Devi

by Nag Mani

  “What is that room for?” asked Bhagvati as she pulled out the innards, taking the first step to break the awkward silence.

  Aditi looked at the room before replying. The window was closed. The broken lock was still hanging from the latch. “A well,” she replied, her voice hoarse and weak.

  Bhagvati stopped to look at her, then at the room. Another awkward silence. “You shouldn’t have broken the lock then,” she returned to slicing the fish. “Assuming,” she looked up again, “it was locked before you moved in.” When Aditi did not reply, Bhagvati murmured, “I thought so. No wonder this house is not in peace.”

  “What? What is not in peace?”

  “Your house. Don’t you see it?”

  “See what?”

  “Someone comes to visit your house! Don’t you hear her at night? Or even during daytime, when things turn quiet?”

  Aditi felt a cold wave sweep over her. She had heard it many a time in her bedroom – someone humming, someone passing through the hall. Sometimes, as she lay on her bed reading a book or just contemplating, she felt a presence behind the curtains of the door… watching her, silent and still, though she could not see anything. Sometimes when the door was shut, it would swing open just a little bit, as if letting a breeze pass. One night while cooking dinner, she heard the door of the outhouse open on its own. And through the window, she saw the chickens retreat to the rear of their coop. She had tried to bring up the topic with Manoj, but he never bothered to say anything about it. Maybe because he himself did not know much, did whatever the villagers advised him to, took every precaution without asking for an explanation. But here was this woman, who had said it out loud. “What is with opening the room?”

  “Oh, never mind, my son. What was I thinking! This is the house. Would have happened anyway, either locked or not. But if I had my way, I wouldn’t have let you break it. It is one thing going around meddling…”

  “I don’t understand what you are saying. Yes, I hear it too…”

  “Her…”

  “What?”

  “You hear her too. But why shouldn’t you. This is her house after all. She has claimed it. Why shouldn’t she visit her own house?”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “The Devi.” Bhagvati was done with the first fish. She picked up the second and raised its tail to the blade. “But you don’t know about it, my son, do you? About the legend of the Devi?”

  “I know. About the queen. The sacrifice. Her spirit. These villagers have to sacrifice animals to keep her pleased.”

  “But that is not the whole story,” Bhagvati returned to her work. She cut off the fins and began scaling the fish, dipping her hands in ash every now and then to keep it from slipping. “Do you want to hear the whole story?” The cat rose from its perch and climbed on the roof to get a better view. “It is only fair that I tell you the legend, now that I have been blabbering my stories all over to the girls. But I wonder, why hasn’t anyone told you yet?”

  “Because they think I am an outsider. The less I know, the better.”

  “But if you knew more, you wouldn’t have opened the door.”

  “Maybe they thought it would scare me. As it is, my husband is a bit too possessed with the bank. And I live all alone in the house. But whatever, the point being, why is opening the door so relevant? Why is it so important to keep it locked?”

  “When did I say it was important? But it would have been better to keep it the way it was. You never know what may enrage them. Coming back to the story now, let me tell you about the Devi.” With that, Bhagvati beheaded the second fish. “This region, you see, was once ruled by small kings. As time passed and those white foreigners began to take over the lands, these kings were reduced to rich families with lots and lots of land and peasants working under them. Their lands were divided with each passing generation. They were families with rich heritage and dwindling fortune. But what didn’t dwindle with time was their pride.” She threw the last piece in the plate and then dumped the plate in the tub. The water turned red. She dipped her hands and started cleaning the pieces. “Long before those white people were kicked out, the lands around this village were owned by one such family. In those times a goddess, Ma Puran Devi, looked after all the lands around. She lived in a mango tree. It was during the reign of this family that most of the mango trees were planted here and that old temple built. They kept her pleased and she showered her blessing on them.”

  She drained the tub. Poured fresh water. Started her cleaning again. “There was another such family far to the east, near the Bengal border. Extremely rich. It had three daughters who were famous for their beauty, and also for the dowry their father offered. It was said that every man who even attended their wedding was given a pair of gold coins. Dowry was a measure of a man’s worth. His prestige. In those days, dowries were lavishly given, not asked. It was a social status.” She stopped her cleaning and looked up. Held her eyes. And then smiled slightly. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Society has lost its wealth. But not its greed. What was then given as a gift is now demanded as a right.” She washed the pieces clean, then washed her hands and wiped them dry with her aanchal. She carried the pieces and the utensils back to the kitchen. Then she sat down next to Aditi with a sigh. “The youngest daughter, the third, was arranged to be married to the prince of these lands. But that’s when fate played its own cards. There was a severe draught to the east. Crops failed. Cattle died. Lives were lost. When the marriage actually took place, there wasn’t much that could be given. Our prince returned home empty handed. That is what his people remembered of the wedding. This was an insult. They took no notice of the beautiful bride. And his mother, she took the insult to her heart. She wanted another wife for him. One who could pay his worth. One who could restore his status.

  “But the wheels were turning. The draught spread to her own land. There was panic. The mother saw it as an opportunity. She accused the bride of witchcraft. She blamed her for bringing the curse along with her. People believed her, for she also had influence over the head priest of the temple. Then one wretched day, the young bride, or the queen you can say, was dragged out of her house and brought to the temple. Her in-laws watched as she was stripped naked and washed. And then, she was beheaded. She was sacrificed to appease the goddess.”

  “Her husband?” Aditi asked, her ears glued to the story. Her voice was still frail. “He did not protect her?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. The legend is in shreds. But I wonder if it still would have happened had he protected her. But what did happen was that after she was beheaded, her body was tied to a mule and dragged to the main market. This is where it used to be. There was a well, right in the centre of the old village.” She glanced at the locked room. “And in there her body was dumped. They believed that her sacrificial blood would flow with the water and bring its level up. But that did not happen. What happened was that the ancient mango tree over the temple dried and withered soon after the sacrifice. The Devi, Ma Puran Devi, was angry and left her seat. And what took her place instead was the soul of the queen. She wiped out the entire royal family in times to come. She began to haunt the village. Farmers would run to their homes come evening and shut their doors and windows. The temple bell would chime after the darkness set in and she would emerge from the shrine and roam the streets. Villagers trembled if they heard her passing by their house, for if she knocked, someone in the house would die by morning. The villagers would huddle together in their houses every night, watching their doors… desperately waiting for the sun to rise.”

  “Was she killing the people who took part in the sacrifice?”

  “Maybe. But soon the village was abandoned. Years passed and she was sighted less and less often, until she disappeared completely. Then came the robbers. They hid in the plantation and looted and killed. It was the perfect hideout. After Independence, a group of Muslims came here to escape the wrath of Hindu communities. And then there was this
barrage proposal that saw the construction of the house you live in. The story of the Devi was tainted and torn as it spread from mouth to mouth, for decades. People forgot about the true deity of the temple. Ma Puran Devi was replaced by Devi, who had to be appeased lest something unfortunate happened in the village.”

  “What kind of mother was she?” Aditi spoke louder than she had intended. She was filled with hatred for these uneducated village people. They and their primitive ways of living. “Who killed someone just because she thought her son hadn’t been paid his worth! To earn back his prestige? Wasn’t she a woman herself?”

  “Never underestimate what a mother can do for her child, however misguided her beliefs may be,” Bhagvati replied, “especially, if misguided her beliefs be.”

  “And what about Puran Devi? Why didn’t she stop the sacrifice itself? No wonder they stopped worshipping her altogether.”

  Bhagvati looked at her with astonishment. “Oh! No! No, my son! She is a goddess, not some mere spirit! They have their own ways of doing things. And she is still worshipped. You, of all the people should know that! One of her most ancient temples is in Purnia itself. Haven’t you heard of the Puran Devi Temple in the old city?” There was a pause. “Oh! You haven’t! You must visit it when you go back. You must. Puran Devi Temple. That’s how Purnia got its name! Ma Puran Devi. Purnia.”

  The story ended with a meow from the cat. Having waited long enough, it yawned and stretched, then jumped down the roof and walked slowly along the wall, eyeing them with contempt. Bhagvati went back to the kitchen and busied herself. Aditi remained seated on the steps as the winds grew stronger and dark clouds encroached the skies. She sat there until rain started battering the yard, spraying the hem of her sari with mud and dirt.

  CHAPTER 11

  IN THE NAME OF LOVE

  Zeenat, the eldest sister, didn’t come for tuitions for four days. When Aditi asked her sisters, they just smiled and giggled and told her she was off to school. Aditi was curious about her sudden interest in school even when it had been raining continuously for a day and a half. But all she gleaned was that their teacher had suddenly started calling them. Bhagvati sat on the cot every day, leaving all her work to watch the girls study. One day, when Zeenat did come, she was in her uniform, her hair neatly tied back. Wearing a deep kohl. A bit of powder on her neck. Looking pretty.

  “Since when have you started wearing that kajal?” Aditi asked as they took their respective seats.

  This innocent question was received with an unexpected reaction. Zeba gasped and glanced at Bhagvati. Zeenat was wide eyed, alert. “Please don’t tell Ammi!” she blurted out.

  “Tell her what? You haven’t been going to school? Is it?”

  “No, not that. Please don’t tell her about the kajal!”

  “Why? What is it with your kajal?”

  “You see,” Zoya tried to give an explanation, “Ammi says that it isn’t good for girls to use kajal, or powder, or lipstick. And she will beat us if we did. But she herself does it all the time. Like with the books. She herself did not study, but slaps me when I say I don’t want to come here.” She bit her tongue. “No. I want to come here. But I don’t want to come here to study. Because I don’t want to study. I want to play with those chickens.” She took a quick breath and added, “Yes, we have our own chickens back at home, but they bite me when I go near them. They chase after me. See.” She lifted her ankle to show an invisible mark.

  “You girls and your secrets!” Aditi sighed. “But why didn’t you come yesterday? And don’t tell me you went to school. It was raining like mad hell!”

  “No, I went to school!” Zeenat replied promptly. “You can ask Ammi.”

  Aditi didn’t probe further. It couldn’t have been unusual for the school to take sudden interest in attendance. But when she looked up, she found Zeenat giving an intimidating look to Zoya. “Okay now! You! Zeba! Will you tell me what is going on?”

  “I?” Zeba was startled. “I don’t know anything.” A quick glance at Zeenat and she hung her head.

  “You won’t? But Zoya will! Won’t you, my girl?”

  “She bought the kajal from the money she stole from my Baba’s pockets! I saw her! And she gave me a marble and told me not to tell Ammi.”

  “I did not steal it,” mumbled Zeenat and leaned over her book, pretending to do her work.

  Bhagvati was smiling feebly to herself. Whatever mischief the girls were up to, she had a role in it, or at least knew about it. Aditi knew very well the girls confided in Bhagvati, for wasn’t she the all-knowing grandmother with exotic stories up her sleeves!

  A week rolled by, Aditi became more and more curious as to when Bhagvati would leave. Not that Aditi wanted her to leave, for the house was much livelier with her around. And she couldn’t bring herself to ask her what exactly she was there for. She didn’t bother asking Manoj, for she was still not speaking to him, while he continued to go about his daily routine, ignoring altogether the stiff silence that hung in his house. He came home, did his prayers, ate his food, tried to talk, but gave up easily when he received no reply, and then went to sleep. He often had long conversations with Bhagvati in the backyard at nights. Their interactions the rest of the day were limited to Bhagvati asking questions about his daily requirements, his food most of the time, and Manoj giving curt replies.

  Aditi had earlier guessed that the elderly woman had come to ask for some financial help, but had that been the case, she wouldn’t have stayed that long. Bhagvati showed a lot more care and affection when dealing with Aditi. Somewhere, deep down her consciousness, she must have felt that her sudden appearance had turned the life of a happily married woman upside down.

  Aditi couldn’t help but ask one day when she found Bhagvati putting some of her clothes in her briefcase. “Manoj finally helped with what you came for?”

  “What can I say, my son?” Bhagvati looked up and gave a painful smile, baring her stained teeth, her long, wrinkled fingers entwined. “I know that you have been waiting for me to leave…”

  “It’s not…”

  “…and I understand. It was my fault to turn up one day, uninvited. I thought I could ask Manoj for help. I thought why wouldn’t he? He is my boy, after all. But he has his own family to take care of. Please be patient with me, son. I too have a family. My daughter, Payal. I wouldn’t have been bothering you had it not been for her.”

  Aditi sat down next to Bhagvati and took her hands in her own. For reasons unknown, Bhagvati suddenly began to appear as a motherly figure to her. She was doing all this for her daughter. Aditi felt ashamed for treating her the way she did, not giving her the hospitality any guest would have expected. “You are not bothering anyone here. And you will not leave until Manoj gives you what you want. In fact, tell me. I will talk to him.”

  “I wouldn’t have been in this situation if Lakshmi were… But you, you are far more wonderful than I heard them say. I asked Manoj to help me with my daughter’s marriage. I thought he is all this big bank manager. He wouldn’t have been if it wasn’t for my husband. What could hurt him to spare something for us?”

  Aditi’s expression changed. “Hadn’t been for your husband?”

  “You don’t know about it? But then, you couldn’t have. This world has its own plans. It was my husband who paid for his college. His college, and far more in the name of college. We fulfilled all his demands and his brother’s as well. We basically ran his family. We were ourselves not rich, let me tell you that. My husband was an auto-rickshaw driver. But we let it be, for the sake of Lakshmi. That one day she would be married to some high-shot officer babu. Life had already consumed us; there was nothing more for us. But she was still young. We did it for her.”

  Aditi inhaled as the information sunk in. Whatever luxury came with her husband’s job was the fruit of the sacrifices the woman sitting in front of her had made. His own goddamn family hadn’t even bothered to graduate him. But what pinched her was the fate of the woman – she had sow
n the seed, looked after the plant, but leave alone the fruit, even its shade was not hers to enjoy.

  Bhagvati’s eyes began to sparkle. “We did everything for her. Whatever was hers by right, we gave it to him and his family. We shaped his life so that she could live happily with him. But he never accepted her. He considered her too illiterate to be the wife of an officer. That is how life mocks us! We took away her education and gave it to him, and…” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “When she died, we thought it was Manoj. We went to his village with our men and police. We were sure it was he who had done it, that he had pushed her off the stairs. Maybe we had been impulsive. There was an investigation, but the police could not find any foul-play. It had been an accident after all.” She wiped her face with her aanchal and tried to smile, a sad smile. “That wasn’t the end of our misery. When the investigation was going on, my husband had an accident. Something happened to his back, that something cord you say. He was paralysed. Couldn’t drive any more. Whatever we had saved for our younger daughter went into his treatment. They said he would recover. And he did. But he is a drunkard now. Drinks night and day on the money I borrow from my relatives. Should have left him to die on his bed when I had the chance. Married my daughter with the money I had and drowned myself in the Ganga.”