"I'm a good, loyal worker. You won't have any complaints from me." In her thin frame large watery eyes pleaded with me to rescue her. My heart fell. I could not help her and she could not help me. I palmed her a few notes to prevent a deluge of begging hands pressing in on me. Her mouth opened and her eyes lowered to stare at her clenched fist.
"It's a great pity, Manasa. I'm really sorry." Liz sympathised, clinging to Sally's arm, as if that was all that shielded her from the misery all around us. "I don't see what else we can do now, except get out of this place, do you?"
"Wait, there is one more thing we can do." I remained still as they gazed at me. From their eyes I knew they had guessed my thoughts.
"Well come on then. I don't fancy an expedition into the far-flung reaches of this God-forsaken hell in the sudden pitch black. Let's get moving." Sally's boldness once again reduced our worries to one of simple impatience. I was very fond of my generous friends. We found ourselves stopping often to rest or for refreshment for us all, including our overjoyed porters. It slowed us up but we were still acclimatising ourselves to the denser atmosphere of the city. With trepidation we approached the market.
"Manasa, it would be much better if you waited here for us to ask around first." Liz suggested.
"Your Bengali is good but I need to be certain of what is said. This is the last place for us to look for her. If she has gone away, I need to be sure of where to find her." I insisted.
"OK, but I think we'd better not call you Manasa in the market. Now that you look more western how about a European name like Patricia? You'd probably pass for Anglo-Indian now."
"Yes." I replied uncomfortably aware of my new identity once more.
As we entered the market, my mouth dried and my legs felt exposed and shaky in my western dress. The test came, as we ambled past Bharati's stall. She was closing up and took great interest in the odd caravan of strangers. It was what I expected but was enormously relieved when she failed to call out to me in recognition. The shoppers were dwindling away as the stalls closed. We stopped to bargain for bits and pieces of food, and a roll of indifferent cotton cloth. We needed to look as normal as possible. At last we approached Dinesh's pitch. A couple of women and a wizened old man flitted about, haggling with a few last minute stragglers.
"This is the one." I whispered to Liz. She stood quietly with Sally, and our porters while I approached one of the women who had taken ownership of Dinesh's stall.
"I would like some jasmine. Do you have a few fresh sprigs left?"
"Here. Just a few left and you can have some marigolds too." She bundled them into my arms and took my money. "I haven't seen you before." She eyed me curious for information. Then added, "I like to become friends with all my customers and to know what pleases them."
"I have come to find my cousin, Sharmila. She used to work here in the market, I was told."
Her face fell and she stared in horror. "Your cousin?"
"Yes." I was terrified she was going to scream or call for help she look so shocked.
"You are a respectable lady, I can tell." She bowed. Then raced on excitedly, "but your cousin is a very, very bad woman. She ran away. Everyone was looking for her. I found her lying here one morning with her throat cut. Her boys are still here somewhere. I don't think they'll ever recover from what happened."
"Sharmila was murdered?" A huge wave of dizziness made me grasp the edge of the stall. From behind me I felt warm breath on my neck and a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"You are enquiring about Sharmila?" It was Assad. I twisted about in desperation to look for Liz and Sally who were only a little way off. I caught Sally's curious glance.
"Yes." I replied but Assad must surely have felt my uncontrollable quaking.
"Take off those glasses. What is your name?" He demanded.
"Jamilla." I mumbled.
Sally marched over to us. "Take your hands off her," yelled Sally. "Come on Patricia, let's go, the market is closing." I had forgotten the unfamiliar name we had agreed on for me and Sally had not heard my mistake.
I leaned close to the woman to ask. "Hurry, you must tell me where Sharmila's boys are."
"There they are over there, by the wall where they sit all day long."
"I'm certain I know you! Take off those glasses!" Assad tightened his grip and getting no co-operation yanked away the glasses. "Yes, yes. Manasa!" His revolting smirk grizzled his face into the evil bully I remembered. His hand slid contemptuously over my breast. My face burned with shock and humiliation. Then He jolted me by arching suddenly up and backwards with a groan.
"Chauvinist bastard." Sally's fist was still balled from the punch in the small of his back. The woman shrank down behind the stall. The old man stared in fright. My ire rose as I saw my opportunity. I was thankful for the freedom of my dress. I brought my knee up against Assad's groin with the weight of great anger. He collapsed squirming and groaning to the ground. I spat on him. The old man and the woman were now on tiptoe not to miss any drama for later gossip. "Rape!" I yelled and yelled in delight at his defeat, though my body still quivered nervously. I tore at Assad's face with a wild hatred that gave me such strength I was unstoppable. I spat and yelled, and scratched at him.
"Liar! Liar!" Assad hissed at me writhing helplessly.
Sally flung a handful of rupees at the old couple. "Stop now, Manasa, stop." She commanded.
She and Liz dragged me off my stunned and bleeding adversary, while I trembled at my own ferocity. Then, high on my own excitement yelled. "Follow me quickly. Hurry!" I ushered the porters ahead. They had already dropped our bags with flight in their eyes. I offered them plenty of baksheesh to stop them running away. They grabbed our things again and we all headed off towards Sharmila's boys I wanted to run but I knew it was better to walk steadily.
The boys sat as limp as tired vegetable leaves against a low wall. "Tarun, Anil." They looked ahead with glassy puzzled stares. Anil was clutching his grubby yellow kite.
"It is me, Manasa." Their uncomprehending eyes were blank. "You have to come home with me and see Lipika. She misses you and so do I." They continued staring vacantly. My voice rose in my anxiety to rescue them. "Hurry! Come on!"
"They are scared, Manasa, be gentle." Liz whispered. "Remember you look different in those clothes."
I took a breath and began again. "Do you remember Lipika? She used to visit you in the market and you all played together?"
Two little tear-stained faces pointed up at me sharply, briefly.
"Mummy said once that I was her very best friend. Remember it was me who gave that kite to you? Would you like to come with me and see your little friend again? Lipika has missed you both as I have. She longs to play with you."
Sally held out some fruit. I crouched down to gather them gently to me. They snuggled into me and clung on without uttering a word. "Now you must each take my hand." They obeyed easily clasping the fruit to them like something cherished. At last someone who had known and loved their mother. We could not walk very fast but after a short time they gratefully allowed us to carry them. We searched frantically for taxis that would take us across the river to find a hostel to bed down for the night. My mind was whirring. I had lost another dear one. I had loved Sharmila for her steadfast friendship and encouragement. She had done all she could to protect her boys and had befriended me, when I so desperately needed her. Now she was gone and her boys had been left shocked in their lonely grief. It was pitiful to look at their neglected bony little bodies. They smelt of urine and their faces were ingrained with mucus and dirt. I was grateful that Liz and Sally did not back away from them. My friends proved themselves to have hearts as well as strong words.
We found a hostel where we could spend the night. The boys lolled with sleep as we scrubbed them. We tucked them up naked so that we could give their dreadful little rags a scrub too. By the time we had finished we were all so exhausted we tumbled into bed leaving our own ablutions until morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY
-THREE
Too shocked and exhausted to share our thoughts the previous night we sat on the floor of that bleak room, next morning eating rice and dhal. The boys were a little more alert. They sat in the corner like small well disciplined monks silently devouring their food. We left them alone. They would gain more trust and confidence with time. All this was confusing for them following the catastrophic loss of their mother.
"They remind me of a pair of Chihuahuas poor little souls." Liz commented.
"Thank goodness we went with you, Manasa. Who was that rat in the market?" Sally asked.
"He was from the brothel." I said. "I wish I could have killed him but I knew that then I would degrade myself further. He dragged us all into shame." Revulsion constricted my throat as my tears fell in huge drops. Both friends put their arms round me. I sobbed hard unable to stop. Two little bodies wriggled into our laps and clung on hard, weeping with me. Probably the first tears they had felt safe to shed. I shall never forget the kindness of my friends. They allowed the boys and me to sleep, a while, before we continued our journey.
We approached the village later that morning. I was back in my familiar sari. The boys were beginning to ask questions about where we were going and behaving more like little children, than world-weary old men. My heart was bursting with anticipation to see mummy. I pushed away the nagging dread of meeting my father and his parents. As we drew nearer, villagers swamped us. They showered us with a barrage of eager questions as we slowly ploughed our way forward. We were news that would be talked about for months. Liz and Sally enjoyed the attention and were equally curious about the villagers. Mummy must have spotted me first because when I did see her, she was fixed to the spot, watching me draw closer. I called to her and it broke the spell. I pulled myself free of the crowd and we ran to each other, laughing and crying unable to believe it was really happening.
"Where have you come from?" She choked throwing her arms around me. "It's beyond my dearest dream that I greet you. Manasa, but where is your husband?"
I was glad she had assumed I had come because I had married. It made the need for more explanation unnecessary, at least for now. "Kajal is staying with him and other family members. She is sick, mummy, upset and she needs you. Come for a while and stay with us? I am sure it is what Kajal needs to recover from her sadness."
There was shock and fear in poor mummy's face.
"She found you? Oh." She looked as though she would collapse with relief. Then tensed again. "But something bad has happened?"
"Yes, mummy." Even though she was distraught with worry, I noticed that as always, she did not ask for explanations. She had learned from father never to expect any.
Liz, Sally, and the children quietly joined us. I introduced them. I explained that Sharmila, my very close friend, had died and that with my friends I was now caring for her sons, as she had helped me care for my Lipika. My mother, very shaken but understanding, greeted my travelling companions shyly. Like most of the other villagers she had never seen Europeans before.
"It is a great honour to offer hospitality to you." Mummy said to Liz and Sally. She did her share of staring at them. To be fair it was more an unconscious studying. Mummy, being such a warm person, was quick to perceive that they would appreciate the same consideration, as anyone else she had ever known. My biggest problem would be my father.
"Where is father?"
"He might be in the fields. I'm not certain where he is but your grandparents are sleeping under the tamarind tree. Come and eat."
It was so strange to be home again with no feeling of belonging there. I suppose I had begun to lose that feeling even before I left. Now it was complete. We all sat down together. The children took everything in with anxious eyes. Sally and Liz chatted pleasantly to my mother with their increased knowledge of Bengali, and my translations. It was hard work and I longed to speak to her before father or the grandparents returned. Finally, I decided that as I had no secrets from my friends, I would have to say all in their presence. It would be unfair to ask them to leave. Where would they go? Mummy would have to cope as best she could. She was, after all, used to a lack of privacy.
"Mummy, my dear friends have come with me because I do desperately need your help. Kajal is grieving for a special little boy she learned to love, like a son and who has been cruelly taken from her. She is lost in her desolation. I cannot reach her, mummy. Maybe it is because I still have my daughter, whilst she has lost both her sons. I know you could help her. She will listen to you. Please come back with me. We must make father say you can come." That old remembered look of fear had come into mummy's face. I knew I was asking enormous strength of her to make a request for something for herself, from father. I clung to the memory, that there had not been the same animosity between him and Kajal, as there had between him and me. Besides, Kajal had produced a son.
As if reading my mind she asked, "And you, Manasa, have a daughter?" Her smile was warm. Her words softly spoken.
"Yes, mummy. She is beautiful. Lipika. I have taught her all the songs you used to sing to us. She sings them too. You will love each other. She looks a little like you." Even I could hear the joy in my words. She hugged me.
"I will ask him, as soon as he comes back." She said with a decisiveness I had never heard her use.
I prayed my father would return before the grandparents awoke, began disapproving of everything, and made us all gloomy. We drank cha and ate, and waited. Mummy looked shy and uncomfortable with my new friends. They exchanged polite smiles and nods but conversation beyond that proved too difficult in the circumstances. Father's arrival was so quiet; I reacted as though nothing unusual was happening. I found that I felt nothing for him. Not anger, not hatred not even resentment, nothing at all. He looked suspiciously around at my friends and the boys, obviously unable to make sense of the situation. I knew that if my mother was to be allowed to accompany me, I had to show careful respect and deference for his superiority as my father and as head of the household. Before the introductions and explanations were complete however, the grandparents awoke and joined us. I had to start again. The grandparents were distrustful. Their old prejudices and meddling began. They did not like me coming without my husband. It was not done for women to travel in this way. Why was I busying myself caring for a dead woman's sons? Why was I not at home producing my own? My old hatred and anxiety seeped into my spirit like a cold morning mist. They would never let my mother come with me. Exhausted I fell silent unable to think.
"It seems Kajal needs me." Mummy's words came as such a wonderful blow; I looked up with shocked pride. Her head was lowered but her words had been said with that unfamiliar firmness again. No one spoke. She continued. "She has given birth to sons." I waited. The very blood in my heart rushing on willing her the drive to do the same. She said no more.
"She has sons?" My father voice was rich with a delight I had never before heard.
"Two." Mummy reminded him.
I did not correct her. Ch'en had been as a son for Kajal.
"Then we must see them. She must visit with them. Kajal was always my favourite daughter."
"She's ill now. If I go and help her to recover she will be able to bring them to visit us."
"Where is her husband?" He asked. Mummy was behaving strangely and he knew my presence had influenced her. Kajal might be his favourite now that she had sons but I was not.
"He died." I said. I hoped he was convinced.
"You have husband." He addressed me for the first time directly. It was an accusation more than an enquiry or statement. The grandparents listened intently for my reply. They had not been invited to my marriage. I knew they were angry. How could I explain? I wanted to tell them about all the horror I had been through. It was their fault I had gone in the first place, but it would be condemning myself and put an end to any hope of my mother coming back with me, if I dared all that. Instead I said awkwardly,
"Kajal is at my home with my family. My husband has been good to us
all."
"All?"
"Lipika, our daughter, our sister-in-law, and other children as well as Kajal."
"All women!" That sneer held the full weight of his derision. I had the kind of husband who would be unable to produce sons, a husband who would not be counted for much and whose family had not involved father in my wedding. My father could not accept the responsibility he should take for that, therefore, I knew it would have to be my fault. Nor would he acknowledge the relief that, in not being involved in my marriage, he had escaped paying any kind of dowry for me.
"I should like to go and help Kajal." With gentle persistence mummy deflected him back to the problem. I felt great warmth and a new respect for her. There followed a silence that none of us dared break.
Then my father said, "You go back with her and make my Kajal well. She will bring sons back where they belong but make sure she's well before you return." My Kajal! My name could not find a place on his tongue. I had no sons. I did not exist. It hurt more, much more than I could have anticipated. I had convinced myself I was indifferent but I had been wrong. I still wanted his approval, his acceptance, and his love but I was determined not to let him see my distress. Once again my victory was one unknown to him but it no longer mattered that I won or lost. As a parent now myself, I saw the sadness of it and the pathetic father he was. I had no father. I must accept that. The pain of it scorched as if hot coals had been tipped into my lap but I could stand up and brush them away, there was no more he could do to me now. From that moment, I slowly began to see him, not as a powerful monster, but as a twisted, unloving man, a man incapable of loving his own child. He didn't deserve to know my Lipika. The grandparents turned their backs on us. They melted away into the background like a couple of dusty old ornaments. I didn't care about that. I had always felt uncomfortable with them.
Sari Caste Page 22