Asmara Didi to cure the impotent ones,’ she guffaws. ‘Remember how she cured Lala Ram?’ She directs her story at Mamta: ‘Lala Ram tried his hand with Nathu’s daughter. Now you know Nathu’s daughter, she would have given herself to a pig if it brought her a new bangle or pair of sandals, but even she rejected Lala Ram, though he had the shop and land . . . the everything. He brought her four silk saris. No response. Hai, did she tease him good . . . walked blouse-less up and down the street right under his nose, her boobs jiggling like horse bells, and him salivating after her like a dog. He tried, but couldn’t get her to accompany him for even a minute behind the well. Finally he went to Asmara Didi for help. That concoction she whipped up really did something for him: Lala Ram couldn’t get his dhoti to behave after that, stuck out in front like a raised flag. He was so proud when someone asked if he had a pound of flour under his dhoti. They tell me the village boys applied the same concoction to the stray dog that used to feed in the rubbish tip. Had him humping all the bitches in no time!’ Kam la hoots with laughter, ‘that was something. Hump, hump, hump, up and down the street all day long, till he burst!’
Mamta looks up with a sharp jerk of her head and disbelief in her eyes, not for the story, but for the indelicacy of it, while Lata Bai shakes her head with bemused resignation from side to side. Kamla nudges Lata Bai in the ribs: ‘Your husband has taken a loan from the Big House. He is entitled to ask for her services, you know . . . if need be . . .’ The two older women are tangled in a dance of words and companionship, of shared fortunes, and experiences of plain and simple womanhood.
‘No need for Asmara Didi’s concoction in my home . . . but really, sometimes I wish mine was impotent.’ Lata Bai’s hands flitter to her mouth like butterflies to cover the embarrassing words that just left her lips. She looks up and catches sight of her daughter, brows knitted in the middle of her forehead, a question forming in her inexperienced mind. ‘Forget it . . . let’s be serious now,’ says her mother quickly.
‘Did you hear the news?’ Kamla asks earnestly.
‘Yes, about Daku Manmohan. Mamta’s father said –’
‘No, not that old news, this other thing . . . they found Sharma’s wife.’
‘You mean the one who ran away after the last big wind?’
‘Yes, what a fool, but quite a beauty, no?’
‘I guess her mother should have tattooed the “ugly” dot to spoil her perfection on her face instead of the back of her ear. I heard she ran away with the circus.’
‘Circus? No circus – with another man.’
‘Oho, what is the world coming to?’
‘It would have been better if she had run away with the circus, they never would have found her, but they did. Stripped her naked under the banyan, shaved her hair, four of Sharma’s brothers raped her and then they rubbed shit on her body.’
‘Hai, poor thing,’ says Mamta.
‘Poor thing nothing, she got what she deserved. Imagine if all the wives started running away, simply because they were unhappy,’ says Lata Bai.
‘Amma, how can you say that?’
‘Leave it, Mamta, you won’t understand. You have to be married as long as me to understand.’ Lata Bai turns to Kamla. ‘Why are you telling this story now, on this auspicious day?’ she whispers fiercely enough for Mamta to hear.
‘Okay, okay, let’s leave it, but let me tell you just one more thing . . . the poor girl has to still live with Sharma, in the cowshed. Her head stays shaved, he has already taken another wife. That’s it, no more talk about Sharma’s wife.’ She clamps a hand over her mouth. ‘Okay, so who’s doing the ceremony? Not that thief, Pundit Jasraj.’
‘Yes. He was the cheapest,’ says Lata Bai, defending her choice.
‘I believe he tried to feel up the last two brides,’ Kamla says, arresting her giggles.
‘Really? I hadn’t heard,’ lies Lata Bai. ‘Well, it won’t be a problem this time,’ she says, trying to set her daughter’s mind at rest.
‘Why not? Do you think me that ugly?’ Mamta touches her forehead. She’s heard of new brides being bathed in milk, but for her, a teaspoon of turmeric paste is what the widow Kamla prepared. Mamta rubs the turmeric off; underneath, her birthmark is a bilious caricature of its former self.
‘Oh no, Mamta. That’s not what I meant.’ It’s too late to paint over her slight, so Lata Bai changes the subject. ‘I wish Jivkant would come.’
‘Maybe he will come just as we sit down with the priest.’ What Mamta really means to say is, why would he bother? He was the cruellest of all to her. Fat little Jivkant. The love of his father’s life. From the day that he emerged, soiling Mamta’s blanket, he became the thief of his sister’s future.
The first thing to go was Mamta’s thali, her dented tin plate into the back of which her mother had impressed the symbol Ohm in tiny dots by hammering a nail in a pattern. It was given to Jivkant and Mamta began to share her mother’s thali and food. Whereas before Seeta Ram had never objected to Lata Bai preparing a thali especially for her daughter, now he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Let her eat the leftovers,’ he said. ‘Why should I water someone else’s garden?’
‘Do you remember when I made him drink kerosene? That was something!’ Her mother looks at her with disappointed eyes. ‘Oh, come, Amma, don’t be that way. He probably has a big city job now.’
Lata Bai knew all along that Jivkant would leave; hadn’t he always believed he deserved better? She can’t remember a day when he was still inside his skin, yet Seeta Ram was surprised when his son took off, full of as much live powder as a late-firing cracker, following a train whistle to his destiny. He wanted to be an engine driver just like Lucky Sister’s husband, the one who put his wife out to work as a prostitute.
‘Perhaps he can’t get leave.’
Lata Bai’s eyes cloud over for a second. Yes, gone to a good city job over a year now and not one rupee sent back to your family. What did you say before you left? ‘Amma, look for your money order at Lala Ram’s shop every month.’ ‘Maybe he can’t get leave, but what stops him from sending us money? He had one of Lala Ram’s twins write down the address for him, not once, but twice, one for his pocket and a back-up for his satchel. The day he left, I put a red tilak on his brow and fanned the flames of the oil lamp towards his bowed head. Your father had tears in his eyes and Prem ran behind him all the way to the waiting tonga. But he left without looking back at us, twirling his moustache. He was so eager to go. I went to Lala Ram’s shop every month for a whole year, sometimes twice, sometimes thrice a month.’
At first Lala Ram would give her some brown sugar – for the children – he’d say. Then later, when he saw her approaching, he would go into the back, reluctant to deal with her expectation and disappointment. Finally, he started shooing her away from a distance, saying, ‘Go away, he maybe lost . . . dead . . . the city swallows them up.’
I know my son isn’t dead or lost. If anyone could make it in the city, it would be Jivkant. So where are those promised money orders?
Her husband has prepared his verbal offence carefully. He will let loose his tirade upon his son as soon as he sees him. There will be no ‘When will you help us? After we are dead?’ or ‘Look at your mother, her eyes swollen from crying every night.’ No, he will appeal to his intellect, because he knows, sure as the red birthmark on Mamta’s forehead, that his son has learned the most useless skill of all – to read and write – and is now an educated man.
‘Even if he does show up at the last minute, he won’t bring any money with him. Of that I’m sure,’ says the mother, still hoping she is wrong, but armouring herself against disappointment by pointing out the worst.
‘Leave it. It may be a man’s country, Lata Bai, but you will get joy only from the girls,’ counters Kamla. ‘Why, even the men see the dependability