded a corner onto a busy city street. She kept calling urgently, “Kaalu! Kaalu!” and, as she ran past a stall where a customer sat drinking tea, the cashier, standing behind burlap sacks of onions and potatoes and stands of coconut and plantains, shouted after her, “Go back to the ashram, child.” The customer shook his head and remarked, “They shouldn’t allow widows to run around like this. They bring bad luck to our business.”

  Chuyia had almost caught up to Kaalu when he suddenly stopped to sniff at the sandal-clad feet of a handsome young gentleman.

  Susceptible to beauty in all its forms, Chuyia gaped round-eyed at the splendid man. He wore a sparkling white dhoti with long, graceful pleats in front, and a white shirt. His thick black hair, gleaming with oil and slicked back, reached to his collar. He had heavy, artfully arched eyebrows above wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a learned air. His strong features were set off by a close-cropped moustache and his square jaw by the shadow of a beard. He carried a black umbrella and coat under one arm and a brown suitcase in the other.

  Chuyia, already out of breath from her run, found she couldn’t breathe. When she could, she quickly gasped, “Catch Kaalu! Please, sir, catch Kaalu!”

  Looking kindly at the pup, and more than slightly amused, the young man put his suitcase down and picked up the dog. The umbrella and coat maintained their location beneath his arm.

  Chuyia, twisting shyly on one leg, rewarded him with a beaming smile. He handed the puppy over to her and picked up his valise. Chuyia hugged Kaalu tight to her.

  “Is he yours?” asked the smiling young man.

  Chuyia nodded. “Yes.” Attempting to explain the situation, and at the same time to hold his attention, she said, “Yes, Kaalu. He doesn’t like to bathe.”

  The man accepted her explanation and was about to walk away when the dismayed expression on Chuyia’s face stopped him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m . . . I mean . . . Kalyani’s lost,” stammered Chuyia, reluctant to admit that it was she, in fact, who was lost.

  “We should find her, then,” the man replied matter-of-factly, as if he knew exactly whom Chuyia was talking about.

  “Yes, poor thing,” said Chuyia.

  “Where did she get lost?” the man inquired casually.

  “Near the river; by the Shiva mandir.”

  Walking side by side, they started down the street. The man held out a protective arm as a nonchalant cow brushed past them. Oblivious of the traffic, a tailor ironed clothes on a table out on the sidewalk. Chuyia’s companion had to duck to get past the clothes the tailor had strung up, and she got a closer look at his face.

  They walked quietly. “I’m a widow,” Chuyia solemnly confessed. She kept a tight hold on Kaalu as she looked at him.

  The man simply said, “Yes. I know.”

  “How do you know?” Chuyia asked shyly.

  The man stopped. He bent down and ran a light hand over the stubble on her head. “That’s how,” he said, smiling into her eyes. Chuyia blushed. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Chuyia,” she said pertly.

  “Little mouse!” The young man laughed.

  Chuyia shrugged her shoulders; it was a reaction she often elicited from grown-ups when they heard her name. Chuyia turned her face up. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Narayan.”

  Chuyia, giving him a playful look, sang out, “Narayan-Narayan—like Vishnu’s Narayan?”

  “Yes,” Narayan wryly replied.

  They walked in companionable silence until they arrived at the Shiva-lingam temple. Chuyia ran across the temple and looked down. Kalyani was there, waiting for her and Kaalu beneath the huge tree. Chuyia walked carefully down the steps with Kaalu in her arms and cried out, “Kalyani!”

  Narayan had noticed the demure figure sitting on the stone bench under the great spread of the banyan. Her head was draped in white, and she was framed by the golden leaves strewn around her. The leaves fanned out behind her, reaching down the steps, right up to the water.

  Turning her head at Chuyia’s voice, Kalyani stood up. She
was too relieved to see Chuyia to scold her, and the words she had rehearsed vanished as Chuyia ran up to her and placed Kaalu into her arms. “I found him! Kalyani, I found him!” Chuyia said, chattering in her excitement.

  “You silly girl,” Kalyani said, drawing the girl close. “Do you know how worried I was? What if you’d got lost? What would I have done then?”

  Chuyia suddenly remembered Narayan and his role in finding not only Kaalu but also Kalyani. She looked guiltily up at him as he came down the mandir steps and joined the little group.

  Kalyani, as yet unaware of Narayan, gently reprimanded Chuyia. “Always running around like your little namesake, the mouse!”

  But Narayan was all too aware of Kalyani. He stood transfixed, completely enchanted, and stared at her as if she were the first woman created by God. As Kalyani became aware of Narayan’s presence, she broke off in mid-sentence and took on a reproving and suspicious mien. A young man had no business lurking so close to women he didn’t know. Chuyia realized she needed to explain his presence. Reluctant to see her glory in catching Kaalu diminish, she began a hesitant introduction.

  “Kalyani . . . Narayan helped me find Kaalu.”

  Their eyes met. His intense, handsome face and the adulation transparent in his eyes left her feeling breathless and weak. She wanted to conceal the powerful effect he had on her but couldn’t: she appeared to have no control over her facial muscles, and her body was responding of its own accord.

  Narayan was struck mute, mesmerized by the contours of Kalyani’s perfect face, which at that moment was being licked enthusiastically by Kaalu.

  Kalyani, completely flustered, could neither speak nor remove her eyes from his. Then, pulling herself together with monumental effort, she said, “Come, Chuyia.” She held Kaalu close to her and began to walk away. Chuyia followed her, and Narayan, a few steps behind them, walked as if he knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help it.

  Awkwardly, haltingly, he addressed their receding backs, “Please . . . Where do you live?” At once aware of the impropriety of the question, he tried again. “I mean . . . I’m not asking where you live, but—asking if you’re lost. I could take you where you live . . .” he trailed off lamely, embarrassed by his own incoherence.

  Chuyia, bewildered by the hesitation in this speech and this uncertainty in the man who had been so assured, stared at him. Then she noticed the helpless way he was looking at Kalyani, and, noting Kalyani’s expression, which had by now softened in amusement, Chuyia took pity on him. “She lives in the House of Widows,” she said. “I’m just visiting her.”

  Kalyani, prohibited by tradition from addressing a stranger directly, spoke to Narayan through Chuyia.

  “Chuyia, tell him not to follow us. It’ll be a sin.”

  Obligingly, Chuyia turned to him and said, “Don’t follow us. It’ll be a sin.”

  Narayan, looking helpless and increasingly desperate, asked, “But where is the House of Widows? Can you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” Chuyia replied casually.

  With a gesture of his head to indicate Kalyani, Narayan said, “Ask her if she knows.”

  Chuyia obediently addressed Kalyani and repeated, “Ask her if she knows.”

  She was enjoying this.

  Kalyani smiled ever so slightly. Then, speaking in a barely audible voice, she said, “Dharma Ghat.”

  “Dharma Ghat,” Chuyia repeated.

  “Beside the river,” Kalyani added under her breath.

  “Beside the river,” Chuyia said to Narayan.

  As Chuyia and Kalyani continued to walk away from Narayan, he stood, powerless to stop them. In a daze, he traced his path back to the banyan with its golden spread of fallen leaves and, sitting on the stone bench beneath it, abandoned himself to the confusing and at the same time joyous onslaught of his feelings.

  NARAYAN BOUNDED UP THE STEPS and through the front door of the house into the main foyer. Juthika Roy’s sweet voice, singing a bhajan in praise of Lord Krishna, drifted down from above. It was his mother’s favourite record, and she never tired of playing it on their new wind-up gramophone, taking care to change the needle every time.

  “Ma!” he called.

  Bhagwati hastily set aside her stitching and all but ran through the polished marble hallway. Narayan watched her glide down the stairs, barely touching the mahogany balustrade, as she hurried down to greet him. Her hair was still dark, and she looked trim and pretty in a sari that reflected the blue sky outside the French windows.

  Bhagwati’s eyes shone, and her entire face had lit up. She reached out her hands, too choked up with emotion to say anything. Narayan put his valise down where he stood and, taking a few steps forward, bent to touch his mother’s feet. She blessed him and, as he straightened, she seized his arms. It always surprised her how tall he was. The muscles beneath his shirt felt pleasantly taut. “God bless you, my son. I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she said, when she could speak. “I thought you had changed your mind and wouldn’t show up at all.” Her voice still throbbed with the disappointment she had felt when he didn’t turn up at the time he was expected to. “What happened?! Was the train late?”

  “Yes,” Narayan said. Uneasy with the lie, he added, “I stopped in town to look for some books.”

  Narayan was in fact about to go into a bookshop when Kaalu had sniffed him out on the street, and Chuyia had appealed to him for help. He sent up silent thanks to a benign providence that had guided Kaalu to him. He had done this several times since he had seen the gorgeous widow.

  “Well, I’ve been waiting to hear all day. How did your exams go? Pass or fail?” his mother asked.

  Narayan shook his head sadly, with such a morose expression that she stepped back in alarm. “Double fail,” he said, before breaking into a smile.

  Bhagwati slapped him playfully on the cheek and hugged him once again. “Rascal! You’ll never change!” she said. “Live long! Be happy!”

  Narayan clasped her in a hug and lifted her off the floor. Up close there was grey in her hair.

  Narayan went to his room shortly afterward. He set his briefcase on the bed. It was a four-poster with a canopy on top to hold mosquito netting. The room was small with sparse, utilitarian furnishings, a departure from the elaborate furniture filling the rest of the house. Simple curtains hung at a narrow, floor-to-ceiling-length window. One wall was lined with shelves packed with books and a small fan to cool him during his studies. The wall above the shelves was covered with framed diplomas, attesting to his scholarship. As Narayan opened his briefcase, the family servant, Sadhuram, entered the room, carrying his suitcase and umbrella, which he set on the table.

  “Master, should I unpack for you?” he asked.

  “No need, I’ll take care of it,” Narayan replied.

  Sadhuram looked crestfallen. “As you wish, Chhotay Babu,” he said, going to the window to draw the curtains.

  As he turned to leave, Narayan stopped him. He rummaged through his pockets and dug out a coin. He gave it to Sadhuram, saying, “Don’t get drunk with this, Sadhuramji.”

  Sadhuram accepted the coin and then turned away, seeming indignant but smiling nonetheless. Narayan had always been kind to him. “My hands haven’t touched the bottle for years.”

  “Make sure your lips don’t, either,” Narayan said, his mouth twitching into a grin.

  Sadhuram left the room. Narayan opened his briefcase and carefully removed a framed picture. He held it gingerly, as though it were a relic. Inadvertently, he bowed his head as he wiped the glass with his shirt sleeve. He removed an old school portrait crowded with stiff replicas of his classmates from the wall and replaced it with the new picture. It was a photograph of a khaddar-clad Gandhi, leaning on his staff. Narayan stood in front of the newly hung photo, pleased with its effect in his spartan room.

  Chapter Seven

  The eunuch, Gulabi, did not walk; she sashayed. She lived in a colony of eunuchs on the outskirts of the city and, like most of th
em, served in various widows’ ashrams in some capacity or other.

  Hips swaying, arms moving sinuously as she progressed, Gulabi sang and hummed all the way along the dark alley. Despite her girth and musculature, Gulabi was surprisingly graceful. What she lacked in feminine beauty, she more than made up for in ornate dress. She wore a white blouse with shiny red trim, a jade-green sari, dangling earrings, a cuff bracelet and multiple ornaments in her black hair, which was oiled and pulled back from her hatchet-like face into a matronly bun. Just before reaching Madhumati’s window, she turned her head back over one shoulder and spat a red stream of betel juice without breaking stride.

  Madhumati, slack-faced and glum, propped up against the metal rungs of the headboard, sat sprawled on her bed. Her face glistened with sweat as she fanned herself with a brooding air of abstraction. Although the occasional breeze coming in through the window brought little relief from the heat, it blithely carried the buzz and hum of Gulabi’s tuneless ditties. Mitthu’s cage was covered with a dark cloth; the light from the lantern hanging over Madhumati’s bed got him squawking. The only other light came from a candle flickering on a shelf beside the bed.

  Gulabi arrived at Madhumati’s window humming, reached both hands through the bars and began to massage and scratch her greasy grey head in a manner reminiscent of the friendly grooming carried on by monkeys. After a while, Madhumati let out a protracted, appreciative sigh, and divested herself of the dark thoughts that had been occupying her mind. “It was the night of Maha Shivratri when I was born. In the morning, when my father was allowed to see me, it was love at first sight for Thakur Nirender Ray! He named me Madhumati: ‘golden-hued.’”

  “You were truly ‘golden-hued,’” agreed Gulabi. Madhumati cast her a baleful glance, and Gulabi good naturedly added, “You still are.”