Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  ‘Join the other mais in there.’ He gestured to a spacious hall in the building behind him.

  Sita found a place just inside the door, up against the wall. The large room was filled by rows of white clad widows, heads covered, swaying together as they sang. The sweet sound of their voices filled the room. Sita closed her eyes and the music flowed through her, a lump swelled in her throat again as she remembered her grandmother singing.

  Vrindavan was known for its many widows who all resided in the many small temples dedicated to the God Krishna, whose early life, it was said, had been spent in the town. Here Krishna had played with the gopis, the cowherd maidens, hiding their clothes as they bathed in the river, and romancing the most beautiful of them, Radha.

  A young woman in the row in front wriggled back until she was sitting beside Sita. A down of soft hair covered her shorn head above a round pleasant face.

  ‘Did pujari take money from you?’ She asked, nodding in the direction of the priest and his cash box. Then, seeing Sita observing the growth of hair, she smiled.

  ‘We shave our heads every two weeks. Tomorrow is the day the barber comes, and then even this bit of hair will be gone.’

  Her eyes were steel grey and feline-like, and Sita could not stop staring; she had never seen anyone with eyes that colour before.

  ‘If we mais sing it brings good luck to people; they earn good karma in Heaven by giving money for our singing.’ The woman smiled again, revealing a narrow gap between her two front teeth, and continued.

  ‘Pujari is always looking for money or things he can steal from us and sell. You’ll get used to it here,’ she whispered conspiratorially.

  ‘I’m called Billi.’

  ‘A billi is a cat, it’s not a proper name.’ Sita found her voice at last. Billi nodded in agreement and did not seem upset by this observation.

  ‘Because of my light eyes, everyone says I look like a cat,’ she answered, and then leaned forward with sudden insistence.

  ‘Now sing. If we sing, we get food.’

  ‘And if we don’t sing?’ Sita asked.

  ‘No food.’

  Soon Dev returned to the cubicle with their meal, the freshly cooked vegetables and rice parcelled up in banana leaves. Sita pushed her memories away, covering her head again with her sari, as was proper in the presence of a male relative, especially an elder brother. They ate in silence, Sita picking listlessly at the food without appetite, Dev shovelling it quickly into his mouth and then accepting without query the extra portion his sister offered him.

  Looking down at the spicy aubergine, agleam with oil and spices, Sita remembered her shock that first day in the ashram at the blandness of the food. She would have liked to tell Dev about it, but suspected he would have little curiosity. He asked no questions about her marriage or her time in the bhajanashram, and she knew it was not that he did not care but that these things were already behind her, and were the kinds of things that happened to women and so were not of great importance. Even so, as she picked at the food before her, she could not help but compare it to the food in the ashram.

  On that first day, she had queued beside Billi for a meal. The mountainous woman who had opened the ashram door to Sita, and whose name she soon learned was Roop, supervised the women, shouting orders to those serving out food from large tureens, pacing up and down on her tiny feet to see nobody was given too much. Sita held out a tin plate and observed in surprise the boiled rice and plain dal and vegetables doled onto it.

  ‘Eat slowly, this is the only meal we get in the day,’ Billi warned, observing Sita hungrily scooping food into her mouth.

  ‘Only one meal? It is not even tasting good, no oil or spices in anything.’ Sita stopped eating and stared up at Billi.

  ‘We widows are dead things; we cannot eat ‘hot’ spicy foods that will stir up our bodies and stir up our feelings. No onion or garlic, no root vegetables and many other things,’ Billi cautioned, looking up from her plate.

  ‘And also no sweets,’ she added, sadly shaking her head.

  ‘Then, what can we eat?’ Sita demanded, chewing more slowly.

  ‘Rice, milk, some vegetables; we can eat only those foods that cool our body’s passions. A widow’s body must be weak and dry; dried out of all feelings,’ Billi explained.

  Now, the ashram seemed like a distant dream as she watched Dev eating hungrily. Over the years he had become a man, everything about him had solidified, his forehead was more prominent, his jaw firmer, his neck thicker, and he had grown a moustache. Gratitude welled through her; now that she was with Dev again, everything would be all right.

  ‘Singapore is a good place,’ Dev told her as he ate, not once raising his eyes from his food. His thickly oiled hair was parted in the middle, folding in two black wings either side of his head.

  When they finished eating, Dev rolled up the banana leaves and directed Sita to take the rubbish to a bin outside the communal kitchen on the ground floor where, he informed her, there was also a latrine she could use. Sita made her way again along the corridor of cubicles and down the steep stairs. Dusk was already darkening into night and candles and oil lamps glowed behind the thinly curtained doorways, shadows stretched about her. Descending the stairs in the failing light Sita soon found the kitchen with its long sink and leaking taps. Several men stood cooking, stirring food in large woks over braziers, filling the place with pungent smells.

  The kitchen opened into an air-well, a small courtyard where a square of night sky could be seen high above the house, embedded with stars. Stepping gratefully into the fresh air, Sita stood looking up at the sky. To one side she saw a stone-floored bathing cubicle, and beside it a latrine stall, before which stood the rubbish bin. There were also several large metal tubs for the washing of clothes, stacked beneath a tap. Tomorrow, Sita decided, she would wash her sari here, and also Dev’s shirts and dhoti. Now that she would be living with Dev, she must also learn where to buy rice and pulses and vegetables, so that she could cook for her brother. Although Dev had not yet explained what form her life would follow in Singapore, as his sister he would expect her to look after him and his home.

  When she returned to the cubicle Dev had already lit an oil lamp and she was aware of him observing her, his eyes in the candlelight moist and inquiring. The intensity of this assessment embarrassed her, and she pulled the sari further over her head. Her mind was full of questions. Where was the market and where, after she had washed his shirts in the morning, could she hang them to dry? Glancing around the cubicle, she also wondered what she was going to do all day after she had folded up Dev’s blanket and tidied his few belongings. Were there other women she could make friends with in the rooming house? Would the men he shared the room with return? And if they did, what would she do? As these thoughts ran through her head, Dev cleared his throat and began to speak.

  ‘I have good news. Tomorrow you will be married. My friend Shiva will marry you.’ Dev smiled, revealing fine white teeth.

  Sita started in disbelief. The sari fell from her head, exposing her close-cropped hair, the alarm in her eyes. She wanted to speak but no words came as she stared at her brother in bewilderment. Dev took her silence as a positive response, and smiled again as he continued.

  ‘Shiva bhai is an educated man. He is a teacher at the Ramakrishna Mission School and he is my good friend. Also, he is from Mathura, near our own village. He is from the same community as us, and so he is eating the same food as us and having the same customs.’ He waited, but as Sita remained silent, he continued.

  ‘In India Shiva bhai was a follower of Gandhiji. He believes in the Mahatma’s idea of no dowry, giving education to women and getting widows who are still very young, like you, remarried. Because of these beliefs, Shiva bhai is prepared to marry you. For him marriage to you is an experiment in the new ways of thinking, of Gandhiji’s thinking.’ Dev gave another broad smile of encouragement, but as Sita continued to stare mutely at him he cleared his throat in irritation.
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  ‘When I first arrived in Singapore I went for night classes at the Ramakrishna Mission School, to learn more reading and writing. In Singapore if you want to get on you need a lot of reading and writing. Shiva bhai was my teacher. He has been like an elder brother to me, always advising and encouraging.’

  ‘Why must I marry? Why can’t I stay with you?’ Sita interrupted, words bursting from her at last. Her brother frowned, taken aback by the query.

  ‘How can you stay here in Singapore unless you are married? How will I keep you?’ Dev’s voice rose in exasperation as he continued.

  ‘I have no money to send you back to India, and I have no money to keep you here. I was able to call you here only because Shiva bhai agreed to marry you. Even though your first husband died after the marriage ceremony was completed, he had still not touched you as a wife. For this reason only Shiva bhai agreed to marry you; you are still pure in your body.’ Dev stared at his sister’s lowered head.

  ‘I am also an admirer of Gandhiji, but I would not marry a widow even if I had Shiva bhai’s great ideals.’ He made no effort to hide his disapproval, wanting his sister to understand the enormity of the step his friend was taking. At her continued silence his irritation increased.

  ‘All my money is gone in buying you a gold necklace and gold bangles for your new wedding. They may be gold plated ornaments, not solid gold, but from a distance all are looking the same and they cost me a lot. I have taken a loan from a Chettiar moneylender to buy you these things. It was also Shiva bhai who paid for your passage on the boat to Singapore. He paid this only because you were coming here to be his wife. Please understand; I could never afford to bring you here.’

  Sita continued to stare at her hands, knowing all that was required of her was silent acquiescence; it was useless to protest. Dev’s words pressed down upon her, and the thought of how hard he had worked to secure a future for her filled her with guilt.

  ‘Tomorrow Shiva bhai will marry you,’ Dev repeated firmly, rearranging the blue checked cloth on the sleeping shelf for Sita, spreading out another cloth on the floor for himself.

  Dev fell asleep promptly, and in the darkness Sita stared down at him, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands clasped tightly together. Her brother’s breathing rose and fell steadily; in the distance she heard the cry of a baby, and then a tubercular cough. The scuttle of roaches and the scrabble of rats began. A mosquito whined in her ear. She did not want to get married again. Everything in her resisted the notion. She remembered her relief when her first husband died, and the thought that she would not have to endure his touch.

  For the first time she wished she were back in the ashram, on her sleeping mat beside Billi. If only Billi were nearby to tell her what to do.

  ‘Am I the youngest here?’ Sita had asked as they lay side by side that first night in the stifling heat of the dormitory, the air dense with the odour of communal perspiration, and Billi had nodded.

  ‘You are for now, but you never know who will arrive tomorrow. Roop has been here since she was six years old. Most of the mais were much older when their husbands died, but their children could not afford to keep them. A widow takes up space in a house, is an extra mouth to feed, and needs at least one sari a year. I’ve been here since I was seventeen, now I’m twenty-one. I liked my husband and he liked me, but he died in an accident. I was expecting a baby. The family looked after me until I gave birth. The baby was a boy, but he was born dead. My husband’s family then blamed me for everything, for my husband’s death, for the baby’s death, and they sent me here.’ Billi pointed to the sleeping form of a toothless old crone, snoring gently a short distance away.

  ‘That is Maneka didi, she is the oldest person here. Nobody knows how old she is, seventy, eighty or maybe even ninety. She hasn’t seen her son for years, but she’s still hoping he’ll pay for her funeral. That’s what we’re all saving for, our funeral. It is important they cremate us properly, with enough oil and with proper rites and prayers.’

  As Billi spoke, Sita was filled by a sudden panic. In the darkness she stared up at a small window below the rafters, within which the moon moved beyond silver clouds. Inhaling the fetid smell of the lumpy pillow beneath her head, she touched the comfort of Dev’s letters, secreted away under her blouse in a muslin bag.

  ‘I want to write to my brother Dev.’ Sita sat up suddenly in the darkness, filled by a sense of urgency. Dev might not know what had happened to her, her aunt and uncle might not have told him.

  ‘Pujari will not like it, nor will Roop didi. You belong here now. Our connections to our past life are dead,’ Billi replied, sleepy but firm.

  The next day Sita summoned up courage to ask the mountainous Roop about writing a letter to Dev.

  ‘He will come and get me and take me away,’ Sita assured Roop, sure the woman would be glad to hear there would be one less mouth for the ashram to feed.

  Instead, Roop didi raised her thin eyebrows, and her many chins shook as she laughed.

  ‘Pujari will not allow it. He will not want to lose his little bird before he has taught her to sing.’ Roop didi glared down at her.

  ‘I am singing already,’ Sita drew back, confused.

  Roop didi laughed even harder, a low strangulated sound caught in the depth of her throat.

  Now, in the shadows of her brother’s home, Sita knew she would do as Dev advised. He wanted only the best for her, and there was no option but to accept the future he had arranged.

  Once, in the night she awoke in panic. On the floor, Dev slept heavily. Gathering up her bundle of belongings, she stepped beyond the cubicle into the long dark corridor, filled with an urge to flee. In the darkness she could see nothing, not even the top of the stairwell. There was the scamper of rats, the cry again of a baby. For some moments she stood clutching her few possessions but then returned to the room, for where should she go, and what could she do? Settling back upon the shelf, she tried to absorb the knowledge that soon she would no longer be a widow, but a married woman once again. Listening to the sound of Dev’s deep breathing, her thoughts returned again to the ashram.

  Each day, in between the hours of singing, they went out to beg in the town for alms. From other ashrams, other widows joined them. The narrow streets of Vrindavan were filled by the pale spectral shadows of women, moving silently about, invisible to all but their own kind.

  Once Billi had led them to a busy marketplace where a group of musicians and acrobats beat drums and rattled tambourines; the sound of a pipe floated to them. The people who gathered about the performers were immediately accosted by gangs of waiting beggars. Sita took a step forward, excited by the lively music and the sudden holiday atmosphere. Immediately, Billi held her back, and Sita struggled to be free.

  ‘How will we get money from people if we sit so far from the crowd? Those beggars and the performers will get everything.’ Sita shouted, pointing to the child acrobats whose skinny bodies contorted, turning cartwheels, twirling tin plates on sticks, juggling aubergines and carrots.

  ‘Ssh. We cannot go any nearer,’ Old Maneka shuffled forward, placing a hand on Sita’s arm, drawing her back into the shade of a tree.

  ‘Everyone will run away from you if you approach,’ Billi told her briskly. Maneka nodded and began to speak, her lips working over her toothless gums.

  ‘When I was first widowed I was not allowed to go out of my in-laws’ house. I was not even allowed to draw water from the well because I would pollute it. Nobody served me food properly; my bowl was pushed towards me with a stick. Please understand, our presence is polluting to others.’

  Across the road two dancers joined the acrobats and spun about, their colourful skirts billowing out around them. The sound of the pipe flailed about in Sita’s head.

  ‘If you accidentally touch anyone in that crowd, they will have to go and take a bath and say prayers of purification. Nobody wants you near them.’ Billi spoke angrily.

  ‘But they give us money to sing,’ Sita
shouted, tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘Because we are the living dead, our word reaches God that much quicker,’ Maneka chuckled through her toothless gums, her gnarled hand still gripping Sita’s arm.

  ‘Beti, sit down now and be quiet. Do not struggle against your fate. Afterwards, people will come and give you money so that they may become pure through our prayers. Then, you must cover your head and face, lift up your begging bowl to them and wait. Don’t look up at people; don’t catch their eye. That too is polluting, and upsetting for them.’

  It was as Maneka said. After a while the band and the acrobats moved on and the music died away. Then a few people from the crowd looked across at the widows uncertainly, and began to walk towards them. Sita covered her head and lowered her eyes as Maneka had instructed, lifting her begging bowl above her bowed head. Soon there was the sound of a coin dropping into the bowl, then the clink of another upon it.

  Now, in Dev’s tiny room Sita listened to the sounds of the night, the wail of a cat, the bowling wheels of a passing rickshaw and the voices of men in the road outside. Fate had brought her to this strange place, and soon she would be married again. Soon she would no longer be a living dead thing, but returned to the world. Surely, she thought, this could only be good for her, and that was why Dev had arranged it.

  6

  SINGAPORE, 1939

  The following day Sita waited for her bridegroom, the new sari pulled down over her face, the hanging pearl of the nose ring trembling as she breathed. Wedding garlands of fresh jasmine and roses were heaped on the sleeping shelf, the heady scent of the flowers filling the cubicle. Dev stood in the doorway, looking by turns expectantly at the corridor for a first sight of Shiva, then moving to stare apprehensively at his sister as she sat, head bowed, waiting mutely for her fate.

  ‘Shiva bhai has no family; you will not have to adapt to any in-laws. In India his parents are dead, and the relatives who brought him up are also dead,’ Dev reassured her in an encouraging voice.