The Selector of Souls (17 page)

“No, Sister. Of course, not.” Anu winds a corner of her dupatta around her finger, takes a deep breath, “But you may remember that my younger brother Bobby, my only brother, had an … acc-accident … while I was still in school.” She still has trouble saying it.

“Oh dear me, yes. I remember now.” Imaculata’s pale hand brushes Anu’s shoulder. “We said a special prayer for him at Assembly. And what of the rest of your family? Your father—wasn’t he posted in different towns?”

“Yes. Dadu kept pulling strings for the poor but wouldn’t pull strings for politicians, so he kept getting transferred.”

“Your dear mother would write to me every time she moved, to explain why you would be remaining in Delhi.”

“They had one posting of three years in New Delhi, and my mother
is still hoping my father will someday be transferred here again.”

“Remind me—who did you live with here?”

“My Sharad Uncle and my Purnima-aunty.”

“Yes, I remember your cousin-sister, Rano Talwar—bright. Volleyball player. Not as studious. Your senior by a year?”

“Two, Sister.”

“Lovely girl. Last time she came to India she visited and told me how she met her husband. You know they used to meet every morning at the school bus stop?”

“Yes—we all rode together. He attended St. Anne’s School for Boys. I never spoke to him.”

“No, you weren’t as mischievous. Rano said they used to pass notes back and forth in the bus. And then his family emigrated to Canada but he kept writing to her saying, ‘Wait for me.’ And when his father asked him if he had any preferences, he told him only one girl would do and so his father sent Rano’s parents their offer—so romantic!”

Sister Imaculata is stirred by romance? Well, why not?

“Did Rano convert to Sikhism?” says Sister Imaculata.

“She added the ten Sikh gurus and their holy book to the Hindu pantheon,” says Anu. “Now she’s a Hindu-Sikh.” Just as Anu is a Hindu-Christian, but Sister Imaculata may not understand that.

“You’re almost thirty now—you must have been married,” the nun says. “If not, you must be one of the very few single women your age left in India. Excepting widows and abandoned wives, I mean.”

“I was married. But Father Pashan says canon law doesn’t recognize my marriage to a non-Christian.”

“Hmmm. He means a marriage between a Christian and a Hindu. Most marriages in India are between non-Christians, and the Church doesn’t consider those invalid. When you married, you were both Hindus, surely.”

“Yes, Sister. But …” Anu dips into her purse for her special dispensation order.

Imaculata holds her reading glasses halfway between her eyes and the dispensation, lowers them and looks at Anu. “And are you legally divorced?”

“Yes,” says Anu, and is instantly struck with guilt. She is mentally divorced, but not
legally
divorced. She may not be technically divorced for years. But there’s no going back without changing Sister Imaculata’s impression of her.

“Find a safe place to stay,” Mrs. Nadkarni said, “and not with your family.”

The divorce action will continue for years. Anu’s savings account at the bank where Sharad Uncle works, now a substantial amount thanks to the power of compound interest, will be used to pay Mrs. Nadkarni to appear at court hearings on her behalf.

“Children?” Imaculata is asking.

“One. My daughter, Chetna.” Soft cheeks, those bow-lips just like Vikas’s. The little girl fills Anu’s vision. Her laugh, her high-pitched voice runs through Anu’s head and recedes, leaving her hollow with loss.

“And where is she?” Imaculata looks around as if the child might be hiding somewhere.

“Canada—Toronto. Rano has adopted her. You see, Rano—well, she can’t have her own.”

“Ah. I remember now. She asked me to pray she would have a child.”

“Yes—Rano always wanted children. And it seems best for my daughter.”

Does she sound uncaring? Will the child’s very existence disqualify Anu from entering the convent?

Imaculata drops her gaze and closes her eyes. The pause in conversation grows from semibreve to breve. Anu begins praying too, to Lord Jesus and all the gods. Because what can Anu do if Imaculata refuses to take her in?

Imaculata opens her eyes. Anxiety ripples through Anu.

“God answers prayers in ways we least expect,” says Imaculata. “Rano will be good for the child. I always liked her. Perhaps your
daughter will be good for her as well. I like that children belong to all relations here, not only their parents. We were twelve, and my dear departed mother could have used a bit of co-mothering.”

She puts on her glasses, writes on a notepad, then looks up. “Father Pashan has also requested a dispensation from the Bishop of Delhi for the virginity issue related to your candidacy. These days, I’m sure that won’t be a problem—some of our most dedicated nuns enter our order after raising families. It’s rare in India, though.” She clears her throat and gazes at a spot above Anu’s head.

“So. Assuming he receives authorization for you to enter your Juniorate, Anu, I will say to you what my Mother Superior said to me so long ago: If you have some glorified notion of what it means to be a nun, this is not the place for you. You have probably read novels or seen films with singing nuns, beautiful nuns, magical nuns. None of these give you the slightest idea of what it means to be a nun. You will be tested.”

A boulder rises off Anu’s heart. Imaculata is no longer probing but instructing.

“After five years,” says Imaculata, “you can take your final vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. I emphasize obedience—which I do recall was your one failing as a student.”

“Yes, Sister.”

They all demand obedience—first Mumma, then Vikas and his family—let the Catholic Church do so as well. How difficult can it be to follow the teachings of Christ, the rules of the Church? She has a mind and a will, she tells herself. Both are her own again.

“In fact, let me show you something.” Imaculata rises and turns to a cabinet behind her. She retrieves a large cardboard box. She beckons, and Anu peers in. Imaculata peels back tissues to reveal a starchy black mass of fabric.

“My old habit,” she says, taking it up and holding it before her. It falls like a burqa, almost to her toes. “I entered the convent just before Vatican II. I wore this for two years. Today, I cannot imagine myself
wearing it. But I keep it to remind myself of the nuns I’ve known who wore it willingly and with pride.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“You are asking to enter a stream in progress. It flows where it will, changes direction in its own time. You will be required to adjust.”

“I’m an adjustable woman, Sister.”

T
HE
E
MBASSY-MAN’S WIFE HAS BEGUN TO PACK
. E
VERY
afternoon this week a white van—like the ones Madam G. sent to kidnap men for vasectomies during the Emergency—backs up to the gate just as it begins to rain. And every afternoon Khansama has splashed across the lawn carrying cardboard boxes back and forth, emptying the downstairs a room at a time. He could advise them to order the van in the mornings to avoid the rain, but then he might get a lower tip.

Mem-saab receives a note from the lady-lawyer; she reads it aloud to Damini, the way she reads the newspaper or a magazine. Aman has requested the court to restrain her from renting the downstairs “until a family understanding has been arrived at.” The judge has granted his request.

“What will I live on?”

“You are a rich woman, Mem-saab. You have money at Punjab National Bank.”

“But that is stridhan—just mine on paper, for my lifetime. I use only a little for my needs, Amma.”

Like Damini, Mem-saab was taught widows hold their husband’s wealth in trust for their sons, that a woman’s bhagya dictates if men be kind. But this is Kalyug, and in this eon of greed her men have forgotten
their
duty to be kind to their mother.

“Mem-saab, your husband would not want you to live in poverty. Poverty is for women like me—we are accustomed to it. Besides …” and here Damini performs a joker’s mock pout like Amitabh Bachhan in the movies, “if you become poor I’ll become even poorer. If you get Dipreyshun, I will get even more Dipreyshun.”

Mem-saab manages a smile, and says, “Don’t worry, Amma. It is my duty to look after you.” In Punjabi, the language her mother spoke, and Damini’s too, her words sound sweeter, more intimate.

Damini brings her palms together and raises them high to her forehead. She calls on all her gods to bless Mem-saab. She mouths the song “Dum Maro Dum,” lip-syncing to invisible music like the actress Zeenat Aman, then prances across the room tossing her dupatta back and forth like Helen the Vamp. In total silence, she enacts slapstick from the movie
Johnny Mera Naam
, then whirls and simpers like Rekha in
Umrao Jaan
. In gestures that have no high and low, no he or she, Damini can reach Mem-saab’s blood memories.

If only Mem-saab could hear all the voices she has inside her. Damini can even mimic Mem-saab’s tone, which bounces up and downhill because she cannot hear it. Sometimes she even uses that voice to give herself orders.

A laugh—finally!—Mem-saab laughed a real laugh.

Damini turns on all the lights and lamps in the room, to remind Mem-saab: though she cannot hear, she can still see.

This is my role in the movie of her life
.

August 1994

A K
RISHNA-BLUE NIGHT SHARES HIS SKY WITH THE MOON
. Damini wraps them away behind curtains; the deaf must banish all
light to find sleep. She turns off the TV and its news of flag-hoisting ceremonies, speeches, marches and rallies for Independence Day.

August heat coils round Mem-saab’s bed. Both the air conditioner and the fan are stilled by another municipal power cut, the third in the three days since the restraining order. Still Mem-saab complains she is cold—so cold. Damini brings her sleeping pills and shawls and then blankets, but she can find no rest, no peace.

Mem-saab cries that a train is roaring through her head. Damini flicks a flashlight on and points it at her own lips to tell her that is impossible. It’s good that Mem-saab cannot hear Aman or Kiran’s party laughter or the tumult in her candlelit drawing-room.

At dawn, Damini brings a glass of warm water with lemon juice and honey, as she did for Mem-saab’s sons when they had fevers.

Mem-saab asks for more pills. Damini brings the light blue tin with its picture of Durga Devi, the eight-armed many-weaponed goddess astride a lion. “Are you sure you should … ?” she mouths, knitting her brows and raising them.

Mem-saab turns her head away and closes her eyes till Damini gives in.

Mem-saab tears at the plastic wrapping of the pills, trying to find the kernel. She holds them in her palm, examining the red, pink and white granules in the capsule-skin as though trying to fathom their power. She lifts one to her mouth, sets it delicately within the fold of her lower lip.

She turns to Damini and asks for water, and Damini offers the silver glass. She watches the kernel pass Mem-saab’s throat, then another and another. Mem-saab’s head is tilted upwards, eyes closed as if in prayer. Damini has never seen her taking so many pills, but then she has never been so sick.

When the pills are gone, Damini waits a moment with her.

Mem-saab hands the silver glass back and drops the capsule wrappings in Damini’s upturned hands. Silver foil and plastic with English writing on the back. Letters that sit squat, round and comfortable,
unlike Gurmukhi and Devanagari letters, which hang like kameezes fluttering on a clothesline.

Mem-saab lies back and closes her eyes.

“Shall I bring oil for your massage, Mem-saab?”

“Not today, Amma. Stay with me.”

I am getting too old for such sleepless nights
.

Damini takes her place on her foot-carpet. She takes Mem-saab’s soft hand in her calloused ones and begins to rub gently. “I am with you, Mem-saab, Amma is here. I am with you, na. I am here. Amma is here.” She recites the Sukhmani prayer in ancient Punjabi, then enters the suspended time of the
Bhagvad Gita
, reciting in Sanskrit …

A dying fragrance from the kitchen recalls the turmeric Damini rubbed on her Leela’s arms before she entrusted her daughter to Chunilal. Damini has two grandchildren, but at this moment, she cannot recall their faces. Sleep-summoned images dance across her inner eye: Suresh’s long lashes—or were those Timcu’s? Sardar-saab’s haughty gaze, Aman’s eyes downcast before it. Fragments of soft chapati fall from Aman’s hands and shrivel before Damini can reach them. Her tongue seems afire with hot chilies. If she does speak, in which language of the few she can speak, will anyone listen to her?

People’s voices in her ears.
Aman, shouting, “Damini-amma, tell her she has made a mistake …” Kiran shrieking: “You fool!” because I cannot read English. The lady-lawyer: “Be strong. I will try to help you.” Loveleen’s voice: “Daddy says you are nobody …” Khansama: “You too are becoming deaf …”

I am becoming deaf, too
.