The Ritual

Budhiya liked to reach the field early, before the others. She would be gone, if he was late. “Bhor kea bera hamra niman lagela (I like this early morning time),” he would tell amma. She sometimes grumbled that her bones were not quick to rise. “Get married,” she would cackle. “budhiyo jab tu badu ta hum kahe ke chinta kari (you are there, old woman, why should I worry),” Budhi would tease. The two of them stayed in the Musahar basti on the outskirts of the Thakur village, like many others of their caste. Mainly manual labourers, they worked in fields, houses, and shops owned by the Thakurs and upper castes.

The ‘chataks’ were crying pihu-pihu and going round in circles in the sky. The elders said that it was a sign of the coming rain. Budhiya looked up longingly. Hope they are right, he thought. The ripe wheat stalks swayed in the early morning breeze, golden yellow with the first rays of the sun. Soon it would get difficult to look up at the blazing sky. It was mid-May and barring for a few spells, the sky had been cloudless. In another few days the wheat harvest will be done.

Mahesh Thakur, the landlord was a strict task master. To be fair to him, he also paid in time, and gave two bags of wheat to each of them, after the harvest was taken stock of. Thakur Sa’s haveli was in the middle of his landholdings. The extended family of three brothers, their wives and children lived together. Three years back Badi Thakrayin (Thakar sa’s mother) had expired. The whole village ate on the terahvin of the old lady. That was the first time that Budhi had been to the haveli for a feast.

The first time that he saw her was on Holi, many years back. Bapu took him and amma to the haveli; to pay respect to Badi Thakrayin, Thakar sa and Rukmini Thakrayin. A little girl was playing at a corner of the courtyard with a few dolls. When she looked up, Budhi’s heart skipped. Dark brown eyes, so deep that one could drown. “Itwari ka e tahar beta hauan? (is this your son Itwari?),” Badi Thakrayin had asked bapu. Long back when Badi Thakrayin still used to go around the estate, bapu had been her coachwan. That was before Budhi was born.

Bapu died a few months after holi. Budhi was ten. Amma went to the Haveli and threw herself at Badi Thakrayin’s feet. “Kothi par kam karbu ka? Rukmini ke dosrka bachha hokhe ke ba aur rani ke khyal rakhe wala kehu chahi (will you work at the haveli? Rukmini is going to have her second baby and Rani needs someone to take care of her),” she had asked amma. Budhi had stood beside her, head down, suddenly feeling very vulnerable without bapu. The little girl, whom he had seen playing on the day of Holi, was standing behind Badi Thakrayin, looking at Budhi, with deep dark eyes.

Amma had started to work for Rukmini Thakrayin, Thakur sa’s wife. Helping her with daily household chores, giving her oil massage, running after Rani to feed her. Every day she would get up early, cook rice and dal for Budhiya and leave for the day. With no one to monitor, Budhi would not go to school. He happily went around with his friends, as they took the goats to feed near the wasteland beyond the village. Amma would be back before sundown, sometimes with food from the haveli. If there was nothing, she would come and make thick jowari rotis. They ate with onion, chilli and salt. At night, amma would talk about the haveli and its people, till her voice heavy with sleep, would fade away. Budhi would force himself to keep awake, lest he missed out on Rani’s stories.

Each day he would wait for her to go to the ‘Nahayea wala.’ The bath was at the back of the house. While the elderly ladies of the house finished their morning bath before sunrise, the rules were not strict for the girls. Without turning his head, he could tell that she was picking her way carefully, wary of the rough gravel. Her anklets would whisper, as if afraid to break the quiet of the morning. Carrying her fresh clothes in one hand, the other hand swinging her tightly plaited hair; she would make her way, furtively glancing in his direction. Sometimes just to tease him, she would shake her bracelets. The sound carried across the field. Budhi would bow down into the wheat stems, his body rigid. This was their daily ritual.

Tentatively she would draw the curtain aside, letting the bold rays of sunlight through the crack in the closed door. From inside she would be able to see his strong arms; brown and wiry, as he deftly cut the wheat and from time to time bend double to stack them in bundles. She knew that his entire attention was directed towards the Nahayea wala. His eyes hungry, his ears alert. It made her shiver in excitement.

The earliest Rani could remember him was the day he had come to the haveli for the terahvin. He sat cross legged with the others from the basti, eating heartily. His mother was helping to serve; Rani loved bai-ma, as she called Budhiya’s amma. Her childhood memories had more of bai-ma than Rukmini, her own mother. So when she came looking for bai-ma, on that feast day, to complain that her pink lehenga had got soiled with mud, she saw bai-ma giving a quick hug to an ungainly boy and seeing him off with some packed food. Bai-ma would be staying back at the haveli that night to wind up after the feast. “Hau kaun tha? (who was he),” she had asked her at night. “Maro bitwa, maro Budhi (my son Budhi),” bai-ma had said, lightly patting her back, as she fell asleep.

Today some people were coming to the big house. Taking off her clothes, she remembered she had to been told to get ready before they came. Her hands, however, did not show any such urgency, as her fingers moved caressingly over her body, taking off each piece of garment in a languid movement. Was he watching her? Shameless fellow. She moved her eyes close to the crack. He was no where to be seen. Where is he? Did he go away? Her eyes searched the sun-swept fields and suddenly he stood up, from where he had been bent down in between the wheat stalks. He faced her, as he stood there bronze in the golden sun, the sweat drops glistening on his bare chest. She gasped and moved away. Had he seen her? Did he know that she was looking out for him? Her body scorched hot even as the cold water ran down.

They had finalized an alliance with their nephew, the people who had come the other day. She was getting married a month later. Her would-be husband had small children from his first marriage. His wife had died; they said it was while giving birth to their third child. At first she cried a lot. She did not understand why. Was it Budhi? But she reasoned with herself. At 13 she was old enough to understand that Budhi was not someone she could ever marry. He would always be her habit, the one man she would lust for. The one person who would desire her rather than require her. With her husband she would be how her mother, her aunts, were to their husbands. A wife, mother to numerous children who came year after year, an instrument of pro-creation. She would never be the object of passion for her husband. For that there were other women. That was the ritual that Thakur men had established. She cried for the death of desire.

Budhi did not know that Rani was getting married. Even if he knew there was nothing he could have done. He could not even go and meet her. Their encounter had always been a surreptitious affair. It was like that edible smell that the earth emanated when the first shower fell on its parched breast. It was raw, it was a spark that was lighted only in their senses.

Then he saw the haveli getting decorated. Ramps being built and bright red and yellow frills getting arranged; he wondered what the occasion was. Now that amma no longer worked at the big house, he did not get to hear the news. Other people in the basti knew. She was getting married. “Sunat nahi? Haveli ma biyah hota. Thakur sa ka laykini ki (didn’t you hear? Thakur sa’s daughter is getting married),” someone said that evening, as they sat smoking bidi.

Budhiya could not sleep that night. No he was not unrealistic. He knew an alliance between him and Rani was not possible. He did not understand the heaviness that he felt. As if bundles of wheat had been stacked on his chest. He tossed and turned till he fell asleep, double bent, like a foetus.

The month had fast paced with all the excitement that builds up for a marriage. Everyday some person would come displaying the glittering stuff, sarees, cookware, and other things that would be part of her trousseau. The day of marriage dawned. In the morning, as she walked towards the shower, carrying fragrant oil in her hands, she looked out for him. He was not to be seen. Maybe he had not yet come. Where was he? If this was to be her last day, with him, then she wanted to remember it. The fields were empty. All the wheat had gone. The sowing season had started. Hope the monsoon crop thrives, she prayed.

She was a little early today, probably that was why he was not yet in the field, she thought. She started oiling her long stresses while keeping an eye on the crack of the door. A stray golden ray, found its way through the crack, and spilled unapologetically over her bosom, as she untied her blouse. Where was he? Why was he late? Had he gone somewhere? Perhaps, another woman? She couldn’t bear the thought. But why? Why was she waiting for him on her marriage day? She herself would be gone in a day, never perhaps to see him again? So, why was she holding her breath in anticipation? Why was she looking out for him?

She took more time to oil and bathe today. She had to see him once more. Tears were streaming down her eyes as she oiled her body shinning smooth. The water streamed over, bucket after bucket, but still she lingered on. Suddenly a brilliant blue ray flickered, as lightening speed across the sky. She sensed it more than she saw it. An earth shattering thunder followed in seconds. She jumped out of her reverie and wrapped her hair with the chequered towel. Wrapping the cotton saree around her wet body, she gingerly stepped out. Usually this was when they would stand face to face, across the open field. He would leave his work and stand looking at her. A split second of intimacy. She did not know how he timed it so well, maybe the little sound that the bolt made, as she unlocked the door. That was their ritual.

As she walked back hurriedly she glanced up to see the rain clouds hanging low, heavily pregnant with moisture. Ripe and ready to burst at any moment. Hope it rains so heavily that the barat cannot come, she thought unreasonably.

The Gods did not keep her wish. It rained through the morning and into early afternoon. Then the sky cleared. The barat arrived late, delayed by the water that had collected in lot of places, along the way. Rani was dressed in bright red. Her hands and neck and ear adorned with gold. She was waiting to get married.

Her husband’s house was smaller than the haveli. Thakar sa’s blue Ambassador car came to a stop in front of the pink and green double storey house. The walls were of the same colour. The black gate was decorated with strands of marigold flowers and a few women stood there blowing conch shells to welcome the new bride. Thakar sa’s driver Lakhan came out and opened the rear door to help a slightly stooped old woman hobble out. Once out of the car, bai-ma stretched herself, holding on to Lakhan’s hand. Then she hobbled around the back of the car, to the rear door on the other side. Lakhan careful not to leave her unattended, swiftly opened the door and bai-ma said softly, “bahara nikla, tahar ghar aa gayeel bitiya (step out dear, your home has come).” Rani slowly descended, and looked around like a queen surveying her domain. Bai-ma waved her hand at the women and urged them to blow the conch shells louder.

Fate, they say, works in strange ways. And so it did, today morning. As Rani’s newly-wed husband, 45-year old Kishan Raj Chowdhury, stepped down from the four-poster bed, he fell. Unaccustomed to the height of the bed, he had let his weight go before his leg touched the floor. The household, which had slept quiet late, woke to painful screams, much before the crows cawed. He was rushed to the block primary health care, once it opened at ten. Till then he remained curved, in an unusual shape, moaning. He had to be carried to the toilet, much to his chagrin. Rani hovered around for a while, outside the room, and then went to pack her bag. The right hip had twisted and it needed a surgery. Thakar sa’s car had rushed him to the town hospital 35 kms away.

The surgery, if Rani was not mistaken, should be happening now, she thought, smiling shyly at the conch-blowing ladies. “Tanik ekra ghuma ke dekhal bitiya (dear, turn this side and let us have a look),” the women surrounding Rani said from all sides. Bai-ma had been sitting at a nearby chair watching the hullabaloo for some time now. Suddenly she cackled loudly, “agar dulahin ke dekh le le bani ta bahar chali (If you are done with seeing the bride, please leave).” Once the two of them were left alone, they looked at each other and heaved a sigh of relief. “Bai-ma peti khali kare me hamar madad kar (Bai-ma help me to unpack the suitcase),” Rani said.

Once the patient had been transported to the hospital, the groom’s entourage and the men of the haveli had sat down to decide on a course of action. It was decided that since Kishan Raj’s children were alone at home with his aunt, their new mother should immediately proceed and take charge of the house. Once the surgery was done, Budhiya would take Kishan home. It was Rukmini thakrayin, who proposed this, from behind the curtain. She could not let Rani go alone to a new house, she said. And who better than bai-ma to go with her. “Budiya ho gayel ba (she is old),” Thakur sa had said, unsure about the arrangement. “Kono bat nahi, bai-ma se badke koyi nahi (there is no one better than bai-ma),” Rukmini stuck to her decision. Thakar sa was waiting for the marriage to be done with. He was not at all happy to have the process unfinished with Kishan Raj strapped up in the hospital. Rukmini’s plan solved the situation. While bai-ma could help Rani settle in, her son, an able-bodied young man, could take care of the husband and help him to recoup, once he was discharged.

Well all’s well that ends well. While Budhiya kept guard at the hospital waiting for the day when he could bring her husband home, Rani got the house ready for the convalescing patient, to be comfortably settled in a corner room. The wait was fun. The rains came every day. The edible smell from the parched earth filled her senses. She was waiting for her most expensive trousseau. The ritual was to start again.