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‘She did have a skin like a lotus,’ mourned Sona. ‘Even when she was a teenager, not a pimple, not a spot. Other girls got, but Nisha – never. And now see. It is the evil eye – my daughter was too, too beautiful.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the mudpack woman soothingly. ‘No one knows why it happens. Some allergy … some disturbance in the family …’

‘There has been no disturbance,’ declared Sona.

‘There has been some shock to the system,’ said the mudpack lady, getting combative. ‘Not everything that happens in the body has a physical cause.’

Sona sat still while Nisha fidgeted.

‘Don’t,’ the mother reprimanded automatically. Then turning to the lady she said with dignity, ‘My daughter has had no shocks whatsoever. It is the evil eye that has cursed my home.’

The nature cure centre invariably gave Sona headaches, so occasionally Rupa accompanied Nisha and found herself agreeing with the things the lady said. Illnesses did have emotional causes. Maybe the thing with Suresh …? The boy hadn’t been that bad. Perhaps, thought the sympathetic aunt daringly, even caste and relative poverty should be overlooked sometimes. The boy and girl were educated, they were not living in some village, after all. He had seemed to love her truly, and it was Nisha’s side that first suggested compensation, though that was something the girl need never know.

Eating boiled food was a strain for Nisha amid the aroma of spices and hiss of frying that pervaded her house, but she did enjoy the mudpacks. Lying on a table in the nature cure centre, her body ministered to, cooling things applied, every particle of her delighting in the heavy, wet mud.

However, two months later she was still far from resembling a lotus. Any time she missed her mudpack treatment, the itching increased. ‘These doctors are just out to make money – who can spend their life going to nature cure centres? All morning it takes, and still she has not recovered.’

With improvement only partial, Rupa suggested they take Nisha to a famous homeopath right there in Karol Bagh.

They sat in the crowded waiting room, during the free consultation period, pressed close to each other. It was hot, and Nisha was perspiring. Above them, a fan suspended from the high ceiling on its long pole moved slowly. It was once a big room, and a partition made of white-painted plywood stretched halfway up. A sagging, rickety door served as the entrance to the doctor’s section, scraping against the floor as patients went in and out.

‘See, so many people,’ remarked Rupa. ‘That shows how good he is.’

‘Only if he heals her will I believe he is good,’ said Sona morosely.

‘You have to believe, Didi.’

‘I can believe day and night – but what about her? She is the one who has to believe.’

Nisha looked out of the door, on to the evening street, the hawkers, the traffic, the pollution, and suppressed a desire to itch. She knew it would drive her mother mad.

The doctor, an old Sardar retired from government service, his white beard flowing, famous for his healing skills, looked at the daughter with pity in his rheumy eyes. Then the interrogation, which Sona answered. Did the girl feel thirsty? Did she like her head covered or uncovered? Could she stand the sun on her skin? Did it burn, prickle, or get irritated when touched by sweat, food, cold air, hot air, cold fluids, hot fluids, cloth, soap, water, lotions, perfumes? Was it worse in the morning or evening? Summer, winter, or monsoon?

‘Oh doctor sa’ab,’ cried Sona, as the questions flowed. ‘All this we do not know. It has come only now, after college. Otherwise she never had a pimple. Her brother had many, but God spared her, only to put us through this.’

‘Don’t worry, Mata ji,’ consoled the doctor, ‘everything will be all right. Once she is married this will vanish. Unmarried girls have a lot of tension.’

‘But why did this happen?’ asked Sona, still angry about the mudpack lady’s insinuations. ‘Just to avoid in future, you understand, doctor sa’ab.’

‘Who can tell why the body falls sick?’ asked the doctor, shaking his head, his knobbly fingers twitching a series of white pills into little packets. ‘It is all in the hands of The Above. Two people exposed to the same thing – one succumbs, the other doesn’t. Can you tell me the reason?’

‘No, doctor sa’ab, thank you, doctor sa’ab.’

‘No tea, no coffee, no fried food, no chillies, and allow half an hour’s gap between doses.’

‘She doesn’t eat these things anyway.’

‘Very good. Continue.’

‘Should we stop nature cure?’ Nisha and Rupa caught the hopeful note, but alas the doctor was not so sensitive.

He looked at the patient. ‘Does it help you?’

The expense, the time, the inconvenience to her aunt and mother. She allowed herself only a very small nod.

‘Continue then. No clash with homeopathy.’

So Nisha continued, adding the little white pills to her regimen.

When homeopathy made no appreciable difference, Rupa, always searching for effective treatments, uncovered a neighbour who suggested Tibetan medicine. The neighbour’s sister’s father-in-law had one side paralysed after a stroke, allopathy was no good, God only knew how many doctors they consulted, the man was so devoted to his father, all the time trying this or that. Then last year they took him to a Tibetan doctor who came down from Dharamsala to Delhi for three months every winter, and there was such a change in the neighbour’s sister’s father-in-law, it was like a miracle.

‘No harm in trying, Didi,’ said Rupa. ‘It is winter now, and the doctor is here.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sona dully, ‘no harm in trying.’

‘What is
wrong
with her?’ asked Sona. The renowned old Tibetan doctor pressed down on Nisha’s wrist, her eyes fixed on Nisha’s face.

‘She is disturbed,’ replied the doctor firmly.

‘Why?’

‘That I do not know. But her whole system is disturbed. Do not worry, she will be all right. Come back after one month.’ She then dispensed small herbal tablets, to be chewed slowly three times a day.

Bland homeopathic pills were replaced by bitter, black, pungent balls, followed by glasses of water to wash away the taste.

‘For nothing you are putting me through this torture,’ complained Nisha. ‘All she did was feel my pulse. How does she know what is wrong with me?’

‘That is the beauty of Tibetan medicine,’ Rupa chided, already a convert. ‘People come from far and near to see this lady. She is so good, yet she takes no money, her medicine comes from the heart. You have to give it a chance, and that too with belief, otherwise it won’t work.’

‘I am going to vomit if I eat more.’

‘Eat as you are told,’ said her mother sternly, ‘and with God’s grace you will be cured. Then after you are married you can do what you like.’

Each morning there was discussion over Nisha’s progress, action to be taken, and results to be surveyed. Every member of the household, near or at the fringes, was ready with their advice.

‘The whole world knows our shame,’ said Sona to Rupa after Sushila’s sister’s visit. ‘They all ask about Nisha. If I don’t give details, they think I am withholding information. If I do, I am broadcasting my daughter’s humiliation. I wish I could go and die somewhere.’

Rupa listened patiently. This was her sister’s hour of need, and the frequency of her visits increased. Her refusal to break down made her invaluable at the doctor’s, at home she was a cornucopia of strength and solace.

She hid her own anguish at Nisha’s condition, wondering at the heartache children could cause. Poor child. That perfect skin, that clear complexion, that resemblance to Suriya, all for nothing.

Finally, one morning Yashpal said, ‘These vaids and homeopaths are doing no good. Perhaps we gave up allopathy too soon.’

‘We tried Dr Gupta for months.’

‘We should have gone to a skin specialist instead of resorting to a GP.’

‘It is her kismet,’ said Sona mournfully, ‘and ours.’

‘If we accept our kismet so easily,’ retorted her husband, ‘how will we achieve anything in life? Pyare Lal has been doing a lot of finding out. There is a very good skin doctor in South Delhi, whose son has just returned from abroad. He cured a girl in Rekha’s family.’

‘Is she married?’ asked Sona.

‘She is only five.’

‘Why couldn’t Nisha wait till she was married, I want to know? Then it would have been all right.’

‘It is better she is our problem, than some in-laws who might be unkind to her.’

Sona had nothing to say to this.

Yashpal made the appointment with the doctor. Poor man, thought his wife, how seriously he takes his daughter’s condition, has to neglect the business to get her treated. She sniffed and thought of which sari to wear.

It took three weeks to get an appointment. ‘Father and son, very well known,’ said Yashpal, ‘all booked.’

‘These private doctors are crooks,’ said Sona. ‘Even when they can’t cure a simple thing they take.’

‘They also have to live,’ said Yashpal mildly.

Three weeks later Yashpal, his wife, and Nisha were in the doctor’s office in Defence Colony, waiting with many others in a small covered veranda.

Despite the appointment it took an hour for their turn to come. Perspiration gathered in the crevices of Nisha’s skin, and with the dampness her skin began to burn. She and her parents were mostly silent, in Sona’s lap was a file containing her unhappy history. She had lost count of the doctors she had seen, the number of times she had been examined, the number of times her story had been told and her once-perfect skin described. What did it matter what her skin once was? Now it was like this. If only her family could accept that, her life would be easier. Covertly, she started to rub her nails along her arms. Her mother frowned but the waiting room facilitated Nisha’s inclination to ignore.

Finally their turn. Once again Nisha’s problem was graphically described. The fairness that was, the darkness that is, the scratching, the oozing fluids, the blood, the dryness, the flakiness, the uncontrollable impulses, the concern of the whole family, the girl so young, the question of marriage.

After examining Nisha, the doctor said they were lucky, subcutaneous cortisone injections were now being used to treat this condition, and they had had very good results. In the meantime she must not go near soap and water, they were irritants. She must not cook, spices and heat were also irritants.

‘But doctor, there is nothing wrong with her hands,’ said Sona, horrified at this attempt to wrest a woman’s occupation away from her. ‘She just does a little washing and cooking, the dhobi and the mai do the heavy work.’

‘Any contact with harsh detergents will aggravate,’ continued the doctor, ignoring her and looking at the father. ‘Her clothes must be washed separately in liquid soap and rinsed many times. Her skin is very delicate, as you can see. No washing or cooking,’ he repeated.

The treatment started that very day. Tiny squirts of medicine were injected in several places in each patch. The skin swelled for a few hours, looked pink, and hurt. After the injections Nisha usually felt like throwing up, but the doctor assured the family that the reaction was psychological. ‘It is quite clear she is a sensitive girl,’ he said tactfully. ‘Sometimes, when eczema occurs there is an emotional cause. After all, the mind and body are connected.’

His listeners nod. In the abstract this was an acceptable, non-threatening piece of information.

The doctor took out his fee book. ‘Soon these patches will subside. When she looks better, she will feel better.’

At home the washing was restructured. The women had always done the personal clothing. It was their duty and their joy to precede every bath by washing for the family – scrape, scrub, beat, and wring the dirt out of the garments of their loved ones.

The washerwoman’s chores increased, as did her wages. Sona stood over her making sure she rinsed the clothes in many buckets of water, making sure she did not waste the expensive liquid soap that she was forced to hand over to her.

As for the china washing, Sona now did all this herself, while Nisha lurked around guiltily. Slowly, the duties it was inconceivable for a woman not to do, became hers not to do.

XX

Raju

Ten o’clock on a weekday morning. Father and son have departed, mother and daughter are together in Sona’s bedroom. Sona is shelling peas, Nisha is sitting next to her doing nothing. Her hands are idle, her spirits low.

Time has created many empty spaces in Nisha’s head. Into those cavities come rumours, rumours flying about in the atmosphere of the house, borne by half-caught phrases, spread in whispers that reverberate downstairs among the adults. In a joint family it doesn’t take long for information to reach a destination, desired or undesired.

Finally Nisha rouses herself.

‘Mummy, I have heard –’ she started.

Those few words were enough for an apprehensive shadow to fall across Sona’s face. Nisha pounced on that, her voice became less tentative, her suspicions were right, she was justified in her grievances. ‘Shall I tell you what I have heard?’ she went on. ‘And not from my own mother, but the mai – the mai, who asked me when she was going to hear good news about me, now that my brother’s marriage was arranged.’

‘That woman can’t keep her mouth shut,’ snapped Sona. ‘Hears things from upstairs and comes and spreads stories downstairs. I should dismiss her.’

‘Yes, why don’t you?’ demanded Nisha sceptically, thinking of the gossipy titbits the mai spread before her mother daily, of how the daughters-in-law upstairs barely spoke to one another, how they even cooked at separate times, how things were very difficult for Sushila, nothing compared to downstairs where values were sound and lasting.

This was one occasion when the communication system had backfired.

Now Sona barked at her daughter, ‘You have nothing better to do than listen to idle talk? Besides, who is she to know anything?’

‘She seems to know that Raju is getting married.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘So, no need for me to go upstairs and find out what is happening?’ asked Nisha as she picked empty peapods and broke them one by one.