Someone Else's Garden

by Dipika Rai

  This is what confuses Mamta the most. City time. Magnificently elastic, making everything easy. How long did it take her to cook a meal in the village? Sometimes as much as two hours. How long did it take to eat the food in the village? Ten minutes. Here Mrs D’Souza spends at least as much time eating her food as she does preparing it.

  The mango must be in fruit in Gopalpur. Tell Prem and Mohit to leave some on the trees for me for when I return.

  In this city everything is sold as powder: sugar, salt, spices, everything. You can’t imagine how quickly I can cook a meal. And there are buckets too, light and airy, in any colour you could want.

  ‘Surely your mother won’t be interested in this useless information?’

  ‘This isn’t useless information, Cynthiaji, my amma will be stunned. Such things as powdered sugar or salt, or buckets made of plastic would change her life. The clay pots we carry from the well are so heavy. Imagine if we had two plastic buckets instead! Oh, and I mustn’t forget the ice. Tell her I’ve tasted ice. And tell her about taps . . .’ Cynthia moves her pen across the blue paper of the inland letter form, writing about ice and taps.

  I promise I’ll send you a bucket with someone going to Gopalpur. And I ride about on a bright blue bus all day. I am sure Jivkant caught just such a bus to the city.

  ‘Should I tell her about the movie? Or do you think she’ll think me wasteful?’

  ‘Wasteful?’

  ‘We don’t have a cinema in Gopalpur,’ says Mamta, picturing the Rivoli cinema cum auditorium with its cake-decoration plaster, small balconies that stick out like bad teeth and red velvet chairs.

  ‘No cinema? I couldn’t do without the cinema.’

  The movie at Rivoli had started with a drum roll. Then the elegant red curtain, moulded in beautiful loops, began its slow journey into the ceiling. Mamta had never sweated so much with anticipation, not even on her wedding night. ‘Hai, what a movie!’

  ‘Hindi movies are so unrealistic. What nonsense, showing all those flocks of birds flying into the skies or roses opening to dewdrops or lovely mountain scenery to mean that the hero is kissing the heroine. As if people really dance and sing when they are in love . . . and that too only in snowy hill stations! In English movies they show all that stuff . . .’ Cynthia drops her voice. ‘And in A movies they show even more . . .’

  ‘Cynthiaji, it was such a great movie, I can’t tell you.’ Even now the memory is just too sweet, something akin to a first secret love. The hero’s brooding eyes had caught her off-guard, she didn’t know it was possible to become infatuated so thoroughly. She’d lined up to use the Rivoli WC during the interval, climbing up to squat on the Bakelite seat of a ceramic commode for the first time. The patriotic film had ended with the national anthem, and she’d stood still with the rest of the audience, sharing in the great sound, her heart bursting with pride for the flag fluttering on the big screen.

  The folks from the delicate curved balconies of Rivoli got to leave first, their velvet chairs closing upon themselves with synchronised sounds like so many soft slaps on cheeks. Then it was the turn of the ones from the Lower Seating Middle Row, and finally her turn, seated in the Lower Seating Front Row. She was felt up by at least two men before she broke out into the starry night, but all in all it had been worth it.

  ‘I could see a movie every day,’ says Cynthia.

  So could I. ‘No, let’s not write about the movie; Amma will think only of the money I spent on the ticket. Let’s tell her about the dispensary instead.’

  And there is a free dispensary. Yes, here it is really free and they give out forms for storing your money in a post office. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. I have started saving my money now, and who knows I may even have enough some day to buy my own piece of land. Intuitively, Mamta is a saver.

  ‘Actually, don’t write that. Cut it out,’ she says, afraid of the words which go against every grain of Gopalpur society. But Cynthia is not about to be deterred in her task. Now at last this is a piece of information worthy of appearing in a letter. She pretends to cross out the words.

  My mistress is very kind. I also have a good friend, her name is Baby. I’ll write more next time when I am sure you are receiving my letters.

  Your loving Cynthia D’Souza

  It was Nathu’s daughter who first brought her the news at the well. ‘Come quick, Lala is looking for you,’ she said. Lata Bai didn’t look up from her pitcher out of respect for Lala Ram’s wife, taking no notice of the vulgar woman with the big dangly breasts who openly flaunted her status as Lala Ram’s mistress.

  ‘Lata Bai, don’t act so coy, it’s a money order. But of course if you don’t want to pick it up, I can tell Lala to send it back to the city.’

  Lata Bai hurried to Saraswati Stores in the rain to claim her good news, her empty pitcher banging against her legs without slowing her down. Lala Ram pulled out an official-looking piece of paper streaked with carbon marks from a purse dangling close to his heart like a necklace. ‘From Begumpet,’ he said, handing it to her.

  In her confusion, she asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘From the city. Begumpet.’ Then he peered at it to try to read the name: ‘Chinta. D-Susa. Who’s Chinta?’

  ‘Give it here –’ She plucked the money order from his hands before he could read another word.

  ‘The post comes twice a week. Cash it with the postman on Monday, that’s two days from now in the afternoon.’ He enunciated his words very carefully and shouted them at Lata Bai, explaining to her as if she was a deaf mute who had to lip-read. ‘Chinta D-Susa. I wish we all had a Chinta D-Susa in our lives.’

  ‘I knew it. I knew he would send us money,’ she said, crediting the money order automatically to Jivkant. ‘I knew he wouldn’t let us down.’ She hurried away, clutching the money order inside her blouse. That was its destiny, to move from one heart-space to another.

  For two days that piece of paper tucked between her breasts has heard her beating heart. Inside her there is the certainty that the money order is not from Jivkant. He would have put his own name down had he sent her anything. Who is this wonderful Chinta DSusa, Lakshmi incarnate, someone who has showered her with good fortune? She rolls the name Chinta D-Susa around on her tongue, trying to get used to its awkward sound: Chinta D-Susa. Thank you, Devi. Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho.

  She almost can’t stand the wait. How much money is in that paper? She looks at the money order, hoping to find something in the letters that might set her at rest, but she can’t make anything of the symbols. From the numbers she can tell that there is a fifteen involved and a two joined together with a four. One of the numbers is the date, the other the amount Mamta sent to her mother. It is when she cashes the money order that she knows which one is which.

  The postman pays her in dirty ten-rupee notes and one-rupee coins, the denominations he has the most use for in his job. He keeps five rupees for himself, both as a fee for his part in the deal and as a gift to himself in acknowledgement of Lata Bai’s good fortune. Then he says, ‘I have something else here,’ holding out a letter. He reads it only when she parts with another two rupees.

  My Beloved Lata Bai, Namaste,

  I am writing to you from Begumpet city. I have sent you one hundred and fifty rupees by money order. I will send you more whenever I can. I hope Shanti is well. I still have the lock of hair we cut from her head together . . .

  She still remembers cutting her baby’s hair. How could this Chinta D-Susa person know about Shanti’s hair? She’d cut off a lock and pressed it into Mamta’s hand before her wedding. So what has Chinta D-Susa got to do with it?

  The postman reads on: . . . I hope Sneha is well and so are Prem and Mohit. What news of Ragini? I have a good job and a good memsahib . . .

  Sneha . . . Prem . . . Mohit . . . Ragini? This Chinta D-Susa seems to know all about her family and her household. She misses the rest of the words. Suddenly the puzzle is solved. She breathes in sharply. Chinta D-Susa – Mamta? Mamta – Chint
a D-Susa? Not from Jivkant, or from some mysterious Lakshmi named Chinta D-Susa, but her own Mamta? Mamta in the city? Has the family moved to the city? Why is Mamta using another name now? She has been without Mamta’s voice for so long that she finds herself almost answering her daughter’s questions aloud in the postman’s presence. Oh, what shall I tell you about Sneha? Poor skinny Sneha, with no offers of marriage. And Mohit? He’s gone away too. ‘Read on, Bhaia, read on,’ she says.

  . . . there is a lot of food to eat. It may be getting to summer, but you can still buy peas and spinach, squash and cauliflower in the shops. This place recognises no seasons. I am still eating apples and oranges in summer, can you imagine?

  The mango must be in fruit in Gopalpur. Tell Prem and Mohit to leave some on the trees for me for when I return.

  In this city everything is sold as powder: sugar, salt, spices . . . I have started saving my money now, and who knows I may even have enough some day to buy my own piece of land.

  ‘This is from a girl no? Look at what she says. Might even buy some land. Buy some land, indeed! Where do you find these people, Lata Bai, their ideas too big for their own good? If she was from around here, there would be no saving, the money would be going where it belonged, to her husband, so he could buy them a piece of land. I am a postman, and I’ve never heard of money being stored in a post office – and I would know.’

  ‘Read on, Postmanji, let us see what other silliness she has to share with us.’ Outwardly Lata Bai mocks the letter, but inwardly she shudders.

  My mistress is very kind. I also have a good friend, her name is Baby. I’ll write more next time when I am sure you are receiving my letters.

  Your loving, Cynthia D’Souza

  The postman looks at Lata Bai, wringing his upper lip. ‘You sure this letter is for you? Let me see –’

  This time she plucks the letter right out of his hands, ‘It’s for me, all right,’ she says.

  The postman snatches the letter back. Clearly it is a valuable document, linked to the money orders, could be something more in it for him yet. ‘Let me see the address. You’re right, it is for you. But Chinta D-Susa, who is she? From Begumpet? Your daughter?’

  ‘My friend’s daughter.’

  The up-down movement of his eyebrows tells her he doesn’t believe her one bit. ‘Tell her what I said about storing her money in a post office.’

  Lata Bai’s confusion has no answers, but it is quelled by the relief of the money. She doesn’t dare ask her daughter what she is doing in the city. Too many questions can lead to far too painful a truth. Instead, she rationalises that at least Mamta’s letters are cheerful. Some puzzles are just not meant to be solved.

  Lata Bai has been very careful not to show any sign of Mamta’s money to Seeta Ram. Outwardly her life goes on as before, but she is daring to dream some dreams. Already big plans are forming in her head, plans for Prem’s education, for embroidery needles and thread for Sneha, for Mohit’s apprenticeship with the jaggery-maker when he returns home, and pickling jars for herself. In the meanwhile, the notes lie safe, stitched into her blanket.

  She is looking forward to many long letters from her daughter, filled with stories of city life, stories such as she’s never heard before, stories that some day she might repeat to Kamla and others, stories that will set her free. In the meantime, she waits for the anvil to drop because she knows that the money must be paid for. Nothing is free, this much Lata Bai can guarantee.

  But must it be Shanti who pays for her good fortune?

  What should she do with Shanti? Oh, Mamta, what should I do about Shanti? Oh, Devi, what should I do about Shanti?

  Always able to stretch a meal, or a rupee into a concept, she knows with the calculated accuracy of one who has done the arithmetic over and over again that it may not be possible to save her baby daughter. What if she were to give her more food? Even then she wouldn’t last. The free mobile government clinic that parks at the Big House to no fixed timetable isn’t free like Mamta’s city clinic. The clerk has to be bribed to dispense medicines. She’s already been to Asmara Didi who’d thrown up her hands in defeat. ‘I would help if I could, anything for Prem’s sister, but she was born sickly. Her insides are rotting. Only Devi can save her.’ But Lata Bai can’t let it be entirely up to Devi.

  Each time Shanti gasps, Lata Bai tries to console herself with thoughts of the next life, but this life keeps tugging for attention.

  ‘Where have you come from? What is your name? Who are you?’ She repeats the mantra in her daughter’s ear. She’d forgotten to do that in her birth pain, and now Shanti is being dragged away from her bit by bit every day.

  ‘Where have you come from? What is your name? Who are you? Don’t go, don’t leave.

  ‘You are Veda Asi,’ the mother whispers her daughter’s eternal name into her ear. ‘Veda Asi, immortal knowledge. Your earthly, passing name is Shanti, but you will be forever Veda Asi.

  ‘Shanti, relinquish your past life, come into this one.’ A dying child is a sure sign that it remembers its past life and yearns to go back to it, passing through the twilight of death as it does. Did Shanti ever have any peace in this life? ‘Forgive me, Shanti, forgive your mother.’

  She discards all her plans for her healthy progeny and puts herself, heart and soul, into making Shanti better. Temples and extra food, Vedic verses and medicines, she does what is humanly possible and then has her endeavours underwritten by religious rites. But the child’s heart isn’t in it, and by the time the third money order arrives, Shanti is dead.

  Lata Bai looks with disbelief at the body of her toddler slowly turning blue in her arms. A long low cat-moan comes out of her mouth and she can hardly breathe. She rocks to and fro like she did when Shanti suckled at her breast, smoothing her hair and singing to her softly. Kamla rushes over when Sneha brings her the news. But Lata Bai refuses to be consoled.

  Grief in these parts is usually a private thing, especially for a baby girl. Her husband would never sanction the time for a fuss over the death of Shanti, a burden, someone else’s garden. Lata Bai swallows her sorrow which swells in her belly like a growing embryo. She absents herself from life, and takes on the burden of guilt for the premature death of her daughter. How did she allow her fugitive emotion to take such a grip over her heart? How, when girls are supposed to be dispensable, did Devi dare to make her feel this much? For the first time she is realising that, indeed, the god-energy that governs her psyche is a female one. Devi isn’t some distant goddess to be worshipped in an ancient derelict language, she is alive, and living in Lata Bai’s breast; it is she who brings the tears to her eyes, and it is she who whispers ‘I understand’ in her ear.

  She prays to Devi, propitiating each manifestation in turn. ‘Hey! Kali Mata, black goddess, destroyer of all evil, maker of new cosmic energy, all fear and obey you, even Yamraj bows before you. Accept my daughter Shanti and teach her the lessons of Eternity. Hey! Varahi Mata, shining goddess, giver of life, governess of the Universal Flux, no one but you understands the perfect cycle of life. Accept my daughter Shanti and teach her the lessons of Time. Hey, Aindri Mata, grace, wisdom and beauty are yours. Hold my daughter Shanti to your heart, take her one step closer to enlightenment, to live in that place that we call transitory heaven. Hey, Vaishnavi Mata, all sustenance, all perfection are mere reflections of your reflection. Accept my daughter in her manifestation as Shanti, promise her a better birth, bring her to the door of deliverance. Hey, Maheshvari Mata, cosmic order, infinity, you are the keeper of the cycle. Accept my daughter Shanti, let her realise her fate, free her from karma. Hey, Kumari Mata, mother of beauty and harmony. Accept my daughter Shanti, teach her to relinquish action. Hey, Lakshmi Mata, benevolent, giving mother. Accept my daughter Shanti, support her with your grace and strength as she searches for her true self inseparable from the Universal Soul. Hey, Ishvari Mata, mother of pure reflection. Accept my daughter Shanti, dispel every iota of ignorance that might hinder her journey to commune with
Truth. Hey, Brahmi Mata, mother of divine speech. Accept my daughter Shanti and let her realise the immutable sound that knows no duality. Let her find you, One and All, and be joined with you, One and All, for all eternity. Ohm. Ohm. Ohm.’

  The sages tell us that cosmic truths reveal themselves to us at certain times in our lives, the clearest revelation being at the time of death of a beloved. For a brief moment, holding her dead child in her arms, Lata Bai feels one with the universe.

  Now more than ever she wants to tell Mamta, but she won’t say a word about Shanti. Mamta is so far away, working so hard, what’s the use of breaking her heart too?

  My beloved Chinta D-Susa,

  Thank you for the money you are sending, I can’t tell you how much you have helped us. Mamta’s father is sick and it helps to pay for his medicines. Thank you. I hope you are looking after yourself. I want you to have a good life. Prem has a permanent job at the Big House now, and Lokend Bhai, our great zamindar’s son, is very kind to him. It is his responsibility to guard Daku Manmohan. Singh Sahib has moved him to a jail on his own property. At last Gopalpur is satisfied. At least that’s what the villagers say, but I think not. That man should see the inside of a real prison, but Prem says he is a good man. I suppose, with this wonderful luck that you have bestowed on me I should start looking for the good in every man. Thank you.

  The summer here is fine, and the mango is in fruit. I must start pickling soon, but there is no one to collect the mangoes or the tamarinds for me. We are hoping that the wind will be kind this time, I don’t know if Sneha and I can replace the roof by ourselves. That is if Sneha is still unmarried by the time the big wind comes.