The Selector of Souls (57 page)

“Mohan signed the deed. To whom can the boy sell if not to me? Leela and you can’t farm that land. Let’s not waste more time—take the cheque, Damini-amma.”

“Maybe someday,” says Damini, determined that day will come after moksha, when her soul has nothing more to learn, when she’s freed from birth and rebirth.

“I’m giving this much because you were my mother’s maidservant for so many years. Look, I’m not even holding you or Leela or Mohan responsible for Suresh’s actions, because I heard you saved the patients.”

Damini drops her gaze to the Bokhara carpet, and says nothing.

“I’m going to build a more modern clinic, you know, as soon as the NGO people persuade the government to lift the stay order,” Aman says, sounding as he did when he promised Mem-saab he would look after her. “It will have an operating theatre, a full lab, an MRI, an
EEG, an EKG …” He checks off these wonders, moving a forefinger from the pinky of his other hand to his thumb. Now he’s back to his pinky, “… an ECG and an ultrasound machine.”

Damini looks up. “An ultra-soon here in Gurkot?”

“Villa owners will find it very convenient,” he says. “We can have some charity cases as well.”

“And Sister Anu?”

“Oh, Dr. Gupta will continue to work for us. And if the nurse wants to remain, she and the teaching sister can rent the residence cottage.”

Damini delivers the ojha’s message. Interest flickers in Kiran’s eyes. She looks at Amanjit.

“I’ll attend if I have time,” says Amanjit. He shows Damini squares covered with small writing in his notebook, to make her understand how very busy he is.

Damini nods, then says, “No notebooks.” She does not want Aman to tell cocktail party stories to his pink buyers and fellow Sikhs about Hindu ceremonies. For Kiran’s benefit she adds, “And the ojha-ji says no cameras.”

“
Leh!
Why, Damini-amma?” says Amanjit.

“You should remember what people do and say, Aman, not only their photos,” says Damini. She glances at Kiran, “And with your own memory.”

O
N THE DAY OF THE JAGAR CEREMONY
, D
AMINI WAKES
feeling worthless and empty, as if nothingness is her normal state. It could be grief over Chunilal, over Suresh in jail without bail. Or it could be her own great paap. She hasn’t felt such hollowness since the day she tried the forgiveness chair.

May the jagar be successful
.

Damini’s feet feel heavy as her heart, and today even her combat boots offer no cheer. She wears the violet phulkari-embroidered shawl Mem-saab gave her, for violet is the color of spirit.

Spending too much on one god can offend another. Could it displease Anamika Devi that Damini asked for a jagar for Lord Golunath and not for her? But Anamika Devi existed before all 333 million gods, yet few worship her—who can even try and appease her?

As the sun sinks past the hills of Gurkot, the villagers remove their shoes and file into the centre room in Tubelight’s home. Supari and Chimta cover their heads with their saris, and take their seats on the jute dhurrie with all the other women, facing the ojha’s unclean left side. Matki carries a toddler on her arm and wipes his nose with her dupatta. The Toothless One is helped to the ground by her two daughters-in-law. Even Vijayanthi arrives, having ridden up the mountain on her grandson’s back. Kamna props a textbook on bent
knees between her forearms and tries to finish her homework. A Petromax lantern flares, turning her bangles to prisms. Goldina squats a few feet away from the rest, the set of her shoulders defying anyone to object to her presence.

Sister Anu places her shoulder bag on the windowsill, covers her head with a heavy black shawl and takes a spot on the dhurrie, beside Damini. Samuel bows over folded hands to the ojha, then retires to an adjoining room, so no one will notice his presence.

Amanjit is ushered to a space where he can sit cross-legged in his white kurta pyjama, and lean against a wall as backrest. A moat of space forms around his lime green turban, though more and more men arrive. Mohan spies Amanjit as soon as he enters, and knocks several knees and toes as he leaps over cross-legged men. When he reaches Amanjit Singh, he leans over and envelops him in a bear hug, as if he were a long lost friend, instead of the would-be evictor of his family, then he takes an open spot a few feet away.

Kiran comes in, looking appropriately solemn. She places a platter of uncooked rice beside the ojha as Amanjit Singh’s donation and crosses the room to the women’s side. She looks more comfortable than cross-legged Amanjit, one hip on the ground, folded legs to the side. She takes off her sunglasses, polishes them and puts them away.

The dark, wiry ojha sits on his heels, hands on knees. He rocks back and forth, he rolls around his waist. When he holds up his arms, his sleeves fall back and his tattoos change shape. The drummer beats his nagara, the singer calls to Lord Golunath in Pahari. The bow slides on the ektara; its melody resonates in men and women alike.

The ojha begins to tremble. He runs his fingers through greying hair. A voice too large for his slight frame emanates from him. “I come when seen and unseen energies resound.” His voice fills the small room. “Why do you ask this poor ojha to bring me?”

The pujari leads the puch-session. “Golunath-ji, this old woman has questions.”

No one turns to look, but everyone might as well be staring at Damini.

“Golunath-ji,” she says, “I am not very old, but no longer young. I have two children—this daughter, Leela, and one son. I came to visit Leela for a little while, but then I committed a great paap. I have tried to erase it, but all the good deeds I have done are not enough.”

“What was your paap?”

She can’t speak it. Who can understand her crime, her heinous crime?

“Tell,” says Sister Anu, her voice both encouraging and firm.

“Tell!” shouts Chimta as if she’ll wrest it out of Damini.

Damini gropes for words in any language: Hindi, Punjabi or Pahari, then tells. About that night, that baby, that beautiful creation of her creation, her granddaughter … the cold … tobacco … “I returned her atman to brahman. I said it was a mistake. I said it should have decided to be a boy.” She omits nothing, not even the eyes like twin fireflies; her telling creates the tale. “I did it,” says Damini, looking around at everyone, “though I didn’t want to.”

Damini’s story could be the story of other mothers, other baby girls, but Leela cries because it is her story, her mother’s story, and her baby girl’s tale. Leela tells Lord Golunath, “She did it for me, because I wanted it.”

“No, Chunilal wanted it,” Damini tells Lord Golunath, in Leela’s defence. “He wouldn’t even hold the baby. He would not give it his name.”

Tubelight says, “Even I, who am not very bright, can read a man’s wishes.”

Chimta says, “Aren’t you ashamed to tell this?”

“No,” says Damini. “The time to be ashamed was when I was doing it.”

Kamna says to all, “That night my papa sent me again to the cow’s room to sleep, and he said he would beat me if I came out before morning—he knew what my nani would do. And,” she says to Leela, “the next morning, he didn’t cry.”

Sister Anu wipes her eyes.

Mohan says, “Men don’t cry,” as if he understands he is defending his father.

“Of what use is this telling?” says Vijayanthi. “Which woman can do what she wants? The shysh-tem is like this only. We do what men want done.”

A man responds, “Mata-ji, we too do what you women want done. You want a brick or cement home, you want a bit of land, you want grain in the storeroom, you want food and clothing for the children. We sacrifice for these. You blame us men for all your sorrows, but all must do our duty, regardless of consequences, as Lord Krishna told Lord Arjun in the
Gita
.”

The women’s side of the room erupts as each tries to respond. Chimta shouts loudest, “You men don’t care if we suffer so long as you do your duty. That way
your
karma stays clean—but what of ours?”

Supari aims a stream of betel-juice at the corner of the room, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and says, “The taste of anger never leaves me.”

The room hushes.

Goldina says, “I’m the one everyone blames when babies die, because I cut their cords and dispose of the Lotus that comes afterwards. But it’s not only you, Damini-ji, who does as a man wants. Kiran-ji too, knows what Aman-ji expects and does it—even if it stains her karma, even if another woman will be hurt, even if her own baby would be hurt.”

Aman looks puzzled. Kiran becomes very interested in a photo of Lord Ganesh just above eye level.

Leela says, “All of us women do our dharma, regardless of consequences to our karma.”

“Any other paaps?” Lord Golunath seems anxious to be gone—maybe because the ojha is gasping and his eyes rolling back. “Large ones?”

“I took women to the Jalawaaz clinic for ultra-soons, and if they
were having baby girls, I would help them clean the babies out,” says Damini. “I said the machine would now be the selector of souls.”

“If they were having baby boys, did you help them have those baby boys cleaned out?”

“No.”

“Then it’s true, you forgot justice! Yet you call for me to give you justice? Tell me, what punya have you done?”

“Many meritorious deeds, from healing and teaching, to saving a child. But still I have many injustices to be ashamed of. My son broke down a mosque and burned a church,” says Damini.

“Your son’s karma is his own. He will find it difficult to balance such deeds in this life. But you can’t help him, because you are not your son.”

“But I
am
. Lord Krishna said in the
Gita
that if Lord Arjun killed, he didn’t really kill anyone. He said all forms return to the formless. He said we are all one, we only think we are different.”

“Huh!” says Lord Golunath. “After death, not now.”

“Not now?”

“If you were all one, with no separation, you would have known what your son intended. But as it is, you couldn’t have stopped him. Because you see, right now, you have one body, he has one body. That’s two bodies—yes?”

“Yes,” says Damini.

“Then you can’t be your son while alive, only if you’re dead. Are you dead?”

“No, but my son says all Hindus are one,” says Damini. “And he says all Christians are one, and he says all Sikhs are one, and all Muslims are one. He says if one Christian does a crime, all Christians are guilty. He says if one Sikh does a crime, all Sikhs are guilty. He says if one Muslim does a crime, all Muslims are guilty.”

“Ask him if he would like to stay in jail till he atones for every crime committed by all nine hundred and seventy million Hindus in the world. I can do that for him.”

“No, no!” says Damini.

The possessed ojha is slumping as if about to pass from this world.

“Then you stop saying sorry for your son’s deeds, and for anyone else’s as well. Stop saying sorry for living. Live the life you have been given, and continue to do punya. Many good deeds and donations will be required to overcome what you did.”

But Damini’s outstretched arms implore Lord Golunath not to leave, “Golunath-ji, I cannot afford to donate more to your temple. And while some say it’s unjust to clean out girls from the women, some of us say it is best for the family. So what is our dharma?”

“Do dharma with compassion,” says Lord Golunath. “Think of the possible effects of your actions. Try and shape the future for better.”

The ojha falls back, closes his eyes, and groans.

“Some say the future will be better if girls are cleaned out, some say the future will be better if they are not. How can we know?”

The ojha opens his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing terrifying images.

“Whose future?” says Lord Golunath.

“Ours,” says Damini.

“Don’t you love your children equally?”

“We do love, of course we love,” everyone nods and mutters.

“Not for what they do for you or will do for you, but as brahman formed in flesh,” says Lord Golunath’s voice.

The ojha claps his hands and trembles visibly. He writhes and twists and rolls from his waist. He runs his fingers through the rice, then over his hair.

“Of course, of course,” the men nod at each other for reinforcement.

“Then why are you only cleaning out girls, not boys?” says Lord Golunath.

“Why should we clean out boys?” shouts a man from the back of the room. “That would be like taking a gift and flinging it down a well.”

“If you worship me,” the ojha booms in Lord Golunath’s voice, “you must love each child, no matter which I send.”

“
Hah
!” comes a shout from Supari’s husband. “Then don’t send us girls, don’t send us cripples.” He half-rises from his squat in excitement. “It’s your fault if you send them—we can’t love them. We’re not gods, we’re just men.”

“
Haan
!” a great sigh of agreement passes through the men. “Golunath-ji, one girl, maybe two. But you’re sending us too many girl children. It is unfair.”

“Why?”

“We can’t use girl children.”

“But you do. They work, they earn. See this woman is living with her daughter.”

“Visiting,” says Damini, faintly.

“She made her daughter; why should she not live with her?” says the possessed ojha. “I send you both boys and girls to teach you to be fair, not only to provide for you in old age. I send them so you learn to be parents, and become good ancestors. Use? What use is the beauty of the sun or the moon or the grandeur of the Himalayas?”

“Girls cost more,” says a voice from the men’s side of the room.

“Do you make your sons work as hard?”

“No, ji, no!”

“Without girls, there would be no women, and without women you would not be born, and without women’s shakti, you cannot survive. When a man can’t farm, a woman steps in to do his work for him, but if a woman can’t work, can you do her work? If your mother or wife or daughter falls sick, I see only one or two of you who can cook.”

“I can make daal,” says Mohan.

Every head on the men’s side of the room swivels toward him.