It was Father who found her. Father, who so rarely lost his temper, was in a terrible fury that day. When he had cooled down a bit, he came and spoke to me.
‘Try to be kind to her, Maya. You’re old enough to understand. She’ll need a friend when her mother starts working.’
The whispers and comments about Pramila Auntie going to work were so loud that even I knew about it.
‘What does she need the money for?’
‘It’s only an excuse to go out. To avoid working at home.’
‘Just a chance to deck herself in new saris.’
New saris? We had seen only one. Geeta and I surprised Sharu one day laying her cheek against her mother’s sari that was lying on a chair in the veranda, eyes closed, a blissful look on her face.
‘It’s so nice and smooth,’ she said, as if ashamed of being found that way.
‘It’s new,’ Geeta said suspiciously. ‘Why does your mother need new saris?’
‘To wear.’
‘But she’s a widow. Widows shouldn’t wear new saris.’
‘My mother is not a widow.’
‘What is she then?’
‘She’s my mother.’
Even I had to laugh at that, cruel, jeering laughter that finally brought the tears into those ridiculously large eyes. When we left her she had buried her face in her mother’s sari, sniffing at it with loud sniffs, like a dog.
But Sharu never bore anyone rancour for long. The very next day she came back to us, saying, ‘It’s my birthday next week. I’m having a party. You must all come.’
‘Party!’ the women exclaimed. ‘Is the woman mad? Her husband not dead a year and ….’
It was not really a party. Just all of us children in the house. And I was the only one with a present. That was Father’s doing. He had handed it to me, saying, ‘This is for Sharu.’
I gave it to her ungraciously enough. I never got any birthday presents myself, why should I give her one? But Sharu’s face shone with joy when I thrust it into her hands.
‘And look at my frock,’ she preened herself. ‘Jagdish Uncle sent it to me—from Bombay.’
The room had been cleaned up and a cluster of balloons hung from the light in the centre of the room. An old table was covered with a cloth and plates were laid out on it. Everything looked as if it had been bought from the shops. Our mouths watered, but we had to wait. Pramila Auntie served a plate and told Sharu, ‘Take this to your Grandfather.’
‘You also come, Mummy.’
As soon as they left, Gopal asked, ‘Anyone got a pin?’
‘Pin? What for?’
‘If you have one, give it here quick. Don’t talk.’
Mahesh had already pulled a chair into the centre of the room. When Gopal gave him the pin, I realized what they were doing.
‘No, Mahesh, no,’ I rushed at him, but Gopal held me fast. Sharu and her mother returned just as the boys replaced the chair.
‘Now we can eat,’ Sharu beamed. ‘Mummy….’
But Pramila Auntie was looking up at the limp deflated bits of rubber that hung in place of the balloons. Then she turned to us and at that look my knees turned to water. Sharu, following her mother’s eyes, saw the balloons and burst out, ‘Mummy, my balloons, what’s happened, Mummy …’
And then Grandmother came in. She so rarely came out of her room that it was an astonishing sight to see her out of that place and on her feet. She looked obscenely fat. And ugly as, panting, gasping, drooling, she began to scream at Pramila Auntie, words that were hard to understand. I could only make sense of some bits. ‘My son—you killed him—enjoying yourself ….’
Pramila Auntie stood still, Sharu clutching at her, saying nothing while Grandmother raved on. Until Grandmother, in a fresh spurt of anger, moved to Pramila Auntie, pointing to her face, screeching, ‘Take that off, why do you have that, take it off.’
It was only when I followed Grandmother’s pointing finger that I realized she was referring to Pramila Auntie’s kumkum, a small dot, as small as the one my mother started off with every morning, sitting at the mirror, her fingers moving round and round, until the small dot became a perfect large circle.
Grandmother moved closer to Pramila Auntie as if she was going to attack her and now Sharu began to cry—loud terrified sobs. But Pramila Auntie never moved. And it was the look on her face that made me run away from there. I was still in the garden when Father came to me.
‘Come and have your dinner, Maya,’ he said.
‘Father….’ I hesitated and went on, ‘did Pramila Auntie really kill Kumar Uncle?’
‘Who said that?’
‘Grandmother.’
‘Hmm. Kumar had something wrong with his kidneys. He died because of that.’
‘Then why did Grandmother say such a thing?’
He put on what we children called his ‘teacher’s look’, as if he was going to start a lesson. Then, as if he had changed his mind, the look disappeared and he asked me, ‘Why do you all trouble Sharu? Why did you leave her in the pit?’
‘But Grandmother is old. She isn’t playing games.’
‘Was that a game, what you did to Sharu?’
The next day Sharu came to me with a present. It was a necklace of tiny shells. ‘My mother bought it for me in Bombay. Isn’t it nice? You take it.’
‘Won’t your mother be angry if you give it to me?’
‘She never gets angry with me. And she said to give it to you.’
‘Pooh! It stinks.’ I couldn’t possibly show her how pleased I was, how much I liked it.
‘That’s the smell of the sea,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘When we go to Bombay you can come and stay with us and we’ll take you to the beach.’
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes, my mother says we’ll go back soon.’
In a few days the news ran through the house. Sharu and her mother were really going back to Bombay. But there was some disgrace tacked on to this; the women sat and gossiped about it in whispers. It was Gopal who, as usual, was the first among us to know about it.
‘Sharu’s mother is getting married.’
Sharu reacted as if she had been slapped. ‘My mother! Getting married! But she’s married. To my father.’
‘Ha! She’s getting married again and going away and nobody from this house is going to talk to her again, nobody is even going to see her face, no, not even yours if you go away with her ….’
‘It’s not true, it’s not true’. Sharu’s face was an ugly, blotchy red.
‘Of course it’s true. Everyone knows.’
‘You’re a liar ….’ Sharu threw herself on Gopal who contemptuously pushed her away. But she flung herself at him again and began to hit him, pummel him, anywhere, everywhere, with a ferocity I had never seen in her. It took two of us to drag her off. She stood panting, glaring at all of us.
‘Come on, let’s get away from here. Don’t talk to her, anyone.’
She followed us crying out, ‘It’s not true, I know it’s not true….’
We made our way to the small pond in the garden, which was full of weeds and overlaid with scum and sat there, turning our backs on her, but her voice came to us, pleading now, ‘I’am telling you it’s not true. My mother is married to my father. I’ve seen the photo, I promise you ….’
‘Ignore her,’ Mahesh whispered and obediently we stared stolidly at the algae-covered pond and at the frogs which sat so stoically still, as if waiting for something. Only I looked back once, foolishly, and there they were, those large trustful eyes, fixed pleadingly on me.
‘Maya, we’re friends, aren’t we? I gave you that necklace, didn’t I? I’m telling you, God promise, my mother isn’t getting married. We’re going to Bombay and you can come and stay with us and ….’
A peculiar strong aromatic smell came to my nose. It was from the lime leaves which I had crushed in my hand. Angrily I threw the leaves away, but my palms were stained a faint green and the smell still clung to them.
/> ‘Maya ….’
‘Ignore her.’
I picked up a stick and savagely butted at a frog that leapt up in one wild flailing movement, then sank back into the pond again.
I was surprised, when I came back from school one day, to find my mother in Pramila Auntie’s room. She came out at my call.
‘What were you doing there?’ I asked suspiciously, looking at her face which somehow looked different. Softer.
‘Helping Pramila to pack. They’re going today.’
Sharu came running when she saw me, wild with excitement.
‘We’re going to Bombay today. By the night train. And Grandfather has given me a present. And we’re going first class ….’
‘First class?’ That was Gopal. ‘Who gave you the money? Your new father?
‘New father?’
‘Hasn’t anyone told you? Everybody knows your mother is marrying Kumar Uncle’s friend Jagdish.’
‘Jagdish Uncle?’ Her eyes swivelled from face to face, resting for a while on mine, ‘She’s not … my mother said … my mother said ….’ her voice trailed away.
Then, all of a sudden, she rushed away, her bare feet going slap slap on the ground. A few moments later the commotion began. Sharu ran out of their room screaming something, Pramila Auntie following her, crying out, ‘Sharu, Sharu.’
I could not recognize her—this could not be Pramila Auntie. By now the whole family was there and it became a crazy kind of scene with Sharu running about wildly, frantically clinging to anyone she could get hold of, shouting out, ‘I’m not coming,’ and sobbing loudly in a kind of terrified grief. And Pramila Auntie, her hair loose, flying about her face, her sari almost coming off, kept pulling, tugging at her, sobbing the same way Sharu was and saying, ‘Sharu, Sharu’ over and over again.
And then Grandmother hobbled in and Sharu flew to her and clung to her. Pramila Auntie tried to prise her off Grandmother’s legs, but Sharu resisted, kicking wildly at her mother. Grandmother was shrieking, everyone joined in to make a wild babble of sound, the shadows moved along the wall, Sharu’s screams became louder and Pramila Auntie was now just panting loudly…. I could take it no longer. I turned to flee and collided with Father.
‘Father,’ I cried in relief but he did not even see me.
‘Let her go,’ he thundered and to my astonishment Grandmother loosened her hold on Sharu. Father put an arm about her, picked her up as if she was a baby and took her away. Pramila Auntie, her face suddenly blank, looked around at all of us as if she had never seen us before and went out, stumbling, groping like a blind woman.
I was sitting at my books when Father came in.
‘Studying?’ he asked me.
I shook my head, keeping my face down. I didn’t want anyone to see I had been crying.
‘Would you like to come to the station to see Sharu off? I’m just going to get a taxi.’
‘They’re going?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sharu also?’
‘Yes, she too. Want to come?’
I shook my head. But I was standing there, on the veranda, when the taxi came. Sharu came out tugging a bag behind her. Pramila Auntie tried to take it from her, but Sharu ignored her and shuffled along with her bag. Pramila Auntie stood still for a moment and her face was like Sharu’s the day we had all turned our backs on her at the pond. But in a moment she straightened up and followed Sharu, erect as ever.
When Father returned, Mother asked him, ‘Did they get off all right?’ He nodded. ‘The child?’
‘Yes, she went quietly.’
I could no longer control myself. I burst into sudden tears. Father patted me comfortingly saying, ‘Maya, they’ll be all right, they’ll manage.’
But it was my mother who wiped my face and held me close. I felt her face, wet, against mine and knew she was crying too. And somehow there was more comfort in that.
‘Hear me Sanjaya…’
shall we sit down here, Sanjay? Just for a while? I know you are anxious about your king, I know you want to get back to him, but I need to rest. Not for long, just for a while. And shall I say something to you, Sanjay? There is no need to be anxious about the king any more. Have you not seen how different he seems ever since Gandhari uncovered her eyes? He seems at peace with himself, as if an ancient wrong has been righted. She should have done it long back. What use was it blinding herself? Oh, these futile vows! I sometimes think they’re just a cover for the wilfulness of self-willed people. Look at Bhishma! Do you remember those two queens, our mothers-in-law, Gandhari’s and mine … no, how can you? I forget sometimes how young you are. You seem to have been with us always. Why, even I can scarcely remember how they looked. They so rarely spoke, except to each other and that in whispers, and moved about so little and so silently it was hard to remember they were there. But later, when I went back to the palace, they began to haunt me. As if the walls had absorbed their whispers, I could feel them about me. And it was then that I learnt their story—and of the third sister no one ever spoke of, of how and why she died.
But why am I talking of those poor, long-dead women? Oh yes, vows, that’s right, I was speaking of vows. You known Sanjaya, sometimes I think—if only Bhishma had given up his vow, if he had had children of his own, then perhaps these three sisters would have lived normal happy lives—who knows?
Let it go, I know I shouldn’t think this way of someone we revered so much. But what can you do to the mind, Sanjay? I can see it makes you uneasy too to hear me speak this way. Or, are you impatient? Don’t be in a hurry, Sanjaya, let us leave the king and my sister to themselves for a while. They will have much to talk. You don’t seem pleased? Are you sorry, does it hurt you to let her become his eyes after you have played that role for so long? I know how you feel. I felt that way too, when my sons let go of my hand and began to walk, to run. But never mind, Sanjaya, he will still need your eyes. The world you gave him is the world he is familiar with. I wonder, yes I really wonder, if he can be comfortable with Gandhari’s world. At our age we don’t like change. You are smiling. I know what you think. We have changed our lives ourselves by coming here away from the palace—that’s what you’re thinking of, aren’t you? But this is not change, my son. We are walking the same road we have done all these years. We have only gone on ahead, much further ahead, that’s all.
No, Sanjaya, I don’t think I want to sit here after all; let us go somewhere else. I don’t like to be so close to the river. The sound of the river makes me uneasy, it fills me with strange thoughts. Shall we walk on? Does it tire you to listen to my talk? I don’t know why I am speaking so much today. But, maybe it is restful for you to listen instead of to talk. Do you know I used to listen to you sometimes when you described the war to the king? My ears thirsted for news then, Oh how my heart hungered for good news. But I wanted the truth—that was why I used to listen to your account. Sanjaya will speak the truth, I used to think, he will not exaggerate. But you did bend the truth—yes, a little—sometimes, didn’t you? Your face told me when you did that. The king could not see it and so he never guessed. But I knew. No, no, don’t feel ashamed, Sanjaya, we all do it, we all did it, specially during the war ….
Why am I speaking of the war? We never speak of it, have you noticed? Not a word, no, neither about the living nor about the dead. It’s as if it had never happened. But sometimes, at night, I hear the king moaning, I hear him muttering the names of his sons. Gandhari hears him too, I know she is awake though she does not stir. And in the morning when we wake up, we wipe out the knowledge from our minds. Wholly. Nothing happened. Nothing. We are here, three old people and one young man—that’s all. Why are you smiling? Because I called you young? But to me you are young. I always think of you as that splendid young man I saw in charge of the king’s chariot. You seemed then like Surya’s charioteer. Shining and radiant. Yes, yes, I mean it, that was how you looked. Truly.
But that’s all over. Tell me, Sanjaya, do you have regrets about having left all
that behind? Tell me, honestly, are you happy here? No, no, I think I shouldn’t ask you this question. I know the answer. Mother, Yudhishthira said to me, I can’t bear to think of the three of you living here like this. Like what? He thinks we are suffering. But we are not. We are free. You feel it too, don’t you? There’s something here that wipes away everything that is not true, not necessary. And even Gandhari—now she knows what I meant when I said my children needed no pity because they were in the forest. She thought me proud. Proud! Perhaps I am a proud woman, but it’s true that I never felt sorry for my children when they were in the forest—away from walls, from servants, spies and scheming sycophants. I knew that freedom too when my children and I wandered in the forests. There was danger, sometimes there was fear, but they were young and they laughed and played and enjoyed the adventure. There was an earlier time too, wasn’t there, before the children were born, when I lived in the forest? Yes, that was with my husband and Madri—that was different, very different.
Why do I suddenly remember them? I have not thought of them for a long time. For years, for ages. They seem to be people I knew in some past life, not part of this one at all. And yet there was a time when I used to brood over them, every minute of the day. Do you know how unfair life is to a woman who does not have beauty, Sanjaya? The day they brought Madri home I knew I was not beautiful. Until then I had not known it, perhaps I had not thought about it all. But after that, every day, every moment of every day ….
No, I won’t think of it. It was so long ago and what profit is there in reviving old bitterness? But I can still remember how threatened I felt by her two sons. It seems strange now, doesn’t it? Those two, her sons? They are more my sons than my own. Take my sons, look after them, she said. And I was angry. She’s escaping, I thought, she’s taking away all the glory, leaving the struggle, the drudgery for me. But she was right to go. He needed her more, even in that other world he would have pined for her. I remember sometimes I used to listen to them talking; he had so many pet names for her, so many endearments. For me, there was only one name. You look away. Do you feel awkward listening to me talking of these things? I won’t go on. And why should I burn up thinking of all that now. Sometimes I think when they died I died too and a new woman was born. I had to become, yes, a charioteer. I know how you feel, Sanjaya, I know how it is when you drive a chariot, the impatience, the pride, the confidence, the feeling of being in control, the fear of losing it ….
The Intrusion and Other Stories Page 14