Difficult Daughters by Manju Kapur Page B

left in peace to fuss over their eating habits, to cater to their likes and dislikes, to do just what Kasturi was doing with her daughters. As a preliminary she let tears gather in her eyes.

    ‘Arre, arre,’ exclaimed Kasturi, putting down her ladle, and cleaning her hands by flicking some water on them from the glass next to the dough. The sisters stared at her.
    The woman threw her palla over her face and rocked back and forth, moaning.
    ‘Bas, bas,’ said Kasturi, rubbing her on the back.
    ‘Oh Bhenji! It is my unlucky kismet that has brought me here. Everybody’s curses will be upon my head!’
    ‘No, no,’ said Kasturi soothingly, one eye on the cooking vegetables.
    ‘Bhenji, I am so ashamed. I am so unlucky! What will you think?’
    ‘I think? Why? Indu, just stir the sabzi, and add a little water,’ said Kasturi.
    ‘He told me … told me …’ The woman stumbled over the words amid sobs.
    ‘Yes? He told you what?’ asked Kasturi in the same even tone.
    The woman’s purpose was to convey news. Her words came rushing out. ‘He told me to tell you that maybe Virmati has gone to Tarsikka … That maybe she has done something to herself. Oh, Bhenji, please forgive me!’ As she gave her news, her sobs subsided. She no longer had the greater right to cry.
    Kasturi’s hand slipped from the woman’s shoulder. She turned to stare at the fire under the cooking. In the silence, Paro could be heard shouting, ‘It’s not true. She was going to bring me something from the city! Mati, it’s not true! Indu Pehnji, it’s not true!’
    ‘Ssh, Paro,’ Indu tried to keep her quiet. ‘You can’t talk like that to Pabiji!’
    ‘But she’s saying things about Pehnji,’ whispered Paro hoarsely. ‘I saw her in the evening before she went and she promised me –’
    ‘All right, all right. Now shush,’ whispered Indu back.
    Kasturi got up heavily. She did not want to expose her daughters to more. It was bad enough, this information coming from outside the home. ‘We must go and see her father,’ she said, her voice lacking all expression. ‘Please come.’ And with none of her usual politeness she left the woman to follow her out of the kitchen. At the doorway she turned back once to say, ‘Indu, just see the sabzi doesn’t burn, put the dal on afterwards. Start making the rotis. Use the fresh butter in the doli, the old one is for ghee.’
    ‘Han,’ said Indu, stopping Paro from following her mother.
    *
     
    The bus driver and the conductor of Lala Diwan Chand’s twenty-seater both belonged to the same village. By the time they had locked the bus and deposited the keys at the big house, the bright colours of the sky had faded to dull purple and grey and the trees had begun to absorb the darkness of the night. They had to hurry if they were to get home while there was still light to see. As they stepped through the small door of the big gate, the chowkidar exclaimed, ‘Pyare Lal and Mahan Singh! Chhoti Pibiji came alone in the bus, and has gone up to the canal by herself. On your way home, just make sure –’
    There was no need to say more. The men started quickly up the high embankment that bordered the big canal.
    Virmati’s chappals were still warm when they reached the small bridge that spanned the branch stream.
    *
     
    Kasturi was sitting tensely in the veranda. Her daughters were silently waiting with her. Suraj Prakash and Kailashnath had left for Tarsikka in Lala Diwan Chand’s car, the car he kept to be used for special occasions.
    Soon Lajwanti came to join them.
    ‘Any news yet?’ she asked, as the daughters made way for her.
    The girls shook their heads. Kasturi’s tears began to fall.
    ‘No, no,’ consoled Lajwanti, throwing her heavy arm around Kasturi’s shoulders. ‘God will send her back to us. Everything is in his hands. You must not cry. It is a bad omen.’
    ‘How could she do this? What will happen to us all? To these girls? Where did we go wrong?’
    Kasturi cried on,