Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  We could hear the sound of conch-shells followed by drum beats not too far away. Ah, finally, the music was about to begin. Teema lifted her gaze. I could tell she longed to clap and cheer at the performance; so did I. We exchanged a glance and both of us sighed. It wouldn’t be safe for us to attend the event.

  I rose and asked, “You won’t come back here again, will you?”

  “This market belongs to all of us,” Teema replied. “But see how John acted. Like they’re the lords here. Like we must do what they ask us to do, or else …”

  The day had lost its luster for me. I saw how vulnerable we were in our own town. In the back of my mind, an uneasy question about my own safety was taking shape.

  Teema stood up, straightened her back, shoved out her chest.

  “John Richardson means it when he says he wants you back,” I said, looking up at her. “You should stay away from him and this market.”

  “We will see,” Teema replied.

  Her pride had been hurt, although she wouldn’t weep or display her weakness. She would trot back here another time for the music, whose sounds and rhythms were woven into her being. Exhausted, we trudged back to the Factory.

  TEN

  The next morning, my kitchen friends told me the story of how the Nawab’s family had commemorated his birthday with a huge ceremony, part of which involved weighing the Nawab against gold. Not only was the scale made of gold, but it was also suspended by gold chains. The Nawab sat on one scale while the other was loaded with gold coins – mohurs – which he would donate to the petitioners the next day. Those getting such a gift would be lucky indeed.

  Still uncertain about my appearance at the Royal Court the next day, I decided that I must somehow speak with Job sahib.

  He’d finished his supper and was on his way to his bedchamber; I stood at the foot of the stairs, a dust rag in my hand.

  Job sahib’s face softened when he saw me, his long beige coat illuminating the space. “Tomorrow is your big day, isn’t it?”

  I forgot the day’s fatigue and my own apprehensions. “Yes, sir,” I said. What if my words stuck in my throat? What if tears formed at the corners of my eyes? What if my knees became weak?

  “The Nawab’s officers will, no doubt, inundate you with questions, try to confuse you to test your morals and your honesty, but I have utmost confidence in you, Maria.”

  He looked at me brightly, while making me aware of the obstacles I had on my way. Not many women appeared at the Court, much less a widow. In the blue depth of Job sahib’s eyes, I read his thoughts: You’ve gone through the fire test once and survived. You’ll go through it again and come forth victorious. Perhaps the thoughts were mine, but it gave me the encouragement I needed to think they were his.

  “But … sir … I hardly know anything about the functioning of our government. Maybe I don’t need to know that much. But, but I am curious, always.”

  “I am glad to hear of your interest. Indeed, I find it fascinating.”

  He went on to describe, in a tone of authority, how the Nawab, our regional ruler, followed orders from Emperor Aurangzeb, who was already being called the ‘Last Great Mughal’ by the English. The Emperor ruled much of Hindustan from his perch in Delhi. I couldn’t picture such a big domain, which existed side by side with a slew of independent kingdoms, although not always peacefully. Nor did I find it easy to accept the fact that the greedy Emperor was not satisfied with the wealth he had accumulated, the vaults he had filled with gold, silver, and rubies. He wished to annex independent principalities so as to own a larger territory and act as the sole ruler of the land; Job sahib doubted he’d succeed.

  “It’s quite a spectacle, the petition at our regional Nawab’s Court, a hundred people gathering in a magnificent hall,” he said. “I hope it will prove to be pleasant for you.”

  He’d cared enough to explain this much. Still feeling apprehensive, I said, “I’ve never traveled that far away from the Factory.”

  As though understanding my need for support, Job sahib gave a hint of a smile. “I will accompany you. Tariq might join us too.”

  Was he lying to make me feel comfortable? Would he actually accompany a lowly servant, a cook who had no clothes worthy of the Nawab’s Court?

  My boldness dissipated. Why did he have to invite the irascible Tariq? Didn’t he trust me enough?

  Although I had many more questions, I didn’t wish to delay the sahib any further, so I stepped aside and bowed. “God be with ye,” he said and went up the stairs.

  I walked to the courtyard, extended my arms toward the night sky and inhaled deeply, taking is as much air as I could, thanking the gods for their beneficence. Then I made my way back to the kitchen, humming a merry tune, and tackled the cleaning chores with new-found energy.

  The following morning, four well-muscled porters, carrying my palanquin on their shoulders, marched along on a road that led to the Nawab’s palace. Having never ridden a palanquin before, I was sick with anxiety. I couldn’t trust my eyes. To be taking this trip to the Royal Palace in this elaborate conveyance bedecked with tapestry, studded with colorful glass, and suspended between silver-plated poles. Nor could I believe that I’d actually be received by the Nawab to present my case before him.

  I inspected myself in the mirror affixed to the wall of the palanquin. Teema had loaned me her gold-bordered indigo sari and a set of four rose-gold bangles embossed with tiny white shells. She taught me how to bow before the Nawab. “Bend from the waist,” she said. “Lower a hand, take the dust off the ground, touch your forehead, and rise with a slight smile. Let your bangles make pleasant music. Let your gestures be soft and speak of your humility. Let your expression be one of glowing gratefulness.”

  Sitting in the palanquin, I tried to picture myself at the Nawab’s reception hall. I had hoped that Job sahib would stand next to me in the ornate hall as I made my petition to the Nawab, but he had cancelled at the last minute due to an ‘emergency meeting’, Tariq informed me. I was on my own. The pebbled road snaked in and out of sprawling, pastel-washed brick homes with columned entrances. Soon we passed a paddy field, a stone temple, and a three-domed terracotta mosque with a large courtyard. Streams of pedestrians, mostly men clad in light cotton clothes and colorful head-dresses, looked at the palanquin in awe.

  Much later, a red sandstone structure crowning a hill, its bulbous domes gleaming pink in the sun, its façade decorated by colorful tiles, loomed before us; it was surrounded by a high fort wall. We arrived at the arched gateway ornamented by black and white marble work.The porters laid the palanquin down. “You can walk from here; we’ll wait for you,” one of them said.

  Scores of pedestrians poured through the Palace gateway. Some arrived on hooded bullock-drawn carriages and others on horseback, stirring up dust clouds as they trotted along. The sound of hooves matched the pace of my fast-beating heart. I lingered for a moment, unsure of which direction I should go. My cheap sandals clattered on packed dirt as I trailed after a group of petitioners dressed in their finery. We strolled through the courtyard past a pool in the shape of a lotus petal, a lavish formal garden with pavilions on either side, and headed toward a public-audience hall taller than our Factory.

  “I hope the Nawab is in a good mood today,” said a rotund man ahead of me to his friend. “I hope he’ll not only grant my request but also give me a mohur. Just one coin will feed my family for months.”

  “I’ll be content to be one of the earlier ones to be called,” his companion replied. “The public hour lasts a short time. After that, the Nawab leaves, and his courtiers take over. They’re not as kind, nor do they distribute gold. In fact, they try to get rid of the petitioners as fast as they can.”

  A mohur would be a nice surprise, but I could hardly imagine the Nawab slipping one in my hand. Instead, I worried about how he might receive my story. Would he show me a wrinkled brow, a flushed face, a stiff posture as he pointed to the door and shouted at me in commands I couldn’t follow?<
br />
  As we filed through the carved brass door, an attendant sprinkled rose perfume on our hands. Inside, the walls of the large hall were covered with a gold-leaf design that sparkled in the daylight. The ceiling was decorated in an intricate pattern with mirrors and semi-precious gems; the floor, paved with stonework, was enchanting in its beauty and symmetry. A lush carpet in crimson and black, woven in elephant images, covered most of the floor. Taking the cue from other petitioners, I dropped down and arranged myself in a lotus position in the second row. A hundred people shared the carpet with me, all smelling of rosewater. Sitting there in the heat, perspiring profusely, my mind went blank. Drumbeats announced the Nawab’s arrival, trumpets blared. The sounds reverberated in my stomach. The Nawab entered through a side door, surrounded by officers and generals. When he stepped onto a marble platform, I heard the sound of footsteps marching along the floor, their sharp report bouncing off the walls.

  The whole assembly stood up and bowed. The man ahead of me bowed and touched his right palm to his forehead; I did likewise. Did I bow deeply enough? Did I rise too clumsily?

  Decked in a golden satin robe, the Nawab, a man of middle years with clove-colored eyes, mounted a high dais. Diamonds sparkled around his neck. A sword encased in a crimson sheath dangled from his waist-sash. He ascended the throne, a dome-roofed, octagonal silver chair fitted with pearls and rubies and facing the East. The painted panel behind him depicted a garden. As a young boy, it was said, he had fought off an angry elephant that had tried to pummel his horse with its trunk. He was supposed to have subdued the elephant’s fearsome head and menacing tusks with his bare hands.

  The Nawab exchanged a few niceties with those who surrounded him: ministers, bejeweled noblemen, members of the imperial household, and principal officers of the army. Two servants fanned him with jade-handled bamboo fans. His bodyguards, dressed in yellow, stood alert nearby. They all acted so important and so sure of their position that I felt small and insignificant in comparison. As the Nawab surveyed the crowd, our eyes met for an instant. Finally, he asked everyone to be seated.

  “Joy and peace to you,” the Nawab said in a deep, guttural voice.

  “Joy and peace to you,” the audience muttered.

  Several petitioners stood up and voluntarily stepped forward with nazranas—ritual gifts of pearls, silver bullions, and also the finest of mangoes, a favorite fruit of the Nawab, the town’s speciality. A smiling courtier, pushing a cart, collected the items on a platter. The imperial scribe, a man attired in a waistcoat with an embroidered cap on his head, eased onto a stool in one corner of the room. A pen, a porcelain ink-pot, and a ledger were at his disposal. Now, at last, the Nawab was ready to receive claims, complaints, and reports from his subjects, and to dispense justice as necessary. An imperial officer marched forward, his gaze searching the crowd. In what appeared to be a random selection, the officer pointed to an elderly man with a sun-beaten face and haunted eyes.

  Dressed in home-spun cotton, the man stepped forward and stood about fifty paces from the Nawab. A cane under his arm, he gave his name and the village he was from and described his problem. His farmland, his only means of support, had been flooded by the recent downpour. Despite this calamity and the expenses he’d incurred, he’d been required to pay a substantial tax to the revenue officer on crops he hadn’t been able to grow. He spoke haltingly, his thin voice wavering often. Judging by the somber mood of the room, others were also favorably disposed toward him.

  “O, Lord of the Earth,” the farmer said in conclusion, placing the palm of his right hand on his forehead and bending at the waist. “In the name of the merciful Allah, I prevail upon you to settle this dispute. I am a humble peasant. I live or die with my land.”

  The Nawab consulted with his council for a long moment. The conclusions were communicated to the scribe.

  “We understand and take note of the situation,” an officer said to the farmer. “Your petition will receive further attention. If warranted, we’ll reimburse you for the revenue you’ve been required to pay.”

  “A thousand salaams to you,” the farmer said, his voice thick with emotion as an officer took him aside for further questioning.

  Another courtier scanned the room slowly; his gaze eventually came to rest on me. My cheeks grew warm as he signaled to me and said in a booming voice, “You! Next.”

  I stepped forward, faced the Nawab, and bowed the way I’d been taught by Teema. Then I stood motionless, unable to summon a word of the speech I had practised for days. After taking a few deep, panicked breaths, I tried to slow the hammering of my heart.

  “Your Honor,” I said eventually, my voice cracking. “I salute you with reverence. I am here to beg your pardon of a man who has saved me from an attempted human sacrifice by fighting off an entire community. He courted the wrath of a priest, risked the danger of causing harm to himself, carried me off to a boat, and gave me a new life in a new environment. Job Charnock.”

  The Nawab smiled, perhaps in recognition of Job sahib’s name and the heroic praise awarded to him. His head tilted toward me; his officials exchanged glances among themselves.

  “I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for that Englishman.” I let the words flow from my tongue in a forceful but gentle manner. “What might seem like an abduction was in fact a generous act. I beg that Job Charnock be cleared of all the charges and commended for his act of generosity and courage.”

  While the Nawab consulted with his Court, a uniformed official of lower rank bustled forward. “Where do you live?” He asked, looking suspiciously at me. “What kind of work do you do? Why are you alone?”

  Had I been a man, would he have spoken to me this harshly? The injustice prickled, but I decided to take the opportunity to further reveal my situation. “I work in the Factory and live under strict rules, but I have a life only because of the Englishman. Job Charnock has saved me from being a sati. The charges against him are false and should be dropped.”

  “Why should we believe you?’ The official asked. “Why isn’t Job Charnock with you?”

  I couldn’t come up with an answer.

  “Why weren’t you a sati?”

  “I don’t believe in that custom.”

  “Are you a prostitute?”

  “No! I’m a cook.”

  The official kept questioning me, his angry glare surely meant to unnerve me. I wasn’t deterred. Job sahib had prepared me for such questions, and now his faith in me encouraged me to answer with courage and humility. In the end, there was deep silence for a moment. Perhaps the official heard the truth in my voice. Finally, he relayed the information to the Nawab who turned toward me.

  “It will be so,” the Nawab said. “The case against Job Charnock is hereby dismissed.”

  I bowed deeply and thanked the Nawab.

  No more troubles for Job sahib. Time for me to take my seat, feel relief and gratitude, yet, swept away by this victory, I forgot propriety. “Your Honor,” I rushed ahead in a high voice, as though addressing a friend alone.

  The Nawab looked amused. He watched me closely; his eyes grew darker.

  “I am here also to speak about Hindu widows, especially Brahmin widows. Few people are aware of the fate they suffer. I got away from the village before I could be burned alive. Many widows are not so fortunate.”

  The Nawab’s initial amusement over my lack of propriety was lost. His expression grew grave. “Continue,” he said gently.

  “People pity a widow as they pity an animal. She’s scarred for the rest of her life. Although a widower often remarries, a widow, even if she’s young, isn’t allowed to remarry.”

  The Nawab tapped the toe of his shoe on the marble dais. He rubbed his cheek and gazed up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. After a few moments he beckoned the officers to join him. Together, they slipped out to an adjoining chamber.

  I turned to take in the reaction of the audience. There were Brahmins, Hindus from other castes, and Muslims among the peo
ple gathered in the hall. A young girl sat stunned, as though she’d seen a horrible sight and was now trying to erase it from her memory. A tender-eyed elderly woman wrapped in a gray shawl muttered a few kind words to me, but her husband looked indignantly at me. I looked away.

  A man seated in the front row leapt to his feet; his eyes rained fire on me. “How dare you speak lies, you, shameless widow? Our pundits say, ‘Your mere shadow brings misfortune to those it falls upon. Woe to those who encounter a widow in the morning, for their day shall not end well.’” He addressed the entire crowd of petitioners. “I say she should be expelled from this room. She should be cast back into the funeral pyre. Do you all agree?”

  “Yes, back into the fire!” A man yelled from somewhere behind me.

  “Stop speaking to her like that,” another man shouted out from the third row. “All women belong to the tribe of mothers. We should respect them.”

  “Back into the fire,” the first man said.

  I clutched my sari tightly around my chest, checked the distance between where I stood and the doors through which I’d entered the hall. Guards stood at the doors; some of the petitioners appeared doubtful, others hostile, and then there were those who cast kindly glances at me. In the end, I resolved not to run away like a coward.

  “No!” I shouted. “The Vedas say women lead men. They should be pampered and respected, all women, including widows.”

  “She’s correct,” said a young Hindu priest from a far corner, wrapped in a saffron shawl, his forehead smeared with sanctified beige paste. “Listen also to this sloka, which extols the virtues of a woman.”

  Together we began reciting in Sanskrit from opposite corners of the room, his voice calm and cultured.

  An irate man in a red tunic interrupted us. “I’ll thrash both of you if you don’t stop your false slokas.”