The Age of Shiva (5 page)

By now Biji had worked herself into a hysterical state, and was going around with her sari outstretched like a beggar. “Two,” she kept repeating, like someone trying to explain the enormity of a tragedy, “two of them I'm losing tonight.” She embraced me violently, and held me plugged into her chest, as if finally transferring a cache of affection she had been hoarding through the years. As my aunts pulled us apart, I noticed something unusual about her lips. They were the same shade as the bindi smudged across her forehead—my mother had broken down and applied lipstick to them.

Instead of a Fiat, what stood on the road awaiting me was a doli. Dev's family had owned it for generations. “Which century are these people from that they haven't chopped that thing up for firewood?” Paji had thundered, when I told him their custom of carrying their brides home in the wooden palanquin. “Haven't they heard of an invention called a car? Don't they know my daughter isn't some village illiterate they can parade around in a cage?”

What was decided, finally, was that I would be carried in the doli only to and from the truck transporting the women back to Nizamuddin. I could come out if I wanted and walk around on the truck bed, but between the time I relinquished my father's house and the instant I entered Dev's, my feet were not to touch the ground.

I looked at the faded animals and trees painted on the sides, at the worn handle carvings at the ends of the two poles, at the gold-bordered red cloth covering the doli's flat top. It seemed tiny, like something built for a doll. “You'll be comfortable once you're inside, don't worry,” Dev's mother said as she helped me in. “Twelve miles they carried me in it when I was married, and not on a truck either, but on their shoulders.” She undid the strings at the top of the opening. “Just remember to crouch a little like that—it's a good position for a bride to learn.” I had one final glimpse of my mother being held back by her sisters at the gate before the flap came tumbling down.

It was not completely dark inside—light filtered in through a small grilled window in the front. I sat as Dev's mother had instructed, with my hands around my legs and my chin resting on my knees. The air was heavy with the odor of wood, wood that I imagined was perfumed with the hopes and fears of all the brides it had held over the years. I tried to feel the flutter in their hearts, see the anticipation on their faces, taste the salt in their tears. What must it have been like to leave their villages for the first time in this box, to be carried through valleys and jungles, over mountains and streams? To be delivered to an unknown destiny, revolving around a husband whose face one might never have seen?

Doli scenes from movies began to run through my head—scenes where the heroine cries, or sings a song, or even takes poison. Then, abruptly, the screen in my mind went white. It was as if a sudden, terrifying realization had burned right through the film in the projector. The realization that I wasn't in a movie, that I was no longer playacting. That I was an adult now, and this was my life.

Usually when one awakes from a dream, it is difficult to reconstruct the exact flow of events, since only a few vivid scenes might remain in one's memory. When the spell of the last several months finally broke that evening, I was not so fortunate. Every impulse I'd had, every game I'd played, every maneuver and juvenile ploy, unspooled with excruciating clarity through my head. Logically, step by unflinching step, I was guided through the exact sequence of actions that had led me to my crouch in that darkened interior.

Before I could fully absorb this new state of consciousness, the doli shuddered to life. I felt myself jostled forward, then back, as the poles on either end were lifted not quite simultaneously. There was an up-and-down bob, and a side-to-side jounce as well, and I pressed my palms flat against the walls to steady myself. Outside, as if to mock my awakening from the movies, the wedding band struck up a triumphant film tune. I imagined the uniformed musicians sweating as they walked along, blowing into their tubas, pumping their trombones.
“Every treasure in the sky,”
the song went, and I wished I could peel the top off to watch the stars drift over my head. Down below on earth, was my mother still there, had she broken free of my aunts to run tearfully behind? And my father—had he come out to watch, regret blooming inside, his stoniness crumbling as I was borne out of his sight?

But there was no direction to look except forward, through the window with the grille whose shadows left cross marks on my face. All that was visible was the pole extending over the shoulder of the short and sturdy bearer, a tassel swinging from its end as he strode away from my parents' house.

And then I was being loaded onto the platform of the truck. Eager eyes were peering through the window, trying to see the fabulous creature behind the grille. Children's fingers poked in to try and touch my face. I listed against the sides as the doli was pushed and rocked into place. The clinking of bracelets and the chatter of female voices surrounded me as the rest of the party climbed in. I heard the drop-down back of the truck being raised and slammed into place. Then, with the stars above still shining down invisibly on me, the truck began the journey to Nizamuddin.

T
HE ELECTRICITY WAS OUT ON DEV'S STREET. “IT'S GONE FOR THE NIGHT,”
Hema announced cheerfully. “We're one of the first ones they cut when the city runs out of power.” She held a lit match under a candle to soften its base, then stuck it upright on the arm of a chair. “We're just a government colony, after all, not like the wealthy area where your father has his house.”

I sat perched on a charpoy in the only bedroom in the flat, the long gunghat of my sari draped over my face like a veil. It was difficult to maintain the pose Dev's mother had taught me—the sagging of the charpoy ropes kept threatening to topple me. But the position felt as centering as a yoga asana—by concentrating on keeping steady on the bed, I was able to take my mind off the despair closing in on me.

“You can speak now, you know, even take your gunghat off. All the guests have gone. Though you'll have to show your face sooner or later—all those people who've been saying it's your sister who's the prettier one.” Hema held up a candle near my head, filling the inside of my gunghat with light and trying to peer through. “Besides, you must be dying under there—not being used to having the fans all off. Tell me, is it true—Dev bhaiyya said you had an air conditioner at your house?”

We had two, one in the drawing room, and one in Paji's library, but I remained silent.

“Well, you at least had lots of servants, didn't you? Dev bhaiyya said your father made a lot of money as a publisher. Not that we don't have servants, mind you. Well, maybe not a servant exactly, but we do have a ganga—she comes in to clean the pots. No cook, though. Don't worry, we won't make you work. Not while you're a new bahu, anyway. When Sandhya didi was a new bahu, just married to Arya bhaiyya, she didn't have to step into our kitchen even once for the first month. Now Mataji makes her do all the cooking, of course—though between you and me, her rice clumps so much the ganga could do it better. I suppose we shouldn't expect you to be good either, being a rich man's girl and everything. I've already told my parents. When I get married, it's going to be to the wealthiest man they can find. Marry for comfort, that's what I want, not for love like you. Tell me though, is it true what you two did in the tomb? They were quite outraged, the Muslims, they're saying you defiled the grave. Even the stationmaster, Mr. Ahmed, said it was an insult to one of their Muslim saints.”

I kept my gaze focused at my feet, willing my body to be absolutely still. Sweat trickled down my face and neck under the gunghat, but I didn't draw it back or take it off.

“You can tell me, I promise not to repeat it to anyone. Pushpa down the street says that you both were naked.” Hema giggled. “Were you really? Babuji was called into Mr. Ahmed's office, you know. Given quite a firing.”

“Hema, stop bothering the bahu,” Dev's mother called out from the other room. “You've lit the candles, now come out here.”

Hema dropped her voice to a whisper. “Even Arya bhaiyya was upset. He said Babuji should never have agreed to the marriage. He called you”—again, Hema giggled—“a tramp. He said your sister was trying to mesmerize his brother, was doing magic on him, and casting tantric spells. And when that didn't work, the family set you instead upon poor Dev bhaiyya.” Hema's eyes widened. “Do you really know magic? Will you teach me your tricks?”

“Hema,” my mother-in-law called again. “Stop that Dehradun Express tongue of yours and come right out.”

“Coming, Mataji. But it was Dev bhaiyya who stood up for you. He was so kind, so brave. He said he felt pity for you—that it was his duty to marry you—if he didn't, your reputation was so ruined that nobody else would. He's always been the softhearted one—lets everyone take advantage of him. Anyway, we'll talk more tomorrow. Tonight this room is yours. Arya bhaiyya and Sandhya didi are sleeping with us in the other room, even though he's the elder brother. It's going to be tight. Plus all that rich wedding food must have given Didi gas again, and on top of that, she snores.”

Hema fluffed up a pillow and laid it at my feet. “You have such pretty toes. But I guess that's what new brides are supposed to have, at least in the beginning. I'm sure my bhaiyya will be very impressed.” She skipped to the door. “Enjoy this
special
night of yours.”

I kept waiting on the bed after Hema left. At some point, I took the gunghat off, but the claustrophobia from the doli was not dispelled. Beyond the glow of the candle, the walls strained and tilted against the darkness, as if raring to come up and immure me. Pieces of furniture rose ponderously from the corners, their silhouettes radiating unspoken hostility. The moon seemed to have fallen victim to the blackout as well—only darkness filtered in through the bars of the window.

Perhaps I actually dozed off in my asana. The blast of a locomotive whistle jolted me awake. A train was thundering by on the tracks outside, so close that I expected a bogey to come crashing through the wall. Rectangles of light blazed through the room from its windows, like a series of camera flashes, lighting up a cupboard, a dressing table, picture frames, and, standing in his wedding garments just inside the doorway, Dev.

“Sorry it took so long,” he said, as he tried closing the door. Strings of marigolds hung up for the wedding kept getting in the way. “They wouldn't let me leave.” He scrunched the door shut over the marigolds, launching a flurry of petals into the air. “I hope Hema didn't fill your head with too many of her tales. Don't listen to anything she says.”

I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Wasn't that the way a new bahu was supposed to behave? What choice did I have now anyway, except to try and ignore what Hema said? Perhaps I should slip the gunghat back over my head to look more bride-like, to be more traditional by covering the parting of my hair.

“What a long day,” Dev said, and began unwinding the silk band tied in a turban around his head. More petals, pink and red this time from the wedding ceremony, fell to the floor from its brocaded folds. He unbuttoned his tunic and pulled it off as well. “Are you as exhausted as I am?”

I nodded my head without looking up. How strange that as a bride I was expected not to meet eyes with Dev. To not call him by name. Wasn't it just yesterday that we had eaten pineapple at Chandni Chowk, that I had been making jokes to his face? How little time I had spent with him since then. And now he was my husband, the man to whom I had been wed. My link to this house, this family, the trains clattering outside, the reason I sat perched on this bed. My head swam. How could my games have led to such enormous change?

“Aren't you going to take off your sari?” Dev asked, sitting beside me and running his fingers down its hem. He picked up a corner of the sari and playfully uncovered my blouse.

There was something cheering about his proximity, surprisingly, something reassuring about being finally alone with him. I allowed my gaze to rise to the level of his chin. His neck was the color of honey in the candlelight, there were no forgotten streaks of makeup tonight. The cotton of his undershirt cut swaths of white over his shoulders. I felt an urge to run my hand under the material, feel my fingertips separate cloth from skin. For a moment, we were back in the tomb of Salim Fazl. Anthers nodding provocatively in the dark corners of the room, corollas unfurling to form giant flowers.

Then Dev kissed me. It took me a few seconds to recognize the sugary odor of alcohol in his mouth. When I was seven, there had been a period when Paji staggered home late every night, when he always seemed to have that same odor on his breath. I stiffened and shifted towards the lower edge of the bed.

“Vijay uncle brought along a bottle of whiskey. It was only a sip—I had to, for politeness' sake.” I sat in silence, remembering Biji's anger towards Paji, her recriminations and threats. Dev tried to touch my shoulder, but I eased it out of the way.

“Tell me, have you ever slept on a charpoy before?” he asked after a moment of silence. I shook my head sullenly. They were only good enough for servants where I came from, I felt like retorting. “Let me show you something then.” I looked in bewilderment out of the corner of my eye as Dev started bobbing up and down on the bed.

“Arya bhaiyya and I used to do this in the charpoy we shared when we were small. Sometimes we'd set Hema in the center and try to launch her into the air.” He began bouncing more vigorously, and I wondered how drunk he was. “It's better without the mattress, though—here, let me take it out.”

Dev pulled out the mattress from under us and threw it on the floor. The wooden frame creaked in protest as he pitched himself against the bare ropes. “We'd sometimes stand up and use it as a trampoline, but that never worked. I don't know how many beatings we got from Babuji for breaking the ropes.”

It was such an incongruous sight that despite myself, I began to laugh. My husband, the bouncing groom. Could I have married a boy at heart? Surely life shouldn't be too awful with someone as playful as that. Dev started laughing as well. “You can do it too, you know, from the other end.”

He cheered in encouragement as I joined in. Was this what marriage was about, bouncing together on the bed? “Press down each time I go up,” he instructed, and I felt our rebounds increase in strength. With each surge, something else got dislodged and fell away from my thoughts—Hema, the doli, the whiskey, the marriage ceremony. I started feeling buoyant and carefree, as if I was back with Sharmila on the seesaws we used to ride in Rawalpindi at the midsummer fair.

Then I missed my cue and descended when I should have risen. The motion sent me toppling into Dev's arms. I was still laughing when I realized he had pulled me free of my blouse. My breasts spilled out against his chest, and he raised me up to take the left one in his mouth.

It was a shock to look down and see my flesh encircled by his lips. My body had never been handled with such a casual sense of ownership before. I tried to lean backwards to pull myself out, but Dev was holding me too tight. I felt him suck my nipple, felt his tongue lap clumsily over my skin. Then he let go to grab the other breast and taste that as well.

“Meera,” Dev said, and I was careful not to let the dismay rise to my face. “How long I've wanted…”

He began pulling out the sari from around my waist, throwing it to the ground in great handfuls, like wrapping paper torn off a wedding present. He lay me flat on the charpoy and worked my petticoat off. His hardness pressed against me in several spots, like a finger testing the ripeness of a fruit. Then he entered me.

That day in the tomb, the day the warmth had sprung up and risen from between my legs, I had become aware of another sensation. A deep-rooted craving, a hidden emptiness, that had opened up in the same part of my body. Now, the thought that first flashed through my mind was that this emptiness was going to be filled. That this nameless yearning would be appeased, that waves of satiation would radiate everywhere else.

What spread through me, however, the instant I felt Dev inside, was not satiation but pain. Pain so unexpected, pain so vivid, that I squeezed his shoulders and arched my pelvis away to be free of it.

Perhaps Dev mistook this reaction for pleasure, because he licked his tongue across my neck. “Meera,” he whispered, and rose until he was almost out, then plunged back deeper in. I tried once again to shrink away, but the ropes beneath me prevented my escape. “Meera,” Dev gasped, as he thrashed over me again and again. The charpoy began bucking to a new rhythm as its ropes cut into my skin.

Afterwards, he flopped onto the charpoy next to mine. “You're so wonderful,” he said. “I can hardly believe you're mine. You look like your sister in so many ways, and yet you seem so much simpler inside.” He kissed me on the forehead and blew the candle out.

I stared at the night hanging outside the window. There was still no moon in sight. I felt the sting of rope burns on my back and remembered my mattress still lay on the floor somewhere. Did I have the energy to drag it back myself or should I ask Dev for help?

He lay quite still next to me, his face turned towards the ceiling. “Don't you wonder what she's doing right now?” he murmured. “Roopa. Whether she'll be happy with the life she's chosen or think she's made a mistake?” He remained on his back for some moments, then turned over on his side.

I AWOKE BATHED IN LIGHT,
and thought for an instant it was day, that I had survived the night. But then I saw the naked bulb in the ceiling shining in my face—the electricity had come back on at some point. Dev lay sprawled out on his stomach next to me, his mouth resting open on his hand, as though preparing to bite a knuckle in his sleep. A table fan whirred from a stool in the corner, twisting its head methodically from side to side like someone performing a neck exercise. Through the window, a railway station had materialized in the distance, its empty platforms glowing with a ghostly fluorescence.

There was a dark spot of blood on the petticoat I had put back on. My cheeks burned with embarrassment when I saw it. What if Dev had noticed it as well? I remembered the first time it had happened. “Pay attention, because I'll only show you once,” I heard Biji say as she tore off a piece from an old pajama and led me to the toilet. Why tonight, when it wasn't the right time of the month?