Nectar in a Sieve Page 11

  "Tonight and tomorrow and every night, so long as there is need. I will not hunger any more."

  "Like a harlot," he said. "A common strumpet."

  The veins in his forehead were standing out, on each temple a pulse throbbed fiercely. Ira stood defiant before him, uttering no denial, fingers plucking at the fringe of her sari. I closed my eyes, I could not bear to see them thus.

  "These are but words," she said at last. "There are others, kinder ones, which for decency's sake --"

  "Decency!" he spat at her. "Do not speak of decency!"

  She was quiet for a moment, and he said with deliberate cruelty, "No man will look at you, defaced as you are."

  "The cuts will heal," she retorted. "Men do not seek my face."

  I think he laid a restraining hand on her: for I heard her say, "Let me pass," and there was a slight rustling sound as she withdrew from his grasp.

  Well, we let her go. We had tried everything in our power, there was nothing more we could do. She was no longer a child, to be cowed or forced into submission, but a grown woman with a definite purpose and an invincible determination. We had for so long accepted her obedience to our will that when it ceased to be given naturally, it came as a considerable shock; yet there was no option but to accept the change, strange and bewildering as it was, for obedience cannot be extorted. It was as simple as that: we forbade, she insisted, we lost. So we got used to her comings and goings, as we had got used to so much else.

  With her earnings Irawaddy was able to buy rice and salt, and milk for the child, who was too weak for anything else. After the roots and leavings we had existed on, I was grateful enough for the food, but of what she bought Nathan would not touch a morsel. Day after day he went out as before, delving and scraping for food, as thin and dry as a hollow bamboo stick.

  "What is done is done," I said, urging him to eat. "There is no stricture on you, for you have tried."

  "I will not touch it," he said, eyeing me steadily. What bitterness was behind this I do not know, or what condemnation of his powerlessness to feed his children; but this I do know: his spirit was very strong, and he was an upright man.

  For the first few days after Ira resumed feeding Kuti with milk, he seemed to grow better, but the improvement -- if improvement it had been: I do not know, for he ceased to cry and we took this for improvement -- did not continue. Soon it became clear that he was sinking. His eyes grew larger in his pinched face, there was a brightness in their soft brown as if all that was left of life was concentrated there; and indeed they seemed to be the only active part of him. From his corner, when he was no longer capable of any other movement, his eyes constantly followed us, seeming never to tire in their restless wandering. Otherwise he lay quiet like a bruised fledgling, with the dry, parched lips of exhaustion and a body which could struggle no more.

  Only once I heard him call: a slight whisper that barely reached me.

  "Ama?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  "I cannot see you -- I cannot see anything."

  "I am here my son, very near you."

  There was a feeble movement of his arms, and I knelt beside him and clasped them round my neck, holding them there, for he was too weak.

  "Sleep, dearest. Soon you will be better, and then you will be able to see again. I promise you, you will see again."

  He seemed contenti he accepted the lies I told him and sighed a little -- perhaps in relief, for who knows what fears tormented his child's mind? Soon I felt him relax and loosing his hands gently drew away from him. A little later I heard a slight sound and turning saw that he had opened his eyes and was gazing at Ira, staring at her unwinking. I went to him and saw that his eyes were sightless; already a thin film was overspreading them. I picked him up and held him to me; his limp, emaciated body, so light I might have been holding a handful of leaves, not a child, sagged lifeless against mine. I crooned to him, forgetting he was dead, until the cold came creeping through his limbs and he began to stiffen; then at last I laid him down, closing his eyes and pushing back the fronds of hair that clung damply to his brow. He looked tired but very calm, with the signs of suffering taken from his countenance. Nathan came and knelt beside him with harsh sorrowing face and bitter eyes. Our last child, conceived in happiness at a time when the river of our lives ran gently, had been taken from us; I knew too well what he felt. Yet, although I grieved, it was not for my son: for in my heart I could not have wished it otherwise. The strife had lasted too long and had been too painful for me to call him back to continue it.

  CHAPTER XVII

  WHEN Kuti was gone -- with a bland indifference that mocked our loss -- the abundant grain grew ripe. It was the second crop of the year, sown on ground which had not been allowed to lie fallow, and so we did not think it would be other than meagre; but contrary to our expectations it was a very good harvest. Every husk was filled, the paddy stood firm and healthy, showing no breaks in their ranks. We worked through the days and in the twilight getting in the rice, and then we worked three more days draining the fields and clearing them, and then three more nights sifting and winnowing. Even so, a heap of unhusked paddy lay in our granary, waiting until the marketing should be done.

  "It is as I said," Nathan exclaimed. "Strength has been given to us. Else how could so much have been achieved by such as we are?" He looked round triumphantly, pointing to the neat white hills of rice and the husks in a rustling brown heap. We looked at each other, streaked with sweat, thin and bony like scarecrows and as ugly, and suddenly what he had said seemed very funnyi and first Selvam and then Ira began to laugh, helpless, speechless, with tears running down their cheeks, until we older people slowly joined them -- could not help but join in their laughter -- and the spectre of what had been tweaked at our memories in vain. There we were, the four of us, hysterical, released, rocking with laughter and gasping for breath which ran out as fast as we sucked it in. The hollow cheeks and bulging stomachs, the grotesque, jutting bones, became matter for laughter; already, though they were still with us, in our minds they belonged to the past -- to the painful past that we thrust from us with all our force; and the laughter was in some measure born of relief that we could do so.

  Nathan especially was in exuberant mood. He kept slapping his thigh and shaking his head as if he could not believe in so much good fortune; in his palm he held a few grains of rice, rubbing them together to produce a dry rustle which seemed to delight him, for he kept repeating the movement. Perhaps it was to reassure himself that they were real and not part of his desperate imaginings.

  "There will be enough to pay what we owe," he exclaimed, "and to keep what we want. We can stock the fields with fish as well --"

  "And plant vegetables," I said. "I shall need to buy bean seeds and chilli seeds, and perhaps a few young pumpkin vines. . . sweet potatoes of course. . . I have made a lot from my vegetables before."

  "Indeed yes," he said eagerly. "There will be money enough for all this, you will see. God has given us another chance in His mercy."

  "First the marketing," I said smiling, for who would not at such optimism, "then the plans."

  Then and there, in a fever of impatience, we got out the gunny bags and the tall brass measure, and set to calculating quantities and prices.

  The sowing of seed disciplines the body and the sprouting of the seed uplifts the spirit, but there is nothing to equal the rich satisfaction of a gathered harvest, when the grain is set before you in shining mounds and your hands are whitened with the dust of the good rice; or the very act of measuring -- of filling the measure, and topping it with a peak, careless of its height because you can afford to be, and also because you know in your prudence that the grains will see to it that you are not too generous, and slip and tumble down the sides of the measure if that peak be too tall. So many handfuls to one measure, so many measures to one sack; one after the other the sacks are filled and put away, with rejoicing and thankfulness.

  Later we go to offer prayers, bearing camphor
and kum-kum, paddy and oil. Our hearts are very grateful.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  I WENT to market laden with smooth-skinned brinjals and pumpkins, round and fleshed like young women. The earth had yielded richly: there were, besides, beans and potatoes, melons and chillies, and I was well pleased with them and with the silver coins I had received in exchange. I no longer sold to Biswas; there were several other shops in the town now where I was paid better, and where I did not have to endure the sly, spiteful observations he made. Increasing years had added more grease to his bulk, more flesh to his paunch; they had not sweetened his nature or endowed him with more kindliness. Confounding the curses that came his way -- and there were many, for his usury was harsh beyond necessity -- he continued to prosper, squeezing the life from those hapless creatures who were driven to borrow from him, and gaining his strength from their weakness.

  Seeing me pass, he came and stood in his doorway and called.

  "Rukmani! I have news for you. Stop a minute!"

  "What is it?"

  " Kenny is back. I have seen him."

  "So," I said warily. "That is good news for everybody."

  "Especially for you," he said, keeping his eye on me.

  "For everybody," I repeated, "for he is a good doctor. Many people are in his debt."

  "He is also a man," he said. "They say he is a good friend to you."

  "To me and mine," I said with rising temper. "He has done much for us"

  "For you particularly," he insisted, his flabby lips twitching with innuendo. "I have heard from Kunthi that this is so."

  "A whore's tale," I said contemptuously, "as suspect as her body."

  He thrust his face up to mine.

  "Yet not for that reason dismissed," he said, leering.

  I wanted to strike him, I wanted to ram his words back into his throat. I held myself still with an effort.

  "Foul-mouthed pig!" I said. "Carrion crow!"

  He only smiled, being used to harsh words.

  "As hot headed as ever, Rukmani," he said. "Where will you turn when next you need money?"

  He was so slippery, so worthless, that my anger died. Not even the malignant power of Kunthi could rouse me: I felt too remote.

  I hung about for a while, unable to make up my mind whether to try and seek him in the town, or whether to go home in prudence and await his coming, as I felt sure he would. Then it struck me as ludicrous that at this late stage I should walk with caution, and I went therefore to the whitewashed cottage on the fringes of the town, expectant, carrying a garland of roses and jasmine to welcome him, and a lime for good luck.

  The cottage was bare -- it always had been -- and chill and lifeless from long disuse. Dust lay thick on the floor, there were neat hillocks of chipped cement and earth where bandicoots, for some obscure reason of their own, had dug. So much I saw from the broken front window, then I pushed open the door to enter.

  Kenny was standing in the smaller room that led off the main one. He turned when he heard me come in, I saw him frown.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  Accustomed though I was to him, the brusque words, his short manner, dashed the welcome from my lips.

  " Biswas told me," I said. "I came at once."

  There was a silence. The garland I was holding became an encumbrance, I felt I had been stupid to buy it. Even the lime seemed unnecessary. I tried to hide them behind my back. He noticed at once.

  "What have you got there?"

  "A few things -- I have just been to market," I began lamely.

  "A garland, is it not?"

  "Yes," I said sheepishly. "I bought it for you. You guess well."

  He drew me to the window and pointed. Outside lay a heap of garlands, roses, lilies, chrysanthemums; evidently others had been before me.

  "Not a guess," he said gravely, "a certainty. You were not the first."

  "Well-intentioned for all that --" I was beginning hotly when he began to laugh, grinning widely so that the lines of his face were somehow lost in the creases of laughter, making him look young and amiable. I felt better at once; the strangeness vanished.

  "You have been away a long time," I said. "Too long; we have missed you."

  "Why?" he said. "More trouble?"

  I was in two minds as to what to say and looked covertly at him. His face had become very serious, almost grim, with every trace of laughter taken from it. After so many years he was as unpredictable as ever.

  "We have had our troubles," I said cautiously. "Yet it was not only on that account we missed you. It was --" I stopped, not knowing how to finish. He would have helped us in our need with food and money and skill, yet it was something more than this that he offered us, and I could not find words for it.

  "Your presence," I said haltingly, "means a lot to us. There is a rare gentleness in you, the sweeter for its brief appearances."

  I do not know what emboldened me -- perhaps it was his silence. He seemed to be hardly listening. He was still standing, looking out of the window, biting his nails.

  "Troubles," he said. "We all have them. I suppose the crops failed and you starved."

  "It was a bad time," I answered him. "We lost two sons. Raja died by an accident. The child was too tender for this world; he could not live as we did. After the crops failed he --" I stopped again. The memory of those days was ever with me, yet the passing of time had made it quiescent; now my own words brought it savagely alive with a shrill, stabbing pain that swept the words away. I was quiet for a while, waiting for it to fade, to regain calmness. He did not look round, perhaps he sensed my struggle.

  "Enough of me," I said at last. "What of you and yours?"

  He turned on me roughly. "What concern is that of yours?"

  "None; save that I wish them well."

  "Save your wishes," he said unpleasantly. "My wife has left me. My sons have been taught to forget me."

  I tried and failed to imagine her, this woman who could after so many years renounce altogether her husband, break the bond that must surely have existed despite his long absences. Perhaps it is just this that has driven her to it, I thought. He is not without blame.

  "You think it is my fault," he said. "Do not deny it, your face speaks plainly enough for me."

  "Women need men," I said, shrugging. "It is not right to deprive a woman."

  "Tell me also," he said. "Do you not think a man must choose his work?"

  "Such a man as you, yes," I replied.

  "What then if his wife cannot accompany him?"

  "Cannot?" I said. "She must. A woman's place is with her husband."

  He sighed impatiently. "You simplify everything, being without understanding. Your views are so limited it is impossible to explain to you."

  "Limited, yes," I agree. "Yet not wholly without understanding. Our ways are not your ways."

  "You have sound instincts," he said.

  For the first time since I had known him I saw a spark of admiration in his eyes.

  "I am not a fool," I said, speaking in a low voice, pleased by the commendation in his eyes, a little hurt by it as well. "Have I not so much sense to see that you are not one of us? You live and work here, and there is in your heart solicitude for us and love for our children. But this is not your country and we are not your people. If you lived here your whole life it still would not be."

  "My country," he said. "Sometimes I do not know which is my country. Until today I had thought perhaps it was this."

  He sounded bitter and weary: his forlorn spirit touched mine, and a great emptiness seemed to unfold in me. I wished I could have my words back, locked away safely in myself, unsaid, powerless to wound.

  "Save your regrets," he said. "You have told me nothing I did not know."

  I rose to go. "My husband and children will be happy to see you. We shall be glad to welcome you in our house."

  "You are not without riches, as I have said before," he said, speaking half to himself. "How is your daughter? She was a
pretty young woman."

  "Well; she is carrying."

  "So her coming to me was not in vain."

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  "Had she been barren forever, it would have been better."

  "Why? Was it not your wish --"

  "Not this way," I said, "with the father any one of a dozen men."

  "I suppose it was necessary," he said quietly. "I have seen it happen before."