CHAPTER 1: DURGA
DURGA 14th November, 1956 “My Dear Husband, The room was a mess when I entered. A sari lay in a heap on the floor, pieces of paper flying around, a miniature whirlpool in the blast of the ceiling fan. Each scrap was its own individual map of the world, pieces of a puzzle far greater than themselves, unable to find the connecting fingers that should otherwise restore order to a game that is child’s play. They reached out for each other, chasing each other into the mayhem of the blast of the fan. I could see sloping alphabets jumping out from the shreds in bold navy blue ink, telling parts of a story that would never be united to tell its final tale. A used plate of yellow daal and rice lay half eaten on the corner table, her fingers having made fjords through the yellow curry. “If you draw images onto your half- finished plate of daal-rice, your mother will die,” Aai used to tell me. I remember stopping mid-alphabet when she had said this. I used to love carving out paintings in the traces of curry, swirling alphabets in devnagiri etching out the names of my loved ones. I remember the enormous guilt I felt when she passed away of the plague five years later. The huge buboes below her armpits and groin had exploded, taking her away in a whiff of smoke, the rat and its colonisers reducing her to ashes, all because of my childhood penchant for drawing. I could have drawn on anything else, a chalk board, a tile, a piece of clay. Instead, in foolish innocence, I chose to draw on the plate of daal, and with that, sealed her fate. It was my fault, I had pre-empted by inscribing it onto a stainless steel plate. Suhasini clearly had the same habit. Fragments of cracked mirror lay strewn on the floor, each piece reflecting the evening light like a kaleidoscope, with tiny images of Suhasini’s face echoing in each part. “Seven years of bad luck,” Aai would have told me. “It’s seven years of bad luck if you break a mirror.” But what is seven years of bad luck if the person is no more? Does the bad luck transfer to someone else? Can you be the inheritor of bad luck, if you are the first person to stumble upon the dead? Who will have these answers, my jaan? I scrutinised the broken glass, there were a million images of the same horrid expression: cold, pale, lifeless. Have you seen a dead person’s face, jaan? Sorry to sound gruesome, but not the one’s living in the other planes, I'm talking about a freshly dead person. You almost can't believe it's the same person who was alive just a short while before. I remember when I saw you lying there lifeless, in our house. I remember thinking, but this isn’t him. Why is everyone taking his name? It's amazing what life does. Just that little breath of air softly meandering in and out through a chest wall, through rivers and tunnels of air spaces and blood, fuelling the thoughts and emotions coursing through a never ending network of nerves connecting the head to the toes, lending life, expression, and fire to a body, till the energy is jettisonned out leaving the body spent. Her’s was the most beautiful face I had ever seen, made even more so by the twisted, harsh finality of death, her eyes blank and staring through a dilated pupil, her mouth half open as if in surprise that it could be that easy to end a life! The penetration of the shard of mirror millimetre by millimetre, through her pale wrist, the squish of the radial artery giving way, the warm blood trickling out… A freshly dead person looks like the person’s sibling. Have you ever run into a person, and thought you have known them from before, smiled and bowed in a respectful namaste, and on further introduction realised you have, in fact, met them for the very first time? While your brain argues with your inner voice, stating that definitely, most definitely, you have met this person before, clarity only dawns when you realise that you have met that person’s sibling, or parent, hence the startling resemblance of shared DNA and life experiences! That, my jaan, is the difference between a freshly dead person, and an alive person. The Freshly Dead person resembles the alive person, but missing that one crucial element, hence same- same, but different. I silently surveyed the throng of people at Suhasini’s funeral the next day. Rows of shabby plastic chairs neatly aligned at Chandanwadi crematorium were filled with visitors dressed in white: white saris, white salwar kameezs, white kurtas and shirts, the single, stark colour being the only common denominator in the congregation. White is a virginal, innocent colour, hiding the emotions of each member of the gathering. White has so many implications in different cultures, my jaan, I have come to realise. I have seen those Christian people wear it at their weddings, namely the black and white footage of Her Majesty the Queen of England, when she was a young Princess marrying her handsome Prince Philip. We watched the wedding on the tiny television box in the big hall. Since our’s was the only house with a television, several people from the neighbouring houses had dropped by to witness the event! I remember their cheers of joy when the royal couple kissed on the moving screen, while I cringed in horror! First, to accept the fact that the bride was wearing a large flouncy white gown, and then that she kissed her husband in front of the entire Empire and its dominions, it was blasphemous! Our culture fastidiously marries white to death, unwilling to change its stance. The whirlwind of energy at the crematorium made my head spin, as I clutched onto the edge of my sari and readjusted it on the scratchy surface of my head. I could feel the confusion in the cosmos between the spirits of the people cremated there, roaming and battling with the emotions of the living members of the congregation present, deceit recognising deceit, death pairing up with murder, grief meeting helplessness. One emotion stood out for its solitude, a stag guest in the mayhem, the distinct feeling of relief that echoed on many faces. The spirit world was in turmoil! The higher level Masters were forbidding the entry of this person who had taken her own life, sticking to the firm rules of their rigid, unforgiving world. Untimely deaths due to cowardice were not permitted in the higher planes. “Allow her in!” pleaded some kind voices. “We should at least hear her story!” “Send her to us,” beseeched the spirits in plane one and two, headless and horrific, waiting to embrace one more of their kind. I shook my head violently to send them away, my maroon sari flapping violently to sweep them into silence, and once again participate in the events around me, in the present. i fought them violently, keen to be present with my family here in this realm. Suhasini looked at me panic stricken from the doorway of the spirit world, her Freshly dead eyes begging me to speak for her. “Not now, I can't,” I implored her. “Please don’t force me to leave them now.” “But you are my family too,” she said beseechingly. Her mouth was twisted in fear, her eyes taking in the horrors of the banshees cavorting in front of her. They were stripped of all artifice, all niceties, with the rawness of the Spirit World screaming loudly into the chasm between earth and the next world. My jaan, why do I have this gift, of being able to live in two spaces? Is it not enough to serve and live by the rules of one realm, than to double the responsibility and increase my duties? Placating the wounded and injured in this world, serving those with broken hearts and broken minds, nourishing their souls and feeding their hearts, doubled with similar duties in the Spirit world. My role on this world is service, service to those dead and alive and my loyalties to the Sathe family remains absolute. So how could I choose to be with Suhasini at this moment, the daughter-in -law of the family, borrowed blood that was allowed an inheritance of surname based on a marital contract, borrowed blood which almost became a contaminant of sorts, adulterating the peace and harmony of the house? I remember seeing images of slides with blood spots on them in a textbook I had borrowed from Dr. Vakil, from JJ Hospital, showing the clumping of blood cells when incompatible blood groups would mix. It was analogous to communal disharmony, Hindus and Muslim clashing against each other when poured into the same jar. I gazed stoically ahead ignoring her plaintive pleas. This was the only family I had known, for the past fifty years. I owed them my complete presence, my support, my energies. I saw Ganpat Rao take the stage in front of them, walking in an uncharacteristically nervous, shuffling gait. He looked pale and drawn, drained from the hurried flight he caught to arrive back home, compounded by the unimaginable situation he faced before him. ‘He looks shattered!’ I thought, in surprise. Ganpat Rao silently listened to the priest chanting prayers in a monotonous drone. He looked vacant, a shell of the man he normally was. It was like his head was glued onto his torso by a new-fangled resin, while his limbs lazily loped about on either side of him, controlled by a Master Puppeteer who deftly pulled the strings from a realm above. “Go fill this vessel with water,” ordered the priest, as Ganpat Rao stood up in silent aquesiance. His head bobbed on his neck as the Pupper Master steered him to the left. His legs crossed awkwardly one in front of the other, as he went to the corner in slow measured steps where a solitary tap stood, laced with a mosaic of fingerprints. He quietly filled the pot, catching the reluctant trickle that meandered down the pipes, hoisted it on his shoulder, and proceeded to walk three purposeful rounds around his wife’s corpse, while the priest chanted loudly. ‘Such a different “phera”,’ I thought as the congregation watched patiently. The last time Ganpat Rao and Suhasini walked in a circle as one, was at their glittering wedding ceremony in the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. She was the most exquisite site imaginable, in an emerald green sari emblazoned with pink and gold peacocks, tiny white flowers framing her face interspersed with tiny pearls, culminating in two delicate, miniature red tassles. A thousand jewels sparkled off her body. The gold threads in her sari captured the blazing embers of the fire, mirroring every shade of yellow, orange, red and blue. She had looked down demurely as she walked around the fire, a knot firmly tying the edge of her sari to Ganpat’s shawl, her face serene, calm and composed. I remember comparing her expression to mine, on our wedding day. I was a mere nine years old when we married, and scared out of my wits! I remember being overwhelmed and confused, unable to understand the barrage of instructions from the priest. I remember you walking in large rapid steps, and my little frame was stumbling to keep up with you. You held my hand firmly when you realised I was about to tumble, and I will never forget the twinkle in your eye when I looked up at you in utter confusion! Do you remember how simple our ceremony was? How small the temple was, tucked away in the corner of our ancestral village of Devrukh? I miss that charming temple! Its magnificent stone structure that kept it cooler than the rest of the village, at all times. The temple dome had been painted a shocking pink, its thin spire leaping to the sky like a flamingo in flight. The courtyard had a gigantic tulsi shrub in the middle, which was the centre of temple life. Our wedding had taken place in the main foyer of the temple. Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati had imposingly stared down at us, willing us into cowering submission. Our marriage was truly blessed! The oft-repeated story had replayed in my mind: Sage Parshuram, a fervent Shiva devotee had shot an arrow centuries before and parted the sea, giving birth to our little village on the Konkan beaches. He had prayed to Shiva so many times that the Lord himself appeared to the Sage not once, but sixty times, and thus sixty such temples were built to honour him. It was in this sacred surrounding that we were tied to one another. The entire village had gathered to bless us, partake of our families’ joy, enjoy the simple yet sumptuous wedding meal. Both of us were bathed in sweat, with the heat and humidity of the warm Konkan breeze kissing our bodies. The lone drummer had entertained the entire audience with his musical antics! His legs had moved as rhythmically as his arms, filling the air with magical beats. He had danced in a flurry of sound arching his back, twisting and laughing, performing with devilish flare! What an overwhelming day it was! Ganpat and Suhasini’s wedding had been the complete opposite of ours. Simplicity replaced by opulence and grandeur. Fear replaced with serenity and hope on the bride’s face. The wedding mandap decorated to recreate the most fairy-tale like surrounding. The glow of the fire in the centre had contrasted with the colour of her sari, throwing an iridescent flame on the canopy above them. My dear husband, so many variables in that equation have remained constant, in these pheras. The same protagonists, the same audience, the same green sari draping Suhasini, who was dressed as per tradition, in her wedding finery. Only the emotions were twisted and unrecognisable! The obvious love and adoration the couple shared, had been replaced and forgotten. The bamboo trellis on which Suhasini lay was then lifted up by four scruffy pall bearers provided by the Chandanwadi Crematorium. They placed her on a pile of wooden logs which lay arranged like a receptacle to hold her delicate frame. I studied her face from my vantage point next to Yashoda. Two coins taped her eyes firmly shut, cotton balls had stuffed inside her nostrils and a tiny thread tied each of her great toes together. Yashoda and I stood together holding each other tightly. Yashoda had fought to enter the crematorium precincts, since age old tradition forbade us women from entering. She had however insisted, refusing to leave her son in his darkest hour of need. Several of the men folk waited patiently in line to pay their last respects. Each one stepped forward, gently placed some flowers on her body, bent forward with hands folded, palms firmly together and bowed to her lifeless form. Yashoda and I stood quietly whimpering in the corner watching Ganpat take the proferred flame at the end of a long wooden stick, from the priest at the pyre. He took several faltering steps forwards, beads of sweat dripping down his face. I saw him hesitatingly ignite the lower piles of wood initially, and watch the fire meander up skilfully catching crumbs of carbon in its reach. It leapt out with its characteristic unmerciful claws, grabbing everything in its wake. It grabbed Suhasini’s sari, twisting the peacock print into a dancing mirage before our eyes, it seized her delicate face, embraced her hands and legs inching her towards oblivion. The last image I remember of Suhasini, is a glimpse of her toes her beautiful long toes, adorned with some sparkling toe rings. It has been the worst day of my life, my dear husband, second only to the day you died. Dutifully yours, Durga”