by Shona Patel
When he looked at her face, the question was still burning in her eyes.
Biren knew he had to set her free. He smoothed back her hair, laid his cheek against hers and closed her beautiful eyes gently with his fingertips.
“Go, my beloved Maya,” he whispered. “Go in peace.”
He lay there holding her, his head against her heart. Her breathing slowed in ebbs and stilled as the last crested wave stretched to the shore. She lay there, her small hands curled like fallen birds by her side.
Biren kissed her palms and placed her hands on her chest. He noticed the safety pin on her blouse was open. With great tenderness he pushed the sharp end back into the safety clasp so that it would not hurt her.
* * *
The professional mourners arrived almost instantaneously. It was almost as if they had been waiting outside the door expecting their summons. Dressed in motley rags, with tangled hair and ash-covered bodies, they took over the wailing and breast-beating to alert the entire village. Next came a bewildering swarm of holy men, astrologers, nameless relatives and village gawkers. Added to that was a brood of bald-headed children who were everywhere, staring at everything, getting in the way.
There was not a shred of dignity for the dead. The soul had left the body to be reincarnated elsewhere, and all that remained were ceremonies and rituals—clamorous, confusing, tedious and oddly festive, in a macabre sort of way, accompanied as they were with flowers, incense, Vedic chants and bell ringing.
Maya’s body, bathed and dressed like a new bride in a ceremonial red, was laid on a bamboo palanquin in the entranceway, with her head facing south. Her skin had turned a silvery gray like the underbelly of a fish. Her thumbs and toes were tied together, and there were sandalwood lines drawn on her forehead. To stop her jaw falling open, a piece of white cloth was passed under her chin and secured at the top of her head, making her look vaguely mannish. She was so far removed from any living thing Biren had ever known that he was completely stripped of feeling and could only look on listlessly.
His mind had become a hard, shiny surface. Impenetrable. It absorbed nothing and reflected everything back. There was not a crack of sadness, not a shard of pain. At one point, he vaguely wondered who had died. When he came to his senses he grew frantic as he remembered he had a daughter. Where was Moni? He went looking for her and was told all the children had been sent off to a neighbor’s house. It reminded him of the day his own father had died and how Nitin and he had been sent to Apu’s house. The horror and confusion of the moment was identical to what he had felt when he was eight years old.
Finally Maya’s body was borne aloft and taken amid chanting to the cremation ground. Biren walked behind the pallbearers with the men of the village, nauseated by the cloying smell of cheap incense the dead body left in its wake. He remembered very little of the cremation. Maya’s eldest nephew, dressed in a single piece of white cloth, had his head shaved by the priest before he completed the funeral rites. Ghee was poured on the body and the pyre set alight. The wood crackled, and black and ugly smoke smelling of ghee and charred flesh drifted over them. The men sat around jiggling their feet, drinking tea and smoking. To Biren’s utter disbelief, one of them pulled out a pack of cards and started a game; another group discussed politics—and all the while Maya crackled and burned. It was completely surreal. Biren’s head began to swim, and bitter bile lurched around in his stomach and rose to his throat. He staggered over to an old banyan tree, leaned against the trunk and vomited until his throat felt ragged and sore. The tree had sooty leaves, and there was a torn red kite stuck in the branches. When his head cleared he saw an old billy goat staring at him with hard yellow eyes, munching on a marigold garland.
* * *
Three days passed, and Biren was still unable to feel anything. The house was always crowded with people he didn’t know. Jatin Nandi collapsed with grief. He lay in bed, his face turned toward the wall, saying and eating little. As for Moni, she started acting strange and eating all kinds of things: mud, brick and lime paint off the wall. She refused to go to Biren and she did not cry for her mother. Disturbingly for Biren, she seemed to have become attached to the religious aunt, Sabitri. One day Biren found Moni wearing a tabiz amulet tied by a holy red thread around her arm. He was furious. Maya would have never allowed this. He grabbed Moni and tried to take the tabiz off, but it was tied with complicated knots. Moni screamed and clawed and acted as if he was torturing her while the bald-headed children stood around watching silently. Finally, his head pounding, Biren marched to the puja room, pulling Moni along, shrieking. Sabitri, the holy aunt, her hair dripping wet and sandalwood paste on her forehead, was ringing a small bell and sprinkling holy water with a mango leaf on the deities.
“What is this?” Biren shouted, yanking up Moni’s arm. “How dare you put this kind of rubbish on my daughter? You would not have dared to do this if her mother was alive.”
She looked at him with the cold flat eyes of a lizard. “Excuse me, I am doing my puja,” she said in a deadpan voice.
Moni screamed and stretched her arms piteously toward Sabitri. In utter disgust, Biren let her go and watched, sickened, as she collapsed sobbing into the woman’s arms. What had happened to his daughter?
When he saw the hostility on Sabitri’s face he suddenly knew.
“What have you been telling my daughter about me?” Biren demanded coldly. “Why does she not come to me anymore? She was not like this before.”
He paced outside the door of the puja room trying to quell his rising anger. Other family members had gathered behind him. Small bald heads peeped from behind the adults.
“I am only doing what I think is for her own good,” Sabitri said. Her voice dripped like sugarplum molasses. “Do you know what the astrologer said? He said an evil spirit possessed Maya and, when she died, she would come back and take a loved one with her. This tabiz is to protect Moni from her mother’s evil spirit.”
The veins swelled on Biren’s forehead. He was so angry he wanted to slap her. “And you believed the astrologer,” he said acidly. “And you think it is right to impose your superstitions on a child who is too young to understand? Who is in no position to make up her own mind? Don’t you have a conscience, Sabitri? What is the matter with you?”
Sabitri’s eyes widened, then turned flat and cold. “I have more of a conscience than you, brother.” All the honey in her voice was gone. She sounded almost diabolical. “I do not discard our traditional ways to follow a white man. You led Maya astray and now you are trying to do the same with your daughter.” Biren watched with choking disbelief as Moni reached for Sabitri’s wet hair and held a strand against her cheek. She stared unblinkingly at her father, her eyes full of hatred.
It was more than Biren could bear. “You—you are a very evil woman,” he whispered before he could help himself. With a hurtful cry he turned around, pushed past the people and stormed out of the house, forgetting his slippers.
He heard someone say, “Let him go. He is just upset about his wife. Give him time, he will calm down.”
* * *
He didn’t know where he was going. Rocks and cockleburs pierced the soles of his feet. Everything was a blur. Feelings of anger, despair, helplessness and loss ratcheted around his head, and the sound that escaped from his mouth was anguished, tortured, like a gutted pig. He wanted to feel the pain, to obliterate himself.
Through the thunder in his head, he heard a shriek.
“Gurudev!” Bhola Pagol ran out from behind the date trees. Startled vultures flapped and flew out, shaking the heavy palm fronds. Bhola ran up to the path, but Biren shoved him aside and continued to walk furiously toward the river. He halted abruptly at the steep mud bank and debated whether to throw himself in. Below him the brown water hissed and swirled.
He did not know how long he stood there, arms tightly crossed, rocking back and f
orth. There was a sharp clanging in his brain, like rocks hitting brass. The din was so unbearable he wanted to tear his hair out.
Moni’s face swam into view. He had a daughter and she was alone. He remembered how crushed and small she’d looked, the way her eyes had darted with terror. With Maya gone, he was all she had left in the world.
He would have to go back for her. He would have to take her home.
CHAPTER
60
Even though Moni was only four, her rejection of her father was complete and final, almost adultlike in its cruelty. She acted as if she had never known him. At first this frustrated Biren; when he failed to gain even an inch of her affections, despite his best efforts, he was filled with bewilderment and panic. She was turning into a strange child. With her peanut-shaped head and hard elfin features, she was by no means a pretty girl. There was nothing childlike about her behavior, either. Moni didn’t play like other children, laugh or cry. Nor did she crave anyone’s affection, and endeared herself to none. On the other hand, she showed an unhealthy dependence on Sabitri. It was Sabitri who bathed her, fed her and carried her around straddled on her hip. What came as the ultimate shock to Biren was Moni’s growing obsession with puja rituals. She was powerfully drawn to the puja room, where she sat for hours with sandalwood paste on her forehead, her lips moving, her eyes closed in prayer. Just watching her made Biren feel sick. Surely there was something abnormal and unhealthy about a four-year-old child behaving in this manner? Nobody else in the family seemed to think so. They may have even encouraged it to some extent. After all, people in the village believed a strong religious bent in early childhood was an indication of approaching sainthood.
Biren deeply regretted his ugly outburst in front of his in-laws, especially after he saw the fear and shrinking in his daughter’s eyes. It had been improper of him, the son-in-law of the house, to behave that way. Deeply ashamed, he apologized to the family, but they remained cautious and treated him with exaggerated care.
The only sensible person Biren could talk to was Jatin Nandi, but there was one thing Biren learned about his father-in-law: for all his noble ideas and good intentions, Jatin Nandi was a mild man, spineless almost, and staunchly nonconfrontational. After Maya died, he sank into a depression and only wanted to be left alone.
Biren decided the most stable environment to raise Moni would be with Nitin’s family in Chandanagore. But he would have to win her trust to take her there. He tried every means to reach out to her, at first cajoling, and finally in desperation he even contemplated whether he should take her by force with him back to Silchar. But what if she got further traumatized? Everything in their house would remind her of her mother. And who would care for her?
All of that was inconsequential because Moni would not even come to him. He tried to take her for a simple walk with disastrous consequences. Moni fought like a wildcat and screamed and kicked all the way. She was so exhausted by the time she came home, she collapsed and ran a high fever for days. Biren was beside himself with anguish. Only when Sabitri sprinkled Moni with holy water did she come around. Baffled and terrified, Biren did not know what to make of it all. After two more weeks of cajoling, tantrums and defeat, Biren was forced to return to Silchar alone.
* * *
For two weeks he slept on the veranda, wrapped in Maya’s shawl. Every morning he woke at the dot of 3:11 a.m.—the exact time of Maya’s death. At that mysterious hour when the world was still struggling to be born, he felt for the first time the brutal rawness of his pain. Losing Maya was like losing himself, and now it seemed Moni was slipping away. Everything in his life was slipping away.
One day his eye caught a movement by the wall, flickering in the long shadow of the jasmine trellis. As it moved he saw it was a monstrous snake, about twelve feet long; it was the biggest snake he had ever seen. The serpent slid across the stone with a dry rustling sound and came toward him. From the pale yellow chevron stripes on its neck, Biren recognized it as the deadly king cobra. Biren remained motionless as the snake paused by his wooden clogs, reared up and swayed back and forth, flicking its black, forked tongue just inches from his toe. He could see clearly the sinister smiley face marking on the cobra’s hood. Biren’s breath choked in his throat.
Then an insane thought entered his mind: this was his chance to end it all. A single bite from this venomous serpent was known to take down an elephant. All he had to do was make a quick movement and the cobra would surely strike. It would soon be over. He would die the same way as his father had died.
He was determined to do it.
Without further thought, he struck out at the cobra, hitting it across the hood. It felt like slapping a strong, muscular arm. The snake whipped around with a raspy hiss and reared up to a full four feet. The hood flared open, and its jaw dropped to display a pair of curved pointed fangs. It emitted a low, throaty growl and Biren could feel its whooshing breath on the soles of his feet.
He kicked the snake again and then again. The snake swayed from side to side, dodging his foot. “Kill me! Kill me, you bastard!” Biren muttered through clenched teeth.
To his surprise the cobra froze and retracted its hood. Then with a swift sinuous motion it slid across the veranda floor, tumbled down the stairs in heavy folds and disappeared into the dark garden.
Biren drew his knees up to his chest, feeling oddly defeated. He had offered himself to Death and Death had turned him down. A primal rage seared through his body in fiery waves. It cindered every cell and burned every emotion down to silent ash. A vast stillness came over him. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings, he saw a piercing light—so sharp was its intensity he had to shield his eyes with the back of his hand. A new day was breaking across the river.
CHAPTER
61
Buri Kaki hobbled in with Biren’s morning tea, slopping it over the saucer as she set it down.
“Jamai-babu, you are up early again,” she cackled, clueless to the fact that Biren had not gone to bed at all. “Wait, wait, I will complain to didi when she gets home. Too much work, work, work.” She shook a long bony finger at him and clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
Biren had not told Buri Kaki about Maya’s death. What good would it do? She was too old for such sorrow. Buri Kaki lived in her own senile little world, and nothing she did or said made much sense anymore. Once or twice she had asked Biren with a childlike eagerness when Moni and Maya were coming home, to which Biren replied, “Not right now.” The answer to her was satisfactory. She muddled up the past with the present and talked as if dead people were still alive. She told Biren that Maya’s mother had just gone to market, and Jatin Nandi’s mother-in-law had made the fish curry. Biren just replied, “I see,” or, “Good, good,” to everything, and she was happy.
“Mia!” A shout came from the front gate.
Kanai was running toward the house. He looked very agitated. Biren set aside his cup and rose hurriedly, the shawl slipping to the floor.
“You must come at once,” Kanai panted, wide-eyed with panic. “There has been a murder! Yosef is dead. They found his body in the estuary.”
“What?” Biren shook him by the shoulders. “What are you saying?”
“The villagers killed him. They took him by boat to the estuary. They tortured him and left him to die there.”
Biren felt nauseous with fear. “And Chaya?” he cried. “Where is Chaya?”
“They have taken her back to the village. I think they are going to kill her, too.”
Biren did not wait to hear more.
“Wait here,” he ordered Kanai as he charged back inside the house. “I have to get the police. You must take us to the weavers’ village,” he shouted over his shoulder.
* * *
Bit by bit he learned what had happened. Yosef and Chaya had escaped with the water gypsies. The gypsies were hard to
trace. They moved like the silent undertow, carrying goods, people and currency from place to place.
Chaya’s father had gone from village to village looking for the couple. He’d warned the villagers against the water gypsies. They were charlatans, thieves and sorcerers. Vagrants with no morals, no roots. They had kidnapped his virtuous daughter and turned her into a prostitute to earn money for them. He had to find her at any cost.
He had been relentless. He’d hired thugs from out of town and bribed boatmen with opium. Nobody knew who had actually turned the couple in, but they had been found hundreds of miles away in tiger country in the big river delta. And there in the forest of flame trees they had been captured. As for the gruesome way Yosef had been tortured and killed, it was beyond horror. He was practically unidentifiable: mutilated, dismembered, his genitals cut; his blood mixed with the crimson petals of the flame tree spilled everywhere on the ground.
Biren had to identify Yosef from the pearl earring on the man’s left ear. Then he went to the police station and filed a detailed and comprehensive police report.
Securing the help of the police inspector, Biren set out with armed policemen in two boats to the weavers’ village. The village was deathly quiet. They approached in a single file, and Biren could sense they were being watched from behind closed doors. Armed police storming a village was not common. Someone must have warned the villagers of their approach, because the weaving sheds looked as if they had been abandoned in a hurry, the spindles lying helter-skelter on the floor. Young children who were always seen on the stoop of the mud houses playing with sticks and stones were nowhere in sight. Not even a single chicken pecked in the yard.
The emerald-green pond where women washed their clothes was deserted. So was the community well. It looked like people had left in haste, judging by the half-filled bucket of water and the two pitchers abandoned beside it.