Soul to Take

by Helen Bateman

  Pitaa continued to fan his face with a grass leaf and Maataa continued to rock Aasha, my youngest sister, to sleep in the corner.

  “Your daughters would each receive all of the books and equipment they would need as well as a uniform to wear,” the lady looked at the three of us and her eyes revealed her discomfort at seeing Anya and Prisha in their unashamedly naked state. I, a little older, was wearing a dress Maataa had been given by a neighbour, whose older children had outgrown it.

  “And your son would be old enough to join them in a year or so,” she gestured down to Aadi, who was lying down, making circular patterns in a patch of dust he had uncovered by pushing one of our floor rugs to one side.

  “Ahh,” she had Pitaa’s attention now. Everything was different when it came to Aadi. Two of Maatta’s babies had died before Aadi arrived so there were huge celebrations when this boy child was born and made it beyond his first year.

  “They will also be given a hot midday meal at no cost to yourselves.”

  I saw Maataa’s eyes light up and dart across the room to Pitaa. The kind lady left shortly after and we were at school the very next week.

  Every morning I would get up and get my sisters dressed in their uniform. When I put on my own, it felt hot and constricting but it felt mine. Never before had we owned clothes which had not previously belonged to someone else. When I put on my blue shirt, I felt taller, more important. We each had a deep green cotton skirt which, when rolled at the top, fitted snuggly around our swollen abdomens. In each side of the skirt was a pocket which had little purpose for children with no belongings but made us feel like someone cared enough to make it for us.

  Then my sisters and I would wave goodbye to Maataa and the little ones and run to school, joking and laughing all of the way. It was as if our journey to school lead us into a different world where food and survival were no longer all we thought about.

  Teachers at school were like gods and in my mind were to be worshipped and adored alongside Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Certainly, Brahmam had been incarnated on Earth in the form of Miss Steel. She had come over from America for a year to help with our school. Her Hindu was poor at first but that didn’t matter; drawing and painting don’t require language and the animals and people she showed us how to draw spoke for themselves. As she became more familiar with Hindu, she would sing the words to English songs to us and try to explain their meaning. In return, we would teach Miss Steel Bollywood songs and, when we got a little more confident, show her the dance routines we’d made up in the streets after school. All morning we looked forward to our rice, a refreshing change from the chapati we’d been having at home: rice had become so expensive that everything had to be made from the small amount of wheat flour Maataa treasured in a can at home.

  When we had finished school for the day, my sisters and I would walk home, chattering about how much we had enjoyed ourselves. It was an unsaid rule that this stopped just before we walked in the house. The corrugated metal walls and roof were a far cry from the plaster and paint of the school building. Nonetheless, we changed our clothes and our expectations when we arrived home. Maataa would be still sitting outside sorting the green leaves into bundles ready for the cigarette man to collect and Aadi would have found a shady spot next to her, escaping the scorching heat. She would hug the three of us until we felt like we would suffocate the baby, who was sleeping, wrapped to Maataa, in a faded, black cloth. I would take the baby, Aadi and the girls to play with our friends in the street which gave Maataa time to finish her work and prepare the chapati for supper. We even had some onion and ground chilli for a while so Pitaa’s return form work felt like a feast.

  This was our steady, contented routine until my last few weeks. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had loving parents, my sisters and brother, food in my stomach and most of all my school and my Miss Steel. If given a wish, I couldn’t have thought of anything to hope for.

  And then it changed. One day we came home to find Pitaa sitting next to Maataa. Without questioning his presence, my sisters simply embraced him before hugging Maataa. They quickly went to play but I knew there was a reason he was home at this time of day. Usually it was dusk before he returned.

  When the smaller ones had gone to sleep that night, I asked Maataa what was wrong. “Nothing, sweet Jiya,” she reassured me, “Go to sleep.”

  In our house, it was impossible to talk privately; no room divisions meant no secrets so I heard their conversations that evening. Pitaa had been doing odd jobs for a man of higher caste who lived in the next town for well over a year now. They were just labouring jobs: sowing the crops, fixing the sheds, that sort of thing. He wasn’t paid highly but alongside Maataa’s leaf sorting, there was enough money to buy the wheat flour for the week. Pitaa’s employer had been killed in a machinery accident that day which meant no more work.

  Maataa sobbed and Pitaa comforted.

  “What are we to do?” she cried.

  “We will pray to Lakshmi for guidance and have faith that the gods will provide for us, if not in this life then in the next.”

  And with that, I saw the pair move over to our altar and offer the last piece of our supper to the murti.

  The following days were difficult. My sisters and I barely suffered as we still went to school and received our lunchtime gift. The baby was fine as Maataa was still able to feed her milk. But Maataa and Pitaa and poor little Aadi ravished their chapati every evening with a hunger I knew came from eating nothing else all day. Aadi grew weak and his dark skin paled when compared to our own. Even in a few short days his stomach ballooned and he became more lethargic than ever.

  Knowing that our family faced more hardship than ever made it almost impossible to concentrate at school. I spent my time thinking of ways I could help. In my darkest moment, I thought about the families of my friends and which ones left their homes unoccupied in the afternoons. I could easily sneak in and take some of their wheat flour. That idea was short lived when I remembered what Maataa always taught us, “It is better to be poor than to be a thief.” I realised that this idea would create terrible Karma for me and so my plan had to be different.

  I did it without really thinking one day. When the teacher who served us lunch handed me my plate of rice, I went to sit in the corner of the room with my back to the adults. I quickly filled my skirt pockets with my lunch and sat for a moment to make sure no-one noticed.

  All afternoon I was careful not to lose a grain and by the time I returned home, the starchy substance had formed two flat circles. Maataa said Aadi was lying down inside so I went in to see him. His eyes were shut although I could tell he was not asleep. So I called his name and he mustered the energy to smile at me. I sat him up and fed him the rice balls. That night he ate with less ferocity, which was lucky as our chapattis were increasingly smaller in size.

  I continued this offering every afternoon. Aadi got better and started to play outside with the rest of us again. Pitaa said it was a miracle and that Lakshmi was looking down on us. Aadi, of course, started to look for his afternoon treat and began to run down the street to meet me and my rice parcels every day.

  As Aadi got healthier, I began to feel weaker. I longed for my chapati all day but it was no longer enough and my stomach began to swell more than ever. When I got dressed in the morning, I noticed that my hair was thinning and my skin was lightening a shade. When at last I had no energy to walk, I had to stop going to school.

  My memories are few after that time. Breathing was difficult and I have an image of Maataa sitting by my bedside, mopping my brow, telling me I had picked up a virus. She also told me that it was all going to be okay as Pitaa was going up to Delhi to work on the rickshaws and this would buy all the wheat flour we would need. But I knew it was too late for me.

  At least Pitaa’s boy was saved, I kept thinking. He might go on to have the opportunities that really, were just a fantasy for us girls. Or maybe he won’t. I don’t know what
became of the rest of my family and whether they improved their lot. But I do know that my death, like my life, was happy, secure in the knowledge that I had tried to become closer to Brahman and that in doing do, my soul may be one step further towards freedom.

  VICKY

  “So, never mind that, are we going to discuss wedding plans or what?” Eliza asks me.

  How can I begin to tell her what has happened? Last she knew, we were drinking champagne, celebrating my brave proposal last night.

  “Come on, I didn’t come round to talk about your summer fair - no offence - but Dan’ll be back from the pub at this rate and I’d much rather have your take on it all. Get this bottle opened before it gets warm.”

  “I’ve got something to tell you, first,” I pause mid-wine pouring. But which version? The official ‘Dan’ version or the truth? Who am I kidding? It’s Eliza; she’ll be able to tell if I’m lying. Besides, it would be good to be straight with someone after the day I’ve had.

  “Ooh, come on then,” Eliza clearly hasn’t picked up on my serious tone.

  Here goes. “I’ve done something really bad, Eliza,” I had realised how upset I would get vocalising my actions.

  “Hey, honey,” her sympathetic arm around my shoulders is making me feel ten times worse. “Nothing can be that bad. Don’t let it ruin your special weekend.”

  “That’s just it. It’s already ruined. Dan didn’t really want to marry me after all.” There. I’ve done the hard bit.

  “What? I passed him as I came in just a few minutes ago and he seemed just as delighted as he was last night.” Poor Eliza looks as confused as I feel.

  “Well, that’s not how it’s been all afternoon.”

  “You’d better start at the beginning,” I’m glad Eliza’s taken over the wine pouring; I’m shaking like a leaf and would spill it everywhere.

  “This morning I got up early and made Dan a fry-up. I thought it would be a special kind of day, you know? I thought we’d have breakfast then go back to bed and spend the rest of the day talking about getting married. How stupid was I?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Well anyway, he came down and just looked at his breakfast. He said he didn’t want it and that’s when I knew something was wrong; Dan loves fried food. Even more out of character, he asked if we could talk. I stopped clearing up the bottles from the window sill and sat down opposite him. Basically, he told me that I’d put him in a really difficult situation last night. Never in a million years had he expected me to ask him to marry him. Apparently that’s a man’s job. Can you believe he said that in this day and age? And anyway, he felt like he ought to say yes in front of everyone so he did but the answer is ‘No’.”

  “What! Why doesn’t he want to marry you? You’ve lived together for two years now. You own a house together; it doesn’t get much more committed than that.”

  “That’s exactly what I said. But he said that marriage is different. He’s quite happy the way things are. He doesn’t understand what a big expensive day with fancy clothes and a pair of rings changes,” I’m trying to remember all of the lame excuses he gave me, “Oh, and he reckons no-one really enjoys their wedding day anyway. His mate John says he’d have had more fun blowing the lot on the dogs than he did on his wedding day!”

  “Well, I for one, loved every minute of my wedding day,” Eliza recalls. “It was the actual marriage afterwards that was our problem! But you two are made for each other.”

  “I sometimes wonder. He just can’t seem to understand that what I want should matter too. He might not want to get married but I do. For me it would let the world know how much we love each other. I get sick of talking about ‘My boyfriend’ at work; it makes me sound like a teenager. When I say ‘My partner’, I worry they’ll think I’m a lesbian.”

  I can see Eliza laughing at me and I smile without meaning to, “I’m serious. I long for the day I can introduce Dan to someone and say, ‘This is Dan, my husband’.”

  “It does sound like he’s being selfish, I have to say, Vicky. I mean where do you go from there? Can you go back to the way things were? How did you leave it with him?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, you see.” Here goes, “He was so adamant that he wasn’t going to get married that I got scared and worried that he would call the whole thing off between us. That would be just too awful to think about. Could you imagine having to tell everyone who was here last night that we weren’t together any more let alone engaged? And that’s when it just came out.”

  “What have you done, Vicky?” I think Eliza is more on my wave length now.

  “It was when he said that we could just pretend I was really drunk last night and it was all just a bit of a joke. I couldn’t bare the humiliation of that Eliza, you know me, don’t you?”

  “Vicky?” she sounds really worried now.

  Here goes, “I told him I’m pregnant.”

  Please say something, Eliza, I’m begging you.

  “Oh, my God! I thought you were going to say something awful, you daft cow. That’s fantastic! Congratulations! But you shouldn’t be drinking that,” I can’t believe she’s grabbing my wine glass off me; she clearly hasn’t quite got it yet.

  The whole truth and nothing but the truth, “But I’m not pregnant, Eliza, I made it up.”

  This silence is so much longer and more torturous than the last one.

  “Oh shit.” Is that all you’ve got Eliza? I need more help than that. “So that’s why he looked like the cat that got the cream on the way to the pub.”

  “Yes,” I am so ashamed to be telling her this, “I didn’t mean to say it. It just kind of, came out. I suppose I was desperate. Dan was absolutely delighted and asked why I didn’t just say that in the first place. I made up some crap excuse about wanting to do things in the right order - ha ha - and he said that in that case, we’d definitely get married. Just a small affair, mind, because that’s all we can afford this year and it would have to be this year because we’d have to be married before the baby is born, blah, blah, blah.”

  That feels better. For now anyway.

  “He’s even rang his mum and dad to tell them the ‘happy’ news. They’ve invited us over for a celebratory lunch tomorrow. What have I done Eliza?”

  “Wow! I didn’t see that one coming. I guess it’s not about what you’ve done but what you’re going to do now, honey. We need to think fast tonight.”

  I knew Eliza wouldn’t judge me or hate me. Life is so much easier to face when someone is unconditionally on your side.

  “As I see it, you have three options.”

  “Go on,” that’s three more than I thought I had.

  “Well, you could come clean and tell the truth. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for your future as a couple though; he’d never trust you again. But at least you’d be free of the burden of such a huge lie.”

  “I can’t live without him or with the embarrassment of coming clean about what I’ve done. It was hard enough telling you,” I could never repeat my confession to another living soul, “What else can I do?”

  “You could go along with the idea for a while then fake a miscarriage.”

  It’s not a pleasant option but worth consideration.

  “Or failing that, have you thought about actually having a baby?”

  “What?” I can’t believe what she’s suggesting. Babies are not in my plan for a long time yet.

  “It’s not so ridiculous, Vicky, you’re great with my kids. You’d make a good mum. You must have thought about starting a family one day? You’re no spring chicken!”

  “Well, yes, but not yet. I’ve got too much living to do first. I want to do better at work and see more of the world before any of that nonsense.” Could you imagine me at Barbara’s toddler group in that smelly village hall? Or gossiping in the playground about who’s knocking off who?

  “It seems to me, you haven’t got a lot of options, honey.”


  She’s right, you know, as always. None of these solutions are perfect but all I know is I can’t lose Dan or my home. And if it means getting my wedding day after all, it’s a price I might have to pay.

  “I know you too well to know you won’t come clean so you need to just go along with the whole pregnancy thing for now. But you’re going to have to act quick if you’re going to see it through and actually have a baby.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, only elephants gestate for two years!”

  “Eh?”

  “Feasibly you could be a week or two out with your dates and I know my kids were all born well after their due date. So you’d have to get working at it ASAP, if you know what I mean,” Eliza has always had a way of making me laugh when she winks at me.

  I’m getting the idea, “So I need to get pregnant now.”

  “Or pretend you are and fake a miscarriage. Either way you’ve got some serious thinking to do, honey. Wash your wine glass up and put it away because either way, Dan won’t want to think you’ve done half a bottle with me tonight and he’ll be back shortly. Right. I’m going to get a taxi booked and get home for my sister - she’s been watching the kids. Ring me tomorrow after the lunch thing. Keep your chin up. Remember, you are a newly engaged, pregnant lady, who will be getting married. Smile.”

  Yet again, Eliza has made things better. Her words and her hugs are the bandages of my life. Being a mum hasn’t ruined her life and if I was half as good at it as she is, I’d be okay, wouldn’t I?

  NELL

  I can’t believe it’s three o’clock in the morning. For all the lights are dimmed, there is no real rest to be had in here. If I had a pound for every time that hideous woman opposite me has rung her bell tonight, all our money problems would be solved! There she goes again; she’s got the nurses buzzing around like flies on dog shit. I’m sure I heard her say she’s only in here with gastric ‘flu. Crikey, now Snorer’s started again next door. I swear I thought only men could make that kind of noise when they slept. If only they hadn’t done my D and C so late last night, I think I’d be home in my own, comfy, quiet bed by now. I have to admit I was quite disappointed when they said that I might as well stay to get some rest and go home in the morning. I just despise these places; I’ll probably go home more poorly than I arrived if all of those stories in the press about hospital superbugs are to be believed.