The Dowry Bride (29 page)

Moaning sounds coming from somewhere made Megha shudder. This was depressing. Poor Ajji! She had been confined to this convalescent home for weeks now. No wonder Kiran said she looked forward to his visits. He was also her favorite grandchild, from what Megha had gathered.

At the end of the corridor, Kiran steered her into a large square room. It looked spacious as compared with the other rooms they had glimpsed in passing. Megha guessed that rich folks probably got the bigger and more comfortable rooms. This one had a cream tiled floor and two curtained windows that overlooked several trees and part of a street. A cool breeze stirred the cream and gray checkered curtains and brought in some fresh air, helping to dispel the antiseptic odor. Kiran quickly shut the door behind them and moved to the windows to close the curtains. Megha sent him a grateful look. He had become so adept at shielding her.

A picture of Lord Balaji sat on a bedside table. Holy incense sticks burned in a silver holder, emitting a woodsy smoke—probably a good thing to drive away mosquitoes and sweeten the air while it was being offered to God. Next to it was a dog-eared copy of the verses of Purandardas, the sixteenth century poet-saint. From the looks of the book and the reading glasses placed on top, Ajji read it often.

Megha’s eyes were drawn to the huge bed sitting in the center of the room. Ajji reclined on it, leaning back against a stack of pillows. In a white cotton gown she looked even more frail and bird-like than Megha remembered. The silver hair looked a bit disheveled and her arms were loose skin and bone, but the keen eyes that peered at her were the same ones from the previous year. The old woman struggled to sit up.

“Don’t try that on your own, Ajji,” chided Kiran before rushing forward to lift her into a more upright position. “Megha was a little afraid of how you would react to her.”

For a moment, a hush fell over the room. Megha let the pastel green
chunni
slide off her head and fall around her shoulders. The two women gazed at each other for what felt like eons to Megha. The stillness was thick and taut. Her heartbeat thumped. What now? Was the old lady going to faint or something? Was there time enough to turn back and run before grandma ended up having another seizure?

But an unexpected smile came over the old woman’s face. “Megha.”

Megha put her palms together and greeted Ajji with a
Namaste.

“Come here,
putti.
”

Hesitating, Megha took a small step forward.

“Do not be afraid. Come, come, sit here.” Ajji indicated a spot beside her on the bed. “Let me look at you.”

Instinctively Megha cast a glance at Kiran, then seeing his encouraging nod, she proceeded to sit on the bed beside Ajji, but not before she touched her feet. It seemed to please Ajji, since she smiled. “Very nice…your mother has taught you to follow our old customs, Megha.”

Kiran pulled up a chair close to the edge of the bed and made himself comfortable, stretching his long legs in front of him. Megha found his closeness comforting.

Grabbing Megha’s wrist with her rough and bony fingers, Ajji brought her face closer. The intensity in Ajji’s eyes made Megha tremble a little. “Still very beautiful, but you have become very thin,” she remarked. “You would have made Suresh very happy and made the Rao family also happy. But Chandramma spoiled it. What a pity, no? She always does that. She destroys her own life and destroys other people’s lives.” The old woman shook her head sadly. “When she will improve, God alone knows.”

At a loss for words, Megha merely looked toward Kiran for direction. He said nothing, clearly letting Ajji set the tone and pace.

“Megha, Chandramma treated you very badly, no?” said Ajji. Probably because she noticed the hesitant look in Megha’s eyes and received no response, Ajji let go of her wrist and went
tsk-tsk
with her tongue. “She was not always so bad, my dear. She has bad blood in her; that is what makes her like that.”

“Bad blood?” What did that mean? Megha turned to Ajji with a raised brow. Amma always boasted about her family tree, her pure, clean Brahmin roots.

Ajji’s eyes unexpectedly filled with tears and she used her fingers to brush them away. “Oh, Meghamma, what I can say? It is a very long and sad story.”

Megha nodded, remembering that Ajji wanted to tell them something “highly important.”

“I will tell you and Kiran something if you both promise not to tell anyone.”

“We won’t, Ajji,” prompted Kiran, “but are you sure you feel up to it?”

“I am old and tired, Kiran. If I don’t tell someone now, then nobody will know after I die. At least this will make you understand why Chandramma behaves in this manner. You may not forgive her, but at least you will have more understanding, no?”

“Whatever you tell me will stay with me.” Megha patted the old woman’s hand to emphasize her oath. But she wondered what could be so highly secret in Amma’s past that even her own brothers didn’t know.

Megha felt immensely relieved that Ajji had been cordial to her so far, and pleased at being addressed as Meghamma, an affectionate variation of Megha. No one had called her that in years. It brought back poignant memories of her early childhood. Her father, in his younger and happier days, used to call her his little Meghamma. He used to let her accompany him to his mango orchard and help him supervise the mango picking. School was always closed for the summer holidays at the time of the mango harvest, which was wonderful. He would call out to her on those hot and steamy May afternoons, “Come on, Meghamma. Help me make sure the mango pickers are doing a good job. If you are a good girl, you can keep two of the best mangoes for yourself.”

He would help her lace up her special black shoes with the thick soles so the thorny weeds growing under the mango trees wouldn’t prick her tiny feet. He would hold her hand all the way to the orchard. He would hoist her up on his wide shoulders if she complained of being tired. Sometimes he would tickle her ankles just to hear her giggle hysterically and squirm, then beg for more. “Tickle some more, Appa, tickle some more.” Then he’d tickle her once again and laugh along with her.

She loved to hear the high-pitched screech of pure joy erupting from her own throat, followed by her father’s gruff, amused chuckle. Perched high atop his shoulders, she could reach the luscious mangoes in the trees with little difficulty. In fact, from way up there, she could see the whole world, and she would feel like a pampered little princess without a care in the world. Appa was all hers—he would love and protect her forever. At least it had seemed that way then.

After sitting under the cool shade of the mango trees and eating the lunch packed by her mother, Megha would attack one of her prize mangoes with greedy zest. The mangoes always tasted like heaven right off the tree—warm from the sun, golden in color, heavy and sweet and fragrant. Her father would watch her indulgently and then with infinite patience wash the sticky mango juice off her face and hands with a rag dipped in cold water. Most often the juice dribbled over her clothes and shoes, much to Avva’s disapproval. But Appa always appeased her mother with gentle words. “Never mind, Mangala. Let the girl enjoy the mangoes while she is still a child. Just wash the clothes and wipe the shoes.”

As the girls grew up, his pain from arthritis escalated, the debts from medical bills and dowries started to mount, and her father gradually turned somber. Somewhere along the way he entirely lost his health and with it his sense of humor. A kind man filled with gentle warmth turned cold and bitter as the years turned leaner and harsher. Since the heart attack and the bypass surgery he had become even more austere. As a matter of fact, lately, he seemed downright callous. Where had the marvelous father of her childhood years gone, the man with the kind brown eyes and the wide, smiling mouth?

Setting aside the moments of nostalgia, Megha forced herself to return to the present and turned to Ajji, her eyes softening as they met Ajji’s pleading ones.

Ajji took a quivering breath. “I have not told this to a single person in my life—not my husband, not even my children.”

Kiran shot a mocking smile at his grandmother. “What is it? Amma stole something expensive and you didn’t tell the police and now you’re feeling guilty?”

“I wish it was something simple like that, Kiran,” said Ajji wistfully. “But what I have for you is a secret. A very shameful secret.”

M
egha watched Kiran’s eyes go wide with shock. She herself shifted uncomfortably. She knew what was going on in his mind, because she had the same thoughts. What kind of shameful secret would a sweet, old-fashioned grandmother have? Once again she touched the old woman’s hand. “Ajji, why do you want to tell
me
this? I’m practically a stranger to you.”

“Because you are the one who has suffered the most under Chandramma. On the day of your wedding, when I saw how pretty and charming you were, I knew Chandramma would dislike you. Kiran tells me you almost died at her hands. Chandramma hates you for a reason,
putti.
You are everything she would have liked to be and could not.” Tears pooled in Ajji’s eyes. “If I tell you my story, maybe you will understand why Chandramma is like that—full of bitterness and hatred.”

Kiran offered his handkerchief to his distraught grandmother.

“I was a very young girl when this happened, only seventeen,” said Ajji. “I was beautiful, just like you. Our home and business were in Bangalore, but my husband was going to different places to buy goods for his general store. He was always traveling to Bombay, Poona, Delhi, Calcutta—all kinds of places.”

“Were you often left alone in a big house then?” Megha asked.

“No, we had one servant who lived with us. There were two others who came every morning and left in the evenings. My mother-in-law was also there, but she was very sick and bedridden.”

“She had cancer,” Kiran added.

Ajji nodded. “I was a new bride, but because my mother-in-law was disabled I had the responsibility of running the household.”

Not knowing what to say when the old woman stopped to blow her nose, Megha looked at her attentively, encouraging her to continue. She noticed Kiran doing the same.

“Lingayya was the
bhangi,
the untouchable sweeper who used to clean the toilets. When I first came to the house, he was very respectful towards me. He was always joining his hands and remembering to say
Namaste
to me, always bowing his head and never making eye contact. After one or two months, he started to raise his eyes and look at me. He started to make me very uneasy. He began to look at me with greedy eyes. He frightened me, Meghamma. I began to hide in my room whenever I knew he was outside, cleaning the toilets. I did not want to have anything to do with him. But he would stand near the window to our room and stare inside. Whichever room I was hiding in, he would stand outside the window of that room. He would smile at me and lick his lips.”

“Why didn’t you tell Thatha?” Kiran asked, referring to his grandfather, and voicing Megha’s thoughts. It would seem logical for a young woman to go to her husband with something that disturbed her so much.

“I was too scared to tell that to my husband and my mother-in-law. Then they would surely blame me for encouraging him to look at me like that, no?”

Megha knew exactly what Ajji meant by being blamed for something unfairly. She’d had that problem while in college. When she complained to her father that some of the boys made passes at her, he thrashed her for it. “It is not really the boys’ fault, Megha. When you flaunt your beauty that is exactly what happens. The boys will leave you alone if you behave like a good Brahmin girl.” It always came down to the girl; it was always her mistake. In a male-dominated society it was never the man’s fault.

Refocusing her mind on Ajji and her narrative, Megha wondered what Ajji’s story had to do with Amma. Where was all this leading? She was curious to find out.

“Then my mother-in-law died. It was a blessing for her, poor thing.” Ajji stopped for a few moments, as if to gather her thoughts. “Some weeks after that, my husband went on a trip to Bombay for several days. And the next day, our servant, Gauri, received a telegram. Her brother had died in a bus accident. She had to leave for her village immediately to attend his funeral. Everything started to go wrong at the same time.”

“Fate,” murmured Megha. There were no coincidences in life, as her mother always said. Everything happened for a reason.

“Exactly,” agreed Ajji. “Suddenly, I was alone in that big house. I could not sleep that night. All the sounds in the house kept me awake. It was a dark, new moon night,
amavasya
—a night for bad things to happen.”

Amavasya.
One of those evil, moonless nights, sighed Megha.

“Then the doorbell started to ring,” Ajji said. “I was terrified to open the door and hoped the person would try a few times and then go away. But the ringing did not stop. The person began banging on the door, too. So I decided to be brave; I opened the door.”

Megha’s heart missed a beat. “It was Lingayya?”

“Yes. I almost fainted from fear when I saw him. His eyes looked red and his teeth very white in his ugly, dark mouth. I tried to close the door, but he pushed his way in. He was drunk and stinking like the low-class
bhangi
he was. He…oh God—”

Noticing the look of terror flashing in Ajji’s eyes, Megha instinctively knew what was coming next. She took Ajji’s frail hand in hers and squeezed it. There was no sense in making the old woman relive an obviously traumatic experience. Noticing the concerned frown on Kiran’s face, she said, “Ajji, just forget about it. Let’s talk about something else.”

“No, I want to tell you both. I
have
to tell you, no? Please, listen to me,” begged Ajji. “I told Lingayya to go away and tried to push him out of the door, but he was a big, fat man, too heavy for me. He came inside the house and closed the door behind him. He pushed me down to the floor and dragged me to the drawing room by my arms. I screamed and kicked, but nobody heard me. We had a big walled compound and the nearest house was far away. And it was late, so nobody in the neighbor’s house was awake. I begged Lingayya not to touch me. Oh Lord, how much I begged him nobody will ever know!”

Ajji’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I told him I would give him money, even my diamond necklace and earrings, if he left me alone. But he only laughed at me and grabbed me again. He tore my blouse.” Ajji put a frail hand to her mouth, her agitated eyeballs starting to bounce back and forth across the room as if she were surveying the scene repeatedly in horrifying slow motion. All at once, deep, violent sobs erupted from her.

Megha took the trembling old woman in her arms and rocked her like a child. “I’m so sorry.”

Kiran rose from his chair and paced the room for a bit before returning to the chair. He was scowling, clearly touched and upset just as Megha was by Ajji’s tale of horror and tragedy.

After a few minutes of shedding hot, cathartic tears, Ajji recovered a little. Despite Megha and Kiran’s efforts to stop her from torturing herself with her disturbing memories, she insisted on relating the rest of her experience. “No, you must listen. Lingayya was a horrible man. He had no morals, no character. After all, he was a
bhangi.
”

“Not all
bhangis
are bad people. In fact, our
bhangi
was a very nice man,” Megha protested in response to Ajji’s prejudiced statement.

“Meghamma, you are too young to know this. Untouchable men are more horrible than most other men, my dear. Do not ever forget that! They have no culture and no education; they are as violent and unpredictable as wild animals. They do not have strong morals like upper-caste men. That Lingayya had his eye on me for a very long time and he found a chance to get what he wanted. I was alone and I was helpless, no? So he took what he wanted.”

“Oh dear God!” Megha felt her stomach take a dive. In spite of guessing exactly how Lingayya’s unexpected visit had ended, Megha was still in shock. How could anyone, even a detestable brute, do that to a helpless woman—subject an innocent young girl to such unspeakable violence? What horrors had poor Ajji suffered as she relived that single episode over and over again all these years? It was too hard to imagine. Rape was not meant to happen in a respectable, upper middle-class household. All Megha could do was stare at Ajji in disbelief.

Kiran, on the other hand, looked furious, silently raging at a man he’d never known, a man who’d defiled his dear grandmother. His hands were tightly clasped together, the knuckles looking pale.

Ajji’s swollen eyes came back to rest on Megha. “Afterwards, Lingayya quietly left the house. After stealing what he wanted, he just walked away, Meghamma! He had lost nothing and I had lost everything, no?”

“Yes, yes you had,” whispered Megha, trying not to start weeping herself.

“I stayed on the floor for a long time, cold and miserable. There was blood from the attack; my blouse was torn to pieces; my sari was heaped next to me. I cried and cried, but what did it do? Nothing! Crying was not going to wash away the shame or the pain. I was ruined for life. How could I face my husband when another man had taken my body? As a Brahmin woman I was not fit to even touch my husband’s feet after what happened.

“I could smell Lingayya’s ghastly stench on me. His toilet-cleaning fingers left black bruises all over me. My body was fit for the toilet. But after praying hard for a while, very slowly I realized that it was not my fault. I had to keep telling myself again and again—it was not my fault…it was not my fault. Before the sun came up the next morning, I took a bath, burned my clothes in the fire that heated the bath water, and pretended as if nothing had happened.”

“What about the next day? Didn’t the other servants suspect anything?”

“Shivrama, the gardener, was too old and almost blind to notice anything. Indira, the cook, looked at me with curious eyes. I told her I fell in the dark on my way to the bathroom the previous night. She kept staring at me suspiciously. I tried to stay in my room and told her I was in pain from the fall. I don’t think she believed me. I was thankful to God that my husband was not there to see my bruises. He was not going to come back for many more days. I prayed for the ugly marks to go away by the time he came home.”

“But what about Lingayya? Did that bastard come back the next day?” Kiran asked.

“Oh yes, he returned to work, looking very pleased with himself. But after that night I made sure at least one of the servants stayed with me all the time while Gauri was away.”

“Didn’t you have Lingayya dismissed?” Megha said.

Ajji looked at Megha as if she’d lost her mind. “How could I,
putti?
It was not that easy. I had to have a reason for dismissing him. How could I tell my husband that Lingayya had raped me? How could I tell anyone? After my husband returned home, I had to pretend like nothing extraordinary had happened. Every time my husband touched me it killed me a little bit. I almost told him a few times to get away from me, that I was a dirty woman, not fit to be his wife. Slowly, very slowly I became quiet, tried to forget it ever happened. But I could not forget it—I just could not. Even now I have horrible dreams. I still see Lingayya’s face.”

Knowing all about bad dreams and the terror they could generate, Megha sighed. “Of course you do.”

“After the attack, Lingayya continued to look at me with the evil look, but luckily I was never alone in the house anytime after that. I thought I would be okay…until—” Ajji sent Megha a quick glance then looked at Kiran. “You two know what happened then, don’t you? You can almost feel it, can you not?”

Megha nodded, experiencing an ominous feeling about what was about to come next. In fact, she knew exactly what had happened—woman’s intuition perhaps. But Kiran looked puzzled. She could tell he wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

Ajji turned to Kiran, probably because he seemed to have no clue. “I conceived, Kiran. My husband’s seed had not made me pregnant all those months, but Lingayya’s had.”

“But how could you know for sure that it was Lingayya’s? Thatha came home soon after that, didn’t he? You said he…you and he…” Kiran’s voice sounded hollow.

“I knew, my dear. From the timing of my pregnancy I knew the baby was Lingayya’s. Only I knew. I had to pretend that the child belonged to your Thatha, no? He was happy about my being in the family way. He fussed over me and made sure that the servants took good care of me while he was away. In fact, he hired another woman servant to look after my needs. He pampered me every night after he came home from work. His kindness broke my heart, a little bit at a time. In those days there was no abortion, no? Even if there was, where could I get one? How could I explain to the doctor why a respectable, married woman like myself wanted an abortion? I pretended to be happy, but I cried secretly every day of my pregnancy.”

Megha’s heart ached for Ajji. God, what a nightmare! A long, nine-month ordeal that must have seemed endless.

“Then I gave birth to Chandramma,” said Ajji. “There was no doubt about whose child she was. The baby looked just like Lingayya. My nightmare was to continue. In fact, it had become even more frightening. I said to God, “Why me? Why did this happen and why could the child not look like me, at least? Are you going to punish me all my life for something I had nothing to do with?” Of course there was no answer from God.”

Karma once again—merciless, unpredictable and unjust.

“I knew people talked about my child,” Ajji continued. “Relatives looked at Chandramma with pity. I even heard the servants gossiping about how my child was so ugly when my husband was a handsome man and I was a pretty woman. They believed it was a
shaapa,
a curse on the family. I knew it was a curse, too—the curse that had come in the shape of Lingayya.”

“But…but you loved the child, anyway?” Megha was curious to know.

“Of course! Chandramma was still my child, no? I even named her
Chandra
after the moon, hoping her looks and personality would turn beautiful and calm like the moon. My husband loved the child, too. He never questioned her unusual looks or her strange temperament. He thought she probably looked like some unknown ancestor.”

“Didn’t Lingayya get suspicious when he saw your baby?”

Ajji seemed to shiver as she tried to recall the facts. “He knew. Oh dear God, he knew! I could tell from the way he always looked at Chandramma. I was afraid he would kidnap her or something. I have never wished bad things on people, but that time I did. I prayed that something evil should happen to him so he would leave us alone. Then he got into some drunken fight one night and got his leg broken. After that he never came back. The other servants told me that his leg was so badly smashed that they had to amputate it. He could not do
bhangi
work anymore. We never saw Lingayya again. I felt guilty afterwards because my prayers had made him a cripple. In a few years I got over my guilt, but I never got over what he did to me.”