The Girl from Calcutta

Taal, Kachchh 

She squinted to look up; the mid-morning sun in the unbearably blue sky hurt her eyes with an almost-aggressive ferocity. There was not a speck of cloud as far as she could see. The land had cracked with a vengeance, as if protesting the pilferage committed by humans. The rains had not come this year. They had dug the mud-holes last year, but with just a few days of rain, the water level was pityingly low. Nasira ran her palm lightly over her belly, hidden mostly under her abha. A smile hovered over her lips.

They had to walk almost three kilometres, to reach the main road, where the tanker came. While coming back with the filled pots, she felt ill; the cramps gripped her at regular intervals.

How she longed to share it with someone. Anyone. She thought of Kolkata didi, as she called her. But didi had forgotten her as well. “She had promised to keep in touch, when she left Tal two months back, but she never did,” Nasira muttered, as her eyes filled up with tears.

Well, that was me she was upset with. 

When I had left Tal, in October, I had promised to call Nasira. I did, fatefully, on this same evening that she had been thinking of me.

But we will come to that later.

 

Calcutta, Bengal

Back in 1997.

Nasira, the eldest of five children, was 13. Her father, Naseer miyan worked as a daily labourer; along with other men, he would wait in front of the tram depot in Park Circus every morning, for contractors to hire them. Ameena bibi woke up at the crack of dawn. By the time she left at five, Nasira was standing in the ‘water line.’ The family of seven lived in a single room; the kitchen was a corner of the same room. The toilets and showers, for common use, were scattered throughout the basti.

On some Sundays, Naseer miyan took the little ones to the zoo. Nasira stayed back to help her mother. “Abbu, can I come with you on Sunday? I will do all the work on Saturday,” she would say.

“Beti, you have to look after the children. How will you do all the work when ammu and I are out?” Naseer would reply sadly, knowing too well that they were robbing Nasira of her childhood. She would stand and wave, as abbu and the younger children walked towards the tram depot.

I did not know Nasira then. 

From a Mominpur shanty in Central Calcutta, Nasira had arrived in Kachchh at the age of 14. Kachchh, on the western fringe of India’s west coast, the typical head of a tortoise that is a great help for alignment, when you try to draw the map of India is one of the toughest terrains in the country. The dry desert land had not been easy on the girl from the plains. But fate weaves strange coincidences. Why else would Alam Basheer come to Calcutta to look for a match for his nephew? Why else would he land up at their basti, through a common acquaintance?

Just after Durga Pujo that year, an envoy from the west had come to the basti, scouting for a girl of marriageable age. Nasir had come to know about it, while waiting for his turn at the toilet one day. He had been uncertain, but the basti elders said there was no harm if he met the envoy. So, on a Sunday afternoon, Alam Basheer had come home.

Naseer was in two minds; on one hand, his elder daughter was growing up as fast as a bamboo shoot. There was no money for a decent marriage. Her only prospect was to marry someone like himself and live a life of poverty, as now. On the other hand was Alam Basheer, with a proposal; no sharara, no gold, not a single rupee to be spent. And the boy had land and goats. What else could he want!

“My nephew needs to be married; he is the eldest of my brother’s children. We do not have many girls in our villages. I request the hand of your daughter. She will be like our own child,” Basheer saab had promised.

There was also the thirty thousand rupees that he offered as mahr. Naseer had to think of his three sons; he could send them to school with that money, start a small store. They could live just a little better. At night, Naseer said to Ameena, “Am I selling my Nasira?”

In the morning, accepting the money, Naseer arranged for a small feast for his family. Basheer was also invited. Nasira wore a cheap, but new, sharara and glowed like a martyr.

Calcutta to Tal

It was a long train journey; Basheer bought fruits, sweets, puri, and water on the way. Nasira had never been on a train. Thrilled at first, she had soon become tired. Once, when she woke up, she found her head resting on Basheer chacha’s shoulder.

It was getting quite hot. The land outside the window changed colour from the vibrant green, of the plains of the east, to a dry, thorny, exhausted look. After two days and change of trains, they arrived at a small station. From there, they took a bus. The entire world seemed to be on the bus. Nasira looked in wonder at the colourful dresses of the women, the chunks of metal around their necks, hanging from their ears, and on their arms. The jewellery was heavy, some of the women had their ear lobes hanging precariously, with its weight. Nasira stared in wonder, unconsciously caressing her left ear. They looked shackled, but happy. Men sat with goats on their laps. They wore a sort of tunic, mostly white.

Basheer woke up with a start; “Unth, unth…,” Nasira, an animated look on her face, was pointing outside the window. It was a herd of wild camels. Basheer smiled and nodded. Nasira had only seen the camels commercially used for joy rides, rarely that too.

They reached at sundown. Nasira felt tired and drowsy. The evening wind had a nip. Her thin cotton kameez was not enough for the Kachchhi winter that was setting in. 

It was just the beginning of November, the year was 1997.

I did not know Nasira then. 

Tal, Kachchh

The day of the nikah was bright and sunny; there was feasting, dancing, merriment. Nasira had no clue what was being said and eaten; the music, though new, was pleasing. The marriage customs were fun. ‘Marriage is actually nice,’ she thought. There was no one in the village who could speak Bangla (her language). All communications were being mimed; Nasira was enjoying herself thoroughly. She wore a pretty Jalabiya—that’s what the women called her marriage dress. When she first saw herself in the dotted mirror, she got a shock. The dress outlined every curve of her young body; her head, arms, neck, and ears had ornaments, their coloured stones lighting up her face. Throughout the entire ceremony she remembered herself in the mirror and every now and then ran her hand over the silk.

At night, Alamgir, the person she had got married to, gave her a toothy smile, patted the pillow, and went off to sleep. Nasira had no distinct idea what Alamgir was supposed to do; but something had to happen tonight, surely. She remembered Jaya di, Lily’s elder sister, back in her Calcutta basti. Jaya di had got married the summer before and when she came home a few days later, there were plenty of discussions, albeit sotto-voce. Lily and Nasira had caught scraps of it.

“It was a little painful…the first night….but by God. What a tyrant he is... insatiable and mad for me…,” Jaya di had not sounded too displeased about that. “Ohhhh and all the marks on my body….after all, the in-laws are there,” more giggling had followed.

She looked at her sleeping husband....her husband…. She was married! It felt unreal. Her mother was not here. Nasira wiped away the tears that had started rolling down her cheek. Taking off the ornaments were a tedious task; she cried some more. All the initial happiness had disappeared. Now, she wanted to go home, to that room, where they all slept in a line.

I got to know Nasira seven years after this.

Tal, Kachchh

The ramshackle Jeep had taken an almost ninety degree turn from the highway to enter the unpaved road, raising a cloud of dust in the process. I hung on to my seat, wishing I had taken the more road-worthy Sumo. We bumped along the brown muddy road, scattering the goats, which ran helter-skelter. And Jagdip, trying to keep the wheel steady, finally announced, “Madam, we have reached Tal.”

It was October 2004.

I had come to Bhuj for my work. My first stop was Tal, in the Nakhatrana district of Kachchh, one of the most inhospitable regions of India. There were regions where the water tanker came once a week. Taking a bath was a luxury reserved for special occasions.

Before the dust could settle down, faces appeared at all the windows. It seemed that the entire village had poured out. I gave, what I hoped was, my most winsome smile. The first 10 minutes were important; if I could get past that, the rest would be a cakewalk. I was literally carried forward, by the inquisitive crowd, to what looked like the village centre. Jagdip was trailing behind. Looking back, I gave him a withering look that made him hurry up. I smiled weakly and gestured to show that I wanted to drink some water; I have always found it to be a good ice-breaker; it signals trust and respect. Immediately orders were shouted out. I settled down on the smooth mud-swept platform, before chairs could be brought out; this—experience had shown—was another good move. I desperately needed the confidence of these people. I wanted them to pour out their stories to me, paint their lives on my canvas, and give me my ‘material.’

I was on an initial recce for a documentary on the social and cultural tapestry of Kachchh. I was aiming to gather sound bites, do a location recce, and trying to figure out the story line.

We were having mugs of hot, sweet, milky tea; the milk had a decidedly different taste and I yanked my mind from wondering about its source. But the crucial 10 minutes were over; the faces around were friendly. The village elder, one Abdullah Turk, was also a bard of some repute. My dictaphone was on overdrive. At times, when too many people spoke together, I scribbled down the details. Quite a few people knew Hindi and I could manage without Jagdip.

Suddenly my phone rang and I jumped. There had been no signal after we had left the city limits. It was my brother from Calcutta, calling to check if I had reached. While on the call, a bit distracted by what he was saying, I noticed a woman get very excited and disappear hastily into a nearby house. I disconnected the call, as quickly as I could, worried that I would lose the flow of the story.

Turk saab was narrating the fascinating tale of how Kachchh became a veritable melting pot of cultures. People had come from far-off places, and landed on the western coast of India. Intermingling with the locals had given rise to the unique Kachchhi culture and demography. “The harsh climate and rough terrain have made us tall and sturdy. You will notice that even our women are rather well-built,” he explained. 

The woman who had got up, was now back. She was now wearing a red bindi on her forehead. She was about twenty. Her round face—with doe-like dark eyes—was without the angular edges, predominant in this part of the country. There seemed to be suppressed excitement, passed on from her to the group; nudges, smiles…

“What is it?’ I couldn’t help but ask.

“You spoke on the phone…”

‘Yes, I did. My brother had called from Calcutta,” I answered, a little surprised.

“Calcutta?” she cried out loudly, the dark-eyed one.

“Yes. Why do you ask? It’s quite far. You wouldn’t have heard of it,” I offered patronizingly.

“But I know! I am from Calcutta, Mominpur. Do you know it?” she asked.

“What!” Nothing could have surprised me more.

“Yes, I got married here in Tal. My parents stay in Calcutta. My brothers work and study there.”

“You speak Bangla?” That was the first thing that I asked.

“Very few words. I have forgotten, as there is no one here, with whom I can speak. My brother had come to visit me last year—the first time in the last seven years. I tried to speak to him then.”

“Speak to me. What is your name?” I asked in Bangla.

“Nasira,” she said shyly.

The villagers watched our exchange with a fascinated look. Turk saab said, “Madam, Nasira is now the daughter of Tal.”

“Ji haan, Turk saab,” I replied, my mind whirring to embed this exceptional point in my documentary. I had never expected such demographic migration. Truly the social cauldron of India!

“But you know we did not foresee a very real problem,” Turk saab continued. Looking at my uncomprehending face, he elaborated, “The people from the east are smaller in stature and we fear that our future generations may not be as sturdy.” Another important research pointer, I noted with excitement.

That night, lying under the soft blanket that she had brought to cover me, I heard of her journey from Mominpur to Tal. 

I could catch the October chill, she had warned; but I just could not let this opportunity go by. A thorough-bred Calcuttan, sleeping out in the open…that would be some anecdote to boast. Basheer had vehemently protested; “There is room madam, we have kept everything arranged for you,” he had said, his face wearing a hassled look. But I had insisted. I had to hear Nasira’s story. I was curious; I had felt a connect.

We slept under the open sky, Nasira and I. Time had come to a standstill; we were suspended in eternity. The night sky was dotted with so many stars. They seemed to be piled—one on top of the other, as if for a lack of space. It was like a blanket of shimmering sequins, enveloping us.

“Did you eat properly?” It was Nasira who broke the silence.

Was it just this morning that I had met her for the first time? 

We were managing mostly in broken Hindi, but I was speaking in Bangla to her, whenever I could.

“Yes,” I lied. In reality, the Bajra rotla and extremely hot vegetable had created havoc with my sensitive Bengali digestive system.

“We don’t get fish here,” she said; “I will make you a bater curry tomorrow. Would you like that?”

“I am not much of a foodie, don’t you worry. Rather, spend some time with me. I will be gone tomorrow morning.”

“We have the entire night,” she said with a little girl naughtiness.

“Won’t Alamgir object?”

“Yes he will; he likes me to run my fingers through his hair and sing to him.” Nasira’s face was sad but compassionate. Waiting for a reply, which did not come, Nasira said, “Didi, Alam is a child in a man’s body. They got him married first, as he was the eldest.”

I did not know what to say. A girl of 13 had come across the breadth of a country, leaving her home, parents, a known life, only to be married to an overgrown child? I had seen Alam—quite the sturdy Kachchhi type, though a little vacant in the face.

With the stillness of the night covering us in a wrap, sisters in an alien land, Nasira had poured her heart out to me. 

Alamgir, Aatif, Abaan, became Basheer saab’s responsibility, when a severe drought and following hardship, had taken the life of both his ailing brother and his wife. As the children grew up, Basheer understood that Alam was different. While the younger brothers studied, played and harassed him and his wife, like normal children, Alam would sit quietly in one place. At school he did not understand what the teacher said. Soon they were asked not to send him. Alam would take the goats and be away for the whole day. Sometimes Basheer would go in search of him and find him talking to trees and his goats. Physically, a strapping young man, Basheer thought that Alam would become more mature and responsible with marriage and produce the much-needed offspring.

“You….still a virgin?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” she smiled, her face changing colour, those dark eyes smouldering like burnt coal.

“Abaan and I are lovers….” After a pause, she continued, “Didi , I could not help it. I care for Alam, but….” Her voice trailed off into the darkness.

I patted her hand, trying to feel the torments of that young mind.

“But what happens when Abaan gets married?” I asked.

“I have not thought about it. Abaan is the only reason that I could make it through the last so many years. They are all nice and caring, but the land was so tough, didi. At times, days would be so hot that I would want to rip off my clothes. There are no ponds, like we have in Calcutta. It is so dry. Kachchhi women are not house bound. We work in the field, take the goats out. Your throat gets parched with the dry mud; eyes get crusted, feet get scalded. Didi, I tried my best to adjust. I forgot the food I loved, the songs I sang, the language I spoke, the birds I saw, the greenness of my land.”

“Why don’t you marry Abaan?”

“Alam would not understand; he may become worse from the shock. And….I know Abaan will never marry another girl. He loves me like crazy. From the time he has grown up, he has known no other. He is addicted to me,” Nasira’s voice was confident.

At first, Nasira had thought that Alam was shy, after all he had never had many girls to talk to and no experience of physical relation. As for her, the only knowledge she had of conjugal life were shreds of conversation, overheard at their basti toilet queues. But Alam never did or try anything remotely similar to what Jaya di had hinted. He took her around their village; showed her his goats; told her all their names, insisting that she remember all of them; he took her to the edge of the village and pointed at the three acacia trees, Punu, Papa, and Piu.

“My friends,” he had introduced them to his newly-wed wife.

One day Ammi (Basheer’s wife), had found her sitting under one of the acacia trees, singing a song, which sounded very sad. Ammi’s watery blue eyes were almost blind from the rich thread-work she had been doing all her life.

How could she read Nasira’s face? How could she feel the fire in her body? The heat of the land was at its peak…..Nasira was all of fifteen and her body burned for that one touch that would ease the hunger.

“Abaan is quite a man…don’t you think?” Ammi had said.

Nasira had looked at the creased old face. The eyes that usually looked dull, were burning with a feverish look.

“Ammi…!”

It was then that Nasira started noticing Abaan. All three brothers looked almost the same. But Abaan, who was a year or so younger than Alam, was the tallest of the three. He had a high forehead, dreamy eyes, and a gentle smile. The tough physique was in complete contrast to the sensitive face—quite irresistible to the girls in the village. This, of course, Nasira discovered, as her interest in Abaan grew.

Thanks to the area’s water shortage, the weekly bath was nothing short of a festive occasion for the women. It was all about scented oil, fresh dresses, and surma (the black colour for the eyes). For Nasira, it was the time to discover her body. Free of the heavy layers of cloth, she could touch all those secret spots of desire. As her fingers circled the smooth, young lines of her breast, her thumb rubbed the nipples…her eyes would close in ecstasy. She let the sensation soak into her body……and the hands took a life of its own…the strokes got bolder, they moved to the sticky wetness between her legs, they forced her open and thrust deep…touching the very core of her being. Nasira quivered like a leaf in a storm; a storm so intense that it crumbled her up and left her crumpled in its aftermath….

Ammi had left a kira in her head.

She just couldn’t get Abaan out of her mind. And that day she had it planned. Before leaving for her bath, she had asked Abaan to bring the scented oil from Ammi’s house, as her own bottle had run out. Soon enough, Abaan had knocked on the door, the bottle of jasmine oil in his hand. Later on, Abaan would not be able to recall the exact sequence of events. Did he push open the door, when there was no response to his knocking, and then Nasira had pulled him inside? Did Nasira open the door and pull him inside? Or did he push the door and go inside? All he did remember were his hands pouring the oil and moving over the smooth brown body; discovering the hills and dales and valleys. Soon the soft body rubbed against his bronzed one and slithered like a snake around him. He was trapped and he did not want to escape.

They had been sitting around the fire, one winter evening, last year. Spirits were high with the summer heat abating. The elderly men and women were sharing the hookah. Ammi sucked large lungs full, whenever it came around to her. Nasira sat with the married women. She had few friends. All the girls, who could have been her friends, were unmarried. They went to the village school. They had nothing in common with her. One of these girls, Azzah, was sitting across Abaan....The music was picking up tempo. A few of the young boys got up and soon others joined in a spirited ged-do, doing the horse movements in sync with the drums. Abaan got up too. Nasira noticed Azzah’s eyes following Abaan, as hungrily, as her own. She had felt a pain deep inside her and clutched her chest in alarm. It was so physical that for a moment she thought that her heart would stop beating.

“Abaan is mine….he is mine…he is mine…” It became a frenzied chanting inside her that grew with the drums beats. She had squashed the baby crab, crawling on the sand, in her rage. The scraps had dirtied her hand but quenched her jealousy.

I did not know when I had fallen asleep. Nasira had covered me with a soft blanket.

My work got over in a couple of days. Before leaving Tal, I had given my number to Nasira. “Call me whenever you feel like talking. I will also call you,” I had promised.

Ahmedabad, Gujarat

I got busy winding up the house and delegating office work. My husband and children had shifted to Calcutta a few months back, in time for the new school session. I had stayed put trying to finish the initial work for the documentary and other book liaisons that had been in the pipeline. With a few weeks in hand, before everything closed for Christmas, everything seemed to be in a mad rush. In all this I forgot to call Nasira, and hung up rather hurriedly when she called after Diwali.

I did call her, however, on the evening, before I left for Calcutta.

It was coincidentally the same day that she had promised not to call ‘didi’ ever. 

“Didi…..!” She had screamed happily into the receiver.                                                

“What?” I had asked laughing.

“Guess what! Only today I was thinking that I will never call you again,” she had said in Bangla. Then without waiting, she had continued, “But you called! I am so happy, didi. I have so much to tell you,” she rattled on without a pause.

Abaan had given her a beautiful silver necklace. He had ordered it at a shop in Bhuj. It was from his first earning; he had joined the village school, as a teacher.

“That is nice,” I had said. She had caught the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. “Didi, are you not happy for me?”

‘Yes Nasira, I am. But I also fear for you,” I had said, knowing too well that she was hanging on to life, by a very feeble thread called Abaan.

“Don’t worry, didi. If you can, please visit my parents once you reach Calcutta,” she had said happily. “And didi, there is something else…,” her voice was low and conspiratorial. “I am with his child…,” it had trailed off. I could almost see her happy blush and it made me rather sad.

“Are you sure?” I had asked, wrapping my shawl tightly against the cold wind. I hoped it was a false alarm. I dared not think what the village would do to her, if it turned out to be true.

If only I knew it would be our last conversation. 

 

Back in Kolkata, April 2005

I had got busy setting up my Calcutta projects and Nasira—in distant Tal—became a memory, a story oft-repeated at parties, as an interesting conversation point.

On a bright spring morning in April, the phone had rang. I picked it up, smiling moodily at the flame-of-the-forest, across the quiet street.

“Salam-alekum, madam.” The voice soft and known.

“Why…it’s Basheer saab,” I was caught by surprise.

Two days back they had found Nasira, cradling Abaan’s head to her chest, her blood drenched scythe lying close by. She was rocking his head, in a way a mother puts her child to sleep, an animal groan gurgling in her throat. With the end of her red odhni, crusted a darker red, she had been trying to stop the blood that was spewing out like water from a punctured pipe.

No one knew exactly what had happened. 

That morning, like other mornings, she had made bajra rotla’s and kept them with some gud and milk, the way Alam liked it. Tying a rotla and some onion, at the end of her odhni, she had left with the cattle. Around mid-afternoon, as was usual, ammi came to the field, with some cold butter milk and rotlas. She did not find Nasira under the acacia trees. The goats were scattered under its shade, the greedy ones had climbed the branches. She had settled herself, thinking Nasira must have gone to relieve herself. But when she did not come back, ammi had stood up muttering. She found Nasira behind the big rock, which the children climbed up to watch the distant highway.

Still and stupefied, there she sat, with Abaan’s head cradled to her chest. 

No one had been able to make her utter a single word. When the women had bathed her, before putting her to bed, they had found that she was with a baby. The police had send in their medical examiner, who confirmed that Nasira was seven months pregnant; there was no evidence of sexual assault. The baby was unharmed, the police doctor had said, before prescribing some relaxants.

Basheer saab, his voice stoic, told me, “Madam, I had really hoped that the doctor would find evidence of force.” He was using all his contacts to concoct a case of mental instability.

“I don’t want to lose this girl who is like a daughter to me. I thought I would let you know….” His voice had trailed off.

“How did all this happen?” I had asked, dazed.

“Abaan decided to marry an educated girl, a teacher at the school. Nasira was his adolescence, a willing partner. But he had outgrown her. Maybe, he had chosen that day to tell her about his unwillingness to continue with their relationship.”

So Basheer saab knew!

“Ohh…I had spoken to Nasira at the end of December and she had mentioned that she was pregnant. Could it be that she had told Abaan about the child and he had felt trapped?......Maybe, just maybe, they HAD a fight and Nasira had acted in self-defence….” I trailed off…..

The line was quiet for a few seconds, before Basheer, clearing his throat, said very softly, almost to himself, “Now, that indeed may have been the case…thank you ji.. bahut meherbani aap ki.”

I had the distinct impression that my suggestion had shown him a light.

“Basheer saab, let me know if I can help,” I had said, out of my city-breed courtesy.

The soft voice gone, he had continued in his stoic relay, “Madam ji, I just called to let you know. I had seen how she had shared all her pain and joy with you. I will protect her. You pray for her. There is lot of strength in the prayers of loved ones. Khuda Hafiz,” he had hung up.

We had never spoken again.

Kolkata, October 2006

Yesterday the NGO that had helped me coordinate the recce, and shoot the documentary, in Kachchh, send a congratulatory mail. Their work had been featured and it was an important recognition for them. It brought back memories – of Nasira.

I got to know that she was well.

Jagdip, my driver on that trip, called me.

“Madam, this is Jagdip. I am a hero in my village, thanks to you!” he exclaimed with considerable pride.

Taking some time to dust my memory, I said, “That’s exciting, Jagdip. You were a great help. Thank you once again.”

After some small talk, I asked, “Did you ever go back to Tal? Remember Nasira—the girl who could speak Bangla? Do you know anything about her?” all in one breath. Before Jagdip could disconnect the call.

“Han ji. Gaya tha. My sister got married in Lifri, a neighbouring village. So, the day after her wedding, I went to meet Basheer chacha. You remember him?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said hurriedly, not wanting him to stop.

“All is well madam. Chacha is frail, but seemed happy. He was playing with a little girl. Nasira’s daughter. I did not meet Nasira, she must have been in the field. Chacha asked about you. But madam, I had no news of you. You never called, once you went back,” Jagdip ended accusingly.

“I know, I have no excuse. But I am so glad that you called today,” I answered, trying to hide the relief in my voice. We spoke for a few more minutes, but my mind was elsewhere. In a dusty village, on a mud porch, an old man and a little girl. I smiled to myself. I felt a great burden being lifted.

Nasira had been acquitted. Not just by law but by society.

I felt light, no more guilt.