Our Little Shiva

8/9/2019 Our Little Shiva

1/23

CherylSnell

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The backstory of Amma, namesake of a god, who became the matria

of the Sambashivan family featured in the novel by Cheryl Snell

Shivas Armss

www.shivasarms.blogspot.com

Cheryl Snell

[email protected]


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Our little Shiva has the makings of a fine warrior! Appa lifted her from the horse

and cradled her in the safety of his arms. What fun danger could be! Only seconds

before, holding onto the rough black mane and seeing nothing but the blur of hooves

tearing up the earth with that peculiar, hollow sound, Shiva had convinced herself these

were her final moments of this lifetime. She would gladly go wherever fate took her.

All the children must learn, Shivas father had explained to her mother, holding her

hands as if he were teaching a child. He brushed aside her delicate protests, waved away

her expressions of distaste, finally whispering words of cold comfort in her ears. Dacoits

could kill us at any time. At least, if our children can ride a horse and shoot a gun, we

may survive these lawless times.

Shivas mother rolled back her eyes inside her head and swooned. Such fainting was

part of the mothers repertoire, and had been choreographed many times before, as a

prelude to an argument. Shivas father caught his wife in her fall, and carried her to bed.

The little girl wouldnt leave her mothers side all night. She cried and cried, throwing

herself across her mothers body, refusing to move away from the familiar smell of silk

and jasmine until her mother awoke. When Shiva lifted her little face for blessing, her

Amma said, Do what Appa asks, daughter. Learn to ride the horse, but let no one

outside the family find we have broken this taboo. I cant find you a suitable boy if you

only do manly things.

Shiva felt the cracked halves of her world mend. Now she would not have to go

against one beloved parent to please the other. It was not the last time Shiva would feel

the rules of the universe bend a little for her sake.


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There was nobody for the little girl to tell her secret to outside Appas huge house

that seemed to float on acres of land. It gleamed in wavy sunshine, the river running

almost to the front porch, but still, few visitors came to them in boats.

A herd of water buffalo lumbered lazily in the back of the estate. When Shiva was

younger she would name each of her pets. Now, it seemed more fun to use them for

target practice with her brothers and the cap pistol arsenal.

The brothers had allowed Shiva to use their cap pistols since she was very little.

Appa says we must not let the big birds eat any grain, the eldest boy explained. So

you point the gun at the bird when he flies down on the sack of grain, and then you --

bang! -- scare him away!

Do you think you are big enough to try? said the other brother. Little Shiva just

nodded and, calmly planting her feet in the earth, took aim and fired at a bird. It rose up

and away to thunderous applause from the boys.

Shiva will be a marksman when she grows up! one boy clambered. Maybe shell

join the dacoits and fight everyone in India! At this, little Shivas eyes grew wide and

terrified. She had only meant to save the grain from harm! Why would that make her

brothers want to turn her into a bandit? She ran all the way to the house and asked her

mother for a story about her own girlhood with six sisters and no brothers at all.

By the time the real dacoits came, little Shiva knew exactly what to do.

Surrounding the house with their wild whoops, they whipped the horses viciously. Shiva

ran from the center of the house into which her petrified mother had dragged her, ignored

the panic in her mothers eyes as she ripped herself out of the protective embrace. She

saw her brothers and her father stationed at the windows and she silently crept to where


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the weapons were kept, put her hands around a small loaded pistol. She climbed onto a

chair and picked off her first marauder before her father even noticed she was there. She

saw the bandits astonished eyes as he tumbled from his horse, blinking back the mirage

of the child at the window, the little murderer. When it was all over, if she had not seen

admiration in her mothers eyes, all the cheers from the men would have meant nothing.

They saw that she would always do what she must for the familys sake.

Shiva overheard Appa later that night whispering to his wife, She has courage, the

moral and the physical. When she becomes old, the one that is left will make the other

still seem possible.

The girls fearlessness lengthened and broadened with her bones. By age

thirteen, she was ungovernable by any customary laws. Like a wild animal on her

fathers vast, unspoiled lands, she played her rough games in an endless childhood.

When she first heard the muffled matchmaking in the parlor, Shiva merely shrugged

her shoulders. But the defeated look on her parents faces after several meetings made

her feel guilty for their unhappiness. To her, it was a fair trade-- her parents

disappointment for her freedom. The remote chance of a match would give the parents

momentary happiness, but after the wedding, they would all see each other when her

husbands family allowed it. Shiva hoped for some minor disgrace that might render her

unmarriageable and invisible, something to let her continue playing her brave games.

Only those kinds of games would give her the chance to win.

But the thing we are most afraid of, for which we diligently prepare, seldom turns

out to be what ruins everything. For Shiva, it was a polo game, played with brothers who


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no longer saw a small asthmatic girl atop the horse, but a worthy adversary. She had

forced their respect, passed so many tests; all those Herculean labors.

Shiva still dreams about it, that confusing thrill of being hurtled upside down

through the air from the pinnacle of slick horseflesh, the explosion of bones as she hit the

ground. For a long time afterward, she demanded that horse be shot as soon as she could

do it herself, not because it had thrown her, but because she believed it was a demon, and

meant to stomp its hooves into her chest as she lay helpless on the ground. No, child,

its the asthma that took your balance when you lost your breath, her mother would say

over and over.

But Shiva believed if she could put the blame on the poor dumb beast, she could get

the doctor to take back his prescription: No more vigorous excitement for this girl. Let

her keep to female pursuits inside the house. The little man had pushed his spectacles

further up his nose, wrinkled with distaste at the wild life Shiva had been allowed.

Shame, shame, he had clucked when he thought he was out of earshot. He could be

counted on to tell the story to everyone. Drastic measures would soon be taken. It was

the death of her childhood.

After the accident, the doors to the world slammed shut. It seemed that each time

Shiva thought of going outside there would be another lesson, taught by another silly

teacher. Classical dance and your singing lessons are very good medicine for your

asthma, cajoled one brother.

Shiva knew he missed her rough and tumble play, so shed lower her voice, and

hanging onto his sleeve, say, You know running outside is better medicine! You could

change Appas and Ammas mind about the doctor, if you wanted to. I know you could!


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But it was no use. The only praise Shiva now earned was for feminine arts worthy of an

Indian princess. She pretended to bow to her fate.

The bad luck that had come in a trickle now gushed like the Ganges. Wizened female

relatives of possible suitors found their way to the parlor of the old stone house. With

cunning eyes, they calculated the immense wealth all around them. Each one imagined

that Shivas mother would drop to her knees, grateful for her ruffian daughters

acceptance into a respectable family. But Shivas mother was a good negotiator, and

would not be swayed by the trickery of some old crone. Shiva had to stifle her giggles

from her hiding place behind the damask curtain as her mother exposed one old woman

after another for the greedy viper she was.

That was at the beginning. Time wore on and Shivas mother began to panic. She

became less critical of the women, more eager to establish a fruitful rapport. Shiva

would stand behind her curtain, hand over mouth, terrorized by a possible new life in

which she would be captive. What would she hide behind, what curtain, whose family?

The thought was enough to make her throat seize up. I cant breathe! Shed throw off the

curtain and hurl herself into her mothers arms, sure she was about to die.

What followed was dramatic. Such coughing and retching--what a mess! The visitor

would quickly excuse herself, and Shiva would feel air fill her lungs again. The

humiliation was a small price to pay for her parents stillborn hopes for her future. When

I am an old maid and they need me to manage their affairs for them, they will be glad Im

still here where Ive always been, shed tell herself.

All the coughing fits in the universe could not have changed Shivas fate, and

deep down she knew it. Her stubbornness, rude answers to prying questions, her


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inexplicable memory lapses while singing, all of these just made her parents stricter and

more unyielding. Her resistance came to nothing, in the end; her parents didnt really

want her, it was clear, so Shiva consented to be married to a stranger called Sambashivan.

She was fifteen years old.

Except for the day after the wedding when Shiva ran back home in tears,

demanding to know why her parents had given her to such a barbarian, the only times

Shiva saw her family again were some feast days and during her confinements. Her old

life had died a violent death and she could not feel her future.

Every morning, when Shiva awoke in her new bed, with the morning sun

pouring giddily in the window, she would capture a moment of sleepy, stupid happiness

before the realization of where she was and whom she belonged to set in. The little

sparrow on Appas land must have felt like this, she thought, in the moment the wild cats

jaws closed down on it. Everything turns black and theres no air anywhere. Shiva

emptied herself of expectations, and began to watch whatever happened in her own life as

if from a great distance.

What is the purpose of marriage? Shiva wondered as she watched Samba

gingerly lower his body onto her. She tried to think back to the half-glimpsed passion of

her own parents. It all seemed to have little in common with this formal act, this stylized

affection, a bizarre invasion of her self.

Sambashivan spoke little to his bride. Beyond the traditional greetings,

awkwardness took hold of him and bit off his tongue. He seemed to sense Shivas fear

and he worked to strike a balance between what was his God-given right to her, and his

compassion for the wife who was still a child.


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Soon enough, Shiva left off averting her face at his approach or knuckling her

fists by her thighs. Soon enough, she began to be interested in the countless ways Samba

could make her sari disappear. She sought his real opinion of her, and when she found it

in his eyes, she smiled and touched his cheek.

Even as her nights became bearable, Shivas days hardened into a succession of

dreary household chores. Sambas blue-eyed mother gloried in the authority she assumed

over Shiva. I will instruct you in our proper Brahmin ways, daughter, she would say,

jangling the household keys which she kept around her waist at all times. Why your

mother neglected you in training for marriage? A pampered woman is useless, a stone

around my Sambas neck. Come along, I must teach you, for the sake of my boy.

Shiva would be forced to swallow her pride and trail the old woman from room to room,

disturbing dust that was never allowed to accumulate.

She learned to cook, clean and submit to her mother-in-laws will. But, of

course, there was no pleasing the old lady. Blue-eyed devil, Shiva would curse under

her breath, as she polished the brass urns for the third time in one day. She made mental

bargains with herself. If the old woman dares to ask me to do the work of the

untouchables, then I will demand intervention by Samba. Battle lines in Shivas mind

gave her a kind of comfort. The old woman was far too shrewd to step over the lines and

fall into a web of Shivas making, however. She knew when to press and when to

withdraw, always with those keys jangling.

Shiva continued to do all that was asked of her. Days passed in the monotonous

glare of the Indian sun and of her mother-in-laws hard blue eyes.


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When Shiva began to feel nauseated in the mornings, she fancied it was hatred

toward the old woman that lodged in her stomach and was blooming there. On the day

she dared to look into the big mirror, her heart leapt around inside her chest like a fish on

a dock. Hollow-eyed and huge, she knew her means of escape was at hand. Soon she

would go home to her real family. Excitement rose up inside her, but as she sought her

mind for precious memories, she found them disjointed and flattened, as if they had been

run over by a rickshaw.

What I want and what I can expect are separated by a deep gulf like this, Shiva

thought, as she glided back through the waterway that had brought her to her husbands

home the year before. She trailed her fingers through the wet foam and dreamed dreams

of a perfect, permanent homecoming. Samba could visit her on feast days!

The old stone house shone white as a moon rising from the twilight. As

invincible, as dependable, as inescapable as birth and death, Shiva thought, as she moved

toward it, She felt light, cloud-like.

The door flung wide. Shiva and her mother each flew to embrace the other. The

old mother caressed her daughters belly as if it were a separate entity, worthy of her

absolute devotion.

Where is Appa? Shiva asked. Shyly, her father came forward and gingerly

embraced her, careful not to touch her belly.

It was not the reception Shiva had dreamt about, but she couldnt have explained

what was lacking. She should be proud that her new status had the ability to disable and

confuse her father, to finally make him respect and salute her as a grown woman of

nearly sixteen years.


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The servants eased Shiva into the best chair in the parlor. One of the maids

brought her milky tea, polite as if she were a stranger. This woman used to braid my

hair, Shiva thought. She tried to catch the womans eyes. I wish I could remember her

name, she thought, twirling her cup recklessly, suddenly agitated. Dont I belong here,

either? Her eyes welled up with tears that no one noticed.

Against the backdrop of shared history, parents and daughter made superficial

conversation. When the couple asked, Are you happy with your new family? Shiva felt

abandoned all over again. Resentments piled on top of old hurts until the ancient love she

had held on to for so long began to yellow and curl up at the edges like an expired insect

or leaf.

At night in her girlhood bed, Shiva made up her mindshe would refuse to shed

another tear on her familys account. And when the labor pains tore her apart, she refused

to cry out, in case they heard.

In the morning, her infant son was held up to an exhausted Shiva. She would not hold or

feed him. She angrily turned her head away saying, Let me sleep now.

The females in the household, relations and friends, some of whom Shiva would

never have recognized on the street, rallied around the new mother and baby. All the

attention began to relax and cheer Shiva, but every time her mother came in to spoon-

feed her dal and yogurt, Shivas muscles would involuntarily tighten. The word

Betrayer ricocheted around in her brain. Even when her father came in proudly bearing

his new grandson, Shiva laughed at his sentimental expression, sneered at him right to his

face.


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Appa bent low over his girls childhood bed and placed his grandson on her belly.

The women tell me theyve never seen anything like it--so many hours of labor and not

a teardrop, not a scream. He reddened with some of the old pride he took in her, mixed

with the shyness he felt in talking about such a womanish thing. Youve always been

my little warrior, he whispered, and pumped her hand.

Shiva was unmoved. She had made up her mind to be, so that was that. She

looked at the little squirming dark thing on her body. Unbidden, fierce searing love tore

through her and she fanned it into mythic proportions within an instant. Her old loves

sloughed from her heart and left it entire and whole, ready to devote to this boy, forever.

Now things must change, Shiva decided. She walked slowly into her husbands

house, cradling the baby. Hes such a fine child, said Samba and carefully scooped the

child from Shivas arm.

Do you like him, then? Shiva said, hovering near father and son. Samba couldnt

smile wide enough. His delight overpowered Shivas reticence, and although she

invoked the evil eye under her breath, she too began to laugh happily with her small

family. The parents set the child between them on the floor and marveled at his ten

fingers and ten toes.

Samba looked at Shiva and said, I heard you made no fuss. I hope that means you

will want to bear many more children?

Shiva let out a low whistle that surprised them both. Perhaps we can discuss later!

Samba laughed and kissed her hand. Shocked as if by electricity, Shiva pulled her

fingers away. It was the first kiss Samba had given her outside their bedroom. She


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reddened and stared at the floor until Sambas chuckle and cooing noise convinced her he

hadnt really noticed her withdrawal. He only had eyes for the baby.

The days fell together, formed their new shape. Each morning Shiva, intent on

her son and on shutting out the part of the world she had no use for, had a fight on her

hands. Shiva, Shiva! Where is that lazy girl? The mother-in-law would thump-thump

up and down the corridors, flinging open the room doors and forcing them to yield all

secrets. Is she hiding with that little creature again? No excuses, Shiva, I need you to

take the laundry to the river. No, no, the boy will be fine. Youve just fed him, havent

you? Look lively girl, dont make my son ashamed of you! And by nightfall, Shivas

eyes had taken on blue bags of resentment that no amount of sleep could relieve.

I think he hates me, Shiva complained to Samba one morning after weeks of

failing to please both her mother-in-law and now her son. My milk must be sour, she

said as her little son fisted his tiny hands and cried a long stream of piercing wails.

Amma says such crying is not natural. Maybe we should call the physician? Samba

hovered helplessly over mother and son. Shiva bit her tongue. Of course, he believes

anything his mother says. She burst into tears, wondering through gasps and coughs how

it was possible to feel so alone in the midst of so much noise and useless activity.

Samba gathered her into his arms until her sobs and her incoherent ramblings had

subsided. Now tell me, exactly, what makes you so tired? Are you not happy in your

new life? Is there someone in this household not giving you proper respect?

Shiva looked into her husbands face, searching, testing to see whether he could

digest the truth about his mother. Cradled in his arms, clinging to him with urgent fingers,

she said, I overheard your mother tell one of the servants a story about a daughter-in-law


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who was a mistake for a certain family. The mother lured her into the kitchen and threw

kerosene on her and lit her afire--all so her son could get a better wife with a bigger

dowry.

Shiva pushed out of Sambas embrace, eager to see how this was affecting him.

When his straight, sober expression began to curl, eyes and mouth twitching, he suddenly

erupted into great, silly guffaws! Better stay away from the kitchen then! he panted

between the laughter. Never know how devious a desperate mother-in-law can be!

Shiva pushed him roughly, snatched her son to her heart and began to pace

furiously across the floor. The non-verbal communication between the spouses had

become acute, honed in the nighttime visits, encouraged by the gestures, the lives of their

bodies. Samba sobered up, all attention now. In a low, deadly voice, Shiva catalogued

every abuse, every insult and slight his mother had committed against her. I dont know

how long I can keep silent. I feel myself rise up against her and Im afraid of what may

happen. She sank, dejected and desperate, into the cushions on the floor.

Samba crouched down to embrace his family in the new, protective gesture that Shiva

would come to cherish. I wont have you treated badly, he promised.

When Shiva, in her old age, looked back over the years, she would always believe it

was that moment that marked the beginning of her true marriage. To find an ally in the

lonely world shot her full of strength and determination in her daily life. She ceased to

take refuge only in her dreams (although she would always remember this moment,

ideally, dreamily--it was a jasmine scented night, the sky hung with propitious, prophetic

constellations.)


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When a thing shifts, so do the things around it. Even though the blue-eyed

mother-in-law could be still seen skulking around doorways, listening for useful gossip

with her breath held, she was suddenly the most polite woman in the entire province.

Shiva wondered what Samba had said to her, what he had threatened her with to make

her change into this paragon. Although the old woman would not meet the young ones

eyes, and the young one kept as far from kerosene as possible, calmness fell softly over

their lives.

One night, her curiosity got the better of Shiva. She waited until Samba had eaten

his fill of the curry she had selected for him and served in their thalis. Thank you for

defending me against your mother, she said. I realize it may have been difficult.

Sambas face flushed and he studiously picked at his teeth with a toothpick. Finally,

he said, I meant to speak to Amma, but it seems the need is past. Youve had no more

complaints, isnt it? he asked, reaching for Shivas hand.

She quickly reshuffled the elements in her mind. They were on the same side

now, it was clear, and she believed that if the need arose for intervention, Samba could

find the strength for it. Still, she felt a foreboding, just out of reach. Until the account

between the women was settled, she would grow eyes in the back of her head and ears in

every pore. But to her husband, what she said was, It seems peaceful now. I assumed

you were the one to make it all come right. She let him hear the note of bitterness in her

voice and was satisfied to see the wince register on his face.

In the coming long season, Shiva and Samba would learn to trust each other, he

implicitly, she withholding a small part, trusting more in her dreams full of premonition


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and accidental hurt. It was her nature to be both suspicious and superstitious, but she

took Sambas capacity for joy into herself and came to believe that she also, was happy.

By the time the monsoons came, the couple felt blessed to be alone inside the house,

curtained off from the rest of the world. Shiva would rise before dawn, look out the

window, and be as grateful for the sheets of slate gray wet and steam pummeling the

house as if it had been raining blossoms.

One morning, while she reached for a fresh sari, still clad in her wet, purified

towel, Shiva noticed that Samba was watching her through heavy lidded eyes, while he

feigned the breathing patterns of sleep. Shiva felt the blush reach right up into the roots

of her hair. How dare he make her party to some unclean act? She stuck out her chin and

yanked the nine yards of cotton around her. The altar stood in the corner of the adjacent

chamber, still shrouded in the pre-dawn watercolor light. She lit the incense and Samba

groaned theatrically, as if that were the thing that had wakened from his deep sleep, his

sleep of the just. Why must you take your devotions so literally? he demanded.

Every single morning of your life its the same--wash, dress, pray, pray, pray!

Shivas skin prickled. She knew she must be careful, must show respect to her

husband, his awful mother, the gods she couldnt see! You neednt complain, husband.

Its time, anyway, for you to prepare yourself and take your son to the temple, as you

promised, she added in a voice carved from a glacier.

Samba moaned and put a pillow over his head. Hell make a fuss. Hell scream

and cry. The priests will scare him...


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Shiva tuned her husband out and began chanting. If she waited patiently for her

spirit to quiet inside her and restore her equilibrium, she wouldnt be tempted to argue

with him. She needed the help of her gods for that.

Later that morning, Samba drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for his

morning dosa. What is he thinking now? Shiva wondered, annoyed. Well, she wouldnt

make it easy for him to back out of his duties. With her back straight and unyielding, her

face a mask, she stood at her husbands elbow while he ate, ready to pounce.

It wont be too hot this morning, he began, clearing his throat before he plunged

onward. Since not all of the neighbor ladies have met my son, why not take him with

you when you go to the river? You can display him... he trailed off weakly, suddenly

unsure of what to say.

As he stopped for breath, Shiva cut him down. If you refuse to take your son to the

temple, I will be forced to make more sacrifices to atone! You will find yourself more

and more disturbed by the length of my devotions! She had snatched up the coffeepot

and fixed her husband with her best intimidating glower.

How could Shiva have known that threatening and humiliating Samba like this

was what his blue-eyed mother had done about the same subject? Her heart would have

gone out to the young boy, standing stony-faced and still while his mother kicked him,

reaching up with her ringed hands to slap at him. Worthless buffalo! I have spawned a

devil!

Rising slowly to his feet, Samba faced Shiva. He took each of her shoulders in

each of his hands, and bore a hole into her upturned face with his angry black eyes.

Never again will you speak on this. Never. And he turned away from a stunned and


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silent Shiva. Even when he had gone she found she couldnt stop shaking. She waited

hours for his return.

At noon, Shiva was seized by a restlessness that she could not ignore. She

bundled a few dirty clothes together--the servants always did the main household wash--

and she hoisted Mahesh onto her hip. With her bundle on her head and her child in tow,

she stomped along the path to the river, kicking at the clods of dirt as if she wanted to kill

the earth beneath her feet. She thought of smashing a rock into her husbands dhoti and

laughed bitterly. Oh, I hope those silly women arent lounging around with their brats

today.

But there they were, every last one of them, sunning themselves like lizards on the

rocks. Rolling everyones head! Shiva sighed, nodded vague greetings to the sprawled

assembly. She sent Mahesh toddling off with the other children. Maybe he can spread

light today. I cannot, she thought.

Physical effort would give her release. Shiva waded out to the group of bleached

rocks, her sari tucked up around her legs. She shook out Sambas favorite dhoti from her

bundle of laundry. This is not as good as riding my horses until neither of us had any

more breath, she complained silently. She slammed the rock into the cloth as if she hoped

to see blood. Random ropes of hair slipped from her topknot, but she barely noticed their

lashings. Her lips moved as she argued with herself: Ill never go the Ganges now, not

even when my godless husband is in ashes because his godless son wont know that it is

right to strew the ashes into the holy river. How can I teach them?

Only when her eyes went out of focus did Shiva notice her own tears. She stood up in

the river, stretched her back and looked into the sky as if searching for an answer.


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The little one misses his amma, came a gentle voice at Shivas elbow. The

neighbor held out Mahesh to his mother, who opened her arms with a grateful cry as he

spilled into them. The woman hung back a little, not knowing what more she should do.

Shiva thanked her for watching Mahesh and said that next time her son and the womans

would play together. The neighbor smiled shyly and murmured her pleasure. Shed

often wondered about Shiva, about whom so many stories had circulated. She wouldnt

have been surprised to see her to come to the riverbank astride a fine white horse,

carrying a rifle.

Shiva trudged back up the hill like any of them, with her bundle of dhotis and

chemises on her head and her little son by the hand. She reached up to hang her clothes

to dry just inside the courtyard at home.

A crippled nephew of Sambas sat in the compound courtyard, the only other

person in sight. Namaste, Mani, said Shiva. The boy blushed and looked down self-

consciously at his wizened legs splayed before him. He had been playing with brightly

colored stones all day, making endless variations on a traditional game. It was his sole

occupation and he pursued it more and more agitatedly these days, it seemed to Shiva.

Your brother treats poor Mani no better than a common beggar, Shiva had

complained more than once to Samba. I have seen the intelligence in his eyes! Its his

legs that are no good. All else works fine.

Samba hunched his shoulders. He needed to deflect his wifes words, her attacking

judgments, her holiness and what all that goodness did to his feelings of guilt toward the

boy. Over the years, his distance from his brother had a direct bearing on his detachment

from his nephew. He frowned and spit out, My brother cares for nothing but his


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business schemes. It will bring him to grief! Samba sat down and covered his face with

his hands.

And as for your mother, she cannot look at poor Mani without hurrying away from

him as if she had seen a demon, Shiva said, each word dripping dsgust.

Samba jerked his head up and said, But quite recently I have seen my mother and

Mani enjoined in a great conference, heads together on the veranda bench. She was

feeding him sweets by her own hand!

Shiva looked at her husband. He seemed to think he had just proved some humanity

existed in his mother. Fools, the lot of them, she said crossly when she was again alone

with Mahesh. I live in a vipers nest!

Theres something afoot here, mused Shiva, looking down at Mani. Why wont

he talk to me? She reached for her wet sari and carefully aligned it on the clothesline,

keeping her eye all the time on the nephew. Lately, she had tried to collect the clues to

the mystery whose presence she felt approaching like a poisonous cloud. She realized

that somehow, someday her mother-in-law would bring her to her knees. But how could

she trick Mani into helping with all that? The blue-eyed hag had never been a proper

grandmother to little Mahesh, of course, but lately she stomped out of the room if

Mahesh happened into it. She couldnt bear the mere idea of him, it seemed. Of course,

this cut Samba to the quick, but how could more bad blood between him and his mother

possibly benefit his mother?

A clue came to her from a servant girl who had overheard a conversation, a threat

really, made by the old woman to Mani. Shiva had always found waving a rupee or two

under the servants noses jogged their memories and so thats what she did with this girl.


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I really shouldnt tell, the girl sniveled, but Shiva used soft words and money to get the

story out of her. I had to gather up some clothes from the line outside, the servant

began tentatively. I tried to keep quiet because I saw her crouching over the poor boy,

whispering with anger. She held those stones he likes in her fist. She would not give

them back unless he promised.

Shiva asked, Promised what? Go on, girl... The girl gulped and went on, scratching

her fingers nervously on her knees.

Do as I ask, or I wont give the stones back! And youll have nothing at all to do

but rot away in this courtyard! Then, poor Mani cried and said I dont want to and I

accidentally said tsk-tsk aloud. The old water-buffalo heard me and she jumped up and

ran into me, hitting and biting like a madwoman!

That was all. Not much to go on, thought Shiva at the time.

Whenever they were in the courtyard Mahesh would huddle close to Mani, giggling

and playing little games with him. Mani would light up at the childs approach and

delighted in singing him fragments of songs he remembered from his own clouded

childhood, stories and little jokes. He usually let Mahesh drag one of his crutches

around, always trusting him to bring it back.

Except for Manis sudden shyness with Shiva, it was the usual wash day routine.

Samba will say the nephew has fallen in love with me, thought Shiva. Its one thing that

might make him laugh tonight. A shiver of worry passed through her. I cant think about

that mess any more today.


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Out of the corner of her eye, Shiva could see Mahesh and Mani playing their

games as she pinned up the wet clothes. The boys thin, tuneless voices floated to her on

wisps of the hot dry wind. Those sounds soothed her. Her mind opened onto the vast,

curving horizon in the distance. She had never lost her ability to become one with the

landscape, a creature in camouflage, the most simple of beings. This hour of the day was

always her favorite time: endless calm, pierced through from time to time with the

buzzing of some insect.

A human voice called out in the distance. It made Shiva long for the sea and for the

sight of tall, undulating sheaves of wheat, the heat rising up from the soil.

What mother cant hear her child crying, even though she has fallen fast asleep?

Maheshs piercing wail shattered Shivas daydream and fear shot up the knuckles of her

spine. What is it? she cried as she stumbled over the fabric she herself dropped onto

the ground. What have you done to my baby? she screamed at Mani. She gathered her

sobbing child into her arms.

Mani stuttered and stammered, trying to justify himself: The mother of my father,

that is, the one who is my grandmother on my fathers side--yes, yes--she told me

Mahesh wanted to know the cobra story. She said he needed a warning, and if I

wouldnt--Auntie, I didnt want to--she said she would keep my marbles.

The lull in the air terrified him. He held his hands to his face and tried to scuttle

backward on his tailbone to get out of the reach of the furious Shiva. He looks like a

crab, Shiva thought. I could step on him and he would crush like a crab. She positioned

herself over Mani, and held Mahesh in her arms as if his presence would prevent her

from beating the crippled relative. Think of Samba! she reminded herself.


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What exactly did you tell my son? Shiva heard her voice let loose, a growl

bursting through clenched teeth. Mani was crying now, in great gulping sobs. He

struggled to let the words come.

I said the two spots on the cobras head are eyes that can see everything and will

have their revenge, if Mahesh is a bad boy.

The breath emptied out of Shiva then. She backed away from Mani and began to

pace. So this is all the damage the blue-eyed hag can do? This is the revenge for

Sambas imagined disloyalty? One superstition passed on to a baby not yet able to

understand? She could have laughed out loud at the silliness of cruelty, the pointlessness.

What is that wretch Mani doing now? The nephew frantically poked something

with his crutch. What is he trying to hide behind that tree?

She covered the ground between them in two steps. Her mouth twitched at what

she saw--a dead cobra next to a wicker basket. Mani had been trying to hide it inside the

basket.

You evil boy! exploded Shiva. You are a replica of your evil grandmother!

Praise Krishna you were born a cripple, unfit to wreak as much chaos as she!

Shiva grabbed the boys crutch and slammed it against the tree. She slammed it

again and again, until the ancient tree was peeled of its bark and the crutch reduced to a

pile of splinters.

Inside the house, behind the heavy wooden doors that closed her off from her

enemies, Shiva plopped Mahesh on the floor in front of his toys. Soon he was humming

and cooing at his favorite animals, as if the violence he had just witnessed had no more


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substance than a dream. Why cant I be like that? Shiva asked herself. She slid into a

chair close to her son and began to wait for Samba, her eyes on the heavy door.

No smell of curry greeted Samba in the hallway outside his suite. Whenever

Shiva and he had fought before, she never even thought of neglecting his dinner. He

quickened his step, pushed into their rooms with eyes grown wild in the space of a few

moments. He searched Shivas face for explanations; words would take too long. But

his wife stayed seated in her chair and told him what had happened in a quiet, serious

tone. She didnt want to upset Mahesh again, and she hated to upset Samba, but he saw

clearly what must be done, isnt it?

I will have to provide more children to make him forget this loss of family, Shiva

thought as she stuffed their belongings into suitcases and hold-alls. The noises, angry

and shrill, echoed throughout the other rooms of the house. Shiva tried to ignore them.

Little Mahesh stood at the closed door murmuring Appa? Appa? at the sound of his

fathers distant enraged voice.

With the sound of slamming doors and bitter cries still ringing in their ears, the

three of them left the big old house to find their future at the railway station. They chose

their destination with a childs game of chance.

The train to Bombay was fetid, crowded, dangerous. Shiva, folded in her seat,

felt as if she had been traveling for days. Samba sat like a statue, his son on his lap,

thinking: no family money, no big house, no servants. Freedom.

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Our Little Shiva