The Crooked Line

THE FIRST PHASE

1

To begin with, her birth was ill–timed. Bari Apa, whose friend Salma was to be married soon, was working briskly on a crêpe dupatta, stitching gold lace to its borders. Amma, who regarded herself as a youthful maiden despite the fact that she had given birth to so many children, was scrubbing off dead skin from her heels with a pumice stone. Suddenly, dark clouds rolled in, and in the ensuing commotion the longstanding desire to send for an English midwife came to naught, and ‘she’ appeared. The minute she arrived into the world she let out such a thunderous howl . . . God help us!

Another addition after nine children why, it was as if the hands on the clock had moved to ten. Who had time for weddings now? Orders were to heat water for the baby sister’s bath, and, shedding tears that were steamier than boiling water, and cursing at the same time, Bari Apa put water on the stove to boil. As if to mock her, some of the scalding water spilled over from the pot and seared her hand.

‘May God curse this baby sister! Why won’t Amma’s womb close up now?’

This was the limit! A sister, a brother, then another sister and brother it seemed that beggars had found a way to their house and now there was no keeping them out. Were there not enough mouths already? Why all these newcomers? Coming in like cats and dogs, ever hungry, they had depleted the grain reserves, milk had become scarce even though there were two cows in the house, and still the bellies of these newcomers remained empty.

This was all Abba’s fault. Amma was never given the opportunity to breast–feed her children. As soon as a baby arrived, the wet–nurse from Agra was sent for to nurse the infant and sit next to Amma’s bed all day.

The house was more like an animal shed than a house. Why, food was always prepared in excessively large quantities, and as for drink, gallons of that too, and if you wanted to sleep, you would find every corner of the house deluged with life, ready to teem over!

And this last baby, with her diminutive nose, eyes tiny like tamarind seeds but keener than those of an eagle, when this little creature who had the face of a mouse smiled, Bari Apa and Manjhu both felt she was sneering at them. Surely she knew that the two sisters would wait on her like slaves. Amma must be worried too. All these girls will fortune smile on them? True, the family had money, but it wasn’t fashionable to parade the girls before people; how long could they be kept under lock and key? What was going to happen?

Shaman’s navel didn’t get infected, nor was she ever sick, and with each passing day she became healthier and plumper. The first two or three babies had been pampered and coddled, but now even Bari Apa had had her fill and was exhausted. However, the wet–nurse was still around, so Shaman was well taken care of.

Unna, the wet–nurse, was very young, sixteen or seventeen perhaps. Sometimes at night Unna continued to sleep while Shaman lay wrapped in soiled nappies. It wasn’t easy to awaken Unna, but she certainly had plenty of milk to offer. and when Unna’s lover hitched Shaman on his shoulders and ran around pretending to be a horse, Shaman, forgetting all her sorrows, chortled and giggled. Unknown to other members of the household, the three of them often retreated to the barn where the hay for the cows was stored. Here Unna rolled on the hay and her lover tumbled after her while Shaman crawled around the two of them, mirthfully clapping her hands. But seeing him fight with Unna distressed her and she began whimpering. She hated quarrels. Whenever she saw two dogs tangled in a ferocious tussle, her whole body trembled fearfully and she screamed and screamed until the dogs, alarmed by her shrieks, abandoned their scuffle and made off. No one could touch Unna while Shaman was awake. If Unna’s lover tried to tease her by holding Unna’s hand and saying, ‘She’s mine,’ Shaman immediately let out a sharp cry of protestation.

But she was soon punished for her brazenness. One day, while the three of them rolled around in the hay as usual, she fell asleep and was soon lost in a world of innocent dreams. In front of her, behind her, all around her she saw Unnas and more Unnas; mad with joy, she leapt eagerly from one lap to the next. Then, suddenly, all the Unnas disappeared. Her spirits drooped and, sniffing around like a hungry bitch, she began looking for Unna. Finally she found her. On a pile of thatching grass, fleshy and ripe like a mango, was her soft, warm Unna. She cooed and burrowed herself into the rounded softness, her lips moving, the veins in her throat throbbing as if she were gulping down great quantities of milk. She gagged. And when she reached out her chubby hands a monster pushed her away and, grabbing Unna, wrestled her down. She screeched fiercely as though she had been bitten by snakes, her childish eyes dazed by the revolting scene before her. Hearing her scream and howl, the water–carrier, the sweeper and the cook made a hurried dash to the shed, and the offenders were apprehended.

Shaman stared at Unna’s face in consternation, her eyes questioning, ‘You’re not hurt, are you? I saved you, didn’t I?’ But Unna didn’t seem to be in a good mood and, instead of displaying amusement at her pranks, she kept pushing her away roughly. Shaman used all the innocent and feeble tricks she knew to charm her, but she couldn’t make her laugh. If only there was some way she could ask Unna why she was annoyed with her, but today Unna refused to comprehend what was in her eyes.

That same night Unna was sent back to Agra by train. Shaman felt as if she had been orphaned. For many days and nights she gazed about her with a wide–eyed, fixed stare, sobbing and moaning. Everyone gathered at her bedside, but she would not be pacified. How was she going to find the Unna whose soft, warm bosom provided the comfort she had experienced in her mother’s womb? She went into a fit as soon as she was given the bottle. How could this horrible, glass bottle compare to the soft–complexioned, cuddly Unna? But the burning intensity of her hunger eventually forced her to accept the worst and, when Manjhu took her in her lap, gave her the bottle and a few drops of milk slunk down her throat, she became calm. But every now and then she would suddenly reject the bottle and cling to Manjhu, snuggling in her clothes like a puppy, looking for her Unna. Alarmed by her behaviour, Manjhu would put her down on the bed, and complain to Bari Apa that Shaman had taken to tickling her in a most unbecoming manner.

Experience proved to be an effective teacher and, just as cows and buffaloes mechanically chew cud, Shaman too gulped milk down, but her hands continued to wander. Gripping the smooth, slippery surface of the bottle with her hands, she often clasped it to her breast and sometimes, while she was drinking from the bottle, she thought she saw Unna’s eyes, her nose, her tiny nose–ring, her ear–bobs; her heart welled up and, taking her mouth away from the teat, she would begin to cry in a mournful voice. But within minutes, compelled to vigilance by hunger, she would stop crying.

Manjhu took charge of her after Unna’s departure. Who knows why she felt affection for her? Perhaps she first took pity on her when she burrowed her face in her clothes looking for Unna. When she finished drinking from the bottle, Manjhu clasped her to her breast and stretched out in bed with her. If Manjhu wasn’t beside her she couldn’t sleep; lying next to her, she felt the same warmth she had known in Unna’s lap, and with her small fingers she stroked Manjhu’s neck and her cheeks, something Manjhu didn’t seem to mind at all.

Then one day, while Manjhu was bathing, Shaman walked in without any warning. ‘Apa, do you hear me, get her out of here!’ Manjhu screamed.

‘I say, what does she understand, she’s just a little thing.’

But Shaman stared at Manjhu so strangely she made her blush. As if in a daze, she continued staring at her. ‘Get out, do you hear!’ Manjhu scolded her, picking up a ladle–jug to cover herself.

But she seemed to be drawn to Manjhu as if led by a magnetic force. Panicking, Manjhu chided her again and, when she continued to advance, her eyes twinkling and lit with a meaningful expression as she smiled, Manjhu doused her with a handful of water.

Being smacked with water proved to be unnerving; Shaman began to whimper and quickly crawled out of the bathroom. That day she didn’t drink her milk properly, nor did she smile or chatter; she stared at Manjhu with a wounded expression in her eyes, as if Manjhu had done her great harm, and again and again she broke into tears.

When Manjhu got into bed with her that night and pulled the quilt over them, she gazed at Manjhu silently.

‘What is it?’ Manjhu asked lovingly, and Shaman smiled sadly. Slowly she raised her hand and touched Manjhu’s neck, her eyes fixed on the small mole glistening on Manjhu’s left cheek.

‘Now don’t be naughty.’ Manjhu took her wandering hand and patted it down. Shaman started sobbing and gave Manjhu such a pleading look that her heart softened and, placing her hand back on her neck, she held her close and fell asleep.

Manjhu stitched beautiful frocks and hats for Shaman. She bathed her frequently, applied missi to her teeth and kohl to her eyes, and Shaman submitted to everything without a word of protest. But woe to anyone else who dared touch her; if Manjhu accidentally got some soap in her eyes she reacted with only a whimper. Manjhu was Manjhu, after all.

But as Shaman grew, older she began to find Manjhu’s cleaning routine tiresome. Manjhu dressed her up, gave strict orders that she was not to allow one hair to get out of place or else she’d be dead, but she was powerless; she had no control over her restless legs which longed to run about. For a little while she remained still. Then, as soon as Manjhu’s back was turned, she slipped out of the house, and reappeared in the evening looking like a mad bitch who had just finished tossing about in an earthen platter filled with sludge. The once billowing frock resembled a dead rat’s skin, its surface decorated with a shower of fine dust; her hair, eyes and face would be blanketed with a thick layer of dust, her nostrils so densely packed with snot and muck they reminded one of doors walled in with cement. Plastered over everything was a covering comprised of secretions and seeds from mangoes, guavas, berries, or whatever fruit happened to be in season. To crown it all, she emitted an odour that one could only associate with a plague–ridden rat.

The first thing Manjhu did was to brush off as much dust as she could with smacks, pummels and punches while Shaman continued to bray like a calf. The sand caught between her eyelashes was washed out with her tears, while the salt in the tears helped unclog her nose with the swiftness of a blocked drain being unplugged with acid. Then, to the accompaniment of thunderous thwacks and slaps, she was given a bath. Dressed again in a clean frock, she became acutely aware of her mistake and, begging forgiveness for her past sins, she repented and made a promise to stay on the straight and narrow path, avowing never to go near mud and sludge, promising she would never again roll in the dirt. At that moment her face shone with the mystical light that radiates on the face of an ascetic who has renounced the material world and his own body with it. Her eyes, ordinarily sharp as an eagle’s, suddenly became timid like a pigeon’s eyes and drooped sleepily.

But times were bad. The next day, exactly at the same moment, in the same deplorable condition, glimmering in a cloud of starry dust, she walked in like an inebriated drunkard. Those who saw her were confounded and, when the dust was shaken from her, the earth and the sky shuddered.

Once again she repented, took an oath . . . but only to forget it all. Satan tempted her. No sooner did she appear all dressed up and clean than everything around her seemed poised to attack her spotless clothes. The red mud in the fields and the whispering sand on the edge of the pond tantalised her, the moist, fragrant grass in the stables pursued her with open arms, the dirty, foul–smelling chicken coop drew her to itself as if it were a bride’s flowery bed. She forgot everything. The pledge she had made repeatedly with her conscience, her promise to Manjhu and, most importantly, her pride which was being crushed by these daily blows. Her struggle to turn away from these evil splendours left her exhausted. They continued to beckon her and finally, like a kite cut off from its cord, she fell into the pit of sin, an act for which she paid with daily suffering and pain.

In a short while she was covered with spittle and blood again. Round silky balls of mud, tiny mounds of sand, brown like fried farina, a small broom constructed from the hay in the stables, feathers that had fallen off from a hen’s tail, all this and Peena this was her world. And Peena, her closest friend, the sweeper’s daughter: next to Manjhu, Peena was everything to her. The two girls went behind the cow’s stall and strolled with their arms wrapped around each other. Sometimes they tossed about in the sand like rolling pins. Then they pitched fistfuls of sand as if it was water they were scooping up in their hands, until finally the two of them began to resemble grotesque mud statues. Sand penetrated their very beings, but still they had not had enough of sand and mud. Making spoons out of dried leaves, they scooped up sand and swallowed mouthfuls; they devoured it as if it were delicious caudle. Like pregnant women, they relished the aroma of mud. Who can say what sons were being nurtured in their swollen, melon–shaped bellies?

In time they began to resemble women who are pregnant. Their smooth, ruddy complexions grew sallow and a white mould spread over their tongues. Yellowish streaks appeared in their eyes, and Peena’s waistband became so tight it finally stayed open in the front. They became lethargic, a foul taste lingered permanently in their mouths. The use of nails and teeth in the course of a fight became more frequent, and they constantly whined, as if they were a pair of witches imprisoned in a cage. That was why she was given the name ‘witch’.

When everyone teased her by calling her ‘witch’, she rolled her eyes like a witch and growled. Like a cat she attacked her enemy, scratching and drawing blood with her nails, and, when she bit somebody, her teeth clamped together forcefully on her enemy’s flesh.

Apparently the son growing in her belly was drawing her to the aroma of mud. The elders sprinkled salt on her tongue, rubbed her tongue with quinine, but no one could come up with a punishment that would end her craving for mud. ‘Burn the witch’s tongue!’ someone suggested. ‘Prick her tongue with needles, the wretch!’ came more advice from another quarter. But there was no treatment that could cure what ailed her. When Manjhu caught her nibbling on clay, she slapped her until her lips bled, but she chewed on charcoal if she couldn’t find any clay, or scraped lime from the walls with her nails and ingested that instead.

One day, while she and Peena squatted on the toilets busy chatting and defecating at the same time, the son she had been nourishing in her belly appeared. With a heart–rending scream she bolted from there and went straight to Manjhu.

‘A snake!’ She hid between Manjhu’s legs. Manjhu pushed her away. After an investigation by the doctor it was revealed that she had roundworms in her stomach. But she would not believe what the doctor said. All night she was screaming, ‘Snake!’ Snake!’ She felt there were innumerable clusters of snakes looping about in her stomach, the way they do in a snake–charmer’s basket, creating havoc inside her, slithering after each other, thousands of them, playing hide–and–seek.

That was the day she stopped meeting Peena to gulp down sand in spoons shaped out of dried leaves. She gazed longingly at the sand particles until suddenly they turned into tiny snakes, their eyes rotating as they leapt towards her. She would scoop up some sand in her fist and hold it lovingly against her stomach. She wished she could take all of the world’s mud and collect it under her tongue, mix it with her spittle and then let the viscous curds glide down her throat. But just then the snake in her stomach began stretching and, behaving like a lunatic, she hurled fistfuls of sand in the air, rolled on the ground and rubbed her cheeks on the cool mud. Her body arched like a fishing rod and she was consumed with the desire to pierce her way into the bowels of the earth. When her frenzy subsided somewhat, she banged her head slowly on the ground.

‘Open the door,’ her forehead pleaded, but the earth remained stubbornly still. Why did she love the earth so much? She wanted to disappear into its bowels. Whenever someone caught her the sand was immediately dusted off, but as soon as she had the opportunity she again tried to immerse herself in sand and mud.

‘May you sleep in dust! No matter how many times you bathe her, she’s always filthy!’ Manjhu cursed and scolded her and she thought if only someone knew that to sleep in dust was not a curse as far as she was concerned, it was a benediction. This was what she desired the most.

2

Girls generally nurse a desire to get married, but of late Shaman had been experiencing a desire to hit people. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she was beset with this urge to hit someone, to knock and crush somebody with her chubby fists. She would be sitting quietly, contemplative, her eyes fixed on the tail of the hen pecking at grain in the veranda, fixed on the minuscule bead of dropping stuck to the end of a feather and quivering with every movement of the hen’s body, or she would be watching the little mouse which had peeped apprehensively from behind the trunk three times already since this morning, or she might be staring at something else, when suddenly she would be seized with a desire to strike somebody. Who was brave enough in her family to subdue her? Didn’t Manjhu smack her brazenly on her back whenever she saw fit? Shaman yearned to deliver a solid blow to Manjhu’s strong back and, gripped by this desire, she would soon be lost in a world of dreams in which she was slapping Manjhu, taking off her clothes, giving her a bath. At this time a vague memory of her long-lost Unna surfaced from somewhere, making her sad and then so angry that in her reverie she deposited large amounts of gram flour on Manjhu’s hair and rubbed it in violently, then scrubbed Manjhu’s elbows and heels vigorously with a pumice stone, and finally, taking a coarsely woven towel, rubbed her down until her skin began to peel and her nose turned red like a beet. Then she dressed Manjhu in a beautiful frock and said:

‘If you move from here I’ll break your legs!’

But on her return from the world of dreams, Shaman realised there was nothing there. Both her hands lay stonily in her lap, the muscles in her neck painfully stiff. Taking a long, vindictive breath, she stiffened her whole body and, as if gone mad, suddenly began punching the pillows wildly. When she had had her fill and was spent, she relaxed her body, relieved, satisfied.

One day she felt the urge to strike her doll. First she gave it a few mild, cautionary slaps, but then she lost control and began pummelling and kicking the doll with her hands and feet. Soon she was shredding it with her teeth and nails, behaving as though she were face to face with a menacing adversary.

Finally the doll was in shreds, the sawdust filling inside its body scattered everywhere, some of it stuck to Shaman’s tongue. She was sated. Sighing in contentment, a little out of breath, she lay down on her bed. For a long time the taste of sawdust stayed on her tongue like stale blood.

But a little later she was overcome by fear; she felt she had actually murdered someone. Terrified, she quickly hid the fragments of the smashed doll under a trunk and ran to Manjhu for comfort. Manjhu was sewing her kurta. Shaman stretched out next to her and reached up a trembling hand to fondle her neck.

Manjhu didn’t only know how to sew frocks; one day she also sent for the alif–bay Reader and stitched all the pages together with her sewing machine. Watching the teeth of the machine go ‘kat, kat’ over the paper, Shaman experienced a somewhat pleasurable, tingling sensation in her teeth; she rubbed a finger over her teeth and felt a strange current streaming through her body.

Once the Reader had been put together, Manjhu took Shaman in her lap.

‘Today you’ll start reading, all right?’

‘All right,’ Shaman said excitedly. This was the second book to which she was going to be introduced. The first book had been the one Manjhu liked so much that she spanked Shaman if she happened to pester her while she was reading it. Actually, any interesting items related to reading and writing were kept out of Shaman’s reach. But this book was no good for hitting or smacking. She preferred the newspaper which Abba folded into the shape of a boat and lovingly tapped her head with.

‘Let me see, let me see, Manjhubi!’ She snatched the book from Manjhu, rolled it into a cylinder and hurled it at Manjhu’s chest.

‘You fool, you’ve bent the book all out of shape,’ Manjhu scolded, picking up the Reader. ‘Look, this is alif, alif.’

‘Where?’ Shaman sounded incredulous.

‘Here . . . alif for anar.’

‘What? Alif isn’t anar, anar is in a firecracker . . . phrr, phrrr, right?’

‘Silly! Look here, this is alif, alif for anar . . . say alif.’

‘Say alif.’

‘No, this is how you say it. . . alif!’

‘I don’t want to say it, first tell me what is this . . . this, this.’

‘This is jim.’

‘And this?’

‘This is suad and this is zuad.’

‘No, no, no . . . this isn’t suad, zuad, these are teapots.’

‘You silly girl, look, here’s alif, say alif for anar.’

‘Say.’ She stared foolishly at Manjhu’s face.

‘Listen to me, fool, say alif!’ Manjhu was losing her patience.

‘Say alif.’

‘You witch!’ Manjhu pushed her out of her lap and walked off in the direction of the veranda.

Shaman picked up the Reader. A pig, just a pig, the book was, with crooked black pictures and the jim that looked like the face of the female sweeper! She didn’t like anything in it, not even suad, zuad and Oh God! alif for anar? Hunh! How could that be? This round, pitcher–shaped anar, with no red shooting sparks, nothing? So useless! Well, she’ll read alif perhaps, but she’ll die before she reads jim. What was there to lose? She examined the book closely to distract herself and her eyes fell on the marks made by the sewing machine. Her teeth began to tingle again. She tugged at the piece of thread at one end of the seam and, like sutures on a wound, the stitches unravelled neatly all the way to the end of the seam. It felt good, as if she were hastily skipping down a staircase. Soon the pages were scattered all over the place.

Oh dear! Manjhu was sure to be angry at this, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if she also spanked her. With great speed Shaman collected all the pages and, placing them under the needle in the sewing machine, she began turning the handle. ‘Kat, kat, kat, kat . . .’ This way and that she led the paper, expertly in her opinion, until the Reader resembled a piece of quilting. That was just as well. Suad and zuad, kettle–shaped and silly, were gone and jim too was obliterated.

But when Manjhu saw the condition the Reader was in, she spanked Shaman harder than ever before and boxed her ears. For some time Shaman sat by herself sobbing tearlessly. It would not do for her to shed tears every time she was beaten; her eyes would have long been washed out, and if she had wept with every slap and blow she received, she would have been finished by now even if she had the seven seas at her disposal. For this reason she now cried only with her throat. Her mind remained unaffected and calm.

Much to her chagrin, the book became a chronic nuisance she could not get rid of. With much forbearance she read alif, but jim, and eventually suad and zuad, the wretches, she had to read those as well. However, what truly surprised her was the discovery that,

’Tis only the beginning of love, why cry so?

Wait and see what next awaits you.

Here is what happened. She asked Manjhu one day, ‘Manjhubi, when the book is finished, will there be sweets for everyone?’

‘Yes, and then we’ll start with the next book.’

‘Next? Again?’

‘And then you will be able to read the kind of thick, heavy books Bare Bhaya reads,’ Manjhu explained quite innocently. How naively she had introduced Shaman to the demons of tomorrow.

Quietly Shaman sat, her hands folded in her lap, feeling as if a large, monstrous book was falling periodically on her head with the force of a millstone, a book in which there were things more contemptible and wearisome than ‘suad, zuad.’

The days spent in a large, busy household, in the company of so many brothers and sisters, were soon lost in the darkness of the past, like minuscule pebbles rolled about and caught between the teeth of a winnowing fan. Like kites flying high, swishing and rustling, life raced on.

3

So what if Manjhubi hit her? She cuddled her too, didn’t she? After a good beating she put her to sleep and warmed all her wounds with the heat of her bosom. However, Shaman’s tongue had now loosened. When Manjhu spanked her she didn’t hesitate to call her all the names she had picked up from the servants.

‘May she die, Allah, may Manjhubi die!’

On hearing Shaman swear at her dearest daughter, Amma became furious. ‘I’ll dig a hole and bury you alive in it, you wretch, if you swear at my child!’

Of course, Shaman wasn’t Amma’s child; after the departure of her wicked Unna, Manjhu had taken the place of her mother.

‘Here’s what you say: Allah, may Manjhu get married soon, may Manjhubi get married soon.’

This form of swearing seemed to have a special effect. First, Manjhu appeared to get upset and whacked her vigorously, but then her hands would become sluggish and she would break into a bashful smile.

Who knows what the inauspicious time was when that prayer had been uttered, because it was immediately heard. There was such confusion, Shaman couldn’t understand what was going on. The house was turned upside-down. Manjhu was corralled into a room and much commotion followed. Everywhere there was an abundance of all manner of exotic sweetmeats and resplendent, satiny clothes. The house was transformed into a veritable bazaar. Attired in red and green clothes, the women darted in all directions, and ‘dhooan! dhoon!’ sounded the trumpets and the drums. When the women scrambled to get a glimpse of Manjhu’s groom, Shaman began whining; someone picked her up and tried to show her the bridegroom. But she couldn’t see. ‘That’s a man, that’s not a bridegroom,’ she screamed, and threw a tantrum. No one made an attempt to show her the bridegroom after that, and shortly, tired and cranky, she nuzzled up to Manjhu, who was bathed in fragrance, and fell asleep.

At the time of the ceremonies people tried to get her to place a dab of henna on the bridegroom’s hand, but she protested violently again, proclaiming that in the first place this was an ordinary man and no bridegroom, and secondly, men don’t wear henna. As a result of this show of behaviour she was cursed, someone called her an imbecile, and she was pushed away.

Manjhu was sitting dressed up as a bride, so Shaman rambled all over the place like an ox without a nose–string. First she took some of the sugar that had come from the groom’s side and mixed it with the water in the water containers in the bathroom, leaving the ladies aghast when they washed themselves. Then she turned her attention to the kitchen and deposited salt, coals and ashes into the cooking pots. The cooks were engaged elsewhere. She began counting the plates of kheer which, studded with silver paper and pistachio slivers, were arranged like embroidered patterns on a carpet and looked so appealing. Suddenly, she was seized with the desire to step into the spaces between the plates. She put a foot down gingerly . . . one, two . . . three. Someone spotted her. As she tried to flee from there, she fell with a splash and was soon covered from top to toe in the mush of kheer.

Somebody ventured to give her a bath, but she was used to being bathed only by Manjhu. Irritated by the slow manner in which she was being bathed, she flew into a rage and began splashing water in all directions. Later, while the maidservant was searching for the wooden stick with which to string Shaman’s waistband, she wrapped a towel around herself, came out of the bathroom and began wandering from room to room. Manjhubi’s heavily embroidered clothes had been arranged for display in one of the rooms. Shaman went in, removed the coloured sequins from the shirts and, using her saliva, affixed the sequins to her forehead; pulling out gold and silver bands, she coiled them into spiralling loops; opening up the carefully folded dupattas, she scattered them all around her. Then her eyes fell on the gold-filigreed cholis with their golden strings. How she had longed to wear one of these cholis! But she never even got to see them. As if it were a foul word to be uttered only in secret, Amma secluded herself in the bathroom to put hers on, and the hamper containing the unwashed clothes was too deep for Shaman to reach into. She swiftly put her arms through whatever holes she could find, tightened the cords around her neck and, drawing out a weighty crêpe dupatta, she draped it over her head. And the sight of the brocade pyjamas made her heart convulse with longing. She was sick of wearing nothing but underpants all these years. With some effort she managed to squeeze her legs into the beautiful flowered pyjamas. Afterwards, she pulled the dupatta down over her face and, raising her hand to her forehead, began offering salaams to imaginary guests.

‘May you live long, daughter, may you be blessed with sons and grandsons,’ she heard the guests say to her. Resting her chin on the palm of her hand, she assumed the bearing of a housewife.

‘Arree, Rasulan, O Rasulan, where have you gone off to, wretch! Go and quickly tell Ali Bukhsh not to get any provisions . . . yes, instead, tell him he should get mung daal, and yes, roasted peanuts, and for Shamanbi some sugar candy.’ She scolded the imaginary ayah. While she was talking she thought, ‘Oh, the baby is asleep in my lap!’ Why, he was awake. She shook her knees pretending to rock the baby.

‘No, no, my precious, my dearest . . . are you hungry? Do you want milk? Mmmmm . . .’ She lifted her shirt front, but in that instant her attention was drawn to a mosquito bite and, forgetting the baby and everything else, she lowered her head to examine the bruise on her knee.

‘The wretch bit me, may he die!’ She slapped her knee . . . and soon she was assailed by the desire to pound something. Swiftly and without restraint, she proceeded to pummel violently with her hands the items displayed as part of the dowry. In a short time all was clutter and confusion. People came and dragged her out of the room and, since no one had the time to find her clothes and dress her, she roamed around all evening wrapped in nothing but a towel.

But she did learn a useful lesson; the towel was much more comfortable and practical than pyjamas. For one thing, you didn’t have to have the waistband loosened every now and then, and in the second place, seeing her attired in this unusual fashion, the other children were consumed by the fire of envy; some waited for her towel to slip so they could see her naked, but she warded them off by throwing her shoes at them. She was thoroughly enjoying this game.

Wherever Shaman went she was greeted with reproach and castigation; her sisters slapped her and turned her away, but no one bothered to unlock the suitcase and get out her clothes. Later that night, when the time came for the bridegroom’s anchal or some other important ceremony like that, a search began and finally she was caught playing a strange game in the veranda in the back of the house, and was punished.

The bridegroom arrived. A clamour followed. Somebody gave Shaman the bridegroom’s shoe to hide. For a long time she played with the shoe and then she fell asleep. Late at night, when the bridegroom was leaving, a hue and cry rose for the missing shoe. Frightened on being suddenly awakened, she clung to the person who was shaking her and began screaming.

‘My money . . . my money!’

It is said the bridegroom had to leave in his bare feet. The next morning the shoe was discovered floating in the drinking water like a swollen corpse. The in–laws had drunk water from this pitcher all evening. An effort was made to find out why she had thrown the shoe in the water pitcher, but she couldn’t tell anyone anything.

‘Shoe? Water pitcher?’ she kept asking, but when she saw the swollen shoe, her heart tickled with amusement and she became weak with laughter.

4

When the moment of Manjhu’s departure arrived, Shaman didn’t cry at all; instead, she quietly sneaked into the palanquin. Manjhu kept asking to see her before she left, but she was nowhere to be found. When the bride and her female companions entered the palanquin, the stoutest of the women with Manjhu landed in Shaman’s lap. Shaman would have screamed but, sensing the need for silence, she controlled herself and dug her teeth into the fat woman’s buttocks. A terrible disturbance followed. The palanquin almost came apart. Shaman was caught and forcibly hauled out of it. She thrashed her legs, cursed heavily, but no one paid any attention to her.

Manjhubi left. It was as if someone in the family had died. Everyone went to sleep, but Shaman’s share of sleep seemed to have disappeared. Again and again, she called out Manjhu’s name and wept, her throat ached from constant sobbing, her voice weakened, but who was going to listen to her?

‘Manjhubi . . . Manjhubi . . . ohhh Manjhubi!’ All night she wailed. The guests and the hosts, exhausted after the day’s events, slept oblivious to the world, and Shaman roamed all over the house alone.

She was in trouble after Manjhu’s departure. For many days no one remembered if she was in the house or not, or that she needed to be bathed or have a change of clothing. When the stench emitting from her became unbearable, people began avoiding her as if she were a fetid gutter. Tormented by grime and itchiness, she would wake up crying at night, while during the day she skulked about in the corners of the house. This was when Amma thought she should be given a bath.

Her hair had become matted, ribbons of dirt rolled off her body. The ayah was powerless. When she tried to bathe her. Shaman struck her and then, pushing, ran out into the veranda naked. The race between them continued a long time, with Shaman in the front and the ayah in pursuit of her. Finally, Shaman slipped near the gutter and fell. The ayah caught her and, bringing her back to the bathroom, proceeded to finish giving her a bath. But only Shaman knew what kind of a bath that was. Her tousled hair remained a stringy mass of dirt and filth; the grime on her skin swelled when water was poured over her, and a towel got rid of the moisture. The actual crust of dirt wasn’t touched at all, and she slipped into her clothes. Well, following this, whenever she was to be bathed, Amma sat nearby with an enormous switch and she was washed as if she were a corpse; a mild beating wasn’t enough to keep her down.

During the day she forgot Manjhu, but at night she cried for her. Finally, in exasperation, Amma said to the old ayah, ‘Why don’t you sleep with the wretch?’ But when Shaman woke up in the middle of the night and saw the ayah sleeping next to her, she pulled the woman’s hair and kicked her off the bed. Sleeping alone, she chewed on her palms and, when everyone was asleep, she awoke, her hands seeking Manjhu’s neck. She longed to put her hands around Manjhu’s neck just once and then, she told herself, she would die rather than let go. Lying in bed, Shaman would curse Manjhu’s greedy, vile husband who had pounced on her like a vulture and snatched her away. And perhaps God heard the curse meant for Manjhu’s ignoble husband because one day a telegram arrived and lamentation and sorrow filled the house.

‘Your brother–in–law is dead, why don’t you cry?’ The tehsildar’s daughter asked her.

‘Who? Manjhu’s groom?’ she asked with incredulous joy.

‘No, Bari Apa’s husband.’

Who cared about Bari Apa’s husband! He was such an unpleasant man. Last time when a bundle of sugar cane came in from the village, he sent every last bit to Amma and wouldn’t let Shaman touch even one little piece. Because everyone thought she would be as upset as the others at the news, she, along with the rest of the children, was sent to the tehsildar’s house where she got to eat fried, sugary eggs.

‘When Manjhubi’s husband dies then we’ll get even more delicious eggs,’ she thought happily, trying to retain the taste of the eggs in her mouth.

Bari Apa returned to live at her mother’s house after she was widowed. Her two children also came with her. No one was allowed to touch them. Just as a female pigeon viciously attacks the hand that creeps into her nest, so did Bari Apa leap fiercely, ready for attack, if someone touched her children.

When, after a long period of waiting, Manjhu came for a visit, Shaman was beside herself with anger. She thought that just as without Manjhu she had lost her senses, Manjhu too would return weeping for her, her appearance grubby and dirty like that of a rat. But she felt extremely humiliated when she saw Manjhu looking chubbier and healthier than before. What a liar! In her letters to Amma she wrote, ‘I miss my Shaman.’ If she had missed Shaman, her face wouldn’t be glistening. Attired from head to toe in satiny clothes she was, in her ears glittering, tinkling earrings which she deliberately tossed about as she talked, a shining gold bob in her nose which she glanced at sideways every now and then while speaking bashfully, and that transparent silken lace kurta under which the golden choli flashed occasionally like the moon hidden among clouds.

As soon as Manjhu arrived she began embracing everyone, but she didn’t even look in Shaman’s direction. Of course, Shaman had changed so much. All the fine dainty frocks were worn out by now and instead of panties she had taken to wearing badly fitting, unattractive pyjamas. Finally, who knows how, Manjhu thought of her.

‘Where is Shaman?’ she asked, piercing Shaman’s heart with sorrow. Oh, so now Manjhubi couldn’t even recognise her. Who is this watching her constantly for nearly an hour, standing next to the door? Who has tried, several times and unsuccessfully, to get her attention by tugging at her silken dupatta? And who is this standing patiently by the door? If it’s not Shaman, then who is it? But only when she’s had her fill of hugging her mother and older sisters will someone else’s restless heart find peace. Apa’s daughter, Noori, came along and Manjhu took her in her arms right away. But Shaman, was she a witch that no one could see her?

Nevertheless, when Manjhu finally clasped her to her fragrant breast, a thousand springs gushed forth in her heart and, sobbing hysterically, she clung to Manjhu.

‘Lice! Lice! Careful, Manjhu, the wretch has thousands of lice crawling in her hair,’ Bari Apa and Amma both screamed, and Manjhu pushed her away fearfully.

‘She’s dirty, a sweeper’s child,’ Noori murmured and, going up to Manjhu, jumped into her lap.

Manjhu was soon lost in a new surge of prattle and no one noticed that Shaman, after being pushed away, left the room. Finding a pile of dirty laundry, she hid her face in it and burst into tears. Today her heart as well as her mind was wrenched; the soiled, smelly clothes absorbed her tears. No one knows how long Shaman stayed there, crying bitterly. No one thought of her. The children were running about, chewing on the sweets Manjhu had brought with her. Noori was still installed in Manjhu’s lap, playing with her necklace. Manjhu handed her a doll and, taking out another doll, she called Shaman.

‘No, I want both,’ Noori said, squirming. Shaman was not so low as to be tempted by Manjhu’s doll, but when Noori grabbed both dolls, she could not control herself any longer. First,