she had come upon a clump of wild leechee trees. Chuyia soon found the gooseberry bushes and, after savouring the fruit’s tart sweetness, began collecting the berries in her skirt for her mother to pickle. But this proved cumbersome, so Chuyia ate the gooseberries instead.
Chuyia had wandered deep into the forest in search of wild leechees when she became aware of the distant whining and whimpering of an animal; it was in distress. Abandoning her search for leechees, she made her way through the undergrowth, which was for the most part taller than she was. Although it was midday, the rays of the sun barely penetrated the thick green canopy that formed a roof over her head.
Every now and then Chuyia stopped to listen to make sure she was heading toward the source of the cries. She had little fear of the forest, and was as familiar with it as a child brought up near the ocean is familiar with its shores.
As she drew closer to the sound, she became puzzled. Muffled by the dense vegetation, the yelping and mewling seemed to surround her—and yet she couldn’t locate the terrified creature. Chuyia pushed back branches and crouched to search through the thicket of plants mouldering underneath for want of sunlight. She thrashed through the young bamboo saplings and skirted the ancient drooping clumps.
Chuyia came upon a small clearing and, after parting the foliage and pushing back the creepers that concealed the ditch, she discovered a scruffy little pup that had fallen through. Barely distinguishable from the bed of decaying leaves, it was feebly trying to scramble up the steep sides of the ditch and slipping back.
“Tun-tun, Tun-tun,” Chuyia called softly.
Tun-tun was the generic name given by the village children to all the local mongrels that prowled the neighbourhood and from time to time attached themselves to the houses that fed them scraps. With their short, dun-coloured fur and straight-up tails, they were almost indistinguishable from one another, except for the grovelling bitches with swinging teats who slunk around with their tails between their legs.
The puppy cocked its pointy ears to look at her and increased the volume of its yelping. Holding on to a supple young bamboo, Chuyia lowered herself down the incline. The startled pup growled and backed away from the alarming proximity to the stranger. It bared its tiny teeth. Chuyia noticed the small protrusion low down its belly and decided it was a boy. She squatted at the base of the ditch and remained still to give the nervous animal time to get accustomed to her. She wanted Tun-tun to know she wouldn’t harm him, and was prepared to get acquainted with him on his terms.
After a while, she edged closer and held out her hand. “Tun-tun, Tun-tun,” she said softly, making gentle kissing sounds. “Come to me. Come,” she cajoled.
His tail wagging tentatively, the animal cocked its head to look at her but held its ground.
Wary of the sharp little teeth, Chuyia slowly reached out to touch its grubby head. At her touch, Tun-tun rolled over on his back and, his little tail thumping the dirt, twisted his body this way and that, as if posing for the cutest effect. Still squatting, Chuyia waddled closer and gingerly stroked his belly. The dog’s little tail thumped harder. What an adorable face he had. She tried again to stroke his head and the pup quickly licked her fingers with his wet tongue. Chuyia retracted her hand reflexively.
Bit by bit, each sized up the other.
Chuyia felt an overwhelming surge of tenderness and longing and, reaching out with both hands, picked up the pup. She did it so clumsily that the discomfited creature wiggled free and fell to the ground. She hunkered down on her heels, and the puppy began to sniff at her dusty feet. All at once, it braced its tiny paws against her knees and licked her face. Chuyia laughed. She cradled the little fellow in her arms and allowed him to lick her neck. Stroking and kissing the puppy, covering him with the flap of her blouse to protect him from the prickly twigs, she carried Tun-tun through the forest.
Bhagya sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, grinding rice with a mortar and pestle and adding it to the flour she stored in a brass jar. Dusk had thickened into night outside the kitchen window, and the hectic twittering of the birds had given way to the muted sounds of nocturnal animals of the forest and the sudden orchestration of cicadas. Her day’s chores done, her family fed, this was Bhagya’s hour of solitude. The rhythmic pounding of the pestle and her automated movements had a meditative quality, and she often chanted or hummed holy passages from the Bhagvad Gita or the Mahabharata at this time.
Somnath came into the kitchen with the box of betel nut and, after adjusting his crumpled night dhoti, quietly squatted beneath the pots lined up on a shelf nailed to the wall. Although Bhagya had her back to him, she was aware of his presence. She brought her sari forward to cover her bare shoulder and head. Somnath waited patiently. Even though her body had thickened with child-bearing, she was as beautiful as the Goddess Bhagyalakshmi, whose name she bore. And with the passion of youth diluted by the daily grind of household tasks and the passage of time, she was surely as pure as the Goddess Sita.
Bhagya wondered what had brought her husband to the kitchen. He usually left her alone to finish her chores. She sensed it had something to do with his visit to the widower Hira Lal’s house earlier that morning. On his return from the house, he had barely spoken to her or to the children. Hira Lal’s mother had sent for him, and Bhagya had assumed it had to do with the prayer rituals Somnath often performed at their house. Now she wondered what it was; she would find out soon enough.
Bhagya added the last lot of ground rice to the jar and pushed the pestle and mortar against the wall. She placed the lid on the jar and turned her head slightly.
“You wish to say something?”
Somnath patted the clean clay floor. “Come, sit by me.”
Bhagya wiped her hands on her sari and sat down cross-legged where he had indicated. She pulled the box to her and started spreading the red katha paste on the betel leaf. She glanced at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Why should anything be the matter?” Somnath said. “Don’t look so serious, I bring you good news.”
Bhagya searched his face from the corner of her eyes. Although he was trying to smile, the drawn lines on his face belied his words. Something was the matter.
“So, tell me,” she said.
Holding his hand out to receive the betel leaf, Somnath breathed out in a way that was almost a sigh. “Hira Lal’s mother wants our Chuyia to marry Hira Lal,” he said.
Bhagya lifted the edge of her sari and lowered her head to disguise the sudden tumult that agitated her heart and left her short of breath. She waited for him to continue.
“I have agreed,” he said. “Their horoscopes match. We have looked at some auspicious dates. They want the marriage to take place before Diwali—in September or October. The monsoon will be over and our guests can sleep outside.”
“She is only six,” Bhagya said, her quavering voice so low Somnath had to strain to catch her words. “I’ve heard Hira Lal is a grandfather.”
“He’s younger than me, about forty-four,” Somnath said. “They don’t want a dowry; they will pay for the wedding. She will be well cared for. Hira Lal’s mother is a kind woman. She will be good to our girl.”
“Shouldn’t you have consulted me?” said Bhagya.
Somnath stretched his legs out and, adjusting the fall of the sacred thread that ran diagonally across his bare chest, leaned back. Although the flesh on his chest was spare, his stomach protruded in a small, spongy roll. He swallowed the juice that had collected in his mouth and, tucking the betel into one cheek, said, “How could I refuse Hira Lal’s mother?”
Bhagya drew her sari forward so that her face was in shadow. “It is settled then! Why bother to tell me? So what if I have never set eyes on the man?” She had not spoken to him so