by Nag Mani
“Oh Madam,” the Mukhiya stood up and beamed at her, “we villagers pay our respect to a temple just close by. Since you are new here, you should go there and take its blessing, just once.” He then folded his hands. “I would appreciate if you could pay your visit. It’s not far. You will be there and back within five minutes.”
Aditi turned to Manoj, surprised. “Temple? Are we going to a temple?” She gave a moment for Manoj to feel awkward while the Mukhiya eyed him questioningly. Then she stood up and smiled, “Why didn’t you tell me before, Mukhiya Ji? I would love to see this temple.”
Gauri was younger than Aditi had judged. And more beautiful. Dense black hair. Flawless skin. Stunning features. She threw back her aanchal and led her down one of the corridors. “This way, Madam.” They stepped out into a back courtyard. Like the front, it too was surrounded with walls on three side, though higher, and in place of iron gates, was a set of old wooden doors. A pair of cows sat under a shade on her left. A calf nibbled at a stack of tender grass.
“Where are we going?” Aditi asked. No matter what she told herself, her heartbeat had quickened. “Wasn’t the temple in the front?”
“No, Madam. That is not the temple we are going to.” Gauri turned around and smiled. “It’s this way.” Then she disappeared through the doors. A narrow, foot-trodden path ran under a dense bamboo thicket ahead. “You see all these fields here, this bamboo plantation, all this is ours.” As they marched under the tall, green stems, Aditi could see a large barren field on the other side. “You take that path and go right,” Gauri pointed at another path that cut through the thicket. “It goes around the house and to the Kali temple you saw on you way here. And if you go left, it will take you to the Nepal border. And all this land you see, that field in front of us, the lands along the road, they all belong to us. Even that Kali Temple, it is on our plot. Mukhiya Ji had it constructed for the village, not more than three years ago. He even leases small plots to poor farmers. We do what we can to help the needy.”
“Your father seems to be a very nice man.”
“Father?” Gauri covered her mouth and let out a short laugh. “He is not my father.” When she removed her hands, her cheeks had turned red.
“Oh! I am sorry. I thought, you know…”
“He is my husband,” she said quietly.
“What?” Aditi stopped dead on her tracks.
“Yes. He is my husband.”
Aditi didn’t know what to make out of it. How to react. She stared at Gauri. So young! “What is your age? Twenty-one?”
“Nineteen.”
Aditi gasped. Then looked away quickly. When her eyes fell on Gauri again, she realised that she was indeed very young. Her face had matured far earlier than her body. She noticed small hairs encroaching her forehead and temples. Her eyes held the restlessness of the young, though they had lost their lustre.
“I am sorry,” Aditi tried to cover up. The Mukhiya she met didn’t seem like a person who would take in a second wife right under the nose of the first, and that too, someone his daughter’s age, maybe younger – grand-daughter. And that Sumitra Devi… hadn’t she taken caring-for-your-husband a bit too far? “I really am. No one told me and I assumed you were his… you know…”
“This village surely has loads of surprises for you! Anyway, there is that temple for you.” She was pointing at a crumbling structure surrounded by low walls across the barren field. A beautiful arch had been built over the main gates. The campus was big, indicating that like the other temple, this one too had once seen throngs of devotees, but now all that was left was emptiness and sad reminder of the past. The temple was built under a bare mango tree, its branches sprawling out from the main trunk – diving low, reaching far and high, trying to cover everything around – until life drained out and stalled their progress. Unlike the barren field in the front, a sparse vegetation of young trees and bushes grew behind the temple.
“This temple?” Aditi asked mockingly.
“This is the oldest temple in the village. It was built for the goddess of the land – Ma Puran Devi. Devotees came from far to worship here. I am talking long before Independence.” Gauri walked in through the gates. “But we villagers took her for granted. We insulted her and she left the temple.”
The shrine was a simple, square room, not more than seven feet high. Pyramidal roof. A broad corridor ran along the periphery with a pillar on each corner supporting the eaves above. The walls were stained with years of neglect and erosion. Small plants were struggling to grow in the many cracks along the walls. In front of the shrine was a cemented sacrificial platform with a rotting plank of wood erected in the centre. A deep ‘U’ had been cut out on the top of the plank and a rusting iron rod inserted across the gap. The platform seemed all and washed clean.
“Then who is this Devi you worship here?” asked Aditi.
“She was a queen. She was sacrificed in this temple. Right there!” Gauri raised her chin towards the sacrificial platform. “You see, this temple is haunted! We keep her pleased lest something bad happens in the village.”
“What bad things?”
“Oh Madam! You are taking all this far too seriously!” Gauri shook her head, as mothers do at the stupidity of their children.
“Now stop calling me Madam, will you? I am like your elder sister, your didi…”
“Okay. Didi! Right? My grandfather used to tell me these tales. All that happened more than half a century ago, if they happened at all! All that is left is belief.” She noticed Aditi’s eyes fixed on the sacrificial platform. “Yes, we still sacrifice a goat here every month. Keep the Devi pleased. But that is a tradition. We do it just because our ancestors did it. And if you want to hear my thoughts, I would have never bothered you with this visit. But you do what your elders tell you, don’t you?”
Footsteps. Crunching of twigs. They turned around to see an old woman coming towards them. Hunched forward. Hands behind her back, squinting. She came closer. Her face relaxed. A feeble smile. She folded her hands and bowed slightly. Aditi greeted her back.
“The food must be getting cold, Didi,” Gauri touched her arms. “Let’s hurry. Just bow your head. That is all that is required.”
Aditi made for the temple. The shrine was dark. She couldn’t see anything inside. She walked past the sacrificial platform. A small iron hook hung above the entrance, two links of what would have been a heavy iron chain attached to it. That was where the bell must have been. She looked around. There were no flowers. No garlands. No incense-sticks. She climbed the two steps to the veranda and peeped inside the shrine. Still, all she saw was unnatural darkness. She folded her hands. Bowed her head. And closed her eyes. Remained silent for a moment.
From the veranda, Aditi saw a wide cavity in the ground behind the temple, beyond the wall. Probably a pond, its water now lay confined to the deepest part. A man sat on its edge, his hands entwined around a wooden stump across his shoulders. A herd of goats were drinking from the pond, others just sniffing through layers of dried leaves and grass. Cultivated fields lay beyond at some distance, visible through thickets of trees and undergrowth. A dozen or so people were working there – bent over on their instruments, ploughing, digging, resting.
A waft of air ruffled her hair. And then there was this terrible stench that made her look for the source. Her eyes fell on the dead mango tree. Saffron and maroon twined threads were tied around the trunk. A dozen or so severed heads of goats lay in a rotting heap by the roots protruding from the ground, dark stains of blood splattered all over. Aditi covered her nose and hurried away.
The old woman was clearing a patch of soil in front of the temple, sweeping the twigs with her feet and then fanning the dirt away with her aanchal.
“What is there in the shrine?” Aditi asked as she tip-toed down the stairs. “It’s all so dark, I couldn’t see a thing.”
“You wouldn’t see a thing, Didi, because the shrine is barren. There is nothing inside. There used to be an ancient
rock once, in the shape of a woman’s torso. That was what we worshipped. Ma Puran Devi. It had powers, they say. But it crumbled once the Devi left.”
“You mean there is no idol here.” They began to leave. “The only importance of this place is that a queen was once sacrificed here?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“Then what is that old woman doing here?”
Gauri walked out of the gates before turning around to face the temple. “The Devi has powers. She can grant wishes. But there is a price to pay.”
“What kind of price?” she asked, a strange spark in her eyes. She could still see the coloured threads around the dead trunk. They were tied there by the people whose wishes had been granted.
“Let it go, Didi,” Gauri shook her head. “I know what is in your mind. But this temple should rather be left alone. The price is always more than what you wished for.”
“What do you mean you know what I want?” Aditi asked, her eyes narrowed.
“You cannot conceive. That is what you want to ask for – a child,” Gauri replied without looking back.
Aditi grabbed her arm and turned her around. “What? Who? Who told you that?” She knew the answer. It wasn’t uncommon for her husband, and especially his mother, to go about the neighbourhood bitching about her and her family. It enraged her. But she kept quiet. She held her head low as she passed through streets while men around her giggled among themselves and women threw taunts at her. She had grown used to it. But that was their home, their own people they gossiped among. This was different. This was an entirely new place. What kind of a man was he? Heralding the shortcomings of his wife to the entire world so that they could all laugh and point their fingers. He wanted their sympathy – that was what it had always been about. What a poor man, they would say, he has everything. If only he had a better wife. But of all the things he had gossiped about her, this outraged her the most. This was far too close to her heart for the world to find out.
“No, it was not your husband,” Gauri noticed the passing colours on her face. “It was his brother. What is his name? Anil? Anil Prasad, right?”
“Ajay? When did he come here?” Aditi was shocked.
“Yes, Ajay Prasad. He used to come to the village all the time. Don’t you know, before you came here? Live with Manager Sahib. My husband used to invite him home. He told things about you. Many things…” She paused for any reaction. Aditi’s expressions remained cold. “I didn’t listen to anything, of course. What person goes about spilling the beans of his own family? My job was just to serve food. But the last time he came, my husband wasn’t home. Ajay was talking to Sumitra Ji and I overheard. I didn’t believe it though. But when you settled here, I found out you still don’t have children. So, you know, I figured out, maybe…” she trailed off.
“Yes. It’s true. Medical complications and all.”
“Yes, I know,” Gauri sighed, having been relieved of an awkward conversation. “These things have been on the rise recently. But all we can do is pray and hope. I have also seen women get cured. My prayers are with you, Didi. I will pray that a handsome prince is born in your family.”
Aditi smiled. “Thank you, Gauri. Let’s get going now.” With a last glance at the old woman, who now sat cross-legged on the ground, her hands folded, Aditi made her way back under the shade of the bamboos. She felt angry, exposed. But she couldn’t express it now. She would put on a show when she reached home.
CHAPTER 7
THE BLUE RAJDOOT
It was one of those Sundays in Ufrail when Manoj stayed back at home. It had rained the previous night and the scorching sun of mid-June still lay behind a dark canopy of rumbling clouds. A child had come knocking that morning. He wanted to wash Manager Sahib’s blue Rajdoot. Apparently, Manoj had complained to someone in the bank that his motorcycle was all covered in mud and he himself did not have time to clean it. So that someone sent his little son to do the job. Manoj offered him a bucket, a rag, a little detergent and the child set about doing his work. The cream coloured dog, whom Aditi had named Bachcha, watched him from the veranda.
Aditi sat by the hand-pump washing clothes. It had been four days since her visit to the temple. The chickens were on a pecking rampage around the courtyard. A grey cat sat on the campus wall, her head hanging in between her paws, watching them greedily. Fortunately, Aditi had on one occasion told Laila that she intended to keep the chickens; and the next day Razzak’s youngest brother, Salman, had turned up at her door with two boys and built a coop behind the toilet, under the shade of the guava tree. The cat was one less thing to worry about. The tree itself showed no interest in nurturing fruits, neither did any of the trees Aditi had seen so far. Manoj was shaving on the backyard steps. He was in a vest and pyjama. His chest was clean, except for a few hairs around the nipples. The tan line on his arms were clearly visible, so were two dark, circular vaccination marks. She had not spoken to him from the time she had learnt about the life and achievements of a Bhutta Yadav.
Once upon the time there was an old man called Bhutta Yadav. He was blessed with a wife who cared for him with utter devotion. He had three sons and all of them had left him and his village to settle in big cities. Gods were gracious and they were all faring well.
One faithful night when the old man was returning home from the fields, he saw the bank manager enjoying a rare, well-deserved leisure time on his veranda, listening to a radio and reading a book by the dim light of a lamp. Bhutta Yadav went inside, washed his dirty hands and looked for his own radio, humming his favourite song. His beloved wife was in the kitchen, coughing and weeping, as she fought with smoke emanating from firewood. Then, all of a sudden, he heard screams. He rushed out and of all the sights he had seen, what did he see but the manager’s wife beat her own husband! The manager was on the floor, his hands raised as he tried to shield himself from her kicks. “Help me! Help me!” he cried. But the woman did not stop. Her hair dishevelled, eyes red, she screamed and abused as she danced around her helpless husband. Bhutta Yadav ran to help the manager. More villagers had reached the scene by then. The city woman had crossed all the limits women in the village had adhered to since the beginning of time. Quarrels inside closed walls was a personal business. But which woman was shameless enough to beat her husband in full public view?
What Bhutta Yadav had not seen was what had happened inside the house. After they returned from the Mukhiya’s house, Aditi went on rambling about how his brother tainted her image everywhere she went. And how Manoj always kept shut. He was never man enough to stand for his wife. His brother went around bitching about her while he claimed to be a victim of his wife’s negligence. Also, he had never told her that his brother paid him regular visits. Manoj, like always, let her scream and shout. He opened a book and started reading. Aditi shouted till her throat was sore, and when she could no longer utter another word, she sat in the kitchen and wept. He let her cry. And when night fell, he cleared his throat and asked how much time it would take for dinner. She didn’t reply.
Manoj waited. He waited for an hour. But the dinner was still not ready. He then shut the doors and windows, so that nobody could see. Then he barged into the kitchen, grabbed her hair and pulled her out in the hall. He raised his hand to slap her, but that would leave marks. So, he pushed her to the floor and drove his knee into her stomach. She could not breathe for a few moments. She wriggled on the floor, gasping for air. The pain was unbearable, but she couldn’t scream. He bent down and observed her, afraid he might have hit her harder than she could have tolerated. But when she began to breathe again, he left her in the hall and opened the doors and windows. He then carried a chair to the front veranda. Turned up the flames of all the lamps. Switched on the radio. And began reading a book as if nothing had happened.
Aditi knew it was a trap. She had long experienced it. But like always, her rage took over her ability to think. Or maybe, she had just stopped caring. When she had gained enough strength to stand again, she marched out into
the veranda and saw him reading his book in the protection of public-view. She knew her head would explode if she didn’t do anything about it. So, she let go of all the etiquettes of social life and vented out her anger on him. She didn’t care who watched and who said what. She had to do it. She had to, else it would have driven her mad.
The villagers intervened and took Manoj to Razzak’s house. Then women were called to pacify Aditi. When she had calmed down, people gathered around her to give her counselling, remind her of her duties towards her husband. Then came this Bhutta Yadav who gave her parts of his wisdom he had accrued through ages. Of women, their responsibilities and the divine sacrifices they must make for the greater good.
Now, Aditi drained the bucket of dirty water and rose to fill a fresh one. The cat jumped away. “What exactly is in there?” she pointed at the locked room and asked, just so as to break the ever-maturing silence.
“That is supposed to be a bathroom,” Manoj put down his razor and mirror and replied. Aditi was almost taken aback, for he rarely gave direct replies. She held the hand-pump and listened as he went ahead to elaborate. “This area was the old centre of the village. A marketplace sort of. There was a well here, for public use. After Independence, the government proposed a dam project and all the yellow houses you see here were constructed for the officers. This house must have belonged to someone at high post. I think they constructed this bathroom around the well for their personal use.”
“What happened to the dam?”
“The project was scrapped.”
“And why is this room locked?”
Manoj raised the mirror and examined his moustache. “It’s an old well. The ground around could be treacherous. It might cave in.”