The Co-Wife & other Stories

by Ruth Vanita

  Ramu was entertaining himself with Dasi at that moment. He saw Rajia leaving, but perhaps did not realize that she was going away. That’s what Rajia thought, at least. She didn’t want to sneak away like a thief. She wanted to show Dasi, her husband and the whole village that she was not taking even the smallest thing from the house with her. Her purpose was to humiliate Ramu before the villagers. That would not be achieved by her leaving quietly. Ramu would tell everyone that Rajia had taken away all the household goods.

  She called out to Ramu, ‘Take care of your house. I’m leaving. I haven’t taken anything from your house.’

  Ramu did not know what to do. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He hadn’t expected her to leave like this. He had thought that when she started moving out the household goods to take with her, he would call the villagers and arouse their sympathy. What could he do now?

  Dasia said, ‘Go and announce it to the whole village. We are not afraid of anyone. You didn’t bring anything from your parents’ home, so what can you take away?’

  Rajia didn’t answer her but said to Ramu, ‘Do you hear what your beloved is saying? Yet you don’t open your mouth. I’m going, but, queen Dasso, you won’t reign for long either. Injustice doesn’t bear fruit in God’s court. He crushes the pride of the mighty.’

  Dasi laughed loudly, but Ramu sat with bent head. Rajia went away.

  5

  The village to which Rajia went adjoined Ramu’s village so the people there knew her well. They knew what a skilled housewife she was, how hardworking, and how true to her word. She had no trouble finding work. One who works as hard as two people will always find work.

  If one were to describe how Rajia spent the next three years, how she built a new house, and how she started farming, it would take up a whole volume. Rajia well knew all the ways and means of saving. Now she had an aim, and one who has an aim acquires boundless strength. The villagers were amazed at how hard she worked. She wanted to show Ramu that she could live comfortably without him.

  Rajia is no longer a dependent woman. She lives on her own earnings. She has a pair of good bullocks. She gives them not just hay and oilcake but also two rotis each every day, and she rubs them down for hours. Sometimes, she puts her head on their shoulders and weeps, saying, ‘Now you are my sons, and my husband. My honour is in your hands.’ Perhaps the two bullocks understand Rajia. They are not men, after all; they are bullocks. They bow their heads and lick Rajia’s hands to reassure her. Only those who have served bullocks and felt with them can have an idea of the love with which they look at her as soon as she comes into sight, the joy with which they bend their backs to receive the plough, and the diligence with which they work.

  Rajia was now an acknowledged leader in the village, a Chaudhurain. Her intellect that had been groping for support and had not been able to develop autonomously now emerged from the shadows, grew mature, and excelled.

  One day, when Rajia was returning home from work, a man said, ‘Have you heard, Chaudhurain, Ramu is very ill. It seems he hasn’t eaten for ten days.’

  Rajia said, with indifference, ‘Why, has he got a fever?’

  ‘No, not a fever, it’s some other illness. He’s lying outside on a cot. I asked him how he’s feeling. He started to cry. He’s in a bad way. There’s not a paisa in the house so they can’t get him any treatment. Dasi has a son. She never worked before, and now that she has a son why would she? The whole burden is on Ramu’s head. And then she wants jewels and clothes—how can a new bride live without these?’

  ‘One will reap what one sows,’ Rajia said and went inside her house.

  But she couldn’t relax. She came out again. Perhaps she wanted to question the man further, though feigning indifference.

  But the man had gone away. Rajia looked around for him. He was not to be found. Rajia sat down on the threshold. She remembered the words she had spoken when she left Ramu’s house three years ago. She had cursed him angrily. Now she no longer felt the same anger. Time had greatly diminished it. Ramu and Dasi’s poverty now excited not the jealousy she had earlier felt but pity.

  She thought, ‘If Ramu hasn’t eaten for ten days, he must be in a bad state. He was never very strong; ten days without food must have reduced him to nothing. And the farming will be in a mess. He must be malnourished …’

  A neighbour came by on the pretext of taking a live coal, and said, ‘They say Ramu is very ill. One will reap as one sows. He turned you out more heartlessly than one would an enemy.’

  Rajia contradicted her, ‘No, sister, it wasn’t like that. The poor fellow didn’t say anything. When I left, he sat with bowed head. Whatever he did was at the behest of Dasia, but before that he had never harassed me. Why should I slander him? And what man doesn’t get swayed by women? It’s because of Dasia that he’s reduced to this condition.’

  The neighbour didn’t ask for what she wanted; she turned away and left.

  Rajia picked up the pitcher and rope and went to fetch water from the well. It was time to feed and water the bullocks but her eyes were fixed on the path that led to Ramu’s village, Malsi. Someone must certainly be on his way to fetch her. How could she go without being sent for? People would say, ‘She came running back, after all!’

  But Ramu could be lying unconscious. Ten days is a long time. He was so weak to begin with. Who would send for her? Dasia wouldn’t bother. She would remarry. She was young. She’d have a hundred suitors. Oh, there was someone coming. Yes, he looked disturbed. Who was he? She had never seen him in Malsi, but she hadn’t been back to Malsi since she left. A few new people must have settled there.

  The traveller quietly passed the well. Rajia put down her pitcher and went up to him. ‘Did Ramu Mahto send you? All right, let’s go home, I’ll go with you. No, wait, I have to feed the bullocks first, and light the lamps. I’ll give you money for Dasia. Tell her to send for me if she needs me.’

  The traveller did not know Ramu. He was from another village. He quietly went with Rajia, took the money, and left. As he was leaving, Rajia asked, ‘How is he now?’

  The traveller made a guess and said, ‘Somewhat better.’

  ‘Dasia is not crying too much, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘Why should she cry now? She’ll suffer later.’

  The traveller left, and Rajia fed the bullocks, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Ramu. Affectionate memories kept appearing in her heart like small stars. She remembered a time when she had fallen ill. It was ten years ago. He had sat next to her night and day, forgetting even to eat and drink. She decided to go and see him. What could anyone say? Let them say what they wanted. She wasn’t commiting a theft. She was going to see the man with whom she had lived for fifteen to twenty years. Dasia would turn up her nose. Let her. What had she to do with her?

  Rajia closed the door, told the labourer to look after the house, and set out to see Ramu, trembling, hesitating, and carrying with her the gift of forgiveness.

  6

  Soon after Rajia’s departure Ramu had realized that the soul of his house had gone, and however much he tried, however hard he worked, he could not reanimate it. Dasi was pretty, pleasure-loving, and slovenly. When the first intoxication wore off, quarrels began. The fields began to yield less, and whatever income came in was foolishly spent. He had to take loans. Anxiety and grief played havoc with his health. At first, he ignored his condition. What else could he do? There was no money in the house. Treatment by quacks resulted in the illness taking root, and he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for ten or twelve days. He was lying in bed, moaning, and waiting for death.

  He had now reached the stage when one cares nothing for the future and dwells in the past, like a vehicle that finds the way ahead blocked and starts moving backward. He kept thinking of Rajia, crying, and cursing Dasi, ‘It is because of you that I threw her out of the house. It was not just she but Lakshmi, goddess of prosperity, who left the house. I know if I call her she’ll come
running even today, but what right have I to call her? If she would only come and forgive me, I would die happily. I have no other wish.’

  Suddenly, Rajia appeared, put her hand on his forehead, and said, ‘How are you feeling? I heard about it only today.’

  Ramu looked at her with tears in his eyes, but could not speak. He folded his hands in salutation to her, and his eyes rolled backward in his head.

  7

  The corpse lay in the house. Rajia wept but Dasia was worried. There was no money. They would need wood, and a shroud, and food for those who carried the bier. It would require at least ten rupees. There were not even ten paise in the house. She was afraid lest she have to sell her jewellery. She didn’t have any expensive or heavy jewellery. And what price would a peasant be able to get—she’d have to sell two or three pieces to obtain ten rupees. But what else could she do? She called the headman’s son and said, ‘Devarji, what shall I do? No one in the village will trust me enough to lend me a paisa. Ask the headman to keep my jewellery and give me some money. The rest is God’s will.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Rajia?’

  Suddenly, Rajia came in, wiping her eyes. She heard her name. She asked the headman’s son, ‘What is it? What are you discussing? You should arrange the funeral now, not hold discussions.’

  ‘Yes, I’m making arrangements for that.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any money here. It must have been spent on his illness. He left this poor thing midstream. You go to my house, brother. It’s not far away; take the key with you. Tell the labourer to take fifty rupees out of the store. Tell him it’s kept on the upper shelf.’

  He took the key and set off, while Dasia fell at Rajia’s feet and started crying. These words had affected her deeply. Rajia was so compassionate, so forgiving!

  Rajia embraced her and said, ‘Why are you crying, sister? He’s gone. But I’m here. Don’t worry about anything. You and I will live in this house in his name. I’ll look after both houses. It’s an easy walk. If anyone asks for your jewellery, don’t give it.’

  Dasia felt like hitting her own head and dying of shame. How she had hurt Rajia, made her cry, and thrown her out of the house!

  Rajia said, ‘Let me know how much money we owe to whom. I don’t want to leave any debts unpaid. Why is the child looking so weak?’

  Dasia said, ‘I don’t have any milk. The cow you left died. He doesn’t get any milk.’

  ‘Ram, Ram! The poor thing is withering away. I’ll bring a cow tomorrow. I’ll move my whole household here. What’s the point of my living there?’

  The funeral was very well conducted. Rajia accompanied the corpse and performed the rites. There was a feast. About two hundred rupees were spent. They didn’t have to take any loans.

  From the fire of this sacrifice, Dasia’s inner worth emerged. The indolent woman became an embodiment of service.

  8

  Ramu has been dead seven years. Rajia manages the house now. She treats Dasia not as a co-wife but as a daughter. She buys Dasia clothes before she buys any for herself. Only after Dasia has eaten does Rajia eat. The child Jokhu goes to school. His marriage has been arranged. In their community, marriage takes place in childhood. Dasia said, ‘Sister, don’t get jewellery made. Take what I have.’

  Rajia said, ‘No, I’ll make new jewellery for the bride. I’m still able to work. When I tire, you can do as you like. You are still young, you should dress well, so keep your jewellery.’

  The barber’s wife said, self-importantly, ‘If Jokhu’s father had been alive today, things would have been different.’

  Rajia said, ‘He isn’t here, but I am. I will do twice as much as he would have done. When I die, you can say that Jokhu does not have a father!’

  Seeing Dasia crying on the wedding day, Rajia said, ‘Why are you crying? I am still here. The house is still yours. Live as you please. Just give me one roti, that’s all. What else do I need? My husband died. Yours is still alive.’

  Dasia put her head on Rajia’s lap, and cried a lot. ‘Jiji, you are my mother. If it were not for you, at whose door would I have begged? There was nothing in this house—the mice ran around, that’s all. With him, I experienced nothing but suffering. I have discovered the happiness of marriage, of suhag, only with you. I’m not crying from grief. I’m overwhelmed by God’s grace, which has allowed me to live in such comfort.’

  Rajia smiled and then wept too.

  Theft

  AH CHILDHOOD! CAN I EVER FORGET YOU? THAT BROKEN HOUSE OF mud, that bed of straw, those days spent wandering the fields barefoot and bare-bodied or climbing mango trees—all of it appears once more before my eyes. The pleasure I then felt at wearing coarse country-made footwear I never feel now—not even when I wear Flex boots. The delights of that sugarcane juice cannot be matched even by rose sherbet now; the joys of parched grain and wild berries are not to be found today even in grapes and the finest sweets.

  I used to go with Haldhar, the son of my father’s younger brother, to study at a school run by a Maulvi Sahib in another village. I was eight years old. Haldhar (who is now in heaven) was two years older than I. We would eat stale rotis early in the morning, and set out, carrying peas and parched millet for lunch. Then the whole day was ours. Neither did Maulvi Sahib maintain an attendance register nor were absentees fined. So what was there to fear? Sometimes, we would stand outside the police station and watch the policemen parading; other times, we would spend the day following a man with a performing bear or monkey. Or we would go off to the railway station and watch the trains. We were probably better informed about the train timings than even the timetable was.

  A city businessman was having a house built. A well was being dug there. That too was an interesting entertainment for us. The gardener was kind to us and would let us sit in his hut. We would insist on helping with his tasks—watering the plants with a bucket, weeding the beds, and trimming the creepers with a pair of scissors. What delightful tasks! The gardener had a thorough understanding of children. He would get us to do his work, as if he was doing us a favour. We would do as much work in an hour as he did in a whole day. That gardener is no more, but the garden is still green. When I pass it, I feel like embracing the trees, weeping, and saying, ‘Dear ones, you have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you. Your memory is still green in my heart, as green as your leaves. You are the living embodiments of selfless love.’

  Sometimes, we would be absent from school for weeks, but our excuses were so well thought out that Maulvi Sahib’s frowns would soon clear up. If I had that power of imagination today, I would write a novel that would astound people. Now I have to work really hard to invent a story.

  Well, our Maulvi Sahib was a tailor. He taught on the side. We used to sing his praises to the potters and oilmen of our village. We were the Maulvi Sahib’s roving agents. When the Maulvi got some work because of our efforts, we were very pleased. When we could not come up with an excuse for our absence, we would take a present for Maulvi Sahib. We would gather a seer or half a seer of beans, five or ten sugarcane sticks, some green stalks of millet or wheat. Maulvi Sahib’s anger would subside when he saw these gifts.

  When it was not the season for these crops, we would think of some other way to escape punishment. Maulvi Sahib reared birds as a hobby. Cages of nightingales, larks, and other local singing birds hung in our schoolroom. Whether or not we learnt our lessons, the birds always learnt them. They studied along with us. We greatly enjoyed grinding chickpea powder for these birds. Maulvi Sahib often requested the boys to catch moths. These birds loved to eat moths. Sometimes we would divert disaster from our heads to those of the moths. We would sacrifice them to placate Maulvi Sahib.

  One morning, when we were at the pond to wash our faces, Haldhar showed me something white hidden in his fist. I leapt forward and opened his fist to find a rupee there. Surprised, I asked, ‘Where did you get this rupee?’

  Haldhar: ‘Amma had kept it in the niche; I stood on the string co
t and took it.’

  We had no trunk or cupboard at home; money was kept in a niche high up on the wall. Chachaji had sold the hemp crop the day before, and kept the money to pay the landlord. Somehow, Haldhar had found out about it. When all the family members were busy working, he set up his cot, climbed on it, and took out a rupee.

  Until then, we had never touched money. I well remember the waves of delight and fear that ran through my heart on seeing that rupee. A rupee was an unobtainable object for us. Maulvi Sahib got only twelve annas a month from our family. At the end of the month, Chachaji himself went to pay him the money. Who could imagine our pride! But the fear of a beating clouded our joy. No doubt the money had been carefully counted. The theft would definitely be discovered.

  Haldhar had experienced Chacha’s wrath before, although I had not. There was not a simpler man in the world than he. Had Chachi not assumed the responsibility of protecting him, any merchant could have sold him in the market, but when he got angry he would listen to no one. Even Chachi was afraid of his wrath. We both reflected on these matters for some time, and finally decided that when Lakshmi comes, one should not let her go. For one thing, they would not suspect us, and if they did, we would flatly deny it. We’d say, ‘What would we do with a rupee?’ Had we given it a little more thought, we would have changed our minds, and the bizarre drama that ensued wouldn’t have taken place, but at that time we did not have the ability to think calmly.

  We washed our hands and faces, came home, and set foot inside with trepidation, because if a search had been conducted right then, only God could have saved us. But everyone was busy with the day’s work. No one spoke to us. We didn’t have breakfast or take our lunch with us. We just picked up our books and set out for school.

  It was the rainy season. The sky was overcast with clouds. We both went along, filled with glee. I doubt that I would feel as glad today even if I got a place in the council of ministers. We made hundreds of plans, and built hundreds of castles in the air. This opportunity had come our way by great good fortune. We would probably never get another in our lives, so we wanted to make the money last as many days as possible. Although in those days, one could buy very good sweets for five annas a seer, and half a seer would probably have been enough to stuff us both, we still feared that eating sweets would mean using up the rupee in one day. We ought to eat something cheap that would be tasty, fill our stomachs, but not cost much. Finally, we saw some guavas. We both agreed on them. We filled our pockets with guavas for just two paise. When Haldhar handed the rupee to the vendor, she looked at it suspiciously and asked, ‘Where did you get this rupee, son? You didn’t steal it, did you?’