Someone Else's Garden (31 page)

‘Prem, Prem,’ a familiar voice calls out to him.

He turns. ‘Amma, what are you doing here?’

‘What am I doing here? The question should be what are you still doing here, at this time of night? Whiling your time away with this thief and murderer.’

‘Amma!’

‘If your father could come he would have come and not me. But your father’s sick.’

‘Yes, I know just how sick he is. That drunken bastard! Just look at your arms, your shoulders . . . what does he do to you every night? Wring you like a towel or hang you from the roof.’ It’s true, Seeta Ram is spending more time at the tents. He doesn’t waste money on prostitutes, but finds that his tongue has a way with words after half a bottle of alcohol. The words make him forget the debts, but his wife doesn’t. She reminds him of each paisa when he returns, so he hits her to shut her up. Lata Bai isn’t Mamta, she is never hurt badly enough to relinquish her fight.

‘Shut your mouth, talking about your family in front of strangers. Have you no shame?’

‘This man is not a stranger. He is like a father to me. He isn’t who you think he is.’

For the first time Lata Bai allows her gaze to rest on the bandit. Daku Manmohan sees the flicker of something so familiar to him that it sends a searing pain through his lungs. He can hardly breathe. ‘You look so much like him,’ he says to Lata Bai. ‘Your brother was my best friend. He died with honour. Each day he wanted to come to see his family. He is the one who arranged Ragini’s match.’ It all made sense. Lata Bai had never understood why a rich family had suddenly come out of the dusty golden yonder to ask for her second daughter’s hand in marriage. ‘He said we would spare their family if they took Ragini. And look how it turned out. Perfect. He said she was very happy. He was going to do the same for your Mamta . . .’ the name makes Prem afraid for his elder sister. As promised he has said nothing to Lata Bai.
Oh, Mamta, be safe.
‘. . . the one with the birthmark, but he died in a raid before he could find a man for her. He did the right thing. You must be proud of him.’

The woman is unimpressed. ‘Mohit is gone. We need you at home.’

‘Mohit Bhaia? Where?’

‘I don’t know.’ The weight of defeat drives her into a squat. ‘He left last night. I suppose he went to join Jivkant.’

This is his chance to say ‘and Mamta’. The burden of the secret weighs heavily on him, but he keeps quiet. First Jivkant, then Mamta and now Mohit.

‘There was nothing for him here. We are indebted to that castle over there,’ she points at the Big House. ‘Your bapu is finished. I can’t manage the tiny field we have. And Sneha, I don’t know what’s eating her. No one will marry her if you don’t come home.’

‘No one will marry her if I
do
come home,’ says Prem. ‘They hate everyone associated with Daku Manmohan. Here he is, trying to redeem himself, but do you think the villagers will give him a chance? No, they won’t. How can anything change like this?’

‘Prem, you always did have a heart as soft as cotton wool. What can I say to you? Nothing will change, my son. We are stuck in this quagmire that gets deeper and deeper the more we struggle in it.’

‘Go, Prem, go with your mother.’

‘No!’ She is reluctant to ask her son to join her now that the bandit has given his resounding approval.

‘My sister, please listen to me. Please . . .’ the prisoner pleads for something more than her attention.

‘Stay then! With this murderer!’ Her fury is bottomless.

She turns without a second look, knowing that hurts more than words ever could.

‘I want their loans forgiven. I cannot come to you and play this game any more if you won’t cancel their loans. I have a link with this family. Prem’s uncle worked for me. They have paid much in their lives.’

Singh Sahib isn’t about to consider the bandit’s request. He doesn’t hold himself responsible for Daku Manmohan’s moral health. He shakes his head from side to side. No.

‘Then I leave you forever.’ Daku Manmohan gets up to go. ‘You are no different than your thieving son. Cut from the same stone. Why did I think you would change? It is because I have changed. How foolish of me. The world is never different.’

‘My, my, look at you two, huddling together. How low the mighty have sunk. Bapu, how long will you hold out? Clinging to life through this murderer? Get out of here.’

Daku Manmohan doesn’t move. He has learned to ignore Ram Singh’s outbursts. Inspired, he says, ‘Your father has forgiven Seeta Ram’s loan. There will be no more collection of interest, grain and vegetables from that farm. You leave them alone.’

Cleverly done. How can I contradict him without taking my son’s side?
The thought of siding with Ram Singh is so nauseating that the zamindar nods once again, this time up and down. Yes.

‘Throw everything away, why don’t you? Cancel all the loans. Give the Big House away while you are it. Lokend is doing it, why not everyone else in this family? Squander my inheritance, my rights . . .’

‘Nothing is your right till your father dies. Perhaps he
will
cancel all debts. Perhaps he
will
give the Big House away. What then?’ It has become a game. The object of the game is long lost, the players tussle purely for the displeasure they can bring to the other.

Chapter 11

M
AMTA KNOWS TO SIT UPSTREAM FROM
her defecating brethren so she has the least amount of waste running past her in the ditch water; she can sing nearly all the songs off Mrs D’Souza’s radio; and she can pick out the thrashers by the Devi temple – small boys who will hold out a handful of peanuts to a monkey, only to thrash it with a big stick when it comes to eat from their palms. She is cautiously learning to stand up for her rights, but only in the company of her peers, and never, ever, in front of Mrs D’Souza.

Mrs D’Souza is a Goan who possesses the natural exuberance of her race, fuelled by the hottest curries and at the same time calmed by the most pious prayers. Steeped in Hail Marys, Mamta’s memsahib is a great one to castigate herself for every moral slight, which keeps her mostly kind to Mamta.

Mamta has made friends with most things in Mrs D’Souza’s house: Baby no longer menaces her, the flush no longer barks at her, the flowers no longer bedazzle her and the photographs no longer confound her. She doesn’t spend hours, nose to floor, studying the broken marble embedded in the bluish terrazzo tiles smooth as cream with wear. Now she can recognise the shapes in them from a distance: gnarled and knobby faces, racing horses through mist . . . the tiles have the wonderful ability to fit her every mood, her every idea, providing an instant image of each one of her thoughts.

Mrs D’Souza is pleased with her. She thinks she has a bargain in her sweeper, who spends two hours cleaning her house unlike the others who spent a mere forty-five minutes. Plus Baby has taken to the girl in a big way. Her coat has never looked so good, and the last time she checked, Baby did not have a single tick on her.

And yes, Mamta does have a special relationship with the dog. At first she was afraid of Baby, but that all changed the day she took the dog in her arms to cross a wide ditch. It burrowed its face in her embrace and licked her cheek. Living without love for so long, Baby’s affection released a torrent of feeling in her own heart. Every now and then she is tempted to explore further from Himalaya House, because she can always rely on her companion to bring her home safe. Plus she cannot forget that it’s because of Baby’s food that she doesn’t have constant hunger pangs.

Mamta hasn’t been able to find additional work in other houses; however, more and more, Mrs D’Souza gives her errands and odd jobs to do: wash the windows, post her letters, buy the kerosene for the stove, clean the stairwell once a week, and any other job that Mrs D’Souza thinks won’t compromise the status of her household if performed by a Sudra. In truth, Mrs D’Souza, being a Goan and a Christian, isn’t bound by the same strict caste rules as the Hindu families in her building. She even turns a blind eye when she sees Mamta wash her hands in the kitchen sink.

Her latest audacity includes putting Mamta in charge of her dhobi clothes.

Begumpet’s dhobi-ghat – exposed stones by the big drain, sticking out like dark islands in a sea of drying white sheets – is possibly one of the dirtiest places in the city. Over the years Mrs D’Souza’s sheets had maintained their stretched crisp cleanliness, washed daily in the city’s ooze, fragrant more with frothy bubbles of fantasy than soap. But one week the sheets came back brown with the filth of reality. That’s when Mamta made her case for doing Mrs D’Souza’s heavy laundry, and her mistress quickly cut the usual cascade of clothes down to a drizzle and eventually phased out her old dhobi like a bad habit.

And so Mamta has become the first female dhobi in the area. She is learning that there is a process to picking which clothes will be washed at home and which will be given to her, the new dhobi. The system of choice may seem arbitrary to the uninitiated, but it is anything but. Clothes too heavy to lift when wet are washed by the dhobi, as is all bed linen and clothes that need starching.

Apart from the dhobi clothes, there are the extras for Cynthia, Mrs D’Souza’s daughter, the girl with the promising breasts and thickly painted lips, easily the most gorgeous girl Mamta’s ever seen, even more gorgeous than any Hindi movie heroine painted on any poster. The well-rounded Cynthia has no need or respect for society’s rules. She thinks nothing of kicking off her four-inch wedges and offering her feet to Mamta, the untouchable, to press. Pressing feet is something Mamta knows how to do; she did that job well for her husband.

Mother and daughter fight constantly. ‘Mummy, Shalimar has a sale on. They’re selling the latest jeans. I’ve got to get a pair. A hundred rupees, Mummy, that’s all I want,’ she says, sashaying into the room and ignoring her mother’s open arms waiting to be filled with a hug.

Of course that’s enough to get Mrs D’Souza going: ‘All you come home for is money. Money, money, money. How about bringing home a good report card? How about not wearing so much lipstick? How about . . .’

The mother’s litany always starts off as a record of her daughter’s foibles, but it ends in the larger picture: the state of India’s youth, the terrible education system, the lack of respect for the old ways, culminating with the corrupt government. In the end, she appeals to Jesus to save her daughter from certain ruin.

Mamta has heard Jesus’ name for so long now that she’s convinced of his power. Jesus the saviour, the loving, the forgiving, the charitable . . . The everything. Jesus seems a lot more holy than her Hindu gods, who enjoy their share of human weaknesses. She rationalises that it must be because he has a lot more to do than any of her gods, whose jobs are specific like those of humans. She includes a special section in her prayers devoted entirely to him.
Please, Devi, make Jesus strong enough to grant each one of Memsahib’s wishes, make Sahibji a great politician, and oh . . . one more thing . . . keep Baby safe.
She asks nothing for herself, because she believes she has already received more than she deserves.

With extra money from her monthly stairwell cleaning and her weekly dhobi clothes on top of her regular pay and tips from Cynthia, Mamta is dreaming of saving for a future and sending money home to her mother. But first she must pay for the privileges she has received.

‘Honest Mamta! Word is out that you have started a dhobi business. Careful. Your village ways won’t work here. Life in the city is not as free as it seems. They’ll beat you to pulp if they catch you. Everyone’s job is fixed in the city. We all have our boundaries. I wouldn’t try cornering someone else’s salt. Mind you don’t take it too far,’ warns Kalu. But she won’t listen, her newfound status has made Mamta a free woman, she’ll do as she pleases.

They drag her from under her stair and out of the building. Kalu doesn’t help or say a word as they beat her holding a hand over her mouth.

This beating is very different from that of her husband’s. It isn’t without reason. To her there is some satisfaction in it. She is being beaten for something she has, something she owns, something she has created with her own industry. This marvellous idea gives her strength. Through the repeated pain, she knows she will survive to wash her memsahib’s heavy clothes another day.

‘Don’t steal our salt. This will teach you not to steal our salt.’ There are four of them, she is only one, and they stop only after she has parted with most of her husband’s money. She survives because she has learned to twist her body in ways that shelter its delicate parts. She looks much worse than she feels.

‘I told you what would happen. I can’t help you if won’t listen to me. You have to stop washing Mrs D’Souza’s dhobi clothes. Come on, I’ll take you to the dispensary.’

Her jaw is swollen, her forehead is gashed, and her eyelid has opened up along the old wound fault line again. Her words come out as if she is speaking from under a blanket. ‘I’m not going to pay for medicine,’ she says, ignoring the dhobi issue altogether.

‘No, no, you don’t pay, it’s free.’

‘Huh.’ Nothing is free.

He makes her stay hidden behind a red postbox till he manages to get them a motor rickshaw; the driver wouldn’t have stopped for a bleeding woman. They jump in.

‘No, no, out. I’m not taking her.’

Kalu hands him an extra five-rupee note. The motor rickshaw driver quickly grabs it. Committed, he says, ‘Don’t make a mess. Here, take this –’ and he hands Kalu a piece of newspaper. Mamta’s teeth chatter as she bounces on the newspaper, clutching the piping round the edge of the plastic seat cover, refusing to lean back for comfort. Her hands, supported by arms straight as poplars, tucked between her thighs, have wrung her pallav into so many creases that the cloth has left welts on her bleeding knuckles. This is her first time in a motor rickshaw.

The driver weaves through traffic guiding the contraption with the horn as much as with the steering wheel. She closes her eyes as her motor rickshaw takes a public bus head-on, unaware that it is a game, and that both vehicles know the rules. The lumbering mechanical behemoth has right of way, regardless of signalling policeman or colour of traffic light, but equally, the motor rickshaw has every right to flex its muscle, moving out of harm’s way at the last possible second.