I don’t know how else to tell you this, but Moonia is dead.
Our poor friend drank poison and yesterday her brother-in-law found her in their shed. She smelt bad, they said. They think Moonia drank weed-killer. Her father is going up to their house today in Couva. Her aunt is remaining here with her mother. As you can imagine, she is very distraught, and Moonia’s father is worried about her.
I feel I should have done something more, but I don’t know what. She was not too good before the wedding, always crying, and hardly speaking. Still, I don’t understand why she took her life. I wonder if her husband did something to her? Or her in-laws? You know how some mothers-in-law can be wicked. Maybe they overworked her or lashed her with leather belts and sticks. Or the dreaded rolling pin. Or even threw hot iron pots at her.
I have to go now. But I wanted you to know. Longing to see you, my friend. I miss you so much. This has made me think. We must stick together, you and I. We cannot let this happen to all us girls. We need a plan. You are good at planning, what do you think? I am depending on you, Amina. You are the one with the brains. We might all have the same fate, but your brains can change that, I am sure. The trouble is with our religion. Some of it. They want to marry us off before we even pass our blood and are still a child. I escaped that with my trickery, remember? I crossed my eyes the whole time and put that suitor right off me. I think you might be close to your bloods, if it wasn’t for the typhoid.
My mother says these things are not as bad as they used to be. She married when she was 9 years old. I told Ma, I will not marry a boy who I do not know. She will not speak to my father about it though. Maybe what happened to Moonia will make them reconsider. Do you think her husband raped her? Nobody talks about these things. Not mothers, not anyone. But I am sure he must have forced her to do it, and that is why she drank poison.
You are the luckiest of us. Your parents seem to be the best. They promised they will let you do what you want. Why can’t all parents be like yours?
So long, my friend.
Yours truly,
Sumati Balgobin
When Devinia went up to Amina later, she was sitting upright, as pale as the letter lying on the bed, staring at the open window as if some wild animal was coming to get her.
‘Look how my skin is wrinkled,’ the girl said. ‘I’m disappearing from inside.’
‘Drink this,’ Devinia said, touching her daughter’s forehead. ‘You’re cold.’ She looked at the letter on the bed. Another one she couldn’t read. She pulled Amina and hugged her tight, hoping to squeeze away any evil spirit from taking hold of her child.
‘A sandstorm is blowing,’ Amina began murmuring, making no sense. ‘Sand’s pitching high in the air – in my eyes. I can’t see.’ She pulled away from her mother and curled up on the bed like a new-born, rubbing her eyes. ‘The breeze is cool. Feathers floating down.’
‘What did the letter say?’ Devinia asked, when Amina stirred.
‘Up there.’ Amina pointed to the ceiling, her eyes flickering. ‘Those people. Falling down. Struggling to stand up. The ship – it’s rolling around. The water is deep and black. The people – their faces are sore and red. Pink pus is pouring, all over their bodies. The children are alone, crying, coughing. Their bowls are empty. A man – on the side of the ship! No! I think. . . He’s going to jump. He’s fallen in the water! The boat is going – leaving him behind.’ Amina’s breathing grew fast and distressed.
Devinia held her tight, crying, ‘It’s not real, just in your imagination. How do you know all this? My mother used to say these things about their journey from India.’
Devinia began to dread the worst. She had never witnessed a reincarnation before and hoped it wasn’t that. Where would it end? Which was better – to be damaged by the fever, or to undergo reincarnation? She pressed Amina’s forehead until the girl cried out in pain.
‘Maybe the doctor will give you something,’ Devinia said. ‘If only my mother was alive, she might know what to do. I hope it is just her spirit that is watching over you.’
But Amina had fallen into a deep sleep and didn’t wake till the next morning.
‘Ma, I want to go back to school,’ Amina announced. ‘I keep thinking of Mr Clifford in front of the school doors after lunchtime, perspiration running down his face. I want to go today.’
‘You are not well enough.’ Devinia held Amina’s hand. ‘You talk as if you are seeing him.’
The girl stared at her mother’s face intently. ‘I do see him. I pray school prayers to Mr Clifford’s God. And I think He is hearing me and will make me well. Headmaster says his God hears everything if you have faith. I think I am finding out what is faith.’
‘All of us have a fate.’
‘Not that kind of fate. Mr Clifford has fai-th in a different God – like a great spirit. Not hundreds of small gods. And his life got a whole lot better than his father’s and grandfather’s. Do you know they were born slaves? His grandmother was made pregnant in Jamaica by the plantation master. Then he sold her. Mr Clifford says he doesn’t look like his mother or his brothers and sisters. He says he’s more like coffee mix-up with plenty of condensed milk, that’s why he’s not so black.’
‘What matters more is that your headmaster is a good man. He cares about the children in school, no matter what colour he is.’
‘That’s true, Ma. A lot of really bad things happened when they were slaves. They were raped, Ma.’
‘What do you know about rape, child?’
‘I want to talk about it. You see, I think Moonia was raped.’
‘Moonia? Who by?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Is that why they got her married?’
‘Ma, Moonia is dead because she didn’t want to get married. Did you hear she committed suicide? She was raped by her husband. Why don’t you want to say the word? Rape, rape, rape!’
‘Hush! You don’t know what you’re saying. I heard the girl died, but how could her husband do that? It’s her husband. It’s not possible.’ But by the time the words left her lips, Devinia was already thinking again. ‘I know what you’re saying,’ she told her daughter, ‘but you mustn’t talk like that. No one will believe you.’
‘Then they are liars. They must know this is happening, and yet they still send their children to be raped by a strange man they call a husband?’
‘Is it Mr Clifford who put this in your head?’
‘I can think for myself. Mr Clifford said I could do anything if I put my mind to it, but not in a world where children are being married and sent away. He’s not married. And he’s a really good teacher and headmaster. I want to be like him.’ She gritted her teeth hard. ‘I’m never getting married. Because it’ll stop me doing what is really important to me.’ Amina looked at her mother questioningly and said, ‘He says he told you I could be a doctor if I wanted. That Pa must have enough money to send me to England to study. Is that true?’
Devinia frowned. ‘England is too far. But yes, Mr Clifford did come to the house and say that.’ She remembered well when the headmaster told her and Sankar, The girl is a star pupil, if only both of you could realise it. Tears welled up in her eyes and Amina guessed why.
‘Don’t worry, Ma. I will survive and I will have a future. But you and Pa have to let me follow it.’
Devinia’s green eyes lit up like jewels, just hearing her daughter speak of her future, whatever it was. Hope filled her until teardrops glistened her cheeks.
‘Oh, Ma, I can see it.’ Amina held her mother’s arm and stared skywards in a trance. ‘Look at all those books! How many they are! And all colours of people, reading and singing and praying. And wheels turning round and round, taking me. And, Ma, my hair is flying in the wind. I’m on a big new ship – we’re sailing into the sky. . .’
‘Where are you seeing this, child?’ Devinia held her tight again, worried about her crossing over to the other side.
‘It’s a new world! I have to go back to school
and learn how to teach. It’s the only way to make things better. Too many of our people are poor. You can see that, can’t you? It was the same for Mr Clifford’s people. His family worked as slaves in the same cane fields where Indians work now. Did you know that, Ma? It changed for them, and he got a chance. He went to Port of Spain and studied a lot of books for a lot of years. If Indians at least knew how to read and write English, they wouldn’t be working in the cane fields, getting stung by scorpions and dying, beaten up every day, and toiling for pennies to buy a pound of rice. People are still living in barracks. Everybody should learn, Ma. Everybody! I don’t want to waste my chance. Promise me you’ll let me. I want to help people somehow.’
‘You’re still so thin,’ her mother chided gently. ‘How can you help anybody? The doctor says you can’t go back to school for several months. You’re not even strong enough to use the latrine by yourself. And whatever happens, don’t let your father know you talk like this. Wherever did you hear about Indian teachers in this place? And women Indian teachers? Just ridiculous!’
The girl heard the bitterness in her mother’s voice and a fire rose inside her chest. ‘I thought you understood. Ma, how could you say that? I trusted you! I hate, hate Indians. And you’re no better. Why are you all like that? I believe Mr Clifford. And I will do it!’
Amina’s big eyes stared at her mother, her face swollen with anger, and her eyes sank in disbelief. Trembling, she swung her wasted legs with all her strength to the edge of the bed. ‘I’m going outside to the latrine,’ she said. ‘By myself.’ But as she put her feet to the floor, her knees buckled under her and she collapsed. She burst into tears as her mother helped her back to bed.
‘You don’t understand,’ the girl repeated. ‘You all came and brought India with you – but this is not India. We have to change and get an education. No one can take that away. It will make us like them. Mr Clifford became like the white people. Can’t you see?’
Devinia sat on the edge of the bed, holding her daughter’s hand. ‘I don’t have education. It’s true. But I am not stupid either. I know we got tricked. And yes, many people died. My father left India not knowing where he was going. Maybe that was fate.’ Neither said anything for a while, then Devinia sighed heavily. ‘You could be right. There may be Indian lady teachers one day. But first you must get well. Then stay at school as long as you want. I promise. Besides, your father and I don’t want you labouring in the hot sun. His business is doing well, so you won’t have to break your back like other girls. And when the time comes, you will get married.’
But Amina was almost asleep and failed to hear what her mother had said.
‘Hate Indians, and you hate yourself,’ Devinia continued softly. ‘India too. It was not good to us, but I hear it is a beautiful country. Don’t ever forget who you are.’
The next day, Amina sent a note to Sumati.
Dear Sumati,
I got your letter, and I am too angry to know what to say. I am definitely getting better. I did my own prayers to Mr Clifford’s God. I don’t care what anybody thinks. They treat me as if they wanted me dead. And I am following all the advice from Dr Boyle, and will definitely be in school before you know it. I am not just going to be sad about Moonia – that doesn’t help anyone. Instead, I have a plan, but you and I must stick to it.
Do you remember what we saw by the well that evening after school? And we promised each other we wouldn’t talk about it? Well, if our parents will not listen to us, we will have to use that against them. They will be devastated, but it’s them or us. We have no choice.
Remain strong, Sumati. I cannot go to Moonia’s funeral. Say goodbye to her for me.
Your loving friend,
Amina
FIVE
Amina knew her mother worried more about Etwar now, and less about her. He was a capable ten-year-old, but she knew that look in her mother’s face, and wondered if her brother was alright. They had obeyed Dr Boyle’s orders to the letter and more. Every day her mother still boiled all the drinking water, scrubbed the floors, swept the yard, changed the bedclothes, kept all visitors downstairs, and continued to turn away Sumati and other friends for their own good. But she heard her mother speaking to her father saying that she was afraid to even enter her room at times, because she feared the girl had crossed over to the spirit world and returned as some other person – as if she was like the demented young man who roamed the village and at whom the local children threw stones, calling him a jumbie. Amina wished she could get inside her mother’s head, because there were things she couldn’t understand.
Devinia spent all her days thinking about this while working in the yard, or cooking, or milking the cow. If she was wrong, and Amina was not affected by the spirit world, she was surely affected by something – and it could be her own ideas which were getting out of hand. How could Indians ever become so English that they could work alongside important African and white people in government offices in Port of Spain? Or be teachers in the few schools she knew of, which were Catholic or Anglican schools anyway. Sankar had his own business so he wasn’t dependent on anyone for work. But she wished she could read more than just the Bhagavad Gita and the Ramayana. She longed to read English books, or even the newspaper squares that hung on the hook in the latrine. But she was grateful that Amina’s health was improving. It didn’t matter who or what was responsible – the doctor, Lakshmi, Ganesh, or Mr Clifford’s own God. It made no difference. She’d never understand. She had been married off at five, and had never gone to school. How could she?
In the last few weeks, Sankar had spent a lot of time at home. He locked up his shop early most afternoons, and the couple spent time together, reading their holy books and praying at the altar in their bedroom. They spoke to each other in Bhojpuri, a Hindi dialect, and got on well. But suddenly their differences got to her.
‘Why are you putting that rice in her water?’ he would say when she was taking Amina something from the kitchen.
‘Why are you interfering?’ she snapped back.
‘I’m here to keep an eye on you. It was you that caused her to nearly die.’
‘I am doing my best,’ she said. His words stung.
‘Our daughter is only reading English storybooks and not listening to a word I say,’ her husband ranted on. ‘These books have no value, no moral lessons. Teaching young girls about love. Huh! Follow love and you follow trouble!’
‘Headmaster sent those books for her,’ Devinia replied. ‘It’s what she wants. I think they’re helping her to feel better.’
‘There is something else,’ Sankar said, grinding his teeth. ‘I think a spirit is bothering her. We’re doing wrong by ignoring dharma and we will all be sorry! Things will not work out. If I don’t do my part, we will have no money, no house, no food. Do you spend your time reading storybooks? No! You stay at home and do your chores. It’s how life works. We each must do our part. So must children. Amina must do as she is told but she barely listens!’
‘What happened to you?’ his wife asked, aghast at this outburst. ‘Has a spirit taken you over? I will do puja this Friday.’
‘No more puja! Are all the gods deaf, woman? Just listen to the doctor’s orders.’
Devinia fixed him eye to eye. ‘Why did you tell the doctor you will beat me?’ she spat. ‘I should learn to read English too. Then you would have more respect for me.’
‘What kind of respect?’ he questioned. ‘Have I ever beaten you? You ask for respect. Do you know that white men beat their wives to keep them in order? I’ve seen it myself. That nice Mr Hart from Port of Spain who gives us the rose plants? He beats his wife: she had a damn good black-eye last time I was up there. When she saw me, she hurried inside the house so fast that her dress caught in the door and pulled her back. Dr Boyle was threatening not to return, so I had to say something. You are lucky I am not one of those kind of husbands.’
Devinia looked at him defiantly. ‘Even so, I am glad our daughter likes school.’
‘Yes, but not for long. We must do our duty and teach her the ways of our ancestors.’
‘What happened was like a sign,’ she said.
‘Exactly my thoughts!’ Sankar said, brightening. ‘You see, we are both of one mind. We must return to our thousand-year-old traditions. We mustn’t give them up for flimsy white-man ways. Amina will soon be a woman.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Devinia said, alarmed.
‘Well, I intend to do what is right for our daughter,’ her husband replied firmly.
‘She wants to remain at school. Become a teacher.’
‘She’s picked up that fancy talk from the headmaster.’ Sankar’s face was reddening.
‘Maybe, but it’s what she really wants. We brought her up different.’
‘That is your fault,’ he said. ‘She is Indian! You are Indian! But you want to be like the white man and the black man. Your skin might be light, but you are forgetting yourself!’
Devinia answered hotly, ‘You might have come from Uttar Pradesh, but she was born here. I was born here. I want her to learn. Please, Sankar . . .’
But her husband was shaking his head, looking despondent. ‘Your mother left India behind, as I did. We had to leave. But we didn’t leave our hearts behind.’
‘My mother didn’t want to come here! She was stolen as a child from her back yard.’
‘True. And I left in two minds. But there wasn’t much of a choice . . . It looked like an opportunity, except it wasn’t. Not when we got here. Not even when we set foot on that boat in Kolkata. The rocking and rolling on that boat! Four months of sickness and death. You know what hell these eyes of mine have witnessed?’
The Wedding Drums Page 3