by Threes Anna
“I’ll help you,” Sita says softly. “You know that.”
1967 Manali ~~~
Dear Donald,
It’s almost impossible to describe just how beautiful it is here. The mountains look exactly like the paintings in Father’s study, except that they’re much more beautiful, higher and more imposing. I’ve never seen anything as enchanting as these mountains. Sometimes I spend the whole day out on the terrace, watching the clouds that seem to bump right into the side of the mountain, and the waterfall that comes splashing down all day and all night, and the eagle that circles high in the sky, the sun that shines on the peaks, and the monks in their red habits who pass by so silently, and the donkeys with the huge crates on their backs making their way along the narrow paths, and the village children playing on the grass. Now, of course, you’re thinking how very lazy I am because I just sit there the whole day, but actually I do go for walks as well. But not too long, since my feet have been giving me a lot of trouble. But the doctor here says they’ll get better. All I have to do is rest a bit more, and take alternating hot and cold baths at night. That’s why I’ve taken up knitting again, something I haven’t done since boarding school. My first attempt was a scarf. It didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped, since I’m a bit rusty, but if the next one turns out better, I’ll send it to you. Father doesn’t need it in Rampur. I can always wear the first one myself, since it’s nice and warm. The room I’ve rented here is simple but adequate. My window overlooks a valley, with a river running through it. Apparently the river becomes quite wild in spring, but I won’t be staying here that long. There are lots of apple trees, planted by the British. The other day I was walking toward the old part of town and as I was crossing the bridge, a young Englishman spoke to me. He asked me if I wanted to be happy. A rather odd question to ask a perfect stranger! I told him that I was very happy, and then I walked on. It wasn’t until later that I heard who the boy was. There’s a plant that grows here, and people use it to make something that’s supposed to “expand your consciousness.” That’s what he wanted to sell me. There aren’t many Europeans here, but apparently all of them come for that stuff, and not for a vacation, like me. It is so beautiful here. I’m eating well and getting plenty of sleep, and if my second scarf turns out better, I’ll send it to you.
Regards from your sister,
Charlotte
~~~
CHARLOTTE IS SITTING in the big chair next to the window; she’s wearing the red socks she knitted herself, which are tight around her swollen ankles. Sita is on her knees in a corner of the room, doing her pudja. Charlotte, who is not a regular churchgoer, would love to look inside her head, to see whether her prayers really give her strength. Charlotte herself is increasingly fearful of what lies ahead.
In the last few weeks her belly has become as big and round as the globe in her father’s study. Every time she feels the stamp of a tiny foot, she thinks of him. Fortunately, the tiny creature inside her is not wearing boots, she muses as she inserts the needle: insert, yarn forward, pull through, slip off. What if it’s not a child that’s growing inside me, but a monster? Insert, yarn forward, pull through, slip off. A freak with one eye and no nose? A head with only a few large, hairy feet that immediately step into a pair of boots? Insert, yarn forward, pull through, slip off. And again she feels a sharp stab in her lower abdomen. Sita, who is still sitting on the floor with her back bent and murmuring softly, told her an hour ago that those were “practice contractions.” They will prepare her for another stab of pain in her belly, this one harder and more piercing. She groans.
Sita raises her hands, makes another deep bow, stands up, and inquires cheerily, “Has it started?”
“It hurts,” Charlotte says, as she tries to pick up the stitch she’s just dropped.
Sita puts a hand on her belly. “It won’t be long now. Today, maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Or the day after tomorrow. The baby is the boss, not the mother. The stars have to be in the right position.”
“Ah!” Charlotte winces, as the pain shoots through her body. “Call the sister, it’s starting!”
“No, you haven’t even dropped your knitting. The really big pain hasn’t started yet.”
“Sita, please?”
“No. The sister won’t come until you’re ready.”
Charlotte looks at the yellow baby cape on the needles in her hand. After the four scarves, the last of which she sent to her brother in England, she’s also knitted spencers for Sita and herself and a pair of socks for each of them. After that, she concentrated on the cape, which provided more distraction because she had opted for a complicated pattern. Sita bought the pale yellow angora wool from a spinner in the old town. Charlotte decided against pink or blue, since she doesn’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl. Insert, yarn forward, pull through, slip off. Another stab; this time it lasts a long time. Then she feels something in her belly snap, and the fluid flows from between her legs, over the seat of the chair, onto the floor. She pulls herself up by the window sill and stares at the puddle. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot stem the flow of water.
Sita looks at the liquid on the floor and says that everything is fine.
“What do you mean, fine? Sita, everything’s coming out! What’s happening? Go and call the sister!”
“Not yet. Patience. Everything’s going to be fine, just be patient for a while. Go put on a clean pair of underpants.”
“I’ve waited long enough. I want it to start.”
Sita, who throughout Charlotte’s pregnancy has become accustomed to her violent mood swings, mops the floor and grabs the cape, which just misses falling into the puddle of amniotic fluid.
“You see: it’s started. I dropped my knitting.”
Sita smiles: “You’re a smart girl.”
AGAIN THE TIDAL wave of pain sweeps over her. It begins slowly and gradually takes possession of her. Impossible to stem, to staunch, to avoid. She groans and cries out. The nun, who an hour ago accompanied her to the delivery room, puts a hot-water bottle on her belly and tells her to breathe in and out calmly. The wave of pain reaches its high point and slowly subsides.
THE NUN IS wearing a white apron over her habit, which in Charlotte’s view makes her look like a butcher. She opens Charlotte’s knees and inserts her fingers. There’s no room. She must feel that there’s no room. Something is in the way, but the woman pushes her fingers farther inside. Charlotte feels like screaming. She wants to kick the hand aside, grab her suitcases, and leave. It doesn’t matter that it has just started to snow. She has plenty of scarves and warm socks. Sita pushes her gently back into the pillows and massages her neck. Charlotte wants to crawl into that gentle hand, wants to disappear inside it, wants it to be over. She hears the music of the zither. And again she feels the fingers that caressed the strings and her skin, the mouth that sang and that kissed her, his legs that opened her knees, easily, unopposed. She inhales his smell, savours his taste, but no matter how hard she tries, she cannot recall his face.
“You’re not there yet. Not even close,” says the nun, as she removes her fingers.
“Not yet?” Charlotte moans.
Sita pats her perspiring forehead with a damp cloth. “It’ll come when the stars are in the right position.”
“What stars? The sun hasn’t even set!” She wants to make jokes and forget about what is happening, then the next wave comes. “Stop!” Charlotte pushes the nun’s hand away. Again she says that there’s not enough dilation. “I’ve had it. I’ve had enough. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. Why am I here? Why?” Tears roll down Charlotte’s cheeks. She takes deep breaths, and sobs as the next wave engulfs her.
“Through your nose. Let the air go down into your stomach.” Sita is standing behind her, with her hands on Charlotte’s sweaty shoulders. “Hold your brea
th. Tense your stomach muscles. Just a little longer. Breathe out through your mouth.”
She tries to follow these instructions, but the powerful paw of pain drags her along. She utters curses she didn’t even realize she knew. Her ears are ringing. Her mouth is dry. She is unaware of the heavy snowstorm blowing outside. The clatter of shutters and the howl of the wind have become part of her battle to bring this human being that has been swimming and stamping around in her belly for months into the world.
The latest contraction fades, and Charlotte falls back into Sita’s arms. She closes her eyes, longing for sleep. Why didn’t they tell her that giving birth is an unfair battle, in which you’re trying to protect, rather than kill, the enemy, in which your body goes its own way and refuses to listen to its master, in which the pain is bigger and stronger than the peaks of the Himalayas? She walks, she sits, she stands, she squats, and she hangs. She vomits, craps, and pees in Sita’s arms. She’s soaking wet and half naked. Outside, the storm is gaining in force and the stars have disappeared. The contractions that descend upon her banish all sense of shame, dragging her down into a deep, black chasm in which nothing exists except breathing and pain. She screams, she feels how the lump in her pelvis descends. Her legs are open wide. “Come!” she calls. “Come!” All of her muscles are tensed. And then the contraction disappears as quickly as it came, and the pain subsides. She pants. Then, in a flash, a thought streaks through her mind: This is like the war. This is like the pain that Peter felt. The man who had not given her a child because his suffering did not ebb away like her contractions. His pain never went away: with every breath it entrapped him still further. All at once, she knows that the humiliation and injuries that he suffered were a thousand times worse than the fight that she was engaged in now. Sita and the nun have no idea what is happening. Charlotte straightens her back, breathes in through her nose, and smiles. The contraction takes her by force, and she welcomes it like a long-lost friend. The stabs and wounds that had been unbearable before now give her strength. She hears the sound of bullets whizzing by and people screaming. She sees the blood flowing. Her legs shake and quiver. It is impossible to keep them under control. She shrieks when the muscles in her calves tense up. She trembles, her teeth chatter, and she perspires profusely. She feels hot one minute and cold the next. She cries and screams. The tanks continue to roll forward. Her vagina is on fire, and a dagger pierces her lower back.
“Push,” the nun urges. “Now you can push!”
I’m supposed to push, she says to the stranger awaiting his entrance cue. Are you ready for this? Are you ready? She’s panting like a galloping horse that has suddenly come to a standstill. She clenches her fists, braces herself with her feet against the foot of the bed, and pushes. She hears jungle noises that merge with the sound of exploding grenades. It’s as if she’s being torn in half. She lets out one loud, long-drawn-out scream. The plug that has been jammed between her legs for so many hours suddenly wrings itself loose and slithers out.
Everything is quiet.
Sita looks over Charlotte’s head at the baby lying between her legs. There is a tremulous cry, like that of a baby mountain goat that’s lost its mother.
“Do you want to know what it is?” the nun asks.
1995 Rampur ~~~
THE JET-BLACK horse galloped over the hill. The dry ground crumbled under its hooves and flew into the air. On its back was a man with a turban and a long velvet coat that completely covered his legs. He did not appear to be bothered by the terrible heat. Charlotte was on her knees in the grass. She was trying to dig a hole in the ground because she was convinced that there must be water somewhere. She recognized Maharaja Man Singh immediately.
He came to a standstill next to her. The dust that he had raised slowly settled. She saw the horse’s black legs through the veil of dust covering the wilted and drooping plants in her garden. She was immediately aware that the shabby pyjamas she was wearing were not the appropriate garb in which to welcome the maharaja. She should have quickly disappeared before the cloud of dust settled, but he had already recognized her.
“Madame Harris!” he called out.
It was only in New Delhi and Bombay that people had called her “Madame Harris.” She had gone back to using her maiden name, Bridgwater, the moment she had returned to Rampur. She didn’t know herself whether she did so because it would make her more attractive to potential suitors or to help her to forget her unhappy marriage, or perhaps she did it to please her father. But when the maharaja called her “Madame Harris,” her gaze went straight to the window of the music room. She became worried when she saw that all the windows in the house were wide open.
“What brings you here?” She only pretended to be surprised. The news of his impending arrival had travelled faster than the hooves of his horse. Charlotte saw the traditional embroidery on his collar and sleeves, which contrasted sharply with the gleaming Ray-Ban sunglasses he was wearing.
“Why didn’t you attend the wedding of my daughter Chutki? We sent you an invitation.”
It was several seconds before Charlotte could remember receiving the invitation. It was engraved on magnificent gold paper, which smelled of roses. The maharaja’s hand went to his coat pocket, withdrew an identical envelope, and handed it to her.
“My son has found a wife.” He didn’t wait for her to open the envelope, but trotted off, leaving her behind in a cloud of dust.
She had always wanted to attend a princely wedding. The maharaja would spare neither effort nor expense for his son. The palace would be decorated with millions of flowers, the men forming the guard would be mounted on elephants, the driveway would be covered in hundreds of Persian carpets, the fountains would spout rosewater, and everything else would be covered in gold leaf. The new princess would be attired in fairy-tale robes and laden with centuries-old family jewels, and those living within a wide radius would be given free food. The festivities would last more than a week, and people would talk about the event for years to come.
The snorting and stamping of the maharaja’s horse had died away, and she heard the whirring sound of the sewing machine coming from inside the house. She opened the envelope and took out the invitation. The gold paper, which was blank, gleamed in the sun. There was no writing on it. She turned it over. At first she thought there was nothing on the other side either, but then she noticed the tiny letters at the bottom of the page. They read: DON’T DO IT.
DUE TO THE heat, even simply sitting on the sofa was a tribulation. The dream from which she awakened would not be banished from her mind. Images of the maharaja on his horse continued to pass in front of her. It was years since she had thought about his daughter Chutki. On the day they took leave of one another everything had gone wrong, so she never received an invitation to the wedding, due to take place several months later. At the time, she was very worried about Peter, who had not spoken since the operation on Chutki’s little brother. Even if she had received an invitation, she would have been unable to attend the wedding.
She heard Hema’s shuffling footsteps, followed by a knock on the door.
Hema entered carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a plate of cookies.
“You can take back the cookies.”
“But they’re very good cookies, memsahib.”
“I don’t care for any cookies.”
Hema knew that she used to be very fond of cookies with her tea, and that the general used to joke that her sweet tooth was the only thing Charlotte had inherited from her mother. Hema had never met the general’s wife, but he had heard from an old chauffeur who worked for a high-ranking civil servant in Rampur that she was just as beautiful as Charlotte. Hema thought his mistress was much too thin, so he pretended not to hear her and put the plate of cookies on the table. “Did the man on the radio say anything about rain?” he asked, for Hema had a lot more worries than the poor appetite of his mistress. He ha
d to cook for four people and wash for three, and since there was no more water coming out of the faucet and the level in the bathtubs was going down, he would soon be forced to buy water from the door-to-door pedlars. In his view, the fact that they would be dependent on crafty hucksters for the necessities of life was the fault of the civil servants, who hadn’t seen the problem coming and had not arranged for extra supplies of water.
“The BBC says the monsoon is on the way, but Radio Rampur is convinced that it’ll be another couple of days yet and the temperature will go up.”
“How much water do we have left?”
“General sahib’s bath is almost empty, the bath in the guest bedroom is half full, and the one in the kitchen is empty.”
“How long will that last us?”
“The darzi ought to pay more, with so many ladies coming for a fitting.” Although he knew very well that the ladies also came to get a glimpse of the half-empty house, Hema was convinced that it was the tailor’s fault that the water was running out so fast. But he conveniently forgot that the general was bathed from head to toe twice a day, with a washcloth and soft soap.
“What’s the current price of drinking water?” asked Charlotte, who was already doing the calculations in her head. She had also decided that the time had come to convince her father to sign the papers so that she could sell the house, the outbuildings, and the hill.
Before Hema could answer Charlotte’s question, for which he had no answer, the doorbell rang. He was also thinking about prices, rates, and haggling as he shuffled to the front door.
Outside in the blazing sunlight stood a young man with slicked-back hair wearing shiny sunglasses and a wristwatch with stones that looked like diamonds. “Good morning,” he said in a lilting voice. “I’ve come for Mrs. Bridgwater.”