The Hope of Shridula (25 page)

"No. I must not."

Glory Anna scooted over into the jasmine vines to give her more room. "Come on! You have to obey me because I am your master and I command you. Come and sit on this carpet!"

"Please, no. If someone should see me . . . Because I am an Untouchable, you see, and I . . ."

"Sit beside me! No one will see us except Sheeba Esther, and she likes you."

Slowly—her head bowed low, her face etched with fear— Shridula sank down on the edge of the Persian carpet—but only on its fringes.

"I wish we could come out here more often," Glory Anna said. "Maybe if Sheeba Esther would tell her husband to tell his father that we should have the right to . . . to . . . What is this?"

From the far end of the Persian carpet, tucked back under the jasmine vines, Glory Anna pulled out Saji Stephen's leather-bound book of accounts.

Glory Anna opened the leather cover. "I know what this is," she said. "I never touched it before, though. Or looked inside it." She opened the cover, then turned one page. "Look, Shridula, I will show you how to cipher."

Glory Anna laid the leather-bound book between them, and Shridula leaned in closer.

"These first pages are hard to read," Glory Anna said. "The ink is smudged." She turned another page. "Can you read this writing?"

Shridula bent down close and ran her finger down the page. She started to say no, but then one name caught her eye. "V . . . Vir . . . Vir. . ." Shridula scrunched up her forehead and bent closer over the ink scratches. "Vir . . ."

"Virat!" Glory Anna said. "Can you not see that it says 'Virat'?"

"Virat?" Shridula looked up at Glory Anna. "That was the name of my grandfather."

Shridula took the book and lifted it into her lap. Carefully she traced her finger down the marks. She read:
Virat: Injured son treated at English Mission Medical Clinic. Journeyed to deposit the boy; journeyed to bring him back. Fresh sari, mundu, chaddar for the journey. 20 rupees 40 rupees 80 rupees.
She looked up at Glory Anna. "What does it mean?"

"The twenty rupees was the loan the moneylender gave. My grandfather, I suppose. It is his book," Glory Anna said. "My grandfather doubled the debt because of the journey to the medical clinic. Twenty and twenty more make forty rupees. Adding that together is ciphering. Then he doubled that because of the new clothes. Forty and another forty makes eighty. Do you understand?"

Shridula stared at the marks. Slowly she moved her finger down the page and looked at each of the other marks. So many of them!

"He took away some of the debt because of the work," Glory Anna said. "See? Ten rupees erased down here."

"Yes, but right next to it is thirty rupees added."

"To pay back for food, and for using the hut."

"And then another fifty rupees. What is that for?"

Glory Anna bent low and read the scratched words: " 'Interest on the debt.' That means tax for borrowing the money. All the moneylenders charge that."

At one point, young Ashish's earnings also began to count as credit: "5 rupees." But down the page Latha's credits stopped, and finally, so did Virat's. Ninety rupees were added for "body disposal."

"My grandparents died," Shridula said.

Shridula traced further down the page: charges for her parents' marriage, charges for the death of each of their sons, charges for their new child, Shridula, charges for her mother's death. Charges were listed for the used
saris
Sheeba Esther instructed Shridula to wear, the food Shridula ate at the landlord's house, and even for the mat she slept on beside Glory Anna's bed.

Struggling to stop her finger from shaking, Shridula pointed to the last notation: 8,789 rupees. "Is this the last line of the debt of my father?" Shridula asked.

"It is his debt right now," Glory Anna said, "but there is never a last line."

"You knew all this?" Shridula asked. 227

"Yes. I thought you knew, too."

"As long as I live, I will belong to your family," Shridula said.

"Yes."

Shridula closed the book of accounts and shoved it over toward Glory Anna. She got up from the Persian carpet and walked back to Glory Anna's room.

"I am sorry!" Glory Anna called after her. "I thought you knew!"

Early in the afternoon, while the bullock cart was still lost in a billow of dust, the girls could hear Rajeev and Nihal Amos shouting at each other.

"Amina is gone from the great room, Glory Anna," Sheeba Esther said quickly. "You can go back in and paint a picture. Or get out the sitar and play for a while, if you wish."

Glory Anna made a face. "I am tired of that. It is all I ever do! I want to see
outside
this house."

Sheeba Esther sighed and glanced about nervously. With a cautious smile, she said, "The day is still pleasant enough. Would you care to accompany me to the market?"

Sheeba Esther intended her invitation for Glory Anna alone. But Glory Anna would not hear of leaving Shridula behind. "She has never seen the market either."

"She is Untouchable," Sheeba Esther explained. "The merchants will not allow her to come around their stands."

Shridula longed to stay behind. For now she knew that every turn of the cart wheel, every bite of a treat, every sip of water would be another notation added to her father's debt. But no one asked her opinion.

All the way to the market, Glory Anna chattered nonstop questions. What would they see? Could she buy a new
sari?
Would people know they were the landlord's family? Would they find sweets to eat?

Sheeba Esther patiently did her best to answer each question, and she never once stopped smiling.

The marketplace bustled with activity. Fruits and squash and cucumbers lay spread out in attractive ways. Behind the displays stood filled baskets. Merchants offered all sorts of wares, including baskets of marigold garlands and coconuts to offer the gods and goddesses. Two fisherfolk sat behind woven baskets of dried fish, and spice merchants displayed a lavish array of sacks filled to the top with exotic spices in many fragrances.

"Look!" Glory Anna cried. "New
saris,
and in so many beautiful colors! Let us find one for me."

Sheeba Esther looked at Shridula. "Not you," she said. Her voice wasn't unkind, but it was firm. "You can wait for us in the cart or you can stand off to the side of the road until we come back for you."

Sheeba glanced further down the road, past the orderly displays of wares. "Wait," she said. "Down there! I almost forgot. Untouchable women sit at the far end of the market with their own wares to sell. You could go down there and look. I will have the driver call for you when we finish."

Shridula almost didn't go down the road to the Untouchable vendors. It would have been much easier to watch from the cart, safely away from prying eyes. But the idea of Untouchables selling at the marketplace was too intriguing to pass up. So she plucked up her courage and walked alongside the road toward the village.

Yes, these women really were Untouchables. Shridula could see the difference—squat, dark, and worn. Definitely her people. Wives of the fishermen sat on the ground behind baskets of hard-dried fish. A girl had a few eggs for sale. The woman beside her, several containers of milk. Another had a few cucumbers, eggplants, and chili peppers spread out on a cloth. Several women sat behind large baskets of wild custard apples. The fruit looked no different from the thick-skinned, seedy custard apples Shridula saw growing high up in the trees beside the road. A woman at the end displayed a stack of mats she had woven from dried river reeds and dyed with vegetable colors.

"Who buys those?" Shridula asked her in amazement. "I mean, they are very nice mats, but does not everyone make their own?"

"Those who have time and no money make their own," the woman said. "Those who have money and little time, buy from me. What about you? Do you have time or money?"

"I have neither," Shridula said.

"Then get away from me," the woman told her. "Make room for those who want to buy."

Shridula stayed at the Untouchable end of the market until the driver of the bullock cart called to her from the road. All the way home, Glory Anna talked of the marketplace, of her new pink and yellow
sari,
of the packet of sweets she clutched in her hand. Shridula pretended to listen, but in her mind she kept seeing the Untouchable women. Imagine them selling at the market! Just imagine!

"Sheeba Esther!" Saji Stephen's voice roared out before the cart had even stopped. "Bring that Untouchable girl to me!"

"What is the matter with him?" Sheeba Esther whispered to the girls. "Did you do something to upset him?"

Glory Anna protested their innocence, but Shridula sat silently in the cart and waited. Even as a wave of terror washed over her, the landlord's words lifted the burden that had weighed on her more heavily every day. The excruciating wait had finally come to an end. What would be, would be.

The landlord's family had already assembled in the great room—Rajeev and Nihal Amos seated side by side on the sofa. Amina perched stiffly on the side of the bed, her little ones around her.

Saji Stephen made a great show of taking his place in a large armchair, conveniently positioned to allow him to glower around at the others. When Glory Anna entered, he motioned her over to the wall. She stood uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Next came Sheeba Esther. She looked stricken. Confused. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she led Shridula into the room and told her to stand directly in front of Saji Stephen.

"After all I did for you," Saji Stephen growled at Shridula. "After all I did for your father. You would repay my kindness like this!"

Tears filled the girl's eyes.

"My servant searched Glory Anna's room and found nothing. What did you do with the things you stole from my house? Tell me! I order you to tell me!"

Shridula bit hard on her lip, but she couldn't stop the tears from tumbling down her cheeks. She longed to proclaim her innocence, to tell the landlord about Hari. Maybe Nihal Amos already knew about him. She sneaked a glance at Nihal, but his face was blank. Perhaps Sheeba Esther also knew. Was that possible?

"She passed them along to her father, of course," Rajeev said with a wave of his hand. "You should be searching his hut."

"No!" Shridula cried. "My father knows nothing about it! I was not the one who stole from you, Master Landlord. Please, it was not me!"

May 1947

S
hridula leaned forward and whispered, "A new
sahib
has come from England to send the British away and give India back to Indians,
Appa.
They call him Lord Mountbatten."

"Lord Mountbatten?" Ashish asked. "He is a British god?"

"No, no," Shridula said. "Not like Lord Krishna. A British lord just means a high caste British man."

"A British Brahmin?"

"More like a
Kshatriya,
I think. Like the landlord."

"I see," Ashish said thoughtfully. "Are we to worship this high caste
sahib
who is not quite a god?"

"No, he has work to do," Shridula said. "His job is to give India back to the Indians."

Despite the stifling heat, Shridula and her father talked in hushed tones, crouched together inside their hut with the door pulled closed. Even so, a voice called from outside, "Ask her if the British god will come here, Ashish. Ask her will he set us free."

"I do not know," Shridula said to the voice. "No one at the landlord's house ever speaks about Untouchables."

"Still more violence in the Punjab!" Rajeev stormed. "The Muslims will not stop until they carve the crown off the head of India and keep it for themselves!"

Saji Stephen's eyes narrowed. "Let them have it if that will quiet them. Or throw out every last Muslim and keep the country for the Hindus. Why should I care? The Punjab is far away from here."

Rajeev heaved an irritated sigh. "Really, Father, is it impossible for you to think any further than the end of your own fields?"

"It would do well for you to think a bit more about our own fields! Our storehouses are all but empty. The workers demand more food, even though they know I have no more to give them. When I fail to do the impossible, they punish me with their laziness."

"Those are but small troubles compared to—"

"Now I am told my winter fields are stunted, too, and that they overflow with weeds. I pray for a good harvest, but I know I will not get one. Soon the entire village will be hungry, and who will they blame for their aching stomachs? The Muslims in the Punjab? No. They will blame me!"

Scowling and muttering about the state of the nation, Rajeev made a great show of pulling himself to his feet.

Saji Stephen ignored him.

Rajeev stalked back into the house, slamming the door behind him. "Udit!" he called. "Udit!" The Sudra servant hurried over and Rajeev ordered, "Prepare the cart for me! Not the slow bullock cart. The fast cart pulled by the horse!"

By pushing the horse to make all haste, and forcing those on the road to scurry for their lives, Rajeev arrived at the English Mission Medical Clinic in record time. He strode confidently up to the door, balled his hand into a fist and banged on it.

"You again," Dr. Cooper sighed when he saw Rajeev. "I really am quite busy. What do you want this time?"

"I be coming to see the lady called as Miss Abigail Davidson," Rajeev said. He held his head high and assumed the most condescending tone he could manage.

Dr. Cooper looked the Indian up and down, from his dusty sandals to the nicely woven fabric of his
mundu
to the
kurta
shirt that covered him above the waist.

"Isaiah!" Dr. Cooper called, his eyes still on Rajeev.

When no one responded, the doctor called again, but more loudly: "Isaiah!" Still no response. Finally, with undisguised irritation, the doctor shouted, "Krishna!" Immediately the scarred man with the twisted face appeared.

"Take this . . .
Indian
. . . to Miss Abigail," Dr. Cooper stepped back into the clinic and slammed the door shut.

The first thing Shridula noticed amiss was the grain scattered around the earthenware pots in her father's hut. And although her
appa's
skin was baked dark and tough as leather, she was certain that bruises showed through the dirt on his chin and around his eye. She leaned close and whispered, "I did not steal anything."

"I know," Ashish said.

"But I know who did."

Ashish said nothing, nor did the expression on his face change.

Leaning in closer still, she breathed, "It was Hari."

"The scavenger, then," Ashish said. "The one whose life I already saved."

"He thinks he is doing the right thing by making the landlord share his wealth with the people."

"The people?" Ashish asked. "Have you seen any of that wealth? I have not seen any of it. Only Hari has seen the wealth. What you and I see is the punishment he left for us to endure."

"What should I do,
Appa?"

"I have no answers for you, Daughter. I do not know."

"Of course I shall not return to England!" Miss Abigail Davidson insisted to Rajeev. (Miss Abigail didn't even try to converse in Malayalam any more. It was up to Rajeev to do his best in English.)

She handed him the porcelain cup decorated with forget-me-nots and filled it with tea. Passing him the pitcher of cream, she said, "In the forty years I have been in India, I have gone back to England but once, and then only with great reluctance. My mother had arranged a marriage for me, you see, and I was duty bound to at least make the acquaintance of the unfortunate young man."

"But . . . your husband, then?" Rajeev asked. "He is not to be coming to India beside you?"

"Alfred was not a pleasant man," Miss Abigail said. "Not a pleasant man at all. Shallow and doughy: those were my impressions when I first saw him. On further association, I found him to also be whiny, somewhat like a spoiled child. When I expressed my dismay to my mother, she responded that I should be thankful to have a young man with any breeding at all. She said he was the best husband one such as I could hope to secure. Can you imagine? The following day I left London, still a single woman. I went straight to the docks and eagerly awaited the next ship to Madras."

Rajeev stared at her.

"You do think me foolish, do you not?" Miss Abigail asked.

Rajeev lifted his cup to his lips and noisily sipped his tea. Foolish was exactly what he thought her, though he knew better than to say so. This white-haired woman with skin like wadded-up paper. With blue eyes so pale and filmy, she must surely be too blind to tell an Englishman from an Indian. A foolish English woman who ran away from the husband her father's family found for her so that she could sit out her life on a rooftop in India, dressed up in a
sari,
and sip tea all alone. Oh, yes, Rajeev thought her foolish indeed!

"The doctor and his wife. They are to be leaving India?" Rajeev asked Miss Abigail.

"Most assuredly. Already they have begun to pack."

"The English Mission Medical Clinic. It is to be belonging to you, then?"

"No, no, not to me. Most certainly not to me. Whatever happens, the clinic will still belong to the Medical Mission��� although I do intend to stay here, and, as much as possible, to be of help to those who need me."

With some difficulty, Rajeev replaced the fine porcelain cup on its fine porcelain saucer. Without looking up at Miss Abigail, he said most delicately, "It is being to your benefit to be having a member of the government of the new India at your personal disposal, no?"

For some time, Miss Abigail sipped at her tea in silence. Finally she cleared her throat and said, "My dear sir. Do you have some specific proposal you wish to present to me?" "India is to be changing," Rajeev said. "English peoples are to be needing friends.

Indians also are to be needing friends. I am coming here today to be offering you my friendship, and also my protection in the days that are to be coming."

"More tea?" Miss Abigail asked.

"I am to be offering more protection right now, in these present uncertainties, do you see, but also in the greater uncertainties after the British peoples are to be going away. In return, I am to be asking for your friendship and your support when the British are to be making India ready for a new government."

"More tea?" Miss Abigail said again.

Rajeev sighed in exasperation. He leaned forward and his voice took on a tone of urgency. "I cannot be knowing what you might be needing," he said. "I cannot be knowing what I might be needing. But if matters are not well for you—or for me—we might be agreeing to be protecting . . . mutually, that is . . . to be protecting—"

"Are you asking me to shelter you from the British soldiers?" Miss Abigail demanded. "Why, yes, I do believe you are. You want me to hide you here in the clinic! Why, my good sir, what a thing to ask of me!"

Miss Abigail, who had risen from her bed as soon as the first rays of sun peeked through her window, longed to sink back into her bed with the setting sun. Certainly she did not fancy an evening with the long-winded Dr. Cooper and his tiresome wife. Nor, she was quite certain, did they fancy an evening with her. What the good doctor would want to discover was why the Indian man had been so interested in conferring with her. Not only was it none of his business, but she wasn't at all certain herself. As she thought back on the afternoon, she found it all most confusing.