by Bapsi Sidhwa
“He rode the lions and tigers?” Chuyia interrupted, her eyes shining.
“Yes,” Shakuntala said. “He was fearless. The mother taught him all the things a young prince should be taught. He became skilled in archery and the use of other weapons. His mother also schooled him in the Scriptures: the Vedas and the Upanishads.
“Bharata grew into a handsome, intelligent and brave youth—a prince in exile!
“Then one day, in the kingdom of Dushyanta, a fisherman caught the fish that had swallowed the royal ring that had slipped from Shakuntala’s finger. When he cut open the fish to cook it, he found the ring. The fisherman rushed to the royal court and told the king how he had found the royal ring. When he saw his ring, King Dushyanta remembered everything. He remembered he had fallen in love with the beautiful Shakuntala and had married her. He was very repentant that he had sent his pregnant wife away so heartlessly. He sent his men to search for Shakuntala all over his kingdom.
“At last, his Minister gave him the good news. He bowed before him and told him that the king’s search party had found Shakuntala and her handsome son. They were both safe in the heart of the forest. The king went to fetch his wife and son. He begged their forgiveness, and with due honour and festivity brought them back to the palace and made Shakuntala his queen.
“Years later, when King Dushyanta died, Bharata became the king of ancient India. He was a noble and just king. There was no poverty or misery in his kingdom. That is why India is also known as Bharatavarsha—the Land of Bharata.”
Shakuntala let the book remain open. Chuyia had edged closer and closer to her as she read the story, until their shoulders were rubbing. When Chuyia glanced up, she found Shakuntala’s serious, candid eyes fixed on her.
“The little boy found joy even though he grew up in a jungle with no one to play with, no family except his mother. He became strong and powerful. Perhaps you can learn from him.”
“But he was a prince; he got to rule a kingdom,” Chuyia said. “And at least he had his mother.”
“How do you know you’re not a princess?” Shakuntala said.
Chuyia looked at her, startled. There was that hint of a smile. Chuyia shyly snuggled up to her, and Shakuntala felt an unaccustomed tenderness seep through her body. She placed a tentative arm around the child.
SHAKUNTALA WENT TO THE RIVER to get holy water for the priest, Sadananda. As she came to the white stone river enclosure, which was her usual place for filling his ceremonial brass pot, she was charmed by a lovely young bride at the centre of a wedding ceremony. The priest conducting the ceremony was busy anointing a plaster cow draped in an orange sari in front of the bride and groom. Shakuntala knew she should leave and go elsewhere to get the water, but something drew her toward the group. Perhaps it was the desire to witness the joy that radiated from the bride; perhaps it was just a wish to be among happy people. Shakuntala slowly descended the steps. The priest had his back to her, but some members of the wedding party began to stir uneasily. As she stooped to fill the pot with water, the ceremony came to an abrupt halt.
The priest spoke sharply to Shakuntala. “Watch it! Don’t let your shadow touch the bride.”
Shakuntala stood rooted to the step, in shock at being addressed this way by a priest. Lowering her eyes in apology, she turned her back on the group and ascended the steps with as much dignity as she could muster.
When she handed the brass pot to Sadananda, from the way he lowered his gaze she knew he’d witnessed her humiliation. “Such ignorance,” he said softly, taking the pot from her arms. “This ignorance is our misfortune.”
Head covered, eyes downcast, Shakuntala did not respond as she prepared the spot for worship—unrolling and smoothing down Sadananda’s straw mat and sprinkling holy water. Sadananda gazed at her with unmistakable gratitude and affection. He placed a hand cautiously on her shoulder. “Shakuntala-devi, you’ve been doing this for so many years.”
When she didn’t respond, he sighed, spreading out the Ramayana, incense, sandalwood paste and holy water. He continued, “So many years of service and devotion. Do you feel any closer to self-liberation?”
Shakuntala did not answer immediately. She said, “If self-liberation means detachment from worldly desires, then no, I’m no closer to it.”
He let his hand rest for a moment on her shoulder. “Whatever happens,” he said, his voice weighted with concern, “never lose your faith.”
Shakuntala looked at Sadananda thoughtfully. He was a good man: she trusted him.
Chapter Ten
The widows formed a long, snaking line as they sat outside the temple in their white saris with their begging bowls. The evening sun was behind them, and it cast a mellow glow on the rain-washed temple and the trees bursting with leaves. They had grown as accustomed to begging as they had to the gruelling hours of singing in temple halls to earn a few coins and a fistful of rice. Without these handouts, they would starve. They had long ago lost their initial sense of shame and humiliation at accepting alms. The irony was that most of the widows, from villages in Bengal and neighbouring Bihar were from landowning families and were in fact accustomed to giving alms to the less fortunate. But that was long ago.
Chuyia sat between Shakuntala and Snehlata with only a vague idea of why they were there. Shakuntala had told her that it was the evening of the Durga Festival, and people were inclined to be generous. The ashram barber, a slight nervous man with buckteeth, had arrived the day before with his razor and shaved all their heads to a smooth baldness in preparation for the festival.
A woman and her daughter came out of the temple. The young girl, no older than seven, wore her brilliant red skirt and blouse proudly. A chain of white jasmine-buds adorned her long hair, and her hands were covered in bangles. Her mother handed the girl a coin. Chuyia locked eyes with her; the girl’s gaze was friendly.
The girl stood looking at Chuyia solemnly for a moment, and then gave her the coin. Chuyia felt the blood rise to her face, and her humiliation was like a blow that winded her. She clenched the coin tightly in her fist to contain her fury. Shakuntala gave her a stern look; she should have thanked the girl. The mother was handing out coins to the other widows down the line.
The young girl walking away with her mother shook her wrists to hear the jingle of her bangles. Although she had few recollections of her wedding, Chuyia suddenly remembered her red sari, the glittering gold pendant hanging on her forehead, the red and green bangles jangling on her wrists. As soon as the mother and daughter were gone from view, Chuyia turned to Shakuntala and hissed, “I hate you!”
She leapt up and ran away.
The widow sitting next to Shakuntala leaned over her to observe, “She’s still not used to this.”
“It’s her first time,” Shakuntala said coldly. “She’ll get used to it. We all do.”
THE TUMULT OF CHUYIA’S emotions carried her through the streets randomly until she arrived at a lane filled with the aromas of all the fried foods forbidden to her, and her rage was banished by the delightful fragrance wafting up her nose. She became aware of the coin biting into her hand, and she loosened her grip on it.
Chuyia stood in front of a vendor, watching wide-eyed as puris puffed up like little balloons on a lake of hot oil in a karahi.
“Get away!” the vendor shooed Chuyia, as if she were a stray animal.
Chuyia shot back, “I have money.”
She held out the small coin in proof.
“Widows don’t eat fried food,” he said, spitting betel juice into a bowl.
Chuyia stuck her tongue out at him.
The vendor laughed—she was just a kid. “What do you want? Speak up.”
Chuyia reluctantly pulled her eyes away from the mouth-watering puris and pointed to the only treat she could possibly choose. She placed the coin on the platform on which he sat and, situating herself away from the counter, held out her sari. The man leaned forward and dropped the small packet into it.
IT WAS DARK
BY THE TIME Chuyia returned to the ashram and timidly knocked on the outside door. Shakuntala opened the top panel, hoping it was her. “Where were you? Is this a time to come back?” she scolded sotto voce, as she unlatched the door. “Can’t you see how dark it is? Where have you been?” she asked again, but Chuyia was already walking down the passage. “I’m talking to you. Come here!” Shakuntala said. No one disobeyed her when she used that tone of voice. Chuyia retraced her steps and stood before her. “You can’t go running off just because you’re upset! Anything could happen to a young girl like you.”
Chuyia looked at her meekly. “I won’t do it again.” She wanted to get on with what she had in mind to do; this should end quickly.
“Madhumati-didi asked for you. I pretended I knew where you were. If she’d found out, who knows what she’d do! She would have locked you out.”
Hands hanging humbly by her side, Chuyia made an effort to look even more contrite. “Shakuntala-didi, I won’t do it again.”
“I’ve saved some food for you. Go, eat. But first see what Madhumati-didi wants.”
Chuyia was anxious to get to Bua, but she obediently went to Madhumati’s room. She was relieved to find that Madhumati was occupied with her bath. The bathing cubicle had no door, and Chuyia glimpsed her emptying jugs of water over her rolls of flesh. Madhumati modestly bathed in her sari, as did all the widows. It allowed access to whoever wished to use the space, and it got the saris cleaned as well.
Chuyia stealthily crept to Shakuntala’s room. It was past Bua’s bedtime and, as Chuyia expected, she lay turned over on her side, snoring and snorting. The loose skin on her hollow cheeks fluttered with each breath, and her lips made small puttering sounds when she breathed out.
Chuyia knelt by the old woman and, holding out the glistening yellow laddoo, waved it near her nose. She said softly, “Auntie! Auntie!” a few times to rouse her, and, when she stirred, Chuyia quickly set the laddoo on the mat and slipped out of the room. She stayed just outside the doorway to watch Bua’s reaction.
Bua’s rheumy, scrunched-up eyes widened in astonishment; two inches from her eyeballs sat the most scrumptious yellow laddoo in the world! Her eyes glued to the orb of sweet lentil-fudge, she sat up. She was not sure if she was still dreaming, or if this unexpected treasure was for real. She lifted the laddoo gingerly, half-expecting it to vanish. It stayed firm and substantial between her fingers. She brought it to her nose and inhaled its fragrance: it was made in pure butter-oil. Then she quickly shoved the whole laddoo into her toothless mouth, and with her hand clamped her mouth shut.
The gob of fudge stuffed her mouth so she could scarcely breathe. As the glorious buttery sweetness from it swamped her taste buds, waves of delight spread through her whole body and sent Bua reeling back into her past. Memories shaped themselves into images and scenes that transported her back across the span of years to her wedding day.
Her round face prettied with makeup, her ears, nose, forehead and hair adorned with gold jewellery, she sits beneath the marriage canopy like a beautiful little goddess. The pandal is staked out by four sturdy banana stalks, one in each corner, and corralled on three sides by strings of red roses, white jasmine and other flowers, interspersed with fringes of fresh ferns and large tropical leaves. She sits on the stage, which is festooned with coils of gold and silver tinsel, fluffed out in a richly embossed, red-and-gold brocade sari with a wide beaded fringe. Her neck and chest are circled by chains of gold and heavy garlands of rose and jasmine. And right through the wedding ceremony and the celebrations that follow, she feasts her eyes on the sumptuous array of sweets and then finally stuffs her mouth full of them.
The laddoo given to Bua by Chuyia, still filling her clamped mouth to capacity, radiated such sweetness that Bua’s memories shifted to her mother, as she held Bua tenderly in her arms, whispered gentle instructions she couldn’t follow in her ear and affectionately pinched her cheek. The lovely little bride lifted her arms to place the garland from her own neck around the neck of her handsome groom, a man older than her by eight or nine years.
As Bua slowly masticated the flesh of the laddoo with her hard gums and little by little, like a boa constrictor, squeezed it down her gullet, she relived the best years of her life: her acceptance by her prosperous new landowning Brahmin family and her happy immersion in their daily routine; the kindness of her gentle mother-in-law who once remarked, “You are our little Lakshmi”; the increasingly comforting embrace of the man she never, even in her thoughts, could name. Her face looked as if she’d attained nirvana.
Chuyia blinked, gratified by the salutary effect her gift had on her friend. She wanted to stay, hear Auntie narrate the stories she was obviously reliving, express her satisfaction at the savour of the longed-for sweet. But Madhumati was calling for her, and, without revealing her presence to Auntie, Chuyia slipped away.
Chapter Eleven
Madhumati lay on her stomach like a sedated whale, and her arms lay against her body like limp flippers. Chuyia, holding onto a bar stretched above the bed for balance, stood on the cushion of Madhumati’s wide buttocks, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to pummel and massage the obese bottom. Madhumati moaned with pleasure. Heralded by the buzz and hum of her song, Gulabi arrived at the barred window opening on the alley, prepared to share the morning’s gossip and while away the time. Mitthu the parrot swung in his cage, repeating with infuriating insistence, “Pretty Madhu! Pretty Madhu!”
Madhumati praised Chuyia’s efforts, “Well done, my little mouse! Now do my legs.”
Chuyia obliged: hopping down she knelt by Madhumati’s bed and began kneading and massaging her flaccid calves with her strong little hands.
“Gently!” cautioned Madhumati, slightly raising her head to look at Chuyia. “My skin is sensitive.” Then, to the world at large, which at that point consisted only of Chuyia and Gulabi, she declared, “Even if a mosquito sits on me, it creates a crater.” She sighed exaggeratedly and gave Chuyia a fey look. Getting into the spirit of the sport, Gulabi flipped a dainty wrist and cooed, “Hai, you poor thing.”
Chuyia grinned and continued to work silently. After a while, Madhumati, pummelled to a state of comatose bliss, mumbled, “Ask Gulabi. I always keep my promises. If I say I will do something, I always do it.”
“That she does,” Gulabi unctuously confirmed, and advanced the conversation to the next level.
“If she says she’ll send you home, then she will.”
Hope welled in Chuyia’s heart, and her eyes lit up. No matter how often Madhumati mumbled these words in her sedated state or how often Gulabi attested to them, Chuyia knew they were barren assertions; yet she could no more tamp the hope that flared in her heart each time she heard them than she could stop breathing. She kneaded Madhumati’s thighs with renewed vigour and her little body rocked with the effort. Madhumati shut her eyes in pleasure, and Gulabi took this as a signal to start gossiping.
“Do you know . . .” she began.
“Know what?” said Madhumati.
“This Gandhi is going to sink India.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Gandhi says, ‘The untouchables are the children of God!’” Gulabi said in a shocked, pious voice.
This news had the desired effect. Madhumati reared up like a scandalized cobra, and shook her head in disbelief. “Disgusting! Before he came, everything ran like an English clock. Tick tock!”
Gulabi chimed in with Madhumati’s ticking clock, “Tick tock!” and clapped her hands in a manner typical of eunuchs.
Madhumati appeared to become thoughtful, and a sly look crept into her eyes. “Next he’ll be saying, ‘Hijras are the children of God!’”
Gulabi stopped laughing. Then she said, “If untouchables are ‘children of God,’ then eunuchs are His step-children! Even our earthly mother–father have no claim on us.”
Chuyia looked at her round-eyed. “You have mother–father?”
“Everybody has mother–father,�
�� Gulabi said. “But when a eunuch is born, whether it is in a palace or hovel, the hijras claim it and carry the baby off. The mother–father never see the baby again.”
“They carried you off?” Chuyia asked incredulous. “Didn’t your mother cry?”
“She must have,” Gulabi said indifferently. “All mothers cry when we take their babies.”
Hijras were akin to a force of nature even in their villages. When a son was born, within minutes they descended on the house, clapping and raucously singing until their demands were met and they were paid off. But this was the first Chuyia had heard about them carrying babies off.
“How did they know you were a hijra?”
“They always know. The very minute a eunuch is born, they know.”
“How can they tell a baby is a hijra?” Chuyia asked.
“They are half-girl, half-boy.”
“You are half-girl, half-boy?”
“Yes. You want to see?” Gulabi said, obligingly unwrapping part of her sari, as Chuyia eagerly crossed the room to the window.
Madhumati’s aspect was a study in astonishment as she sat up in bed. “Have you gone raving mad? I’ll puke if you show your wretched privates!”
“Who cares what you think,” said Gulabi with an affected shrug. “I have enough admirers.” She threw her sari palu back over her shoulder.
“Shameless madwoman!”
Madhumati turned to Chuyia and irritably snapped, “No more questions. Go and play outside. I’ve got a headache.”
Chuyia tottered out of the room utterly bemused. She still had many questions.