Nectar in a Sieve Page 15

  The carter is asleep on his jointed perch: the bullocks know the route well, they keep on without guidance from him. At midday we halt near a small wayside well. The carter wakens, snorts, stretches himself before climbing down. We are to eat here, he says, and he unyokes the bullocks to water them. I see one of them has a large raw patch on its shoulder where the yoke has rubbed the skin off.

  "The animal is not well," I say to the man.

  He shrugs: "What can I do? I have no other. I must make these trips since they are my livelihood."

  We wash, eat, wash again, then proceed.

  Mile after mile of dusty road stretching out straight before us, lined here and there with cool shady banyans or tamarind trees. The bullock with the sore patch is slowing the other up; the carter turns impatient and brings out his whip. It is no use, its pace does not alter. We pass other bullock carts, are passed by some, eat again, sleep again. At night we stop while the carter lights the lantern slung beneath the cart, then we move on in the darkness and the small yellow light-disc travels with us like a comforting beacon. On and on, and on and on, we journey.

  The cart driver roused us when we reached the outskirts of the city where my son worked. It was mid-afternoon, the sun was streaming down hot and at its most powerful.

  "Here you are. This is as far as I can take you." He nudged Nathan, who sat with his head lolling against the bales, fast asleep. I shook him, pushing his head erect.

  "Wake up, we have arrived."

  He opened his eyes, reddened and with drooping lids.

  "I could easily sleep the whole day through," he said, yawning and stretching.

  "We are late already," the carter was grumbling. "I should have got here by morning . . . if only this bullock had kept better pace --"

  He leaped down and lifted the yoke preparatory to watering his animals. The raw patch on the bullock I had noticed before had begun to fester, more skin had been eaten away and trickles of blood were running down the edges.

  "This animal will soon be fit for nothing," he muttered to himself. "Heaven knows when I shall be able to afford another."

  As soon as the animals had drunk he put the yoke back. The bullock cringed, but accepted the torment and as soon as the whip fell it began to pull again.

  The carter leaned from his perch to call to us, his face hot and perspiring. "Good luck friends, keep well!" His voice was friendly.

  "Goodbye, good luck," we called back.

  For a little while we stood by the roadside, our parcels about us. There were three turnings before us and there was no telling which way lay the house of our son. Then Nathan picked up the mats.

  "Come along. We may meet somebody soon."

  We chose a road at random; walked for some time without seeing anyone. We should have asked the carter, I thought. He would have known. But I did not say so. At length we saw two men approaching, jogging along towards us with bundles on their heads.

  "Can you direct us to Koil Street, friend?"

  "Koil Street? Let me see," he put up his hand to scratch his head, but, the burden being there, withdrew it.

  "NO, I can not. Brother, can you tell these people what they want to know?"

  His companion thought: "I have heard of it. Yes, I remember now, it is in one of the suburbs of the town. Quite a way from here, but this is the right road."

  "How far?"

  "About fifteen miles. . . . If you keep to the road you may get a lift," he added good-naturedly, seeing our crestfallen faces.

  We plodded on. Several bullock carts passed us and one or two jutkas, but none stopped. Most of them were fully laden already. The bundle I carried, for all that it contained so little, grew heavier with each step; my neck was stiff with the effort of holding my head steady, for the bundle was poised on top. Under each arm was a cooking pot; whenever the sweat came trickling down -- which happened frequently, it was a hot day -- I had to stop and put them down before wiping my face. My husband, similarly burdened, and troubled more than I was by flies and insects, had also to stop frequently, so our going was slow.

  As we progressed the road broadened; it split and forked, other roads curled away from it and more came to intersect it, so that it was difficult to know whether we were keeping to the right road or not. Many people were about, walking quickly and intent on their business: we did not find it easy to stop and ask them the way. Not only people but traffic -- bullock carts, jutkas, cars and bicycles, more than we had ever seen, many times thicker than in the town around the tannery. The noise never let up: car horns, bicycle bells and the cracking of whips, combined to produce a deafening bewildering clamour, amid which it was impossible to heed every warning sound. Several times we were nearly knocked down by impatient cyclists whose bells we had not heard. Once a jutka almost ran us over . . . the driver just managed to pull up the horse and while we stood palpitating he leaned from his seat, irate and frightened, to shout at us. His voice was very loud, and he shook his fist as he drove off. Several people stopped to stare at us curiously as we hurried on.

  We had reached the city's centre, Koil Street lay some six miles away, and we were still not sure of finding it. I could see Nathan was very tired: the heat and the noise, the bustle of the city, had taken their toll. He was walking sluggishly, now and again he stumbled, and at last I said, "Let us rest for a while, it will do us both good."

  He agreed at once; we found a quieter side street, and thankfully putting our burdens beside us sank down. No one paid any attention to us. We were allowed to sit there in peace. We had bought on the way a hand of plantains, of which four remained, and as we had not eaten since morning I brought these out, giving two to my husband and eating two myself. It was nearly dusk: the activities of the city were beginning to die down, the noise was decreasing. Soon street lights were winking and in the shops gas lamps and hurricane lanterns were lighting up; but in the little side alley where we sat it was dark -- darker than the air and the sky above us from the shadows cast by the buildings on either side.

  It was such a relief to rest, and the thought of continuing the search was so unwelcome, that we sat on while the gloom thickened and night crept up on us. When at last we rose, stars were bright in the sky. We have stayed too long, I thought uneasily. We shall not reach our son tonight.

  Nathan did not seem too happy either. As we stood there undecided, our bundles spread about us, wondering what next to do, an old man whom I had noticed asleep in a doorway came up to us.

  "Where do you go, friends, at this late hour?"

  "To Koil Street. Our son lives there, we are going to him."

  "That is a long way yet. You look tired."

  "We have rested too well. We should have been on our way long since."

  "Well, if you do not arrive tonight there is a temple not far from here where you can eat and sleep." He pointed. In the distance we saw the outline of a temple, not too distant however, with a yellow oil flare burning from the top. We looked, and it seemed to beckon to us, promising food and shelter.

  "We are grateful to you. Perhaps it would be best, we are tired as you say."

  We picked up our possessions and walked on, more firmly now that we had somewhere definite to go, helped by the yellow flare that burned so steadily ahead of us.

  As we neared the temple we noticed several people, mostly old and crippled, going the same way. Obviously many of them were known to one another, for as they hobbled along in ones and twos and sometimes small groups, they exchanged greetings and news. They knew us at once for strangers -- perhaps by the bundles we carried -- but were not disposed to be unfriendly for that, and they smiled to us and one or two called out cheerfully, "Are you bound for the temple too?"

  "Yes, we hope to shelter there for the night."

  "Are you going to settle in this city?"

  "Yes, our son lives here. He is married and we are to stay with him. His name is Murugan," we said eagerly. "Maybe you have heard of him?"

  "No, no," they shook their he
ads indulgently. "Ah well, it is a big city."

  In the precincts of the temple, shops and stalls were open, brightly lit with gas lamps with their owners standing or sitting within and calling out their wares to passers-by; but most had no money to spend. At one shop pilaus were being sold, mounds of saffron rice on buttered plantain leaves, glistening with ghee and garnished with red chillies and curling strips of fried onion. The smell from it, rich and tempting, swirled up with the puffs of steam from the boiling rice. Impossible to shut it out, useless to try . . . the fragrant smell was everywhere. I felt a cramp beginning in my stomach, held it with an effort that turned me giddy; when it had passed, the familiar symptoms of nausea began. Nathan pressed my arm in sympathy; he too looked queasy.

  Through the outer courtyards and along the corridors we went, going with the crowd to whom this was evidently a nightly routine, and into a large vaulted chamber with arched entrances opening on three sides. Here we stopped and sat down to wait with the rest on the stone floor. In the dark inner chamber the God and Goddess were seated on their thrones, freshly anointed and garlanded with flowers. At their feet were piled betel leaves, rice and a host of sweetmeats.

  A woman sitting beside me nudged and pointed.

  "The food is given to the poor -- to us -- when it has been blessed. There is a lot tonight," she added. "You are lucky!" I saw her sucking her lips in anticipation. After a while two priests with half-shaven heads entered. One carried a beakerful of water, the other a tray of more votive offerings, which they placed at the feet of the God. Bells began to tinkle; at their sound the priests began intoning the prayers, one taking up where the other left off. Everyone was standing, most of them with hands folded and closed eyes. I closed my eyes, too, pressing my hands over them. The eyeballs felt hot under the lids. I could see beneath them a blackrimmed orange glow against which floated the images of the past -- my sons, Ira, the hut where we lived and the fields we had worked. The more I banished them the faster they came. I saw Old Granny again, toothless and wrinkled; Kenny, his eyes sorrowful when I told him we were going; Sacrabani's face, white and scared as it often was. I tried and tried, concentrating on the prayers that were being said and at last the images faded; I saw in their place the countenance of the God and his Consort, and it seemed to me that they looked on me benignly and I was at length able to pray.

  All about me was a deep intense silence, and in it I heard my prayer, voiceless, wordless, rising up and up endlessly like the incense which burnt perpetually upon the altar. And when at last I opened my eyes the silence which had enfolded me had given place to a pervasive murmur, the sound from the suppliant lips and beseeching throats of the multitude.

  A drum struck savagely through the hush, sent it shivering, flying . . . people blinked and stared, called thus rudely to take up their ordinary existence. One of the priests began to sprinkle holy water, people manceuvring to get near the precious drops; the other was handing out the food to a third man, and as soon as this was done the gilded doors of the inner chamber were closed. Almost at once the people began moving to the courtyard which opened from the assembly hall.

  "The food will be distributed there," a woman whispered to me. "There is not always enough to go round: it is best to be first."

  A lot of people had had the same idea and were jockeying energetically for position. The murmuring silence gave, the crowd burst into loud chatter: it was as if the thought of food had loosened all tongues; and the pushing and thrusting became more violent. The friendliness that had existed before was gone; men and women struggled to be in the forefront, fighting their way with ferocity, thrusting forward with strident urgency. I found myself in the middle of the throng: Nathan had got separated and looking round I saw him on the outward fringe among the very old and crippled. He had never been one for pushing. Well, I thought. I can tell them my husband is here and take two portions. Then I saw two men enter bringing the food and all other thought ceased. Craning my neck and body, standing on tiptoe, I saw the cauldrons they carried, cauldrons of rice heaped high and showing white gleaming peaks from which wisps of steam issued, and pots filled with a mixture of dhal and vegetables which sent forth a most savoury smell.

  From a pile beside him one of the men took out a plantain leaf -- not a whole one, but cut into pieces twice the size of a man's hand, on this he ladled out two spoonfuls of rice; the other filled a small cup, made from dried leaves held together with thorns, with the dhal mixture.

  From the crush one man at a time -- as much by pressure as by his own efforts -- was ejected, like the palm-leaf stopper of a foaming toddy pot: collected his portion, drank of the holy water and made his way out. My turn came: the level of the rice was already fallen so low that it was only by going close to the vessels that I could see any rice at all. One of the men rebuked me sharply.

  "Keep your distance. Do you want to devour pot and all?"

  I must ask for my husband, I thought, and found myself quaking. The plantain leaf was handed to me, the rice placed on top, then the cup of dhal. Now.

  "If you would be so kind, sir," I said, "I will take my husband's portion as well on my leaf."

  They gaped at me, surprised, affronted.

  "The woman is mad," one called out. "Expects a double portion."

  "Not satisfied with one," the other rejoined in an offended voice, "but must try and make capital out of charity."

  "I do not," I said. "I have a husband and he is here, I ask only for his portion."

  "If he is here let him come and we will serve him in his turn. We cannot hand out food to everyone merely because they ask for it. Do you take us for fools? Keep your tales for the unwary!" cried one, and the other called out impatiently,

  "Hurry up, hurry up! Do you want to keep us standing here all night?"

  I went, taking my food with me. Those who had been served were sitting in the open a little way off eating, and I joined them. Perhaps I looked dejected, for one of the women said consolingly, "They were sharptongued tonight, probably they were tired . . . you must not mind."

  There was a murmur of assent, except from one man who said in a hostile voice: "Well, they are right. Everyone must come in his turn or who is to know the truth from a lie when people ask for more than one portion," and again from the easily swayed crowd came a murmur of agreement. I must justify myself in the eyes of these people, I thought forlornly, and I said, "I spoke the truth . . . my husband is here, see, he is coming to me," as I saw him approach. I saw also that his hands were empty. Still, it was good to share what there was and eat, good to have food in the belly, good to feel the dizziness replaced by well-being. When we had finished we threw the empty leaves to the goats that had gathered, expectant but patient for their meal, and that too was a satisfying thing, to see them eating leaves and cups, crunching them in their mouths with soft happy movements and looking at us with their mild benign eyes. Then we went and washed our hands under the running tap, rinsing mouth and face as well in the cool water, and came back ready for sleep. It was only then that we remembered, with trepidation, our bundles.

  We had left them propped against one of the carved stone pillars in the long corridor leading to the assembly hall. We went to it, but the bundles had vanished. Perhaps our memory is at fault, maybe it is not this particular stone pillar but another, there are so many and one is like another, I thought. To the next and the next and the next, there were hundreds of pillars and columns and we went to them all with fast-dying hope.

  Three or four had seen us searching, three or four more joined these, soon a small crowd of advisers and helpers followed at our heels.

  "Are you sure it was this Hall of Pillars? There is another on the West side of the temple."

  "Quite sure. We have not been on the other side."

  "How could they?" said a scornful voice. "That side is locked at night."

  "Who was looking after the bundles?"

  "No one, no one . . . we left them untended."

  "Untended!
Looking for trouble that was! There are many thieves and strangers about these days."

  "What, even in a temple! We did not think --"

  "Yes, even in a temple, of course. Many kinds come here, there can be no guarantee of their honesty."

  "It appears not," Nathan said heavily. "Our possessions have gone."

  There was futility only in further searching, further weariness. We gave up and leant our backs against the painted wall which encircled the temple, the vermilion and white striped wall we had foolishly thought meant safety. The promise of shelter had been kept however: food, and somewhere to sleep.

  "At least the loss is not irreparable," Nathan said. "We have our money still, the pots and matting can be replaced."

  "Best not to speak of it," I said, feeling cautiously for the money in my waistband, the coins hard and comforting to my touch. "We must be careful."