Independence, page 15
Priya reads that last half-line over and over. How magical that she will have a niece or nephew, even if on the other side of the globe. She is delighted for Deepa, too; the last time they met, she had sensed that her sister was ready for a child. And how is Bina feeling, for surely someone must have informed her about her coming grandchild? Perhaps this will finally repair the rift between mother and daughter.
Then, darker thoughts: What if there are complications? What if Deepa dies in childbirth like thousands still do in India? Even with a healthy baby, Deepa who is not married, not Muslim but forced to bring up her child in the faith, would grow more tangled in deceit.
A distant clock strikes one. There is a quiz tomorrow Priya has not had time to study for. If she is to not fail miserably, she must rest.
But how can she sleep without reading Jamini’s letter?
Dear sister,
Although I miss you as always, perhaps it is good that you are away. Things are tense here. We do not know from day to day what may happen.
I stopped going to New Market after a few violent incidents occurred on the train. Ma is increasingly nervous and barely lets me out of her sight. We have been living on our savings for almost two months. No one in the village wants to buy embroidered quilts right now. Everyone is hoarding what little money they have.
I hope you are well in America and enjoying great success. You deserve it.
At another time Priya would have worried about Ma and Jamini; today she is too angry. This is what Jamini always does, exaggerating her troubles to gain people’s sympathies. Well, she is not getting Priya’s anymore. And why has she hidden her visits to Amit’s home from Priya? Surely that indicates an ulterior motive.
Priya crushes the letter and throws it in the wastebasket. She makes herself lie down, though she would rather pace. It is a long time before she is calm enough to sleep.
Chapter 19
Jamini
August 14. All across Ranipur, excitement like a tidal wave. Even pragmatic, suspicious Jamini is carried along on it—how can she resist? Tonight will bring the moment so many, including her father, had longed for fought for died for. From Calcutta Somnath has ordered loudspeakers, floor fans, a more powerful radio—and sweets from Bhim Chandra Nag’s famously expensive shop, an indulgence surely justified on this once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Many important families will join him this evening to celebrate their freedom from centuries of British oppression and listen to the country’s brand-new prime minister. Nehru is good with words, he studied at Harrow and Trinity College. Let us see how the pandit uses the colonizer’s language against them, Somnath says.
Jamini is going to be there. She, too, has been invited.
No. Jamini has her faults, but she does not believe in lying to herself. She was asked to help after she cleverly pointed out to Manorama how complicated the evening would be: welcome the guests, seat them in order of importance, make sure the servants serve the refreshments on time and in the right order without stealing, oversee the cleanup. Can you blame her? A girl like her—not as beautiful as Deepa, not as smart as Priya—has to look out for herself.
As Jamini had hoped, when Somnath heard, he said it would be too late for her to go back home. Let the girl spend the night here. Always kind and proper, he added, Let us invite Bina, too. But Jamini knew her mother would not come. Manorama put Jamini in the smallest room, though bigger bedrooms were lying empty. Jamini pushed away anger and focused on elation. She would spend the evening with Amit. She would sleep under the same roof as him, something Priya had never done.
* * *
Early evening she says goodbye to Bina. She is uneasy about leaving her alone all night but not enough to give up this special opportunity. Bina is not happy about Jamini being away, but she does not forbid her. Jamini had been prepared to argue, but Bina only asks her to take down Nabakumar’s framed photograph from the wall and place it next to her bed. She seems calm enough. Or perhaps Jamini chooses not to look too closely. She reminds Bina to eat the dinner she has made for her, to listen to the evening’s proceedings on the transistor radio Jamini has borrowed from Amit. She is not sure Bina will do either. She tells her to keep the door locked. When she hears the bolt click, she hurries to the Chowdhury mansion.
Guests congregate on the lamp-decorated, carpet-covered upstairs veranda, women on one side, men on the other. Thank God Amit installed electricity a few months ago; the floor fans are robustly battling humidity and mosquitoes. Their droning adds to the excited chatter, the patriotic songs on the shiny new radio. Loudspeakers have been placed on the edge of the balcony; Somnath wants any villagers who stop outside to feel they, too, are a part of this momentous occasion.
Jamini notices that the evening’s guests are all Hindu, although Somnath sent invitations to several prominent Muslims, too. Ah well. Muslims and Hindus in Ranipur rarely socialize. Why should tonight be different?
Jamini scans the veranda for Amit but does not see him. Manorama is busy greeting guests but not too busy to give her a look, so Jamini makes herself useful by ordering the maid to serve tea. She takes around a platter of rosewater-flavored sandesh. The women, dressed up as though it were a wedding, are not unfriendly to her but not friendly either. Everyone knows that Priya and Amit have broken up, that Bina’s quilt business is doing badly. Jamini is glad she decided to wear her best sari, the yellow silk that Amit had gifted her at his engagement. On her right hand is the gold bangle she took from its hiding place; she is annoyed to find she still thinks of it as Priya’s. She flashes it discreetly as she hands out sweets and smiles without explaining when people inquire where she got such a lovely piece of jewelry. She wonders what she will say if Amit asks her about it.
As though she conjured him with that thought, Amit strides in. How he has changed in the past months, his face a man’s now, harder, more resolute. Jamini walks toward him, but he is busy telling Somnath that many villagers have gathered on the street outside the mansion.
“Good, good,” Somnath says. “I am happy to see them caring about such things. Nabo would have liked that.” He wipes his eyes, he has been emotional all day, Amit puts a consoling hand on his shoulder. Jamini’s eyes well up, too, partly for her father and partly at Amit’s tenderness. Pir Baba, may Amit one day turn his caring toward me.
But this is not the time to dream. Somnath commends Amit for having thought of the firecrackers that will be set off in celebration afterward. He asks Jamini to announce to the crowd outside that sweets will be distributed at midnight. Amit offers to go downstairs in her stead, but she raises her hand to dissuade him. It is true that the stairs, worn smooth with age, give her leg some trouble. But she does not want Amit to think she is an invalid.
Amit has noticed the bangle. Jamini sees the surprise, the flicker of fury, before he forces his face into expressionlessness. Fear leaps in her chest. Has she gone too far?
“I will explain,” she whispers. “After the guests leave.” She takes a deep burning breath. All or nothing, Jamini. “I will be in the downstairs bedroom next to the kitchen.”
Amit turns away. She cannot tell what he is thinking.
* * *
A little before midnight the radio plays “Bande Mataram.” The announcer reminds listeners that this patriotic song, written by Bankim Chandra and sung by Tagore at the 1896 session of the Indian Congress, was immediately banned by the British. But everyone learned the song; freedom fighters chose it as their special anthem. Jamini remembers Nabakumar humming it as he went about his chores. He must have sung it on the Salt March, perhaps even as he was being struck down. Now finally it is on the radio. People wipe their tears, even Jamini, who is not sentimental. She joins in the rousing chorus. The words vibrate through the mansion and flow into the street, where the crowd, too, is singing.
Bande Mataram,
Bande Mataram,
Salutations to the motherland.
They stop only when the announcer asks for silence to honor the martyrs who died to bring them this precious gift.
Nehru’s voice comes on, deep and grainy, filled with optimism and the gravity of the moment. Jamini’s English is not as good as Priya’s, but she understands enough for a shiver to go through her.
“Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge . . . when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance . . . To the people of India, whose representatives we are, we make an appeal to join us with faith and confidence in this great adventure. This is no time for petty and destructive criticism, no time for ill will or blaming others. We have to build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell.”
A translator repeats the speech in Bengali; cheers break out from the street below. The announcer adds that Gandhi has chosen to be not in Delhi celebrating but in Calcutta with the Bengali people, fasting and praying for a nonviolent transfer of power, may his hope come true. More cheering, firecrackers bursting, food and drinks served. Gandhi’s favorite song by Tagore, “Ekla Cholo Re,” comes on the radio. Jamini hums it as she goes downstairs to make sure that the two guards have opened the gate and are handing singaras and jilipis to the crowd outside. Yes, all is going as planned. She starts up the stairs, hungry for another glimpse of Amit even if he is upset with her.
But there is a commotion. In the hazy light of the torches set outside, she sees jostling. A group of passing revelers have had an altercation with the crowd at the gate. Their lungis and skullcaps reveal them to be Muslims. Voices and fists are raised, people are shoved, someone shouts, Why don’t you go to your own country. And suddenly a full-fledged fight is going on, people shoved into the compound and thrown to the ground, fists smashed into faces. Jamini shouts to the gatekeepers to close the gates, but the press of the crowd is too much. She shouts for the other guards, but they do not hear her, they are on the roof setting off fireworks. She hurries upstairs to alert the Chowdhurys, cursing her leg for slowing her down.
Then she hears a terrible, booming sound. It takes her a moment to decipher. A gunshot. Amit is on the edge of the balcony, pistol in hand. As Jamini stares, he fires again. He aims well above the heads of the crowd, but it is enough to shock them into stopping. He shouts at the troublemakers to go home before he is forced to hurt anyone. The guards on the roof rush down, they help their companions push the gates shut, the crowd disperses grumbling. But the festive mood is ruined. The guests stare down in distaste at the entrance: trampled flowers, ground littered with food, an overturned cauldron of tea.
“Stupid, illiterate villagers!” Bela’s father, Mahendra, grumbles. “Can’t stop their bickering even for an occasion like this.”
A young man says, “It is not the fault of Somnath-babu’s tenants. They were listening peacefully until those Muslim hooligans came and started the fight.”
“Why are they even here?” someone says. “Hasn’t Jinnah snatched two big chunks of our motherland for people like them? Why don’t they leave for Pakistan?”
“Maybe we should persuade them to go,” someone else adds. Several people nod enthusiastically.
Amit frowns. “Educated men like you should not be saying these things. Didn’t you just hear the prime minister calling for togetherness? Didn’t he entreat us not to be communal in our thinking?”
The men mutter among themselves, they do not seem convinced. Jamini tries to defuse the situation; she calls for more sweets, more tea; but even Bhim Nag cannot restore the jubilant mood. People begin to leave.
Later Somnath says, “What an unfortunate end to the evening.”
Manorama clicks her tongue angrily. “All the efforts we made to plan, all the food we bought. Ruined.” Jamini knows what she is thinking: Expenses we can ill afford. “I do not understand what all this fighting is about. Haven’t Hindus and Muslims been living side by side in Ranipur for generations? It is the fault of the politicians—they have them riled up.”
“Hopefully it will die down soon,” Somnath says. He looks at Amit for confirmation, but he is staring out over the dark fields.
Speakers and fans disconnected, carpets rolled up, the floor mopped, the driveway swept clean of waste, the radio repacked in its box because Amit says it should be returned to the store. Jamini oversees everything, chiding the servants superbly. She hopes Manorama is taking note. But Manorama has retired, yawning and inadequately appreciative. Never mind. Jamini, too, retires, calling out a loud good night. Her bedroom is charming, even though it is the smallest, the least ornate. Its windows open onto a banana grove. The leaves whisper in the dark August wind, a secret, an invitation.
Jamini leaves the door unlocked. She sits on her mahogany bed—yes, it is hers tonight—and runs her hands over carvings in the shape of lotuses. She does not change out of her silk sari. She unbraids her hair and lets it fall down her back. Bina calls it her best feature. She will tell Amit the truth about how Priya left the bangle behind, why she did not want to take it with her. When one lacks better choices, it is smart to stay with what really happened.
Jamini waits. The grandfather clock strikes two, three, four a.m. At some point she falls asleep with her head against the bedpost, waking in the morning with a crumpled sari, a stiff neck, and mortification at her stupidity. She leaves without saying goodbye to anyone.
* * *
Disappointment and shame are no strangers to Jamini. She has wrestled with them ever since she was old enough to recognize the look in people’s eyes as they observed her unsteady approach, pity mingled with relief that they had been spared such misfortune. But last night has humiliated her in a different way. Foolish to believe that she could entice Amit into coming to her bedroom. Foolish to suppose that she could fill the emptiness her shining sister left inside him. Until now Amit has treated Jamini with affection and respect. She fears she has lost that.
Back home, she replaces the gold bangle in its hiding place, stuffs the sari into a trunk. I will never wear them again. She tells Bina she is unwell and takes to bed, covering herself head to foot to forestall interrogation.
After two days, Bina is worried. Jamini has never been one to lie around even when she is sick. Bina touches her forehead; she has no fever. She must suspect something, but she asks no questions. For the first time since Nabakumar’s death, she ventures to the market to buy ingredients for Jamini’s favorite dishes: fried pumpkin, shrimp with coconut milk—food they do not have the means for. Eat, eat. Jamini chews obediently, but she cannot swallow. Bina turns on the borrowed transistor so they can enjoy the Independence Day celebrations. The Indian tricolor flag has been raised above Red Fort, in front of a crowd of thousands. Gandhi has made Hindu and Muslim leaders promise that they will work together for peace. Nehru’s new cabinet contains people of many religions. What place is there for her, Jamini thinks, a girl with a limp and a head filled with romantic folly, in this new India?
In the evening, a knock. Her heart, unlearned as always, thrashes like a caught bird. Yesterday Somnath had sent a servant to ask if all was well with Jamini. Who might he have sent today? But it is only their neighbors, Leela’s Ma and her daughter. Leela’s Ma is frightened because her husband went to Calcutta last week and has not returned. Do Bina and Jamini know that there was trouble in the main bazaar today? Muslim fishermen were boycotted, their wares left rotting. Muslim women were barred from entering Hindu shops; people refused to sell them food.
“Who knows what will happen next?” She clutches Leela to her chest. “As soon as Leela’s father gets back, I will make him take me to my parents. They have a big joint family, my brothers and their wives all living in the same compound. I will feel a lot safer there. If you like, you can come with us.”
After Leela’s Ma goes home, Bina sits silently, forehead furrowed. She will never leave this house filled with memories of Nabakumar, but Jamini can see she is afraid. Jamini should be afraid, too, but she is only numb. That night in bed Bina puts her arm around Jamini, a rare gesture. For protection? For comfort? Once Jamini would have turned and held her. Now she lies stiff as wood.
* * *
Past midnight Jamini is startled awake by a rapping, an urgent male voice at the door. Groggily she registers other sounds: clanging, yells, women screaming. The sliver of sky outside their window glows dull red. Jamini Apa, get up quickly, it’s Hamid, open the door, no time for delay. Ignore him, Bina whispers, but something in his tone makes Jamini pull the door open. For a moment, she does not recognize the man standing there, hair in disarray, face streaked with soot, fear-shot eyes.
“You must get away from your house, Apa,” Hamid says. “Find a place to hide.” Words jumbling in hurry, he tells them that earlier this evening, Hindus came to his neighborhood and set the huts on fire. People barely got out, Hamid lost most of his belongings, several of his friends were badly burned. A child was trampled to death. The attackers demolished the Pir’s dargah, too—the Pir who loved and blessed all. Some of the fishermen managed to run to the village to the south which had a large Muslim population. They returned to Ranipur with an armed mob, and now Hindu houses were burning. The mob was moving in this direction.
“I must go,” Hamid says. “If they find out I came here, they’ll kill me. But I had to. Daktar-babu saved my wife and child. I couldn’t just—” Midsentence, he melts into darkness.
The air vibrates with shouts, the torches blur into a sheet of fire. Jamini’s brain whirls, she must warn the neighbors, but where is the time? Bina, who has followed her to the door, clutches her arm tightly. Baba’s photo my quilts my silk threads. Jamini must drag her past the shal trees to the small pond filled with waterweeds. The buildings at the end of the street begin to blaze. Bina struggles, her flailing fist strikes Jamini’s eye, for a moment the world goes starry and then black. Jamini shakes her head to clear it and forces Bina into the muddy water until they are submerged to their chins. She turns Bina’s head away from the houses, this way she will not see what happens next, and arranges the weeds over their heads. She instructs her to duck deeper if the mob advances in this direction. The trees and the pond are a little way from the houses, but nothing, Jamini is learning, can be counted on tonight.
