Sari Caste Read online

  I felt my stomach lurch with revulsion for Patap and Kajal. How could I help it? I was defeated. I knew it was our fathers and not Patap who would have made the final decision. Even so, I felt as though I had been pushed beneath the wheels of a laden bullock cart. All my dreams, all my hopes dashed so crudely. Life was more dry, dusty and endless than before. Only fools had time for dreams.

  The evenings when I would be working for Kajal's dowry would be the true test of my endurance. The only way was not to care. My bad dreams returned. Patap and Kajal were hanging back to back from a huge mango tree. The branches dipped low over a malaria-infested pit of devouring insects. The ripe fruit was just out of reach. A cobra wound its way towards them. They moaned and groaned and twisted as they tried desperately to free themselves. I always woke in a feverish sweat.

  One hot evening I sat working alone at the mill. There was still plenty of light. Patap was never there in the evening. How I wished to spit on him and curse him to rid myself of the memory of his pledge. If only I could punish him for hurting me.

  I had been bent over my loom for some time when I became aware of a light pressure on my shoulder. It was something I seemed to have been waiting for, for a very long time. Something I had not known I was longing for, yet it knew me. It was so gentle I wanted to melt into it and be comforted until I became a soft ball cocooned in its warmth. Gradually, I turned to face Patap. I smiled involuntarily and lowered my head. Indeed, I was still very foolish.

  "My darling, Manasa. I am suffering too. My father is getting old and muddled. It was your father who insisted the marriage was to be with Kajal. My father is a proud man he will never go back on his word now. My heart is breaking for you, Manasa. I cannot marry your sister." He nuzzled into my neck.

  I was confused but open to the warmth I needed so badly. I longed to be cherished. Then he amazed me with soft kisses to my mouth that became more and more intense. He tasted me and melted me. He drew me to him from my stool. I was no longer in charge of myself, nor cared what happened. I had never experienced emotions so sweetly overwhelming. If this brought disgrace on father he deserved it. Strangely, I did not feel disloyal to Kajal. Her marriage to Patap was simply a business arrangement sealed by my toil and sweat.

  He led me to the small storeroom. It was gloomy but cooler than the workroom. I will never forget the smell of yarns and dyes. They conjured up vivid images of scarlet, gold and emerald cloth, sensual and vibrant. He stroked long and sensitively. His delicate touch was an almost painful delight. The musky odours enveloped us in our own delicious passion. This melting into Patap seemed my only chance of happiness.

  We held each other silently afterwards, our nakedness a discovery that we each acknowledged differently. Patap, in openly exploring me with his touch and his smiles whilst I lowered my head and glanced at him, in snatches, securing it all to re-experience, by myself, later. At last we dressed. Patap brewed cha. His brother looked in unexpectedly. It felt good to have defied him. Yet he was unconcerned to see us there unaccompanied. He even praised us both for our hard work and took cha with us! Then I left alone to take my secret home with me.

  It surprised me when Patap came to me again on another evening. I had not imagined this could be repeated. The soft hand on my shoulder instantly evoked erotic images of our first lovemaking. My being took on an urgent vitality that completely swallowed my despair.

  Things changed at home. I could barely speak to Kajal. Her marriage coming first meant she must have been a better person in her past life than I had been in mine. She became aloof, or so it seemed to me. Perhaps she was only apprehensive and excited about her future. I don't know for certain. I began to feel very isolated. I was bound up with Patap yet this would not last and I could not tell anyone about my dilemma. I hated myself.

  Patap said he wanted us to run away together. But where could we go? It was hopeless. He stopped loving me in a physical way then. He was sensible. How could we bear such strain? The pain was destroying me. Whom could I confide in? I felt lost and utterly alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had been arranged that I should finish a very important cloth that was to be dispatched one Sunday evening to Calcutta. It was an intricate pattern of red on white, a wedding sari. Everywhere there were reminders of my misery. I tried recalling Mother's songs but these no longer soothed me. The best I could hope for was to be totally immersed in activity.

  I took my time. It was late morning. The sun was climbing and I felt the cling of the thin cotton I wore. The sultry air was alive with the hum and buzz of insects and birds. I passed the fields where Patap had said we were to be engaged. Young corn and peas clothed the earth in fresh green. It reminded me of a glowing silk, stretched out to be admired. The morning was lazy and my pace lethargic. Why did life seem to offer so much yet give so little?

  I let myself into the mill to saunter idly round the looms. The only sound was the muffled scampering of lizards, insects or the occasional mouse. There was rarely time to sweep properly so these little creatures shared the crumbs we dropped. I felt dreamy. I remembered Patap's warm touch, his strong limbs that excited me as he moved against me drawing me into spirals of intense pleasure that exploded with the ferocity of an angry volcano. Aroused now, I became painfully aware of a contracting void within me.

  I thought I heard a sigh, a full gentle sigh. I knew that sound. He was here, then? Instinctively, I ran to the storeroom and called him. He emerged deeply flushed, pulling a shirt over him. Then a voice behind him murmured, "It's alright, Patap, it's Manasa!" My sister walked out of the shadows pushing her hair under her shawl. "We are soon to be married. There is no harm, Manasa." She was radiant with new discovery.

  Patap slithered back into the shadows, I supposed, to finish dressing. I hated them both and loved them too and hated myself. Of course, he would marry her and of course, I had known that but I had not expected to witness their intimacy in this way. He had known I was coming. I understood then, that he must have wanted this to happen. It was his way to undo his own unhappiness and confusion. We both knew he had soon to take up his responsibilities to Kajal. I turned away, went back to the loom and worked. Somehow I felt free, light, as though I was floating away. This torture would never recur. I pushed it all aside, my mind resolute. From now on I would think of me and only me.

  Life trundled numbly on. The wedding preparations were being organised. Father muttered and groaned about how he was sacrificing so much for his daughters, and what a burden they were. In reality, of course, it was the other way round. We were stretched to full capacity. With vigour, I tried to forget about Patap and me. Having accepted that now he belonged to Kajal, I treated him with indifference but my longing for him clawed at my strength. I could not understand why I could not stop thinking about him and hoping that, at least, he would come and beg for my forgiveness. Each step, each breath, each moment needed an enormous effort to hide my pain. At least Kajal had proved, by her illicit intimacy with Patap, that she was no better than I. In that respect, at least, I felt less of a failure. Life seemed full of tricks. First I had dreaded marriage. Then there was the hope of marrying Patap a man with whom, I was sure, I could be happy. My father had snatched that chance from me. When I thought I had accepted my lot and nothing more could hurt me as much, I found that was about to be disproved too.

  It happened when I felt the child stirring in my belly. The energy in its movements left me no further doubts of its existence. I carried Patap's child back and forth to the mill with me. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do or what would become of me. I had no need to fool my mother by faking menstruation each month. It arrived as always. Nothing was as it should be. The future was now certain to be very bad: a disaster in fact.

  Time piled up slowly against me. Why did nothing happen? No one knew and it still didn't show that I was to have my first child. Surely, with the extra work I was doing and the way I was neglecting myself, I must soon lose the child. It must happen soon. I didn't see
m to have the energy to respond to my situation. I was no longer frightened or stayed awake wondering what I should do. I just didn't care. I grew fatter but not much. I hoped I would lose the child as I had seen other unhappy women lose theirs. As the last month closed in I began to panic again. What should I do? Where could I give birth to the baby, kill it and dispose of it quickly and silently? With me, the child had no future. We would both be outcasts. I decided I would go down to the well with a knife. If it was a girl I would kill her, wrap her in a cloth, and bury her in the field. Then I would wash and go home. A voice, one I did not want to hear, repeated over and over, "murder, murder, murderess." Only by hard work and exhaustion could I shut out that voice.

  Then one evening, at dusk, I felt the infant's strong pulling. I took an old sari and a knife and crept down to the well. From somewhere I found the strength to draw water. I crawled into a field and lay down on a stretch of weeds. The baby came so fast alarm rose in a ferocious scream in my throat but I could not let it escape. I bit hard into the old sari bunched in my fists and forced myself not to cry out. I knew what to do. I had witnessed other births. For a time, I lay grimy and sticky with blood and the milky substance of my baby. I held her, screwed up into a tiny bundle in the old sari, and sobbed. I had not died but neither had she. If only she had been a boy, mother would surely have said he was hers. A boy would have been prized. Why was my life always taking the wrong turn? I no longer cared if I had been bad in a former life. How could the pain I felt change that? Anyway I was sure I would remember the bad that had caused me this amount of suffering. I hoped, at the very least, I had enjoyed my sins. Then this incredible muddle would make some sense to me.

  Another kind of sense began its new and strange stirrings inside me. The infant's desperate cries had stopped when I had put her to my breast. She had suckled and held on with her tiny fingers. Then, when I had wrapped her up she had closed her eyes to sleep. She trusted me. I was her mother. Maybe I could comfort her with my singing as mother had comforted me so often. My tears fell silently. I was too tired to put effort into my wretchedness. How could I kill her? I had just given her life. I had neither the heart nor strength to do it now. I would come back before dawn to do it. That voice began again, "murder" it hammered, "murderer". Voices did not have to deal with reality. What could I do? I could not keep her. My father would throw me out as soon as he knew about her. Now I sounded just like mummy. Confusion overwhelmed me.

  I decided not to think. I cleaned myself up. I hid her, wrapped in the old dusty sari, in a shallow ditch. I pushed a circle of sticks deep into the ground immediately around her, to protect her from harm. Her new womb was a prison open to the chilly night sky. She was female, a disappointment, like me. I hobbled home exhausted. Inside me, as I went, I felt a thread stretch out between my newly born baby and myself. I felt afraid for her. She was at my mercy as I had been at Patap's, at father's. How could I do worse to her than they had done to me? Yet my head kept saying, "There is no future for either of you now. No one will ever marry you knowing that you are defiled. Father will throw you out. You will both die."

  An answer formed gently, tenderly and gave me strength. "I don't have to fear the future any more. I have a daughter. Together we will make our own future."

  I returned to our hut and crawled over to where mummy crouched by the stove. I passed her the knife. "Mummy I'm bleeding."

  Her big terrified eyes stared down at me. "Oh, Manasa! Have you killed someone?"

  I checked the hysterical laugh that caught in my throat. "No I'm the only one who is bleeding."

  "Where?"

  "I gave birth to Patap's daughter. I'm sorry, mummy."

  When I remained silent she searched my face for understanding. Finally she closed her eyes a moment and nodded. She found some rags and helped me staunch the blood loss. Then she fetched a few coins and a few pieces of gold jewellery that belonged to Kajal's dowry and made me take them. I bent over Kajal and kissed her. My tears must have fallen on her face because she momentarily opened her eyes and in the gloom I could just see her sleepy frown. I whispered to her, "I am going to Calcutta. Good bye Kajal." She didn't respond. Her eyes were already closed as she turned away. Mother held me close without a word. She made me wait while she filled a jar with rice and another with water. I will never forget her fearful stare as I backed away keeping her dim form in sight until I was out of the doorway.

  I scrambled back to the ditch. There I yanked up the sticks scattering them liked used wickets until I was able to reach my daughter and hold her tightly, as mother had just held me. Scared and tired but determined that I would never let anyone separate us I began the long walk away from home. I decided to find a sheltered spot to sleep with my baby. The following day we would begin our journey to Calcutta. I had someone to trust now, someone who needed me and loved me. I loved her too. Such feelings for that helpless little being, I hardly knew, filled me with awe. Somehow we must survive. I was no longer foolish but simply and utterly desperate.

  CHAPTER THREE

  People were at first suspicious of me travelling unaccompanied. I rapidly invented a story to capture their sympathy. When I told them my husband had died suddenly on the way but that I must continue, with our baby, to Calcutta, where we were to join his brother's family, they were kind, generally. I accepted everything offered from rides on a bullock cart and a battered lorry to a spluttering motor bike. It was strangely satisfying.

  The journey brought me peace. I no longer had to worry about a future in which I had no say. Everything would be by my choice and my responsibility. That idea excited me. To give my daughter a name was my first thought. As I searched for a lucky name a childish joy swept over me. All by myself, I could decide what to call her. I had always admired the name Lipika, which means alphabet or script. Something I had learnt for a short time at the mission class, outside the village, when I was very little, although by this time I didn't remember much of it. The name Lipika wished a hopeful future of learning on my little daughter.

  I didn't know where or how to find a priest for the naming ceremony nor did I have the means to pay him. Besides, without a family as loving witnesses it made no sense to try. That was my first taste of helpless shame in my new life. However, a daughter needed a name. I must smile through the hardships in the hope of reaching something better than mere pain. My child would not know anything was different from usual. If I didn't become sad and discouraged at the lack of family support and tradition, she need not grow up lonely or sad.

  As I had seen it done by the priest, I blew her name into her ear. She wrinkled her nose and her lips suckled to take it in, Lipika. Her quick response showed me how clever she would be. How could the needs of a tiny dependent person give me such a good feeling? I liked her.

  Slowly, I was getting to know my sweet Lipika. She had a demanding hunger. Much of the time she slept but occasionally, she lay awake silently staring. It made me think of mother. Her sad, sad stare when she knew we must part. So I sang mother's songs to Lipika while she gazed at me and we snuggled up together. As my supply of food dwindled I began to realise what a huge effort keeping us both alive was to be.

  It was late afternoon, when I found myself drifting into Calcutta. The clatter and clamour were a shock to the senses. I had never seen such a vast sprawl of buildings and people crushed so closely together that space was a blasphemy. My old and dreaded fantasy of living like the enslaved captive of an ant colony, returned. Here was that very place. I felt adrift and lonelier than I had all the rest of my journey. The air was filled with the smell of putrid waste peppered with spices, simmering stews, and urine. I had known poverty but not like this. This was a nightmare of destitution. The bustle and confusion overwhelmed me. Everywhere I went there were hoards of beggar-children with pleading eyes, twisted limbs, and outstretched stumps. What had I taken on myself to achieve? If these poor children were left to flounder what chance would Lipika and I stand?

  Foreboding shadowed my e
very step. How would I be received in this strange place? It was desperation more than courage that drove me into my new identity as a widow. I must make myself believe that my husband, his family, and our two older children had died of cholera on the journey. If I could survive the shame of such a lie I might gain some sympathy, at least. I would blend into a quiet corner where I could protect myself from all the other struggling souls.

  Lipika was still sleeping in the old sari wound around me. I was hungry and tired. Families squatted on the pavement where they ate meagre handfuls of rice, dhal or sometimes a few vegetables. The smell of the cooking made me feel faint. My stomach made crazy rumbling and trickling sounds. No one spoke to me except to push me away or complain about my obstructing them. Even in the roads, among the dense traffic, people jostled for space. There was not the smallest stretch of pavement unused.

  Something fluttering as sharp as the edge of a bird's wing caught my eye. I looked up searching for it. There it was, a bright yellow diamond shape, attached to fine thread. It wove and danced through the sky to its own pattern. How wonderful, I thought, to be so free and agile. I continued to dodge round people, following until trees obscured the wonderful kite. To witness such a sign of hope quickened my step.