Children of A Better God Read online

  Susmita Bagchi

  CHILDREN OF A BETTER GOD

  Translated by Bikram K. Das

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CHILDREN OF A BETTER GOD

  Susmita Bagchi started writing in Oriya in 1982, and has published five novels, seven collections of short stories and a travelogue; she received the State Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993. Susmita lives in Bangalore with her husband Subroto; they have two daughters.

  ~

  Bikram K. Das was formerly a professor at the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad as well the National University of Singapore. His English translation of Gopinath Mohanty’s Oriya novel Paraja was awarded the first Sahiyta Akademi Translation Prize in 1989. He lives in Bhubaneshwar.

  One

  From where she sat on the balcony, sipping her tea, what she saw did not quite resemble Bangalore, the Silicon Alley. Anupurba gazed vacantly at what was going on across the road where another Bangalore merged itself into her world. Two elderly men, who looked like daily wage labourers, squatted comfortably on a dilapidated culvert by the roadside, beedis in hand, talking loudly. A little further on, a naked child from the slum behind, who had just received a slap from his mother, had exploded into an enormous howl. Around the corner from where he stood lay a mountain of garbage and next to it, three pariah dogs growled and snapped at each other. The discordant sound of the two men’s loud conversation, the child’s howling and the noise of the dogs made Anupurba restless.

  What a muddle she had gotten into!

  Only six months ago she had been in the US; she used to be an art teacher at the Montgomery Elementary School, she had had no time to waste; and now here she was—a prisoner to unrelenting leisure!

  She remembered the day when her husband, Amrit, had returned from the office and told her in an unhappy voice, ‘We’ll have to go back to India, Purba.’

  ‘To India? Really? When? For how long?’ she had asked excitedly.

  With a dry smile Amrit had replied, ‘Looks as though it’ll be for good!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the company is starting a Development Centre in Bangalore. I’m being asked to run it.’

  ‘And the company expects us to simply pack up and go? It isn’t that easy! You should refuse! What about the children’s schooling? And my job?’

  ‘We’ll have to go, Purba. I’ve no choice. Our department is being wound up. I’m lucky to be getting another assignment instead of being asked to leave like so many others. Four hundred and thirty of them are losing their jobs!’

  Four hundred and thirty!

  Anupurba sat down, petrified.

  With forced enthusiasm in his voice Amrit said, ‘Are you worried, Purba? You shouldn’t be! After all, you’re going to be the Centre Head’s wife in Bangalore. Just think of the prestige you’ll have! And all the benefits! A big house to live in, a car and a driver. We’ll have a good life!’

  The words were not sinking in. She was lost in her own thoughts.

  Did they really have to go back to India for good?

  It was not as if she had no feelings for her home country. Once in every two years, if not every other, they went on a visit with the children. But wasn’t there a difference between going somewhere for a holiday and settling down there for work? They had been in the US for the last sixteen years. It was a different work culture; a different way of life and living. How would she adjust to the change? How would Amrit?

  Of course, there was no question of his quitting his job. The economic situation in the US being what it was, there was little chance of finding a worthwhile new job. And their bank balance wasn’t exactly overflowing that he could afford to give up his job and sit comfortably at home. Maybe her salary would suffice to pay for the grocery bills, but what about the mortgage on their home? And the loan on the SUV which they had acquired only seven months ago? No, it was simply out of the question.

  ~

  Finally, they had to return. The house and cars were sold and their other belongings carried away by packers and shipped to India. The children, Jeet and Bobby, got their school transfer certificates and reluctantly, very unhappily, Anupurba had to give up her job.

  And now time simply stretched in front of her, endlessly. The Anupurba who had never had a moment to waste was now prominently among the earth’s idle and the unoccupied.

  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried to find work after coming to Bangalore. But there was always that something somewhere coming in the way. It would have been best if she could have found a job in the school that Jeet and Bobby were going to, but there were no vacancies there. There was a school nearby. But it was such a chaotic, terrible place that to work there as an art teacher would have been a punishment. At last, she was offered a job by the International School. The Art Department there was worth a visit. But the school was so far away that Anupurba just couldn’t think of joining. It would have taken her an hour and a half just to get there, which would mean that she could never get home before five-thirty. And what if she had to attend a teacher’s meeting after work? She did not like the idea of Jeet and Bobby returning to an empty home. Finally, she had to decline.

  Now it was as if Time winked at her, walking past on tip-toe. Occasionally, it stopped only to tease her and make faces.

  ‘Amma!’

  It was her maid, Kamakshi. Anupurba turned around to look at her.

  ‘Car has come back after dropping Saab at the office. Driver is asking if you want to go out somewhere; if not, he says he’ll wash the car.’

  Anupurba took some time to decide. Over the years, she had got so used to a regular nine-to-five job that it was painful to stay at home all day. But where could she go every day? She couldn’t possibly roam around aimlessly or simply mall-crawl day in and day out. Nor did she have such close friends in this new city that she could just drop in without a reason. Yet, she needed to do something. What that something could be was not clear to her. The one thing she knew she would need to figure out, in any case, was whether she would stay in or go out.

  Suddenly, she remembered something. She got up, took a last sip of her tea and put the cup down. She went into the bedroom where she had stacked a whole bunch of half-read, old newspapers. She had read something that had fleetingly caught her attention about an upcoming event in the city. If only she could find the details—that could solve her problems for the day.

  ‘Tell Somashekhar not to wash the car just now—I’ll go out immediately,’ she told her maid as she fished out the paper. ‘Have you finished your work?’

  ‘Almost. There’s only the kitchen to be cleaned up.’

  ‘Well, be quick. I’ll change and leave.’

  It did not take her long to change into a silk sari hand-painted with abstract black and orange flowers. She took off the hairclip and tossed it into the drawer of the dressing table and shook her head to loosen her shoulder-length hair and that revived her somewhat. She did not look her age at all. She could still pass for someone in her twenties. Anupurba applied make-up lig
htly and a touch of gloss on her lips, pulled her sari over her shoulder and gave her image a final look of approval before heading down. She was ready to go.

  ‘Where to, Madam?’ the driver asked. She was getting used to being ‘madamed’.

  ‘Do you know where the Fine Arts Society is, Somashekhar?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. It’s on Kumarakrupa Road, next to that big hotel.’

  ‘That’s where we’ll go.’

  ~

  It was an exhibition by the students of the local College of Art. Anupurba told herself it was bound to be interesting and somehow felt happy and excited.

  It turned out to be a beautiful place, a two-storeyed stone building spread out over an entire acre. There were large exhibition halls on the ground as well as the first floor, and in addition to the office there was a library and a cafeteria. And a splendid garden all around, with a profusion of flowers in bloom.

  The exhibition was as good as she had hoped it would be. There were practically no visitors. A young student trailed her to explain the exhibits for a while before giving up and letting her see things by herself. Anupurba moved from exhibit to exhibit, taking her own time to pause and reflect. After she had looked at all the paintings and the sketches closely, she bought a pencil-sketch. Coming out of the exhibition hall, she looked around. She stood on one of the stone steps, to one side, looking at the flowers. She was in no hurry to go home; it would be a while before her children returned from school.

  Suddenly she felt a cold gust of wind. As she pulled at the end of her silk sari to wrap it around herself, Anupurba wondered where it came from. Everyone had told her that Bangalore had no winter. The weather did turn chilly though in the early mornings and the late nights of November and December, and sometimes even in the early part of January. But once the sun had risen and thrown off its blanket of red and orange, everything became quite cosy and pleasant. Sometimes, during this part of the year, the rains came. With that, everything changed. They brought the cold north wind. Everyone took out their quilts, blankets, shawls and sweaters overnight, as if by magic.

  But today there was no rain—not even a grey cloud. Then why did she feel the chill?

  Anupurba looked absently at the crowd of people going up and down the stone stairs. The cold that had made her shiver a little while ago did not seem to touch anyone else. Some did carry a light shawl, but most had no sign of anything warm on them.

  A doubt crept into her mind. Had it really turned cold—or was it her own mind?

  ‘Excuse me,’ someone was trying to draw her attention. Anupurba turned around to see who it was. Dressed in a simple printed cotton sari, a woman stood looking at her curiously. Her greying hair was tied in a careless knot which hung, half undone, over her back. Hesitantly she said, ‘I was wondering . . . you look familiar. Were you ever, by any chance, in Ravenshaw College, Cuttack? . . . Purba?’

  ‘Yes . . . and you?’

  ‘I’m . . .’

  Before she could complete her sentence Anupurba shouted out excitedly, ‘Shobha, isn’t that you?’

  ‘You could recognize me after all?’

  ‘Have you kept yourself in any recognizable state?’ Anupurba said. ‘But how could I forget those earrings of yours with the missing pearl? You haven’t replaced it?’

  Goodness, how she was rambling with the excitement of meeting an old friend!

  Shobha burst into a laugh. ‘I’m not going to either! The earrings helped you to recognize me after all, didn’t they?’

  Anupurba laughed too. They used to tease Shobha endlessly over those earrings when they had been at college together. This was exactly how she had dressed even then. Her clothes were chosen with indifference. Her face was always without any trace of make-up and her hastily combed hair used to be carelessly braided. But she always wore this pair of beautiful stone-studded earrings. Whenever someone asked her about them she would say, ‘My grandmother gave them to me a day before she died. I’m never going to take them off.’ One day, a pearl came loose and fell off. It was never found again. Shobha neither replaced it nor did she take the earrings off. The very same earrings!

  ‘How are you here?’ Shobha asked.

  ‘I came to see the exhibition. It was quite nice, I am glad I did. What about you?’

  ‘I’d come to meet some people in the office here. Come, Purba, let’s have coffee in the cafeteria. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’ Shobha pulled her by the hand.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Anupurba and the two friends walked towards the cafeteria like they once used to years ago.

  ~

  The cafeteria sat in the middle of a garden; it looked quite attractive with its few round glass tables and black wrought-iron chairs. There were hardly any people. A few young artists and students were absorbed in themselves and no one really noticed the two as they took an empty table away from the counter on which an ageing espresso machine sat along with a couple of jars of cookies and a juicer. Two waiters watched them settle down and it took some more time before one of them finally turned up to take the order. He was as unhurried as the atmosphere of the place. Shobha recommended the filter coffee which was supposed to be really good there and Anupurba agreed to try it.

  ‘Tell me about yourself first, Shobha,’ Anupurba said as the waiter moved away to get their coffee.

  ‘The story of my life can be told in three sentences,’ Shobha replied. ‘I haven’t got married. I work in a school here. I live alone. It’s your turn now. You got married and went away to America. That’s all I know.’

  ‘That’s where I had been all these years,’ Anupurba said. ‘Amrit works for a software firm and we have two boys. We came back to India just a few months ago. Amrit was transferred to Bangalore.’

  ‘Are you working?’

  ‘Well, I was, in America. We used to live in New Jersey, very near Princeton. I was an art teacher in an elementary school there. Now I’m doing nothing.’

  ‘An art teacher!’ Shobha’s voice wavered. She was about to say something else, but instead she haltingly said, ‘Isn’t that wonderful! Aren’t you going to work here again?’

  ‘Not now for sure. The whole work environment was very different in America. Once you get used to that culture you can’t take up just any job. I did try, it did not really work out and then I gave up the idea I guess.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Shobha agreed, ‘It can be very different between the US and here.’

  ‘What do you teach in your school?’ Anupurba asked.

  ‘I don’t teach, Purba. I’m the Public Relations Officer—the PRO.’

  ‘What does a school need a PRO for?’

  ‘Well, our school is kind of different,’ Shobha said. ‘Why don’t you come and see it for yourself?’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘Listen, Purba,’ Shobha said, with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Come to our school at nine-thirty on the eighteenth. The school is having its Christmas party. Bring your husband and children along.’

  ‘Amrit?’ Anupurba said. ‘Some hope! He has his office! And the children have school anyway.’

  ‘Then you come alone,’ Shobha insisted. ‘You will, won’t you?’

  ‘All right,’ Anupurba gave in. ‘Give me the address.’

  Shobha looked inside her big handbag and after fishing inside its clutter of papers, sunglasses, small change and assorted knick-knacks, she finally took out her business card from a small card-holder. It read ‘Asha Jyoti’—that was the name of her school. They had finished their coffee. ‘I’ve got to go, Purba,’ Shobha said. ‘There are several other places to go to before I head home.’

  ‘Yes, let’s go.’

  Shobha came to her car to see Anupurba off. Before leaving she suddenly said, ‘I haven’t yet told you, Purba. Asha Jyoti isn’t like any other school. It’s a school for children with cerebral palsy. But do come, you will love the place.’

  Spastic children! Anupurba felt strange—it was an uncomfortable piece of information. As she was return
ing home in the car, she kept thinking what an awkward situation she had walked into. She had told Shobha that she would go. Now she must.

  But . . . to a school for spastics?

  She had never really interacted with a spastic child. Except once in her life. It was a little girl named Kuni, daughter of a certain Mr Mohanty. They were her youngest uncle’s neighbours. Kuni was born the year Anupurba had appeared for her school final examination. Anupurba was told that the doctor who delivered the baby had not used the forceps properly. Kuni had stopped breathing for a few seconds right after birth. Everyone had given up hope but, surprisingly, she had survived. However, it wasn’t going to be a happy life for her or for her family. Within a few months it was apparent that Kuni had suffered permanent damage to her brain. She was a spastic child; she would have to live with cerebral palsy for the rest of her life.

  That was the first time she had heard the term. Kuni would never be like other normal children. She would never be able to walk, dance or run around like them.

  Mr Mohanty had once brought the child along when he came to her uncle’s house for a celebration in the family. She was then about four. She had a strangely thin face. Her eyes blinked rapidly, somewhat like those of a mechanical doll. She had no control over the movements of her head. Her legs were impossibly thin. When Anupurba saw the child, a shiver had run down her body. She had never been able to forget Kuni. And now, in a few days’ time, she was going to a place where every child would be someone like that little girl!

  Oh God! She shut her eyes to keep out the memories.

  Then suddenly, a strange thought crept into her mind. Spastic children were cripples, weren’t they? Some couldn’t walk while others couldn’t speak. What sort of Christmas party would they have?

  Oh, why had she agreed to go without thinking of all this? What was she to do now? Should she offer Shobha some excuse and just stay out of it?

  She dismissed the thought at once. Since when had she become so weak? She had given her word to Shobha and would keep it, come what may. Why was she worrying so much about an event that would probably get over in a couple of hours? That thought made her feel lighter.