Gold award in the QCEC competition, 2023.
Rani looked at the half baked clay pots as they lay battered by the furious rays of the sun, which cleaved their soft muddy interiors into hardened shells. She ran her fingers around the little cracks and crevices which formed around their mouths, and patched them with more clay from the riverside. It ran foul with the waste of the whole village, and a putrid stench lurked in the air, waiting to enter nostrils and ruin moods. As much as she hated the stench, Rani loved making pots. She loved the way the soft clay would run along her fingers like the little dirty river ran along the large rocks and how it would make a home for itself in the creases of her skin, like worms in the shelter of a great river rock. She would daydream here, under the merciless sun, the brown mud streaming down her sunburnt skin, and down her little choli, the fabric sagging and staining under its weight.
“Where is this girl lost now? What will I do with her?” Her mother would wail in despair, and then she would scramble to her feet, knocking one or two down in her haste, scrubbing the choli hard with grimy choked fingers, calling to her mother, saying she’s coming, she was working. She would be slapped then, her mother’s marital glass bangles, her only possession of any value, ringing sharply against her fat wrists.
“The pots-”
“Are not your job! Stay inside and make garlands or sweep the floors.”
Rani, her face red from the shame and the stinging slaps, would gingerly step inside, and get to work, scraping the remnants of dried clay bits from beneath her nails quietly. In the confines of the four walls, her anger festered before fizzling out, and then she would sweep it away for the fourth time from the hard mud floor of their little hut. Her stomach ached terribly, the pain coming and going in waves, but she ignored it, chewing determinedly on the mint leaves that lay uncrushed next to the cracked mortar.
“Stay inside Rani, make garlands, that’s your job!” Her brother’s mocking voice assailed her from behind as he pulled apart the oiled braid she had plaited so carefully for the sunset prayers.
“Stop it!” Her scream died in her throat, because as her mother came in, she saw the dried flowers wilting by the door.
“Can you not do even one thing properly?”
Before she had to face her wrath again, Rani ran, quickly gathering the old flowers. Then, she was free, running through the field to the main temple backyard, where the Dalits were allowed to have a smaller ceremony. The grass grabbed her ankles and tickled her feet incessantly, and the wind lifted up her ragged skirt in a soft dance. She was almost there, when she stopped suddenly, the sound of whipped flesh cracking in her ears. She wanted to turn, but her feet seemed stuck to the ground, the grass that was rushing past her toes now tying them down firmly.
“Please, sahab, I promise I will come on time tomorrow, it was a mistake.”
The stick cracked against his bones again, and although she knew he was trying to muffle his shouts, she could still hear it. The sound ricocheted in her eardrums several times again. She twisted her feet in the dirt so hard that they blistered and broke. Her blood bubbled and boiled, and she suddenly felt a wetness between her legs. It was as if the whip was inside her body. Rani looked down hurriedly. It was red.
***
Her mother shoved an old piece of cloth into her hands.
“You’re becoming a woman now, Rani, you must not run around like a wild goat.”
The words hung in the stifling silence between them.
“How often do I have to change it?” Rani looked at the ground as she talked, and shifted her feet uncomfortably.
“Every four to five hours. Wake up in the night, don’t forget. I’ll give you an old sheet to sleep on.”
Although she grunted under her breath, her mother heard it instantly.
“No more going anywhere today.”
This time Rani’s hard, brown eyes met her mother’s instantly in an enraged protest.
“The Duessehra prayers are today.”
Her mother sighed irritatedly, and softened her voice to cajole her daughter in a last attempt. The four mud walls seemed to inch closer and closer, imprisoning Rani from what she had looked forward to all month. Her stomach cramped up again, and she sat down suddenly on the faded mat with the soft blue tassels that lay by their doorstep.
Her mother finished wrapping a sari around herself deftly and balanced the large wooden basket on one hip. The cloying scent of fresh jasmine evokened a fresh desire in her, and she tried protesting once more, to no avail.
The thick threads of rules spun themselves in a tightened mesh around Rani’s throat. She had always wanted to grow up. Why did it feel so constricting?
***
The long marks of the whip created angry red scars along her father’s back, which arched deeply around his shoulder blades, as a tree arches to the force of the wind. His wounds were submissive, just like he had to be. Why wouldn’t he speak out against all the unfairness that surrounded them?
Rani gently massaged butter and coconut oil onto the wound, her fingers kneading the skin in soft, circular motions. Rani saw the butter disappearing before her eyes from their already dwindling supply.
“Why haven’t you gone with your mother?”
Rani remained quiet.
“Save the butter.”
“I know,” she murmured.
***
Rani’s mother clutched the strong shoulders of her son as she pushed him ahead, nodding to all her friends as they thronged to the little temple. Dalits weren’t allowed to have their prayers officiated by any Brahmin, so they simply came together and joined their hands. Those who had any offerings, lay them before the painted idols, and the women laid jasmine flowers on large banana leafs till the air cloyed their nostrils and made little streams run from their eyes. Their warm bodies would jostle together as they crowded around to see who would fill the biggest leaf, who had brought the most flowers.
“I wonder what they’re doing in the main temple up there, all those fat pandits?” Her son asked mockingly. She smacked him lightly on the head.
“Be respectful,” she replied quickly. The men stood off to the side, some carrying handmade drums, others smoking beedis quietly and hoping their wives won’t notice. She looked for her husband, but couldn’t spot him amongst the thick crowd of people.
The temple doors, made of discarded wood, had swollen last monsoon, and now they creaked loudly every time another person entered. The slapping sound of bare feet on the earthen floor became hushed as soon as they entered, and the silence smothered them.
***
Rani stood outside the temple hesitantly. It wasn’t as grand as the main temple, but its doors were carved by a local sculptor, and someone had cleaned the statues inside, and laid fresh garlands, stolen from some Brahmin’s field. The wood whispered to her enticingly, and women and children crowded inside. The silence inside has a palpable expectancy to it, as if blessings could coat your tongues at any moment and numb your fingers. She wanted to go in. At that moment, it was all she wanted. Rani saw her father immediately, rolling his shoulders from the phantom weight of his floggings. His white vest was stained a light red from the fresh blood that had oozed out even after the buttering. As he looked at her, at his daughter, another wave of helplessness engulfed him. She shouldn’t have to feel helpless. He shouldn’t have to feel helpless.
“Rani, what are you doing here?”
“I- I saw that everyone had left.”
This was not the life he had wanted for her.
“Come, let’s go inside.”
The beginnings of a smile played upon her features, and the happiness tugged at the bottom of his stomach.
Her mother came outside then for a split moment and her aghast face broke their little facade immediately.
“Rani, don’t you dare take another step!” She said loudly, gesturing with her hands for her to turn away.
“But doesn’t the goddess bleed too?” Rani said, simply.
She took her father’s hand, and they walked in together.
***