Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  After spending a sleepless night, I returned to the kitchen in the morning. Alone in the room, I peeled and sliced a ripe, big pineapple, glancing frequently at the door. Sal usually tended the buffalos and milked them; then he stopped by the kitchen to drop off a bucket of rich, fresh milk and have a brief word with me. Today I wished to open my heart to him, I was sure he would understand. The doorway remained empty; not a soul peeked through it, and an odd sensation gnawed at my heart.

  Idris drifted in, but he ignored me and crossed the room toward the chulahs, his mind elsewhere.

  “Have you seen Sal?” I asked.

  Idris gave me a sharp, quick glance. “Sal has been dismissed.”

  “But why?”

  “Tariq found out he’d used the courier for personal services and showed him the door, even confiscated the half-month’s salary due to him.”

  “Wait—it was I who—”

  “Tariq wanted to get rid of you, too; you seem to vex him, but fortunately, Job sahib intervened. He’d returned from the Royal Palace last night when he heard the story. Sal was being escorted out of the gate. I could only have a brief word with him. Sahib wanted his tobacco pipe right away. I overheard him saying to Tariq that you were new here, didn’t know the rules and shouldn’t be sent away. He had no choice but to retain you, but he looked cross, as cross as I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if …”

  I considered my future and that of Sal. “Did you ask Sal what he’d do?”

  “He said he’d be fine.”

  “But how? He has no money.”

  Idris turned away without answering. I stood numb by the chulah. The fire hissed as it struggled to assert itself. Coils of flame and billowing gray smoke rose. I felt as though I was back at the site where I had nearly died.

  My attention elsewhere, I accidentally jabbed the tip of my finger with the knife. The sharp pain startled me; a drop of blood trickled out. Cringing, I hid my injured finger in the palm of my other hand.

  Still, the rage inside me wouldn’t die down. “Is it such a grave offense to send word to one’s family?” I tried to keep my words respectful towards Idris; he had been kind to me, but I was furious with what had been done to Sal.

  “Finish your job before Tariq catches you idling,” Idris said curtly, without looking my way. “He’s waiting for you to make another mistake.”

  My palm was crimson, the blood from my injured finger filling it and spilling over the sides of my hand.

  “Oh, no, you’ve cut yourself.”

  Idris fetched a small strip of white cloth and pressed it to the wound. Instantly, the cloth turned scarlet.

  “I am fine,” I said.

  I wasn’t fine. I wanted to run out of this miserable place and go far away.

  As though reading my misgivings, Idris cleared his throat. “You can’t flee this Factory. Where will you go? You’re young and pretty. You won’t be safe alone on the streets. Much as it hurts you, this place isn’t too bad.”

  There were two classes of people in this town, he explained—the laboring class and the aristocrats. The aristocrats used hired help—nursemaids, butlers, butchers, and gardeners—but treated them harshly. “No matter where you go, you’ll be of the laboring class. No matter where you go, you’ll be treated cruelly. And besides, if you run away, if you try to hide from Tariq, he’ll find you and punish you.” He paused for a moment, scratched his chin, then continued, “The gate is shut every night at midnight when the temple bells ring. You can’t slip away so easily.”

  Through the open window I could see the tall, robust, uniformed guard lounging at the entrance gate. Waving a peacock tail to drive away insects from his face, he kept watch over all entries and departures. Idris was right. I knew no one in this town. Nor could I sneak out of here without being caught.

  I thought of Job sahib’s benevolent face. “What if I speak to the Chief Factor and request that he bring Sal back? Explain my family situation? Why I needed to contact them? He’d seen my mother at the crematorium.”

  “The sahib left for the Palace early this morning.” His tone was cheerless. “He won’t be back for a few days. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother him with my personal problems. You see, Maria, you’re a servant, a mere shadow. You have no past, no family ties, and no future. You are what you do for your master.”

  I stared at Idris’s grieving face. We had a more urgent situation to handle. An innocent man had been wronged and that too due to a fault of mine. How would I compensate Sal? I slipped my fingers under my sari and touched the gold pendant, feeling the comforting weight on my skin, and unclasped it.

  “Can you find a way to give this to Sal?” I held the gleaming pendant out to Idris. “He might be able to sell it and support himself for a while.”

  Idris mumbled his refusal and slipped out of the room. The slowness, the sadness in his movements tore through me.

  For the rest of the day, I was visited by an unusual heaviness in my chest. How would I pass my days here without hearing the voice of my friend? I wanted to shout out about the injustice, but a woman wasn’t allowed to express her feelings publicly. I left the utensils unwashed, burned the rice, and spilled cooking oil on the floor. The other cooks noticed, but no one said a word. Their silence pierced me more sharply than their words could have.

  SIX

  Early that evening, the wailing began again. Like smoke curling up, darkening the atmosphere, suffocating me, Teema cried at the top of her voice from her room. “How could you do this to me? I loved you, loved you with everything I had, and I still love you. Come back to me, I’m waiting. I’ll wait as long as I have to.”

  It was as though she were addressing wounded souls everywhere. I wished I could go knock at her door, offer her solace, and speak to her about my woes. We were the only two women employed here, both of us grieving. But my muscles ached and instead of comforting her, I curled up on my bed and succumbed to sleep, erasing her screams from my mind.

  The following afternoon, I stole out of the kitchen for a short break to escape the oppressive heat. As I approached the sheesham tree, its dense foliage dappled with sunlight, I thought of Sal again. Guilt and sorrow drove me away from the place where we would sit for our lessons. I drifted instead onto the pillared verandah covered with a roof and bordered by rose bushes. The air was heady with the scent of the new blooms. In about an hour, the sahibs would be nestled here in comfortable padded chairs. Warming their spirits with tobacco, they’d talk about whatever was on their minds. At this moment, though, no one seemed to be about. The servants were taking their breaks somewhere, chewing betel leaves, a habit, which, according to Sal, “soothed their minds”. The sahibs were indulging in a round of drinks in the meeting hall, local palm wine, “good for the gripes”.

  I stood a moment. There was a ripple of something in the atmosphere, something momentous, and it got hold of me. A group of pigeons had gathered on the pathway outside the verandah. Sal had told me a story once, of how Emperor Akbar kept a thousand pigeons so he could observe them frolic and make love. Now, I edged round a low table and sank down in a chair to do just that, observe them. Only a few minutes, I told myself, before someone drove me away. Dark clouds moved in and light rain began to fall, kind, soothing drops. ‘Mango showers’, our elders called it; showers that helped ripen the fruit to a richer yellow.

  The frolicking stopped. As the pigeons took wing in a noisy cloud of gray, I saw Job sahib, the proud head, the white turban, the strong legs.

  “Sahib!” I called out.

  “Maria!”

  Job sahib sauntered toward me and up to the verandah. His turban was wreathed with a chain of pearls, his eyes shone, his complexion glowed. In the week he had been away, he had rested well. A pearl-buttoned silk tunic, expensive beyond anything I could imagine, displayed his sculpted chest to good advantage. I smelled the fragrance of expensive attar. Perhaps he’d acquired the habit of wearing a floral scent during his stay at the Royal Palace.

&nbs
p; I spoke in English. “It is my …” The rest of the words lodged in my throat. Again. It is my pleasure to see you, sahib, I’d wanted to say. I could feel my face turning red. I didn’t want to squander my chance once more.

  Job sahib grinned. “You’re trying to speak English, I see that.”

  It pleased him at that time that the girl he had brought with him to this outpost of trade had overcome her initial shyness, somewhat. Last time, she couldn’t even speak in Bangla with him. Her sadness, her loveliness, touched him.

  “Quite right,” I replied belatedly in English. Then I launched into an apology for coming onto the verandah, in a mixture of Bangla and English.

  With a wave of his hand, Job sahib dismissed my apology. “Are you happy here?” He asked in Bangla.

  I touched the necklace under my sari. “No, sahib, I’m not. Sal, the only friend I had, was asked to leave. My fault. I didn’t know the rules, made a mistake by asking Sal to send a messenger to my mother. I’m sure she blames herself for my misfortune, considering herself cursed by the divine. She wonders if I’ve been given the evil eye at birth. What other reasons could there have been? She’ll suffer forever for not having done enough to protect me. I wanted to save her the grief.”

  “You’re missing your family terribly, I can see that.”

  “But there’s more.”

  An opaque white blanket of rain fell around us. It was as if Job sahib and I were nestled in a soft liquid cocoon. “If I may speak my mind, sir,” I blurted out in my mother tongue.

  “Yes, you may.”

  “Do you know how long my work-day is? Fourteen hours. Yes, I have to slave most of the day for one meal and a place to sleep. Before I got married, I had to take care of a sick father and two little brothers—my mother was too frail—but that was nothing compared to this.

  “At the end of the day, my back hurts, my knees buckle. Not only have I lost my family, but also the one friend I had. Now I have no one with whom I could share my misery.” I paused, noticing the intensity with which the sahib leaned toward me. “I’m a Brahmin girl. I come from a family of honest people. My father isn’t rich, but he’s a scholar. He gave me lessons. I used to spend my days learning the ways of the world from him and how to conduct our lives. Here all I do is cook and clean.”

  Grief choked my throat; I stopped speaking. I knew I shouldn’t have said so much, taken up the sahib’s precious time, yet, I felt lighter, happier, and more hopeful.

  “It concerns me that you’re so unhappy, Maria,” Job sahib said, his brows furrowed. “We tried to help you. I thought you would be thankful to be rescued and delighted to live here. Had I known my actions would cause you this much grief I might have … But no. No, I had no choice but to save you. I couldn’t have done it any differently. To lose family, friends, and your place in the world, is devastating.

  “You see, I went through a similar difficult period myself when I was your age. My father asked me to leave. And I …” His voice thickened and he paused a long moment. “But you must be grateful to be simply alive.”

  “Yes, sir, I am. I am happy to feel the rain, smell the shiuli, and see the pigeons fly. I appreciate your decision and actions, but I long to see my family. I want to be with them.”

  “Do you think you’ll be safe going back?”

  I knew the answer; I couldn’t utter it.

  “Just because your life is not to your liking right now doesn’t mean it will always be that way. No one can foretell what the future will bring. I was raised on a small farm in England. I could never have imagined that I’d end up here, so many seas away and in such a different environment, in a position that allows me to serve my country.” Job sahib paused.

  “Tariq tells me the servants are content, they have what they need. I have to trust what he says. He’s the supervisor and I am not completely fluent in Bangla. I, too, am trapped in my position.”

  “You’re in a more pleasant trap, sir. We’re miserable.” My eyelids felt heavy, I stopped speaking.

  Job sahib drew nearer. He pulled a frilly white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I dabbed my eyes with the soft cloth and stared at him. His tall body seemed to shield me from the lightning that streaked across the sky, from the sharp wind that blew past me. Only a short time ago, he’d snatched me from death’s grip, a gift for which I’d never be able to express enough appreciation. And now, when I craved a strong shoulder to lean on, he’d reappeared. I stood up straight, savored the delight in having him all to myself, and smelled the fragrance of jasmine and the moist earth. The rain drowned all sound, making it seem as if we were the only ones in the world.

  Tariq stepped onto the verandah, his sandals clattering, a plain white garb accentuating his grave expression. When he spotted Job sahib standing close beside me, he took a step back, then quickly collected himself. Our time alone was over.

  “Won’t you join us in the meeting room, sahib?” His voice was excessively deferential.

  I mumbled a greeting, but Tariq paid no attention. He had spoiled our beautiful, private moment. I wouldn’t leave.

  Job sahib turned to Tariq. “You’ve been telling me the kitchen helpers are content, but I am hearing otherwise.”

  “Sir, you should see her,” Tariq said emphatically. “She sneaks out, takes long breaks, and neglects her duties. I haven’t punished her, even though we’re short-handed.”

  “I take breaks to learn English,” I said to Tariq. “Is that so bad?”

  Tariq, his one good eye turning red and round, was about to lash out at me when Job sahib held out a hand. “Bass.” He turned to me, hand stroking his chin. “The last few weeks I have been conducting important business with the Nawab. That’s done now. I’ll be spending more time here, looking after the Factory, improving the conditions here, although I must say my hands are tied.” He paused. “And there’s been a new development, a worrisome one. Your husband’s relatives have filed a complaint with the Nawab’s officials, stating that we’ve abducted you. They said you wanted to be cremated, but we stopped the ritual. They want me to be put under house arrest and take you away.”

  I lost touch with the cold stone floor. Had my parents heard about this? Or had the news not traveled yet? I lifted my head only to find Job sahib staring at me. “My husband’s relatives have made up a story,” I said. “You saved me from death. Never would I want to go back to them or be cremated. This might sound absurd, but is there any way I could help?”

  “You have to file a petition at the Nawab’s Court.” Tariq said. “Do you even understand what a petition is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Every citizen,” Job sahib said, “high or low, can present themselves to the Nawab on specific days to file complaints, place a request, or simply to be heard.”

  I, a woman, who had had no life experience outside a village, could actually petition the Honorable Nawab, also called the ‘Protector of the Penniless’, the ‘Asylum of our land’, and the ‘Giver of Daily Bread’! That would be an once-in-a-lifetime event for almost anybody. Of all the stories I’d heard about the Royal Court, none had ever involved a servant girl. I looked up at Job sahib.

  “I’m aware of the difficult situation in which I have put you. I have faith in you, Maria.”

  He’d made an exception that day, an exception to the commonly held belief to never trust a local.

  “Yes, sahib, I’ll do a petition on your behalf.” Then, reflecting further, I said, “But I would need help. I don’t know the Court etiquette. How does one address the Nawab? How does one behave?”

  Job sahib looked at me, his gaze warm, concentrated. “Tell your story. That’s most important. You showed me at the cremation ghat how strong you were. I want the Royal Court to see your spirit. Tariq can help you with the formalities. Can’t you, Tariq?”

  “Yes, sir.” Turning to me, Tariq said. “The next petition day will be a week from now. Fortunately, you’ll be able to speak Bangla there, formal Bangla, that is.
Can you prepare yourself in such a short time? You mustn’t waste the Nawab’s valuable time.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I looked down at my wrinkled yellow sari stained with spices. I didn’t have appropriate clothing to appear before the Nawab. I could tell from the impatient look on Tariq’s face that he was keen to move on.

  That gave me an opening. “Is there any way to bring Sal back?” I asked Job sahib. “Please. He’s a good man, he taught me English. I’m the reason for his dismissal.”

  Tariq glared at me. “Servants are my responsibility. I fired Sal for a good reason. He didn’t follow the Factory rules. You keep out of it.”

  I looked imploringly at Job sahib. He brushed aside a lock of golden hair peeking out from below his turban and asked Tariq, “Can we get Sal back?”

  “No, sir, I don’t know where he came from or where he’s gone.”

  The empty socket of Tariq’s left eye throbbed; he was lying. Job sahib seemed not to notice.

  “Couldn’t we at least try?” I asked Tariq.

  Tariq’s face flushed. “I’ll spend weeks and get nowhere. Sal could have moved to another town. He’s probably already found a job.” Tariq’s voice caught; he was lying … again Job sahib didn’t notice. That bothered me, the trust he had in his subordinates.

  “Are you eager to learn my language?” Job sahib asked me.

  “Yes sir. I would like to be assigned a tutor.”

  “I can ask one of my chaps to give you lessons. His name is Charles, the Second Officer in our Factory, and he has just returned from England after a holiday.”

  I noticed Tariq’s face brighten at the mention of the Second Officer.

  Job sahib turned to Tariq. “Perhaps you can reduce Maria’s work hours. Give her time to study.”