Eating Women, Telling Tales Read online

  ZUBAAN

  an imprint of Kali for Women

  128 B Shahpur Jat, 1st floor

  NEW DELHI 110 049

  Email: [email protected] and [email protected]

  Website: www.zubaanbooks.com

  First published 2009 by Zubaan

  Copyright © Bulbul Sharma, 2009

  All rights reserved

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978 81 89013 78 5

  Ebook ISBN: 978 93 81017 43 2

  This eBook is DRM-free.

  Zubaan is an independent feminist publishing house based in New Delhi with a strong academic and general list. It was set up as an imprint of India’s first feminist publishing house, Kali for Women, and carries forward Kali’s tradition of publishing world quality books to high editorial and production standards. Zubaan means tongue, voice, language, speech in Hindustani. Zubaan is a non-profit publisher, working in the areas of the humanities, social sciences, as well as in fiction, general non-fiction, and books children and for young adults under its Young Zubaan imprint.

  Typeset by Jojy Philip, New Delhi 110 015

  Printed at Raj Press, R-3 Inderpuri, New Delhi 110 012

  Table of Contents

  Eating women, telling tales

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Eating women, telling tales

  The crows sat in a circle waiting for the funeral feast to begin. In their eagerness to get the best leftovers, they had gathered a bit too early. Badibua, the main cook who was to prepare all the favourite dishes of the deceased, Bhanurai Jog, had not yet arrived. She had left for the fish market at dawn along with Hema and the ferry which was to bring them back from the haat across the river, was late as usual. The crows raised their necks and flapped their wings impatiently. From their vantage point on top of the water tank on the roof they had a clear view of the road and could see all the people as they got down from tongas, carts or the boat and walked into the house where the funeral feast was to be held…. It was around six in morning, a light breeze ruffled their feathers as the birds waited and watched….

  So far only Malarani had arrived in a rickshaw, a huge pumpkin in her lap. A little later, just when the crows were wondering whether to fly down to the market or look around for another home to stalk, the ferry arrived and Badibua stumbled out ahead of all the other passengers. Behind her, almost hidden by her vast girth, shuffled Hema her young servant woman, carrying a covered basket. The crows gave a squawk of delight. They knew there was a whole fish in that basket, head, entrails and tail intact. They shuffled a bit to show their excitement taking care not to lose their places on the edge of the water tank.

  Then, in quick succession, the other women arrived. A rickshaw ringing its bell loudly brought Shashi, her short hair flying in the breeze. She was followed by the two twin sisters Nanni and Sharada who came in a tonga. Then the crows, on high alert now, saw Choni emerge from another tonga along with a servant boy carrying a basket of vegetables. She argued with the tonga driver about the fare and then finally settled it with an angry shrug. She walked ahead as the servant boy trailed behind balancing the basket on his head. “Hurry, why are you walking like a girl, come on now … we don’t have all day,” she shouted turning around, and the boy smiled at her from the shadow of the basket perched on his head.

  Dark green bitter gourd, bottle shaped gourd, cauliflower, fresh spinach, red chaulai, flat beans, and a dozen big round eggplants jostled as the boy tried to walk faster. All these were vegetables the late Shri Bhanurai Jog loved and had to be cooked on his death anniversary feast today. The women were not sure whether he liked eggplant, most men did not, calling it a vegetable without any “gun” or merit but the women loved thick slices of aubergines deep fried in mustard oil, so they decided to include the humble eggplant. The menu, like every year, had been decided by Badibua since she was the eldest surviving relative of the dead man. There was, of course, his son who lived abroad but none spoke about him. They remembered that he had not even come for the funeral. They remembered his wife, a shy gentle creature who had died a few years before him.

  Year before last an old aunt of Bhanurai Jog, Shantirani, who claimed to be a hundred, had done the main dish but she had become a bit senile, and very unpredictable. At first she had cooked happily with them, regaling them with endless stories about her late husband and his various love affairs, then suddenly she got up to chase the guests with a broom, screaming at them, “Come to steal my gold bangles, I will kill you, thieves, dogs.” They had to tie her up with a saree and calm her down with fennel juice. Now she could no longer be safely included in the cooking of the funeral feast and it was decided earlier this year to install Badibua as the main cook.

  There were eight of them this morning chosen by Badibua. All the women were related, some closely and some so distant that only the very old aunts could remember the connection. There were other women in the late Bhanurai Jog’s vast family who could have qualified to cook today but the old man had cut off connections with them for years. They came for the funeral though just to see who had been left his vast property and now they were not on speaking terms with Badibua ever since they found out it was she who had inherited the house and all the land surrounding it. Overnight from being a poor relative whom everyone was fond of, she became a much envied woman whom they loved to criticise. “So distantly related yet she gets it all.”

  Badibua did not care and enjoyed her new found wealth happily, filling the old house with the few members of the family she liked and her old friends. Though she still could not understand why Bhanurai Jog, such a dried up old man who everyone had been scared of, had called her one day and told her she was to have the house. Maybe because she had been a childhood friend of his wife’s, though they’d been out of touch for years.

  The women quickly touched Badibua’s feet and then, tucking their sarees around their waists, they sat down in a circle around a huge pile of vegetables. A servant brought a brass plate with eight knives and placed them in front of Badibua respectfully as if it was an offering to the gods. Badibua shrugged her shoulders, it was an old habit of hers and she did it every few minutes as if getting rid of something on her back, and looked around. The women waited to see who she would choose to cut the important vegetables today. It would decide how the morning would go. Badibua nodded her head at Malarani and everyone sighed with relief. That had always been the pattern of cooking the annual funeral feast, the pumpkin whould be cut by the senior-most woman and Badibua had not wavered. She and Malarani would lead the vegetable cutters. If she had chosen one of the younger women, like Shashi or Choni newly inducted into the group, there would have been grumblings and the cooking would taste bitter. Badibua as usual had chosen the right woman to be her commander-in-chief. The younger two could learn from them.

  They quickly began cleaning the vegetables in a large bucket of water. The servants had washed them before bringing them to the circle but they could never be trusted to do it properly.

  The two chosen women began to slice the pumpkin, Malarani worked with great speed and fineness but she took care not to be faster than Badibua because that would look bad and the women would think her shameless. They all knew she could cut vegetables faster than anyone else in the group but there was no need to show off. The red cement floor was soon slippery with water, discarded spinach leaves and stems of eggplants.

  The seven women gathered around the vegetables could have easily been sisters. They all had the same clear golden skin, all except Shashi who was so pale she could be called K
ashmiri. They all had round faces with fine eyebrows. slightly pointed noses and thick black hair. Only Shashi had cut her hair recently when she’d gone to Delhi for a friend’s wedding. In their family she was the first one to do so and though Badibua was not happy with her niece’s short hair, she did not say anything. She was very fond of this lively girl whose mother had died just after giving birth to her. Badibua could see her dead sister’s cheerful face laughing at her when she looked at Shashi. She shifted her huge girth and pushed the pumpkin pieces to one side.“You look like a boy, you do” said Choni, who was always a bit nasty to her. “This year the coriander and mint we grew is really good. You can smell the fragrance even before you begin to grind it” said Malarani, her fingers sorting out the wilted ones from the bunch of fresh coriander leaves. She looked up and smiled at Choni who scowled back, “You know, I love growing things. Maybe I was a mali in my last life,”she said, laughing.

  Badibua felt a surge of affection for her cousin, her mother’s sister’s daughter. Life had treated her so harshly, no husband, no children, yet she was always so happy. “You couldn’t have with those pretty, plump hands,” Shashi said giving her aunt a hug. Choni threw the potato she was peeling into a cauldron of water and said, “You could be a mali even now, masi. Might earn you some money instead of asking for charity.” She gave her aunt a sideways glance. “She never asks for charity, Choni, I think you are being very rude to masi,” said Shashi. Malarani laughed and ruffled Shashi’s hair. She did not mind Choni’s words. What did it matter what anyone said? There were so many things in life that did not matter to her anymore and she often thought about them and felt happy. She threw out a coriander stem. One of the waiting crows flew down to examine it and then flew away. It had lost its place on the water tank now and gave a harsh cry. “I remember how my mother-in-law used to make this chutney. She gave it to us when we were young. The old witch is dead now. Do not speak evil of the dead they say, but there is not one good thing I can say about that woman,” said Malarani shaking her head. “That is very rare for you,” said Badibua. “I cannot forget what she did to that poor girl. Remember her, that sweet girl who my youngest brother-in-law married, you know the one who went to work in England…”

  The women knew a story was coming and settled down to listen. They spread their bodies in a more comfortable position, but their hands continued to chop and clean. It was the first story of the morning and they hoped it was not a sad one. Later on there would be sad ones, sweet ones, bitter ones and angry ones as each woman would tell her tale. Five stories while cutting the vegetables, one while cleaning the rice husk and maybe two while stirring the kheer. Sometimes there was time for a few more after lunch when the rest of house was asleep. No one could be sure how many stories a day would give.

  One

  The fragrance of sweet basil filled her heart with sadness. She crushed each leaf tenderly, holding the stem between her thumb and forefinger so that it would not feel the pain. She whispered a few words, the same words she used when she caressed her husband after they had made love. Maya had all day to prepare the basil, mango, ginger and coriander chutney her mother-in-law had asked her to make today. “It is only for you, girl, so make just one katoriful” the old lady has told her, her eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. Maya had to pluck the leaves herself each morning after she’d had a bath and said her prayers. The patch of herbs was in a secluded spot just below their house but she had to go all the way round, skirting the entire verandah because her father-in-law and his two friends sat there playing chess. When she had first arrived as a young bride in this house which rose like a citadel of spun sugar in the midst of a pine forest, Maya did not know the rules of the house. She walked right across the old men playing chess, folded her hands in a quick greeting, pointed out a honey-bee which was hovering around her father-in-law’s gaping mouth before hurrying past to the garden. When she returned, the bundle of herbs tied in her saree palla, her arms full of aubergines still damp with dew drops, green translucent peas, one half-opened cauliflower and a tiny bouquet of red chillies tucked into her waist, a strange silence greeted her.

  “Come in, girl, leave the vegetables outside,” her mother-in-law said in a sharp voice which made the pale morning light tremble. Maybe she should not have plucked the vegetables as yet, perhaps they were not yet ready. She should have waited till the aubergines had weighed their stems down to touch the earth and the cauliflower had a full circle of creamy white florets. That squinty-eyed gardener must have complained to the old lady. “What were you doing. You shameless girl! Are you mad? Don’t ever walk like that past the men with your face uncovered. Have you no sense? What did your mother teach you, girl? Oh, what a day! The entire village will now gossip about this shameful act of yours!” said her mother-in-law, rubbing her fists over her eyes, forcing the tears out of her glittering-with-malice eyes. “Go. Stay indoors till we ask for you…Go now…I feel sick looking at your hussy face.” The old lady said all this picking up a handful of fine betel nuts she had been cutting while she screamed at Maya. Her hand missed her mouth and the betel nut slices, as fragile as bits of parchment, fell down her blouse, settling down like old scars in her deep bosom. Maya laughed out loudly and then slowly walked into her room, tying a languid knot in her long hair.

  “We have to do something about her, are you listening?” said Gitasri to her husband who was half reclining on the bed, resting on three fat pillows embroidered with pink daisies, tucked under his head which made his chin sink into his chest. He looked like a cherub nestling amongst flowers. Gitasri looked at him with irritation. Was he a grown man with four sons or a silly young boy clutching his pillow all day? She wished she had married the dark boy her mother had suggested. Dark men are real men, the blood in their veins is thick and warm, her mother always said though her own husband, Gitasri’s beloved Baba, was as fair as an Englishman. “Yes…yes…” her pink-cheeked husband muttered dreamily as he recalled the chess move he had made this morning. How stunned Bosebabu had been when he moved his bishop forward at that precise moment. His wife suddenly pulled out one of the pillows, disturbing the cosy nest of perfect balance he had achieved after so much effort. He sighed and looked at her. The betel nut had streaked her lips dark brown and for the first time in the forty years that he had been married to her, he noticed how sharp and pointed her teeth were. “I always knew we had chosen the wrong one. Did you notice how she looked around the room at each one of us, not once did she cast her eyes down modestly like a new bride should during the ceremony. When I stared at her she did not look away but continued to stare back at me with those glittering eyes. First I thought the fire from the havan had touched her eyes but no it was not that. Now I can see…something strange in her eyes. They flash like cat’s eyes.”

  “I tell you, are you listening to me…. Are you? I feel like strangling you with this flower bedecked pillow of yours. Listen, carefully. I tell you it will bring disaster one day to our house. The way she holds her head, raising her neck high, laughs in that mocking way when I give her instructions about something…I tell you, it frightens me. So much arrogance is not good in a woman, who knows what she may do one day. I worry about my poor son…so gentle…” said Gitasri and her husband replied with a gentle snore. Gitasri looked down at him, pulled one pillow out and threw it on the floor…. Wretched daisy flowers. I hope they choke him to death.

  She had to speak to Bhagwan. He would tell her what to do. All her four daughter-in-laws were so gentle, docile with forever downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. Even that barren cow Malarani. She did not even mind when Gitasri kicked her, she just smiled like an imbecile. She smiled even when they got another wife to replace her. Wretched woman turned out to be barren too! No, only this Maya, curse her, walked around the house like a lioness with cubs. She was too proud because of her beautiful face and her long hair which swung below her hips. “Do not bring a beauty,” her mother had advised her and she had chosen simple, plain brides with b
road hips and healthy teeth for the other three sons. Good well behaved girls, docile, obedient and good breeders. Each one, except Malarani, had produced a son within the first year of their marriage and now they spent all their time in the kitchen supervising the servants. Of course they asked her permission for everything: what to cook, what saree or piece of jewellery to wear, which fast to keep and how often. She also rationed how much time they could spend talking to their husbands and made sure the doors to their bedrooms were always open. She could walk in any time she liked.

  Gitasri considered herself a fair woman so she let them manage their children’s and their husbands’ day-to-day life, like which kurta to wear, whether to grow a moustache or not. But she and only she took the final decisions on important matters like what to name the children, how much money to give to the sons and how often they could visit their wives at night. She knew they would never step outside the line she had drawn for them, but run around, and play happily within the circle like her grandsons’ pet white mice on their toy wheels. She never had to worry even for a day about her older sons and their steady, cow wives. But Subir, her youngest, who had been born when she had almost reached menopause and thought her womb had dried up, was different from the other boys right from childhood. She loved him most of all and let him do whatever he wanted. But that was the mistake she made. He ran out too far and now she could not hold him down anymore. He wanted to see his bride. “See his own bride before the wedding? Are we blind or what? Too much studying leads to this,” her relatives had said, their faces full of spite. Subir was the first one in the family to finish college and as if that was not enough, he won a scholarship and went off to the London School of Economics to study further. “What is the need for all this book learning?” she said but he would not listen.

  Now to make matters worse he had got a job there in that foreign land. Gitasri had warned her husband not to send him but like all her warnings this one too flew past his ears like a buzzing fly. Chess, chess and more chess was all he thought about. That and his daisy pillow. “Let him see his bride. What is the harm? Educated boys like to make their own choice.” So Subir came to India for a week, saw Maya and chose her at once though they had lined up five more girls for him. Maya, the only daughter of wealthy landowning family, had finished school and could recite English poetry as well as Bengali. She brought with her a huge dowry which helped to settle the debts her husband had got into when the timber prices crashed and the money was enough to also pay for their younger daughter’s wedding. “Good luck for us that Subir chose this one and not that plump one with the miser father who sent us only one basket of fruit with his daughter’s black and white photograph to hide the fact that she was coal black. Our Subir picked the right one in one second. See, all this English education does help.” Her husband had said, stroking the diamond ring Maya’s father had given him as a gift along with an ivory chess set.