Happy Birthday! And Other Stories Part 16

*Are you all right, Rani?' he asks me. *Get you something?'

I look at Mark. *Did you find out anything about the sati lady?'

*You mean Samara Devi?'

*Devi?'

*She is considered holy now so we must call her Samara Devi.' Mark strokes the underside of my chin-a gesture reserved for when he's trying to please me-and adds, *Don't forget that, Rani. We don't want to get into trouble here.'

I remember reading an article about Samara being marketed as an ideal Hindu wife and, since she was to attain salvation, the villagers of Palkhot had mythologized her as a Devi. In fact, Palkhot's gram panchayat had orchestrated a media campaign that would shame even the most glitzy public relations executives. After all, other villages had their own attractions: a man with the world's longest ear hair or a man who was married to an elephant; and some had wells with water that could cure impotency. Unknown Palkhot had nothing, until Samara. So the panchayat called a national TV station with a tip-off about the sati; within a few hours the whole country knew. The police and legal authorities were bribed; subsequently human rights activists and protesters were kept out of the village. The sati was postponed indefinitely so Palkhot could get the maximum mileage out of it.

The media came to Palkhot in droves, trying to glean any fact about Samara in exchange for money and a promise of headline coverage; one publication even wanted to sponsor the construction of a temple in her name. Seeing this interest, the panchayat was orchestrating a media auction for an exclusive interview with Samara, even as she was kept in an unknown location.

But no one knew why Samara was doing this.

A prominent newspaper wrote that Samara was being coerced into performing sati; an award-winning journalist broadcast that Samara was doing it of her own free will; a magazine wrote that she was doing it out of love, which was immediately ruled out by a tabloid stating that Samara had had an *arranged marriage'. This I'd read in other reports as well: Samara's mama had selected a groom for her, and they were married two weeks later. After ten days, her husband drowned in the Ganga.

There had been no love.

I look at Mark as he starts, barely able to contain himself, *I had to donate a lot of rupees to the local temple, but the priest gave me some killer information that you can use for your report.'

He tells me that Samara Devi's mother was a conservative Brahmin widow whose husband had died a few months after Samara was born. Ostracized by the villagers, the widow had spent the last twenty-two years inside her house, not stepping out even to buy vegetables. She didn't touch anyone again, not even her own daughter, saying that she did not want to contaminate others with her bad luck.

After Samara's husband died and his family threw her out, her mother refused to take her back. Samara was out on the streets, penniless and starving. It was then that her mother gave her shelter, on the condition that she perform sati, which would at least give both mother and daughter some stature in society. Samara apparently had no choice but to agree.

I understand Samara's compliance: she does not want to become her mother.

Mark goes on: *The odd bit is that Samara Devi isn't crying or protesting her own death, as one would expect. Instead, she keeps chanting, "She will save me!" No one can understand this. According to custom, if she is saved from the sati, she will remain revered as a G.o.ddess, but the villagers will lose face in front of the world. That's probably why the elders are holding her captive.'

I catch a whiff of fennel seeds on Mark's breath as he adds, *There is some bad news though. The sati is going to take place the day after tomorrow. Apparently, the husband's body has almost fully rotted, raising a h.e.l.lish stink, so the panchayat had to fix a date for the cremation.'

Mark has done a good job. But the tantalized look on his face reminds me that he is living out his Indian dream: Palkhot and sati-like me-are part of a fantasy to him.

I say sarcastically, *So you didn't get an interview with Samara then?'

His face crumbles.

Early the next morning, having slept very little on a mattress as hard as bone, I decide that it is time to take matters into my own hands. Only a day is left before the sati and if I lose this job, my baby and I could become entirely dependent on Mark.

I approach the man sitting behind the hotel's reception desk. Behind him is a giant picture of a guru I can't identify. An oversized marigold garland covers the picture almost entirely, leaving room only for the guru's face, which beams mysteriously through fumes of sandalwood incense.

I ask the man, *How can I arrange an interview with Samara?'-he flinches-*Devi?'

He answers with only a large smile-the largest I've ever seen-revealing crooked yellow teeth. On his forehead is splotched a thick vertical line of red powder.

I put a five-hundred-rupee note on the wooden desktop.

He turns his head left and right, looks over my head, behind my shoulders and stops at my left breast. He whispers to it, *Madam, I tell you secret that no one know. You go looking for Thakur. First, you get Thakur blessing and then interview.'

Wishing I could turn his mercurial eyeb.a.l.l.s upwards, I ask, *Who is Thakur and why will I need someone's blessings to get an interview?'

The hotelier smiles at me sympathetically and crushes a small black housefly with his pink plastic swatter.

I slap down another note.

*Thakur is mother of village. She is hundred year old, like mountain. She talk to wind and read mind. If she give blessing then maybe you allow to talk to Samara Devi. She never give blessing though. Too difficult, madam.'

I take out another note.

*But you so lovely, so kind. She may give you blessing. I show you her.'

Saying this, he puckers his thick black lips and makes a clucking sound. An emaciated boy appears, followed, coincidentally, by a slumberous Mark. The hotelier points to me and then to the neighbouring mountain. He says something I can't grasp. The boy pauses. Then he gives a solemn nod, grabs my left arm and motions with his tiny free hand that we must get going. I have no other way of interviewing Samara, so I go along, intrigued by the personage of Thakur. Mark joins us.

For almost an hour, we walk through a part of the village where business has spilled noisily onto the street. The place teems with activity and is loudest at its epicentre, where chants from holy mouths mingle with curses from traders. Unshaven barbers dip razor blades into froth-filled plastic mugs, while goras sit determinedly on three-legged wooden stools, watching who they are becoming in broken mirrors. Small steel pins tunnel in and out of the ears of sadhus with matted hair. A rosycheeked hawker carrying a cane basket calls out to people to buy garnet-hued mulberries. Smells of dried frangipani and roasted peanuts drift through the marketplace. A smattering of tiny shops crane forward on dicey bamboo shafts. They seem to be deciding between flapping their cloth roofs and taking flight, and finishing the weightier task of selling overdressed idols and drippy sweetmeats.

It finally hits me: I am in my ancestral country for the first time. I want to be a good guest and refuse nothing that the country has to offer. I watch the small buildings, the landscape, animals and humans: touching, pushing, b.u.mping, grinding and pounding for attention. There's a cow on the road and a flash of a parakeet's green wings. Although this is all new, it still feels like something I've always known.

There's a rhythm to this chaos, which stays with me like a stubborn tune, buzzing in my ears. It stops only when we start to climb up a hill, and then, as if daunted by higher scales, it breathlessly pa.s.ses the baton to silence. All is still. My breath, strained but quiet, leaves me to mingle with the fog.

The boy stops in front of a small green tent that is surrounded by majestic deodar trees holding up wisps of cotton clouds. There are two logs in front of the tent. Perched on them are several locals. They regard us in silence, without surprise, as if antic.i.p.ating our arrival. What their tongues don't p.r.o.nounce, their eyes do; Mark and I inch closer together. I turn around to see if the boy can indicate what we have to do next. He is gone.

A young, pet.i.te woman wearing a rough woollen shawl peeps out of the tent. She looks directly at me, as if she knew exactly where I would be standing. With one finger she motions for me to come forward. Mark and I start walking towards her. Only then does she notice Mark, and shakes her head. I stop as he looks at me: I'll have to leave him outside.

Inside the tent I am blinded by absolute darkness. I stumble around till the soft light of a delicate earthen lamp grants me vision. The young woman is no longer there, but I discern a shadowy figure seated at the centre of the tent. I take a step closer to it. In front of me appears the oldest human being I've ever seen. Her face-hosting a thousand wrinkles like the bark of a birch tree-hovers above her burnt sienna robe. Sagging skin folds over her eyes, like window shutters. Her features are all indiscernible, save for a protruding chin. The only sign of vitality in her is a five-foot-long braid-white and thick-each inch reflecting a year of asceticism. This has to be Thakur.

Like vanity that finds a mirror without invitation, I sit opposite her. She remains in deep meditation: the kind of state where she hasn't quietened down for the world but the world has quietened for her.

I don't dare break that silence. In a place where even time has forgotten its duty, who am I to execute mine?

I continue to sit in a vacuum until I hear a voice-cavernous and deep-speak in English, *Don't worry, Katha. You are in a safe place now.'

I am too stunned to respond, not sure if she has spoken, for the voice seems to come from every direction. Thakur opens her eyes and looks at me. I see her pupils swirling in age-gifted wisdom. I can trust her.

*How do you know my name?' I ask, slowly. I have shortened my real name, Katha, to Kate.

She smiles, toothless and infinite, and says, *We were expecting you a day earlier.'

*I think you are mistaking me for someone else.'

*See it as it suits you, Katha. For the world is just an illusion, a creation of our weak minds.'

*What? I ... I'm sorry... how do you know me?'

At this she rolls her pupils into the back of her head and opens her mouth wide; staring both into and out of the void she's created, as though conversing with her observations. *I am you. I exist in several realities and yours is one of them. I see you from dreams that are not my own. As you have seen me.'

*How... how is that even possible?' I gulp. *How can I think something exists if it's non-existent to me?'

*You already do.' She reaches across and pats my stomach. *As you feel life inside you, I feel life outside me.'

*I'm sorry, but I'm ... I can't understand what you're saying,' I hear myself stutter. Thakur's words are cryptic and unnerving, yet it feels like I've been waiting all my life to hear them.

She becomes silent.

Calm down, I say to myself, stay focused. I take a deep breath and find my voice. *I came to discuss Samara ... Devi. I would really like to meet her and, maybe, interview her. I understand it's difficult but I need to talk to her once, just one time.'

*That could happen. Tell me-how do you feel about her sati?'

No one has asked me this question before. I look deep into Thakur's eyes and say, *Well, this story will save my career. But on a personal level, this whole thing is appalling. It's wrong for her to have to do this just because she's helpless. If I get to meet her, I may just talk her out of this. She has options. There are many shelters that'll take her, even in the USA. She doesn't have to do this.'

*I am happy to hear that. I told Samara when she came to me after her husband's death that you would come here to save her ... or destroy her.'

I hear this with surprise-it makes no sense-but Thakur has said it so prosaically that I mull it over before replying, *That is a little unbelievable. You see, I don't know Samara. I've never met her or even seen her. I know nothing of her.'

*Don't you?'

*Well, I know some things about her. She's obviously had a tough life. She had no father figure. Her mother was only there for name's sake. She had to fend for herself all her life. Then, she got into a relationship she was probably not ready for. And now this; she has to make a tough choice against her will.'

*You understand Samara very well. After all, your life is similar to hers. Nothing is complete without its shadow, is it, Katha?'

She pauses. I don't know how to reply.

She says, *When you see Samara, all you have to say is no. If you say it like you mean it then what you see in your mind will not be conceived, but you will be free. Life will no longer just happen to you.'

*I'm not sure I completely understand what you're saying.'

She ignores me and continues, *If you say yes, then Samara will jump into the pyre and you will have what you want.' She looks pointedly at my stomach.

I become angry. *Are you suggesting that I'll have my baby only if Samara jumps into the fire? How are the two things related? It makes no sense. In fact, I don't even know Samara. How am I supposed to tell her what to do?'

*We all control each other's destiny. We all-'

*Then, why don't you save her?'

*My destiny is to direct others, not to become them.' Her voice remains clear and calm.

*Okay, then why doesn't Samara save herself by refusing to do the sati?'

*You know she has nowhere to go; no one to turn to but you. You are the chosen one.'

*Why am I the chosen one?'

*It could be coincidence or fate or karma. Maybe, you would be her, if you weren't you.'

*Please,' I laugh derisively. *I'm not foolish enough to kill myself for a man.' My mind immediately goes to the time my mother had found me unconscious, overdosed on sleeping pills. It was a few weeks after my father had left us. I wanted to pre-empt my mother's thoughts so she would not be forced to act on them.

Thakur says softly, *Who are we to pa.s.s judgement on what it's like to live outside our understanding?'

Does she know? My back stiffens and, for the first time, I wish Mark was next to me to divert Thakur's attention.

*We must stop Samara from this unnatural ghastly death,' I mumble weakly.

*Only you can, Katha. However, if you choose not to, remember that we are all born of pain and unto that we will go.'

*I'm not going to pretend that I understand what you're saying. All I know is that you are unwilling to help me get an interview with Samara.'

She doesn't respond.

I get up angrily. *In that case, I think it's best I leave.'

*Things happen, Katha, no matter how you choose to feel about them.'

Thakur's serenity is striking; it's as if she thinks that emotions-the crux of human life-are irrelevant and wasteful.

She doesn't try to stop me as I'm leaving, but I hear her say, *Remember, Katha, let your yes mean yes and your no mean no.'

I stomp out of the tent, sweating.

Mark almost pounces on me. *So, did we get an interview?'

The next morning Mark and I head towards the sati site. We leave at first light hoping to somehow run into Samara, only to be intercepted by the largest gathering of people we've ever seen. There are young men carrying aged mothers on their backs, old men bent over shaky sticks, proud teenagers twirling moustaches that are wider than their faces. I spot ha.s.sled media folk, in their city clothes of jeans and T-shirts. People appear from every direction, like the arils of a pomegranate that has burst open.

Thick dust rises from the laterite ground, forming a dome and enveloping the crowd in partnership with the early morning fog. There are tannoys placed along the path from which a voice alternately sings prayers and screeches instructions. Cops are strutting around in their tall caps fitted with peac.o.c.k feathers, using bamboo sticks on widows swathed in white cotton saris, and withering glares for waif-like children.

Mark leads me closer to the cremation ground, next to the wooden barricades. There's nothing more to do, so we wait.

I'm glad for the wait because I can mull over Thakur's words. In the morning light my meeting with her seems unreal and unlikely. After all, why would I-a stranger to this land-care to save Samara? Yet, Thakur's words are like a spotlight shining turn by turn on my disarrayed feelings, the choices I've made, the relationships I've fostered and the life I've let happen to me. Has she given me a gift-to absolve myself from my bad decisions? Or has she shown me a curse-where whatever I decide ends a life?

It's well into the afternoon when a pair of bullocks come into the clearing, solemnly carting two priests. The holy men sing a few hymns, clank a few bells and draw circles in the air with lit copper lamps. The crowd chants: Hare Krishna! Krishna! Krishna!

Now that the site is fumigated by those closest to G.o.d, the funeral procession begins. Four young men lug a wooden stretcher on which lies a dead body wrapped in white cloth and covered with roses, jasmine and marigold. The carriers are crooning: *Ram Naam Satya Hai!' Had I not heard this whispered solicitously by my aunt when we'd trudged with my mother's wilted body to the incinerator? This must be the dead husband.

The men circle the unlit funeral pyre three times and then place the body on it, with the feet facing southwards. The crowd becomes quiet with the kind of awe and expectancy that only death inspires. The silence comes in time for us to hear the trumpeting of a conch. And then people are pushing and straining against each other: Samara is here!

Four strong men, wearing cotton loincloths, arrive shouldering a plain wooden palanquin. Somewhere behind its stiff white curtains is Samara. Less than a month ago she was probably sitting in such a palanquin, a new bride on the cusp of her new life, I think sadly. Dancing women in colourful skirts and tops follow this sombre procession. The crowd lets out an audible gasp; women are not allowed to be part of funeral rituals. But, the women dance with such abandonment that soon everyone is cheering for them.

I watch the bearers place the palanquin near the funeral pyre.

The husband's last rites are performed. His corpse is covered with wood, puffed rice, incense and ghee. The chief mourner-who I hear is the husband's elder brother-circles the pyre thrice, a clay pot on his left shoulder, a log of firewood behind him, and the body to his left. At each turn around the pyre, another man uses a knife to make a slit in the pot, letting water out, symbolizing life leaving the corpse. At the end of three turns, the chief mourner drops the pot. Then, without turning to face the body, he lights the pyre and leaves the cremation grounds. The others follow.

All eyes now turn to the palanquin.

Delicate hennaed feet emerge from its wooden frame. And then she rises, like the sun in its most dazzling morning. A heavily embroidered red silk sari, bedecked with glittering jewels, covers her body. Her chocolate skin glows against the hue of the fire and her hair caresses her oval, chinless face. Like me, she has the face of a ferret, but, unlike me, her small beady eyes are lined splendidly with kohl, her flat nose sparkles with a tiny diamond stud and her thin lips quiver in a way that is almost erotic.