Twelve Day Widow

Twelve Day Widow

I also like to write short stories from time to time. This one I feel confident enough to share with you. Hope you enjoy them please leave a comment.

The heat was intolerable, the sky full of wispy clouds scuttling hastily towards the east. Mini dust storms whirled in the corners of the open courtyard. The prickly heat of the unrelenting sun added to the heat of Gargi’s body as she held her newborn daughter in her arms. Dhiruba’s shrill voice vibrated around the haveli, screaming orders and cursing the servant, Gulabbai. Gargi’s mother-in-law tainted every other sentence with words heard only in the bazaar, never in a civilised household.

Civilised, that’s what Gargi’s Bapuji had told her, when he’d shown her the photograph of a man six years her senior. He’d also told her she had no choice. No one else would want to marry her after the death of her betrothed, the boy she had grown up with, whose name her lips could never utter again.

Now hot tears filled her eyes and the scene in front of her rippled behind a watery film. What is wrong with me? The marriage was new, she had only known her husband for a short time. Why hasn’t he come home yet?

Sensing Gargi’s unease, the child in her arms wriggled, prompting Gargi to reach down to cover her daughter’s tiny face. 

‘Bhabhi, what are you doing outside?’ Gargi’s diyar – her husband’s younger brother – scrambled out of his room, his schoolbooks held to his chest. Gargi turned to look at the young boy.

Thirty days ago, Dhiruba had caged Gargi in her bedchamber, the same room she’d been brought to a year ago, the same room that had become her prison since the birth of her child. A prison cell hotter than narg, filled with the unbearable smoke of burning coal. There was a tiny antechamber where a small manji sat next to the cradle for her to suckle her child. That morning, Gargi’s breasts had ached from the rush of milk after the restless night, a night spent thinking of the riots, of the black-and-white faded photographs in the newspapers. Today she could not breathe, her heart in turmoil. The fresh news of the riots, of the slaughter that had come with them, had reached her ears last night, when the elders had informed Dhiruba at their weekly meeting to account for the tenanted farmers’ progress. Gargi had stood by her window to eavesdrop, her entire body in knots.

The riots had erupted last year, when rumours of division had begun. That year, she’d lost him, her beloved. The British no longer cared, fewer Indians to manage – that’s what Bapuji had declared, when he had read about the communal violence in the papers. She had devoured the news, looking for updates from Karachi. 

‘It is a thriving city, the traders go as far as Europe and beyond. I will come back richer than your father. Let me go, my love, let me make my fortune, I want your father to be proud of his new jamai.’

The same words echoed back to her, but this time they had come from her husband’s full-lipped mouth instead of her beloved’s. From the man she hardly knew. Then Jaichand Dulabji had left her too, left her alone to scour the newspapers for any snippet of his wellbeing. How she had hoped he would not go, once she’d told him of the flutter in her belly, of the child growing inside her.

Dhiruba had scowled at Gargi’s watering eyes. ‘You think you are the only one whose husband leaves her? Look at me, a child clinging to my breast, and my husband has gone, gone to Africa, a land across the sea. At least my Bachu will be only days away.’

At first, the letters had arrived frequently, filled with his spidery writing, telling Gargi of all the people he had met, how he was supplying goods, thread, buttons, braids and material to the tailor masters. She had written to him after the birth of their daughter, told him he should come and gaze upon the baby, who did not have a name and never would until he looked upon her face. The words of Dhiruba still resonated in her head.

‘No name until my Bachu meets her. Call her what you want.’

Where is he? Why do I desire to see him again? Why the yearning for his arms? Is he unhappy to have a girl child too, is that why he hasn’t come home? Gargi’s time in confinement after childbirth was nearly over. She was ready to go back to the temple to worship at the shrine, even though it meant the gods would gaze on her daughter before her husband did. Her heart quickened at the thought of him coming to harm in the city that would be in Pakistan.

The rap of the chains on the doors made her heart thump harder. The postman tentatively stepped across the threshold, wary of Dhiruba. Gargi’s mother-in-law had a temper so mighty that grown men quaked at her piercing black gaze.

Dhiruba pulled her infant son onto her hip and slid her saree over her face, just enough to cover her eyes. She had never covered her face fully. After all, she was in charge. She accounted for the crops, the seeds, the labourers. She managed everyone who lived in the haveli, her own mother-in-law too weak and old to understand money and farming. She was not schooled, she could not read, but she kept a tally in her head, her mind sharp as a blade. She knew who owed her what, who had paid his dues, who had taken a loan beyond his worth.

The postman pulled out a telegram and handed it to her. Dhiruba pushed her son to Gulabbai as the postman took out a pad. Her violet thumb stilled, poised to sign.

‘Gargi,’ she screeched, ‘taar.’ The soft silk slipped to reveal her slick black oiled head. She glared with contempt and sneered as she turned and saw Gargi already in the courtyard. ‘Why are you out of your bedchamber?’

Gargi ignored her mother-in law’s outburst and reached for the envelope.

‘Let me read it, Ba?’ Kanak, Gargi’s young diyar, tried to snatch the message.

‘No.’ Dhiruba shooed him away. ‘You are late for school. Go. Go.’

Gargi said nothing. She sensed Dhiruba was afraid, fearful for her husband’s safety in the land so far away, the land full of beasts. The jyotish had told Dhiruba to perform a havan, since her son’s birth had not been at an auspicious time. The baby’s chart showed that he would cause harm to his father’s health, so Dhiruba had sent word, three months ago, to tell her eldest son Jaichand to come home. She had also asked Gargi to write again to tell him of the daughter born on a Tuesday, another one born on a Tuesday who had entered her house. Dhiruba had just rid herself of Champa, her daughter, through marriage. The crops had yielded an abundant harvest. At the birth of the girl child, she had twice the mangalik pull again. The bad luck of a girl born on a Tuesday, as Gargi herself had been. How could Dhiruba’s husband agree to the match? Agree to marry her son to a woman who had destroyed the man betrothed to her?

Jaichand’s father had even reprimanded Dhiruba for her intolerance, told her she was a villager. Gargi had heard the slap on her mother-in-law’s face as she’d waited to be welcomed into the haveli on her wedding day.

‘I will not allow her into my home, not if she was born on a Tuesday.’ Dhiruba had spat out the words. ‘I’m no villager, my family are town people too, but we believe in our customs. Your family listens to the British too much.’

Of course, Dhiruba had not mentioned that Gargi came from an even more prosperous town family. Gargi’s father had sent gold, bullock carts, chairs, chests full of silken cloth and stainless-steel pots and utensils with his daughter, sixteen years old and past her prime. Gargi had an education, had studied to tenth grade, knew English.

Overhearing his mother’s insults, Jaichand had taken Gargi’s hand. ‘I’m thrilled to have you as my bride. We can read poetry together in the original English.’

How she missed his kind words. Gargi walked back to her bedchamber, placed her daughter in the cradle, and ripped the buff envelope open.

Her mother-in-law released a soft sigh. ‘It is from Karachi.’

Gargi read the message once and re-read it, unable to decipher the words as they jumped at her. It was from Jaichand’s uncle.

Is Bachu home safe STOP Riots are getting worse STOP We are coming home STOP S.K.K.

‘What does it say?’ The elder woman grabbed Gargi’s arm, her fingers digging into tender flesh.

Gargi croaked out the translation from English to Gujarati. A wail came out of Dhiruba’s mouth before she collapsed. Kanak ran back to the house as the telegram fluttered to the tiled floor.

It was a warning. Her dreams had been a warning. Why did I ignore them? She gasped for breath. The heated air burnt her throat, scalding tears pooling in her eyes as she fell to the floor. The jyotish had been right all along, her Mangal was too strong, she had been born under the powerful influence of Mars; she was bad luck for any man who married her. First her betrothed had died, now her husband. It was bad enough to have given birth to a girl child, but this was worse. She would not survive, not in Dhiruba’s household. She had seen the burnt welts on Champa legs, hidden under the ghagara choli she wore, hidden from the father who doted on his timid daughter.

***

Twelve days later, Gargi lay bonelessly on her bed, the heat of the embers underneath burning her skin raw. Why the pretence? Why is my sasu keeping me caged like this? She would rather burn on the funeral pyre than endure the silence, the isolation. The only person who ever came into her room now was Gulabbai, and even the servant spoke to her like an equal, not like the wife of the eldest son of the house. Gulabbai dared to treat her as if she no longer had any value.

Tears smeared Gargi’s vision. Soon she would lose her long locks, her bright colours, soon they would come and pull her into the courtyard. The wailing from the women rumbled into her soul, into the place that had slowly let her husband in without her even knowing. How can I live? How will I breathe without him?

Jaichand had brought her joy for a short time, during the fresh days of their marriage, before he’d left to seek his fortune. She thought of the afternoons in the opulently furnished room for the mahemano. Of his long legs akimbo, his ankles crossed, the worn soles of his polished brown European shoes pointing towards the door. She remembered how he would read a page of the Statesman and pass it to her, she in the small lady’s chair that her father had specially made for her wedding dowry, her mother-in-law with the embroidery hoop in her hand on the Sheesham padded lounge chair. The benevolence of her father-in-law had shone upon them from his upholstered armchair.

Gargi could not look after the child anymore, the girl with no name, the child born on a Tuesday. She had held on, held her inside, waiting for the clock to turn, to move to another day, any day but Tuesday, but the baby had burst out, torn from her, blooded and loud, two minutes before midnight. She should have waited, the nameless girl. Too impatient to come into this barbaric world, a world that was no longer full of joy and tranquillity, a world on fire. The war had raged for far too long; the Japanese had nearly crossed into India, and Europe was ravaged by war. The British did not care for the jewel in its crown. Hitler’s war had destroyed cities and maimed people in the homeland, created a chasm between the people of this country. Now its echo had taken her beloved husband from her. The division created by Nehru, Jinnah, Bose and Tara Singh, men who had ambition, men who thrived on hatred, only led to death.

‘Come out, you wretched girl!’ Dhiruba screamed. It was time to join the women and children who had gathered in the courtyard for the daily prayers for Jaichand’s soul.

Weary and heartsick, Gargi complied. As she pulled herself up from the sweltering bed, the rattle of raindrops hit the tiles of the roof. Children shrieked with delight and a scuffle began outside as Gulabbai dragged the manji away from the long-overdue downpour.

Gargi rested against the door frame and watched as the sheet of water obscured the view. The roar of driving rain muffled the scraping of the chains on the door. Inder, the jyotish’s son, his white shirt clinging to his pigeon chest, ran onto the sheltered porch, stopping in a puddle of water that leaked through the gaps in the ornate tiles especially imported from Staffordshire, England. His dark walnut complexion had ashened to grey.

‘Bhoot, bhoot, bhoot,’ he rasped hysterically as he pressed his hand on his stomach, his eyes ready to pop out of his skull, his teeth chattering.

Ghost.

Gargi’s knees turned to sheero as they buckled under her and she slumped onto her bottom. It was the twelfth day. Her husband’s soul should have had some respite from the prayers they had chanted continuously since the day of the telegram. Why would Inder come and say this? What has he seen? 

Dhiruba slapped the boy hard on his bony face and he stumbled and collided with one of the Babul pillars that held up the roof. He, too, slumped, unable to say another word. His eyes watered until tears ran down his face to join the droplets from his drenched hair.

Dhiruba towered over him. ‘Take a breath and tell me what you saw!’

Kanak placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Inder, tell us.’

‘I… I… saw motabhai… I saw your brother. He was at the train station.’ Inder’s round eyes bulged, the horror visible in the dark pupils.

‘You!’ Dhiruba stabbed a finger at Gargi. ‘You ungrateful woman, you have not prayed with a pure heart, that is why my Bachu’s spirit clings to this world.’ 

The other women who had come to pray gathered around Gargi, pulling her to her feet. When the first blow hit her weak back, Gargi could scarcely comprehend the pain. The rest rained down on her like the torrent of water that thundered on the roof. She held herself up. Don’t I deserve it? She was responsible for her husband’s death, after all. She was unlucky. She would always bring pain. Hadn’t she brought bad luck to her family, hadn’t they lost Mohan, her older brother, after her birth? She relished the blows, the beating on her body, the punch to her face. She tasted the metallic tang of blood.

‘More, more, kill me now,’ she urged.

The blows fell harder, the women no longer frightened to inflict them, spurred on by the words from Dhiruba’s mouth. ‘Kutari. Dakan, Nakkami. Mara Bachu ne tu khayi gai.’

‘What are you doing to my wife?’

Through the throbbing in her head, Gargi recognised her husband’s voice. He was waiting for me, that’s why his spirit didn’t leave. He knew this day would come, that he had to wait twelve days for me to join him.

‘Huto, huto, step aside, let me come through. Ba, I’m here, Ba!’

‘My Bachu!’

Gargi heard a scream and was engulfed in darkness, her weakened body unable to tolerate the beatings.

She felt warm arms around her, Jaichand’s arms, his body familiar to her. How can that be? Was swarg just like living on earth? She had always believed she would drift to another body, but this felt like her old one. The taste of blood in her mouth, the ache in her limbs where the punches had fallen.

‘Gargi, Gargi.’ Her husband’s hand stroked her cheek. ‘Look at me. I’m here, I am with you… finally.’ He croaked and then sobs filled her ears, wretched sobs.

She peeked through slits, one eye unable to open any further, and as she gazed on his face, she whispered, ‘Sathi’ – the same word he had whispered to her under the mandap.

He pulled her up and kissed her, his soft lips on her bloodied bruised ones.