by Meira Chand
Soon grandmother and Sita were left alone. They watched as Dev, stooping beneath the bundle of belongings on his back, climbed into a farmer’s bullock cart for the ride to the main road to catch the bus into Vrindavan. They watched until they could see him no more.
Neighbours came and went, comforting, supporting as best they could. Kanta Aunty visited, pressing money into grandmother’s hand. At night Sita was unable to sleep, and lay listening to the old woman’s soft breathing, and to the scuttle of rats and the rustle of insects in the roof above, wondering when she would see her brother again.
Now that they were alone Sita and grandmother slept together on a large string bed, and as the night descended, grandmother soothed them both by telling stories of the gods. Grandmother was the keeper of history, a spinner of tales that could transport Sita into unknown worlds. Settled beside the old woman, head at rest upon the soft bolster of her breast, breathing in the comforting kitchen odours grandmother exuded, Sita stared up at a colourful religious calendar on the wall, depicting the devi on her tiger steed, and listened to the old tales. Best of all she loved the story of how the devi, the great Goddess Durga, came to be. Within the magic of the tale Sita could forget the sadness that surrounded her.
Above, from the calendar, the goddess gazed down upon them, her face radiant, the architect of her own life, not a passive participant as were mortal women. Her many arms held the tools of self-reliance as she navigated her way through her celestial world. According to grandmother, the devi was a nochild no-husband woman, and so could do the things she did.
As she told the devi’s tale, grandmother huffed and puffed at the appropriate times, her voice taking on the gruff tone of a deity, the whine of an evil rakshasa, or the strong but gentle voice of the goddess.
‘There was a time when the great devil, Mahishasura, was terrifying the world. Whatever the gods did they could not defeat him. The battle went on without end until the gods decided to ask the Great Source, from which they were all derived, for help. They began to pray, and so great was the praying power of so many mighty gods, that at last it caused the devi to take form. She appeared in the distance, coming towards them out of the mists of the heavens. She rode upon a tiger, her face radiating light, her eighteen arms each grasping a different weapon in preparation for the battle ahead. The gods had been waiting for this moment, but now they looked at each other in confusion, not believing that in response to their prayers a female instead of a male god had materialised. Although they bowed politely before the devi, behind her back they grumbled bitterly, and joked about the impossibility of a weak female succeeding when they, with all their masculine powers, had failed. Let her go, let her try, let’s see what she will do with that old devil Mahishasura, they laughed as they sent her off to do their work, happy for her to face death while they watched from afar.
‘Now, the devi was well aware of their scornful laughter, but she ignored their rudeness. Understanding the great task that lay ahead, she searched within herself, calling forth all her inner power, her shakti, in a great rage of white energy that boiled and throbbed and fumed and blazed. At last all that energy spilt from her, causing the most ferocious part of herself to take a separate form. And lo and behold! That black-skinned creature Kali sprang forth from the devi’s brow, to help her in the great fight ahead.
‘And so the battle began, and it was terrible. The devi fought and fought. Kali’s long tongue sucked up blood and demons, devouring all their evil. And that devil Mahishasura tried all his old tricks. Every time he was killed he would take another form and jump up again to fight. If he was killed as a bear, he got up as a monkey, or a serpent, or a wall of fire. Then at last he got up as a buffalo, thickset and powerful, but slow on his feet, pawing the ground in rage. Seeing her opportunity, the devi sprang forward, and with one great blow finally chopped off his head, severing it clean from his body before piercing his heart with her sword. And at last Mahishasura lost the power to take a new form, and fell dead before the devi.
‘Then, when it was clear the battle was over, the male Gods ran forward and praised the devi loudly.
‘They acted as if they had never said a bad word behind her back,’ grandmother said with a deep chuckle. ‘So many powerful male gods, all of them strutting around the universe like brave warriors, and yet they could not defeat that wily old Mahishasura. The Great Force created a goddess to do their work for them, not another male god! That is how powerful a woman’s shakti is.’
Grandmother liked this end to her story as much as Sita, and, looking up in admiration at the goddess upon the wall, they allowed themselves to laugh, but softly, so that the Gods, if they were listening, would not hear.
After he left the village, Dev wrote them the occasional letter from the town called Singapore. His few years in the village schoolroom had not resulted in any fluency of the written word, and his news came to them through a professional letter writer. Dev wrote that he had found a job as a peon in a large hardware and dry goods store in Serangoon Road, the place where most of the Indians in Singapore lived. As the shop sold many of the things similar to their father’s stall, Dev was familiar with the trade. He also wrote that gold did not line the streets of Singapore, but with hard work he could go forward, making his way up in the hierarchy of the shop. His salary was more than he could earn in the village and, true to his promise, each month he sent a small amount to his grandmother.
Dev’s letters were irregular, but Sita waited for the excitement of seeing them in the postman’s hand. The village schoolteacher helped them reply to Dev, writing as grandmother dictated, and personally posting the letters for them. Each time their reply was sent off, Sita imagined the oceans the small square of paper must cross to reach her brother and how, finally, he would tear the envelope open and read the few lines written there, and know they thought of him still.
Nobody knew how old grandmother was, but after the death of her son and his wife and the departure of her grandson, her spirit no longer lit up her face, but remained inescapably wedged deep inside her. Often, she did not hear Sita speak, her cloudy eyes fixed on a distant place. Sometimes she talked as if the old days were still around her, and the family about to gather for the evening meal. She cooked for five when they were only two, and leftovers must be given to the fingerless leper or the untouchables in the village, who were always grateful for food in whatever condition. She grew thin and began to bump into things. Sita massaged the old woman’s aching joints with coconut oil and steered her about, but one morning she failed to wake up. Sita ran to the neighbours, the priest and the doctor were called and confirmed that the old woman was dead.
A message was sent to Kanta Aunty, and she and her husband soon arrived. Once again after the cremation, they all rowed out into the river with the priest, to scatter grandmother’s ashes upon the water. Ashok Uncle wrote a letter to Dev telling him of the sad developments, and instructing him to transfer the monthly money for Sita’s upkeep to a bank account in Vrindavan. Since no one was left to care for Sita, Kanta Aunty was forced to take her in.
Sita had only been a few times to her aunt’s house and did not know her cousins well. Neeta and Niti were not happy at her arrival and made this clear immediately.
‘If you do not do everything we say the baboons will come for you,’ they threatened.
In a nearby grove of swaying bamboo the creatures could be heard crashing about. Kanta Aunty joined in, her eyes alight with cruel mischief.
‘At night they steal into houses and take away babies to eat, tearing them apart, limb from limb.’
So great was Sita’s fear and confusion that she believed these tall tales. The baboons roamed everywhere around the house; they sat on the courtyard wall, ran across the roof and peered threateningly through window grilles, baring yellow teeth. A long barbed prod was kept in the house to keep the creatures at bay.
‘We have no room for you here, and no money to keep you. We have taken you in only from the goodness o
f our hearts, and for my dead brother’s sake,’ Kanta Aunty told Sita.
‘You must help in the house; I cannot afford to keep you like my daughters. Life in town is expensive, not cheap as in the village. Your brother sends but a pittance for your upkeep.’ Kanta Aunty’s brow furrowed disapprovingly.
Although her aunt and her family slept on cotton stuffed mattresses on string beds, Sita was given a servant’s rush mat to lie upon. To everyone’s surprise, she chose to sleep in a storeroom off the kitchen, spreading out her mat beside metal bins of rice and jars of lemon and mango pickle. Unbeknown to her aunt, she chose this place because a calendar on the wall with a bright picture of the goddess Durga, was similar to the one Sita and grandmother had slept beneath. The devi sat as always upon her tiger, face alight with benevolence.
From where she lay Sita looked up at the picture, and it seemed the goddess smiled protectively down upon her. Sita remembered her grandmother’s story and knew the devi was like no other immortal, moving easily between death and life, darkness and light, the edge of existence and its centre. Much as she missed a soft cotton mattress, Sita slept peacefully on her rush mat beneath the gaze of the goddess.
In her aunt’s house Sita learned anew how to cook and to clean, but not willingly as she had beside her grandmother in the village, sharing work with the old lady. Now, she was made to understand she was a poor relative, and used as such. Stretched out lazily on their beds, Neeta and Niti called for Sita to massage their nubile limbs. To improve their complexions, they used facemasks of almonds and rice soaked overnight, that Sita must grind to a paste with milk and honey each morning. They were educated girls, staying on at school until eighth standard, long enough to increase their chances on the marriage market, but not long enough to give them independent ideas. Kanta Aunty herself had no education, but had seen the advantage a touch of learning might bring her daughters in a modern world.
Dev’s letters now came to Ashok Uncle, and Sita was not informed of their arrival. Once, sure she had seen the Singapore letter-writer’s distinctive script amongst the pile of post, Sita asked Ashok Uncle for news of Dev. With a sigh, he bent to retrieve a crumpled ball of paper from a metal rubbish bucket and gave it to her.
‘You cannot read, so what will you understand? He is asking how you are; we are telling him you are well. It is rash and childish behaviour to go and live so far away when he has responsibilities still at home. If parents are dead then it is the duty of a brother to get a sister married. Instead, he is putting all responsibility on us.’
Sita smoothed out the crumpled paper, and just the sight of the letter-writer’s intricately hatched script filled her with joy and grief. As her uncle said, she could not read what was written on the paper, but she knew Dev thought of her still. She took to checking the mail whenever she felt a letter was due, searching the rubbish bucket to retrieve Dev’s discarded missive. Dev’s letters, written on paper thin as onionskin, never stretched to more than one sheet, and Sita folded each neatly again and again until it became a small compressed square, easily secreted in a muslin bag and stored beneath her clothes. In her aunt’s home, she lived only within the shape of each day, until the evening Kanta Aunty announced she would soon be getting married.
‘A matchmaker has fixed it up for us. The money your brother sends for your upkeep is not even covering your food. This is a good opportunity; the man is rich and is not asking for dowry. All he wants is to have a young wife. We have our own daughters to marry, we must first give dowries to them.’
‘Does Dev bhai know I’m getting married? Have you written to him?’ Sita’s head reeled at the news, her heart fluttered with anxiety.
‘Everything is finalised. By the time a letter is reaching your brother in Singapore and a reply is coming back, you will already belong to another house. Your brother will be grateful to us for finding you a rich husband.’ Kanta Aunty laughed.
The sound filled Sita with a sense of finality, words of protest draining away inside her even as they formed.
‘He is so old,’ Sita whispered that night, crouched at her aunt’s knee, remembering the visit of her bridegroom to the house earlier in the day.
She had been shut away in a back room, but a stolen glimpse of her future husband moving in the shadows of the house lingered with her. Her aunt looked askance at her.
‘He is not yet fifty, and he is rich. His wife died only a year ago. His sons are already married and working; you will not be looking after small children. Remember, he is taking you without a dowry. You are already thirteen years old, old enough for marriage. Some brides are so young they must sit upon their father’s lap throughout the wedding ceremony.’
Sita could not protest; she was dependent upon her aunt’s charity and without voice in the flow of her life; she could remain forever in her aunt’s house, no better than a servant, fetching, carrying, cooking, cleaning.
‘I have done all this for my brother, your father,’ her aunt remarked stiffly, acknowledging the righteousness of her deed.
‘What will I call him, what is his name?’ Sita implored, thinking again of the balding, large bodied man she had glimpsed. She pulled distractedly at her thick plait of hair, her nails bitten down to the quick. Her luminous eyes, the most arresting feature in her thin face, were filled with agitation.
‘To you he has no name. You must call him, HE. Out of respect a wife never speaks the name her husband.’ Kanta Aunty frowned in disapproval.
3
INDIA, 1937
The intricate patterns of wedding mehendi, of flowers and birds and paisley leaves, covered Sita’s hands and feet. The mehendi artists had come the day before to the house, and Kanta Aunty and Niti and Neeta had also had their hands painted, but only Sita, as the bride, decorated her feet. All night she had lain with her heels resting on a small stool and her hands unmoving at her side, so as not to smear the mehendi as it dried. In the morning, she washed off the henna, revealing the orange filigree beneath. She was told the name of her bridegroom had been secretly etched upon her, hidden within the elaborate designs, but what that name was she could not be told, for fear of bringing her husband ill luck.
Her aunt helped her dress in clothes gifted to her by her new in-laws. Sita was conscious of the silk sari with its crusty gold border, finer in quality than the sari her aunt had bought her, and unlike anything Sita had worn before; she was only used to the softness of her much-washed cotton shift or kurta and loose pyjamas. The sari width was made for an adult and, when draped about Sita’s undersized body, the excess material had to be tucked into the drawstring of her petticoat, making a thick wad about her waist. Usually, her unruly hair sprang wildly about her shoulders, but now it was oiled and plaited and coiled high on her head, tamed for the life ahead. When at last she stood before a mirror, she did not recognise herself. The thin face and thick straight eyebrows, the bright eyes that her grandmother had said shone like two stars, her wide mouth — everything seemed changed. The severe hairstyle, the small gold earrings and the light chain necklace her aunt had given her, recast her in adult mould. She saw a reflection of the woman she would one day grow to be, an incongruous image superimposed upon her childish frame.
They piled into a horse drawn gharry for the journey to the wedding hall. Niti and Neeta giggled with excitement, and squeezed onto the seat opposite the adults with Sita. Kanta Aunty and her daughters wore items of finery superior to anything Sita owned, except the new sari from her in-laws. Her belongings were so few they were bundled into a carrying cloth and tied to the back of the gharry. Kanta Aunty, small and plump as a butterball, her deep-set eyes and determined chin resolute with purpose, took up most of the seat. Ashok Uncle, his long thin limbs folded together like a bundle of brooms, occupied much less of the seat. It was his habit to concede a greater share of the marriage ground to his wife; he seldom spoke, controlling her in the invisible ways a man had the power to invoke, a grunt, a frown, or a concentrated glower. His opinion was final and his
wife grudgingly obeyed his orders.
A breeze blew about her as the carriage bowled along, and she listened to the clop of the horse’s hooves rhythmically hitting the road. Inside her everything had stopped, as if she hung suspended in time.
‘Your husband will give you a fine gold mangalsutra to put around your neck, to show everyone you are his wife,’ Kanta Aunty informed her with satisfaction.
‘Your husband will also give you a new name. Now you will belong to his family. Sita will die and you will be a new person. Maybe they’ll call you Pushpa or Rukmini,’ Niti giggled.
‘Or Avantika or Ranjana,’ Neeta laughed.
Sita was filled with panic. She did not want another name, imposing ownership upon her, killing that old self she knew so well. When her new family claimed her with a fresh name, would her memories remain intact? Would she still remember Dev and her grandmother? Would the images of her mother or father fade and die with the death of her old identity?
People swirled about them in the wedding hall, a blur of strange faces and voices. Sita was taken inside to sit alone in a dark corner, as if superfluous to the events taking place, while Kanta Aunty and her family waited outside to greet the bridegroom and his family. Soon, loud drumming and shouting announced the arrival of the wedding party, and eventually her aunt appeared to usher Sita forward amidst the crush of people. The sari dragged about her heels and she feared it would catch underfoot, pulling free of the petticoat and her waist. The silk covered her head and hung over her face, and she could see little as she was guided forward. As her aunt helped her to sit, Sita was aware of the great bulk of her bridegroom beside her.
At last the wedding rites began. The heat of the sacred fire spurted up as the priest began his ritual chanting, the sounds humming through the smoke of scented incense billowing about her. Sita kept her head down, conscious only of the man who would soon be her husband. At one point a bent and elderly woman approached, and Kanta Aunty, who sat close behind Sita, whispered that this was her mother-in-law. Then her bridegroom rose, and with his mother, bent over Sita. The sari still covered her face, and she could see little as her husband’s large hands fumbled about her bare neck, securing the gold mangalsutra of marriage upon her. She caught the masculine smell of him, and the scent of raw onions on his breath.