Sita

I took some toothpowder in one palm and a steel mug in the other hand and walked out into the courtyard, sucking in the cool, fresh, invigorating village air. Mom and aunt were near the well, involved in an animated discussion, glancing occasionally towards a shack which had been propped up just outside the farthest end of our compound. I walked up to the well and half-heartedly listened to their conversation, while cleaning my teeth.

"She surely deserves this ", Mom murmured through clenched teeth.

"Quite true ", seconded Aunt,” After all the miseries she put you people through."
Mom nodded, in agreement.

" I treated her just as a member in the household, just like one of my kids. And what did she do to me? ".She fumed."Not even a word before she left the home. And to think of all the events which followed."

“These kind of people, sister, you should keep them at a distance”, advised Aunt. “And at the same time, keep an eye on them. Never trust them.”

“Let it pass”, said Mom, shaking her head with an air of resignation.
“Let her suffer. Who cares?”
With that, both of them turned back, cautioning me to stay away from the well's sides, as it was slippery from the heavy rain which had fallen last night. Them gone, I stood, index finger stuck between my teeth and cheeks, wondering who the 'she' was.

Every time I visit this place, where my dad's family lives, I make it a routine to brush my teeth and then go cycling through the un-tarred, dusty roads with paddy fields, plantations and scattered tenements on either side. This time though, I went the opposite way, bisecting the courtyard, jumping over the fence into the road. I walked down the road, towards the shack and was no farther than ten meters from the shack, when a clay pot came hurtling out through its front door and landed on the road.

I moved to behind a tree and watched. The clay pot was followed first by a steel plate and then by a dark, swarthy, red-eyed guy. Obviously drunk, he had another clay vessel in his hand which he promptly smashed to the floor, shouting loudly at someone inside. A woman, around thirty, apparently his wife, appeared at the door, carrying a frail, sick boy, perched on her frailer, sicker frame. There was more bellowing from him, murmured apologies from her, and then a resounding slap which struck her square on the cheek, after which he stomped out of the place. The mother and the son sat on the doorstep, weeping.

It was the first time I ever saw Sita in tears. Ever since she had come to our house as a seventeen year old, to help Mom with the chores and to take care of me and my sister( as Dad, undergoing treatment for asthma, was then in hospital), she was always bubbly and cheerful. And pretty too - in an innocent, village belle sort of way - with dark honey colored skin, an uninhibited smile, twinkling eyes and long hair reaching down to her hip. I still remember my sister and me, returning from school, each of us holding Sita's hands on either side, each of our school-bags slung over her either shoulder. She was our main playmate, teaching us games that they often play in villages, and was our constant companion in watching movies, and recollecting excitedly the action sequences and punch lines in every movie that we saw on television.

Being bought up in a village, I guess she got too enthralled by the amorous ways of the city. While returning from school, clad most often in her bright yellow duppatta, she would respond encouragingly to cat-calls of "Manjakkili"* from guys perched on roadside walls, and in the evenings, she would communicate eagerly with her hands and eyebrows to the overtures of guys who stayed at the Law-college hostel, opposite our house.This, I remember was a problem that Mom had to address with an iron hand. It was something which she thought she did well, but it ended up with mixed results,as we would soon realize.

And one fine Sunday evening, while Sita and me were returning home from the flour-mill, she stopped by a shop, and bought me a toy-jeep,one with a steel chassis and shiny wheels,and asked me to go back home, adding that she would be back soon. It became my favorite toy, and I remember I played with it, pushing it around the house for almost two years since then. Thrilled by the toy, I obliged, and ran back home. We didn't realize then, that it was a farewell gift, till nine in the night, after the Sunday evening film on television. We noticed then, with considerable alarm, that she hadn't returned.Sita's home and my Dad were informed, and Dad took a forced discharge from the hospital.

If there ever is something called hell, I guess the week that followed would come closest to it.Sita's relatives chanted slogans and squatted on our courtyard, demanding that we return their daughter without harm. Policemen questioned us in and out.Dad, whose health kept worsening, exerted considerable governmental influence to keep us from being put behind bars. With police investigations going nowhere, we hired an advocate, a shrewd old man who peppered everyone endlessly with questions. Having got nothing of interest from my parents, he turned to me. His eyes gleamed with interest when I told him about Sita's dilly-dallying with the guys-on-the-roadside-walls. He thought a child's testimony would have enough innocence to convince the police about Sita's immorality and wanted me to recite the same to the police, with a few additional Sita-maligning inputs from his end.

I had learnt his testimony by-heart (as thoroughly as I would learn a poem at school) and had reached the police station with him and my parents, when we got the shock of our lives.

Sita stood there, all smiles, in full bridal attire, accompanied by the man with whom she had fallen in love and had eloped ,the same man who would be beating her to pulp everyday, a few years later. They had registered their marriage and the police got the news from the response to a man-missing ad that we had filed in the newspapers.Sita looked composed, having defied my Mom's iron hand, Mom and Dad stormed off in a rage, and I, sad at the realization that she would never return home, turned back tearfully, and met her endearing smile.

I watched him walk away, and stood there,unsure of what to do.A part of me wanted to go up to her and offer some help,though I didn't have the faintest idea about what help to offer.The other part of me didn't want to embarrass her in her current state of decrepitude.I thought I would walk away, but by then she saw me .I felt I saw a small sign of recognition,but could never be sure,because,as soon as she looked up and saw me,she picked up her son, turned back, went inside the house, and slammed the door shut .



*Manjakkili : A teasing expression - 'Manja' means yellow in Malayalam and 'kili' means bird