Under the Jeweled Sky (30 page)

Jag washed his father's fragile body and dressed him in cotton robes, wishing they could be cleaner. There were no flowers to adorn the body, not even a single garland of marigolds. He anointed his father's head, marking him for the last time with the ritual of his prayers. Death comes to every man, like a long-awaited friend, but Jag had hoped to be much older before he performed his final duty as his father's only son. He had promised himself that when the time came, he would take his father to the holy city of Benares for the closing chapter of his life, so that he might achieve immediate liberation from
samsara
. To die in the city of light would be to pass through the gate to
moksha
and enter spiritual bliss. He would have scattered his father's ashes into the River of Heaven, the sacred Mother Ganges, washing away his past, erasing the sins of many lifetimes. There would be no need for his father to return to earth, having freed himself from all material desires. Instead he would enter the realm of immortality, the highest among the heavenly planes, the dwelling place of Brahma, where his wife would be waiting for him, wearing a crown.

“We have come to help you honor your father.”

Jag looked up from his father's body. His neighbor, Navinder Singh, stood with two other men. Jag nodded as they removed the shallow canopy from the shelter, and the four of them lifted the shrouded body, the meager weight no burden. As they passed through the camp, a path opened up before them, the people parting as they approached, heads respectfully bowed. Jag felt as though he were moving through a terrible dream, the world around him slowing and silencing as the smoke of the eternal funeral pyres neared, his eyes smarting.

The pyre seemed inadequate for such a great man, Jag thought. He would have seen his father placed atop a stack as tall as he, but there was little wood to be had, the landscape around the camp bare, and that which could be found was thin and dry. Jag worried that the small allocation for his father's mound would not be sufficient to release his body. He must burn properly and be cleansed by the fire.

Accepting the burning twigs from the
dom
who tended the pyres, Jag walked around his father, counterclockwise, for everything was backward at the time of death. He leaned down and pushed the burning twigs into the belly of the stack, his father now an offering to Agni, the fire, to convey him to heaven. Thin lines of smoke appeared, curling tendrils around his father, touching his face with pale fingers that slid through the stained cotton robes. A faint crackle began as the twigs gave up their flames, passing their sacred fire into the kindling and dry grass packed beneath the kerosene-soaked wood. Head bowed, Jag circled his father's pyre, reciting the prayers for the dead, intoning a low chant,
ram
nam
sit
hair, ram nam sit hair
. The smoke thickened and the fire took hold, flames licking, softly at first, before reaching up and engulfing his father's body.

For three hours, Jag watched on silently as his father burned, the shrouded figure blackening as it willingly released what remained of its earthly flesh, the fire leaping heavenward. As the fire began to die, Jag turned and walked away without looking back. He felt utterly alone. Moving through the camp, passing by the hospital tent, he wondered how many more would die today.

• • •

“Hey! You there!” Jag kept walking, head bowed to the ground, unhearing of the voice. “Yes, you!” He stopped and looked up and saw a man approaching, an orderly with blood on his shirt. “You look like a strong chap. Could you lend us a hand? We're absolutely swamped and short of at least ten able-bodied men. There's been another outbreak of dysentery and half the medical staff have gone down with it.” Mutely, Jag followed the man into the hospital tent. “Go and give your hands a good scrub.” He indicated a basin and jug set up on a stand. “Have you eaten today?” Jag looked at him. “You can grab something from the mess tent if you want. No good trying to work on an empty stomach. It's through there.” The orderly pointed toward a flap opening at the back of the tent. “There's no need to look so worried, lad!” He slapped Jag on the shoulder. “Somebody will tell you what to do.”

Jag stood quietly and stared at the table in the mess tent. Two enormous silver urns, warmed by burners, sat side by side, one filled with coffee, the other with hot water. Plates of sandwiches, piled high, covered over with thin cotton cloths. A tin barrel packed with biscuits. A basket of apples. Another spilling over with bananas. Jag wanted to weep, to cry out and say that this table would have saved his father, his father whose remains now blew through this awful place, death carried on the breeze. A white-sleeved arm reached across him, lifting a cloth and taking a handful of sandwiches.

“Go ahead, lad,” Dr. Schofield said. “Help yourself. We all have to keep our strength up.” Jag looked at the man and felt his skin turn inside out. Dr. Schofield studied his face. “It's all right, lad,” he said gently. “You mustn't feel bad.”

George Schofield had seen this before. It was probably the first decent meal this young man had laid eyes on in God knows how long. “I know it looks like a lot, but it soon goes, let me tell you, so best have a few of these while they're still around.” He took another plate from the stack, loaded it with sandwiches, and handed it to Jag. “Tea?” He filled a couple of tin mugs from an enormous pot. “There's milk in that jug if you want it.”

Jag stared at him, unable to believe his eyes. It was Sophie's father, right here beside him, pouring him
tea
. His heart thundered in his chest.

“New volunteer?” Dr. Schofield said cheerily. “I haven't seen you before.”

“Yes,” Jag tried to say, but his throat had closed. He cleared it uncomfortably. “I mean, yes.”

“You speak English?” Dr. Schofield smiled. “Splendid! Well, eat up, lad, then get in there and make yourself useful.”

“Thank you,” Jag said, watching him walk away to join a pair of nurses at a far table, knowing that everything was going to be all right.

Jag lay awake through the night, restless despite his fatigue. He heard her calling to him, saw her face in the stars that shone down from the night sky way above the mountains. So clearly they shone, so relentlessly. He must be strong. He must now put to the test all that he had learned over his life, for it was time for him to become a man, a good man, in honor of his mother's memory, and now of his father's too.

Sophie couldn't see her toes, much less touch them. She skipped the exercise and stretched her arms to the sky instead, breathing deeply, counting along in her head.

“Breathe in, two, three, four, five, six.” Miss Pinto flexed herself upright. “And exhale.”

Sophie loosened her shoulders, closed her eyes, and pointed her face to the morning sun, its gentle warmth upon her skin. Given another hour or two, its rays would intensify to a searing heat, sending an airborne haze rising from the uneven roof tiles. The whole place turned into a dust bowl at this time of year, bleaching the landscape, shrouding everything in a thin mist of fine red sand.

She hadn't slept much last night, unable to get comfortable, her body grumbling and overloaded, back aching, a nagging stitch catching in her abdomen each time she turned from one side to the other.

Miss Pinto ended the session in the same way she always did, rubbing her hands together, warming her palms before placing them on her face and sweeping them gently down, finishing in a silent moment of prayer. Sophie knew the routine like a poem by heart, the rhythm of each movement bringing a comforting sense of familiarity as her body opened itself to the day. She had felt awkward at first, huffing and puffing through the breathing exercises and struggling to follow the most rudimentary of instructions. Miss Pinto had manhandled her into position on more than one occasion, pulling at her arms, adjusting her footing until she posed, just so. It had taken Sophie two weeks to master her own center of gravity, and the difference it had made to her had been remarkable, affecting her every move, her balance more pronounced, a heightened consciousness of her body and the space it occupied in this life. It seemed to settle her mind too, even on those mornings when she woke filled with all the worries of the world.

Sophie pressed her palms to her face, passed them down over her body and brought them to rest at her sides. As she opened her eyes, she became aware of a warm sensation below her sacrum. Instinctively she stepped back, a thin trickle of water seeping to the parched ground from her bare foot. She stared down at it, confused, clutched the sari between her legs and said
oh
, before looking up and noticing that the other girls had fallen silent, watching her. Miss Pinto clapped her hands briskly.

“Breakfast,” she said, shooing her class away. As they dispersed, she took Sophie by the arm, holding her hand. “Come,” she said softly. “Let us go and make you comfortable.”

• • •

In the night, Sophie had known that her baby was coming. It had been so still, filling her completely, her body tight like a drum. She had held her breath, waiting for the stitch to pass, hoping that it would stop, wishing she could make time stand still. She could not give birth. She did not want to feel the terrible things that she had heard through the thick walls. It would be too much for her. She would never be able to tolerate the pain. It would not be like the beatings. They had been easy to bear, coming suddenly out of nowhere and over with quickly, each blow a short, sharp shock against which she would grit her teeth. She would count them off in her head, rarely passing ten, and would then be left alone as the pain gave way to a dull ache. Something had always ached, and she had become used to the sensation of bruised tenderness in unexpected places. It had been her constant, lonely companion, aching bones, darkened patches on her skin that moved from lilac and mauve to green then pale yellow. The beatings she could take. The birth of this baby she could not. She was afraid of the pain, not wanting to go to that place where she knew she must. It was unthinkable that such a thing could pass through her body without ripping her apart. She had cried in the night, such was her fear.

If she stayed quiet, perhaps the baby would remain there. She was too young, too unprepared. And then she knew. She knew that this was the seat of her mother's fury, the reason why she looked at her the way she did, anger unchecked, hands flying. How could you feel anything but resentment after being put through this agony? What punishment was this to endure for giving the gift of life? It should not be this way, a baby causing its mother so much suffering before they had laid eyes upon each other. It was too great a sacrifice, too much to ask just for the privilege of being born.

And she had made her mother suffer indeed, Sophie knew; she had been told often enough that she was not worth the pain she had caused. It was something that she would never be able to make up to her, and she could never expect her mother's forgiveness. Nobody could be absolved for such a wrongdoing, the ruination of one woman's life for the sake of another. Her mother had told her that she too would have to go through what she had, that the day would come when she would know what it was like to have her innards torn out. It would be her comeuppance and would wipe that smile off her face and give her something to think about. Her life would be over and she would have to submit to an existence of servitude and drudgery, for nobody would ever care about her again, because nobody cared about mothers. Then she would learn what it was to be a woman, and she need not expect any help from her mother, because she had already raised a child and she would not do it again.

The hours drew out until they felt like days. How much longer? She heard her own voice as if from a distant room. How much longer will this go on? I can't. I can't.

If only he were here with her now, he would know what to do. He would hold her hands and look into her eyes and she would find all the strength she needed in that infinite gaze of tourmaline green and she would feel no pain. He would hold her close and whisper words of comfort to her, and while he held her, their child would come into the world without pain or fear, emerging from them both, appearing in their arms as though they were one.

Sophie felt herself detach from the world, set adrift. Her eyes remained closed, her body not hers any more, emitting sounds she did not recognize. She breathed deeply, two, three, four, five, six, and exhale. Thoughts rushed in and out of her head. Water, air, the sky inside her, the fields of poppies in June. And fire, oh the fire, burning like a furnace. Her body was aflame. She tried to block it out, holding herself in a faraway place as the fire raged. Sounds circled around her, a deep cracking, like ice giving way on a frozen lake, a deep-throated glacial groan opening out like a crevasse.

“Good girl!” Ruth shouted, holding her hands as Sophie leaned forward, hair soaked with perspiration, and pushed with all her might.

• • •

“It will help if you feed him,” Ruth said gently. “But you don't have to. We can take him and feed him for you if that is what you want, but it would be better for you and the baby if you feed him yourself.” Sophie didn't reply, lost in awe at the infant in her arms. She opened the front of her nightdress and slid him inside. “That's it,” Ruth said. “Just relax. He'll know what to do.” Sophie smarted for a moment as the baby latched on to her breast. Her eyes darted to Ruth. “It's all right.” Ruth smiled and put a hand on her arm. “Strong little things, aren't they?” Sophie nodded. “He will be well nourished and content if you let him feed whenever he wants to.”

Sophie lay back on the pillows, feeling a warmth spreading through her, a soporific sensation enveloping her as she watched him at her breast. His tiny hand came to her flesh, and he murmured softly.

“His father's name is Jagaan Ramakrishnan,” she said. Ruth turned away, as though she had not heard, and tidied the few things on the small linen chest. “We wanted to be together, but my parents would never have allowed it. They found out about us, and it was terrible.” Sophie's finger wandered to her baby's hand and he clasped it tightly. “If he hadn't been Indian, we would have been married by now, because that's what would have happened, isn't it? Everyone would have insisted that we marry straight away, if he had been white.” Ruth sighed a little and nodded. Sophie swallowed hard. “It's not fair.”

“No, dear, it isn't.”

“He doesn't know about the baby.”

Ruth came back to the bed and took her Sophie's hand. “It's for the best, dear.”

Sophie felt the heat in her face, the ache behind her eyes. “How can it be for the best?” She looked at Ruth. “They won't let me keep him, but what about his father? What if he were to come and take him? What then?”

“Now, now, dear.” Ruth stroked her hair. “Don't upset yourself. This is a very difficult time for you. You have just given birth and everything is still topsy-turvy. You mustn't go and make things harder on yourself.”

“How can this be any harder?” The baby squirmed at her breast and she quieted herself, hushing him closely to her. “He didn't ask to be born,” she whispered. “I can't just give him away.”

“I'm sorry, child,” Ruth said. “It's the only way, and the quicker it's over with, the better. Your father will be here soon to take you home. It will get easier, that much I promise you, but once you have left this place, you must put it out of your mind. You have your whole life ahead of you, a life that will be filled with other joys. Just you wait and see.” She reached out a gentle hand, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Sophie's ear. Sophie felt her baby detach. She looked down at him, slumbering now, his open lips resting at her skin. “One day, all this will be far behind you and it will seem like a distant memory. Look at you. Such a pretty girl. Such a kind heart. He will be taken good care of, and you will have other children to love.”

Sophie swallowed hard. “Have you already made the arrangement?”

“Not quite,” Ruth said. “Things are all a bit up in the air still.” She went to the window and rearranged the curtain. They hadn't realized the child would be a half-caste, which complicated matters rather, and there was still so much trouble going on that most prospective families had far more pressing matters on their minds than homing an unwanted baby, particularly one of mixed blood. The orphanages were overflowing, swelled by the thousands of refugee children who had been lost or abandoned through Partition.

“Will he stay here with you?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. For the time being, at least, the child would remain with them. They would give it three months, after which, if no family had been found for him, he would be taken to the orphanage, just like all the others, their fates placed in the lap of the gods.

A gentle knock came at the door. Pearl appeared, holding a tray, one plate covered over with another, a glass of fresh mango juice placed at the side. She set it down on the table.

“Here.” Pearl reached for the infant. “Let me take him for a while. You need to eat and rest.” Sophie's arms tightened around him instinctively. “Just for a little while,” Pearl said, taking the baby from her. “You'll feel better when you've had a sleep.”

Ruth brought the tray to Sophie's lap. “Eat, then rest,” she said, and followed Pearl out of the door.

Sophie waited for the footsteps to fade, then slid the tray aside. She got up and went to the window, watching Pearl and Ruth as they crossed the courtyard to Miss Pinto's quarters, carrying her son. She could feel him still, attached to her by the invisible cord that bound them together, a cord that could not be cut by the sharpest dagger. She brought her hands to her breasts, hard and heavy, to the dampness creeping into the cotton of her nightdress. She turned away, snatched up her dressing gown, and pulled it on. Going quickly to the small chest of drawers, she began to pull them open, her hands searching furiously, feeling between the neat stacks of cotton squares and towels for the bible she had seen Ruth reading while she had thought her asleep. A moment later, it was in her hands. She opened it, and took a sharp breath for what she was about to do. Steeling herself a moment, Sophie tore out the flyleaf.

• • •

Lotus felt herself being awoken, a gentle shove against her shoulder. Her bleary eyes opened a little.

“Sophie!” She pulled herself up to her elbows. “What are you doing here? Are you all right? I've been thinking about you constantly.”

“I'm fine,” Sophie said quickly. “I have to ask you to do something for me.” She reached into her dressing gown pocket and took out a fold of paper, gilt-edged, torn from a book, its thinness indented where a pencil had passed over it. “Take this. It's important.”

Lotus rubbed her eyes and blinked herself awake. “What is it?”

“It's a letter. You have to find a way to send it for me. I've written the name and address on the back but I didn't have anything to put it in. Find an envelope, make one if you have to, and send it as quickly as you can.”

“But…” Lotus began to protest.

“Please!” Sophie implored her. “You have to do this for me. Give it to Jinty. Give it to anyone who can be trusted to get it to the dak house. I don't have any money. Here.” She pressed a pair of ruby earrings into Lotus's hand. Lotus looked at them uncertainly. “Please,” Sophie said. “Nobody will suspect you.”

Lotus hesitated. “All right,” she said. “I'll try.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said. She felt her face flush and swallowed hard against the knot forming in her throat. “Thank you.”

Lotus rested her hand on Sophie's arm. She had never seen anyone look so sad. “Was it really bad? The birth?”

“No, it wasn't all that bad.” It would be Lotus's time soon, in another few weeks, and she would experience for herself what it was like to bring a new life into the world. There was no getting out of it. Every baby must be born, so what was the point of talking about it and telling the frightening stories she had heard so often since coming here? “It's soon over, and Ruth will be with you. You'll be fine.”

“What's the baby like?” Lotus asked. At this, Sophie smiled easily, just for a moment, then pressed her face into her hands and began to weep.