The Scent of Mogra and Other Stories

by Aparna Kaji Shah

  When I finally told Kishore what was going on, he looked at me in disbelief. He said, “My father? Impossible.” For a week we did not speak, and he could not look at his father in the eye.

  But then, we talked again. “Why should I lie?” I asked him. He realized that I was not imagining things. He was filled with anger and shame but did not know what to do. He told me to lock our room when I was alone.

  It was during this tense time that Kishore was offered a job in Ajmer’s new hospital. I was pregnant with our first child. We jumped at the opportunity to get away. What a relief it would be to not have to constantly be on my guard.

  We moved here soon after Kalindi was born. And what a happy life we have. Kishore is one of the best doctors in the city. We have a lovely house with a garden, where I tend to a small vegetable patch. Kalindi and Nandita are doing well at school. The older one wants to become a doctor like her father. And now little Madhu … we were both hoping for a son … but it’s God’s will. What will she be?

  I beg you, God, don’t take me away from all this. And the social work. The women of our neighbourhood are helping the poor. I am the leader, the organizer. The projects will fall apart without me. No, of course not; no one is indispensable. Chisti Saheb, your Sufi teachings have inspired me to be of service to the community. I turn to you now, pleading at your feet.

  Is it morning, evening, or the next day? I am still here, breathing. I think I heard Madhu crying. She must be famished; but, where is she? They have taken her away … away from me. Useless … can’t even feed my baby.

  I see Kishore coming in behind the nurse, forehead furrowed, eyes filled with hopelessness.

  “The English doctor will be here any minute”, she says as she fluffs up my pillows, and tucks in the sheets. It is so trying to be moved even an inch. Then Kishore feels my forehead and throat. I try to meet his eyes, to communicate. But he is staring into space, scared, lost. Waiting for the doctor’s verdict.

  The doctor looks grave as he examines me. When he pulls down my eyelids, I see red splotches on his white face. His blue eyes are kind. He turns to Kishore and puts his arm around him. As they move away from the bed he says, “I’m afraid, the end is near.”

  The next time I wake up, will I be in heaven? No, when my eyes open again, it’s not heaven. I am shivering, and my teeth are chattering. Kishore’s parents are in the room. He must have asked them to come. They look older since I last saw them. But that doesn’t mean that it will stop him from anything.

  Kishore won’t let him examine me; he has not seen patients for years. The thought of how he touched my chest and stomach when I was pregnant with Kalindi, under the cover of examining me, revolts me even now. Thank heavens, he is sitting far from my bed.

  My mother-in-law is standing near, twisting the ring on her finger. How could she not have known what had gone on under her own roof? He must have misbehaved with house maids, with patients. The spineless woman was scared to confront her husband. Perhaps, she did tell him to stop, but he was unstoppable.

  If the truth came out, the world would come crashing down around her, the family shame exposed. And people would say, so what? That is the way it is with men. You have a good life, so stop complaining. She had decided to turn a blind eye. I feel disgust, but pity too. How had she spent a lifetime with this man? What must she have gone through?

  But wait. Kishore … has he? A dull thudding has started in my chest, and my palms are clammy. Lurking beneath the good husband and father, the skilful hardworking doctor, could be … could be … a dark side. He has every opportunity to be alone with female patients. This is madness. It is just my feverish mind playing games with me. Of course, he has not. I am sick in both mind and body to think so.

  My dearest Kishore, a monster like his father? The same blood, after all. Stop it, this minute. I would have known. He would have been different with me, especially in bed, if he had ever.… How come this thought never arose in my head before now? Because it is not true. I am weak … worried about my daughters that’s why … why I’m thinking this. The thought fades, then comes back, persisting like an itch.

  I am going to throw up. The nurse grabs the steel basin and puts it under my mouth. Kishore gets up and pats my back. I retch and retch and retch. Nothing. My stomach is empty, with hardly a drop of water in it. The only thing it can hold is pain, a shattering of my body that makes me want to die. No … the children … I can’t.

  I want all of us to be together just once with little Madhu in my arms. Kishore is hovering near me. My tongue has lifted, and with lips barely open I tell him, “Bring the girls with Madhu.” There are tears in his eyes as he nods and leaves immediately to get our daughters. This man cannot be a demon in disguise.

  This will be my last photograph. On the hospital bed with my family around me. I am propped up, kind of, and Kishore has placed Madhu in my lap. My eyes lock on to hers. Who is this stranger I will never get to know? As her green eyes gaze at my face, I realize that I know her; I recognize her. Is it from the months that I carried her in my womb? I did the others too, but this one is different. Kishore is holding on to her, just in case. This is the only picture she will have of her and me together.

  I am so tired. Everyone leaves, except Kishore. He sits holding my hand as I doze off. I wake up with a start. Kishore is still there. But, what? He is weeping over my hand, kissing it, murmuring my name. I have never seen him sob like this. I try to speak. He looks up at me, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve.

  How can I tell the love of my life everything I want to? How much I enjoyed my life with him; how lucky I was that he let me study, let me take up community work; giving me a freedom that most women do not have. He treated me like a partner, not like someone beneath him, and listened to my thoughts and ideas. It is over now, this partnership. He is alone, unless … unless he loves another … another woman. Can he?

  He looks at me with anticipation. He knows I want to say something. When I open my mouth, he bends to hear. “The girls … your father. Not … alone.”

  He nods, squeezes my hand, and says, “Never that. Don’t worry.” He kisses my face, his eyes lingering on every inch. I catch the twinkle in his eye as he tries to make me smile. That is the image I want to leave the world with.

  But I want to talk to him seriously first. “You must … must marry … soon.” I start coughing, then gasp for breath. Kishore moistens my mouth with water. I need to finish what I started saying. “Marry a good woman … take care … of you, the girls … kind …”

  He swallows hard to control his tears. He says, “Vidya, my love, I promise to look after our children, to … to marry.” He breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably. Let my husband cry to get over this, so that he can be strong to look after my daughters.

  I silently ask for his forgiveness, for doubting his integrity even for a moment. I look intently at his face, and into his eyes, so that I can never forget. A memory that I can carry with me from this life to another. We will meet again sometime, somewhere, because our life together here is cut short, left unfinished.

  That’s it. I have said the most important things. There is nothing more I can do to ease the way for my children. Now it is between me and You, Yamraj. Where are You going to take me? The fear of death grips me now. Someone is strangling me, crushing my head. I struggle with whatever I have left in me and clutch the edge of the cold bed frame for dear life.

  My arms are limp by my side. Kishore’s hand is covering mine. My breath is shallow, ragged. For the first time in days I am painless. My body feels light, like a petal floating on a river, coursing along to meet the sea. Everyone is crowded around the bed, crying, praying; watching for my last breath. Kalindi’s muffled sobs, and Nandita’s wails of Ma recede, as I approach the still depths of the ocean.

  ***

  Madhu is looking through the contents of a cardboard box, while her mother and sisters have
opened a big metal suitcase and are unwrapping saris covered in muslin. Kalindi is getting married, and they want to see if any of the saris can be used for her wedding.

  “Whose saris are those, Ma? Are they yours?”

  “No, Madhu, they belonged to Mohti Ma.”

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” Madhu is pointing to a framed photograph on the wall above the diwan.

  “Yes, Madhu,” Nandita said. “She died a week after you were born.”

  “Is there no other picture of her? I want to know what she was like. She was my real mother.”

  “Shhh, your real mother is Ma. She brought you up; she is looking after us all,” Kalindi said.

  Ma said, “Of course, Beta, you want to know. She is your birth mother, after all. Let me see if I can find another photo. I know there is one of all of you together.”

  Tucked away in the cardboard box, Ma found the photograph in an envelope. The three girls pored over it. Nandita said, “I haven’t seen this in a long time.”

  Madhu took the photograph from Nandita to get a closer look at her mother holding her in her lap.

  “Why did you leave me?” she said.

  Ma patted her. “This was taken just a couple of days before she passed away in the hospital. Your father told me that she was keen on a picture of all of you together. As you can see, she was very sick; but Madhu, you look a lot like her. Her name was Vidya.”

  “I’m glad that she insisted on this picture. I have no memories of her.” Ma pulled her youngest towards her and gave her a hug. She smiled and thought, she won’t be the youngest anymore.

  Vidya would be proud of her baby daughter, who had just turned twelve. She is headstrong, but so clever. She loves her books and is always writing something in a note book that she asked her father to get her. He dotes on her, sometimes a little too much, so that the other two get annoyed.

  Yes, she would be happy at how the new mother brought her up. Ma sighed. Perhaps, she thought, in those few moments when Vidya held her, she saw something of herself in Madhu.

  Then, gently, she took the photograph from Madhu’s hand and put it away in the box.

  Acknowledgements

  I am deeply grateful to everyone at Inanna Publications, especially to Editor-in-Chief, Luciana Ricciutelli, for publishing this book. A big thank you to Inanna publicist, Renée Knapp, for her warmth and her patient responses to my many questions.

  I would also like to thank my dear friend, Ruth Donsky, for taking the time to read all my stories, and for her insightful comments. To Teresa Toten, my mentor and confidante, who urged me to keep writing and submitting my work, my heartfelt appreciation.

  My love and gratitude to my husband, Devdatt, for taking this journey with me every step of the way. I could not have done this without him. And to our sons, Sidharth and Rohan, for their encouragement and interest in my work, which unbeknownst to them, they inspired me to create.

  Photo: John Carvalho

  Aparna Kaji Shah was born in Mombasa, and grew up in Mumbai. She has a Master’s degree in English and Aesthetics from the University of Bombay, and an M. Phil. in English from sndt University, Mumbai. After she moved to Canada in 1985, she obtained a B.Ed. from the University of Toronto. She and her husband, and their family, have lived for various periods in the uk, India, and Singapore. They returned permanently to Canada in 2013 and continue to live in Toronto. Her fiction and poetry have been included in anthologies. The Scent of Mogra and Other Stories is her debut collection of short fiction.