Flame Tree Road

by Shona Patel

  They came to Chaya’s house. The doors and windows were shuttered. Biren walked up and rapped sharply on the door. When nobody answered, he rattled the windows and yelled, “Open! Police!”

  There was a long silence. A curtain lifted, then dropped, and the front door unlatched. A thin woman in her midforties, her head covered with the end of her sari, peered through the crack with frightened eyes. Biren guessed she was Chaya’s mother from the striking resemblance in their features.

  “I am here to see Chaya’s father,” said Biren.

  “He is not home,” said the woman. “He has gone to town.”

  From her shifty eyes, Biren could tell she was lying. “Tell him to come out,” he demanded grimly. “Otherwise, the police are going to enter and check this house.”

  The woman looked over her shoulder. “He had to go to town,” she repeated in a monotone. “He is not here.”

  “Where is Chaya?” said Biren. “Bring her out. I want to speak to her.”

  The woman’s eyes dropped. She looked terrified. “I...I don’t know where she is,” she stuttered.

  “What do mean, you don’t know?” Biren shouted. “She’s your daughter, isn’t she? Where is she? She was brought back to the village. Your husband and some men dragged her home by her hair. They murdered Yosef. We know everything. Now go bring her out!”

  “She is not here,” repeated the woman. Her lips trembled as she blinked back frightened tears. “I don’t know where she is. They took her away.” Her voice was cracked from dryness.

  “Who took her away?”

  The woman began to weep. “They threw acid on her face and they took her away.” She fell to the ground with a shriek.

  Biren turned to the police. “Two of you search this house,” he said. “The rest of you go and bang on every door in the village. I want every villager rounded up and assembled in this compound in five minutes. Hurry!”

  The woman wailed inconsolably.

  “You saw them do it?” Biren asked in a shaky voice. “You saw them throw acid on Chaya’s face?”

  “Yes,” the woman sobbed. “They called her a maagi—a Muslim’s whore. They kicked her and told her she can now go and screw for her living. Then they dragged her away.”

  Biren felt nauseated. “Didn’t anybody try to stop them? You are her mother!”

  “What can I do?” the woman cried. “They would kill me, too, if I tried to stop them. The whole village watched them kick her. It happened right outside this house. I just cleaned up all the blood. Her father wanted to finish her off but the men said she should be allowed to live as a lesson to others.”

  “Who were the other men? Are they people from this village?”

  “They were local goondas from town. Her father paid them to find and kill Yosef.”

  “Sir?”

  Biren turned around. It was the policeman.

  “The villagers are all here, sir.”

  About thirty people were gathered outside. Not a single person looked him in the eye as he stepped forward to address them.

  “All of you stood and watched today as a young girl was beaten by goondas. You watched her own father throw acid on her face to disfigure her. You watched the men drag her away by her hair. And not one of you did anything.” He looked the people standing before him. They were all looking down.

  “This girl could have been your own wife or daughter,” Biren said slowly. “Someday, if this should happen to them, they will all stand around and watch like you did. This is not a matter of religion or morality. This is a matter of humanity. If there is no fairness and justice for this girl, there will be no fairness and justice for you. You will always be puppets in the hands of a bully, power won by corruption, by money.

  “Your didi,” he continued, and paused, choking with emotion, “my wife, Maya, tried to help you, did she not? She encouraged you to be self-reliant. She wanted you to be free. Free to make your own choice. And now...and now your didi and my wife is gone. She’s dead.”

  Some of the women started crying.

  “Some of you have daughters like I have a daughter. What happened to Chaya must never happen to them. I know you have been told I am a traitor because I work for the British. But remember the mighty power of the British rule can be used for our good, as well. I am an insider and I represent you. I was born in a small riverside village like you. I fished in ponds. I walked barefoot to school. I did not even own a pencil to write with. Just because I wear trousers and ride a horse does not make me a belayti.”

  He looked at the faces around him, and as he did so, he had a flash of being back in the Cambridge union debate presenting his argument. Only this was real life.

  “I have taken a vow,” he said, “for my mother, my dead wife, my young daughter and for all Indian women that they will never again be without a voice. I will be their voice and I will use the laws of our foreign rulers to bring about change. These changes cannot happen from the outside, by force or by anarchy. The machinery has to be manipulated from within the administration, which is why I work for the government. This is why I am a lawyer. Please understand I am not going against their policy. I am making their policy work for you. There is something much greater beneath appearances—beneath the garb of religion, politics and social status. And that is our common humanity and it unites us all. Today I want to remind you of that. Today I need you to help me.”

  Exhausted, he leaned against the wall of the house, crossed his arms and studied the faces before him. A small child crawled toward Biren and touched his shoe.

  He picked her up and handed her to the young woman who came forward. His heart filled with grief when he thought of Moni. “Some of you have seen my little daughter, Moni—yes?” he said softly, choking with emotion. “Perhaps during the Durga Puja, or by the river where I sometimes used to take her. I am doing this for her and for all our daughters. I will not rest until all the men who have been involved in this atrocity are brought to justice. They will all go to jail. You may criticize our foreign rulers, but I can attest to one thing. They have established one of the finest judicial systems in the world, where all men rich or poor can be brought to trial. Did you know there are cases where even Englishmen have been tried and sentenced in this country? That is what I mean by justice. All of you have access to the same rights as anyone in this land. But I will need your help to identify the men. I will need to get signed statements from you as witnesses. In return you will be given full police protection. Our most critical need at this moment is to find Chaya. We don’t know if she is dead or alive. How can you forget her? She is one of your own. She was born here. So many of you have seen her grow up from a little girl. What a fine young woman she turned out to be. You must help me to find her. I cannot do this without your help. Please.”

  One of the men cleared his throat and shuffled to his feet. He spoke to the others in a low voice. His back was turned and Biren saw him gesture, pointing this way and that, then the men dispersed in different directions.

  “We will find her, dada,” the man said, turning back to Biren.

  Dada. Brother. He had addressed Biren as one of their own.

  * * *

  She was discovered the following day, barely alive outside a temple, ten miles away in another village. A bullock-cart man had brought her there after he had found her abandoned by the side of the road. At first he had thought she was a pile of dirty rags until she’d moved. He’d taken her to the next village where nobody knew who she was.

  Biren brought her back to Silchar by boat. With Reginald Thomson’s help, he admitted Chaya to the military hospital, where she lingered between life and death for eleven days. Chaya was four months pregnant and had suffered a miscarriage, the doctor said. She would live, although the acid burn would forever disfigure her face.

  When she was released from hospita
l, Chaya had nowhere to go. Branded as a Muslim’s whore, she was an outcast, so Biren brought her home. Buri Kaki took over Chaya’s care with bristling energy. She nursed and bathed her, wrapped her in old worn quilts and fed her little bits of rice, and cooed words of encouragement when Chaya found it difficult to swallow. When Chaya wept at night, Biren heard soft shushing sounds and the crooning of a child’s lullaby in Buri Kaki’s cracked old voice.

  Silchar

  2nd February 1905

  I remember, on my first steamer journey to Calcutta with Willis Duff, I spent long hours with a young deckhand learning to tie different marine knots. Looking back, I suspect Willis probably hoped this challenging activity would take my mind off missing home, and he was right. Sometimes Willis and I would have a competition to see who could tie the knots the fastest. I still remember the names of the knots and how to tie them: Sailor’s Hitch, Stevedore Knot, Rosendahl Bend. This knowledge has served me well.

  When we were newly married, I tried to impress Maya with my knot tying by demonstrating on her hair. The knots in her hair kept slipping out, but I still made a royal mess and she spent a long time sitting at her dressing table combing the tangles out. I relive these tender moments now that she is gone.

  The knots in my life are more complicated now and not so easy to untangle. You could say I am caught in a Rosendahl Bend—an interlocking knot that pulls both ways. Sometimes I feel stretched to the breaking point.

  The two priorities in my life are Moni and the criminal court case I am now involved in. The case has turned out to be more complicated than I ever imagined. It takes up months of my time because I have to be in Calcutta for all the hearings and to file the paperwork. When I return to Assam I try to spend as much time as I can with Moni.

  I still have not been able to bring her back to Silchar with me. I have tried everything. I took back her old toys, I showed her Maya’s photograph, Maya’s shawl, comb and other items, hoping to trigger memories and reestablish the connection between us, but Moni is a blank wall. She has withdrawn into a tight hard shell. She does not connect to me as her father. For that matter, she does not connect to anybody, not even Sabitri anymore.

  On one of my recent trips to Calcutta, I discussed Moni’s condition with Ram. Ram is now a leading researcher in the newly emerging field of mental illness. He said Moni’s case sounded as if she was suffering from a serious mental disorder, with a possible genetic link. This led me to ask around Maya’s family and I was shocked to learn about the history of mental illness on her mother’s side. Maya’s aunt—her mother’s own sister—suffered from depression and ultimately committed suicide. One of her uncles—her mother’s first cousin—was pathologically insane and kept locked up for most of his life. There are other cases of minor aberrations among family members. Moni’s symptoms are not identical, but I am convinced her disorder is genetic.

  What frustrates me is nobody in Jatin Nandi’s family seems to think so. Moni’s solitary nature and God obsession leads them to believe she is on the verge of sainthood. They even encourage her delusional behavior. It is abhorrent and completely unacceptable. It is obvious to me the child is seriously disturbed but I am at a loss to pinpoint what exactly is wrong with her or know what to do about it.

  She is growing up in front of my eyes, and each time I see her she has drifted a little farther away. I can’t seem to reach her anymore or connect with her in any way. Except for the first few fleeting years of her life, I don’t believe she was ever mine.

  Calcutta

  2nd June 1912

  Precious Mitra,

  Your accomplishments I wear like a rose in my heart. Your didi I am sure is looking down today to see her little sister, the brightest star in the family, as you graduate with honors with your teaching certificate. The whole world is at your feet, and a great destiny awaits you. My blessings and love are always with you.

  I have been gone for long stretches to Calcutta. The complicated criminal case I am involved in has been dragging on and keeps getting moved from one court to the other, but I will not rest until all the culprits have been punished for their heinous crime. The supreme court’s final hearing date has been set for four months from now. We have gathered affidavits from several witnesses and collected a strong body of evidence, which will work in our favor. I have full faith in our judicial process and I expect a fair trial. I will not rest until all eleven accused have been sent to jail.

  Chaya, the victim, who you met on your last visit, is now fully recovered, physically at least. As for the wounds inside, only time will tell. She has taken over the running of my household, now that Buri Kaki has been safely retired to her village where she can boss over her great-and great-great-grandchildren. She is the grand matriarch of three generations, and commands over her clan with vim and vigor. Hats off to the old lady! I owe Buri Kaki my gratitude in more ways than one. She hand raised my Maya and she has seen me through my most difficult days.

  I am grateful to you for keeping me in touch with Moni. My biggest regret is I have seen so little of her in the past few years, as I was in Calcutta most of the time. I have spared no effort in reaching out to her in every way possible, and to my sorrow, my only child will have nothing to do with me. Why the change came about, I may never know. I blamed myself initially, then I wondered if it was the trauma of her mother’s death or maybe the environment she was put in, but I suspect more than a minor aberration and that she may be seriously and pathologically impaired.

  A religious inclination is one thing, but the compulsive behavior she exhibits is deeply disturbing, as are her peculiar dietary habits. The last time I went to see her, she remained in the puja room for five hours and then emerged dazed and incommunicado. We did not exchange a single word, which in effect made my trip to see her rather pointless. But I will not give up. I will try till my dying day to win her trust and love. I once saw in her child eyes her love for me, her Baba. How can I ever forget the way she used to hold out her hands to me? Those are the memories that keep me going. Perhaps one day she will know of the love I have always held in my heart for her. She is not only my child, but she is the one link I have to my Maya and I cannot let that go.

  Maya’s memory is ever stirring in my soul. I have never told this to anyone, Mitra, but I will share this with you. The first time I saw your sister was when she passed by me on a boat, floating, delicate as the petal of a flame tree flower. I will always remember the pensive look on her face. I wondered with some jealousy back then if she was thinking about another man. I had not yet won her heart—for that matter we had not even met—but from the moment I set eyes on her I longed for her. But she was never mine to keep, and my Moni may not be, either. I can only love them with all my heart and let them go. All true love belongs to a greater universe. I am simply grateful they passed through my world and enhanced it for me.

  To you, my little sister-in-law, who threw a plum at my horse and walked between my Maya and me for a little while, I send my deepest affection and love.

  Yours,

  Dada (Biren Roy)

  Silchar

  12th May 1915

  It’s a miracle!

  The top half of the Russian Matryoshka doll that was lost for thirteen years has been found! Chaya discovered the doll inside Maya’s sari trunk when she cleaned out our old bedroom yesterday. The bedroom has remained unoccupied since the day my Maya died. I cannot bear to go in there. Her memory is still too strong.

  Chaya went into the room on her own. The memory of her didi is something she likes to dwell on and pay homage to. She treats the old bedroom like a shrine. Chaya opened the windows, dusted and aired it out. She took all Maya’s saris from her cupboard and the items from the dressing table and packed them inside the old trunk.

  The trunk came with Maya the day she entered this house as my new bride. It contained her trousseau of beautiful heirloom silks,
most of which she never wore, preferring instead the ordinary hand-loom cottons from the weavers’ village. The fresh cotton saris made her look like a spring leaf, a flower petal or a newly emerged pearl according to the color she selected. She was simple as she was beautiful, my Maya.

  How that Russian doll got inside her old sari trunk I will never know. I suspect it was our little Moni’s doing. She was an inquisitive little squirrel, our daughter. She took things from here and there and hid them in unexpected places. I once found a foot of my English dress socks pushed into a marigold pot out in the garden.

  How on earth had that small child opened the heavy trunk and put the doll inside? I shudder to think what would have happened if the lid had fallen on her tiny fingers. She was only three after all. A bold and curious child she was, unafraid of the world back then.

  I remember the day I returned home from Russia and gave her the doll. Each time I opened up one doll to reveal another inside, Moni gave a squeal and clapped her hands. To add to the drama, I made a small “whooshing” sound. When we got to the very last doll—the tiny baby one—she looked at me with mournful eyes, and held up her empty hands and said, “Nai, nai!” No more. I put the dolls back, nesting them one inside the other, but as soon as I was done, she took all the dolls apart and threw a minor tantrum till I repeated the whole act complete with the sound effects. When she insisted on doing the same thing, over and over, it got very tiresome, so I hid the doll away. The next time I opened the doll I found the mother doll was missing her head.

  I used the bottom half of the mother doll to store the paper pins on my desk. After a while I forgot all about it. All the dolls eventually got dismantled or lost except the bottom half of the mother doll that remained on my desk. Here we are, thirteen years later, and Chaya finds the matching half. And voilà! The two pieces fit perfectly and now we now have a complete mother doll.

  But Maya and Moni are both gone.

  Looking at the doll made me feel very emotional. I thought of all the mismatched and lost pieces of my life that can never come together again. The doll triggered memories of happier times. Suddenly I felt the need to write down my feelings for Moni. I sat and wrote her a letter. I told her of the times we would go down to the river, where she would pick strings of river kelp and chase behind herons with her small pattering feet. I told her of the shiuli flowers we gathered around Durga Puja time to place around her mother’s hair. Of the duck feathers she brought home that Buri Kaki stuck into a ball of wheat dough and shaped into a bird for her. They were mostly small everyday memories. Because I had held her for such a short time, those memories are very intense and sweet. I relived them one by one and I thanked her for them. I folded the letter into an origami paper crane like I used to make for her when she was small and put the letter inside the mother doll. I will give this to her. It does not matter if she reads my letter or not. The important thing is I have bared my soul and said what I needed to say to my child.