In the Shadow of a Dream

by Sharad Keskar

  ‘Yes, even my mother’s gold necklace. When I am gone, Vishnu’s gift to me must live on.’

  ‘Do you realise the boy will still be a minor after you have gone? Randhir will bully Sujata and spend all your legacy on drink. Nothing of yours will benefit the boy. He will be abandoned and become a gypsy among the Bhils.’

  ‘Then you must help. See that does not happen.’

  The fate of Bal went exactly as Motilal predicted. He was four when Girja Devi died. Her ashes were taken by her son to Benares, to be blessed and scattered on the River Ganges. Six months after his return the boy was handed over to the care of a childless Bhil woman, who once a week called at Sujata’s house to sort the wheat grains before milling it into flour. But the lazy, self-indulgent Sujata was not entirely without a conscience. When Bal was six, she sought to allay her feelings of guilt.

  ‘Bal!’ she called. ‘Now listen well. You are six. Old enough to herd cattle for grazing by the river. Soon it will earn you good money. Then you can help Daadi. She’s been good to you. Made sacrifices for you. But she is old and poor. You owe her a lot. I’ve arranged to have Jaswant, the herdsman, teach you his trade. He’s also old. Maybe in ten, twelve years, you can do his job.’

  The boy nodded but said nothing. He understood what she said and intuitively knew he was facing another time of abandonment and hardship. Fear of the unknown gripped him and made his tiny body tremble. But he refused to plead or cry. He was not going to let Sujata or anyone else see him cry. His helplessness and dependence on adults angered him and hardened the look with which he stared back at Sujata.

  ‘How dare you look at me like that? Where’s my cane. I’ll thrash the life out of you! You, you ungrateful dog!’ The boy ran to the old woman as Sujata tried to jump out of bed, slipped and fell heavily on her ample bottom. The old woman covered her face and tried in vain to hide her giggling with that part of her sari which went over her head and shoulder. Like women of her tribe the sari below her waist was tied like a man’s dhoti. It was this part of the garment the boy clung to, as he took shelter behind her.

  ‘Hai rey! Bala,’ cried the old woman in alarm. ‘Don’t pull my dhoti!’

  ‘Control yourself, woman!’ Sujata shouted breathlessly and, raising herself with difficulty, she sat down heavily on her charpoy. ‘Take this fan. Fan me. What’s this? Still grinning? Laughing at me? How dare you? It’s not funny.’

  ‘I do not laugh at you, my queen!’ The old Bhil peasant woman lifted her hands in placation and drawing near the cot, fanned urgently. ‘The boy made me laugh. What the boy was doing made me laugh. Another pull at my dhoti and I would have been naked as a langur. Please, don’t be angry. The child means no disrespect…see he smiles. No, no, not to insult you. He is smiling because he understood what I said about my being naked as a monkey.’

  ‘Shut your mouth! Besharam. Have you no shame? Speaking like that in front of the boy. Naked like a monkey, huh! And I don’t care what you say. I think he is laughing at me. Give me that fan. Slap his face for me.’

  ‘No, no my Rani, pity the poor motherless child. See those eyes…those so lovely large brown eyes of his?’

  ‘Hush, Daadi, don’t say that. You will cast the evil eye. Nazar. I know how much you love the boy, but always better to say something negative. Never praise. At least, not to his face. As I said, you will cast the evil eye.’

  The old woman rolled her head in solemn agreement. ‘I shall throw some salt and chillies into the fire, before I cook my meal. That will remove the evil eye.’

  ‘Yes, do that as soon as you can.’ Sujata stared at the boy. The boy stared back with stern disapproval. ‘See, that Daadi. Just see!’ screamed Sujata. ‘That look he’s giving me? Don’t tell me that’s not defiance.’

  The old woman put on a stern expression. Shaking the boy, she turned him around and gave him a gentle push. ‘Go. Go out and play. Soon you will have no time for play. Make the most of it. See those boys there. Join them. They’re playing gilly-danda.’

  ‘They won’t let me play,’ said the boy sullenly, ‘and I don’t know the game.’

  ‘Go, then, watch. It’s nothing. That small piece of wood, which is pointed at both ends, that’s the gilly, which you tip with the danda, the big stick, and when the gilly jumps in the air you hit it as hard as you can…That’s all there is to it. Go now.’ The woman waited till the reluctant child went outside and shut the door behind him.

  ‘You’ve spoiled the boy. When did you last give him a thrashing?’

  ‘My Rani, I did, many times, at the beginning. But now I find it hard. He frightens me. Sometimes when he sits very still and watches me, I tremble. It’s like seeing a murthi, an idol, a little god. He is blessed with long eyelashes and beautiful eyes…It is Lord Krishna’s eyes and in their depths I sense power. Good and bad. Both. Power of a god and the curse of the devil.’

  ‘Now, Daadi, you’re talking rubbish. How can a little orphan have power?’

  ‘No, no my Rani! I believe the goddess Saraswati has blessed him with wisdom. He is very clever. You should have sent him to the village school.’

  ‘That’s what Motilal said to my husband. But it meant keeping the boy here. I didn’t want that. Many children here don’t go to the school. And of the few that go, the schoolmaster wants to know everything about them. So inquisitive he is. There’s enough rumour and gossip in the village, without adding scandal. Why do you think I wanted you to keep him? What about your village? Is there no school there?’

  ‘Ours is no village. We don’t even have a marketplace.’

  ‘How do you know he’s clever?’

  ‘My niece, my sister’s child, she…’

  ‘Sister! You have a sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘My dead sister’s child, my niece…her husband runs a kabari shop. They go to people’s houses and collect paper, empty bottles…things people don’t want. The sarpanch gave her some old school books that his son…’

  ‘Oh, you mean Krishna’s primary school books…Arrey hah, I told Motilal to get rid of them because of Girja Devi. His mother. Every time she saw them, she would press them to her heart and start crying toba toba. But of what use keeping them? Those were ABC English school books…and so long time ago.’

  ‘She kept them so that one day her own son would learn from them and become a sahib, like Motilal’s son. But that was not to be.’

  ‘That is what I mean. One can’t learn English if you don’t know English.’

  ‘No Rani. Niece knows a little. But god has not blessed her with children.’

  ‘I see. But what is all this to do with Balaram?’

  ‘One day I took him with me when I went to see her and she gave him a slate for the boy to draw on. And he did. She got a shock. He had drawn pictures, my niece said, that were like the English letters in those books. So she showed them to him and he told her that when he was with Girja Devi, she let him see those books. My niece wanted to give the books to Bal, but I said no. There is no place in my hut to keep such things. But whenever we visit her, she lets him look at the books and even tells him the letters she knows. She has even started on some Hindi letters. She says she only has to show him once, and he was able to say the letters and write them, also.’

  ‘Arrey, if she is so impressed, why doesn’t she keep the boy?’

  The old woman shook her head sadly. ‘Don’t talk Rani. Gomji, her husband, is a hard man. He wants nothing to do with Bal. Says he is a half-caste orphan. Anyway they are now in Ajmer. His brother arranged to get Gomji a job on the Railways. But before going, my niece felt sorry for Bal and gave him an old book and a pencil for him to draw and write. He does all funny things on it. I don’t know what.’

  ‘All this talk is a waste of time. I want the boy to do as I say. As I said, you have spoiled him. Soon he will be no good to anyone.�
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  ‘But Kanti, that’s my niece. She says that it seemed as if he already knows some secret things.’

  ‘Enough Daadi, enough of this nonsense. Forget it.’ Sujata lay back on her cot. ‘There, press my legs; nice and hard. Yes. Now tell me the news. When you came in this morning, you said you had some news. What was it you were going to say?’

  ‘What about…Oh, that! Oh, that is simply…gossip. Just gossip, nothing more.’

  ‘You were going to tell me about his…mother, his real mother. You heard some news about his mother. Rumours have been going round, but I’m always the last to know any scandal. Now, no more dodging! You are an ungrateful woman. I pay you good money, and you hide things from me. You should have told me before. As soon as you knew.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because, maybe, there is no truth in the story I heard. Our Bhil women are such gossips. And they make up stories.’

  ‘Never mind about all that. Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘It has been a rumour among our women folk, that some six years ago. A group of our women, drawing water from the well at Bodi—that’s the name of our little Bhil village…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, I know. Go on, will you.’

  ‘It was by the well at Bodi, that a starving, ragged, wild, distraught woman…At first the women thought she was a churael, that is a witch…’

  ‘Will you get on with the story! You don’t have to explain everything to me.’

  ‘Well, this woman, she started to scream at the women, something like “where’s my baby?” “What have you done with my baby?” And “give me back my boy”. The women called out to Bhima, our village headman. He came. Lucky for her he is a kind man. Another man would have threatened her with his lathi and driven her away. Instead, he gave her a glass of buttermilk and listened to her story. She rattled on in some language he could not understand. Then she spoke in Hindi, but it made no sense to him. There was nothing he could do. His wife—Bhima’s wife is my sister—she calmed her down; and saw to it that she had a bath and combed her hair. Bhima got interested in the woman’s story. He remembered that some years ago he had been asked about a missing woman. The Bombay police had approached him about it at the time.’

  Sujata shook her head gravely and clicked her tongue. ‘There are many, I should say, hundreds of reports of missing peoples in Bombay and Gujarat. Of wives running from husbands; children from parents, jobless, starving men, but mostly of boys who jump on trains to Bombay and other big towns to find work. The police do nothing. They make half-hearted inquiries, then do nothing. They don’t find anyone. They just file their reports. It means nothing, unless husbands or parents turn up and make them get off their backsides and see that they do something. Mind you, if it is a missing woman they find wandering the streets, they take her to their police station, lock her up, then at night four or five of them rape her. After that they drive her back into the streets and dump her. I don’t trust the police. That’s why, if a young woman is missing, wise parents keep chup. They are afraid what the police will do. So many cases of women gang raped.’ Sujata paused, contemplating the evoked situation with some excitement and heavy breathing. When she regained her composure, she said: ‘Have you heard anything about a husband? If she was with child, even if she was not married…someone will know something about who the child’s father is, and definitely about the where and when the child was born…’

  ‘I don’t know, No one has said anything about all that. My sister said that the mad woman’s mother and father did come from Goa to collect her. It took them four days before they reached our village. By then the woman had become quite submissive. But before her parents arrived she begged my sister not to mention the baby to them, especially as the baby was missing. My sister began to respect her. She said she was educated woman.’

  ‘A kala memsahib,’ chuckled Sujata. ‘The ones who put on airs and try to pass off as Anglo-Indians…But kala. You know kala, black? They’re black as coal because a lot of them are low caste or no caste. Becoming Christians, as my husband says, for a bowl of rice.’

  The old woman stared in blank astonishment. ‘And,’ Sujata went on, ‘how can any mother not remember about having a baby? She must have really gone mad.’

  ‘She remembered about having a baby in Basirabad Hospital.’

  ‘Arrey, Basirabad is miles away. Near Ajmer. Can’t be. And what sort of mother? Not to tell her parents, means she did not care about her child and its fate. And what about…did she say something about the child’s father?’

  ‘Nothing. Though my sister asked.’

  ‘Sister, cousin, niece…Most confusing. Never mind.’

  For a moment neither spoke. Then Sujata said: ‘If she was a Goan, she’d be kala. Goans are dark, with curly black hair and heavy features. So I don’t believe the boy could be hers. Look at him. He is quite fair and as you say, everyone talks about his fine features.’

  ‘I don’t know what the woman looked like. My sister did not say. But Rani, many Goans are beautiful, some even light coloured with grey eyes.’

  ‘Maybe. I say only what my husband says. But if she was seen in your village, why do you connect her with Bal. He was found here, in Fatehpur, on the Temple steps. I would think this woman your sister is talking about, her child must be dead.’

  The woman rolled her head. ‘Most unlikely. But there has been no talk of a dead child. Nothing like that has been heard. On the other hand, this woman was seen six years ago, and our Bal was found six years ago.’

  Sujata sighed. ‘Still, it can’t be. Not if he was born in a hospital. Arrey, why have you stop pressing. There.’ Sujata drew her knees up. ‘Now do my arms. And press with some force in your hands.’ She raised her head and looked at the old woman. ‘If you’re tired, sit down and press.’

  The woman sat on her haunches. ‘Rani bai, you know, Goans are Christians. And Christians care for orphans and the poor. They have schools. If that boy is alive and if some Christian has found him, he may now be in some orphan school or convent. It is also what Bhima thinks, Bhima our headman.’

  ‘All right, then tell me, has there been any more news since the parents came?’

  The woman did not answer.

  ‘What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?’

  ‘I am thinking. You must give an old woman time.’

  ‘Don’t bother. It is all in the past. Six years, long time in any child’s life. There, you can stop now. Go, sift the rice and lentils, then call the boy in.’

  ‘Let me just say this. This is a matter of Kismet and, therefore, important. Because even if Bal is her son, his destiny is to be here. I think he believed Girja Devi was his mother, and for her sake he respects you. If at times he sulks, it is because he knows you don’t love him.’

  ‘What decent woman would want to acknowledge such a thing; a fatherless boy? Not me!’ Sujata yawned and sat up with strenuous effort. ‘You make sure he does not know about all this gup shup, these rumours. Empty talk. After all, you don’t know for sure whether her parents came—I’d be surprised if they did. After all, it’s such a disgrace to the family, to any family.’

  ‘Oh, yes. They came. Their daughter had another fit of hysterics when she saw them. Started crying. Asking their forgiveness. They came with someone, a Christian priest or maybe a doctor. He said she was mad, but he knew a place that would take care of her. Some place near Ranchi. Her parents agreed although, my sister said he looked a hard man. Hi, my Ranisahib, I may be simple peasant, but I know Ranchi is a thousand miles away in the hills of Bihar. I know, because my husband made the journey to Gaya. He was told the Lord Buddha would cure his broken back…’

  ‘Bus, bus, enough. Fat lot of good it did him. People forget that the Buddha was a Hindu first. Silly Hindus convert to Buddhism, I can’t see the point. There’s another thing I know about Ranchi. It has a pagal khanna, a ma
d house. Once there, always there…no escape.’

  ‘Bus, there it ends…Still, Malkin, even if Bal is her son, the poor boy will never know his mother. Even if she’s alive, she is as good as dead.’

  ‘Yes, but think about his future. This Asif, this Muslim boy…you want him to look after Bal. Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘He’s an orphan, too.’

  ‘No, no. At least not to begin with. He was four years old when he was left with Abdul, the butcher. His father was on a Haj pilgrimage. From Bombay to Mecca, by dhow, you know, Arab sailing boat. On the way back, somewhere near Karachi, that boat disappeared. Nothing was found. No bodies, not even the boat!’

  Daadi shut her eyes, feigned a pained expression, rocked on her haunches, and slapped her forehead with the flat of her palms. ‘Hi, Bhagwan!. God, what a tragedy! But why Abdul? Did the boy not have uncles, aunts…and why did Abdul stop caring for the boy?’

  ‘I don’t know. They are Musalmans. The boy is one of them. He is circumcised. But, I believe Abdul’s childless wife hated Asif. She used to beat him mercilessly till one day he ran to Motilal for shelter, and Motilal coaxed Jaswant to take the boy on. Motilal’s got a soft heart. Pretends to be hard and when he can’t do something, he gets other people to do what he can’t do. See how, after his mother died, he got round my husband. The result. I’m lumbered with Bal? He did not even bother to ask how I felt. Huh, men can be tyrants.’

  The old woman clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly.

  ‘What does that head shaking mean?’ Sujata raised her voice. ‘Speak, now! Arrey Daadi, are you being rude?’

  ‘No, kind Rani, I was just thinking about Bal. What future has the boy got in this village? None. It is a sad fate for such a clever child.’

  ‘What rot you talk sometimes. He’s lucky to be alive. He’s not starving. I give you enough money? And stop calling me Rani. It sounds like short for methrani. What the horrible memsahibs call women who clean their latrines.’ Sujata lay back. ‘Go now. Leave me alone.’