One

The fragrance of sweet basil filled her heart with sadness. She crushed each leaf tenderly, holding the stem between her thumb and forefinger so that it would not feel the pain. She whispered a few words, the same words she used when she caressed her husband after they had made love. Maya had all day to prepare the basil, mango, ginger and coriander chutney her mother-in-law had asked her to make today. “It is only for you, girl, so make just one katoriful” the old lady has told her, her eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. Maya had to pluck the leaves herself each morning after she’d had a bath and said her prayers. The patch of herbs was in a secluded spot just below their house but she had to go all the way round, skirting the entire verandah because her father-in-law and his two friends sat there playing chess. When she had first arrived as a young bride in this house which rose like a citadel of spun sugar in the midst of a pine forest, Maya did not know the rules of the house. She walked right across the old men playing chess, folded her hands in a quick greeting, pointed out a honey-bee which was hovering around her father-in-law’s gaping mouth before hurrying past to the garden. When she returned, the bundle of herbs tied in her saree palla, her arms full of aubergines still damp with dew drops, green translucent peas, one half-opened cauliflower and a tiny bouquet of red chillies tucked into her waist, a strange silence greeted her.

“Come in, girl, leave the vegetables outside,” her mother-in-law said in a sharp voice which made the pale morning light tremble. Maybe she should not have plucked the vegetables as yet, perhaps they were not yet ready. She should have waited till the aubergines had weighed their stems down to touch the earth and the cauliflower had a full circle of creamy white florets. That squinty-eyed gardener must have complained to the old lady. “What were you doing. You shameless girl! Are you mad? Don’t ever walk like that past the men with your face uncovered. Have you no sense? What did your mother teach you, girl? Oh, what a day! The entire village will now gossip about this shameful act of yours!” said her mother-in-law, rubbing her fists over her eyes, forcing the tears out of her glittering-with-malice eyes. “Go. Stay indoors till we ask for you…Go now…I feel sick looking at your hussy face.” The old lady said all this picking up a handful of fine betel nuts she had been cutting while she screamed at Maya. Her hand missed her mouth and the betel nut slices, as fragile as bits of parchment, fell down her blouse, settling down like old scars in her deep bosom. Maya laughed out loudly and then slowly walked into her room, tying a languid knot in her long hair.

“We have to do something about her, are you listening?” said Gitasri to her husband who was half reclining on the bed, resting on three fat pillows embroidered with pink daisies, tucked under his head which made his chin sink into his chest. He looked like a cherub nestling amongst flowers. Gitasri looked at him with irritation. Was he a grown man with four sons or a silly young boy clutching his pillow all day? She wished she had married the dark boy her mother had suggested. Dark men are real men, the blood in their veins is thick and warm, her mother always said though her own husband, Gitasri’s beloved Baba, was as fair as an Englishman. “Yes…yes…” her pink-cheeked husband muttered dreamily as he recalled the chess move he had made this morning. How stunned Bosebabu had been when he moved his bishop forward at that precise moment. His wife suddenly pulled out one of the pillows, disturbing the cosy nest of perfect balance he had achieved after so much effort. He sighed and looked at her. The betel nut had streaked her lips dark brown and for the first time in the forty years that he had been married to her, he noticed how sharp and pointed her teeth were. “I always knew we had chosen the wrong one. Did you notice how she looked around the room at each one of us, not once did she cast her eyes down modestly like a new bride should during the ceremony. When I stared at her she did not look away but continued to stare back at me with those glittering eyes. First I thought the fire from the havan had touched her eyes but no it was not that. Now I can see…something strange in her eyes. They flash like cat’s eyes.”

“I tell you, are you listening to me…. Are you? I feel like strangling you with this flower bedecked pillow of yours. Listen, carefully. I tell you it will bring disaster one day to our house. The way she holds her head, raising her neck high, laughs in that mocking way when I give her instructions about something…I tell you, it frightens me. So much arrogance is not good in a woman, who knows what she may do one day. I worry about my poor son…so gentle…” said Gitasri and her husband replied with a gentle snore. Gitasri looked down at him, pulled one pillow out and threw it on the floor…. Wretched daisy flowers. I hope they choke him to death.

She had to speak to Bhagwan. He would tell her what to do. All her four daughter-in-laws were so gentle, docile with forever downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. Even that barren cow Malarani. She did not even mind when Gitasri kicked her, she just smiled like an imbecile. She smiled even when they got another wife to replace her. Wretched woman turned out to be barren too! No, only this Maya, curse her, walked around the house like a lioness with cubs. She was too proud because of her beautiful face and her long hair which swung below her hips. “Do not bring a beauty,” her mother had advised her and she had chosen simple, plain brides with broad hips and healthy teeth for the other three sons. Good well behaved girls, docile, obedient and good breeders. Each one, except Malarani, had produced a son within the first year of their marriage and now they spent all their time in the kitchen supervising the servants. Of course they asked her permission for everything: what to cook, what saree or piece of jewellery to wear, which fast to keep and how often. She also rationed how much time they could spend talking to their husbands and made sure the doors to their bedrooms were always open. She could walk in any time she liked.

Gitasri considered herself a fair woman so she let them manage their children’s and their husbands’ day-to-day life, like which kurta to wear, whether to grow a moustache or not. But she and only she took the final decisions on important matters like what to name the children, how much money to give to the sons and how often they could visit their wives at night. She knew they would never step outside the line she had drawn for them, but run around, and play happily within the circle like her grandsons’ pet white mice on their toy wheels. She never had to worry even for a day about her older sons and their steady, cow wives. But Subir, her youngest, who had been born when she had almost reached menopause and thought her womb had dried up, was different from the other boys right from childhood. She loved him most of all and let him do whatever he wanted. But that was the mistake she made. He ran out too far and now she could not hold him down anymore. He wanted to see his bride. “See his own bride before the wedding? Are we blind or what? Too much studying leads to this,” her relatives had said, their faces full of spite. Subir was the first one in the family to finish college and as if that was not enough, he won a scholarship and went off to the London School of Economics to study further. “What is the need for all this book learning?” she said but he would not listen.

Now to make matters worse he had got a job there in that foreign land. Gitasri had warned her husband not to send him but like all her warnings this one too flew past his ears like a buzzing fly. Chess, chess and more chess was all he thought about. That and his daisy pillow. “Let him see his bride. What is the harm? Educated boys like to make their own choice.” So Subir came to India for a week, saw Maya and chose her at once though they had lined up five more girls for him. Maya, the only daughter of wealthy landowning family, had finished school and could recite English poetry as well as Bengali. She brought with her a huge dowry which helped to settle the debts her husband had got into when the timber prices crashed and the money was enough to also pay for their younger daughter’s wedding. “Good luck for us that Subir chose this one and not that plump one with the miser father who sent us only one basket of fruit with his daughter’s black and white photograph to hide the fact that she was coal black. Our Subir picked the right one in one second. See, all this English education does help.” Her husband had said, stroking the diamond ring Maya’s father had given him as a gift along with an ivory chess set.

Gitasri watched her sleeping husband for a while, her anger melting away. It was hard to feel angry with him for too long. Her silly boy-husband, his double chin tucked onto his chest, his tiny ears and long lashed eyelids drooping with slumber filled her with irritation and love. She picked up the daisy pillow from the floor and placed it next to him and went out.

The crows called outside the window and somewhere far away in the forest other birds echoed their harsh calls with sweet songs. Dawn broke over the forest with a sudden stream of light, though the moon, faded but full and round, was still high up in the sky. Bhagwan should be in his ashram, fasting for ‘kartik purnima’ which was tomorrow. She would go to him today, take Maya with her. He would tell her what to do. He would tell her how to break the girl in before it was too late. She should have taken Maya to him a long time ago but how was she to know that the wretched girl would have so much spirit in her. Yes, Bhagwan would show her the right way to mellow this girl.

Maya got out of bed as soon as she heard the crows call. Outside her window the roses spread their scent trap calling all the insects to them greedily. Today she would write another letter, telling him about the insect she had found in the cabbage patch. “It was green with brown edges. It was shaped just like a tender corn cob, ” Maya composed the words in her mind She would have to look up the spelling of ‘edges’ and ‘tender’. Subir wrote such long letters with so many difficult words but she managed to understand them without looking at the dictionary. She could picture herself in his room which was next to a train station. But this was not a regular train but one that ran under the earth taking the people from one part of the city to the next. Maya had been to Calcutta once with her mother to buy sarees for her wedding and she had seen how people scurried from one end of the city to another. But in London they could not be seen at all because they all travelled hidden deep in the belly of the earth. “When you come here, we will go around the city in red double decker buses. You can see everything from the top window of the bus.” Subir described all the places they would visit once she got her passport and went to London to live with him. “Speak in English as much as you can so that you can understand what these people say. They are kind and helpful but they speak very fast sometimes swallowing their words. I had a lot of difficulty when I first came here,” wrote Subir in his clear, rounded hand, the blue ink making small smudges around all the ‘o’s. Maya read his letters over and over again and now she knew the names of all the places they would see, walking everywhere together or sitting in the red buses with big windows. Buckingham Palace where the Queen lived with her husband who was not the King. Big Ben which was a big clock that could be heard all over the city like a temple bell, Tower of London which was a fort where the Queen of London kept her jewels. They were guarded day and night by her special guards who wore fur hats so that their ears would not get cold at night.

Maya had knitted five pullovers for Subir and two for herself from wool her father had sent her from home. She looked at the sunshine playing on the courtyard stones and wished she could go home for a few days. But no one would let her. In this house they all lived by rules her mother-in-law had made for them. The other daughters-in-law obeyed her because they did not want their husbands to scold them but Maya was not afraid. She would ask today if she could go home for the pooja which her mother was planning to do soon for her brother’s first son. All her cousins would be there and they could roam the entire plantation on the horse buggy that her brothers could drive like warriors of old. The mango trees would be full of green fruit and the guavas too would be ready. Yes, I will ask her today after I have made the basil, mango, ginger chutney. Why does she keep feeding me these strange things as if I am a goat? I think she dislikes me. I don’t care. If she thinks I am going to lick her feet like the other girls, she is mistaken. Only Malarani, the middle daughter-in-law was kind to her. Poor woman, she was barren and her husband had married again and soon she would have to go back to her father’s house. The old woman had announced it yesterday and no one had protested “She has a box full of gold coins. Every Diwali she gives us one coin. Those of us she is really pleased with she sometimes even gives two,” her elder sister-in-law had said the other day. Maya did not want a gold coin. Her husband earned enough for her. What would they do in London with gold coins? Give them to the Queen she thought and laughed.

The rickshaw swayed at every turn making Maya fall against her mother-in-law’s plump shoulders. She smelt of sandalwood and rose water. Maya had been told to cover her face but she kept the sari palla pulled to one side so that she could look out at the fields. The path rose gently skirting the rocky hills and then suddenly diving low to run through the grassy meadows. Butterflies with yellow and orange wings sat briefly on the handle of the cycle, fluttering their wings restlessly and then flew away slowly as if tired of this movement. A soft warm breeze touched their faces, making the sweat on her mother-in-law’s cheeks dry in silvery patches. “You will bow your head at Bhagwan’s feet. There will be a bowl of water – dip your hair and then wash his feet with the tips. Do not put too much water. It is always chilly in the ashram and he might catch a cold. He is very fragile now at his age though once he was such a strapping young man. Strode everywhere like a lion. His followers could not keep up with him and had to run, poor creatures,” said Gitasri smiling and suddenly Maya felt a surge of affection for her. She wanted to put her arms around her but knew the old lady hated being touched by anyone. Even the grandchildren kept their distance except to touch her feet every morning. They never jumped on her lap like her brother’s children did at home, squeezing their grandmother’s arms and jutting their heads into her lap like goats.

Kadam, jamun and mango trees began to shade their path and the stones, lined along the path, had vermilion marks on them to show the way to the ashram. Saffron, white and orange flags floated from the topmost branches of the trees, some were spotted with pigeon droppings. Maya lifted her pallav to look at an old peepal tree which was covered with bits of red cloth, tied around the branches. “People make a wish here, tie a red cloth. They come and untie it when their wish comes true, ” said the rickshaw-wallah, turning his head to speak to munshi who was in the rickshaw behind them. Their servants with the baskets of sweets and fruits trailed far behind in a bullock cart. Maya looked back and saw that some of the red cloths were so old that they had faded to white. Maybe people had forgotten to untie them or their wishes had come true too late and they had died. “Do many wishes come true? Do people come back to untie them?” asked Maya but the rickshaw man did not reply. Gitasri coughed angrily and pulled the palla down on Maya’s face, her heavy gold bangle caught the silk threads on the saree border and tore it.

“She likes chutney, Bhagwan. Sour things – eats them all the time,” said Gitasri softly, pressing Bhagwan’s feet. “She is not with child as yet.” Maya had been sent to gather guavas from the tree which grew in the courtyard. Bhagwan allowed only women to pluck the fruit because “their touch makes the tree more fertile,” he said. But only young, married women, not widows or barren ones. Those were the ones with tainted hands, cursed by the gods, discarded by men. The tree would stop giving fruit if women like that touched even a leaf. Maya was exactly the kind of woman he liked. Young, with flesh firm on her body, sparkling eyes and glossy hair. Teeth like pearls and breath scented with musk. But ever since he had taken his vows he had had to keep them far away and only tend to these dried up old hags who sat at his feet all day long. Their faded, sad eyes adoring him and white hair, which smelt of old age, bowing at his feet, gnarled hands tugging at his body. Maya was a ripe, forbidden fruit which he would love to suck, maybe in another lifetime. “See how she walks, Bhagwansree, not at all the way a well brought up girl from a good family should. How she got to be like this I don’t know. Her mother is a godfearing woman, prays and fasts all through the year. Could be her father or her five brothers who have made her like this.” Gitasri droned on as Omprabhu Dayal, who liked being called Bhagwan by his disciples though he always made a mild protest when they did that, watched Maya through half-shut eyes. He would enjoy taming her. Jaggery, fennel, pregnant cow’s urine, fenugreek and ash from the funeral pyre of a pious woman whose husband is alive. He would like to keep her here for a few days but he knew that was not possible. Gitasri would not allow it. She wanted to break her spirit but not lose her altogether. That English- educated son of her’s would attack her. The girl was going to live with him soon in a foreign land but still Gitasri wanted to teach her to be docile. “For my son’s sake. For the future. Or else she’ll become too set in her shameless ways.” Omprabhu nodded. “You cannot teach an old cow the tender moo of a calf,” he said yawning. He could break her in one night like he had done so many other women. Holding their neck in one hand while he shoved his erect manhood into them. Sometimes he had to cover their mouths but most of the time they had fainted by the time he came near them. Ripe poppy seeds pounded with green chillies and ginger made their body pliant and they began to float as soon as the sharp taste touched their tongues. Some were not even aware that he had penetrated them though they bled for quite a while later. Their families took them back and when the child, always a son, was born, (God was kind to him) they sent him gift of fruits, clothes, sweets and silver coins. He never saw the women again, never looked at his sons. But now he had taken his vows. If only this one had come a few months ago. He was not sure of his powers anymore. Still he would try. No harm in that.

Maya came back cradling an armful of guavas in her sari palla. She took a green one out, polished it, and then bit hard into it, looking straight into his eyes. Omprabhu was startled by her direct gaze, none of the women had ever dared to look at him like this. He suddenly felt nervous and had to look down at his feet. A tremor of irritation ran through his body and he wanted to slap the girl. Gitasri was right, they had to do something before it was too late and the girl had learnt to walk too proud and tall.

Jaggery, black basil, neem, goat’s milk and poppy seeds ground with sesame oil. A few bits of alum and then the shaving of silver that had aged under the soil for a hundred years –that was enough for most women but Maya was different. He would have to think of something stronger for her, she was like the mare that was brought to him last year. He had tried everything but she continued to kick and flare her nostrils. Then he found this powder in the loft where his master had hidden his prized herbs. Black pearls from China, turquoise from Tibet and a huge rare blood coral from Ladakh, mixed with the urine of a civet cat. “Use these precious stones with care, my son. Weigh each gram before you give them to anyone, especially women. They travel down their bloodstream very fast, twisting their veins, sometimes driving them insane. Mix them with silver or crushed alum to warm up the blood of frigid women.” But he did not want the girl to feel any warmth. He had to make her body hollow, drain her red blood out and fill her veins with crushed pearls and snake venom which had been soaked in opium juice. Then this old coral which lay in his palm like a piece of dried flesh would make the girl sink to the ground like a wilted leaf. He would have liked to taste her before her fires were put out but he could not take the risk even if he had not taken the vows.

He would start the first dose at night and within a week she would be as gentle as a cow – a perfect woman like the gods had ordained her to be – a jewel of a woman to possess, beautiful and pliant. Quiet, docile, soft-spoken, always good tempered, always ready to obey. She would lie softly under her husband receiving his seed, lower her eyes before her elders, cook, clean, tend to their welfare without pause and every month on full moon nights, wash his feet with her hair. Her eyes would lose their shine yet be pretty, her skin would be fairer, her hair would grow even more black and glossy, her head, so proud now, would bend as delicately as a lotus bud, ready to bow to everyone’s wishes.

“Put your right palm out, girl, take this prasad from Bhagwansree. It will help you get well,” said her mother-in-law. Maya wanted to say she was not sick but somehow she could not speak. She felt so sleepy today. The fresh air had made her head heavy and the milk they gave her to drink, laced with spices, was too sweet and creamy. When she touched her forehead her fingers felt cold on her skin. Maybe she was ill – like the old lady said – with some dangerous disease she thought, feeling afraid for the first time in her life. She raised her head to the sky…. She felt she was watching herself from high above.

They left the ashram next day at dawn. Omprabhu did not come out of his room, but Ma went to the door and touched his feet which he stuck out clumsily, his face covered with a white muslin cloth.

Suddenly Maya saw his dead body lying on the floor of the courtyard, surrounded by weeping women.

“Bhagwan will leave us soon” she muttered to Ma when they sat in the rickshaw but the old lady did not hear her. She sat counting her prayer beads all the way home and when they got down from the rickshaw, she did not look at Maya. That was the last time Maya saw daylight.

She went straight to her room and lay down on her bed.

Each morning when she ground the spices with the red powder Bhagwan had given her, her heart bled. Why was she drinking this foul tasting liquid? She did not know. But she had to have it. Her body longed for it and her hands began to tremble if she waited too long for this fiery liquid.

Her long hair began to grow wild and thick and her eyes began to change colour. The maidservant who came to help her bathe was the first one to notice the marks on her body. “They are like holes… As if someone had pressed their fingers into her skin till it bled,” she said, her eyes round with horror as she told the other servants though Gitasri had warned her not to talk to anyone about Maya.

Maya never left her room. She lay on the bed talking to herself. Subir’s letters lay piled up next to her pillow but though she looked at them all the time, turning the white envelopes in her fingers, smelling their strange foreign smell, she did not read them anymore. She could not remember who Subir was.

Maya’s body was pale as the sheets now and when Gitasri entered her room, a sweet aroma of burnt poppy seeds hit her. Maya was half asleep but she sat up and looked at her with glazed eyes.

“Ma, Someone you love is dead…. I can see him on his deathbed, now. Look, there you are beating your breast, you are sitting by the pyre. Cry Ma…I can hear you crying…” Maya said, her voice slurred, her eyes gleaming though her face was puffed up.

Gitasri ran out of the room, covering her mouth with her hand to stop screaming. She leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy and called one of the maids. “Go, at once, to the men’s sitting room. Call your master, now. Even if there are visitors tell him to come at once,” she said shaking the frightened girl’s shoulders and making her cringe at her touch.

When she heard her husband’s footsteps outside the room she quickly covered Maya with a sheet and went out to meet him. For some reason she did not want him to inhale this sweet, stale fragrance which flowed from the girl’s body. “Will you send someone to my father’s house please? I’ve had a bad premonition.” Her husband took her hand and made her sit down. “I was just coming to you. I have some bad news. Bhagwan is no more. They sent word from the ashram just now. He was found dead in the attic, the roof had fallen on him and they had to dig him out. We must prepare to go at once for the funeral.”

Maya sang, caressing her hair which now spread out like a river on the floor. She sang bowing her head low, her faded silver eyes now gentle and dead, she sang till it was dark and then she fell asleep.