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.
