The Wedding Drums

by Marilyn Rodwell

  ‘You see? If we marry as children, we’re following in our mothers’ steps of disappointment rather than fulfilment.’

  ‘I think, my friend, that you have a point. We will talk to the others at school.’

  ‘But it has to start with you and me, Sumati. Why don’t you tell Mr Clifford you’re coming to evening classes? Show your parents what you really want instead of going home and cooking roti. It’s only a few times a week. Show them you’re serious about your future. And stick to it. Fulfilment, not disappointment. That has to be our plan. Mr Clifford will support us, and anybody else who wants to join evening classes.’

  ‘So our plan is to stay at school?’

  ‘More than that. We can start the Pupil Teachers Certificate. That is the plan, Sumati. Now where is that blade? We have to mix our blood together on this.’

  ‘Next time,’ Sumati said. ‘I’ll bring a blade next time.’

  ‘Don’t forget it. It’s important.’

  EIGHT

  Mr Clifford arrived at Amina’s some days later, with a book in his hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Banderjee,’ he called out in his headmaster’s voice. ‘And how are you all doing? I mean, all of you, not just the sick one. I gather she is recovering, but it must have been quite an ordeal. That child is lucky – the good Lord must surely be looking down on her. Typhoid is no mosquito bite. Now I’m not stopping long. Just a quick lunchtime stroll.’

  Devinia jumped up from the hammock where she was sitting picking stones out of the rice before cooking, flustered and unsure which question or statement to answer. She pulled her ohrini over her head and tucked it behind her ears.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘Please sit down. Let me bring you something to drink.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ he said, planting himself on the bench across from the hammock. He pulled out a grey, crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the beads of perspiration from his face. ‘Just a cup of cool water. The midday sun is so hot!’

  Devinia returned with a cup of coconut water and a piece of pawpaw.

  ‘This is a treat. I haven’t had a coconut water in weeks.’ He looked up. ‘I see your pawpaw tree is laden. Mrs Banderjee, I came to bring Amina a book. I’m hoping she will be back in school soon. Tell her she mustn’t worry. She’ll catch up quickly. She has a fine future ahead of her if she puts her mind to it. The good thing is, she likes learning. I’m pleased you care enough to send her to school. Some just keep their daughters home to plant rice and mind children. Education is a great opportunity these days. I have faith in Amina. She’s a joy to teach.’

  ‘Something has changed in her though,’ Devinia blurted.

  ‘I know.’ He chuckled. ‘She sent me a letter asking me about the universe.’

  Devinia looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t know she was writing letters to you too.’

  ‘Also, How far are we from the moon? I have read a lot but I am not sure if anybody knows. She even asked me if the Christian God lives in the sun, and whether I’ve seen Him!’

  ‘Christian God?’ Devinia grew pale. ‘Something happened to her on that day. . . inside her head. It was as if she lost her senses.’

  Mr Clifford continued talking and Devinia’s anxiety turned into admiration. She marvelled at his passion. For things he said he didn’t know about, he certainly knew a lot. Things so remote to her.

  ‘Mr Clifford?’ Amina said, appearing on the steps outside the house.

  ‘There she is,’ he beamed. ‘Best pupil in the school. We miss you.’

  Devinia smiled for the first time since he had arrived, her face having been stuck solid in concentration.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the girl said. ‘I thought I was dreaming, but you’re really here.’

  ‘I brought the Austen book you asked for – Pride and Prejudice. Sumati told me. But she’s not been at school all week, otherwise I’d have sent it with her.’

  Devinia left them talking, until he left. Then she questioned Amina about the letters she had sent to Mr Clifford, now even more worried about her daughter’s state of mind.

  Just before the August holidays, Dr Boyle visited and pronounced Amina’s boredom to be a sign that she had almost recovered, and could return to school. But she should still take care with her eating for a few months yet and not handle other people’s food, or be tempted to go down to the spring for water, or even to bathe there, he decreed. The family was overjoyed, but it reminded Devinia that she needed to teach Amina to cook like other girls of marriageable age.

  When Mr Clifford heard the good news, he suggested she return to school at least for the last week of the term, but Devinia preferred to be cautious. So instead he brought books and writing exercises for Amina to do during the holidays. Devinia sat and listened to him talk about the importance of an education and the new opportunity for girls getting free schooling till sixteen. He also talked about his own difficult start in life, and how his mother suffered, which intrigued Devinia.

  ‘Your daughter has a good brain,’ he told her. ‘It would be wrong to waste it. The trouble with an idle brain is that when it is given too much time without occupation, it thinks up nonsense. Amina needs to read, to feed the beast inside her head that is hungry to learn.’

  ‘I worry something’s already happened inside her head.’ Amina had gone, and Devinia spoke very quietly. ‘Maybe you know something about this, sir? You know a lot. People don’t normally come back from the dead. Sometimes she talks so strangely, as if. . . We Hindus say that when you come back, it is as something else, depending on how you lived your life. I don’t know how far over she went to the other side before she came back.’

  ‘Don’t cry, my dear. She is a real gift to you. What matters is that she is on this side now.’

  Devinia looked at him, hesitating. ‘But what does your Christian religion say? That you go to heaven? She’s praying to your God now.’

  ‘Well! We follow Jesus. And he raised Jairus’s daughter from the dead. And Lazarus too. He brought them back to this life. Those were miracles. If the dead were going to heaven, I am not sure why Jesus brought them back here. Maybe God has a purpose with your daughter.’

  Devinia was mesmerised. The way he spoke, it sounded as if he knew this Jesus man well. She stared at him in awe. Mr Clifford was possibly the wisest man she had ever spoken to, and knew things she’d never even heard of.

  ‘You have children?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a school full of children. I consider them as I would my own.’

  ‘Most people are too poor to scrape a daily living. That’s why they take their children out of school and send them to work in the cane fields as soon as they are old enough – from eight years old.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Many cannot afford shoes and clothes. But that doesn’t stop me teaching them.’

  ‘We Indians sometimes survive on our dreams. People dream of having their own plot of land to build a house. We save up penny by penny.’

  ‘Some are lucky enough to inherit land from their parents who bought it cheaply from the government in exchange for their free passage back to India after their five years of working here. My mother and I didn’t have that opportunity. My dream was different.’

  ‘You’re right. I was lucky. My husband built up his business from nothing. But many have nothing but their dreams. That is why it’s impossible for Indians to become like you. Except . . . Amina wants to be like you. It will break her heart but it will never come true. She will be disappointed, but she will realise that some things are just dreams.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Mrs Banderjee. Your daughter has more than a dream. She has the potential, and the opportunity. I need to get back to work. Thank you for the refreshment, Mrs Banderjee. Now, I expect to see Amina in school in September, so that she may fulfil that dream. Make sure she is there.’

  When Mr Clifford left, Devinia sat back in her hammock and wondered what made him so sure. She wanted to believe him, even
though Sankar could never take these things seriously. But she wanted her daughter to shine in the world, and the only person who seemed to have that confidence in Amina, was Mr Clifford.

  NINE

  Monday 3rd September 1917. The first day of the new school year was a stark reminder to Amina that everything was not as rosy as she had remembered. She had lost so much time. Unable to contemplate waiting another two years to start the Pupil Teaching Programme, she planned to talk to Mr Clifford during the morning break about it. Still frail, she almost fell over in the stampede when the bell rang, as children ran into the lines in front of the school. When Mr Clifford’s smiling face appeared in the double doors, her eyes welled up. Soon she was sitting in a familiar four-seater desk, with Mr Mortimer mispronouncing the children’s names as usual during roll-call.

  History was the first subject of the day, with the topic of the discovery of the West Indies by Christopher Columbus. This was followed by spelling, then arithmetic. Amina went home for lunch and was almost too tired to return, but she did. She enjoyed reading, penmanship, and English grammar, but when the bell went at three o’clock at the end of the school day, she was exhausted. She walked home with friends, and Etwar caught up with them halfway home. When they got to the top of their yard, brother and sister looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘Can you smell that?’ Etwar said. ‘Smells like Christmas.’

  ‘You think we have family visiting? Maybe Ma’s relations from Dutch Guiana have come at last! Ma was telling me about them last week.’

  ‘But they’re in South America.’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Amina said. ‘People come over through British Guiana, then to Venezuela, then take a boat and sail across to Icacos.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s only about seven miles from Venezuela to Icacos. Then they could get a horse and cart, or a donkey cart to Granville.’

  ‘Ma says you keep making up things in your head. Are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s true. People do come over on fishing boats.’

  ‘Race you!’ he said, and he was off down the yard.

  She took off after him and they both ran down the path, sniffing the air like wolves. Etwar got to the kitchen two inches short of his mother’s back, almost knocking her over. Devinia was busily rolling out flat rounds of dough and filling them with the seasoned, ground dhal. The aroma of dhalpuri toasting on the iron tawa, smeared with fresh coconut oil, hit the hunger nerve. A pile of hot dhalpuris wrapped in a cloth smelt good. They watched mesmerized as Devinia’s long, nimble fingers flitted from tawa to pot, and pot to the floured board. When she removed the lid, the iron pot belched out a pungent haze of mouth-watering vapours, making the youngsters ravenous. Toasted cumin and garlic, mixed with the parched dhal, filled the air. It could only mean one thing.

  ‘What are you cooking, Ma?’ Etwar said, his eyes popping out on stalks like a crab’s.

  ‘Chicken curry and dhalpuri.’

  ‘Why?’

  She stirred the pot with a gravity that didn’t escape them. ‘Change into your home clothes and go and bring the cow from the pasture,’ she requested. ‘Quick as you can. Your father’s coming home early. There’s something we have to tell you.’

  ‘I’m starving, Ma,’ Amina said, as she turned to go upstairs to change into home clothes.

  ‘Your father said he’ll bring those rose earrings you wanted him to make.’

  ‘I forgot about them,’ Amina said. ‘School was good, Ma. Aren’t you interested? I don’t ever want to miss another day.’

  ‘You need to learn to cook,’ was all Devinia said. ‘You are a girl, and you still cannot cook. I want you to help me.’

  ‘But the doctor says I must not touch anybody’s food.’

  ‘You’re better now. Scrub your hands first.’

  By five-thirty that afternoon the family had finished eating.

  ‘Did you cook this because Amina is better now?’ Etwar asked, licking his fingers. ‘Will you do it again tomorrow?’

  ‘You can have too much of a good thing,’ Sankar said. He took a deep breath. ‘Your mother is an excellent cook.’ He wriggled uncomfortably, his normally flat belly a round bulge. He got to his feet, his body straight and Gandhi-thin, and gripped the back of his waist with both his hands.

  ‘It was really nice chicken,’ Amina said. ‘But I ate too much.’

  ‘Time to put on some weight,’ Devinia said. ‘The doctor says you can eat as normal.’

  ‘What is it, Pa?’ Etwar said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Ma said you were bringing me the rose earrings you promised,’ Amina put in.

  ‘Yes,’ Sankar said. He sat down again. ‘They’re in my trouser pocket upstairs.’

  ‘Have you bought another house, Pa?’ Etwar asked.

  ‘We can only live in one,’ Amina replied, looking sickened. ‘Some don’t have a roof over their heads.’

  ‘People live in Pa’s houses and pay rent,’ Etwar interrupted. ‘That gives them somewhere to live.’

  Sankar nodded. ‘At least you have a business head on you, son. But you, my sweet, we have to look after you, what with your illness and what it has done to you. I have some good news. Your mother and I have found you a match.’

  Amina’s face fell. She stared at her mother, unable to breathe. Then Sankar began to explain what he had been doing that day, and the decisions he and Devinia took that morning.

  ‘They live in San Fernando. It is a good family. They have a big business and the boy is extremely well-schooled. He’s a very nice-looking boy too. Healthy and strong. They want to come and meet you as soon as possible. You can marry whenever you want inside this year but make it quick. That will be good for both them and us. The father was here this morning. We gave our word before he left. He is a busy man like I am. Both of us in business.’ Sankar looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘That is how it all happened,’ Devinia joined in. ‘It gave me enough time to catch a chicken from the yard. But the chicken kept flying away . . .’

  Amina sat still, looking at her mother’s mouth moving and at the words falling out of her lips. While she had been at school learning about Christopher Columbus setting sail on the Santa Maria, accompanied by two sister ships, the Pinta and the Nina, in search of gold and discovering the Caribbean islands, her parents had not just promised her to some strange man without her knowledge, but her mother had also managed to catch a flying chicken from the yard, wring its neck, pluck it, gut it, chop it up into small pieces, grind the masala, season it, and cook it by the time they returned home from school. That was a job that normally took the best part of two days. Making dhalpuri was no small task either.

  ‘Well, say something, girl,’ her father prompted. ‘At least show some gratitude for your mother’s hard work.’

  ‘What can I say, Pa?’ Amina said. ‘You want me to show gratitude for you ruining my life? First you break your promise to me, and then you promise me to some stranger for the rest of my life, as if I am a bag of rice. Well I can’t be grateful for that.’

  Sankar’s mouth fell open. ‘Did you want to have a husband who works like a black slave in the cane field, with no prospects but to get beaten by the overseer? Have you any idea what that life is like? Look around you. You live like a queen in comparison.’ He appealed to Devinia. ‘Tell your daughter, woman. She is most ungrateful!’

  ‘How would you know about those hardships, Pa?’

  ‘I know because I too came on one of those blasted ships from Kolkata as human cargo. They lied and told us we would have a good life, making plenty of money sifting sugar. It was a trick. I tried it, and it was hard. Good thing I had a trade already from India and eventually I found a way to set up my jewellery business. Lucky for all of us, eh!’ He stabbed a finger at his daughter. ‘Very lucky you can live like a princess and now you think you can make your own choice. At your age – a girl-child.’

  ‘I can make my own choice,
Pa. You promised me. What will the gods say about you breaking your promise?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with gods,’ Sankar said. ‘What can they say? They spoke to you so far?’

  Amina looked at her mother and half-smiled. ‘They don’t speak, they don’t hear, don’t smell, don’t feel. They do nothing. They have no life.’

  ‘Don’t say that, child,’ Devinia said.

  ‘Listen,’ Sankar said. ‘We made a promise to these people, and we are keeping it.’

  Amina shot forward and slapped a mosquito that had taken a mouthful of blood from her ankle. ‘Explain why this is good for me,’ she said. ‘Because I have a plan. I do not want an arranged marriage. I am twelve years old. I don’t want to end up so unhappy that I drink weed-killer like Moonia or have a baby like Chandrawatti. And as you say, Pa, a promise is a promise. You cannot break your promise to me.’

  Sankar stared at her. ‘You think you are smart?’

  ‘Maybe you should meet him, Amina,’ Etwar said, trying to calm the atmosphere.

  ‘Etwar, don’t you take their side. He sounds like a half-brained idiot to agree to this. You say he’s well-schooled? I don’t believe it. My parents are no different from all the other stupid Granville coolie parents. All in a hurry to get their daughters married off, no matter what the consequences or the disappointment. They will do it again and again, mastering the art of disappointment. No! Mr Clifford told Ma and Pa that I could have a good future, but they don’t care. You see, I have a brain in my head and they cannot take that from me!’

  Etwar whistled in awe – in awe of the lioness who was seated next to him. But Sankar was fuming. He jumped up, grabbed Amina by her arm and dragged her to her feet.

  ‘That is all the gratitude you have?’ he accused. ‘After all we have done for you? You know you nearly died? And your mother was the one who cried blood to keep you alive. Running up and down doing everything for you? Doing pujas. Getting the doctor three times a week. Cleaning your backside when you couldn’t even move. And now you show such disrespect. Where did you learn this evil thing?’