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Wild Flower

Sex & Violence


Vol II : issue 1

Amrita Pritam Mrinal Pande Evelyne Accad Gagan Gill Selina Hossain Only in Print

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Amrita Pritam Angoori was the name of the very new wife of the very old servant of the neighbours of my neighbours. One reason for her being new was that she was his second wife. In Punjabi, they call a man who marries a second time duhaju. Etymologically, a man who has entered a second life a second life in marriage. The fact that Angoori was in her first life in the marriage made her new. It was not even a year since she had been given away as a bride, so she was still new. Some five years ago, when Parbhati had gone home to perform the last rites of his first wife, Angooris father had come forward and wrung dry his parna, the towel hung over his shoulder. Now to tell you the truth, no mans parna is drenched with the tears Oil on canvas by shed for his wife. In fact, it is soaked in water during the last MAITREYI KAR rituals. But if a father comes forward and wrings the parna of the bereaved husband, he is saying: I give my daughter in place of the woman who has passed away. There is no need for you to weep any more. See, I have dried your towel. It is a simple rural custom which replaces the old with the new. This was how Parbhati was married to Angoori. But Angoori was too young and her mother was bed-ridden with arthritis, so the ceremony of giving her away as a bride was delayed. One by one, five years passed and the time came for Angoori to be given away to Parbhati. He told his employers that either he would bring his wife to the city or he would move back to the village. The employers were not willing to feed two persons from their kitchen. But when Parbhati told them that Angoori would make her own little kitchen by the servants quarters and cook her own food, they agreed to let her stay. So Angoori came to the city.

For a few days, Angoori kept her face veiled even from the women of the colony. But after some time, the veil was lifted. Walking about with her silver anklets jingling, Angoori became quite popular. The jingle of her anklets was matched by the jingle of her laughter. She would spend most of the day in her quarters but when she came our, laughter seemed to jingle at her feet. What is this you are wearing, Angoori? This is the anklet for my foot. What is this on your toes? These are my bicchia, my toe-rings. Whats this on our arm? Oh, this is my amulet. What is this that you wear on your forehead? We call it albind. Why arent you wearing something on your waist today? Oh! my tagdhi (waistband) is too heavy. But I will wear it tomorrow. Today, I am not wearing my choker either. The chain broke. Ill get it repaired tomorrow at the bazaar. I had a nosering too. It was quite big. But my mother-in-law kept it. Angoori would wear her silver jewellery with aplomb and show them one by one, very happily. When the season changed, Angoori found her quarters too suffocating. She would come and sit right outside my house. Theres a tall neem tree and an old well. No one in the colony used the well, but the labourers working on the road fetched water from it. They spilled water all about, and it was cool. What are you reading, Bibiji? Angoori asked me one day as I sat under the tree. Do you want to read? I asked her. I dont know how to read. Why dont you learn? No. Why? It is a sin for a woman to read. Is it no sin for a man? No, it is not. Who told you all this? I know it. Then am I committing a sin by reading? No it is not a sin for a woman of the city. But it is a sin for a village woman. Her name was Sahiban*. And she came visiting the enemy country. She came to see the relics of ancient monuments. And carried with her a letter requesting that she be allowed to stay for a few days. The letter was from an old friend who knew that they would be happy to host Sahiban in their home for a few days. The parents of the family opened for her the airy guestroom, a little removed from the bustle of the living room. On the top floor of the house was a small apartment set amidst a terrace garden in bloom. The son of the family lived in the two rooms of the apartment. There was tea ready for Sahiban when she arrived. After tea and pleasantries, she went to her room to freshen up. Soon, it was time for dinner. The son of the family had come down to the dining room and was arranging the flowers that he had brought from the terrace. The mother called Sahiban from the guestroom. She introduced Sahiban to her son and started laying out the meal. The family of three sat down to dinner with their guest, making small talk as they ate. The next morning Sahiban had a cup of tea and ventured out to see the monuments and relics of this ancient city. She would travel by bus all day, visiting one monument after another. She had brought a list with her. But she would always return home before dark and the dinner ceremony of the first

evening would be replicated. There was only one change: Sahiban would always bring some flowers and sweets for the dining table. The mother asked her not to take the trouble, but Sahiban seemed to like coming back home with something for the family. On the fourth day, there was a minor accident. The son hurt his leg while riding his motorcycle. There was no bruise, but he seemed to have pulled a ligament. He returned from the doctors clinic with a bandage on his leg, went straight to his den and lay down. In a few hours, the leg was so stiff that he could not raise it. His mother went up to foment the injury and give him tea. That evening, when Sahiban returned and learned of the accident, she took the balm from the mothers hands, went softly up the stairs and started massaging his leg. Then she gently massaged the soles of his feet to work out the stiffness. The young man was embarrassed. But her gentle touch was so soothing that he overcame his shyness. That night, she took his dinner from his mother and went up to his room and spent the night on a settee there, in case he required any attention during the night. Next morning, she washed up in the bathroom upstairs and then came down to fetch his breakfast. After three days of tender care, the young man was up and about. He could not ride the motorbike, but he could drive the car. He had taken a weeks leave from work when he got hurt, so he still had a few days off. There were some very interesting old monuments outside the city and some ruins too, he told his mother, and would she lend him the car to take Sahiban there? The mother laughed in permission. She was relieved to see her son look somewhat happy. He had lost interest in women when the love of his college days did not work out. He would not consider marriage. He wouldnt even go to parties. Two days later, Sahiban asked him if he would take her to Hardwar. She wanted to bathe in the Ganga. He mentioned her request to his mother, who had no objection. So the two of them left for Hardwar. Sahiban was of delicate build and she was always in simple, casual clothes. They reached Hardwar late in the evening. They rented two small cottages for the night at an ashram by the Ganga. Just before dawn, Sahiban went over and woke the young man so that together, they could watch the sun rise over the river. He was still quite sleepy, but he washed his face and went out with her to the riverbank. Sahiban gazed at the shades of red splashed across the sky and reflected in the water. She climbed down the steps to bathe in the river, fully clad. The young man stood on the bank. He was carrying neither a towel nor a change of clothing, so he did not climb down with her. He sat on the edge and played with the water. Then he saw Sahiban standing in the water with her hands folded, looking up at the sky, as though she were greeting the sun. He stared at her in amazement. When she came out, thoroughly drenched, he said, "You should have brought a towel and a change." Sahiban smiled. The hut was close enough, she said, she would go and change there. Back in the ashram, after a change of clothes and a cup of tea, Sahiban said, "Take me to the city bazaar. I want to look in the shops." They might not be open yet, he replied, but they could stroll down and they might open by the time they got there. The narrow-laned bazaars were selling river shells, rudraksha beads, scarves printed with the name of Ram, small boxes of saffron and musk. The girl looked at all this in awe. All of a

sudden, she stopped by a shop selling red dupattas edged with golden tassel-work, glass bangles and bridal choorhas of ivory. Holding up her wrist to the shopkeeper, she asked for a choorha her size and put it on right there. Then she bought a red dupatta and some sindoor. Surprised, the young man said, "Sahiban, what will you do with all this? You might like them, but how can you return to your country wearing all this? Even the customs officers will wonder!" The girl laughed, "How do my arms concern them?" He was insistent, "But what are you up to?" Sahiban said, "These are debts that Khuda will have to pay back." When the two returned from Hardwar, Sahiban had a dot of sindoor on her forehead and some more in the parting of her hair. The wedding bangles were on her wrists and her head was covered with the red dupatta. Sahiban glowed like a bride. The young mans mother stared at her, astounded. She did not say a word to Sahiban but she cornered her son alone and said, "Tell me the truth! Have you and Sahiban got married?" "Not at all, Ma," he laughed. "Neither of us have even talked of marriage. She took a fancy to those trinkets and put them on!" "The silly girl shouldnt return to her country like this," said the mother, "she will get merry hell." Sahiban was to return the next day. Her visa had run out. After breakfast, the young man took the car out of the garage to drop her at the airport. Just then a friend of his arrived. He introduced Sahiban to his friend, adding: "Theres not much time, but lets sit for a few minutes." They sat in the living room downstairs. "Had you come for a pilgrimage of the dargahs?" the friend asked Sahiban. "I didnt go to a dargah, but it was a pilgrimage nevertheless," Sahiban replied. Then, playing on her name, he asked, "And where is the Mirza of this Sahiban?" The girl laughed and said, "Mirza must always belong to the enemy clan, and thats true for this Sahibans Mirza as well." She looked up at the young man for a moment, then lowered her eyes. On their way out, the friend asked once again, "But this time Sahiban lacks the courage to walk away with her Mirza?" She shot back, "This Sahiban does not want her Mirza to be killed by the people of her fathers clan." She got into the car and left for the airport. Sahiban came and vanished like a whiff of fragrance. The next few days passed unremarkably, full of everyday chores. Then a letter came from Sahiban, addressed to the son of the family. "Thanks ever so much!" she wrote. "Seeing you, I saw many past lives, even though it is a sin for us to talk of reincarnation. But what can I do I actually saw it all! I seemed to recall so much on seeing you" And she signed off with: "Exiled from you in this life Sahiban."

There was no address on the letter. Perhaps she knew that an address would make no difference.

Translated from the Punjabi by Nirupama Dutt * Translators footnote: Even today, the legend of Mirza-Sahiban haunts Punjabs folklore and songs. Mirza, like most romantic heroes, was a stranger to Sahibans land and belonged to a feuding clan. Sahiban eloped with him and was eager to reach his home in Danabad. But on the way, Mirza the accomplished archer insisted on stopping for the night under a tree. Sahibans brothers were in pursuit. Fearing that Mirza would kill her brothers, Sahiban flung his quiver up into the tree. Unarmed, Mirza was killed when the brothers caught up with them. Sahibans betrayal was never forgiven, and so there were no more legendary lovers in the land of the five rivers.

Stench of Kerosene
Outside, A MARE NEIGHED. Guleri recognised the neighing and an out of the house. The mare was from her parents village. She put her head against its neck as if it were the door of her father's house. Guleri's parents lived in Chamba. A few miles from her husband's village which was on high ground, the road curved and descended steeply down-hill. From this point one could see Chamba lying a long way away at one's feet. Whenever Guleri was homesick she would take her husband Manak and go up to this point. She would see the homes of Chamba twinkling in the sunlight and would come back with her heart aglow with pride. Once every year, after the harvest had been gathered in, Guleri was allowed to spend a few days with her parents. They sent a man to Lakarmandi to bring her back to Chamba. Two of her friends too, who were also married to boys outside Chamba, came home at the same time of the year. The girls looked forward to this annual meeting, when they spent many hours every day talking about their experiences, their joys and sorrows. They went about the streets together. Then there was the harvest festival. The girls would have new dresses made for occasion. They would have their duppattas dyed, starched and sprinkled with mica. They would buy glass bangles and silver ear-rings. Guleri always counted the days to the harvest. When autumn breezes cleared the skies of the monsoon clouds she thought of little besides her home in Chamba. She went about her daily choresfed the cattle, cooked food for her husband's parents and then sat back to work out how long it would be before someone would come for her from her parent's village. And now, once again, it was time for her annual visit. She

caressed tte mare joyfully, greeted her father's servant Natu, and made ready to leave next day. Guleri did not have to put her excitement into words: The expression on her face was enough. Her husband, Manak pulled at his hookah and closed his eyes. It seemed like either as if he did not like the tobacco, or that he could not bear to face his wife. "You will come to the fair at Chamba, won't you?" "come even if it is only for the day", she pleaded. Manak put aside his chillum but did not reply. "Why don't you answer me?" asked Guleri in little temper. "Shall I tell you something?" "I know what you are going to say: 'I only go to my parents once a year!' well, you have never been stopped before." "Then why do you want to stop me this time?" she demanded. "Just this time" pleaded Manak. "Your mother has not said anything. Why do you stand in my way?" Guleri was childishly stubborn. "My mother..." Manak did not finish his sentence. On the long awaited morning, Guleri was ready long before dawn. She had no children and therefore no problem of either having to leave them with her husband parents or taking them with her. Natu saddled the mare as she took leave of Manak's parents. They patted her head and blessed her. "I will come with you for a part of the way", said Manak. Guleri was happy as they set out. Under her dupatta she hid Manak's flute. After the village of Khajiar, the road descended steeply to Chamba. There Guleri took out the flute from beneath her duppatta and gave it to Manak. She took Manak's hand in hers and said, " come now, play your flute!" But Manak, lost in his thoughts paid no heed. "Why don't you play your flute?" asked Guleri, coaxingly. Manak looked at her sadly, then, putting the flute to his lips, he blew a strange anguished wail of sound. "Guleri, do not go away", he begged her. "I ask you again, do not go this time". He

handed her back the flute, unable to continue. "But why?" she asked. "You come over on the day of the fair and we will return together. I promise you, I will not stay behind". Manak did not ask again. They stopped by the road-side. Natu took the mare a few paces ahead to leave the couple alone. It crossed Manak's mind that is was this time of the year, seven years ago, that he and his friends had come on this very road to go to the harvest festival in Chamba. And it was at this fair that Manak had first seen Guleri and they had bartered their hearts to each other. Later, managing to meet alone, Manak remembered taking her hand and telling her, "you are like unripe cornfull of milk". "Cattle go for unripe corn", Guleri had replied, freeing her hand with a jerk. "Human beings like it better roasted. If you want me, go and ask for my hand from my father". Amongst Manak's kinsmen it was customary to settle the bride-price before the wedding. Manak was nervous because he did not know the price Guleri's father would demand from him. But Guleri's father was prosperous and had lived in cities. He had sworn that he would not take money for his daughter, but would give her to a worthy young man of a good family. Manak, he had decided, answered these requirements and very soon after, Guleri and Manak were married. Deep in memories, Manak was roused by Guleri's hand on his shoulder. What are you dreaming of?" she teased him. Manak did not answer. The mare neighed impatiently and Guleri thinking of the journey ahead of her, arose to leave. "Do you know the blue-bell wood a couple of miles from here"? she asked, "it is said that anyone who goes through it becomes deaf". Yes "It seems to me as if you had passed through the bluebell wood; you do not hear anything that I say". "You are right, Guleri. I cannot hear anything that you are saying to me" replied Manak with a deep sigh. Both of them looked at each other. Neither understood the other's thoughts. "I will go now. you had better return home. you have come a long way", said Guleri genuly.

"you have walked all this distance. Better get on the mare", replied Manak. "Here, take your flute" "You take it with you". "Will you come and play it on the day on the fair?" asked Guleri with a smile. The sun shone in her eyes Manak turned his face away Guleri perplexed, shrugged her shoulders and took the road to Chamba. Manak returned to his home. Entering the house, he slumped listless, on his charpoy "You have been away a long time", exclaimed his mother. "Did you go all the way to Chamba?" "not all the way; only to the top of the hill". Manak's voice was heavy. "Why do you croak like an old woman", asked his mother severely. "Be a man". Manak wanted to retort, "You are a woman; why don't you cry like one for a change!" But he remained silent Manak and Guleri had been married seven years, but she had never borne a child and Manak's mother had made a secret resolve: "I will not let it go beyond the eighth year". This year, true to her decision, she had paid Rs. 500 to get him a second wife and now she had waited, as Manak knew, for the time when Guleri went to her parents to bring in the new bride. Obedient to his mother and to custom, Manak's body responded to the new woman. But his heart was dead within him. In the early hours of one morning he was smoking his chillum when an old friend happened to pass by. "Ho Bhavani, where are you going so early in the morning?" Bhavani stopped. He had a small bundle on his shoulder. "Nowhere in particular", he replied evasively. "You must be on your way to some place or the other", exclaimed Manak. "What about a smoked?" Bhavani sat down on his haunches and took the chillum from Manak's hands. "I am going to Chamba for the fair", he replied at last. Bhavani's words pierced through Manak's heart like a needle.

"Is the fair today?" "It is the same day every year", replied Bhavani drily. "Don't you remember, we were in the same party seven years ago?" Bhavani did not say any more but Manak was conscious of the other man's rebuke and he felt uneasy. Bhavani put down the chiluum and picked up his bundle. His flute was sticking out of the bundle. Bidding Manak farewell, he walked away. Manak's eyes remained on the flute till Bhavani disappeared from view. Next afternoon when Manak was in his fields he saw Bhavani coming back but deliberately he looked the other way. He did not want to talk to Bhavani or hear anything about the fair. But Bhavani came round the other side and sat down in front of Manak. His face was sad, lightless as a cinder. "Guleri is dead", said Bhavani in a flat voice. "What?" "When she heard of your second marriage, she soaked her clothes in kerosene and set fire to them". Manak, mute with pain, could only stare and feel his own life burning out. The days went by. Manak resumed his work in the fields and ate his meals when they were given to him. But he was like a man dead, his face quite blank, his eyes empty. "I am not his spouse", complained his second wife. "I am just someone he happened to marry". But quite soon she was pregnant and Manak's mother was well pleased with her new daughter-in-law. She told Manak about his wife's condition, but he looked as if he did not understand, and his eyes were still empty. His mother encouraged her daughter-in-law to bear with her husband's moods for a few days. As soon as the child was born and placed in his father's lap, she said, Manak would change. A son was duly born to Manak's wife; and his mother, rejoicing, bathed the boy, dressed him in fine clothes and put him in Manak's lap. Manak stared at the new born baby in his lap. He stared a long time uncomprehending, his face as usual, expressionless. Then suddenly the blank eyes filled with horror, and Manak began to scream. "take him away!" he shrieked hysterically, "Take him away! He stinks of kerosene."

Angoori was the new bride of the old servant of my neighbour's neighbour's neighbour. Every bride is new, for that matter; but she was new in a different way: the second wife of her husband who could not be called new because he had already drunk once at the conjugal well. As such, the prerogatives of being new went to Angoori only. This realization was further accentuated when one considered the five years that passed before they could consummate their union About six years ago Prabhati had gone home to cremate his first wife. When this was done, Angoori's father approached him and took his wet towel, wringing it dry, a symbolic gesture of wiping away the tears of grief that had wet the towel. There never was a man, though, who cried enough to wet a yard-and-a-half of calico. It had got wet only after Prabhati's bath. The simple act of drying the tear-stained towel on the part of a person with a nubile daughter was as much as to say, 'I give you my daughter to take the place of the one who died. Don't cry anymore. I've even dried your wet towel'.

This is how Angoori married Prabhati. However, their union was postponed for five years, for two reasons: her tender age, and her mother's paralytic attack. When, at last, Prabhati was invited to take his bride away, it seemed he would not be able to, for his employer was reluctant to feed another mouth from his kitchen. But when Prabhati told him that his new wife could keep her own house, the employer agreed. At first, Angoori kept purdah from both men and women. But the veil soon started to shrink until it covered only her hair, as was becoming to an orthodox Hindu woman. She was a delight to both ear and eye. A laughter in the tinkling of her hundred anklebells, and a thousand bells in her laughter. 'What are you wearing, Angoori?''An anklet. Isn't it pretty?''And what's on your toe?''A ring.''And on your arm?''A bracelet.''What do they call what's on your forehead?''They call it aliband.''Nothing on your waist today, Angoori?' 'It's too heavy. Tomorrow I'll wear it. Today, no necklace either. See! The clasp is broken. Tomorrow I'll go to the city to get a new clasp... and buy a nose-pin. I had a big nose-ring. But my mother-in-law kept it.' Angoori was very proud of her silver jewellery, elated by the mere touch of her trinkets. Everything she did seemed to set them off to maximum effect. The weather became hot with the turn of the season. Angoori too must have felt it in her hut where she passed a good part of the day, for now she stayed out more. There were a few huge neem trees in front of my house; underneath them an old well that nobody used except an occasional construction worker. The spilt water made several puddles, keeping the atmosphere around the well cool. She often sat near the well to relax. 'What are you reading, bibi?' Angoori asked me one day when I sat under a neem tree reading.

'Want to read it?''I don't know reading.''Want to learn?''Oh, no!''Why not? What's wrong with it?''It's a sin for women to read!''And what about men?''For them, it's not a sin'. 'Who told you this nonsense?''I just know it.''I read. I must be sinning.''For city women, it's no sin. It is for village women.' We both laughed at this remark. She had not learned to question all that she was told to believe. I thought that if she found peace in her convictions, who was I to question them?

Her body redeemed her dark complexion, an intense sense of ecstasy always radiating from it, a resilient sweetness. They say a woman's body is like a lump of dough, some women have the looseness of under-kneaded dough while others have the clinging plasticity of leavened dough. Rarely does a woman have a body that can be equated to rightly-kneaded dough, a baker's pride. Angoori's body belonged to this category, her rippling muscles impregnated with the metallic resilience of a coiled spring. I felt her face, arms, breasts, legs with my eyes and experienced a profound languor. I thought of Prabhati : old, short, loose-jawed, a man whose stature and angularity would be the death of Euclid. Suddenly a funny idea struck me: Angoori was the dough covered by Prabhati. He was her napkin, not her taster. I felt a laugh welling up inside me, but I checked it for fear that Angoori would sense what I was laughing about. I asked her how marriages are arranged where she came from. 'A girl, when she's five or six, adores someone's feet. He is the husband.''How does she know it?''Her father takes money and flowers and puts them at his feet.''That's the father adoring, not the girl.''He does it for the girl. So it's the girl herself.''But the girl has never seen him before!''Yes, girls don't see.''Not a single girl ever sees her future husband!''No...,' she hesitated. After a long, pensive pause, she added, 'Those in love..... they see them.''Do girls in your village have love-affairs?''A few'. 'Those in love, they don't sin?' I remembered her observation regarding education for women. 'They don't. See, what happens is that a man makes the girl eat the weed and then she starts loving him.' 'Which weed?''The wild one.''Doesn't the girl know that she has been given the weed?''No, he gives it to her in a paan. After that, nothing satisfies her but to be with him, her man. I know. I've seen it with my own eyes.''Whom did you see?''A friend; she was older than me.''And what happened?''She went crazy. Ran away with him to the city.''How do you know it was because of the weed?''What else could it be? Why would she leave her parents. He brought her many things from the city: clothes, trinkets, sweets.' 'Where does this weed come in?''In the sweets : otherwise how could she love him?''Love can come in other ways. No other way here?''No other way. What her parents hated was that she was that way.''Have you seen the weed?''No, they bring it from a far country. My mother warned me not to take paan or sweets from anyone. Men put the weed in them.' 'You were very wise. How come your friend ate it?''To make herself suffer,' she said sternly. The next moment her face clouded, perhaps in remembering her friend. 'Crazy. She went crazy, the poor thing,' she said sadly. 'Never combed her hair, singing all night....''What did she sing?'I don't know. They all sing when they eat the weed. Cry too.' The conversation was becoming a little too much to take, so I retired.

I found her sitting under the neem tree one day in a profoundly abstracted mood. Usually one could hear Angoori coming to the well; her ankle-bells would announce her approach. They were silent that day. 'What's the matter, Angoori?'She gave me a blank look and then, recovering a little, said, 'Teach me reading, bibi.''What has happened?''Teach me to write my name.''Why do you want to write? To write letters? To whom?'She did not answer, but was once again lost in her thoughts. 'Won't you be sinning?' I asked, trying to draw her out of her mood. She would not respond. I went in for an afternoon nap. When I came out again in the evening, she was still there singing sadly to herself. When she heard me approaching, she turned around and stopped abruptly. She sat with hunched shoulders because of the chill in the evening breeze. 'You sing well, Angoori'. I watched her great effort to turn back the tears and spread a pale smile across her lips. 'I don't know singing'.'But you do, Angoori!''This was the ...''The song your friend used to sing.' I completed the sentence for her. 'I heard it from her.''Sing it for me.' She started to recite the words. 'Oh, it's just about the time of year for change. Four months winter, four months summer, four months rain!....' 'Not like that. Sing it for me,' I asked. She wouldn't, but continued with the words : Four months of winter reign in my heart;My heart shivers, O my love.Four months of summer, wind shimmers in the sun.Four months come the rains; clouds tremble in the sky. 'Angoori!' I said loudly. She looked as if in a trance, as if she had eaten the weed. I felt like shaking her by the shoulders. Instead, I took her by the shoulders and asked if she had been eating regularly. She had not; she cooked for herself only, since Prabhati ate at his master's. 'Did you cook today?' I asked. 'Not yet.''Did you have tea in the morning?' 'Tea? No milk today.''Why no milk today?''I didn't get any. Ram Tara......''Fetches the milk for you?' I added. She nodded. Ram Tara was the night-watchman. Before Angoori married Prabhati, Ram Tara used to get a cup of tea at our place at the end of his watch before retiring on his cot near the well. After Angoori's arrival, he made his tea at Prabhati's. He, Angoori and Prabhati would all have tea together sitting around the fire. Three days ago Ram Tara went to his village for a visit. 'You haven't had tea for three days?' I asked. She nodded again. 'And you haven't eaten, I suppose?' She did not speak. Apparently, if she had been eating, it was as good as not eating at all. I remembered Ram Tara : good-looking, quick-limbed, full of jokes. He had a way of talking with smiles trembling faintly at the corner of his lips.

'Angoori?''Yes, bibi'.'Could it be weed?' Tears flowed down her face in two rivulets, gathering into two tiny puddles at the corners of her mouth. 'Curse on me!' she started in a voice trembling with tears, 'I never took sweets from him... not a betel even.... but tea ...' She could not finish. Her words were drowned in a fast stream of tears.

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