When she had been married to Mehta she was very young and impulsive. Mehta gave her everything except confidence. She was convinced that it was possible to have a home even without children. Parbati was justifiably proud of the grand Colonel Mehta. Being his wife had given her a place in society but she never stopped being the victim of people’s envy and greed. Then, even as now, people remained ready to marry their daughters to Colonel Mehta. Ten years of married life went by. She was a wordly, married woman of twenty-eight when she began to feel that there was much more for a woman to achieve than motherhood. She was constantly obsessed by one thought: she would achieve something before she died, she would achieve something before she died.
War broke out with the neighbouring country, and countless mothers’ precious sons began to write history with their blood. For security the frontiers demanded blood … fresh blood poured into human forms, borne by women and then sacrificed by them before city walls. Seeing their precious ones fall, these women could then raise their heads in pride and say, ‘I have a share in this earth. I have drenched it with my blood. This fertile land is my being … I am earth itself. I produce these gems and I swallow them as well.’
Parbati grew more and more restless. Blood coursed through her veins, vigorous and passionate. She was perpetually conscious of her low status. She would always be deprived of the honour of adding another drop to the flowing river. A drop drawn from her blood and being. How impossible this was. She could have gained the honour by sacrificing her husband, but that appeared difficult. Without him what would she be? She thought: now that fires are raging all around and life is uncertain, I could receive the news of Mehta’s death any moment. Who would she lean on after Mehta’s death? She would be Mehta’s widow, without a medal, honour, pension or anything. She resolved that instead of this aimless existence, she would do something to ensure her name for posterity.
When a woman cannot become a mother she has many other desires.
Mehta’s love had lost its earlier centredness and abundance. Knowing each other, they still remained strangers. Mehta would busy himself with office business most of the time. The wife would occupy herself with social work. At night they would go to bed exhausted. Life had fallen into a rut and lost all meaning. But war brought a new quest and aspirations into their life. New windows opened on enchanting vistas. There were many opportunities for Parbati now. Mehta suggested that she become a nurse, but instead of bandaging other’s wounds she longed to receive some herself. She longed to run to the front lines, to comfort the soldiers, to do battle and go tearing through the enemy lines. She kept badgering Mehta with this desire. The only opening he could find for her obsession was that she go and spy in enemy territory, make use of her beauty and intelligence and if she had to lay down her life, well, she desired that anyway. That would immortalize her.
An injection of morphine made her bear the wounds inflicted on her body, and for the sake of her country she crossed the frontier at night. Then her life began to change. Gradually soft-spoken Hassan entered the temple of her heart, made a place in it. They were spiritually one. After marrying Hassan, Parbati was reborn. Perhaps she had been created for Hassan and had travelled these long distances to arrive at this point. How much hardship she had undergone to make him hers and how much tyranny she had endured, only her heart knew. After gaining Hassan she had put away her past life as a time in prison which had passed in hope of freedom. Hassan was the ultimate haven after the turmoil her soul had undergone, not just a man who had given her self-confidence. She who had been a criminal in everybody’s perception was now witness to her own existence, her pride, her soul and emotions … now she could say she was no less than anyone else. She too had an established goal.
She was picked up from the border and transported with the utmost care to Colonel Mehta. Mehta greeted her with love and courtesy, but Parbati was not the same. She was haunted by the fear that if Mehta found out he would not treat her well at all, and it was inevitable he find out. Parbati never told her husband but he gauged the situation. His eyes turned crimson with rage and he was like an angry hyena.
‘I didn’t expect this of you.’ He was silent for a while and then said, ‘For the sake of the country … all right … you had no option.’ His tone softened. He remembered the sacrifices made by Parbati and allowed his head to rest on her shoulder. Parbati lay curled up on the bed, not answering any questions but watching the play of emotions on Mehta’s face. She sat silent, as if she was a migrant from a faraway land who had stopped at the wayside inn for a few hours. Despite all that Mehta said, she was not conscious of any sense of guilt. She had committed no crime, she was sure. Mehta continued talking and in an attempt to console her said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get rid of it.’
‘You have been childless … we can adopt it,’ Parbati advised.
‘Useless seed … child of a mlech … I will not allow it in my home. Understand, Parbati! I have accepted you because of your love and loyalty, otherwise you’re unclean … you’ll have to get rid of it. Now, today or tomorrow.’
In a single breath Mehta had demanded, threatened and warned. He was pained at his wife’s loss of honour and conscious of his deprivations. Parbati had returned from across the border with something that they had longed for. But Mehta had no part in it. And now Parbati, a lowly woman, was determined to have the upper hand over him. He could defeat her through violence. He leapt. Parbati shrieked.
‘You can’t do this. I won’t let you do it …’
‘I’ll kill you …’ He advanced towards Parbati, both hands raised.
‘Kill me, then.’
Parbati offered her neck. She felt Mehta’s blows on her breast and sat up in pain. Legs drawn up to protect her stomach, she kept taking the blows. Kicked and pummelled, her flesh, bones and coursing blood took a beating to save the life that had taken refuge in her, to protect the race of which she was the mother. She was mother and earth and frontier and beyond the frontier, life continued, generation succeeding generation. Life growing and burgeoning was to be protected. No … no … no … I will not let this happen.
Mehta lost, lost in every way. After this the tension between them grew. The time of confinement was drawing near. Mehta started disappearing from home for weeks. Parbati was calm in his absence. While he was away she could wait peacefully for the moment when the reward of a lifetime would be poured into her lap. Her motherhood would signify new hope, she would be overwhelmed with joy.
In Mehta’s absence Parbati went to hospital. She informed neither her own family nor her in-laws but she did scribble a few lines to Mehta. It was his choice whether to maintain the relationship or break it. She had no hopes of anyone, no relationship with anyone. The whole world had disappointed her. Even Hassan. Love and emotions prosper for a while but, faced with the demands of duty or other goals, they are either throttled by others or destroy themselves. Maintaining a relationship becomes a curse. To break relationships is a worthy act and Parbati was breaking all relationships, without asking whether it was praiseworthy or not. It was just the beginning of the journey for her. She was midway. No final decision was possible at the moment. She had seen a dream, its realization was a way off. She had still to touch it with her lips. After that she will think. After that, duty will call, and she will listen and take a decision. The ultimate moment was slowly drawing closer. She was waiting with hope, arms outstretched. Time was ticking away.
New buds opened and new leaves emerged on the ancient peepal tree on the hospital lawn. Seasons change and protected from the strong, icy blast of winter, the new plants and buds burst forth. The earth’s lap became verdant and so did Parbati’s.
Bathed in dew the morning dawned.
As seasons change, the mornings are sad but heady. The sunshine is pale, neither clear nor bright, and its fresh, scrubbed beauty spreads and enters the human heart. It was the first day of spring and a new day for Parbati.
The bearer informed her that Colonel Mehta had
arrived. Parbati confidently raised her head. Mehta could not break all ties with her. He was sure of a reconciliation. He thought now that he had come back things would perhaps work out. She sat with the child clasped to her breast. Mehta entered the room smiling, but instead of reflecting softness or consideration, his eyes were fiery. Fire that sends out sparks. Parbati responded to his smile with a smile of her own and sat silently.
‘Let’s go,’ Mehta ordered on entering.
‘Where?’
‘Home. Where else? Come now, I’ve brought the car.’
‘Have you gone crazy? Can’t you see my child …’
Mehta interrupted her. ‘You’ve driven me crazy, Parbati.’ He stepped forward. ‘For the sake of Bhagwan, kill these emotions. Start a new life. Learn to live with me. You have disgraced everyone. You’re on a suicidal mission …’
Parbati didn’t reply. Her mind was blank. She was not even thinking, so, meekly like a goat, she followed him. If she created a commotion in the hospital what would people have said? … With this thought she set out with Mehta. All the way Mehta was aloof, muttering under his breath as if in a state of intoxication.
‘Parbati! You’re a woman. The Muslims call a woman fire. They are right. You are a woman. Fire. You have consumed everything, burnt it to cinders. I can’t even leave you. What am I to do? Parbati, Parbati! You have led Shiv astray. Humiliated him …’
On reaching home Parbati was given a comfortable bed. The servants had disappeared somewhere so Mehta heated the food himself and fed her warm milk and biscuits. He didn’t think it necessary to explain the changes she noticed in the house and she herself was tired of playing a role. Now she wanted to sit back and watch as a spectator. There was a pleasure to it that she was just beginning to experience … to sit back in comfort and without a worry. Whatever will be will be. She had entrusted her ship to the waves and wanted to see what would happen.
Afternoon deepened into evening, night fell, then daybreak approached. It was time for the lamps to be dimmed and she lay with her eyes open. The whole night she was awake, eyes open, staring … A hand will move forward to shut out the light in her eyes now … now.
The night passed like a serpent that has just given birth and is in search of its young to swallow them. Who are her children? The stars … Parbati couldn’t think too much. She has a star-like child herself and she is not going to allow anyone to swallow him up. He is a piece of the moon. He will shine. He will shine forth and be transformed into the sun … There was still time before sunrise. Her limbs began to relax … Why were her eyes drooping? Sleep. Sweet sleep. Drapes. Heavy drapes. Forgetfulness. She was dreaming. Mehta is here … he is searching for something by her side. The child began to cry … It was no dream.
Slaps … snatching … struggle between life and death … tears and entreaties … hatred. Envy and suffocation. Defeat and a sense of guilt.
‘I tell you, you should kill him.’ Mehta growled like a wild cat, who in its greed separates the heads of its young from their bodies.
‘No. No’. She sobbed and hid her child beneath her breasts. She would defend him in every way. Her body was enough.
‘I’ll leave as soon as it’s morning … go far away.’ She was trembling with passion even as she made this confident assertion, panting out the words in smouldering rage. After that she lost consciousness of what she did. She left home.
Before the evening shadows deepened she found herself walking toward the border. A storm of emotions had driven her crazy. A madwoman was walking on the breast of the earth. Mother earth. A unifying entity, a common human possession.
She had forgotten that there are countries on this earth and countries have borders and borders are guarded. She walked on.
In front of her the sun sank slowly, very slowly, into the ocean in the west. The earth and the sky were bathed in blood. On and on she walked, slowly … slowly … closer and closer and closer. A bullet whistled by, grazing her shoulder. Her arms tightened across her breast and she bowed her head. Another bullet … and then another … and now she had gone very far. Many voices resounded in the atmosphere … kill … bullets rained from all sides … a storm. So many bullets for her solitary self … smoke spreading. Darkness swam before her eyes. A voice, rising and falling. The soil at the border … her blood, red, warm, young and fresh … then peace, silence and the resounding echo: ‘Kill!’
Translated by Samina Rahman
UMME UMARA
The Sin of Innocence
It was a frosty winter morning. When she opened her eyes the train had halted somewhere and the shouts of the coolies and the sleepy voices of the vendors came from afar. She quietly raised the window and peeped out. They were at a large railway junction. A blast of chilly air made her shiver. Hastily rolling the window down, she lay on the berth willing herself to go back to sleep.
‘Don’t go to sleep. We’ve arrived.’ Amma softly caressed her hair. This was her first experience of a long train journey. Before this, all journeys were associated with Baba. He laboured in faraway lands and running the home was Amma’s responsibility. Amma, his better half, proved to be so in all areas of endeavour. The children were studying in the best schools, the lands were being diligently looked after, relatives and dear ones were being attended to and nobody had occasion to complain.
Baba being away from home, Amma dealt with the children so that they would not miss his presence at all. She gave them so much love that, drunk on its excess, they would obey her every command, believing in the paradise that lay beneath her feet. Living their lives in ease, and without a conscious plan, they had set a future course for themselves on the road to progress. When, in a year’s time, Baba returned home from his foreign travels and journeys in strange lands and found his garden of delight flourishing, he would be beside himself with joy.
They all loved Baba. His presence added to their happiness but at the same time they were afraid of him. When he was around, Amma would move about replete within herself. She would discuss everything on earth with him, from the family to the neighbours, and Baba, too, never tired of listening to her. She would bestow her advice on Baba at every step and he would value it. It was often seen that when Baba was struggling with a problem and his own reason was proving unequal to the task, Amma would offer her services and Baba, shifting his responsibility on to her, would settle back with a sigh of relief. Amma was the All-Knowing Intelligence and he had faith that she could never fail. There was no doubt that Amma was a formidable lady and the entire family trusted her farsightedness. Yet … yet when Baba returned from Bengal and announced his decision, Amma lost her nerve and all her headiness vanished. She would look worriedly about her, her eyes probing the very threshold and walls of the haveli, her hands caressing each brick as if it were the form of a loved one, or then she would round on Baba in angry dispute. She would try and convince him with her arguments but this time Baba was not in the least impressed with her far-sightedness. He would keep hammering on at the same point: that they could no longer live there. He could not remit money from where he lived, and if money could not be remitted then how were the children to be educated and children without learning are of no use, like unfashioned wood. Most important of all, he could not see any future for his children here, and the children were the sum of his life. Their well-being was his happiness.
‘Then what about this haveli, these lands, our village and our people?’ Amma would ask in broken tones and her voice would be swept away in a stream of tears. She would be separated from all her brothers and sisters.
‘Why don’t you understand? Nothing is possible here any more. These children are all we possess. Even if you desire it, there is no space for them here. You will earn nothing from these lands. It’s a question of a foreign country and we cannot live here any more.’
For the first, and perhaps last time, Amma had to face defeat. Then they watched her sadly pack and put away her things and a storm of tears would rise in her eyes over trifling
matters. Seeing Amma’s restlessness, Baba would also be agitated, but she was waging an unsuccessful struggle to understand his words: how did one’s own home turn into a foreign land?
This haveli, its threshold and walls, its spacious courtyard (which tired one to cross it from one end to the other), the sturdy neem and peepal trees under whose shade marbles are played and these three large open rooms, Amma’s pride and joy, were places where they had lived since they had first opened their eyes. She would always say, ‘My bridal palanquin came through the large gate and was placed right here, and, God willing, my bier will also leave through the same large gate. Every happily married woman cherishes this desire.’
And … now it was the same Amma, the same house, the same village. Then how did this world turn into a world of strangers? And the place where Baba lives, that unseen world, how has it become our country? She would turn it over endlessly in her mind but was still not able to make head or tail of it. The far end of the skein would remain as tangled as ever and having tired herself out she would listlessly creep away to sleep long hours in the loft. The other brothers and sisters would dream of a bright future as they packed and chattered and made plans for a happy tomorrow. Nobody gave her a thought and she would comfortably turn, rub her eyes and continue sleeping, when suddenly Amma would be reminded of her and then everything would be turned upside down. A search would be conducted from one corner of the house to all the neighbouring homes and when everyone was exhausted, Amma, in her anxiety, would remember the loft, and exclaim that Munni Rani must be in her little haven. And then Bade Bhaiyya or Amma would fetch her from there. In those days when everyone was worrying about the other, she was only concerned whether there would be a loft in Baba’s house … and when Baba came she had repeatedly asked him whether the house they were going to had a loft or not. Instead of answering, Baba would smile.
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