by Meira Chand
At the sight of Lakshmi, Chachi sank down in a heap on the floor. ‘Forever your karma will be cursed by this deed,’ she screamed at Mrs Samtani, and repeated the words in a sob. Mrs Samtani rose, the breath vibrating through her.
‘It is you people who are to be blamed,’ she hissed. ‘This is your doing. God is my judge.’
Making his way across the room, to where the men sat, Lokumal stopped before Mrs Samtani. ‘This is not the time for such talk, sister. I beg you to be silent.’
Lokumal took his place with the men, filled with sadness and fatigue. He looked at the body of the girl before him, whom he had seen on the day of her birth, and sighed. He searched his mind for a verse from the Gita to calm himself and shut his eyes.
For to the one that is born death is certain and certain is birth for one that has died. Therefore for what is unavoidable, thou shouldst not grieve.
In the past, on similar occasions, the verse had never failed him. He spoke it often in his gentlest voice, to those who were bereaved. Now his head felt swollen, and the words neither penetrated nor held meaning. He studied Lakshmi’s face, grey as a discarded chrysalis, and wondered at the state.
He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the men about him nodded. He trembled all over. Now these words applied imminently to himself, they had acquired new perspective. He dare not admit to the sudden comfortlessness of verse. Within days he too, on June 11, according to Tunda Maharaj, would lie dead and stretched out like Lakshmi. To what place had the spark in her flown? He had answered the question calmly when it was put to him by others; why could he not answer himself? He turned his prayer beads, and thought of Swamiji on the banks of the Ganges and the radiance of his face. He remembered Lakshmi as a small child whom he had fed with sweets. He thought of his grandchildren, Bina and Ravi, and tears came to his eyes. Neither the eating of meat, nor the building of the bar, seemed of importance now. All he wanted was the love of his son and his daughter-in-law, and the arms of his grandchildren about him. He was shocked at his thoughts, at this sudden lusting after earthly attachments. He bowed his head at his lack of courage before his final test.
Soon the men stood up and left the room, and the women began their work. Old Chachi pushed forward determinedly upon her short stiff legs, breathing heavily. She took up a position of command to the right of Lakshmi’s body, knowledgeable from past experience of the details of the rite. Rekha sat cross-legged beside Lakshmi, rocking backwards and forwards with grief.
‘Bring scissors,’ Chachi demanded of Mrs Samtani. ‘Bring water. Where is the gauze?’ Mrs Samtani sucked her breath angrily, and turned to command a servant.
Chachi gave the scissors to Rekha, but her hand trembled violently. ‘Let Meena do it,’ Chachi ordered. ‘She is the eldest sister.’
Meena knelt, and cut the charred remnants of clothes from Lakshmi’s body. Chachi stood lucid with command, hands on hips. The snip of scissors and the tearing of cloth unsettled the silent room. The body was turned and the clothes pulled free, releasing with the movement a sudden, putrid stench of death. Lakshmi lay naked, her only protection the blistered hide of her flesh. The seated women looked away. In the doorway the crush of onlookers drew back, but did not avert their gaze.
Mrs Hathiramani pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. Each time the body was moved a new wave of sweet-smelling rot filled the room. She gave a sob, afraid even to breathe for fear now of death’s contagion. Beside her Mrs Bhagwandas sobbed companionably, but even to her friend Mrs Hathiramani dare not disclose her terror. To voice it would be to give it shape, and attract the fate waiting to pounce upon her. Each time she raised her eyes to Lakshmi’s body she saw instead the still, lifeless shape of her husband. She shut her eyes quickly, and prayed, as she did every hour of the day, for his recovery. She regretted her scorn of his education. She regretted her concern with her chutney jars that had caused her to ignore him. And yet, at the end of each guilty accounting, she knew she had only Saturn to blame. Mrs Hathiramani feared the evil at work in the House of the Sun had still some course to run. She began to sob again.
‘Water,’ ordered Chachi. Mrs Samtani stepped forward, but the old woman barred her way with a short, stubborn arm. ‘This job is for her family.’ Mrs Samtani opened her mouth to protest, but drew back before the vehemence of Chachi’s expression. The cleansing could be no more than a ritual dab, on each of Lakshmi’s charred limbs. Padma joined Meena, took the wet cloth, and touched it lightly to the body.
‘Gauze,’ Chachi demanded. ‘Cut the hole large.’ She bent herself, wheezing with effort, to lift Lakshmi’s head as they slipped the shroud upon her, pulling it straight, arranging stiffened limbs.
‘Now call back the men,’ Chachi announced. ‘Bring a bag for these; they must burn with her.’ She pointed to the charred, shredded clothes. She refused to sit but stood, hands still on hips, in her loose tunic, short legs in blue striped pyjamas planted firmly apart. She had unearthed a new veil for the funeral, and held an end to her wet eyes.
Jyoti drew a breath, and looked across the room at her father-in-law, who appeared frail in the shaft of light. Beyond the window, two crows on a branch of a mango tree goaded a stranded kitten. The birds croaked and edged towards the cat. The heat of mid-morning filled the room; the sun streamed in on the white clothes of the mourners. It fell on Lakshmi’s face, untouched by the fire, discoloured as old wax above the pale gauze of the shroud.
She felt diminished by Lakshmi’s death. She thought again of the difference between her own fate and Lakshmi’s, of the goodness of Lokumal, of his sagacity and affection, and was ashamed at how she had tried him. She looked up to the window again. The crows flapped great wings before the terrified kitten, one rose to dive in attack. Jyoti held her breath, but the cat jumped to a ledge at the side of the house, and ran down a drainpipe to safety. She must do what she could to show Lokumal his place in the house was unchanged, whatever the progressive changes. Beneath the perfume of incense, the stench of death now filled the room. Lokumal was an old man; there would be time soon enough to please only herself.
The priest mixed a paste of carmine and instructed Hari to mark Lakshmi’s brow, eyes, ears, and mouth. Wafers of copper and silver were placed between her lips.
‘Something of gold is also needed,’ the priest demanded. Chachi looked straight at Mrs Samtani.
‘We are poor people, what gold can we give?’ Mrs Samtani replied.
‘Give her this.’ Rani stood up and unclasped the chain from her neck. She slid off the bead, worn as a good luck charm since childhood, that she had failed to give Lakshmi the other day. Mrs Murjani reached up a restraining hand, but Rani pulled away. Hari placed the bead between Lakshmi’s lips, beside the slivers of copper and silver.
It was the first time she had seen death. Rani could not believe the shrouded figure was Lakshmi. The stillness was grotesque. Her mind had shut down, or was made of sponge. She kept her eyes upon Sham. What more could she have done? What more could she still do? She was surrounded by plenitude she had a need to be rid of. Why did she have it? Why did he not? The questions made her ill.
Garlands of jasmine, marigolds and asters were heaped in a mound upon Lakshmi. Mrs Samtani picked up Lakshmi’s wedding sari, Rekha and Chachi sprang forward at once to take possession of it. Mrs Samtani drew back with a fierce tug at the garment; Rekha held on grimly. The sari opened suddenly, cascading yards of soft red silk over Lakshmi, as they pulled and strained. Chachi reached out and added a hand and the silk was ripped from Mrs Samtani’s grasp. Rekha laid the wedding garment over her daughter, and upon it a last garland.
She was light on the bier; the men carried it easily out of the house, down the outside stairs, to a battered truck. The priest walked ahead with an oil lamp, listing the illusions of life. The women stood before the house, amongst the piles of twisted metal and the grazing goat, as the men departed with the body, on its journey to the fire.
‘Food for the priest, gifts for him als
o, and money. Money also for the burning, and the bills of the doctors still unpaid. Who is to pay for all this?’ Mrs Samtani demanded as the truck disappeared. ‘Even in death she will pursue us.’ Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas exchanged a look. Jyoti turned from fingering the canna lilies at the bottom of the steps.
‘Can you give her no peace, even now?’ she asked.
‘Peace?’ screamed Mrs Samtani. ‘From the moment she came into our family—’
‘Send the bills to me, sister,’ Lokumal interrupted, and turned away from Mrs Samtani. He felt suddenly exhausted; he had not gone with the men to the crematorium. His car already lurched forward to take him back to Sadhbela. The driver got out, and opened the door to install him. Mrs Samtani rushed forward.
‘All bills you will pay? Everything?’ she confirmed.
‘Everything,’ Lokumal barked. Jyoti climbed into the car beside him, and soon they drove away.
‘Why did you waste your own gold on the girl?’ Mrs Murjani demanded of Rani when their car followed Lokumal’s into the streets of Mahim. Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas rode with them. Rani was crushed on the back seat between the two women, their flesh overflowed upon her. Mrs Murjani sat in front. Mrs Bhagwandas had left her car and driver at Rekha’s disposal for the day. She would remain at the Samtanis’ until the men returned from the crematorium, and the priest was ceremoniously fed.
‘People like that will pick such gold from the ashes, even before they look for the bones,’ Mrs Hathiramani stated.
‘The fire is not yet started, and already I hear they have a new girl for Hari,’ Mrs Bhagwandas announced. ‘Mrs Watumal has relatives in Mahim, she has heard this from them.’
‘I too have heard,’ Mrs Hathiramani announced. ‘The girl is so black in colour you cannot see her at night, and one leg is shorter than the other. But there is a good dowry. For such a girl the parents are happy to get a boy like Hari. Even if he is defective, and also now a widower, he is still a good catch for some. Already Lakshmi is forgotten.’ Mrs Hathiramani sighed.
‘So, soon now you will also be arranging for her?’ Mrs Bhagwandas inquired over the seat to Mrs Murjani, after a quick appraisal of Rani.
‘Already she is eighteen,’ Mrs Hathiramani remarked, turning her head in scrutiny of Rani.
‘Such things are in God’s hands.’ Mrs Murjani was non-commital.
‘I will not marry yet,’ Rani screamed, struggling against the mounds of flesh pressing about her. ‘I am going to study. I shall be a doctor or do social work. I shall—’
Mrs Hathiramani clicked her tongue. ‘Who will marry you if you do these things? You wish to repay the love of your parents by being a burden for life upon them?’
‘If they had not married her like that, Lakshmi would still be alive,’ Rani replied, pushing herself free of the women and sitting forward on the seat.
‘Her case is different. For you a nice boy will be found,’ Mrs Bhagwandas chuckled.
‘I shall study,’ Rani insisted. Mrs Hathiramani laughed, and looked at Mrs Murjani.
‘Sister, you will allow her to do these things?’ She chucked Rani’s cheek affectionately. ‘In Lakshmi’s family the karma is bad. For you there is nothing to worry.’
Mrs Murjani turned in panic on the front seat, glaring at the women over Rani’s bowed head; all she needed was their ignorance at this vital point. Mrs Hathiramani misinterpreted her expression for one of conspiracy.
‘Oh ho. So, already you have found her a boy? Is his skin colour fair, is his father rich? We too can find good boys for her. Mr Hathiramani knows many fine families from Rohri and Sukkur, even from Hyderabad, Sind.’
Rani raised her head in fury. Mrs Murjani put a hand on her arm to calm her. ‘If she wishes to study we will think about it. Times are different now,’ she said. Rani looked at her in surprise, Mrs Murjani smiled defiantly at the women.
‘Oh ho. So, you will let her get even to twenty-five without a husband? What times indeed we live in now,’ Mrs Hathiramani exclaimed. ‘Who will marry her at twenty-five?’
Mrs Murjani turned away. Rani must not suspect her aims were in harmony with Mrs Bhagwandas and Mrs Hathiramani. It would need all her skill to meet Mrs Premchand as arranged, the timing was so wrong. It would take Rani weeks to get over the shock of Lakshmi’s death. And the inquest had been reported in the press, for all Bombay to see. She prayed this publicity would have no adverse effect on all that was planned for Rani.
*
On the pyre in the crematorium, oil was poured liberally over Lakshmi, and the flame was lighted. They left her then to burn, returning again to the Samtanis’ home.
From the kitchen Mrs Samtani had produced a large, greasy, green and yellow tin that had once contained cooking oil. It waited in the hallway in a plastic carrier bag, stamped with the name of a sari shop.
‘I will not put her ashes in this,’ Sham choked. Beside him Hari shrugged.
‘What does it matter?’ he asked.
‘This too is not good enough for her, I suppose?’ Mrs Samtani replied.
‘No, it is not good enough.’ Sham turned upon them both. The living room was orderly, the furniture returned to its place after the sweeper had washed the floors. The smell of carbolic was strong, but did not eradicate the odour of death, still lingering in the room.
‘Most people use such tins. Size is right. Why waste money? It is only to be thrown in the sea,’ Mrs Samtani sniffed coldly.
‘I will not have it,’ Sham whispered.
‘We have no money to waste on expensive containers,’ Mrs Samtani replied.
‘I will buy one.’ Sham turned to the front door again. Mrs Samtani raised her eyebrows.
‘Aluminium will do,’ she advised, seeing he was determined. ‘Four or five kilo capacity is best. Do not waste money on stainless steel.’
‘I will buy what I want,’ he replied, and slammed the door upon her. On the steps he faced again the kitchen window, within which he had last glimpsed Lakshmi alive.
He walked through narrow streets, clogged with people and cupboard-like shops selling saris or saucepans, buttons and thread. A barrow of glassware, another of pegs and plastic cups. A stall of cow pats and one of funeral articles he recognized from the morning’s experience, children’s clothes, religious images. At last he was directed to the right street, shop after hardware shop ran before him. He demanded stainless steel. Containers of every size were shown him for the storage of wheat and rice, at enormous prices. He shook his head and turned away, reduced miserably to Mrs Samtani’s recommendations. In a shop piled with red buckets, frying pans and colanders, an aluminium bin was found and a jute shopping bag to put it in. He returned to the Samtanis’ house.
Later the next day the tin weighed heavily, filled with Lakshmi’s ashes. To his horror other tins had also been needed; the wood ash of the pyre added bulk. Hari, with a smirk, had produced the cooking oil tin and several more besides. They had filled them with their own hands, after separating the splinters of bone, and deposits of calcium that remained. They took the ashes to the sea. Sham walked ahead with his portion of Lakshmi. He carried the tin in the jute shopping bag, and had heaped rose petals and marigolds upon it. Hari and his father followed behind, struggling with their load of tins in bulging plastic carrier bags, bright with the logos of shoe and sari shops. At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, the tide washed at the base of a low sea wall. Sham walked on towards it.
He would have liked to have done it properly, to have taken some part of Lakshmi to Nasik, Hardwar or Varanasi, so that the sacred waters of the Ganges might touch her with their light. But it was not possible; the sea of Mahim was the best he could do. A bleached jute bag, a new aluminium tin, hidden almost beneath a mound of flower petals; he clung fiercely to these tangibilities. Before him now was the sea, stretching out, unfettered, its salt sting in his nostrils. He took a deep breath of it.
Hari and his father prised open the lids of their various tins, and flung their loads qu
ickly over the wall, into the sea. The plastic bags hit the water with a splash, sinking with their weight, lost immediately from view. Hari wiped his hands on his trousers as he turned away. Mr Samtani spat into the gutter.
Sham knelt on the wall and leaned forward, sprinkling the ashes from his container carefully upon the water. They spread out over the surface, and mixed and swam with the movement of the sea. The rose and marigold petals floated freely upon the tide. The empty tin and the jute bag bobbed, and sank slowly. He watched the water close upon them and their descent below the surface, growing gradually fainter, sucked away from the shore to the shapelessness of the sea, until he could see them no more. Behind him Hari and Mr Samtani lit cigarettes. He turned and walked quickly away, not pausing to look at them.
20
‘So very sorry,’ Akbar Ali said softly to Sham, sitting behind his desk in his warped green room. Malik too looked up from his work, and added his sympathy for the death of Lakshmi.
‘I know of sadness,’ Akbar continued. ‘My son died some years ago. He was a smart boy like you. I got him a smart-boy education in America. He became so educated he was ashamed of his father. In this shame he stayed on in America, and there he was killed in a car crash.’ Akbar took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Sham looked down at his hands; he had become fond of Akbar. He clenched his teeth to control his own emotions, at this talk of Lakshmi.
‘Such things must not happen to other sisters,’ Akbar continued, pushing his handkerchief back into a pocket. ‘You must give them good dowries, and find them good husbands. This new idea of yours I like, and in the project I will give you some share. Now, put this sadness behind you, still there are others depending upon you. Go today and ask these Watumals if they are willing to discuss our proposition.’ Akbar placed a fleshy hand upon Sham’s shoulder.
*
Lata looked at him in surprise as she opened the door. ‘Mohan is out, but Father is in,’ she said at his inquiry and gave him a wide, clear smile.