Someone Else's Garden (34 page)

But must it be Shanti who pays for her good fortune?

What should she do with Shanti?
Oh, Mamta, what should I do about Shanti? Oh, Devi, what should I do about Shanti?

Always able to stretch a meal, or a rupee into a concept, she knows with the calculated accuracy of one who has done the arithmetic over and over again that it may not be possible to save her baby daughter. What if she were to give her more food? Even then she wouldn’t last. The free mobile government clinic that parks at the Big House to no fixed timetable isn’t free like Mamta’s city clinic. The clerk has to be bribed to dispense medicines. She’s already been to Asmara Didi who’d thrown up her hands in defeat. ‘I would help if I could, anything for Prem’s sister, but she was born sickly. Her insides are rotting. Only Devi can save her.’ But Lata Bai can’t let it be entirely up to Devi.

Each time Shanti gasps, Lata Bai tries to console herself with thoughts of the next life, but this life keeps tugging for attention.

‘Where have you come from? What is your name? Who are you?’ She repeats the mantra in her daughter’s ear. She’d forgotten to do that in her birth pain, and now Shanti is being dragged away from her bit by bit every day.

‘Where have you come from? What is your name? Who are you? Don’t go, don’t leave.

‘You are Veda Asi,’ the mother whispers her daughter’s eternal name into her ear. ‘Veda Asi, immortal knowledge. Your earthly, passing name is Shanti, but you will be forever Veda Asi.

‘Shanti, relinquish your past life, come into this one.’ A dying child is a sure sign that it remembers its past life and yearns to go back to it, passing through the twilight of death as it does. Did Shanti ever have any peace in this life? ‘Forgive me, Shanti, forgive your mother.’

She discards all her plans for her healthy progeny and puts herself, heart and soul, into making Shanti better. Temples and extra food, Vedic verses and medicines, she does what is humanly possible and then has her endeavours underwritten by religious rites. But the child’s heart isn’t in it, and by the time the third money order arrives, Shanti is dead.

Lata Bai looks with disbelief at the body of her toddler slowly turning blue in her arms. A long low cat-moan comes out of her mouth and she can hardly breathe. She rocks to and fro like she did when Shanti suckled at her breast, smoothing her hair and singing to her softly. Kamla rushes over when Sneha brings her the news. But Lata Bai refuses to be consoled.

Grief in these parts is usually a private thing, especially for a baby girl. Her husband would never sanction the time for a fuss over the death of Shanti, a burden, someone else’s garden. Lata Bai swallows her sorrow which swells in her belly like a growing embryo. She absents herself from life, and takes on the burden of guilt for the premature death of her daughter. How did she allow her fugitive emotion to take such a grip over her heart? How, when girls are supposed to be dispensable, did Devi dare to make her feel this much? For the first time she is realising that, indeed, the god-energy that governs her psyche is a female one. Devi isn’t some distant goddess to be worshipped in an ancient derelict language, she is alive, and living in Lata Bai’s breast; it is she who brings the tears to her eyes, and it is she who whispers ‘I understand’ in her ear.

She prays to Devi, propitiating each manifestation in turn. ‘Hey! Kali Mata, black goddess, destroyer of all evil, maker of new cosmic energy, all fear and obey you, even Yamraj bows before you. Accept my daughter Shanti and teach her the lessons of Eternity. Hey! Varahi Mata, shining goddess, giver of life, governess of the Universal Flux, no one but you understands the perfect cycle of life. Accept my daughter Shanti and teach her the lessons of Time. Hey, Aindri Mata, grace, wisdom and beauty are yours. Hold my daughter Shanti to your heart, take her one step closer to enlightenment, to live in that place that we call transitory heaven. Hey, Vaishnavi Mata, all sustenance, all perfection are mere reflections of your reflection. Accept my daughter in her manifestation as Shanti, promise her a better birth, bring her to the door of deliverance. Hey, Maheshvari Mata, cosmic order, infinity, you are the keeper of the cycle. Accept my daughter Shanti, let her realise her fate, free her from karma. Hey, Kumari Mata, mother of beauty and harmony. Accept my daughter Shanti, teach her to relinquish action. Hey, Lakshmi Mata, benevolent, giving mother. Accept my daughter Shanti, support her with your grace and strength as she searches for her true self inseparable from the Universal Soul. Hey, Ishvari Mata, mother of pure reflection. Accept my daughter Shanti, dispel every iota of ignorance that might hinder her journey to commune with Truth. Hey, Brahmi Mata, mother of divine speech. Accept my daughter Shanti and let her realise the immutable sound that knows no duality. Let her find you, One and All, and be joined with you, One and All, for all eternity. Ohm. Ohm. Ohm.’

The sages tell us that cosmic truths reveal themselves to us at certain times in our lives, the clearest revelation being at the time of death of a beloved. For a brief moment, holding her dead child in her arms, Lata Bai feels one with the universe.

Now more than ever she wants to tell Mamta, but she won’t say a word about Shanti. Mamta is so far away, working so hard, what’s the use of breaking her heart too?

My beloved Chinta D-Susa,
Thank you for the money you are sending, I can’t tell you how much you have helped us. Mamta’s father is sick and it helps to pay for his medicines. Thank you. I hope you are looking after yourself. I want you to have a good life. Prem has a permanent job at the Big House now, and Lokend Bhai, our great zamindar’s son, is very kind to him. It is his responsibility to guard Daku Manmohan. Singh Sahib has moved him to a jail on his own property. At last Gopalpur is satisfied. At least that’s what the villagers say, but I think not. That man should see the inside of a real prison, but Prem says he is a good man. I suppose, with this wonderful luck that you have bestowed on me I should start looking for the good in every man. Thank you.

The summer here is fine, and the mango is in fruit. I must start pickling soon, but there is no one to collect the mangoes or the tamarinds for me. We are hoping that the wind will be kind this time, I don’t know if Sneha and I can replace the roof by ourselves. That is if Sneha is still unmarried by the time the big wind comes.

Now my final duty is to find a husband for her. Should you see someone suitable in the city, be sure to send him to us! I pray daily to Devi for a good husband for her.

But tell me about yourself and your husband. Have you any children? I long to hear about a little one. We still haven’t heard from Jivkant since he left. Perhaps he is in your city. If you meet him tell him Mamta’s father thinks of him all the time. I am deeply worried about Mohit. He too left for the city just like Jivkant. You must look out for those boys.

May God keep you happy, your loving Lata Bai

Mamta makes Cynthia reread Lata Bai’s letter out loud four times, each time asking the girl to skip the husband and children part. The mention of Lokend’s name has her all aflutter. As long as she has him . . . albeit unilaterally, she is safe, she needs no acknowledgement of her devotion, and expects none from someone so above her in every way. As such, he is her precious amulet, put away in a safe place closest to her being.

Immediately she dictates a reply. She must squelch the need for information swiftly and conclusively. There must be no more talk of her husband or her unborn.

My dear Lata Bai,
Please send me more news of Prem and his important job in the Big House. Is Daku Manmohan as brave and handsome as ever? All the village girls were mad for him, even more so than Guru Dutt, if you can imagine that. I might as well tell you that I have seen the inside of a cinema hall and it is wonderful. But you need not worry; I won’t be doing that again, as I am saving every rupee I earn.

Also don’t worry about Sneha, I am sure there is someone waiting to marry her, and will come to get her soon.

Her optimism is for her mother’s benefit, she knows first-hand how hard it is to find a husband.

Lokend Bhai is a big hero here in Begumpet.
[She cannot resist saying his name out loud.]
His posters are plastered all over the city. It is quite a good likeness. They say he is going to become a Netaji and do wonders for our city. You tell Prem to tell Lokend Bhai that we are waiting for him here in Begumpet. Tell him we need him here, and that we pray for him every day. And what about you? You never send me any news of you and Shanti.

‘I have a baby sister, she must be walking by now,’ she says to Cynthia D’Souza.

Tell me about the well. Is there still water in it? Do you still meet Kamla Masi?

Her letter is filled with questions.

‘Do you miss your mother?’ asks Cynthia, unexpectedly reading her thoughts.

‘Yes, I do, but my life is here, with you all, Cynthiaji. Please write on:

What about the bandit raids? Have they stopped now that Daku Manmohan is in prison?’

‘Bandits?’ the city girl can’t believe real bandits exist, she’s never heard of such a thing.

‘Yes, Cynthiaji, they were terrible in my amma’s time. Now they have surrendered and the chief is in jail in Gopalpur. All the girls were in love him.’

‘Yes . . .’ the city girl licks her lips. ‘And what’s to tell? My brother guards the chief bandit Daku Manmohan, handsome as a film hero, in his cell at the Big House.’

‘Gosh, your life sounds so exciting.’ ‘It’s just life when you are living it. It’s yours that sounds exciting to me.’

I will go and see my lady doctor, the one I met at the dispensary, next week to start putting away money in the post office. Men and women are allowed to do that. It’s so different here in the city, you can do what you like. Everyone is so rich, they don’t care for rules like they do in the village. That’s why Jivkant and Mohit left for the city. Don’t worry, I will look for them.

With deep respect, Cynthia D’Souza

May is ripped from every calendar. The season has started to change. The heat is suffocating. In the village she would be picking wild mangoes off trees. She was such a good climber that she always managed to get the most. There is nothing in the city like those round mangoes, sour enough to put one’s teeth on edge.

She has begun dreaming dreams of going back home. The two things she’ll take home are plastic buckets – two of them – and powdered salt. Plastic! Already Mamta has collected bits and pieces of all kinds. Thick plastic, thin plastic, leathery plastic, rubbery plastic, scaly plastic, smooth plastic . . . on her side of the staircase. She hides it from thieves under a rotting piece of cardboard when she goes to work. Besides her monthly wage, which she puts in the Post Office Saving Plan, that plastic is the only thing of value that she owns.

Mamta has come a long way from sharing the space under the stairs with Kalu. Now she sleeps just outside Mrs D’Souza’s flat, and it is habit that brings her down from time to time to chat with Kalu, add to her hoard of plastic bits, and pass on a bit of betel-leaf to him. ‘See that one, she’s as spicy as a hot Kerala curry; and that Maharashtran one is saucy, like thickened coconut milk; and Shobha the Punjabin, Lord, she’s sweet like a jalebi; now don’t ask me to tell you about one who cleans the first-floor pots and pans, she’s succulent like a fresh gulab jamun . . .’ Kalu has an imaginary affair going on with every woman in the building. He’s never had a woman, just like he’s never tasted the food he compares them to. Kalu will have to settle for someone like herself from the ditch-side latrine.

‘Arey, Kalu, shut up. Why do you compare the women with food? They’re the ones who get the least of it,’ says Mamta playfully. ‘I’m going back upstairs, I have work to do.’

‘I know about your plastic, Mamta,’ he shouts at her, lifting the corner of the cardboard.

‘Leave that! It’s mine! It’s for my mother. I will take it home when I leave.’

‘What will your mother do with a broken mug or a piece of string?’

‘Huh, you city types! Amma can find use in anything.’

‘Arey, don’t be angry, don’t start fighting, come here. Come on, come back here, I have a story to tell you.’ Kalu can see the change in Mamta, there is an eagerness to her gait. Mamta returns and squats beside him, staring at the floor. ‘Mrs D’Souza’s old sweeper also used to collect useless things when he came to the city, in his case it was fused lightbulbs. He was so excited by them that he used to pick the fused ones out of everyone’s garbage and save them. He even used to wear one round his neck. He worshipped those things. Then one day he had the bright idea of planting money plants in them and he hung one up in Mrs D’Souza’s bathroom window.

‘You must have seen it, so tiny, full of hairy roots. He might have started a fashion, that’s why every flat in Himalaya House has a money plant growing out of a hanging lightbulb in each bathroom window. Poor fellow, I wonder where he is now. I bet you he’s running with the kabari-man, shouting for people’s bottles and old newspapers . . .’

‘. . . and fused lightbulbs,’ Mamta says, giggling.

‘Yes, yes, and fused lightbulbs. What’s a living to some is clutter to others.’

‘Well, money plants or no money plants, lightbulbs or no light-bulbs, I’m taking this plastic home.’ She clutches her mother’s letter in her hand. Why does she miss her life in the village so much? It brought her only pain. Is it for the familiarity of it or the chance to go back and show everyone how well she’s done for herself? That’s human nature. No one wants to make a good life unseen and unheard. A life unshared is a life wasted.

‘See what I have written to my mother today . . .’ She speaks from memory, but runs her eyes over the letter as if she is reading it. Kalu is impressed.

‘
My beloved Lata Bai. Namaste. The city is a big place, but if I meet Jivkant, I will tell him to come home soon. And, if not, to write to you.
My brother Jivkant left home before the planting season years ago. That was before my wedding. He said he was going to become an engine driver. But we never heard from him again, and he didn’t send Amma even one rupee. Bapu thinks he’s dead, but Amma thinks he’s lost in the city. Now my other brother Mohit has left to join him too. In her last letter Amma asked me to look for them.’ She giggles, ‘Amma has no idea of the city. She thinks you can just bump into people here like you do at the well in the village. How long have I been here, Kalu, and still I only know you and Mrs D’Souza and Cynthiaji. Find Jivkant, find Mohit – as if. They’re lost, but Amma won’t give up hope.