SARAH
Look at me! I think I look happier. Unless these toilet mirrors are like the flattering, slimming ones they have in some of the clothes shops which make my mammoth size twenty two body look like an almost respectable size eighteen, and they put roses in your cheeks, whiten your teeth and widen your smile. Where’s my lipstick in this mess of a handbag? I must tidy it up when I get home. There it is. That makes an even better picture. Mirror mirror on the wall ...
I’m so thrilled Tim reacted the way he did today. Although I’m quite surprised how quickly he came around to the idea of us being content without children. It was almost like a relief to him too. Maybe he never really wanted kids in the first place. Now there’s a worrying thought. Did I push him into it, I wonder? No, he always seemed so excited when we talked about it and planned our future. And he was never reluctant on the practical side of trying either! Perhaps he was just keeping me happy; that’s Tim all over. Oh, I don’t know. I think we do need to talk some more when he gets back from the stag weekend but I’m satisfied he’s alright with it all for now and it’s a weight off my mind knowing I’ve told him how I feel.
I bet he’s thinking of how to spend the ‘Baby Pot’ too. I’ll have to watch out for deliveries of new golf clubs and that fancy computer he’s always going on about. I’d best get a holiday booked soon before it’s all spent up! I quite fancy Barbados, this year, splash out on a real bit of luxury. One of the doctors at work says it’s amazing. Our grown up world is something to really look forward to, how ever we spend our money and time. Even just lazy weekends reading the newspapers and pub lunches in the countryside seem attractive when there’s no underlying wish that it could be different. I must remember to pray for our new future at church on Sunday.
And that meal was fabulous. I could eat my prawn starter all over again and that chocolate fudge cake was to die for. I’m glad Tim’s driving so I can finish that bottle of wine before he drops me back at home. There is something to be said for peaceful child-free restaurants too. We’d probably have ended up in fast food outlets every weekend with children; fine dining would have become a distant memory.
I can’t believe it has taken me so long to realise what my priorities are in life. The world expects every married couple to produce offspring and when they don’t, they feel like a failure. We are not failures; we are fully satisfied human beings with a wonderful relationship and successful careers. Why should I care what the world wants when all I want is a quiet life, with my husband, enjoying the fruits of our labour? I had become so wrapped up in my baby tunnel that I couldn’t see this truth.
I will keep my promise to lose weight though. And I’m going to be serious about it this time. No more take aways, no more chocolate or crisps and I’m going to go to the gym with a better attitude. Victoria Beckham doesn’t look that good without a little hard work and sacrifice. Pretending I was eating well and being half hearted about exercise was just getting me down. This is where my downward spiral stops.
Right. Tim’s going to wonder what on Earth I’ve been doing in here for so long. I’m glad there was no-one else in here; they’d’ve thought I was bonkers too, putting my lippy on three times and admiring at myself in the mirror. Nothing wrong with a little but of daydreaming now and again. Anyway, Tim said he was going to ask for the bill. That’ll leave just enough time to finish the wine and then Tim’ll drop me back at home on his way to the airport.
ME
Oh how I enjoyed that! Once the disorientation has settled, rejoining the human race is actually quite sublime. In my timeless, weightless, shapeless state I had forgotten what it is to be alive. To be real again and to feel again, floods me with desire to be reborn.
To feel Vicky’s clothes against her skin reignited my sensations. The cool, silky material enveloped her body and every fibre seemed to tease her nerve endings as she moved throughout the evening.
My senses, once fully awake, became intoxicated when Sarah devoured her lunch. Sweet followed savoury, rough combined with smooth and sent me to forgotten heights of ecstasy. Never before had I appreciated a full culinary experience, from the first flavours detected by the taste buds on our tongues to the divine feeling of satisfaction at the pit of the stomach.
Now on a mission to experience these basic human functions, I tuned into the smells around me. Although Nell despised it, I absorbed the smell of that hospital with a thirst that could not be quenched. Disinfectant pervades, in its attempt to triumph over the others but a keen nose can detect all sorts of other odours in such a place. Bodily excretions are in abundance there: blood, vomit, sweat, urine, faeces. No-one wants to see them or smell them or even admit that they exist but we all know that without them, we could not function as human beings.
I even found great pleasure in listening to Shannon’s parents arguing. Of course, my great sadness lay with the innocent plight of the girl and her brother. However, to hear two people so passionate about their point of view that their voices battle for supremacy and invade the silence of all those around them, makes a mark on the world. To heighten the emotions of another human being is to let them know that they are not alone, that they are eternally intertwined with others in the race.
As if sensing all of the things that these women were experiencing wasn’t enough, I began to feel their emotions. When Vicky was preparing to ask Dan to marry her, she had several failed attempts. Every time she thought about pausing the party to make the announcement, I felt a rush of adrenaline through her veins and the way it seemed to stop at her pounding heart. When she finally found the courage to see it through, the anticipation of what would happen next was almost too much to bare. Her lips trembled with every word she uttered and her voice altered as her mouth dried. Here I was, perching on the edge of a life changing moment.
Of course these women haven’t all had such excitement in their lives today. When Shannon’s mother stood by her husband rather than her daughter, the rejection felt almost physical, as if someone had driven a knife into to the poor girl’s heart. She is so confused as she enters the adult world and as such, is unable to voice her fears to anyone.
Nell’s pain is equally difficult to experience. The wall with which she surrounds herself is impenetrable by others which makes her grief stifling, as it bounces back, unable to escape beyond her self-made barrier. At times, I felt that this overload was sufficient to knock me right back out of Nell’s body.
Sarah has travelled an emotional journey of late and her disappointment and feelings of failure have been uplifted by her sudden optimism and hope for the future. She is strong in her faith and believes that her god will provide guidance. I have felt this strength and it is inspiring. To see the best in our lives and to find joy in despair is to step out of a dark hole and run towards the sunrise.
What I still find fascinating about all of these women, however, are their priorities. They value things that were so much less precious to me in former lives. Whether it be a wardrobe full of clothes, or pointless electronic devices, they seem to define themselves and their happiness by what they have and what they own. Vicky spends her life trying to impress the world around her with what she wears and with the interior of her house; Nell’s unhappiness is exacerbated because she cannot afford to do either of these things. Sarah feels her life will be enhanced by spending her money and Shannon most certainly would not be able to function without her laptop or mobile telephone. In my uncertain state, one thing I do know, is that no-one really finds their happiness this greedy, gathering of belongings and material wealth. As I struggle to understand them, I recall the last days of someone I used to be, someone who’s needs were so much more basic ...
JIYA
The months leading up to my end were, as I remember, pleasant enough. Despite our circumstances, my memories are filled with sunshine and laughter. Earlier that year, Pitaa had finally decided to allow us go to school and my sisters and I could not have been more delighted. Maataa had asked him before but every time he had said there was no virtue in educating us. What would we learn from school that would equip us for the rest of our lives? How to be a good wife and look after the children? No, he would say, they shall stay at home and help here.
But then the lady from the Garden School came to visit. She had been going around lots of houses in Dharmapur, telling families about a new opportunity for their children.
“Pah!” Pitaa exclaimed sarcastically, “If it’s as good as the anganwadi, we’ll all be eternally grateful!”
I remembered the previous year when well-dressed people would come to the feeding points and dole out ladles of gruel to me and my sisters as we stood, holding out our tin pots on the hot, dusty street. At first, it was every day. They fed only the children but I could see the relief in Maataa’s eyes when we returned with full bellies and she knew that some of us, at least, would not go to sleep hungry that night. One day, we waited in vain, just to return home with shining but unused pots. They did return after that but no-one could predict when and on the occasions they did, the gruel became less and less. Someone in the town told Pitaa that the workers were selling the food for profit in more affluent areas of Bhopal.
“And don’t even speak to me about the ration cards!” Pitaa broke my day dream, “The government has no idea what life is like for us.”
“No, sir,” the lady spoke softly, “This will be different; it’s not like the government schools. The government will not be involved. The Garden School is entirely charitable and organised through the goodwill and generous donations of our kind benefactors. Your children will be provided with the kind of skills that will help them in whatever job they choose to do when they are older. We will even liaise with employers to ensure that older children are able to combine school with work.”
Pitaa continued to fan his face with a grass leaf and Maataa continued to rock Aasha, my youngest sister, to sleep in the corner.
“Your daughters would each receive all of the books and equipment they would need as well as a uniform to wear,” the lady looked at the three of us and her eyes revealed her discomfort at seeing Anya and Prisha in their unashamedly naked state. I, a little older, was wearing a dress Maataa had been given by a neighbour, whose older children had outgrown it.
“And your son would be old enough to join them in a year or so,” she gestured down to Aadi, who was lying down, making circular patterns in a patch of dust he had uncovered by pushing one of our floor rugs to one side.
“Ahh,” she had Pitaa’s attention now. Everything was different when it came to Aadi. Two of Maatta’s babies had died before Aadi arrived so there were huge celebrations when this boy child was born and made it beyond his first year.
“They will also be given a hot midday meal at no cost to yourselves.”
I saw Maataa’s eyes light up and dart across the room to Pitaa. The kind lady left shortly after and we were at school the very next week.
Every morning I would get up and get my sisters dressed in their uniform. When I put on my own, it felt hot and constricting but it felt mine. Never before had we owned clothes which had not previously belonged to someone else. When I put on my blue shirt, I felt taller, more important. We each had a deep green cotton skirt which, when rolled at the top, fitted snuggly around our swollen abdomens. In each side of the skirt was a pocket which had little purpose for children with no belongings but made us feel like someone cared enough to make it for us.
Then my sisters and I would wave goodbye to Maataa and the little ones and run to school, joking and laughing all of the way. It was as if our journey to school lead us into a different world where food and survival were no longer all we thought about.
Teachers at school were like gods and in my mind were to be worshipped and adored alongside Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Certainly, Brahmam had been incarnated on Earth in the form of Miss Steel. She had come over from America for a year to help with our school. Her Hindu was poor at first but that didn’t matter; drawing and painting don’t require language and the animals and people she showed us how to draw spoke for themselves. As she became more familiar with Hindu, she would sing the words to English songs to us and try to explain their meaning. In return, we would teach Miss Steel Bollywood songs and, when we got a little more confident, show her the dance routines we’d made up in the streets after school. All morning we looked forward to our rice, a refreshing change from the chapati we’d been having at home: rice had become so expensive that everything had to be made from the small amount of wheat flour Maataa treasured in a can at home.
When we had finished school for the day, my sisters and I would walk home, chattering about how much we had enjoyed ourselves. It was an unsaid rule that this stopped just before we walked in the house. The corrugated metal walls and roof were a far cry from the plaster and paint of the school building. Nonetheless, we changed our clothes and our expectations when we arrived home. Maataa would be still sitting outside sorting the green leaves into bundles ready for the cigarette man to collect and Aadi would have found a shady spot next to her, escaping the scorching heat. She would hug the three of us until we felt like we would suffocate the baby, who was sleeping, wrapped to Maataa, in a faded, black cloth. I would take the baby, Aadi and the girls to play with our friends in the street which gave Maataa time to finish her work and prepare the chapati for supper. We even had some onion and ground chilli for a while so Pitaa’s return form work felt like a feast.
This was our steady, contented routine until my last few weeks. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had loving parents, my sisters and brother, food in my stomach and most of all my school and my Miss Steel. If given a wish, I couldn’t have thought of anything to hope for.
And then it changed. One day we came home to find Pitaa sitting next to Maataa. Without questioning his presence, my sisters simply embraced him before hugging Maataa. They quickly went to play but I knew there was a reason he was home at this time of day. Usually it was dusk before he returned.
When the smaller ones had gone to sleep that night, I asked Maataa what was wrong. “Nothing, sweet Jiya,” she reassured me, “Go to sleep.”
In our house, it was impossible to talk privately; no room divisions meant no secrets so I heard their conversations that evening. Pitaa had been doing odd jobs for a man of higher caste who lived in the next town for well over a year now. They were just labouring jobs: sowing the crops, fixing the sheds, that sort of thing. He wasn’t paid highly but alongside Maataa’s leaf sorting, there was enough money to buy the wheat flour for the week. Pitaa’s employer had been killed in a machinery accident that day which meant no more work.
Maataa sobbed and Pitaa comforted.
“What are we to do?” she cried.
“We will pray to Lakshmi for guidance and have faith that the gods will provide for us, if not in this life then in the next.”
And with that, I saw the pair move over to our altar and offer the last piece of our supper to the murti.
The following days were difficult. My sisters and I barely suffered as we still went to school and received our lunchtime gift. The baby was fine as Maataa was still able to feed her milk. But Maataa and Pitaa and poor little Aadi ravished their chapati every evening with a hunger I knew came from eating nothing else all day. Aadi grew weak and his dark skin paled when compared to our own. Even in a few short days his stomach ballooned and he became more lethargic than ever.
Knowing that our family faced more hardship than ever made it almost impossible to concentrate at school. I spent my time thinking of ways I could help. In my darkest moment, I thought about the families of my friends and which ones left their homes unoccupied in the afternoons. I could easily sneak in and take some of their wheat flour. That idea was short lived when I remembered what Maataa always taught us, “It is better to be poor than to be a thief.” I realised that this idea would create terrible Karma for me and so my plan had to be different.
I did it without really thinking one day. When the teacher who served us lunch handed me my plate of rice, I went to sit in the corner of the room with my back to the adults. I quickly filled my skirt pockets with my lunch and sat for a moment to make sure no-one noticed.
All afternoon I was careful not to lose a grain and by the time I returned home, the starchy substance had formed two flat circles. Maataa said Aadi was lying down inside so I went in to see him. His eyes were shut although I could tell he was not asleep. So I called his name and he mustered the energy to smile at me. I sat him up and fed him the rice balls. That night he ate with less ferocity, which was lucky as our chapattis were increasingly smaller in size.
I continued this offering every afternoon. Aadi got better and started to play outside with the rest of us again. Pitaa said it was a miracle and that Lakshmi was looking down on us. Aadi, of course, started to look for his afternoon treat and began to run down the street to meet me and my rice parcels every day.
As Aadi got healthier, I began to feel weaker. I longed for my chapati all day but it was no longer enough and my stomach began to swell more than ever. When I got dressed in the morning, I noticed that my hair was thinning and my skin was lightening a shade. When at last I had no energy to walk, I had to stop going to school.
My memories are few after that time. Breathing was difficult and I have an image of Maataa sitting by my bedside, mopping my brow, telling me I had picked up a virus. She also told me that it was all going to be okay as Pitaa was going up to Delhi to work on the rickshaws and this would buy all the wheat flour we would need. But I knew it was too late for me.
At least Pitaa’s boy was saved, I kept thinking. He might go on to have the opportunities that really, were just a fantasy for us girls. Or maybe he won’t. I don’t know what became of the rest of my family and whether they improved their lot. But I do know that my death, like my life, was happy, secure in the knowledge that I had tried to become closer to Brahman and that in doing do, my soul may be one step further towards freedom.