Someone Else's Garden (33 page)

‘You ran away?’ She hears the predicted envy in Cynthia’s gasp. ‘Yes, I ran away. My amma had a hard time finding someone for me to marry because of my age,’ says Mamta, mixing some truth in with the lies.

‘Well, I won’t be married till I am good and ready, and I will make sure he won’t want me wearing saris all day. He’s going to accept me as I am. I’ll tell you this much, I am going to work in an advertising agency straight after school. Daddy’s brother has an agency and he will give me a job.’ The conversation moves to Cynthia, as it always does, but Mamta doesn’t mind. The girl’s life fascinates her. She is almost the same age as Mamta and still such a child in so many ways. Cynthia asks, ‘So why are you sending money home?’

How can she explain the reason? Mamta’s eyes shine with emotion, and it is Cynthia who looks away. ‘I want my amma to know that I am happy and safe here in the city. I don’t want her to worry about me any more.’

And thus Cynthia agrees to write Mamta’s letters for her in return for the boy being allowed in once a week, but no clothes-off business. They both agree that the door to Cynthia’s room will be left wide open. Still the lovers manage to get in enough grinding and feeling without detection.

All her letters will be about the city. But the first one, the hardest to write, will let her mother know that she is safe, living decently and earning, without telling her anything more about her life.

My Beloved Lata Bai, Namaste,
I am writing to you from Begumpet city. I have sent you one hundred and fifty rupees by money order. I will send you more whenever I can. I hope Shanti is well. I still have the lock of hair we cut from her head together. I hope Sneha is well and so are Prem and Mohit. What news of Ragini? I have a good job and a good memsahib . . .

By reading this much her mother will surely know that the letter is from her.

This place recognises no seasons and there is a lot of food to eat. It may be getting to summer, but you can still buy peas and spinach, squash and cauliflower in the shops. I am still eating apples and oranges in summer, can you imagine?

‘You are writing this to your mother?’ Cynthia chews the end of her pen.

‘Yes, she won’t believe it!’ Mamta giggles. ‘The trees over there are only producing mangoes. But here, your amma never changes her menu. Rain, cold or heat, she eats what she wants. In Gopalpur, it was spinach for months, wild mangoes for a whole season, or cauliflower all three meals.’

This is what confuses Mamta the most. City time. Magnificently elastic, making everything easy. How long did it take her to cook a meal in the village? Sometimes as much as two hours. How long did it take to eat the food in the village? Ten minutes. Here Mrs D’Souza spends at least as much time eating her food as she does preparing it.

The mango must be in fruit in Gopalpur. Tell Prem and Mohit to leave some on the trees for me for when I return.

In this city everything is sold as powder: sugar, salt, spices, everything. You can’t imagine how quickly I can cook a meal. And there are buckets too, light and airy, in any colour you could want.

‘Surely your mother won’t be interested in
this
useless information?’

‘This isn’t useless information, Cynthiaji, my amma will be stunned. Such things as powdered sugar or salt, or buckets made of plastic would change her life. The clay pots we carry from the well are so heavy. Imagine if we had two plastic buckets instead! Oh, and I mustn’t forget the ice. Tell her I’ve tasted ice. And tell her about taps . . .’ Cynthia moves her pen across the blue paper of the inland letter form, writing about ice and taps.

I promise I’ll send you a bucket with someone going to Gopalpur. And I ride about on a bright blue bus all day. I am sure Jivkant caught just such a bus to the city.

‘Should I tell her about the movie? Or do you think she’ll think me wasteful?’

‘Wasteful?’

‘We don’t have a cinema in Gopalpur,’ says Mamta, picturing the Rivoli cinema cum auditorium with its cake-decoration plaster, small balconies that stick out like bad teeth and red velvet chairs.

‘No cinema? I couldn’t do without the cinema.’

The movie at Rivoli had started with a drum roll. Then the elegant red curtain, moulded in beautiful loops, began its slow journey into the ceiling. Mamta had never sweated so much with anticipation, not even on her wedding night. ‘Hai, what a movie!’

‘Hindi movies are so unrealistic. What nonsense, showing all those flocks of birds flying into the skies or roses opening to dewdrops or lovely mountain scenery to mean that the hero is kissing the heroine. As if people really dance and sing when they are in love . . . and that too only in snowy hill stations! In English movies they show all that stuff . . .’ Cynthia drops her voice. ‘And in A movies they show even more . . .’

‘Cynthiaji, it was
such
a great movie, I can’t tell you.’ Even now the memory is just too sweet, something akin to a first secret love. The hero’s brooding eyes had caught her off-guard, she didn’t know it was possible to become infatuated so thoroughly. She’d lined up to use the Rivoli WC during the interval, climbing up to squat on the Bakelite seat of a ceramic commode for the first time. The patriotic film had ended with the national anthem, and she’d stood still with the rest of the audience, sharing in the great sound, her heart bursting with pride for the flag fluttering on the big screen.

The folks from the delicate curved balconies of Rivoli got to leave first, their velvet chairs closing upon themselves with synchronised sounds like so many soft slaps on cheeks. Then it was the turn of the ones from the Lower Seating Middle Row, and finally her turn, seated in the Lower Seating Front Row. She was felt up by at least two men before she broke out into the starry night, but all in all it had been worth it.

‘I could see a movie every day,’ says Cynthia.

So could I.
‘No, let’s not write about the movie; Amma will think only of the money I spent on the ticket. Let’s tell her about the dispensary instead.’

And there is a free dispensary. Yes, here it is really free and they give out forms for storing your money in a post office. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. I have started saving my money now, and who knows I may even have enough some day to buy my own piece of land.
Intuitively, Mamta is a saver.

‘Actually, don’t write that. Cut it out,’ she says, afraid of the words which go against every grain of Gopalpur society. But Cynthia is not about to be deterred in her task. Now at last this is a piece of information worthy of appearing in a letter. She pretends to cross out the words.

My mistress is very kind. I also have a good friend, her name is Baby. I’ll write more next time when I am sure you are receiving my letters.

Your loving Cynthia D’Souza

It was Nathu’s daughter who first brought her the news at the well. ‘Come quick, Lala is looking for you,’ she said. Lata Bai didn’t look up from her pitcher out of respect for Lala Ram’s wife, taking no notice of the vulgar woman with the big dangly breasts who openly flaunted her status as Lala Ram’s mistress.

‘Lata Bai, don’t act so coy, it’s a money order. But of course if you don’t want to pick it up, I can tell Lala to send it back to the city.’

Lata Bai hurried to Saraswati Stores in the rain to claim her good news, her empty pitcher banging against her legs without slowing her down. Lala Ram pulled out an official-looking piece of paper streaked with carbon marks from a purse dangling close to his heart like a necklace. ‘From Begumpet,’ he said, handing it to her.

In her confusion, she asked, ‘Who?’

‘From the city. Begumpet.’ Then he peered at it to try to read the name: ‘Chinta. D-Susa. Who’s Chinta?’

‘Give it here –’ She plucked the money order from his hands before he could read another word.

‘The post comes twice a week. Cash it with the postman on Monday, that’s two days from now in the afternoon.’ He enunciated his words very carefully and shouted them at Lata Bai, explaining to her as if she was a deaf mute who had to lip-read. ‘Chinta D-Susa. I wish we all had a Chinta D-Susa in our lives.’

‘I knew it. I knew he would send us money,’ she said, crediting the money order automatically to Jivkant. ‘I knew he wouldn’t let us down.’ She hurried away, clutching the money order inside her blouse. That was its destiny, to move from one heart-space to another.

For two days that piece of paper tucked between her breasts has heard her beating heart. Inside her there is the certainty that the money order is not from Jivkant. He would have put his own name down had he sent her anything. Who is this wonderful Chinta DSusa, Lakshmi incarnate, someone who has showered her with good fortune? She rolls the name Chinta D-Susa around on her tongue, trying to get used to its awkward sound: Chinta D-Susa.
Thank you, Devi. Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho.

She almost can’t stand the wait. How much money is in that paper? She looks at the money order, hoping to find something in the letters that might set her at rest, but she can’t make anything of the symbols. From the numbers she can tell that there is a fifteen involved and a two joined together with a four. One of the numbers is the date, the other the amount Mamta sent to her mother. It is when she cashes the money order that she knows which one is which.

The postman pays her in dirty ten-rupee notes and one-rupee coins, the denominations he has the most use for in his job. He keeps five rupees for himself, both as a fee for his part in the deal and as a gift to himself in acknowledgement of Lata Bai’s good fortune. Then he says, ‘I have something else here,’ holding out a letter. He reads it only when she parts with another two rupees.

My Beloved Lata Bai, Namaste,
I am writing to you from Begumpet city. I have sent you one hundred and fifty rupees by money order. I will send you more whenever I can. I hope Shanti is well. I still have the lock of hair we cut from her head together . . .

She still remembers cutting her baby’s hair. How could this Chinta D-Susa person know about Shanti’s hair? She’d cut off a lock and pressed it into Mamta’s hand before her wedding. So what has Chinta D-Susa got to do with it?

The postman reads on: . . .
I hope Sneha is well and so are Prem and Mohit. What news of Ragini? I have a good job and a good memsahib . . .

Sneha . . . Prem . . . Mohit . . . Ragini? This Chinta D-Susa seems to know all about her family and her household. She misses the rest of the words. Suddenly the puzzle is solved. She breathes in sharply. Chinta D-Susa – Mamta? Mamta – Chinta D-Susa? Not from Jivkant, or from some mysterious Lakshmi named Chinta D-Susa, but her own Mamta?
Mamta in the city? Has the family moved to the city? Why is Mamta using another name now?
She has been without Mamta’s voice for so long that she finds herself almost answering her daughter’s questions aloud in the postman’s presence.
Oh, what shall I tell you about Sneha? Poor skinny Sneha, with no offers of marriage. And Mohit? He’s gone away too.
‘Read on, Bhaia, read on,’ she says.

. . . there is a lot of food to eat. It may be getting to summer, but you can still buy peas and spinach, squash and cauliflower in the shops. This place recognises no seasons. I am still eating apples and oranges in summer, can you imagine?

The mango must be in fruit in Gopalpur. Tell Prem and Mohit to leave some on the trees for me for when I return.

In this city everything is sold as powder: sugar, salt, spices . . . I have started saving my money now, and who knows I may even have enough some day to buy my own piece of land.

‘This is from a girl no? Look at what she says. Might even buy some land. Buy some land, indeed! Where do you find these people, Lata Bai, their ideas too big for their own good? If she was from around here, there would be no saving, the money would be going where it belonged, to her husband, so
he
could buy them a piece of land. I am a postman, and I’ve never heard of money being stored in a post office – and I would know.’

‘Read on, Postmanji, let us see what other silliness she has to share with us.’ Outwardly Lata Bai mocks the letter, but inwardly she shudders.

My mistress is very kind. I also have a good friend, her name is Baby. I’ll write more next time when I am sure you are receiving my letters.

Your loving, Cynthia D’Souza

The postman looks at Lata Bai, wringing his upper lip. ‘You sure this letter is for you? Let me see –’

This time she plucks the letter right out of his hands, ‘It’s for me, all right,’ she says.

The postman snatches the letter back. Clearly it is a valuable document, linked to the money orders, could be something more in it for him yet. ‘Let me see the address. You’re right, it is for you. But Chinta D-Susa, who is she? From Begumpet? Your daughter?’

‘My friend’s daughter.’

The up-down movement of his eyebrows tells her he doesn’t believe her one bit. ‘Tell her what I said about storing her money in a post office.’

Lata Bai’s confusion has no answers, but it is quelled by the relief of the money. She doesn’t dare ask her daughter what she is doing in the city. Too many questions can lead to far too painful a truth. Instead, she rationalises that at least Mamta’s letters are cheerful. Some puzzles are just not meant to be solved.

Lata Bai has been very careful not to show any sign of Mamta’s money to Seeta Ram. Outwardly her life goes on as before, but she is daring to dream some dreams. Already big plans are forming in her head, plans for Prem’s education, for embroidery needles and thread for Sneha, for Mohit’s apprenticeship with the jaggery-maker when he returns home, and pickling jars for herself. In the meanwhile, the notes lie safe, stitched into her blanket.

She is looking forward to many long letters from her daughter, filled with stories of city life, stories such as she’s never heard before, stories that some day she might repeat to Kamla and others, stories that will set her free. In the meantime, she waits for the anvil to drop because she knows that the money must be paid for. Nothing is free, this much Lata Bai can guarantee.