After that, she told Pra-ji she did not want to know any more. “What is the point? I’ll only become more upset. Thank you for your help, but I don’t have any more questions.” Pra-ji did not look pleased. He tried to convince her that speaking to God was the only way to relieve her sadness. “You can ask about your health, when you will get grandchildren from Sarjit and his wife, or about Jini.” He looked pointedly at Jini when he said this, making her blush.
Mother was suddenly alert. “What would I want to know about Jini?”
Pra-ji did not betray her. “Nothing right now. But if you ever have any questions, maybe about who she should marry in the future, then please come and speak to me.”
“I already know her future,” her mother said. “She is leaving school after the O-Levels, then she’ll work to help us. Later on, she’ll marry some boy, somebody who is hopefully better off than us.”
“Yes, Jini is a very pretty girl,” Pra-ji said. “I’m sure finding somebody, despite her lack of education, will not be a problem. Sometimes these boys don’t want a girl who is too highly educated. She’ll be troublesome, they say.” Something about this statement made Jini nervous but she ignored the feeling. It was probably just the way he said it. It was as if he was sure he knew everything about her.
The road behind her is clear except for three young boys who are crouched on the pavement, turning over a dead snail. They yelp and jump away, then slowly approach again, nudging each other and calling their friends to look.
As Jini leaves the kampong, she feels as if a heavy cloak is sliding off her shoulders. She has an urge to run to Pra-ji’s house, but somebody might notice her. She walks a bit faster than she usually does, though. A woman wearing a sarong chides her husband, who stares solemnly at his sandals. In the distance, a radio plays an English song and a group of teenage girls try to harmonise their voices with it. Slowly, the rows of cramped houses open up for more space and soon, she is walking in the spaces between larger, neater houses. These are made with proper brick and have painted roofs and coloured shutters—blue; green; yellow. It is like walking through a toy store. Even the ground feels different—steadier—under her feet. Pra-ji’s house is at the end of the street, a bungalow surrounded by a bright garden. There is a small pond in the front yard and little flowers line the edges. She presses the doorbell.
The servant girl runs out, her limp foot dragging behind her. “You don’t have to hurry,” Jini tells her. “Please.” The girl just stares at Jini and opens the gate.
“Can I ask you why you’re here?” Rani asks.
Jini opens her mouth to speak but she catches herself. She barely knows this girl. “Something private,” she says.
“Your mother should be here with you,” Rani says. “Does she know where you are?”
Who does this girl think she is, asking about her mother? She is just about to tell the girl not to say a thing to anybody when Pra-ji comes out of the house. “Rani!” he says sharply. The girl jumps and runs back into the house. “Get a drink of water for Jini and for myself. And don’t poke around. This is none of your business.” Jini smiles with relief.
“Come in,” Pra-ji says. “She’s very nosy. What did she say to you?”
“Nothing—she just wanted to know why I was here.”
“I’ll speak to her later.”
“Pra-ji, what if she tells my mother? My mother doesn’t know I came to see you.”
“Don’t worry,” Pra-ji assures her. “Your mother will not find out.”
Pra-ji’s house is very ornate. A large wooden chest sits in the corner of the living room, near the stairs. A curtain made of carved wooden beads hangs from the kitchen doorway. Elaborate picture frames line the coffee table, which is also intricately carved with a scene of villagers climbing a steep mountain. There are two Persian carpets woven with images of tigers and elephants. Pictures of God are everywhere, so Jini can’t look at any of the walls without seeing Him. She focuses instead on all of Pra-ji’s decorations.
“Where did you buy all of these things?” she asks him.
“I didn’t buy them. They were gifts. I help all kinds of people. Sometimes I tell fortunes for foreigners. I read their palms. They ask me about their money, about their families back in England, what to do. Mostly I just tell them about themselves. I read people very accurately,” he tells her. When he says this, he scans her body as if he can look past her clothes and see the scars on her skin. “Show me your hand,” he says.
She reaches out her hand and he takes it, stroking the lines on her palm. “You have struggled,” he says. “You are still struggling. Correct?”
“Yes,” she says but there is nothing remarkable in his knowing that. The entire community knows that her family has struggled.
“You and your sister-in-law don’t get along,” he continues.
“Yes,” she admits.
“You must start to respect her. She is older than you are.”
Jini tells him about how Bhabi-ji escapes to the temple each afternoon and how she does not take care of Bilu.
“Do you like taking care of your little brother?” he asks her.
“I don’t like it when he’s giving me trouble but somebody has to help him.”
“Maybe your sister-in-law has too many other duties,” Pra-ji tells her. Her hand is still in his.
“She just has to cook and clean. It’s not a big deal,” Jini scoffs, thinking of all the times she and her mother took care of the house before Bhabi-ji came along. It seems like they managed better without her.
“I’m talking about other duties, Jini,” Pra-ji says carefully. “A wife has a duty to make her husband happy.”
Jini thinks of how quiet Sarjit has become since marrying his wife and she wonders if he is happy. She notices that Pra-ji is staring at her again and it makes her uncomfortable. She wants to look at God, just to make sure she is doing the right thing by being here, but she is still afraid to look Him in the eye. Still, she is nervous all of a sudden and she doesn’t know why.
“I’m thirsty,” she says. Pra-ji lets go of her hands and calls Rani to hurry up with the water. “How long must it take for you to serve my guest?” he shouts. It surprises Jini that he can be so stern. She has only seen him speak gently, in a voice that people use to coax their babies to sleep. She thinks about Bilu. She remembers with a small ache that she forgot to leave a drink for him. It is still a hot evening and he must be thirsty. She scolds herself silently for this oversight and hopes that he fell asleep after eating his food.
Rani comes out with the drinks and sets them down on the coffee table. Her gaze lingers on Jini and she looks as if she wants to say something, but when Pra-ji asks her why she is still standing there, she hurries back into the kitchen. Pra-ji takes Jini’s other hand.
“It looks like you will have a long life. A good life ahead of you,” he says, inspecting one of the lines on her hand. “Don’t worry about your studies. You will have plenty of time to catch up with those things later on.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says. “For now, we must work on your soul. What kinds of things have you been thinking about, Jini?”
“I think about my father. I’m so angry at him,” she confesses. She is surprised to feel tears pouring down her face. “Because of him, things are difficult for our family. Sometimes I wish I could see him suffer the way he’s making my mother suffer now. And sometimes…sometimes I can’t believe that God would let something like this happen.” She begins to sob into her hand. She pulls the other one away from Pra-ji’s lap. Then she remembers the money in her pocket.
“Oh. This is for you,” she says, taking out the handkerchief. Pra-ji takes the money with both hands and puts it aside. “It’s almost eleven dollars.”
“Never mind how much money it is, dear. Even the smallest amount will do. I just want to help you. Tell me more.” He counts the money and puts it his pocket. Jini feels her heart sink. A part of her had hoped that he would
return her money, knowing her family’s situation. “Go on. What are you waiting for?” Pra-ji asks.
She tells him about how indifferent Sarjit has become, how her mother’s back has been giving her trouble. She tells him she feels guilty for turning the boy away from her yard this morning. “Is it true we shouldn’t mix with people from their caste?” she asks.
“It’s better not to. It’s not just a matter of caste. Their ideas are different. They don’t respect religion. That boy you’re talking about—have you ever seen him at the temple?”
“He doesn’t go. He doesn’t even look Sikh. He has short hair.”
“He cuts his hair! See what I mean? They are not like us.”
Jini nods. There was a look in the boy’s eyes as he turned away and went back down the road, which still makes her sad. Pra-ji is watching her. “You’re a very sweet girl, Jini. You care about people almost too much.”
“Is this bad?” she asks him.
“No. But you should let go. Don’t think about what your father has done. God will catch up with him—you can be sure of that. Nobody can run away from those watchful eyes.” He points at the wall behind him and Jini is forced to look at God for the first time in months. He watches her with His hand raised, ready to pass his judgment.
“I want to see these scars,” Pra-ji tells Jini. Obediently, she pulls up her sleeves. He draws her arms to him and puts them on his lap. She feels strange having her arms across his thighs like that but he is really looking at them, like a doctor. He circles the scabs with his thumbs and she wriggles uncomfortably.
“They are very itchy,” she says.
“When do they become itchy?” he asks.
“When I’m thinking of something bad,” she says immediately. But this is not always true. Sometimes, when her mind is clear and only filled with the purest thoughts, her scabs begin to itch and burn. She can’t explain this. But she wants Pra-ji’s help, so she tells him what he expects to hear.
“I can help you,” he tells her. His voice has lowered. “I’m going to close my eyes now and I want you to do the same. We’re going to commune with God.”
Jini’s hands go to her head. “Can I have something to cover my head? If we’re going to pray—”
“No need,” Pra-ji says. There is a note of impatience in his voice. Again, Jini feels uneasy. Pra-ji is fidgeting, biting the corners of his lips. He looks like he is trying to suppress an unfriendly smile. “This is different from temple praying. At the temple, we cover our heads to respect God’s home. This is my home, so I am in charge.” He laughs. Jini feels a sense of discomfort. The whole world is supposed to be God’s home.
Pra-ji asks her to close her eyes and he begins to chant softly. Jini listens and concentrates hard on the scabs going away, disappearing altogether. She thinks about her father and tries not to be hateful towards him. She vows to be nicer to her sister-in-law, to return the money to Shop Uncle, to help her mother more.
“Open your eyes,” Pra-ji says. “I have another question for you.” Jini does as she is told. “What other thoughts have you had, besides the ones you told me about?”
Jini racks her brain to think of anything else she’s pictured in her mind. Pra-ji comes closer to her so his lips are almost touching her cheek as he whispers into her ear. “How about boys?”
“Boys?” she asks.
“That boy from the low caste family. Do you like him?”
Jini shifts uncomfortably. Suddenly, it feels very warm in Pra-ji’s spacious living room. She takes a few gulps of water. “He is just a schoolmate.”
“Not your boyfriend?” he asks her. He is gazing at her chest. She tries to stop breathing so hard.
“No. No, he’s not like that. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t even talk to any boys. My mother would kill me,” she says.
Pra-ji looks sceptical. He strokes her hair, pulls it away from her face and tucks it behind her ears. “There’s nothing wrong, as long as you don’t tell anybody,” he whispers. Jini feels her whole body tense up. Then, Pra-ji resumes his straight posture and begins to chant again. “Close your eyes again, Jini,” he instructs.
She closes her eyes but she feels unsafe. In her own mind, she starts her own prayer: God, please help me. I think I’ve made a mistake. Please help me out of here. She could just run, but then what would Pra-ji say to people? They would believe him, not her, even if she ran through the streets telling people that he is an indecent man, that he tried to talk to her about boyfriends. Or maybe this is how he helps. God, help me, she urges. But her head is uncovered. Can he even hear her?
Then she feels something, a cold hand, drifting up her blouse and onto her stomach. “I just want to feel your skin,” Pra-ji says. “I want to know how bad it has gotten.” She stays still, frozen to the spot. Then Pra-ji brings his hands up. They are cupping her breasts now, squeezing them. With a sudden force, he pushes her down on the floor and presses down on her face with his, his body grinding against hers.
“No!” she screams but her voice is louder in her head. With her mouth pressed down by his shoulders, it is just a muffled noise. He is pulling at her pants now, tugging them down, forcing her legs apart. “Stop it!” she pleads, kicking at the air. “Help!”
Then she sees the glass of water on the coffee table. Pra-ji has one of her arms pinned down but he cannot control the other one as he struggles to spread her legs. She reaches for the glass and throws the water on his back. For an instant, he stops, startled. She uses this to get a wider swing and she smashes the glass against the side of his head. Blood and water trickle down his face and down her wrist. He lets out a strangled cry.
“You little whore!” he shouts, holding a hand to the gash on his face. Blood pours freely through the spaces between his fingers. “Who the hell do you think you are? You come here asking for my help; you have no father; your family has the worst reputation in the whole community and you dare to attack me?”
“You bastard!” she spits. She doesn’t care if it’s a bad word. She doesn’t care if the scabs remain on her body and spread to her face and itch for the rest of her life. She will never become a follower of God if this is what followers do. She sees His portrait all over the house now, His eyes accusing her. “You son of a bitch! You filthy dog!” She screams and screams these insults over and over again until she realises that she is out of the house, she has been running since she got free. Her hand is bleeding and throbbing with pain. There is a cut on her palm. Her heart is racing. She runs past the big houses, now looming and casting long shadows from the evening sun. She runs all the way back to her neighbourhood, a trail of blood dotting the pavement behind her.
• • •
It is when Jini arrives at the top of the street, where the narrow road goes down a slope to lead to her house, that she notices the crowd. At first she thinks it might be a wedding, but it is a weekday evening, and weddings are only on Sundays. Besides, the air feels damp and heavy with something dreadful. She looks up at the sky, but there are few clouds, only a quickly descending sun. She wonders sometimes why the sun takes so long to appear in the morning but it manages to race away in the evening as if it has better places to be.
She stops running once she gets to her street because she doesn’t want anybody to see her. She puts her bleeding hand behind her back. Her mother will come home, then Jini will calmly tell her what Pra-ji did. Her brother will be furious with Pra-ji, he’ll tell him off one day at the temple and everyone will know what a fraud he is, what a disgusting man. As for her skin, she will live with it. When she starts working, she’ll go to see a doctor and maybe he’ll be able to explain what’s wrong. Maybe the kind of soap she uses is too harsh or she has some kind of allergy. These excuses have come to mind before but she was so dependent on God that she thought it had to have something to do with Him. She can’t believe how foolish she was. Once again, shame fills the pit of her stomach, but she has a plan now and that is important. Yet her heart cannot stop racing. What is
going on at her street?
A woman comes running up to her, the thin batik fabric of her nightgown flapping wildly at her ankles. It is Auntie Gurpreet, the mother of the girls next door. “Where have you been?” she cries. Past Auntie Gurpreet’s shoulders, Jini sees that the door to her house is wide open. “Bilu?” she whispers. Dread spreads like a fire through her body. The crowd parts for her and lets her run into her home. Bilu is nowhere to be seen but there is a smaller crowd of people in the kitchen. They are not people from the community—they are wearing uniforms and they are lifting a large opaque bag. Where is Bilu? Jini wonders again. Of course he is not hurt. She did everything to keep him safe. She only left him for a short time.
But then she sees it: the Coke bottle. Last night, she poured some of the bleach into a tub and soaked her shoes in it. She hid the bottle afterwards with the rest of the cleaning supplies and it was still three quarters full. Now it is nearly empty. She thinks of how Bilu eats—how he gulps everything down so quickly she’s afraid he’ll choke. He would have thought it was water.
Somebody in a uniform is asking Jini a question. Did she hear him screaming? Where was she? The neighbours rushed in to help. They had heard him and called for help. They broke into the house and tried to pick him up, but he was impossible to control and in a terrible amount of pain. Every time Jini tries to open her mouth, a thick and sour taste prevents her from uttering a word. She wants to crouch near Bilu—who she now realises is inside the large bag—to speak to him and tell him he will be okay, that she is so sorry for leaving him, but something keeps her at a distance and she doesn’t realise what it is, until she notices the entire community staring at her. There are stares from the crowd and more stares from the windows, illuminated in the dimness of evening. She keeps standing there, silent, under their gazes. She knows right then that this is where she will remain for the rest of her life.
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