Sea Of Poppies Part 7

In his cabin, up on the quarterdeck, Zachary was upending a ditty-bag on his bunk, looking for some clothes to give to Jodu, when along with a heap of banyans, shirts and trowsers, something he had long given up for lost came tumbling out - his old penny-whistle. Zachary grinned as he reached for it: this was beyond praise, it seemed like a sign, a portent of good things to come. Forgetting all about the errand that had brought him to his cabin he put the whistle to his lips and began to play 'Heave Away Cheerily', one of his favourite sea-shanties.

It was this tune, as much as the sound of the instrument, that arrested Baboo n.o.b Kissin's hand just as it was about to knock on the cabin door. He froze, listening intently, and soon every inch of his upraised arm was p.r.i.c.kling with gooseflesh.

For more than a year now, ever since the untimely death of the woman who had been his spiritual preceptor and Guru-ma, Baboo n.o.b Kissin's heart had been filled with premonitory foreboding: Ma Taramony, as she was known to her disciples, had promised him that his awakening was at hand and had told him to watch carefully for its signs, which were sure to be manifested in the unlikeliest places and in the most improbable forms. He had promised her that he would do his best to keep his mind open, and his senses watchful, so that the signs would not elude him when they were revealed - yet, now, despite his best efforts, he could not believe the evidence of his own ears. Was it really a flute, Lord Krishna's own instrument, that had started to play, just as he, n.o.b Kissin Pander, stepped up to the door of this cabin and raised his hand? It seemed impossible, but there could be no denying it - just as there was no denying that the tune, although unfamiliar in itself, was set to Gurjari, one of the most favoured ragas for the singing of the Dark Lord's songs. So long, and so anxiously, had Baboo n.o.b Kissin awaited the sign that now, as the tune breathed itself to an end and a hand made itself heard on the doork.n.o.b inside, he fell to his knees and covered his eyes, trembling in fear of what was imminently to be revealed.

This was why Zachary all but tripped over the gomusta's kneeling body as he made to leave his cabin with a banyan and a pair of trowsers tucked under his arm. 'Hey!' he said, gaping in surprise at the stout, dhoti-clad man who was crouching in the gangway with his hands over his eyes. 'What the h.e.l.l you doin down there?'

Like the leaves of some shrinking, touch-averse plant, the gomusta's fingers prised themselves apart, to allow a full view of the figure that had appeared in front of him. His first response was one of intense disappointment: he had heeded well his preceptor's warning, that the message of awakening might be delivered by the unlikeliest of messengers, but he still could not bring himself to believe that Krishna - whose very name meant 'black' and whose darkness had been celebrated in thousands of songs, poems and names - would choose as his emissary someone of so pale a cast of countenance, one who showed no trace of the monsoonal tint of Ghanshyam, the Cloud-Dark Lord. And yet, even as he was yielding to his disappointment, Baboo n.o.b Kissin could not help but notice that the face was comely, not unbecoming of an emissary of the Slayer of Milkmaids' Hearts, and the eyes were dark and quick, so that it was not too great a stretch to imagine them as night-birds drinking from the moonlit pool of a maiden's love-thirsty lips. And surely it was, if not quite a sign, then at least a minor indication that his shirt was yellowish, of the same colour as the clothes in which the Joyful Lord was known to disport himself with the lovelorn girls of Brindavan? And it was true too that the shirt was stained with sweat, as Careless Krishna's was said to be after the fatigue of a tumultuous love-making. Could it be, then, that this ivory-tinted Rupa was exactly what Ma Taramony had warned him of: a Guise, wrapped in veils of illusion by the Divine Prankster, so as to test the quality of his devotee's faith? But even then, surely there would be some additional sign, some other mark ... ?

The gomusta's protuberant eyes started further forward in his head as a pale hand came winding down to help him to his feet. Could this be a limb blessed by the b.u.t.ter-Thieving Lord himself? s.n.a.t.c.hing at the proffered limb, Baboo n.o.b Kissin turned it over, examining the palm, the lines, the knuckles - but nowhere was a trace of darkness to be seen except beneath the nails.

The intensity of this scrutiny, and the eye-rolling that accompanied it, caused Zachary no little alarm. 'Hey, quit that!' he said. 'What're you lookin at?'

Choking back his disappointment, the gomusta released the hand. No matter: if the Guise was who he thought him to be, then a sign was sure to be concealed somewhere else on his person - it was just a question of guessing where it was. A thought occurred to him: could it be that to compound the deception, the Master of Mischief had chosen to give his emissary an attribute that belonged properly to the Blue-Throated Lord - Shiva NeelKunth?

In the urgency of the moment, this seemed self-evident to n.o.b Kissin Baboo: heaving himself tremulously to his feet, the gomusta made a grab at the fastened collar of Zachary's shirt.

Startled as he was by the gomusta's lunge, Zachary was quick enough to slap his hand away. 'What you gettin up to?' he cried in disgust. 'You crazy or somethin?'

Chastened, the gomusta dropped his hands. 'Nothing, sir,' he said, 'just only searching to see if kunth is blue.'

'If what is what?' Raising his fists, Zachary squared his shoulders. 'You cussin me now?'

The gomusta shrank back in dread, amazed at the dexterity with which the Guise had a.s.sumed the Warrior's stance. 'Please sir - no offence. Myself only Burnham-sahib's accountant. Good-name is Baboo n.o.b Kissin Pander.'

'And what're you doin here, on the quarterdeck?'

'Burra sahib has sent to get ship's papers from your kind self. Logs, crew manifests, all-type papers are required for insurance purposes.'

'Wait here,' said Zachary gruffly, slipping back into his cuddy. He had prepared the papers already, so it took no more than a moment to fetch them. 'Here they are.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Zachary was disconcerted to note that the gomusta was still examining his throat with all the intensity of a professional strangler. 'You'd best be on your way, Pander,' he said curtly. 'I've got other business to take care of now.'

In the gloom of the dabusa, Jodu and Paulette were holding each other tight, as they so often had in their childhood, except that they had never then had to reach around the stiff, crackling barrier of a dress like the one she was now wearing.

He scratched the rim of her bonnet with a fingernail: You look so different ...

He had half-expected that she wouldn't understand, that she had lost her Bengali since he'd seen her last. But when she answered it was in the same language: You think I look different? she said. But it's you who's changed. Where were you all this while?

I was in the village, he said. With Ma. She was very sick.

She gave a start of surprise: Oh? And how is Tantima now?

He buried his face in her shoulder and she felt a tremor running up the sinews of his back. Suddenly alarmed, she pulled his nearly naked body still closer, trying to warm him with her arms. His loincloth was still wet and she could feel the dampness seeping through the folds of her dress. Jodu! she said. What's happened? Is Tantima all right? Tell me.

She died, said Jodu through his clenched teeth. Two nights ago ...

She died! Now Paulette lowered her head too, so that they each had their noses buried in the other's neck. I can't believe it, she whispered, wiping her eyes on his skin.

She was thinking of you to the last, said Jodu, sniffing. You were always ...

He was cut short by a cough and the clearing of a throat.

Paulette felt Jodu stiffen even before the sound of the intrusion reached her ears. Pulling free of his arms, she spun around and found herself face-to-face with a sharp-eyed, curly-haired young man in a faded yellow shirt.

Zachary too was taken utterly by surprise, but he was the first to recover. 'Hullo there, Miss,' he said, sticking out a hand. 'I'm Zachary Reid, the second mate.'

'I'm Paulette Lambert,' she managed to say, as she was shaking his hand. Then in a rush of confusion, she added: 'I witnessed the mishap from the rivage, and I came to see what had happened to the unfortunate victim. I was much concerned about his fate ...'

'So I see,' said Zachary drily.

Now, looking into Zachary's eyes, Paulette's mind brimmed over with wild imaginings of what he must think of her, and of what Mr Burnham would do when he learnt that his memsahib-in-the-making had been discovered in an embrace with a native boatman. A stream of exonerating lies tumbled through her head: that she had fainted because of the stench of the 'tween-deck, that she had stumbled in the darkness: but none of these would be as convincing, she knew, as to say that Jodu had a.s.saulted her and taken her unawares - and that she could never do.

But oddly, Zachary did not seem to be disposed to make much of what he had seen: far from giving vent to an explosion of sahibish outrage, he was going quietly about the errand that had brought him to the 'tween-deck, which was to hand Jodu a set of clothes - a shirt and a pair of canvas trowsers.

After Jodu had stepped away to change, it was Zachary who broke the awkward silence: 'I take it you're acquainted with this gawpus of a boatman?'

Faced with this, Paulette could not bring herself to mouth any of the fictions that were bubbling in her head. 'Mr Reid,' she said, 'you were no doubt shocked to find me in an embracement of such intimacy with a native. But I a.s.sure you there is nothing compromising. I am able to explicate all.'

'Not necessary,' said Zachary.

'But yes indeed, I must explain,' she said. 'If for no other reason, then only to show you the depth of my grat.i.tude for your saving of him. You see, Jodu, who you rescued, is the son of the woman who brought me up. Our growing was together; he is like my brother. It was as a sister that I was holding him, for he has suffered a great loss. He is the only family I have in this world. All this will seem strange to you no doubt ...'

'Not at all,' he said, shaking his head. 'Miss Lambert, I know very well how such a connection might arise.'

She noticed that there was a tremor in his voice, as if to indicate that her story had touched a chord in him. She laid a hand on his arm. 'But please,' she said guiltily, 'you must not speak of it to others. There are some, you know, who might look askance upon the chouteries of a memsahib and a boatman.'

'I'm good with secrets, Miss Lambert,' he said. 'I won't blow the gaff on you. You can be sure of that.'

Paulette heard a footfall behind her and turned away to find Jodu standing there, dressed in a blue sailor's banyan and a pair of old canvas trowsers. This was the first time Paulette had ever seen him in anything but lungis and gamchhas, vests and chadars - and because she was looking at him anew she saw also how much he had changed since she had seen him last: he had grown leaner, taller, stronger, and she could see in his face the shadow of what he had almost become, a man, and thus necessarily a stranger: this was deeply unsettling, for she could not imagine that she would ever know anyone as well as she had known Jodu. In other circ.u.mstances, she would have started at once to tease him, with the peculiar savagery they had always reserved for each other, when either of them had shown signs of taking too long a step outside the boundaries of their intimate universe: what a setting-to they would have had, a fierce bout of baiting and mockery that would have ended in slaps and scratches - but here, constrained by Zachary's presence, all she could do was give him a smile and a nod.

As for Jodu, his eyes went from Paulette's face to Zachary's and he knew at once, from the stiffness of their att.i.tudes, that something of significance had pa.s.sed between them. Having lost everything he owned, he had no qualms in using their new-found friendship to his advantage. O ke bol to re, he said in Bengali to Paulette: Tell him to find me a place on this ship's lashkar. Tell him I have nowhere to go, nowhere to live - and it's their fault, for running down my boat ...

Here Zachary broke in. 'What's he saying?'

'He says that he would like to gain a place on this ship,' said Paulette. 'Now that his boat is destroyed, he has nowhere to go ...'

As she was speaking, her hands had risen to toy with the ribbons of her bonnet: in her awkwardness she presented a picture that was so arresting to Zachary's starved eyes that there was nothing he would not have done for her at that moment. She was, he knew, the boon promised by the rediscovery of his penny-whistle, and if she had asked him to throw himself at her feet or take a running jump into the river, he would have paused only to say: 'Watch me do it.' An eager flush rose to his face as he said: 'Consider it done, Miss: you can count on me. I will speak to our serang. A place on the crew won't be hard to arrange.'

Just then, as if summoned by the mention of his office, Serang Ali came stepping down the ladder. Zachary lost no time in drawing him aside: 'This fellow here is out of a job. Since we've sunk his boat and given him a laundering, I think we have to take him on, as a ship's-boy.' Here, Zachary's eyes strayed back to Paulette, who flashed him a smile of grat.i.tude. Neither this, nor the shy grin with which it was reciprocated, eluded Serang Ali's notice; his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'Malum hab cuttee he head?' he said. 'What for wanchee this-piece boy? He blongi boat-b.u.g.g.e.r - no can learn ship-pijjin. Better he wailo chop-chop.'

Zachary's voice hardened. 'Serang Ali,' he said sharply; 'I don need no explateratin here: I'd like you to do this, please.'

Serang Ali's eyes darted resentfully from Paulette to Jodu before he gave his reluctant a.s.sent. 'Sabbi. Fixee alla propa.'

'Thank you,' said Zachary with a nod, and his chin rose in pride as Paulette stepped up to whisper in his ear: 'You are too kind, Mr Reid. I feel I should give you an explanation more complete - for what you have seen, of me and Jodu.'

He gave her a smile that made her sway on her feet. 'You don't owe me no explanation,' he said softly.

'But maybe we can speak - as friends, perhaps?'

'I would be ...'

Then suddenly Mr Doughty's voice went booming through the hold: 'Is that the gooby you fished out of the water today, Reid?' His eyes bulged as they took in Jodu's newly clothed form. 'Well I'll be d.a.m.ned if the blackguard hasn't squeezed his wedding-tackle into a pair of trowsers? There he was, a naked little c.o.c.kup half a puhur ago, and now he's tricked out like a wordy-wallah!'

'Ah! I see you've met,' said Mr Burnham as Zachary and Paulette emerged from the b.o.o.by-hatch into the heat of the sunlit deck.

'Yes, sir,' said Zachary, taking good care to keep his eyes away from Paulette, who was holding her bonnet over the spot where her dress had been dampened by Jodu's wet loincloth.

'Good,' said Mr Burnham, reaching for the ladder that led to his caique. 'And now we must be off. Come along now - Doughty, Paulette. You too, Baboo n.o.b Kissin.'

At the mention of this name Zachary glanced over his shoulder and was perturbed to see that the gomusta had cornered Serang Ali and was conferring with him in a manner so furtive, and with so many glances in his own direction, that there could be no doubt of who was being talked about. But the annoyance of this was not enough to eclipse his pleasure in shaking Paulette's hand again. 'Hope we'll meet again soon, Miss Lambert,' he said softly as he released his hold on her fingers.

'Me also, Mr Reid,' she said, lowering her eyes. 'It would give me much pleasure.'

Zachary lingered on deck until the caique had faded completely from view, trying to fix in his mind the lineaments of Paulette's face, the sound of her voice, the leaf-scented smell of her hair. It was not till much later that he remembered to ask Serang Ali about his conversation with the gomusta: 'What was that man talkin to you about - what's his name? Pander?'

Serang Ali directed a contemptuous jet of spit over the deck rail. 'That b.u.g.g.e.r blongi too muchi foolo,' he said. 'Wanchi sabbi allo foolo thing.'

'Like what?'

'He ask: Malum Zikri likee milk? Likee ghee? Ever hab stole b.u.t.ter?'

'b.u.t.ter?' Zachary began to wonder whether the gomusta was not some kind of investigator, looking into a report of misplaced or manarveled provisions. Yet, why would he concern himself with b.u.t.ter of all things? 'Why the h.e.l.l'd he ask bout that?'

Serang Ali tapped his knuckles on his head. 'He blongi too muchi sa.s.sy b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'What'd you tell him?'

'Told: how-fashion Malum Zikri drinki milk in ship? How can catch cow on sea?'

'Was that all?'

Serang Ali shook his head. 'Also he ask - hab Malum ever changi colour?'

'Change colour?' Suddenly Zachary's knuckles tightened on the deck rail. 'What the devil did he mean?'

'He say: Sometimes Malum Zikri turn blue, no?'

'And what'd you say?'

'I say: maski, how-fashion Malum blue can be? He is sahib no? Pink, red, all can do - but blue no can.'

'Why's he asking all these questions?' said Zachary. 'What's he up to?'

'No need worry,' said Serang Ali. 'He too muchi foolo.'

Zachary shook his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'He may not be as much of a fool as you think.'

Deeti's intuition that her husband would not be able to go back to work was soon confirmed. Hukam Singh's condition, after his seizure at the factory, was so enfeebled that he had not the strength to protest even when she took away his pipe and his bra.s.s box. But instead of initiating an improvement, deprivation provoked a dramatic turn for the worse: he could neither eat nor sleep and he soiled himself so often that his bed had to be moved out of doors. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he would scowl and mutter in incoherent rage: Deeti knew that if he had possessed the strength, he would not have stopped at killing her.

A week later, Holi arrived, bringing neither colour nor laughter to Deeti's home: with Hukam Singh muttering deliriously, on his bed, she did not have the heart to step outside. In Chandan Singh's house, across the fields, people were drinking bhang and shouting 'Holi hai!' The joyful cheers prompted Deeti to send her daughter over, to join in the fun - but even Kabutri had no appet.i.te for merrymaking and was back within the hour.

As much to keep up her own spirits as to ease her husband's suffering, Deeti exerted herself to find a cure. First she brought in an ojha to exorcize the house and when this produced no effect, she consulted a hakim, who purveyed Yunani medicines, and a vaid who practised Ayurveda. The doctors spent long hours sitting at Hukam Singh's bedside and consumed great quant.i.ties of satua and dalpuris; they dug their fingertips into the patient's stick-like wrists and exclaimed over his pallid skin; they prescribed expensive medicines, made with gold foil and shavings of ivory, to obtain which Deeti had to sell several of her bangles and nose-rings. When the treatments failed, they confided secretly that Hukam Singh was not long for this world, one way or another - why not ease his pa.s.sage by allowing him a taste of the drug his body craved? Deeti had decided never to return her husband's pipe and she was true to her resolve; but she relented to the point where she allowed him a few mouthfuls of akbari opium to chew on every day. These doses were not enough to bring him to his feet, but they did ease his suffering and for Deeti, it was a relief to look into his eyes and know that he had slipped away from the mundane pains of the world and escaped into that other, more vivid reality where Holi never ceased and spring arrived afresh every day. If that was what was necessary to postpone the prospect of widowhood, then she was not the woman to flinch from it.

In the meanwhile there was the harvest to attend to: within a short frame of time each poppy would have to be individually incised and bled of its sap; the coagulated gum would then have to be sc.r.a.ped off and collected in earthenware gharas, to be taken to the factory. It was slow, painstaking work, impossible for a woman and child to undertake on their own. Being unwilling to ask for her brother-in-law's help, Deeti was forced to hire a half-dozen hands, agreeing to pay them in kind when the harvest was done. While they were at work she had often to be away, to attend to her husband, and thus could not keep as close a watch as she would have liked: the result, predictably, was that her tally of sap-filled jars was a third less than she had expected. After paying the workers, she decided it wouldn't be wise to entrust the delivery of her jars to anyone else: she sent word to Kalua to come around with his oxcart.

By this time Deeti had abandoned the thought of paying for a new roof with the proceeds of her poppies: she would have been content to earn enough to provide provisions for the season, with perhaps a handful or two of cowries for other expenses. The best she could hope for, she knew, was to come away from the factory with a couple of silver rupees; with luck, depending on the prices in the bazar, she might then have two or three copper dumrees left - maybe even as much as an adhela, to spend on a new sari for Kabutri.

But a rude surprise was waiting at the Carcanna: after her gharas of opium had been weighed, counted and tested, Deeti was shown the account book for Hukam Singh's plot of land. It turned out that at the start of the season, her husband had taken a much larger advance than she had thought: now, the meagre proceeds were barely enough to cover his debt. She looked disbelievingly at the discoloured coins that were laid before her: Aho se ka karwat? she cried. Just six dams for the whole harvest? It's not enough to feed a child, let alone a family.

The muharir behind the counter was a Bengali, with heavy jowls and a cataract of a frown. He answered her not in her native Bhojpuri, but in a mincing, citified Hindi: Do what others are doing, he snapped. Go to the moneylender. Sell your sons. Send them off to Mareech. It's not as if you don't have any choices.

I have no sons to sell, said Deeti.

Then sell your land, said the clerk, growing peevish. You people always come here and talk about being hungry, but tell me, who's ever seen a peasant starve? You just like to complain, all the time khichir-michir ...

On the way home, Deeti decided to stop at the bazar anyway: having hired Kalua's cart, it made no sense now to return without any provisions. As it turned out, she was able to afford no more than a two-maund sack of broken rice, thirty seers of the cheapest arhar dal, a couple of tolas of mustard oil and a few chittacks of salt. Her frugality was not lost on the shopkeeper who happened to be also a prominent seth and moneylender. What's happened-ji, O my sister-in-law? he said, with a show of concern. Do you need a few nice bright Benarsi rupees to see you through till the shravan harvest?

Deeti resisted the offer till she thought of Kabutri: after all, the girl had just a few years left at home - why make her live through them in hunger? She gave in and agreed to place the impression of her thumb on the seth's account book in exchange for six months' worth of wheat, oil and gurh. Only as she was leaving did it occur to her to ask how much she owed and what the interest was. The seth's answers took her breath away: his rates were such that her debt would double every six months; in a few years, all the land would be forfeit. Better to eat weeds than to take such a loan: she tried to return the goods but it was too late. I have your thumbprint now, said the seth, gloating. There's nothing to be done.

On the way home Deeti sat bowed with worry and forgot about Kalua's fare. By the time she remembered he was long gone. But why hadn't he reminded her? Had things come to the point where she had become an object of pity for a carrion-eating keeper of oxen?

Inevitably, word of Deeti's plight filtered across the fields to Chandan Singh, who appeared at her door with a sackful of nourishing satua. For her daughter's sake, if not her own, Deeti could not refuse, but once having accepted, nor could she shut the door on her brother-in-law with the same finality as before. After this, on the pretext of visiting his brother, Chandan Singh took to invading her home with increasing frequency. Although he had never before shown any interest in Hukam Singh's condition, he now began to insist on his right to enter the house in order to sit beside his brother's bed. But once past the door, he paid no attention to his brother and had eyes only for Deeti: even as he was entering he would brush his hand against her thigh. Sitting on his brother's bed, he would look at her and fondle himself through the folds of his dhoti; when Deeti knelt to feed Hukam Singh, he would lean so close as to brush her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his knees and elbows. His advances became so aggressive that Deeti took to hiding a small knife in the folds of her sari, fearing that he might attack her, right on her husband's bed.

The a.s.sault, when it came, was not physical, but rather an admission and an argument. He cornered her inside the very room where her husband was lying supine on his bed. Listen to me, Kabutri-ki-ma, he said. You know very well how your daughter was conceived - why pretend? You know that you would be childless today if not for me.

Be quiet, she cried. I won't listen to another word.

It's only the truth. He nodded dismissively at his brother's bed. He couldn't have done it then any more than he can now. It was me; no one else. And that is why I say to you: wouldn't it be best for you to do willingly now what you did before without your knowledge? Your husband and I are brothers after all, of the same flesh and blood. Where is the shame? Why should you waste your looks and your youth on a man who cannot enjoy them? Besides, the time is short while your husband is still alive - if you conceive a son while he is still living, he will be his father's rightful heir. Hukam Singh's land will pa.s.s to him and no one will have the right to dispute it. But you know yourself that as things stand now, my brother's land and his house will become mine on his death. Jekar khet, tekar dhan - he who owns the land, owns the rice. When I become master of this house, how will you get by except at my pleasure?

With the back of his hand, he wiped the corners of his mouth: This is what I say to you, Kabutri-ki-ma: why not do willingly now what you will be compelled to do a short while hence? Don't you see that I'm offering you your best hope for the future? If you keep me happy, you will be well looked after.

There was a part of Deeti's mind that acknowledged the reasonableness of this proposal - but by this time her loathing of her brother-in-law had reached such a pitch that she knew she would not be able to make her own body obey the terms of the bargain, even if she were to accede to it. Following her instincts, she dug her elbow into his bony chest and pushed him aside; baring just enough of her face to expose her eyes, she bit the hem of her sari, drawing it aslant across her face. What kind of devil, she said, can speak like this in front of his own dying brother? Listen to my words: I will burn on my husband's pyre rather than give myself to you.

He drew back a step and his slack mouth curled into a mocking smile. Words are cheap, he said. Do you think it's easy for a worthless woman like you to die as a sati? Have you forgotten that your body ceased to be pure on the day of your wedding?

All the more reason then, she said, to burn it in the fire. And it will be easier than to live as you say.

Big-big words, he said. But don't depend on me to stop you, if you try to make yourself a sati. Why should I? To have a sati in the family will make us famous. We'll build a temple for you and grow rich on the offerings. But women like you are all words: when the time comes, you'll escape to your family.

Dikhatwa! We'll see, she said, slamming the door in his face.

Once the idea had been planted in her mind, Deeti could think of little else: better by far to die a celebrated death than to be dependent on Chandan Singh, or even to return to her own village, to live out her days as a shameful burden on her brother and her kin. The more she thought about it, the more persuasive the case - even where it concerned Kabutri. It was not as if she could promise her daughter a better life by staying alive as the mistress and 'keep' of a man of no account, like Chandan Singh. Precisely because he was her daughter's natural father, he would never allow the girl to be the equal of his other children - and his wife would do everything in her power to punish the child for her parentage. If she remained here, Kabutri would be little more than a servant and working-woman for her cousins; far better to send her back to her brother's village, to be brought up with his children - a lone child would not be a burden. Deeti had always got on well with her brother's wife, and knew that she would treat her daughter well. When looked at in this way, it seemed to Deeti that to go on living would be nothing more than selfishness - she could only be an impediment to her daughter's happiness.