the afflicted one.’
‘If you have no affliction, then hurry up and get back on the road, deliver your winter clothing, go all the way to Great Swallow Mountain. If you don’t hurry, you’ll arrive after the winter snows, and your husband will have become a snowman!’ The woman cackled over her little joke and then, with a swish of her sleeve, edged closer to her embroidery sisters.
Binu heard the gleeful sounds of the woman passing on the news: ‘Can’t you see who that is? Come take a look, it’s the madwoman of Peach Village!’
The whispering embroidery women turned to give Binu looks of timid curiosity. ‘It’s her. Yes, it’s her. The lovesick one. The madwoman. What about the frog? It’s hidden in the bundle on her head.’ Caught in the needle-sharp gaze of the women, Binu felt her face and body prickle all over. Worn down physically and emotionally,she lacked the strength to reason with the women. It was just like Peach Village, with girls chattering away whenever they got together, and they loved spreading idle talk about her.
All this time, the mountain women stood quietly at the edge of the people market like a row of shadowy trees in the settling darkness. Binu left the gaggle of decked-out embroidery women and walked up to a woman in black who was holding a conical hat in her hand. She was reminiscent of the mountain woman on the raft and reminded Binu of the frog in her bundle. Binu thought of asking the woman if she was from Northeast Mountain and, if so, if she knew a woman who poled a raft to search for her son. But the hostility she had experienced in this people market had destroyed her confidence in human contact. So she chose to say nothing. I ask you nothing, and you ask me nothing, she thought. Binu stood silently amid the mountain women, waiting with them for carts and horses to pass by.
The woman in black lowered the hat that she held in front of her face, revealing ashen, swollen features. The moment she opened her mouth to speak, a rank, fishy smell engulfed her. ‘You ought not to stand with those women. But then, only the aged, the ugly, the sick and dying, those with no skills, should stand here with us.’The woman, with a blank look on her face, eyed up the bundle on Binu’s head. ‘You are better off than us,’ she said, ‘since you at least own a large bundle. We have nothing and can only stand here and wait. We are not waiting for a cart from the textile mill. If someone were to buy us to pull a plough, that would be enough. We are what is known as large livestock. But no one wants to buy mountain women like us; they think we are too ugly and too stupid. We will never find a cart, so we stand here awaiting death. If that is what you are waiting for too, then stand here with us.’
Obviously, there was no place in the Bluegrass Ravine people market for Binu. She could stand with neither the embroidery sisters nor the mountain women. Unable to see an alternative, she stood in the middle of the road to wait, like the others; just wait. The last cart passed by the people market; the sky above Bluegrass Ravine darkened slowly, winds from the mountain were chilled. Every now and then, a cart passed down the road, creating a stir among women on both sides of the road. The embroidery sisters brushed and straightened their clothes and waved their colourful packets, retaining a modicum of reserve. The boys across the street simply ran over and grabbed hold of the cart canopy, hoping to jump aboard, but were driven back by the driver’swhip. ‘We’re not buying people, not today,’ the driver said.
The mountain women chased meekly along behind the cart, shouting, ‘Don’t you want some large livestock? We don’t need wages, just some food.’
The man on the cart answered, ‘No, we don’t need large livestock, not at any price.’
With the bundle still resting on top of her head, Binu moved out of the way of the cart. The sight of her solitary, impoverished presence
‘If you have no affliction, then hurry up and get back on the road, deliver your winter clothing, go all the way to Great Swallow Mountain. If you don’t hurry, you’ll arrive after the winter snows, and your husband will have become a snowman!’ The woman cackled over her little joke and then, with a swish of her sleeve, edged closer to her embroidery sisters.
Binu heard the gleeful sounds of the woman passing on the news: ‘Can’t you see who that is? Come take a look, it’s the madwoman of Peach Village!’
The whispering embroidery women turned to give Binu looks of timid curiosity. ‘It’s her. Yes, it’s her. The lovesick one. The madwoman. What about the frog? It’s hidden in the bundle on her head.’ Caught in the needle-sharp gaze of the women, Binu felt her face and body prickle all over. Worn down physically and emotionally,she lacked the strength to reason with the women. It was just like Peach Village, with girls chattering away whenever they got together, and they loved spreading idle talk about her.
All this time, the mountain women stood quietly at the edge of the people market like a row of shadowy trees in the settling darkness. Binu left the gaggle of decked-out embroidery women and walked up to a woman in black who was holding a conical hat in her hand. She was reminiscent of the mountain woman on the raft and reminded Binu of the frog in her bundle. Binu thought of asking the woman if she was from Northeast Mountain and, if so, if she knew a woman who poled a raft to search for her son. But the hostility she had experienced in this people market had destroyed her confidence in human contact. So she chose to say nothing. I ask you nothing, and you ask me nothing, she thought. Binu stood silently amid the mountain women, waiting with them for carts and horses to pass by.
The woman in black lowered the hat that she held in front of her face, revealing ashen, swollen features. The moment she opened her mouth to speak, a rank, fishy smell engulfed her. ‘You ought not to stand with those women. But then, only the aged, the ugly, the sick and dying, those with no skills, should stand here with us.’The woman, with a blank look on her face, eyed up the bundle on Binu’s head. ‘You are better off than us,’ she said, ‘since you at least own a large bundle. We have nothing and can only stand here and wait. We are not waiting for a cart from the textile mill. If someone were to buy us to pull a plough, that would be enough. We are what is known as large livestock. But no one wants to buy mountain women like us; they think we are too ugly and too stupid. We will never find a cart, so we stand here awaiting death. If that is what you are waiting for too, then stand here with us.’
Obviously, there was no place in the Bluegrass Ravine people market for Binu. She could stand with neither the embroidery sisters nor the mountain women. Unable to see an alternative, she stood in the middle of the road to wait, like the others; just wait. The last cart passed by the people market; the sky above Bluegrass Ravine darkened slowly, winds from the mountain were chilled. Every now and then, a cart passed down the road, creating a stir among women on both sides of the road. The embroidery sisters brushed and straightened their clothes and waved their colourful packets, retaining a modicum of reserve. The boys across the street simply ran over and grabbed hold of the cart canopy, hoping to jump aboard, but were driven back by the driver’swhip. ‘We’re not buying people, not today,’ the driver said.
The mountain women chased meekly along behind the cart, shouting, ‘Don’t you want some large livestock? We don’t need wages, just some food.’
The man on the cart answered, ‘No, we don’t need large livestock, not at any price.’
With the bundle still resting on top of her head, Binu moved out of the way of the cart. The sight of her solitary, impoverished presence
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