This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (68 page)

The eyes of the trussed-up chickens lying in the wicker basket in the jeep flashed through Tara’s mind. She and the five other women locked up were just like those birds, she felt. They could be done away with at any time, simply by twisting their necks, and served up to someone for their enjoyment. She remembered the tortures Banti, Satwant and Durga had gone through. Didn’t these women realize the purpose behind their being imprisoned here? Were they willing to undergo even more humiliation and torture? God had forgotten about them, it seemed to Tara, but they hadn’t forgotten Him. Human beings worried more about God than He did about them… Was there some way she could end her life? She had tried to kill herself by hammering her head against the wall, but all that happened was that she ended up by her knocking herself out. She lay for a long time wallowing in her thoughts.

When Tara opened her eyes, she saw the sunlight lingering on top of the eastern wall. The women had moved outside, now that the aangan was in the shade, and cooler.

Satwant pumped some water into the can, and sat down to eat a roti.

Banti called out to Tara, ‘Bahin, just work this pump for me.’ She sat under the spout and had a wash.

The twilight gave way to moonlight.

The women sat close together, and began telling their same old stories. As the night deepened, they lay about and drifted off to sleep. If any two awoke at the same time, they sat and talked to one another. Tara had passed the previous night in a semi-conscious state, but this night seemed much longer and harder to get through. She would lie down, then sit up, thoughts crowding and images flashing into her mind. She thought about her past life. She was born only to suffer. And why was she born into a poor family? Why couldn’t she be content that her situation was her karma? Why did she want to escape from the circumstances into which she had been born? Why did she want to marry someone of her own choosing? Why couldn’t she just spend her life like Sheelo, accepting its ups and downs?

And the night of her wedding! Being tortured by Nabbu! Hafizji’s treacherous sympathy! What was the harm in converting to Islam? What did she gain by refusing Hafizji’s offer? What did she gain by being a Hindu? How did that protect her? Despite what they had gone through, Banti, Durga and Satwant still clung to their Hindu beliefs.

And all this was past history. What about the future?

Tara spent the night between falling off into a slumber, and thinking hard with her head in her hands. At daybreak, the women began the routine of relieving themselves over the drain and then washing the excrement away with canfuls of water, of washing themselves and of pumping water for the others. What had made Tara turn her face away and had filled her with disgust the first morning, she was compelled to do herself. Banti had her bath and sat down to recite Krishna-lila. Satwant chanted the words of Japaji Saheb. Then all of them ate the remnants of the previous day’s rotis, drinking water from the same can. Tara paced impatiently back and forth beside the eastern wall, then beside the western wall. She would sit for a while when her legs got tired.

The sunlight crawled across half the aangan. The women moved into the rooms. Tara had been pacing in front of the rooms on the east side.
The door chain outside the entrance door rattled. She too moved inside.

The door creaked open, and from the vestibule came the sound of the old women’s sugary hoarse voice, ‘Daughters, I’ve brought you rotis.’

Realizing who it was, Satwant, Durga and Banti came back into the aangan. They began dividing up the rotis. Tara stood watching them. She noticed the old woman looking at Durga with a peculiar yearning in her eyes.

Something from her childhood came back into Tara’s mind. When her father would go out in the morning to buy vegetables, she went with him holding his finger. On seeing a choice lauki or some other particularly expensive vegetable, Masterji would eye it with yearning. The old slut’s eyes held a similar look.

Turning her gaze to Tara, the old woman said, ‘Hai, you look quite young. What village you come from?’

Tara turned her face away.

When she was leaving, the old woman stopped near Tara, ‘Hai, I’ll be damned! Look at those terrible bruises on your forehead, nose and cheeks! Hai, sadake, how I feel for you! I’ll get you some ghee to smear over them.’

Tara responded again with disgust at this show of sympathy.

‘Come, the rotis are still fresh and soft. Have some,’ Banti called out to Tara.

The day was coming to an end. It was Tara’s second day in that house, but it felt as if her imprisonment there had lasted for months. After sleeping off the afternoon, the women were back at their chatting, repeating the stories about their families. Tara had resumed her pacing the aangan, in front of the rooms. Banti called out to her to work the pump, and had a wash. Banti haemorrhaged because of her internal injuries, and her body frequently became soiled. She also had difficulty walking.

After her wash, Banti had gone to sit beside Satwant. She called Tara to come over, ‘
Kudiye
, why do you tire out your legs by marching up and down uselessly? Come and sit with us.’

Tara went and squatted down beside the two of them. She asked, ‘Tell me, how long will this go on? How long are we to remain shut up here?’

‘Listen to her! Do you think we’re staying here as invited guests? It’s the will of the true Protector, Waheguru. He’ll rescue us, or whatever,’ Satwant said, sighing deeply. ‘Who knows where we are? What town, what village?
All you can hear is the cry of some vegetable-seller.’ With one hand over her flawed eye, she wiped away her tears with the other.

Tara peered closely at Satwant. Although the bulging white of her eye, like the flesh of a peeled lychee, looked ugly, her face was pretty and her features sharp. Tara thought, was her disfigurement and her being tortured also the will of Waheguru?

Curious that Banti, Tara and Satwant were huddling and talking quietly, Durga came and joined them. In the absence of a kameez or blouse covering her body, she kept her arms crossed over her bare chest. Tara had noticed that her breasts, despite all that she had suffered, were firm and shapely like those of some marble statue in a museum. Her fair skin was tinged with pink, like a pomegranate flower, but her face was so pitted by smallpox that her features looked as if made of sponge. This too was God’s will, Tara thought.

‘It’s scary to be shut up like this, sister, but what good does it do to be scared?’ Banti let out her breath slowly as she tried to explain to Tara, ‘The one who’ll rescue us is Maharajji. When He so desires, He will appear out of a blue sky. He rescued Prahlad from the raging fire. This brute has caged us just like Noora the butcher used to tie up the goats he bought for slaughtering.’

‘You’re right, bahinji. God helps those who help themselves,’ said Tara. ‘Can’t we think of some way of getting out of here?’

‘How will we get out? The door’s chained up. And where’ll we go?’ Banti asked.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Tara leaned closer to her. ‘When the old woman brings rotis next time, we will grab her. Then we can tie her up, and slip out.’

Satwant cut in, ‘You talk like a mad woman. At least here in this aangan we’re protected from the eyes of menfolk. Who knows what’ll happen once we get out? It’s like a mouse escaping from its hole right into the jaws of the cat. It seems like you don’t know what men can do to you.’

‘What do you know?’ Durga said to Tara. ‘Ask those women who’ve been raped by ten or fifteen at one time. They’ll tell you. At least, we’re all in one piece here. Who’d want to go out and get torn to pieces again?’

Banti said, touching her bare legs, ‘How can I go out and face any man in this condition.’ She pointed at Durga, ‘Would she?’ She waved her hand in the direction of the room where Lakkhi lay, ‘Would she want to? If it was the dark of night, and just a matter of walking a few steps, it’d have been different. But if we bring down ruin and humiliation on ourselves, there’d
be no one but ourselves to blame. As if anything more is needed for our ruin and humiliation. But Maharajji is my witness, it wasn’t my fault. He’s the one to forgive and rescue us.’

Banti touched her folded hands to her forehead and sighed before going on, ‘Kewal’s father asked us to leave for Amritsar before hell broke loose. But how could we? We hadn’t yet paid for the actions of our past life? What can’t happen if Maharajji wills it to happen? He might arrange for us to meet again. Mother Sitaji was held in captivity by Ravana, but was eventually reunited with Lord Ramji.’

‘What are you saying?’ Durga said. ‘Who wants to accept a woman who has suffered such ruin, who has been taken away from her family? A woman once separated from her family and a fruit plucked from the tree cannot be put back as before.’ She let out a deep sigh, as if expelling all hope from her heart.

‘Who says I was separated from my family?’ Banti was angry. ‘Maharajji was my witness in whatever I went through. Whatever happened, happened in front of everybody. Did I leave my home of my own free will. They were coward enough to leave me behind, and I was taken away by force. Whatever happened, nobody could have prevented it. And now, who’s to blame for all that?’

‘If we have to die, let’s die before we’re sold off to some cruel heartless man, before we suffer more humiliation and dishonour. Let’s get out when that old woman comes next time. Outside of here, won’t we find even one well to jump into?’ Tara said.

‘It’s not easy to die when you want, my dear. Didn’t I try to jump into a well and kill myself? Do you think you can die unless Maharajji, unless Bhagwan wants you to? He’s the one who decides. And who knows what He wants?’ Banti badly wanted Tara to understand.

Durga too added, ‘What bad karma is tormenting us? Who knows? But we’ll come back in our next life as maggots in a sewer, if we kill ourselves. That much is sure.’

Tara had no answer.

The old woman’s failure to turn up with the rotis in the afternoon disconcerted the women. Since she had been bringing them the rotis before noon for two days, and had promised to keep bringing them every day, the women did not keep food for the following day.

Tara, however, had not eaten up all of her ration of three rotis, and still had one left. When the old woman did not come until late in the afternoon, she shared the roti with Banti. The others had nothing to eat.

That annoyed Satwant and Durga, and they hurled some taunts at Tara and Banti.

Banti told Tara not to get angry, ‘Never mind them, bahina. They’re the kind who would throw a stone in a muddy puddle just to splash the passers-by and pick a fight with them.’

The afternoon wore on. Instead of talking about their children and families as they usually did, the women discussed only about the failure of the old woman to show up. Their eyes were riveted on the vestibule, and ears alert for the rattle at the door.

It grew dark, and still no sign of the old woman. The waiting women’s faces fell. Tara was also feeing hungry, and the craving of the others for food added to her own pangs of hunger. Next morning, despite being hungry, the women went through their regular washing ritual. Banti, Satwant and Durga gave a little more time than usual to their praying and chanting. They told each other that the old woman or the moustached bastard would soon arrive with the rotis. When no one came until midday, they became even gloomier.

The sun was now beating down fiercely on the aangan. The brick floor radiated heat, but the women continued to sit on the doorsteps of the rooms rather than go inside. Despite being naked and racked by stomach cramps, Lakkhi too sat on the threshold with them, with her eyes fixed on the vestibule. They drank mouthfuls of water to ease their hunger pangs. A quarrel broke out between Satwant and Durga over drawing water from the pump. Durga cursed and swore at Satwant, saying that she always took more than her share of the rotis, and then ate them up all alone, that they all were suffering as a result of the sins of that baby-killer.

Tara had begun to feel a dull ache in her stomach from not having eaten. When her brother had accused her of plotting to elope with Asad, she remembered, she had hammered her forehead on the charpoy in anger and had eaten nothing for two days. She hadn’t felt hungry at that time. To lessen her craving for food, she began arguing with herself: ‘We feel hungry because we cannot suppress our craving for food. What if I didn’t crave it in the first place?’

Tara’s eyes travelled from Banti to Amaro, then back to Banti. Banti had
not been saying much, and sat with her back to the wall, quietly chanting a prayer or reciting some hymn. Amaro, as usual, did not look at anyone, but stared blankly at the wall or the beams in the ceiling. Tara’s eyes went to Lakkhi, who was moaning in pain from her stomach cramps. Banti would tell her to take a drink of water now and then. Lakkhi did not have enough strength left to be able to work the pump. She would take a few sips of water whenever Banti asked her.

At night Tara could not sleep for a long time because of hunger. They all were lying in the aangan. A light rain began to fall after midnight, and they all moved into the rooms. To ignore the hunger that had been reawakened by their interrupted sleep, they began to chat again. Satwant recalled how she mixed besan, onions and finely chopped spinach into the dough, and made crisp rotis in the tandoor. Durga’s recollection was of the choori mixture made from ghee and gur. Banti thought that nothing tasted better than freshly baked chapattis and daal made from urad lentils. Tara also remembered the delectable smell of chapattis toasted over coals glowing in the stove.

Banti turned her face away to cut short the talk, and resumed her chanting. Satwant and Durga followed suit and began praying to their own guardian deity. One by one they all drifted off to sleep. Except Tara.

The day broke, but there was no break in the rain. Banti, Satwant and Durga had their bath despite the rain. On this day, their prayers,
jaap
intonations and chanting went on even longer.

The rain fell intermittently. The hours passed. Morning. Noon. Afternoon. The women continued to sit on the threshold of the rooms, their eyes and ears intent on the vestibule and the door beyond. The sun did not reappear, nor did the old woman with her bundle of rotis.