by Dipika Rai
WHEN HER HUSBAND POKES HER WITH his toe, it always seems to connect with the scar that runs across her left side. A little deeper and you could have cut me in two. She knows so little of the workings of her body that she thinks they’ve fixed her up. For what? Possibly no children, but she doesn’t really know.
It is one of the men from the night huddle who helps to put things straight. Again he arrives smoking a bidi. This time during the day.
‘So how is she?’
‘Good. The same.’
‘No problems then?’
‘No, not really. In the beginning she complained of pain in her back, but that was for a few days only. I stopped her going to the well. That’s the only thing she really couldn’t do. “The children are grown,” I said, “let them bring the well water.”’
Mamta doesn’t remember that conversation. Let the children bring the well water? Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. With her insides on fire, what did she know or care? Her stepdaughter gave her white pills every day. Her husband came home and counted the pills and demanded his son’s corroboration before he was satisfied. If you miss a single pill she’ll die, he’d told his daughter, using the doctor’s words.
‘So how much did you get?’
‘As you said, enough to buy another piece of land, but not enough to move by the river. Still, it’s good. I trust nobody, I got the money in cash. He offered me some papers to sign, said, “Keep the money with me, it will grow in value,” but I said no. Took me for a fool, I think. I said, “No, give me the cash in advance.” So they gave me everything but twenty-five thousand, which they gave me after the operation. That too they tried to cheat from me, but I threatened them. I had taken my knife and stick. I said I would report them to the police for having cut the flesh out of her. Ha, ha, there was nothing they could do!’ He is proud of his victory over a far stronger foe.
‘Now you have the money, and we don’t have to move. We never had to, it was just a rumour. That man, Lekhen or whatever his name is, is giving his own lands to the bandit families.’
The men laugh, their bodies relax, relieved by the news. Then he’s angry for the injustice of it all. ‘Why did they tell us that we had to move?’
‘Look at it this way, if you hadn’t heard the rumour, you wouldn’t have got all this money for nothing.’
Again he relaxes, happy in the thought that things have at last gone in his favour.
‘I’m going to have my wife done too.’
Now Mamta’s husband is the one with all the information. They all look to him for advice.
‘Don’t go after three in the morning. I met two people there whose wives were done after three . . .’ He shakes his head, and not with sorrow. ‘The best time is twelve to two. The doctor is still fresh.’
‘If you are sure everything is okay, then I will arrange it soon.’
‘Make sure there is someone at home to give her the pills. You know these women, they won’t take their medicines if you tell them to, just to spite us I think. I don’t know what gets into their heads. After all, we don’t want to be responsible for a death.’
And that’s how Mamta knew that her scar had somehow bought her family a piece of unneeded land.
Her stepdaughter touches it often.
‘It’s so long. Lucky they stopped. Hai, Amma, you might have died otherwise.’ The girl can state the ghoulish obvious without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment. She still hasn’t learned the tact of grown-ups; for her, such a strange thing cannot go unmentioned.
‘Yes, they could have.’ Mamta says the words but feels no fight. She’s alive, what more does she need? Nothing that leaves you alive can be all that bad. She doesn’t shake off her stepdaughter’s hand, and endures the tickling sensation which conceals a friendship. What did they take out of her that was worth money? She has no one to ask, no one to tell.
She’s seen the notes and doesn’t know what to make of them. She thinks the bigger ones are worth more. Each morning her husband counts the notes, then he shoos them all out of the hut and hides them in a different place. He trusts no one. With so few bonds he thinks his own family might rob him blind.
The boy has been pestering his father to buy him a kite. For the past few weeks he’s been flying the one rescued from a nearby tamarind tree. Actually there is nothing quite like the thrill of finding an abandoned kite, like luck itself, a gift from God. The kite was riddled, but Mamta patched up the holes in an obsequious bid to buy the boy’s kindness. For a few days after, the boy and the stepmother were cautiously aware of each other, even friendly to one another. But that friendliness was dispelled with her husband’s next slap. The boy knew not to align himself with the lowest-ranking family member.
Mamta sees that money has changed her husband. The money has made him unpredictable. Sometimes he is ebullient, and comes home singing the latest Hindi movie song, at other times he is brooding and sulky. He goes more and more to the tents, but he doesn’t have to put his name in the book any more. In fact, he has taken his name out of every book, paying his debts in full. His only tangible purchase so far has been a little transistor radio which only he can turn on. To make sure of this, he takes the batteries with him in his kurta pocket when he leaves the hut.
She allows herself an hour to search for the money after the males leave. An hour is a long time. Most days she is able to find it, then the girls have a little satisfied giggling session and go on with their chores. She can tell by the thickness of the wad how much her husband is spending on transitory improvements in the quality of his life including five bottles of good booze (the kind guaranteed not to make you blind), a few hookahs with the other men, three visits to the prostitute and a game of cards. He is a lucky man, the game of cards has allowed him to fatten his wad and even get his son the longed-for kite. Money for free, he has thought of buying the prostitute a nose pin and new straw for his mattress. But it is a dangerous game he’s playing. Now, not just winning and losing but playing or not playing are decisions out of his control.
His new status is such that twice a week men come to his veranda to gamble. Yes, they shun the tented city, where there is a levy on every win, to play on their friend’s land.
He has acquired many new friends since the last time Mamta served them. She pulls her pallav low over her eyes, and brings out the tea. The tea has improved with the money, it is thick and sweet. With each sip they notice its spicy rich flavour.
They talk of her as if she’s not around.
‘Lucky woman, no, to have a husband with so much money. Have you seen the land?’
‘Yes, but I am going to wait to make enough to go by the river. Once and for all, I will move to a fertile field. Not to this place or another like it, where we have to till and till until our backs break, and depend on the rain. My son works Kanti Nath’s plot. I will pull him back and have him work for me instead.’
The reluctant moonlight lights up their faces in turn so they become partly visible to the woman serving them. They hold their cards close to their chests. It’s not just from the voices that she knows who is missing but also from the prizes her husband brings home: a recognisable ghaghra choli or a pair of sandals. Sometimes it’s sacks of grain or cooking pots. Her kitchen has filled up in the past few months with other people’s possessions lost to her husband in a game of cards.
Mamta’s husband has begun to contemplate a novel future. He is no longer paralysed by the insecurity of freedom. As a rich man he will certainly get a new wife. He will either beat Mamta and send her back to her parents or arrange a cooking accident for her. The prostitute has got under his skin. He would like to marry the woman with the hefty cleavage and delicious, well-fed thick hips. The songs she hums under her breath make him dizzy. His transistor is no comparison for her voice.
How she hands him the end of her sari as soon as he arrives, and hides behind the red gauze. How she allows her sari to unravel, spinning like a top. How her little bleats for release from such brut
ish torture make him mad for her. How he takes her naked on his knee. How she is shy and not shy at the same time. Oh, how, how, how!
His prostitute is no novice. There are many moths addicted to her flame. She’s had offers of marriage before and knows precisely how to tune her men. She knows that her love-struck suitor will no doubt offer her a home and married life. She has no intention of trading her thriving business for life at a sooty fire, but she gives the man no hint of this. Let him bring her expensive gifts.
Unravelling his favourite pink sari and seeing his desire spin before his eyes, he pictures her in his hut, handing out tea to his friends. He imagines keeping her just for himself, totally covered in front of other men. He can see her eyes, black liner drawing them out into almond shapes and swishing lashes marking her cheeks with shadows. The anything-but-gentle swell of her breasts. The lock of her thighs.
‘W-when will you say yes?’ He is breathless, his mind has taken him where his body has not.
‘W-when?’ She is playing the question game. The game which invariably ends in victory for her. Answer question with question. Eventually they think up the answers they want to hear and she’s free.
‘Why not next summer?’
‘Why not?’ Oh she is an expert. No one can confuse her words for true answers, and yet, one can see the possibility, the plausibility in her responses. He is no match for her.
‘Come on, meri jaan, say yes. I will buy you anything you want.’
‘Anything?’
‘In a few months I will be twice as rich.’ An idea has come to him. Another operation. Why not do it again? Twice the money. Sell the other kidney out of Mamta. She won’t survive long as it is. With the other kidney, at least he will have sufficient reserve.
‘Twice as rich?’
‘Yes, you wait and see. I will be so rich, we will have our own land by the river and a pukka house.’
‘A pukka house?’ ‘You just wait and see.’
All the way home he smiles at the memory of the naked prostitute, the yielding mountain of pink gauze lying by the bed and rolling . . . off and on, off and on. He thinks of the prostitute and then of the operation. But how? Even he knows another operation is as decisive as death. He must ask the men.
This time the men come especially to discuss the second operation. So confident are they in their venture that they don’t bother looking for a place away from the hut to hatch their murder plan.
Again, Mamta comes with the tea. This time each one gives her a long lingering look, so long that she is persuaded to look down at her own chest. Has a breast come inadvertently bare? Has her sari come loose? She pulls the pallav lower over her eyes, a hood.
But now the men must talk. Seriously talk. The man can’t bring himself to discuss the operation in front of his wife. For the second round, he asks for the boy to serve the tea. Why the boy? The daughter is jealous. Why didn’t he ask for her? It is an irrational emotion, she can’t wait to be free of her father and the stony fear he brings to their hut. Still, she wants his approval, especially now that he’s asked the boy to bring the tea. She refuses to be passed over, left where she is like the polite last morsel on a dinner plate. She nudges the boy roughly out of the way while Mamta blocks the door with her body. Allied the two are strong. The stepdaughter takes the tea outside.
‘She will die if you cut her again.’
The girl hears the Die word. What a captivating word it is. She waits in the shadows. No one seems to miss the tea. Mamta’s body is still blocking the boy’s path. She will pay for it later, when he has his father’s ear, he will make his father beat her for this infraction.
‘Yes, you won’t find one who will do it easily. There aren’t many who will take the responsibility for someone’s death.’
‘It’s not allowed. If they catch you, it’s the jail,’ says a second voice.
‘You have to be clever. You must make out that she died of some other illness. The doctor will sign the papers, don’t worry about that,’ says the first voice.
The stepdaughter pours the tea out on the ground. She leans over, making sure it sinks silently into the mud and brings the empty glasses back inside.
She looks at Mamta with a secret in her eye. Of course all girls know what such looks mean. The boy is too angry to notice.
‘They liked it. They are leaving,’ says the girl. ‘Bapu is going with them.’
The boy runs out after his father, but the men are covered by darkness. The moment’s passed, he will not be able to get even this time.
‘The man told Bapu that he had to find someone very special to do it because it was not allowed and there aren’t many who will take the responsibility for someone’s death,’ she remembers the words perfectly as only one who doesn’t understand them can. ‘What does that mean, “take the responsibility for someone’s death”?’
‘It means they are planning to cut me right in half this time, much more than before. It means he is planning to kill me.’
‘You mean kill you dead?’
‘That’s right, kill me dead.’
‘Maybe they have to kill you because of my new amma. I don’t want another amma. I never want to be separated from you.’ The girl has guessed about the prostitute. Her father brings home little girlish mementoes. A wilted rose, a book he cannot read, a perfumed handker chief. She puts her arms round Mamta. ‘I don’t want another amma.’ This time Mamta doesn’t undo them. She twists the girl round and places her in her lap.
‘Don’t worry, we will never be separated. I won’t let it happen. We are going away. We will run away. If he hears, he will kill us both, so keep your mouth shut.’ Her fear is irrationally tinged with excitement. No matter how dangerous the running away, staying will kill her. The adrenalin is roaring in her ears.
‘Run away . . .’ The little girl’s eyes are glassy with excitement.
‘Not one word . . . if you don’t want your head shaved and shit smeared over your body, you just be ready when I wake you at night. Just be ready.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On something, on many things, on . . . I don’t know yet.’
What is courage but another name for desperation? It is a brave soul who can be courageous without being desperate. Mamta is not such a soul. She knows the consequences. If she runs away she will never be able to return to Barigaon or Gopalpur. Not ever. A married runaway, just like Sharma’s wife. A rule breaker, a tradition killer.
The right time comes three nights later.
The man comes into the house, he counts the money and puts it under his pillow. He is so close to spending the bundle that he doesn’t bother hiding it safely. Another hundred rupees is missing. He’s been to the prostitute. He is in a good mood. He’s found a doctor. The demand for the doctor’s services is so high that he will have to wait a whole week before he can take Mamta for her operation. He is drowsy with satisfaction.
He goes to sleep dreaming about the money and doesn’t think it odd that his wife is sitting outside, her back to the mud wall, looking into a moonless sky. She’s seen him put the money under his pillow. Without the money she doesn’t have a chance.
Mamta is the only one who will not sleep. Whenever her brain wanders to how it will be once she runs away, she pulls it back like a disobedient dog on a leash. In her life, there has never been any time to think, only time to act. And this time too, she can’t spoil it by thinking.
She adjusts the covers on her stepdaughter, pushing the child as far away from her father as possible. Her stepson is sleeping with his arms and legs flung out wide. He will be a hard one to avoid. He is a noisy sleeper, a small disturbance could set in motion a series of whines, whimpers and clicks that could wake her husband. She takes her memory box from the shelf and places it by her step-daughter’s head. Then she lies down beside her husband, adjusting her petticoat so that it flares away from her, taking the small kitchen knife sewn in
to its hem with it. Mamta must wait for the right time, but not too late, because her only chance is to escape with darkness left over to spare.
She sidles closer to her husband. She can see his nose hairs sway. In, out, in, out. She’d fed them all a heavy meal, even her husband had remarked on the generous dollop of butter. The fat meal lies comfortably in his stomach, spreading a contented warmth through his body. Her husband is a dead weight, relaxed in sleep, a peaceful, even handsome man. She looks into the face and records its every nuance. She never wants to forget that face. The face that will for her become the template of cruelty, the one against which she’ll judge all other males in the future.
He moves, rolls over. The pillow is free. Quickly, she slips her hand under it and pulls out the wad. She clutches it tight between her thighs, lying as frozen as a long-dead body. She doesn’t move for hours, or is it minutes? Her husband’s breath is even. Her stepson’s breath is even. She slowly ties the money in a knot at the end of her pallav. Her stepdaughter is lying in a good position away from the men. Mamta gets up, holding her memory box close to her chest, and moves along the darkest edge of the hut. Here she will have a chance in case her husband wakes. She pads on silent light feet towards her stepdaughter. She’s gone over the whole scenario so many times that her motion is automatic. Luckily her stepdaughter is light, with delicate bones. She’ll place her left hand over her mouth, and drag her from the hut before the child makes an involuntary sound.
Her stepdaughter moves in her sleep. Stop that. The child obeys. Mamta takes a step closer. She can feel the kitchen knife drag on the floor. I hope it doesn’t cut through the cloth. She bends over her step-daughter. At that precise moment, the girl rolls over again. That single roll takes her right into the centre of the room. The boy starts to whine, whimper and click. The girl’s roll makes Mamta stop, stock still. She is stunned. It’s gone all wrong . . . It doesn’t fit in her plan . . . How could it have gone this wrong? One move? . . . why? . . . Why that one move? She is by the door.
She looks at her feet, her heels are just outside the door, she’s still bent over, ready to pick up her stepdaughter and run. The girl’s head should have been by her feet, but it’s by her brother’s head instead. The whines and clicks grow deeper. Her husband moves. He takes the pillow in his sleeping hands. There is much too much time between thoughts, she thinks. She knows she has to think faster. Act faster. Think faster. Act.