You had a friend, my dear.

The water lapped at the pilings and the old wooden pier creaked with slow rhythmic pleasure, like an old man in his rocking chair. I leaned my elbows on the window-sill and contemplated the tranquil beauty of the vista. The silver swathe of moonlight beckoned my thoughts. Was it just three months ago that the waters had seethed with activity and bustle?

I had come home, like all Indian women do; the traditional migration to the parental residence when delivering their first child. I was lucky that my husband expected no more of my parents than that they should give me moral support. Society decreed that the entire expenses for the peri-natal period as well as gifts for mother, baby, even father and in-laws were to be lavishly provided by my side of the family. It was enough to pauper the parents still recovering from the expenses of the magnificent wedding mandatory in our community.

Sunil was a most progressive person, perhaps because he was brought up in a cosmopolitan atmosphere. He had followed his Dad into the armed forces. I had received only kind understanding from my in-laws, with blanket permission to behave and conduct myself as I wished, within the limits of decency, of course. My parents had asked me not to wear jeans; my mother-in-law suggested them for convenience and comfort. I never left home after darkness before marriage; my father-in-law himself took us all out for late night movies.

Sunil had already assured my parents he would take me to the Command Hospital for delivery. When they protested it was too far from their house, he had rented us this beautiful lake-side house for six months. We could all stay until my child and I were ready to go back to our home. It was in a locality and surrounded by magnificent bungalows, but our little cottage had a great view from its windows – the lake and its long pier. Azure or turquoise on most days, it could turn an ominous grey in rainy weather.

Neela, my ‘baby’ sister, had summer holidays and she took to the new locale after she found a mall just five minutes away. She often teased me about spending so much time in the window seat and just day-dreaming. My little sister was quite grown-up now.

One morning, the maid-servant announced there was a huge crowd at the pier. Neela was just awake and we tried to get some sense of what was happening; mother was certain it was a bomb in the lake, she admonished us to keep away at all costs. Warnings apart, it was none of our business anyway, so we both strolled down to look. This kind of gentle voyeurism is the prime occupation of an otherwise indolent people. Police cars with flashing-blue lights attempted to cordon off the area, but we knew how to make through the gaps.

The clear water was grayish; the sun had yet to rise. Wouldn’t you know it – sudden precipitation made us run for the nearest awning; but by craning our necks and standing on tip-toe we could still see the action.

“To your right a little, gently now - lower that hook.” The rain beat down in relentless onslaught, as the boat tried to maneuver its retrieval of what the waters had hidden for days.

The Inspector tried to preserve his rigid stance as the gas-swollen pallid corpse was dragged into the boat. Long black hair entangled the face and neck like seaweed strands; the clothing was just a sodden dark mass crumpled around the waist and upper body.

The smell was as though of a fishing barge or garbage truck, slightly fruity and slightly sulfurous. Willing arms made quick work of returning to the dock and enshrouding the pitiful remains. As the van hee-hawed off with its grim burden, we entwined arms and walked back, damp – but with curiosity sated.

The headlines screamed the next day in two-inch type: BODY FOUND IN LAKE! An unknown girl in her mid teens, her body had numerous scars. Cigarette burns mostly, although some resembled hot-iron brands. Cause of death was by drowning. Her features were not distinguishable after much time in the water. Of ‘wheat complexion’, black hair and dark brown eyes; nothing to distinguish her from a teeming multitude in our land.

Ah, yes, there was a brief mention that she was three months pregnant. Sadly, even that was not something out of the way.

The headlines decreased in size, the news faded to the inside pages, two lines buried amidst juicier nuggets. The details preyed upon my mind; perhaps because my own sister was just fifteen.

I glanced at her as she bounced around the house, singing snatches of the latest hit Hindi film song; complete with the waved arms and stamp of foot in time to the beat – “But Pappu can’t dance, sala"!

Neela looked up to see me frowning, misinterpreting it as criticism of her choice of song.

“What? That’s in the Radio Mirchi Top Ten, I’ll have you know!”

“I was not presuming to comment upon the immortal lyrics currently crooned by your generation.”

“I’m sure it’s as meaningful as ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’, which you were woofing the other night,” was her boomeranging retort.

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

A scornful lob laid the ball back in my court, “ Didi

respectful name for an elder sister

, it’s Friday.” Of course, how could I imagine the work would be done with two days to spare? Homework was for Sunday evenings.

I found nothing I could use to apply some authority; I pretended therefore, to be busy with polishing my glasses.

She came to my side and gave me one of her hugs. These hugs were to show that the warfare was not personal – just a way to keep me from gaining any upper hand by virtue of marital status or age.

“What’s up, sweetie?”

At the endearment she let out a gusty sigh, “Probably nothing, but …”

I waited, it came out in fits and starts, see-sawing between separate events. One of her class-mates had been absent from school for quite some time. Her parents had sent a note taking her away from the school as she would be staying with a sick grandmother in the village. It seemed she made a potential death-bed visit, but stayed back after the recovery.

“But Didi, Prachi had borrowed my new marker set just the day before she went away. Why did she not send it back with her brother? He is in our school - but in the second standard.”

“Did not the brother also go to the village?”

“No, Didi. That’s what’s so funny. And don’t ask me to laugh, you know what I mean. None of the others went to the village at all.”

“Yes, but she could have just forgotten. Why don’t you go and ask for it back?”

“I did. They promised to look for it, but Bunty said she must have taken it with her by mistake.”

“So? That’s probably what did happen.”

“Yes … but it's not just that,” her voice trailed off in hesitation.

Then she blurted, “why were her shoes and chappals still in the shoe rack? I saw them when I went to their house.”

I agreed with Neela that something was peculiar at that point. In our middle-class world, one possesses just one pair of footwear for casual use, and one for school or official use. Prachi hadn't shown signs of indulgence. But why would she be sent away barefoot, however urgent the need had been for her presence at her grandmother’s death-bed?

“Neela, was she a good friend?”

“Not really. She seemed to be very shy and timid. She would hardly answer any questions in class, although she knew all the answers.”

“Oh, that Prachi, the one who comes first every year, nudging out our Neela, eh?” I pulled my sister’s pigtails to show I was just teasing.

Neela pulled her plait out of my reach and finger-flicked my forehead in return, then took a deep breath.

“Spill it.”

“Didi, Prachi came to school with this big lunch box every day; she never shared its contents. We thought her mean and selfish and sort of made a point of ignoring her.”

“Get to the point.” Neela had to make a drama production out of everything. Even now, she was rolling her eyes to indicate horror and disgust.

“She used to sit at the back and was usually the last one out. Once, I was finishing some notes and saw her go, towards the back of the school. I thought I’d follow - you know - just to tease her.”

Another pause for effect, and I made as if to lunge at her throat. She quickened her story.

“The dabba was empty. She just sat there like a statue, staring into the bottom. I have seen her brother – Bunty - scoffing snacks at the school shop, so why she could not do the same was puzzling.”

“Did you ever offer her some of yours?”

“Didi, she may have had no lunch, but she had her pride. I could not take that away. I told nobody else, but I was kinder after that. She used to talk sometimes, if we were alone.”

“About what?”

“Well, once she said that if the girl children were valued less and less, they would then be priceless."

I was getting a dim perception of what Prachi meant, I had heard of such gender-bias in certain communities. “Did you understand that profound thought, sweetie?"

“No, most of her stuff was the way Grannie talks – high thoughts all twisted together. She said I should treasure what I now took for granted. When I asked her what she meant, she just looked sad and smiled at the same time. I find myself missing her quiet presence.”

“Let me see what I can do - to find out your friend’s whereabouts.” For once my seven extra years induced a confidence in Neela.

I spent the day investigating Prachi's household in as innocuous a manner as I could. As an adult, and married, pregnant to boot, I got further into Prachi’s house than my sister.

The mother, I glimpsed in the kitchen, deeply veiled by drawing the end of her saree over her head. Arms were laden with gold bangles and bracelets, numerous necklaces hidden in that gauzy veil - one chain was long enough to swing out from under it.

Her father sat opposite me, one hand twirling his magnificent moustache. The piercing eyes were pinned together by bushy eyebrows scrunched in disapproval. Can’t be my attire, I had chosen a demure pale-green saree, decorously wound around both shoulders. Nor of deportment, I had made the customary lunge for his knees with my outstretched hand, which signifies respect for elders; he had obliged with the required upraised hand and blessing, albeit growled in an undertone. Must be his habit.

“Sir, Neela wanted to write to your daughter, Prachi. Please, may we have her address?”

“Kammo, bring some of that 'nylon' chivda. She must be wanting her son to be born feisty.” I refrained from mentioning we would only be hoping for a healthy child – of either sex; he was obviously biased.

I served myself a decorous spoonful of the item proffered and made polite appreciative noises as I swallowed.

“Have more,” called the mother from the kitchen, “you must eat for two, now.”

“No, no. I just had tea and came.” This was the standard lie spouted by any unexpected visitors, lest they would be mistaken to have come for the free food. I was glad when Prachi’s mother ignored me and placed some more delicacies in front of me, on the low table. Both the spread and intricate ivory-inlaid table proclaimed wealth.

I did feel rather hungry, and after all, this eating-for-two offer would be vanishing soon! The next few minutes were marked only by chomping sounds.

I was recalled to the purpose of my errand by the replenishing of my glass – something tart and fruity, with just a faint aroma of roses.

“Delicious, where did you buy this, Auntie?” Every acquaintance beyond thirty, or with children, is the ubiquitous auntie or uncle.

A deep bass voice corrected my assumption, “it is all home-made by my home-maid.”

A drawing of the head veil further down and Uncle’s booming laughter as he gave me a scornful glance, showed me the meaning of his ‘joke’.

Bunty ran into the room just then, brandishing a large coloured drawing, done in thick strokes of blue and red. His father drew him onto his lap and lavished praise upon the sketch.

I saw some thick dark-blue lines on Bunty's hand and opened my mouth just wide enough to put in my clumsy foot.

“Surely you do not give him markers to colour with? The colour can be toxic.”

The child jumped off his father’s lap, “I’m NOT giving them back! You said I could have them if I did not tell.” His mother carried him away, squirming and yelling. A marker fell and rolled near my feet.

“Uncle’ stooped to scrabble at my toes. I glimpsed the pen as he thrust it into his pocket, giving me a weak smile. It was a Staedler – just like Neela’s.

“Oh, Staedler’s are they, probably safe then.”

“Yais, yais. Seddler. My brother got it from Singapore.”

I couldn’t have cared less where they picked up stationery, but both the name and country were so ‘off’, I felt alarm bells clang.

I had come full circle to my so-called excuse, “Could I have Prachi’s address Sir?”

I found myself ushered to the door with vague excuses about it being a small village; the grandmother was shifting house …

I thought it all out as I went back, no village in India was so small that mail could not reach it. The smaller the village, the easier it was to pass on a letter, the helpful locals will pass it on. A sick grandmother can shift house with no help, except that of a fifteen year old girl? A little boy promises not to tell - what? They could have afforded the best items, why pouch Neela's markers? A child neglected to the point of deprivation, if not starvation. Cryptic utterances about undervaluing girls from a shy, unsure, but gifted child. Something was not right in the house of Mr. Moustachios, I couldn't remember his name. Chappals left behind ... empty lunch dabba ... priceless girls ... my mind reeled with the implications.

The labour pains started that very night and for twenty-four hours I had enough to occupy my mind. When they first laid my daughter in my arms I looked upon the tiny face, pink-lipped readiness to wail for sustenance, skin peeling off her tiny knuckles as she stuffed her fist into her mouth - I felt an infinite love well in my heart.

When Sunil had finished admiring his daughter he twinkled a smile at me, “How wise you are, dear. I have another bit of you to love and cherish.”

He saw that I was not responding in kind and the banter vanished from his voice, comfortable shoulders cradled me. I poured out all my misgivings and he got this fierce determined look upon his face. I think we were both emotionally vulnerable at that moment.

His knowledge of bureaucracy and some contacts helped to start an investigation, the pathetic deception collapsed like a soufflé tested too soon. The worms writhed and tumbled out of the can – disgusting and stomach-turning facts were revealed.

Three girl children had been forcibly extinguished between Prachi and Bunty-the-heir. It was illegal to do these gender-selecting abortions, but laws are bent for those with money. Prachi had escaped as she was the first child, but he refused to allow any other girls to be nourished. Dowry was a huge problem in their caste. The idea of stopping that evil by not asking for dowry never occurred to any of these demented patriarchs.

School was a social evil for women, in the father's eyes; it gave them ‘ideas’. He hated Prachi for excelling at something he had never mastered; he himself had dropped out of school after the seventh standard to take over his father’s money-lending business.

So he punished her with beatings and branding and in more unspeakable ways. Her pregnancy was a complication he solved by more torture, even talking of forced abortion or adoption. Frightened of her changing body, abuse escalating, she must have protested. Or maybe her mother had.

If that silent monster-father ever confessed we might know how the dreadful deed arose, by intent or just punishment gone out of control. The lake was an attempt to drown the heinous crime as much as the victim, the poor child must have been near-unconscious by then. At least I hoped so, that her last moments had been peaceful.

Poor Prachi, I reflected, as I looked upon those waters, now glistening with a silvery promise. But, you had a friend my dear. She has helped to punish those responsible - to let you rest in peace, would that you had discovered her friendship, in life.

I heard a faint cry behind me, Sona was awake and waving her fat legs in indignation. One dimpled hand had pulled up the blanket to her mouth and she was debating whether to cry or chew – I swooped down upon her and gathered her into my arms. She snuggled her head into my neck and nuzzled, content to be cuddled. I rocked my now three-month-old daughter in my arms. Sunil would be coming in any minute, to take us home. I vowed we would regard our girl as a priceless gift.

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Words: 2973


"Team India"  Entry for Round 9 "Project Write World" 




Glossary:
Sala: affectionate pejorative, literally, it means the wife's brother.

Chappal: informal footwear, of the slip-on sandal variety.

Dabba: box

Saree: Indian traditional dress, six yards of cloth pleated and draped around the body

Chivda: Savoury snack made of a mixture of fried and roasted items including beaten rice-flakes so thin they are called 'nylon'.

Note: German-made Staedler markers would not be a commonly coveted item by the Indian nouveau riche.