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In the day small things drove her into a frenzy of irritation. Everyone, she felt, found her defective goods, despite her pale colour, large hazel eyes, small neat nose, red lips, even teeth, and perfect skin. How she wished she did not have to live in a joint family! If she and her husband lived separately, she too could be happy, like her sister Rupa.

Sona’s marriage had not in fact led to a brilliant future for Rupa. No proposal had forced her to give up her education. She finished her BA, after which her father arranged her marriage to the son of a retired colleague, based in Karol Bagh. The location of the groom in the sister’s neighbourhood was one of the reasons the alliance was deemed suitable.

Given Rupa’s dark skin, she was considered to have married as advantageously as her circumstances allowed. The family was very small: one father, one married daughter, and one son. Their eligibility came from the ownership of a house in Karol Bagh, their security from the boy’s government job as a minor employee in the Defence Ministry.

It turned out that Rupa too failed to conceive. Sona hid this fact as long as she could from her in-laws, she knew exactly the kind of comment it would elicit. Bad stock, tainted bloodlines. But concealment was useless, eventually these things were said.

‘Why don’t you ask Babaji for a remedy?’ Rupa asked Sona occasionally. ‘Your father-in-law has so much faith in him. He might be able to help.’

‘It is up to them to suggest it,’ said Sona proudly.

‘You can give them the idea, no?’

‘Look at what happened to Sunita. That was Babaji’s doing.’ Sona lowered her voice. Disrespect of Babaji was not allowed in the house.

‘But he also encouraged your marriage,’ pointed out Rupa.

Sona sighed. How could she make her sister understand? Looking at Rupa, it was possible to envy a woman in the same situation as herself, and with less money too. Rupa was childless, but free from torment. She accepted her fate, she didn’t spend every Tuesday fasting, she had no one to envy, no one to rub salt in her wounds, no one to keep those wounds bleeding by persistent hurting comments.

Without children, Rupa had the time to start a little pickle business. Her husband encouraged her, her father-in-law helped her paste on the labels with a trembling hand, her brother-in-law (Sona’s husband) helped her with his contacts among the shopkeepers of Karol Bagh. As long as her products were good, orders were plentiful. Rupa worked hard at her recipes, experimenting with new ones and expanding her repertoire.

Sunita seldom visited her parents. If money was sent to spend on a trip home, she usually made some excuse: the husband is not well, the father-in-law is not well, I am needed to look after them. They thought maybe her postal order was snatched away, they sent tickets instead. But the visits were still infrequent.

Lala Banwari Lal insisted the brothers take time off from the business to see their sister once a year. Though she was married, her unhappy situation made her their responsibility, now and after his death. The brothers went, though reluctantly; their sister’s life was the result of bad karma and there was nothing anyone could do. Still, they made allowances for a father’s love.

Once Sona accompanied Yashpal to Bareilly to meet her sister-in-law. The plan was to take Sunita and Vicky for a holiday to Rishikesh, forcibly if necessary.

Force was not required. The brother-in-law, Murli, whatever his treatment of his wife, was always exceedingly hospitable towards his in-laws. Their superior status meant his politeness and warmth never ceased.

During the trip Sona and Sunita exchanged confidences. Why she would never come home, why the tickets were returned instead of used. Murli wanted her family to invest in Bareilly, to either open an outlet that he would manage, or failing that, to help upgrade his shop. Her dowry had been small, he demanded redress. They are cheating you, they palmed you off like a poor girl, now they are rich, they should share. Should she visit Delhi, it would have to be with him, and her life would be hell afterwards. But she would not exploit her father, no matter what her husband’s demands were.

She shared the general belief in her bad karma. Let her present miseries expiate the sins of her past lives. All she wished was to leave this world, it was only her son who kept her back. Here she clutched Vicky to her bosom, her face contorting with tears and tenderness. The boy remained there passively, while Sona looked on. See, how children were recompense for everything.

Fourteen years after her marriage, Sunita’s hopes were answered. The Banwari Lal family got the news by telegram. There had been an accident in the kitchen, and Sunita had died of burns in the hospital. The cremation would take place the next day. She was only thirty-two.

Banwari Lal and Yashpal prepared to leave for Bareilly by the night train. Pyare Lal would man the shop. The women stayed home, as was appropriate.

At home the mother cried non-stop. ‘Why not me? Why not me? What crime have I committed that my child has to go first?’ she wailed. She hit her head repeatedly with her hands while her daughters-in-law looked on, their faces serious and solemn, tears in their own eyes. It could have been them, but for their own more fortunate destinies.

The night meal was sombre. Sushila’s maternal responsibilities allowed her to retreat upstairs afterwards. Sona was left to continue the comforting.

‘Sleep now, Maji, sleep – you will make yourself ill if you cry like this, and it will not bring her back.’

And then for no reason, no reason but that they were alone and nobody else could see her true colours, the old woman glared at Sona and spat out, ‘You think sleep is possible? What can you know of a mother’s feelings? All you do is enjoy life, no children, no sorrow, only a husband to dance around you.’

It took all of Sona’s training in daughter-in-lawhood to continue her attentions as though this had not been said. Then, as she had so often, she lay awake at night, going over her mother-in-law’s words, gnawing at them, teasing out of them the last shred of bitterness.

All the suffering in the world was not enough to make that woman human. Though grieving, she could still find energy to taunt. She talked of love, but did she know the meaning of the word? If she had cared for her daughter, would she have allowed her to be murdered? Could she believe the lie that her clothes caught fire while cooking? They knew how badly off she was, still they neglected her. If she had a daughter in a bad marriage, she would insist she come home, she had so much love to give.

Here Sona pressed her hands to her breasts: they felt good, large and full, but their weight only increased her wretchedness. How could she accept they would never be used for more than one purpose? She tried to calm herself by praying, closing her eyes to concentrate on her favourite image of God, the little Krishna, looking so naughty, so mischievous, so adorable – please, I am growing old, bless us with a child, girl or boy, I do not care, but I cannot bear the emptiness in my heart.

II

The adopted son

Sona did not realise her prayers would be answered in two days. Her father-in-law came back with Vicky, ten years old, skin the splotchy brown of mud, large staring eyes, bony knees, neatly oiled hair, spindly legs, and snot that continually ran into his shirt sleeve.

The boy was pushed towards her. With a presentiment of what was going to happen she drew back in revulsion before a word had been exchanged.

‘Maybe it was meant to be like this,’ sighed the patriarch, as the men sat around sipping tea, looking grave, relating the story of their trip. How Murli had received them at the station, weeping steadily, how they had been pushed into the role of consolers rather than accusers, how Murli had said wildly he was going to give up his life, there was no meaning in it any more. How the boy, sobbing hysterically, had begged his grandfather to take him with them. Murli encouraged this. What could he do with a child, alone as he was, poor and distraught?

Perhaps he had already found someone to marry, they speculated darkly, he was always on the lookout for money. And that was the real reason for Sunita’s death.

The two sisters-in-law were able to be more dispassionate. Sushila – mother of sons, her concern about their future claims still too remote to be considered insensitive – could say: might not Murli exploit the child to get money out of the family?

Sona added her weaker voice to Sushila’s suspicion. With a full heart, her eyes red with distress, she hinted that Murli would use the boy to gain entry into the business. She recounted again Sunita’s confidences in Rishikesh. Murli had been bent on using his wife to extort money from the family. She had resisted, and now in deference to Sunita’s wishes, such intentions should be thwarted by returning the boy.

Lala Banwari Lal was unable to bear even the suggestion. They had a moral responsibility to Sunita’s child. His head was bent, his tears were falling. He would carry the curse of his daughter’s death till the day he died. Had he remained in Lahore, this never would have happened. She would have married into a family of equal status.

His grief further shook the family. What else could they do but cluster around him, soothe him, tell him they would do whatever he wanted?

His wife wept in turn; this child was all that was left of her daughter. The boy, who had been hunched silently over his tea, was now grabbed, clasped to his grandmother’s chest, and rocked violently back and forth till he started crying.

It was decided that at the first hint of financial pressure Murli would have his son back, but till then he would remain with them. Where duty to one’s own was concerned, the heart should always be big.

In the days to come it became clear that Vicky fell to Sona’s lot by default. Sushila’s two sons were still small; she had her hands full. Sona’s were palpably empty.

Sona did struggle at this fresh arrangement by the fates for her certain misery.

‘I do not think I will be able to look after him,’ she said to her husband a few days later. The emotional levels of the house were lower, she could now speak her mind. ‘At least send him back to finish the school year. Right now he sits around all day, doing nothing.’

Yashpal smiled lovingly at his wife. ‘Yes, we must see about a school here. In the meantime if he does miss a year, how does it matter? It is not as though he is going to be a scholar.’

‘Maybe not, but it will add to his discomfort. No child likes to fail.’

‘Poor boy, I doubt he will think of it as failure. A new school, a new city, a new home. He has to get used to all this, though only ten. Poor boy,’ he repeated, ‘he was so glad to come with us.’

‘Making use of the goodness of his grandfather and uncle.’

‘Sunita’s soul will be at peace if we take care of her son; it is all we can do for her. You heard how upset Baoji was. I have only seen him like this when I was very young.’

Lahore again.

‘Only daughter, bound to feel it,’ was the answer dragged out of Sona. Everything was stacked against her, she could see that. Her husband never reproached her for not having a child, and she was grateful, but did that mean she could be saddled with some dirty boy, and be expected to dance with joy? ‘He will miss his mother, he will never accept me. It is better if he is returned to his father. Like this, instead of losing one parent he will lose both.’

‘You will make it up to him, I know,’ said Yashpal. ‘You have such a tender heart.’

She went on trying. ‘Isn’t it better if he goes upstairs? He will fit in nicely with the children there. As it is, looking after Maji takes all my time. You don’t know how it was when you were away. I thought she was going to fall sick, she cried so much.’

Yashpal sighed. ‘The boy is orphaned. He needs a mother’s special attention. Let him be your child.’

‘A borrowed child? Ten years old? From another woman’s womb? Tell me, is this what you really want?’

‘It is the will of God, what can we do? This is what has been given us.’

Sona felt her chest would burst with pain. Tears gathered on her face. Her husband touched her cheek, and said, ‘Sona, you will get used to it. We cannot decide how our prayers will be answered.’

So he had prayed too. She looked at him, her heart melting with anguish. It was for his sake she wanted a child. He was such a good man, why should he be deprived of issue?

For the moment there was nothing more she could say or do. Maybe Rupa, her mind unfettered by Banwari Lal blood ties, would be able to suggest something.

Rupa was no help. ‘What can you do, Didi?’ she asked. ‘You are the one without children.’

Sona glared at her. ‘Is that my fault?’

Rupa quickly covered her mistake with her sister’s favourite topic. ‘That witch upstairs will not take him, instead she will say all kinds of things against you.’

‘Ever since that woman has come, my life has been a misery,’ responded Sona eagerly.

‘Why give her more opportunity to rub salt in your wounds? It may do you good in the long run, Didi. With the family.’

Sona’s eyes filled with tears, as she murmured hopelessly, ‘I want my own child.’

Rupa stroked her back and murmured, ‘Bas, bas, in the end it will be all right. Your time will also come.’

‘Never. Your Jijaji says we must acknowledge we will not have our own children. Now he looks on others as his own, first his brother’s, then his sister’s. I do not understand him.’

‘He has accepted the situation, that is all. At least he is not blaming you.’

Sona remained silent.

Rupa said, ‘Didi, why have you never considered going to a doctor? You can afford the best medical care. Even God needs to be helped sometimes.’

Sona side-stepped the question, not wanting to reveal how humiliating it would be to be seen as a flawed creature, whose body needed expensive medical aid to perform its natural functions. If her family had wanted it, how willingly she would have put herself in the hands of modern medicine, suffered a thousand tests. But strangely her in-laws had never suggested this. Perhaps they wanted to punish her, perhaps they felt she was not worth the money.