Brief return

Sometimes we try and try, searching and not finding
And we rest and we reflect
Yet, there is some doubt, 'Oh, I must return to check'

So it was for this soul, it had lived and lost
And lived and lost, lost what, it could not recall
But with that sense of loss, it awoke
It was drawn from golden slumber

The land was familiar but it was changed
Lush green now where there had been barren rock
People walked along at great speed
In places that had been empty, devoid
It looked around, neither understanding nor noticed

It returned to rest

A life cut short (repeat)

He walked along the rocky undulating path, stopping every once in a while to peer carefully into the distance. Surely, they would take the same route and not the roundabout one. He watched for signs of movement but apart from rolling dust, there was nothing. The sun had burnt the rocks white, thorny scrub straggled in the dry heat.

He stopped for a swig of drink and waited. His nostrils burnt as heat cascaded inside with his very breath, he coughed involuntarily. Heat does things to us, plays with our vision. Was that a carriage in the distance? It had been there one moment, now nothing. There was no sound of approaching hooves or ambient disturbance. He wiped his brow and shut his eyes for a moment.

His mouth was parched, he took another swig. Though he wore only a rough cloth, he had fashioned a sturdy belt and a pouch out of skin, it kept the drink well. His priorities were clear.

Why had he come this far, taking all this trouble, oh yes, he wanted to tell his friend the plight of the people. He wanted to ask for money, some help if possible. He must not stutter when speaking, he must explain clearly. It was imperative that he do this before they reached the village and its people.
Too many wagging tongues tipped with poison waited back there.

But as he stood on this barren rocky path a wave of doubt overcame him. Would his friend listen or even agree? Will he doubt my words?

He saw movement, yes, it was a carriage, the slopes were higher than he had realized. Was somebody else inside, an unknown stranger or some trader? What if the information had been wrong, he panicked. Should he turn and walk back?

The carriage showed up again, taking a turn around a ridge. ‘Ah, is that a sign? That must be him.’ He made to go forward so he could stop the carriage but decided against it. He would wait right here until the carriage reached him. He would wave beforehand so that the driver would stop. He turned his attention idly to the horizon as he thought about the coming conversation. There was a shaded outcrop in the middle of the flatland. He sat there and waited.

He thought about the situation. Would they all have to move away from that place? It seemed cursed. What of the children? He had seen them, all burning with fever, a fever that would not subside. Frightened parents came to him. They believed he had magic in his hands. Why, one cool touch of his hand and the sickest of patients felt better immediately. They missed that the dying died anyway. The crying child continued to cry. He explained, there was no magic in his palms merely temporary relief. They were frantic, too frantic to care. Besides, who else would help them?

Yes, his hands had always been cool. Even when the weather was hot and dry, his hands were cool. When eyes were weary with the day’s labour, they came by asking that he cup their eyes with his hands. And he willingly did it. When someone was grieving or distressed, they would sit with him. He would wash his hands and pray silently as he covered their eyes. His hands were blessed they said. It made their pains melt away, gave temporary reprieve. His hands had the touch of goodness. They swore by it.

But there were those who spoke ill of him. They did not like his ways, why do you go to him for help, they asked. He gives no food, no hope, does little work but partakes of our meagre quantities. They forbade his entry to their homes even if the dying called for his presence. He would wait outside, who knew someone may let him hold the dying hand and sometimes they did. But those who believed came to him anyway.

He was no saint, no healer. He had no promise to make and that was what they did not like. If someone received strength from his presence, he was happy to let them.

His friend had asked him to take care of his trade when he was away. He was glad for it and did his job willingly. But all that had been before...

A message had reached him, his friend was cutting short his travels and returning now.

The carriage was closer and he got up waving at the driver to stop once they were closer. The driver turned to speak with someone within and after some conversation, waved back to indicate that he would. 

He stood up and noticed a group of people were standing at the far end, why, he had been looking in that direction all this time. The horizon had been devoid of movement. Had they appeared out of nowhere?

The carriage was close by, the driver was slowing down with much clatter. He looked within; it was his friend all right. He thanked his stars.

‘Come in,’ his friend beckoned, beaming in delight. He’d had a successful visit to the nearby towns. He had left with some trepidation and felt happy about the ready acceptance he had received. There had been some murmurs no doubt, secret groups that did not like his presence but they wielded no power.

‘Tell me, friend, why have you come all this way to meet me? Surely, we could have met at my home,’ the friend spoke. He was a rich and successful tradesman. The soft cloth that he wore belied a tough heart and a keen mind. His eyes narrowed as he continued, ‘I had left you in charge of my warehouse, is all well?’ The beaming mask was gone. Hard suspicion took its place.

‘That’s part of the reason I needed to speak with you before you arrived at your home,’ the words came tumbling out. ‘I had to use some of the money to care for the children.’

‘Some or all? I have heard that you barely stopped short of opening up the place to marauders. I would have stayed for longer but returned as soon as I heard about…’ there seemed to be a disturbance outside. The friend’s voice was low, he could barely be heard.

‘I-I’m sorry, I had to give away some of the money it was an emergency,’ he tried to explain and raised his voice as the disturbance grew louder. ‘There is a sickness, a terrible sickness, children, they are dying. They cry for days burning with fever, then their crying stops and they are lifeless. I am tending to seven children in my home, I do not know what to do, we needed milk, some bread, but...’

The tone was cold, ‘One month, you were in charge for one month and in that time you have wiped me out, is that what you are trying to tell me?’

‘No, you are not wiped out,’ he would understand when he reached the village. Maybe their meeting had been premature. He wanted to explain the horror back home but…

The rattling of the coach had stopped. ‘Hey!’ his friend exclaimed as he looked out of the window.

‘Get down now! You get out now!’ the sound came from a distance. Some people were hurrying towards them. They held long sticks of the type one would use to walk afar.

His friend fell back in his seat and looked around wide-eyed. An angry crowd!

‘You have killed our children,’ someone screamed.

‘But, I am returning only now,’ the friend replied. 'How could I do anything to your...'

‘Not YOU! HE, he came here to escape from us, we saw him leave and knew something was amiss. We went to his house. All our children have died. All! He promised to cure them, he promised, we trusted him with our children’s lives!’

‘NO! Please I understand your distress, let me explain...'

But they would not listen, ‘We came to you for help and you stood by. You did not help, just waited for our children to die, come out!’ they screamed.

He turned to his cowering friend, ‘I will get down and explain it to them. I am sure they will understand. You go ahead.’

The friend shook his head, as though to dissuade him but no words came out. He opened the carriage door and stood at the top stair above the crowd, how many were they, almost 30 or 60. He looked closely at them. None of the fathers of the dead children was here, they would have vouched for him. He had never promised a cure. All along, he had wanted them to find medicine.

‘I am sorry about the death of the children.’

‘No, come down, you cannot get away.’

‘Wait!' he commanded, ' I am not trying to get away, I am returning to our village,’ and the crowd stopped speaking. ‘It is a sickness, a sickness like we have never seen before. We must leave this place for some darkness is upon it, a darkness we do not comprehend. If we are to save our children, our very selves, we must leave. But before we do that, some of us must travel ahead and get help. There are doctors who may be able to save us, save our children.’

A lull descended on the crowd, the horse shifted slightly, the carriage shook and he descended the stairs.

The sun was in his eyes as he looked into the surrounding sea of faces. He saw fear, grief, anger, ‘I have not caused the sickness or death, my abilities are inadequate. Just a soft touch that is all I have.'

The crowd was undecided, it stepped back in understanding that their heartbreak was greater than this man could help them with.

He relaxed now, ‘I take your leave my friends,’ a flash of steel or was it silver that lit the air. He bowed in respect, as though to say, goodbye for now, we shall meet again. 

When it hit his neck, he felt a shock but knew no pain. Maybe he felt the scurry and cries that ensued, the shouting and chaos, the quiet trundle of the carriage. Maybe he was dead when it happened. What did it matter?

It was brilliant gold. No discomfort, no heat. Pure peace, only peace.

It waited now as it had many times before.

A New Place, A New Dream

I pick my way carefully

Stumbling along the rocks

Stifling heat everywhere

Earth scorched white

I walk my path

I recognize the faces, the warm welcomes

Freeze into coldness,

Yet, from afar, I thought them known

I look at them again, a flurry in my mind

They stand unmoving

I was alone, itinerant, maybe

I had a skill, my hands, they had a healing touch

Pain-filled eyes they came to me

One touch, they murmured, one touch

And I obliged, knowing well,

That the coolness I bore was their elixir

Feverish brows, minds straying noisily

One touch of my hand lent calm quiet

Peaceful sleep they earned, sometimes as a prequel to death

Some magic in those hands, they said

They trusted me to heal their pains

In return, I believed in them

I longed to belong, I was kind

I yearned for kindness

Yet there were those who feared me

He bears unnatural equanimity

He watches when death is near

He does not tremble, as we do, in fear

People talk, Oh you must see, that hand is a healer's

And a voice turns with eyes of old hate

Charlatan, it spits, Liar!

Healer indeed, steals your women's hearts

While you welcome him to your homes

You do not know the lies he speaks

When all of us are away

His abilities are not of this earth

Watch him closely, that is what I say

And doubt is born

Her gaze should be only my due

And soon that doubt it churns within

Growing into gnawing suspicion

They would not come to me, forbade their wives

Their young and I thought to move on

But someone stayed my hand

Take care of my land while I am gone

I will be away for long

And thinking that a route was found, I stayed

But the winds change

Bearing life one moment

Bringing death the next

They wail, they pray, they rend their eyes

There is no place for hope

I turn away sadly, there are more lying here

They call out to me, come help us

And I willingly let them take my hand

What is this curse the wind gods bring?

Snatching life even from the merest sighs

We are hardy, the terrain makes us so

We can take long deprivation, yet… death is everywhere

The Lightness of Death

Our lives have passed us now

We see each other in recognition

We know each other as one

We are equals on this plane

We are surrounded by white light

A state of nothingness, of unknowing

No memory troubles us here

Comforting lightness, yet unattached

We await the force that draws us

Back to it all

When we return, we are as if new

Unknowing again of where we go

Notions, ideas, rules have changed

As though with every turn of axis

A new wind blows, it's never the same

The game seems familiar,

Our roles revised

Rules, ideas freshly defined

Boundaries re-drawn, all over again

As though to start a new life

Must we rid old pain

Evolution, cyclicality, call it what you may

This plane changes it gets better we say

Life offers nothing, something, everything

The thought of the time defines it

Yet the ways of the old remain

Old feelings bare themselves

Rush back to the fore

Overwhelming us, quite as before

Others Speak

It was an internal matter, a family situation
We gave our views, we weighed the options
One cannot fall back on fleeting emotion
After all, it is the family's name, its fortunes

He was elder, the male, the one who must bear
What is wrong if the younger one shares
For the family's benefit, he must forbear
He is young, this burden is for the elders to bear

His failure lay in that he did not tell
Carried away by her cares and baby coos
Women are like that, great feelings they show
It was his place to demand and her place to know

One may force the hand of fate
But fate's decree will win
If it is time for the name to end
We have to wait, maybe it will re-surge

Death appears (The voice of the Weak)

Do you judge me as weak as my uncle had done
I have lost my wife and my only son
They sneer me down now
But they had agreed with me then

You see, I believed we were one family,
A unit that would always be
Our own uncle, my brother and a few elders
Including our priest and the trusted astrologer
Had sat me down to explain quite plainly
That the baby, my son, was not solely mine
He was the son of a larger group
Nothing would change, nothing at all
This eldest, my first born would benefit
From my elder brother's largesse

They reminded me that I was but
A younger dependent though male
Obedience, adherence was in my blood
I understood, I obeyed
I felt complete, when an elder was there
Always quick to nod, to appease, to agree
The voices of power, I did well to please
It had worked well, I can vouch for that
Until,... until my time turned bad

How could the astrologer not have known
That the deed of my brother was wrong
How could the priest and my uncle stay quiet
When they knew I would not know to fight
The ceremony will cement the child's rights
They smiled approval while I gave my life

I should have told her, my mouth knew no words
She's your wife, they told me, she has to obey
Besides, she will have the baby with her every day
Why did he take the child forcefully, why didn't I stop him
In that fog, I did not understand the game being played
My wife, I hate that word, wife,
She let me down, offering herself openly

Little did I know what happens in women's quarters
Later, that accursed maid, spoke to me with reddened eyes
And told me the truth of my wife's state without child
I had sold my own in the hope of gain, she said accusingly
I had abandoned the one life that depended on me
Why do you cry now, you caused this to happen
You call yourself weak, the world knows you're the villain

I did not know! I had been sheltered under my elder's care
The world looks different when viewed from the shade
But I have learned that when the rock caves in
It drags down all those sheltering within
It may have taken joy out of your life but in its eyes
It owes you nothing at all, you are but a parasite

Was I weak as they called me, do you judge me that way?
I did not know better, that is all I can say

I have had my say after all these years
She appears before me, I feel no fear
She seems to understand my quiet turmoil
There, I see her, I grab out a hand
Only to be caught and held back
I am falling, yes, she is there for me
I hold no regret, no sadness
I am free

A breather

We reached the point of death of the main players. Only the weak younger brother who failed his wife is left.

He depended on his big brother. Joint families did and to this day, continue to place the responsibility of leading the family on the eldest.

In the family, is anybody bad? Evil?

Not really, each one had reason, a belief that justified an action.

Death appears (THE CRY OF THE POWERFUL)

The Powerful One cried out its frustration and rage

Why am I alone after all that I have done

I never willingly sinned or knowingly hurt anyone

All that I did, I had to, it was mine to do

If I had not taken the reins and dirtied my hands

Where would we have been, our family our name

I'm the one who did everything yet I was cursed

who cared about my suffering or understood me?

Or wasn’t I important in the rumble of responsibility

Was I evil, cunning or bad? 

I tried my hand, 

Fate felled my plan

What was my fault in that?

Those who depended on me
Willingly took what I gave
Though, they were also the first to blame
I could see their curses flashing in their eyes
Yet, shamelessly eating from the hand that fed
As though depending on my by right
Not a moment's help
Not a single pleasure
Life passes by
Leaving me but a shell
While they gorge upon my body in glee

And he raged on blindly, cursing, hating all the while, 

hurting all the time

The blow of death came as a surprise, 

Why yesterday he was just fine

His brother, the weak one sorely wept

Wise priest, kind uncle were quite bereft

And they bathed his body off his  earthly pains

As they could never have in his lifetime

Pains that only men could understand

All the while viewing the weak brother in contempt

And to that face of power, peace came too

Stilling in him the fight to live

Stalling his every call

The light of peace soothed him

Helped him overcome the tiredness of earthly toil

Death appears (The Voice of Duty)

When duty dies does it go with the satisfaction of tasks well done?

Of praise for adherence and the chance of pleasing someone?

Does it go with the assurance of a life well-lived?

Or does it wish to have been freed of the shackles it had worn?

I died grieving at all my life had been

I had no wish for kindness or understanding

I had no place for them, they were not mine to have

I had no place for hope, it was not mine to have

I sought favour from the only one who mattered
He scorned me mercilessly, hurt me till I could feel no more

I saw oncoming death in the eyes of those around me

Exaggerated kindnesses and the names of gods repeated

He sat by my side, tears brimming, why

Why now, I wanted to ask, but the words did not appear
Shimmer of tears quickly wiped away, shoulders slumped
He got up like a man defeated and walked away

Did my life live up to its promise?

I yearned for love, I feared rejection and loss

I feared scorn but earned little else

I wished for understanding, that, I regret

I neither received nor was I able to give

I do not wish for more life

Unlike those who grip tight unto last breath

I shall slip away peacefully

Into the certainty of death

In Grief (The voice of the weak)

First my brother, then this uncle, 
I am hated, it seems
It is time that I stopped 
Holding back my thoughts

And the weak one snapped as a bow held taut

The stinging insults he had borne, he ill-forgot

And he wondered aloud
As his brother wept

Was it power? 

That fought and raised its voice at those it knew to be weaker

That grabbed salaciously with force

That sought to contain outpourings of grief
With little more than raised hand

How can power crumble to nothing 
In the face of loss

Does that signify power
or the absence of it

Late that night, when the house was deathly calm

He saw her, she stood there, as though waiting
Was she checking how he felt? 
Why did she fill his mind so?

Is that you? he asked, I don't fear you

Did you come here to accompany his soul?

Was it you, whose presence I felt
Near his body, I thought it was

Your love for him remains unabated

You cared only for him

What of me, why didn't I matter
I was the weak, you were the fighter
But even you gave in
When forced from all sides

If you had only stayed by me
I would have fought for what was mine
Instead of staying and clearing my confusion
You left me helpless, abandoned

His eyes stung:

You died, I did not miss you

I was relieved of the embarrassment

You wrought on me so openly
Offering yourself shamelessly

Replacement was easy and quick

I have daughters now
And a smiling wife
I kept her away from my family
And from my brother's wife

The Voice of the Gentle

Beauty and misfortune in one package, they said.

She had been abandoned by her husband who preferred to live with another woman. He was a sinner, she was assured of that. But why would a man leave a beauty like her for another? Obviously, it meant her stars were not good. Something was wrong with her.

Visitors asked her in-laws, 'Will you keep her here to serve you?' and stretched to catch a glimpse of her. Yes, she would serve them, they said, as she hid behind the door. But can beauty be locked away? They sent her to her parents. Who could bear this burden?

Her parents worried about their lot. She asked them in a fit of rage, ‘If he can leave me and stay with another woman, why can’t I find another man?’ Her audacity was shocking, her attitude worrisome. Who would have her?

When someone asked if she would work in a bungalow where she would be fed and sheltered, her parents were relieved. This had to be a blessing.

There were so many people in the house. The daughter-in-law ran the house with a flourish. Ordering the women about food, organizing prayers and food for the poor, gardening, cleaning, she was a busy woman. But she had no child. She was ably aided by a battery of five widowed aunts and feebly by the young mother. The young mother seemed kind and welcoming but was usually distracted by her 'little pearl'.

Others were not so kind, one of them looked at her pointedly, 'What work will you do?' in full gaze of the group.

And she replied in all innocence, 'Whatever you tell me to.'

'M-hm,' a sarcastic murmur. Unclean, unchaste they called her and wished her away. They spat in disgust at her sight. They saddled her with the most strenuous work, she obeyed quietly. They fed her as little as they could. Taunts about her status, the ill-omen she was were hers to bear. She bore the brunt, crying silently.

When he called her to an isolated quarter she had not known this was her duty too. At first, she railed. How could he touch her as she stood like stone? She wanted to scream and bare his shame to the whole family. But it dawned on her, this was what the taunts were for. She recalled her mother's hesitation before reconciling the situation mentally. Everybody had known. The shame was hers.

Had her father accepted her fate? She would never know. Nobody asked after her welfare. Abandoned, one more time.

When the young mother's heart was being rent to pieces, hers had been the voice that pleaded for understanding. She had smuggled food and water to her, cajoled her to eat as she lay weak and febrile.  Hers had been the voice that called to the gods as that shriveled body lay dying.

She understood abandonment. She understood isolation.

But what of the other women in this household, hadn't fate abandoned them as well? Each one had little to fall back on, yet they appeased the one man who would never do a thing in their favour.

And she saw – abandonment can represent two faces, one that understands and one that furthers it. But none to alleviate it. That when the abandoned fell back on each other to leave you alone, they do so on the assumption of being better. That somehow, they do not share your fate. That somehow, they are not like you.

If you scream you deserve your lot, we who stand by are purified by our very separateness from you, We will show sorrow at your state, that is our goodness. We will taunt you at will, that is your fate.

She became devout, placing faith in the idols on her wall. At least these idols could faithfully recount her days.

When she became sick, they cursed her. The least she could do was to die quietly. But no, she kept muttering, recalling, cursing all those who had hurt her and let her down when she knew nothing. Family secrets came tumbling out and it became difficult to face each other.

Peace, well-earned peace. The golden glow was a familiar state. One that seemed to stay away from life.

When the one who carries your tales moves on, you become free. Her passing gave those who lived some relief 

In Grief (The Voice of the Dutiful Wife)

She had screamed at him as he returned after turning her son to ashes.

Surely he would come out seeking revenge for her outburst. She felt no fear of oncoming pain, she could not care. The window of his room was open, it meant he was inside. Maybe he would seek her out later, when everyone was asleep.

She would not cry nor plead forgiveness, no. she would tell him he was the cause of the boy’s death. He had failed, he had to save his son's life. He was a failed father, failed man. Yes, she would declare it openly.

He would blame her. He would insist that her devotion was lacking hoping to force quiet through damning repetition. He did not come out.

The house was stifling despite the cool touch of approaching winter. The cold walls clamped down on her. She hurried out through the grassy fields and made her way to the light shade of the ‘champa’ tree. 

At this late hour, one never knows what surprise will come scurrying or slithering through the surrounding greenery. Women especially, must always be indoors. She had repeated this warning to those many aunts in the house when they came away for refuge. Useless, rotting women, why hadn’t death captured them? And that maid, why not her? Why my son! Was my worship, my devotion wanting in any way? Why this fate?

She had gone to the store room and pulled out a sack of rice, he had been with her, watching. As soon as she opened the sack, he pushed his hands into the rice. How long back? A week? Ten days? A mouse had scurried out of the sack and jumped to the ground, obviously offended by her intrusion. Why is it running, why does it twitch its nose so? Her heart ached as she remembered him imitating the nasal quiver. He stood and watched it nibble at the rice that had scattered to the ground, smiling in glee when it sniffed at his feet before hurrying off. The mouse had known he was her special boy and not bitten him. Special, special, dead…

His hand, she had felt for his hand as she caught it deep inside the rice sack. He leaned forward to nuzzle her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck. She had pulled his hand out and stroked the rice off. She stroked her palm absently, starting faintly at her touch. Those fingers just slightly longer than her own. She had sent him back to the house, can I play on the swing? No, go inside, you shouldn't play in the dark. The ghouls come out then.

He ran back, calling out, waving to her once he reached.

His father saw him, were you outside so late? It isn’t dark yet, he had replied. The question was repeated, he had said, I wanted to see the mice, they were in the store room. But the father knew the truth, he had gone there to be with his mother. What are you, a snake? Snakes watch mice; people should not do as snakes do! And he had slapped the boy because he was behaving like a snake. But she knew the real reason was he couldn’t stand his closeness to his mother. She heard the cry as she hurried back. Next day or was it two days later, the fever set in. He had complained to her, I don't like him, he's always beating me...

If he hits me, I will fall, I will just fall, I have no strength now. Does he feel this pain as sharply as I do? No, surely he does not. He yearned for a son and now all is lost. Let him cry, let him fall to pieces in grief. If he dies now I will not feel sorry. I will not cry. I will tell him, why, I will tell the whole world what he is, his truth. I will tell them that he made his son die. He beat him and the boy’s body started to burn.

How could he assure, 'the fever will disappear, wait and see, just one more day.' He had called a doctor when the boy was barely responding. Why a doctor? He had to call that woman her sacred chants could make fever go! Old women had been saved by the chants, why not my son? But he knew better, ‘Bah! How can prayers help?’ What did the doctor know? Everyone knew a doctor could not turn Yama away.

He is a sinner, I am good. I know my prayers from memory. God knows, how I have wept, show me a god who will ignore tears of suffering. He blamed me for being barren, no, it isn’t my barrenness, I did all my prayers correctly. How carelessly he reads out his lines as though he wants to run through it. He doesn’t even circumambulate properly, always eyes wandering. Pray properly, can the gods refuse you? And fasts? I avoid food, I do not defile my surroundings, I am clean, my fervent prayers were answered I got a son. I lost him, I lost my son. How can I bear this pain? How could the gods do this to me?’ a moan escaped her lips as she fell against the tree trunk.

And her mind raced to the funeral of that young mother, her parents had been shattered. We treated our daughter like gold, her mother had started to say but she could speak no more. ‘Why weren’t we called earlier? You said she was ill, we left immediately. We could have had her treated at home,’ the father had asked, stalling as he supported his wife. Her knees seemed to give way as she saw her daughter lying prone. 

And she saw a hitherto unrevealed tenderness in her husband as his voice softened.

He explained the illness, the disintegration of mind and how they had done everything to make her better. How they had taken all care to ensure she was fed, but she refused everything. When they realized she was wasting away, they felt to call her parents. They had hoped that the sight of her mother would remind her that she too had a child to live for. Sadly, they had hoped for far too much, she had slipped away just the night before.

Fortunately, his own wife was as much of a mother to the child, so the child would be alright. He had held the elder man as he wept. The young husband had stood aside red-eyed but silent. 

The mother had turned to her murmuring, ‘gold, she was my golden child.’ Yes, I had stood there, triumphant; the thorn in my side was gone. I could provide her no succor. That cursed maid had rushed forward to support the broken-hearted woman as she collapsed. 

Am I not human? I felt the quiet blame being laid on my shoulders, by whom, a maid who slept with the man of the house. She must know her place. Why, even the word maid is a kindness we bestow upon her. Today, that same woman provided me no support, she stayed aloof. But those eyes had bored through me, she suffocated at the memory.

Why even the widows had left their mundane thoughts of food and cleaning, they did not look to me directly, but they blamed me. 

But I know. The gods will vouch for me. Tears flowed as her mind raced to form words amid scrambled images. My life story will read like a legend. Women have been made saints for less. I did my duty towards God and my man. I was faultless, yet my child was cruelly snatched from me. Why in the Ramayana, wasn’t Sita also faultless? Yet blame was laid on her. People will know me for my virtue.

Those eyes, wait, whose eyes were those, not the maid's, they were searing through her and an image formed unbidden. The sun's  light had dimmed but there was no mistaking the cascading dark hair, that helpless form falling back and she saw herself walk forward confident that the fight was out. She took, no, she had snatched the child. I had to, she defended, it was my duty. Besides, I had won.

I had to do it, it was no sin. My duty is to God. That child was to be mine, it was God’s response to my prayer. Of course I felt bad hurting a young mother, but it had to be done. Duty lies beyond mere feeling. My duty was to my marriage, my husband, my family. I had wanted a baby in my arms, just like you. I bore you no ill-will. Though you hurt me with your words, I was not your enemy.

The image looked at her steadily, not wrathfully, but why should there be anger? ‘Oh, do you think I felt righted when he wronged you? Never, never, did I act with jealous intent, you had to learn! You had many lessons to learn,’ why this inexplicable shortness of breath?

‘Ghosts do not wait and watch, they come forward and speak. Are you a ghost? Why do you watch me so? Did I cause you pain? If I caused you pain, I am sorry, I'm sorry,' her voice broke, 'I did not understand, I did not understand a mother’s heart until I lost my own. My own son, my own... Go, go away!’ she screamed in silent protest as her eyes brimmed over, ‘Are you angry that after taking him as mine, I-I prevented you from touching him? I was afraid he would remain attached to you even if I willed otherwise! I had to. I wanted him for me, mine. I didn’t understand, I didn't understand your pain…’ and she was alone.

‘I wronged a mother... no, I did not, God knows I did not!'

And she? She did nothing, yet she got everything! She hardly bothered with prayers while I, I have wept my whole life in prayer. Her parents treated her like gold, who ever thought a mother would collapse at the death of her daughter. My parents, never came to see me! They were ashamed to call me their own! What is wrong with me?  I have been a dutiful woman, yet I lost my child, my loss was undeserved, hers was deserved, she lost her child due to sins of her past life. I got the child because I am good, I am blameless, I am faultless, I am blameless, blameless, faultless,’ she drove the words into her mind as a reminder. 

The sky was a grey sheen, time to be indoors. She breathed deeply as she straightened up and picked her way back, yet she stumbled. 

He would be hiding behind the kitchen door. She would have to act scared. Why once he had jumped out and she had slapped him in shock. His chin quivered but he knew he was in the wrong, he let me hug him close. After that it had become a routine, why sometimes he would warn her from his hiding place, ‘Mamma, I am not hiding behind the door.’ 

He would not be there.

The swing shook and rustled the leaves of the bush that scraped its wooden seat. His laughter filled the air. Slowly, hopefully, she looked towards his swing.

No, not there.

There near the plants, there he was, watching the ‘Raat Rani’ bloom as its fragrance caught the air. He bent forward marveling its beauty, the fragrance, 'How do flowers smell so nice?'

Not there.

A wave of emptiness stopped her path. The house loomed unwelcoming, cold, in her vision. A door was creaking, he must have carelessly left it open as he ran in and out. She would have to reprimand him. He must have been running, yes, he must have. Her breath came in short gasps, her legs bore her no further. 

Understanding is to be found in the mundane, the hopeless among us. It is the loss of wonder that makes the mundane so. It is lost hope that make the hopeless so. 

The elder women she had railed against had been watching her with growing concern all along. They saw her stop and understood the despair she must feel as she looked towards the house. Lantern in hand, the full group walked up to her and led her back to the house. She who had always been disparaging of their long overdue presence, was warmed by it now.

And life continued, unwelcome but there.

IN GRIEF (The cry of the powerful)

His child, his boy, his only son was gone. Gone, dead, body, he could not bear the ghastly finality of the words. He gazed carefully through hazy eyes. This is not death, just innocent sleep. See that, his stomach heaved... Any moment now he will come awake and call his mother. He never called to me, always his mother, for everything, mother. And she would shield him.

If he had lived to a better age, he would have seen another aspect of me. I would have treated him as a grown man, a man of responsibility and position. He would have got everything of worth from me, his father. He would have scorned his fawning mother or at the very least, hidden his open preference for her.

But all that was over, he would never grow, he was gone, never to return oh no, it was too much… he caught his head in his hands as though to wring out his own thoughts. ‘No! No! I cannot bear it,’ the words flooded over unbidden. ‘I cannot bear it, I cannot bear this loss. My son, give me back my son.’

He looked around in search for an answer. People, so many people, so many, couldn’t any one of them be of help? Get my son back, nobody, no one, no no, ‘uhhh,…’ he groaned.

Nobody spoke and nobody should speak, they knew this man, powerful and violent. Who knew when he would turn on them like a mad animal? They feared him, his rages and ill-will, even those who benefited from him, hated him.

His uncle, a kind man of great understanding stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. The gesture meant, Yes, you grieve but do it quietly, not like a weak woman. Women wail, they are weak, that is their wont. Men do not have the luxury. There, now stop the tears and get about the business of arranging. There, there, and he began to say ‘We have to take the bo…’

‘NO!!' the father reacted sharply, 'No! Not body, he is not a body, he is a boy, he is my son, my son, he is my son…,’ the uncle looked nonplussed. Someone would have to take charge of the situation. Who could do this? Where was that brother, weakling fellow always hiding when it is time to come to the front? ‘Call him! Call him here, now!’ he shouted suddenly.

And he appeared, he had been right beside all along. Ashen-faced, he spoke, ‘Please let him be, leave him alone, why do you always interfere?’

The uncle stepped back. Do I interfere? We have to be back before sundown, you the fool, you should know that? Take charge, leave me out of it!' He stalked off, head high and ranting.

His silent wrath seemed to awaken everyone, specially those who were in tears at the mere sight of grief, ‘Come on, it isn’t good to keep things like this. We have to go a long way away and come back.’ No explicit references, the father seemed to relax. The rituals began.

Later, he lay on his bed, tears streaming out of his eyes. His wife had turned on him after he returned from the cremation ground, 'You killed the one thing that mattered. The only thing…’ and she had stormed away. He was too tired to retort.

There would be others to take care of his needs if she chose death. He could throw her out, after all, what was she? She had not borne him a boy, of what use she? What did she think, that he had no feelings for his son? Should I fawn and kiss the boy like her? I cared for him more than life itself but until a child turns old enough to tell right from wrong, one must wield a firm hand. She would just weep uselessly as though her tears were capable of correcting all wrong.

What did she know of him? His troubles, the pang he felt when her obvious inability to bear a child was spoken of. What of the silent smirks? He wielded power, he was an important man and she, she had failed him. What of him, his expectations? She had failed to meet his requirements. What of that? Why had he married her? To look at her face? To admire her beauty?

And she had blamed him! How could she? Had he wrought the illness on the boy? Was it in his hands? Was anything in his hands? Did she not understood that all men are powerless when the God of Death appears?

Oh, but he was a man all right! And she, she needed to know her place. A woman’s place is under the man, beneath! And there you see the evil that is the woman, weak at all times, incapable in body, unwilling in spirit but when the man is weak she  will show her wrath, her strength. As though, ghoul-like, her power comes only when the man is beaten. Ghouls give power to the woman... Should she not lift him out of this welter? Is it not her place to give strength to fight? To continue with life? He tried to stir up a rage, it would have helped. Oddly, the energizing effect of anger failed him.

At other times, when rage caught up with him, he would hunt for her and ferret her out from one of the many rooms to teach her. But what was she, a useless impotent, ‘Can she bring the boy back? Back from the dead?’ there he had said it, dead. Dead. His son was dead, gone forever, never to return. His brain stopped racing. He sighed heavily. No tears flowed now.

Feeling had left him, stark emptiness in its wake. Yet he lived.

A new beginning or an end?

'NO!' she ranted, 'NO! NO! NO!'

They tried to restrain her. NO! And they tried to calm her, 'Everything will be alright, your baby will be fine.' They tried to hold her, that bevy of women, as she crumpled to the floor. No, she wanted him back, 'MY BABY!' she repeated brokenly, alternating between whispers and cries. They tried to quieten her, ‘Shh! Shh! He will hear, he will get angry!’

She wouldn’t listen, she pushed away their hands and pulled at her saree as though its touch was too much for her skin to bear.

When her antics were too much for them to see, they threatened her, ‘You better stop! He decides everything. You had better listen to him! Be glad that you have a roof over your head, stupid girl! He could have thrown you out!'

'I don’t want this roof, I just want my baby,' she spoke as one sapped of all energy. 'I want him here,' and she cradled her arms. She sat cross-legged, that was how her baby liked to sleep, on her lap.

They murmured in mock-fury communicating their understanding of her predicament to each other but playing a charade for her to see, 'Leave her, leave her, she should understand. What kind of upbringing has she had? What shame she brings to her parents with this act! After all, she is a woman. Once her husband has agreed, can she refuse? Poor woman, first baby, no? Of course, you will feel like this, but he will be cared for, shh! No crying, no crying, it is inauspicious!'

A man entered the women's quarters and each shushed the other, men were not supposed to walk in unbidden, but he was the eldest who would raise a voice? He glared down at the angry woman, 'Wait,' a soft voice pleaded, 'after all, she is the mother, this is a shock to her...'

'You, be quiet!' he commanded. She looked dazedly into his eyes, not bothering to cover her wet breasts, not caring to look away in deference. He had taken her baby! She heaved as she sat up pleading, screaming, pleading, screaming and fell back in a faint.

How had it changed so suddenly? It had just been a month since she returned from her mother's house after the delivery. Her mother had held the baby while she alighted from the compartment. There had been smiling welcoming faces all around as she followed close behind. The firstborn, a son, the gods had been kind to her. Probably it had been the prayers of her mother or her husband, no, she had insisted, my mother's prayers were answered.

Everyone fussed around, cooing, making sure she ate well otherwise how would the baby grow properly? Her slender frame had to put on a few layers of fat, how would the boy become strong to face life? There seemed to be a never-ending bustle of women around her. She was lucky to have so much care. Her parents left soon after she had settled in.

Her mother-in-law was dead, so what, the eldest sister-in-law would fill in for her. She would take care of her and the baby. Though it was a busy time, the young mother loved every moment of it. She would wake up in the morning and bathe well before the little one cried for his feed. Between her and her sister-in-law they took good care of the boy. They understood each other so well. She was lucky to have such a kind elder around. Such a loving family, she felt warm and loved.

One afternoon, as she fed the baby, her sister-in-law commented, ‘You look so weak, hardly gaining weight, how will the baby grow strong in your care? Let us start giving him gruel to make him stronger.’

Stung, the young mother asked her, ‘How do you know? Married for so long and no baby of your own. My mother told me only my milk will strengthen him.'

‘I heard some talk among the women…,’ the lady snapped. 'The baby needs a strong mother.' She referred to the widowed aunts and cousins and the unmarried sister of the house. They had taken refuge here and helped with all the chores in return for food and shelter.

‘Five widows with no issue and one who was never married, how can they know?’ the sharpness of youth can be hard to bear. The older woman walked away.

The conversation dampened her affection for the older woman but she was so busy there wasn't time to brood. Besides, she was struggling with intense love for her child, a feeling that overwhelmed her at times. She wanted to be the only mother he ever knew, the only one he called ‘ma’, she wanted hers to be the only chain he pulled at as he suckled her breast, hers the only finger that he held but there were so many contenders for his love. So many women wanting to take turns to keep him in their ample laps and gaze at him adoringly that at times she snapped. Her mother had warned her before she had left home. ‘Everyone will want the child to call them ‘ma’, do not fight, they are elder, they yearn for a child's love, respect them.' She would not heed it.

How old was she, 15, 16 maybe? This story relates to a time when girls were but children when they married.

Then there was her husband. He watched the baby fondly but was either self-conscious or afraid of making a mistake, he never held the baby close, in his arms. She tried to teach him but no, he wouldn’t. He watched it from a distance as it woke up and kicked at the sky. He laughed as it made faces at the world. At 20, fatherhood was but a natural step, ordained by the gods. Who would have thought it would be a son. For mysterious reasons, he had been blessed.

Every morning she fed and cleaned the baby, before placing him in a shaded area of the open veranda where the softly rising sun would merely soothe him. The young father would watch from a distance.

Weeks flew past. The bustle around the baby had become an everyday norm. The sun did its work of strengthening those tiny arms, the breeze played with him softly as he slept. But the shining sun permits dark intent to thrive in its brilliance, who knew?

One afternoon, the elder sister-in-law walked in on her with a smile that spoke of much prior thought, 'He is as much my son as he is yours. I prayed that you should have a boy,' she said by way of explanation. 'My prayers have been answered.’

The mother's smile waned. 'My mother prayed, I prayed. If your prayers could work for me, surely they should have worked for you.’ Older she may be, I don't need her! Why does she make these unexpected announcements?

The elder woman betrayed no emotion as she left the room.

Who knew the singe in her heart? She was a willing devoted servant to her husband. She thirsted for his approval, one kind word, just one loving gesture. He gauged her need and denied her the merest glance. What use is a woman if she cannot bear a son?

He would have married another but fear overtook him lest the shadow of doubt about his wife’s barrenness fall on him. It was not as though he had been true to his wife, but there had never been a resultant pregnancy. Not even the young beauty he had recently brought in as help. As of now, all blame lay on the wife’s miserable shoulders and she bore it quietly. It was better that way. After all, he was the eldest son and the pressures on him were much greater than she could know. Much greater than anyone could bear.

He pondered his younger brother's family. That girl must have done some good in her past life to have this boy in her arms so early. His visit to the astrologer was overdue. A decision must be taken.

The change had been sudden. No one spoke but something was amiss and we must know the chatter in the house lest we face surprise. There were whispers, murmurs and furtive looks but when you are busy and happy, these pass without a glance.

So, when her husband slumped on the long swing in the veranda she gave no notice. ‘Give him to me,’ he spoke in a strangled tone that barely caught her attention. She handed him the baby and he hugged it close. He kissed its forehead as though to say goodbye.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ she asked. She would have to check his cupboards and pack his bag, oh my, so much to do.

‘We are going, dada wants me to manage the work at....’ He did not want to look her in the eye it seemed. She hardly heard where they were going as her face flushed with joy. Finally, she would have the baby to herself, ‘I can manage alone, the housework, baby and your needs, we don’t need these women, your aunts to come.’ Then realizing that it seemed she had ordered him, she covered that up with a shy, ‘Am I right?’

He did not reply but looked away. She usually felt unsure when he looked away. She was never quite sure whether he was offended or thinking of something else. He was so handsome, so good, this wonderful man she was married to. She smiled fondly as she saw him rummage through his hair. She would have asked him what he was searching for but there was a loud cry and her attention was diverted.

They said it was a prayer, a prayer for the baby. Her parents were not there, shouldn’t they have been? What was this prayer? Her husband and his elder brother and wife were seated in front of a burning ‘hom’. Questions raced through her mind as she let herself be directed by a hundred helping hands to sit next to her husband. ‘Why are they taking the baby in their arms?’ she got only a sidelong look in reply. The elder woman was quietly placing him on her lap. Oh, because they are the elders they pretend to be the parents, she thought bitterly. I should be holding him, there, watch the palm, can’t she even see how the arm is folded. What is she doing!

‘The adoption is complete in the eyes of God and all of you are witness,’ the priest announced. 

She sat stunned. Heh! What? What? She looked at her husband for support but he had none to give. ‘That is my baby! Mine! They cannot adopt my baby!! NO!’

The priest watched her rant with eyes of wisdom, ‘The mother should have been told about this before you arranged it,’ and there was a flutter among the audience. Many voices spoke at once, mollifying, explaining, soothing, cajoling, demanding, disapproving, reasoning. She listened to no one. Why, even the baby gagged and started to wail loudly. She lunged at her sister-in-law and dragged the baby away. Her hair came undone, she cared little. Her saree was askew, she cared little. She ran through that mass of people, hardly aware that a bevy of eyes followed her.

She had barely reached the upper-floor veranda when her husband caught up with her frenzy. She looked at him, wild-eyed with anguish, ‘You gave? MINE!’

‘Do not speak to your husband in that manner,’ a cold elder spoke. The elder brother was well-known for his temper.

‘What husband, he gave you MY child!’

‘Quiet! Keep your tone. Remember who you are speaking with!’

‘MY CHILD WILL BE WITH ME! You can have your own!’

He raised his hand and slapped her hard across her face.

She staggered but held the baby tight. ‘As the eldest in the family, it is my right to demand that your son become ours so we can follow our ‘dharma’ correctly. He will be rightful heir to everything. He will light my pyre when I die. He will carry the name of this family forward. As your son, he will get nothing. Your husband will have full charge of our business; you will have a big house. You will have more sons. Think!’

‘NONONONO!!!’

He raised her hand to strike her one more time, ‘Dada, please do not hit her,’ her husband’s tremulous voice broke through.

‘We’ll give you the next one, the next son. How can you take my firstborn?’ she pleaded.

‘I have consulted the astrologers. This boy was mine, he should have been mine! But this woman cannot bear a child. I would have brought another but my goodness prevented me.'

She pointed at him, ‘Then bring another wife, why fear…’

‘Stop it, no, please stop,’ her husband was pleading but another slap stung her cheek. As her face swung, she felt the baby slip from her grasp. She grabbed him tighter. She did not care, he could not take her baby away and suddenly she understood, 

‘You did not remarry! What goodness?? You! you can't! you can't!’ she was young, much too young to know the full import of her accusations.

'STOP!' The priest’s voice broke through the haze.

‘She dares abuse me, I am the eldest of this family. When we brought her here, we expected at least a modicum of respect. What have we got? She must be taught respect!’

‘MINE, YOU CANNOT TAKE HIM! I want my parents! I will take my baby and go!’

‘Go from here,’ the priest announced. 'GO!'

She stumbled away, opened the door to her darkened room and locked it behind her. Nobody followed her. She placed her crying son against her breast and soothed him. She was trembling. Her cheeks stung. If such a prayer was performed, shouldn’t her parents have been there? Did they know? Someone had to help her, she was alone. All alone.

She awoke to a knock on the door, she did not respond.

The knocking became urgent. It’s me.

He stood handsome and tall, silhouetted against the sunlight. She felt no liking, no warmth in his presence. She ran back to the bed and clasped her son. She had been right to, for behind him came the elder brother, his uncle, his wife and aunt.

The elder brother spoke, ‘The priest assures us that we can complete the formalities. The signs are good.’

‘You lie, I want my parents,’ she remained adamant. ‘If they had known this would happen they would never have agreed to such an alliance. Hmh! Elder brother demanding the younger one’s first born son,’ she watched with contempt as his face went red. You wouldn't dare speak of this to them, respect! YOU!'

The uncle intervened, he had a kind face, a face that showed understanding. She turned to him in hope as he spoke, ‘as the eldest, he has the right to request his brother for the boy. It is for the good of the family. How will your son feel if he has to follow his less fortunate parents while his younger brother is cared for by the family elder? Is it not unfair? A wrong to an innocent?’

‘You lie too,’ she repeated, her heart sinking. He did not understand, he could not be relied upon. They had to call her parents, but a cold sliver of clarity formed. They would call nobody.

She turned to her husband, ‘Please give our next child to them, please.’

But the elder asked, ‘How do you know that will be a boy?’

‘Then we will give the next son, please not this one! My heart is on him.’

‘We don’t know that the next will be healthy males, what if they are not? Will your health keep up? Who knows?'

‘Then you would have deprived your brother,’ she countered.

‘He has agreed to it, he is not deprived, he will be well looked after, you will be well looked after,’ he spat out.

She shook her head, ‘You cheat him of his son, you will cheat him of his business. You are no elder, just a common liar.’

‘Enough! Before I kill you, enough!’

‘Let me be your wife then, I don’t want your brother, I will go where my child is, I want my child, only my child,’ she pleaded.

That evil elder ran his eyes over her body, ‘I would have, but you are not worthy, you have no respect for age or position.'

‘You do not command any, my father is a great man. That was why he was blessed with two sons. You do not command respect. You are hated because you are a cheat. Phah! You beat your wife, what man beats his wife? I have heard about you and that fair woman you brought as maid. But there was no child of it. I know I know I know.’

‘That is now my baby,’ the elder sister-in-law interrupted as though it was all too much for her to bear. She came forward and grasped the child firmly.

The mother’s strength failed her, she fell back letting the child go.

If her heart broke there was no sign of it, instead, they said she went mad. Why one day, she ran out of the house, to a police station, screaming. But this was an influential family. She was duly returned with instructions to obey her elders. 

She tried to leave the house on her own one night, but someone saw her and brought her back. Issues of upbringing they said, yet no one complained to her parents. Nobody called them. And as was the custom of the time, they could not call upon her without good cause.

Her husband waited for her to get better, but she continued to rage in the darkened room. She would not look at him when he walked past, she should have calmed by now but her storms continued. 

'Why,' he tried to reason with her, 'we are in the same house, the baby is here. It will call you ma, it will call her ma. It is all the same, we are one family after all. Remember, you were even willing to marry my brother,’ he still smarted at the humiliation and the way the older man had gazed at his wife. An embarrassment no man should have to bear. 'Nice happy family,' he bit out, probably hopeful for a tearful apology. She looked at him with a slow dawning of his weakness, his dimness. She cared little about his increasing isolation. He was still here, maybe his brother had forgotten about his promise, she was past caring. 

Though her heart filled with pain when she heard her son's cries. She was not permitted to pick, not even touch him. When it laughed, her heart broke. A cruel report reached her, ‘he grows perfectly with his new mother, he has forgotten you.’ It was spoken with a smile, satisfied when the sting hurt right through.

She stopped going out of her room, the pain was too much to bear. Food was sent up to her, it remained untouched. ‘Let her starve, when she is hungry, she will come begging for food,’ the elder brother shouted. Her husband was too busy to check on her welfare, he chose to sleep in another room.

She died alone. In grief. In pain. Did her mother wail? Did her father cry? And her husband? Did he care?

Peace, brilliant golden peace. It remained like that willingly for long but who knows time here?

An invisible tug and it was back in a vaguely familiar veranda. The empty swing, the cool corner and ahead the large darkened room. There were no signs of her presence anywhere, no pictures of her, no paintings she had created, no memorabilia. It would have known the place if there had been something.

What had pulled it back? It flitted past empty rooms, a staircase, it had a faint memory of pain. It moved on to the front of the house. A shroud lay on the floor. The boy had died. He was 9. A mysterious illness that was grabbing the smiles of the young and snuffing them out despite medicines and prayers.

The mother sat distraught, the father was nowhere to be seen. Voices were everywhere, the form listened to the whispers. 

'Yes, shh, shh, she’s not the birth-mother, she adopted him. But his own mother could not have loved him as much. Oh, his own mother I think she was mad. She used to run out of the house screaming and wailing. Why once she ran to the police, you know? oh? What did they do? What could they do, some problem of the mind. Poor people, then she died, lucky they found another girl. But there have been daughters, no more sons in the family, poor thing.'

A woman, fair and stout stood separate from the others. She had lived years as a lesser woman in this household, she had seen much. 'Hmh! I know what they did,' she thought. 'They are cursed. They will repent!' She raged silently, never letting her words known. The form heard her thoughts, it helped it to remember this place.

It had answered the call of attachment. It moved away.