Janani—the life giver

Short story by Shirin Abbas

From the corner of her eye she looked at him, her son. His tonsured head betraying signs of the recent loss. So young, she thought, as she saw him proudly, waiting for the last guests to depart, seeing them to the door.
“Achcha Savitri, keep in touch,” said Shanti bua, pausing tearfully at the threshold of the house, her back bent a little more by the loss of her beloved nephew. Wearily Savitri bade farewell to the last of the visitors before sinking down on the bed herself. As the sound of the departing rickshaw drowned in the shouts of the busy street outside, she relaxed in the sudden sense of freedom that overwhelmed her. Guiltily she turned to her side, taking in the sight of her insensate mother-in-law seated barefoot on the floor. The sharp words on the tip of her tongue failed to find a voice, gagged by years of social conditioning. From her privileged perch, which placed her at an elevation, she studied the matriarch’s profile, still to come to terms with the loss of her beloved son.
As she served dinner that night, Savitri reflected on the sudden change in the social order within the house. Till a few days ago it used to be so different. Ramesh, her husband, seated cross legged on the floor at a vantage point, closest to the kitchen to ensure that the steaming hot chappatis, greased generously with liberal servings of ghee (Clarified butter) would be served first to him. Today she thought nothing of seating Vishnu there, the social order within their house yielding to make way for the new incumbent. Her turn, as usual, came last after ensuring that all other family members had been served. In a way she found a strange solace in the constancy of her position; it gave her a sense of stability.
“Let it be mother, you must be tired,” Vishu said half-protesting as, later in the night, she settled into the daily chore of pressing his head, a routine disturbed by the recent turn of events. “I’m used to it,” said Savitri, taking her son’s head in her lap. Her fingers absently turned in quest of the thick luxuriant hair, retracting in its absence, shuddering only once as an image from the past reared its head once again. The smell of cheap country liquor, of sweat, grime and her terrified protests as she buried her hands in hair knotted thick for want of a proper wash. She banished the foul memories that threatened her peace.
Leaning back against the wall she stared vacantly into the night, resisting once again giving in to the sudden sense of release that threatened to engulf her. It had become second nature for her to resent the better things in life and even today she continued to view happiness with jaundiced eyes, like a windfall not really meant for her lot. She knew she would have to hold her silence. It was in everybody’s interest. The woman in her, though, balked at the thought and the unfairness of her situation. So many times during the course of the last eighteen years her secret knowledge had threatened to spill over with her tears, stemmed only by the fear of the reprisal it would bring. She knew she may have to hold her silence forever now. But she felt cheated by fate, even as she reveled in its ridiculous coincidence.
Suddenly she felt like such a hypocrite. That bastard was dead and he had never known….not even at the moment when Vishnu lit his pyre, she supposed. For the first time in several days she allowed herself to laugh. At the irony of it all. The laughter sounded strange…she had almost forgotten what it was to laugh freely over the years, so the sounds came out awkwardly. She muffled her mouth with the bedsheet lest someone hear her unbridled mirth and wonder at its source. It was all over. She had won.
She still remembered that dark night, the road stretched out like a barren chapter from her life as she hurried through the park, clutching at the tiffin carrier that held dinner for her mother-in-law at the hospital. A heavy December fog hung ominously in the air and visibility was low. She hoped like always, that she had done the right thing to take the short cut through the park to the hospital, but prepared almost unconsciously to be chastised for that too.
The sudden assault took her by surprise. A heavy figure lunged at her from the side, flinging her to the ground. Startled she gazed into the eyes of her attacker. She did not remember if she had screamed. For a few seconds she struggled, raking her fingers into the sweat-matted hair, trying to push him off. But he was stronger. She felt like throwing up. Surprisingly it was over in minutes. A grunt of satisfaction coupled with an expletive escaped his lips as he got off, reassembled his clothing and slunk off into the night. Savitri lay there longer. She could feel his seed spill from her, trickle down her parted thighs even as she waited for the tears to well in her eyes and do the same. Painfully she stood up, cowering from the dark. After a few minutes she collected her clothes about her, picked up the tiffin carrier and stumbled towards the hospital. The pain gave way to fear as the reality of what had just happened hit her. Confused she set off for the hospital, duty weighing heavier on her than her conscience.
She was surprised her mother-in-law did not notice anything amiss. The hawk eyes of the old woman had till date never missed her monthly discomfiture of having to hide shamefully the proof of her barren womb over the last two years. Her disheveled state, she was sure, would give her away. But no. She was too sick to notice and too critical about her daughter-in-law’s cooking to notice anything amiss. And Ramesh did not bother to turn up at the hospital that night too. She wondered which woman he was with tonight, only too aware of his wayward ways, sometimes thankfully so.
In the days that passed she had little time to brood over the incident or worry about its consequence. Two years of marriage and the curse of a banjh-- a barren woman—had lulled her into a false sense of security. Which was why the horror that came with the bouts of nausea was stronger. She fretted frantically, hoping for some sign from nature to allay her worst fears. But it was true. She was pregnant. For nine months she carried the unwieldy burden in mortal dread of the day the awful secret would spill out of her womb to damn her forever.
Then Vishnu arrived. As her mother-in-law held the wailing newborn, Savitri wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. Wincing, she braced herself for the blows, the invectives. But they never came. Ramesh and his mother peered hard at the newborn, finding resemblances to ancestors even as the small bundle, swathed in an old sari wailed his protest at the genetic mismatch. Savitri sank wearily into the sagging bed, taking the approving glances from other women of the locality who had come in to bless the newborn. Her secret was safe!
The initial euphoria at the birth of his son faded fast for Ramesh. At least as far as his wife was concerned. Knowing, furtive glances thrown in her direction at social functions and hushed neighbourhood gossip made Savitri uncomfortably aware of his latest conquest. But she set aside her pain, clutching her son to her bosom like a medallion. Her mother-in-law reassured her, “A man needs some variety. These women mean nothing. They really don’t matter. You are the mother of his son. He will never leave you.”
But leave he did. Night after long lonely night. Savitri stared out at the blank unfeeling darkness ahead, waiting for him to return, sometimes in the wee hours of the morning. Even till the last day. Which one was it that night? Probably Malti, the young widow from the sweeper’s colony. She was really hard-pressed for money. What did he pay her? Ten rupees? Five? How did it matter? It was all over. Forever.
It was eight months before Ramesh’s dues were finally cleared, that too after running from pillar to post, greasing numerous palms. Rattling down over the pot-holed roads, Savitri clung tightly to her bag, sitting upright on the rickety rickshaw. She felt ashamed beside Vishnu, the strapping youth looked almost like a white-collared babu. She stole furtive glances at his swarthy profile, wondering if he bore any resemblance to the man who had attacked her in the park eighteen years ago. Why, they were passing it now and Savitri unconsciously tightened her grip on the bag, smiling absently at the way the chance encounter had changed her fortune.
The rickshaw stopped outside her lane, the pathway too narrow to allow its passage. Mother and son got down, Vishnu curling up his nose in distaste as the putrid squalor of the choked street drain hit their nostrils. “I am thinking we should sell this house, Amma,” he said. “We could just manage that now.”
Suddenly both froze in their tracks. For, coming from the other side was Malti. So he knew too…the thought registered in Savitri’s head. With no hope of avoiding the encounter, they quickened their pace, in order to get past the offending sight as soon as possible. Savitri emboldened by the lowered eyes of the younger woman, stared enviously at her curvaceous, lissome figure. “Why she must be only a few years older than Vishu,” she thought, taking in her tattered sari, her bare feet and the general aura of poverty that hung about the young woman like a curse.
Eyes lowered, Malti crossed the duo, aware of the sudden hush on the street. They hurriedly crossed each other, both sides eager to get over the chance meeting without any incident. Then, on an afterthought, Savitri turned calling out to the girl. Malti turned too, a look of sheer fear on her face as Savitri rapidly closed the distance between them. Trying to avoid eye contact, Savitri rummaged through the bag and carefully separated five hundred rupee notes from a bundle. Reaching out, she placed them in the girl’s hand. Their eyes locked briefly, abruptly, before they turned to go their separate ways. Savitri looked at her son, basking in the love and respect brimming in his eyes. She smiled, then, on an impulse, laughed out aloud, to the surprise of the curious bystanders in the busy street. Life was good. Suddenly, she felt generous.