The Selector of Souls

  “Chetna is well taken care of. If you’re so worried about her, why don’t you look after her?”

  The heat of his anger swirls in the narrow room.

  “I’m the ogre? I’m the one you love to hate. But I’m a very caring person—I gave blood once! I can’t say what sappy Americans say, ‘It makes me feel good to help others.’ I say what any decent Hindu would say, ‘It’s my dharma.’ Either way, it’s bloody self-interest. So, right now it’s not in my interests, okay? Got that?” He bangs his mug to the table and rises. “But what I don’t understand is you. Look at you, without even a nose ring or a single bangle, as if your husband can’t afford to clothe you.”

  “There’s no audience to please here, Vikas. I don’t live in Delhi’s mirror world.”

  “But are you really a woman who acts against her own self-interest in this deliberate, planned way? You must have a secret reason.”

  “No secret reason, Vikas.”

  Oh please Bethany, come home.

  He comes around the table, blocking her exit. She jumps up, her chair crashes behind her.

  “Oh, Anu, come with me. No one will notice you ever left.”

  “No, thank you.” She backs away.

  “It’s the priest. Admit it, you’re sleeping with him.”

  “No, I’m not! I have taken a vow of celibacy—do you understand?” He will hear her spiking terror, taste it, smell it.

  “What celibacy? We’re not divorced yet, darling. I’m your husband.”

  “You have no authority over me,” she says evenly, then lunges for the tray.

  A sweep of his arm; the tray slides just out of her reach, the knife clatters to the floor, spins away into a corner. For a moment, both look at the gleaming knife in disbelief.

  Vikas hisses, “You little viper. You’ve mistaken all my kindness for weakness.”

  He moves toward her. Anu begins to scream.

  DAMINI

  DAMINI’S HEAD BOBS TO THE THUNK-THUNK OF HER umbrella, as she walks the road to Bread of Healing Clinic, her gaze on her boots. Her heart feels like a live coal in her breast. By day, she locks up her demons and attempts to restore herself while helping Leela, nursing Chunilal, working with Sister Anu in the clinic, and serving at table in the Big House. But by night, asuras emerge, spewing self-hatred as soon as she lies down to sleep, filling her dreams.

  Kuri-mar, say the demons. Girl-killer.

  She must think of the task at hand, so as not to think of her paap, or how angry she is at Chunilal. She must think of what she will say to Sister Anu instead of seeing those brown eyes, twinkling like fireflies.

  She will say, Sister-ji, my grandson is almost fourteen. He doesn’t look very smart, but he listens to everything. We call him a pair of ears—he gets that from me. He can repeat what we tell him. Which is very good if you want to send him downhill to summon me or Goldina. She will say, Sister-ji, Mohan can’t write anything but his name, but he can whistle if there is danger. And when you hear him play the flute you will say Lord Krishna has taken birth again.

  No, not that last one.

  She’ll say, He can lift heavy weights for you, but we don’t want him to do women’s work—no cooking, no washing clothes or dishes. He likes to guard his mother, his sister—we will tell him you are another sister to him. You see, when other children see he can never be like them, they laugh at him. He doesn’t want to go to school anymore.

  A truck passes, going downhill, then the minibus, grinding uphill. May Kamna be in that minibus, coming home. The girl’s run away again. She’s afraid of Chunilal, afraid of all of them, because she knows what happened to her sister. But if anyone finds out that this girl’s family can’t account for her, sometimes for two or three days at a time, she’ll be unmarriageable. If Damini had ever done such a thing her father would have beaten her till blood ran, but Leela says she can’t beat Kamna, she isn’t a man. And Chunilal is too weak.

  Leaves obscure Damini’s view of the peaks but with just a few metres of walking and around another bend, there they are, merging into a clear blue sky. Stopping a moment at the stone parapet that edges the road, Damini sees women on terraces far below—some planting and others carrying bricks. Three more cottages are taking shape, clinging to the hillsides where farmer’s homes once stood.

  Should she ask for fifty rupees a month for Mohan? If so, the sister-ji will say twenty-five. Then maybe Mohan will get thirty-five or forty.

  Bargaining for pay is bijness; I am not good at bijness.

  But someone must do it—Chunilal’s appetite has not responded to triphala or chavanprash, his muscles remain weak despite Damini’s mustard-oil massage and pomegranate tea. From dawn to midnight, Leela is in the jungle picking up firewood, milking the cows, heating water, and working the terrace fields. Damini does the cooking and manages the house. “A woman also needs a wife,” she told Leela, and was rewarded with a tiny smile.

  It will be all right. Kamna will be home by the time Damini returns. She’ll be reclining on a gunny sack with Mohan as usual, a map spread between them, her bangles tinkling as she points out cities and towns. Damini will tell her, A good daughter needs to forget much more than she remembers.

  Now Damini has passed the minibus stop. The driveway and wrought-iron gate set in the perimeter wall of the church compound are in sight. Further uphill, the green fence of Sardar-ji’s old home begins.

  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  Was that a scream that floated downhill? Damini stops.

  There’s another. Spiralling this time, like a cheel taking wing and soaring. It comes from the cottage tucked against the hillside. The nuns’ cottage.

  A third scream sends Damini scrambling down the driveway to the cottage.

  The screen door is open. Clothes, books, papers strewn everywhere.

  A young man has Sister Anu pinned against a wall by her throat. A saab, from his pants and shirt. Sister Anu’s hands are scrabbling at his knuckles, her black curls unbound, whipping left and right. She’s trying to kick and keep her balance at once.

  At the sight of Damini, he shouts, “Ja, buddi!”

  Damini is not old enough to be called a buddi.

  “Ghar ki baat hai.”

  Choking a woman is not a family matter. Damini advances. “Enough!” she says, bringing her umbrella down across the man’s shoulders.

  He grunts, lashes out. She hardly feels the blow across her chest. She hits again, and again, though her heart is banging like a nagara drum. “Enough! Stop!”

  The man’s hands drop, and Sister Anu falls like a washerman’s bundle. The Jesus-sister clasps her throat, coughs and gasps for air. Her attacker rounds on Damini. “Didn’t I say, ‘Ghar ki baat hai’?”

  Damini backs away, holding her umbrella before her like a sword. “And I said, ‘Enough.’ Even if it is your family matter.”

  The man swears at her in English, then Punjabi, just like Aman. He grabs her umbrella right out of her hand and tosses it aside. Now he’s so close she can hear the thud of his heart, smell his saab-perfume.

  Sister Anu struggles up. “Vikas, don’t you touch her,” she rasps from swollen lips.

  “Sir, I warn you, ji … this house, this place … it belongs to very powerful people,” Damini gasps out. “You better not …” His hands are pincers on Damini’s shoulders and he’s shaking her, shaking her. Her brain spins in her skull. Vision blurs. Red strands of hair whip about her face. Her kicking feet are rising off the floor. The man’s eyes bore into Damini’s.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, monkey-breath! I’ll kill you and fling you down the hillside.”

  She would knee the saab in the groin, but that would enrage him further, and one cannot know all consequences.

  Sister Anu hisses through her teeth in English, “Vikas, kill me or her and you’ll pay—you’re no VIP here.”

  “So?” he says in English. “It’ll just take more money.”

  His thumbs dig into Damini’s bones. Siste
r Anu is tugging at him, screaming, “Vikas, you’ll go to prison. Leave her!”

  Vikas flicks the Jesus-sister away like a mosquito. “It’ll look like an accident.” His thumbs are boring through Damini’s shoulders.

  “No!” Sister Anu stoops, picks up Damini’s umbrella.

  And then she runs away! Runs right through the open screen door—leaving Damini still in the man’s grasp.

  Anger floods in and Damini kicks harder. Her boot makes a satisfying crack against Vikas’s shins, but his vice grip doesn’t budge. A huge hand punches her stomach, smacks her against a very hard wall. She slides down and feels herself crumple to the floor. “Beta, don’t do this,” she gasps, calling him son. But he’s still grabbing at her. She rolls away, scrabbling hands reaching, searching. She touches, then grasps something long. A knife flashes into view, scaring her even more.

  Vikas rears away. “Kuthi! Pagal aurat!”

  Damini hates being called names like that. She slashes the air with the knife, keeping him at bay.

  “Vikas! Your car!” Sister Anu shouts from outside.

  Any second, Vikas will knock the knife from her hand. He glances at it, glances at the open door. Then he plunges through it.

  Damini scrambles up and runs after him, knife in hand.

  Outside on the gravelled drive, Sister Anu stands beside the orange car, her hair a halo of coiled springs. She’s wielding Damini’s blue and white umbrella like a cricket bat. It’s poised over the windshield. “I’ll smash it, Vikas,” she shouts.

  Smashing car windows will stop this man?

  “Achcha, achcha, Anu.” The young man is slowly raising his hands, like a villain at the end of a Hindi movie. “No need to get hysterical.”

  “Get in the car,” says Sister Anu in English, her voice like steel.

  The young man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m getting in, see, I’m getting in. Have your romance with this bloody village.”

  Before Damini’s astonished eyes, he meekly opens the orange door and gets in. Sister Anu comes around to the driver’s side, umbrella grasped at shoulder level.

  “Wait’ll I tell my lawyer,” he growls at her. “Your conversion is no longer secret. Grounds for speedy divorce, baby. All it will take is one petition to the courts.”

  Sister Anu feints, as if to bring the umbrella down. The man laughs. High-pitched, like a hungry hyena. “Thanks for the tea, darling. I’ll be back. You never know when.”

  “Come again and I’ll not only smash your windows but slash your tires as well.”

  The tinted-black pane rises. The orange car backs up the dirt driveway to the road, and turns at the top. It fades into the fog, but Damini’s head is still spinning and her heart racing. She hands Sister Anu the knife and stands beside her, gulping air.

  Sister Anu returns the umbrella; a rib is hanging loose, but it’s otherwise intact.

  “Are you all right?” says Sister Anu.

  Damini nods, still breathless. Her arms tingle, losing their numbness. The sister leads her into the house. She points to a chair, but Damini drops to a low stool. Sister Anu brings a shawl and puts it around her shoulders. She rubs them, until Damini pulls away in embarrassment.

  “Is he a movie star?” says Damini. “I have seen him, or maybe his photo.”

  “That was my husband,” says Sister Anu. “I left him.”

  “You have courage!” Damini says. “I would have been too afraid to try, even if he beat me sometimes. A saab with a car like that is a very big man. He probably has cooks and drivers and ammas. How could you leave him and come here?” She massages her own shoulders.

  “Staying with a man like him for my own comfort or my child’s well-being would have been nothing but atm-bandhan,” says Sister Anu stoutly.

  Damini’s brow puckers. Everyone has some form of voluntary servitude. She does, looking after Chunilal, afraid that if he tells her to leave his home …

  “But Sister-ji, you’re from a saab family, a rich woman like my Mem-saab.”

  Sister Anu shakes her head, and her hair spills over her shoulders like a canopy. “I had many things,” she says. “I just couldn’t do anything without permission or criticism.”

  “But you had a home, food, money, clothes …”

  Sister Anu pulls another low stool forward and sits beside Damini. “Those are nothing, Damini, if you can no longer respect yourself.”

  Damini’s demons screech agreement; she cracks her knuckles to master them.

  “A few beatings were so bad, I thought he’d kill me. I was afraid every day, all the time for nine years. I lay awake so many nights, afraid. That is no way to live.”

  “You said we should ask each woman her story, before treating her,” Damini says. “But you are so healthy, I never asked yours.”

  “Everyone has a story, Damini. I have one, and yours began the moment you were born. Even Vikas has one.”

  Damini tilts her head. “Achcha? Are you all right now?”

  “I don’t know,” says Sister Anu. “I don’t know anything. I’m such a fool.” She sinks down on the divan and covers her face with her hands.

  “See: women cannot live alone.”

  “I am not alone. Sister Bethany is here.”

  “I mean, with no men.”

  “I know what you mean.” Sister Anu squares her shoulders.

  “Must be that your father gave you too-too much independence, too-too much freedom. That’s why you never adjusted to marriage. It is his fault—you should go back to your parents.”

  “How much should I have to adjust?” Sister Anu doesn’t sound serene or patient right now. “My father has passed away, and I can’t go back to my mother like a schoolgirl. I’m here, and I need to do my job.”

  “Tell Aman-ji what happened here today,” suggests Damini, in consoling tones. Then, “No—he’s not like his father. Sardar-saab would have hunted your husband down and recited what the Sikh Gurus said, that kings are born from women, and without woman, there would be no one at all. Then he would have dragged your husband back here to touch your feet. But Aman won’t do anything. Tell your padri.” She rises, moves behind the younger woman, gathers the curls spread across Anu’s back and begins rebraiding.

  “I can’t.” Sister Anu swallows. “I—I haven’t told Father Pashan or Sister Imaculata that my divorce is still not final. My lawyer is still working on it.”

  “Hello-ji! Will becoming unmarried again make your life better? A widow’s life is not easy, and a divorced woman’s life must be as difficult.”

  “Yes it will. I’ll tell Father as soon as Mrs. Nadkarni says it’s final. But meanwhile, I can’t tell him Vikas came here. He’ll worry.

  “Achcha, then I won’t tell the padri either.”

  “I have to tell Bethany, of course, in case Vikas comes again. But …”

  “You both need a sekurti guard.” Damini comes before Sister Anu, sweeps her own hair back, knots it into a bun.

  Sister Anu laughs shakily. “I think I should have you for a security guard,” she says. “Thank god you came.”

  “Often I hear even what the gods don’t,” says Damini. “I will send my grandson. Mohan’s almost a police officer—he will be very good. He has a Diana airgun; he can shoot. He can at least shoot those tires. He doesn’t need much—please pay him forty rupees a month—achcha?”

  Sister Anu nods and rubs her neck.

  VIKAS

  WILDFLOWERS. TREES VIKAS CANNOT NAME. ROWS OF blue-misted ranges alternating with lowland valleys. Every layer of forest has living beings in it, beings who don’t know whose son he is, his name, the name of his school or college, or that his home in the Lutyens area of New Delhi is worth crores and crores of rupees. Wilderness outside, a jungle of confusion within. He’s driving too fast.

  The silly bitch thought she was going to kill him! Bluffing—she’d never dare. Still, it’s good thing no one saw him beat that retreat. No one of any consequence. Made him feel five years ol
d again.

  That Anu! Still an atom bomb of a woman, even with no makeup or jewellery. Fire in her eyes. Always challenging him. But how can he desire a Christian? He can’t. He won’t.

  He hasn’t eaten since early morning and it’s evening now. Anupam wouldn’t give him even a pakora with that horrid soapy tea. Still he must not eat too much before taking the winding road back to Shimla and the lemon-grass-scented comfort of Cecil Hotel. He pulls over at a row of shops near Jalawaaz, enters the only chai-stall there is, and plunks down on a wood-slat bench.

  He asks and ignores the chai-wallah’s recommendation of mint parathas and kali-daal, curtly requesting mooli parathas instead. This will take longer—the chai-wallah has to send a boy to pull some radishes from his field. Vikas nurses a Lion lager and a growing hunger, as he waits in dwindling light.

  The chai-wallah’s eyes are too slanted—must be a spy for the Chinese. No moustache or beard; girlie-faced as an American. Shopkeepers always remain shopkeepers. And their sons become shopkeepers too. Whereas Vikas …

  Where is the priest profiled in the article? Maybe he should stop at the sub-district magistrate’s office in Jalawaaz. He can say he’s on vacation, looking for land to buy. No, he’s too angry for that, and they’ll be closed by now.

  The scent of mint draws his attention to a round-faced man with a beard like a close-trimmed hedge sitting at the next table. The medallion around the man’s neck flashes a photo of a man with a rupee-sized red bindi, then settles. Vikas’s hand rises involuntarily to his own.

  A Kohlisons Media product has made it all the way here—well, of course.

  “Bahut sundar car, sir,” says the round-faced man, as the parathas are served. “Very beautiful car.” The translation informs Vikas the man can speak English. Very little, judging from his accent.

  “Yes,” says Vikas. His radish-paratha arrives and he tears off a wedge and dips it in daal. Almost as good as his cook’s—but not quite. The mint parathas might have been better.

  “HIM9236—a Himachal state license—you are coming from Shimla, is it?”