Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories (23 page)

‘What? I … I'm sorry… how do you know me?'

At this she rolls her pupils into the back of her head and opens her mouth wide; staring both into and out of the void she's created, as though conversing with her observations. ‘I am you. I exist in several realities and yours is one of them. I see you from dreams that are not my own. As you have seen me.'

‘How… how is that even possible?' I gulp. ‘How can I think something exists if it's non-existent to me?'

‘You already do.' She reaches across and pats my stomach. ‘As you feel life inside you, I feel life outside me.'

‘I'm sorry, but I'm … I can't understand what you're saying,' I hear myself stutter. Thakur's words are cryptic and unnerving, yet it feels like I've been waiting all my life to hear them.

She becomes silent.

Calm down, I say to myself, stay focused. I take a deep breath and find my voice. ‘I came to discuss Samara … Devi. I would really like to meet her and, maybe, interview her. I understand it's difficult but I need to talk to her once, just one time.'

‘That could happen. Tell me—how do you feel about her sati?'

No one has asked me this question before. I look deep into Thakur's eyes and say, ‘Well, this story will save my career. But on a personal level, this whole thing is appalling. It's wrong for her to have to do this just because she's helpless. If I get to meet her, I may just talk her out of this. She has options. There are many shelters that'll take her, even in the USA. She doesn't have to do this.'

‘I am happy to hear that. I told Samara when she came to me after her husband's death that you would come here to save her … or destroy her.'

I hear this with surprise—it makes no sense—but Thakur has said it so prosaically that I mull it over before replying, ‘That is a
little
unbelievable. You see, I don't know Samara. I've never met her or even seen her. I know nothing of her.'

‘Don't you?'

‘Well, I know some things about her. She's obviously had a tough life. She had no father figure. Her mother was only there for name's sake. She had to fend for herself all her life. Then, she got into a relationship she was probably not ready for. And now this; she has to make a tough choice against her will.'

‘You understand Samara very well. After all, your life is similar to hers. Nothing is complete without its shadow, is it, Katha?'

She pauses. I don't know how to reply.

She says, ‘When you see Samara, all you have to say is no. If you say it like you mean it then what you see in your mind will not be conceived, but you will be free. Life will no longer just happen to you.'

‘I'm not sure I completely understand what you're saying.'

She ignores me and continues, ‘If you say yes, then Samara will jump into the pyre and you will have what you want.' She looks pointedly at my stomach.

I become angry. ‘Are you suggesting that I'll have my baby only if Samara jumps into the fire? How are the two things related? It makes no sense. In fact, I don't even know Samara. How am I supposed to tell her what to do?'

‘We all control each other's destiny. We all—'

‘Then, why don't you save her?'

‘My destiny is to direct others, not to become them.' Her voice remains clear and calm.

‘Okay, then why doesn't Samara save herself by refusing to do the sati?'

‘You know she has nowhere to go; no one to turn to but you. You are the chosen one.'

‘Why am I the chosen one?'

‘It could be coincidence or fate or karma. Maybe, you would be her, if you weren't you.'

‘Please,' I laugh derisively. ‘I'm not foolish enough to kill myself for a man.' My mind immediately goes to the time my mother had found me unconscious, overdosed on sleeping pills. It was a few weeks after my father had left us. I wanted to pre-empt my mother's thoughts so she would not be forced to act on them.

Thakur says softly, ‘Who are we to pass judgement on what it's like to live outside our understanding?'

Does she know? My back stiffens and, for the first time, I wish Mark was next to me to divert Thakur's attention.

‘We must stop Samara from this unnatural ghastly death,' I mumble weakly.

‘Only you can, Katha. However, if you choose not to, remember that we are all born of pain and unto that we will go.'

‘I'm not going to pretend that I understand what you're saying. All I know is that you are unwilling to help me get an interview with Samara.'

She doesn't respond.

I get up angrily. ‘In that case, I think it's best I leave.'

‘Things happen, Katha, no matter how you choose to feel about them.'

Thakur's serenity is striking; it's as if she thinks that emotions—the crux of human life—are irrelevant and wasteful.

She doesn't try to stop me as I'm leaving, but I hear her say, ‘Remember, Katha, let your yes mean yes and your no mean no.'

I stomp out of the tent, sweating.

Mark almost pounces on me. ‘So, did we get an interview?'

~

The next morning Mark and I head towards the sati site. We leave at first light hoping to somehow run into Samara, only to be intercepted by the largest gathering of people we've ever seen. There are young men carrying aged mothers on their backs, old men bent over shaky sticks, proud teenagers twirling moustaches that are wider than their faces. I spot hassled media folk, in their city clothes of jeans and T-shirts. People appear from every direction, like the arils of a pomegranate that has burst open.

Thick dust rises from the laterite ground, forming a dome and enveloping the crowd in partnership with the early morning fog. There are tannoys placed along the path from which a voice alternately sings prayers and screeches instructions. Cops are strutting around in their tall caps fitted with peacock feathers, using bamboo sticks on widows swathed in white cotton saris, and withering glares for waif-like children.

Mark leads me closer to the cremation ground, next to the wooden barricades. There's nothing more to do, so we wait.

I'm glad for the wait because I can mull over Thakur's words. In the morning light my meeting with her seems unreal and unlikely. After all, why would I—a stranger to this land—care to save Samara? Yet, Thakur's words are like a spotlight shining turn by turn on my disarrayed feelings, the choices I've made, the relationships I've fostered and the life I've let happen to me. Has she given me a gift—to absolve myself from my bad decisions? Or has she shown me a curse—where whatever I decide ends a life?

~

It's well into the afternoon when a pair of bullocks come into the clearing, solemnly carting two priests. The holy men sing a few hymns, clank a few bells and draw circles in the air with lit copper lamps. The crowd chants: Hare Krishna! Krishna! Krishna!

Now that the site is fumigated by those closest to God, the funeral procession begins. Four young men lug a wooden stretcher on which lies a dead body wrapped in white cloth and covered with roses, jasmine and marigold. The carriers are crooning: ‘Ram Naam Satya Hai!' Had I not heard this whispered solicitously by my aunt when we'd trudged with my mother's wilted body to the incinerator? This must be the dead husband.

The men circle the unlit funeral pyre three times and then place the body on it, with the feet facing southwards. The crowd becomes quiet with the kind of awe and expectancy that only death inspires. The silence comes in time for us to hear the trumpeting of a conch. And then people are pushing and straining against each other: Samara is here!

Four strong men, wearing cotton loincloths, arrive shouldering a plain wooden palanquin. Somewhere behind its stiff white curtains is Samara. Less than a month ago she was probably sitting in such a palanquin, a new bride on the cusp of her new life, I think sadly. Dancing women in colourful skirts and tops follow this sombre procession. The crowd lets out an audible gasp; women are not allowed to be part of funeral rituals. But, the women dance with such abandonment that soon everyone is cheering for them.

I watch the bearers place the palanquin near the funeral pyre.

The husband's last rites are performed. His corpse is covered with wood, puffed rice, incense and ghee. The chief mourner—who I hear is the husband's elder brother—circles the pyre thrice, a clay pot on his left shoulder, a log of firewood behind him, and the body to his left. At each turn around the pyre, another man uses a knife to make a slit in the pot, letting water out, symbolizing life leaving the corpse. At the end of three turns, the chief mourner drops the pot. Then, without turning to face the body, he lights the pyre and leaves the cremation grounds. The others follow.

All eyes now turn to the palanquin.

Delicate hennaed feet emerge from its wooden frame. And then she rises, like the sun in its most dazzling morning. A heavily embroidered red silk sari, bedecked with glittering jewels, covers her body. Her chocolate skin glows against the hue of the fire and her hair caresses her oval, chinless face. Like me, she has the face of a ferret, but, unlike me, her small beady eyes are lined splendidly with kohl, her flat nose sparkles with a tiny diamond stud and her thin lips quiver in a way that is almost erotic.

She is a resplendent sight to behold: fragile yet so bold!

There are no hysterics, no tears, as Samara readies herself for the self-sacrificial rite. With precise movements, she removes the gold jewellery from her ears, neck and hands. The back of her hand swiftly wipes away the red vermilion from her forehead, leaving bloodlike tracks. Her wrists crack rapidly against each other, breaking her red glass bangles.

Samara walks resolutely to the front of the pyre. She stares for a long time at the flames, as its sparks grow into fingers, join hands and run up the inferno. The crowd holds its collective breath, sound abandoning a thousand tongues to crackle only in those flames.

Suddenly, the fire hits a pocket of damp wood and hisses. Samara starts, as if she is coming out of a spell, and for the first time she looks away from the fire. Her eyes scan the crowd.

Are Thakur's words true: is Samara looking for me?

Almost immediately Samara's bloodshot eyes lock fiercely with mine.

Thakur was right: Samara knows that I am her only saviour!

What am I supposed to do? I can walk away, but my feet are rooted to the spot. I feel a kinship with Samara. Isn't this what Thakur had implied: that Samara and I are shadows of each other, leading parallel lives in different existences? Wishing Samara away is like wishing myself away, and since the decision is in my hands, I cannot do it. I have to save her.

Before anyone has time to react I jump over the barricades and run towards her, shouting, ‘No, Samara! Stop! Don't do it!'

A dozen strong hands stop me before I can reach the cremation ground. I struggle and kick, but not once do I take my pleading eyes away from hers.

Samara looks at me without moving. Her gaze penetrates me. It seems like an eternity.

And then she blinks; she has found what she is seeking. I watch her body turn around slowly, away from the fire, towards me. She is going to live. No one can force her to perform sati now—not the panchayat, nor the villagers, not her husband's family or her mother; there are too many people here, tourists, witnesses, and the media with their cameras.

The hands holding me let go. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in.

Samara is going to live!

As that victorious thought unfurls in my mind, a silent sorrow flutters in my stomach. I remember Thakur's words. Now I can never have my child, the life inside me.

In Samara's eyes I see the eyes of my unborn baby slowly close.

I avert my gaze. A small sigh comes out of me, like my child's resignation to its fate. Have I made the right decision?

I look back at Samara to see that she has frozen in her spot. In her eyes is a look that has no definition, as if the world has finally revealed itself to her.

I lower my eyes. Under the setting sun, I stand at the end of my own short shadow.

When I look back at Samara, she has the saddest expression I've ever seen. I remember that Thakur had told Samara that I could save her, or destroy her.

Samara unlocks her eyes from mine. A lone tear rolls down her face; I realize that my cheeks are wet too. She turns around, back towards the fire, joins her palms together and, before anyone can react, Samara jumps into the fire.

I lurch forward.

But she has already begun to shed her flesh.

I hear the crowd, which I'd lost track of, cheer and applaud: ‘
Jai
ho Samara Devi!'

Thakur's words echo in my head:
Let your yes mean yes and your no mean no!
I had said both, and meant neither.

All of a sudden, there is a powerful kick in my stomach, so strong that it can only come from one fighting for its final breath. I keel over with pain before I realize what's happening.

The co-cremation is complete.

I have failed them all!

The sun retires wisely for the day. Hearing the call to darkness, ashes rise in the wake of woodsmoke, then fall and unite with the blood beneath my feet.

DENTED AND PAINTED WOMEN

Meenu was not surprised when Pramod called her by his wife's name: Chandralikha. This had happened with many men before. But when he sat her down on the sofa and brought her tea, she didn't know what to do.

‘I …' she started, when he said, ‘Drink up. It will get cold.'

She knew better than to argue. Depriving old people of these small rituals was cruel, and she'd seen it done enough times by their children and grandchildren. So she sat on the edge of her seat and willed the tea to go down her throat.

Meenu could gather how a man would act by the way he set up his furniture. So she looked around at Pramod's Napean Sea Road apartment. His living room contained a narrow beige sofa set, a frail wooden coffee table, a wilted bamboo palm, and mislaid knick-knacks. What did he do with all his money?