Prologue
Mala sat on the bare ground hugging her knees, waiting!
There was a strange anxiety tingling in her heart. It was a mix of anticipation and hope.
She raised her tired eyes to stare at the sky above in a silent fear.
She half turned to look at Mangal lying prostrate next to her and shivered slightly.
His arms were casually splayed across his chest; his mouth half open. His blank eyes staring back at her.
Her hands trembled as Mala moved them lightly over his lids to pull them down.
Then the song reached her ears.
The wind carried the lilting notes making them flow towards her riding on the dark chariot of the night sky.
They were singing for her today.
Soon she knew it was time to leave.
Mala picked up the bundle lying next to her and stepped over Mangal’s inert body. She took a last look at him lying powerless, his shaven head bent at a crooked angle.
Smirking, she spat on the floor next to him before crossing the threshold.
A Wedding
It was her wedding night. Mala’s heart was trembling with joy as she waited for her husband in their bridal chamber. The festivities had gone on till late and everyone was tired. The guests had all left. Mangal, her new husband, had no family of his own. Their marriage was arranged by his neighbours who had done more than their share of responsibilities by getting him married.
Mala’s father, Gour, was a poor farmer who was only too happy to get his daughter married off in exchange for a minimum dowry. Even then he had to churn out a Kinetic Honda scooter and a watch for his son-in-law. Mala was quite tall for her age, average to look at, and dark skinned. A combination that made it increasingly difficult for him to get her married off. Mangal was the best choice he could afford.
He was a construction worker and had his own house. He was several years older than Mala and this would be his second marriage. But that hardly mattered. For Gour, this was a prize catch and he readily agreed to all Mangal’s demands. It did put a dent in his savings and made him incur a huge debt from the moneylenders. But Mala was his last responsibility and the sooner he could dispose of her, the better.
As for Mala, she was only too happy to be donning the bride’s look. She had been sure she would never get married, being the fourth in a family of five daughters. Getting her elder sisters married had eaten into a large share of her father’s savings. The youngest had eloped creating quite a scandal. A poor disgraced family had little chances in the marriage market. So, when Mangal’s proposal came forward and she saw her father agree to all his demands, she was finally relieved.
For girls like Mala who could claim average looks and penury as their only qualifications, marriage was the only hope that would redeem them from being ostracized in society. Women would gossip and pass snide remarks about the various possible frailties that were assumed to be the reason for them being unmarried and remain a burden on their parents; Men would consider them fair game to satiate their lust and often tarnish those whom they were finished ravishing, as being promiscuous and a danger to their home and hearth.
It was a cruel society but one that Mala was used to. It was the only life she knew and the one she was destined to live.
As the night progressed, Mala began to get sleepy. It had been a long day for her, and she just wanted to get some sleep.
She had probably dozed off when the door rattled open and Mangal stood before her reeking of alcohol. Mala knew there were many shops that sold country liquor in their village and had often seen men walking in a drunken stupor creating a nuisance on the streets. She was always careful to steer clear of such men and avoided crossing those shops on her way. Little did she know, that one day she would have to live with one of them.
“Are you drunk?” Mala sprang up from the bed.
Mangal grinned foolishly nodding his head. He tottered forward trying to grab her.
Eyes wide with shock, Mala moved away from his grip. As she did so, unable to find his balance, Mangal crashed down on the bed and began to snore loudly.
Mala stood looking at him stunned. The white strands of tuberose garlands that were used to decorate the bed, hung in loose shreds all around. The bed sheet lay crumpled as Mangal lay sprawled across half the bed leaving no space for Mala.
Not knowing what else to do, Mala rolled out a mat on the floor and lay down. She was too dazed to understand how she should react. Soon exhaustion gripped her, and Mala drifted into a dreamless sleep.
For most people wedding nights are special owing to the precious moments they create. For Mala, every night was a repetition of her wedding night and each began to get even more unpleasant than the last.
Mangal was an extremely lazy and arrogant man. He was short-tempered and even turned violent most often. All of these led him to frequently lose his jobs. To rant off his discontent, he would land up at the local hooch joints and then come home to blame Mala for all his ill-fortune.
It would begin with verbal abuse, leading on to physical violence. In the end, he would end up raping her almost every night.
There were nights when he was too drunk to do anything and would often throw up and collapse in the courtyard. For the first few months after their wedding, Mala would drag him to the room, change his clothes and put him to bed. Gradually, as the violence increased, too bruised to move herself, she would leave him there covered in his own vomit.
That was her only form of protest. Simply, because Mala did not know that she should protest. She had simply accepted it as her destiny.
It was Lata who first told her that it was not.
Sakhi – A friend
She met Lata in the village pond where they would go to wash their clothes. These were places where women would gather to share their woes and gossip.
Mala rarely participated.
She would carry her clothes, wash them silently and then walk off. She could hear the other women whisper behind her back that she was the tippler Mangal’s wife. In villages, women were usually known by their husband’s name and not their own. In the case of Mala, the epithet “tippler” added more colour to their conversation.
Lata was a widow. She was in her early forties and had lost her husband under mysterious circumstances several years earlier. People would talk in hushed whispers about what had caused her husband’s death, but nobody had the courage to pose the question to her directly.
Lata was known in the village for being too feisty and outspoken for a widow. Her harsh, rebellious nature made her ignore the rebukes of people. Infact she was held in awe by everyone, and nobody dared to provoke her unnecessarily.
She lived in a hut at the edge of the village and with her aunt Champa, another widow. They worked in a local loom weaving scarves, saris and dress materials. The loom was started by Champa’s husband. But in order to repay the huge debt that she had inherited from her husband, she was forced to sell it. Now she was just a regular worker there like the others. Several other women in the village, also worked in the loom with them. They called themselves “Sakhis” or friends.
Lata had noticed Mala on the very first day she had come to the pond when she was still a new bride. The bright red vermillion in the middle parting of her hair gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun.
As the days passed, Lata had noticed its brightness being overpowered by the dark circles beneath her eyes and the bruises on her neck and arms.
“That one looks ugly?” said Lata looking at a particularly ugly swelling beneath Mala’s right eye.
Mala looked up shocked and quickly pulled her Sari over her face to cover the bruise.
“Don’t bother” said Lata with a smirk “It is all over you. You cannot hide them all, can you?”
Mala did not respond and quickened her pace at washing her clothes.
“Did you not put any medicine to soothe the pain?” Lata persisted in her enquiries.
Mala remained silent. Lata moved closer and thrust her fingers beneath Mala’s chin and tilted her face up so that she could scrutinise the bruise properly.
As the other women sniggered, Mala remained silent. Her face turned red with embarrassment. She wished Lata would let her be.
Lata ignored her discomfort as she kept examining the bruise closely. After a while, she got up decidedly pulling Mala up with her.
“You need a healing paste. Come with me.”
Mala stared at her not knowing what she meant.
“Don’t make me drag you now girl” said Lata in a warning tone “You must know that I am very capable of doing that.”
Not wanting to draw any more attention to herself, Mala followed Lata with a scared look on her face. The other women ignored them as they passed.
Lata’s hut was a small single cabin at the edge of the river. She had a pen where she kept goats and hens. Her washed linen swayed lightly in the breeze flowing from the river. Lining her cottage, a long string of bright beautiful white Datura flowers painted a peaceful picture. Mala felt a sense of calm as she walked into the courtyard that was encircled by a fence of brambles and twigs.
“Aunt is at the loom, so you need not be afraid that anyone will see you here” said Lata as she motioned for Mala to sit down as she went inside to get the medicine.
Mala looked around. The cottage and the breeze blowing around it, the river gurgling at the bank, the goats bleating in the pen and the hens clacking, had a strange effect on her. The months of pain she had to bear suddenly seemed to burst forth. Tears began to stream down her face as she crumbled to the ground. Her body heaved up with sobs as Mala broke down. The days of hurt and abuse that she had to endure in silence gushed out in loud cries.
Lata stood at her doorway watching, allowing her to cry. It was some time before Mala sat up. She felt lighter now and even managed to put on a slight smile as she looked at Lata.
“You must think me such a fool” she said shyly.
“We have all been fools at some time or the other” said Lata sitting down beside Mala mixing a greenish paste in a bowl “that is not important. What is important is have we emerged the wiser from all that we have gone through.”
Mala looked at her blankly not knowing what she meant.
“Our life is what we make of it. Our destiny should not be defined by others.” she said smiling into Mala’s confused eyes.
“Why don’t you join us at the loom?” said Lata casually as she applied the paste on Mala’s wound.
“The loom?” asked Mala wincing as the medication seared through her broken skin.
“The Sakhi loom. You can work there with us. I can talk to Milon da the owner, we are always short of hands” said Lata blowing lightly on the wound to cool the area.
“But I don’t know how to weave” said Mala with a worried look.
“None of us knew how to weave when we joined the loom. We will teach you.” She said and then looking at Mala said “God knows, you need to learn a lot of things.”
Maybe she was right, Mala thought. The loom could be a diversion from all her troubles. Mala could feel the pain ebbing away already. Maybe it was a sign after all.
The Loom
The Loom was located in the middle of the village. It was a large house with several elongated rooms. Each room had looms placed one after the other in a single column. The rooms had tall windows at both ends keeping them bright and breezy. The sun streamed in through these open windows and shone down brightly on the long wooden bars and the colourful strands of yarn wrapped around them. Each room had the capacity to accomodate 10-15 workers.
The sakhis chattered happily as they entered their respective rooms.
“What’s up with Lata today?’ asked Chameli. She was a short, jolly woman of around 30 and worked in Lata’s room. “She is never usually late”
“She will be getting a new girl to join us” said Nomita.
“Who?” asked Anjali sitting next to Chameli.
“Don’t know have… never met her. Have you Champa di?” asked Nomita looking at Champa sitting in the far corner uncoiling a skein of yarn and winding it into a ball to be ready for use.
“No” said Champa. She was around 50 years of age. Broad, portly and sturdy. She had a round face. Her hair was well oiled and tied in a tight bun high on her head. Her white sari was tightly wrapped around her. Her mouth was drawn in a straight line, her eyes calm and expressionless lending her countenance a stoic gravity.
“That’s strange but you know everything” said Chameli with an impish grin.
“I will when I need to. Now can you all get started. Milon will start creating a ruckus if he sees us chatting away early morning” she said quelling all desire to continue the conversation.
‘Are we singing a song today?” said Maloti a tall frail girl sitting at one end of the room. She was recently widowed, and her hair still bore traces of the vermillion that refused to leave its mark despite the rigorous scrubbing. Her eyes were downcast, and her voice had a strange stillness that made the earlier cheerfulness pervading the room, evaporate.
“No” said Champa gravely “Not today” she sighed slowly. Her breath shivered not knowing to be relieved or anxious.
The girls sighed looking at each gravely and switched on their looms to start their day.
Lata came in towing Mala behind her just as they were busy clacking away at their looms, engrossed in their work.
“There she comes” said Chameli being the first to notice Lata. “Is this the new girl?” she asked looking curiously at Mala.
“Mala” said Lata introducing her to them “I have asked Milon da to let her sit in our room.”
“Come here Mala” said Champa beckoning Mala to sit between her and Maloti.
Mala moved timidly and sat down in the seat that Champa indicated looking at the apparatus in front of her with awe.
“She will teach you don’t worry” said Champa indicating Maloti.
Mala looked towards the other woman who gave her a pale smile. Mala smiled back weakly.
For the next few hours Mala listened diligently as Maloti patiently explained how she should work the loom. By afternoon, she felt tired but happy. She had managed to get the basics right at least.
At lunch, the sakhis made a circle to share their meals and the local gossip. Mala listened quietly smiling shyly at the jokes. Though she did not participate it just felt good to be there.
“You are Mangal’s wife isn’t it?” Mala looked around to realise Maloti was talking to her.
“It is strange you did not mention tippler Mangal” said Mala smiling cynically.
Maloti just smiled.
“I have seen you in the market some time. You always come there late right just like me?”
“Yes. That is when the vegetables are the cheapest” said Mala.
Maloti gave a knowing nod.
“My husband Raghu knew Mangal. They used to go to the same hooch den”
“Your husband…?” asked Mala looking at Maloti’s bare forehead.
“Died last month.” said Maloti plainly.
Mala looked down silently.
“I am sorry”.
“I do not grieve him” said Maloti looking at her with a dry smile “I think it was for his good. At least, he went peacefully. The hooch would have killed him more painfully.”
“How did he…?” Mala looked at Maloti quizzically not knowing how to ask the question.
“In his sleep. In fact, I think he was dreaming his best dream. He was smiling when I found him” said Maloti looking into the distance.
“Where…was..he..when..he..” Mala probed delicately.
“That night, he asked me to get his bottle. He had left it in the kitchen when he picked up the burning wood to singe me. As the splinters burnt their way through my flesh, I saw it curl up just like the skin of the egg plant when I roast it. Have you ever smelt burnt flesh ? I have. I can still smell it. The stench never leaves me” Maloti’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she recalled the night. Her voice was eerily calm and stoic.
Mala looked at Maloti with shock as she realised they shared the same story.
“Did he…?” she muttered.
Maloti nodded with a wry smile.
“Every day. Sometimes I wondered how I am still alive after all the beatings he gave me. I could never protest. I did try to hit back sometimes but he became more violent. There were days when I could not get up from bed.
Mala nodded knowingly.
“And then” Maloti continued her voice quivering with the ache that still gnawed at her heart “I got up to get his bottle. My hands trembled with pain as I picked it up and poured it down his throat. But I made sure he finished all of it. And I saw him go. Right there. Before my eyes. After that, everything felt nice.” Maloti looked at Mala. Her eyes shining with tears of relief.
“It was strange, but a sudden carefree feeling inundated me like the first drops of rain on a parched land. As the water seeps through the cracks in the earth, cooling and moistening every harshness it had felt till then, relief soaked into my soul too. When I closed those bloodshot eyes for the last time, I felt I was finally free.”
Mala pressed Maloti’s hands smiling.
“My mother always used to tell me to keep quiet and bear it. It was our destiny she said.” continued Maloti.
“Maybe it is” Mala whispered, sighing sadly.
“No” said Lata sharply. She had come to stand behind them and listening to their conversation “It can never be our destiny. We are human beings after all and deserve the same dignity as others.”
“But what can we do?” said Mala feeling hopelessly.
“We can sing” said Maloti looking at Mala with a smile on her lips.
“Sing?” asked Mala with a confused look.
“The song of death” said Maloti “Haven’t you heard it?”
Mala shook her head with a confused look.
“Then it is time you learnt” said Maloti looking at Lata her face breaking into a cynical smile.
It was a smile that chilled Mala’s bones.
The Song of Death
It was quite late by the time Mala walked into Lata’s hut. Her steps were slow and faltering. She walked as if in a stupor. Her face was drawn and exhausted. Her inner battles had deepened the circles below her eyes and etched deep shadows across her face. But there was a new light in her gaze. Just like a fire after having been doused was prodded and stoked to re-kindle its flames and was now a roaring furnace. Her hair was unkempt and loosely flying around her face. The free end of her sari trailed behind her as she walked.
The door to Lata’s room creaked as Mala leant heavily against it. Lata was grounding some herbs with a pestle in a large stone bowl and looked up raising her eyebrows in surprise as she noticed Mala.
“Didi” Mala called weakly “Will you sing for me today?”
Silently Mala extended her palm towards Lata.
Lata poured the powder she was grinding into a piece of cloth and tied it into a small bundle. She placed the bundle on Mala’s open palm.
“Mix it in his drink. Make sure he finishes the bottle.” said Lata.
Then as Mala was about to leave Lata stopped her by saying.
“We will sing for you Mala but you must also join us. It is through our song that we tell the world that we are free. As free as the sweet singing birds in the sky, the breezy winds in the forest and the rippling water in the river. Our destiny is not to be in shackles but to live our lives with respect and dignity. Do you understand?”
Mala nodded her head.
“One more thing Mala” said Lata “If souls lose their way, they need to be shown the right path to reach the Almighty. All you are doing is helping them find it. It depends on the Supreme Being to decide whether He will accept them or not after all they have done. You or I cannot help them there.”
Mala walked into the darkness. The tiny powder sachet tightly clenched in her fist. She felt she held her whole life in that small bundle. She could hardly afford to lose it.
Mala found Mangal in a vicious rage when she came home. He was hungry and was angry at her for staying out so late.
Mala received the first blow in silence. Her cheeks were still stinging when she walked into the kitchen to get his food ready. She mixed the powder in his bottle, just as Lata had asked and placed it in front of Mangal.
She stood watching as he thrust the food savagely into his mouth, spewing abuse at her for being such a bad cook. All the time, Mala hardly heard what he said because her heart was beating wildly inside her chest.
Will he suspect her?
What if he does not finish the full bottle?
Finally, when he started on the bottle, Mala stood rooted to her spot. She watched as Mangal emptied the whole bottle in only a couple of gulps.
As the powder took effect, Mangal’s words slurred and his feet began to trip. As his muscles gave up, he crumbled to the floor. Standing at a distance as Mala watched as Mangal, delirious with intoxication, began to hallucinate his wildest fantasies. It was a pathetic sight but Mala stood stoically watching in silence.
It was past midnight when Mangal’s rantings and ravings reduced to a mumble and finally stopped.
Mala waited with bated breath.
The silence, after Mangal’s raucous antics, was deafening.
She got up slowly and moved over to where Mangal lay on the floor. His mouth was caked with bile and froth. Mala moved a trembling finger before his nostrils to feel the whiff of a breath.
There was nothing.
Heaving a sigh of relief Mala took out the razor and shaved off his head, collecting the hair in a large cloth and tying it into a bundle. They will need it at the loom where Champa will mix it with the yarn and weave it into a mat. Lata kept hers in front of her door to wipe her feet on. They all did. That seemed to be the right place for it.
Then the notes of the song reached her ears. Lata had told her the song summoned the Gods in heaven to accept the soul they had chosen for them today. Last time it was Raghu, Maloti’s husband. Today it was Mangal.
As she crossed her threshold, she looked up at the dark midsummer night sky and took a long deep breath. The heady sweet fragrance of the MadhaviLata blossoms hanging from the vine on her roof filled her senses. She plucked one and pushed it into her hair.
Then, she did something strange.
For the first time in many years, Mala smiled.
Cover image credit Pexels
