Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  TWENTY-FOUR

  That evening, standing at the doorway of Job’s bedchamber, happy to see him up and about, I smiled. Under the light of an oil lamp, he pored over a stack of papers, a few ledger books scattered nearby, his face a picture of intense concentration. Attired in his night robe, he seemed agitated, the lines around his mouth tight. Whether that state of mind was due to trading concerns or a trying encounter with Anne memsahib, or both, I couldn’t tell.

  Hearing my footsteps, Job turned. “Maria!” Standing up, he gathered me in his arms and kissed my lips. The fatigue of the day evaporated from my body. I shut the door behind me.

  “You look worried,” I said.

  “I have a new set of problems to deal with that have to do with Charles. He’s free. Can you believe it? Even though the Council has strict disciplinarians, they let him go on account of the wealth and status he enjoys in England. Now he’s taken to conspiring with the new Nawab against our Factory, or so I have been advised. Last week our regular shipment was confiscated by the Nawab’s customs officials. Only after paying a huge bribe did we get it back.”

  “I have been talking with Chand periodically and getting updates about what goes on in the Royal Court. Perhaps we need to form alliances with Court officials to get advance knowledge of such schemes in future.”

  “Who can help us do that?”

  “Although I, a woman, would not be able to handle such an assignment, Idris might. He can start befriending the Court’s kitchen staff. Chand has told me there is discontent in the Palace and some well-placed officers might also be amenable to bribe. ‘From ear to ear’, we say in our village, ‘from small fish to big fish.’ With your permission, I’ll speak with Idris.”

  “Good idea, Maria,” Job said. “I have some good news too. Arthur and I had a long discussion. He happened to have watched you negotiate produce prices with the grocer, and was duly impressed with the results. You’ve also demonstrated your competency in dealing with both Rani Mata and Chand. Both transactions have benefited us tremendously. With Tariq gone, we need an employee who can speak and write English. So it seems an appropriate time to announce that we have decided to promote you to the position of Apprentice Factor.”

  I put a hand to my mouth. “Oh! Job, I really want the job, but am I ready? Will I be able to handle the work?”

  “I will personally see to it that you get the necessary training.”

  The doctor’s warning played in my head. “It would really please me if I could reduce your workload.”

  “I’ll give you a chance.” Job studied my face for a while, then, in an intimate tone, he said, “I’ve been waiting for you for hours. What took you so long?”

  I felt the color creep to my cheeks. “The kitchen crew still needs help, so I have to be there.”

  Job smiled. “Except when you stand behind flower bushes, I suppose.”

  He had seen me! I laughed. “Please forgive me. I couldn’t help but listen.”

  “Actually, I am glad you were in the vicinity. I meant every word I said.” Job peered into my eyes and spoke, his voice deep, resonant, “I love you, Maria, love you with all that I am. Will you marry me, my darling?”

  I clenched my jaw to fight off tears, smiling at the same time, trying to stand up straight, and not allowing my knees to buckle. “Without the slightest doubt.” I couldn’t trust myself to speak further.

  He lowered his lips to mine and kissed me tenderly all over my face. I tried to stand as tall as I could, but felt a little unsteady. He pulled two chairs close together and motioned me to sit. “If it meets your approval, I will start the wedding preparations immediately.”

  I registered the tone of urgency. Did it have to do with the condition of his health? Was he marrying me for trade advantages? I could be useful to him.

  “My illness has afforded me time to ponder,” Job said. “Although my health needed mending, my mind was clear. Lying in bed for hours, I decided to pursue what’s most important in my life, what’s most precious; you, and our life together.”

  “But who will marry us, dear love?” I said. “First, we’re of different faith. Second, I am a Brahmin widow. We aren’t allowed to remarry. Third, we’re of different color.”

  “No matter.” He clasped my hand. “I would like a big traditional Hindu wedding, complete with music, dancing, and a big feast. With the late Nawab Haider Ali’s sanction of the Hindu Widow Remarriage Provision, I don’t envision any difficulty. Many young Hindu priests desire to be part of the reform and will gladly conduct our wedding ceremony. I’ve heard of at least one such priest in town. A devout Brahmin, he’s married many Portuguese men who have taken local wives. Color is a consideration for the others, and they may try to belittle you for your association with me, but it isn’t a consideration for the priest or for me. I look beyond skin tone, to a person’s nature, to inner beauty.” He paused, his face dreamy. “So, put your mind at rest, darling.”

  I tried to smile, but my breath caught in my throat. Where are the two families? The guests would ask at the wedding. Marriage not only joins a man and his wife, but two families together. ‘Two blessings are stronger than one’, so went a common saying. Usually, the bride’s family welcomes the guests as they arrive while the groom’s family invokes god’s blessings. Neither Job’s mother nor my family would be present to carry out their respective obligations.

  “Nothing will give me more pleasure than to go back to my village with you, pay respect to my parents, and seek their blessings,” I said. “Even though I can’t be sure how the neighbors will react to my presence, whether it’ll be safe enough for me to go back, I have to go there.”

  “We’ll visit your family as soon as I can arrange a private boat.” Job’s pale eyes held an intense light. “What an excursion that will be. I want to breathe the air you breathed when you were growing up, see the scenery that sustained you. If you have worries about your neighbors, I’ll be there to shield you.”

  “What would it be like if we traveled on a big ship and went to England? Would I have to wear a long gown, a big hat? Would they understand my English?”

  “I’ll be happy to take you there, my love, but you don’t have to wear a gown. The colorful clothing you wear looks lovely on you, and you mustn’t hide your beautiful face and hair under a hat. Your English has improved remarkably in less than two years, far beyond what I’d expected. But going back to England … Let me think about that.”

  In the gray shadows, I could see the torment inside him. He couldn’t go back to England, not yet, if he ever could. “I’ve never shared this with anyone, dear love. There is a battle going on inside me. One part of me stays loyal to the Crown. I am grateful for being born in England and having the chance to be of service to the mightiest nation on earth. My eyes fill when I see our flag fluttering in the wind. I’d love to see our old farmhouse again. But there is another side of me that has embraced Hindustan and feels like it belongs here. Mostly, I think Hindustan is winning, although there are times when I see my mother’s face, and I wonder if …”

  “Your mother, what’s she like?”

  “I remember her wearing her favorite dress. It was of a natural color, with a high bodice, round neckline, long loose sleeves. She looked loving, beautiful. I can still see her kind eyes smiling.” Job’s voice mellowed when he talked about his mother; it became poignant, nostalgic. His words brought her alive for me as he remembered her. A kerchief tied about her neck, her hair arranged in a cap, she cured the meat, baked the bread, and sliced the cheese. Occasionally, she would look out the window with troubled eyes, searching for the middle son whom she so sorely missed. An everyday woman, she was like me, only dressed differently, only speaking a tongue foreign to me.

  I sighed. “Surely you would want her to bless our marriage?”

  “I do. I’ll write to her immediately.”

  “Oh, I can almost hear the shehnai in the background. I can see and smell the fragrant accessories for the ritual—
turmeric, coconut, sandalwood, and marigold flowers—which we’ll bring into our room after the wedding.”

  “I suppose you’d like a house for us?” Job asked.

  Job had acquired some wealth through a little illegal trading every now and then. Not as much as the other Factors, but enough to buy a house for his bride-to-be. He hid it at the moment, but, he had hoped desperately at the time that the girl standing before him, soon to be married to him, wouldn’t ask about his finances.

  I envisaged my present abode—the residences, the garden, the courtyard, the annex and the warehouse. Once a fearful newcomer, I had made every inch of this place my own. With soft rain falling outside like a gauzy curtain and the heavy scent of jasmine drifting through the window, I said, “Actually, I am happy here. Where could I find more beautiful surroundings? Where could I find as much camaraderie as I do in the kitchen, even if I don’t cook any longer?”

  “If you prefer to stay here, it will be so. It’ll be our kingdom.”

  Yet I could see in that frown on his face that he had been slightly displeased at my refusal, but he shrugged and seemed to shake it off.

  “Do you expect ill feelings from the other Factors?” I asked.

  “I won’t deny that I do, and at times it worries me. But you’re known for your talents in the kitchen and they’ve seen you learn English fast and perform superbly as a negotiator. It is my hope they will gradually accept you as one among us.”

  Smiling into each other’s eyes, our hands gripped tightly, we rose in unison. Job put a strong arm around my waist. In the next moment, we were abed, and I became lost in a field of warmth. His kisses crushed my lips, then made them whole again. “My queen,” he whispered. “My guiding light, my ruby.”

  Ruby red, the color of celebration. I pictured the color suffusing me and reminding me of all I wanted: a husband, a family, an opportunity to serve others. I felt complete in a way I’d never had. Did I fret about what my parents might say? Yes, for a bit, intensely, then I let it go. Would it hurt? I blocked that thought too. I loved this man. Did the sound of feet shuffling outside the door steal my breath? Yes, but I didn’t dwell on it. And what if the other servants found out? What if they did? All concerns were secondary. We lay entwined on the bed, cozy and nurturing, murmuring sweet words to each other. There was more air in the room than there had been before. The flower bushes outside the window released their evening fragrance. The night lengthened, and even with insects buzzing, I slept more soundly than I had in a long time.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A stiff breeze blew as our boat edged away from the quay at Cossimbazar; the blue-purple morning sky was streaked with silver. The river, flowing between banks overgrown with lush tropical forest, blazed with morning light. We were on our way to my village, Kadampur, nearly half a day’s journey to the south. The wooden vessel, which could both sail with the wind and be rowed, was festooned with colorful flags ruffled by the breeze. The boatmen, clad in waistcloths and skullcaps, began pulling hard at the oars, cutting a line on the river, the rhythmic splashing making a sort of music. What a privilege to be alone with Job; what a thrill to be away from the Factory for the first time since my arrival. But then, what if my parents rejected me? What if the villagers victimized me for not being a sati, refused to speak with me, or worse, pelted us with stones and attempted to drive us out?

  As we glided leisurely along, the jungles on the riverbanks came alive before us. I pointed out to Job a peacock strutting out from under a tree spreading its tail. I showed him the cranes and pelicans that grazed the treetops. The sharp cry of a jackal echoed eerily. The sounds and sights of my childhood, of the life I had left behind. Job seemed to absorb all that he saw and heard, taking delight in everything.

  As the boat progressed, the speed of the current increased, the river broadened, and the banks receded. “Ma. Baba,” I said. “That’s what I call my parents.”

  “That’s easy,” Job said, pronouncing correctly after me.

  “Noo-poor and Neet-yah, are my two brothers.”

  I noticed the childlike delight in Job as he mastered the pronunciations. He missed his mother at that moment; in sharing my joy in my family, he sought his own.

  How would my parents react when they heard my new name? How would they receive Job? Would they regard him with mistrust, or welcome him as a soon-to-be son-in-law? Wait till they hear him speak Bangla, I thought.

  Kadampur at last. Back at last where I belonged.

  The moment my feet touched the soil of my village, I felt light and dreamy, my heart beat rapidly in anticipation. Despite being surrounded by the luxury of the Factory, I hadn’t lost my contact with the soil and simplicity of my birthplace.

  I had dressed in my best sari made of silk, purple shot with gold. My grandmother’s pendant whose priceless, comforting weight I always felt glittered above the sari folds.

  Although I’d gained a little weight and my hair was not quite as long as before, the neighbors should recognize me. They’ve seen me wearing this pendant.

  A woman walked past, clay pot on her head, bangles tinkling.

  “She has quite a bit of fine gold jewelry on,” Job said. “Where does so much gold come from?”

  My mother had explained it to me. “Poor as we are, we still have a collection of gold jewelry passed on to us by our older relatives.We always carry it with us.”

  “So if the relatives take money and land away from a woman, she would at least have her jewelry?” Job asked.

  “Correct. It’s all the independence most women have, although widows are treated differently, as you know.”

  “You, dear, will have a better fate than that,” Job said. How he made me smile with his words, his love, his ability to reassure me at every step. Sometimes promises are not kept. Life would change.

  We reached a mango grove with a profusion of dark shiny leaves and swarms of bees buzzing among its young blossoms. Beyond that, plantain trees vibrated with color, their plump buds covered with purple sheaves. At a distance, ten or so women were planting in a rice field and singing in unison. Time seemed to have been rolled back, and I was reentering the past.

  We turned onto a dirt road lined with bamboo-and-thatch houses. Cotton-clothed laborers walked about, some casting curious glances at Job. He stood out. Tall and fair, he was magnificent in his chintz tunic with flowing sleeves, an emerald-encrusted turban on his head, a pearl-embroidered silk sash at his waist, and his feet shod in golden satin shoes. An older bearded laborer glared at Job. Charmed by the scenery, he seemed unaware of everyone.

  As we passed by a neighbor’s grass hut, I caught sight of a young girl, about seven years of age, loitering in the yard, surrounded by several pheasants. Recognizing the girl, whose name was Priya, I halted. She too stopped.

  Eyes shining in disbelief, she headed for the hut, running, leaping, scattering the pheasants. “Ma, Ma, come, look! The Goddess has returned from heaven!”

  Goddess? How had I acquired such a title?

  We walked past a cow shed and listened to the gentle mooing of the animals. Before long, we reached my family’s mud-and-thatch cottage bordered by an acacia tree and a palm grove. A woman stood before me, her eyes bulging with shock. Hema Mashima. Aunt-Mother. I wanted to rush to her, but she stood like a statue on the threshold, her vivid orange sari a stark contrast to the brown mud walls. My mother’s age, she had always been a source of comfort to my family.

  “Mashi,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “In the name of God Shiva! Is it really you, Moorti?”

  She folded her hands and bowed her head before me, as though I was really a deity. I felt the flush spread over my face. Then she began sobbing and couldn’t say another word. Her veil slipped off, showing her graying, disheveled hair.

  I stood numb. In a moment, Mashi stepped back inside and returned with her husband, Romen Mesho. Round-faced, clad in a white lungi, this man of middle years had an ash-gray stole wrapped around his shoulders. He looked do
wn at the ground, as though needing time to collect himself. I introduced Job and noticed the stiffness with which Romen Mesho exchanged pleasantries with him.

  “Where are my parents, Mesho?” I asked.

  His black eyes glistened with tears. “Your father died—most unfortunate—it’s been nearly a year.”

  I felt like somebody had knocked me down, choked me. “He was a good man, a learned man, respected by everyone,” Romen Mesho continued. “He had been suffering from a stomach ailment, but his condition worsened when a man pretending to be a messenger from you arrived. Your parents didn’t believe a word he said. They didn’t believe you were alive. The messenger’s words only aggravated their grief.

  “Conflicting news also came from your late husband’s neighbors. Some said you weren’t a sati. That you’d been abducted by strangers and forced to take off on a boat.”

  Romen Mesho glanced at Job. “The priest who performed the sati ceremony insisted that people were simply fantasizing when they saw you, in your white sari, being carried off in a white-sailed boat by an Englishman. We believed the priest.”

  I stared unseeing at Romen Mesho. So long ago I’d sent a courier to contact my parents. That well-intentioned effort on my part had been misunderstood. That it would lead to my father’s demise stunned me and filled me with guilt.

  “We heard a young girl call her the Goddess,” Job said to Romen Mesho, glancing at me. “What did she mean by this?”

  “Agni-Devika,” Romen Mesho said to me. “The force of a goddess. That was how we honored you, our goddess, in the fire ceremony we did. We thought you were dead.”

  At that moment Hema Mashima returned with a few low stools, which she placed on the ground in the shade of the acacia tree. Her eyes were red. “Please be seated.”

  I took my seat stiffly, as did Job. A young boy from a neighbor’s hut stood by, gawking at us. We stared at Romen Mesho, waiting for him to tell us more about the ceremony that had taken place.