Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “I most certainly do not, and neither do you. What you dislike are the changes. Children are like plants—they can weather any amount of sun or rain or drought as long as the seasons are consistent. One day of downpour, another of broiling heat, can kill the most hardy shoot.”

  I pouted. “I'm not a child.”

  “That is another point. Your new mother is expecting you to be helpful to her and the other children.”

  I shrank from my attack position. “What should I do? She's ruining everything.”

  “Talk to her, tell her how you feel,” Grandmother Flora offered weakly. “I cannot interfere.”

  As soon as Nani moved out, the alterations began. I never heard Zilpah voice an opinion or give an order out loud. By some subtle influence, the woman was manipulating my father and the servants to reorganize the systems, rearrange the furniture, turn our schedules upside-down. She floated about the house in one of her gossamer saris, surveying everything with a feline's smug expression. Since Nani had understood that we were happiest in a house designed for active children rather than sedentary adults, much of Grandmother Helene's jumble had remained. The very first week, Zilpah realigned the chairs in the hall into conversational groups, eliminating the large spaces for running and playing tag. Dinners became formal, with only one main course. The buffets of tasty treats, a remainder from Grandmother Helene's time, were banished.

  “A waste of food,” Zilpah declared, although anything the family did not consume went to the servants.

  Even worse were her ideas about redoing the upstairs rooms. The bedroom where my mother had died was to be the boys' nursery. Mozelle's furnishings were removed at once. My father's dressing room, which had been enlarged to dispose of my mother's room after her death, was to be the new day nursery. My room was given over to Ruby, supposedly so she could have an ayah sleep with her, who also would tend the boys at night. Next came the second-best bath, which was reoutfitted for my father and his wife. The nursery bedrooms, although small, had the most beautiful vistas on the gardens, so they were combined into a new master suite. The guest bedroom became a small office and dressing area for my father. All that remained was a small room that had been used by servants and later for storage. This was to be mine. I was furious at being relegated to this far end of the house.

  Never had I felt so alone. The four boys intermingled without difficulty. Jonah, the most daring and most likable, became their leader. Asher, a sweet boy who wanted to please everyone, refereed disagreements. Volatile Pinhas Tassie created the most disturbances, but his brother, Simon, wasn't a bad sort once away from Pinhas' conniving influence. I always felt odd-one-out, and the change in rooms did not help matters.

  I told my father how I felt, which was a mistake, since he brought his wife in and asked me to repeat everything in front of her. I hung my head, but did not speak.

  “Well, Dinah? Anything you can say to me you can say to Zilpah, especially anything about the house.”

  Summoning my courage, I explained my feelings. “I don't want to be so far from everyone. I am lonely—and sometimes frightened.”

  Zilpah pretended to listen, her mouth pursing and unpursing like a fish's. The rest of her face was immobile. Even her eyes hardly moved. With her usual economy of words she replied, “That is understandable. I will consider your concerns.”

  The next afternoon I came home from school to find Ruby's bed moved in with mine.

  “The memsahib requires a dressing area,” Yali explained nervously, “because when she is unwell, she needs a place to lie down so she will not disturb your father.”

  “I don't want to sleep with Ruby. She still cries out at night!”

  “I will sleep by her bed so she will not wake you.”

  “I don't want to sleep with the baby!” Ruby was three, but barely spoke, and she did not toilet herself.

  With my grandmother gone there was nobody who would stand up for me. Even after so short a time I knew it was useless to ask my father to support me against Zilpah.

  That night I came to the dinner table in a grim mood. After the food was passed, I did not lift my fork. Nobody noticed for the longest time. My father wiped his chin and looked over at me. “Are you feeling ill, Dinah?”

  I did not reply.

  Zilpah waved to a servant, and my plate was removed. “Children must never be forced to eat. In time, the body will send a message of hunger that cannot be ignored.”

  My father tapped his fingers on the table, then proceeded to discuss a matter that did not concern me.

  The next morning I sat at the table in the nursery reading a book that lay across my empty plate when my father stopped in for his usual greeting.

  “Is that volume tasty?” he teased.

  “Not really,” I said without looking up.

  He ruffled my hair. I softened in spite of myself and gave him a wide smile. He reached for some toast and offered it to me. I pushed it away. His nostrils flared. “What is this nonsense?”

  “I'm not hungry, that's all.”

  “Fine, then go back to your room. You cannot go to school on an empty stomach.”

  I passed Zilpah in the corridor, but rushed by without speaking.

  “Dinah!” my father called, seeing me ignore his wife. “Did you forget to say good morning to your mother?”

  I held my head high. “She is not my mother,” I shouted before turning and running to my room.

  “Dinah, come back this instant!”

  “Benu, let me—” was the last I heard before I slammed my door.

  There was a pitcher of water in my room and some jelabis I kept in a brass box. Other than that I don't believe I ate anything else for almost three days. Nor did I leave my room. My father stayed away. Ruby slept in her old room. Only Yali stopped by to check on me. “I cannot bring you food. You must come out if you wish to eat. Please do so, Dinah-baba.”

  “I don't ever want to see either of them again.”

  “You may have kaka or baba or dol-dol or—”

  “No!”

  “What is this about? What do you want?”

  This stopped me. I could not tell anyone that I hated my room, that I was lonely, that I didn't need another mother—least of all Zilpah—and I yearned for everything to be as it was before her arrival, so I remained silent.

  The next morning I was so weak I could not sit up in bed. Dozing off and on, I heard someone enter my room.

  Grandmother Flora bent over me. “What is the reason for this ridiculous behavior?” Her voice was harsher than I expected.

  I burst into tears. “I want to live with you again.”

  “You belong in this house with your father.”

  “You don't want me either.”

  “Whether I want you or not is beside the point. You live here.” Her chiding tone changed to a consoling purr. “You may visit me anytime you like, even after school each day, but this will remain your home.”

  The firmness in her voice alarmed me. “But I thought you agreed with me, that you—”

  “Just because I don't believe Zilpah was born a Jew has nothing to do with this.”

  “She is against me.”

  “No, you only think she is.”

  “Why has she banished me to this closet? Why must I take care of Ruby? Why does she think I should not go to school anymore?”

  Grandmother became indignant. “When did she say that?”

  “I overheard her telling Papa.” Zilpah had not used exactly those words, but she had wondered how long my father intended to humor me.

  “I will talk to your father about school, if you will take your nourishment.” Without waiting for my reply, she signaled Yali to bring in a tray. She fed me broth with a spoon as if I were a baby. I enjoyed her ministerings and wished she would never stop.

  As to religious observance, Zilpah was the most dutiful mother I ever had. We attended both Friday-night and Saturday-morning services, and she was much more strict about observing the Sabbat
h and the dietary laws than anyone else had been. Grandmother Flora was not the only person who thought a Bene Israel not as pure a Jew as a Baghdadi. Everyone doubted her Jewishness. Even a convert would have been accepted more readily. Nobody in the women's gallery of the synagogue even acknowledged Zilpah; nevertheless, she knew the prayers, every ritual, the most minute detail about how a holiday should be celebrated. When we were ignored, I felt as though she was an impostor and that I was her accomplice.

  Aunt Bellore rejected her with the most vehemence. “Benu, have you lost your senses? How could you, a Sassoon, marry a Bene Israel!” she railed the first afternoon she had been introduced to his wife. I had been playing with Jonah on the terrace when Bellore dragged him outside to berate him for his mistake. Even though we were visible, she did not check her venomous tongue. “A nigger! My God, you've married a nigger! How could you do this to our family? To your own children?”

  “I must ask you never again to speak that way about the woman who is my wife,” Benu replied steadily.

  Bellore modulated her tone to match. “Don't you see how unfair you have been to her? She will never be accepted in Calcutta.”

  “A Sassoon is always accepted.”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Ever since you were a boy, you had to learn everything the hard way. It” has taken all these years for people to begin to forget Luna, and now this . . .” she hissed. Her words became nastier as her volume decreased. “You may ignore the consequences, and your sons may not suffer from having a mother who was a profligate, an addict, an adulteress, but you have tarnished that child with every move you have made.”

  As her head tossed in my direction, I looked away. From where I sat, motionless, I could see my father's neck had turned crimson below his precisely cut hairline. He clenched both hands behind his back. Breathless, I waited for his response. He stared until my aunt slithered away.

  A few weeks after my open rebellion was thwarted, I was asked to join my father and his wife after dinner, just the three of us. I would have been flattered if my father had not been so attentive to Zilpah. His eyes never wavered from her as he admired every gesture, every flicker of her long, curling lashes. Apparently he was not put off by her puckering mouth, which continued to unnerve me.

  Zilpah offered me the chair right under the punkah. “Sit here, Dinah.” She and my father sat on either side of me, observing me, as though I were a mounted specimen.

  “How is school, Dinah?” my father inquired solicitously.

  “Fine.”

  “Do your friends know about your new mother?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do they ask about her?”

  I eyed him warily.

  “What do you know about the Bene Israel?”

  I shook my head.

  “My people have a long and fascinating history. If you are questioned, it would be wise for you to have answers.” Zilpah sat up taller. The folds of her sari aligned themselves in concentric drapes. Her immaculate hands remained clasped in her lap serenely.

  “Don't you agree, Dinah?”

  I shrugged.

  Smiling, my father leaned back as Zilpah began speaking in that steady, clipped accent that was almost a parody of upper-class English. I decided to ignore her. But then, despite myself, I became intrigued with the tale.

  “. . . So word of these strange peoples, the members of the caste of Shanwar Telis, was heard far and wide. One day, about eight hundred years ago, a learned teacher came to India from Egypt. His name was David Rahabi. After talking to the people, he suspected the Bene Israel might be a lost colony of Jews. He asked many questions, but received confusing answers, for the group had been without scholars for centuries. Much knowledge was forgotten, but they kept the Sabbath, kashrut, circumcision rites, and—most important—they recited Shema Yisrael for every occasion. In order to test them, Rahabi brought a basket filled with many types of fish. 'Please cook these for me,' he asked the women of Shanwar Telis. Amazed, he watched as the women separated the fish into two piles: those with scales and fins in one, the remainder in the other. 'Why do you do this?' Rahabi asked. 'We use only fish that have scales and fins,' they replied. This convinced Rahabi to remain among them and to reeducate them about Jewish laws and life.”

  “Tell Dinah about your family,” Papa coached.

  “About a hundred years ago, my grandfather met a man who came to our district from Cochin. He became convinced we were authentic Jews. He taught my grandfather—along with several other community leaders—to be a kaji, the person who would officiate at services and ceremonies.”

  I knew this was supposed to impress me, so to keep the peace, I smiled thinly. Unfortunately, this encouraged Zilpah to ramble on about how important her father had been. “My father was a boy recruit in the forces of the British East India Company. Within ten years he was commissioned an officer.”

  My father's head bobbed enthusiastically. “Zilpah's father saw active service in the Second Sikh War and the Persian campaign. And in the Mutiny, the Bene Israel soldiers remained loyal throughout. Afterward Kehimkar was rewarded with the highest rank open to Indians in the military: subedar major.” My father paused and stared at me.

  I thought it wise to respond. “How did you end up in Darjeeling?” I asked, spitting out the name of the city with distaste.

  “When I was about your age, my father was offered a position in Darjeeling. Unfortunately, that was where he was killed.”

  “How?” I wondered, this time with a keener curiosity.

  My father filled in for her. “A party of murderous dacoits ambushed him on their horses.”

  “What's a dacoit?”

  “That’s what they called armed robbers, like the thugs, in that region.”

  “Oh!” I gasped as my sympathies moved in my stepmother's direction for the first time.

  “After his death, Zilpah's mother managed a guest house and Zilpah assisted her.”

  “I thought you went to school.”

  “I attended one at Poona for a time. Even though you sometimes think I am against your schooling, Dinah, you can see I value education— even for girls.”

  Bristling at her last phrase, I stood up and formally thanked her for the explanation. Zilpah and my father gave each other self-satisfied smiles. I would not like her! I vowed. Still, when I found myself having to justify the Bene Israel, I passed on Zilpah's tale to friends at school. And though I determined she should not know this, over time I was finding fewer reasons to hate her.

  11

  For the next three years a truce was declared. Zilpah did not order me about and I did not cross her. When my father traveled—which was for shorter times than previously—we hardly saw each other. I was free to stay with my grandmother as much as I liked.

  At fourteen, I was head girl in my class—quite a small class, since many of the girls who entered with me were removed at twelve or thirteen and kept at home to prepare for marriage. A wedding at my age was not uncommon, although I assumed this custom would not apply to me. The four boys attended school as well, the two youngest at the Jewish Boys' School, the two oldest at St. Xavier's. Ruby, who was six, should have joined the first class at my school, but although she was a darling butterball, she showed no readiness to concentrate on paper-and-pencil tasks.

  After services on Saturday mornings, I would walk Ruby to her Grandmother Helene's. Though her house on Loudon Street was much smaller than Theatre Road, her guest list had not diminished. Her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews were closer friends to me than my own cousins. I especially liked her niece Masuda Judah, who was one class lower than me at the Jewish Girls' School.

  Masuda had an older brother, Gabriel, who had thick reddish curls and emerald eyes. I would find any excuse to be near him. We had known each other for years, but suddenly I felt a tantalizing tingling when he was nearby, and a tremor of loss when we were apart.

  Whenever we met at Grandmother Helene's home on holidays, we played towli—
backgammon—which I usually won, and tommy-dot, at which he had all the luck. Unsure of how he felt about me, I hid my emotions behind a veil of intellectuality. When younger children tried to pester us, I had the idea to thwart them by using a secret language: Latin.

  “Cave, audiunt,” I warned if they were listening.

  “Abite, molesti!” we shouted to send them off.

  Our private vocabulary was successful at annoying the others. Soon we began to write notes, innocent exercises to show off to each other. If we had passed them only at Grandmother Helene's, or even through Masuda, no harm might have been done. I was the foolish one who became entangled in my own web. And I was the one who paid most dearly for the escapade of the tiffin-wallahs.

  Tiffin—the colloquial name for luncheon—was always prepared at home, not only in Jewish households where dietary laws were followed, but in almost every Indian household. Before eleven each school day, the tiffin-wallah called at our kitchen, where he received six tiffin-carriers—one for each of the five children at school and one for my father at the Sassoon offices. On the bottom of the five-sectioned tiffin-carrier was a bed of hot coals. The next two layers were perforated to keep the meal hot. The top two layers contained bread and fruit. The cook helped load these on a wide board, which the tiffin-wallah balanced on his head. He made the rounds to various other families until he had more than twenty of the stacking tin containers. Then he went from school to school and to the offices. Around three in the afternoon he reversed his order, picking up our empty tiffin-carriers and returning them to each scullery by the end of the day. I had always been impressed that he could keep the tiffin-carriers organized, since they were of a similar design. Somehow he did, for I never received okra, a vegetable I despised. Jonah always had an extra pack of popadoms, the crispy curry biscuit he adored. And only Father was given a helping of achar, the fiery pickle that none of us children could tolerate.

  The first time I made my own use of the tiffin-wallah was the day I found one of Jonah's school books in my sack. “Tiffin-wallah,” I asked sweetly, “do you go next to St. Xavier's?”