Of Marriageable Age

by Sharon Maas

  Yet still, Nat knew that for the people his father was God, and he knew they were different. It wasn't just that their skin was not black and that they were tall and strong. Look at the house they lived in: it was bigger than all the other houses in the village, and so much better, a flat-roofed brick house in a garden at the edge of the village, painted white and with a thatched-roof verandah all around it. The house had two rooms, a small kitchen and a bathroom. The smaller room was where his father treated his patients, who would be there long before dawn, squatting in the dust on the road outside the gate and patiently awaiting their turn. Father and son slept in the bigger of the two rooms, which contained the two sharpais, a wooden cupboard where they kept their clothes, the fridge which was half-full of medicines, and a low wooden desk with a lid that clapped up, where Nat's father wrote his letters and did his business, sitting cross-legged on the mat-covered floor before it.

  The room had several windows, arranged in threes one above the other around the room, with wooden shutters which folded inwards so you could open them to let in the breeze or close them to keep out the cold in winter. When all the windows were open it was almost like living outside, for the windows started low down in the walls and ended close to the ceiling. They had iron bars to keep out thieves and wire mesh to keep out mosquitoes and monkeys. If the monkeys came in they would wreck the room, Nat's father said. They would steal all the bananas and empty all the jars of rice or sugar or flour on the floor, and they'd open the fridge and dash the medicine bottles to the ground.

  The monkeys came in big groups led by a huge monkey-king the children called Ravana, who would crouch up in the mango tree near Nat's house and glower down at the village, baring his teeth and hissing, jerking his head back and forth if anyone came too near. The other monkeys, his wives, would arrange themselves on the branches behind Ravana. Some of them had babies clinging to their tummies, and some of the babies sat beside their mothers on the branches or played together just like real children.

  If there was no-one about, if the children were at school or helping their parents in the fields and the men were at work and the mothers were at the well fetching water, the monkeys would attack. They'd all of a sudden swarm down from the tree and go through the village, looking for open doors and windows or a small child alone with a banana in its hand. There was never much to eat in the houses, so in their rage they'd wreck whatever could be wrecked and that poor child would scream in terror when Ravana or one of his wives grabbed the banana out of its hand, and the mother would run out of her home shouting and throwing stones, and gather the screaming child in her arms. So it was up to the boys to keep the monkeys away.

  One of the first things Nat learned when he came to the village was to use a sling-shot, and now he was six he could hit whatever he wanted, moving targets and tiny ones, and a monkey-wife up in the branches of the mango tree. He'd never aimed at Ravana yet, because if Ravana saw one of the smaller boys picking up a stone for his sling-shot he'd very likely attack that boy, jump on him and scratch and bite, so Ravana was reserved for the big boys. If all the boys attacked at once, charged through the village towards the mango tree brandishing their sling-shots, if they all stood beneath the tree yelling their battle-cries, if they all fired their stones at the monkeys while shouting and kept up that fire and showed the monkeys who was stronger, then Ravana would give the command and lead his troop away, which meant crossing a stretch of field where there were no trees at full pelt, with all the village boys tearing behind them, firing their stones and yelling. But the monkeys were faster, and would reach the grove at the other side of the field, lose themselves up in those branches, and disappear. But sooner or later they'd be back.

  Nat and his father slept on sharpais and had mats on the floor, which was made of stone. The other people lived in huts built of mud; they used watered-down cow-dung to plaster the walls and the floors to keep them clean, and had no doors and windows, only doorways and little holes in the walls so that inside all was dark, and they slept and lived on the dried-mud floors.

  Nat and his father had long wires which came on high poles from Town all the way to the house, bringing light to the bulbs and making the fridge work, and they had gas bottles under their stove so all you had to do was turn a switch and light a match and you could cook. The other villagers had to gather dried wood and dung and make dung cakes for fuel before they could cook. They dressed in rags and even though they washed their clothes often at the water tank, pounding them against a stone to beat out the dirt, somehow they never really looked clean. Whereas Doctor and Nat never had to wash their own clothes. Once a week a dhobi came to take away their dirty laundry and brought it back in a bundle, freshly washed, ironed and folded, smelling sweet from the Surf powder supplied by the doctor.

  But the main difference between Nat and the other children was one he wished didn't exist. The other children went to the village school, if they went to school at all; which most of them didn't, especially not the girls. Nat went to school in Town. Every morning Pandu would come in his rickshaw, and Nat would take down his bag from the nail in the room and get in the rickshaw, and Pandu would drive him into Town to the Government Primary English Medium school where he learned to read and write English as well as Tamil and a bit of Hindi.

  Nat was the only child from the whole village who went to this special school, which Nat thought was unfair, but which his father said was a privilege. The other children looked after goats and cows and babies or went out to gather dung or dried sticks for fuel or cut down branches of the little trees the Reforestation Agency had planted, or fetched water or planted rice or picked peanuts. And even if they did go to school Teacher came sometimes and sometimes he didn't, and the children didn't learn much. So Nat's father made him go to Town every morning with Pandu. Which was unfair.

  When Nat came to live with his father he noticed the photograph of a lady hanging on the wall above his father's sharpai. It was a large photograph, almost life-size, showing just the lady's head and shoulders. The lady was so beautiful, Nat stared at her for a long time, looking into her soft, gentle smiling eyes, dark and shining, that seemed to say so much. The lady was his father's wife, and she was dead. She was not a memsahib but an Indian lady, because her skin was dark, even darker than Nat's, and she had a tika in the middle of her forehead, and wore a sari crossed over and covering one shoulder. If Nat could have just one more wish come true then it would be that this lady could be his mother, that she would not have died but would be living there with them, in that little house, cooking for him like the other mothers did and pressing him to her soft bosom, rubbing him down with oil till his skin glistened and telling him stories sitting in the cool of the verandah with him in her lap. But then again, if she had lived Nat would probably not have come to live with his father, for the lady would have had children of her own and Nat's father would not have had to go to that place to choose Nat. So Nat always reminded himself how lucky he was to have been chosen at all, and not think too much about the lady and what it would be like to have a mother who loved him and looked after him. He had a father; and that alone was an answer to a prayer.

  The woman and the boy had breakfast with Doctor and Nat. The village was alive with sound; you couldn't see anything because of the high walls of cascading bougainvillea, pink, orange, and wild purple surrounding their house, but you could hear the clanging of the metal vessels, the swishing of coconut brooms, the splashing of water as the mothers sprinkled it outside their huts so that the girls could draw the wonderful kolam pictures in the damp earth before their doors, their wrists twirling and swirling to let the chalk powder flow out.

  Pandu's youngest daughter Radha, who was thirteen, came over every morning to draw a kolam for them, and it was important to have one because it gave you good thoughts before you entered the house or left it. Doctor gave Radha one rupee every day for drawing the kolam, which she would accept between the palms of her hands and raise to her forehead in thanks
before turning to run home and help her mother cook.

  Radha did not go to school. She would be getting married in a year or two, Pandu hoped, and they were worried about the dowry, because husbands were very troublesome when it came to dowries. It had been bad enough with Pandu's elder daughter who married last year. The first boy who had offered to marry her had wanted a motorbike as dowry but of course Pandu had not been able to afford that so it hadn't worked out. The next boy had wanted a wrist-watch, but that too was too expensive. Finally they found a boy who had been content with a nylon shirt from Town, and the wedding had taken place, but now Radha's turn was coming up and Pandu never talked of anything else when he spoke with Doctor.

  Ever since the trouble with Pandu’s elder daughter (who, to make matters worse, was not beautiful) Doctor had presented to every family at the birth of a daughter a teak sapling, which the family could plant in Doctor's field behind the house and tend while the girl grew. When she was of marriageable age it would be a big teak tree which the family could sell for a lakh of rupees and so acquire a good husband for the girl. It wasn't a solution, Doctor said, but at least it got the girls good husbands and you could only hope the husbands wouldn't spend the money on drink and beat the wives.

  Radha reappeared now with a tiffin carrier filled with upma, which was to be their breakfast today, prepared by Pandu's wife Vasantha. Doctor had sent an early morning message that they had guests, so Vasantha had cooked enough for everyone, and the woman and the boy ate with great appetite. When they were finished Pandu himself and his son Anand were already standing at the gate, waiting, Pandu with his rickshaw to take Nat to school in Town, and Anand to take the woman home on the motorbike.

  Nat's father was training Anand as an assistant. Sometimes Anand worked with the patients and sometimes he ran errands on the motorbike, because Pandu worked in Town during the daytime so Anand would fetch medicines or take patients to hospital or, in certain cases like this woman, take them home if Doctor didn't think they should walk. So Anand took the woman home to her village with the dead infant in her arms and the little boy between them, which meant that Doctor would have no assistant in the clinic that morning. Which was not good, because already four people were squatting in the dust outside the gate, waiting for the clinic to open.

  And that was the reason Nat had to go to school in Town instead of the village. Nat's father wanted him to get something he called a Good Education; Nat didn't know what that was, but he did know it meant he had to go to the English Medium school in Town, that one day he would have to leave his father and go far away across the seas, and one day he would be a doctor like his father, and help in the clinic. But that was a long, long way away.

  He remembered this particular morning so well, the morning the woman with the dead baby had breakfast with them, because just after the woman and the dead baby and the boy left with Anand, just as he was about to get in the rickshaw behind Pandu, another rickshaw drew up, a new yellow rickshaw, and a tall man in very clean black trousers and a shiny white long-sleeved shirt stepped out, and that was his Gopal Uncle, though he didn't know it yet.

  When his father saw the man he said, 'Gopal!' and the man laughed heartily and almost ran into his father's open arms, saying, 'Oh friend, my dear friend, I am very happy to see you again!'

  Nat stood staring, because he had never seen his father greet or be greeted by anyone this way before. His father, as far as he knew, had no friends, no real friends the way he, Nat, had. The people in the village worshipped his father, which meant they could not be friends with him. And, whereas his father spoke Tamil with the people in the village, he spoke English with Gopal. English was their own very private world which no-one else could enter, not even Anand, although Anand understood some English words. But now this strange man in the sparkling white clothes who had come in a rickshaw, he was allowed to enter this private little English world.

  The man his father called Gopal now turned to Nat with very interested, eager eyes, and said, 'And you are Nataraj!' Which greatly surprised Nat, because how did the man know his name, just like that? And then the man stretched out his hand and pinched Nat's cheek, squeezing a slab of skin with his fingers and wiggling it. It hurt Nat so much he decided not to like this man. But he was curious so he hoped his father would keep him home from school today so he could find out more about him, but just as he thought that his father said, 'Nat, what are you waiting for? Off to school, or Teacher will be cross! Gopal Uncle will be here when you get back ... won't you? I see you've brought a valise with you?'

  'Yes, yes, I was hoping I could stay ... I brought some garments with me ... and a present for Nataraj .. .' He reached into the rickshaw he'd come in and took out a shiny black suitcase, and as Nataraj settled into Pandu's rickshaw he heard his father say, 'But how on earth did you find me, old chap? I say, I heard you'd .. .'

  Nat couldn't hear any more, because Pandu had mounted the cycle and was pedalling off down the dusty road. He kneeled on the seat and rested his arms on the folded-back hood of the rickshaw, and looking back he saw his father leaning down to speak to the first patient, and reaching out to help the old man to his feet. Gopal Uncle stood at the side of the road, the shiny valise in his hand, watching his father help the old man hobble into the clinic, and there was a dark look on Gopal Uncle's face that struck a cold clammy fear into Nat's heart.

  5

  Chapter Five

  Saroj

  Georgetown, 1964

  When Saroj turned thirteen Baba threw her the gauntlet that would develop into the battle of her life, the battle for her life. It happened at the breakfast table.

  'I have found a husband for Sarojini,' he said, as casually as if declaring he would be late in from work tonight as he had an important meeting to attend. Saroj's spoon of Weetabix-and-milk froze in mid-air, the open mouth waiting for the spoon now a jaw-dropped gaping hole of shock.

  Baba's long, thin hands complacently stroked marmalade on buttered toast. He cut the toast into little orange-yellow-white squares and lifted them to his lips with an almost feminine delicacy. His fingers moved with a deft spidery lightness; Saroj imagined them spinning a web. Creepy. She shuddered and looked away, waiting for what was to come.

  Everyone was waiting, but Baba took his time. Ma looked at Saroj, raising her eyebrows slightly so that the round red tika between them bobbed. Saroj turned her eyes to Ganesh, who in turn was looking at Baba, who, assured of everyone's attention, finally continued. 'After all, she will soon be of marriageable age. I have been making the necessary enquiries.'

  By now all eyes were fixed on Baba except Indrani's, who was primly buttering her toast with an expression of studied nonchalance. She, of course, could afford to be blasé. She already had her prospective husband chosen and waiting, and a very good match it was too, everyone said, and only last week her wedding-sari had arrived, all the way from India, halfway round the world, sent by one of Baba's distant Bengali relatives whom none of them had ever met, including Baba.

  Baba looked around, gathering his family into the tent of his authority, straightening his back for the next phase of his announcement.

  'I have selected the Ghosh boy.'

  Even Indrani, now, raised her eyes. Baba waited.

  'The Ghosh family,' he prompted when no-one commented, no-one gasped, no-one clapped, no-one fainted. 'Ghosh of Ghosh Brothers Dry Goods on Regent Street. Mrs Ghosh is married to Narain's second cousin and they have a boy of the correct age.'

  Mr Narain, a proven half-Brahmin, was Baba's law partner — Narain and Roy of Robb Street, Georgetown's second most prestigious law firm, which meant that any relative of Narain had to be suitable for Baba's children, and vice-versa. Narain himself had only daughters, a fact they all knew well because Baba lamented it so many times. Two Narain sons for the two Roy daughters would have been perfect. As it was, Narain's youngest girl was planned for Ganesh and they'd all grown up with this knowledge, but only Saroj knew that this particular marri
age was possible only over somebody's dead body: Narain's daughter. Ganesh planned to murder that Narain girl and Saroj still wasn't absolutely sure he wasn't joking. She, of course, worshipped Ganesh. Every word he said was scripture, and at twelve — thirteen — all things seemed possible.

  'Mr Ghosh is of pure Brahmin family. Second generation Calcutta,' Baba proclaimed triumphantly. Still the family did not break out in cheers.

  'The Ghosh family? Where do they live?' Ma frowned and looked enquiringly at Baba, and while their parents exchanged words Ganesh leaned over and whispered in Saroj's ear, 'Oh, Ghosh!' and rolled his eyes.

  She spluttered and almost choked on her tea. But Ma and Baba hadn't noticed so she whispered back behind a cupped hand, 'Will you help me murder him?'

  'By slow strangulation.'

  'Where will we hide the body?'

  'Bodies. We'll make it a double murder . . . the Ghosh boy and the Narain girl.'

  'We'll pickle their eyes and . . .'

  'What was that, Sarojini?' Saroj jumped guiltily and met Baba's eyes, piercing and threatening — blood-curdling, she thought to herself, and shivered. I'd rather kill you, Baba, and that's no joke.

  'Nothing, Baba.' She demurely turned her eyes down to her Weetabix, cut off a corner and spooned it into her mouth, trying to ignore Ganesh, who was pinching her thigh. He leaned forward for the teapot, conveniently upsetting Indrani's milk all over her frock. Indrani's yelp of annoyance and the accompanying hullaballoo covered his surreptitious whisper, delivered in a tone full of deep portent: 'I shall be making the necessary investigations.' He rolled his eyes again.

  About a million people came to the birthday party that afternoon. They were all extended-family Roys and came not for the birthday girl's sake but for Ma's samosas, which were legendary, and for gossip. By that time news about the Ghosh boy was out on the grapevine. Every time some auntie grabbed Saroj to plaster her cheek with birthday kisses and press a gift into her hand squealing, 'So how's the birthday girl?' she knew by the gleam in her eyes that auntie was just bursting with the news, and dying to move on to exchange notes with the next auntie. Do you know him? His mother? My husband's brother’s second cousin twice removed is married to his father's niece . . . and so on. They'd been through that before with Indrani. They wouldn't mention him to her, of course, it wouldn't be proper, but she could see the fluster in those excited knots of aunties and divine the topic from the tell-tale rustle of polyester saris as they huddled together.