Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Charles sahib and this morning’s English lesson, the way he’d treated me with contempt and then acted like a father, asking his daughter to help him with his meals, then turned around again and asked me to put my life in danger by being his informant. I couldn’t avoid him now; he was my English teacher.

  A terrible foreboding gripped my senses.

  In the kitchen, I got hold of Idris. “What a nightmare, my first lesson with Charles sahib.”

  “You get English lessons?” Pratap asked, chopping carrots with angry strokes. “What about us?”

  Jas, wiry, enterprising, and quiet, chimed in, as he measured spices: “I wouldn’t want to take a lesson from that crotchety pink-face.”

  “That bully,” Idris said. “Why did he have to come back? Do you know he once threatened me with a kitchen knife because the mutton hadn’t been cooked according to his standards? We call him Mr. Earthquake. Wherever he goes, he shakes things up.”

  “He treats us like the dirt under his shoes,” Bir said, squatting and pushing his mop across the floor. “He made me pay a fine, a half month’s salary, claiming that I’d put a spider in his liquor cabinet, with the intention to harm him. And you know what? I never did any such thing. There are spiders everywhere in this compound. Crazy bastard. He has a talent for making you feel guilty. It gets even worse. He once invited me to his bedchamber at night. I refused.”

  “I overheard him saying to another sahib that you were extremely good-looking,” Jas said. “Be careful. Charles sahib gets what he wants, when he wants it. He’s a lusty man.”

  “He’s a sick man,” Bir replied.

  “Exactly what he told me,” I said. “He’s sick. He can’t take our food or water. I offered to serve him a special soup and—”

  A chorus of laughter cut me off.

  “That’s his standard complaint, Maria,” Jas said. “He doesn’t feel good. The water isn’t safe. No one understands him. He is downright wicked. Job sahib was forced to hire him because of his family’s wealth in England. And you know what he’s paying back with? He’s spreading a rumor that Job sahib is failing in his duties. ‘Job hasn’t increased the Company’s profit substantially.’ I overheard Earthquake sahib hatching a conspiracy with two other sahibs when I served them their afternoon hookahs.

  “He said he’d make a bigger profit and the Crown would support him. The other two pink faces agreed with him. I stood at the door until Mr. Earthquake yelled at me. ‘Out! Don’t you have anything else to do? Be off!’”

  So that must be it, I reasoned. Charles sahib wanted to get rid of his superior and take over the Factory as the burra sahib, the Chief Factor. As I stirred a pot of legumes, my mind remained agitated. I pictured Charles sahib grasping me by the neck and shaking me, demanding to know if his wicked scheme had gotten out. A battle between him and Job sahib was in the air and I was caught in the middle of it. Dark patches of danger floated before my eyes.

  “Charles sahib has his own pistol,” Bir said.

  “You mean the firing kind?” I asked.

  Bir laughed. “Is there any other kind, Maria? I was cleaning his room when I noticed it under the bed. I shook all over, looked away, and recited God Vishnu’s name. I also spotted a cartridge box in his cabinet. Everyone knows that rival English traders get in fights and shoot each other. Even Job sahib has several pistols in his drawer.” He paused. “Did you know they found the body of an Englishman, an independent trader, near the entrance to the market a month ago?”

  “No. But in-fighting among our superiors?” I said. “That’s scarier.”

  Idris said, “Let us keep an eye on Job sahib, protect him at all costs.”

  “I am puzzled as to why he assigned Charles sahib as my tutor,” I said.

  “He still trusts the man.”

  But he shouldn’t. He should be suspicious. I distracted myself by shelling a pile of beans, but my attention kept drifting to the image of a bloody corpse in the market, the street stained, vultures flapping their wings overhead. My fingers shook.

  I opened a trunk filled with dinnerware and got out an expensive porcelain set brought by ship from China. Originally meant for the royalty, this ware was supposed to break into pieces when in contact with poison. Only the sahibs could dine on them, not us, ever. I spat on a dinner plate, smearing it with my resentment.

  Next I scrubbed the asanas, simple mats made of reed and meant for sitting on the floor. We serfs used these seats for our supper. There were no chairs or dining tables for us. We prepared three elaborate meals a day for the sahibs—four, if you considered the afternoon refreshments—but our food was rationed. We ate only one meal and that at night, a simple, unadorned supper of khichri, a medley of rice and lentils, accompanied by a pickled vegetable. Idris occasionally pilfered pieces of sweetmeat and popped them into his mouth; I did the same. Our humble evening meal was served on squares of freshly cut, disposable banana leaves.

  NINE

  The same night, after only an hour of sleep, again I dreamt of the burning pyre, the sparks, the smoke, the ashes, and towers of yellow flames. When I woke up, a scream seemed to be stuck in my throat. I lay awake for many hours, listening to the humming of insects, and finally fell back to sleep. As the day dawned, I hauled myself up from the bed, later than usual.

  I entered the kitchen and noticed Idris hadn’t yet fired up the chulahs. He, too, was late. Well, at least, I could do the harvesting. A straw basket in hand, I trotted out to the courtyard, under the canopy of trees. The morning was fresh, a light breeze blew away my gloom, and the insects murmuring among the leaves cheered me up. I had nearly filled the basket when I heard the swish of the broom.

  Teema was sweeping the far corner of the courtyard, dressed in an all-black outfit, enveloped in a cloud of dust. I was about to call out a greeting when I saw Tariq rushing toward me, his eye glinting with anger.

  Chin jutting out, voice oozing sarcasm, he said, “My, my, aren’t we tardy?”

  “Please give me a moment. A few more guavas and I’ll be ready to serve breakfast.”

  Tariq wagged his index finger at me. “You’ve already delayed the sahibs. How many times do I have to tell you their time is precious? You could be terminated on the spot, do you know that?”

  The basket fell from my hand and struck the ground. The soft guavas spilled out, their skins bursting, white flesh smeared with dust. A bird rustled through a tree, making a mocking chuck-chuck sound.

  Teema stepped forward, placed the broom on the ground, and planted herself defiantly in front of Tariq. “Look, give her a few minutes,” she said. “She’s not well. I cared for her last night. Poor thing—she was shaking. She had chills.”

  “You’re indisposed?” Tariq asked me, incredulous.

  I held my tongue.

  Teema said, “Can’t you see how pale her face is?”

  Tariq’s gaze flitted over Teema’s proud posture; her face sparkled with a new light, as though she was performing on a raised platform while he sat on the ground, a spectator. It remained unclear as to whether he believed her story, whether he’d run out of the will to contradict her, or whether her reputation as a fine dancer had put her in a better position to bargain.

  “All right,” Tariq growled. “I’ll explain it to the sahibs this time, but don’t let me catch either of you tardy again, ever. Understand?”

  He turned on his heel and departed. I caught Teema’s eyes and grabbed the basket. She picked up her skirt and stepped over the wet splatter of fruit on the ground.

  Mid-afternoon, we walked through a mud flat on our way to the market. The sun’s rays on this cloudy day were weak. I thanked Teema. Not only had she stood up for me this morning, but she’d also gotten Tariq’s permission for a longer break.

  “Why do you look so gloomy then?” Teema asked.

  I couldn’t bring myself to confide in her my little act of theft. Only minutes ago, my fingers turning cold and lifeless, I’d lifted a little mon
ey for this trip from a jar tucked away in a corner of the kitchen yet still in plain sight. Only Idris was allowed to use this money to pay for groceries, and the thought of betraying his trust had nauseated me, made it harder for me to breathe. How I’d hoped that no one would notice. I listened to the gentle murmuring of a nearby stream, glanced at Teema’s bright face, and said, “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “I know, I know. You have to deal with Tariq and Charles sahib. Let me tell you. Those two are fragile and easily threatened.”

  I didn’t understand her words, but I felt better. We reached a wide acacia-lined road leading to the town center. Swarms of shoppers, mostly men in cotton and accompanied by goats, bullocks, and mules, chattered animatedly. All seemed to be headed in the same direction. As we meandered through the crowd, I heard discussions around gold, silk, grains, and opium.

  Teema pointed to an orchard on the right and said lightly, “See those mulberry trees? Silkworms feed on their leaves.” She adjusted her odhni, a silver-embroidered, pearl-fringed, silky, chiffon head-covering that framed her oval face beautifully.

  If I felt jealous scrutinizing Teema’s accessory, I didn’t show it. “I love silk, but it’d take me years to save up for even a single piece like your odhni,” I said, complimenting her on her possession.

  Teema adjusted the scarf. “It’s the only silk piece I own, a gift from a friend.”

  Who could have given her such an expensive present? The man who had left her? I wanted to hear more about her love life, even though that might make me more jealous. She was older, more experienced, and had gone through a lot, yet she seemed to carry a childish joy within her.

  Teema parted her veil with a delicate hand, exposing at her throat a gleaming gold necklace worked with emeralds. “My mother gave it to me when I left home.” Her voice broke. “It was a wedding gift from her mother. It’s been so long since I have seen …”

  She left the sentence dangling. An Englishman in a high-crowned hat towered over all the pedestrians swirling around us. As he passed us, he gave Teema a brief sideways glance. Her eyes filled with pain and she quickly pulled the veil lower down on her forehead.

  “I didn’t like the way he looked at us,” I said.

  “He’s a hustler in his spare hours.”

  “A hustler?”

  “You’re so innocent.” She laughed. “A hustler is someone who arranges sexual services. Oh, the characters you meet in this town—hustlers, thieves, predators, and other criminals, as well as the devout.”

  A bigger, messier world had just opened up before me.

  A floral arch supported by four pillars loomed before us. We swept through it and plunged into the main section of the market in the midst of a sea of people. It was similar to our village market, only much bigger. On either side of us, hawkers sold all kinds of goods: jewelry, clothes, dried fruit, toys, and clay idols. The crowd and the market sounds made me feel cheerful. Skeins of silk, along with velvet, satin, and taffeta, in yellow, red, blue, and purple, dazzled my eyes. Trades people bought and haggled; a cacophony of jokes, friendly banter, and hard bargaining infused the air. Children pranced by. From inside a tent, a male voice recited the Holy Koran. In the midst of it all, a handsome man whirled like a dervish. At that time, I couldn’t make much of the activities around us; on looking back, each stands out clearly, my first experience of the wider world, a world more colorful, more exciting, more promising, and more mysterious.

  I left my ignorance and misgivings behind and soaked in the noise, smells, colors, shapes, and movements around me. My steps became lighter. With the stolen coin, I bought two servings of freshly harvested molasses from a vendor and shared them with Teema.

  A short distance away there stood a performance stage, a mandapa. Pillared on four corners, it was marked by a crimson canopy so stunning that I simply stood and stared at it.

  “Wait till you listen to the music, my favorite part of the market.”

  As we approached, a band of musicians stepped up to the stage; soon they began to tune their instruments. The tuneful drone of a tanpura filled the air around us.

  We left the area and browsed the long rows of tents dedicated to toys. A pair of miniature clay elephants, beautifully painted in brown and white, caught my attention. I could imagine my brothers Nitya and Nupur squealing in joy at the sight of those toys. I couldn’t afford them. I’d already spent the little money I had stolen by indulging in that sweetmeat, and Nupur and Nitya weren’t with me to enjoy these things. I had no idea when I’d see them again.

  A brick stucco building stood a short distance away, its door painted red. “Shall we have a look?” I asked.

  Teema shook her head. “There are plenty of stalls to browse right around here.”

  “Only a peek?”

  “All right.” She seemed to hesitate.

  Through the open door, I beheld a dark chamber with a white floor. A few shadowy figures huddled inside even so early in the day. This must be a punch house. I heard snatches of drunken conversation, the smashing of a glass, someone bellowing. As we were about to turn, an Englishman emerged, his face framed by a floppy hat. His cheeks were flushed and he clutched a glass in his fist. Tall and broad like a banyan tree, he filled the doorway.

  He locked eyes with Teema. “My darling! Queen of the Night! What a happy occasion!” On unsteady feet, speaking broken Bangla, he stumbled nearer. “I had no idea you missed me so much.”

  Teema’s eyes displayed a flicker of loathing and dread. “We’re here for the music, John.”

  Was this the place where Teema had once performed?

  “Do you know how long it has been, my Jasmine?” John’s reddened eyes brazenly took Teema in, his gaze moved up her body, openly admiring the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and he said with a grin, “I see you’re still as ravishing as ever, my sweetness.”

  Standing in front of this punch house crammed with drunks and listening to a drunken man’s lecherous words, I wanted to flee. I tried to catch Teema’s eye, but she was giving John a fierce, withering look.

  “Why in the name of Shiva, why do you pursue me, John?” She said. “I tell you many times, I, I not want to see you again.”

  John winked at me. “And who’s this beauty?” Meeting Teema’s silence, he said to me, “Allow me to present myself. John Richardson.”

  I barely nodded. John Richardson made me uncomfortable and his brazen manner had disturbed my friend greatly.

  “Do you know Edward is getting married to an English woman?” John Richardson said to Teema.

  Teema wilted into silence. Sensing her shame, that strangling feeling of wanting to disappear, I said, “Let’s go, Teema,” and stepped away, taking hold of her hand, encouraging her to follow.

  She stirred and half-turned toward me, but John Richardson touched her shoulder, leaned in close, his lips almost brushing her ear, and whispered in a husky voice, “Not so fast, my love, let us get together soon, shall we? I’ve missed your charm, the feel of your soft skin, the way you moved and moaned under me. I promise to put back the smile on your face again.”

  Teema, clearly mortified, shrank away from him, but he blocked her path and threw his arms around her shoulders with a confident laugh. “Come on, love,” he said playfully.

  I saw the revulsion on her anguished face as she struggled to free herself from his embrace. I could tolerate it no longer. I edged forward, rammed both hands into John Richardson’s chest, and shoved him back. Taken by surprise, the brute wobbled back, and steadied himself against the wall of the punch house.

  Before he could straighten up again, I shouted at Teema. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We broke into a run. Behind us, John Richardson called out with a careless laugh. “I’ll have you yet, my flower! You wait and see.”

  In a few minutes, we came to a dead-end and stopped. Still panting, I craned my neck but, thanks to Goddess Durga, there was no sign of John Richardson. We waited for our breathing to return t
o normal. The sun blazed mercilessly overhead; my throat felt dry.

  “My savior,” Teema said.

  Chest heaving, I stood there, my mind churning with questions. Who’s John Richardson? What was that about? Who’s Teema, really?

  “Where can we go? What if he finds us?” I didn’t realize until this moment how frightened I was, how stiff in every limb.

  Teema looked up sharply, studying my face. “It’s all right, Maria. Do not fear. He didn’t look like he was in any condition to chase anyone. And I know a route where he’s not allowed to go.”

  We entered a maze of narrow alleyways with grass huts on either side. As in my village, these huts had been built close together to provide shade to one another in the scorching heat. At this time of the day, with the sun nearly overhead, any cover would be welcome. Entering an alley wide enough for only one person, we slowed our pace and began walking single file. A pair of curious eyes peeked at us from behind a door. It belonged to a young mother nursing her baby inside a low-ceilinged hut decorated only with mats. In the adjoining residence, a woman swept the packed earth floor with a broom. We came across a small garden, lush with vegetables, where a woman harvested small shiny cucumbers.

  “This is the women’s quarters,” Teema whispered.

  Now I understood. At this time of the day, when the men were away to earn their wages, the area belonged to women only. No man would ever step in here to disturb the women’s daily chores or their time with their children, an unspoken social agreement. Teema had chosen the perfect escape route for us, I thought thankfully, as I took in the quietness all around me.

  We emerged from the women’s quarters into a lane not far from the market but with fewer pedestrians. “Let us stop here for a minute,” Teema suggested.

  We sat cross-legged on the ground and viewed the sun-drenched lane. A bullock cart, carrying cattle fodder, hustled past us. Teema’s cheeks seemed to gain color; a certain confidence lit up her face. Still, questions about her and my new surroundings plagued me. How, in the long run, would she be able to avoid the clutches of John Richardson? Who was Edward? What was this town really like? I’d only just touched its surface, as well as that of Teema’s existence.