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  “You wouldn’t see a thing, Didi, because the shrine is barren. There is nothing inside. There used to be an ancient rock once, in the shape of a woman’s torso. That was what we worshipped. Ma Puran Devi. It had powers, they say. But it crumbled once the Devi left.”

  “You mean there is no idol here.” They began to leave. “The only importance of this place is that a queen was once sacrificed here?”

  “Yes, sort of.”

  “Then what is that old woman doing here?”

  Gauri walked out of the gates before turning around to face the temple. “The Devi has powers. She can grant wishes. But there is a price to pay.”

  “What kind of price?” she asked, a strange spark in her eyes. She could still see the coloured threads around the dead trunk. They were tied there by the people whose wishes had been granted.

  “Let it go, Didi,” Gauri shook her head. “I know what is in your mind. But this temple should rather be left alone. The price is always more than what you wished for.”

  “What do you mean you know what I want?” Aditi asked, her eyes narrowed.

  “You cannot conceive. That is what you want to ask for – a child,” Gauri replied without looking back.

  Aditi grabbed her arm and turned her around. “What? Who? Who told you that?” She knew the answer. It wasn’t uncommon for her husband, and especially his mother, to go about the neighbourhood bitching about her and her family. It enraged her. But she kept quiet. She held her head low as she passed through streets while men around her giggled among themselves and women threw taunts at her. She had grown used to it. But that was their home, their own people they gossiped among. This was different. This was an entirely new place. What kind of a man was he? Heralding the shortcomings of his wife to the entire world so that they could all laugh and point their fingers. He wanted their sympathy – that was what it had always been about. What a poor man, they would say, he has everything. If only he had a better wife. But of all the things he had gossiped about her, this outraged her the most. This was far too close to her heart for the world to find out.

  “No, it was not your husband,” Gauri noticed the passing colours on her face. “It was his brother. What is his name? Anil? Anil Prasad, right?”

  “Ajay? When did he come here?” Aditi was shocked.

  “Yes, Ajay Prasad. He used to come to the village all the time. Don’t you know, before you came here? Live with Manager Sahib. My husband used to invite him home. He told things about you. Many things…” She paused for any reaction. Aditi’s expressions remained cold. “I didn’t listen to anything, of course. What person goes about spilling the beans of his own family? My job was just to serve food. But the last time he came, my husband wasn’t home. Ajay was talking to Sumitra Ji and I overheard. I didn’t believe it though. But when you settled here, I found out you still don’t have children. So, you know, I figured out, maybe…” she trailed off.

  “Yes. It’s true. Medical complications and all.”

  “Yes, I know,” Gauri sighed, having been relieved of an awkward conversation. “These things have been on the rise recently. But all we can do is pray and hope. I have also seen women get cured. My prayers are with you, Didi. I will pray that a handsome prince is born in your family.”

  Aditi smiled. “Thank you, Gauri. Let’s get going now.” With a last glance at the old woman, who now sat cross-legged on the ground, her hands folded, Aditi made her way back under the shade of the bamboos. She felt angry, exposed. But she couldn’t express it now. She would put on a show when she reached home.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE BLUE RAJDOOT

  It was one of those Sundays in Ufrail when Manoj stayed back at home. It had rained the previous night and the scorching sun of mid-June still lay behind a dark canopy of rumbling clouds. A child had come knocking that morning. He wanted to wash Manager Sahib’s blue Rajdoot. Apparently, Manoj had complained to someone in the bank that his motorcycle was all covered in mud and he himself did not have time to clean it. So that someone sent his little son to do the job. Manoj offered him a bucket, a rag, a little detergent and the child set about doing his work. The cream coloured dog, whom Aditi had named Bachcha, watched him from the veranda.

  Aditi sat by the hand-pump washing clothes. It had been four days since her visit to the temple. The chickens were on a pecking rampage around the courtyard. A grey cat sat on the campus wall, her head hanging in between her paws, watching them greedily. Fortunately, Aditi had on one occasion told Laila that she intended to keep the chickens; and the next day Razzak’s youngest brother, Salman, had turned up at her door with two boys and built a coop behind the toilet, under the shade of the guava tree. The cat was one less thing to worry about. The tree itself showed no interest in nurturing fruits, neither did any of the trees Aditi had seen so far. Manoj was shaving on the backyard steps. He was in a vest and pyjama. His chest was clean, except for a few hairs around the nipples. The tan line on his arms were clearly visible, so were two dark, circular vaccination marks. She had not spoken to him from the time she had learnt about the life and achievements of a Bhutta Yadav.

  Once upon the time there was an old man called Bhutta Yadav. He was blessed with a wife who cared for him with utter devotion. He had three sons and all of them had left him and his village to settle in big cities. Gods were gracious and they were all faring well.

  One faithful night when the old man was returning home from the fields, he saw the bank manager enjoying a rare, well-deserved leisure time on his veranda, listening to a radio and reading a book by the dim light of a lamp. Bhutta Yadav went inside, washed his dirty hands and looked for his own radio, humming his favourite song. His beloved wife was in the kitchen, coughing and weeping, as she fought with smoke emanating from firewood. Then, all of a sudden, he heard screams. He rushed out and of all the sights he had seen, what did he see but the manager’s wife beat her own husband! The manager was on the floor, his hands raised as he tried to shield himself from her kicks. “Help me! Help me!” he cried. But the woman did not stop. Her hair dishevelled, eyes red, she screamed and abused as she danced around her helpless husband. Bhutta Yadav ran to help the manager. More villagers had reached the scene by then. The city woman had crossed all the limits women in the village had adhered to since the beginning of time. Quarrels inside closed walls was a personal business. But which woman was shameless enough to beat her husband in full public view?

  What Bhutta Yadav had not seen was what had happened inside the house. After they returned from the Mukhiya’s house, Aditi went on rambling about how his brother tainted her image everywhere she went. And how Manoj always kept shut. He was never man enough to stand for his wife. His brother went around bitching about her while he claimed to be a victim of his wife’s negligence. Also, he had never told her that his brother paid him regular visits. Manoj, like always, let her scream and shout. He opened a book and started reading. Aditi shouted till her throat was sore, and when she could no longer utter another word, she sat in the kitchen and wept. He let her cry. And when night fell, he cleared his throat and asked how much time it would take for dinner. She didn’t reply.

  Manoj waited. He waited for an hour. But the dinner was still not ready. He then shut the doors and windows, so that nobody could see. Then he barged into the kitchen, grabbed her hair and pulled her out in the hall. He raised his hand to slap her, but that would leave marks. So, he pushed her to the floor and drove his knee into her stomach. She could not breathe for a few moments. She wriggled on the floor, gasping for air. The pain was unbearable, but she couldn’t scream. He bent down and observed her, afraid he might have hit her harder than she could have tolerated. But when she began to breathe again, he left her in the hall and opened the doors and windows. He then carried a chair to the front veranda. Turned up the flames of all the lamps. Switched on the radio. And began reading a book as if nothing had happened.

  Aditi knew it was a trap. She had long experienced it. But like always, her rage too
k over her ability to think. Or maybe, she had just stopped caring. When she had gained enough strength to stand again, she marched out into the veranda and saw him reading his book in the protection of public-view. She knew her head would explode if she didn’t do anything about it. So, she let go of all the etiquettes of social life and vented out her anger on him. She didn’t care who watched and who said what. She had to do it. She had to, else it would have driven her mad.

  The villagers intervened and took Manoj to Razzak’s house. Then women were called to pacify Aditi. When she had calmed down, people gathered around her to give her counselling, remind her of her duties towards her husband. Then came this Bhutta Yadav who gave her parts of his wisdom he had accrued through ages. Of women, their responsibilities and the divine sacrifices they must make for the greater good.

  Now, Aditi drained the bucket of dirty water and rose to fill a fresh one. The cat jumped away. “What exactly is in there?” she pointed at the locked room and asked, just so as to break the ever-maturing silence.

  “That is supposed to be a bathroom,” Manoj put down his razor and mirror and replied. Aditi was almost taken aback, for he rarely gave direct replies. She held the hand-pump and listened as he went ahead to elaborate. “This area was the old centre of the village. A marketplace sort of. There was a well here, for public use. After Independence, the government proposed a dam project and all the yellow houses you see here were constructed for the officers. This house must have belonged to someone at high post. I think they constructed this bathroom around the well for their personal use.”

  “What happened to the dam?”

  “The project was scrapped.”

  “And why is this room locked?”

  Manoj raised the mirror and examined his moustache. “It’s an old well. The ground around could be treacherous. It might cave in.”

  “Why don’t we open it and see? It could be used as a storeroom.”

  “I was not given any key…”

  “I meant break it open.”

  “No. This is the bank’s house. We can’t go around modifying things as we like.”

  “It’s a just a lock! Why hasn’t someone already done that!”

  “I don’t know… maybe because there must have been a good reason to lock it in the first place.”

  Aditi washed the next set of clothes in silence. The little boy returned with an empty bucket. He was done cleaning the motorcycle. Manoj went inside with him. Aditi wriggled the clothes dry and hung them on a coir rope running across the length of the courtyard, supported by a bamboo pole in the middle. Her eyes fell on the room. The window was shut tight. The lock was old and rusty. She glanced at some bricks thrown in a corner of the backyard. How many strikes would it take to break the lock? Four? Five?

  She pulled out one of the bricks and rammed it against the lock.

  She missed.

  It hit the latch and jerked away from her hands.

  Yet, the lock broke open, as if it had been a decoy all the time.

  She pushed the door. It gave away silently. The inside was dark. The air was stale, suffocating. She let her eyes adjust, but even with the door open, she could hardly make out anything inside. The window was to her left. She fumbled in the darkness and found a bolt. She found herself looking at her house. It was a different perspective altogether. The square source of light in the formidable darkness, suffocation, carrying with it the image of the withered walls of a house. It was as if she was looking into the private space of some complete stranger. She turned around. The window cast light on a circular wall projecting out of the ground – about four metres in diameter – enclosing a gaping darkness. She looked out again and saw a lamp hanging in the veranda.

  “What are you doing?” Manoj came out as she lit the lamp.

  “I opened the door. You were right. There is a well inside. Just checking what else…” She carried the lamp back to room, smiling to herself. She didn’t have to look back to tell that Manoj was annoyed. This was one of her small achievements that made her happy. She explored the room. The walls were all bare. “And what is here?” she called out to Manoj. The lamp illuminated a cemented platform on the ground with raised edges and a drain in one corner. “A bathing area…” she muttered. She heard Manoj come in. He stood at the door, blocking the daylight. “And this well here…” She went nearer. The wall was dry. Crumbling. The well too had a cement platform on the floor, sloping away from the centre. She leaned over and raised the lamp over the well. All she saw was the wall running down a few metres before disappearing into complete darkness. Nevertheless, she pushed a loose pebble into the well and listened for any sound.

  She waited and waited… her eyes trying to drill through the darkness.

  Nothing happened. “What we need is a torch,” she straightened and looked away, and in doing so, her eyes fell on the window.

  Manoj was still standing in the veranda.

  She lurched around.

  No one!

  The lantern fell from her grasp. The light flickered and then vanished completely as it fell into the well. And in her attempt to catch it, she lost her balance. She panicked and shrieked. For a moment she thought it was all over. She was going to fall in…

  Then her hands moved. She pushed herself away from the wall and ran for the entrance. But Manoj was already there. “What were you doing? I told you the well was treacherous.” He went ahead to peep in. “The lantern is gone. Come on, now. Let’s go out.” He shut the door and led her back to the room. Aditi didn’t say a word. She followed him quietly.

  Neither of them noticed the woman watching them from the window.

  *

  Lying on her bed, Aditi watched Manoj through the window as he pushed the dripping Rajdoot up the veranda. Memories came haunting back to her – her father making innumerable trips to clear that a motorcycle was not a part of the marriage deal. The dozens of letters that told her family about her demise. She saw the face of her husband’s brother grinning, telling her that she too would go down, like the previous one. It was the concern for family reputation that did not allow her to consult the neighbours, neither would they have opened their mouths. And it was trust that made her turn a blind eye towards the razor-sharp words – that her father must have checked her husband’s background and would have never sent her away with a widower.

  Aditi had been married in the autumn of ’95. For another year and a half, Manoj continued to live in his native town of Naugachia with his family. Day after day, she watched him leave on a bicycle. Hunched over the handles, he would peddle ten kilometres to his bank, a tiffin-box and a bag dangling from his shoulders. He would return at night with a TRING-TRING outside their house. Once she told him that cycle did not suit the social status of a deputy manager in State Bank of India. Manoj and his brother were having dinner then. Aditi was sitting on the floor with them, ready to serve at their slightest nod. Manoj’s face had gone red.

  “Yes Bhabi,” Ajay said, “he is a married man now. Why don’t you ask your father to give him a motorcycle?”

  Aditi stared at him in disbelief. A motorcycle? Above everything her father already gave? And then he laughed and began eating his food. He gulped down a glass of water and went out to a friend’s place.

  A month later, her father knocked at the door. It was raining outside and he was drenched to skin, clutching a cheap leather bag tightly against his chest. The moment he saw her open the gate, he sat down on the floor, out in the rain, covered his face and began to cry. She knelt beside him and hugged him, unaware what it was, but certain it must have been something terrible that he had broken down at the mere sight of her. Her mother-in-law peeped from her room. Her father-in-law was away visiting some relatives.

  Ajay had sent letters that Manoj needed a motorcycle, now that he was a married man and needed to maintain the social status of a deputy manager. Her father replied that he couldn’t afford to buy one. More letters were sent that if he couldn’t keep the honour of his son
-in-law, he should better come and take his daughter back.

  A week later a letter arrived that his daughter had met with an accident and was fighting her last moments. Money was short. So were her breaths.

  When Manoj and Ajay returned in the evening, her father went to confront them. Ajay locked himself in a room and his brother just laughed it away. “Just a mischievous little boy!” Then he shouted at the closed doors, “Ajay! Why did you send these letters?” And without waiting for a reply, he ordered Aditi to serve them dinner. Her mother-in-law hurriedly came out of her room and went to the kitchen, and before Aditi could understand, she laid out food for the men and served a large plate for Aditi as well, something she had never done before. “Come dear,” she said with such an affection that Aditi was taken by surprise, “come and eat. You must be hungry, my child. Come.”

  Aditi took the plate to her room and listened to her mother-in-law tell her father how lazy girls those days had become. Her mother-in-law’s tone had changed. There was no love now, but pain and pity. Her vision had blurred due to a life spent in making fire in the kitchen and how she wished her Aditi could relieve her of this duty. But he, Shyamlal Prasad, her father, chose to send her to school than teach her how to cook a decent meal. That Aditi was taught how to hold a pen instead of a broomstick. “What a waste of childhood!” How she longed for a grandchild… but alas… Aditi… Shyamlal Prasad kept quiet and listened to it all. Then just out of nowhere she asked, “How much money have you brought for her treatment?” Her father gaped at the old woman in stark astonishment. “But you came here for her treatment? Isn’t it?”

  “Not much,” he mumbled.

  “But we can always make a down payment for the motorcycle! Manoj knows good dealers here. He is a manager in the bank, after all. You can always pay the rest later! It’s no hassle. They all know him for good.”