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Suppose she did manage to go, secretly with Rupa, and there turned out to be something really wrong with her, she would be doomed to live with this weight on her hopeless heart.

‘I don’t understand you, Didi,’ went on her sister, irritated by the way Sona was staring at her perfect white feet, encircled with silver anklets, studded with tiny blue and red meena hearts. ‘If I wanted something as badly as you do, I would try everything, not just rely on puja and fasts, which you have been doing for years, with nothing to show.’

‘If you are so keen on doctors, why don’t you go?’ flashed Sona.

‘I have accepted my condition, my husband does not hanker after children, he says his sister has enough, he helps with their education, his heart is as big as the sky,’ said Rupa, with a pride her sister thought totally unbecoming.

‘It is easy to accept when you have no in-laws always making you feel bad.’

‘But we have other things to make us feel bad. The tenant upstairs sits on our head, with his schemes and his plans. From before our marriage they are fighting. My father-in-law worries he will die with it unresolved, and
he
feels it is just as well we don’t have children who will inherit our problems. At least your house is properly your own.’

Depends on what you mean by properly, thought Sona sourly.

‘And,’ went on Rupa, still inappropriately exaggerating the difficulties of her life, ‘I have to work very hard with the pickles, just to make a little extra money. The case costs a lot, he sends his sister an allowance every month, we even buy the cheapest tickets at the cinema in order to save. If I didn’t have this extra income, we would never go anywhere, never go to India Gate, restaurants or films, always sit at home.’

‘You are lucky your Jijaji helps you so much with the pickles, making sure they are sold. He takes so much personal interest in grocery shops only to help you, otherwise it is not really his line of business,’ pointed out Sona, annoyed that her sister should be talking about the money she made without due reference to her husband.

‘We live in your shadow, you know that, Didi,’ said Rupa guilelessly.

‘He was even saying the other day that later you can supply the local eating-places. Your Jijaji always has very good ideas.’

At this news, Rupa’s mind began to race, as many fantasies filling it as might have been justified by the news of a pregnancy. She felt a little ashamed, and said modestly, ‘I am so stupid, on my own I can do nothing.’

Sona gave her a sharp look, and said, ‘Because you are a woman, with no business background, he feels he should help you.’

‘Your husband is so generous, always thinking of others. One day your time will come, Didi, I am sure of it.’

Sona’s childless situation continued to make her vulnerable. She was considered to have a fund of motherly emotion waiting to pour itself into the orphaned Vicky.

‘Bechaara,’ said her mother-in-law to Sona, ‘he has only us now. We have to make up for his sorrow in life. It was your kismet not to have children so you could be a true mother to your nephew.’

Sona’s position forced her to bear these remarks in silence, but her internal repartee was fierce and pointed: How can I be his mother? Or make up for anything? If it is in my fate not to have children, it is in his not to have parents. I have to accept that as much as he. How can some dirty little street boy be forced on to me as my child? I would rather die.

Oblivious of her thoughts, they reiterated night and day, ‘Beti, now you are his mother. God has rewarded your devotion. Sometimes our wishes are fulfilled in strange ways.’

She was the instrument of their care, and like most instruments she writhed in the hands that wielded her. Dark and vicious thoughts crept up in Sona as she looked at Vicky, the answer to her prayers.

It turned out that his Bareilly education did not equip him for the school his cousins went to. He had to be accommodated somewhere, so he was sent to the poor-quality English medium school around the corner, where learning was crammed into the upper storey of a house, with no playground and certainly no status. If the boy showed aptitude he would be shifted to a better place. Meanwhile Sona could help develop his potential.

The whole family rejoiced that there was something so tangible by which Sona could express her thwarted maternal longings.

With Vicky, Sona had to be on her guard all the time. The house had many eyes quick to detect neglect, and many people quick to attack with their conclusions. As God was her witness, she had nothing against Vicky. But was this dark, ungainly, silent, sullen child any substitute for the baby that was to still the yearning in her heart, that was to suckle from her breasts, and use her ample flesh to its satisfaction? Her blood burned, and though her blood was used to burning, it now raged so fiercely that nothing but her own blood could staunch the flames.

‘Didi,’ said Rupa one weekend, as she was over with a new lot of mango chutney for her brother-in-law to supply to the grocer he knew, ‘how is it with Vicky?’

‘All right,’ said Sona tonelessly.

‘Isn’t the Ganesh Chaturthi fast coming up?’ It was winter, and she was well aware of Sona’s fasting schedule.

‘I’m not keeping it this year. What is the use?’

Rupa clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Don’t be like this, Didi. God is watching; you should be afraid.’

‘I don’t care. I am tired of praying, tired of hoping,’ said Sona bitterly.

Look at me, thought Rupa. I also don’t have a child, or half the other things she has. From the time we were children, she was the special one, always noticed for her fairness, her prettiness, and every day I had to hear how well she would marry, while I would be lucky to find anybody, dark and ugly as I was. For nine years now, I have seen her become more and more depressed. For a condition she shares with me, I have to console her all the time. Beauty is not everything; just as well, or some of us would be left with nothing. ‘Won’t your mother-in-law notice?’ she asked at last.

‘What will she notice? According to them my prayers are answered. Now they are busy making sure that child is a noose around my neck. Why didn’t he die with his mother?’

Rupa examined Sona. She was thinner, her flawless skin had a dull, pallid tone. ‘Didi, you shouldn’t say such things, you are forgetting we cannot always see the purpose of what happens in our lives, maybe this is a test,’ she reasoned, while Sona let tears testify to her state of mind. Rupa started the caressing that was now automatic with her. Poor Sona, if only she could get rid of certain notions her life would be easier. Having Vicky was not such a bad thing, all the boy needed was a little love, he was still a child, and from the same family.

‘Do you want me to keep him sometimes?’ observed Rupa to her sister’s back. ‘He can come when he doesn’t have school,
he
can also help him with his studies.’

Sona shuddered and shook her head. ‘Can you see what they would say?’ she demanded. ‘No, I have thought and thought. I am going to tell your Jijaji that if he doesn’t move to a separate house, I am going to fall ill – you can see how thin I am.’ She held out her arm – the sleeve of the blouse hung from it.

Didi has gone mad, thought Rupa, that is why she is so out of touch with reality. How else can she even suppose that an old-established joint family with a growing business would deflect its time, money, and resources to cater to the whims of a daughter-in-law? ‘Try this mango chutney,’ she said nervously. ‘It is a new recipe, sweet, sharp and salty, you can have it with Chinese also. It will bring back your appetite.’

‘Nothing will bring back my appetite,’ declared Sona firmly, ‘and I know what I am doing. That woman upstairs keeps talking of how the children are growing and need more space, and how we should all move.’

‘
All
move,’ pointed out her sister.

‘I am sure your Jijaji can be made to see reason,’ said Sona, setting her mouth in a pretty red-lipped pout. Rupa wondered how far her beauty would take her. Would it take her out of the house?

Rupa waited in vain for any change in the Banwari Lal household. Sona continued as Vicky’s reluctant mother in her marital home. Obviously she had thought better of a plan that would result in suspicion, resentment, opposition, and further opprobrium.

A few months later a supplier came to the shop with a box of the finest almond sweets Karol Bagh had to offer. The occasion? A baby son, after years. The man was fervent in seeking the blessings of everyone in his life. He talked, and in what he said Lala Banwari Lal found much to ponder.

A few days later he revealed an unprecedented plan for the summer. They were going on a holiday. For one week Pyare Lal would look after the shop, Sushila would look after him, while Yashpal, Sona, the three boys, and the grandparents went to the hills. Among the places they were going to visit was a shrine at Chitai, near Almora. Though the shrine was small it was famous, the Devi of those hills was said to have miraculous powers.

Yashpal added to his wife’s joy by telling her they could include Rupa and her brother-in-law on the trip. A childless couple, they might benefit too.

Sona looked at him, put her hand on his knee and smiled. Yashpal was a man of few words, but she understood everything without his having to open his mouth. In his silent way he was doing what he could for her: he had seen her pain, he had registered her trauma, he too wanted a child of his own. He had found out where to go – the very fact that he was taking Rupa too was a sign of the faith he placed on their journey. And best of all, he was making sure Sushila was left behind. There would be no evil eye to negate the blessings bestowed by the Devi.

‘I am sure Rupa will be very happy to join us,’ she murmured. ‘She is always talking about how good you are, helping so much with her pickles and chutneys.’

‘Poor woman, she is your sister after all,’ said Yashpal.

‘There is no man like you,’ said Sona, gazing at him, love in her eyes, the desire Vicky had driven away palpably swelling back.

Yashpal drew her soft and yielding mass to himself. His arms around her, he tugged at her lower lip, sucking it. In the morning he knew it would look even redder, and only he would know the reason. This secret made him increase the pressure. Sona’s hand crept to his pyjama tape, the darkness allowed her to do things she never would have if they could see each other. She opened the buttons of her blouse, slithered down, kissing him all the way to finally press her breasts on either side of his erection. Yashpal moaned. Sona took him in her mouth, teasing him with her tongue. The man arched into her, and thought no one on earth could ever be a wife to him but Sona, and he would give his life to please her.

This thought remained with him next morning as they made plans for the trip, and made him insist once again they take Rupa and her husband with them.

Chitai, near Almora.

A little mandir, painted white, in the bend of a road. Pine trees tremble nervously around it. The ground is covered with dry yellow needles. Busloads stop here. The temple is on a raised platform, a tattered red flag waves from its top. All around are bells, innumerable bells, hung on ropes strung between poles criss-crossing the temple courtyard. Big ones, little ones, jammed together till they are silenced.

The door to the mandir is so small that pilgrims have to bend double to enter. Inside, a decrepit old man squats beside the small marble sacred figure. Smoke from a thousand incense sticks colours the dim interior grey. A few diyas flicker, glowing in the haze. Motes of light filter through the cracks in the bodies plastering the entrance.

The stone platform is hot, bare feet burn, the rush to fit inside the shrine is desperate.

Sona, Rupa and Maji come dressed in bridal clothes, red and gold dupattas around them, new glass bangles on their wrists, sindhoor bright in their hair, bindis large on their foreheads. In their hands are trays of offerings for the hill goddess, the goddess with miraculous powers. Ask and she shall give.

Sona asked, as she had been asking for ten years. Rupa must also have asked – certainly her little business continued to thrive, while other things remained the same.

During the trip, Sona felt closer to her husband. It was their first holiday, and with a cunning she could only admire, he arranged two large rooms in the hotel for his parents, Rupa, and Prem Nath, farming out the children between them. They themselves had a small room on another floor – nothing else available, he explained.

Nightly, away from home, family, and shop, Yashpal gave himself over to the pleasures of his wife’s body. Sona had not realised how much difference leisure and a change of location could make to a man’s sex drive.

The three boys also grew friendlier during the one week. Six years older than Ajay, and eight years older than Vijay, Vicky was looked up to by the two boys when given a chance.

Back in Delhi it was easier for Sona to send him to play with them. Vicky’s skill with a cricket bat, his dexterity at gulli danda and pithoo, established his reputation, and by implication raised Ajay and Vijay’s stock in the neighbourhood.

Shortly afterwards Lala Banwari Lal decided they could at last afford a car. Once a week in the evening, all nine would get into the Ambassador that Yashpal or Pyare Lal drove, and go to India Gate. There the children and the two uncles played badminton, the women took out tiffin carriers, spread food on durries, and bought strings of jasmine buds to put in their hair. After they had eaten they bought ice-cream, and because the shop was doing well, they bought the most expensive, cassata – slabs of pink, green and white ice-cream, topped with cream and chopped nuts, on thin paper plates, eaten with little wooden spoons.

A few months and Sona could look at Vicky and see a child. Perhaps her luck was going to change (maybe this was a practice run?), she thought superstitiously as she tried to be a mother to the poor orphaned boy.

With three boys in the house Banwari Lal felt the need to cater to their futures by expanding into shawls. Pyare Lal’s travelling time increased as he journeyed to the Punjab and Kashmir commissioning shawls from weavers in all varieties: men and women’s shawls, plain, fully embroidered, or just with borders; woven in wool, pashmina, or mixes.