Afterwards, I walk in the pink-spattered orange-red twilight, clutching my bag close, keeping my eyes down, hunger a dull throbbing in my stomach. Men leer, someone wolf-whistles, another sings a Kannada blockbuster song off tune, a group of boys smirk, ‘Hey, do you want to come with us?’ An auto rickshaw dawdles, ‘Ma’am, I’ll take you anywhere, only fifty rupees.’ A man cycles past, legs working furiously, whistling while ringing his broken bell, a discordant noise that sets the hens, out of sight behind a broken, weed-infested stone wall, squawking. Washing flaps on the balconies of the flats opposite, multicoloured flags painted a uniform monochrome grey by the fast-approaching night. There is a screech and clang as shops shut for the day, weary shopkeepers pulling down the burglar-proof (they hope) aluminium shutters, working the many locks. What am I doing? Have I gone mad? I should be home now. A picture of you, your expression soft, eyes tender, holding my face in the cup of your palms, ‘Devi, you are my life.’ I will it away.
I quicken my pace, ignoring the smells of cooking drifting from every side that torment me. My stomach rumbles, it gnaws, it complains. I picture a myriad dinners being cooked, women hunched over the stove, sari pallus tucked into their skirts, hair sticking to their foreheads, rolling chapattis, boiling rice, searing onions, roasting garlic. I picture siblings doing their homework, chewing their pencils until they taste lead, arguing as they wait for food, their rumbling stomachs contributing to their irritability. Men washing to rid their bodies of the day’s grime, grandmothers praying, worrying the beads on their rosaries, or if they are Hindu, hands folded in front of shrines overloaded with garlands and anointed with agarbatti. Ordinary lives being lived while mine has turned upside down.
One moment, one raised hand, a stick coming crashing down, tender flesh tearing with a raging crack, the searing taste of anger, the reek of guilt, the branding of shame. And everything changes. Nothing is the same again.
Lights come on in houses. The sky fades from orange to black. Beams flash, twinkling yellow lights relieving the inky darkness redolent with night jasmine and spices and gasoline-stained smoke, as vehicles roar past, drivers rushing to get home. Crickets hum, mosquitoes buzz, frogs grumble. Flies circulate. A dog barks. A woman yells. A child giggles, a burst of delighted laughter undulating in sputtering waves.
What should I do? What will I do? It is too late to go home now; the last bus departed a half hour ago. As I walk, stones smacking the soles of my sandals, inspiration dawns. I will go to the train station. That will be open.
I turn, retrace my steps, past the bus station, now dark, closed for the night, down the alleyway, sprinting, ignoring the drunk huddled beside the road whose hand jerks out, circles my leg. I shake it off. I run faster.
The sky is clouded over. Threatening. Grey clouds tinged murky yellow stark against undulating dark black. Footsteps behind me, ‘Hey, Miss.’ I quicken my pace. A hand whisks out of the darkness, encircles me. I struggle, try my utmost to wriggle out from under the arm, but the grip is firm, rigid. The arm pulls me roughly and I am smack against a hard chest, the tang of vinegar and sweat. Cigarette smoke in my face. ‘Hey, baby, what’s a pretty girl like you doing out at this time of night?’ Rank breath, smoky sour in my ear. A hand kneading my breasts hard, tweaking my nipples. The pain, the excruciating pain. Whose nightmare have I walked into? The wounds from the night before throb. The man’s grasp is vicious. I lash out, hit his torso with my hands, but there is no give. He holds tight, pulls me even closer. His face is upon mine, his fecund breath on my face, rooting for my lips. I aim for the ear, bite down until I taste iron, rust, feel warm viscous liquid flood my mouth. He swears loudly, drops his hands. I run as fast as I can towards the blinking lights of the train station, past the guard house, all the time praying to Lord Ganapathy to rescue me, keeping an ear out for footsteps. None. Thank you, Lord Ganapathy. The man must still be reeling in shock and pain. Good. My nipples pulse in agony. My heart is a wild animal caged in the prison of my chest, clamouring for escape.
I run past the idling rickshaws which try to catch up with me, one snaking alongside. ‘Where do you want to go, Ma’am? I will take you for free.’ The driver bearded, yellow teeth glowing eerily. ‘If you come near, I will scream,’ I bite out through clenched teeth, my breath coming in pants, my mouth tasting of another man’s blood. The station is not far off, I can see people milling. He holds his hands up, palms outward and the rickshaw threatens to roll down the hill. He puts them back on the steering wheel, mumbles, ‘Pah, I was just being kind,’ and drives off, chug sputter chug.
I run into the blinding light, the busyness of the train station, skirting between porters, luggage, commuters arguing with rickshaw drivers, loath to part with money, past the long queue snaking at the ticket counter, past clumps of tired people dozing while squatting on their luggage, their clothes rumpled, hair awry, mouths part-open and attracting flies, the mournful yellow glow of lamps dancing eerie patterns on their faces. The chaos of the railway station, the mess of weary people welcomes me with open arms like an old friend.
I go to platform 1 where I know the waiting room is, walking past the kiosk selling tea, coffee and potato vadai, the smell of Bru coffee mingling with stale oil causing my stomach to turn. The ladies waiting room is packed to overflowing, benches occupied, women and children camping on saris laid haphazardly on the floor, every inch of space taken. I climb over the carpet of bodies, babies whining, children complaining, mothers snoring open-mouthed, and try to reach the toilet. ‘Hey, Miss, you have to pay to use that.’ The stink is suffocating. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’ I hold my breath, walk away.
There is a family, a mother, three children squatting by the door. I squeeze in on the floor next to them. The mother is trying to soothe the baby who is crying in fitful bursts. The boy is tugging at her pallu, wanting something. The older girl says to him, ‘Come here; what do you want? Don’t you see Ma is busy?’ The mother smiles at her older daughter, pats her head, the love in her eyes making me ache. ‘Thank you, my precious one,’ she says to her daughter. I sit cross-legged, put my bag on top, rest my head on it, close my eyes and try to shut out this chaotic slice of world I find myself in.
I am floating. I am dancing, my bare feet kicking up dust which swirls in red clouds around me. I am home, where I belong. I am home with you and all is well. Bobby barks in excitement, nipping at my nimble heels and you, Ma, braid jasmine while squatting on the kitchen veranda. ‘Here,’ you say, handing me a fragranced loop, ‘for my dancing princess.’ I sit between your knees as you oil and knead my hair, as you tie it in a knot and coil the jasmine around it. The breeze that drifts from the fields below and caresses my cheek carries the earthy tang of cow manure. Bobby settles next to me, his head in my lap. Crows prattle on coconut fronds and from Sumitranna’s kitchen comes the angry clatter of dishes that can only mean Jalajakka has had another spat with him. I hear the sizzle of oil and breathe in the heady aroma of frying vadai. I giggle as Bobby inadvertently tickles me while twitching his nose and rubbing his head with his paw to shoo the flies away. You hum softly, a much-loved lullaby. My eyes close. I smile as I rest my head against your bosom, breathe in the warm, musty smell of you—like mangoes decaying in the sun.
Sour breath hot on my face. I jerk awake. The girl from the family next to me has fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder. I look up, meet the mother’s eyes. They plead with me to let the girl be. I look away from the nakedness of the mother’s gaze. The station clock blinks the time in red yawning letters: 01:33 a.m. The thought I have been trying to avoid all evening snakes in: what are you doing now, Ma? I want my mattress, the warmth of you, Ma, next to me, your sputtering snores my lullaby. The man’s hands claiming my body, intrusive, tweaking, hurting. You were right, Ma, in protecting me so. The helpless, desperate feeling of being trapped. I did not realise… I wink the treacherous thought away; dwell instead on why Rohan didn’t turn up at college. I try to summon sleep, oblivion.
When I wake
, the family next to me is gone, the waiting room is half empty, but the sour-faced woman policing the toilet is still there. I stand outside the kiosk selling coffee and, with the aid of the reflection the murky glass pane affords of a girl with bloodshot eyes and drooping face, pat my hair down, pushing away thoughts of you combing it. I tidy my salwar as best I can and walk out into the early morning sunshine, tasting the nutty spiced air, towards the bus station, avoiding the alleyway which appears abandoned and harmless in the light of day. The bus station is swarming with crowds, pushing, yelling, laughing, sipping tea and gossiping. Thank goodness for the bus pass, I think as I board the heaving bus and, hemmed in by people, judder and bump my way back to the college.
The first person I see as I get off is you, Ma, waiting by the gates of the college, looking like you never slept, your hair awry, escaping your bun and greyer than I expected, your face needy and lined. I am tempted to hide, to walk the other way. Instead, I cross the road towards you when there is a gap in the traffic, and a bus whistles past, scarily close, the petrol-scented exhaust leading my kameez shawl in a merry, smoke-stained dance.
When you see me, your whole face lights up. ‘Devi. Devi.’ And then I am in your arms, kisses are being rained on my face, my hair. ‘I am sorry, so sorry. I will never whip you again. Come home. Please come home. Have you eaten? Where were you?’
I notice the group of girls by the bus stop laughing at the display, the gaggle of boys who usually lounge by the coffee hut opposite pointing.
I disentangle myself from the prison of your arms. ‘Go back,’ I say. ‘I want to go to college.’
‘Please come home.’ Your scrawny wrist is digging into my palm. Your nose is running, your eyes are streaming.
Despite everything I’ve been through, I decide that this is the worst moment by far, acutely aware of the myriad gazes fixed our way, watching agog the scene being played out, classmates pointing and laughing. I wish I was anywhere but here; even in that waiting room reeking of urine and faeces and stale sweat. ‘I will, this evening.’ I say, the impatient tone that inevitably colours my exchanges with you creeping into my voice.
‘Have you eaten?’ Your palms cool on my face, caressing, stroking.
I push your hands away, not too gently. ‘I will this evening,’ I repeat.
‘I’ll wait for you here.’ You press something into my hands. A tiffin box. ‘Chapattis. For your lunch,’ you say.
Across the road, I spot Rohan getting off the bus and my heart executes a little flip. He’s back, he’s here.
‘Go home,’ I shout, not wanting you to see Rohan, and more importantly, not wanting Rohan to see you like this. ‘Just go home.’
‘Promise me,’ your hand is still circling my wrist. ‘Promise me you’ll come home, Devi.’
‘I promise.’
Your hand drops away. Your eyes are still wild. Slowly you lift your pallu, blow your nose, wipe your face. Slowly, you turn away, your back bent, your hair unkempt. You look like an old vagabond. The thought makes my stomach turn. I want to run up to you, hold you close. From across the road, Rohan sees me, waves. I watch you take weary steps away from me. I wave back.
Ma, you never asked me what happened that night, where I went, what I did. And I didn’t tell you, didn’t volunteer the information. You had to make do with the fact that I looked okay, perhaps a bit the worse for wear, but unharmed. And of course you always had the madwoman’s placating words.
The madwoman.
I used to get mad at you—ha, what an apt choice of word—when you used to run to her for every little thing. But now I think I understand. We all need to believe in something, need succour from something, someone. For you this took the form of the madwoman and for me, now, I have these letters. You know, I started writing them for you, but they are helping me as well. Panning out my thoughts, my memories on paper, looking objectively at the girl I once was is so therapeutic. All those emotions swirling inside of me finally have an outlet. I can understand the appeal of a diary, Ma, why you kept one. And that is the other thing I have. Your diary.
Looking forward to reading this to you tomorrow, Ma, and to reading the next entry in your diary. I am rationing myself you know, to one entry per day. Your thirteen-year-old self wanted to have many children. And yet, you had me. Only me. Why? I suppose I will find out.
I am tempted to read it all in one go… but I won’t. I pretend instead that you are writing to me, like I am to you. One entry per day. Your communication with me. Of sorts.
Love,
Devi
Chapter 6
Shilpa
Lime Sherbet
Lime Sherbet:
Ingredients:
Fresh limes from the garden.
Water.
Sugar and salt to taste.
Method:
Squeeze limes into a bowl, taking care not to include any pips. Add water. You have to be careful here—I like to make the sherbet nice and strong, so I put in roughly two cups of water to one cup of lime juice. Sugar—again, I like mine very sweet, so I add a heaped tablespoon of sugar per cup of sherbet. Salt—aha, salt you say, scrunching up your face. But this is my secret ingredient. This is what gives the sherbet its zing. Add one tablespoon of salt to the bowl after you have stirred in the sugar. Mix well.
Taste. Go on.
What did I tell you?
* * *
Dear Diary,
Lime Sherbet is what I serve Manoj when he comes to see me, to ask for my hand in marriage. As I hand him the cool tumbler, the condensation dotting the silvery surface glinting like jewels, I notice his hands. A farmer’s hands. Wide and callused, inured to hard work. The nails, which I can see he has scrubbed until they shine, carry traces of earth at the point where they meet skin. His skin is the smooth brown of a shaved coconut. Wavy black hairs sprouting from the tops of his hands dance merrily as he lifts the tumbler to his mouth. His shirt, which is clearly new (I can just make out the creases from where it was folded), and which he must have bought especially for the occasion, is stained yellow with sweat at the collar and his feet and lungi are dusty from the walk through the fields to our house. He takes a sip of the sherbet. Beads of perspiration dotting his upper lip tremble ominously as he drinks. I suppress the urge to wipe them away with the cloth I hold in my hand. ‘Ah,’ he says, looking up at me and smiling, ‘This is heavenly.’ And in his eyes I see the admiration, the adoration I have been waiting for. In his smile, I see my future.
This is not what normally happens, dear Diary, when the very important procedure of arranging marriages is put in motion. Like the recipes I delight in, there is an order to arranging marriages, a method.
First, the parents of an eligible boy elicit the help of the village gossip. They ply the gossip with cashew liquor and potato bondas, with mutton curry and pomfret fry. As she sucks the marrow off the bone, they tell her how the price of mutton has hit the roof and no one can afford it anymore. They tell her that the pomfret is from the fishmonger in Mangalore who stocks the freshest fish even though it costs ten rupees more per kilo, watching as she carefully prises every last sliver of pomfret flesh from the bone. They do not eat of course; they let her eat first, so she gets principal choice, the best bits. They will dine on the leftovers after she has left.
Once she has eaten to her heart’s content and managed to consume two laddoos and three Mysore paks after, all the while averring that she is full and couldn’t eat another morsel, once she has burped enthusiastically to express satisfaction, the boy’s parents, close relatives and the village gossip sit on the veranda chewing paan and eating sugar-coated saunf, for all the world looking like companionable friends, when everyone knows they are anything but. This is a business relationship, pure and simple, and the business part of it will be conducted now.
Sitting on the veranda, the air green and smelling of churned earth, the paan satisfyingly crunchy and moist in her mouth, the village gossip brings the boy’s family up to date on eligibl
e girls in the neighbouring villages. She tells them which girls’ morals are not up to scratch, which one has been seen smiling at boys, talking with them. She tells them which girls come from good stock and which girls’ families have disgraced themselves. She tells them which girl is dark and which one fair, which girl has a tendency towards obesity and which one is too scrawny to lift a cat let alone a baby, which one has rounded hips conducive to childbearing and which one is as flat-chested and lanky-hipped as a boy.
The boy’s family note all this down, making a list of eligible girls and ticking each one off as the gossip speaks. In the end they are left with a sum total of three girls, if that. The parents of the boy then pay a visit to the houses of each of the girls still on the list, and if they like her, if she passes their scrutiny, then they go back—with their son.
I have been through the first part of this process many times. And the second, never. The parents of eligible boys don’t seem to like me. They come up with myriad reasons—my nose is too large, my eyes too far apart, my smile crooked, my hair too thin…
At twenty-five, I am in danger of becoming an old maid. The bridge of lines that dances across my mother’s eyes when she frowns is now a permanent fixture. Her sari pallus are in tatters from wringing them in worry. My father walks around with a thunderous scowl on his face. My parents are weary of me being rejected by one prospective suitor’s parents after another. But not as much as I am. What of my dreams? My wish to be a wife and mother to a brood of adoring children? My stack of recipes is growing every day. And with each day, my hopes are diminishing.
The Forgotten Daughter Page 6