by Anubha Mehta
August 26, 1947
It has been a week since Baba’s return. Yesterday he started eating semi-solid food. He looks drained of colour, but he keeps muttering how grateful he is to be back. Ma sold the second last of her gold thread heirloom saris for rations for this week. She has been phoning all of our distant relatives in Delhi, probing for any work opportunities. By evening, defeated and slightly humiliated, she sat down after her last call. I know these are desperate times. I went and sat next to her, and she placed her hand on mine.
I had my journal in my hand. Her glance fell on my journal and then on me. She had just thought of something. I could see it in her eyes.
“Gaga, where did you get this cloth?” She was referring to the polka dotted batik fabric that I had dyed at home to cover my journal. I told her. Her eyes brightened some more. “You always had a flair, my darling, talented child,” she said and hugged me. I was quite puzzled by now.
“What is it, Ma?”
“Well, it’s just an idea, but if it works, and if we are able to work hard, then it may just be a solution to our problems.” Baba and the girls had tuned in now.
“Well?” I probed again.
“You remember the kind-hearted cloth wholesaler who was offering Baba a job? We will go and tell him what has happened and ask him for a loan.”
Now Baba chimed in: “A loan for what?”
But that was all Ma was willing to reveal this evening. “Let’s talk tomorrow morning, shall we?”
With that, dinner, our only meal of the day, was laid.
October 12, 1947
This morning Ma and I woke up early, before the others, and snuck out of the house. I followed her down the narrow back alley littered with shops and tea stalls that had not opened for business yet. Some were in shambles, with black smoke marks on hollow walls, as if they were tears, witness to the agony of the times. I guessed that these shop owners had been victims of the rioters. In others shops, I could see through the grilled windows. Jewellery, dry fruits, flowers, metal works, cigarettes, shoes. We walked one block after the other. Then finally Ma slowed down. We were standing in front of a cluster of shops that opened for business earlier than all the others.
They were all cloth shops. A spectrum of colours, sizes, and designs hung from hooks on the shanty aluminium shutters. Infant wear, shawls, saris, pyjamas, tunics.
Ma knew exactly which shop to enter. It was a small, stuffy shop with white linen cloth spread on its entire floor, inviting us to sit cross-legged on the ground. An obese but kind-eyed shop keeper greeted us. His lips were stained with betel nut and tobacco, and he had a small glass of tea in one hand. He offered us tea, but Ma dove straight into why she had come to him. He patiently listened to her tale about Baba.
I got up and walked to the back of the shop. It was laden from floor to ceiling with stacks of cloth. Among woollen, machine-made, and handloom fabrics were also loom cotton, silk, and linen. There were separate stacks of synthetics, including nylons, acrylics, and polyesters. A section on natural weaves had intricate zari work, and the remaining sections had thread embroidery and block prints. This little shop contained a whole world of fashion.
Soon Ma joined me with a beaming face. I guessed that she had accomplished what she had set out to do. She turned around and said to the storekeeper, “My daughter Gayatri has a flair for design. She will be in charge of selecting the fabric.” I looked at her questioningly. “Don’t worry, he is loaning the fabrics to us by keeping the last of my gold heirloom saris as collateral. And this is my last heirloom. I have to marry you off in it, so I will get it back.” She smiled confidently. “For now, just pick out twenty pieces of fabrics and ten saris—the ones you like best, Gaga.”
I did what I was told gladly. Ma was right. I enjoyed playing with colours, syncing their hues and noticing the harmony in their palettes, as well as feeling the sensual touch of the weaves and the magic of the textures.
With our bundle of treasures, we started on our way back home. It felt like a victory march. For some reason, my step matched the spring in Ma’s stride, and somehow I knew this was the end of our bad days.
February 13, 1948
Each side of India’s border still sizzles with the embers of a million bodies. Our home in Peshawar now belongs to another country. So does Sachin.
We have been carrying out Ma’s brilliant plan for four long winter months. This is how Ma’s plan has worked. Every morning Ma calls her distant relatives, especially the ones celebrating a wedding, a christening, birthday or any other occasion. She informs them of her collection of exquisite fabric that she can bring to their doorstep to save them the inconvenience of stepping out. Then both Ma and I lug our bundle to their homes and with god’s grace most people like and buy much of what we have to offer. Our feet ache and our backs hurt, but it has worked.
Gradually the word of our flamboyant merchandise spreads, and we start getting more invitations. As Ma predicted, she was able to get her collateral gold heirloom sari back from the shopkeeper. The money that we have earned goes to Baba’s medicines, groceries, and buying a bigger stack. We have started having two meals now, and some days Ma even indulges us with ice cream and chocolate. With Ashu and Rupa taking turns, Baba too is looking more like himself. Things have started getting back to some shade of normalcy. There is nothing more that I can ask for. I pray every night.
March 8, 1948
Even though spring has come early this year, the mornings have a crispness that remind me of back home. I have visited the bird’s hospital but did not find Om and Shanti. There was a wounded peacock that called out to me from one of the cages. His colours were as brilliant as Ma’s gold bracelets. I would have taken him home had it not been for Ma’s finicky habit of keeping the house spotlessly clean.
The wedding season has begun, and it is keeping us busy. It was early morning when the phone rang. Thank God for Baba’s friend’s house phone, for we could never have afforded such a luxury on our own. Usually Ma is pleased after she receives another business call, but today she sat down with a sigh. I went and sat next to her, as always. She placed her hand over mine, as always.
She said, “It was Usha Aunty with an invitation to visit her relatives on Aurangzeb Road. She says that it is one of the richest and most affluent families of Delhi, with big money and all. It is their daughter Nargis’s wedding.”
“Great! So what’s the problem, Ma?”
“I don’t think I can go.” I instinctively touched her forehead. It was burning up. She continued, “Usha said to take our finest. They are so rich that they will buy the whole stock and many more if they like even half of it. Gaga, go with Rupa.”
“No, Ma, let’s just tell them we will come when you are better.”
“Gaga, their wedding is in a few weeks. Besides, if they pick up the lot, we can take a break for some time. Would you not like that?” Ma always knew how to entice me. Yes, not working for a few days would be a welcome luxury.
As Rupa and I boarded the rickety rickshaw, the silly driver asked us for the address three times, as if doubting our destination. And when we reached it, I understood why he had reacted this way. This was not a house. It was a mansion. A beautiful mansion, in the midst of a lush and verdant garden, the kind I have only read about. A towering gate, a round driveway, stone stairs.
We were ushered into a hall with a crystal chandelier that reflected every colour of the rainbow. We hesitantly sat on the velvet divan, waiting for our buyers to arrive. Rupa had not blinked even once. She was inspecting each corner of the ornate room, which was full of framed portraits and antiques. I elbowed her to break the spell and started spreading out the display. For some reason, I was restless. A few minutes later, a slender girl with two braids, a broad forehead, and a long nose entered the room. She smiled and introduced herself as Nargis. She was not pretty, but pleasant. Behind her was a very frail young
woman in a uniform, seemingly younger than me.
“Meet Sheila, my governess.”
Nargis’s eyes widened as they fell on our treasure. “Such zari, such colours! I want it all!” She gestured to Sheila to pick it up. “Do you have more?” she looked from Rupa to me.
I had to be honest. “No, this is all that we have.”
“Well then, get more tomorrow,” Nargis said.
“I don’t have more,” I repeated.
“Well, why not?”
“Because we don’t have money to buy more. With the money that we will earn for this bundle, we will buy the next one.” It felt good laying our boundaries.
“Oh!”
She must have thought I was a very rude person. But then she probably had never confronted the possibility of not having money.
“Tell you what, I will pay you for everything here now, so you can bring me your next collection tomorrow.”
She left the room and Sheila stayed. I could feel Sheila’s eyes watching me. Somehow, they were not intimidating. Within a few minutes, Nargis was back with a tall shadow trailing her. The shadow stepped into the light, and I saw that he was a very tall man with a high forehead, and the same long nose as Nargis. He was clenching a stack of rupee bills in his hand.
“This is my elder brother, Prakash.”
He did not reply to our greeting. He just stood there and stared. Stared at me. My restlessness grew. I did not feel shy; I did not feel embarrassed. I felt something that I did not recognize. Nargis took the money from his fist and handed it to me. I quickly stood up and pulled at Rupa’s sleeve. We made our way out. I was almost running.
“What’s the hurry, Gaga? He seemed bowled over by you!” she teased cruelly.
“I don’t know, Rupa. I couldn’t breathe in there.”
In the sunlight, I realized what I had felt. This new, bitter, intolerant emotion. Repulsion. And for the first time I was ashamed of myself.
March 9, 1948
Today, as we returned with our second consignment of fabrics, the door was opened not by the butler, but by Prakash. Rupa smirked, and I almost kicked her under my skirt. He still had yesterday’s look, but today he was blinking. I pushed Rupa in front of me so that she could follow him first into the passage to reach the hall. Without a word, we started opening our display, but he stopped us and held out a fistful of cash.
I was completely disgusted by his crudeness. What did he think of us? Did he find us so desperate for money that we would just take his money without satisfying ourselves that they really liked our goods? We were here to do business, not to sell ourselves. We may be poor but we still had our dignity. I finally lifted my head and said to him, “But you have not even seen the new stock yet!”
“Nargis told me to take the whole lot.”
“Without looking? Where is she?” Rupa asked, catching some of my irritation.
He continued, “Nargis has gone for the fitting of her wedding gown. She completely trusts your choice. What can I say?” Then he looked at me directly. “Beauty is an unusual and sacred thing. It comes rarely but surely.”
Suddenly I knew he was no longer talking about his sister or the fabric. I felt a shiver down my spine, and my body turned cold. The same feeling from yesterday started returning. I took the money from his extended hand, and, without a word, turned to go.
“Would you like some tea?” he called out as we started to leave.
I did not answer. I did not care if this looked rude or if Rupa followed me or not. I felt claustrophobic inside the mansion’s walls and trapped with Prakash.
Rupa was running behind to keep up. “What has gotten into you, Gayatri?” she asked when we reached our cramped, narrow street.
“I don’t know. I can’t breathe in that house.” And I took a deep breath as I entered our small apartment
March 16, 1948
Ma was happy with the money that we had made by adding to Nargis’s trousseau. I was happy because I got my much-needed break. But, this morning, my happiness was disturbed when Usha Aunty called once again. This time she told Ma about Nargis’s invitation for me to act as her chaperone till her wedding day. She said that Nargis liked my flare for design and wanted my advice on critical fashion decisions leading up to the wedding day. I had to move into the mansion for a week before the wedding. And she would pay handsomely. I immediately suspected that this request was not solely coming from Nargis.
I knew that Ma wanted to say yes to Usha Aunty right away, but she did not. Although I had not revealed how I had felt inside the mansion to Ma and Baba, I suspected that Rupa had mentioned it. Either way, I did not take a chance. I gathered all my courage and told them before they committed on my behalf.
“Ma when I visited the bird hospital, I saw a wounded peacock. Even though he was kept there for his own good, he felt trapped. Well, that is how I felt in the mansion. Please don’t make me go there….” My voice cracked.
Baba had wheeled himself into the room. He was strong enough to do that now. Before Ma could say anything, he spoke up on a family matter for the first time after his accident: “No child, you don’t have to go.” I ran and buried my face in his shoulders in gratitude.
May 18, 1948
Ma and I have been working frenziedly for the past few months, and I am ready for a break again. I am thinking of telling Ma this tomorrow morning. I am sure that with the success we have had with the wedding season, she will welcome a break too.
It was a long day. We left at dawn, and, when we got back, we had a nice surprise waiting for us. Ashu had cooked dinner, and Rupa had bought Baba’s favourite pistachio ice cream. I changed into my night clothes and was about to write in my journal when I heard a knock at the door.
“See who it is, Rupa,” Ma said from her room.
Rupa opened the door, and we caught the anxiety in her voice. To my utter surprise, it was the same tall shadow from the mansion. It was Prakash. He was wearing a suit and a tie, and was sweating from his temples. He was standing behind a distinguished elderly gentleman wearing an English suit with two shaded cherry brown shoes and carrying a colourful cardboard box on which “Nathu Sweets” was written in gold.
Prakash introduced the older man as Lala Yaduveer Rajsinghania, his father.
Baba wheeled himself in. He said that he immediately recognized Lala Rajsinghania from the photographs he had seen in the business section of local newspapers.
I slipped away into my room. I was perplexed and nervous, anticipating something that I feared terribly. It felt like eternity until they left. When Ma came to my room, I still had my eyes shut tight like a child who does not want to know.
“You are a lucky one! Lala Rajsinghani has come to ask for your hand in marriage for their son, Prakash!” I could not open my eyes. I could not speak. Ma continued, “We have until ten o’clock tomorrow morning to give them our decision.” She stopped to take a breath.
Baba was in the room now. He put his hand on my head, and I opened my eyes. Tears were gushing down like water in a downspout during the monsoon.
“No, Baba. I cannot do this.”
Baba did not say anything. No one said anything after that. We all retired to our beds without speaking and I am certain that no one is sleeping a wink tonight.
May 19, 1948
It must have been a little after six when I went to the kitchen to make morning tea for everyone. Ma and Baba were already up, and I could hear them in the kitchen.
Baba was saying, “We cannot force the poor girl if she is not willing….”
But Ma was not listening to him. She said, “I cannot believe our luck. Imagine Gayatri getting married to the only son, the heir of one of the richest and most elite families of Delhi. They are like royalty here, I have heard. Old money and culture. It is her good fortune and God’s grace that has brought this proposal to our doorstep. I
n our circumstances, could we ever dream of such a match for our daughter? Besides, see what this will do for her sisters. Ashu and Rupa will also become eligible in the elite circle. God has been so kind to us, this is really a blessing for the whole family.”
I cupped my ears with my palms. I had heard enough. Enough to know that this match would alleviate the suffering of my over-burdened mother and my crippled father, and pull my sisters out of poverty and desolation.
I will do anything for my family. And the time has come for me to prove this. How can I be so selfish and think of things like compatibility and love? Yes, I feel Sachin’s presence deep in my heart, but I do not know if I will ever see him again. Things like love are for others, not for people in my circumstance.
I walked in and told Ma, “Call up Lala Rajsinghania, I am ready.”
Then I put my head on her lap and cried for a long time.
September 12, 1948
This week I was married to Prakash. Ma gave me the last of her heirloom gold saris and her peacock bracelets. I protested, but she joked that it was an investment in my sisters’ future. She was sure that in return I would find suitable boys in the Rajsinghania circle for them too. I felt sick the morning of the wedding. I felt sick as I faced Prakash in the stifling Delhi court room. But I was not one to complain, I had wanted a court wedding after all. No fanfare, no rituals, no celebration, just a quiet court arrangement. Prakash was so ecstatic that I had agreed to marry him that I think he would have agreed to anything, even a wedding on a treetop, if I had asked.
Saying goodbye to my family killed me. I did not have the courage to look into their eyes before leaving for fear of having a complete breakdown. Rupa and Ashu clung to me, Baba sobbed openly like a little child, and Ma hugged me for a long time. In return, all that my numb mind could say to them was, “I promise to visit soon. Look after yourselves.” But deep inside I knew that was a lie. Somehow, I knew that I would not be allowed to escape the mansion walls.