Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  “You’re fooling yourself, Maria. In Job sahib’s eyes, you’re only a woman, to be used and cast aside. Haven’t you noticed there’s a color bar? In the eyes of your own people, you’re a widow, and you know very well that widows aren’t entitled to a happy life or any life, much less a love life with a foreigner. Don’t, Maria, don’t. Don’t stay here.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, perhaps not. There’s a different path for me.”

  “You’ll have to carve that new path for yourself. How easy do you think that will be?” Teema looked lovingly at me. “I have to leave now. I came to see you one last time, my dearest friend.”

  “You can’t be serious. Where are you going?”

  “I’ll hide out somewhere for a few weeks, until I can line up a ferry passage to Hooghly. It’s a big town, a major port. I want to dress up and dance. I want to get back to what I love to do.” She looked at me imploringly. “Will you join me?”

  “Join you?”

  “Here you slave for twelve hours a day, for what?” Teema said. “A meal? A bed? Some fantasies? Pack up your things, girl. Be smart. Let us slip out of this compound tonight. The watchman has gone to bed. We’ll travel together, like sisters. I’ll look after you, and I’ll teach you how to dance.”

  “I? Dance?”

  “Just so. You’re not a complete woman until you release your feelings through dance.” She paused. “You have fine features and the grace of a dancer and I’ll wager you will pick up the movements rather quickly. You’ll feel free, possibly freer than you’ve ever felt. Standing before an audience, silently communicating with them, you’ll be happy in a way you’ve never been.”

  Temptation dangled before my eyes. My father had taught me about Natya Shashtra, the classical Indian treatise on performing arts, in which the dance-form was considered a key element. At home we worshipped Shiva, the Lord of Dance. My father had explained how using body movements and hand gestures you could give expression to any emotion stored inside. A dancer could be released from her sins. Or the dancer could simply enjoy herself.

  A dancing woman, however, was considered shameful and not allowed in most homes. What would my mother say if I took up such an activity? Her face would turn purple with shame. Besides, I had other options, a different vision. Urged on by Job sahib’s encouragement, his faith in me, I saw myself not as a dancer but as a capable woman, one who labored alongside the English in a world of commerce. My elders too might not like that, but that was the direction I would take.

  “Look at what happened to you.” I paused. “No, dear friend, I love you as a sister, but if I follow you, the same will happen to me. I sense my future lies on a different path.”

  “Future?” Teema broke into laughter. “What a dreamer! Stop aiming at the stars. You’ll lose what you hold precious to a heartless Englishman. He’ll use you, toss you out, and take another woman. Best if you left this place now. Look, I have it all planned. We’ll take a detour and stop by your village so you can visit your family. Don’t you want to see them again?”

  I vacillated, memories of home crowded in on my mind. How long had it been? How desolate a corner of my heart remained.

  “We’ll also spend a few days in my village,” Teema resumed. “It’s filled with ponds, trees, flowers, and peacocks. I’ll breathe the air, kiss the soil, drink the water. Then I’ll touch my mother’s feet, pay my respects to her, and we’ll move on. Once we reach Hooghly, I’ll locate a punch house and get hired as a dancer. Soon you’ll be dancing, too.” Her voice crackled with cheer. “In our spare time, we’ll browse the shops and walk the river banks.”

  “No, I have another agenda. The Nawab has promised to intervene on my behalf and that of other widows. He wants to safeguard us. I have to make sure his promise is carried out.”

  “You are a dreamer, Maria. Come down to the ground, girl. You won’t change the future of widows. You won’t even change your own future. Look at the sari you’re wearing. Cheap. Cotton. Ugly. Too ugly for someone as pretty as you are,” she finished with a grating laugh.

  The wick-lamp trembled. “These things mean little to me.”

  We sat in silence, each weighing her decisions. “I see that you, too, have a passion you want to pursue,” Teema said. “I’ll leave you with it.” She rose to her feet.

  I stood and faced her, desperate to find a way to stop her from vanishing into the darkness. Yet I could see from the distress in her posture that she needed to flee to another town, for John Richardson would surely follow her every move and try to harass her. There were other complications. Edward’s unseen presence, his kisses, his embraces, his broken promises would haunt her at every corner she turned. Tariq would make her days miserable by picking at her faults. She had nothing to keep her here.

  “Will you be safe, traveling alone at night?” I asked. “Robbers might be lying in wait. Tigers might be roaming around. Snakes could come out of hiding and who knows what other animals?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself over me.” Teema seized me, her chest heaving. Something in her was broken. As we disengaged, she uncoiled her shimmering scarf, fastened it around my neck, and studied my face with loving eyes. “You’re so pure, so pretty, and this scarf makes you glow even more.”

  “But I can’t take it. It’s your favorite piece, a gift from your beloved.”

  Playfully, she examined my forehead. “I see an inscription that it belongs to you now.” She laughed, a hollow sound, more tearful than gay. “When you wear it, think about me.”

  I wiped my eyes and gazed at her. “Do contact me when you can.”

  “Farewell, my friend.” She turned, waved, and hastened out toward the gate, leaving rain clouds inside me.

  THIRTEEN

  The next morning I woke to the siren-like blasts of the kokil bird. My gaze flew to Teema’s scarf, the shiny black chiffon cloth hanging on a wooden peg. How much I already missed my friend. I could see her gyrating in this very room, her fancy footwork, twirling hands, eyes like stars. We wage laborers were as permanent as a gust of wind, I thought.

  In the kitchen, as I measured, fumbled for this and that, scoured and cleaned the pots, I found myself being haunted by Teema and her confession. Idris, standing nearby, stoked the fire in the chulah. Bir, Jas, and Pratap worked at the far end of the room. Spoon in hand, I stood before a pot of porridge, talking about my worries.

  I must have become distracted, for the porridge boiled over, creating a sticky mess that spilled down the front of the stove and onto the floor, accompanied by a burning smell. How could I have done that? I stared at the mess for a moment, then fell on my knees, scrubbing and mopping.

  Tariq came charging into the kitchen. He surveyed the scene, rolled one eye, and clucked his tongue. “Goodness! What happened?”

  Before I could make up an explanation, Idris said, “It’s not Maria’s fault. The chulah was burning hotter than usual.”

  Tariq’s gaze skimmed the room. Any moment now, he would yell at me for the mess on the floor, but his face puckered with enthusiasm. “I have an important announcement to make. I know it is short notice, but we have to arrange a feast for this evening. It’ll be our ‘Grand Feast’ of the year, Job sahib’s order. He should have informed me sooner, but he forgot. We’ve never entertained on this scale before. At least fifteen courses will be served, along with wine and imported liquor. We’ll also have to decorate the dining room and the meeting hall. Job sahib wants it that way.”

  All of us stood in uneasy silence. Given that our hours were already filled, nobody jumped in elation at the prospect of having to do extra chopping and mixing and simmering and cleaning for this grand feast. I clenched my hands. Couldn’t the sahib have given us more notice?

  Idris flitted forward. “Who is it for, if I may ask?” He had a way of being polite and demanding at the same time.

  “It’s for a group of English memsahibs who have arrived here by a boat from England,” Tariq said in a softened voice. “Haven’t you heard of
the ‘Fishing Fleet’?”

  “To be sure!” Jas said lightly.

  “These lovely ladies, twenty of them, all suitably unmarried, are passing through our town, hoping to attract the eyes of the sahibs and get married,” Tariq said. “The sahibs are eager to meet them, too. And so we’re throwing a banquet, a big Hindustani-style welcome. We must make sure the ladies have a ‘jolly good’ time.”

  He paused for a while, and then continued, “Among them is a widow named Anne, who’s supposed to be quite a beauty. She’s from Lancashire, where Job sahib is also from. They’ll meet for the first time. The sahib’s eager, as you might expect.”

  Although I’d heard the rumor before, I braced myself. A stranger from a far-off land, a widow for that matter, would float in here to meet the man I dreamed about. Since our last conversation, I’d often wished we could spend more time together. Now the thought of losing him made my knees weak. But then how could I, a penniless woman, a mere cook, only seventeen years of age, of a skin tone darker than the sahib’s, dare to nurse such a monumental dream? Teema’s warning rang in my ears.

  “Are you listening?” Tariq’s voice pierced through my thoughts. “Will you be so good as to take over the cooking? The sahibs can’t praise your table enough. Tonight you’ll have to show the ladies the kind of feast Hindustan is famous for. I want to see only empty platters returned to the kitchen. You follow?”

  Tariq wanted to see me make a blunder in front of Job sahib. That must be it. “Yes, of course, I’ll be happy to be in charge.”

  “What do you think we should serve?”

  My mother had enormous skills in the kitchen. Whenever there was a feast in our village or another one nearby, she’d be asked to prepare an elaborate meal, which included goat meat but never beef. She’d come up with recipes we could never afford at home. Now I rattled off the names of a few popular regional dishes—biryani, a malai dish, koftas, and kormas—and invented a few more in a hurry. Fish, game, mutton, vegetables, fritters, sweetmeats, pickles, I included them all.

  “But that’s only eleven,” Tariq said. “We need four more. The number of dishes provides a measure of our means and hospitality.”

  “A jhol.”

  “Three more.”

  Perspiration formed on my forehead. If I was lucky, the preparation of those twelve elaborate dishes would take up the remaining hours of the day. “Please give me a minute.” I counted off the dishes in my head again, trying to imagine what more I could bring to the table.

  Fortunately, Idris, ever the quick thinker, hurled a question about shopping for necessities, which distracted Tariq. Since the market had been ravaged by fire, buying fruits, vegetables, meats, and spices had been next to impossible.

  “We’re short on time.” Idris remarked. He cocked his head to one side. “We can’t spend hours shopping.”

  Tariq, distracted from me for the time being, answered Idris. “I’ll ask the grocers to deliver all the necessary ingredients to our doorstep. They’ll each get a substantial gratuity for that.”

  Pratap, usually reserved, badgered Tariq with an additional request, his voice ringing with obedience. “Will you make sure we get golden raisins?”

  Jas chimed in: “Oh, and nothing but the kamini bhog variety of rice, please.”

  Bir: “Don’t forget we must have the freshest of molasses.”

  “That’s enough,” Tariq said. “I’ll get you what you need. There’ll be a ball after the dinner. We’ll have to get the meeting hall ready for that. Needless to say, you’ll not take any breaks today. You’ll also clear and clean up after the meal, however late that might be. I’ll be around to check your progress.” As he backed away, he cast a glance at me. “No more spilling and no more wasting food.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Is it always like this here?” I asked.

  “Yes, servants are like slaves,” Idris said. “We’re thought to be liars, cheats, thieves, complainers, and lazy people. Unless treated harshly, we don’t get any work done. They also think we’ll get into mischief if we’re idle even for a moment.”

  “Don’t you think we should protest?” Bir said.

  “Forget that,” Idris said. “We’ll lose our jobs and worse. They’ll go after our families.”

  “And we can’t go back to our villages,” Pratap said. “There are no jobs there. Here in this town, I’ve checked out a few possibilities, such as the job of a boatman. It’s back-breaking labor; as a porter in the shipping yard, na, not easy. The money you make, you spend in buying food. At least we get one meal a day here.”

  In the brief silence that followed, I considered what other better jobs I could possibly get, but came up with none. “Shall we work as a team then?” I asked the other cooks.

  “Yes,” a chorus of voices said. “You’re our leader.”

  “Chalo,” I said, mimicking Tariq.

  Everyone laughed.

  As the sun reached higher and higher in the sky, we struggled with the chores, stewing the meat, kneading the dough, grinding the black pepper, shelling the cardamom pods, washing the rice and the pulses, straining the molasses, and cracking the mace. Casually, I introduced the subject of the visiting English maidens.

  “They’re staying in a bungalow by the river near the Dutch quarters,” Bir said. “From the rumors I hear, if they can’t catch a sahib this evening, they’ll move on to other towns where the English have trading stations, Hooghly, Madras, Patna, Dhaka, Ahmedabad or Surat. They’ll try their charms on another set of Factors.”

  I kept listening to the back-and-forth as I sprinkled mustard seeds into a pot and watched them spurt rebelliously in the hot oil. Fragrant vapors spiked with cinnamon rose from another pot. Being distracted, I over-fried a batch of vegetable fritters and hid them in a bowl. I hoped Idris hadn’t noticed.

  He glanced at me. “The sahibs are lonesome, but they can be choosy. Many of them want a fair-complexioned wife. But give these women a month or so under our sun and they’ll turn a light brown. A year and they’ll be like us.”

  “Wait till they dance together.” Bir dropped his knife on the table for a moment and whirled around with an imaginary partner. “Wait till they whisper to each other. Oh, the silver coin of the moon. Oh, the perfume of a hundred jasmines. Oh, such silky footsteps you have.”

  “Let us leave this dancing cheek-to-cheek for now and wash this pot,” I said jokingly, concealing my feelings. Would Job sahib dance with any of the ladies?

  I passed the next several hours cooking and stirring, bending low to smell the aroma of the dishes, my kitchen mates giving me a hand at every step and sharing their knowledge of the English. Outside the window, dusk had fallen and the sky looked about ready to close down upon us. I wanted to freshen up for the evening. After all day in the hot kitchen, the sari stuck to my sweat-soaked body. My shoulders felt heavy from lifting pots, my arms inflamed. Hunger made my stomach churn. My curiosity, mixed with envy, about Anne-memsahib was at its peak. I had to see her and measure her with my own eyes.

  “My work is done,” I announced to Jas, the only person left in the room. “I am in need of a bath. I’ll go to the ghat, if that is all right with you.”

  I was about to slip out of the kitchen when I heard high feminine voices outside.

  Idris swept in. Clad in a white vest, white trousers, a white headdress with fringes, and silver shoes, he appeared tall and proud, ready to serve. “The ladies have arrived,” he announced with a smile, as though catching the mood of the evening.

  I’d have to do without a bath. I shuffled over to the window to catch sight of the new arrivals. Covered in long robes, which I’d later know were called gowns, made of linen and satin, the women alighted from horse-drawn carriages like scores of butterflies freed into the air. The watchman flung open the heavy front gate with a rattle. He bowed, hands cupped before his face. The women clattered up the front steps of our stone mansion. A gigantic wreath of fresh marigold, exuding a yellow-orange light, festo
oned the entrance doors. Arthur sahib, dressed in a linen doublet and tall boots, stepped forward and ushered the guests in, saying, “Welcome, ladies, welcome.” The women returned the greeting. Even though I was now somewhat fluent in English, I didn’t understand many of the accents, which I guessed changed from place to place in that faraway island. I admired the poise of these women, dressed elegantly and adorned with hats. How easily they mingled with men.

  As they were escorted to the dining room, I, too, moved in that direction. Since the distance from the kitchen was short, it would be easy for me to go back and forth. With Idris keeping me company, I watched through a gap in the curtains. The long rectangular table gleamed with silver settings and bowls of fresh roses. Oil lamps laid on golden trays were lit and gigantic flower bouquets arranged in baskets stood in every corner. The sahibs were resplendent in their dinner jackets. Job sahib gleamed in tunic and trousers made of the finest satin and intricate laces and shoes with ribbon roses. Precious stones glistened from the hems of his sleeves and added to his radiance. Light-footed, he appeared even taller than usual, towering over the crowd, resembling an Indian prince.

  My heart skipped a beat. “You’re blushing, Maria,” Idris teased.

  Face glowing, Job sahib proposed a toast. “By the Grace of God, King of Entire Britain, Defender of Faith.” He raised his glass.

  “The King!” chorused the soaring voices.

  They drank to each other’s health as well. My mood rose, as though I was part of the crowd. I watched Job sahib as he picked his way through the room in which men and women eyed each other over their wine goblets. When I peered more closely, I observed that a few ladies were ill-at-ease. One sallow-complexioned woman wearing a lace-lined hat spilled her drink on the floor. Another woman wearing red velvet shoes kept her eyes downcast, as though not feeling equal to this grand occasion. Such beautiful shoes and still unhappy? A third, with a gold clasp at her throat, constantly stroked the folds of her pale blue taffeta gown. The fourth woman, tall and regal with petal-white skin, light blue eyes, and pert nose, stole the show. Dressed in a shiny pink gown and shoes to match, she drew glances from all the men as she floated across the room, causing some to pause in mid-sentence. A pearl necklace shining at her throat, a flowery hat enhancing her silhouette, she took delicate steps. Ruffles fell over her wrist as she accepted a drink, a patch of lamp light frolicking on her cheek.