Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  I allowed myself to dream again of marriage, a home, the bliss of conjugal love, and children. Even in that exultant moment, a part of me wondered how long it would be before the doctor arrived.

  Face contorted with pain, Job mumbled, “Oh, my shoulders are burning. And my head is in a fog.”

  His voice slowly faded, and he fell asleep. Our hands still clasped, I remained seated beside him, listening to his raspy breathing, praying for the doctor’s arrival.

  I looked around the room. I can vividly recall how I was struck by its size and opulence: a high four-poster bed, brocade pillows, a mahogany cabinet, two chairs whose gilded legs were carved in a vine pattern, a mirror almost as tall as me, a trunk, and a teakwood desk. In this room lit by scented oil lamps, the walls were draped with multi-colored tapestries and the windows hung with delicate bamboo shutters. Even though the marble floor made the space cooler than the rest of the building, a swinging pankhah was suspended from the ceiling. Two side tables, their top decorated with mother-of-pearl, flanked the bed. A window afforded a vista of the flowering shrubs below. Having grown up in humble surroundings, I was intimidated by the opulence of this space; at the same time, I also felt drawn to it and not simply because of Job. I found myself attracted to the prospect of wealth and the comforts that accompanied it.

  Hearing a knock at the door, I scrambled to my feet and went to open it. A stranger, clad in a white dhoti and white turban, clean-shaven, clutching a wooden box, stood at the door. He identified himself as the herbal doctor, the kaviraj.

  The doctor placed his hand upon Job’s head, asked his age. Then he examined Job’s tongue, pulse, chest, lips, and eyes. He asked Job about the particulars of his fever and questioned him about his daily habits.

  I left the room and waited in the hallway to allow them privacy, as well as to calm the agitation inside me. Would they bleed Job? I couldn’t bear the thought. All too often they bled the patient to reduce swelling. I feared the accompanying risk of death.

  The doctor came out of the room, his face dark.

  “What will ease his fever?”

  “The sahib drives himself too hard. When a man’s body isn’t recharged with adequate rest and recreation, it breaks down. You must advise him to lighten his workload. He must do so if he wishes to live a long happy life.”

  “Will you prescribe any medicine?”

  “Yes, I’ll have it sent shortly. It’s a brew of cobra venom, minerals, and herbs—the only way to treat such a high, obstinate fever. The sahib will have to take it three times a day. He might have trouble swallowing it. I also recommend foot and forehead massage, a light diet of vegetables, reduction of alcohol consumption, and complete bed rest.” He paused and caught my gaze. “I have one more diagnosis. There’s a Bangla word for it. Can you make a guess?”

  “Ashukh?”

  “Precisely. Absence of happiness. Lack of harmony. Keep him happy—I can prescribe no better medicine. The sahib is particularly susceptible to imbalances in his environment, although in the end, it’s all in God’s hands.”

  Ashukh.

  I vowed, then and there, to lavish on Job the best personal care possible.

  “The doctor ordered me full rest,” Job said, eyes half-open. “But the Factory …”

  “Arthur sahib should be able to make sure it runs smoothly.”

  “Will you check on him?” Job closed his eyes and sunk into deep slumber.

  I kissed his burning forehead and tiptoed out of the room, intensely aware of my responsibility. Lantern in hand, I descended the staircase and encountered none other than Arthur sahib in the corridor. Dressed in a beige linen doublet, he was incongruously carrying an umbrella. His eyes were scarlet; he’d returned from another bout of drinking at the punch house. He glanced at me suspiciously from under his broad-brimmed hat. Women weren’t allowed in a Factor’s chamber.

  I lifted my chin and locked eyes with him. He looked straight ahead, ignoring my presence, but I stood resolute. At that moment it didn’t matter to me what he or anyone else thought of us. Job and I loved one another. I had to relay his message to Arthur sahib.

  “Sir!” I called out.

  A servant had dared to address a sahib. Arthur sahib swiveled around and faced me, his visage stern, forbidding. I was in no mood to waste time for the sake of propriety. “Job sahib has fevered.” As I reported the details of the doctor’s diagnosis, Arthur sahib’s expression softened a little.

  “This is indeed a grave matter.” His eyes took on a vague, uncertain quality; his voice faltered. “We must, of course, do whatever is in our power to get him well.”

  I reached deep inside myself to put strength into my voice. “I have experience of nursing the sick. My father was frequently ill when I was growing up. I’ll tend to Job sahib, do all I can, but I’ll need help from others.” I also conveyed to him that during this period of Job’s incapacity, the Factory must continue to operate without any interruption. That was Job’s wish.

  Arthur sahib looked me full in the face. “None of us can match Job’s dedication to the Crown, although I must say, he doesn’t delegate enough. We’ll do our best and for now, I’ll give you permission and authority to call on whomever you deem is appropriate. And I will be available whenever you need me. God keep thee.”

  He disappeared down the corridor. I couldn’t help but smile at the change in the sahib’s attitude, like a storm wind whirling and howling but ultimately dissolving.

  As I began walking back to my room, I imagined a happy outcome from this exchange. So much had happened in this one day. Job and I had finally come together. I could still feel his warm embrace, his kisses, his loving words. How I yearned to snatch more such intimate moments with him. We had so much to share. I wanted to hear about how he grew up, about his family, whether he missed his parents. Did he ever think about me during the day? What sorts of things did he like? Of course I would like to take Job to my village to meet my parents. I could only imagine the days of celebration that would follow.

  The night’s darkness seemed to dissipate for me. A bulbul bird sang full-throated somewhere, a joyous accompaniment to the elation I felt.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The rooms and hallways of the Factory were smeared with rumors, ugly as monsoon mud, rumors not about Charles sahib, the man who had attempted to assassinate Job only weeks ago and consequently been dismissed from this Factory, but about Job and me. The sahibs gossiped about us as they supped, lounged on the verandah, or smoked their hookah pipes in a cloud of rose water-scented fumes. Their words were later whispered into my ears by ever vigilant servants. Gordon sahib had insisted that Job and I were spending wild nights together, complete with drunken laughter, sweet moaning, and rhythmic creaking of the bed.

  If only Job and I were married and the gossip were true. The fever kept him confined to his bed. I brought him specially prepared meals, caressed his hands, massaged his forehead and feet, fanned him when the temperature outside soared, and spoke with him gently when he felt up to talking. I let him know that he was cherished in every way.

  I longed for the feel of his shoulders, the rough warmth of his skin, but I kept my desire well hidden. Only occasionally did he feel strong enough to sit up, hold my hand, and smell my hair. Then he’d fall back on the bed, as though drained of all strength, and toss about in restless sleep. I kept his red slippers by the bed in case he wished to get up, which he rarely did. Despite that, Francis sahib had added frills to the gossip by suggesting that Job was feigning illness as a means of spending time with me. When Idris told me that, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  One night during supper, as I helped the servers, I overheard snippets of conversation between two Factors. “She’s not our class or color,” one of them insisted as he sipped from the soup bowl. “What does he see in her?”

  My heart beat fast. I wanted to respond, to snap back at him for the vulgarity he had shown someone who was not his class or color.

  “Job’s in love with Hin
dustan,” said the second sahib, taking a bite from the roast fowl. “See how he dresses. Notice what he likes to eat. He is rather Brahmanized. Do you suppose he was born here?”

  “He could very well have been. Still, their affair could get scandalous. Remember how we got rid of the sweeper girl?”

  My jaw tightened. I would certainly fight back if they tried to send me away.

  With Teema gone, I could only grieve in private. Fortunately, Job wasn’t aware of any of this gossip. He didn’t care to receive any visitors, so he had no idea what those around were saying about us.

  One morning, when I swept into Job’s room, he stirred, opened his eyes, blinked to steady his gaze, and wished me a pleasant morning. Swaddled in a robe of white brocade, he slid to the edge of the bed. I rinsed his head in a bowl of water from the river and massaged his scalp with my fingertips.

  “What a marvelous cure,” Job said. “How pure the water feels. I don’t mind having a fever, just so I can feel the cool water and your touch on my head.”

  “I’d like to see you up and about, as would everyone else in this Factory.”

  “I have never been away from work this long,” After drying his hair in a towel, I gave him the medicinal broth, which he had a hard time swallowing and served him a light meal of greens and squash. I handed him an express letter from his family that had been delivered by a messenger. Stained and crumpled, the letter had been sent via a shorter shipping route through Egypt, but it had still taken months to arrive.

  Reclining on his back, his face translucent in the lamp light, Job scanned the pages. “It’s from my mother,” he said softly. He set the pages aside. I was curious and also aware of the sense of loss and regret in that action, but I decided to withhold my queries.

  “I’ve never told you about my family, have I?”

  Moving closer to the bedside, I replied, “No, I’d love to hear.”

  “I had a most miserable childhood, no other way to describe it. My family owned a tiny farm in Lancashire that provided barely enough for us to subsist. My parents didn’t get along. The house was full of the sounds of their quarrels. I had three older brothers and two younger sisters, and we fought constantly. I didn’t look like any of them and realized early on that my father didn’t care for me. Do you know what it’s like for a child to feel that way? My father was always angry because he could never rise above his circumstances. Only my mother loved me. She loved me dearly.

  “One day when we were working in the field, my father turned on me and told me of his suspicion that I wasn’t his son. ‘A bastard, that’s what you are, the grocer’s boy. I can’t abide your ugly face.’ He kicked me a few times. I cringed in fear and humiliation; I whimpered, then I tried to run away, but he grabbed me by the arm, his nails pierced my skin as he dragged me home. My whole body ached for days afterwards. I was in such distress that I wanted to die, but I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

  Job’s face looked stricken. What if the fever spiked? He rarely expressed this much emotion. To allow him a few private moments, I began dusting the furniture.

  Job began again, his voice trembling. “Then when I was seventeen, my father ordered me to leave home. ‘I never want to see your ugly face again,’ he said in a cold, dark voice. I looked up at him and saw he meant it. Proud that I am, I didn’t beg. My mother pleaded and pleaded, but he wouldn’t relent. I walked out of the house with my meager possessions in a worn sack. I had always nursed a desire to go far away, to see what was out there in the world, but when that day finally came, I stood by the roadside and cried.”I put the dusting rag away and began arranging the furniture, but kept my ears open. I wanted to hold him tight, help mend the broken parts, but I could see he needed to speak more. All I asked that day was, “Did you stay in touch with your mother?”

  “Oh, yes. I wrote to her often, and she replied. Years later, when the pain didn’t keep me up all night, I got the news about my father’s death from her letter. By then, I had arrived here. Much as I hated my father, his dark shadow stayed with me. I am not as good a person as I’d like to be. Oftentimes, I mistreat people the way my father did me.” After a few moments, he picked up the letter again and his fingers caressed the rough pages. “My mother wants to know why I am still here and what my plans are for returning. She’d asked me to go home right after my father’s death and I did consider that, but ultimately decided not to. Going back would only add to my suffering.”

  Still I wondered about the call of his family and of the land where he was born, the shared rituals and beliefs that bound people together. “What made you decide to stay here?”

  “Actually, I had no choice,” he said, speaking as though from a feverish depth. “At first, I didn’t like it here. This land was far too strange. I wanted to go back. Then, over time, the rivers, the mountains, the bustle, the religious fervor, the rich soil, and the people stole my heart. I can neither fully understand the bond, nor deny it. You might say it is fate.

  “Now that my father is long gone, I could easily go back home, where I’d find meadows, my people, my mother’s kind face, as well as hearty loaves of bread. But the desire never lasts long. Hindustan beckons me, her arms wide open, her heart brimming with warmth and wisdom. She demands that I serve her, and I fall at her feet.”

  I listened to this extraordinary confession that mirrored my own sentiments.

  “The other Factors complain about the filth and the chaos they see in this town, about people being untrustworthy, but I am well familiar with clean homes, hospitality, and loyal, good-natured folks, the vivid colors that add to their lives. I’ve seen their delight in celebrations, the love that binds them with their family, their willingness to make solid friendships, far more than what I’ve ever experienced.

  “You know, I never thought I’d live in a place where crops are so abundant that farmers can be idle part of the year, where trees are loaded with fruit, and where the rivers teem with fish. Quite a contrast to our household in England. We seldom had enough food at mealtime, which caused my brothers and me to squabble over who would get the biggest slice of bread. Of course, I always won.”

  Even as he spoke so glowingly, there were aspects of life here that had failed to please him: the oppressive heat and humidity, for example, which often made him lethargic; on occasion, he failed to understand the people or their motives, as polite as they might appear. He wondered if the gulf between the two cultures was simply too great to overcome.

  I turned and drew closer to him. Despite a different language, upbringing, and manners, and a distance measured in months at sea, the English were like us in many ways, I thought with pleasure. I had secured a foothold of my own in this foreign habitat, which the sahibs called their ‘Little England’.

  Young as I was on that day, I was blissfully ignorant of the painful differences that would arise between us.

  “I, too, had fights with my two brothers over my mother’s dishes,” I said to Job. “I usually lost.”

  We laughed together. I asked Job what the English countryside was like. His eyes shone as he took me to the gentle hills dotted with ponies, grazing sheep, and fields of golden wheat. “I don’t miss the long dreary winter months—snow, fog, cloudy skies, and winds sharp as a ‘witch’s curse’. The more we stayed at home, the more my brothers and sisters and I found it impossible to get along. We shared a room. Even though it was large, it felt crowded. I always wanted a room of my own, land of my own.”

  His gaze was fixed at a distance, reminding me of the day we’d met. Then he had peered far out toward the horizon, as though wishing to lay claim to the territory that his vision encompassed. More than a mere longing, I believed, it was a solid goal that he carried with him, one of owning Hindustan, even if he wasn’t fully aware of it. Foreign powers had always wanted to occupy my motherland, a desire whose legitimacy I rejected. But in that moment, bursting with love for Job, I allowed my doubts to slip away. “Looking back, I see that the darkest day of my life, one that
took me away from my loved ones, has been a blessing.” I clung to his hand. “I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

  “It changed my life too. Now that you are by my side, I could admit to my allegiance to this land.”

  Job shut his eyes, his face calm. Only moments ago he’d acknowledged what he’d perhaps suspected for a long time: this land, not a far-off misty island, was his home. A burst of hope rose in me, a strong sense that he would get well. He would ride his stallion once more, return to the meeting hall to address the Factors, and make his appearance at lavish meals in the dining room. Our love would flourish, as naturally as the river swelling in the monsoon rain.

  TWENTY-TWO

  After leaving Job’s room, I climbed down the stairs and came across Arthur sahib, draped in a purple cloak, a white scarf around his throat and a black umbrella under his arm. I stood in his path, blurted out the status of Job’s health, and inquired if any message needed to be given to him from the other Factors.

  Without the steady gaze typical of him, Arthur sahib seemed lost in the uncertainty facing him. “Well, I wouldn’t bother Job with this, but I am in need of an interpreter.”

  Rani Mata, decisive as always, had approached the Company via a broker named Chand with a detailed proposal for textile trading. The broker was due to arrive at the Factory that very morning to display samples and negotiate prices. “And Tariq is no longer here to negotiate for us.”

  I kept my elation to myself, not realizing that I hadn’t seen the last of Tariq.

  “When Charles was expelled from here, Tariq decided to leave also. He will relocate to Hooghly, that’s all he’s told me.” He paused. “I have no choice but to ask you to be our interpreter, an offer I am sure you’ll accept eagerly. But be aware that you will also have to be a shrewd negotiator, one who will look after our interests, in short, top quality goods at the lowest possible price.”