Someone Else's Garden (21 page)

How she hands him the end of her sari as soon as he arrives, and hides behind the red gauze. How she allows her sari to unravel, spinning like a top. How her little bleats for release from such brutish torture make him mad for her. How he takes her naked on his knee. How she is shy and not shy at the same time. Oh, how, how, how!

His prostitute is no novice. There are many moths addicted to her flame. She’s had offers of marriage before and knows precisely how to tune her men. She knows that her love-struck suitor will no doubt offer her a home and married life. She has no intention of trading her thriving business for life at a sooty fire, but she gives the man no hint of this. Let him bring her expensive gifts.

Unravelling his favourite pink sari and seeing his desire spin before his eyes, he pictures her in his hut, handing out tea to his friends. He imagines keeping her just for himself, totally covered in front of other men. He can see her eyes, black liner drawing them out into almond shapes and swishing lashes marking her cheeks with shadows. The anything-but-gentle swell of her breasts. The lock of her thighs.

‘W-when will you say yes?’ He is breathless, his mind has taken him where his body has not.

‘W-when?’ She is playing the question game. The game which invariably ends in victory for her. Answer question with question. Eventually they think up the answers they want to hear and she’s free.

‘Why not next summer?’

‘Why not?’ Oh she is an expert. No one can confuse her words for true answers, and yet, one can see the possibility, the plausibility in her responses. He is no match for her.

‘Come on, meri jaan, say yes. I will buy you anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘In a few months I will be twice as rich.’ An idea has come to him. Another operation. Why not do it again? Twice the money. Sell the other kidney out of Mamta. She won’t survive long as it is. With the other kidney, at least he will have sufficient reserve.

‘Twice as rich?’

‘Yes, you wait and see. I will be so rich, we will have our own land by the river and a pukka house.’

‘A pukka house?’ ‘You just wait and see.’

All the way home he smiles at the memory of the naked prostitute, the yielding mountain of pink gauze lying by the bed and rolling . . . off and on, off and on. He thinks of the prostitute and then of the operation. But how? Even he knows another operation is as decisive as death. He must ask the men.

This time the men come especially to discuss the second operation. So confident are they in their venture that they don’t bother looking for a place away from the hut to hatch their murder plan.

Again, Mamta comes with the tea. This time each one gives her a long lingering look, so long that she is persuaded to look down at her own chest. Has a breast come inadvertently bare? Has her sari come loose? She pulls the pallav lower over her eyes, a hood.

But now the men must talk. Seriously talk. The man can’t bring himself to discuss the operation in front of his wife. For the second round, he asks for the boy to serve the tea. Why the boy? The daughter is jealous. Why didn’t he ask for her? It is an irrational emotion, she can’t wait to be free of her father and the stony fear he brings to their hut. Still, she wants his approval, especially now that he’s asked the boy to bring the tea. She refuses to be passed over, left where she is like the polite last morsel on a dinner plate. She nudges the boy roughly out of the way while Mamta blocks the door with her body. Allied the two are strong. The stepdaughter takes the tea outside.

‘She will die if you cut her again.’

The girl hears the
Die
word. What a captivating word it is. She waits in the shadows. No one seems to miss the tea. Mamta’s body is still blocking the boy’s path. She will pay for it later, when he has his father’s ear, he will make his father beat her for this infraction.

‘Yes, you won’t find one who will do it easily. There aren’t many who will take the responsibility for someone’s death.’

‘It’s not allowed. If they catch you, it’s the jail,’ says a second voice.

‘You have to be clever. You must make out that she died of some other illness. The doctor will sign the papers, don’t worry about that,’ says the first voice.

The stepdaughter pours the tea out on the ground. She leans over, making sure it sinks silently into the mud and brings the empty glasses back inside.

She looks at Mamta with a secret in her eye. Of course all girls know what such looks mean. The boy is too angry to notice.

‘They liked it. They are leaving,’ says the girl. ‘Bapu is going with them.’

The boy runs out after his father, but the men are covered by darkness. The moment’s passed, he will not be able to get even this time.

‘The man told Bapu that he had to find someone very special to do it because it was not allowed and there aren’t many who will take the responsibility for someone’s death,’ she remembers the words perfectly as only one who doesn’t understand them can. ‘What does that mean, “take the responsibility for someone’s death”?’

‘It means they are planning to cut me right in half this time, much more than before. It means he is planning to kill me.’

‘You mean kill you dead?’

‘That’s right, kill me dead.’

‘Maybe they have to kill you because of my new amma. I don’t want another amma. I never want to be separated from you.’ The girl has guessed about the prostitute. Her father brings home little girlish mementoes. A wilted rose, a book he cannot read, a perfumed handker chief. She puts her arms round Mamta. ‘I don’t want another amma.’ This time Mamta doesn’t undo them. She twists the girl round and places her in her lap.

‘Don’t worry, we will never be separated. I won’t let it happen. We are going away. We will run away. If he hears, he will kill us both, so keep your mouth shut.’ Her fear is irrationally tinged with excitement. No matter how dangerous the running away, staying will kill her. The adrenalin is roaring in her ears.

‘Run away . . .’ The little girl’s eyes are glassy with excitement.

‘Not one word . . . if you don’t want your head shaved and shit smeared over your body, you just be ready when I wake you at night. Just be ready.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On something, on many things, on . . . I don’t know yet.’

What is courage but another name for desperation? It is a brave soul who can be courageous without being desperate. Mamta is not such a soul. She knows the consequences. If she runs away she will never be able to return to Barigaon or Gopalpur. Not ever. A married runaway, just like Sharma’s wife. A rule breaker, a tradition killer.

The right time comes three nights later.

The man comes into the house, he counts the money and puts it under his pillow. He is so close to spending the bundle that he doesn’t bother hiding it safely. Another hundred rupees is missing. He’s been to the prostitute. He is in a good mood. He’s found a doctor. The demand for the doctor’s services is so high that he will have to wait a whole week before he can take Mamta for her operation. He is drowsy with satisfaction.

He goes to sleep dreaming about the money and doesn’t think it odd that his wife is sitting outside, her back to the mud wall, looking into a moonless sky. She’s seen him put the money under his pillow. Without the money she doesn’t have a chance.

Mamta is the only one who will not sleep. Whenever her brain wanders to how it will be once she runs away, she pulls it back like a disobedient dog on a leash. In her life, there has never been any time to think, only time to act. And this time too, she can’t spoil it by thinking.

She adjusts the covers on her stepdaughter, pushing the child as far away from her father as possible. Her stepson is sleeping with his arms and legs flung out wide. He will be a hard one to avoid. He is a noisy sleeper, a small disturbance could set in motion a series of whines, whimpers and clicks that could wake her husband. She takes her memory box from the shelf and places it by her step-daughter’s head. Then she lies down beside her husband, adjusting her petticoat so that it flares away from her, taking the small kitchen knife sewn into its hem with it. Mamta must wait for the right time, but not too late, because her only chance is to escape with darkness left over to spare.

She sidles closer to her husband. She can see his nose hairs sway. In, out, in, out. She’d fed them all a heavy meal, even her husband had remarked on the generous dollop of butter. The fat meal lies comfortably in his stomach, spreading a contented warmth through his body. Her husband is a dead weight, relaxed in sleep, a peaceful, even handsome man. She looks into the face and records its every nuance. She never wants to forget that face. The face that will for her become the template of cruelty, the one against which she’ll judge all other males in the future.

He moves, rolls over. The pillow is free. Quickly, she slips her hand under it and pulls out the wad. She clutches it tight between her thighs, lying as frozen as a long-dead body. She doesn’t move for hours, or is it minutes? Her husband’s breath is even. Her stepson’s breath is even. She slowly ties the money in a knot at the end of her pallav. Her stepdaughter is lying in a good position away from the men. Mamta gets up, holding her memory box close to her chest, and moves along the darkest edge of the hut. Here she will have a chance in case her husband wakes. She pads on silent light feet towards her stepdaughter. She’s gone over the whole scenario so many times that her motion is automatic. Luckily her stepdaughter is light, with delicate bones. She’ll place her left hand over her mouth, and drag her from the hut before the child makes an involuntary sound.

Her stepdaughter moves in her sleep.
Stop that.
The child obeys. Mamta takes a step closer. She can feel the kitchen knife drag on the floor.
I hope it doesn’t cut through the cloth.
She bends over her step-daughter. At that precise moment, the girl rolls over again. That single roll takes her right into the centre of the room. The boy starts to whine, whimper and click. The girl’s roll makes Mamta stop, stock still. She is stunned. It’s gone all wrong . . . It doesn’t fit in her plan . . .
How could it have gone this wrong? One move? . . . why? . . . Why that one move?
She is by the door.

She looks at her feet, her heels are just outside the door, she’s still bent over, ready to pick up her stepdaughter and run. The girl’s head should have been by her feet, but it’s by her brother’s head instead. The whines and clicks grow deeper. Her husband moves. He takes the pillow in his sleeping hands. There is much too much time between thoughts, she thinks. She knows she has to think faster. Act faster. Think faster. Act.

She steps backwards and almost falls over her husband’s slippers left carelessly in the doorway. Even in her fearful state it annoys her to see the slippers. He purposely leaves them there every night for her to pick up. This night she does pick them up. She takes a step back from the door. Then another. And another. Before she knows it she is far away. Far away from her stridently sleeping family.

Later she won’t remember leaving her memory box, her ultimate sacrifice, in the warm dip of her stepdaughter’s bed. She has left the sleeping girl her happiest memories, her connection with her mother, Shanti, the leather slippers and her benign childhood. Even deep in her conscience, where unconscious thoughts lie, she knows she will never be able to forgive herself for this night, but with a sacrifice so grave perhaps the judging universe will be able to forgive her.

Intuitively she runs away from the well, as she has no way of knowing how many hours there are to sunrise when it will be in full use. No matter how early she gets to the well, someone is always there before her. At best she hopes to find a ravine or a mound where she can hide till she finds a bullock cart going somewhere . . .
perhaps to Gopalpur.
Of course she has no place in Gopalpur, but she is desperate and thinking irrationally. She is already making up her stories. A story for the bullock cart driver who will get her to Gopalpur and a story for her father who will most certainly want to send her back. And, if her story doesn’t work, then she has money enough to buy her freedom within her own family.

Ignoring the cool night air, the sweat leaks from her pores like resin from a gum tree. She still hasn’t realised the flaw in her plan. She may be clutching a wad of money, but hasn’t thought to pack anything to eat. How many days will she have to stay in hiding? Perhaps someone will find her skeleton pecked clean by vultures and long polished by the sun. Perhaps someone will shed a tear or two for her, but most likely she will die unnoticed and unmourned.

She divides the wad of notes into different piles. One goes between her breasts, the other she ties in the end of her pallav that’s tucked in, and the third she rolls into the band of her petticoat. She releases her knife from bondage and tucks that too into the band of her petticoat.

She thinks of the bandits and their hideouts, but the river ravines are miles away. She thinks of the wolves, silent on dead moon nights, feasting on her tired flesh.
Wolves mate for life. Where would one find such loyalty these days but in animals? If wolves can mate for life, why can’t humans?

Her eyes have got used to the starlight, but she has no reference point to guide her. She has now come way beyond her hut, beyond where most men from her village have been. Then she sees them, her personal guardians, darker than the night.

The electric poles are almost the end of her. She feels she’s safe, and in that very instant becomes aware of her body. Her thirst is dire. Her shivering is real. Her thoughts are cacophonous. Why did she leave her behind?

She is on the cusp of an epiphany, but she won’t loosen her grip. She must leave her past behind if she is to survive and conquer it, only the enlightened can withstand its heat and in the blue flame of communion conquer its lust. Her immediate reality must become her only valid reason for survival.

Thirst rakes the back of her throat. She pulls her hands out from between her thighs. She is alive, that has to be enough for now. She realises the flaw in her plan. Why didn’t she think to bring some food? Her thoughts send her to her knees, but she won’t allow them to take over again. She shuts her eyes. At least now she doesn’t have to make those elemental decisions, turn right or left? She must now just stick to the poles and walk. That’s all. She walks on, towards the electric poles. The same electric poles she’s seen back home in Gopalpur, the white-ant-eaten electric poles that will bring her home.