Someone Else's Garden (17 page)

‘Come on, no sense in wasting time. Let’s get it over with,’ she says, pushing Lokend into the room. Clearly she knows what’s on his father’s mind.

The reclining man regards his son with his good eye. It is a long, slow look, the same kind of look he used in his hunting days.

The old man has become a sort of indistinct version of his former self. Almost unable to speak and all bone.

‘He’sh . . . here.’

Lokend stands motionless, needing no explanation.

Singh Sahib twitches his hand at Asmara Didi. She stands up from kneeling and starts talking on his behalf.

‘Daku Manmohan is here. Your father, Singh Sahib has put him in jail. You know the old outhouse . . .’

At this point the father locks eyes with his son, willing him back to the day of his stroke. The very day he discovered – no: caught – Lokend cleaning the outhouse like a low-caste servant.

‘Yes, I know the old outhouse. Is that where he is now?’

‘And . . . wi . . . ll shta . . . ay!’ Singh Sahib releases the words like bullets.

‘Singh Sahib, too much excitement isn’t good for you,’ she says loudly, then drops her voice. ‘We have to keep him calm,’ she says to Lokend, her co-conspirator. ‘What could he do?’ she pleads with Lokend on behalf of his father. ‘It was like the old days. Villagers were coming to him every day asking him to do something about Daku Manmohan. Lokend, you have no idea how this event has stirred up the people. They feel betrayed. That too by you, their saviour, their mentor. They’ve always had the utmost love for you. You know that. But this surrender has made them question everything. You, this family, Singh Sahib, the zamindari, everything. Your father had no choice but to step in. The village and your father reached a compromise. They begged Singh Sahib to take charge. They wanted Daku Manmohan to be jailed on your land, where they could be sure he won’t be treated like royalty,’ she finishes in a single breath, waiting for a response.

‘Say something. For God’s sake! Can’t you see your father needs it?’ Asmara Didi gruffly whispers to Lokend. Then she notices something in Singh Sahib’s face that hasn’t been there in a long time: the will to live again.

Lokend stands silent and still as his father’s rage boils round him.

‘What harm can it do? Jailed here or just outside Singh Sahib’s lands, surely it is the same thing?’ She drops her voice once more so the zamindar can’t hear her succeeding words: ‘If something should happen to him, even you would not be able to forgive yourself.’ They both know that she is not talking of the bandit.

The thought of destroying his father for a second time never entered his mind. He takes his father’s hand. Infinite love pours through his fingers. ‘You keep him,’ he says. ‘I’ll let the police chief know. They are out of their minds with suspicion.’

It is the last thing the old man expected. He had resolved to fight for the bandit, he had commanded Asmara Didi, his mouthpiece, not to back down, no matter what Lokend said and how much it hurt him. He is annoyed by his son’s acquiescence.
Does nothing move you? Fight like a man.
‘You keep him. Here or there, it doesn’t matter,’ says the son, his words mock his father more than he knows.

‘What did he want?’ Ram Singh crowds his younger brother outside the room, trapping him between his large frame and the wall.

‘He’s got Daku Manmohan.’

‘What? Where?’

‘In the old outhouse.’

‘What for?’

‘Bapu is going to be his jailer from now on. The villagers asked him to do it. He says it’s his duty.’

‘Duty. As if! It’s just to relive the old days,’ he says, shaking with anger.

‘He has that old look in his eyes,’ says Asmara Didi, joining the brothers. ‘He’s alive again, Ram Singh, how can you deny him that? It is wonderful to see your father so eager and enthusiastic once again.’

‘Yes,’ Ram Singh stretches out the word, leaving no doubt that he doesn’t share the woman’s elation.

‘Bhaia, don’t be angry.’ Lokend puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. This time Ram Singh doesn’t shake it off. ‘We all want the same things from life.’

‘You make me sick with your spiritual nonsense! You know you have our father’s love and his attention. You can afford your equanimity, I can’t. To use language you understand, conflict
is
my lot.’

‘Use it then! Use your struggle! Use your conflict! Use it to understand the Truth.’ Lokend stops his brother and faces him square. Ram Singh, a whole head taller than Lokend, has to stoop to look into his younger brother’s eyes.

‘Truth?’

‘It’s the same for all of us. It’s the same for me, too. Every day I have to struggle against myself, to keep my eye on the Truth.’

‘What Truth?’ ‘Immortality. That Truth.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Impermeable, fixed, permanent, unconcerned with Death. Eternity. That’s what I am talking about.’ Now the younger bulldozes the elder brother.

‘Don’t talk to me as if I were a child.’

‘We – you, me, Bapu, Asmara Didi – all conscious beings seek it. But we think it doesn’t exist, so we distract ourselves with other things. Don’t settle for anything else, Bhaia, all else will disappoint.’

‘All else will disappoint.’ He repeats his brother’s words with a whine in his voice. ‘Really, will it? Meat to a vegetarian. That’s what your words are to me: meat to a vegetarian. Useless!’ He turns to go. Lokend turns with him.

‘You will drown in your wishing well.’

‘I always wanted our father’s love. But not any more. Now I want only what is rightfully mine. My share of the lands. He shouldn’t squander my inheritance on you. On you who will give it away. I will be the next zamindar, and Bapu knows that. He must give me my rights, and by virtue of the life you have chosen, all this will be mine. Mine. All mine. Every last grain of soil. Mine!’

‘Agree or disagree, none of it will bring you peace. How much more will be enough? How much better can you eat? How much better can you dress? How much better can you travel? How much more power can you wield? Will adding another field to your lands really change your life? Will another vassal make you any happier?’ Lokend isn’t asking rhetorical questions. He takes nothing for granted, and gives his elder brother enough time between questions for answers, continuing to the next question only when certain that one isn’t forthcoming.

‘Do you know why even the richest, most successful man is an unsatisfied man? Because personal strife is a condition of life. The only way to rid oneself of strife is to be dead. The strife of ordinary folk encompasses things like where will I get my next meal? Where will my family sleep in the time of the next flood? How will I get a job for my eldest son? . . . a dowry for my daughter? But the rich have no such simple strife. They have to find stronger, bigger, better means to satisfy the craving of their souls. How many times have you heard someone say, But why did he kill himself, he had everything?’

‘You mean to tell me that the poor are happy?’

‘No, I mean to tell you that those who don’t want as much need a lot
less
to be happy. Ironically, having everything means you have a much higher level of personal strife to satisfy. The easiest way to staying happy is by borrowing someone else’s simple strife.’ Lokend’s eyes seek the horizon. ‘If so much in life is axiomatic, and has been done by others before, why isn’t it all tried and tested to perfection?’ he asks of no one, walking away from his brother without a goodbye.

What are words anyway? Just whores that pass from person to person, thinks the forgotten sibling.

Monsoon Darkness

Chapter 5

T
HE ONLY DREAM
M
AMTA HAS
of love between a man and a woman, the kind she wants for herself, comes from the one faded movie poster in Lala Ram’s shop. The darkly brooding actor and his true love, the actress who stands one step behind, buffeted by his shadow, with icicle tears running down her cheeks, are the standard-bearers of her brand of romance. What she doesn’t know is the tragic end to the movie, which turned out to be a tale of unrequited love and destroyed lives. She lives with this dream in her head and her heart in her mouth, and each day she takes little bites out of her heart. And as her heart becomes smaller, her dream starts to dissolve, flowing out of her like water through her fingers. It takes all her faculties to survive as a wife.

In her brown sari she blends into the sombre mud walls of her husband’s house, so much a part of her surroundings that her existence is defined by them. Sometimes her husband comes home and doesn’t notice her sewing silently, watching him from under her eyelids, doing nothing to give herself away. When he does notice her, he sometimes walks over to hit her.

In return, she taunts her stepdaughter. Her teasing and bullying aren’t just meanness but an acknowledgement of the younger girl’s place as a confirmed ally. The two girls are co-conspirators, a push-me-pull-you couple who feel safe in each other’s company because their destinies aren’t all that different. Strangely enough, each taunt serves to bring the two girls closer. With the stepson, Mamta has a totally different relationship. She avoids him, yet she does as much for him as she can. The boy in turn is completely indifferent to both the girls. They are dust under his feet. He knows he can command them with the flick of his impetuous hand. One damaging word from his lips would be enough for his father.

She has been at her new house for six months now and she still doesn’t know her husband at all. If she had to put it into words, her strongest emotion is fear. Fear to live in a house in which she has no place. Still, she cleans it and cooks in it daily. And every night lies down on the straw to sleep. In her mother’s house it was different. There wasn’t such fear; she knew where she stood, certain if she kept out of her father’s way she would have a good day. Here, her fear has turned her tongue bitter and put her stomach on the boil. She quivers in the knees if she doesn’t sit down, and every day thinks up new excuses, explanations and reasons that she might have to use to rationalise her existence should the need arise. If for a moment her husband judges her to be redundant, then that could be the end of it all.

At first glance her husband might seem cruel. But he has his own history that has brought him to this place. He inherited his indentured life from his great-grandfather. Each generation of men in his family has been pushed round by landowners, uprooted and sent off to other lands that needed tilling. Mamta’s husband himself was moved to Barigaon, the village closest to Gopalpur, when his son wasn’t even six months old. His first wife was a physically weak woman. Her delicate bones irritated him to such an extent that he loaded her up with the family bedding for the journey. The last few miles she made on her knees, too frightened to complain to her husband who walked on ahead straight, strong and proud. And that’s how he’s remained: straight, strong and proud in front of his family. It is only by making them fear him that he feels a sense of power in his senseless life.

‘Lower your pallav!’ He snatches the end of Mamta’s sari and jerks it down. She should be thankful for the dignity it brings her. She clamps the end between her teeth to stop it from blowing away.

An unruly veil might get her a broken arm. She picks up the broom. She’s dreamed so often of sweeping her own veranda, but now her gait is old with dread. Her husband looks at her from afar. He is used to her birthmark. He remarked on it constantly, and it irritated him when she started to cry. The thought of drink and prostitutes is never far from his mind, but he has no money for either. What is a man to do with two little children but take another wife? He should never have let their mother die, he thinks; the replacement is far inferior. But in truth, he could have done nothing to save his first wife.

The goddess is scuffed and oil-stained, but each of her imperfections only serves to make her dearer to the girl with the birthmark. The lingering smell of saffron, a soft memory from a different life, is her escape. She has looked into the box almost every night since she came here, and each time she opens it, she is overwhelmed with images of an unknown man and warm hands round her shoulders.

The sweets were quickly gone, into the bellies of her husband and stepson. The son she didn’t mind so much, because he didn’t eat quite as decisively as his father and she was able to gather the crumbs that dropped from his mouth into the dirt and stuff them into her own.

The empty box of sweets has become her memory box. In it she has a dried garland of jasmine flowers from her wedding, a photograph of her and her mother taken by Rajiv of the
Times of India
, and a lock of Shanti’s hair (it used to hold Lucky Sister’s gold earrings, but her husband asked for them the day he brought her home). Her mother had pressed that photo into her hand just as she was about to get into the tonga. It was such an act of sacrifice. No one else would have simply given their picture away to their daughter to take to another’s home. They would have hung their photo on their door together with the mirror, or put it under their pillow like her bapu did his.

‘Amma.’ She jumps. The little girl looks directly into her own eyes. How can she get used to being called Amma when nothing has ever grown in her womb?

‘What is it?’ Her voice has the same bullying tone as her husband’s.

‘Am . . . ma . . .’ the girl is not sure of their relationship ‘. . . can you help?’ She holds out a ribbon. It is an old ribbon. It might have been red once, but it is now brown.

‘You stole it?’ It is merely a question to establish context, not to accord blame. Mamta’s morals do not recognise stealing as wrong.

‘No.’ Even the child knows the ribbon isn’t worth stealing. ‘I found it in the dung.’

‘Uh.’ Mamta takes the ribbon and starts braiding it into her fingers. ‘I’m not your mother.’

‘But Bapu says that you are our new mother and that we have to listen carefully to what you say, because you will live with us till you die.’