Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  A wan smile came over Mesho’s face. “On the anniversary of that unfortunate date, we neighbors dug a pit in the ground, filled it with sandalwood, and built a fragrant fire. A monkey watched from a tree branch; where it came from no one knew. Children danced around the fire, your brothers leading, and made offerings of flowers. Adults sat in a circle, sang your praises, and spun stories about your courage.” Mesho fell silent for a moment; then he continued, “Your father couldn’t attend the ceremony, but your mother was seated in an honored place. She sobbed the whole time.” Bitterness showed in the glance Mesho shot at me. “All those present took a little ash home and placed it in special urns.”

  Job’s gaze met mine and held it.

  Mesho clucked a noise of dissatisfaction. “Although most families took part in the event, a few shunned it. They didn’t believe the priest.” He glanced at Job. “They started ugly rumors about you being stolen and possibly sold. The very next day, bickering and fighting started between factions. We have never had such disharmony in our community. A few people even gathered outside your parents’ door—right here, as a matter of fact—and called your father names, blaming him for raising such a bad daughter.

  “His stomach ailment worsened, but he refused to take medicine. Eventually, he stopped eating.”

  I felt my insides tearing to pieces.

  “The day he died, the whole village came together and repented at his feet. His body was carried down to the river by a long procession of neighbors and cremated. Everyone sang sacred hymns in his honor.”

  My lips barely came together as I asked, “And Ma?”

  Mesho hunched over, looking wooden and tired; no sound issued from his mouth. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. He left me, rigid and staring, to assume the worst. Mashi came to sit next to me, took my hand, and began speaking haltingly. “I admired your mother. She was strong and pliable like this acacia tree. Even the day after your father’s funeral, she cooked and cleaned and fetched water from the well. I would have been too devastated to get out of bed. I’d probably have howled like a mad woman. She was different. She comforted me instead. She asked us to move into this hut. ‘My boys are your boys,’ she said. ‘Let’s raise them together.’ We agreed.

  “That evening, she went alone to the river. ‘I want a good bath,’ she said, ‘I won’t be long.’ I should have gone with her. It was dusk, it had been raining, and she skidded on a wet step. Her head hit the edge of a rock. It cracked open.”

  A cry froze in my throat. In the stillness, I saw the light of truth. Ma! Baba! Did my actions cause them to make a pact with death? Did they sacrifice their lives so I could have mine? I was scarred forever because of their sacrifice.

  For a moment I heard nothing but the thumping of my heart. I could never repent enough for not dying by my husband’s body that fateful day so long back.

  “Your loss is our loss too.” Mashi’s voice rose slightly. “We barely exist. I am still trying to make my peace with my god.”

  I sat staring at a fallen branch of the acacia tree until I heard Job’s voice saying, “Where are the boys?”

  There was a long pause, too long for my comfort.

  I wanted to rise and shake Mesho’s shoulders.

  “Another misfortune befell us, as if there hadn’t been enough already. The boys were staying with us. They hardly took any food. They stopped going to the pathsala. They simply roamed around the village, but they always returned in the evening. We told them stories while they picked at their supper, we tried to get them to play games, but it was like playing with ghosts. We treated them like our own and wanted to see them reach manhood, but the gods didn’t intend it that way.”

  Somehow I managed to push the words out of my mouth. “What happened?”

  “They were taken away by a Dutch merchant who had come here by boat to shop at our Saturday market. He was tall, fair, and heavy, wore a long dark coat and a hat, a wealthy man. His interpreter told the shopkeepers that he lived in a mansion in Hooghly. Your brothers were lingering near the indigo stalls where the Dutch man was shopping. He took immediate interest in the boys and talked to them through the interpreter.

  “‘See that big boat with white sails lying at anchor over there? Would you like to take a look inside?’ The Dutch merchant asked the boys. ‘Come with us, we have sweetmeats to share with you.’ The indigo shop-owner warned the boys not to go with strangers, worse yet, foreigners. ‘Go home,’ he said to the boys. ‘Run. These people have evil intentions. They’ll harm you.’

  “The boys turned round and started walking. The Dutch man followed them and kept up his sweet talk. The shopkeeper couldn’t leave his stall to intervene. His customers were waiting. He heard Nupur saying. ‘Why not? We’ve never boarded a big boat.’ And Nitya said, ‘I love sweetmeats. No one buys me any.’ The Dutch man and the boys trotted toward the river and that’s the last anyone ever saw of them.

  “When the boys didn’t return home that evening, we went searching for them. The shopkeepers gathered around us, told us what they’d seen and heard. They regretted that they couldn’t stop the abduction. ‘We’re simple folks,” they said. ‘We were fooled, as were the boys.’”

  I stared ahead, saw nothing. I heard Job’s voice, “It’s a grave crime to lure young boys and take them away. Did anyone contact the Nawab’s police?”

  “No, sahib, we’re poor people,” Mesho said. “We don’t want any trouble. You don’t understand that, do you? The police would harass us. They’d accuse us of wrong-doing and extort money from us, but we care about our own and so our village council decided to act. Three of our elders scraped up enough money, bought a passage to Hooghly, and went searching for the boys.

  “It wasn’t easy. As you know, Hooghly is a big trading town where many languages are spoken, and at first the elders were simply lost. After a few days, they located the Dutch section of the town. They knocked at many doors, but no one would give out any information. Many times they were asked to leave and even threatened with violence.

  “The elders persisted despite the threats. Finally, they located a weaving workshop, a karkhana, run by the Dutch. That workshop employed young boys, mostly orphans and runaways. They’re put to work for long hours in a large crowded room, given little food, and almost no money. The elders tried to walk into the workshop, but one of them got beaten up by a guard. The other two fled. All three returned home. The elder who was assaulted still hasn’t recovered from his wounds.”

  I cupped my face in my hands, but a moment later, emboldened by the anger I felt, I raised my head and said, “We won’t give up. We’ll look for the boys in Hooghly.” I turned to Job; he looked unsure about my declaration.

  Neighbors, about ten of them, streamed into the yard and gathered around us, their faces drawn. Maya Mashima carried a plate loaded with rounds of sweetmeats—cooked rice mixed with honey—a gesture of formal welcome extended to honored guests. With a blessing on her lips, she placed a round in my mouth and another in Job’s. The honey tasted bitter on my palate. I gazed unseeing at nothing in particular.

  Word seemed to have gotten around. More neighbors poured in. Among them was Priya, the girl I had met earlier. She came closer and asked, “You’ll still be my goddess?”

  I’d come back from the dead. I tried to smile at her but couldn’t.

  “Goddess or not, you’re back and we’re happy to see you,” Neera Mashi, another neighbor, said. “You’re the first person in anyone’s memory who had the power to refuse being a sati. I wish your parents were here to see you return.”

  I looked up as a frowning elderly woman, Nandini Mashi, dressed in a white sari, arrived. Before I could stand up and greet her, she screamed at me, “You have the nerve to return, you wretch! You killed your parents? And you’ve brought a beef-eater with you?”

  I stared at the ground, choked by a lump of sorrow in my throat. A yellow-beaked myna walked around me. Only vaguely I remembered how we considered cows sacred and never ate
beef.

  “You have no right to speak to our guest like that,” Hema Mashi told the elderly neighbor.

  “Go! Leave, at once.” Nandini Mashi spat on me and cried out, “You, the killer, you’ll go to narak.” She was whisked away by two other women.

  Platters of mangoes, guavas, and lychees appeared; I barely looked at them. Along with that came a large bowl of freshly harvested palm syrup. My neighbors reminded me how much I used to like the syrup, how I could drink tumblers of it, how my eyes would sparkle in pleasure; I had no appetite for it now. My legs wobbly, I stood up. “I hate to break up the celebration, but our boat is waiting. We must go.”

  “Please, Moorti,’ Hema Mashi said. “Please don’t pay attention to what Nandini said. She’s old. She went crazy after your parents died. Please stay here tonight. We’ll be so honored.”

  I shook my head. That neighbor’s accusations, harsh as they were, had stirred a realization in me. I had added to the suffering of my parents by foolishly sending a messenger, thereby worsening their aggrieved state of mind.

  Hema Mashi mumbled a prayer for our safe journey. “Do come visit us again. You’ll always be welcome here.”

  My parents had given me life; I’d taken theirs. The thorn would bleed me forever.

  “Let’s go home,” Job said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After a three-day journey, Idris and I arrived at Hooghly, a large port town situated on the banks of the sacred Hooghly River, settled long ago by the Portuguese, and known as ‘River Mouth.’ The river was of prime importance to this bustling town. Not only did it supply water to the residents, but also made the town the chief port of the province, the ‘Key to Golden Bengal’. Ships from England, France, and Holland regularly anchored on the river to exchange foreign goods with those produced locally. A struggle for power was palpable in the air of this town awash in gold, silver, and a competitive spirit. The streets were crowded with rival fortune seekers—the Portuguese, Dutch, French, English, Afghans. We walked past a grand church, where the rich tones of a choral hymn could be heard through an ornate window. I observed horses, oxcarts, palanquins, hawkers, and warehouses, as well as walled homes with elaborate columns. It seemed as though every thoroughfare here, even the narrowest lane, was as busy and frenetic as the Cossimbazar market. The aroma of milk and molasses drifted in from some corner, signaling the presence of sweet shops that Hooghly was famous for.

  Nupur and Nitya’s faces crept into my mind; Nupur with his wavy black hair, and exuberant voice; Nitya with his big soulful eyes and tender expression. Both loved sweets. With the rest of my family gone, the thought of a reunion with them was the only solace I had, one that would make this long journey worthwhile.

  Idris waved me into a spacious, river-front, brick house, painted a golden yellow, with the name Sonar Kuthi written on a plaque over the door. House of Gold. Although Job had not been enthusiastic about this trip, he had made arrangements so we could stay in this house owned by the Company and intended for the use of the Factors.

  One bright spot for me was the fact that Teema lived in this town, not far from the harbor, or so I’d been told.

  While Idris got the house ready, I stepped outside; only my eyes showed from beneath the cover I’d drawn over my head. Once on the main road, I nudged through crowds of people of various sizes, shapes, and complexions, their movements sharp and purposeful. Feeling lost and out of step with the others, I hugged the shawl tightly around my chest and increased my speed. Turning right, I saw a herbal doctor’s tent, a jewelry room, and a street-side tailor mending a tunic. A column of smoke rose from a chulah somewhere.

  A sweet shop came into view, a tiny one-room affair from which emanated the fragrance of cardamom, rose water, and country molasses, and packed to the brim with shoppers. I lingered in its shadow for awhile, checking the departing customers. Once the store emptied, I poked my head through the door. Platters of yellow and white sweetmeats, syrupy and luscious, in square and diamond shapes, reposed on a table. How my brothers would covet these treats. My presence must have alerted the scrawny owner for he craned his neck around a corner and cast a quizzical glance at me. I gave him a description of my brothers and asked whether he’d seen them around. “They love sweets, could have come here,” I said hopefully.

  The shop-owner shook his head. I turned away, walked for a while, and reached a street studded with kathal trees. Soon I located the cottage surrounded by oleander bushes and knocked at the door. No answer. I was about to turn away when I spotted Teema a short distance away, sitting on a mat under the shade of a tree, doing embroidery work. In an ankle-length blue-printed cotton skirt, a matching bodice, and a voluminous bone-white veil, street-wear for a woman of modest means, she didn’t appear at all like a popular dancing girl. Her face showed stillness, resignation even. Grim-faced, she continued her work, her nimble fingers rising and falling above a piece of fine cotton fabric.

  “Teema!” I called out.

  Teema’s eyes shot up, searching for the person who had called her. As soon as she caught sight of me, she dropped the needlework on the mat and bounded toward me, arms extended. “Maria!”

  For a moment, we held each other in a silent embrace.

  “What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” she said. “Shall we sit?”

  “I see you’ve picked up needlework,” I said.

  Her expression turned dense, gloomy. “Only because I had to give up dancing.”

  “But that wasn’t what you had planned.”

  “Well, the stars must have wanted it that way, or else why would such misfortune befall me?” She shifted her position, refolded her legs, and grimaced. “My left leg hurts. Practically, the moment I arrived here, I got work in a punch house, one of the most popular in town. Oh, you should have seen me, Maria! I was so happy dancing, didn’t want my evenings to end. Soon I was studying with an ustad to pick up advanced classical techniques. Word got around. My new improved dance routine packed in even bigger audiences.

  “Dutch, Arabs, Afghans, Portuguese, English, all crowded the punch house. They adored me, gave me bakshish like I’d never received before. I rented the lovely cottage over there, bought fancy clothes, and even indulged in a few pieces of jewelry.” She extended a hand to show me her pearl ring and touched her coral earrings. “Then it all crumbled.”

  I peered at her, wondering if she’d fallen and injured herself too badly to keep dancing.

  “Why did the person I least expected to see show up at the most inopportune time?”

  “Edward?”

  “Yes, my one and true love, the man who hurt me before and who would do so again.” A plaintive note crept into Teema’s voice. “As you might remember, he’d abandoned me and gone to England to get married. On learning that a trader could strike it rich quickly in Hooghly, he returned to try his luck exporting goods on his own. On that fateful evening, I had the biggest audience I’d ever had. I was in the middle of an intricate series of foot movements when I noticed a familiar figure entering. A handsome face, one I still dreamed about nightly, one as close to me as my skin. He wore a green taffeta cloak.

  “At first I thought it was nothing but a dream. Then we exchanged a glance. The blue-gray eyes, the fire that flew from them, the lips that I loved to nibble, distracted me at the most difficult point in my routine. I lost my balance and tumbled off the stage. As I landed, I hit a table, slipped, and heard something snap. Later it turned out I’d broken a bone in my leg. I have been convalescing for the last five months. Only in the last few days have I emerged from my cottage.”

  I placed my hand on her arm. “Do you have anyone to look after you?”

  “No, even though I must have made Edward feel guilty,” she said in a sarcastic tone. “He bribed the owner of the punch house to find out where I lived and came to visit me, pity in his eyes, acting very contrite. After a few minutes of talking he dropped some coins on the table, wished me a quick recovery, and walked out, never to return. The Engl
ish are treacherous, Maria.”

  I decided to withhold the news of my impending marriage to Job.

  “My dancing days are over. However, Edward shared some important news with me. It’s still not common knowledge that he and his associates in England have petitioned the Crown for a license to trade here. They’ve complained about the Company’s monopolistic practices and he thinks they have a chance of winning.”

  More competition? Already our profits were meager. Charles sahib too might be stirring up trouble for us.

  Teema must have grasped what I was thinking. “This is a small town, as far as the Europeans are concerned. They all know one another. My Dutch patron says that the English are their most formidable opponent, not the French or the Portuguese.”

  “You have a Dutch patron?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  I told her about Nupur and Nitya, of the suspicion that they were employed in some dingy workshop set up by the Dutch merchants who were widely known to exploit child labor. “They’re all that remains of my family, and I’ll do anything to find them, but I don’t have a single lead.”

  “I might be able to help you,” Teema said. “I know there’s a carpet weaving center in town. Rumor has it that it’s mostly young boys who work there. They pick up the skills to weave rugs quickly, but the owners pay them next to nothing and hold them like prisoners. Let me speak with my patron. He works for a Factory run by the Dutch East India Company, what they call the ‘Company of Far Lands.’ He was posted in Batavia before. He has plenty of influence in his station there.”

  I hesitated. “Why would he help me, a competitor?”

  “Egon will do anything I ask,” Teema said with a knowing smile. “Yes, he’s my new flame. I tried to erase every trace of Edward from my mind, but couldn’t. Then Egon stepped in. Not much to look at, not smooth like Edward, but what a wild beast he is! He does his best to please me in and out of bed. We have nights where the stars never stop twinkling.”