The Age of Shiva (10 page)

By eleven, most of the preparations were done. My bridal sari had been laid out on the charpoy in the bedroom, together with the gold I would be wearing that evening. For Sandhya, Mataji took out one of her own earring and necklace sets, whispering not to tell Hema that these were some of the pieces earmarked for her dowry. The mehndi man stopped by and decorated all our hands in delicate black-green filigree patterns. Hema drew her palm to her face and wrinkled her nose at the odor of the henna paste. “How can something that looks so beautiful smell so bad?”

The sun which had been in control of our lives since morning had long driven us indoors with its scorching rays. There was nothing much we could do while the mehndi set, so we lazed on the sofa under the ceiling fan. Sandhya occasionally broke into a snatch of song—I didn't know the words, but tried to hum along. Although my hunger hadn't returned after all the food that morning, the thirst had begun to assert itself. The dryness in my throat was spreading drought-like through my body—my lungs felt depleted, even my skin felt parched. “It'll only get worse in the afternoon,” Mataji assured me.

The men came home for lunch after the mehndi man had left. “You must have made parathas for the fast. Where have you kept them?” Babuji called out, as we heard him searching among the thalis in the kitchen.

“I didn't have time. Today there's just doubleroti.”

Mataji sat where she was, baring her neck to the breeze from the fan.

“I remember how excited I used to be the first few years, sitting around waiting to serve Babuji his lunch, all dolled up from daybreak in my heavy bridal things. The kitchen would be like a furnace, but I would still make the chappatis fresh. Then one Karva Chauth I began to wonder why I was torturing myself—surely fifteen hours of fasting so that he could live longer should be enough. I kept making the chappatis until the dough had all been used up and waited until he had eaten his fill. Then I told him this was the last time—next year, he'd have to fend for himself.”

Mataji sighed. “Of course, the following year I felt guilty, so I started making extra parathas for him in the morning when I made some for myself. But at least during the day I no longer go into the kitchen. And some years, when there are no parathas, he has to eat Britannia bread.”

THE AFTERNOON BLAZED ON.
We drew the curtains across the windows, which didn't help too much since the air inside was already hot. “The good thing about not being able to drink water is one doesn't sweat as much,” Mataji said. She turned her face up towards the ceiling. “Thank God we have the fan.” A few minutes later, the electricity went off.

We sat where we were, immobilized by this new adversity. The henna paste was still on our hands, so we couldn't even use newspapers to fan ourselves. Mataji stood up. “It's time to wash off the mehndi,” she announced. “Let's use the water from the fridge before it gets warm. We can't drink it, but at least it can cool us off.”

The water felt so cold and reviving against my palms that I splashed some on my face. Sandhya did the same, then playfully dribbled some drops down the back of my neck. Hema sneaked her bottle into the kitchen so we didn't have to watch her drink—since her taunts that morning, she had acquired a new sensitivity to our thirst.

Afterwards, we compared the henna patterns left behind on our hands. It occurred to me that the last time all our palms had been decorated like this was at my wedding, when we hardly knew each other. How amazing to be all related now—not just through marriage, but also through this shared experience of fasting. Sandhya sensed the intimacy as well, because she blushed when I caught her eye. For an instant, I wanted to take her hand in mine, press my lips against the design on her skin. “My mehndi is the prettiest, and Meera didi's is second,” Hema declared.

The relief from the water was temporary—it soon evaporated, leaving my face feeling desiccated. The thirst was now a fire inside—I could monitor it raging through my body, trying to consume every thought in my mind. How did people go for days on end without water? I wondered. Gandhiji had done it for three weeks from his prison cell to demand freedom for the country. And here I was, doing it for a day, just so I could fit in.

I looked at the henna, a map of lines stretching across my palm. Could these be new fate lines, drawn to determine my future, these stylized shoots and twining flowers? I imagined myself in the midst of the pattern, tendrils curling around my ankles, ferns reaching out to caress my face. Leading me through a forest of strokes till I am standing at the edge of an orange lake. I cup my hands to take a sip but it is sand that they come up with. It is a desert I am gazing at, the waves simply furrows from the wind. Then the furrows deepen and shift, and I see wrinkles cut into human skin. It is the face of the woman from the station steps, telling me everything will be fine again. “God will grant you…” she begins to say, but then I see her in the door of a train.

“Meera didi, are you all right?” It was Sandhya, anxiously dabbing at my forehead with a wet cloth. Behind her, Hema was asking Mataji in an excited whisper if I had fainted.

“Yes,” I said, even though I felt dizzy and disoriented.

Sandhya put her hand on my forehead. It felt cool against my skin. I looked at her face in wonder—instead of withering her, the thirst seemed to make her glow. “Only a few more hours. Time we started getting ready,” she said.

AT THE FIRST SIGHT
of my parents, I started crying. How extravagant my tears were, I thought, how reckless to be wasting moisture like this. I ignored the parchedness in my throat, the light-headedness from the heat, and fell upon Biji in an embrace. Paji hugged me as well.

“All those days I didn't see you,” Biji wept. “Stay happy, that's all I prayed. I asked Devi Ma to bless my daughters with long-living husbands. What else does this old woman have to give?”

Mataji came out and accepted the offering of a silk sari that the bride's mother traditionally gave for the fast. “It's very modest, but come, let me show you around the house,” she said. “All the gifts you've given us to brighten our lives—most of all Meera, of course.”

Afterwards, Paji asked permission to talk with me alone. We sat on the courtyard charpoy where nobody could hear us. I felt feverish, but tried to smile and look alert for Paji.

“So this is the condition I find you in. Hands painted and fasting obediently like some fantasy Hindu wife. You look like you're about to pass out, so you can stop twisting your mouth into that grin. All those years I stopped your mother from degrading herself like this, and the first chance you get, you dive right in. Surely you know that medical science has found no evidence that starving yourself is going to prolong your husband's life? Couldn't you have told them no, if not for your own sake, at least for mine?

“And this hovel you're living in. Is this why you left your father's house? Two rooms for seven people—where did they set up your bridal suite, on the kitchen floor?” He waved his hand around. “Look at it all—that filthy toilet, that ramshackle door, that…good God, are those cow dung patties drying on the wall?”

I wanted to defend my surroundings, defend Dev's family, protest that the dung had been there a long time, and they didn't use it anymore. But I couldn't summon enough moisture to facilitate the words through my throat.

Paji ran his fingers over his brow and slowly exhaled. “I was afraid it might be bad, but I could never have pictured this. You can't imagine how it pierces a father's heart to see his daughter starved like a caged animal.” He looked away from me, as if the sight was too painful to bear. “I have to blame myself too, you know. I could have tried to change your mind, I could have refused to let you go.”

He turned back and earnestly grasped my hand. “When I got your letter, I was too stunned to respond. Greed has made her blind, I thought to myself. Or, more likely, the husband's greed. I now see how wrong I was—what a desperate situation you were writing from. There's only one thing that matters now, and that's for you to escape the life these barbarians have in store for you. Otherwise it will be like committing sati bit by bit while your husband watches on.

“So I've decided. I've decided you're going to Bombay. I'm prepared to pay what it takes. Over and above what they've already squeezed out, just to get you away from their clutches. If you must cart along that singer husband of yours, fine. That's your choice, not mine. The important thing is for you to break free, to make your own life. That's going to be my only condition. I've decided you're going to college, Meera. That you're going to study as I'd planned. That you're not going to sit at home and become fat like some bovine wife.

“Did you know that Roopa's pregnant? She called just yesterday with the news—the ‘good' news I should say. Two months of marriage and already she jumps off the cliff. And here I am, looking for universities in Visakhapatnam for her to complete her B.A. All those promises I made to myself that if I did nothing else, I would educate at least one of your mother's daughters. Can you believe it—my own Roopa—disappointing me like this? And Sharmila's not bright enough, which only leaves you.” Paji looked at me as if he had just paid me a compliment.

“But I suppose it's time for tonight's extravaganza. I shouldn't keep your relatives waiting, not to mention all the gods and goddesses they must have invited down especially from heaven. We can make the arrangements some other time. Why don't you call that husband of yours so he can hear my offer too?”

My mind whirling, I stumbled away to find Dev. He was thrilled. “As her husband, I couldn't agree more that Meera should study,” he declared to Paji. “You have my word she'll go to college when we get to Bombay.”

Dev was gushing to Paji about how grateful he was, how this was going to be such a wonderful opportunity. Had my mind been clearer, I might have anticipated his next action and had time to warn him. But after listening to Paji's plans for my future, I was as mentally drained as physically exhausted. Before I could stop him, Dev bent down to touch Paji's feet.

With the alacrity of a cobra, Paji's hand shot out to apprehend his wrist, twisting it so sharply that Dev cried out in pain. Hema, who had been spying on us from the kitchen, came running out. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Paji said, releasing his grip. “It's a reflex action—I should have warned you. A custom I simply cannot abide.” Paji's lips started curling into the familiar smile that was not a smile. “I suppose there's one more condition, then, to my offer. I don't know what type of ceremony you have planned for tonight. But if I see my daughter touch your feet, that'll be the end of your dream. I'll walk out that door and my offer will walk out with me.”

BY EIGHT, THE GUESTS
were all gathered in the courtyard. Mataji had invited her friends to share in the auspicious occasion of my first Karva Chauth. “There's Mrs. Sampath,” Hema said, pointing at a woman sitting on the charpoy and kneading her chest. “She says she's going to get a heart attack since she can't take her blood pressure pills during the fast. Last year she fainted and the ambulance came and took her away, but people said later it was just to show off.

“And that's Mrs. Gangwal. She still keeps the fast even though her husband ran off with her niece four years ago. And next to her, Mrs. Pota, whose husband no one's ever seen. The rumor is he's dead.”

I was having difficulty breathing. My jewelry felt heavy and constraining, the wedding outfit from two months ago tight and suffocating around my chest. My scalp was on fire, as if I had used chili powder, not vermilion, to decorate the parting in my hair. Even the bindi on my forehead itched so fiercely, I felt like scratching it off.

I sank down unsteadily on the special seat between Sandhya and Mataji to which Hema accompanied me. Round us sat the other women, and beyond them, the men stood about or watched from the charpoy. Thalis laden with offerings were circulated for everyone to admire, and my head swirled as I tried to follow the fruits and bangles and saris being passed from lap to lap. Mrs. Pota launched into a song about not sewing on Karva Chauth, and the women responded in a chorus about losing your husband if a stray needle were to prick him and drive him away.

There followed other songs, about a girl who fasted to bring back her beloved after he had been eaten by a crocodile, and about Savitri, who rescued her husband by tricking Yama, the god of death. Biji seemed to remember some of the words herself—I saw her swaying and clapping and singing along with the other women.

At some point, the singing stopped and the story of Karva Chauth was related. I tried to concentrate, even though by now my mind was listing and swirling. The tale was about seven brothers, who, moved by the suffering of their sister on Karva Chauth, shone the light of a lamp through a pipal tree so that she would break her fast early. She mistook the light for the moon as they had hoped, but the instant she took her first sip of water, her husband drowned. Fortunately, Parvati heard her cries of sorrow up in heaven. She came down to investigate, even though Shiva, her husband, sulked about being ignored over some weeping girl. When Parvati discovered how the men had interfered with this most sacred rite of womanhood to trick the girl, she was enraged. She threatened to assume her Kali image and destroy everything in sight. Shiva had no choice but to intervene with Yama, who reluctantly brought back the husband to life. It all sounded very familiar—hadn't Biji related a similar story to us years ago?