Water: A Novel (Bapsi Sidwha) Page 8

  Chuyia studied the widows carefully, looking at each in turn. She was clearly puzzled about something. They were all women. Even the lantern-jawed, flat-chested ones whom she had thought were men. She had presumed that the white length of cloth they were wrapped in was a uniform worn by both men and women widows—only the women called them saris. She nudged Shakuntala and, in a voice that carried, innocently asked, “Didi, where is the house for the men widows?”

  There was a stunned silence. Then pandemonium broke out. A chorus of scolding erupted from the shocked widows: “Good God!” “What a horrible thing to say!” “God protect our men from such a fate!” “May your tongue burn!” “Pull out her tongue and throw it in the river.” “I’ll do it!” they shrieked like harpies.

  Shakuntala watched them in silence. She exchanged a troubled glance with Sadananda and, as Chuyia leaned into her for comfort and protection, Shakuntala’s stiff body became as yielding and soft as her mother’s.

  Sadananda raised his sonorous voice even more and continued reading out from the Ramayana.

  LATER IN THE MORNING, after they had returned from the sermon, Kunti sat on a low wooden seat, furtively stuffing her mouth with rice. She was eating from a thali laden with daal, rice and vegetables intended for Madhumati. Next to her, three discoloured iron pots cooked busily on a clay stove.

  “Where has that Kunti gone and died,” shouted Madhumati from her room, and then she bellowed, “Kunti, bring my food!”

  Mouth still full, Kunti called back, “Coming, didi,” and hurried off to deliver Madhumati’s meal. She returned quickly and took her plate of food to the verandah. The other widows were already sitting cross-legged, silently eating their simple meals. She swept a snotty glance past Chuyia and pointedly sat down with her back to her.

  Chuyia was shovelling food into her mouth without pausing to take a breath. She realized that Kalyani had not yet joined them. “Didi, where is Kalyani?” she asked Shakuntala.

  “You and your questions,” Kunti muttered. “She eats up our heads!” she complained to the widows at large.

  “Witch!” Chuyia mumbled, loud enough so Kunti could hear.

  Kunti turned round and slapped Chuyia. “Shut up! Black-tongue.”

  None of the women protested. An impertinent child had to be punished, and it was high time this child was slapped.

  Chuyia accepted the slap in the spirit in which it was administered and continued to eat.

  Old Bua cautioned, “Eat slowly, child. Chew each grain carefully. Your next meal is tomorrow.”

  Ignoring her advice, Chuyia continued to wolf down her food. Shakuntala rose and went to the well to wash her thali.

  Now that the punishment had been administered, Kunti decided to address Chuyia’s query. “Eating with Kalyani would pollute our food,” she said with a snooty edge of malice in her voice.

  Snehlata explained, “Her head’s not shaven, you see.”

  While the others continued gossiping, Chuyia carefully folded her banana leaf over the uneaten half of her meal to make a small, neat parcel. She tucked it into her sari, and crossed the courtyard casually toward Kalyani’s stairs. Once there, she bounded up to the terrace.

  Kalyani was on the terrace doing her washing, absently registering snatches of the widows’ conversation that drifted up from below. She smiled as Chuyia appeared at the top of the stairs to deliver the rest of her meal to Kaalu. The puppy bounded up to greet her and licked the banana leaf clean.

  They heard Kunti say, “I don’t even remember being seven.”

  Old Bua piped up, “What did she say?”

  Snehlata told her wistfully, “She says she doesn’t remember being seven.”

  Bua giggled with delight. “Ask me, I do!” she crowed triumphantly. “I remember! I got married when I was seven.”

  The other widows remained silent as Bua launched into her favourite story, the detailed description of all the glorious sweets served at her wedding: “I had never seen a display like that before. I didn’t even pay attention to my husband, I was so fascinated . . . plump, juicy rasgullas, piping hot gulab jamuns, cashew-nut sweets covered with gold leaf, yellow laddoos dripping in butter. I ate them all when I was seven. . . .”

  NARAYAN GAZED ABSENTLY at the traffic of horse-drawn carriages, bullock-carts and pedestrians on the street outside the tea-stall window. He was at a tea stall near the ashram, and this was the third glass of tea he was desultorily stirring. He seemed to arrive at a decision; the proprietor looked at him hopefully. “More tea, sir?”

  “No,” Narayan shook his head resolutely and, after paying the proprietor at the counter, took off in the direction of Madhumati’s ashram. He had dressed with care, and he knew he looked well in a starched white dhoti with a black suit jacket over his kurta, a jaunty orange scarf laid out neatly over one shoulder. When he arrived at the large, forbidding door, his resolve weakened and he hesitated outside the slightly warped panels. He squared his shoulders and knocked politely once. No one answered the door. He tried again, knocking twice and with more firmness.

  Shakuntala slid open the small window in the door and peered out. Her eyes widened at the sight of the well-dressed stranger, who stood looking at her nervously.

  “What do you want?” she asked brusquely. Handsome young men who turned up at the ashram were treated with suspicion.

  “Uh . . . Is Chuyia here?” Narayan said, thinking on his feet, glad he’d had the presence of mind not to ask for Kalyani.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “A friend,” Narayan said.

  “Men are not allowed here.” Shakuntala shut the door firmly in Narayan’s face.

  Crestfallen, Narayan trudged off down the alley. Just as he turned a corner, he was startled by a shower of cold water that fell directly onto his head from above. He looked up angrily for the source of this insult, shouting, “Can’t you watch what you’re doing?”

  Kalyani and Chuyia, who together had been wringing out Kalyani’s freshly washed sari, peeked over the roof in alarm. Kalyani, recognizing Narayan, was remorseful and at the same time electrified by his presence. Hair plastered to his face, his fine clothes dripping, Narayan stood there like a drowned god.

  Narayan stared, transfixed by her beauty, mortified that he had shouted so boorishly.

  “Please forgive us,” Kalyani apologized demurely.

  “No—it’s all right,” Narayan said, stammering and grinning, almost falling over his two soggy left feet. “You can do it again if you want,” he added gallantly.

  Narayan, feeling he was making a fool of himself, quit talking and stared up at Kalyani. She gave him a fleeting, shy smile and, sinking behind the roof wall, disappeared from view.

  “Where is she?” Narayan asked Chuyia, speaking in a courtly manner.

  “She’s hiding,” answered Chuyia matter-of-factly. The turn of events delighted her.

  “Will she come out?”

  Chuyia turned for a moment and then pronounced, “No.”

  Narayan remained standing awkwardly on the street, still hoping Kalyani would materialize above the parapet. After a few minutes, he nodded and started to walk away, but he had taken barely five steps when he turned and called, “Please give her a message for me. Tell her I liked it when she spilled the water on me!”

  “Did you hear that?” Chuyia asked.

  Kalyani’s radiant eyes and smiling face answered for her.

  “He’s gone!” Chuyia reported.

  Kalyani rose to her knees to peer over the parapet, and her eyes clung to Narayan’s broad, retreating back. They both craned their necks, hoping he would turn to look at them, but Narayan had willed himself not to do so.

  Chapter Nine

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning zigzagged through the sooty bank of clouds approaching from the horizon, and, preceded by the fecund scent of water on parched earth, the monsoon season stormed into Rawalpur. The dark skies unleashed a torrent of rain, and one by one the widows emerged fro
m various recesses of the ashram and turned their ravaged faces to the rain. Chuyia raced up the stairs to Kalyani and excitedly pulled her to the terrace, but Kalyani retreated to the shelter of the doorway and stood there, shivering. Chuyia splashed beneath the streams of water cascading off the roof and, Kaalu, who had been cowering under Kalyani’s cot, cautiously came out and stood besides his mistress. He sniffed and gingerly stepped onto the wet and, with a cowardly yelp, shied back when the enormous drops of rain pelted him. Laughing at him, Kalyani stepped out into the rain and, spreading her arms, rotated slowly. She reached her hands out to Chuyia and, clasping each other’s crossed hands, faces uplifted to the onslaught of water and wind, they whirled faster and faster as Kaalu ran around them barking excitedly. Nearly losing their balance with giddiness, they fell, laughing against each other, and held on fast as the terrace undulated in a crazy dance beneath their feet.

  All afternoon the widows celebrated the arrival of the rainy season, clapping hands and singing songs remembered from childhood to welcome rain, and on the terrace Kalyani’s new love burgeoned within her with giddy abandon.

  The rain caught Narayan on his way to the bookstore, and the heavy monsoon downpour soaked him through to his skin. He recalled at once the other time he’d been rained upon, and Kalyani’s apologetic face as it peeped over the roof to say, “Please forgive us.” He extended his arms reverently to the rain and joyously shouted at the sky, “It’s all right! You can do it again if you want!” The wind tore his umbrella from his grasp and sent it floating and rolling down the street ahead of him and, laughing, he ran after it. The lashing monsoon storm harmonized with the tumultuous passions spinning within him, and graced him with an exhilarating sense of invincibility. His joy quickened his stride, broadened his smile, and he burst into his home soaking wet, smiling stupidly. He was smitten—in love with Kalyani! He wanted to shout it to the world.

  THE ONSET OF THE MONSOON changed the rhythm of Chuyia’s life. Cooped up in the ashram, time hung heavy on her hands and she sought friends among the widows. She pestered Kunti to play hopscotch with her Kunti brushed her away, scolding, “Have I nothing better to do than play with spoiled brats?” But Kunti, young enough to recall the wonderful games she had played with her friends in their tribal village, relented. They drew squares on the verandah and, throwing broken tiles into the squares, they played ganga-jamuna, leaping from square to square, while the rain pelted the courtyard and the widows, for want of anything to do, sat on their haunches against the walls and watched. Chuyia persuaded Kalyani to come downstairs, and Kunti joined them in a game of hide-and-seek. They crouched in corners while the widows pretended not to see them, and the young women yelped in delight when they found each other.

  Chuyia spent the mornings playing with Kaalu. Everyone knew about Kaalu’s secret existence—how could they not—but pretended not to. With the run of the terrace and the privacy she enjoyed, her uncut hair and Kaalu, Kalyani had a privileged position. Chuyia accepted this, as she accepted Shakuntala’s independent authority, and if she sometimes wondered about it, she never dwelt on it. Some of the widows, like Kunti, resented Kalyani, but Madhumati was considerate of her welfare. Kalyani avoided Madhumati, Chuyia suspected, but on the few occasions she had seen them together Madhumati talked to her with a special sweetness.

  One afternoon, a week into the monsoon, when the rain had turned the courtyard into a shallow lake and the overflow flooded parts of the surrounding verandah, Chuyia wandered listlessly into Shakuntala’s room. Shakuntala was reading. Chuyia leaned against the wall and, restlessly kicking it with her heel, complained, “It will never stop raining.”

  Shakuntala turned around and looked at Chuyia in her thoughtful way. “Well, maybe you can take this time to learn something for once. Come—I’ll read to you.”

  Chuyia plunked down on the floor next to her. She glanced at the cover of the book. “The Mahabharata!” she exclaimed. “My ma told me stories from that book.”

  “You can read?” Shakuntala asked, surprised.

  “Amma taught me some words,” she said proudly. “I know that word. My brothers taught me the alphabet.”

  Shakuntala understood what she meant: she could recognize a few whole words by the shapes they made.

  “Would you like to learn more words? I can teach you,” she said.

  Chuyia sidled up to her and nodded shyly. “What will you read to me?”

  “Did your mother tell you the story of Shakuntala?”

  “No,” Chuyia said. She paused. “Is the story in the Mahabharata?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Chuyia twisted her neck to look directly at her. “Are you named after the Shakuntala in the book?”

  “No,” Shakuntala responded gravely. “She’s named after me.”

  “Oh!” Chuyia’s eyes and mouth grew round, and she very nearly believed her, until she glimpsed a twitch in the corner of Shakuntala’s mouth. “That’s not true!” she cried, rolling away from her, embarrassed at being fooled and at the same time delighted by the teasing. It was the kind of joke her brothers played on her. She looked at Shakuntala with renewed interest, surprised by this unexpected facet of her nature.

  “Come,” Shakuntala said, smiling as she extended a hand. “I’ll tell you the story.”

  Chuyia sat attentively, as Shakuntala read the title of the story, “‘Dushyanta and Shakuntala.’” As she read the story, her voice acquired the spellbinding rhythm and lilt Chuyia’s mother’s voice had acquired when she read from the religious texts.

  “Shakuntala was given by her father to the sage Kanva, head of a forest ashram. The sage loved her like a daughter, and Shakuntala grew up to become a most beautiful and modest woman. Her voice was sweet, and her manners sober and gracious.”

  “Why did her father give her away to the sage?” Chuyia asked, not happy with this bit of news.

  “Sometimes fathers have to give their daughters away,” Shakuntala said gently.

  “They shouldn’t!” Chuyia said, looking at the floor to hide the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Shakuntala asked, pretending she hadn’t noticed Chuyia’s distress.

  Chuyia nodded and mumbled, “Yes.”

  Shakuntala continued.

  “One day, the great King Dushyanta happened to come near the ashram while he was out hunting. He caught sight of Shakuntala, and lost his heart to her beauty and grace. The king proposed to Shakuntala, and they were married secretly. Dushyanta stayed overnight, but he had to leave for his kingdom; he promised Shakuntala that he would send for her. The king gave her his most precious ring, and told Shakuntala that she must never lose it.

  “As fate would have it, King Dushyanta became so occupied with ruling his kingdom that he forgot all about Shakuntala.”

  “Like you,” Chuyia said, getting her own back. “Everyone has forgotten you!”

  Shakuntala was so taken aback, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked quietly.

  “Isn’t it true?” Chuyia said.

  There was a pause during which Shakuntala shut her eyes. “What you say is true,” she said at last, her voice so meek and resigned that it shamed Chuyia.

  Chuyia edged up to her, rubbing her cheek on Shakuntala’s arm and raised her eyes to her face. “You are my Durga,” she said by way of apology. After a moment of silence, she said, “Then what happened?”

  “Then what,” Shakuntala said. “You’ll interrupt again.”

  Chuyia looked contrite enough to appease Shakuntala, so she began to read again.

  “Shakuntala became very worried when her husband did not send for her. The worry turned into panic when she discovered she was pregnant. Sage Kanva decided to send her to her husband’s kingdom, where she would be accepted as his queen.

  “Shakuntala was dressed in beautiful silken clothes, and she left for Dushyanta’s kingdom by ferry. The balmy sea breeze soon lulled he
r, and she fell sleep. The royal ring slipped from her finger into the ocean and was swallowed by a fish. Shakuntala did not even realize she had lost the ring.

  “Shakuntala reached the court of Dushyanta, and a message was sent to the king of the arrival of ‘a woman who claimed to be his wife.’ But Dushyanta had lost his memory of Shakuntala and of their marriage. He refused to accept Shakuntala as his wife. When Shakuntala tried to show him the ring on her finger, she discovered that it was no longer there and she was forced to return home.”

  Shakuntala placed a silk bookmark at the page. “That’s enough for today,” she said and closed the book. The expression on Chuyia’s face remained rapt.

  “Did the king ever remember Shakuntala?” she asked.

  “You can find out the next time I read.”

  “Will you read later?” Chuyia asked.

  “Come at about the same time tomorrow afternoon,” Shakuntala said. “If it’s raining, I will read the rest.”

  After the initial storming and lashing onslaught that preceded it like a cosmic circus, the monsoon had settled down to a steady downpour with no other purpose than to drain the burden of the clouds piled on top.

  It rained all night. It let up for a couple of hours in the morning, and then it poured.

  Chuyia presented herself at the appointed time. Shakuntala looked at her steadily, pleased to see her. “Ready?” she asked, and Chuyia scuttled down to the floor and sat down beside her.

  Shakuntala opened the book and picked up the story where she had left off.

  “Dejected and disappointed, Shakuntala told Sage Kanva she had decided to go to the forest. Sage Kanva gave her his blessings, and Shakuntala went to live in the forest all alone. In due course, she gave birth to a most beautiful and healthy son. She named him Bharata. Bharata grew up in the jungle without any human companions other than his mother. So he spent a great deal of time in the forest, and he became fascinated with the plants, trees and wild animals he found in the jungle. He gradually made friends with all the wild animals, and even the lions and tigers became his friends. They let him ride on their backs like we ride horses.”