Water: A Novel (Bapsi Sidwha)

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  She imagined Narayan storming into the ashram, giving a quaking Madhumati a learned tongue-lashing interspersed with Gandhi quotes, and, after breaking down the barsati door, leading her away through the ranks of the awestruck widows.

  But this was a fantasy, far removed from reality. Kalyani knew the ashram was inviolate, and Madhumati’s rule absolute. What happened in it was nobody’s business but the ashram’s. Provided it adhered to its ordained rules and role, no one could interfere with its traditional governance and its sacrosanct place in society. Anyone who tried to defy the status quo would have to face the combined wrath of the religious and civil bastions of the city. Kalyani sank miserably to the floor and with the edge of her sari wiped the tears that rolled down her face. The moonlight shining through the warped slats in the wall fell across her in stripes.

  GULABI STOOD AT MADHUMATI’S window, slapping her forehead and ranting, “What a disaster! If one widow wants to marry, all the widows will want to marry. A calamity!”

  Madhumati lay on her bed on her back, one hand flung dramatically over her brow, disinterested in Gulabi’s rants.

  Gulabi continued anyway. “Do you know what he says?”

  “Who?” Madhumati responded half-heartedly.

  “Gandhi. He says widows are strangers to love. And nobody should be a stranger to love!” When Madhumati did not respond to this earth-shaking charge, she continued. “Who loves me? Nobody! Why doesn’t he say hijras are strangers to love? He should spare a thought or two of pity for us eunuchs.”

  Unexpectedly, Madhumati began to cry, softly at first. Gulabi looked at her in surprise. Had her eloquence moved her this much?

  “What is it, didi?” Gulabi asked.

  “I miss my Mitthu,” wailed Madhumati. “My Mitthu. Where are you, my Mitthu?”

  The old bitch couldn’t care less for the plight of eunuchs! No one did, thought Gulabi.

  Madhumati howled as if her heart were breaking into pieces. Gulabi began to cry for reasons that had nothing to do with dead parrots, and they bawled in a frightful chorus.

  IN ONE OF THE WIDOW’S LARGER ROOMS, Kunti lay on a mat, head propped on her hand, gossiping with the other widows. “I hear someone twisted Mitthu’s neck right off him, and left him on the floor,” she whispered.

  Kunti grew silent as Shakuntala walked through into an adjoining room where Chuyia lay on a mat. Shakuntala closed the door so that she and Chuyia would be left alone. She went to a corner and sat down close to Chuyia. Chuyia lay on her stomach with her face to the wall, seeming to sleep.

  Shakuntala fetched a sari from her room and began to darn it, glancing at Chuyia every once in a while.

  “Chuyia? Chuyia?” Shakuntala said, trying to see if she was awake. Something about the position in which she lay made her suspect she was.

  Chuyia didn’t answer, but Shakuntala noticed a slight tightening in her bare shoulders.

  “I know you’re not asleep,” said Shakuntala.

  Chuyia reluctantly rolled over to face Shakuntala. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  “I won’t ask about Mitthu,” Shakuntala said. Then to show that she wouldn’t, she changed the topic. She pushed her face forward. “Tell me, what do I look like?”

  “Old!” answered Chuyia, matter-of-fact. Then she rolled back over, away from Shakuntala’s eyes. How did she know about Mitthu? But it didn’t matter if she knew. And as if she were relieved of a burden, Chuyia fell asleep.

  Shakuntala sat, face impassive, and continued to darn.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A pale dawn light struggled through the overcast sky, and there was a rumble of approaching thunder. It started to drizzle as Shakuntala, sitting at the river’s edge, filled the brass pot with water.

  Sadananda sat high up on the ghats, slurping tea from a saucer under his mushroom-shaped umbrella. He idly watched Shakuntala fill the pot and walk up the ghat steps with the holy water. As the light shone through her damp sari, it outlined her thighs and legs. It gave him pleasure to watch her. Not for the first time, he observed the grace in her strong, shapely body. Her waist was slender above the rounded flare of her hips, her stomach flat. Her high breasts made shapely mounds beneath her handsome shoulders, and her neck sat straight above the indentations of her collarbones; he wished he could bury his lips in the hollows. He sighed. It was a pity she had become a widow while there was still so much life in her.

  Shakuntala came up to him, and Sadananda could tell something was troubling her. Her brow was knit in a frown, and she avoided looking at him when she handed him the pot. Sadananda anointed her with the holy water and, after a brief glance of inquiry, sat back in his chair as Shakuntala set about preparing the place for worship. She would come out with whatever it was when it suited her.

  As Shakuntala stood up from smoothing out his mat, her sari got pinched in the cleft between her buttocks. Sadananda had an almost irresistible urge to pry it out, and at the same time he feasted his eyes on the shape the round globes of her buttocks made. She turned to him, her eyes downcast, staring at nothing.

  “Is something troubling you?” he asked, masking the desire in his voice and shading his eyes, as if from the glare, with his hand. Shakuntala sat down on the floor at his feet and, overcoming her hesitation and speaking gravely as was her wont, said, “Panditji, I have read the Holy Books without questioning them. But you have studied all the Holy Scriptures . . . I have great respect for your learning . . . Panditji, is it written that widows should be treated badly?”

  Shakuntala was not given to saying much to him, and he was surprised by her loquacity and the almost provoking way she had phrased her question. He took a moment to consider the issue. Then he cleared his throat and gave her his considered answer in measured words:

  “The Brahmanical tradition in the stri-dharma says a widow has two options: She can commit sati and mount her husband’s pyre, or lead a life of self-denial and pray for her husband’s soul. In some cases, if the family allows it, she may marry her dead husband’s brother.”

  Shakuntala listened to him quietly. She already knew this: she had hoped his scholarship in religious matters had gleaned nuances of meaning not clear to a lay person like her. Disappointed, she unconsciously smoothed her sari at the back, and stood up to go. Sadananda stopped her with a gesture of his hand.

  “However,” he continued, “a law was recently passed which favours widow remarriage.”

  “A law?” Shakuntala said, surprised. “Why don’t we know about it? Shouldn’t we have been told?”

  Sadananda gave a sardonic, lopsided grin and replied, “We ignore the laws that don’t suit us.”

  Shakuntala stared at him, turning Sadananda’s words over in her mind, allowing the truth of his statement to sink in: the law did not suit certain people in the ashram.

  Shakuntala left the river and resolutely made her way to the ashram, mulling over the ramifications of the news she had just received. She was sickened at the thought of the deceit Madhumati had perpetrated on them all. She was infuriated by the image of the gullible widows gathered around her as she pontificated on the sins of widow-remarriage and the disaster she had saved them and the ashram from by discovering Kalyani’s perfidy. Madhumati had deliberately withheld the information from Kalyani; she had no compunctions about destroying the young woman’s only chance for happiness for selfish reasons. Who would support her dope addictions or some of the ease she enjoyed at the ashram if Gulabi stopped taking Kalyani to the seths? Kalyani raked in more money than the other widows she pimped out put together.

  Shakuntala’s sari was still damp from her dip in the river when she arrived at Madhumati’s room. She leaned against the doorpost, observing Madhumati with the clear-eyed loathing of the betrayed, oblivious to the ringing of temple bells and the chirping of birds that filtered in from outside.

  The object of her scrutiny stood before a small dresser topped by a tray filled with vials and pots of oils. She watched with revulsion as Madhumati dipped
her fingers into a small pot and carefully traced the two-pronged ash caste-mark in the centre of her forehead. Madhumati daintily dabbed frankincense behind each earlobe with her little finger. The old woman noticed Shakuntala and turned to her with a slightly startled smile plastered to her face.

  Without any trace of a returning smile to soften the severity of her features, Shakuntala said, “Give me the keys to Kalyani’s room.” Although she spoke quietly, the timbre of her voice was implacably determined.

  Madhumati’s smile vanished, and her face almost immediately hardened into a mask of anger. “Who do you think you are?” she growled. “I’m not giving you the keys.”

  Shakuntala stepped up to Madhumati until she was barely an inch from her face. “Give me the keys,” she said with menacing resolve.

  “No. Didn’t you hear me?” Madhumati spat out the words. “I won’t give them to you.”

  In a gesture that was almost violent, Shakuntala reached for the clump of keys knotted to Madhumati’s sari and abruptly grabbed hold of them. Moving her lumpen arms with surprising agility, Madhumati clamped her hands on Shakuntala’s. And as their eyes locked in a battle of wills, they grappled with the keys.

  Shakuntala broke Madhumati’s grip with a sharp tug. Unaccustomed to such open defiance, and stunned by shock, Madhumati stared as Shakuntala fell to her knees before her and with her teeth and fingers deftly pried open the knot that held the bunch of keys. Shakuntala walked from the room, and Madhumati bitterly called after her, “If you open that whore’s door, you will destroy us all!”

  Alerted by Madhumati’s loud, distressed voice, the widows had grouped outside Madhumati’s room and anxiously followed the altercation between them and the struggle for the keys. They broke rank to allow Shakuntala passage, and as she brushed past them Kunti placed a hand on Shakuntala’s shoulder and pleaded, “Don’t open the door, didi. Please, didi. Madhumati knows what’s best for us.”

  Shakuntala pushed her hand off without deigning to respond and headed straight for the stairs leading to the barsati. For a moment, she stood nervously on the balcony outside the battered blue door. The uncertainty passed. She slipped the key into the lock, released the padlock and, sliding back the bolt, flung open the door.

  Kalyani was slumped against the far wall nestling Kaalu in her lap. The room was dim, lit only by the slivers of light that came through the slits between the weathered boards of the walls. Her eyes were hollow, and her roughly shorn hair stuck out in a spiky halo around her head.

  Silhouetted by the blinding daylight, Shakuntala stood in the door. “Leave. Go,” she ordered, almost hissing with the tension coiled within her.

  Kalyani was confused by the sudden visit. The unexpected command filled her with dread. Torn between the safety of the barsati and the freedom and danger that lay beyond the open door, she gaped at Shakuntala.

  “What are you waiting for? Go. No one will stop you,” Shakuntala said. “Don’t worry. I’ll send word to Narayan.”

  Holding onto Kaalu as if for support, Kalyani slowly got to her feet. She plucked a clean sari from a string stretched across the room and flung it over her bare shoulder. For a moment, she stood in front of Shakuntala, searching her face for answers. Shakuntala’s strong face was unwavering, confidence-inspiring. She had learned to trust this woman. Marvelling at the resources of courage and strength the widow must have drawn upon to defy Madhumati and the tradition of the ashram, she quickly bent to touch Shakuntala’s feet. As she straightened, the fear in her eyes was veiled by a glimmer of hope, of faint daring. With a look of mute appeal, she handed the puppy over to Shakuntala and walked out of the dark room and into the light.

  Kaalu whimpered and squirmed on Shakuntala’s shoulder. Her face reflected the concern she felt for Kalyani. Wondering how it would all end, she held Kaalu close and shut her eyes.

  The agitated widows were lined up in the courtyard, waiting and watching, their awestruck faces grim with fear. Kunti stood with her wiry arms crossed in front of her, every muscle in her body tight with hostility towards Kalyani.

  Her head and most of her face covered by the white sari, Kalyani walked through the wall of widows with slow, hesitant steps. Madhumati sat on her takth, staring bug-eyed, her lips flattened and drawn back, her head shaking with suppressed rage. As Kalyani passed, she raised a threatening finger. “Mind. If you go to him, I won’t let you come back!”

  The menace in her voice brought home the enormity of the risk she was about to take. After all, the ashram had sheltered her all these many years, even if it had made use of her body to procure income. God alone knew what would have happened to her without Madhumati’s authority and Gulabi’s vigil outside the doors of the strangers’ houses. A hundred fears swirled through her mind. She looked back up to the balcony where Shakuntala stood, clutching Kaalu. Shakuntala gave her a small smile of encouragement and a nod to go on.

  Kalyani continued her diffident walk toward the ashram exit much like a captive deer stepping out of its pen. Chuyia, who had been watching wide-eyed from behind a pillar, popped out for a moment, then jumped back into hiding as Kalyani passed.

  Kalyani traced her accustomed route to the river. She sat down on the grey stone steps of Shiva’s Temple at Karmi Ghat, collecting her incoherent thoughts and grounding herself in the reality of the events that had so recently overtaken her life and turned it upside down, and would from now on define it. After a while, she splashed water onto her face. The sun was high, and the sky and water were a matching pale blue. Bathed in sunlight and warmed by it, Kalyani soaped and washed her hair and body in the gentle flow of the river, and cleansed her limbs of the accumulated grime of her incarceration in the barsati. Behind her, a middle-aged widow was sprinkling holy water on a white statue of a cow. On the far side of the river, the densely green and lush foliage enclosed a mysterious world she had never ventured into.

  Revived by her bath, Kalyani made her way to the majestic banyan near the river where she had had her first assignation with Narayan. She didn’t know where else to go. If Shakuntala’s message had reached Narayan, this is where he would expect to find her. Pulling her sari forward over her face, she sat down, head bowed, on the stone parapet, a forlorn figure beneath the overarching branches of the mighty tree.

  What if Narayan was out of town and didn’t receive Shakuntala’s message? What if he didn’t show up? Kalyani’s hands appeared to have acquired a will of their own as they clasped each other nervously in her lap. She stared at the unwilled movements of her hands and at her bare feet. Kalyani was thankful there were very few people around, but, bereft of Narayan’s presence, the calm of the landscape offered little comfort. Although there was shade beneath the tree, beyond its sheltering reach, the daylight was stark and terrible.

  “Kalyani!” a voice called from behind her. It was Narayan. Kalyani’s heart lurched, and all her senses came alive. By the time she turned to him, her face was transformed with relief, radiant with joy. Throwing her habitual widow’s decorum and caution to the wind, she rushed across the distance that separated them and fell into Narayan’s outstretched arms. For a moment, he clasped her to him hard, nuzzling her neck. Her movements were uninhibited and spontaneous for the first time since Narayan had known her; and it was the first time that Narayan had held her so close. His body was filled with rapture as it responded to the softness of her. She felt fragile against him, like a dove, and he loosened his grip, afraid of hurting her. After a while, he held her away from him so he could look at her. His eyes became troubled as he searched her face. He was shocked to see the change wrought on her in the few days since he’d last seen her. He had learned of her ordeal only from the note Shakuntala had sent him. He thought he’d go mad when he heard that Madhumati had cut Kalyani’s hair and locked her in the barsati, and his heart ached with helpless fury at the harsh words Madhumati must have spoken while committing these atrocities and the threats she must have hurled. Shakuntala’s brief note had only mentioned that Madhuma
ti had warned that Kalyani would not be allowed back into the ashram.

  Narayan ran his hands over Kalyani’s cropped hair, as if to examine the wounds afflicted on the hair and heal the damage done to her. He pulled her close to him again, and his hands wandered over her bare shoulders and neck. He had never felt her like this before, and the silken texture of her skin and her firm flesh was almost like a shock that broke in waves of desire all over him. “I love you very much,” he said, almost weeping from the accumulated tension of desire and of tenderness for her suffering. He felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him, and, his fingers trembling, he gently pressed her breasts under the sari. They seemed to bloom in his hands as Kalyani yielded her body to his touch.

  After a while, Narayan, frightened at the way their bodies were responding, pulled back a little. What if somebody were observing them? It would not be good for Kalyani. He would have to look out for her. Kalyani looked at him, startled, her desiring eyes locked on his with naked pleading. Overwhelmed by the thought of how much she meant to him, he felt his whole being dissolve and be absorbed into those tawny eyes, while her entire body trembled in his arms. For a while, he lost all control over his will.

  Then, with a monumental effort, he held her away. “We have the rest of our lives to love each other,” he said, stroking a short wisp of hair back from her forehead. “Will you marry me?” he asked.