The Faith of Ashish (18 page)

At sunset, when he sat cross-legged and said his evening prayers, Mammen Samuel would ask God to make certain the Brahmin saw the unclean laborers at work next to the garden. Better yet, he would ask God to bring them into direct contact with the Brahmin. He would also make it a point to thank God for bestowing on him only one daughter.

As Virat made his way home from the rice paddy, he saw Devi coming down the path from the landlord's house with Ashish. The boy looked most unhappy. Virat met them and took his son by the hand.

"I don't want to play with Saji Stephen any more,
Appa,"
Ashish said. "I want to stay here and gather firewood."

"I don't want to plow the muddy fields, but I do it," Virat told his son.

Ashish looked at his mud-caked father and laughed.

"
Amma
doesn't want to sit in the paddy water and plant rice seedlings, but she does that every day. All of us must do what the master landlord tells us to do, Ashish. For us, it is the law. It's our moral responsibility. It is our
dharma."

"I don't like it!" Ashish said.

Neither do I,
Virat thought.
Neither do I.

When Devi arrived home, she repeated to her father the landlord's message about needing two workers to prepare the field for his daughter's wedding. Immediately, Anup set about considering which men he could best do without. But Devi said, "The savage tribal man and the
chamar
who is thoroughly polluted through and through. Those are the ones the landlord wants."

Parmar Ruth looked out at the two men at work in the field— a scrawny man with a very dark face and teeth to match, and a mud-streaked collector-of-dead-animals with too many teeth for his mouth. "Why must you purposely irritate the Brahmin?" she asked her husband.

But Mammen Samuel paid his wife no mind. He knew Brahmin Keshavan watched from the road. And he knew it would not be long before the Brahmin found some pretext to come to his house.

Within the hour, Brahmin Keshavan, smelling of incense and his morning bath, approached the field. As always, the
mundu
tied high around his waist was crisp, white, and spotless. And, of course, his ever-present sacred thread glistened gold against the rich tan of his oiled body.

"You would build yourself an even larger house?" Brahmin Keshavan asked, doing his best to look nonchalant and somewhat pleasant.

"On the contrary," Mammen Samuel said. "I am making preparations for my daughter's wedding."

"Ah, yes. And I have come to recite blessings over the place of the wedding. This is the field where the guests will gather, then? "

Field, he said. Not pavilion, but
field!
A term that denoted a place unimportant and plain. Anger simmered in Mammen Samuel's breast.

"You need not disturb your Hindu gods for the sake of my family," Mammen Samuel said. He made no effort to hide the sharp edge to his words. Then, because he would not let such an insult from the Brahmin go by unchallenged, he added, "Your gods are blood-thirsty beings. Nothing but powerful demons, capable of all sorts of evil."

"Which is precisely why you should fear them," said Brahmin Keshavan.

Normally, in the afternoon hours, Mammen Samuel would have been lying on his bed while Babu did his best to fan away the oppressive heat. Brahmin Keshavan would also have been resting out the hottest hours of the day. But a chance for one to gain the upper hand over the other persuaded both men to stand outside in the blistering sun. As their debate turned to argument, Mammen Samuel edged closer and closer to the workers in the field. Afternoon was an unfortunate time for the Brahmin to be out, for the lowering sun caused the workers' polluting shadows to stretch out long across the field.

Each time his hoe thunked against the baked ground, Virat sneaked a glance at the Brahmin, busily engaged in an argument with the master.

Mammen Samuel motioned toward Virat and Hilmi. "Without my kindly help, these two wretches would be lying on the road, starving to death."

"It looks to my eyes as if you are the one receiving the help," Brahmin Keshavan retorted.

"A wise man knows how to use what benefits his neighbor to also benefit himself. It is my virtue to lend a helping hand and my
dharma
will be helped in return."

"Then extend a helping hand to me, as the law requires of you. A share of your prosperity is rightfully mine."

Virat watched for an opportunity to plead with the Brahmin to lift the curse from his family. But what if the Brahmin should grow so disgusted with the landlord that he walked away before Virat got the chance? Virat must not allow that to happen.

"Surely you will allow me to bless the field," Brahmin Keshavan stated. "Surely you will wish me to bless the preparations for your daughter's wedding."

"And how many rupees will that cost me?" Mammen Samuel demanded.

Virat edged forward. He glanced up at the sun to make certain it would not cast his shadow over the Brahmin.

"Keep your distance from me,
chamar,"
Brahmin Keshavan warned.

Virat fell to his knees and bowed low before the Brahmin.

"Please, I beg of you, remove the curse from my family."

"Stay away from me!"

Mammen Samuel noted the shrill touch of panic that ringed the Brahmin's voice and he could hardly contain his mirth.

Virat crawled forward. When the Brahmin tried to step back, Virat grabbed hold of his feet. "You pronounced a curse on me. Only you can remove it."

"Do not touch me!" Brahmin Keshavan cried. He tried to pull his feet away from Virat's grasp, but desperation had overtaken Virat, and he could no longer help himself. He clung all the more tightly.

"My son is a blessing. It is not right that he must live under your curse."

Brahmin Keshavan tried to run, but with Virat grasping at his feet, he stumbled and fell. He called out to Mammen Samuel for help, but Virat grabbed at him, begging, imploring, demanding.

"You touched it!" Brahmin Keshavan screamed. He clutched at his golden thread. "You filthy animal! You disgusting rubbish! Get away from me. For this assault, I double the curse. I pronounce it four times over!"

Virat shrank back, trembling. "No . . . please," he stammered. "Please, have mercy on me. On my family. Please!"

Brahmin Keshavan shook with fury. "For this great sin against me, you,
chamar,
will die!"

A
bigail mopped her face and groaned. "How can human beings live in this heat?" she asked no one in particular. Dr. Moore adjusted his spectacles and kept his eyes on his book. Abigail sighed loudly and lifted the shade that covered the window. "Not one person dares to venture outside. The road is deserted."

"It will stay that way, too, at least until late afternoon," Dr. Moore said without looking up. "This really is a wretched country."

The hot blast of June parched everything barren and brown. The countryside looked as though it had been scorched by fire. Vultures hung in midair, shrieking harsh, thirsty squawks.

"I wonder if Ashish is faring well," Abigail said.

"No, he most assuredly is not," Dr. Moore answered. "Not in this heat. Not in this country."

"Poor little lad."

Dr. Moore's face assumed its well-worn look of annoyed resignation.

"Maybe he remembers something I said to him, though," Abigail persisted hopefully. "The prayers I prayed over him while he slept, perhaps, or maybe the songs I sang to calm him in the night."

With an irritated sigh, Edward Moore closed his book with a thump and dropped it on the table. "This is not the fairy tale land of your imaginings, Miss Davidson. This is real life in India. If that child still lives, he has forgotten you."

"I just thought . . . since his master is a Christian—"

"
Fancies
himself a Christian. I am well acquainted with his kind—Christian when it suits his purposes, Hindu when that brings him more advantage."

"Still, if he—"

"You will be fortunate to find even one of these heathens willing to heed the words of your prayers or songs. And if you think you can break down the centuries-old barriers of prejudice and suspicion that keep them oppressed and enslaved, you will be sorely disappointed. You cannot. This is India, Miss Davidson, not England. You would do well to remember the difference."

Feeling thoroughly chastened, Abigail sat stiff and still with her back to the doctor. Dr. Moore picked up his book and resumed reading. When he paid her no further mind, she slipped out to her own small room. Actually, she now shared the room with Darshina. Abigail had the bed and Darshina slept on a cot pushed up against the wardrobe. Dr. Moore's accommodations were on the other side of the great room. Abigail pictured them as luxurious, though she had never actually been afforded so much as a peek on the other side of his locked door.

Darshina had already stretched out on her cot to wait out the heat of the day. She didn't bother to open her eyes when Abigail spread out her mosquito net and threw herself down on her bed.

"Do you think Ashish is all right?" Abigail asked.

"Most certainly not," Darshina said. "He is being a slave boy."

"Blessing," Abigail said softly. "He is a blessing."

"Unclean. That boy being unclean. Nothing be changing that. My kind, we that are being 'pure' and 'blessed-by-thegods,' we not allowing changes for his kind of people."

For a long while, Abigail lay on her bed lost in thought. "T
his is India, Miss Davidson, not England. You would do well to remember that."
That's what Dr. Moore had told her. But how could she remember when she could not understand? And how could she understand when she knew absolutely nothing of India? The pitiful creatures that dragged into the clinic— more often than not they were already on their way to the grave. Yet they made up the sum total of her knowledge of this country.

"Tell me about India," Abigail said.

"Please, I am not to be understanding your question," Darshina answered.

"I want to know India."

"Then please to be coming with me to the next village," Darshina said. "Everywhere you be hearing peoples talking about the troupe of
jogis
coming there. Please to be seeing India with your own eyes."

"What are
jogis?"

"Wandering singers. They be going from one village to the next village and to be staying for a fortnight in each place. Every evening, when the sun is to be falling low, they be singing and dancing the old tales of India."

"I don't know," Abigail said hesitantly. "I don't think Dr.Moore would approve. Especially if there is dancing. And I'm certain he wouldn't want me to mix with so many Indians."

Darshina shrugged. "When this day is to be growing cool, I will be going. Do what you wish—come with me or stay here and be watching the doctor reading his book."

I could sneak away,
Abigail thought.
If I sneaked back in before dawn, Dr. Moore would never even know. I could tell him I must search for Ashish in order to check on his well-being, and then, I could claim illness and tell the doctor I must take to my bed and not be disturbed for any reason until . . .

Abigail turned over onto her side searching for a more comfortable position. But comfort simply wasn't possible on the thin bed mat that passed for an Indian mattress. She sat up and reached outside the mosquito net for her bedside water glass. After a long drink, she poured the rest of the water onto her handkerchief and wiped her face and neck. With a loud sigh, Abigail flopped back down.

I could simply tell Dr. Moore that I plan to go to the village.
Well, why shouldn't I? I am an independent woman, here in India of my own free will!

"Darshina," Abigail said. "I shall accompany you to the village."

"I need
good
clay!" Ranjun the potter shouted at his youngest son. "Where did you find this terrible dirt? It is filled with pebbles!" He threw a handful of the clay and hit the child full in the face.

"In the rice field,
Appa,
where you told me to go," the terrifi ed boy replied. "I will go back and get more."

"No! Your brother needs it now. He has sand all ready to mix with it."

The smaller child grabbed up a full pot of the soil and lugged it over to his older brother.

"Worthless, that's what you are!" Ranjun yelled after him.

All day, Ranjun had stomped around in an especially foul mood. Pooni warned the children to take care around him— the boys, certainly, for they had to work with their father. But even more she warned her little daughter, Mayawati. Ranjun shouted and bellowed at the boys. He threw clay and broken pots at them and slapped them, but he didn't beat them the way he beat his daughter . . . and his wife.

Ranjun strutted between the mud huts like a proud rooster among the hens. He was an outcaste like everyone else in that section of the village, but in his mind, he stood far superior to his wretched neighbors. Ranjun owned a potter's wheel, which he had made himself with the help of a carpenter. He had his own firing oven too. A simple enough affair—just a tunnel with a bulge in the middle. But with the wheel and the oven and the growing skill of his older son and the hard work of the small one, Ranjun could now make as many as five hundred pots each month. The imperfect ones that his son fashioned, Ranjun sold to the Untouchables. The fine ones went to the upper caste side of the river. The most perfect of all, Ranjun set aside for the Brahmins.

After Ranjun gulped down the last of his water, he pounded the water jug on the floor. "Where is the girl?" he bellowed. "I am in need of more water. Send the girl out here to me!"

"Run to Latha's house and hide yourself. Stay hidden until I call for you," Pooni said to Mayawati. "Hurry now. Go!"

Pooni waited until little Mayawati had time to hide before she carried a jug of fresh water out to her husband, along with a small bowl of cashew nuts. But when Ranjun looked up from his wheel and saw that his wife had come and not the child he demanded, his face twisted and his eyes darkened with rage.

"Beating is to be inflicted upon a donkey, a drum, and a woman," Ranjun pronounced in a voice as hard as iron.

Pooni had heard that Hindu proverb repeated far too many times. She dropped the jug and the bowl of cashews and ran.

But Ranjun was ready. He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to the ground. "I do not deserve to be stuck with a bony old woman like you," he growled. "You are nothing but dirt beneath my feet."

Pooni scrambled on her hands and knees, but Ranjun grabbed her arm and hit her hard in the mouth. "A Sudra who speaks evil about a high caste person should be cut off," he quoted. Pooni wished she could laugh in his face. She would, if she were not bleeding and her teeth had not been knocked loose. Ranjun wasn't even a Sudra, let alone a member of a high caste!

"A Sudra who dares assume a position of equality with a person of high caste should be flogged," Ranjun recited.

How Pooni longed to say, "But if a Sudra—who is much higher than you, Ranjun—overhears the recitation of
Vedas,
molten lead is to be poured into his ears. Should a Sudra—who is much higher than you, Ranjun—repeat the
Veda,
his tongue should be cut out. Should a Sudra—who is much higher than you, Ranjun—remember a
Vedic
hymn, his body should be torn into pieces." She longed to say all that, but her mouth was too busy screaming.

"All the dancers, they are being people of low caste," Darshina told Abigail as they hurried along the road. "Only the low-caste please to be dancing in public."

Several bullock carts passed them by, but not one person offered the women a ride. So by the time they reached the next village—Abigail exhausted and drenched in sweat—the music had already started.

"It sounds mysterious," Abigail said. "A little bit frightening, too, I must admit."

Darshina laughed. "Are you not having flutes in England? And not having drums, too?"

"Yes, of course, but that other instrument. The one that makes a plucking sound. I've never heard that before."

"It to be going by the name of
lute,"
Darshina said.

It took a minute for Abigail to realize that what she heard wasn't simply the playing of musical instruments. There were voices, as well. "The singers sound like another instrument," she said. "They sort of hum the same notes again and again. And they repeat identical words, too."

"The singers be calling to the gods. They be wishing to awaken them to be pleading for a blessing."

By the time Abigail and Darshina arrived at the village courtyard, the dancing was already underway. "Please to be watching the whole body," Darshina said as they pushed their way forward. "Indian dancing not being about arms and legs only. Every movement, even that of the little finger or the eyebrow to be having its own special meaning."

Abigail stared, transfixed with the hand gestures. "So beautiful!" she said. Darshina understood them all, and whispered their meanings. "It's like a secret language," Abigail exclaimed.

When the women dancers sat down, a man stood up alone before the crowd. He was unusually tall and slender but not scrawny. As the drums beat slowly and a haunting melody came from the flutes, the man moved alone in absolute glory. His motions were at once confoundingly complex and breathtakingly simple. Slowly he lifted first one leg and then the other. He planted each foot in turn, heel first. The man's almost bare body twisted as his arms and hands wove together, each with the other, forming complex shapes. His head moved forward and backward, side to side. It reminded Abigail of a chicken when it walked. The dancer's eyes, flooded with expression, looked at no one. He danced for himself.

"Please, he be interpreting," Darshina whispered. "Now he be telling of the dreadful heat of India's sun."

"Yes, yes!" said Abigail. Just watching him, sweat dripped from her face.

"Now to be telling of the cold of the rising moon," Darshina said.

Abigail's back tightened and a wracking shiver ran through her.

As Abigail watched, the dancer's eyes took on a gaze of indifference. Rhythmically they opened and closed, opened and closed. Ah, yes. Eyes of the cobra. And such eyes! They filled Abigail with a chilling dread.