Eating Women, Telling Tales Read online

  Alu paratha for today, then palak meat, then fish curry with mustard, then eggplant with cottage cheese. Then… Jamini tried to remember other dishes. This would last for just four days.. that was not enough to bring her son back. She had to travel so far to touch him, this was not enough. This would not even be enough to make him remember a slight tinge of the love he had felt for them. He had moved so far, become a stranger she had to pull into the fold again. She had to get past layers of dust from Ir land Ih covered his eyes. He could not see them anymore. Futher and further she would have to stretch her arms, look far into the past to pick up the fragments of his love for them Ih were lying forgotten and mouldy somewhere in his heart. She needed more time, more memories, more food. Babu had loved her cooking so much but a flood of panic hit her and her heart went cold when she could not remember her son as her child anymore.

  Three

  The women shook their heads and Malarani wiped a tear away. She cried as easily as she laughed. They began to sort the fenugreek leaves, breaking the stems carefully to take some of the bitterness away. Most of the vegetables had been chopped and now sat in a row of bowls. Aubergines, pumpkin, spinach, potatoes, bitter gourd, beans and squash. They could not use any onion or garlic today since it was a funeral feast – it was only at wedding feasts that rich food was allowed. The servants would take the vegetables to the kitchen soon and line them up. For other feasts they were allowed to start the cooking but for this particular one the women had to do everything – chopping, cooking and serving.

  But there was still time for another story before they started the cooking. The guests would arrive only at one and there were not that many today. Most people who knew the old man were either dead or too old to travel to Kashipur. It was not easy: first you had to take a train to Kalka, then a tonga or bullock cart to Rajgarh, then a ferry to cross the river. There were taxis too but they charged a lot of money. Hema, who lived with Badibua in the old house, had sat in a taxi only once when her parents had taken her to Haridwar.

  Her mother had dreamt again about the old women, now they wanted to go to Haridwar. Hema suddenly started her story before anyone else could. The women were a little surprised by her bold manner but since she was Badibua’s maid, they allowed her to speak. Soon they were totally immersed in this strange story. The fenugreek lay forgotten, the tiny green leaves wilting as Hema’s story unravelled.

  HEMA’S STORY OF HER MOTHER’S DREAM ABOUT

  THE DEAD AUNTS

  The goat stood still, but its tail was quivering slightly. Somu was not sure whether it was the breeze or the Devta’s will. The circle of people who had started gathering at dawn, watched the goat silently and only the Pradhan’s wife coughed. Somu turned his head and glared at her but she met his angry look and coughed again, louder this time, gargling the spit in her throat spitefully. Suddenly the goat began to shiver, the drummer boy – who was also the village carpenter – woke up and began to beat his homemade drum in a discordant manner. The goat jumped up with a start, shook its ears and then its entire body began to shake and tremble. It lowered its head, marked with vermilion, and tried to pull the rope which tied it to the pillar but its neck jerked convulsively the other way, entangling it more firmly to the pillar. The crowd began to cheer as the goat kicked up its hind legs, rolled its eyes, showing the white moons and then it gave a loud, hysterical bleat.

  Somu let the muscles of his face relax. Standing next to him, his wife let out a faint sigh of relief. The Devta, always benevolent but unpredictable as the rain, had accepted the goat. Now they could take it back and leave it in the temple courtyard with all the other goats which had been offered to the Devta. None could slaughter it and it would grow old with the other sacrificial goats who had shivered under the Devta’s all-powerful gaze when the drum began to roll. Those that stood unafraid and still were rejected by the gods and had to be slaughtered and made into prasad. It was only in their temple that this ritual took place: in the neighbouring villages the sacrificial goats were beheaded regardless of whether they stood still or shivered while the Devta decided their fate.

  The goat skipped ahead, unaware that it had narrowly missed death. Somu’s wife, Parvati prodded it gently with a branch to keep it from running into the mustard fields along the path.

  This time the goat had cost him Rs 400. It was all her fault thought Somu, a wave of irritation making his mouth tight now that he was no longer afraid about what the gods would think or do. If she had not dreamt that Choti wanted another goat, they could have used the money to buy some new shoes for their daughter Hema. These days shoes cost such a lot like everything else. It was not easy on a postman’s salary to feed four mouths and also keep their various living and dead relatives happy.

  It was not as if their own parents, who had died many years ago, made these endless demands. They seemed content wherever they were. The ones they had to please endlessly were Choti and Munni, his late mother’s brother’s two wives. The two women appeared regularly in his wife’s dreams, mostly on full moon nights, to ask for something or the other. Their husband was still alive, now almost a hundred years old but still eating twenty-six puris – fried in pure ghee! – a day. They never asked him for anything or maybe they did but he kept quiet about it. Always a sly man he was.

  Last month the women had asked for a pooja and bhog in Haridwar, then before that a feast for the Brahmins and this month they wanted a goat. God knows what they would demand next full moon night…

  The village priest said they must do what the spirit asked or else his family would suffer illness or worse, death. “You must make them happy. Dead relatives, especially women, are important. They are not like our parents who have gone to heaven and think only kindly about us. These distant relatives, who were not that kind or generous even when alive, can turn malicious when dead if you do not placate them with gifts,” he said taking Rs 51 and a box of sweets for the advice. Somu did not mind giving the women what they wanted, they had had so little while they lived, but he wished they would ask for it all at one time and not make these odd demands which played havoc with his household budget.

  His wife sang loudly as they walked and Somu wondered if she was with child again. His youngest daughter was already three years old and maybe this time Devta would give him a son. A son would make his life worthwhile. What was the use of having so much land, a pucca house, five cows and a T.V. if there was no male child to give it to? “Be happy and content, Choti-mami and Munni-mami, make my family healthy and give my wife a son. I will have a feast for you old hags,” he said, looking up at the sky. He would not mind spending money on whatever they asked for if they gave him a son. It was not that he did not love his little Hema but a son was a son – a gift from the gods directly to him.

  Munni laughed when she heard his words float up through the clouds. “What a sweet boy…always had a smooth tongue like his father. See how he loves me, sent me a goat and now he is planning a feast in my honour,” she said, tossing her head back. Her hair which had been white and wispy when she died five years ago, was now glossy black. It hung like a black cloud around her body as it floated in this perpetual silver twilight.

  “The goat is not yours, he clearly said Choti mami and we both know that is my name. They are giving it to me to thank me for the good potato crop I sent them last month.”

  “What rubbish you talk, Choti! You were always stupid and deaf, that is why you never heard the maid servant moaning and singing while our husband made love to her right under your bed in your own bedroom,” said Munni jabbing her finger into the space that she knew was Choti.

  “There is no need to be rude! Why talk about the past now that we are all dead and our poor husband is still suffering on earth – so feeble and old. All I’m saying is that this goat is mine. See it has my name written on its forehead in vermilion.” Munni mami turned her head and gave her husband’s wife a dark look which circled around her head and fell like a lasso over it. But all Choti felt was a ge
ntle tug around her neck and she reached up instinctively to adjust the heavy gold necklace she always wore but then she remembered she had no body and smiled.

  Munni, irritated by her smug smile, wanted to give her a sharp pinch like she’d done many years ago when they had both been alive. She disliked Choti from the day she had arrived, a fat, dark bride with a hairy upperlip and an enormous dowry. Till Choti had come to their house, she was the main daughter-in-law. Her father-in-law, the randy old goat, had adored her, her mother-in-law listened to her advice and the servants obeyed her. She ruled the household. Her husband, feeble and sick even then, hardly ever spoke to her but it never bothered her till he decided to marry once more because the village faith healer said it would cure him of this mysterious illness. Some said it was epilepsy and others said it was Japanese malaria. Once she had heard the servants whisper that it was the clap he had caught from the village whore. But he could not have gone out of the house, she thought, so she must have visited him sometime. Who knew? But she remembered he was delirious with fever the day Choti, married to him by proxy, landed in their house armed with a clock that chimed, a trunk full of silk saris, five kilos of gold and a big radio which till now only the English sahibs had in Kashipur.

  Soon people in the house were swarming around her like flies around a piece of jaggery. Munni was nothing now and even the lowest servant boys talked to her rudely. But then, one day, Choti went out to the rice fields to see a cockfight with their husband who was showing faint signs of recovery, much to everyone’s delight. No women were supposed to go to these fights and God’s wrath in the form of a bolt of lightning struck the tree she was standing under. She was dead, her neck neatly broken by a branch, before she could call out her husband’s name for help and commit another sin. Munni mourned her with the rest of the family, eating salt-less food, sleeping on the ground but her heart sang with joy. Now she could rule the house once more and the chiming clock would be hers forever. But then within a month she too was taken away. A simple operation that old maid doctor had said feeling her insides with a cold gloved hand. It was a simple death instead. In the morning she was alive, giving instructions to the cook, and by afternoon the priest was chanting prayers over her dead body while the servant cooked the funeral rice and lentils from the same rations she had doled out to them.

  “What bad luck to lose both daughters-in-law in one month!” everyone said at the joint funeral feast her father-in-law had organized to save money. Their husband, strangely enough, began to regain his health though he took to lying in bed all day. Lazy old goat still alive on earth!

  No, she would never let Choti have the goat. It was hers and she would make Somu say so in front of the village. “I send this goat to my beloved Munni mami, my only mama’s senior wife.” He’d say this loudly and clearly so that even deaf Choti could hear.

  Munni thought for a while, letting the fragrant twilight mist circle her body and then pass through her head. “He had asked for a son. I will send him one right now. Sons were so easy to send down. I don’t know why they made us hanker and thirst for one all our lives. All you have to do is pluck a male bud from the tree of life and float it down. The winds that travel to the earth every dawn will carry it and Somu’s wife can catch it easily in her womb. I will tell her to stand facing in the right direction. In tonight’s dream I will give her clear instructions about the goat.” Munni tied her hair in a knot in a long practised gesture though her hands did not touch her hair, and then she wafted down to the garden where the tree of life stood. Choti was already there with a male bud in her hand. “Witch! She can read my mind. I must not think of what I’m going to do next,” said Munni and shut her eyes, letting her mind go blank. Choti smiled and blew the seed gently towards the winds travelling down to earth. She would send many gifts but better not let Munni know or she would steal her thoughts right now.

  She was always so mean to me when we were alive on earth though I never harmed her, in fact, my mother gave her an expensive sari and a gold necklace. “Better keep the senior wife happy or they cast jealous, evil eyes on you,” she had said.

  I will never give her that goat. Somu will have to give it to me. He owes me a favour. When he was appearing for his B.A. exams I gave him Rs 500 to buy the question paper from his teacher. Now he struts about, the only B.A. fail in the village. He was very grateful to me when I was alive but now I find he thinks of Munni more. Maybe that stupid wife does not tell him about my messages. What has Munni done for him? She did not have two rupees to give to her maid servants and had to borrow from me. If I had lived long enough maybe she would have asked me to pay for her dentures too! She kept talking about getting new teeth ever since she saw my mother’s new set though she had perfectly healthy teeth.

  Somu is a sweet boy but too easily swayed by Munni. I must try to get to him. Munni had a year before me to work her charm on everyone in the house though our husband never liked her and preferred to spend every night in my bedroom. Our husband loved only me. That maid was just there when he was heavy with love and I had gone to sleep early. For a sick man he produced a lot of seed. Men must love when they have to or else how will the world go around? Poor man, how lonely he looks now that even the maid has run away from our house!

  I wish I had had the time to give him a son, that would have given him some joy. I must remind Parvati that I’m the one who sent her a son. Had to reach so high to pluck him. A nice, plump seed from the topmost branch where the best, healthiest sons grow. Sons who will live beyond their father and light their mother’s funeral pyre. Maybe I will send something extra before Munni thinks of it. Gold? Men like gold. How happy our husband was with the heavy gold chain my father gave him! He still wears it though it hangs heavy around his thin neck now. I’m glad he never married again because his new wife would have melted the chain and made some new jewellery for herself. Munni would have done it too but fortunately she is here with me.

  Shall I send Somu’s wife something? It’s not easy to send heavy things like gold since I do not have that much energy. But Munni is new here too and she has the same quota as me. Though she might steal some from the others. She was always so pushy. At my wedding feast she wore a red sari with a heavy gold border and all the jewellery she had. It was not much but it made her look like a bride and confused many guests who gave her the wedding gifts and envelopes with money. My mother was sure she kept some of the money and I have to agree with her now. Why does she want my goat? I must work hard or else she will grab it.

  Somu was surprised to see the almond tree full of blossoms. Winter had not left the hills, and the ground was still hard and bare of grass. Yet in his orchard every almond, plum and peach tree was covered with flowers. The bees, confused by this sudden abundance, flew blindly from one tree to another, clashing over the newly opened buds. All the other trees in the village were still bare. Only Somu’s orchard glittered on the bleak hillside like a bouquet of flowers and he was pleased and embarrassed by his luck. Then the next day his cows – all five of them – gave birth and a whole new crop of calves arrived. All five were female. Everyone in the village gathered at his house, their faces shining with envy. “It is Choti and Munni mami. I dreamt of them last night, but was not sure what they were saying,” whispered Parvati, her eyes bleary with sleep. She went to the corner of the orchard and threw up loudly, scattering the sparrows from the almond tree. “A son this time,” thought Somu as he tried to fill every vessel in the house with the milk that was pouring from his five cows. He sent some to the neighbours too.

  That season the orchard gave the largest amount of fruit ever, each peach, plum and apricot filled with sweet, fragrant juice, the rice stalks were heavy with seed and the stream below the orchard was suddenly crowded with red, copper and black fish that the village had never seen before. Clouds brought rain just when the wheat crop was about to be sown and then the sun shone brightly to ripen it to pale gold in just a few weeks.

  That summer there was no flood or
famine in their village, no cows fell down the hillsides, no monkeys attacked the potato crop and no mother stayed awake at night rocking a sick, hungry child in her lap. After nine blissful months Parvati gave birth on full moon night to twins – a boy and a girl. “I must give the Devta a goat,” said Somu, cradling his newborn son who had a strange mark on his forhead – like a tiny leaf. “You must give something to Badi and Munni Mami. I feel they are trying to tell me something. Maybe they will be happy with a goat. Get one for each. They never liked sharing, your mother told me, though they were married to the same man.”