But I suspect Grandmother suggested opium when I was born—a favorite trick for getting rid of daughters. And when neighbors ask what’s become of the infant they heard crying the night before, the reply is always that the wolves have taken her. When I was young, wolves took so many girls in Barwa Sagar that many of the beasts must have died from overeating.
So when Grandmother said, “Let me tell you something about childbirth, beti,” you can be certain it wasn’t because she wanted to enlighten me. It was her way of making sure I knew how much trouble Mother had gone through to have me: a useless girl. As the light of the window framed my grandmother’s high cheekbones and long, thin neck, I was reminded of a bird I’d seen on the lake behind Barwa Sagar’s fort. Father called it a swan, and said that what made it special was its ability to move through the water without getting wet. And this, it seemed to me, was exactly what Grandmother did in life. She floated through the house but nothing touched her; not my tears, and not Mother’s cries from the back of the house.
“Bringing a child into this world is the most dangerous journey a woman will take,” she began. “Your mother is in there with the midwife, but it could just as easily be the priest. When I gave birth, I labored for two days. Do you know that means?”
It wasn’t a question; it was a cue for me to shake my head, which I did.
“It means I didn’t eat or drink for two days. They shut the doors and closed the windows and I suffered like an animal until I thought even Goddess Shashti had abandoned me.”
I knew this must be true, because I had seen the midwife arrive and heard her instruct Grandmother to be sure that neither fresh air nor light was allowed into Mother’s room. I thought of Mother trapped inside and tears clouded my vision.
“Are you listening?” Grandmother’s voice rose.
“Yes, Dadi-ji. But the water—”
She followed my gaze to the pot. “So why are you standing there? Bring it!”
I took the boiling pot from the heated bricks and followed Grandmother down the hall. Our lime-washed walls and mud-brick floors might not have been beautiful, but we had more than two rooms, and we always had enough food to eat.
Grandmother knocked sharply on the door, and when the midwife appeared, I caught a glimpse of Mother: she was covered in sweat, as if the heavy rain outside had fallen over her body, but left everything else in the room dry.
“The water,” the midwife said.
I held up the pot, hoping she would say something about Mother’s condition, but the old woman simply took the hot water and shut the door. Perhaps it’s mean to call her old, since she was the same age as Grandmother. But truthfully, there couldn’t have been a greater difference between them than if you were comparing a cat with a lion. The midwife’s face was round and soft, with deep creases around her mouth and eyes; Grandmother’s was tight and full of angles. My aunt once said I had inherited these angles. Then she added, “It’s a compliment, Sita! Don’t make such a grimace. The sharpness of Dadi-ji’s face is what makes her so beautiful, even at sixty-three. You have the same striking features.”
We stood for a moment, listening to the cries on the other side of the door, then Grandmother said, “Go and tell your father to fetch your aunt.”
Father’s workshop was my favorite room in our house. It had four windows facing onto the busy streets and the ceilings were as tall as our peepal tree. As soon as I approached, I could hear the sabjiwalla outside, pushing his cart past our neighbor’s fields despite the rain, and calling out the names of the vegetables he was selling: onions, tomatoes, cucumber, okra. If Mother was well, she would have been bargaining with him through the window, concealed behind the lattice in order to keep purdah.
Inside, Father sat with his back to the door. Wood shavings covered the floor around him, making me think of orange peels, and the room was filled with the woodsy scent of teak. When Father was carving the image of a god, the air would be thick with incense; he would light a stick of sandalwood on our altar, then lay a long jute mat across the floor as a place to work. But on the days when a villager placed an order for a weapon, the room smelled only of woods and earth.
I approached him slowly, since Father didn’t like to be surprised. I suppose it’s the same with others who’ve lost their hearing.
“Pita-ji,” I said when I was standing before him.
He searched my face for some sign of distress, then his shoulders relaxed. He put aside the bow he was carving to offer me his palm.
“Grandmother says to fetch Esha-Masi,” I traced above the calluses of his hand.
“Now?”
I nodded.