Her feet step lightly on the
hard earth, calloused soles insensible to the tiny pebbles and caked mud along
the riverbank. On her head she balances a mutki,
the same earthenware jug she uses to carry water from the well every day.
Today, instead of water, the girl is carrying everything she owns: a second
petticoat and blouse, her mother’s wedding sari, The Tales of Krishna her father used to read to her—the pages
fabric-soft from years of handling—and the letter that arrived from Jaipur
earlier this morning.
When she hears the voices of the
village women in the distance, the girl hesitates. The gossip-eaters are chatting,
telling stories, laughing, as they wash saris, vests, petticoats and dhotis. But when they spot her, she knows
they will stop to stare or spit at the ground, imploring God to protect them
from the Bad Luck Girl. She reminds herself of the letter, safe inside the mutki, and thinks: Let them. It will be the last time.
Yesterday, the women were
haranguing the Headman: why is the Bad Luck
Girl still living in the schoolteacher’s hut when we need it for the new schoolmaster?
Afraid to make a sound for fear they would come inside and pull her out by her
hair, the girl had remained perfectly still within the four mud walls. There
was no one to protect her now. Last week, her mother’s body had been burned
along with the bones of other dead animals, the funeral pyre of the poor. Her
father, the former schoolteacher, had abandoned them six months ago, and,
shortly after, he drowned in a shallow pool of water along the riverbank, so
drunk he likely hadn’t felt the sting of death.
Every day for the past week, the
girl had lay in wait on the outskirts of the village for the postman, who
cycled in sporadically from the neighboring village. This morning, as soon as
she spotted him, she darted out from her hiding place, startling him, and asked
if there were any letters for her family. He had frowned and bit his cheek, his
rheumy eyes considering her through his thick glasses. She could tell he felt
sorry for her, but he was also peeved—she was asking for something only the
Headman should receive. But she held his gaze without blinking. When he finally
handed over the thick onionskin envelope addressed to her parents, he did so
hastily, avoiding her eyes and pedaling away as quickly as he could.
Now, standing tall, her
shoulders back, she strolls past the women at the riverbank. They glare at her.
She can feel her heart flutter wildly in her breast, but she passes, straight
as sugar cane, mutki on her head, as
if she is going to the farmers well, two miles farther from the village, the
only well she is allowed to use.
The gossip-eaters no longer
whisper but shout to one another: There
goes the Bad Luck Girl! The year she was born, locusts ate the wheat! Her older
sister deserted her husband, never to be seen again! Shameless! That same year
her mother went blind! And her father turned to drink! Disgraceful! Even the
girl’s coloring is suspect. Only Angreji-walli
have blue eyes. Does she even belong to us? To this village?
The girl has often wondered
about this older sister they talk about. The one whose face she sees only as a
shadow in her dreams, whose existence her parents have never acknowledged. The
gossip-eaters say she left the village thirteen years ago. Why? Where did she
go? How did she escape a place where the gossip-eaters watch your every move?
Did she leave in the dead of night when the cows and goats were asleep? They
say she stole money, but no one in the village has any money. How did she feed
herself? Some say she dressed as a man so she wouldn’t be stopped on the road.
Others say she ran off with a circus boy and was living as a nautch girl, dancing in the Pleasure
District miles away in Agra.
Three days ago, old man Munchi
with the game leg—her only friend in the village—warned her that if she didn’t vacate
her hut, the Headman would insist she marry a widowed farmer or demand she
leave the village.
“There is nothing here for
you now,” Munchiji had said. But how could she leave—a thirteen-year-old orphan
girl with no family or money?
Munchiji said, “Have courage,
bheti.” He told her where to find her brother-in-law, the husband her older sister
had abandoned all those years ago, in a nearby village. Perhaps he could help her find her
sister.
“Why can’t I stay with
you?” she had asked.
“It would not be proper,” the old man replied
gently. He made his living painting images on the skeletons of peepal leaves. To console her, he’d given her a painting. Angry, she’d almost
thrown it back at him until she saw that the image was of Lord Krishna, feeding
a mango to his consort Radha, her namesake. It was the most beautiful gift she
had ever received.
Radha slows as she approaches
the village threshing ground. Four yoked bulls walk in circles around a large
flat stone, grinding wheat. Prem,
who cares for the bulls, is sitting with his back against the hut, asleep. Quietly,
she hurries past him to the narrow path that leads to Ganesh-ji’s temple. The
shrine has a slender opening and, inside, a statue of Lord Ganesh. Gifts are
arranged around the Elephant God’s feet: a young coconut, marigolds, a small
pot of ghee, slices of mango. A cone of sandalwood incense releases a languid
curl of smoke.
The
girl lays Munchiji’s painting of Krishna in front
of Ganesh-ji, the Remover of All
Obstacles, and begs him to remove the curse of The Bad Luck Girl.
By the time she reaches her
brother-in-law’s village ten miles to the West, it is late afternoon and the
sun has moved closer to the horizon. She is sweating through her cotton blouse.
Her feet and ankles are dusty; her mouth dry.
She is cautious, entering the
village. She crouches in shrubs and hides behind trees. She knows an alone girl
will not be treated kindly. She searches for a man who looks like the one
Munchiji described.
She sees him. There. Squatting under
the banyan tree, facing her. Her brother-in-law.
He has thick, oily, coal-black
hair. A long, bumpy scar snakes from his bottom lip to his chin. He is not
young but neither is he old. His bush-shirt
is spotted with curry and his dhoti is
stained with dust.
Then she notices the woman
squatting in the dirt in front of the man. She is supporting her elbow with one
hand, her forearm dangling at an unnatural angle. Her head is completely
covered with her pallu, and she is
talking to the man in a quiet whisper. Radha watches, wondering if her
brother-in-law has taken another wife.
She picks up a small stone and
throws it at him. She misses. The second time, she hits him in the thigh, but
he merely flicks his hand, as if swatting away an insect. He is listening
intently to the woman. Radha throws more pebbles, managing to hit him several
times. At last, he lifts his head and looks around him.
Radha steps into the clearing so
he can see her.
His eyes widen, as if he is
looking at a ghost. He says, “Lakshmi?”
Excerpted from The
Henna Artist by Alka Joshi, Copyright © 2020 by Alka Joshi. Published by
MIRA Books.
