Sandhya had been restless all night. She was no expert in raising children, this was her first born. She had managed to survive near-death labour, so did her child with no mother’s milk to put her wailing stomach at ease to build her bones for the life to come. No wonder she was a sick child though beautiful and fair, observant and quick to learn but a serpent seemed always to be crushing her tiny body. She couldn’t breathe properly. Even in her tender years her body seemed unhealthily rigid- almost frozen not lithe and yet she grew. Tight compact and pale she could barely keep the food in- the tightening grip of the serpent forcing her to expel whatever she ate. They say the child carries the trauma of the mother when she bears them. How could the child have learnt about natural rhythms of hunger when Sandhya barely had any food to eat during pregnancy. And still everyone blamed her for the paleness- nobody saw the serpent around the child’s body slowly suffocating her.

Winter had arrived and so did the want of warmth, food and money. Sandhya had taken up work to make up for her husband’s unstable employment- futile attempts he ceaselessly boasted about blaming morals of the rich businessmen class in the then newly settling city of Greater Noida. There was only so much a simple villager like him could do with the burden of a growing family on his young shoulders. Sandhya felt as if she was raising the child by herself, rushing home after work to find her daughter sitting in the courtyard waiting in her school dress for her mother to return. Hari being away all day sometimes for nights together, it was just the two of them battling each day as it returned with another challenge. They were happy despite it all, mother and daughter with their entire hours, days stretched out in front of them, learning from each other. One breathed life into the other. Sandhya had found renewed passion, even for this difficult life in this child -even without Hari in it her world seemed complete. Perfect and in harmony.

And then the day arrived when Sandhya’s worst fears crept up on her. Jyoti’s breathing had been laboured and she hardly ate- her body apathetic to treatment. Hari had been away for days now- short conversations in the STD booth did little to allay Sandhya’s fears.

No, he would not be returning soon. No, there was no need to go all the way to Delhi to consult another doctor. She had to behave more sensibly; children fall sick all the time.

It had rained violently that night. Unchecked by the dying wind rain beat down fanatically- almost with fervid intention to assault the earth. Windows shivered as if pleading for mercy- threatening to shatter. And yet the rain struck ceaselessly. Sandhya lay awake worried the child just might be smothered by the serpent, quietly in the cold of the night and so she prayed. It was almost light when Jyoti’s breathing seemed to stabilize.

Sandhya had been washing utensils, she had led them pile- laundry was spilling out of the basket and the house had not been mopped in days- working only in the short hours when Jyoti fell asleep. Cold water cut through the cracks in the skin of her hands numbing them. She was just beginning to rinse the soap off the dishes when Hari walked in. Having been roused by the shrill clattering of utensils Jyoti pretended to sleep as her father entered, hearing his voice in the kitchen.

“Why did you bother coming home at all? Would you have even cared if our daughter died or if I did?” Jyoti heard her mother saying half yelling half crying. Sandhya was a woman of patience. Even in anger she kept dignity, speaking out of truth not spite. Her first instinct was to collapse in Hari’s arms exhausted as she was but her anger prevented her from doing so immediately- her limbs tense from cold and the rigors of last night. Jyoti heard her father’s cajoling laughter trying to coax her mother. Jyoti sat up in bed eager to see him slightly bothered by her mother’s unusually loud voice- demanding him to release her arm and let her finish her work.

The bedroom extended into the doorless kitchen with a small passage in between, she could see both her parents standing near the basin mindless of her presence. She saw her mother trying to free her arm and push her father away, rushing to wash the dishes in a frenzy uncharacteristic of her. Her movements fitful and stiff. Clean dishes resounded with an unclean sound- an unholy bleating – almost hurt- as if she was slaughtering them when she flung them onto the marble slab. The sky was sunless, mist enveloped the low single storey house and yet the sickly pale light seemed unnaturally bright- everything looked sharper, objects stood on unnatural edges their shapes distorted - casting odd shadows and contorted reflections on the wet utensils.

Jyoti heard her mother’s words turn into a loud wailing - drowning the sound of gushing water hitting the strange surface of dishes- ill formed words spilling from her mouth as she stood shaking- her actions arrested by the firm hand of her husband clutching her arm, she yelled from the rising pain wriggling to be free when Hari steadied her with a swift blow, his broad palm against her face. “Chup ho rahi hai ya nahi? Chup ho”[1] growled Hari. In a reflex mixed with anguish surprise and disgust Sandhya waved her arm and struck back with equal force, her hair disheveled staring with bewildered eyes at the man before her. What just happened? Jyoti could not recognize either of her parents, she looked around desperately hoping to find she’d been dreaming- not realising she was crying. Nobody noticed she had stood up and walked into the hallway.

Jyoti felt the air turn perverse, choaking the sounds of what happened next- they came occasionally as one hears under water. Her eyes couldn’t focus on the medley of movements - sharp and fast as they danced before her- resting them on the blinding reflection of the pile of washed utensils as she watched-she saw as her father lay on top of her mother their bodies entwined- disquieting sounds escaping their attached frames. There was a foul unfamiliarity, a profaneness to this embrace. Her mother’s face wore contours she had never seen before- her father she couldn’t see. Only the heavy strong black arms distorting her mother’s delicate frame - her outstretched arms were no match for the force crushing her body. It seemed she had stopped crying and merely lay there- saving her breasts and womb from sustained blows- beating rhythmically against her body that reacted in dull whispers where he hit her- her instinctual retaliation- the only one she could spawn. It was as if he had been listening intently to the diabolical symphony that resounded from this unnatural instrument complete with her mother’s freakish refrain- lost in the trance of his diseased harmony.

It took Jyoti a while to realise she had been screaming standing dangerously close to this macabre dance, her ears deafened by the eerie chorus of sounds. 

It ended just as abruptly as it began. The familiar sounds of the day could be heard and the house seemed as it always had – she and her mother- Hari was gone. But something changed. Could the others see? the corpses? The corpse of Sandhya’s marriage that she carried for 18 more years, the corpse of a daughter’s faith in her father the safety of home. Perhaps the most painful to bear- more so for Sandhya was her daughter’s childhood. Jyoti had not known that in the moment she decided to stifle her tears to caress her mother she had ceased to be a child anymore.

That day her fever had broken but the serpent clung to her body stronger.

Translation: 

[1] Shut up now, wont you? Shut up.