On a moonless night of Amabashya, the village was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. The air was still, and not a single leaf stirred as a blanket of silence fell over the houses like a deep sigh. The long whistle of a goods train pierced through the hush, waking the residents of Rajgarh, wrapped in dreams. Decades later Maria would still remember that sound and shiver.
Was it a scream, or just the whistle echoing through a tunnel under the Kangsabati Bridge? Maria lay awake a long time, stroking her softly risen belly. Sometimes she wondered if she was imagining it. But the midwife had been certain. Maria drew a thin sheet tightly around her quivering body as the night air, cool and insidious, crept in through an open window.
The hoot of an owl resonated in the quiet, koouk koouk koouk. The inauspicious sound of a kala pencha did nothing to quell Maria’s fear for her future. A white owl denoted wealth and good luck; a black barn owl was a harbinger of death. She placed a protective hand over her stomach. If the bird had come to take her unborn infant away, it would have to wrestle with her life. This place was beginning to suffocate her, with ill luck and bad omens. What was there for her in this village? Soon they would find out the truth. They always did. She must leave; but where would she go?
A gust of wind whipped around the cluster of tinned roof houses. A shutter flung open. Maria was too tired to get up to close it. The restless breeze knocked over a vase, scattering half-dead flowers and putrid water on to the mosaic floor. The breaking of glass awoke the cat. Munni opened one eye and realising the accident had not been caused by a cheeky mouse, went back to her sleep.
Later that night a rapping on the door woke them. Maria sat up on her bed, befuddled, lost in a dream. Her father eventually emerged from his room, tying up the waist strings of his pyjamas. Maria squinted in the brightness as he turned on the lights.
‘Who the hell is it?’ Peter barked.
Maria looked at the clock. It was three am.
‘Open up. It’s the police!’ they heard a man with a Bihari accent say behind the closed door.
Maria tidied her sari, pleating the folds and throwing the anchal over her chest and left shoulder. She patted down her hair. They must be looking for a chor, she thought. Their little village swarmed with petty thieves at night, snatching clothes, jewellery, watches—anything they could find through open windows.
Two men in khaki police uniform shone a torch into the room, up and down at the bemused occupants.
‘Yes?’ asked Maria’s father, eager to get the enquiry over with so they could all go back to their beds. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Can we come in?’ they asked, stepping in without waiting for a reply.
Maria folded her bedroll quickly and shoved the bedding under the sofa. They must be looking for a burglar or worse, she thought. Maybe someone had been assaulted. The fear of having a dangerous criminal lurking in the neighbourhood made her cross the room and shut the windows firmly. She was about to enter the kitchen to light the stove for a round of tea for the policemen when one of them called her over.
‘Miss, would you please sit down?’
Maria sat on a stool, waiting to be interrogated, wondering what on earth they wanted from her. The older man with a silver-grey moustache asked her father for a glass of water. Peter threw a disgruntled glance at his daughter, and trundled off to the kitchen, muttering I have to do everything around here.
‘Beti, do you know John D’Souza?’ asked Constable Pandey, reaching out and holding her hand.
Was John robbing houses to support his future family? Why was the policeman holding her hand? Did John hurt someone? Maria could only stare at the officer’s fine moustache. His hazel brown eyes trapped her. If you looked at them hard, you could see all the way in. He reminded her of Lalbabu’s tom cat with the same earnest gaze.
Pandey shook her hands as if to wake her from a dream.
‘Maria-ji! Are you listening to me? Did you know John D’Souza?’
Words tumbled out of the man’s mouth, formal words, detached from any emotion. All the while he looked at Maria’s eyes. She saw his mouth moving, the moustache dancing, as he delivered the grave news. John is dead. John is dead. They found his body on the track. It went round and round her head like a rhyme devised by cruel boys to taunt her. Her body tilted and she hit her head on the cold floor.
Maria was brought back to consciousness by the shrillness of her mother’s scream. Perhaps she had died and it was her spirit looking up, not her. A second later, she felt the chill of water thrown on her face by her father and she knew she was alive. A bunch of unknown faces peered over her, all talking at once. At first the people thought she had cracked her head open on the tiles, but on closer inspection they noticed a tiny dagger of glass sticking out of her left temple. Shards from the broken vase lay invisible in the dim light. One by one the faces began to have a name she recalled; Kanti’s husband, Nirmala’s son, Paltu, the greengrocer.
The first concern was to stop the bleeding. Whispered consultations took place as to whether they should call for the village doctor or take her to hospital. Was a stitch required and if so who would do it at this time of the morning? Maria’s father sent a local boy to the Bannerjee household to alert them of the emergency. By then quite a crowd had gathered in front of Maria’s house.
It was nearly dawn when Indira’s father arrived in his motorcar, a light shawl thrown over his kurta-pyjama. He went straight to Maria, lying on the sofa.
‘Hello Maria! The doctor will be here shortly. Indira and her mother are getting dressed. They will be with you soon.’
He spoke to her in a gentle voice, sounding quite different, almost paternal. He patted his hand and carried on talking about this and that.
‘Is this your cat? Indira told me about her. How is your typing-course coming along? There are some well-paid jobs to be had in the city.’
Maria closed her eyes shutting out the light above her head. Her temple throbbed. Pamela had fashioned a rudimentary bandage around her forehead after pulling out the piece of glass embedded in one corner. The muslin felt wet. Soon Indira came with her mother and Dr. Barua. He had a kind face, but his fingers worked on her wound with ruthless severity, in and out, in and out, four times with a sharp needle. Despite the injection the doctor gave her, Maria felt every prick, falling into a deep sleep only after he had finished.
Several hours later Indira woke her up.
‘Maria, dear. It’s time.’
She went in Indira’s car, flanked by her parents. The Bannerjees followed in a taxi. Walking down the hospital corridor, Maria stumbled several times. A female police officer held her in an iron-like grip.
They saw John’s still body through a glass door. Only the next of kin, John’s mother, had seen him once and identified him, of what was left of him. The body would be released after the post-mortem. Until then, his corpse lay on a block of ice like a stone statue.
Joy protested vociferously against an autopsy, telling the police and all those gathered that it was un-Islamic. The people stared back, not comprehending the true import of her words. We are musalmans, cried Joy beating her chest. The tragedy expelled the long held secret from the depths of her heart.
‘We fled from East Pakistan during the war. Islam does not permit suicide. My son was pushed.’
‘Who pushed him Sister?’ asked a senior police officer, Modi. ‘Does he have an enemy?’
‘Yes, his father. He was an evil man.’
‘Where is he now?’ The policeman was noting her words down.
‘In Hell,’ she spat out. ‘His spirit has been chasing him ever since. He wants revenge.’
Officer Modi shook his head and closed his notebook, muttering unholy remarks. However, his assistant Pandey nodded in understanding.
‘Evil spirits follow us everywhere, aunty. Shabdhan, be careful,’ he warned her. His sister knew a witchdoctor Joy could consult. ‘She is Highly recommended.’
Joy ignored him, and rocked to and fro, chanting verses from Koran. Allah, ever forgiving, most merciful, pardon us. Forgive Jamil. Let him enter Paradise and be with you.
‘What?’ she asked in response to the lady police officer’s question. ‘No, yes; a masala tea with three spoons of sugar please. Bring one for her as well,’ she said jerking her head towards Maria. ‘She would have been my daughter-in-law. Now she is a widow before she could become a bride!’
Maria heard the last sentence through the dense fog that clouded her brain. She looked up at Joy, who had aged ten years since Maria last saw her. The anchal of her sari was askew; her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, uncombed and unoiled. Maria wanted to reach out and touch this frail lady who had just lost her son.
The lady officer came over with a steaming cup of tea. Maria took a quick sip and although it instantly scalded her tongue, she needed the warmth from the beverage. Despite Indira’s shawl, she was still shaking. A deep chill crept up from her toes to her face. Why had this happened? Was it really the father’s atma that took John away or was it her angry words? She grasped Indira’s hand tightly as they wheeled the body away for examination. She could still feel him, in the room, watching.
Joy and Maria were asked for detailed statements. By then John’s boss Mr. Sarkar had also been summoned from Kharagpur and a few members of staff from the railway station.
Sub Inspector Khan in charge of their local thana, addressed the gathering, stroking his pointed beard.
‘It is always an unpleasant duty of ours to go over the circumstances of a sudden death, but it is the regulation. I am sure you are waiting to hear what happened to John D’Souza. We had a call at midnight from Mr. Desai, the duty stationmaster. There was a body on the tracks. It has been identified formally as John D’Souza.’
A deep wail rose from Joy. Khan motioned to the female officer to help the lady.
‘The Jharkhand Express had been travelling through at great speed. It does not stop here, so it didn’t slow down. There was no moon and visibility was poor. Mr. Bhalla the driver said he saw nothing. He felt the body once the train had gone over it and braked sharply. Mr. Bhalla and his assistant climbed down on to the tracks and discovered the body. They informed the stationmaster who called us. So far, according to the sworn testaments, nobody had pushed Mr D’Souza, nobody bore a grudge and nobody was seen on the platform.’
Inspector Khan paused to look at his audience. Officer Preeti Lal had her arm around Mrs D’Souza who shook her head throughout his speech. He sipped a glass of water and continued, in a bland voice.
‘The platform has also been checked for the possibility of an accident; for instance, if it was wet or if he had tripped on something. We are satisfied with the current evidence that an accident could not have taken place. Although…’ he pointed at the others with his stick, ‘we cannot rule it out. People can trip on their shoes when running.
We know that John was seen walking out of the station office with his flag to wave the train through. The next thing his colleagues heard was a thump and a loud screech. It is unclear, but we have heard from one witness that there was a cry before the fall. Another noticed that John had been drinking from a flask. The contents have been examined and we have found alcohol in it. We will wait for the autopsy results to check if alcohol was present in his bloodstream. This could indicate unusual behaviour, perhaps an emotional turmoil; his mother claims that John did not drink. We now know he was a Muslim and this was against his faith. However, his future father-in-law Mr. Fernandez said that John had occasionally joined them for a drink. Perhaps he did so to cover his real identity. We will never know.’
Khan sahib paused to clear his throat and consult his notes.
‘Because of the hot weather we have to work extra fast. Our colleagues from Kharagpur are helping us. The verdict is most likely suicide, but there was no note left by the deceased. Why would he commit suicide? Any light you can shed on this would be useful. My deputy Mr. Pandey will take you to the interrogation room, one by one. Remember, you’ll be under oath so do not hide anything or you will be prosecuted.’
‘I am very sorry for your loss Madam,’ Khan added after a few minutes, looking directly above Joy’s head.
The people gathered in the tiny room were squashed against each other on a couple of benches, drooping heads resting on their neighbour’s. After Khan’s speech they slowly rose and untangled their bodies from each other, yawning and stretching, struggling to stand straight.
Maria was called into the interrogation room first. She was reluctant to tell the police about her relationship with John, least of all what he had confided in her.
‘He was worried about money, how he would support us.’
‘Did he talk about killing himself?’
‘No,’ replied Maria ‘never.’
‘Did he talk about anyone wanting to kill him?’ asked the officer.
Maria thought about his father’s vengeful spirit.
‘No, he had no enemies. Everybody loved and respected him. You can ask anyone.’
‘Was he careless about safety? Did he leave cigarettes burning in his house or forget to lock the doors? Did he take care of you when going out alone at night?’
‘I first met John when a bunch of goondas were attacking me, eve teasing like. I know they had bad intent. John chased them away with a stick. I did not even know him then. Afterwards, he always escorted me home at night. And no, he never left a cigarette burning. Once I left the stove on for a while and he asked me to put it out.’
She remembered that afternoon, when John had abused her, violated her in one of his desperate black moods; she had not been able to put out the fire. Yet even through that ordeal he had reminded her to check the stove.
‘Was he depressed?’ asked Constable Pandey.
‘No.’
Pandey looked at Maria. She could hear the clock ticking loudly. Sweat trickled down her blouse. She wanted to pull her sari around her, but her hands were under the desk, frozen in prayer.
‘Are you pregnant? Did you badger him to marry you and he refused? Is that why he killed himself?’
Maria felt her cheeks burn. She covered her face with her sari. How could he possibly know? Her head swam. People had seen her going to John’s house, throwing up by the outside tap. They had told the police, she did it; she had killed him.
‘How can you insult me so?’ she cried. ‘I’m a poor defenceless woman and you are accusing me of my honour!’
He took his glasses off and polished them, looking down for once, away from her face.
‘It’s all right, Miss. I am a police officer. I ask ugly questions, things that other people think but can’t say. When someone dies under suspicious circumstances we always treat the wife or husband as a chief suspect. Pregnancy in unmarried women is a common cause of someone committing suicide. It should have been you, so the theory doesn’t fit very well. Don’t get upset. I’ve nearly finished.’
Maria wiped her face. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks.
‘Were you seeing someone else and John got jealous? Maybe… the baby was your lover’s and John knew. He was so upset he killed himself. Or did your lover push him on to the tracks to get him out of the way?’
Pandey fixed a hard stare on her, peering through the top of his bi-focal lenses.
Maria did not flinch.
‘I loved him. I am a respectable woman. You can ask any of the villagers. John was the first and last man I have been out with as God is my witness. You have to believe me.’
She would plead if she had to. The police threw innocent people in jail all the time, beating them into confession.
Pandey stroked his moustache while flicking through hand-written notes. Maria could see his temples moving, as he chewed a paan, a scented betel leaf. She could smell the zarda in it. Was it allowed, taking a narcotic on duty?
The table fan made a clicking noise as it finished each arc. He turned his head towards her, cocking it to one side, appraising her. Maria held her breath as he stared at her in icy silence.
‘We can get a medical examiner to check if you’re pregnant you know.’
‘I want Mr. Bannerjee to be present here and a lawyer if he thinks it is necessary,’ she said raising her voice. ‘I am not sure why you are asking all this. John committed suicide and you are putting me on trial?’
Maria felt a surge of strength pulse through her legs. She stood steadying herself by grabbing the edge of the table.
‘That won’t be necessary, we have finished,’ said Pandey closing his book.
Maria fingered her rosary beads around her neck.
‘The Lord knows I am innocent,’ she said leaving the room.
And yet, she had blood on her hands. It was her ultimatum that had pushed John over the edge.
Sunlight blinded her as she entered the corridor falling into Indira’s comforting arms.
John’s mother walked in unaided into the interrogation room. Pandey held the door open for her and even asked a junior police officer to fetch a glass of water for the lady.
‘Ashoon,’ he ushered her in politely. The door closed. Maria wanted to warn her not to give any additional information, but it was too late. About three-quarters of an hour later, Joy emerged, bent into the shape of a question mark. Maria walked up to her and led her to a seat. She fanned Joy’s face with a leaflet.
‘Are you all right?’
‘That policeman asked me all these questions about John. Why did he kill himself? Who was he afraid of? I told him ‘John was haunted by his father’s ghost.’ But he wouldn’t stop. What were our real names? Which village did we come from in East Pakistan? He pressed and pressed, but I have held the secret safe for so long I did not give my son away,’ Joy replied with pride. ‘We have to leave here, Maria. We will pack our bags and disappear. That Mr. Pandey is very suspicious about everything. It has started all over again.’
Indira reached out to take one of Joy’s hands.
‘Don’t worry, Aunty. They will not bother to contact the police in a Pakistani village. It’ll take a lot of time and effort. They are saying things like that to frighten you into confessing more. You were strong. You didn’t breakdown.’
‘I hope you are right dear. Can we go home now? I am so tired.’
It was several hours before they were free to go.
‘What about my son? When can I have his body back? We must bury him soon, officer.’
‘We’ll call you as soon as we have the results, Mrs. D’Souza. In fact we’ll send someone around as I believe you don’t have a phone line. Namaskar!’ he folded his hands to end the conversation.
Joy and Maria were greeted by their neighbours when they reached the bungalow. Some had brought roties and fried potatoes.
‘You must eat something,’ they urged Joy.
‘No, I can’t eat anything until his body is in the ground and he is with Allah.’
‘That could take a bit of time, sister. You had a big shock. You need to stay strong.’
Maria knew she must eat for the sake of her baby. Whether or not she decided to keep the unborn infant she must look after the only thing that tied her to John. The roti felt dry on her tongue, but she washed it down with lemonade. She felt dizzy and nauseous. Maria and Joy shared the narrow bed in her room. The shutters were closed to keep the sun out. Joy asked someone to play Islamic hymns on the radio. It lulled them into a shallow sleep.
Maria dreamt of car crashes and screaming birds. Dark winged creatures flapped around her. A siren wailed. Thick tar of rain came down, smearing her with its blackness. But when she looked down at her hands, they were red, fresh, sticky blood. She rose in a panic. Was she bleeding? She ran to the outside toilet. An intense colic lasted a few minutes and she passed watery stool. She washed her hands at the tube well, struggling to pump the handle.
For a long while Maria sat outside in the heat of the afternoon sun. She called out to a passing neighbour to bring her a sari from her house. She would have a bath.
‘You must wash your hair and cut your nails,’ said Mrs. Mandal. ‘It’s the custom dear.’
Maria was sure it was a Hindu custom, but obliged. Her stomach churned again and she was afraid she would have to rush outside, but the spasm passed. She praised herself for functioning: eating, bathing, cutting nails. In mourning, such simple everyday tasks had become huge steps.
‘Maria! Where are you?’ she heard Joy calling.
‘I’m here.’ Maria sat by Joy’s side, stroking her hair.
Later that afternoon Maria went home to pick up a few of her belongings. The door was ajar. Her mother was picking things up from the floor. It looked like everything in the room had been torn to shreds by a tornado.
‘What happened?’ asked Maria looking around. ‘Did someone break in?’
‘The police paid us a visit while we were at the station. God knows what they were searching for. Check if any of your things are missing!’ said Pamela.
John’s letters were gone; along with a tin box where she kept the flower he had given her on the night of the proposal and his moon stone ring.
‘Did they leave a receipt for the things they took? Papa, do something!’ She sat on the sofa, her legs trembling.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll go to the Bannerjees straight away. If the police think they can treat us like poor victims, I’ll show them what connections we have. You’ll have your things back by the end of today, my dear!’
Maria sat for a long time waiting for her father to return. Her mother fussed around her, making her a glass of lemonade, talking about mundane things. Pamela had risen from her comatose apathy and was making a valiant effort to console her daughter.
‘Where is that cat of yours? Aie aie, too too too? Minnie?’
‘Munni,’ Maria whispered.
‘She is not used to her new home yet. You need to go find her and bring her back. I’ll pour some milk for her.’
‘Later, Mummy, later. I’m too tired.’
‘Of course, beti. You just sleep. Go to our room and lie down on the bed.’
But Maria was already half asleep. There was a dull ache in her belly. Waves of grief convulsed her thin body. Still there were no tears. Just as she sunk into a deep slumber Maria realised that her options had been greatly reduced by John’s death.
They dressed Maria in a white sari as per local custom. Maria braided her hair with a black ribbon to respect her Christian faith. When the Fernandez family arrived at John’s house, the sun was shining with merciless intensity on to the courtyard. There were no shadows. Even the betel palm tree standing thin and erect in one corner left no mark on the sterile ground. Maria squinted, dazzled by the harsh sunlight.
What would she tell her child of the day of his father’s death?
John was laid out on a white stretcher, his body washed and wrapped in three pieces of cloth, the kafan, by a man from the mosque. His head faced towards Mecca, explained Joy. Maria could smell camphor and sandalwood that had been rubbed on his body. The Muslim prayer Salat-al-Janazah was recited by the immam. Admit him to Paradise.
The Hindu neighbours asked Maria to touch John’s feet and put a garland around her fiancé’s neck. Joy said they must view John’s face. Maria moved forward, tipping head first into someone’s outstretched arms. His face was purple and disfigured, nose bent out of shape, his eyes were swollen and cheeks caved in. She could not look at him anymore.
The people gathered around her gasped. Some whispered about the morgue mending his body reattaching the decapitated head found several feet away. The legs were detached from the torso and had been stitched back. Indira told them to be quiet.
John’s body was put on a bier. The chanting rose.
‘Jammu, my son, go with Allah!’ Joy’s wail filled the courtyard.
She beat her chest. The men from the mosque carried John’s body to the cemetery. Joy ran behind the hearse, screaming John’s name, until she fell. The women were not allowed to go to the burial site. They would mourn for three days.
Maria sat for a long time under a berry tree. John’s dismembered face floated before her eyes. She was desperate for a drink to slake her raging thirst. All the moisture had been sucked out of her body; she had not shed a single tear.
Indira put a hand on Maria’s shoulder. ‘Come back to our house tonight. We can sleep in my room together, just like old times.’
‘I have to be with Joy,’ Maria said. ‘She is all alone.’
Maria spent the night in John’s bungalow. The couch where she often fell asleep in the afternoons smelt of his sweat. A few women from the village stayed with Joy. They were mostly Hindus, but it did not matter. They were mothers.
Your father died today, Maria told her unborn. It was almost dawn when Maria woke. She could have sworn she heard someone, footsteps in the kitchen. Had he come to visit her for one last time?
John? Maria whispered.
The wind rattled the shutters. Clutching a rolled up newspaper in her hand Maria crept across the cold cement floor towards the kitchen. What good was a tangible weapon against a phantom? But still, she felt braver with. A stream of pale light filtered in through a crack in the window. John? Maria called a bit louder. Nothing. The room was completely empty. Maria jumped as a metal spoon fell to the ground with a clatter. An early morning breeze seeped in through the cracks. She could smell rain in the air. The cracked earth desperately needed water for life to begin again.