Someone Else's Garden by Dipika Rai Read Free Book Online Page B

dreams of marrying someone who loves her. But what does she know of love? Can there be such a thing between a man and a woman? She has only heard of the legend of Singh Sahib and Bibiji, but to her it is more a myth. In her experience men are so far above women that she can’t conceive of a man showing anything more than kindness, bordering on pity, for his wife. Yes, for her kindness is love. Above all, she wants a kind husband.
    ‘I bet he has a quiff like Guru Dutt in Pyaasa !’
    ‘Guru Dutt, Didi, really?’ She can always count on Sneha’s unquestioning gullibility.
    ‘Yes, just like him . . .’ No one in the village has seen a film, but Lala Ram, the owner of Saraswati Stores, put up his favourite movie poster over thirty years ago as a community service. After that, the antique poster became the standard for good looks in Gopalpur. With his brooding cowlick towering over his sideburns, his streaky moustache, and his soft-focus sentimentality, Guru Dutt has sidled into every female heart upon teary jerks of breath.
    ‘Hai, Didi, how lucky. With such a handsome husband you can really tell that Ramu off when he teases you.’
    ‘Mamta! Sneha!’ warns Lata Bai. ‘You leave those boys from across the river alone, you never know what they might do.’
    ‘Amma, that Ramu comes over each day to my dung patch to take the sweet out of my sugar. He says my husband won’t be like Guru Dutt at all.’ Mamta squeezes her eyes closed, she’s not a child but Ramu’s words have the power to hurt her – ‘ Look at you, black as dirty oil. Do you think your mother could have got you married to a Guru Dutt?’ – Damn that motherfucker. Each day she runs to the river, makes a pool with her hands, fills it with water and searches it for her reflection. Ramu is right, she is black as dirty oil, but not dirty enough to hide her wretched birthmark.
    ‘You mustn’t listen, Mamta,’ says Lata Bai feebly, unwilling to waste time on simple lessons which she thinks her daughter should have learned a long time ago.
    But Mamta can’t let go. Just yesterday Ramu’s friends tried to teach her a thing or two. Prem wanted to defend her, but she’d said, ‘They want me, let them talk to me.’ No one talked to Mamta. She could pitch a stone from a catapult better than any of them, and when she hitched up the skirt of her ghaghra and ran, there was no catching up. ‘Motherfuckers,’ she laughed, and tossed curses over her shoulders, ‘Catch me if you can.’ When they couldn’t, they’d started taunting her:
    Marked Mamta’s getting married,
Marked Mamta’s getting married,
To an old, old man,
He’ll come on an old horse to get her,
He’ll give her an old sari to wear,
They’ll jiggery all night together,
They’ll jiggery all night together.
    Marked Mamta’s getting married,
Marked Mamta’s getting married,
To an old, old man,
He’ll beat her black and blue,
Her belly will be swollen in no time,
They’ll jiggery that night too,
They’ll jiggery that night too.
    She catches herself humming the ditty, feeling betrayed. ‘He tried to tease me again today, but I chucked a stone at his head. Oh, what fun that was! How he ran!’ says Mamta, putting her arms around her mother’s neck.
    Lata Bai undoes her daughter’s arms saying, ‘Careful he doesn’t catch you one day, Mamta.’
    ‘Huh, what if he does? He can do nothing to me now. I will belong to someone else soon. My husband will protect me.’
    ‘Don’t start with the dreams. Marriage can be anything. Pray you have a good husband.’
    ‘You mean a good husband, just like Bapu?’ Mamta says sarcastically. ‘Amma, I don’t know why . . . why you bother with him.’ Her boldness takes her by surprise.
    ‘You watch out. That kind of talk will get you a beating from your husband.’
    ‘A beating from my husband . . . I don’t think so. We will be in love as much as . . . as our own zamindar Singh Sahib and Bibiji.’
    ‘Mamta!’ Lata Bai cups