by Bapsi Sidhwa
The hurt that had clouded Kalyani’s face at being so suddenly separated from his body dissolved. Her eyes shone with love. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and, sliding her eyes away, bent down to touch his feet. She resisted his pressure to raise her up and swept her hand lightly over the dirt as she was used to before Krishna’s statue. She let him pull her up. She brushed her hand over her face and lips, embracing the dust he had trod upon. Narayan held her in a close embrace. “I love you so much. I will never let you go,” he said, as bits of sunlight sparkled through gaps in the tree’s leaves and danced upon them.
Chapter Eighteen
The sounds of celebration, accompanied by the pounding of dual-ended dholak drums, rang out around Chuyia. The smoky smell of incense hung in the air as wisps of smoke and coloured dust-motes swirled about the women. Chuyia was decked out as a little Krishna by the adoring widows for Holi, the Festival of Colour. Her forehead had been decorated with a yellow “V,” and her eyes and brows outlined by a series of white dots. The striped blue-and-yellow scarf tied around her head like a turban gave her an air of rakish exuberance, which was a bit at odds with the sadness in her eyes. She missed Kalyani.
Chuyia heard Shakuntala calling for her, and then Shakuntala was kneeling in front of her with a tray full of coloured powders. She grabbed a fistful of gaudy pink and applied swaths of it on Chuyia’s cheeks and chin. It was as if she were determined to draw a clown’s cheerful smile on the young girl’s face. Chuyia looked like a joker. Succumbing to Shakuntala’s ministrations and the joyful atmosphere around them, Chuyia was beaming by the time Shakuntala was done with her. Then it was Chuyia’s turn to decorate Shakuntala, which she did with an exuberant application of colour to her face. Shakuntala took Chuyia by the hand and led her to the centre of the courtyard to take her place in the throng of dancing widows.
Shedding petals from the thick garland of pink-and-white flowers that swung from her neck and the miniature garlands that circled her arms and ankles, Chuyia danced with the widows. The shorn women carried platters filled with colours and painted the air with clouds of powder as they lumbered about awkwardly, their faces, feet and saris a bizarre montage from the many hues flung into the air. It looked as if the ground itself had turned ochre from the sloping rays of the sun.
Chuyia took the wooden flute given to her by Shakuntala and carefully held it sideways, flush to her lips. Her elbows stuck out as she placed one foot on her knee and, standing on one foot, adopted the stylized posture of Krishna’s statues. Playing out her role as Lord Krishna incarnate, she hopped in the circle formed by the widows and then, dancing up to them, romanced each in turn. Even Kunti had a smile on her face.
Chuyia stole away from the group and approached Madhumati, who was sitting to one side on her takth watching the widows frolic with a proprietary and benevolent air. The old woman’s eyes sparkled with merriment as she smiled at Chuyia. Chuyia chose the same shocking-pink Shakuntala had applied to her face and cheekily rubbed it all over Madhumati’s face before darting off. Madhumati’s head wobbled on the folds of her wattled neck as she swayed beatifically and clapped in time to the music.
THE SOUNDS OF THE dholak drums and of firecrackers popping travelled across the calm waters of the grey-brown Ganga to Kalyani and Narayan in their small boat. They were headed upstream toward the main ghats of the city. Kalyani sat behind the oarsman, facing Narayan. A gentle breeze stirred in her hair and blew wisps into her face. After a while, she wet her hand and ran it over the unruly tufts of her badly cut hair to smooth it down.
“Don’t do that,” Narayan said. “You look even more beautiful with your hair mussed up.”
Kalyani smiled and, looking at Narayan out of the corner of her eyes, slowly ran her fingers through her hair so that it lifted off her head and shook the uneven tufts free. Narayan could not take his eyes off her. She looked radiant, content; and as a bud touched by the sun blooms, she flowered in the caress of his gaze. “Don’t look at me all the time. It makes me shy,” she said, discomfited by his gaze.
Narayan turned his head away slightly and removed his dreamy eyes to the horizon, to the pink clouds banked against the deepening-blue evening sky.
But outside the orbit of his adoring gaze, Kalyani wilted. “No, look at me,” she said, reaching out to touch his face. “I’m prettier than the clouds.”
“You are,” Narayan agreed, charmed by the change in her. Already her diffidence was being replaced by a winsome confidence. Then, pretending to mull over the question, he teased, “But are you as lovely as the full moon?”
“Don’t compare me to the moon by daylight,” Kalyani said. “Wait till it’s out at night—then tell which is lovelier.”
“I wouldn’t see the moon if you are there,” Narayan said, taking her hands in his own and discreetly kissing her fingers. After a while, he touched the coarse material of her sari. “You don’t need to wear white all the time.”
Kalyani looked startled. “I have only these white saris,” she said. She ran her hand over the sari she had folded and placed by her side; it was still damp.
“It is Holi today, the Festival of Colour,” declared Narayan.
“I know,” Kalyani said. “Chuyia will have become Krishna today,” she said wistfully.
“You are very attached to her, aren’t you?” Narayan said, looking at her thoughtfully. “We will adopt her, bring her and Kaalu to our house.” He added, “If you wish.”
Kalyani lowered her lids. Her heart leapt up as if it were Kaalu jumping up to lick her throat. “I wish it very much,” she said, speaking so softly that only a lover’s keen ears could have picked up her words.
“It’s settled then,” Narayan said, touching her chin to tilt up her face. “I’m very fond of her too,” he said gently, and Kalyani knew he meant it. Her face lit up. Narayan shimmered before her like an avatar through the sudden tears of joy that welled in her eyes.
“Hey, what’s this?” said Narayan, holding her face and brushing her tears with his thumbs. The tears and the evening light had turned her eyes molten. He felt humbled by her happiness.
Kalyani was unable to speak.
“Let’s talk about you,” Narayan said, his voice husky with emotion. “Tell me. What is the first colour you’d like to wear?”
Kalyani sat back and, composing herself, gave the question the attention it merited. “Blue?” she said, tentatively. “Yes, blue. The colour of Krishna,” she said.
“I’ll tell Ma to buy you a blue silk sari with a gold border to match your eyes. You’ll look as splendid as a peacock’s feather in it,” said Narayan, smiling.
Kalyani’s demeanour changed. “You really told your mother about me?” she asked timidly, not quite believing he had actually dared to.
“Yes,” Narayan answered simply and truthfully.
“What did you say?” Kalyani asked shyly.
“I said I wanted to marry you.”
“And what did she say?”
Narayan smiled, recalling the scene with his mother. “She began to cry,” he answered honestly.
Kalyani was dismayed. “Hai Ram!” she said, and buried her face in her hands.
Narayan laughed and pried her hands away. “Don’t worry. Father and I will bring her around. We’ll convince her you are the best daughter-in-law she can wish for.”
There were more boats on the river now, some larger craft with groups of merrymakers showering each other with clouds of colour, and other skiffs like theirs with two or three people enjoying an evening outing. As the sun sank lower into the clouds, a few boats skimmed past them at more purposeful speeds, conveying mourners and their dead to or from the ghats. A shrouded form she glimpsed reminded Kalyani of Bua, the poor old woman who had died in their midst, and a stab of anger and sadness shot through her, dispelling her euphoria. Surely Madhumati could have sent for a doctor to ease her last moments.
But mostly these crafts drifted at the edges of the river, artfully silhouetted against the burn
ing pyres and the glow from the setting sun.
As the boat took a bend in the river, a bulky white mansion, with turrets and bulging towers and haphazardly tacked-on extensions that reflected different architectural eras, rose like an ungainly galleon from a bed of rock and trees at some distance behind Kalyani. “Look—that’s my house,” Narayan said, gesturing toward the mansion.
Kalyani turned around to look at the building Narayan was pointing out. An ominous chill coursed through her blood and drained the colour from her face. Kalyani turned her eyes to Narayan and in a deathly quiet voice she asked, “What is your father’s name?”
“Dwarkanath . . . Seth Dwarkanath.”
The blood chilled to ice in Kalyani’s veins and turned her body numb. Dark blotches swam before her eyes, blocking out huge portions of the bloated building. The river appeared to heave, and she thought she would pass out. With a monumental effort, she willed herself to remain conscious. Eyes downcast, her voice low, she commanded, “Turn the boat around.”
“Why? What happened?” asked Narayan, baffled by the sudden change in her mood. He noticed her pallor and the tautness around her mouth and eyes. He thought the motion of the boat was making her queasy. “Are you feeling sick?” he asked.
“Turn the boat around,” Kalyani repeated more forcefully.
There was terror in her stricken face. She began to stand up, and as the boat rocked from side to side Narayan sensed she would rather jump into the water and swim back than let the boat take her forward.
“Sit down, Kalyani,” he ordered, wondering what had caused this reaction. Grasping her by her shoulders, he tried to steady her. The boatman called a warning and gestured to them to sit down. Glancing over his shoulder, Narayan shouted: “Turn the boat around, bhaiya.” The boat wobbled perilously and, losing their balance, they abruptly thudded down on the hard seats.
“At least tell me what’s wrong,” Narayan said, once the boat’s movement had stabilized. His face was ashen, his eyes pleading.
Kalyani remained silent, resolute. The boat, making a wide arc, slowly turned direction and brought her face to face with her nemesis.
“All right; you don’t need to say anything,” Narayan said, not wanting to upset her further, confident she would tell him when she was ready to.
“But I do need to . . .” Kalyani said, and abruptly broke off mid-sentence. Torn between the need to make him understand why she had to turn back and not wanting to reveal the ugly truth, she was at a loss.
“Then please try,” said Narayan
“I can’t . . .” she said. Then, looking desperately at him, Kalyani gave him as much of an answer as she could. “Ask your father,” she said simply.
“What?” Mystified, Narayan could not imagine what his father had to do with Kalyani’s determination to turn back. As a glimmer of comprehension dawned at the edges of his mind, he was overcome by a deep foreboding. His throat constricted and then swelled. He shifted on the plank and, leaning over the edge of the boat, threw up.
SADHURAM KNOCKED DISCREETLY on the door to Seth Dwarkanath’s room. He could hear muffled voices speaking inside.
“Come in!” The Seth’s usually genial tone was uncommonly gruff.
Sadhuram entered unobtrusively. Their conversation had stalled; Chhotay Babu stood by the window staring stonily into the night. Seth Dwarkanath sat awkwardly on the edge of his bed, abstractedly puffing on his hookah. His grey, henna-streaked hair fell in lank strands about his face, and his beard was grizzled and unkempt. Something was seriously amiss between father and son. Sadhuram placed the lit oil lamp and a salver with two glasses of water on a small table between the two beds and quietly withdrew.
After the servant left, Dwarkanath took a sip of water from the glass. His eyes, restless beneath his hooded lids, belied his calm. “What happened was unfortunate, son. . . . However . . .” He stopped short as Narayan whipped around and turned on him angrily.
“However, what?” Narayan prompted with barely contained contempt. He strode from the window and sat down on the bed across from his father.
Dwarkanath sighed and laid his hookah to one side. His belly bulged under his white kurta, and he felt disadvantaged in his uncomfortable posture. Narayan had burst in on him with questions and accusations, and hadn’t given him the time to compose himself. “I’m sorry you are disillusioned, son,” he said, speaking kindly and with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “But you cannot go through life being so idealistic.” Turning his palms out to indicate that the situation was not as serious as Narayan believed it was, he said, “So you’ve found out she’s not a goddess. Don’t marry her—keep her as your mistress.”
Narayan looked at his father in disbelief. He got up and took a step forward to loom threateningly over him. “I respected you so much,” he said bitterly.
Dwarkanath navigated his feet into his slippers and also stood up. He had not expected his words to wound his son so deeply. He should be more careful. He had forgotten what it was to be so young and so hot-blooded. He placed a placating hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Narayan, perhaps you are not aware of this. Our Holy Texts say Brahmins can sleep with whomever they want, and the women they sleep with are blessed.”
Narayan’s face was a dark cloud of confusion and incredulity. He tore his father’s hand from his shoulder. “I have also studied our scriptures,” he said, breathing heavily and struggling to retain some control over his voice. “God Ram told his brother never to honour those Brahmins who interpret the Holy Texts for their own benefit.”
“You’re not a hero in some mythic play, ready to embrace martyrdom,” said Dwarkanath, averting his eyes from his son.
Narayan slowly backed away. “You disgust me,” he said, his voice heavy with loathing and disappointment. He turned his broad back on his father and stalked from the room.
Narayan’s mother stood just outside the door. Her face was ravaged. She must have heard every word of the heated exchange, thought Narayan, as he stopped and turned to her. She must have known of his tawdry infidelities: how could she tolerate them? He knew at the same time that she had no options but to. It was not such a rare transgression, in fact, as Rabindra had pointed out; the Seths of Rawalpur seemed to fancy widows. He looked at his mother with compassion. Bhagwati reached up and gently held her son’s face in both her hands. Her eyes were brimming with sympathy and understanding as she gazed at him. She smiled through her tears and tenderly ran her hands over his hair, his face. Without uttering a word she brought his head forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. With these silent gestures, she let Narayan know that he had her blessing to follow his heart. At last she released him, and as he left her face crumpled in despair.
KALYANI SAT ON THE GRAVEL in the dark alley outside Madhumati’s room, her back against the wall. The warm night was humid and the stillness oppressive. Madhumati had told her she could never come back to the ashram—but there was nowhere else for her to go. The only light came from a single candle that flickered in Madhumati’s room and shone faintly through the barred window.
Kalyani got to her feet slowly. She looked shrunken, as if the loss of hope were a physical thing and had diminished her flesh. She picked distractedly at the threads on the edge of her sari as she tried to summon the courage to speak to Madhumati. Her dreams and hopes of a future with Narayan had been blasted in one revealing instant, and the destructive potential of that horrific instant was still filtering in, weighing her down with the realization of all that she had lost and the precarious position she was in. With every passing moment, a new tormenting thought struck her, and she flagellated herself with blame. How could she have ever imagined she would marry Narayan? Live happily ever after with him? It was a children’s fairy tale: something Chuyia could have been expected to dream up. She should have known better, kept her distance from Narayan. For all his book learning and appreciation of poems, he was simple; he didn’t know of the deeply entrenched stranglehold of tr
adition. She knew. She should have protected him. Had she seduced him with languishing looks, small flirtations? She should not have allowed herself to fall in love with him, and let him fall so hard for her. Would he still want to marry her now that he’d had more time to mull over the matter? She suspected he would. But she knew she would never be able to face Seth Dwarkanath no matter what. Nor could she saddle Narayan’s noble family with a daughter-in-law whose every living moment would bring disgrace and dishonour to their house. By now they must know the entire sordid story; Narayan was sure to have confronted his father. What must they think of her? What contempt, what loathing, would the Seth have for her? What must his mother think of her? The thought was unbearable. Filled with self-loathing, she cringed in terror against the wall.
Kunti came in the room carrying a steel thali laden with food for Madhumati. “Did you add the butter?” Madhumati demanded, sitting up on her bed and leaning against the wall to receive the platter.
“Yes,” Kunti nodded and, picking up an empty steel glass with a residue of milk sticking to the rim, left.
Kalyani stood outside the window watching Madhumati eat. She ate with gusto, making loud smacking sounds. Kalyani finally gathered up the courage. “Didi?” she said hesitantly.
Surprised to hear Kalyani’s voice, Madhumati turned toward the window. Her eyes flickered across Kalyani’s pallid face. The play of shadows cast by the bars made her look as if she were peering out of a cage—Mitthu’s cage. Madhumati very deliberately turned away and continued eating.
A little later she said, “So, you’ve come back. Your father-in-law didn’t like you?” she asked cruelly, between bites. She gave Kalyani a long look. “He could have had you for free.”
Kalyani didn’t answer.
Relishing her power over Kalyani and gloating over her return, Madhumati matter-of-factly said, “Wait there. Gulabi will be here soon.”