Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  The following day Sita returned home and Dev and Rohini accompanied her, advising repeatedly against her decision. They climbed the spiral metal stair and Sita turned the key in the heavy padlock, knowing it was Shiva who had secured the lock on that last day together. Stepping into the hot, trapped air of the room she breathed in the scent of mildew, and hurried to open the shutters of the window. Light and air flooded in and she glimpsed again the familiar view of the courtyard below, and at the top of the lane the Ramakrishna Mission with its roof of dome-shaped pavilions. There was the scuttle of geckoes amongst Shiva’s books and papers. Everything was as they had left it on that last day. Dev and Rohini followed her into the room like adults pleasing a fractious child whose demands must run their course before common sense returns.

  ‘This room is so small,’ Rohini announced, hands on hips, looking around in a critical manner, clearly pleased that her own home appeared superior.

  She inspected the kitchen arrangements, putting down the metal tiffin carrier of food she had cooked for Sita. Picking up a cushion and thick cotton rug, she shook them vigorously on the stairs outside, exclaiming at the dust.

  ‘Now you are alone, you must see the door is always locked,’ Dev warned.

  ‘It is not right that you live alone. You are a widow, people will talk,’ Rohini reminded Sita once again, returning to the room with the cushion and rug.

  ‘It is the duty of a brother to look after his sister,’ Dev reiterated in an aggrieved voice, taking the rug from Rohini and spreading it on the floor again.

  ‘Being a soldier has made her more like a man,’ Rohini observed with a short, hard laugh. Sita bit her lip and said nothing.

  Rohini had found a woman to clean the room on a regular basis and this old crone arrived as they stood talking, to be instructed loudly about her duties by Rohini.

  ‘Where is your pail and cloth?’ Rohini demanded, and Sita hurried to find these items.

  ‘You will soon see this is not the way to live,’ Dev announced sadly, as he prepared to leave at last, and beside him Rohini nodded, lips pursed in her customary manner.

  Sita listened in relief to the metallic ring of their footsteps fading away down the stairs. Her brother seemed to have forgotten she had lived alone in this same room while Shiva was busy in the INA camp, and Dev was working at the far end of the island for the Japanese.

  As soon as she was alone, Sita turned to the old clock on the wall, and wound up its rusty innards. Moving the hands to the right time, she remembered that it was Shiva who had last touched the key she now held. On the shelf, his shaving mug still stood as he had left it, the brush holding the faint perfume of his last shave. At the other end of the shelf the devi waited as always, perched upon her tiger, radiant in her metal frame. Sita found a stick of incense to light, and placed it before the goddess.

  Alone at last, she had not realised how painfully memories would press upon her. The room was filled with the scent of burning incense, and she boiled up some water, remembering the copious amounts of tea Shiva drank and the ritual of making it for him. The food Dev and Rohini had left for her was still warm, and she ate it gratefully. In the weeks since Shiva’s death was confirmed, she had found herself dry-eyed, everything locked down inside her. Now, faced with Shiva’s desk, and the bedding roll upon which they had slept that last night, realisation flooded through her, and she gave a cry of pain. The memory of Shiva’s displeasure on that last day, and his concern for her the following morning as they prepared to leave, cut through her anew, and she buried her head in her hands. On the wall the old clock began to strike, coughing out its familiar rusty chimes. The stick of incense burned low, the ash falling in a worm of grey powder before the devi’s picture.

  The next day she made her way to the Ramakrishna Mission. At the corner of the alley Vishwanathan sat as usual at his stall. He leaped to his feet when he saw her, looking about for Shiva.

  ‘Be strong, sister, everyone is here for you,’ he reassured her when she gave him the news, turning sadly to select the usual coconut and place it in her hands.

  ‘Savitri also died. One day she just did not wake up.’ He looked down at his feet and fell silent.

  Telling him she would pick up the coconut on the way home, Sita turned the corner into Norris Road. The Japanese language school was gone and the Ramakrishna Mission had returned to reclaim its premises, and both the boys’ and the girls’ schools were preparing to reopen. In place of Swami Baswaranada there was now Swami Vamadevananda, a lanky man with no flesh on his bones, who had recently arrived from India. He already knew of Shiva’s long association with the mission and the work Sita had done before joining the INA. When she explained the limits of her education, he listened patiently.

  ‘We need all the help we can get at this time, there is much to rebuild and reorganise.’ He was clearly pleased by Sita’s wish for a role in the life of the mission, and respectful of her status as a Rani of the Jhansi Regiment.

  ‘Our small girls need a teacher for games; with all your army discipline, you can do that. Also, we have had some enquiries for basic extra tutoring for beginners in reading and writing, and this also you can do,’ Swami said, already looking for ways to help her.

  He ordered some tea and as they drank it he told her about the many destitute children of dead Indian labourers, men who had been forcibly taken to work on the Burma Siam railway. Memories of the men pulled from the mission’s scaffolding and those in the labour camp flooded back to Sita as she listened.

  ‘We have established a boys’ orphanage now on land we have been given at Bartley Road but, as we are pressed for space, we are moving our Girls’ Home to the Ramakrishna Mission in Penang; they have very spacious premises there. I have one more job for you; will you help us escort the children there later? As an ex-soldier, everyone would feel very safe with you,’ Swami Vamadevanada chuckled.

  Her new life was not dissimilar to what it had been after Shiva joined the INA, and she had lived for a while by herself. The mission was once more full of children, and Vishwanathan again saved her a coconut each day. On Norris Road, even though food was not plentifully available, hawkers and stalls reappeared to sell whatever they could. The black market played a role in everyone’s lives, and rationing continued.

  Each day Sita went into the mission and organised sports of various kinds for the girls, on the land behind the building, where Shiva had once given cricket lessons and been photographed with his pupils. The children enjoyed the obstacle courses she set up, simplified versions of those she had trained on in the Bras Basah camp. Although she washed and ironed all her old saris, for sports lessons and as much as she could, she continued wearing her old army trousers and a long loose shirt, happy with such comfortable attire. After school, there was the tutoring Swami Vamadevananda had arranged for her. At first it was just one or two small children, but with recommendations and referrals, the list began to grow. The money she earned from the mission was small, but all she wanted was to be able to pay her rent and maintain her independence.

  Soon, there was a routine to anchor her to her new life. In the schoolroom the smell of chalk, the shrill chirp of children’s voices and the hum of rote learning floating from the classrooms, carried her through each day. Slowly, the months passed, and like a shadow dwindling as the light increased, Shiva’s ghost in the room appeared less intense, until Sita understood there was nothing now in her life but herself. It disturbed her to find she did not clearly recall her husband’s face, but could only remember him feature by feature. When she peered into Shiva’s small shaving mirror there was only her own reflection, everywhere she turned she came up against herself. In the room shadows lengthened then lightened, then lengthened again, turning each day seamlessly into the next.

  At the weekends, she visited Rohini and Dev, who was ever anxious to do his brotherly duty. Sita understood his need to fulfil what he saw as his role in her life, and for that reason silently endured Rohini’s unspoken condemna
tion. Something about her, she soon realised, must appear a threat to her sister-in-law. The thought surprised her for, widowed for a second time, what did she have in her life but the sum of bitter experience?

  ‘Do not tell people what you did in the war,’ Rohini warned more than once, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Even though you learned to shoot like a man, you could not bring us independence,’ she added, unable to hide her satisfaction at Sita’s failure.

  ‘There is to be a big trial at the Red Fort in Delhi. The British want to hang our INA men as traitors,’ Dev informed her quietly as they sat together one evening.

  Sita said nothing, afraid to appear too knowledgeable of events in the world in front of Rohini. Alone in her room, she listened to Shiva’s radio, and knew that all of India was ablaze with the impending Red Fort trial. Jawaralal Nehru himself was to defend the INA prisoners, and the British were apprehensive of the potential revolt this might inspire. On the radio it was said that the British were even considering giving India her independence. If this happened, then all Shiva and Netaji had fought for would come to be. She leaned forward to comment on this to Dev, but then fell silent, swallowing down her opinion for fear of upsetting Rohini.

  At last, the Girls’ Home at the Ramakrishna Mission was ready to close, and the children prepared for the move to Penang. Besides Sita, four volunteers from the mission, the wives of local merchants, were to accompany the large group of small orphans. The route by train and bus retraced part of Sita’s previous journey to Burma. Once again, surrounded now by a carriage full of small children, the lurch and swing of the train rocked through Sita as she stared out into the greenness of the jungle and rubber estates, the plaintive bleat of the whistle coming to her. Somewhere in that emerald world Muni lived her life, and what it may now encompass was impossible to know.

  Now that the war was over and they travelled without fear of attack, the journey, although long, was smooth and easy, and the children were eventually deposited without incident at the Ramakrishna Mission at Penang. On the journey back they were to stop for a day and a night in Kuala Lumpur, and Sita knew what she would do. Muni’s plantation was not far from the town, and as soon as they arrived at their accommodation Sita made enquiries.

  ‘It is outside town, but not too far. A bus goes past that estate,’ they told her at the hotel.

  In the early morning, telling her companions from the mission that she was going to visit a friend, she boarded a bus, taking with her some bread and fruit in case the journey was longer than anticipated. At last she found herself at her destination, and stood before a set of rusty metal gates bearing the name, McCarthy Rubber Estate. The gate hung askew, and the letters above it that had once been emblazoned in gold were now faded and indistinct. Beyond the gate Sita glimpsed a green and orderly world of regimented rubber trees.

  26

  SINGAPORE, 2000

  On her desk the computer screen glowed like a hole in the dim room. Amita did not bother to put on the light. The dark was comforting, and besides, she had one of her headaches. It seemed she had only to think of Rishi for a headache to begin. She wished she could climb through the glowing screen on the desk and disappear into another dimension. Outside, in the dusk, cars were starting up in the car park of the Arts and Social Sciences building, a headlight moved through the shadows; people were going home to their dinner. If she did not put on the light, Parvati would think she had also gone home. There would be no telltale glow beneath the door, and if she knocked, Amita would not answer. Rishi had come to collect Parvati, she could hear his voice in the corridor asking her if this bag was to go down to the car, or that one?

  ‘Ready?’ He spoke impatiently.

  Amita imagined him standing in the doorway of the room, holding his wife’s canvas bag of books, while Parvati picked up the empty flask of coffee from the desk and her handbag from the top of the filing cabinet, and reached to switch off the light. Almost as Amita imagined these moves she heard the click of the door shutting. Now, with a small movement of her head, Parvati would glance towards Amita’s door, see the darkness and turn away.

  There was the sound of their footsteps in the corridor, the tap of Parvati’s heels and the soft squeak of Rishi’s rubber soles stepping in unison, growing fainter, then silence as they passed out of the glass doors before the lift. It was Friday night, the weekend stretched ahead and Amita would not have to think about either Parvati or Rishi until the following Monday. Parvati’s interviews with her mother were over. Once Sita’s narrative had reached the point of the disbanding of the Rani of Jhansi Regiment at the end of the war, Parvati’s research was finished. Amita was relieved that she no longer need welcome Parvati into her home, and at the university also, she distanced herself in whatever small way she could. She had finally replaced her electric kettle, and splurged on a can of superior ground coffee as well as a glass cafetiere. It meant she now had coffee as good as Parvati’s, and there was less need to go to her room.

  Yet, for how long could she find excuses not to go to Parvati’s office? And what would she say when loose clothes no longer hid her pregnancy? The thought of Rishi stirred through her more often than she liked, and she felt again the abrasive rub of his cheek upon her. These unexpected evocations of memory appeared unasked, like drifting spectres, invisible until they collided with her. She would never ever tell Rishi or Parvati about the child. Yet she already anticipated the problems ahead. Who is the father, Parvati would ask, as Amita grew bigger, looking up at her with a teasing smile. What would she say? What could she say? It was no longer a question of not wanting to hurt Parvati. The situation was now a conundrum of monumental proportions; it was a maze of dead-end avenues, and in each waited a ravenous Minotaur. There was also her mother; Amita had forgotten about her mother; what would she say to her? There was no way to survive the situation alive. Any sensible woman would have chosen the freedom of abortion, a freedom she herself had once marched for in America, angrily shaking a placard above her head. Amita placed a hand on her belly, seeing again the dark grotto on the ultrasound, and at its centre the manikin, and knew the decision she had made was the right one.

  A day earlier she had called the hospital, and cancelled the appointment for a termination, speaking to the receptionist at the appointments desk, seeing no need to bother Dr. Tay directly. As soon as she put the phone down she was filled with joy and knew she wanted this child, her daughter. At first, in a rush of excited planning, she browsed through advertisements for vacant posts in American universities, but soon realised that by the time such a move could be arranged, half a year or more might pass. The object of running away before anyone knew of her condition was already defeated by the time lapse involved. And how would she move, looking by then like a ship in full sail, and trailing an ageing mother, for she could not leave Sita behind alone?

  In the car park of the AS5 building a car door slammed and, as she listened to Rishi start the engine of his small second-hand Honda, the phone on her desk began to ring. It was Jennifer, one of her MA students.

  ‘We’re waiting for you in the seminar room. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Sorry, got delayed. On my way now,’ Amita hurriedly replied.

  She had forgotten the evening class and the students waiting for her now in the department of Political Science, a short distance away.

  The Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences was spread out across Kent Ridge. The older buildings on campus, often layered down hillsides and connected by walkways and endless flights of stairs, were not for the elderly or infirm; lifts were few and far between. Amita’s headache and swollen feet added to her general discomfort and she was forced to rest on the journey to the seminar room, leaning against some railings along one of the walkways between buildings. As she was not going back to her room in AS5 after the class, but straight home, she carried with her a bag of books and her laptop, and these now weighed heavily upon her. As she paused to regain her breath she turned to look over the r
ailing at the gathering shadows in the wide spreading branches of a raintree, and an idea came to her. The Delhi conference where she would be giving a plenary was only a few weeks away, and she had planned to visit her mother’s village at that time. Perhaps she could take Sita with her and stay on, fabricating an emergency reason for not returning, such as some sudden illness for her mother. She could prepare lessons for a substitute teacher at the university, and be in email contact with her students. After the baby was born she would return to Singapore, saying she had adopted a child in India. It was a mad plan, but it might work. As she bent to pick up her bag and continue her journey, she felt the sudden sprouting of new hope.

  At last she reached the seminar room and opened the door to face her post-graduate students. She was relieved to see there were only three of them grouped around the table tonight, two Indian girls, Shanti and Renu, and Jennifer, the Chinese girl who had called her earlier, the other two students in the group not having shown up.

  Renu, a plump girl with an eagerness that endeared her to Amita and annoyed her in equal measure, had received funding to go to a conference in Manila to present a paper in a few weeks. In class the previous week Amita had agreed that tonight Renu would read her paper, and they would discuss it in class. Amita sank down on a chair in relief, immediately kicking off her tight shoes beneath the table, and plumped her bag down on the floor beside her. Not much would be demanded of her this evening, and for this she was grateful, as the energy she had to invest in the class was diminishing by the minute.

  Renu’s paper, Discardable Daughters: Dowry Deaths in India, was one she had personally steered the girl towards, yet now she was overcome by a deep need to hear no more on this subject or any other to do with Indian society’s attitudes towards women. The girl’s work was competent, but without the edge Amita expected from her students, and her papers were always long on quotes and short on argument.