A moment later, I recovered myself. I might be the newest and the least experienced, the greenest guava, as we called such a person, but I was alive. I’d been saved by an Englishman and given a shelter of sorts here. Someday I’d be riper, rise higher, don a beautiful sari, and be allowed to serve, Tariq be damned! And on that day, I’d be offered safer accommodation by the same higher-up.
The sahibs guzzled glasses of liquor that had recently arrived by ship from England; they shouted rudely at the servers for extra helpings, as though they hadn’t eaten in days. Idris translated for me. “More rice, boy! Kala! You don’t hear me? Have you already gone deaf? And what’s that on your platter? Banana flower, you said?”
In between serving, Idris came to the kitchen to refill the platters. His lips curled with annoyance and he tipped his head toward me, saying quietly, “I hate it when they call us boy. I hate it when they make fun of our food. I hate it worse when they call us dark-skinned in our own land.”
With the meal finally over, I suggested to Idris that brass basins laden with scented water be sent for the sahibs to rinse their fingers. It was a custom from my village, usually extended to honored guests, and I was eager to introduce this new ritual, a chance to prove my worth. At first, Idris said no, but I insisted, and he finally gave in.
I watched from behind the curtain.
Arthur sahib smiled and said, “A little odd, but I’ll try.” As he dipped his finger into the basin, I felt a surge of power within.
Job sahib entered the hall with powerful strides. I felt a rush of adoration inside me upon seeing his kind and familiar face. The gleam of his long white coat added to his dignity. With Idris interpreting I learned that he’d already supped at the Royal Palace. All the Factors greeted him and he acknowledged the greetings.
A glance at the bowls of scented water and he asked in a light voice, “What’s this new ritual?”
Idris explained. Job sahib listened without commenting. He sat down at the table and joined the small talk. According to Idris, it centered on various religious groups that existed side by side in this land and whether there was any discord among them.The sahibs argued in a boisterous manner, mocking, gesturing, and cutting each other off. The discussion took a turn that must not have pleased Job sahib, for a look of annoyance crossed his face. Head lowered, lips pursed, his face a mask, he sat quietly, as though not willing to reveal what brewed inside him. For an instant he looked alone, private, tortured. Then he raised his head and rejoined the group.
Here was my opportunity to convince Job sahib of my worth, the fact that I’d done much of the dinner preparation. I wanted to be visible and to be listened to. I stepped in through the doorway of the dining room, knowing full well I was breaking a taboo. Busy conversing with his subordinates, Job sahib didn’t notice me. As I picked up a basin, I intentionally spilled a little murky water on the floor, creating a tiny black pool.
Job sahib turned. “Ah, Maria, are you the mastermind behind this? Did you also introduce the finger-bowl ritual?” He spoke to me in Bangla, his tone one of pride, his expression now neutral.
I nodded respectfully. Although I was oily, sweaty, and dusty, the compliment stirred deep feelings of both shyness and confidence in me.
“Perhaps you can join in our discussion and tell us whether or not Hindus and Muslims in your village treat each other well.”
I so liked being invited by the sahib that a smile bloomed on my face. As I tried to formulate an answer, the lesson my father had once given me flashed in my mind. We Hindus made up the majority of the population in our village, but on occasion our Mughal rulers forced some to convert to Islam. Still harmony prevailed among us and the Muslims. We dressed differently, worshipped differently, ate different food, but shared a common tongue. I remembered how, when the drums announced a holiday, we all ran to the temple ground like we were brothers and sisters.
“I couldn’t trust you that day,” Job told me as we talked of the past one warm evening.
He had leaned toward her, but she remained silent, eyes downcast. Was the girl tongue-tied, he’d thought? She certainly didn’t have much to say. How would she manage in the Factory? Had he made the right decision by employing her? And how would she protect herself from her husband’s relatives who were believed to be in town? She went alone to bathe in the river in the morning. What if they got her then? He couldn’t stop them; as a foreign trader, he had little power, not as powerful as she seemed to think. He would give her time to adjust.
I looked at him, eager to speak, but was overwhelmed by shyness and timidity. Words came to my lips, then they flew away, as it were, before my voice could give them color and life. As I stood there, flustered, feeling light on my feet, Tariq stepped in and engaged Job sahib on the subject, gesturing with a hand and speaking with an exaggerated air of authority.
How could I have missed such a splendid opportunity? I retreated to the kitchen and tidied up the place till it looked spotless. Well, perhaps another time. I imagined myself sitting alone with Job sahib and discussing the intricacies of my culture while a pleasant breeze cooled us. I badly wanted to influence him as Tariq did, for my survival, if nothing else.
Idris’ whisper broke into my daydream. The sahibs were cooing over the evening’s meal.
“A new hand in the kitchen? The sauce is smoother.”
“For once the pulao hasn’t been undercooked.”
“The vegetable stew went down easily. I think I may survive after all.”
I smiled a little. I had inherited a flair for using spices from my mother. I had also developed a sense of timing and a sense of smell under her tutelage, not to mention the special order in which ingredients must be added. Silently, I thanked her. Perhaps my cooking skills would save me after all.
“Now, listen to this.” Idris smiled meaningfully and translated a remark from Francis sahib. “I can hardly eat this food. Send that ugly, skinny girl home.”
I had finished washing the last vessel when Bir said, “I caught some gossip. The sahibs were talking. Your husband’s brother is in town looking for you. He’s asking everyone, but rest assured, he can’t get in here.”
The walls collapsed before my eyes. Where would I, a shabbily-clothed, rustic girl hide? How did Bipin figure out I was living in this town? Did he intercept the courier sent by me? Did he and his wretched family torment my parents following the courier’s visit, darkening their days even more? Did my mother ever guess that I was still alive?
I stumbled out of the room.
FIVE
From that day on, my stomach lurched every time I remembered that my brother-in-law was near, but I pressed on, performing my duties as best as I could. One morning, I donned a plain yellow sari, the color of spring. Perhaps due to the golden praise I’d earned for my cooking and at Sal’s urging Tariq had bought me this coarse cotton garb whose roughness I felt against my skin, the cheapest item he could have found. It could be my greed, but I wanted a finer sari, perhaps several, in a variety of colors. Still I couldn’t complain. Tariq had also installed a bigger, heavier door for me.
For the first time since my arrival here a month or so ago, alone in my room, I picked up the ornate looking-glass, small and oval, with a handle made of animal horn and a frame encrusted with shiny stones. Sal had given me this expensive gift, perhaps borrowed money from a friend for it, because of my progress in English; he’d heard me practice the tongue throughout the day. As I looked into the glass, I couldn’t recognize the reflection I saw in it. The dark eyes had grown bigger, deeper in their sadness. The face looked gaunt, the once-flawless, ‘soft as muslin’ complexion bereft of its sheen. Shorn of hair, my head appeared huge. Anger flared inside me as I visualized my husband’s aunt pushing me down onto the floor prior to the sati ritual. I cringed at the cold metal touch of the sharp blade on my skin as she shaved my head, shearing my locks of shiny black hair. My glorious hair showered over me, falling dead to the floor. Tears sprung up in my eyes as I heard my mo
ther’s voice from a long-ago childhood day: “Your hair, your womanhood”. The only consolation I now had were the signs of new growth, spiky on my scalp, like coarse grass.
My aunties used to call me lotus-faced, insisting I brought a calm grace to every place I went. That lotus bud had gone into hiding. My full lips, once described as a ‘slice of ripe mango’, looked chapped. I tried to smile, to bring the ripeness back to my lips, but to no avail. I, who had always been slender, looked pitifully emaciated. I’d lost a profound part of the woman I had been.
I stowed away the looking-glass.
In the kitchen, I felt glad to have an arduous task at hand: pounding the lentils in a large mortar and later cooking it with ghee, palm sugar, and water to prepare a sweetmeat to be served as part of the sahibs’ mid-day meal. My arm muscles ached and hands throbbed as the lentil grounds gathered at the bottom of the mortar. The monotony gave me an opportunity to think back to my family days, the happy chatter, the warmth, the aroma as my mother cooked milk and palm sugar together, a less elaborate and more affordable dish. Much later, we’d eagerly reach for the tray laden with diamond-shaped, brown, luscious sweetmeats.
Idris shoved small pieces of wood inside the stove. “Well, the chulah is ready for you.”
I picked up a pot, placed the ingredients in it, and drew near the stove. Seeing the yellow flames, listening to the crackling of logs, and feeling the heat on my face, I went back to the memories of another fire by the riverside not long ago.
I stood immobile.
“Are you all right?” Idris asked affectionately.
I nodded, touched by his concern, and placed the pot on the chulah with a thud. Head downcast, I dribbled ghee down the inside of the pot.
“It’s hard for me to be in the kitchen and not think about my mother,” I said. “It tears me apart. Do you have a family?”
“Yes, I have a wife and two sons,” Idris replied, despair in his voice. “But how often do I see them? I seldom have enough money to pay for the boat passage. The sahibs do not know, nor would they care that I sit up half the night worrying about them. My only comfort is practising the flute, when time allows.”
“Will you do a performance for us sometime?”
“I wish I could, but I am only allowed to play when we have honored guests.”
I hid my disappointment. “How did you learn to play the flute?”
“Even though I’m a Muslim, when I was a young boy, I took up the flute. They say if you master that instrument, you could change the weather. Well, I’m not that good yet. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with the stories of Lord Krishna playing the flute and attracting pretty maidens. Now that has worked for me. On a full moon night, in an empty field near my village, I was pouring out my feelings through my beloved flute when a beautiful young girl came by and sat down on the ground to listen.
“When I finished, she burst into tears. That’s how I met my wife, Nazma. I call her my moonshine. You know, I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Idris backed out of the room, perhaps to hide his tears.
To the pot I added raisins and palm sugar as sweeteners, sliced almonds to lift the texture, and ground cardamom pods to inject flavor. I could see my mother instructing me to make slow circles with a spoon, so the mass didn’t stick to the pot. I could hear her saying that these circular motions would infuse the dish with extra flavor. Once the preparation was complete, I scraped the sticky mass onto a platter, licking off a small lump that clung to my finger. Given that we weren’t supposed to eat the food meant for the sahibs, I took wicked pleasure in its dense sweetness.
Later, as I began rinsing the soiled breakfast dishes, Bir said, a mischiev-ous twinkle in his eyes, “That Arthur sahib, the Third Factor, he shouldn’t be so critical.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’re very creative when it comes to greeting in English and that’s been noticed. The sahib made fun of you. It’s ‘How are you?’ not ‘You are how?’”
“But … but … in Bangla, we say it like that,” I tossed out, my face growing hot with embarrassment.
“Also it’s ‘Good Evening’, not ‘Evening Good’.”
Bir laughed congenially. “Learn proper English, Maria. The sahibs think you’re stupid every time you open your mouth.”
I wanted to shout out to Arthur sahib: I’m not stupid by any means. I don’t know your customs or your language. Give me time. In the afternoon, I took a short break from my kitchen work and went to the courtyard, the only free time I would have during the working hours. My legs ached from laboring for hours on end, and my eyes were teary from the smoke of the chulah. Every afternoon Sal and I sneaked away to this courtyard for my tutoring sessions. We’d sit on the earth, flicking off flies and shading our eyes against the sun’s rays. Sal would teach me routine exchanges of English pleasantries and I would mouth the phrases. Some sounded stilted to Sal’s ear, others were unintelligible. Still, I persisted. My body would bend from exhaustion, but I wouldn’t let Sal leave until I’d mastered several new sentences. We laughed together at my tortured phrases and mangled pronunciation.
Sal had also taught me English manners. “An impatient bunch, they are, the English,” he told me. “Even when you become proficient in English, don’t try to give them a long explanation. Answer a question in as few words as possible. Or greet them and move on.”
As I loitered in the courtyard and waited impatiently for Sal, I wondered whether he had forgotten about our lessons. My English lessons mustn’t be delayed. After a while, fatigued, I sat on the ground under a brown-barked sheesham tree flowering pink and fragrant. As I shut my eyes in the shade of the tree, images of home filled me with yearning for what I had left behind.The wavy green of the forest, the golden paddy, the wild elephants that stomped the valleys with their large gray feet, but, most of all, I hungered for my family, our mud-and-clay hut, sparsely furnished, but pulsating with light and warmth. Suppose I walked in through the door of our hut and stepped onto the cool clean floor this very minute and cried out, “Ma! Baba!” My bed-ridden father would attempt to rise, feeble, with a shrunken body, alert to the sound of my voice. His eyes would come alive. My mother would ask in her usual gentle tone from the kitchen, “Moorti?” Shouts and shrieks would fill the house as my little brothers would race to the door, calling, “Didi, didi.”
Gazing up, I sent a prayer skyward. May the courier return and deliver me a dispatch from my family. May I join them soon. May we all smile again.
I felt the tug of a sudden gust of wind, opened my eyes, and saw Sal, accompanied by another man. The second man, taller, older, and heavier, sported a full beard. He carried a bamboo rod in his hand, closed at either end, the kind used for long distance delivery of important missives.
I jumped to my feet. “Afternoon good,” I called out to Sal in English and realized, almost instantly, the silly mistake I’d made.
A shadow hung over Sal’s face. “This is Abidur. He’s returned from a visit with your mother.”
My heart beat faster. Abidur raised his free hand to his forehead in the gesture of a greeting. Strange, he didn’t wave a letter at me. Nor did he speak. He simply looked down at the ground.
“How’s my mother?”
“She was lying in bed with the chills when I arrived. I talked with her, but she didn’t believe a word I said. She thought I was trying to deceive her. ‘What are you here for?’ she asked. ‘My daughter is dead. Her ashes have been sprinkled on the river. Please show her respect and stop making up stories.’”
My stomach tensed. “Did you show her the pendant?”
“I did. She looked at it, touched it, and screamed at me: ‘You must have snatched it from her neck at the chita. She would never give it away.’” Abidur paused, as though words had frozen in his throat. “Then your mother began to weep. Your little brothers came bounding into the room, accompanied by a neighbor woman who seemed to be taking care of them. ‘My sister is a sati,’ the older of the two boys said. ‘S
he’s in heaven. She has everything there. We miss her, but our neighbors give us rice, fruit, and vegetables in her honor. We get to eat more.’
“I whispered to the neighbor woman that you were alive. She replied in a low voice, ‘She’s a fallen sati? Do you know what they do to such a woman? She would be spat on, cursed, shunned, violated. Better that she’s dead.’”
“And my father?” I barely got the words out. “Did you see him? Did he ask for me? Is he well?”
“He, too, was lying in bed. He watched me and clearly wished to speak a few words, but he was too weak to make a sound. I saw him fighting his tears. At that point, I wished everyone peace and good health and left.” Abidur paused. “On the way back to the ferry, I was approached by a man who demanded to know who I was and what I was doing there. I said I was a relative of your father and had just visited him, but he didn’t believe me. He began to abuse me loudly. I ran away from there. He followed right behind, but couldn’t keep up with me; after a while I lost sight of him.”
That must have been Bipin. Blankly, I stared, as the landscape emptied before my eyes. What did I have left in life? I felt Sal’s hand on my back.
“We must be going, behen.” Sal made a half-turn. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Abidur rummaged in his pocket and pressed the gold pendant on my palm.
“No, no, please, take it,” I said. “This is all I can offer.”
“Neither Sal nor I can accept it,” Abidur replied softly. “It’s yours. May the light of Allah shine on you.”
With numb fingers, I clasped the pendant around my throat. My skin burned at its touch; I slipped it beneath my clothing.
A moment of reality burst open upon me. It would be nearly impossible for a stranger to convince my family of what had really happened. Although I wanted them to know I was all right, that I was being cared for, I couldn’t go back. If I did, then my family would cease to receive gestures of kindness from our neighbors, so necessary for their survival. What would happen to them then? I felt bereft. The very foundation of my life, that which had sustained me up to this point—family, tradition, and community—had slipped away from me. I wanted to cry out, vent my unhappiness, and unburden myself to whoever would pay heed. I had no one. I didn’t deserve this cruel fate.
Goddess of Fire Page 6