I couldn’t have imagined that after one month of marriage my sister would come back to live with us.
‘What’s going on?’ my father asked when he saw her return, loaded down like a mule.
‘He left!’
Ma ran to meet my sister, shook her like a mango tree and asked for explanations. ‘What did you do? Why did he leave? And where did he go, anyway?’
‘I don’t know, Ma. He disappeared two weeks ago. His parents haven’t had any news either. They think that he went to join his brother in Calcutta.’
‘But you don’t just leave your family and your wife on a whim,’ my father put in.
‘Of course not. She’s lying. She must have done something that annoyed him,’ Ma shouts.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong, Ma! I obeyed and did everything they told me to do. I cooked and did the housework without ever turning a hair or protesting … and now I’m ruined. Nobody else will ever want me.’
Josna is in tears. The marriage was consummated, she is impure. No other man will want to marry her. Personally I am very happy that she is among us again, but I quickly understand that she will never have a family.
My furious mother, shocked at my sister’s return, takes Baba’s arm and says, ‘Let’s go and see the family.’
Ma orders me to go and find her scarf. When I give it to her she strides down the main village street in the direction of the house of Josna’s in-laws.
My sister refuses to speak to me. She is curled up on her straw mattress inside the house to escape from the shame. The first neighbours stroll past our house to try to find out more about what’s going on. I don’t say a word to them.
When the parents return my mother is even more furious than before. My father has a gloomy expression. Not only is their daughter no longer a virgin but the dowry money was wasted even as Baba has gone into debt to pay it.
My mother went to see the panchayat, the assembly whose role it is to sort out differences between individuals and villages. She explained the situation to them, but there was nothing to be done. The son disappeared with the money and his parents had no news. They were sincerely sorry about the situation and they knew that their reputation was now sealed and that no one would trust them ever again. Their other sons won’t find wives unless they search several dozen kilometres from their village. The local police suggested putting the missing husband and deserter on the list of wanted persons, while explaining that there was almost no chance of finding him if he had taken refuge in a big city like Calcutta. If he had left the state of West Bengal there was no chance of tracing him.
After that Josna cried every day. During a long period of depression she refused to eat. She grew visibly thinner. Every day my mother cursed all the men on earth. She stopped eating, too. Anger and bitterness gnawed away at her.
Everything changes when Badhari’s father comes to knock on our door and asks to speak to Baba.
‘Namaste, Karno. I am coming to see you because I hope to find a wife for my son Badhari. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘But you met him at the weekly market. A big, strapping fellow, very fine. He is the biggest of my sons.’
‘I don’t see very well, but never mind. What makes you say that he could be suitable for my daughter?’
‘He was the one who spoke to me about it. He asked for my permission to marry her. I don’t have any objection. Even if she has already been married …’
‘Yes, it’s an unhappy experience that the gods put in our path.’
‘How much is her dowry?’
‘Not very much, I’m afraid. I can offer only ten thousand rupees. But my daughter is still young. She is only twelve and a half years old. What’s more, she is beautiful and a good worker. She is employed in a brick factory. She would be a very good catch for anyone who wants to marry her.’
‘Then ten thousand rupees it is! It’s a deal! He’s my last son and I would like to see him start a family before I depart this life.’
It is nothing short of a miracle that has just happened. Ma announces to Josna that she has finally found a husband – a godsend so soon after the first misadventure. My sister, however, remains cautious and is afraid of another unpleasant experience.
A few months after the marriage Josna has some vomiting and dizziness. She is no longer able to go to work at the brick factory. The work is too hard, the fumes too toxic, and she has a constant backache. It’s only after a few months that she realizes she is pregnant for the first time.
The childbirth is very painful. The contractions last for several hours. My sister screams for a good part of the day as her mother-in-law looks on, trying to calm her so that she will give birth to her child as quickly as possible. I am worried. I wonder if all women have to suffer the same fate when they give birth. Everyone seems relieved when the first cries of the baby fill the room. The baby is very thin, like his mother. And Josna has no milk. She has to mix a little water and sugar and feed the baby with a teaspoon, although it is too small to open its mouth. It is also too young to have a name. As a precaution and as a superstition parents do not give a definite name to a child until it is a few months old.
The child died a few weeks after its birth.
My sister was devastated. Me, too. I wanted it to live. Baba took care of having the body cremated. None of us was permitted to attend the cremation.
Today my sister gave birth to another baby who lived for only a few hours. The midwives admit to being afraid for Josna’s health. They have never seen so many complications during childbirth. They congratulate Josna on having survived the ordeal. My sister goes to the temple of Krishna to thank the god for sparing her life. Badhari makes a donation to the temple so that the avatar of Vishnu may make the coming of their next child easier.
But the gods remained deaf to the young man’s requests. The third childbirth was as terrifying as the previous ones. After several hours of pain and cries and tears my sister gave birth to a stillborn baby. Josna seemed unconscious. My mother shook her while shouting prayers and begging the gods to let her keep her daughter. Once again Josna was near death, but she had barely recovered when the problems began again. Badhari’s parents judged her unsuitable for motherhood and consequently not worthy to be the wife of their son. They came in person to ask that the couple separate so that their youngest son could marry a fertile woman capable of bearing a child.
‘Take your daughter back! We don’t want her any more!’
The discussion was heated. The two mothers argued ferociously. The first defended her son’s right to have an heir. Ma replied that her daughter was perfectly normal and that she would not let Badhari divorce Josna nor ruin her life and her chances to have a child and start a family. A compromise was achieved after several hours of negotiations: Josna would go to go to see a doctor to find out whether she had a natural malformation preventing her from giving birth properly, the expense payable by Baba to be the equivalent of one week’s work. Once the results were known Badhari would have to decide if he wanted to stay with Josna or to separate from her. While they were waiting Josna must return to live at home.
These days are the longest for the family. All my father’s money goes for the medical examination. He is up to his neck in debts. Baba doesn’t manage to earn enough to buy food. He begs at the doors of the villagers and comes back only with starchy liquid, the water in which the neighbours have boiled their rice.
The doctor’s verdict is issued after a few weeks – Josna is perfectly normal. He has detected no malformation. On the other hand her age poses a problem: she is too young to give birth. The parents are relieved. Armed with this indisputable diagnosis Baba and Ma go to see Badhari’s family and beg them to forget about the divorce. But the young husband considers that he has been patient enough. In spite of his attraction to Josna he must leave her and find another wife. My sister, in one last effort to save her marriage, begs her husband not to abandon her. She implores him to let her have one m
ore chance. Badhari is touched and decides that my sister is after all not at fault, that he should face his destiny rather than blame Josna. He asks his parents to accept her as she is.
But fate won’t leave them alone. Although the couple decide not to make a baby right away Josna falls pregnant again. During her whole pregnancy she goes regularly to the temple of Krishna and conserves her strength by staying in bed. She gave up her work in the brick factory. To compensate for the lost income she rolls bidis all day long. The wages are less, but they allow us to buy rice and some vegetables.
At the birth it’s a drama again. Josna again has a stillborn baby. Rumours circulate in the village. The neighbours talk about a curse, a bad karma. I take my sister in my arms while she is still covered with sweat. I whisper to her that now she must give up on having a child if she is not to lose her life.
She stays in bed for several days in a tiny room that is also used as a kitchen at the in-laws’. The situation gets complicated. Must she renounce maternity or simply marriage? I am extremely sad for Josna; her face was rounded and beautiful before, but now it looks emaciated.
One wintry morning Josna again prepares to give birth. Sheer madness, according to some of our neighbours, who are convinced that this time she is going to die. My sister is anxious and stressed, but she has to give birth to this child at the risk of losing her life. Her shouts and sobs of pain attract the attention of the entire neighbourhood. After interminable hours of labour Debu is born (‘little god’ in Hindi). I am in the courtyard, and I pray for him to live for a long time.
4
‘LITTLE GOD’
Panicked by the piercing sound of the horn the herd ran off in all directions. The van manoeuvres with great difficulty among this mass of flesh. It tries to force its way through while the shepherd tries to get his animals together again with the help of a stalk of bamboo and incomprehensible sounds. A young calf dashes across just in front of the vehicle to cower against its mother on the other side of the road. The van brakes sharply and the driver shouts at the farmer, but the farmer ignores him as he is busy threatening one of his cows with his staff. Badhari tries to protect himself from the tide of animals whose chaotic behaviour frightens all the villagers gathered at the crossing of the main road and the country road that leads to the hamlet of Sampur.
For some weeks now the men have been returning to the village every evening in a group after several of them were attacked. The thieves take advantage of the half-light of dusk to rob the foolhardy men who risk coming home alone with wages in their pockets along the lane, five kilometres in length, that separates the main road from the house. My brother-in-law has already been robbed at knifepoint. For this reason the villagers now wait for each other in front of the statue of the Hindu god Hanuman set up at the side of the main road, where the public lighting and some traders discourage bandits. The police refuse to intervene in this area after dark, mainly for fear of being the target of attacks by groups of Maoists. This security vacuum has been to the advantage of the bandits, who do not hesitate to abuse the villagers and to relieve the workers of their daily or weekly pay, however small it may be.
The men go alongside the little pond, then beside some fields before starting on the long path that leads to the village. They walk fast; they have to get to the washhouse at the edge of the hamlet of Sampur in less than an hour, before it gets pitch dark. During the trip they exchange the latest news about this or that employer looking for workers for a one-off job. It’s also the time to share news about one’s family and to hear other people’s news.
When he gets home Badhari slips the money he’s earned into my sister’s hands and puts the plastic shopping bag down on the bed. There are one hundred and fifty rupees, some vegetables and some dry biscuits for Debu.
‘We have to take the baby to the temple,’ murmurs Badhari, out of breath from the hour of walking as well as a day of labour.
‘When?’ replies Josna as she puts away the tomatoes and the onions at the foot of the bed, just next to some tin plates and the ashes of the hearth.
‘He’s going to be almost six months old, and it’s time for him to wear a new talisman, a tabij.’ Josna raises her sari and gives her breast to Debu.
‘He’s eating better and better, and I have plenty of milk. Everything is going well for the time being, but you’re right, I’d be happier if he wore a new tabij.’
‘Tomorrow he will be even more protected than he is today, and so on for the rest of his life.’
Whenever I have the chance I go to stay with Josna and Badhari for a few days. The in-laws don’t have any objection to it, and I have learned to make myself useful, especially in helping my sister take care of Debu. My nephew is actually very well protected: he wears a tabij, a kabach and two maduri. The one around his calf carries the blessing of both the moon and the sun – in other words, physical health and internal peace. As for the silk string braided around his waist it allows the body to absorb the nourishment it takes in.
Each of the bracelets on his wrists comes from a scrap merchant in Purulia, but these amulets have undergone a special ritual so that they can act effectively. The bracelet on the upper arm where a little cylinder is attached is meant to keep away the negative waves sent out by wandering souls desperate for nourishment. The kabach is used to surmount all the difficulties to come. In case of illness or injury Debu will get well quickly and heal more easily. His destiny will be free of dangerous or fatal events.
Since the birth of Debu his parents have been anxious and fear that he may suffer the same fate as the earlier babies. They follow all the advice that the elders can lavish on them. They go to the temple frequently and fulfil their obligations by making offerings and surrounding their son with lucky charms. If Debu should ever die neither of his parents would ever get over it. The baby who was so wished for is surrounded by affection and by precautions. I look after him with the greatest care – after all, my sister raised me from my earliest days while my parents were working from dawn to dusk in the rice paddies.
The time has come to celebrate the ritual of Annaprasan, which marks the moment when babies can take solid food. Josna and Badhari give up the idea of having a party, as is the tradition. They don’t have enough money; my brother-in-law’s work is barely enough to feed his family. We go to the temple with only the closest relatives: my parents and Badhari’s parents, Badhari’s his brothers and their children, as well as my brothers and sisters. Other children from the village also join in the ceremony. The Hindu priest recites a puja to the gods Krishna and Shiva. He invites the senior males to feed Debu with a ball of rice mixed with milk and sugar. There are several clay pots that contain a pen, a book, metal bracelets and soil. What Debu chooses will determine his future. He plunges his hand into the bracelets. Josna smiles. They symbolize good health and a long life.
Every morning Badhari gets up at dawn and leaves on an empty stomach for Purulia. When he gets to the rickshaw station he has to queue up like a hundred other people.
‘Do you have a rickshaw available this morning, Gopal Babu?’ my brother-in-law asks the proprietor of an important park for bicycle-taxis.
‘I think so, but I won’t be able to tell you until about ten o’clock in the morning. I expect some cancellations, but nothing is confirmed at the moment.’
‘I’ll stick around. I’m counting on you, Gopal Babu. I have to get work – I have a family to feed.’
‘Everybody has a family to feed, but I have only a hundred and fifty vehicles. Don’t worry, I know that you’re honest and you’re a good worker. I’m going to find you a place. Don’t go away.’
Gopal Babu is an old man with a long white beard that is always carefully trimmed. The whole town of Purulia knows his story. When he was young he got into debt with a local moneylender to buy his own bicycle-taxi so he could go into business for himself. In twenty years Gopal Babu covered tens of thousands of kilometres without ever leaving the town of Purulia or its environs. He
never took a day off, not even after the accident with a lorry full of merchandise that cost him the use of one of his arms. The driver of the lorry had driven on without stopping, and some local people found Gopal Babu lying at the side of the road. Ever since then his left arm has been half paralyzed, but the next day Gopal Babu took up his vehicle again and continued to work. He sent his children to school for years. The temptation to employ them was great, but he didn’t want one of his sons to suffer what had happened to him. The adolescents grew up and passed their examinations with flying colours and Gopal Babu asked the town authorities to fast-track passports for the boys. Without paying any bribes the old man convinced the communist authorities that they owed him this favour, all the more so because they hadn’t done anything at the time of his road accident. That was a clinching argument that the old man had kept up his sleeve to use at the right moment. The boys got their visas and were able to emigrate to the United States. Rather than retire and live off the remittances sent by his children Gopal Babu began to acquire more rickshaws and then hire them out by the day to villagers who didn’t have the means to buy a vehicle of their own. As the management of the park became more and more time consuming Gopal Babu stopped driving. At night the rickshaws are kept in the parking area of the depot where two watchmen guard them until early in the morning.
Every day Badhari presents himself at the meeting place in the depot. When there is no rickshaw he waits in front of the stalls, his stomach hollow; he doesn’t even have the means to pay for a cup of tea for himself. When a rickshaw becomes free Badhari can breathe again. He knows that he is going to earn some rupees and that the costs of the day are covered. In a few hours he travels several dozen kilometres. Purulia is too small a town to have efficient public transport and too big for people to get around in on foot. A woman asks to go to the market, a man has to get back to his office, children coming out of school have to be taken home. There is no time to lose. Hardly has one customer got off when you have to take on another; the rickshaw should be empty for the shortest amount of time. The interminable negotiations for a few rupees are the most tiresome; sometimes you have to agree to pedal for next to nothing because the competition is fierce.
Strength to Say No Page 3