Kitabı oku: «Shining Hero»

1 SEDUCTION BY SURIYA

Pritha, yet unwedded, bore him, peerless archer on the earth, Portion of the solar radiance for the sun inspired his birth.

The river, Koonty thought, was like Soma, the liquid god. A limpid animal to whom she came for comfort and to be freed of pain, though now, as she let the sacred water tickle against her ankles she wondered if she had imagined the interior gnawing. Or perhaps this holy river, annually stocked with melting goddesses, had cured her. Half an hour ago she had been certain she was dying but now she was well again. She stirred the water with her toes, started to feel happy. When she was little she would never have touched the water in this way. Then she had been afraid, for she had been told the story of the elephant who was snared by water serpents. As it was dragged, drowning, to the bottom of the river, the elephant implored the high gods for help. Vishnu had heard its prayer and, riding on his vehicle, the angel bird Garuda, appeared at the waterside. The great god, four-armed, crowned with a diadem, did not need to act. His mere presence had been enough. The serpent king and queen rose to the surface of the river and balanced in the water, their great and weighty victim struggled out of their tendrils and the Nagas folded their hands and bowed to the Lord Ruler of the Universe. But Koonty had feared that, in her case Vishnu might not think her sufficiently important to be saved and it was several years before she would believe that this tale was only a myth.

The stones of the riverbank had been smoothed by the slaps and caresses of ancient currents until they had become like dull jewels studding a water bangle. Even when the river lost control and drowned its own banks as though it no longer loved them, its stones stayed warm. But the river was not only a magic water woman bestowing wet kisses that grew rice. It killed as well.

Every year since Koonty was born she had seen it spread its transparent and reflective body over the land till houses were flattened, fields vanished and cuddled banks were lost utterly.

That was when Koonty and the zamindar’s children got a new playground. Sitting astride floating banana logs they bounced over the lost fields shouting, leaping and splashing on their banana ponies and trying to shove each other off into the drowning rice crop, while the peasant farmers mourned the loss of their livelihood. Paddling with their hands or punting with passing bamboo poles, pretending to be walking on water like yogis or crossing the ocean like foreigners, the children explored a new, wet world that, yesterday, had been paddy fields, cabbage crops, the road to Calcutta. A mirror world where an enormous yellow sky shone on the ground and only the tips of plants were visible. Sometimes their rubber chappals got sucked off and were bobbed away like rubber boats to be captured in the spring, while Boodi Ayah, wheedling, threatening, urging, would try to wade through the slush to get at them. But the watery ayah had closed her extended world to adults.

Koonty’s mother would rush out shouting, ‘What is this crazy behaviour? Who will marry a girl who is seen acting like a peasant child? You will end up like your sister if you go on like this.’ Shivarani, Koonty’s older sister, would never get married because she was too tall and was a Communist.

‘Me. I will marry Koonty,’ whispered Pandu, the zamindar’s oldest son, while Koonty’s dry mother, the lady of the land, the un-magical woman, was telling her husband, ‘You must do something about that wild girl before it is too late.’

‘What harm can come?’ murmured Koonty’s father. He did not look up from his book.

‘She might lose her virginity, sitting astride like that. Raped by a banana tree. What a waste,’ wailed Meena, Koonty’s mother.

But this river, thought Koonty, is not only a woman. It is a man as well. A husband. Every year his wife, Durga, is thrown into his body, to mingle with his substance in a million muddy forms, re-emerging later in little bits, a manicured finger here, a nose ring there.

Koonty and Pandu dived for her earrings and came up with the goddess’ arm.

‘I bet you don’t dare keep that,’ said Pandu. ‘I bet you are afraid she’ll put a curse on you.’ He was always testing Koonty, trying to find out how far she would go. Her daringness excited him. Rolling the arm inside the hem of her blouse, she carried it to the rose garden and hid it there.

Several days later her mother saw the curling fingers beckoning from behind a Queen Elizabeth.

‘This will bring trouble upon you,’ she raged and beat Koonty about the ears with her supari cutters. Koonty leapt around the veranda to avoid the whacking scissors, while her mother shouted, ‘Now for certain the goddess will put a curse upon you.’ Now the fear came to Koonty. Was that what the pains had been? Durga’s late curse? Her mother had gone down to the river bank, and, ululating, had thrown the sacred arm back into the water then waited for long minutes in case celestial retribution was to follow.

Koonty could hear the sound of hymns coming from the village over the loudspeaker. They were worshipping the Durga there and this time tomorrow would be immersing the goddesses here. This time tomorrow the river will be filled with new goddesses, she was thinking, when the pain gripped Koonty again so that instantly she could not think of anything else but it. IT. Big IT pain hurling through her stomach as though she, like the deep parts of the river, had inside her body sharp stones and a tumbling current.

Her bare feet curled, her hands clenched. ‘Ouch, ouch,’ wailed Koonty and she tried to get away from the pain by squatting down into the water. She arched her back against it. Tried to duck out from under the burden of agony. But the pain was inside her, she could not escape it.

She had started feeling ill during the monsoon. She had been very sick and her mother had taken her to the doctor. But though he examined her all over he had found nothing wrong and said it must have been something she had eaten.

‘Keep her on rice and dahi for a day or two and she’ll be all right.’

But the sickness had continued.

‘Perhaps she is allergic to fish,’ the doctor said.

Koonty’s mother agreed. ‘I have noticed that it is after taking maacher jhal that she gets the worst nausea. But it is a very great pity because here in Hatipur village we get the best fish of all India. There is nothing to surpass the hilsa taken out of our own Jummuna river.’

Koonty gave up fish and sure enough after a month and a half of abstinence she suddenly became perfectly well again.

But now she was feeling worse than sick and the pain was so intense that she could not walk, but had to crouch, waiting for it to recede. She was desperate to get home but each time she tried to start on the half mile back, the pain grabbed again. She wished she had listened to her mother who was always warning her of the wrongness of wandering so far away from home.

‘What of it that the Hatibari estate is well guarded,’ her mother told her. ‘Even though there are tall brick walls all round and a stockade in the water, even though the people from the village are forbidden to come inside, yet still there are cobras in the jungly bits. And who knows, when the watchman is sleeping, dacoits might slip in from the river. You are to be married soon and a certain behaviour is expected of you. What a mess you are. It was bad enough when you were a little girl and went round with tattered clothes and untidy hair, but at the age of fifteen one expects something neater and more modest. You are a woman, Koonty, soon to be married, and it is time you began to behave like one.’

Koonty was betrothed to Pandu, the zamindar’s son. Pandu had given her a gold chain with a medal on it for her last birthday. ‘Don’t tell my father,’ he had laughed. ‘I should not even be talking to you now that we are betrothed, let alone giving you presents. But look.’

On the golden disc he had had inscribed, ‘Koonty Pandava of the Hatibari of Hatipur.’ She had giggled and felt thrilled at the words, for this was the first time she had fully taken in the full fact of what it would mean to be the lady of Hatibari.

‘To be married to the eldest son of the zamindar of Hatipur village is a tremendous honour and triumph,’ her mother would tell her at frequent intervals. ‘You must not let any breath of scandal taint your reputation or the Pandava family will call the marriage off.’ The zamindar had been very reluctant at first to allow his eldest son to marry the daughter of his estate manager.

The river flowed through land belonging to the zamindar, whose estate covered several miles in all directions and Koonty’s father lived in one of the estate houses.

That river. It ruled all their lives and even the zamindar was sometimes conquered by it. Koonty remembered the last monsoon when the golden, killing waters had lapped right up to the steps of her parents’ house and had even reached the Hatibari mansion. River had seeped into the beds of canna lilies and gaudy zinnias, softening their grip upon the soil till their roots broke free and floated away to join the garlands of the pauper dead. Koonty’s father had had to call the Hatibari servants out at midnight and get them to construct a mini dam of straw and clay to prevent the water entering the house. But in spite of all his precautions the water managed to mount the Hatibari steps and the wife of the zamindar, coming down to view the disaster, had to raise her sari above her ankles.

‘How stupid of the grandfather to have built this grand house so near the river,’ she told Koonty’s father, as he summoned yet more servants with mops and pails.

After the flood receded, the Hatibari garden was covered with river mementos; lotus leaves, boat bits, stranded fish, while the river bobbed with the memory of its recent association with land – parts of houses, drowned goats, ripped-out bits of trees. The liquid god left brown stains upon the purity of the Hatibari marble that took the servants, under Koonty’s father’s supervision, weeks of scouring, rubbing ferociously with twists of coconut rope and handfuls of sand, to eradicate.

Koonty tried to remember what she had eaten for the midday meal. Perhaps a chingdi maach had fallen into her dhall by mistake. Perhaps the cook had used fish stock when he made the mutton with kumro. It must be the fish allergy, for Durga was a mother goddess and no mother would punish so severely for the small offence of carrying away a single arm.

‘Oh, Ma, Oh, Ma,’ Koonty wailed. But the house was too far away. Her mother could not hear her though her cries were so loud that buffaloes lounging lazily, up to their shoulders in water across the river, stirred and opened their eyes and some of the mynahs, tick-picking on the buffalo backs, winged off.

She was only fifteen, she was engaged to be married and she was going to die at any moment.

Round the bend of the river and out of sight, she could hear village boys playing. From the sudden splash and laughing shriek she thought they must be hanging from the branch of an overhanging tree and dropping feet first, head first, bottom first, into the water as she and Pandu had done as recently as two years ago. The water buffaloes did not mind the boys’ shouts. They only flinched from Koonty’s screams.

Squatting low in the water, because this position seemed the least agonising, she gripped her arms around her knees and braced her body. Tilting her head back she could just see through the mango orchards and beyond the lake the great house that would have been hers if she had lived to be married. The Hatibari. Fifty windows reflecting the river. Stone lions larger than life-size on each corner of the roof. Her father was inside at this moment, preparing lists of wedding guests with the zamindar. He would never hear Koonty. The boys round the corner heard her. Laughed and shouted back. They thought she was laughing too, joining with them in their fun.

Ever since she was little she had kept coming here, though since she was soon to marry him and become a respectable wife, she no longer played on the water with Pandu. Koonty had been sitting here earlier in the year when she had first seen Suriya, the Sun God.

‘Keep away from the waterside,’ her mother kept warning. ‘That is the place from which trouble can come.’ For who can control water, who can put an impenetrable fence through a sacred river? The rest of the property was almost unassailable. The river was its only weakness in spite of the watchman who patrolled its banks. In the old days they had put up a brick wall seven feet high all along the bank but the first monsoon had washed it away so that not a brick was left standing and the bamboo water fence had to be replaced several times a year.

Koonty always sent the watchman away when she wanted to sit here. ‘If I see someone coming I will shout for you.’ She was going to be the new young mistress of the Hatibari. He did as she told him. But when she had seen a man come swimming into the Hatibari water she had not shouted for the watchman. She had kept perfectly silent the evening the Sun God came.

Koonty had first heard he was visiting their village from Boodi Ayah. Boodi had returned with the day’s food shopping, gasping and babbling with the excitement.

‘Dilip Baswani has come to the village.’

When the family looked blank she said, ‘The actor who plays the part of the Sun God in the film of the Mahabharata.’

Koonty had stared at the young woman in disbelief. ‘Dilip the glorious? There in our village? I must go and see him.’ With her parents she had seen the film five times in Calcutta.

‘He is making speeches in the tea shop. He is standing for the election,’ said Boodi Ayah. ‘I saw him with my own eyes.’

Dilip Baswani, dressed entirely in gold, had ridden into the village on a golden motorbike. His goggles were golden, he shone with gold leather and wore a plastic golden helmet.

‘He is even more beautiful than in the film, Koonty Missie. His skin looks soft as silk and his eyes are the colour of honey.’ The ayah’s excitement became so great that a cone of fresh ladies’ fingers fell from her arms and she nearly dropped the eggs.

‘Take that stuff on to the big house where they are waiting for it and stop filling my daughter’s mind with ideas,’ said Koonty’s mother sternly.

‘When can I go to hear him?’ cried Koonty. ‘I think we should go this very minute in case it is too late and he is gone.’

Koonty’s mother became stern. ‘You are only fifteen years old and about to become the wife of the young zamindar. How can you be seen among the ordinary people? A girl in your situation must stay modestly at home.’

‘What harm can it do for me only to go there and listen?’ Koonty had begged. ‘Boodi Ayah could come with me.’

‘That silly woman will be useless in such a mob,’ snapped the mother. ‘It is all her fault, with her foolish chatter, that you are so eager to see this man who is nothing but a C-grade film actor. Also a thousand people from fifty villages will be there to hear him. What will your husband-to-be’s family think if they hear you have been mingling amongst all kinds of untouchable people and gawping at a trashy film star?’

So Koonty had sat by the river instead, felt sad, cross, wished she was there among the village crowd which she could hear faintly from down the water. She imagined how impressed the girls at school would have been if she had told them she had actually seen Dilip Baswani with her own eyes like Boodi Ayah. His voice, drifting over the water, did not even sound the same as it did at the cinema.

All the girls at her school were deeply in love with one Mahabharata character or another. Koonty’s passion was Arjuna and she had a lurid poster of the actor in her bedroom.

‘Is this all you modern girls have to talk about? Cheap films and their cheaper stars. If you want to know these stories you should read the original texts,’ Koonty’s mother would reprimand.

‘Oh, Ma, what an old fuddy-duddy you are.’

In the evening she had gone back to the river just in case the Sun God started talking to the villagers again. As she sat there she had heard a commotion on the water, excited shouts, cries of awe, as though a thousand people were gathered there watching something wonderful.

‘Come and look, brother,’ she could hear one person cry to another. ‘It is the Sun God himself, here in our river.’

She heard later how the shout had spread over the countryside. People had leapt from bullock carts and run to see. Buses stopped and disgorged their passengers. The village streets emptied, shopkeepers hastily boarded up and ran to the waterside, labourers dropped their spades and rushed. Children flooded out of the school and raced their excited teacher to the river.

As the Sun God swam, he became surrounded by a hundred boys, dog-paddling alongside, and the crowds that gathered on the banks became ten deep. Trees on the waterside began cracking under the weight of people who had climbed them to catch a sight of the swimming film star and every house and hut that overlooked the water had people scrambling to the rooftops, trying to see him. Only the people of the Hatibari had remained inside, though from its upper windows could be seen the faces of the zamindar’s servants craning there, trying to get a peep but not wanting to risk the wrath of their employers by gawping openly.

Dilip Baswani swam as fast as he could, trying, hopelessly, to shake off the mob of village boys, till ahead of him he saw the bamboo barricade cutting into the water like a fence, beyond which were trees and a domed roof. This must be the border of the Hatibari estate, he thought, the great house the villagers had told him about. Private property onto which they would not dare follow him, but onto which he, the zamindar’s future MLA, would surely be welcome. He entered the stockade and felt gratified to see the mob of boys fall back. Inside he found himself gratefully alone.

He turned a bend and looked with pleasure onto groomed grassy banks planted with flowering shrubs and free of crowds. Then he saw one lone figure sitting, feet in the water, watching him, a young girl with untidy hair and a muddy sari.

She stared with sparkling eyes, her mouth rounded in an O of amazement.

‘Hello,’ he said, but the girl just stared at him in silence.

A servant girl from the Hatibari, but pretty enough, he thought. And the age he liked.

‘What’s your name, dear?’ he asked as he scrambled out of the water. But Koonty’s lips seemed to have got stuck in their gasp of surprise.

‘I need a little rest,’ he said. ‘There are such crowds everywhere else. I don’t expect the zamindar will mind if I get my breath back here.’ He stood looking down at her, smiling. Charming, he thought.

He was not wearing a golden helmet, a gold leather jacket, gleaming goggles. He wore nothing but golden swimming shorts slung just below his small corpulence. But all the same Koonty knew exactly who he was for she had seen his face at the cinema five times.

‘I always like to take a swim in the evening,’ he said, as he sat down at Koonty’s side. ‘It is good for my digestion.’

Koonty tried to say something, opened her mouth, moved her lips, but only a sort of croaking squeak came out.

River water dripped from the Sun God’s arms and ran down his chest in rivulets.

‘Well, my dear, haven’t you got a tongue?’ He touched her arm. Gently. A shiver ran through her as though a stream of gold swished down her veins.

The crowds that were packed so thickly round the bend peered and craned, but the film star had become lost to sight. They waited for a long long time, but he did not come back. After an hour and a half they began to move away.

Now the pains were following each other so fast Koonty scarcely had time to breathe between them. She squatted lower into the water, braced herself tighter as a great racking spasm seized her. A sudden warmth gushed out of her and the water round her ankles turned red. A second spasm, huger than the first, overtook her and she could feel something heavy thrusting between her thighs as though she was being torn apart. Spreading her knees she saw, emerging into the water, something round and hazed with dark wet fur. Then another surge and the rest was there. Arms, legs, a stomach to which was attached a long twisted cord.

It lay under the water for a moment then floated up, eyes closed, lips moving.

Koonty let out a little scream of shock and darkness came over her eyes as though she was about to faint. Through the daze she reached out a hand and touched the little creature that lay half submerged in water. Its limbs began to move, tiny desperate thrashings. Its mouth began twisting, pouting. Koonty ran her hand over the child’s face and felt the movement of its lips against her fingers. As she passed her hand along its arm, a minute and wrinkled finger clutched around hers.

She was not having some terrible dream. This was true. She had had a baby. She had given birth to the Sun God’s child. She was finished now. Truly finished.

She had been worried at first. The things he asked her to do, the things he was doing to her did not seem modest. But he had reassured her. ‘You trust me, don’t you, my dear? You need not be afraid of me.’ He had spoken in his deep and husky voice and it had not come into her mind for a single moment not to trust him, any more than she would have mistrusted her father.

‘Lie like that, there, let me pull up your sari. Now open your legs a little. Good, good, that’s right.’ The doctor had talked to her like that when she had jumped out of the banyan tree, missed the river and sprained her ankle.

‘Are you sure?’ she had whispered and felt dazed with the deliciousness of his nearness, the feel of his skin, the smell of his foreign toilet water.

‘Yes, yes, my sweet. Quite sure. Now close your eyes.’ He had told her, ‘You needn’t worry about anything I do, for after all I am a god, aren’t I?’ Then he had laughed as though he had made a joke. His voice had been very rich and loving.

That evening she had taken down the poster of Arjuna and put up one of the Sun God instead.

He had told her not to worry, to trust him, but all the same she had given birth to his baby and now the young zamindar would not marry her. No one would. She would live lonely and ashamed for the rest of her life. Her parents would feel such shame that they would forbid her to go on living with them. She would not be able to live in the village either, for everyone would know. Koonty had earlier feared that she was dying. Now she was even more afraid of living.

As the water surged round her clothes and legs, carrying the blood away, she crouched numbly, gazed at the baby and felt chills of terror running through her. Her mother might have heard her earlier cries and at any moment come here to find her. She listened, her heart cracking against her ribs, for the sound of Boodi Ayah’s bare feet, Boodi sent to look for her.

‘The queen so pleased a rishi that he gave her a mantra which would evoke any god she wanted who would then, by his grace, produce in her a child.’ Koonty remembered that verse from the Mahabharata. She understood. She had pleased some rishi and her life was now destroyed because of it.

The baby began to let out little mewing cries and she hastily picked it up, the umbilical cord trailing, and tried to silence it. Its skin felt soft as silk. Softer than the Sun God’s skin. She pressed her knuckle against its mouth and at once, like the grip of a leech, its lips began sucking.

But after a moment it let go of the knuckle and began mewling again. She held it closer to her body and the baby started writhing. Her breasts had become tight and were spilling milk. She could feel it running warm down her ribs, over the place where her heart kept so loudly pounding.

To silence the baby, to stop the sound that would at any moment betray her, she pulled back her choli and held the child close. In a moment the baby had clamped upon the nipple and the only sound was a high-pitched grunt at every suck.

‘Hello, Baby God,’ she whispered, then pressing her face against the top of the head felt the soft fluff of newborn hair against her lips.

After a while the baby fell asleep. Koonty could not move. Her body was raw. Her legs felt weak. She sat there, the baby in her arms, and did not know what to do next, while the rose-ringed parakeets swooped among the trees, screaming. One extra loud bird cry startled the baby. It opened its eyes and Koonty saw that they were the colour of honey.

After that, sometimes the baby slept and sometimes fed but Koonty did not know what to do.

Night fell suddenly, the sun extinguished in a few fiery minutes. The bats came out. Fireflies began to dance among the silhouettes of trees. Behind her the lights came on in the Hatibari. She began to hear people calling her from the house. Never before had she stayed here after dark. Footsteps running over the paths. People calling, calling.

She held the baby tightly to her body, kept quite still and waited. She did not know what to do.

Her mother and Boodi Ayah were coming closer, shouting, ‘Koonty, Koonty, Koonty.’ Her mother was saying, ‘Sometimes she goes down there by the river, but she surely wouldn’t be there now, in the dark, when you have no idea who might be on the water.’

The household had been so absorbed in the news they had heard on the radio that they had not realised that Koonty was still outside. There was a fear of all-out war with Pakistan who had, that day, made an illegal military attempt to grab the Indian state of Kashmir. But now the worry about Koonty had made them forget about war and rush panicking around the estate, searching for the missing daughter.

Their voices came closer and Koonty gripped the child and felt dazed with fear. Then they began to move off again, their voices growing distant. ‘Perhaps she’s in the rose garden. Go and look there, Boodi.’

A little later, hurricane lamps and men’s voices. Her mother talking too loudly because she was afraid. ‘The only place left is the river. I am terrified that she has fallen in. Even though she can swim, this river is deceptive. The current can be very strong even for a healthy girl.’

The voice of the young zamindar. ‘Give me the lamp. I will go and look there.’ Her husband-to-be coming to where she sat with the Sun God’s baby in her lap. She could see, reflected in the river water, the swinging light approaching.

‘Koonty, Koonty,’ called the young man who was to marry her. He was getting very close. She could tell them that she had found the baby at the river’s edge. She could tell them it was a villager’s baby and she was only holding it for a moment. He was quite near now. At any moment he would see her sitting here. She could hear his panting breath. She could see his face gleaming in the lamplight. The young zamindar found her there, standing knee-deep in the river.