Monday, Jan 28, 2008
The Transistor Radio
By Maya Khankhoje Maya Khankhoje is one of the talented new voices in the evolving literature of science fiction and fantasy. Long dominated by Western-centric technological positivists, speculative fiction has become more complex today --- it asks more difficult questions, takes less for granted and includes more diverse voices than ever before. However the so-called Third World is still under-represented in speculative fiction, not only in terms of setting and subject matter, but also in terms of writers and points of view that are unique to its many cultures. Maya Khankhoje's writings help fill a great void.
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The house was a lovely bungalow in Civil Lines, the former domain of British civil servants. As was the case with all buildings of that period, its architecture was a hybrid engendered by English common sense and the imperatives of a tropical climate. Its white-washed walls and red tiles – against the backdrop of a luxuriant garden – gave the bungalow a peaceful country air. Everything had been taken carefully into account: the veranda surrounding the rooms, the faded straw ceiling that kept the summer heat out, even the yard, the focal point of the household routine.
Tara Bai was squatting in the courtyard, near the tulsi, the small fragrant bush sacred to the Hindus. She was picking the little pebbles that sometimes found their way into the rice sacks. For this, se used a large flat basket in which she sifted the rice with the same rhythmical movements that her mother had taught her. Tara Bai felt soothed, as soothed as when she listened to the daily routine. Today, however, she wasn’t lost in reverie. Today she was afraid.
“Tara Bai!” broke the shrill voice of Quentine, her mistress.
“Right away, Memsahib,” answered Tara Bai.
“Did you get the yogurt ready?”
“Not yet, Memsahib.”
Tara Bai dragged herself to the kitchen. She mixed a spoonful of yogurt in a bowl of warm buffalo milk and put it out in the sun so that it could start curdling. A few minutes later she was back at her previous task.
May the gods never find out! Her love for him, her husband, the gentle teenager she met on their wedding night, filled her with shame and made her blush. She was twelve then and he was thirteen. She had a vivid memory of her deflowering. No pain, but then again, nothing else. Later on they laughed when he confessed his ignorance.
Ashok, her beloved husband, her only friend. Deep down, she called him by his name, although she never pronounced it out loud. She had been taught not to tempt the fates by uttering his name. Thus the evil spirits could not touch him.
She as now thirty-two and he was thirty-three. Young still, but with a grandchild. No son. Merely two girls and the bittersweet memory of an infant son whose life faded two hours later. And now they want to meddle with their affairs. How can they understand? Most of them have children who can carry on the family name. But what about Tara Bai and her husband! Who will look after them in their old age? Who will light their funeral pyre? Who is going to ease their passage to another life? Without her realizing it, a big teardrop slips down her nose to drown in the rice sack.
As a rule, Tara Bai would go back home at sunset. However, tonight it was already dark when she crossed the threshold of their hut. Which was a shame, since Tara Bai loved to dawdle in the garden of the main house on her way home.
Ashok had already bathed and sat on the floor, near the door. He was drinking a tumbler of sugar-cane juice.
“The mistress has scolded you once again,” he said gently.
“Of course not! She’s very nice,” said Tara Bai, slightly offended.
“You were weeping,”
“Leave me alone! I must put the rice to boil and prepare the gravy for the dal.”
“You were weeping,” he persisted.
“Yes, I was, I hate her!”
“But you’ve just told me that she is very nice!”
Tara Bai stared at her husband stupidly.
“Nice? Who? she finally asked. “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking about Quentine Memsahib. I was thinking about her, up there with her mighty airs.”
“There you go again. The same old thing. Can’t your female brain run around other circles?”
Having said this, Ashok strode out of the room and slammed the door. When he returned, he found supper all ready and served on a brass thali. This time she had added a bit of mango chutney. He realized that this was by way of an apology.
“My dear wife,” he said tenderly, “you are thinking about our infant son, aren’t you?”
Her nod was barely perceptible.
“Well then, the gods lent us our baby boy for an instant and the gods took him away from us. Who are we to judge?”
“It’s true,” demurred Tara Bai. “But…couldn’t we have another one?”
Ashok looked at the melancholic face of his wife and told himself she was beautiful, in spite of her work-roughened hands, in spite of her enduring stubbornness. He put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and said,
“Did you not know, my wife, that Indiraji made sterilization compulsory for government servants who have several children? God helps those who help themselves. If we cooperate with the government, the government will do likewise. What’s more, there are incentives, such as a transistor radio, a day off…”
“But it’s unfair!” she cried out indignantly. “The gods have not yet bestowed a son upon us!”
“Yes, yes, I know. But you haven’t conceived in ten years!”
“Then why get sterilized at all!”
“Because one never knows!” he said impatiently.
“In that case I might wind up having a son!”
Ashok smiled at his wife’s water-right logic.
“Besides”, she added timidly, “we are still young and it is not a sin.”
Ashok approached his wife and slowly undid the coil in the nape of her neck. He caressed her hair longingly and whispered to her ear,
“Yes, we are still young, my little star. But you know, it is just a question of a needle prick. A man does not cease to be a man for that. The doctor explained all at the meeting. And I have spoken to Moti Lal. He says it’s true. Don’t be afraid, little one.”
The following day was Easter. Quentine had cooked an elaborate meal for the whole family and her friends. Easter was like Holi, when Hindus welcome spring. This year, Easter and Holi almost fell on the same days due to the lunar calendar. It was easy for Tara Bai to identify with Easter. When Christians paint eggshells with gay colours, Hindus spray bright dyes on each other’s clothes. Those vivid colours on spotless while looked ever so nice! And the merry tipsiness of the guests at the main house reminded Tara Bai of the effects of almond milk laced with 'bhang'. Unfortunately, the government forbade the use of 'bhang', that ordinary herb shoe effects were so extraordinary! The government again! Anyway…
If Christians could celebrate the resurrection of a dead Christ, why couldn’t Tara Bai invoke life back into a hollow womb! This time, she was in charge of pouring tea. In moments such as these, her feeling was one of well-being, almost joy. She placed the tea tray and the cups on a low table in the living-room. On another tray, she laid out cucumber sandwiches, little sweetmeats and onion bhajies.
“But my dear Quentine” was saying John to his sister, “it’s not at all the same thing! If you want more children that’s quite understandable. And your husband can certainly afford it. And these days children will grow up to become upright citizens who’ll help the country. But someone like your maid, that’s preposterous!”
“John, be quiet,” murmured Quentine nervously. “She understands English”.
“My dear,” went on John, “even if she were to understand -- and between you and me, I doubt it – she ought to know that it’s sheer folly for her to bear a child at her age.”
“She is my age,” said Quentine icily.
“Is that so?” Well, Indians just age faster. Where was I? Ah, yes, I can’t take it up with the Health Minister. After all, my professional reputation is at stake.”
“Quentine,” said Peter to his wife, “if a Catholic can defy our beloved Church issue of birth control, don’t you think your dear friend could accept her husband’s vasectomy? If it were up to me, I would have them all sterilized!”
Tara Bai felt a lump in her throat and she left the room abruptly. Quentine saw this and ran after her.
“Tara Bai, look at me!”
Tara Bai covered her face with the border of her sari. She was ashamed to weep in front of her mistress.
“Tara Bai, don’t be afraid. Since my husband and my brother refuse to help you, we’ll do things my way. Do you remember Ahmad Khan, my brother’s chauffeur? Well, I’m sure with a little gift we can convince him to undergo the operation in your husband’s place. We’ll take care of the paperwork. But do take it easy. This is my Easter gift to you.”
Tara Bai burst into sobs.
“Aren’t you pleased, Tara Bai?” Quentine asked gently.
“Thank you, Memsahib, but….Ahmad Khan isn’t even married.” Quentine couldn’t hold back her laughter.
“Of course he’s not married. Haven’t you heard what they say about him?”
“I understand,” said Tara Bai slowly. “He already has children.”
“Of course not, silly little one! He is rather strange, you see, he…anyway, he treats all women like sisters, if you know what I mean.”
Tara Bai blushed. Then very slowly she went down on her knees and touched her mistress’ feet.
“May the gods bless you,” she murmured.
All of a sudden, with a very broad smile on her lips, she ran through the courtyard, through the garden, past the well, till she reached her hut. There she stopped short. Her husband was lying on the bed. He was fiddling with a small Zenith transistor radio. A sweet woman’s voice was singing “…please allow me to seek refuge under the shadow of your eyelashes…”
“Did you take off for Easter?” Are you ill? Who gave you the radio? Answer me!” she cried out in panic.
Ashok sat up and put the radio to her ear.
“Nice, isn’t it? They say it sells for rupees 250 – in the black market.”
Tara Bai stared at her husband, her eyes wide open with horror. She stepped back. Her lips quivered. She had a lump in her throat. She suddenly fell sick and her ears started ringing. She began twisting the end of her sari without realizing it.
“What’s the matter with you, woman! You’re never pleased! Look at me, the head chauffeur!” And saying this, he held his wife’s face between his hands. “No more night duty, no more botheration! And a few extra rupees to boot!”
Tara Bai was shocked, silenced.
“You know,” he said coaxingly, “we could save money and go to Benares, to the Ganges, on a pilgrimage.”
Tara Bai’s features suddenly hardened and with a purposeful stride she walked out of the room.
“…besides,” Ashok mumbled, “it was just a tiny needle-prick…”
Maya Khankhoje first wrote this story in French for which IFAL, The French Institute of Latin America" in Mexico City awarded her the second prize.
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