Someone Else's Garden

by Dipika Rai

  ‘We all have to resolve our strife in the best way we can. Look at it this way, your fields will one day fill the stomachs of those you wronged, so I would say that you have found a path to returning their future to them; often kings don’t achieve as much in their lives.’

  ‘Do you know what I think about most? I feed them, but I can produce nothing for my own son. What then makes me a man, if I cannot do anything for my own? Tell me now, what makes me a man?’

  ‘Just thinking about it makes you a man, my friend; just thinking about it makes you a man.’ Lokend grips Daku Manmohan’s hand through the bars.

  ‘Come, Lokend Bhai, let’s go.’ Prem pulls him away. ‘For me he will always be a murderer and a rapist.’

  Rape! Sharma’s wife, shit-smeared and raped, and now Mamta, soon-to-be-shit-smeared-and-raped. Her fingers physically close her mouth to prevent any sound from escaping. I deserve to die, I know I deserve to die, but, Devi, please keep me alive . . . Prem, help me stay alive . . . Her heart is ready to burst out of her ribcage for all its pounding.

  It isn’t long before Prem returns with gunnysacks for Daku Manmohan. As he leaves the bandit’s cell, Mamta approaches him from behind.

  ‘Prem,’ she whispers with dread. She thinks her brother will be able to see right into her soul. A husband-leaver, a stepdaughterleaver.

  The boy stops, shocked.

  ‘It’s me, Mamta.’

  He turns to face his sister.

  ‘What, what? How? Why? Mamta? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just tell me which way I should go to get to the city. Tell me. Quickly, tell me the way! Do you remember the road Jivkant Bhai took? You do remember it, don’t you? Thank God I’ve found you. I am not going back.’

  ‘Not going back? To where?’

  ‘To Barigaon. To him.’

  ‘You mean your husband?’ he whispers with disbelief. ‘You aren’t going back to your husband?’ He looks round anxiously.

  ‘No, he will kill me. Please just help me, tell me which way. Don’t tell Amma, don’t tell Bapu, don’t tell anyone. I will be like Sharma’s wife. I don’t want to be like Sharma’s wife.’ Mamta is babbling, she stumbles, falls, except for the cup of milk, she hasn’t eaten for two days. ‘Water, do you have water?’

  ‘Yes, I will bring you water. Come, I know a place where you can hide.’ That is the miracle of Prem, he understands quickly and acts instantly; he is a protector, it is in his character to help the underdog. ‘It’s Asmara Didi’s old place. I’ll get you something to eat and drink and then tomorrow night you can go on. There you will be safe. No one goes to her old house except bats. You aren’t afraid of bats, are you?’

  Prem takes Mamta’s hand. His young palm is stiff with calluses from working the farm. Mamta allows herself to be pulled along by him, sinking into the safety of his clasp. He takes her to the rotting hut on the far edge of Singh Sahib’s lands. He has to steady her many times during the short journey.

  He sets her down against a stone near the hut. ‘Wait for me, I will be back. I am going to the Big House to get you food.’

  She extracts a bundle of notes from her waist, divides them in two to give Prem. ‘For Amma.’

  ‘You stole, is that why you are running away?’ Prem’s association with Lokend has fruited into an unambiguous moral code.

  ‘No, I never stole.’ She snatches the money out of his hands. ‘It should have been mine. I worked for it . . .’ I gave my flesh for it. ‘Oh, it’s too hard to explain.’ She touches her scar. ‘Here, take it,’ she says, curling his reluctant hand round the notes.

  ‘No, I can’t. It’s yours,’ he says with conviction. He is much changed. The old Prem would have grabbed the money out of her fist and calculated exactly what he could do with it before he had taken a second breath.

  ‘You mustn’t tell Amma you saw me. You mustn’t tell anyone. Promise me. Promise me!’ she chokes on her words. Outside the rotting hut the rain falls thick and heavy. The sky sheds warm tears in her stead and the earth offers her a mantle to wipe them away.

  ‘I promise I won’t. I promise.’

  It is only when her brother leaves that Mamta realises she has asked nothing about his life. Keep him safe, Devi, please keep him safe.

  Prem blunders back to the Big House, abandoning himself to the rain. Perhaps the kitchen will still be open and he will be able to beg for some scraps for Mamta.

  He moves swiftly along the retaining wall. Mamta a runaway. He has already rehearsed his story, his sick grandmother has come to visit and he needs extra food. The extra food will no doubt be put in his ledger by some scrupulous maid and he will have to pay it off in labour hours, after all, he works at the Big House because his bapu took a loan for Mamta’s dowry.

  The kitchen is closed, the bulb above the door fused, the night has gobbled up the building. He tests the door, and then he remembers the doorway for the rats, the window that never shuts. Because of Daku Manmohan and Lokend he had promised himself to live a good and decent life, but today stealing food for his starving sister somehow seems the honourable thing to do.

  He stuffs his kurta with the crisp ready-treats kept for unexpected guests.

  ‘Who’s there? Is there someone there?’ Prem drops the treats and crouches down on all fours. ‘So late. Go home, Prem.’ The boy shades his eyes against the glare of the torch. ‘Your mother will be worried,’ says Lokend. ‘Come on now,’ Lokend extends his hand, ‘get up, I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No, Lokend Bhai . . .’ the boy is scared. He is sweating and his eyes are oscillating from side to side, not daring to linger too long on a single object as if searching for something secret. His keenest feeling is one of shame, even more than fear. He needs to explain his deceit. He trusts that Lokend Bhai will understand, but what’s to stop him from being disappointed? For the first time, the standards Prem has set for himself seem unachievable. He is trapped, the incriminating evidence rubble at his feet.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not exactly . . . I mean, I am not hungry for myself . . .’ He has never asked Lokend Bhai for anything as earthly as food before.

  ‘What is it, Prem? Let me help you.’ Lokend takes Prem by the shoulder and lifts him to his feet. ‘Don’t be afraid. I never want you to be afraid,’ he says to the boy, handing him crackling bags of food.

  ‘Lokend Bhai . . . I know what you must think of me, but please . . . if there was some other way, any other way . . . I would . . .’

  ‘You must let me help you, Prem.’ Lokend can see the desperation in the boy’s face. He has come to know the boy well, and stealing is not in his nature. He wants to give Prem the opportunity to unburden himself.

  ‘It’s her . . . she’s here . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bapu will kill her, they will rape her, strip her . . . my amma . . . the shame . . . I must help her. You must understand, I have to save her.’ He promised not to tell anyone, but he can’t contain the heavy secret from his mentor – his mentor who always preaches truth. ‘Mamta Didi, my sister – you came to her wedding, gave her the sweets.’

  He remembers her eyes locked with his over her mother’s shoulders, saying Some day you are going to remind me who I am. ‘C’mon, Prem, there’s no time to lose.’

  Mamta is asleep by the time they return. Prem has to shake her strongly to wake her. ‘Eat now.’

  ‘Mamta.’ Again that voice.

  ‘Sahibji!’ She shrinks into a ball. Another man has come to take her away. And though her spirit would gladly be led by this one, her body will not.

  ‘Mamta Didi, you must eat, you have to leave quickly before sunrise.’ Prem’s situation is precarious. He too could be lynched by the village for his part in helping a runaway wife.

  ‘Prem, give her a moment.’ Dishevelled, with bleeding feet and dirt-encrusted hair, the wildness of her appearance makes Lokend approach her gently. He feels an overwhelming urge to protect her. ‘Let her rest today. Leave tomorrow night.
Looks to me your sister won’t last if she leaves in this condition.’

  Shivering she shrinks from him. He puts out his hand to her. He wants to dispel her helplessness. ‘Amma, Bapu . . . They can’t know. They will kill me . . . Sharma’s wife, she ran away, and now me . . .’

  Lokend puts out his hand again, ‘Don’t worry, you are safe,’ he says. ‘I won’t let anyone harm you. Don’t be scared. You go to the city, where no one knows you.’ Lokend has lived his life in selfless duty and sacrifice for others, but this time he feels oddly attached to the outcome. ‘There you will be safe and get a good job . . .’

  ‘. . . and make lots of money.’ Prem embellishes his often revisited dream for his sister.

  ‘Go, Prem, go,’ urges Mamta, reluctant to put her brother in further danger, ‘you shouldn’t be mixed up in all this. After all, I am now a runaway, an outcaste; ordinary rules don’t apply to me. I am less than nothing. No one can give me shelter without reprisal. Go! Please, Sahibji, take him away. Go, leave me. I am a creature of the night now. I must stay hidden from Decency.’

  ‘Didi, eat now and leave before daylight. We’ve brought you some food. No one saw you?’

  ‘No, no one saw me, but it won’t be long before he comes searching for me,’ she says, thinking of the wad of bills.

  ‘Come, Prem, let her rest.’

  Prem grips Lokend’s arm, defying custom. ‘Lokend Bhai, please don’t tell anyone,’ he gulps. He has been too forceful in his instruction, he has crossed the boundary of respect. The boy releases his grip and says, ‘Sorry, forgive me. Yes, Lokend Bhai, let’s go.’

  She is past caring, she hasn’t touched the food, and a bright, clean dawn is calling. Soon she will be forced on her way again.

  ‘Mamta.’ The backlight protects her visitor’s identity. She moves swiftly to the ruined wall, brick in hand. ‘Put it down, Mamta, I’m not here to harm you.’

  ‘Sahibji, you c-came back.’ She looks around, searching for something he might have lost. ‘You came back for me? Why?’ Her husband’s wad of bills dislodges itself from its petticoat hiding place and falls to the floor.

  ‘Mamta!’ He knows this much money couldn’t have come to her without some deception.

  She is defiant: ‘It’s mine. I worked for it, it’s mine,’ she pleads. ‘You have to believe me, I never went back for her . . . she is just a girl . . . I left her behind. I must pay with my own life. I deserve this . . .’

  He has brought fresh food for her. He dips a buttered chapatti into the rich daal. ‘You must eat.’

  His hands are feeding me. Her eyes are wide with confusion. ‘Oh, Sahibji . . .’ She recounts her tattered story. ‘See, this is what I was to him –’ She drags her petticoat down to reveal the scar. ‘This was my value, my flesh,’ she sobs, but her eyes remain dry. ‘Please tell no one. They will find me.’

  She recognises the confusion in his eyes, his obligation to duty tested beyond breaking. He places his hand against her cheek furrowed with tear tracks. Convention is their enemy, but Lokend hasn’t given it any substance. As usual, his decision ignores the dictates of society. ‘This is your life. Grasp it, participate in it. Whether you believe it now or not, there is unbounded kindness in destiny. Go and embrace yours.’

  She will choose to believe that he will tell no one, be that one person who saw her once. And that must be enough.

  Love is a River

  Chapter 9

  MAMTA HAS STOWED HER MEMORIES SECURELY. She will not think of Lokend Bhai, that is her promise to herself. She needs her energies to escape. To live. To go and find that unbounded kindness in destiny.

  The air is pungent with the smell of drying red chillies. She holds her pallav to her nose to stop herself from sneezing. Red chillies, burning, beautiful plump chillies. She thinks of the chillies her step-daughter had planted in front of their hut. They had planned to bring them to the weekly barter market by the well. She imagines little hands picking chillies, a laughing face blowing on smarting fingers. Why did I leave her behind?

  Well fed and rested, she is stronger now, with a fugitive’s energies, sixth sense and night vision and doesn’t feel quite as betrayed by her circumstances. Diligent in her grateful prayer, ‘Ohm Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyum, Bhargo Dewas Dhimahi, Dhiyo Yo Naha Prachodaya . . .’ she recites the Gayatri Mantra learned at her mother’s knee, clinging to the words as if they are her raft home. One hundred and eight is the magic number. Each recitation will ignite one of the hundred and eight energy lines converging to create her heart charka. That number will free her!

  Somewhere around the seventieth recitation an owl hoots and she loses count. A hooting owl, what a bad omen. She starts over, resuming her prayer with vigour.

  She can see a light shining in the distance, a constant, unwavering light. Not capricious candlelight. When her husband’s card partners talked about electricity coming to their village, her husband always shrugged and said, ‘Not in my lifetime,’ but she had rebelliously imagined that her husband was wrong, and that one day she would find a bright bulb shining right outside her door. And here it is! She must tell her mother that the poles are working, that somewhere, where no one can see it, is a light shining for someone just like her, a girl running away from her husband, a girl running away from home, a girl running towards her future. Amma . . . if you could see this light now. It is a miracle. Thank you, Devi. Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho.

  In the bottomless night the light is a panacea. It doesn’t occur to her that the light could be revealing, that it could lead to her capture. Blessed with a destination at last, she runs towards it. As she draws closer, she realises that the light is attached to a mechanical animal barrelling towards her, and is not a result of the electric poles which are, as her husband and mother suspect, sterile.

  She has no estimation of speed, no idea of distance. On any other day she might have approached the bus with caution, gauging its character before venturing close, but today, she runs into its path. She knows all the important things about buses. They take you places. Faraway places. Places where no one can find you. If she jumps on this bus no one will be able to find her. She rushes towards the bus, her nemesis . . . her saviour . . . her nemesis . . . her saviour. She has no reason to live. She will catch the bus, even if it kills her. It brushes past her. She falls. Her nemesis . . . her saviour . . .

  ‘Did we hit something?’ ‘Hai hai . . .’ ‘Stop!’ ‘Don’t stop’ ‘Go!’ ‘Go!’ ‘Go!’ ‘Stop’ ‘Go on.’ The bus is a mess of tangled opinions. It stops with a shudder.

  The shouting switches off with the engine. The driver jumps down from the door, eager to get it over with. It’s the victim’s fault, he knows. He has a bus full of witnesses who’ll testify in his favour. Mamta looks up, arms outstretched.

  ‘Mad, are you? Want me to run you over like a stray dog? This is no way to stop a public bus,’ he shouts into the night, shading his eyes against the headlights with his hand.

  ‘Take me. Please, please, take . . . me . . . take me . . .’ she sobs, lying prone in the dust, ‘I am here,’ she calls to the driver, afraid that he might not see her in the frugal light.

  ‘Get in before I change my mind. These people just come out of the village and think they’ll get a ride on any old bus going to the city. They all want to go to the city. What’s there in the city? Mad, all of them. Mad, all of you. Totally mad.’ His words are blustering, but in fact he’s relieved she’s still alive. A death would have meant a hot night spent here on this wretched stretch of road where they would have had to wait hours to get word to the police.

  She’s cheated death yet again. Twice now! An uncontrollable giggle rises up her throat threatening to explode. A bus, she’s on a bus. A bus to the city. Oh, Prem, buses do exist and they run exactly where you imagine them to. Thank you, my brother. Thank you, Devi. Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho.

  ‘You have money?’

  She nods. He isn’t convinced.

  ‘I’ll not hesitate to
throw you out.’

  She hands him a note.

  ‘A hundred,’ he says, admiration mixed with mistrust.

  If there is one thing Mamta has learned to do it is read eyes. Before he can say another word, she plucks the note out of his hands and gives him another, hoping it is the right one. It’s a smaller one.

  The man pockets it.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘How far does this bus go?’

  ‘Begumpet.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right what? All right Begumpet, or all right Ranakpur, Sonpur, Seeta Gaon, Rajunagar . . .’ the conductor reels off names of towns en route from memory.

  An irritated voice shouts, ‘Give her the bloody ticket. We are all trying to sleep. She’s from the village. None of them has heard of the city. You know that.’

  ‘Begumpet then,’ she says.

  Her ticket sits tight and secure in her hand.

  Now that the danger’s past and the other passengers see what it brought in their midst, a pitiful thing like Mamta, they quickly fall back to sleep. Some with their heads thrown back and their mouths gaping to the ceiling, others with their children stuffed in laps.

  Mamta is lucky to have been nearly run over by this particular public bus. Babu, the driver, is an ex-army officer who had to take early retirement because of an injury. He follows the All India Bus Permit Rules, and will take as many passengers as can sit on the seats and thirty-one standees only. No one sits on the luggage carrier overhead. His sister’s son had fallen from one such luggage carrier and died on the spot.

  The blue nightlight glows eerily, illuminating the faces of her companions in fits and starts. For the most part, the other passengers are just conical shapes, covered in their blankets more against wind rushing in from the windows than for privacy. Like most villagers who live in hot places, they think stirred-up air of any kind a health hazard.