She kept going to the river to pray that year. The mighty river that flowed down with all its strength, whose belly swelled up when she was angry; her waters churned and splashed and uprooted houses, took away people and cattle with it alike. She prayed to the river God to keep the baby in her belly safe, to keep her safe. Also she needed something to wash away all her pain.
It was just like every other day that night fell while she was down on her knees praying. Just then the birds returning to their nests were interrupted by a mob of angry villagers moving towards the river through the forest, carrying drums, blades and spears, looking for blood. She knew they were coming for her, she knew she had to escape.
Finding her way through the forest wasn’t difficult; she knew it like the back of her hand. As she ran through the darkness with another being inside her belly, all she could remember was the time when she and her brothers used to play fetch in the same forest and how she’d always win. And now this cruel bitch of a thing called destiny had been too fast to snatch away her precious childhood and leave her full of estrogen and other disasters. She ran the farthest she could and when she was sure of being out of sight, she sat down beside the largest tree she could find.
Mhaya was born in a tea tribe; everyone in her tribe knew nothing but tea. When in the 1800s the British first planted tea gardens in Assam, labour was bought in from the neighbouring states to compensate the lack of people to work in the gardens. Rules were laid down and till today nothing has changed; nothing, apart from the faces. Her village was all but a few tiny huts and dusty narrow lanes that wind down between the houses and lead to the tea factory on one side and the tea gardens on the other. When spring came the orchids bloomed, creeping on the betel nut trees and the village smelled of fresh children and stale superstitions. She was born a month early, her tiny little hands and feet clasping together tightly, as if she was holding onto her life. She was so stubborn; her head had an argument with her heart every time it tried to stop beating. She grew up to be a bright eyed, fresh faced petite little girl and her mother would always bring her little things from the Saturday market after everybody got their weekly bonus. Soon it was time to stain her hands red with henna and say her goodbyes; it was time for her marriage. The adults had found a suitable match, in a suitable family, in a suitable village nearby. She was sent off draped in a white saree lined with a red border, her hands stained with henna and her cheeks stained with tears.
Life was mundane; her husband worked in the tea factory and occasionally as a gardener for the tea factory’s sahib. Flood was every year’s business and the rising water levels did not scare even the faintest of the hearts. People washed away with the water were considered offerings to the mighty river God. Sunrises were too early and sunsets made the paddy fields behind their hut give off a golden glow, like gold vapours evaporating off the ripe harvest. In the first year of her marriage, the water level had been a few metres higher than usual, five people were washed away. The next year a fire broke out in the tea factory and two employees burnt to their miserable deaths. Everyone prayed a little harder and soon the silent lull of everyday life mixed with the fragrance of freshly plucked tea leaves, bringing normality back to their village.
Three gunmen covered in black stealthily entered the village at twilight, shot the tribe headman, his family, and their neighbours and escaped into the forest. Mhaya was away praying at the river and came back to find her husband lying in a pool of his own thick, sticky, red blood with his body pierced by bullets at more places than she could count. All she could remember was that her head felt light and her bosom felt heavy with emotions. The villagers surrounded her hut with their grim, awkward faces, their murmurs mixing with the fog and the scent of dead human blood making the air taste acidic.
‘It was her, I told you she’s bad luck the day she stepped into our village!’ a woman murmured.
Yes, yes, yes, they all agreed; the flood, the fire, the killings.
Yes, yes, yes, she is bad luck.
‘A witch!’ someone cried.
‘A witch!’ they all cried.
All she could remember was her mother in law screaming, her neighbours howling and the mumbling of the villagers; the angry mumbling. She ran to the river, praying to the river God; praying, crying, it didn’t matter. She knew they were going to do the same thing to her that they did to every ‘witch’; tie her up on a pole, make her confess to every sin she didn’t commit and then burn her in the name of the holy God. Witch hunting wasn’t uncommon, every other day a woman lost her dignity and her life to it.
She woke up to find dawn breaking and the birds waking up from their slumber. After feeling her belly and knowing that her child is safe, all she wanted was to go home.
But home was hostile, her own people would now put her on a stake and burn her alive. Death smelled nasty, and worse, it smelled near.
But no, Mhaya thought. No, no, no.
I will live, this life is mine. My baby will live.
She couldn’t let death snatch away the one thing that was truly hers: her life.
It took her three days and two nights to cross the forest.
On the fourth day, a group of college students hitch hiking their way through the tea gardens found her; a thin frail hard headed woman six months into pregnancy fighting against all odds to live. They admitted her to the city hospital where she gave birth to a girl three months premature. She was tiny; her eyes round and shiny. Her mother named her Beera, the brave one. She had braved her way into this world as a girl.
Beera grew up to be an educated lady, raised against all odds by her mother working odd jobs in the city. Later in her life when she opened an NGO to help women in distress, rescue women who were accused of being ‘witches’, she would always recall the hardships her mother had to face. She would recall how they blamed an innocent woman for the killings of the tribal people which was actually because of a communal clash between a militant outfit and their tribe.
Or maybe, Beera thought, her mother was actually a witch. Whose magic lay in the fact that she refused to give up, she refused to quit. Regret was sent back packing by Mhaya every time it knocked on their door.
Mhaya never returned to her village again, forgetting it was the easiest thing she did while raising Beera up. But every morning when she drank a cup of tea, all she could see was her mother returning from the tea gardens, smelling of freshly plucked tea leaves.
It was just like every other day that night fell while she was down on her knees praying. Just then the birds returning to their nests were interrupted by a mob of angry villagers moving towards the river through the forest, carrying drums, blades and spears, looking for blood. She knew they were coming for her, she knew she had to escape.
Finding her way through the forest wasn’t difficult; she knew it like the back of her hand. As she ran through the darkness with another being inside her belly, all she could remember was the time when she and her brothers used to play fetch in the same forest and how she’d always win. And now this cruel bitch of a thing called destiny had been too fast to snatch away her precious childhood and leave her full of estrogen and other disasters. She ran the farthest she could and when she was sure of being out of sight, she sat down beside the largest tree she could find.
Mhaya was born in a tea tribe; everyone in her tribe knew nothing but tea. When in the 1800s the British first planted tea gardens in Assam, labour was bought in from the neighbouring states to compensate the lack of people to work in the gardens. Rules were laid down and till today nothing has changed; nothing, apart from the faces. Her village was all but a few tiny huts and dusty narrow lanes that wind down between the houses and lead to the tea factory on one side and the tea gardens on the other. When spring came the orchids bloomed, creeping on the betel nut trees and the village smelled of fresh children and stale superstitions. She was born a month early, her tiny little hands and feet clasping together tightly, as if she was holding onto her life. She was so stubborn; her head had an argument with her heart every time it tried to stop beating. She grew up to be a bright eyed, fresh faced petite little girl and her mother would always bring her little things from the Saturday market after everybody got their weekly bonus. Soon it was time to stain her hands red with henna and say her goodbyes; it was time for her marriage. The adults had found a suitable match, in a suitable family, in a suitable village nearby. She was sent off draped in a white saree lined with a red border, her hands stained with henna and her cheeks stained with tears.
Life was mundane; her husband worked in the tea factory and occasionally as a gardener for the tea factory’s sahib. Flood was every year’s business and the rising water levels did not scare even the faintest of the hearts. People washed away with the water were considered offerings to the mighty river God. Sunrises were too early and sunsets made the paddy fields behind their hut give off a golden glow, like gold vapours evaporating off the ripe harvest. In the first year of her marriage, the water level had been a few metres higher than usual, five people were washed away. The next year a fire broke out in the tea factory and two employees burnt to their miserable deaths. Everyone prayed a little harder and soon the silent lull of everyday life mixed with the fragrance of freshly plucked tea leaves, bringing normality back to their village.
Three gunmen covered in black stealthily entered the village at twilight, shot the tribe headman, his family, and their neighbours and escaped into the forest. Mhaya was away praying at the river and came back to find her husband lying in a pool of his own thick, sticky, red blood with his body pierced by bullets at more places than she could count. All she could remember was that her head felt light and her bosom felt heavy with emotions. The villagers surrounded her hut with their grim, awkward faces, their murmurs mixing with the fog and the scent of dead human blood making the air taste acidic.
‘It was her, I told you she’s bad luck the day she stepped into our village!’ a woman murmured.
Yes, yes, yes, they all agreed; the flood, the fire, the killings.
Yes, yes, yes, she is bad luck.
‘A witch!’ someone cried.
‘A witch!’ they all cried.
All she could remember was her mother in law screaming, her neighbours howling and the mumbling of the villagers; the angry mumbling. She ran to the river, praying to the river God; praying, crying, it didn’t matter. She knew they were going to do the same thing to her that they did to every ‘witch’; tie her up on a pole, make her confess to every sin she didn’t commit and then burn her in the name of the holy God. Witch hunting wasn’t uncommon, every other day a woman lost her dignity and her life to it.
She woke up to find dawn breaking and the birds waking up from their slumber. After feeling her belly and knowing that her child is safe, all she wanted was to go home.
But home was hostile, her own people would now put her on a stake and burn her alive. Death smelled nasty, and worse, it smelled near.
But no, Mhaya thought. No, no, no.
I will live, this life is mine. My baby will live.
She couldn’t let death snatch away the one thing that was truly hers: her life.
It took her three days and two nights to cross the forest.
On the fourth day, a group of college students hitch hiking their way through the tea gardens found her; a thin frail hard headed woman six months into pregnancy fighting against all odds to live. They admitted her to the city hospital where she gave birth to a girl three months premature. She was tiny; her eyes round and shiny. Her mother named her Beera, the brave one. She had braved her way into this world as a girl.
Beera grew up to be an educated lady, raised against all odds by her mother working odd jobs in the city. Later in her life when she opened an NGO to help women in distress, rescue women who were accused of being ‘witches’, she would always recall the hardships her mother had to face. She would recall how they blamed an innocent woman for the killings of the tribal people which was actually because of a communal clash between a militant outfit and their tribe.
Or maybe, Beera thought, her mother was actually a witch. Whose magic lay in the fact that she refused to give up, she refused to quit. Regret was sent back packing by Mhaya every time it knocked on their door.
Mhaya never returned to her village again, forgetting it was the easiest thing she did while raising Beera up. But every morning when she drank a cup of tea, all she could see was her mother returning from the tea gardens, smelling of freshly plucked tea leaves.
