Of Marriageable Age

by Sharon Maas

  Who knows what would have happened if the Roy clan had learned that Ma's hands could heal! No-one knew but her children. This was one art they kept within the family, as their own special secret; not through intention, but because they took it for granted. Ma's healing hands were a fact of life like the cool Atlantic breeze and the call of the kiskadee. No-one questioned it, and no-one talked about it, because they thought it was just what all mothers did.

  Ma seemed intent on erasing herself. With every passing year there seemed less of her. She nourished herself on silence. She emitted an undercurrent of stillness as fine as the ether, and might very well have ceased to exist if it were not for her children. Almost, it seemed, she was raising them against her husband, yet without uttering a word against him, without so much as a raised eyebrow of rebuke.

  Ma had wonderful talents, as Saroj was the first to concede, but she hadn't the resources to rescue her younger daughter from Baba and the fate he had chosen for her. Ma wasn't a fighter. Saroj would have to fight her own battles.

  And Ganesh was no ally. Up there in the tower on her thirteenth birthday, at the moment of her coming of age, Saroj gazed with sober, objective eyes on her brother biting into a samosa and looking into its belly as if the secret of all creation was to be found there. This beloved brother of hers lacked seriousness and zeal. He was his mother's son: not a fighter. He might struggle to create the perfect samosa, but for a greater struggle, for the life-or-death struggle facing Saroj, he was not equipped. And she was as unequipped as Ganesh — except in determination.

  A caged bird has nothing but the will to escape. In desperation it beats its wings and flings itself against the bars; for the cage's latch can only be opened from outside, and the bird's owner holds the key. And even if the bird escapes it may perish, having no knowledge of the world. Out there its innocence is its greatest enemy. But perhaps a passer-by will see that cage, and the bird within struggling to escape, and will bend the bars apart so that the bird can squeeze through. And the passer-by, now a friend, will show that bird the ways of the world so that finally it can fly alone.

  Saroj had not yet reckoned with Trixie Macintosh.

  8

  Chapter Eight

  Savitri

  Madras, 1921

  When the plants cried out in pain Savitri comforted them. She knew it hurt to have their flowers picked so she always spoke to them first, silently, in her mind, and she knew they listened, and brightened up. She told them how special they were, how beautiful, that that was why she had chosen them because she only picked the fullest, most beautiful, perfect blossoms for the Lord. She thanked them, and said she was sorry.

  When her basket was full she sat cross-legged on the straw mat outside the kitchen door and made her garlands — garlands of purple and white, of little orange blossoms, of jasmine; and then she went into the puja room and laid them at the feet of Nataraj and around the framed picture of Shiva and around the soapstone statue of Ganesh. When she was finished she placed a few perfect hibiscus blossoms at strategic points: the corners of the picture, or at Nataraj's feet, or in the crook of Ganesh's arm.

  When the shrine was finished, she told Amma and went into the back room to help Thatha get up from his mat. She handed him his stick, and Thatha, one hand on her shoulder, limped into the puja room, where by now the incense was burning and her mother was preparing the camphor for the puja, and her brothers and Appa had gathered from their various duties. Thatha, old and decrepit as he was, always performed the puja, for he was the eldest male. He slowly waved the flame of burning camphor before Nataraj and chanted the appropriate verse, and then he passed the platter with the flame around the family members and they all touched it and placed their fingers in the ashes to make the stripes of Shiva on their foreheads, followed by the one red spot of Love in the centre. The puja was very short, only a few minutes. When it was over her mother clipped a bunch of fresh flowers, which had been put to one side to receive Shiva's blessing, in her hair. Savitri went outside and drew an elaborate kolam outside the door, after which she went to fetch water.

  Amma had already fetched several vessels of water for them all to take bath, but more would be needed so Savitri picked up the big brass vessel and hooked her arm around its curved rim and set off down Old Market Street. She had to wait her turn. Several women and girls were at the well before her; some of them stood aside in the section for bathing and poured water over themselves, and others were turning the pulley to bring up the bucket from the well, filling their vessels, hoisting them onto their heads and moving off to their homes. The waiting women chattered among themselves and Savitri listened until it was her turn. She let the bucket fall into the well with a loud splash and then pulled at the rope with all her might till the bucket had reached the well's rim. She emptied the water into her vessel, twisted an old towel into a circle on her head, hoisted the vessel onto this support, and straightened up carefully. The vessel was much bigger than her head and quite heavy, but Savitri by now could balance it easily. She set off home with a wide, easy swing of her hips, her upper body, head and neck perfectly still to support the vessel. She did not use her hands. Amma said she would soon be bringing home three full vessels so she would need her hands for the other two. Even sooner she would receive the second vessel, which she would balance on her thin little hip with her arm curled around the rim.

  She returned home and emptied the water into the container near the bath-house. This water was for washing clothes. For drinking water, of course, they had another well, one not used by the untouchables. Appa said the untouchables made the water impure; a thing Savitri would never understand.

  Now Amma gave her the milk vessel, and she sent her off to fetch milk for the big house. She was so full of joy she could not walk. She skipped and ran and danced, and yet held the vessel perfectly still and straight so she never lost a single drop of milk. She was full of joy because of the beautiful morning, the sunshine trickling through the foliage that lined the back drive, the brilliant colours of the flowers, the sandy drive freshly swept by Muthu, the seven sisters up in the tamarind tree fluttering and twittering in a joy of their own, the sapphire blue of the sky, the peacock calling for his bride — it was all too much for a little girl's heart and the joy just rippled out of her and made her feet dance and skip, and still she never spilled a drop. She set the milk vessel carefully at the side of the path and twirled, laughing to see the way her skirt billowed out around her in a swirl of colour, and she waved her shawl as she moved so that it filled with air like a brilliant red sail, filtering the early morning sunlight. But then she heard Vali's urgent call quite nearby and a loud fluttering of wings, and Vali landed on the sandy path before her. She stopped spinning immediately, for Vali's visits were rare, and special. And when he came to her on an early morning like this it meant the day would be auspicious.

  'Good morning, Vali!' she thought, and Vali, who was strutting back and forth before her, stopped and nodded courteously thrice, returning her greeting.

  'I've nothing for you this morning, but later if I'm working in the kitchen I'll bring you some puffed rice. I didn't see you at all yesterday, where were you? Did you go over to see the peahens in the next-door garden?' she said aloud.

  Vali jerked his head back a little crossly and Savitri laughed.

  'I'm only teasing you,' she said, and then she fell silent, for Vali had begun to raise his tail and now it was unfurling into a perfect wheel and she knew Vali wanted her to behold him. She watched in respectful silence as he fluttered the long tail feathers with the thousand eyes, shivered and shuffled them so that the iridescent colours shimmered, and then Vali danced before her, swaying and sidestepping, and his beauty was so perfect she closed her eyes and her soul slipped into his and they were one. Satisfied, Vali gave a final ruffle of feathers, bowed, drew in his wheel and flew up to the topmost branches of a young coconut palm.

  Savitri once believed that everyone could talk to plants and birds and animals,
that everyone knew their language. When she was very small, people had been alarmed by her silences; they thought there was something wrong with her, for she had taken so long to speak; but in truth she had found speech unnecessary, for she spoke in silence. It was only when she discovered that humans didn't understand silence that she began to use words, and then they came out in perfectly formed sentences, in two languages, and people were astonished. Only the other beings, the plants, birds, and animals, understood silence.

  People, she knew now, lived wrapped up in thought-bodies, which was why they could not understand silence. The thought-bodies got in the way. They were like thick black clouds through which the purity of silence could not enter, and they kept people captive and dulled. Sometimes there were gaps in the thought-bodies. Amma, for instance, had many gaps, and these gaps were the silences of perfect love. Thatha had hardly a thought-body at all, and babies had none. Little children had thin ones, and David's, because he loved her, was transparent. Savitri felt these thought-bodies so clearly they were almost tangible, like thick walls of brambles, and they hurt, almost, because you wanted so much to get behind them you pressed close and then they pricked. Savitri then learned that there were two ways of living: from the inside out, or from the outside in.

  Living from the inside out came naturally to her. It was so easy to slip inside another being and feel the beauty of oneness, and once you felt that there was nothing more to say. What could one say to a flower, for instance, or to a butterfly resting on your shoulder, or a chipmunk eating from your hand? How sweet your perfume, how joyful your wings, how soft your fur? You could say that, but of course they knew that already, so all you had to do was rejoice with them. Nature was constantly rejoicing, constantly singing and dancing, and all there was to do, really, was join in.

  With people it was different; they lived from the outside in. They saw plants, animals, birds, and thought those beings were outside, and different from, themselves, things to grab and hold and hurt and use. They did not know that to hurt any other living creature was to hurt oneself; they did not feel the hurt of others, because they were outside others.

  Especially the English, the Ingresi. Their thought-bodies were particularly powerful and could sweep you out of the way and crush you underfoot if you weren't careful. Savitri had grown up among the English and had learned this the hard way; if you did not address them in a certain way, if you did not show you thought they were much, much more important than you, then they would try to hurt you. This was because they lived entirely in their thought-bodies, and believed these thought- bodies to be much more real than what was beyond them. It was as if a butterfly wrapped up in a cocoon thought the cocoon to be itself. It was a form of blindness; it was a form of death.

  Savitri had a thought-body too, but hers was like gossamer, like the shawl she sometimes threw over her shoulders or over her head, or waved in the sun when she danced, or simply threw over a bush to be free. It did not bind her down; sometimes it made her sad, or wistful, or bashful — especially in Mrs Lindsay's presence — but mostly her thought-body was composed of happy, translucent thought-lace, and delighted in the play of living things and their beauty.

  Vali, up in the palm tree, bobbed his head a last time to her, and she curtsied and waved and hurried on her way.

  She might see David.

  She never knew at this time of day if she'd see him or not. He might be in the bathroom at the other end of the house, or in the nursery, getting dressed — the nursery where she, too, had lived with her mother till she was five, when it was thought appropriate that Nirmala and Savitri move back into their own house. Since then Savitri had never re-entered the big house — not because she wasn't allowed to, but because she didn't like it. It was so full of things. Most of the things were precious, Mrs Lindsay said. That meant you couldn't touch them. Mrs Lindsay spent a great deal of time thinking of her things, showing them to visitors, getting the maids to polish them. She was also very afraid that they might be broken or stolen. It seemed to Savitri that Mrs Lindsay's thought- body and Mrs Lindsay's things were intimately bound up with one another. Perhaps that was why Mrs Lindsay couldn't get behind her thought-body so easily, because the things anchored her down? It was a mystery to Savitri.

  At any rate, the house seemed to her a huge clutter of things and she didn't like to enter it, except for the kitchen.

  Today David was in the kitchen doorway, waiting for her.

  Savitri's smile fled from her face, because Appa was standing behind David and in the kitchen's gloom his face was unsmiling, worried, and Mrs Lindsay was there too, looking eager and full of surprises. This morning visit to the kitchen when she brought the milk was always a crucial time, a time of decision-making, and it was Iyer who made the decision. The decision was whether she should go to school or not. If Mrs Lindsay had ordained an elaborate luncheon, with a few guests, then Savitri would have to stay and help Appa prepare the meal. If, on the other hand, Mrs Lindsay herself was invited out, and only the Admiral would be home for lunch, then Savitri could go to school and would race home again to change into her uniform. The Admiral preferred a light midday meal — a sandwich, or an omelette, nothing more. Savitri always hoped it was an Admiral day. She liked school — a million times more than the kitchen. But all was the Lord's Will, and whatever was ordained for the day through the chain of command — the Lord, then Mrs Lindsay, then Appa — she did with a happy heart and as well as she could, for Him.

  But here now was David, running from the open door, lunging towards her and taking her hand to lead her forward, and Mrs Lindsay smiling and reaching out to pat her, her thought-body very thin today, and Appa, his thought-body thicker than ever, and now all of them around her, crowding her. Savitri looked from one face to the other — what was going on? Maybe it had to do with yesterday's swim; but she could not reconcile Appa's unhappy mien with the open delight on the other two faces, and so she just stood there waiting for someone to explain.

  'Savitri, guess what!' chortled David. 'I asked Mummy if you could come and learn from Mr Baldwin with me, and she said yes! And Cooky said yes too, and now you're going to go to English school every day! With me! It was my idea!'

  Savitri’s heart bounced for joy, but then she looked at Appa and she knew there were problems David did not, could not, understand.

  'But who will help my father?' she said dutifully, and turning to Iyer herself, for it was not respectful to speak English in his presence, she asked him, 'Appa, have you given permission for me to attend the young master's classes?'

  David, who understood Tamil, did not wait for Iyer's answer.

  'But of course, of course Savitri! I've already told him that Mummy's going to pay for your lessons and he's agreed, haven't you, Cooky?'

  Iyer nodded, for it would be disrespectful to disagree openly with the young master, but Savitri felt the prickles on his thought-body and knew all was not well.

  'But who will help you in the kitchen, Appa?' she repeated.

  'Daughter, we must discuss this thoroughly at home with Thatha and your mother and your brothers. It is not proper for you to go to the English master when your elder brothers all attend the Tamil school. If the memsahib will excuse, it is not proper that a girl should have a better education than her brothers.'

  Disappointment flooded David's face.

  'But, Cooky, she already knows English! Proper English! Your sons only learn English in the school and Savitri is better, much better than they are! And I've been teaching her to read and write it too and she knows so much already!'

  'What are you saying, David? You know I don't like you speaking Tamil in my presence. Please translate.'

  So David told his mother what Iyer had said, and Savitri added, 'It's not our custom, Mrs Lindsay, for girls to be better educated than boys. I thank you very much for your kind offer, but I must obey my father.' She spoke slowly and precisely as was her habit when speaking with Mrs Lindsay. Mrs Lindsey’s head jerked backwards in an
affirmation of authority.

  'Well then,' she said briskly. 'We'll have to educate your brothers too, won't we? We'll send them all to the English Medium school. Yes, every one of them. And Savitri, my decision is irrevocable, you must attend Mr Baldwin's classes. David has shown me your practice books and I'm most impressed with your work. I'm sure Mr Baldwin will love to have you as a pupil. Now tell your father that.'

  Hope and fear struggled in Savitri's heart as she translated for Iyer. Could it be? To learn with Mr Baldwin! She had met Mr Baldwin many times, he was such a funny, jolly man, and she had struggled so hard in the tree-house with David, trying to keep up with him in his English classes. She could read his English reader almost as well as he could now, and she could write all the words she read in it by herself, without looking. Could it be, could it be? Gracious Lord, please!

  But Appa, she could tell, would not allow it. Iyer's brow was ruffled and his eyes were shadowed and from the way he scratched his beard she knew he would not allow it. His thought-body was impenetrable.

  Mrs Lindsay noticed this, too.

  'What's bothering him now?' she said to Savitri, who translated.

  Iyer launched into speech. A torrent of Tamil rushed from his lips, a loud, staccato, inflamed deluge of words that swept over them and stunned them into silence. Mrs Lindsay gaped numbly at her cook, whom she had known till now to be a reticent, docile little man while David, eyes wide, bit his bottom lip and fidgeted with his buttons. Savitri's eyes were misty with unshed tears, and she gazed up at Appa and nodded at his words and when it was all over and when Iyer's tirade jerked to a halt without warning she hung her head and turned half away, while Iyer turned the other way, yet still half-facing Mrs Lindsay, out of respect.