Sari Caste Read online

  SARI CASTE

  by

  Catherine Kirby

  Copyright © Catherine Kirby 2011

  Kindle Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For Hazel with Love

  With many thanks to:-

  My husband ~ John Kirby ~ for technical help.

  Yvette Herman ~ for her generous encouragement.

  SARI CASTE

  by

  Catherine Kirby

  CHAPTER ONE

  I sank back against the bungalow door. A desperate urge, to melt away, held me fast. It seemed I had always been running from something. I forced myself to see if there was even a glimmer of hope. Surely, if I looked back over all that had happened I might find an answer.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  When I first took off for Calcutta I was alone. That is, not without responsibilities but without the support of family or friends. All the same, in some small way, I felt a sense of triumph. I had escaped.

  I have three sisters, Shreela the eldest, then Pratibha, and the youngest, Kajal. I am Manasa the third daughter of a man bitter about not being given a son. I felt very guilty whenever father bemoaned his ill luck in having four dowries to find. He always blamed mummy, but Grandma told us it was punishment for bad behaviour in our former lives that none of us were boys.

  I learned to use a handloom at home with my older sisters but now that they had married and gone, father did not want to be reminded of the needs of his youngest daughters. He arranged for Kajal and I to work in the mill. Some of the lovely patterns, I had learnt at home, had been adapted for use in bright modern saris that I now wove in inferior threads. I was sad. They would not last: nothing lasted. How I had loved those beautiful silks I had once made. Would I ever own anything so lovely? My dreams unsettled me, making me even more aware of my anxiety concerning my future. How strange then, that the hope for good marriages for Kajal and I seemed to rest heavily on the wages my experience now earned at the mill.

  Whilst slicing vegetables for supper, one evening, I asked, "Mummy, does the extra money I earn mean I will not have to go far away, like Pratibha, when I marry?"

  "Manasa," she sighed, "Surely, you can see what is happening! Your father is drinking away most of the money. We have enough for food only. We're desperate, can't you see?"

  "No Mummy! It is not right! He should be saving for us. How can we hope for any future? You have to stop him! Why do you let him hate us this way?"

  "But, Manasa, he wouldn't listen to me, would he? He doesn't have to and you see how he treats me. Some things in life you just have to accept." She turned back to the pot she was stirring, blotting her tears with a corner of her sari.

  I knew she was right. She spent her life crouched warily over a cooking pot. Her eyes followed everything and everyone. Any wrong move she made the grandparents reported to my father and he punished her with reproaches that wounded deeper than his blows. We were at his mercy.

  I felt weighed down with anger and fear. I worked hard at the mill; proud of my skills and ability to add a few rupees to the family purse and to my dowry, only to discover that father was stealing it, drinking it and spilling it into the ground. All my work turned to waste, to dust, to urine. I was impotent: my future was as insecure as feathers tossed about in a storm. And he laughed.

  "Mummy, have I done something really bad in my former life? I can't remember, I try but I can't."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Grandma."

  She patted my shoulder as she struggled to speak but I heard only bits of words strangled between sobs.

  I have tried hard to remember my former life but my earliest and best memory goes back to when I was three years old. As though it is happening now, I can feel the delight of dear mummy pouring water over me out in the yard: as the cool water trickles over my head it feels good, and clean, and soft. I try to catch it to eat it but it keeps disappearing through my fingers. It is magic. It is fun. I have always loved the mystery of water, especially the monsoon rains. Where do they come from? Where do they go, and why?

  Shreela swore she was a lizard in her former life. She could remember sunning herself on the palace walls of a wealthy Maharaja. She swam in the lake and watched the comings and goings of the royal family and their entourage. Apparently, they were very fond of lizards.

  I was glad Shreela was transformed to human status but I wondered if the gods mistrusted her. They gave her a squint, you see. Why should they punish her? After all, what evil could a lizard perform? Especially, one as sweet and entertaining as Shreela would have been. Perhaps the Maharaja didn't like lizards. Perhaps he was a bad, ill-tempered man like father. A Maharaja would surely have influence with the gods.

  Shreela's marriage had been arranged without her knowledge. Father announced to us all that her new home was to be in Jamnagar, Gujarat. She looked shocked. "I don't think a widower with three small daughters will like me, daddy." She said softly. "Jamnagar is far away I may never see you all again."

  Father thundered back, "Shreela, never complain. Your husband is blessing from the gods. He is not making big fuss about your eyes. You will work very hard for his family instead of giving big dowry."

  I whispered to her. "You must not go, Shreela. It is too far away. You must stay with us."

  My father heard me. The look of burning anger in his eyes terrified me but I would not let him see my fear. I would not cower before him like mummy and the others. He grabbed my arm. My head jerked forward causing me to bite hard into my tongue. He shook me like a cat shakes its captured prey. I struggled to catch my breath and thought he would never stop. "Don't defy my word. You're nothing. Listen. Nothing. You understand. Nothing! Nothing! You're useless. There should be caste for women lower than Harijans." Then he released me and I flopped to the floor like a bundle of rags. "Sari Caste." He spat.

  I was afraid to move and no one dared touch me. I sat alone forbidden to eat all that day. I will never forget or forgive the terrible pain of that humiliation. I could not eat properly for some time because of the wound in my tongue and the deep dark anger in my heart.

  Shreela was even more upset about my cuts and bruises than I was. They were as nothing compared to the pain within me. She and mummy did all they could to pet me and comfort me whenever father was absent. One day I would leave to marry and then in my new home I could crush his memory with every spice I ground.

  Shreela, who was an obedient daughter, married the widower. I supposed, at least she need not live in dread any longer of her eye defect making her a target for father's wrath. I wondered what her new life was like. I heard there was a palace at Jamnagar. I wondered if she recognised any of her former lizard friends there. I hoped she was happy but what if the family did not like her? She was very special; therefore, they would have been heartless not to appreciate her. That dreadful thought made me shiver.

  Later, my second sister, Pratibha married. The harvest had been good. She was given a modest wedding. Long after the wedding, the groom's family kept insisting we must add to her dowry. Father refused. We have not heard from Pratibha since. I worry about what has happened to her. I missed my siste
rs who have moved so far away. Their presence suddenly ceased for us yet they each existed in some other place without us. It was so strange.

  I asked mummy one day, "Shall we visit Shreela and Pratibha?"

  "I hope we shall."

  "When, mummy?"

  "One day."

  "I want to go soon before they forget me."

  "How could they forget their own little sister they love so much?"

  "Perhaps they are different now. Perhaps they have children of their own. Perhaps they have cruel in-laws." Then realising, too late, I might have upset her added, "or perhaps they are happy. We must go and see."

  "Perhaps, perhaps." Mummy echoed irritably. Why was she not taking me seriously?

  I stamped my foot. "Perhaps they are dead. And what about Kajal and me? What will happen to us? You don't care!"

  "You think too much without understanding. I am working hard and praying for all of you. What more can I do?"

  I had dared to upset her with my worries because I knew she cared about us despite her powerlessness. How shamelessly I tried to bully her into making father care about us too.

  He seemed to be scattering us like tiny seeds. All he was interested in was ridding himself of us to a family who would accept the smallest dowry he could manage. What relief for him when my married sisters left us. I knew my turn must come soon. Despite my ill feeling for my father, in my heart, I knew I didn't want to be sent away to live with a band of strangers. How could I leave mummy but it had to come soon. I was already approaching twenty years old. Everything I was used to must suddenly, at some unknown point, disappear. I was dancing blindfold at the edge of a precipice. It was a question of when, rather than if, I would disappear over the edge like my older sisters.

  My future life would be lived like an enslaved insect in an ant's nest. I had seen ants at work in the fields. They captured their prey and forced it into working submission for the rest of its life. I had been my father's servant, like mummy, but soon I would be slaving at the beck and call of my husband and mother-in-law. Maybe the whole family would gang up on me, if they disliked me, or if I produced daughters. I had seen what had happened to my mother and I was terrified.

  Every evening, after supper, father would go off on his own somewhere. It was so peaceful without him. Mummy would sing sometimes. I liked that and would carry those sweet word-jumbled songs in my head to comfort me when I was sad. I dreaded the darkness of father's return. He always drank too much. As soon as he came home he picked on mummy. Everyone pretended not to notice that he beat her so often. I used to try to stop him but he hit me too. Then grandma would also scold me and slap me. "It's not your business. Look at your sisters. They do as they are told and don't answer back. Quiet now or you'll be the one who's punished."

  Mummy said, "You must not fight back. You'll get hurt. There's nothing anyone can do to make my life different. He's worried about providing for us all. Still two more daughters to marry. Can't you see how it's very hard for me too?" She would weep then. Filled with guilt and fear I wept with her. Perhaps father would find me a cruel husband because I was always so obstinate. I admired my mother's quiet courage but I doubted my ability to withstand a veiled semi-death like hers.

  I often dreamed of a small thatched bungalow with a beautiful garden, even though I had never seen one like it. I was alone and happy there. When the sun was hottest I liked to cool my feet in a shallow twisty stream that fed my land. My land. It could only be a dream, a retreat, but I loved it. Life there was satisfying. I bedecked myself with garlands of crystals whose mysterious depths came to life in the sun. I loved to gaze at them and finger them lazily, bemused by the wedding patterns I had painted on my hands and feet. I would spend many hours chalking colourful pictures of the bridegroom I awaited calmly and patiently. There was no hurry, no rush and he was always kind and smiling when he arrived.

  Some nights I would toss and turn. The little stream had dried up. The ground was scorched and covered with spiky stubble. I was parched and sad. Gathering grey clouds cast a gloom. I stood on a hill above my bungalow looking up to the withholding sky. My wedding clothes had turned grey and all my finery and decorations smudged and colourless. Moving up the hill was an angry mob. At the head was a huge man, my bridegroom. Everyone was shouting and waving sticks. They were coming to punish me. I didn't know why they were so furious. I trembled.

  Where could I hide? My bridegroom waved a scythe menacingly at me. In the crook of his other arm I could now see a screaming, naked baby girl. I was gulping air desperate to stop him killing us both but I could not move. I called out, "I am sorry. I am sorry. Please stop."

  When I woke up in the dark mummy would be stroking my head to soothe me. The next day father was calmer. Surely, my pleading in my sleep for forgiveness satisfied him a little? If I was particularly worried about mummy I would plead all kinds of submissiveness in my "sleep". It was a very small kind of power but it was mine and it worked.

  Eventually, the only thing I looked forward to was the mill. The work was exacting. Patap, the mill owner's son, supervised our work. He was quiet, intense but kind. He was also clever. He could do all the jobs we did and he earned our loyalty with his gentleness.

  "What is the matter, Manasa?" He asked me one day. "You are ill? Perhaps that monthly inconvenience troubles you?" He grinned at my blush. Then gliding away from this amazing boldness added with the warmest smile, "I have missed your sweet singing!" Confused by this strange intimacy, which felt curiously good, I could not imagine my father or grandfather speaking to me in such a way, the courage to reply failed me.

  Patap gave me little breaks, brought me water to drink or a little fruit to eat. He was thoughtful for the other women too. His warm smile cheered me. This young man, who was not afraid of work and who appreciated women, impressed me.

  I remember, one morning I twisted an ankle whilst moving a large bundle of cloth. "You must sit here on this stool until you feel better." He insisted with a bold grin. He came frequently to see how I was. I began to look for his attentions.

  It was my duty to stay behind to check all the work and machines at the end of the day. When I had finished, he insisted, as always, on driving me close to home in his little truck, yet not close enough to be seen by the village. One time we stopped by a shrine. He reached over and took my hand. I was nervous and sat staring like our statue of Lakshmi at home.

  "Look, Manasa, a holy place." As though he had carefully prepared his speech he sat very straight and tall, "The peepul and banyan tree are entwined. You and I shall be like that. You are beautiful and I shall marry you." He turned to look directly at me but shocked dumb I averted my eyes. I could not stop my cheeks burning under his gaze, "Your father will be proud of such a marriage. Our children will have a good future."

  His words stirred a strange excitement in me. How should I reply without jeopardising this magnificent offer? I must not let my lack of courage spoil my chance. "Could your family accept a hard-working woman's dowry, Patap?" My voice was low and shaky. Silently I pleaded with him to say the impossible yes.

  "Dowry is illegal," he snapped. "We are a modern, respectable, family. Besides, I am my father's favourite son." A confident warmth seeped into his words "He will give me what I ask for." I glanced at him briefly then lowered my eyes. He would have guessed at my shyness. "So, no problem," he concluded, "we shall be engaged!"

  "Engaged," I affirmed with joyful wonder.

  I remember little of the next few days. I was not sure what was real and what was fantasy. I did not dare to mention it to my family. I just waited in turmoil for Patap to speak to his father. I trusted him.

  A couple of months into this extraordinary wonderment father told us he had some good news. At last, Patap had spoken! We scrambled to squat expectantly on our squares of woven matting, except for the grandparents who sat on our two wooden stalls. With a twisted grin father made his announcement. "Kajal is to be married!" He turned his face to me with a smirk. I sho
uld be married first. He was enjoying my humiliation. I refused to care. My news, when it did come, would amaze them all and would repay anything he could throw at me now. He continued, "She will marry Patap, the miller's son."

  I could hear blood gushing in torrents through my ears. I felt light-headed. One thing I knew, father was sober. There was no mistake about that. I became aware of everyone clapping and of their gasps of delight and disbelief at Kajal's good fortune. Only I was silent. Shaken. Mummy could not look at me. Why was she accepting this unfairness? Why was he allowed all this power when we worked harder than he ever did and for so much less?

  "I asked for you but their family's youngest son must marry a youngest daughter. The astrologer has given day. Manasa, you will have turn to marry. Your good, special work persuaded them to choose Kajal." Cleverly he ground home the insult. The grandparents turned and smiled pityingly at me. I felt my bitterness and resentment rise at his attempt to buy me with false praise as he had done so many times before. Did he believe I was without a brain? "You work now two hours extra each evening as part of dowry for your sister. I've found good terms." He had won. There was no escaping this devastating double blow. How could Patap have been so wrong about his family not wanting a dowry? Had he lied to make me feel less inferior? What did that matter now? Our marriage would never take place.