This Short Story was previously published in The Criterion.
True to her name, Titli flits around like a butterfly, dodging her opponents with ease. She stops running and stands by the side of the road as a rickshaw pulls up. She looks at Memsahib fondly as she alights - glasses perched on her nose, a pile of books in her hands. Memsahib's different from all the other ladies Titli works for. For one, her hair is short. Then, she never wears a sari like the other memsahibs, with their big fat bellies showing. Nor does she treat Titli like a worm that has just crawled out of a septic gutter.
“Titli, your turn,”
Madan calls out.
Titli places the gilli in
the middle of the road. She looks at it with full concentration, then
swings the danda with all her might. There's a loud crash as the
gilli smashes Memsahib’s window. Her first instinct is to
run. But she can't. Memsahib has seen her. “Titli dear, get ready
to be fleeced,” she mutters to herself as she drags her feet to
Memsahib’s house.
Ma's already there,
collecting the broken glass with a broom. She shakes her head as
Titli enters the house. “Memsahib, I know not what to do with this
girl. She no clean any house since morning. All day long she play
with boys.”
“She’s just a child!”
Memsahib says, as she switches on the light.
“What if something
untoward happen? Who be responsible?”
“Why don’t you send
her to school?”
“What I get by sending
her to school? How I manage without her earnings?”
“She will earn a hundred
fold more if you send her to school,” Memsahib replies as she takes
off her sandals.
But Ma's already out of
earshot. Titli hopes she looks suitably repentant, as Memsahib now
turns her attention to her. She flinches as Memsahib comes closer to
her.
“It's okay,” says
Memsahib. “I'm not going to hit you.”
“Sorry Memsahib. It
won't happen again.”
“But you'll have to
promise me something.”
“I will. Whatever you
say.”
Titli holds her breath as
Memsahib looks at her thoughtfully for a long moment.
“I'm going to teach you
everyday, after you finish your chores.”
Titli's confused. What sort of a punishment is this? But she
agrees. Anything's better than a beating.
Titli's leafing through a
book when Memsahib's daughter Neelu snatches it from her.
“How dare you touch my
stuff without my permission?” she says.
Just then Memsahib comes
into the room. “It's an old copy Neelu. I gave it to her.”
“But mum, you should
have asked me first.”
“Have you finished
studying for the test?” Memsahib asks.
“No,” grumbles Neelu
as she flounces out of the room.
Memsahib writes a Maths
sum in the notebook and explains it to Titli. Titli squats on the
floor and tries to solve it.
“Oh my my!” Memsahib
exclaims when Titli comes to do the dishes the next day.
She's wearing a pink party
frock. Her normally disheveled hair's combed and tied with ribbons
into two neat plaits. She has a small plastic bindi on her forehead
and fake gold earrings.
“Memsahib, you know, lady
I work for two streets away?”
“Who? Mrs. Gupta?”
“Yes. Is her daughter’s
wedding tomorrow. Today I going for sangeet ceremony.”
“In those broken
slippers?”
“I've nothing else to
wear.”
“Let me see...”
Memsahib goes into Neelu's
room and emerges after a few minutes with a pair of shoes.
“Here, try these on.”
The shoes are a bit tight
but Titli manages to squeeze her feet in.
Memsahib shows her the
mirror. “See how lovely you look? Why can’t you be neat and tidy like this everyday?”
But Titli’s not
listening. Her eyes are glued to the shoes. “Memsahib, I never worn
shoes before,” she whispers. Then she's off, hopping and skipping
and humming to herself.
Titli's at the sink, doing
the dishes. She's still wearing the same dress, but now it's crushed
and has a big stain on it. Her hair is a mess, although the ribbons
are still hanging loosely from the plaits.
Memsahib has told her to
be quiet. She has a headache and is resting. She comes to the kitchen after a while. “What? You’re still loitering about? Aren’t
you going to the wedding?”
“No,” Titli answers
sullenly. After a pause, she says, “Memsahib, you remember story
you told me about Cinderbella?”
“Cinderella.”
“Yesterday I
feel like Cinderbella at the sangeet. I play with other children.
They ask me what school I go to. I lie. I give them Neelu didi’s
school's name.” Titli grins. “They believe me. Can you imagine?
They believe that I go to school.” She pauses. “Then that stupid
Gupta madam orders me to do the dishes. In front of EVERYBODY. All
come to know I just a servant girl.”
She puckers her lips as
though she's just bitten a bitter cucumber and blinks back her tears. “Cinderbella ran off before people come to know truth about her.
But I sitting there for two hours, bearing the shame!” She starts sobbing.
“Okay okay, don’t go
to the wedding if you don’t want to,” says Memsahib, a little flustered.
“Can we do some sums
instead?” Titli asks.
“Why not?”
Titli's face lights up.
Memsahib sighs. “If only
Neelu had half your enthusiasm for her studies!”
Titli's on the floor,
scribbling in a notebook while Memsahib sips her tea. Titli stops
scribbling and looks around.
“Titli, try harder. I’m
sure you’ll get it,” says Memsahib.
“But I finished,”
Titli replies as she scratches her medusa like hair.
“Finished? Already? Let
me see.”
Titli hands her the copy
and watches as Memsahib puts red ticks alongside the answers. She
blushes as Memsahib pats her head.
“Forget Cinderella. If
you continue like this, you will be better than Shakuntala Devi one
day.”
“Shakun who?””
“Shakuntala Devi. One of
the greatest Mathematicians of our country.”
“Really Memsahib?”
“Yes, why not?”
Titli comes running into
the house, holding up the edges of her frock. The frock used to be
white once upon a time. But at the moment it looks like it's been
dipped in a roadside puddle. Its hem has come undone in several
places. On entering the living room, she knells down and lets go of
the frock. About a hundred marbles roll onto the carpet.
“Memsahib, save me,”
she exclaims. “Ma coming to beat me with a broom.”
“Why? What have you done
now?” Memsahib asks in an amused voice.
“Nothing. I just defeat
all boys in a game of marbles. Went crying to Ma. Sissy wimps.”
“But why would she be
angry for winning a game?”
“Because (Titli mimicks
her mother), have I not told you, you shameless hussy not to play
with boys any more? In two months you’ll be married. What’ll you
do in your sasuraal? Drag my name to the dust?”
“Getting married?”
Memsahib asks, shocked. “How old are you?”
“You know when Hrithik's
movie come out? Kaho na Pyaar Hai? That's when I was born.”
“I think that was in...
2000. So you’re twelve, same as Neelu. And you’re going to be
married?” Memsahib asks incredulously.
“Ma saying most girls my
age in village already settled.”
Titli lowers her gaze as
Memsahib looks at her, horrified, then at Neelu, who's making faces at
her glass of milk.
“Neelu, stop worshipping
your milk and drink it up,” Memsahib says.
Neelu takes a sip followed
by a loud “Yuck.”
Titli looks at her, then
at the glass of milk. Drops of condensed water are glistening on the
outer rim of the glass. Her tummy growls. She imagines the cool white
liquid going down her throat. She licks her parched lips and curbs a
strong urge to push Neelu aside and gulp down the milk.
“I can’t even imagine
Neelu getting married at this age,” Memsahib says.
“I'll get loads of new
clothes. And jewellery. And the yummiest food ever.”
She slurps loudly as she
imagines what the banquet table might look like.
“But Titli, there’s
more to marriage than new clothes and good food_”
“This time I be the
Cinderbella for real. And no Gupta madam will spoil it for me.”
Memsahib is about to say
something when her phone starts ringing. She goes to the bedroom to
answer it. When she emerges a few minutes later, she has news for
Neelu.
“Neelu, get dressed,”
she says.
Neelu looks up from her
laptop, dazed. “What?”
“Papa got the promotion.
We're going out for dinner. To celebrate.”
“Yay. Let's have
Chinese,” says Neelu as she hugs Memsahib. “So where do we have
to move?”
“Delhi, in one month.
How will I manage everything in just a month?” says Memsahib.
“Don't worry. I'll
help,” says Neelu.
“You? You take one whole
hour just to finish your milk! You're going to help?”
Neelu grins and hugs
Memsahib again. Titli leaves the room quietly, her wedding quite
forgotten.
After a slight hesitation,
Titli rings the doorbell.
She can hear Memsahib’s
voice through the open window. “Neelu, answer the door.”
Neelu is on the phone,
yakking away. “No, I look pale in yellow. Light blue's better...”
Titli rings the doorbell
again.
“This girl is useless,”
she hears Memsahib mutter.
“Titli!” Memsahib
gasps as she flings the door open.
Titli gives a
self-deprecating laugh as she notices the look of shock on Memsahib’s
face. What a strange apparition she must present. She adjusts the
pallu over her breasts self-consciously. Her height and face are that
of a fifteen year old. But her body has matured. She must look
comical. Like a bonsai with normal-sized fruit.
“I heard you back in
town Memsahib, and came to see you,” she says, as she enters the
living room.
“That was nice of you
Titli.”
Memsahib has come back to
Ramnagar after three long years. How could she not have come to meet
her?
Memsahib smiles at her as
well as at her children. Titli stands near the door, at the edge of
the carpet. Her seven-month old son clings to her with his thin
limbs, like a baby monkey. He has nothing on except a dirty vest. Her
daughter, a child of two, stares at Memsahib with interest. She sucks
her right thumb while holding on to Titli’s sari with the other.
She has thin knobbly knees and an oversized belly. Titli wipes the
snot running into her daughter’s mouth with the edge of her sari.
She looks down at her bare feet caked in mud and recalls the time
when she had worn Neelu's shoes.
Memsahib clears her
throat. “So how many marbles have you won lately?” she asks.
“Marbles?” Titli is at
first puzzled, then smiles sadly. “Memsahib, you remember?” She
shifts her son from one arm to the other. “I not touch marbles in
ages.” She hesitates, looks down and plays with a little pebble
with her bare big toe. “Mother-in-law tattles to my man for every
little thing and he_” She stops speaking, and focuses on pushing
the pebble underneath the carpet.
Memsahib opens her mouth
to speak. Is she going to ask her if he beat her? Or forced himself
on her? Or whether he was older than her? But she doesn’t. She's a
proper Memsahib. Not like Gupta madam, always asking crude questions.
“What is it?” she says
to her daughter who is tugging impatiently at her sari. “We’re
leaving in a minute.” She turns to Memsahib, adjusting the pallu
that keeps slipping off her head. “Memsahib, I come to
return this_”
So saying, she gives her a
book.
“This is the Maths book
I gave you three years back. There's no need to return it.”
“It's safe with you. One
time I busy reading in the kitchen and the roti got burned.
Mother-in-law snatched the book and fed it to flames.”
Memsahib keeps her gaze
averted. Neelu is still on the phone. Now she's talking about Ranbir
Kapoor’s latest movie.
Titli looks at the TV.
Elections are round the corner. She smiles scornfully as she listens
to the minister droning about how India is marching ahead under his
party’s rule.
Memsahib turns her
attention to her daughter. Bending down, she pulls her thumb out of
her mouth. “What’s your name?” she asks.
“Shakuntala. Shakuntala
Devi,” Titli replies, the old defiance back in her voice.
Memsahib looks at her.
“Shakuntala Devi,” she echoes softly. “The greatest
Mathematician of our country.” Her eyes are glittering. She gives
Titli a watery smile, then gives the Maths book to her daughter.
Titli smiles back in
return, as she pats her daughter’s head. And in that smile there's
hope…
47% OF GIRLS IN INDIA ARE
MARRIED BEFORE THE AGE OF 18.
GIRLS YOUNGER THAN 15 ARE
FIVE TIMES MORE LIKELY TO DIE IN CHILDBIRTH THAN WOMEN IN THEIR
TWENTIES.