bourka and walk veiled for the rest of my life if I, too, could be sure of such things."
"For a year perhaps," I said, "not forever. Who could endure such a filtering of sunlight and fresh air as they do?"
"You chatter like a pair of monkeys," said Kali's husband, "with less sense. What use to talk of 'exchange' and so forth? Their life is theirs and yours is yours; neither change nor exchange is possible."
Once, and once only, I actually saw one of those women, close. I was taking a few vegetables to market when I saw her beckoning me to come indoors. I did so, and as soon as the door was closed the woman threw off her veil the better to select what she wanted. Her face was very pale, the bones small and fine. Her eyes were pale too, a curious light brown matching her silky hair. She took what she wanted and paid me. Her fingers, fair and slender, were laden with jewelled rings, any one of which would have fed us for a year. She smiled at me as I went out, then quickly lowered the veil again about her face. I never went there again. There was something about those closed doors and shuttered windows that struck coldly at me, used as I was to open fields and the sky and the unfettered sight of the sun.
CHAPTER IX
ONE morning I was pounding some red chillies into powder. Cho-chup! went the pestle into the mortar, crushing the brittle chillies and the seeds in them. Each time it fell, a fine red dust rose up, spreading a rich, acrid smell in the air. A pleasant smell, hot and pungent, which made my nostrils water and squirted the tears into my eyes, so that every few minutes I had to stop to wipe them. It was a fine, peaceful morning, not a sound from the tannery, which for one blessed day in the week closed down completely. Each time I paused I could hear sparrows twittering, and the thin, clear note of a mynah.
Into view on the horizon came two figures, moving very slowly. I went on with my pounding. The figures grew larger every time I looked up, and then when they were still a fair distance away I recognised my daughter. I had seen her only once since her marriage, and since then over a year had passed. Excited, I gathered up the chilli powder and put it away, rinsed my eyes, washed my face and came out. On the doorstep I traced out a colam, a pattern in white rice flour to welcome them.
They approached slowly, as if their feet were somehow weighted, not with the lightness which should have brought them quickly to my side. Something is wrong, I thought. Young people should not walk thus. And when I saw their faces the words of welcome I had ready died unuttered.
In silence Ira knelt at my feet. I raised her up quietly, with hammering heart. "Let us go in," I said. "You must be tired."
Ira entered obediently. Her husband stood stiffly outside. "Come," I said again, "sit and rest for a while. You have travelled a long way."
"Mother-in-law," he said, "I intend no discourtesy, but this is no ordinary visit. You gave me your daughter in marriage. I have brought her back to you. She is a barren woman."
"You have not been married long," I said with dry lips. "She may be as I was, she may yet conceive."
"I have waited five years," he replied. "She has not borne in her first blooming, who can say she will conceive later? I need sons."
I summoned Nathan from the fields. The tale was repeated, our son-in-law departed.
"I do not blame him," Nathan said. "He is justified, for a man needs children. He has been patient."
"Not patient enough," I said. "Not patient like you, beloved."
Ira was sitting with her face in her arms. She looked up as her father and I came in and her mouth moved a little, loosely, as if she had no control over her lips. She was lovely still, but strain and hopelessness had shadowed her eyes and lined her forehead. She seemed almost to back away as I went to her.
"Leave me alone, Mother. I have seen this coming for a long time. The reality is much easier to bear than the imaginings. At least
"For a year perhaps," I said, "not forever. Who could endure such a filtering of sunlight and fresh air as they do?"
"You chatter like a pair of monkeys," said Kali's husband, "with less sense. What use to talk of 'exchange' and so forth? Their life is theirs and yours is yours; neither change nor exchange is possible."
Once, and once only, I actually saw one of those women, close. I was taking a few vegetables to market when I saw her beckoning me to come indoors. I did so, and as soon as the door was closed the woman threw off her veil the better to select what she wanted. Her face was very pale, the bones small and fine. Her eyes were pale too, a curious light brown matching her silky hair. She took what she wanted and paid me. Her fingers, fair and slender, were laden with jewelled rings, any one of which would have fed us for a year. She smiled at me as I went out, then quickly lowered the veil again about her face. I never went there again. There was something about those closed doors and shuttered windows that struck coldly at me, used as I was to open fields and the sky and the unfettered sight of the sun.
CHAPTER IX
ONE morning I was pounding some red chillies into powder. Cho-chup! went the pestle into the mortar, crushing the brittle chillies and the seeds in them. Each time it fell, a fine red dust rose up, spreading a rich, acrid smell in the air. A pleasant smell, hot and pungent, which made my nostrils water and squirted the tears into my eyes, so that every few minutes I had to stop to wipe them. It was a fine, peaceful morning, not a sound from the tannery, which for one blessed day in the week closed down completely. Each time I paused I could hear sparrows twittering, and the thin, clear note of a mynah.
Into view on the horizon came two figures, moving very slowly. I went on with my pounding. The figures grew larger every time I looked up, and then when they were still a fair distance away I recognised my daughter. I had seen her only once since her marriage, and since then over a year had passed. Excited, I gathered up the chilli powder and put it away, rinsed my eyes, washed my face and came out. On the doorstep I traced out a colam, a pattern in white rice flour to welcome them.
They approached slowly, as if their feet were somehow weighted, not with the lightness which should have brought them quickly to my side. Something is wrong, I thought. Young people should not walk thus. And when I saw their faces the words of welcome I had ready died unuttered.
In silence Ira knelt at my feet. I raised her up quietly, with hammering heart. "Let us go in," I said. "You must be tired."
Ira entered obediently. Her husband stood stiffly outside. "Come," I said again, "sit and rest for a while. You have travelled a long way."
"Mother-in-law," he said, "I intend no discourtesy, but this is no ordinary visit. You gave me your daughter in marriage. I have brought her back to you. She is a barren woman."
"You have not been married long," I said with dry lips. "She may be as I was, she may yet conceive."
"I have waited five years," he replied. "She has not borne in her first blooming, who can say she will conceive later? I need sons."
I summoned Nathan from the fields. The tale was repeated, our son-in-law departed.
"I do not blame him," Nathan said. "He is justified, for a man needs children. He has been patient."
"Not patient enough," I said. "Not patient like you, beloved."
Ira was sitting with her face in her arms. She looked up as her father and I came in and her mouth moved a little, loosely, as if she had no control over her lips. She was lovely still, but strain and hopelessness had shadowed her eyes and lined her forehead. She seemed almost to back away as I went to her.
"Leave me alone, Mother. I have seen this coming for a long time. The reality is much easier to bear than the imaginings. At least
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