Pebbles from the riverside

She was panting and panting heavily. Her clothes were soiled and she was all covered with dust. But that didn’t seem to worry her at all. She tugged at Michelle’s skirt.

“Hurry or they will kill her.”

“What? Whom?”

“They will kill the baby. The milk is already boiling.”

Michelle knew she had lost it. The Mission establishment was two kilometers from the village. But she had to go. She asked Ram Singh to take out the car. The milk was boiling. It would take some twenty minutes for the rituals and then the baby would be put inside a boiling pot of milk. It would then take only half a minute to die. The car would take about five minutes. She should be able to reach there. As she pondered over all this, she had actually reached there. Hastily they moved out of the car, the three of them- Michelle, Ram Singh and Radha. Radha was the girl who brought the news.

They rushed towards the ‘chabutara’, the platform built around the peepal tree. Peepal or the banyan fig, also called the sacred fig. The baby must have been brought here. They were right. There was a procession getting ready. Women were sobbing in their eyes. The men looked triumphant, their chests puffed with pride. The whole village had gathered. Ashes and half burnt logs were lurking in a corner. It looked like someone had poured water over the fire. There was still smoke rising from it.  It was a ceremony. The whole crowd had gathered. Women made a small gathering and were watching proceedings. The men as if got ready for war. Every man looked inspired enough to win a gallantry medal. And then they saw it. A small pitcher carried by a middle aged man. He shot a glance towards the women. For a moment a fleeting shadow of remorse passed across his face. But he was jubilant again.

Michelle had rightly calculated that they would take about twenty minutes for the rituals while she would reach there only in five minutes. What she forgot was that it took Radha twenty minutes to reach her. She was right initially to think that she had lost it. But  that did not matter anymore.

The villagers had been successful as they mostly were. She lost it as she mostly did.

She asked them to stop. They laughed at her. They nearly always did.

“The baby was stillborn.” One of the village headmen shouted.

“Sure it was. But why is it that only girls are stillborn?” Michelle would not give in today.

“Memsaab these are all writings of fate?” - said one.

Added another-“What has to happen will happen.”

This was the most usual explanation. Fate meant the word of God. Challenging the writings of fate meant going against His will.

“I demand an autopsy.” She retorted. “We will do an FIR.”

FIR or the ‘First information report’ that is filed at a police station to report that a crime has occurred. Without this the police don’t take action. Its another matter that usually in India the police doesn’t admit FIRs easily. It means added workload and who wants to work in a free country.

“Go ahead and do whatever you want to memsaab.  Do you really think they will file a report?”

The village headman had come near and now stood facing her. Some more men joined in, most of them were headmen or the ‘panch’.

“You think you will file the report and we will let you do it.”

“Police asks for proof and you have none. The current ‘thanedaar’ is from our ‘biradari’ and our village too.”

‘Thanedaar’ referred to the officer in charge at the police station. ‘Biradari’ referred to one’s clan. In most of India caste was the divisive factor but not in this village. The whole village belonged to one caste. They differentiated between themselves with their clans. What if a village had only one clan? What would they have done then?

So there was no question of a police case. The woman could now be shown glimpses of chauvinistic pride. After all the ‘thanedaar’ being from their clan meant he would never register an FIR.

“So madam, go ahead. Go to the police.”

They now surrounded her. She looked around. Ram Singh was still with her but very afraid. These were villages where the panchayat reigned supreme. Panchayat was the council elected by the people. But elections were held just because they had to be held. Members were elected unopposed. Never ever had a single vote been polled against them. Some had shown courage seeking to oppose them in elections. They lost and later each one of them had been lynched to death. Their bodies had been found hanging on trees, stuck in drains or rotting in fields.

“Don’t get in the way of a holy task. The sacrifice has been carried out. Now the Goddess will be satiated and I will have a son.”

This was Nameswar. It was his child that had been sacrificed today. The Goddess or the ‘kuldevi’ was the divine protector of his clan. There was no sadness in his eyes; eyes blinded by superstition.  

“This pitcher contains the offering to the Gods. It must be floated in the river. All must be done to please the kuldevi.”

Michelle could bear no more. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was pushed aside by someone. Somebody threatened Ram Singh. Somebody cursed. She lay on the ground bruised. Radha came running towards her. The procession marched on with the beating of drums. The crowd formed by women was mute. Michelle knew their hearts wept. Which mother could bear the murder of her own child in front of her eyes and that too by her own people? But the women of this village had come to terms with their destiny. More than two young girls were rare in a household, but Nameswar’s wife had borne her three daughters one after another. This was the fourth. The whole village thought Nameswar had sinned by not offering the girls to ‘kuldevi’. The birth of sons was auspicious but not daughters. How ironical it was- on one hand the villagers worshipped God in the female form, on the other they drowned their own newborn girls in boiling milk. It was not worship. It was savagery.

The pitcher contained the dead child. It would be put in the river after the village priest had offered prayers. All believed that it would please the ‘kuldevi’ and such sacrifices would keep the natural forces and disasters at bay. Who was to blame for such superstition and ignorance? The answer lay in finding who benefitted from it.

It was almost dark when Michelle opened her eyes. She had become unconscious in the village. Her forehead was bruised, but more than that it was her utter helplessness which made her sick. She was back in her small room and surrounded by some women, Radha and Ram Singh. Everyone looked sad. One woman was placing a wet cloth on her forehead. Other sat in muted silence. She slowly looked around and then sat up. Someone supported her on to a pillow. Radha looked at each one of them. They diverted their gaze to the floor. No one spoke. Not a word for what seemed like ages. The air became glum. The darkness of the moment was seeping inside their hearts and making it heavy. It choked their lungs. There was no light, and no one had prepared food. Then it was heard- a faint sob. The women looked up at each other in to one another’s eyes. They were all red and swollen. There was a sound or two more. Some more sobs and it started. The women wailed and cried helplessly. Away from the gaze of their husbands and village heads and priests they cried their hearts out; for what else could they do. They cried for all that was lost and that would be lost. They cried for their daughters whom they could never press against their bosom, could never feed them or play with them. Hardly any meals were cooked in the village that evening and there was hardly any light. After the public display of chauvinism and celebrations, the villagers were mourning in person.

Nameswar sat at the riverside – lost and quiet. His wife Bindiya, sick after labor was inconsolable. Radha their eldest daughter was sitting in a corner with her two little sisters. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp the three girls played with pebbles they had collected from the riverside.