Saree

by Su Dharmapala

  And nawab quoted back the Urdu translation of The River Ganges by Robert Southey which Sarojini countered with A River by A.K. Ramanujan.‘From Mysore are you?’

  ‘Of course, the birth place of the greatest of Indian poets!’

  ‘Come, madam, come!’ The nawab invited her into his home. ‘You must meet my wife.’ Sarojini was nervous, but she followed him upstairs. ‘Just my wife and I left,’ he explained as he wheezed and coughed his way up. ‘Our only son emigrated to Australia about five years ago. He is an engineer.’

  ‘Aisha,’ he called out into the roof garden as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘I think there is a young lady you ought to meet.’

  Aisha turned out to be the nawab’s bedridden wife and a retired literature teacher.

  ‘I am so sorry to intrude on your tea,’ Sarojini immediately apologised, seeing two cups set out, but the nawab, Ali Khan, had hurried to fetch a third already.

  ‘This young lady is knowledgeable about poetry,’ he proudly announced as he returned, setting down a fine china cup on the platter. ‘A great admirer of Makhanlal Chaturvedi!’

  ‘I admire a great many of the Indian poets. T.N. Srikantaiah, G.S. Shivarudrappa, Suryakant Tripathi Nirala,’ Sarojini protested shyly.

  ‘Have you read any Urdu poets?’ Aisha asked curiously.

  The next hour and a half was the best hour and a half Sarojini had had since coming to Lucknow. Conversation and tea flowed easily. Aisha turned out to be a scholar of Urdu classical literature. ‘The problem is that the young of today watch too many Bollywood films. All they want to see is Amitabh Bachchan and his ladies singing and cavorting on screen! No substance, no poetry.’

  Sarojini disagreed. ‘But that is where the Indian culture is great, Madame! Song and dance is as natural for us as eating and laughing!’

  ‘Please explain to me, child – where is the culture in half-clad women cavorting on screen?’ the lady demanded.

  Sarojini gave her a treatise on Bharatanatyam and why dance was an important part of Hindustani culture. ‘How can you know the beat and rhythm of poetry if you have not felt it yourself? Music and dance go together naturally and with them comes poetry!’

  ‘So, you’ve studied the classical forms of dance, then?’

  ‘Indeed I have, Madame. I have studied Bharatanatyam, Odissi, Kuchipudi, Mohiniattam and Kathakali. But Bharatanatyam is what I am really good at.’

  ‘Could you dance for us one day?’ the lady pleaded. ‘I can’t go out now that I am bedridden, but I would love to see you dance!’

  ‘Rakesh! Look!’ Sarojini squealed, waving the thin leaf of paper at him. Rakesh had just come in from work with the post, and the novelty of receiving mail had already put a spark in Sarojini’s eyes, even before she had opened it and learned the news.

  ‘Shhh . . . the neighbours might hear,’ Rakesh admonished.

  ‘Kalpana, Keshto and Abhay are being stationed up here in Delhi!’ she said.

  Rakesh just grunted again, going out to the bathroom to splash some water on his face.

  ‘Did you know?’ she demanded.

  ‘Of course I knew. Abhay is a smart man – I expect he’ll be promoted again in the next few years. And Kalpana has done her best to help him. I heard that she held a lavish party for all the officers at the base and a visiting general from New Delhi was very impressed.’

  Sarojini rolled her eyes at the implied criticism. She did not and could not entertain, because Rakesh shadowed her every move when they were out and about. How could she even make friends if he would not let her talk to anyone?

  ‘Now, remember what I told you,’ Rakesh had said to her outside the mess hall at the last officers’ dinner. ‘Don’t mention anything about your old life in Mysore. I’ve told everyone that you were orphaned as a child and raised by your uncle and aunt. And that you had a falling-out with them over our love marriage.’

  No one knew that Sarojini and Rakesh were not actually married.

  It had not ended there. He’d followed her around, listening in on her conversations and correcting her or even changing the subject altogether.

  ‘How is your daughter doing?’ Sarojini had asked Meena Singh. ‘Did you try the boiled neem leaves mixed with turmeric for the rash?’

  ‘That is what we have doctors for!’ Rakesh had interrupted. ‘Don’t waste time with Ayurvedic medicines. I know so many people who waste years with that nonsense only to have their illnesses cured in days by proper western doctors. Take her to the army base hospital,’ he said.

  ‘How’s the saree blouse stitching going?’ she’d then turned to ask Babitha. ‘Do you need me to come and help you pin it one afternoon?’

  ‘Please, Sarojini, that would be lovely,’ Babitha had said. ‘You know I get so lonely in the afternoon.’

  ‘You do know that Mrs Sunila’s parents own the largest tailoring store in Calcutta, don’t you?’ Rakesh interjected. ‘Sarojini hasn’t ever sewn a thing in her life! You are better off getting Sunila to help you!’

  Sarojini had been infuriated at that. ‘Rakesh! You have no idea what I have done or not done in my life!’ she’d said when Babitha left to talk to someone else. ‘Mamaji made sure we were all self-sufficient. I bet I can sew better than Sunila. No one has ever waited on me hand and foot,’ she’d snapped, pointing towards Sunila, who was sitting about while her husband ferried drinks and nibbles to her like a devoted slave.

  ‘So you think you are an educated woman? An intelligent woman? Intelligent women don’t sing and dance. They go to school and to college,’ he’d jeered. ‘Oh, come now, don’t get sulky. I was just trying to help. Did you really want to spend afternoon after afternoon helping that airhead with her saree blouse?’

  ‘Actually, I did!’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you getting too close to her anyway. I may have to reprimand her husband soon if his performance doesn’t improve, and I don’t want you getting involved with my work!’ he said before stalking away.

  Sarojini could not relax after that. She sat in a corner and thought instead, while Rakesh socialised. He came over halfway through the night to speak to her. ‘I am so happy to see you sitting here by yourself. It is so becoming of a good wife. Women should know their place!’ He looked across the room at Meena Singh and frowned.

  Sarojini had followed his gaze across the crowded room to see Meena and Lieutant Colonel having a good laugh with a few of the officers. They leant close to each other while they talked, and started and finished each other’s sentences. There was a true camaraderie there.

  Across the other side of the room, she saw the young Nagina girl and her husband, deep in conversation. Not for the first time, Sarojini wondered why she’d run off with Rakesh. While they appeared to have so much in common, in actual fact they didn’t.

  She was still asking herself that question now.

  ‘Do you mind then?’ Sarojini asked as she served Rakesh dinner.

  ‘Mind what?’

  ‘If I go visit Kalpana once they come to Delhi. It takes only a few hours by train.’

  ‘Sure . . .’ he said without much interest.

  ‘Won’t you come with me? Abhay was such a good friend to you.’

  ‘The only reason I was friends with Abhay was because he had that picture of you,’ Rakesh replied, absently picking up the paper. ‘He is such a high caste bore . . .’

  Sarojini rolled her eyes. She’d known Abhay for a good many years and knew that he treated the Dalits and the Shudras he came across with kindness and compassion. He never objected to their presence, nor did he have any issue with Sarojini’s background.

  ‘So you aren’t coming even to see Keshto?’

  Rakesh shook his head. ‘Why would I want to see him? He’s a child. I only pretended to be interested in him to get you to notice me.’

  ‘May I borrow an umbrella?’ Sarojini asked, her teeth chattering.

  ‘Come in here and dry yourself off first!’ Ali Khan insisted, bundling her through
the saree shop and up the stairs. He had her seated in front of his wife, towelling her hair dry within minutes. ‘I thought you were in New Delhi.’

  ‘I was. I just got back,’ she sniffled into her chai. Over the past few weeks, she’d developed quite a friendship with the nawab Ali and his wife Aisha.

  ‘So why didn’t you catch a tuktuk from the station to the barracks, beta?’ Aisha demanded.

  ‘I spent a great deal in New Delhi . . . I ran out of money.’ How could Sarojini explain the scene at the station just before she’d left for New Delhi? ‘Five hundred rupees? Is that all you are giving me?’ Sarojini had asked Rakesh.

  ‘That is enough for a ticket,’ he’d grunted as he drove off, calling out, ‘I am running late for my meeting with my junior officers.’

  So Sarojini had done the entire trip in the third-class carriage, wedged between a cage full of chickens and a monkey catcher with his three pet monkeys.

  ‘Surely your husband would pay for it, wouldn’t he?’ Ali Khan demanded. ‘When my Aisha was well, why she used to use all the household money and then come home in a tuktuk! Oh, I used to smile. It is a husband’s privilege to indulge his wife.’

  ‘Errr . . . anyway, how are you feeling, Aisha?’ Sarojini replied, deftly changing the topic – or so she thought.

  ‘I am well, beta, but you haven’t yet answered my question – why didn’t you catch a tuktuk from the train station to the barracks?’

  ‘It was just that I bought so many things.’ Sarojini smiled brightly at them both.

  ‘But that is the same bag you took to the train, beta,’ Ali Khan said, touching it lightly, only to have it topple over. ‘I helped you select it, remember.’

  ‘Remember I took all those sweets and toys for Keshto? That’s why the bag is empty now.’

  ‘And you bought him even more toys?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sarojini said.

  ‘Beta . . . do you think we haven’t noticed? That you eat your fill when you are here, like you’ve been starving. That is why I always have Ali bring so much food when you come. The week in New Delhi was good for you. Your face has filled out a little,’ Aisha said kindly. ‘Is your marriage all you make it to be?’

  The tears that Sarojini had shed on the long train ride from New Delhi came back in force. ‘I don’t want to go back to him,’ she sobbed. ‘I should but I don’t.’ Sarojini chose not to reveal the fact that Rakesh had kicked Pranay the kitten so much for eating its fill that it too had run away.

  ‘Why, beta, why? Does he hit you?’

  ‘No! Never!’ she cried. ‘I don’t exactly know what it is, but I know I am not happy with my life.’

  And maybe it was the trip to New Delhi that had shown her what happiness really was. What her life could be, rather than what it was.

  Kalpana was deliriously happy, of course. Keshto was a robust young lad with a cheeky grin and strong set of lungs he was not averse to using. Kalpana had found the only way to make him quiet was to outsing him. Mother and son would belt it out until Keshto gave up and started to dance instead.

  ‘What if you are overheard by your neighbours?’ Sarojini had worried.

  ‘So what if they overheard us?’ Kalpana replied, puzzled.

  ‘What if they found out? You know?’

  ‘Found out what?’

  ‘That you had been a . . . you know . . .?’ Sarojini had whispered.

  ‘What? A devadasi?’

  ‘Won’t it ruin Abhay’s career?’

  ‘I don’t think so anymore. It probably won’t affect his career at all. If anything we’d get invited to more parties! If it became a problem for Abhay, we’d just return to Mysore. He can get a good job in a company after having been a captain! We’ve decided we don’t care if we are discovered. All that hiding and lying was exhausting us!’

  With Abhay’s connections and caste, it would be easy for him to have a successful career outside the army. And his love for Kalpana was stronger than ever. He came home each day bounding with energy, wanting to spend every second before bed with Keshto and Kalpana. There was laughter and smiles. He took pride in the fact that he was the only person who could convince Keshto to have a bottle or make him go to sleep. Watching the three of them together convinced Sarojini that there was something very wrong with her relationship with Rakesh.

  ‘He supports my family, Aisha. I cannot fault him for that,’ she said now.

  ‘But he only gives you fifty rupees a week for groceries?’ Ali spat in disgust. ‘You can barely buy three hundred grams of gourds for that!’

  ‘But it is only me I need to feed. Rakesh eats at the mess hall.’

  ‘Beta, have you told your parents about this? Surely your father can have words with Rakesh. He has your dowry and he is still answerable to your parents.’

  Sarojini shook her head. ‘My father died when I was about two and my mother lives in rural Gokak. She would no sooner speak to him than God.’

  ‘What about your brothers, surely they can speak to him.’

  Again, Sarojini shook her head sadly, stifling sobs.

  ‘Was it a love marriage?’ Aisha asked. ‘Is that why your brothers will not interfere?’

  Sarojini nodded shakily.

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  ‘Aisha, he was the only person in my whole life who ever told me that they loved me. Not my parents. Not my brothers. Not anyone. I don’t want to lose his love! And if he loves me, why does he treat me like this?’

  ‘Sarojini, beta . . . have you heard of the story of Shazia Muna Khan?’ Aisha asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was the wisest and first wife of King Sheer Abdullah Khan. In those times, young girls were betrothed early. So when they finally got married, there was no excitement, there was no energy in their marriage. Indeed, six years after their marriage, she was still a virgin!’

  Aisha had Sarojini’s complete attention, so she continued.

  ‘So one day, Shazia disguised herself as one of the dancing girls in the harem and went to him. She refused to let him see her face but danced for him until his mind and body were on fire. But she would not let him touch her. Not for seven nights. And on the seventh night, they were together, but only with a veil covering her face. Then she disappeared. It was as if she vanished into thin air.’

  ‘A year later, Shazia came back as a dancing girl and danced for the king again. Again she danced for seven nights, and on the seventh, they were together. This continued for several years, until the king was desolate without the dancing girl. He no longer had interest in anything or anyone else.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ the king demanded of Shazia. ‘Why do you leave me alone and without love? Do you not know I love you?’

  ‘Shazia knew that she’d got into the king’s heart. Finally. So she took him by the hand to the harem compound, where she took her veil off.’

  ‘I have been here all along, my darling,’ she said. ‘You only had to go into your home to find all the love you need.’

  ‘So what are you saying I should do?’ Sarojini asked Aisha. ‘That I disguise myself as a dancing girl? Rakesh would kill me!’

  ‘No, I am telling you that you should make that man sit up and take notice of you!’ Aisha declared. ‘And I know just the way! Ali, I think it is time we lent that saree to this young lady!’

  The Brigadier’s Ball was held at Qaisar Bagh Palace. Built in 1850 by Wajid Ali Shah, she was grand and opulent, and a decaying mess. The British had attacked in 1858 on some trumped-up pretext and partially destroyed her. Battle-scarred and pockmarked, in the daylight she looked in a sorry state. But at night, she glowed and blazed forth in all her long-ago grandeur, thousands of lights outlining the building like the setting sun, hiding her many deficiencies.

  The army had even gone as far as to roll out a red carpet by the main entrance. This was where the officers waited for their wives, who were, of course, running late. There was hair to be put up, make-up to be applied and sar
ees to be draped, when all the men had to do was pull on their trousers and shrug into their jackets.

  ‘I ran out when Meena wanted me to start helping her with the pinning!’ Lieutenant Colonel Singh laughed into his tumbler of whisky. ‘I don’t understand it! These women wear sarees every day of every week. They wear them to work, they wear them to bed, but every time they have a special event they panic!’

  ‘Says he who needs help tying his turban! And that is only five yards of cloth, while a saree is six!’ Meena retorted.

  ‘But you do look pretty, my dear,’ Lieutenant Colonel Singh smiled. ‘Speaking of which, where is your beautiful wife, Rakesh?’

  Rakesh shrugged. Sarojini had been very secretive since she’d returned from New Delhi. Her mysterious smiles caused him to be extra suspicious. He’d seen it all before. His mother had done exactly the same. Many times. To the many suitors who’d fallen from grace.

  She’d be sweet as honey to them at first. Like a butcher in an abattoir, gentling the terrified animals and winning their confidence – right before bringing down the axe.

  Rakesh felt like one of those animals. Wary and terrified. The only thing that kept the gut-gnawing fear at bay was the fact that Sarojini could not leave. Quite literally could not leave. She had no money and no way to get back to the protection of Mamaji in Mysore.

  Comforting himself with that fact, Rakesh started to pace. He was one of the very few officers left outside, and all of the others were single men, laughing merrily and getting heartily drunk on the free-flowing liquor. He would tear strips off Sarojini the next day. Tardiness was unacceptable in the army. He was rehearsing his speech with his back turned when a silence spread among the young men.

  He turned to see his Sarojini come through the Mermaid Gate, to the east. As she floated magically beneath the arch of pure marble, it was as if one of the mythical mermaids carved into the stone above had come to life. He held his breath, as did all the other officers. Could it really be Sarojini?