91Èȱ¬

He sits on the small wooden stool watching her at work, amazed at the lithe fluidity of her movements.ÌýShe is a ballerina, graceful and elegant, her every motion an unrehearsed dance at odds with the crumpled roundness of her body.Ìý

She has her back to him oblivious to his presence, her gaze fixed intently on the small fragile woman that lies before her on the tired wooden bed, gasping in pain.ÌýThe air is thick with the smell of sweat and sweet scented herbs.ÌýAn old oil lamp burns lifelessly in one corner of the room, its glass protection a faded shattered memory, its flame casting broken, misshapen shadows along the four walls.

He takes a deep silent breath, searching for the cool respite of clean air, aware of the stench of his own body, of the trickle of sweat making its way down his spine and into the deep crevice of his anus.ÌýFeeling the itchy wetness of his groin, he shifts uneasily on the stool, almost toppling over.ÌýShe turns her head rapidly and looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes ablaze with anger, red and sparkling bright orange in the dim light.ÌýHe sees the leathery texture of her skin, the dry chapped lips and the hair lifeless and hanging like dried straw around her scarecrow face.ÌýHer mouth opens to speak.

'It will be a while yet.ÌýThe Guru cannot be rushed.ÌýThe child will arrive when He wills it.Ìý Be still and wait,' she rasps.ÌýHer voice a rusty hacksaw blade slicing through the thick muggy air.

He watches as she takes the baby and wraps it lovingly in an old and worn blanket.Ìý Carrying the child in her arms she walks across the room and places it delicately in a beautifully carved wooden cradle.ÌýTurning, she walks back and whispers something to the mother and the look in his wife’s eyes is an icy dagger burying itself deep inside his soul.ÌýThe tears cloud his eyes, harsh and acidic making him wince, his breathing, short and sharp, spasmodic, tightening his chest.ÌýHe looks across at his wife.ÌýShe is crying, her chest rising and falling in uncontrollable sobs.ÌýHe walks across the room and stands looking down at her.ÌýLeaning over, he slowly caresses away a tear with his forefinger.Ìý Their eyes meet and she tries to smile.

'Clean yourself up while I wait outside.ÌýWhen you are ready we will go', he says.
'And the baby?' she whispers.
'I will pay the old woman.ÌýShe will know what to do.'
'But...'
'Silence.ÌýWe will not speak of this again.ÌýYou have ten minutes.ÌýI will wait outside.'

She could not remember how many there had been over the years.ÌýCould not recall their faces or the faces of those they left behind.ÌýThey came from all over.ÌýHindus and Sikhs, Muslims and Christians.ÌýThe rich and the poor.ÌýThe politician and the farmer.Ìý The taxi driver and the shopkeeper. They came by train and by car.ÌýThey came by rickshaw and by scooter.ÌýThey came by bicycle and they walked.ÌýFrom cities, from towns and small rural villages.ÌýFrom the heart of Mother India. They came asking for pity, for sympathy and forgiveness and left speaking of cricket matches and movies to be watched.ÌýShe listened and in her heart she cursed them and their sons for all eternity.
ÌýÌý
Because when the darkness set in and she lay back to sleep, voices haunted her.ÌýThey spoke to her in low and hushed whispers, tender and sweet and full of love for a life that they would never know.ÌýThey spoke of dreams crushed and hopes shattered.ÌýOf schooldays and birthdays and the tender sweet kisses only a mother can give.ÌýKisses to quell the pain of hunger, to dull the ache of grazed knees and broken hearts.ÌýShe loved them and cherished them, gave them names and identities, histories, husbands and children to nurture.

And when the voices were too loud to bear she would awake, her withered emaciated body trembling.ÌýShe would stumble outside into the moonlit night to the old disused well at the back of the farmhouse.ÌýThe well where her children lived. She would gaze down into its bottomless depths and call their names in a high banshee wail that went unheard in the blackness of the night.ÌýRoopa, Naila, Mary, Devi, Sukhbir... Her babies... Her daughters.