Amina looked at her father with her mouth open, but nothing came out.
‘Just make sure she doesn’t do it again,’ Dr Boyle said gruffly. ‘The child could die, just like that.’
‘I’m a jeweller, you know. I will pay you well. Also, I will make a gold chain too for you. A heavy one. And a bera for your wife. An Indian bracelet.’
The lines on Dr Boyle’s face began disappearing and his skin was turning pink and dry again. ‘I have a daughter too,’ he said.
‘Well then, I’ll make two beras, and the chain.’
‘Another thing,’ the doctor said. ‘You must get your son away from here. I told you before, he is also at risk from this typhoid.’
‘Yes, doctor.’ Sankar threw a glance at Devinia as she returned. ‘I told you to send the boy away! And if I catch you giving her food again, I will . . . !’ Devinia looked at him pointedly and he stopped short.
Amina’s eyes opened wide and she looked at her father and Dr Boyle. With all her strength she whispered in a hoarse voice. ‘It was my fault. It was me who begged Ma for food. And it was me who ate it. Don’t blame Ma. And you’re beating no one, Pa. I have things to tell you. I swam up there with the stars. A million of them. And I got to see heaven.’
The air in the house the following week was heavy. Those two days took their toll on Amina. Her parents did everything they could, but it didn’t seem enough. Amina overheard some of their conversations even though her eyes were closed.
‘We sent Etwar to your sister,’ her father told her mother. ‘Now we have to do something for the girl. I don’t know what yet, but I have realised that the answer is not in just giving her jewels. That was too easy for me, although not cheap. We have done something wrong. This must be karma. I am sure of it. Our daughter is looking like a dried-up fig tree.’
‘I want to clean her up,’ Devinia said tiredly. ‘We need more water from the standpipe. Please will you fetch some.’
When he left, Devinia brought up a bowl of warm water and washed her beloved child, who lay coma-like and barely alive. Taking a deep breath to hold back the tears, Devinia washed the girl and massaged her limbs with coconut oil. Amina flinched a few times and groaned as her mother dressed her and sang Indian songs. When she told her a story from the Ramayana, her eyes flickered and then closed.
‘Don’t be sad, Ma,’ Amina breathed. ‘I’m tired, but I’m not going anywhere.’ Devinia sat up and listened to the girl speak. Amina opened her eyes again. ‘Did you hear me?’ she said. ‘I’m going nowhere.’
‘You are like a ruby, set amongst a thousand sparkling jewels,’ Devinia said. ‘Who else would swim among the stars and come back down here?’ She looked into the girl’s pale face, wondering if it was at all possible for her daughter to survive this terrible disease. ‘But I think there’s something up there. There’s a reason you came back to us. I don’t know what it is, but I just know, beti. Hush now. Sleep and get strong again.’
THREE
One afternoon, a few weeks later, Sumati called by when Devinia was in the kitchen outside.
‘You know you are not allowed to see Amina yet,’ Devinia reminded her. ‘She’s still too weak for visitors.’
‘I know. I just have something for her. Will you give it to her?’
Devinia took the folded piece of paper. ‘I’ll see she gets it when she wakes up.’
When Sumati left, Devinia opened the missive and wished it was written in Sanskrit so she could understand it. If Sankar saw it, he would think there was something secretive going on. Devinia folded the piece of paper and put it in her pocket.
When she took it to Amina, she asked her daughter to read the contents out loud.
Amina did. ‘You see, Ma? No need to be suspicious. Sumati wrote it because she knew you wouldn’t let her come up and talk to me.’
‘So that is all she said – that Moonia is getting married? I knew that already. The boy is from Couva.’
‘Well, I didn’t know that,’ Amina said. ‘Why didn’t Moonia tell me herself? Maybe she just found out.’ When her mother left, Amina read the letter properly.
My dear best friend, Amina,
How are you doing? They wouldn’t let me see you, and I know why. It is for my own good, but not yours. So I thought you should know that our friend Moonia, who said she wanted to stay on at school forever, is getting married on Sunday. Poor Moonia. She is always crying when I see her and they have taken her out of school now. Like you, she wanted to do what Mr Clifford said and try to be a teacher. But as you know, none of our parents believe that it can ever happen. They think it is a BIG LIE that we Indian girls could ever become teachers. And they think it is a trick so Mr Clifford can have a big Standard 5 class and he can give evening lessons to pass his lonely time. If we all got married, he would have empty desks in Standard 5 and 6. I hope you will be well enough to come to the wedding. Tell me you will come. I will miss you if you are not there.
Yours truly
Sumati Balgobin
Amina sighed loudly. She put the letter under her pillow, closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep. A few hours later, she took a page out of her exercise book and started to write a reply.
Dear Sumati,
When did Moonia know about this marriage? She never told me they found her a match. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me. She and I were best friends before you and me. Do you think she is annoyed at me? Or maybe she knew I would have tried to talk her out of it. She’s not like me, or you. She doesn’t say what she thinks. She should talk honestly to her parents about it. Some parents are starting to understand why we don’t want all the old Indian traditions. They hold us back. I’m so annoyed, I can’t tell you how much.
When I come back to school, I won’t have a friend at the evening class at all now. I am hoping you will change your mind so we can do the Pupil Teacher course together. It will be so much fun. You will enjoy it. Why would you want to go and work in the cane field in the hot sun, and get bitten by ants and scorpions, when you can just sit in class in the cool, and read and write, and talk about Wordsworth and Emily Brontë? Why would you choose to get burnt like coals in the hot sun? How will that make you happy? Education is so important. Look at Mr Clifford. He is so clever only because he did his education. Don’t forget where he came from.
Girl, I miss school but I am so tired all the time. They think I might die. I am going to fight it though. I miss you, and I wish I could see you. I would not be allowed to go to Moonia’s wedding even if I was able to walk that far. I can’t even walk down the steps. She has to beg her parents to stop this wedding. Ask Mr Clifford if he would go to her house and talk to them. Seriously. It worked for me. Do something. Keep trying.
Your best friend,
Amina
Amina asked her mother to give Sumati the letter at the standpipe.
‘As soon as Doctor says, Sumati will come and see you herself,’ Devinia said.
‘We can ask him when he comes next time, Ma. Can’t we?’
‘You can ask him,’ Devinia said, quivering a little.
‘I will,’ Amina replied boldly. ‘I’m not scared of him, even though he’s white. You shouldn’t be either. He’s just human like us.’
Devinia looked at her daughter in admiration and awe at her brave words.
When Sunday came, wedding drums pounded through the early morning air. The gravel road clicked and clacked with foot traffic, the rumble of donkey carts and pony traps. Amina’s window was open, and her heart was heavy for Moonia, knowing that Sumati must have been unsuccessful. She wondered if Mr Clifford had tried to talk to Moonia’s parents after learning that one of his best pupils had left school.
‘Ma, aren’t you leaving it late to get ready for the wedding?’
Devinia shrugged. ‘It’s like any other wedding. I’m not leaving you.’
‘I want to know what the bridegroom looks like.’
‘Sounds like you’re getting better,’ Devinia said fondly. ‘Suma
ti will tell you. In a letter maybe.’
‘But I can’t wait! I want you to go.’
‘Why? The girl is marrying a man. And a man is a man.’
Amina was speechless. If a man was a man, why bother with them at all? If they were all the same, why did women in books fall in love with one man and not the other? Did anyone in the village know what love was? Or falling in love? They were children when they married. Her mother was five when it happened to her. She couldn’t know – not first-hand. Or was ‘love’ something created by writers to entice readers? Her mother might be right. She said falling in love made people lose their mind and do stupid things. However, it would help to know that Moonia’s bridegroom was at least kind-looking, young-looking, strong-looking and good-looking.
Then she spoke aloud. ‘That’s why I’m never getting married.’
She propped herself up on her pillows and opened her book. George Eliot again. Silas Marner again, the only book in the house that was written in English. Silas Marner was a man who didn’t seem to have found a woman to marry, so instead he cared for a strange child called Ellie. If Ellie was to choose to marry, it would be to someone like Silas Marner. Someone with a heart as kind as he had. Much like the way Amina felt deep down about her own father. Sankar had agreed to her wish to stay on at school to become a teacher, even though he didn’t think it would work out. The many pieces of jewellery he made for her, made her the envy of the village. But she realised that jewels did not make her who she was. Mr Clifford, the headmaster, had taught her that genuine sparkle came from inside, like a lighthouse from the heart.
FOUR
On his way to fetch drinking water from the standpipe, Sankar Banderjee spotted Pundit Lall walking up the gravel road, and felt uncomfortable. Fetching water was not a grown man’s chore, but his son, Etwar, was not around to do it. And Pundit Lall was not his favourite person, due to the number of pujas Devinia had asked him to do at their home since Amina’s illness. Each one cost money but Devinia felt they were worth it, even though Sankar didn’t feel that any god could help his daughter recover. If that made him an unbeliever, he was not willing to argue about it, so he turned back.
Unfortunately for Sankar, Lall had already spotted him and was hurrying up the hill straight towards him. Sankar began to think of questions to ask him if he mentioned doing another puja. How could Hanuman, Shiva, or Lakshmi be so powerful if they were made of stone? And if they saved his daughter, why didn’t they save the other three children who died from typhoid? Or the baby who got caught under the wheels of a pony trap a few weeks ago?
‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you,’ Pundit Lall said breathlessly.
‘Me?’ Sankar asked.
‘Yes. How is your daughter? I was there when she almost died.’
‘Yes, yes. I heard. I owe you.’
‘Nah!’ Pundit Lall said. ‘I might have saved her life, but you owe me nothing. I was probably meant to be there right at that time. It was fate.’
‘I’ve been wondering if the lovely goddess Lakshmi ever gives massages with those four pretty hands of hers,’ Sankar said out of the blue.
‘What are you asking, man?’ Lall said. ‘Disgraceful. Are you out of your mind?’
‘No, no. Just wondering, thinking why she seems to be so well endowed with hands. Unless she is making rotis up in heaven twice as fast.’
‘Listen, you are not thinking straight, but that is not surprising since you recently nearly lost your child. You will have to achieve Nirvana yourself to find out what the good goddess does with her four hands. But you can do me a favour for what I have done for you. If you come across a heavy gold ring. . .’
‘And if I don’t come across one,’ Sankar said resignedly. ‘I will make one for you.’
‘Oh, all right then. So let me do you yet another favour, seeing as you are so much a busy and important businessman. And it is good karma.’ Sankar listened, his chest swelling. Pundit Lall’s eyes gleamed as he jabbered in Hindi. ‘Might I tell you first, that you are doing a grand service for we Indians in your gold jewellery business. Goldliness is next to godliness. So me and you is alike. But might I be brutishly honest with you?’
‘Please – don’t spare me,’ Sankar said, humbly. ‘I deserve it!’
‘Well, it’s like this. Could it be that it was you yourself who brought this bad luck upon your family?’
Sankar looked shocked. His eyes opened so wide, three concentric circles stared. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You may look surprised if you like, but I know full well you have plenty of money to throw at a white-man doctor’s fees while you give me just a few cents for pujas. It’s about karma, you see. Because you haven’t done what you should have done, you are being paid back for your stinginess. Also, trying to be westernised will be your downfall. Mark me. It will bring down all our people. Take my advice and find a match for your daughter. It is a parent’s first responsibility to the world, as you know. True, she is sickly and thin. She may get better, or she mightn’t. So many have already died. . . But people don’t listen! Ask yourself this: what can one white doctor do more than an army of Indian gods and goddesses? You see? It’s in the numbers. You cannot put your trust in these white men. Because what do they know about us? We have survived thousands of years without them. And they have disrupted us with this Empire of theirs.’
Sankar scratched his head. ‘That is all good, Baba, but I have things to do.’
The pundit grabbed him by the arm. ‘Yes, but listen. Take the tea plantations back in India. Did we get rich? No. Yet we let them trick us to come thousands of miles over the kala pani – to sift sugar! And believing this trickery, we spent three, four months struggling over the black waters to get here. This place is not our world,’ he snorted. ‘Our people are strong – we survived – some of us. But we are not as strong as the black workers who toiled like slaves.’
‘They were slaves from what I hear. They received no pay at all. At least our people get a pittance. You call me stingy?’ Sankar gave the pundit a hard stare. ‘But do you do pujas for free?’
‘I am saying that we are weak in comparison. As black as some of us Indians are, our people cannot cope with that strenuous work. And what about those still living in slave barracks? When will they get out? They are trampling barefoot through each other’s excrement to get to the latrines, catching hookworm, and cholera. There’s not enough food to even half-fill their bellies to keep them going the whole day in the hot sun, cutting cane or chopping copra. It is killing our people. We will not survive.’
‘I know this.’
‘But you – you are sitting in the shade, high and dry all day in your business, making prrity-prrity-shining-gold-jewels, then coming home to your nice-big-board-house you build there – elaborate carvings of trelliswork all round. Mind you, I have seen bigger and better in Port of Spain. But you understand my meaning? In my line of work, I see all kinds of people. But mostly they are outside the whole day in the hot sun scratching a living. You understand me? Listen, Banderjee, think about dharma and do the right thing. We each have to do our own part to keep what we value, otherwise we all suffer. So, you must do your duty before your daughter gets worse. Then she will do hers. That is how dharma works. She is a jewel of a girl too. Very pretty face. Yes, I remember when she was not so thin and bony. Always drawing in the sand in the yard, or else had her head in some book.’
‘But what can I do?’ Sankar shrugged. ‘I’m helpless. The child’s mother wants her to stay in school and do that English-kind of education.’
‘And you? What do you want?’
‘The child has taken after the mother,’ Sankar said, moodily. ‘Sometimes when the mother looks at me, I quake. She has fire in her eyes. But my daughter was desperate for school every day – rain or shine. Sadly, no more.’
‘Listen to yourself! You are frightened of a woman? You are the man of the house! So show them you are the boss – or your daughter will never learn
to obey a man when she is married. Besides, marry her while she can still sit on your lap at the wedding, and you will have your reward in heaven.’
Sankar opened his eyes wide. He began nodding, caressing his chest with both arms. ‘You are now making sense.’
‘Good! Let me do you a favour and find a match for the girl. Leave it to me. It will cost you only. . . next to nothing.’
Sankar forgot his suspicions about Pundit Lall, and the two men walked back to the house together, talking and laughing. They sat under the coconut tree about twenty feet from the kitchen, drinking coconut water and jabbering away in Hindi. Pundit Lall told Sankar everything he needed to know about the boy he had in mind, and promised to arrange a meeting – without Devinia.
Sankar suddenly realised what was missing from his life: reaching heaven after death was an otherwise unachievable goal. He had no desire to return to earth after he died as some stray dog or starving rat – and who knew where it would end? He had to act fast if he was to skip the stages of reincarnation. And then there was the goddess Lakshmi with her four hands. . . It had to be done before Amina reached puberty.
‘Do it,’ he decided, staring at Pundit Lall. ‘Make the arrangement. Fast.’
‘It won’t take long. The boy’s father is a businessman like you, even richer. The girl will do well. So it will cost you.’
Sankar hesitated. Alarm bells began to ring in his head, but he couldn’t retract. ‘Yes, yes, yes! Do it quick. It will be worth it for a place in heaven.’
It wasn’t long before Devinia got another letter for her daughter. She took it up to Amina. ‘From Sumati again,’ she said. When her mother left the girl opened it.
My dear friend, Amina,
I am sorry to say that the good news I have has been taken over by bad news.
You might have heard that Moonia went ahead and married the boy last Sunday. She ignored everything I said to her. But the boy looked nice, as far as we could see all dressed up in a nice bridegroom costume and everything. The wedding went well, and she was crying like all brides do about leaving home. We didn’t think anything of it. But this morning her father came to my house and gave us the most distressing news.
The Wedding Drums Page 2