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RISING OF A DEAD MOON

Paul Haston

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With special thanks to

Pascale Arundel for editorial services

Claire for design

Maurizio Blasetti for his wonderful photograph

Paul Haston is the author of Rising of a Dead Moon and Blood and

Doves. Originally from England, he lives on the west coast of

Canada and spends much of his spare time writing.

Copyright Paul Haston, 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this

publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,

or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of

the copyright owner

Copyright is registered with the Canadian Intellectual Property Office

Front cover image copyright Maurizio Blasetti, 2010 used by permission of the

photographer

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1

The Indian Widow

Nor aught, nor naught existed; you bright sky

was not, norheavens broad roof outstretched above;

What covered all? What sheltered? What concealed?

Was it the waters fathomless abyss?

There was no light of night, no light of day,

the only One breathed breathless in itself,

other than it there nothing since has been.

Darkness there was, and all at first was veiledin gloom profound, an ocean without light.

Translation from Nasadiya Sukta, the Vedas

The dead moon in the early morning Calcutta sky demanded

attention. From the darkness of the harbour quay, Usha, a youngIndian woman raised her eyes, seeking inspiration from its glow.

Cmon coolie, I aint got all day you know, a sunken-eyed man

shouted, his yellow teeth and onion and whisky reeking breath

sending a shudder through her. The man grabbed the tin ticket

adorning her neck and yanked her head sharply forward so he could

read the number. Up there, he snapped, pointing to the gangway

behind him, then he ticked her name off the ships register.

Usha fought back the tears from the whiplash and met his fiery

stare. Thank you, she said.

The man, as though shocked when she spoke English, eyed her

and registered her face for the first time.

Eh, a clever one ere, its Captain Reeves to you, coolie.

His venomous tone cut through her like a sword. She steeled

herself to stay strong.

Over there with ye, he shouted, smirking and pushing heracross the quay.

For all her resilience, Ushas slight frame could not resist the

thrust. She fell, her head hitting the wooden boarding. Searing pain

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pierced her right temple and several seconds passed before she

regained her senses. Blood trickled from a gash above her eye.

Using her arm, she tried to stay the blood before lifting herself off

the ground. Her head spun, but fearful of being pushed again, she

kept moving. She clutched her pass to her chest and hurried up thewooden gangway towards the Umvoti, a three-mast iron hulled

steam ship docked at the busy Calcutta quayside.

The roughly hewn edges of the rickety wooden plank swung

precariously over the black water of the harbour and her sandal

caught in a rut sending her almost tumbling into the foul smelling

darkness. Her heart pounded as she recovered her balance and

negotiated her way up to the top of the gangway. Stepping on

board the ship she found her path blocked.

Here!

A large swarthy sailor thrust a parcel of supplies and a blanket

onto her chest. The force of the impact winded her and knocked

her back on her haunches.

Sit down over there. His menacing tone mimicked the

captains.

Thank you, Sahib, she murmured, less confidently this time.The blood stain on her sari embarrassed her. If only she might have

the strength of a man. A further blast of his rank smelling breath

thundered across her shoulders.

Women to the front, men at the back.

She flinched and waited for the blow. When it didnt come she

bolted across the deck, before glancing back. She was one of the

few who had understood the pungent instruction. Others in the

scraggy line of human cargo took little heed. A disparate collection

of men, women and children clambered aboard, of all ages and

castes, their faces filled with confusion: the confusion of the ship,

the confusion of the new life upon which they embarked.

Usha clutched her parcel and traversed the deck. Pain in her

neck and forehead caused her head to spin more than ever and the

swaying made her hold tightly to the railing. At the front of the ship

she slumped down by the side of the cabin and braced her footagainst the bottom of a rusty ventilation shaft. The rocking

precipitated an urge to vomit. She inhaled a deep breath of salty

Calcutta air and tried to control the nausea that rolled in her

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stomach. After a few minutes the spinning calmed sufficiently for

her to open her eyes and to examine her parcel. Inside were two

saris, a flannel jacket, and a lota, a small brass bowl used to wash

and drink from. The lota was a blessing for she had left hers behind

in the ashram, but her heart saddened when she touched the softorange and yellow saris. She stared at the bright material and

sniffled. Widows were not permitted to wear either. Clearly the

Sahibs had no understanding of her status. She let the coloured

fabrics fall from her hands and turned instead to stare at the distant

Bengali hills. As she contemplated her life, a tear slid down her

cheek.

From the darkness she imagined the brilliance of her ethereal

exemplar, the deity Usha, lauded in the Vedas, the oldest scriptures

of Hinduism, as the Hindu goddess of dawn. The goddess Usha

invoked the presence of the sun god, Surya. The bringer of light and

spiritual consciousness, she warded off the evil spirits of the night.

A stabbing pain wrenched in Ushas chest. She had known for a long

time that she had been misnamed, that her parents had made a

mistake. They had imagined that her name might be Usha in wishful

expectation, but her real name was Nakti, or night. For Surya nolonger followed her. Her dawn no longer burned like the fire. No

radiance came from within. Born into a life destined to be dark her

smile had long since vanished, only shadows lingered in her soul,

only sadness filled her big dark eyes.

Indeed the last time she could remember smiling - really smiling

- had been when she was six years old. Even to this day she recalled

the scene as if it were yesterday.

Tell me the story, Father.

Which story is that? the kindly face replied, smiling

mischievously. He toyed with her. Of course he knew the story.

Father! You know the one, about the baby girl. Her

indignation was only half in jest.

Ah, yesthe baby girl;let me see.

He picked her up and sat her on his knee. A cool breeze waftedin through the open shutters while the full moon danced in the

waters of the Ganges. A jar of honey lay open on the table, its

yellow liquid oozing languidly down the side. Her fingers dabbled

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inside the jar and came out all sticky. She tasted the sweetness. It

made her tingle inside.

Well, in a cave in the woods of Veruna there once lived a

mother and her baby. But this was no ordinary baby, for

unbeknown to her mother or the other people in the cave, thisbaby girl could fly. She had magical wings!

I would love to be able to fly, Father.

Yes, that would be something, wouldnt it, my little nymph

Well, the mother found this out one day when she went down

to the lake near to where they lived. She left the baby girl asleep in

her crib by the shore and busied herself with her washing. But she

had placed the crib too close to the waters edge. A large whale

swam past as whales tended to do at that time of the year. A huge

wave washed up on the shore and the crib floated out onto the

lake. The mother cried. She thought that she had lost her baby for

ever.

Oh, Father that is so sad.

I know, my little nymph

Suddenly the baby girl woke up. Something marvellous and

unexpected then happened. She grew two beautiful white wings,just like a heavenly nymph.

Just like me, Father. I am your little nymph.

Yes, Usha

Light and feathery, the wings had magical powers. As the crib

sank into the dark water the babys wings spread wide and she flew

up high, high, high into the sky, so high that eventually she touched

the sun.

Was that hot Father? Did it burn her hand?

No, it was a warm and golden light. It made her feel happy.

Oh, Father, I wish I could touch the sun like the flyingbaby.

You will, my little nymph, you will

Now completely filled with joy, the magical baby floated back

down again on her wide open wings down, down, down like a

beautiful white butterfly and joined her mother on the bank. Of

course, the mother was overjoyed. She had thought that she hadlost her little baby. My heavenly spirit she cried; then gave her

daughter the biggest kiss that she had ever had.

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Oh, Father, Father, what a clever baby she is! Would you give

me such a big kiss if I floated down from heaven?

Of course, my little nymph.

*

Usha faced the greyness of a murky Calcutta horizon, her gloom

momentarily interrupted by a smile, before wrenching pain

returned to her chest. This was the last aurora. After this she lost

her smile, she was Usha no longer, she became Nakti. Nakti saw

only the darkness of the night.

The joy of her fathers story was in contrast to the pain she

remembered at the time he had left her, perhaps only a few weeks

later.

*

She played with her doll, knowing instantly from his sad eyes

that something was wrong. What had she done to deserve such a

dark look?Usha, I have something to tell you. I have to go away.

Where Father? Where are you going?

It is a place far away.

The pounding in her chest was suffocating, as if she had

succumbed to the grip of a dark ogre.

No, Father. Dont leave me. Why are you going?

I have to go, but I will return, and when I do---

No, you cannot go. Tears streamed down her face. Take me

with you.

I cannot, my little nymph---

If I was really your little nymph, you would take me.

I cannot, Usha. You must stay with your mother until I return.

No, Father, no, she screamed, clutching onto his leg. He prised

away her fingers, black in the face. For him to be so angry she must

have been bad. Her mother held her down as he left and he didntglance back, not once, even though she wished him to. It was her

ugly face that he could no longer bear to look at, and why would

he?

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On the porch she sat, night after night, waiting for him to

return. But he never did. She knew it was her fault. Nakti was not

good enough for him to want to see her again, and however much

Nakti busied herself thereafter, washing away her badness with her

school work and helping her mother around the house, the fathernever returned to the daughter whom he had abandoned, and the

daughter never forgave herself for having been the cause of it. It

was the worst thing that could ever have happened in the world

and the little girl never let herself forget it. His absence haunted her

like a shadow.

Perhaps her karma was to blame? Her evil actions in a former

life had pre-ordained her misfortune in this one. Nakti believed this

must be true. She had been bad before and she was bad now.

Naturally, things followed a path of darkness after that, even

including the day of her wedding.

*

Nakti lifted her ghunghat to reveal the sadness under her veil.

Wearing a golden crown and sprinkled with orchids, her blacktresses framed a face powdered and rouged, adorned with a gold

nose ring, its thin chain tied behind her ear. Her big eyes had been

darkened on the eyelids with kajal. Dressed in her red bridal sari

with gold embroidery, the young girl felt much older than her

twelve years.

At the head of a magnificent procession strode a large elephant.

From it stepped an Indian man wearing a traditional Dhoti, his face

covered with a curtain of marigolds. Nakti imagined for one

fleeting, glorious moment that this resplendent traveller might be

her handsome prince arriving to capture her heart. But the heavy

powder and petals could not disguise the greying hair and lined

face that lay beneath. The cold reality of her arranged marriage

made Nakti shudder. What could she possibly have in common with

a man three times her age, a man to whom she had been promised,

but had met only once?Beckoned forward, she received from the Purohit the sacred

mantras. Holding her head down to assuage the tears, she walked

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barefoot around the sacred fire and made her vows in the

Saptapadi, the inevitability of her enslavement becoming apparent.

May the night be honey-sweet, her husband vowed.

Night it was for sure after that, but not honey-sweet. The lecher

did not keep to his vows. He treated her like a slave. It was amiserable time. She hated her husband and she hated herself.

*

Krishna eventually came to her rescue. Four long years of

repression were ended when the evil man came down with the

sickness. It was the tuberculosis that killed him even though people

seemed to think otherwise. Usha rejoiced. Free to follow the

fountain of youth like other girls of her age, her entrapment in a

loveless marriage was dissolved. However, things did not turn out

as she imagined. Should she have been surprised?

Take off your bangles, her mother-in-law screamed, tears of

lament streaming down her wizened cheeks. How could you do

this? It is your karma that has destroyed him. You have fallen. Youhave become inauspicious.

Usha had been falling all her life although was shocked to

discover how much so in just one day.

What do you mean I am inauspicious? she shouted, her thin

frame shaking with tremor.

Have you no shame? It is written in the scriptures. Have you

not studied Skanda Purana?

Fever rushed to Ushas cheeks. No.

The old woman took delight in spitting the words at her.

Hare Krishna! The widow is more inauspicious than all other

inauspicious things. At the sight of a widow, no success can be had

in any undertaking. A wise man should avoid even her blessings like

the poison of a snake.

Before Usha could recover from the venomous onslaught, the

mother-in-law was yelling again, to her two sons this time.Bind her down.

She screamed as the blade appeared; her soft brown skin about

to be slashed. Harnessed to the chair, she cried out.

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Get off me you brutes. Then, Dont cut me, dont cut me.

Unassauged by her pleas, the sons sliced across her head with

the razor sharp edge. Tresses of shiny black hair fell like whispering

rushes onto the silent ground. Only when the mirror view showed

the full horror of her bald transfiguration did Usha cry out in pain,but there was more. Her dehumanisation continued.

Here. Feel the shame, the old woman yelled, ripping away the

coloured sari that clung in clumps to her sweating body. Usha

screamed again. Had the woman lost her senses? Was she about to

be mutilated?

Take your hands off me, you evil woman, she shouted, her

young voice shrieking like a wounded leopard cat.

Shush girl. Put this on. Cover your guilt, the vengeful voicethundered as the white muslin cloth thrust into her face. You are

Brahmin. You have no choice.

So wise men avoided Usha. The death of her husband, though

no fault of her own, ensured that she became inauspicious. The

white sari wrapped itself around her shaking body and the golden

lily of her youth wilted before it had even begun to flower.

*

Absorbed in her contamination, Usha sat on the Umvoti deck.

An old woman shuffled past, refusing to meet her eye. Ugly

widow, she muttered. Usha flinched from the accusation, even

though its truth was self-evident, for this person sat as far away as

possible. Head down, she sought solace in her own sanctuary, an

invisible boundary marking her confinement. The barbs deepened

in their savagery as the deck filled up, the newer arrivals forced to

position themselves ever closer to the impurity. Eventually, a

bedraggled looking female (it could only be an untouchable Usha

imagined) sat beside her, seemingly able to tolerate her widow

status. A moment of short lived relief buoyed her before despair

returned, for this person was the only one. Others resented the

association, only tolerating her presence through lack ofalternative. They kept as far removed as possible and muttered

darkly about the ramifications of such vile corruption.

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Ushas thoughts darted back to even darker memories: the

prospect of Sati.

*

The day of the funeral; the day of terror; the day that marked

her forever.

A hot Bengali sun scorched the land and simmered the waters.

Mourners lined the bank of the sacred river in silent prayer. Usha

stood with them. A white head cloth shrouded her from the

burning rays above, but she was not shrouded from the fire of her

husbands funeral pyre. The heat from its burning redemption was

about to singe her body.

A rope tied the floating mass of brush to the bank. Her husband

lay on the pyre, his soul a shadow. She listened out for his pleas,

but her heart was closed to joining him, she heard nothing. Only

the silence of death rang in her ears and she shook from the

bleakness of it.

The pyre was torched and severed from its mooring when Usha

found her arms grabbed from behind. Then she was being pushedinto the water, onto the burning brush. Her brothers-in-law were

manhandling her onto the floating carriage of death. A wall of

blackness hit her. Yelling and kicking out, she punched the air with

her legs. Her screams were heard by the souls of the dead.

No, let me live. I have had no life in this incarnation. How can I

leave it?

Hers was not self-immolation. Others did it for her. Burned in

the flames, she would pass into her reincarnation. A vision of a

goddess appeared before her. She stood again beside the husband

whom she had despised; the husband who had maligned her. But

the vision held no joy, no peace entered her soul. All she saw was

the burning of flesh, a life consumed by eternal darkness.

and then her father stood before, holding out his hand.

Do not leave, little nymph. You have to stay.I know, was her reply.

The might of the deities infused her. She kicked out at the

demons who bound her.

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No, never, she cried. The darkness in her brother-in-laws eyes

told her that she had to fight. She screamed into his face, lancing

him with her fury. Something in her expression must have made

him lose his murderous intent. On the verge of fainting, suddenly

the deathly grip on her arms was relaxed. Thrown to the river bank,her mouth was choked by earth. Asphyxiated, her head spun into

blackness. Was she still in the throes of her death? Yet there were

no flames and her mother-in-law was shouting.

What are you doing? She must burn to purify the soul. She will

damn us all.

Her arms were once again pulled up. The old womans face,

contorted, devil-possessed, flashed in front of her. Usha swung her

arm, the anger of an avenger infusing her.

Get off me, she screamed.

Knocked back by the slap, the old woman released her grip.

Usha scrambled up the bank and sat sobbing as the burning pyre

floated away into the deep water, the acrid smoke drifting down

the valley of her intended reincarnation.

*

The memory made Usha droop. She began to sob. Would it not

have been better to have burned, the way things had turned out?

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The Ashram

Weighing anchor, the Umvoti navigated a course through the

congested harbour. The movement jolted Usha from her fiery

contemplation, forcing her to brace against the decking.

Namaste, she said, bumping into another woman. Every inch of

the vessel was occupied. Hundreds of coolies were packed like

cattle in a pen, the crew obliged to clamber over the cargo to sail

the ship. Usha gazed to the ocean and imagined the thousands of

miles that separated them from their destination of Africa.

Fair passage was made until a few miles out to sea a patch of

squally weather caused the iron ships rusting bow to pitch into the

waves. Her heart pounding, Usha huddled, thinking of her death,

for crossing the Kala Pani was taboo in her culture. By crossing the

sea, she risked defiling her soul, and confronting the houglis - the

monsters of the black water. Cut off from the regenerating waters

of the Ganges, she feared the loss of her purified Hindu essence,the end of the reincarnation cycle. Her thoughts jumped to the

Uttar Pradesh criminals required to cross water to serve their

imprisonment on the islands of Andaman and Nicobar. Like them

she would never return. She would never see her homeland again.

Born into sadness, she would die in sadness; and now not even on

her own soil. Praying for salvation, she chanted the Om. Surely

Brahman would tell her what to do?

The Umvoti rolled violently in the swell. Usha gripped the iron

balustrade. The infidels dragged her insides through a briar of

thorns. She leant over the side of the vessel and vomited what little

was left in her stomach into the black water. Eyes closed, she

awaited her tumble into the embrace of death. Why had she been

taken so young, having lived so little?

Ushas chanting continued until her voice was hoarse. By mid-afternoon, however, the squall had passed; the Umvoti began to

make smoother progress. A wave of disbelief swept the deck. The

anger of the houglis had miraculously abated. Brahman had

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answered their prayers. The swell of the ocean continued to

wrench her stomach, but the deathly palpitations that had gripped

Usha began to ease.

The reprieve was short lived. An ugly looking Indian man

marched along the gangway. A clap of thunder jolted her.Get up! You are bandharries.

Usha jumped up, only to realise that three women sitting on the

other side of the gangway were the object of his attention.

Confronted by his vehement assault two of the women rose to

comply, but the third, a woman with an air of detached refinement,

remained seated.

No, she shouted. I am Brahmin, I will not cook for others; you

think I am untouchable? Who are you to tell me otherwise?

The man exploded with rage. I am Parag, the sirdar, you are

bandharries. Now get up and cook. From his pocket he pulled a

sjambok, a strip of bullocks hide about a foot-and-a-half long. The

woman was struck. Your caste is taken off. You left it at the port.

You wont put it on again until you come back.

Crying out, the Brahmin woman rose to her feet. Apparently she

did not understand what Parag meant.How can I discard my caste? It is not possible!

Go to your work, woman, before I thrash you again. We are the

temple of Jaganath here.

Usha recognised the reference. The temple in Puri, Orissa had

been a pilgrimage destination for Hindus since the 11th century.

Dedicated to the prophet Jaganath, one of its four gates, the

Singahdwara, or Lion Gate, housed an idol of Jaganath, known as

Patita Pavana, which in Sanskrit meant saviour of the downtrodden

and the fallen. In ancient times, when untouchables were not

allowed into the temple, they would pray to Patita Pavana. Because

of this the temple had acquired a reputation for treating

worshippers equally. It required all to make and serve their food

together and eat from the same plate, irrespective of caste.

That evening, as the bandharries rinsed the gravel off the rice,

and prepared a meal of rice, dhal and potatoes, Usha understoodthe meaning of Parags words. The Indians ate together, high and

low caste obliged to sit alongside each other in pangats, the

makeshift benches arranged in rows on the deck beside the

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kitchen. The meal was caste-less, the Indians ate all jumbled up.

The precious stones had been shaken up in the same pot as the

dust and clinker and scattered haphazardly.

Eating her first meal for several days, Ushas shrunken stomach

ached from the sudden ingestion of food. She sat with the others,grateful for Patita Pavanas benevolence. However, many sitting on

the pangat had clearly never prayed to this idol of Jaganath. Usha

felt the lashing of their fury. Backs turned, they inched as far away

as possible, shocked to find the traditional observances interrupted

such. In silence she munched her rice, finding solace in Bhakta Kavi

Salabegs prayer to the saviour of the fallen:

O most merciful one, if you are expert enough,

Then save me, the foremost of thefallen.

She chanted the mantra in her head. It helped to ease the

darkness in her thoughts.

That evening, Usha lay on the hard wooden decking. A thin

blanket tempered the chill. She prayed to Lord Krishna hoping that

he would be merciful. How else might she survive the dark crossing

that she made? Her sadness took her back to the worst of

memories: her final parting from her mother

*

Running from the tyranny of her deceased husbands

household, she arrived at her mothers house.

Please Mother, let me in, I beg you, she shouted, hammering

at the door.

The silence spoke to the limits of a mothers love. Her fist

pounded again on the wood.

Mother, I have nowhere else to go. I am your daughter.

A voice sounded through the grille - cold, dispassionate.

Go away. You are disgraced. I have had my share of bad karma.

I do not want any more.

Nakti knew there was little hope of being loved again, but she

was desperate.Mother I have no one. I beg you, have pity.

A miracle! A crack appeared. She was forgiven. She pushed, but

it was a cruel enticement. Entrance had been offered so that its

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refusal could be made more forcefully. Before she could wedge it

open, the door slammed shut, with the words.

Away, leave me alone.

Rage infused her tears.

What sort of mother are you to abandon your daughter? Whathave I done wrong?

Everything, I do not want to see you. You have darkness in

you.

Her mother was right, of course. Nakti fell to her knees, the

darkness of her condition pulling her down.

Why me?

Then she was shrieking, a voice pulsating, desperate.

Where is he? Where is Father? Tell me. Even though she had

not been good enough for him to stay, he was now the only person

who could save her from her predicament.

The silence was only interrupted by the ringing in her head. A

wave of panic rose inside and she was screaming again.

Tell me! Where is he?

Her request must have ignited the fury of a wifesabandonment. Through the grille was imparted the venom of the

most wretched.

Africa, where did you think? You and he drink from the same

dirty cup. He sowed the seeds of evil and you can follow.

Africaall this time and she had never known.Thank you, she

whispered, barely audible.

Silence followed. Had her mother heard her? Her tap on the

door provoked the final mark of her death.

The karma is polluted. Stay away! Immolate yourself for all our

sakes!

The damnation of a daughter by her mother is the hardest

rejection to bear and the devastation was absolute, yet Nakti had

always known that it must be this way. Was that not why her father

had left her?

*

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A chill wind blew across the Umvoti deck, but this was not the

cause of Ushas shudder. Her thoughts had progressed to the sharp

bite of a flogging

*

Ushas tremble made her bite her tongue. How had it come to

this? Abandoned by those she thought had loved her, she

wondered if any of it mattered anyhow? She held back the tears in

her eyes and pushed open the gate. The chasm that the

inauspicious widow now entered was deeper and darker than

anything she could ever have imagined. The door had barely closed

on her freedom, when the consequences of her transgression were

made apparent. A fist landed heavily in her midriff, the stabbing

sensation rippling through to her extremities. Winded, doubled up,

she screamed in agony.

First you refuse Sati and now this! You make a fool of us

twice?

Clearly not intent on being so lenient at a second time of

asking, her husbands youngest brother had fire in his eyes. Asecond blow sent her reeling back against the wall. Shocked into a

rage, she lurched forward. Coward, she yelled. She had had

enough of being treated like dirt. What had she done to be treated

like this? Her hand struck him across the face causing him to spill

backwards. He returned with vitriol in his eyes. A further blow to

her stomach knocked the life out if her. Felled to the ground, his

heavy body pinned her down.

The whip, he shouted to his elder brother. She bit his arm.

Like a mongrel he squealed, but his grip only tightened on her arms,

tighter, tighter, until feeling left her hands. Spurred by the anger of

the furies she kicked out and spat at him.

Get off, you dog.

But then it started

Leather cut into Ushas flesh and she screamed. She screamed

for the soreness in her back, she screamed for the throbbingsensation in her soft belly, she screamed for the hope that was

being lashed out of her; multiple screams for the first few lashings

then whimpering as blinding pain clouded her head, numbness

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froze her body. Hope became hopeless. After twenty lashings even

the whimpering stopped, only the nothingness of nothing

remained.

The jolt of a cart broke the darkness, before blacknessdescended again.

Then, a withered face, mercifully not her mother-in-law leant

over her.

Where am I, she asked.

The ashram at Vrindavan, he brought you here last night, the

old woman said.

Who?

The uncle, he said you had been whipped. You were lucky. He

stopped them from beating you to death. You must make penance

for your sins, widow.

Usha winced. Her back was on fire.

My sins?

You will take the name Dasi. You are a servant of the prophet

Krishna. Now pray to him like the rest of us widows. It is requiredby the sacred Hindu writings of Dharmashastra. We wait to rejoin

our husbands. I have been waiting thirty years.

Usha struggled to rise up from the bed.

Let me go, I want to leave! Her head throbbed with the pain.

She offered no resistance when pushed down again.

The woman gripped her arm and shook it.

Where will you go? You must stay here and make your eternal

living penance. How dare you suggest otherwise!

Usha lay with fever. Three days and nights passed before she

had the strength to leave her bed.

Here, this way.

She shuffled down the steps to a courtyard outside. A gate

offered the chance of freedom, perhaps?

Its locked, for you.The old widows laugh was toothless. Bloodshot eyes twinkled

at Ushas entrapment. Head down, she followed the others to the

temple. Hopelessness enveloped her. Even if she were to escape,

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where would she go? In front of the shrine she sat. For hours and

hours she chanted the mantras, until her back became so stiff that

she would never stand again. The Om did not work. By dusk, her

soul remained uncleansed. A coin and a cup of rice were thrust into

her hand, but she had no grip. From her hand dropped the cup. Tothe floor she slumped, wishing she were dead.

The morning brought the shame of the dingy alley. Usha held

out her hand with the others. What else could she do? Her stomach

was empty and she had nothing to fill it. She knew then that her

fate was set, that there was no escape from the clutches of the void

into which she had fallen. Like the other widows she waited for that

moment when she might follow her husband into the field of death.

Why? How could this be so hopeless? Could the dark veil of her

condition not be reversed?

Ushas prayers began to change their focus. No longer did she

pray for an end to her life, she prayed for a miracle that might

rescue her from this pitiful existence. She prayed that she mightsomehow find the father whom she had lost.

One day, whilst begging in the alley, a man approached and

struck up a conversation. He had an alluring smile and a sparkle in

his eyes that attracted her.

___

Hello, Im Vishram, Vishram said, forcing a smile and winking

at the young woman. He had spent all morning walking the bazaar

and was thankful at last to have found a candidate for his

entrapment. This one retained her hope. He could see it in her

eyes.

I see you are a widow? he sa id, throwing a coin into her

basket.

Yes, thank you, the young woman said, a smile creeping ontoher ashen face.

What is your name?

Usha.

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Ah, like the dawn, but is there dawn in your life I wonder?

No, I am a widow, I have only darkness.

Oh, but I see you have not lost hope. There is a twinkle in your

eyes!

No, I think you are mistaken.Yes. I think you dream of escape, of riches and golden

opportunity?

Vishram enjoyed the thrill of his deception. Like a Venus flytrap,

he lured human flies into his trap, the stickiness of his honeyed

aroma encasing his victims.

I offer you freedom in a land of plentiful luxury.

Where is this strange land?

Ah, you see, you do have hope. I thought so He licked hislips. I offer the chance of escape, a journey across the ocean, a

journey to a land of wondrous possibilities.

But where is this place? I am confused.

Africa: the land of plenty, the land of riches, the land of

freedom.

Usha closed her eyes and Vishram smiled.

He smiled at his fat commission: one more fly and this months

quota was met.

He smiled at his advantage: an unlicensed arkati carried no

limitation on how he spun his enticement.

He smiled at how well his recruiter, Venu would look in front of

Mohamad, and how well Mohamad would look in front of Iman,

the big boss, the emigration agent appointed by the government of

Natal in Africa.

He smiled at Ushas miracle: how she would join the thousands

of Indians enticed into indenture and transported by the white

colonials to work on the plantations in southern Africa.

He smiled so wide that he thought his mouth might even reach

his ears!

____

Usha was enraptured. Indeed, Vishram need not have been half

as eloquent with his description. The mention of Africa had sold her

the notion. Her prayers answered, a miracle was delivered. How

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could she refuse the prospect of escape and finding her father

again?

*

Usha lay on the hard boards of the Umvoti deck, the taste of

Vishrams golden elixir in her mouth. She thought of her father and

the story about the baby girl that could fly, but when she closed her

eyes and saw his smiling face, it was a face shadowed and

distorted; a face different from the one that she had once

remembered. Had she forgotten the real face and invented another

one to replace it? The fragmentation of his memory haunted her.

Even his absence could not be remembered. A tear rolled down her

cheeks as she considered the great void that had been left in her

life. She prayed that she might somehow find him in Africa, that her

father would make things right again, that it would be like it was

before, when she was six, happy, laughing, protectedlike the baby

girl that could fly.

Usha fell asleep clinging to her expectation. Perhaps the gods

required that she endure her inauspiciousness, the shadows thatnow clouded her existence, so that she could be re-united with him

again?

But her dream that night held only darkness. The monsters of

the black water swallowed up her fragment of hope and spat it out

in disgust. Her karma was bad after all.

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3

Crossing the BlackWater

A chill breeze swept off the ocean as the first shafts of the dawn

splintered into the horizon. Usha shuddered, but not from the

rigour of an exposed deck, her fever came from within. The night

had been long and agonising. She had spent many hours awake

throwing up the very last of what was contained in her stomach.

Weakened from months of malnutrition, her immune system had

gradually lost its fight against the infection and by morning she wastoo ill to move, not even to grasp a cupful of water from the water

butt.

Get up you lazy widow. Clean the toilets before I thrash you.

Nandita! Usha recognised the voice. The old woman had taken

it upon herself to organise the others. Her name meant happy, but

clearly this Nandita did not possess a happy gene in her body.

Jaganath was ignored, Usha was fallen, an outcast and to betreated as such. Usha groaned from the sharp kick that Nandita

gave to her belly, and struggled to rise. She stood, but her head

began to spin. A few delirious steps across the deck and she

collapsed in a heap on the wooden boards. She was kicked again,

harder this time.

"Lazy, ungrateful widow, Nandita shouted at the top of her

voice, her withered face turning puce. Usha yelped. Monsters took

bite sized pieces of flesh from her insides.

Parag came striding down the deck, sjambok in hand. Intent on

giving Usha a good thrashing a shrill voice stopped him in his tracks:

Wait.

An Englishman in brown cotton slacks and a white shirt was

running down the gangway, his irregular face adopting a grimace.

Sahib, she refuse work so I punish her, Parag muttered, the

colour of his cheeks matching Nanditas.Shes sick, man. Cant you see? the Englishman shouted,

apparently not yet accustomed to the methods of indenture.

Bring her to the hospital room.

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Sahib, Parag grunted in begrudging acquiescence. He raised

his hand to direct two coolies to carry the limp body.

Put her over there thank you, the doctor said to the coolies

who had man-handled Usha unceremoniously below deck. Their

grimaces showed their repugnance at this dirty widow, and theyleft promptly, no doubt to wash their hands, lest their souls

become tainted.

Usha lay listless on the bunk bed. The small hospital room spun

around her. She controlled her urge to vomit again, not wishing to

embarrass herself in front of the Englishman.

Hello. Whats your name?

Usha, Sahib, she whispered, the action straining the muscles

in her throat.

Well, Usha. Im Doctor Hitchcock. I am going to examine you.

Do you understand?

His manner was kindly, his words slow and deliberate.

Everything was a blur, she struggled to remain alert.

Yes Sahib. I speak Englishat school.

Lie still. Breathe in and out, slowly.

The cold metal on her feverish skin made her jump. Hitchcockheld the stethoscope tube to his ear, his brow furrowing.

Can you sit up Usha? I need to look at your back. Move your

sari a little.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening. Even though she thought

she could trust the doctor Sahib she was nervous around men.

Trembling, she lowered the coarse muslin cloth.

____

Hitchcocks face whitened. His hands throbbed. Good

gracious. The light brown skin of Ushas back was barely visible

beneath a criss-cross of black and purple lacerations, as if someone

had branded her with the scorched image of a heavily fortified

portcullis. Several of the wounds remained open, green puss oozing

from the sores. A putrid smell of rotting flesh emanated.

Usha, whos been hurting youyou have terrible wounds?Her head was held down. I am widow. Widows are hit.

This is barbaric, he muttered, his eyes moistening. Usha, we

must wash the wounds, they are infected.

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____

She had no words. What could she possibly say? His gentle

hands pressed on her neck, then on her abdomen. She yelped, a

stabbing pain running from the place where he had pushed. Afurrow lined his forehead.

Its alright, Usha, Im not trying to hurt you. You have a high

temperature. Have you been drinking any water?

His words elicited a rush of sadness. She reached to dab her

eyes with the pallu of her sari. No, Sahib.

I will give you an injection to control the fever, but you must

drink. You are significantly dehydrated.

Sahib, you think I die? she whispered, feeling as if she might,

the throbbing sensation in her head worse than ever.

His smile was forced; the flush of his cheeks apparently unable

to hide the angst inside.

No, but you must rest. Your lungs are congested and you have

a high fever. We must bathe your sores with carbolic acid. It will

sting, but it is important to clean the wounds. And you will need to

change your sari. Its filthy and re-infecting your sores.I am sorry, Sahib. Is difficult to keep clean.

But you have two others now in the parcel?

I not wear them, Sahib.

Why?

I am widow, Sahib. I must wear white sari.

He wiped his forehead. Hardness had set into his voice.

Usha, you must change. I insist on it. Otherwise your sores will

turn septic.

She thought of the sacred teachings and shuddered. To discard

her white sari was to refute the teachings of the prophets. Would

she not be struck down, eternally damned?

Have you eaten, Usha?

The distraction was welcome.

I eat rice, but I am sick in night.

Well, you must eat a little more, for strength and I want you todrink as much as you can. He brought her a cup of water. I will

ask Amrita to help bathe your sores, but now you must rest. Stay in

bed.

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Concern laced his eyes. She smiled weakly. Her natural

inclination was to leave, to make room for others, but even she

knew that this was impossible. She could barely lift her head off the

pillow.

___

Hitchcock winced from the stiffness in his back. A migraine

throbbed in his temples. He had set out into the world with

philanthropic intent, but conditions on board the coolie ships

were far worse than anything he had imagined. Was he up to the

task? He thought of the eight poor souls whom he had lost on the

SS Belvedere, his first voyage out of Madras. Pray God that Usha

would not join them. Yet what could he do in the face of such

intransigence? The Protector of Indian Immigrants was a protector

in name only, a sop to the Coolie Commission. There was no desire

from the indenture authorities to effect change. The malpractice

continued. Units of labour; that was all these poor devils were to

the white colonials. And yet, he couldnt give up. How many more

lives would be lost if he did? He left the hospital room to finish his

muster. Determined to make any improvements that he could, animage of the anti-christ loomed into his mind, however. Coolie-

lover, Reeves had labelled him. How he hated that man.

____

Usha drifted into the shadow of deaths embrace, a place of

burning cauldron and angry thunder crack.

She awoke to a sensation of cold on her fiery forehead and the

deliberation of a smiling face. Her mother! The little girl sat in the

house by the river. Her fathers laugh came from the next room.

Her mother began to sing to her

but then the face changed, and the voice was different.

My, you have the fire of Agni inside you.

A fog of confusion clouded her mind. Who was this person?

Why was it not her mother?We will bathe your sores.

She shrieked as the woman rolled her over. The skin on her back

had been stripped off and laid out to blister under a vengeful sun.

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Like this, a mans voice said. Not her father, surely? No; the

doctor Sahib perhaps? A smell of acid sharpened her nostrils,

wetness ran across her back. Hard into the skin scraped a wire

brush, furrowing the flesh. She screamed, her torso numbing with

the pain. Dont cut me. Then a sharp stabbing sensation in herarm as if someone had touched her skin with a red hot poker. Then

blackness...

In her dream, she ran down a flight of steps and opened a large

wooden door. A gated entrance led into a vast open air temple.

Shafts of blazing light rose into the blackness of the night sky. A

large fire burned in a stone hearth before a statue of the Hindu

deity, Shiva, the auspicious one, the god of destruction and

rejuvenation. Usha shook. Were these flames of her destruction

that leapt into the darkness?

A group of worshippers performed a yajna, a ritual of sacrifice

to the divine Agni. The priest chanted the incantations and

oblations of ghee, grains and soma were poured into the flames,

appeasements to the gods. Usha stood by the door, staring at the

spiritual apotheosis, too frightened to enter. Her father appeared,as if from nowhere. Had he returned to rescue her? Why then did

she argue? Their exchange was heated. She defended Shiva as

virtuous, as if he were not the statue in front of them, as if he were

really there amongst them. Then she realised. Her father was not so

much angry with Shiva or her defence of him, as with her directly.

Her father was angry with Nakti. But if this was the case, then why

had he returned, if not merely to reaffirm his abandonment? And

why did she defend Shiva? She was not married to him. How could

she be? She was a widow. Herhusband had died.

And then she understood. Of course! She saw through the eyes

of Sati, the goddess, Shivas first consort. The scene enacted the

ancient Hindu legend.

Fury invaded her. Her fathers coldness would be avenged. She,

as Sati ran forward into the burning fire. Her flesh seared in the

flames, yet she laughed. Sweet was the scorch of her self-immolation. A shout of horror made her turn. Transformed from

stone, Shiva leapt off his pedestal and plunged into the raging

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inferno. Her scalded arm was grabbed, her blackened, smouldering

body pulled from the fire.

Too late!

Satis spirit drifted into the night. Shiva lifted her charred

remains onto his shoulders. From above she watched him dance, adance of fire, a dance of a god with the fury of the demons inside: a

terrifying Tandava.

Usha woke to a raging sweat. The woman mopped her

forehead. But then burning flames enveloped her again. She

coursed through the dark passage of her death awaiting a

reincarnation that never came

Then a flame flickered. But it was not the fire of Sati. A smiling

face glistened in the shifting light of a candle.

Youre back. We were worried.

The woman, the one she had seen before.

Usha found her voice again.

How long have I slept?

Three days. You have been so ill. You drifted in and out ofconsciousness. We thought we had lost you. You called out for

Shiva.

What?

Shiva, you called out his name.

I remember this terrifying dream, but it is all confused.

Usha tried to raise herself up in the bed. Too weak in the arm,

she slumped back down on the pillow. Her head spun around.

Whats your name? she asked.

Amrita, I know who you are: Usha, like the dawn.

The womans face shone with compassion, as Ushas mothers

once had, many moons ago.

I do not feel like the dawn.

Well, perhaps in a few days you will; at least you are awake

now.

Thank you for looking after me.I am glad to help.

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The strands of fire in Ushas head flickered less feverously.

Heavenly wonder had delivered her a kindred soul and she wanted

to repay the womans kindness.

So you left India? she asked. Warmth graced her cheeks. Why

else would Amrita be on board the Umvoti?Yes, Amrita said. From the scars on your back Im guessing

we have a similar story.

Usha stiffened with the shame of her condition. Amrita adjusted

the bed covers; thankfully continuing to speak.

I am an untouchable. I made patties in the fields, from cow

dung, dirty work, a miserable life, all day in the hot sun for a

pittance. Maybe it is a better life in Africa, I hope so.

Do you have a family, Amrita?

The womans eyes clouded. Cheeks burning, Usha wished that

she might take back her question.

I have a husband and a sonI had a son, Rajar was his name.

He became sick. We had no money for a doctor. Amritas lip

quivered. We did everything we could tohe died.

Usha grasped Amritas hand and squeezed it tightly.

I am sorry, Amrita.Her tears were for Rajar and for her own abandonment.

Thats why my husband and I signed for indenture. We lost all

our hope you see. Rajar, he had no life the poor boy. I pray he has a

better life in the next.

I believe so, Amrita. You must trust in Brahman.

I pray as much as I can. Do you think my prayers will be

answered?

Yes, I think so. He is wise. He sees everything.

She grasped Amritas hand and prayed, for Rajar and for Amrita,

holding to her trust in the wisdom of the universal one.

*

The following day a monsoon lashed down. Huge waves rolled

the ship. From the depths reared the houglis, their angry headscresting white on the blackened water. Thrown around in her bunk

bed, Usha realised that her recovery from her fever had been for

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naught. She would die in the storm. Brahman could not save her

from the monsters revenge.

At the helm, Captain Reeves mood was equally as tempestuous

as the monstrous seas. The pull of a recalcitrant steering wheel wasnot the only reason for his ill-temper, however. Although steam-

driven, the Umvoti used sails to supplement its paddle power. Keen

to keep the crossing time to a minimum, Reeves had kept up his sail

in spite of darkening clouds on the horizon. In the event, the storm

had raced in faster than expected.

Reeves rushed from the bridge. Reef those bloody sails, he

bellowed lurching along the quarterdeck. Cmon you bloody

loungers. Step on it! His raucous voice usually travelled far, but

even his words dissipated in the howling of the gale.

Theyre ripping captain, the bosun shouted. We cant hold

them down.

Dont give me bloody excuses, just do it, you bloody idiots.

The men scaled the treacherous masts and reached to furl yards

of billowing canvas. A loud ripping noise rang out as a large piece of

wooden mast came crashing down onto the decking.Hells teeth. Do I have to do it me bloody self, you imbeciles?

Call yourselves sailors; youre nothing but a bunch of lilies!

The captains face was as blood red as his language. Ripped

canvas lay everywhere.

Pull that down and take it below, and start fixing the bloody

thing!

The storm raged whilst the below decks choked with torn sail

for repair obliging the bandharries to prepare and serve the dinner

on the open deck. With the tempest unabated, the emigrants ate

outside, bearing the lashings of the murderous houglis.

Unaware of the severity of the dark portent, Hitchcock marched

into a storm of a different kind. Enraged at the pigheadedness of

the captain, he had determined to have it out with the fool. The

argument quickly blew into a full scale shouting match.

The safety of the vessel is a priority. Dont concern yourselfwith matters that are not in your domain, Mr Hitchcock, or I will

have you locked up, I surely will.

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Reeves face had deepened from bright crimson to purple. David

faced Goliath, but Hitchcock refused to be cowed.

The health of the emigrants is my responsibility, Captain

Reeves.

I dont give a damn about the coolies, Mr Hitchcock. If the shipgoes down we all sink with it. What good is your concern then, eh?

Now get off my bridge before I throw you off myself.

For goodness sake, why are the sails a priority? I dont

understand. We are steam powered.

They were damaged yer fool. We are repairing them.

Didnt you see the storm coming? Why were they up?

Reeves arm swung in an exaggerated sweeping arc as if he

were about to stride across and knock Hitchcocks head off.How dare you question me captaincy? Get out of my sight

before I have you locked in your bloody cabin.

The young doctor flinched, but emboldened by his indignation

stood firm.

I will withdraw, captain, but I object to your threats. I wont

countenance another epidemic like the one on the Belvedere.

I dont give a damn about your countenance or your bloodyepidemic, Hitchcock, Reeves yelled, his voice now hysterical. My

responsibility is the ship. Now leave me to my own, or else.

Had the man taken leave of his senses? Hitchcock bottled his

fury and left the bridge without further retort. Nothing could be

gained by continuing the fight. He refused to give the blaggard an

excuse to lock him up. His cabin door was slammed behind him.

Hitchcock slumped into the chair by the porthole and for several

hours sat, bristling with unabated anger at the intransigence of

forces matched against him. Finally, no longer able to keep his eyes

open, he plunged into the depths of a tumultuous sleep.

Two more days the infidels raged, refusing to allow the vessel

safe passage through the Bay of Bengal. Their fury spent, order was

finally restored to the heavens. The ship rounded the tip of

southern India in perfect blue skies.Battered and beaten, Usha lay in her bunk, wondering at the

miracle that had spared her. A vast expanse of Indian Ocean now

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extended to Africa, might she have hope now of reaching its

shores?

*

Hitchcock reddened under the rays of an unfettered equatorial

sun. The winds howl had dropped to an eerie whisper. Sails, which

had absorbed so much of the crews time in their repair, now lay

idle, and but for its steam engines, the Umvoti would certainly have

lain becalmed. The doctors first muster for three days found

several cases of heat stroke. A general lack of cover on the open

deck meant the captain would need to be faced. He gathered up his

courage, the horizons calm belying the storm that must ensue on

the bridge.

Can we erect awnings over the poop and quarter decks to

protect the coolies? We have cases of heatstroke.

No boom shattered his ears. For once the captain spoke in a

normal voice.

Ah, the great doctor, we cant have our precious cargo

perishing under a fair passage now can we? Perhaps the bosun willhelp us? Is that good enough for you?

Hitchcocks jaw dropped open. The puffed face had deflated.

Clarity had returned to demon eyes. Was this a mirage? Dare he

hope that reason might finally prevail? He soon realised the

foolishness of his expectation. Shocked to find a suspected cholera

case on his rounds, he acted immediately to quarantine the Indian

in an empty cabin below decks and issue instructions for drinking

water to be boiled.

Even from the end of the ship, Hitchcock could not have missed

the explosion. A deafening shout of Hitchcock, damn you

preceded a crashing of footsteps and then a thunder clap.

Remove that bloody coolie.

Hitchcock spun around, determined to hold his ground this

time.

No, I will not return the man to the decks. Are you mad? Hehas cholera. The disease will spread.

Ill have him removed myself, you idiot.

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Madness infused his eyes. Reeves looked as if he were about to

wrench Hitchcock asunder.

No one commandeers a cabin without my authority, not on my

ship.

Hitchcock squared his shoulders, refusing to acknowledge thetremor that gripped his belly.

If you want to take the risk of contamination then be it on

your head.

Ill have you strung up you bastard! Reeves yelled. The devil

was in his face.

No, Im not doing it, Hitchcock shouted, vigour infusing his

soul. The argument was his. What was Reeves to do? Intervene

directly and risk contamination?

Well see about that, Reeves shouted, thundering across the

gangway. Hitchcock braced his arm to parry the blow that must

surely come.

Coolie-lover, Reeves shouted, spitting in Hitchcocks face as

he passed. The punch that should have been Hitchcocks found the

face of the ships boy, the lad having been in the wrong place at the

wrong time.

*

That afternoon Usha regained sufficient strength to leave her

bunk bed. With a head still clouded, she gathered her meagre

belongings and vacated the hospital room. Her reappearance on

deck wearing an orange coloured sari and sporting a new head of

hair was met by dark looks. She questioned whether the spirit of

Jaganath had been universally adopted. Nightfall confirmed her

suspicions.

You filthy widow, have you no shame?

Was that Nanditas voice? Her pulse racing, Usha spun round.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and in the gloom she failed

to anticipate the blow from the wooden ladle. A shattering pain in

her temple made her slump to the deck. A scuffling on the deckingpreceded a barrage of kicking. Vengeful toes dug into her flesh like

sharp sticks. The lashings of her brother-in-laws whip were upon

her. Once again she fought for her life.

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Get off me, she cried, hitting out. She staggered to her knees,

but the marauding pack was too strong. A thump to her back

knocked her forwards and her face hit the decking. She screamed,

but to no avail, her screams could not stop the stabbing, until finally

the sticks no longer hurt, she descended into the darkness of thedemons.

She awoke at dawns light to a mans face. Bent down, he

mopped the blood caked on her back and shoulders.

Ushawhat happened?

Was this Shiva, extracting her charred remains from the ashes?

She blinked through the confusion. No, surely it was the Englishman

who had helped her before?

Leave me, Sahib. A widow is bad luck, she murmured, barely

audible. Tears ran down her haggard face. She no longer cared

about life, all she wanted was to end it all, jump into the Agni

Kunda and sacrifice to the fire.

Come with me, Usha. You can help in the hospital room.

What Sahib?

I will help you.Why would he help her? No one else wanted to. And yet here

was his outstretched arm. Gritting her teeth to the pain rippling

through her body, she levered herself up and hobbled along the

deck. Blankly she stared at the looks of disparagement, her pride

keeping her from collapsing.

Below decks, Hitchcock pointed to a small recess under the

stairs. You can sleep here.

Usha turned to thank him, faintness making him support her

stumble.

A cubby-hole, but at least it is dry and you will be safe. Now

come, Amrita will bathe your wounds.

She stood, her cheeks flushing.

Yes Sahib. Thank you. She pressed her palms together, fingers

pointed upwards in front of her chest. Her place of sanctuary made

her smile. Dare she hope of escape from the burning of Agni?He helped her to the hospital room. Usha, I have been thinking.

Maybe when you are stronger you can help me with my work,

translating from Hindi into English?

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Sahib?

Often I am unable to understand what the Indians are saying.

She sought his eyes. Did Brahman answer her prayers? Had

Hitchcock been sent to save her?

Yes, Sahib, but my English not so good.On the contrary, your English is excellent, Usha. Anyway, think

on it, I have the muster to finish.

Usha found out what cubby hole meant as she crawled into the

under stair alcove at the side of the gangway. Her new sleeping

place was as cramped as the doctor Sahib had intimated, but

mercifully protected from the malevolence of those who would do

her harm. She drifted into sleep, incredulous that a miracle might

have lifted the veil of her condition. Her hope was that the light of

the morrows dawn might bring an end to her darkness. But then,

had anyone told Nakti?

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4

The African Plantation

The soul of all that moves not or moves, the Sun hath filled the

air and earth and heaven,

like a young man follows a maiden, so doth the Sun the Dawn,

refulgent Goddess.

Translation from Hymn to Surya, Rig Veda Book 1

Crossing the black water of the Kala Pani was always to be a

treacherous affair. The Indian Ocean is mighty and disturbed, and

the tempests invoked by the houglis continued to threaten the

Umvotis passage. After several tortuous weeks at sea the ship

finally reached the shores of East Africa and headed south, hugging

the indentation of the coastline.

Sahib, come see!

Ushas heart pounded. A lighthouse stood on a rock promontory

overlooking a large bay.

His muster complete, Hitchcock turned towards the shore.

Yes Usha, the Bay of Natal.

Durban, Sahib?

Yes, but the Portuguese sailor Vasco de Gama called it Rio de

Natal, Christmas River!She was confused.

It was Christmas Day, 1497. De Gama sailed past on his way to

India. Rio means river. Natal means Christmas.

Ah Sahib, I see. The association enthralled her.

Strange isnt it. The Africans were called Natalians. They

didntknow that of course.

Yes Sahib. But why ships stay outside, not go in?I know. It is unusual. The harbour has a natural impediment.

Sahib?

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A barrier, there is a line of sand across the entrance. Like this.

He drew a line in the air with his arm.

Yes Sahib.

The ocean current flows south, like this. He pointed out to the

distant ocean horizon. But near the coast here it flows in theopposite direction. Like this. His arms crossed over each other

making her giggle.

I know! They go against each other. The inshore current

pushes sand around the Bluff - that large rock where the lighthouse

is - and creates a sandbar across the bay. Look, you can see the

waves breaking across it. Big ships, like the Umvoti, cannot pass

over it. So we will anchor offshore.

But how we reach land, Sahib? Is dangerous, yes?

Lighters, small boats will take us. It is perilous for the large

boats. In fact that is why Durban is here.

Sahib?

An English ship called Good Hope shipwrecked in 1685.

Shipwrecked?

Crashed on the sandbar and sank.

Ushas eyes creased. Oh Sahib, not very good hope!No, an ironic twist! After it was shipwrecked some of the

sailors stayed here.

Why, Sahib?

Elephant tusks. They wanted the ivory. They traded with the

Zulu.

I not like, Sahib. Kill elephant is bad. In Bengal, elephant is

sacred.

I know Usha, its a different culture.

Zulu, they like English sailors, Sahib?

Yes, at first. They traded with King Shaka, the Zulu king. They

went to Shakas royal court and gave him muskets and medical

supplies and he gave them ivory and buffalo hides. Fascinating,

eh?

Yes Sahib. She pictured a dark warrior king receiving strange

white emissaries.At that stage, there were only thirty white traders here. So you

see if the Good Hope had not been Bad Hope there would have

been no settlement and we would not be sailing to it!

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She smiled. I look forward to meet Zulu, Sahib.

Yes Usha, although the English and the Zulu are not so friendly

now. They fight.

The light in her eyes shadowed. Oh Sahib, I hope not.

*

In the hospital room a shudder of the ship caused Usha to grab

the railing. Shouts rang out above. She ran up on deck to a scene of

considerable chaos: a large number of Indians clambered over the

side of the vessel. Her pulse quickened. For an instant she imagined

that the ship had struck the sandbar. The Umvoti sank as the Good

Hope had done. She rushed forward, readying herself to jump

overboard with the others. Below, two lighters were moored up

against the ship; the evacuees scrambled down a mat of rope

netting thrown over the side.

Form an orderly line, damn it.

The captains voice boomed across the deck. Usha spun around,

her ears ringing. However, no one seemed to be taking much

notice. The new arrivals pushed forward, an unstoppable wave ofbrown faces, eager to disembark at their long awaited destination.

Fearing there was no time to lose; Usha ran back down to the

cubby hole to retrieve her bag of belongings and searched for

Hitchcock. She found him in the passageway, helping an elderly

man up the steps.

Sahib, we land at port.

Yes, I know Usha. Thank goodness, eh?

A heavy crease indented her forehead. She realised that she

would no longer be under the doctor Sahibs protection. What will

happen, Sahib?

____

The lighter will carry you into the port where you will be taken

to the holding shed and then allocated a work position. Hitchcock

turned away, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He worriedabout the harsh working conditions on the sugar plantations. It

weighed on him heavily that as a woman Usha was vulnerable to

abuse.

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As if echoing his concerns, Ushas chest heaved. I work for you,

Sahibplease?

He hardened himself to the pain inside. What choice did he

have? I would like you to, Usha. You have been a great help to me.

But we re-sail for Calcutta in a few days. I have to return with theship.

Usha dropped her head, mopping her tears with the pallu of her

sari.

I will try to help, a job as an interpreter perhaps, but I have

limited authority on-shore. It is up to the Protector.

Hitchcock parted from Usha with a heavy heart, wishing he

could have done more. It wasnt only Ushas future that made himanxious, he felt a weight of responsibility for all the emigrants. He

had written into the early hours, by candlelight. As with the

Belvederescrossing, his surgeons report highlighted the barbarous

nature of conditions on board, but this time a veil of gloom had

spread across his aspiration. His faith in basic human decency was

interrupted; he held no expectation that his report would change

anything. Horrified that one group of people could treat anotherwith such disregard he carried the burden of his countrymen s

shame on his slight shoulders.

____

Trepidation tempered the euphoria of Ushas arrival in Africa.

Obliged to forego the relative safety of the ship, disembarkation

became her concern, the method not being of her choosing, her

attire not the most practical. She scrambled down the coarse rope

netting, her sari wrapping around her knees, her sandals slipping on

the footholds. Four or five rungs were negotiated before she lost

her footing. Too weak to hold her weight with her one free hand,

she fell the remaining three feet and landed with a bump on the

wooden boarding of the lighter. The impact swayed the boat

throwing her sideways into the hull. Cheeks flushing crimson, she

scrambled back up and found a space on the central woodenbench. She fixed her eyes to the floor and hoped that in the general

confusion no one had noticed her indecorous arrival.

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The rays of a mid-morning African sun shimmered off the ocean.

Usha squinted to the glare, the breeze cooling the heat from her

temples. She ran her hand through her boyish crop of hair, its

profligacy surprising her. One arm was dangled over the side, her

fingers inadvertently running through the sparkling salty water. Thewetness shocked her from her reverie. She hadnt meant to stretch

her hand out so far. Looking down, she realised that the heavily

laden boat sat dangerously low in the water. Her heart, already

pounding from her indelicate descent, pounded even faster as she

imagined herself pitching into the sea. As a child she had fallen into

the Ganges and almost drowned. She had never recovered. The

harrowing incident had left her with a deep-seated fear of water.

On a large vessel such as the Umvoti the fear was manageable; she

felt sufficiently elevated from the darkness below. Sitting close to

the water as she was now, the phobia was all-consuming. She

closed her eyes to the sharp sun, and clung fast to the wooden

railing, praying that she might survive this final leg of the journey.

With no room to squeeze another body on board, the oarsmen

pulled the lighter away from the Umvoti in the direction of the

sandbar that guarded their destination, the large protectedharbour behind it. Usha kept her eyes closed; imagining that by

hiding from it the danger would go away. Too soon, she made the

mistake of checking to see if this had worked. A murky patch of

yellow loomed up from the depths. The sandbar! As if to prove her

expectation, the lighters bow suddenly tipped up, ran along the

top of a curving wave then crashed down violently through its

breaking face. Shaking uncontrollably, Usha joined the general

shriek of hysteria that emanated from the boat. She had survived

the ocean crossing, but the houglis were about to pull her into the

darkness. Gripping the rim of the boat, she chanted the Om: May

we receive thy supreme sin-destroying light. The words of the

Gayatri resonated deeply within her soul for she believed this to be

her last moment.

A miracle! The lighter bobbed up again, emerging from the

clutches of the monsters. A gasp of relief replaced the shrieks ofterror. Usha opened her eyes to find that she lived. Brahman had

answered their pleas for clemency.

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Flanked by the Bluff, the large protected harbour offered calmer

water. The lighter headed in the direction of a thin line of wooden

buildings and wharfs that lay along the Point, the curving shoreline

on the opposite side. The pounding in Ushas chest began to

subside and she steeled herself to look up. A flotilla of boats criss-crossed the harbour and unloaded a large number of soldiers,

horses, and supplies on the dockside. It appeared that a whole

army disembarked! Was this not the worst time possible for the

Umvoti occupants to be arriving? They could only add to the

congestion on the small quay.

The lighter reached the landing jetty, sending a jolt through its

passengers as it bumped against the wooden steps. Thankful to

have reached dry land with her life intact, Usha joined the scramble

onto the platform. A line of brown feet shuffled towards a large

wooden shed at the back of the quayside where an Englishman

wearing a cream linen jacket and brown flannels stood. His attire

prompted Usha to think that this must be Shepstone, the Protector

of Indian Immigrants. Hitchcock had mentioned him. She reached

the doorway and was about to address the man.

Over there, he muttered, his intimidating glare and general airof disdain sending a shudder through her. Instead of speaking up,

she held her head down and followed the direction of his

outstretched arm.

Inside was a large, dimly lit shed, like a storage warehouse for

cargo. A solitary window at the far end sent a single shaft of light

into splinters of dust-filled haze. The dark chamber smelt rank, like

rotting waste. Usha drew in gulps of the pungent heat, the

airlessness forcing her to wheeze. She joined the back of an avenue

of shadows that straddled the earth floor and shuffled forward.

Inching ever closer to the window at the far end, the line curved

around the building like an entwined boa constrictor. Usha peered

forward on her toes, her face filled with contortion. Between the

heads of the assembled throng appeared a large desk at which the

intimidating Englishman now sat.

Shepstone, for she presumed it was he, barely glanced up as shereached the head of the snake some while later. Standing in front

of him, she was surprised at how thin and angular he was. His

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pencil nose and beady eyes gave him the appearance of a crow, a

crow that could peck violently and without expression.

Name? twittered the crow.

Usha Dasi, Sahib.

She bowed and pressed her palms together. Her Namaste wasignored.

Number?

She had forgotten. Unable to read the tin ticket around her

neck, the crow was obliged to rise and strut impatiently around the

desk.

10307, it muttered, writing the number down in its ledger,

before returning to the sanctuary of its chair.

Age?

Seventeen, Sahib.

Place of birth?

Calcutta, Sahib.

Any family travelling with you?

No, Sahib.

Okay, Erskine plantation, over there in the corner.

Her interview had lasted barely a minute. Usha had theimpression that Shepstone hadnt even noticed her. There had

certainly been no mention of a translator role. She looked around

the shed searching frantically for Hitchcock, without success.

Wait, Mr Shepstone---

Over there, coolie, the sirdar interrupted, pushing her into the

corner. It was too late, Shepstone hadnt heard her. The unseeing

crow was too busy interviewing the next coolie in line.

She stood in the corner, her chest throbbing. Are you Erskine

plantation? she asked an aloof looking woman who stood in the

group of Indians beside her salvation perhaps, although from an

unlikely quarter. The woman nodded without speaking, her gaze

averted. The nagging sensation in the pit of Ushas stomach grew.

This was not what she had expected. No one seemed to care much

about the new arrivals. They were processed like cattle. She

recalled Hitchcocks look of concern when she had asked him whatmight happen to her. Where was he when she needed him? Having

wanted so desperately to arrive on African soil, she now wished

that she was back on board the Umvoti. Her gut feeling told her

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that her place of indenture might not be as nurturing as Vishram

had led her to believe.

The sirdar herded the group of ten Erskine coolies outside.

Emerging from the darkness, Usha shielded her eyes to the blinding

contrast and stood with the others in an enclosed compound onthe opposite side of the shed from the quay. Her tremor intensified

with the arrival shortly afterwards of a man on horseback. Portly,

with an ashen-grey face and piercing eyes that glared from beneath

his broad brimmed leather hat, the man stepped down from his

stirrup. He landed with a thud on the dusty ground of the barracks

forecourt, groaned and walked stiffly towards the shed. Shepstone

rushed out to meet him.

Morning Shepstone, where are they then? I havent got allday. The mans tone was menacing, even more so than Captain

Reeves.

Here they are Mr Erskine. Shepstone pointed indifferently to

Usha and the others. Ten coolies as requested. Theyre fresh off

the boat and ready to go. I have the papers here.

Erskine ran his eye quickly over Usha and the others. Im not

taking the women.But its in the regulations, Mr Erskine. Youre obliged to take a

quarter of any number as women. That means two out of the ten.

Shepstone backed away in the face of Erskines glare. Usha

imagined that the crow faced the talons of a black hawk.

Alright Shepstone, but on condition you leave my affairs alone,

right. No poking your nose in, eh?

Shepstones cheeks had flushed a deep red. He handed Erskine

the folder of papers, his beady eyes flickering to the ground. It was

clear to Usha that the crow was a small bird. She wondered what

protection the Protector could provide to the Indians. Ignoring the

crow, Erskine grabbed the folder and strode over to the waiting

group. A large, ugly looking Indian man ran through the gate and

stood panting, a few steps behind Erskine.

What took you so long? Erskine muttered, barely glancing

behind him. Right you lot, I am Erskine, the owner of Erskineplantation at Umgeni. Talleen here He paused as if to make a

point of the mans untimely arrival. will show you where to walk.

It is about eight miles.

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A shiver ran down Ushas spine. Erskine had an air of

brutishness. His harsh piercing eyes and thin lipped scowl indicated

a meanness of spirit and capacity for thuggery. Erskine remounted

his horse, whipped the beast hard and rode off. A momentary

sense of relief swept over her, but then she turned to the reality ofthe ugly looking Indian man.

Walk coolies, Talleen shouted, cracking his sjambok. He was

not from Bengal, for he addressed them in broken English, not

Hindi.

Usha walked out of the compound when a sudden impulse to

run infused her. About to take off, she realised the foolhardiness of

such an action. She would only be caught within seconds and

thrashed. Talleen was now her jailor. Walk coolies, he shouted

again more vigorously, as if in confirmation.

The party trudged around the Point and up West Street, a wide

un-surfaced boulevard lined with a discordant mixture of wooden

shacks and grander stone buildings. Ushas eyes brightened. The

settlement had the air of a bustling, pioneering town. A steam

whistle blew from behind, making her jump. She turned to see a

shiny black wrought-iron locomotive, The Perseverance heading inthe direction of the town centre further up the carriageway. The

railway line ran parallel to West Street, and the locomotive chugged

alongside them, its pistons struggling to pull the heavily laden

wagons behind it.

Usha steered her eyes back to the bustle of the African street.

Although excited to be immersed in the culture of this new land,

the Africa that she had dreamed so much of, a sense of unexpected

detachment possessed her, as if she were an uninvited stranger.

The cold reception at the barracks and the disdainful glances

received from the people in the town conveyed the impression that

she and the other new arrivals were unwelcome. Why had they

been invited if they were not wanted?

Her sense of displacement increased when shortly afterwards

something sharp jabbed her in the back. She shrieked and jumped

aside. A team of oxen ran past. Out of the way, bloody coolies,the driver shouted sitting atop a white canvassed cart, apparently

unwilling to realign his direction along the rutted carriageway. Usha

ducked to avoid the splatter of dirt thrown up by the cartwheels

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and scrambled back onto the track, rubbing her back through the

blood stained tear in her sari.

No sooner had she realigned to the road when Talleen called

out again.

Coolies!Hearing the thud of synchronised boots, Usha flattened herself

to the wooden side railing and watched as a column of British

soldiers marched past in full battle regalia a flash of bright red

tunics, blue trousers, and white pith helmets. Prompted by the

colourful spectacle, she ventured a question.

What are the soldiers doing?

Talleens eyes narrowed. Is not my problem, attack Zulu.

Watch or they attack you, coolie. He cracked his sjambok over her

head, apparently for effect, his face full of pleasure at her flinch. A

blast of sweat and chili pepper wafted into her face. Coolies walk.

No talk. She jumped to a brisk walk hoping to avoid a whipping.

The rays of a sharpening sun burnt her skin. The shade of the

nearby wooden verandas and occasional trees that lined the track

offered a tantalisingly invitation, but remained elusive. With no

prospect of respite from the swelter, Usha pulled up her sari toshield her face and plodded on.

At the top end of West Street was the railway station. The

Perseverance had arrived and the platform bustled with activity. A

team of soldiers unloaded supplies from the locomotives wagons

whilst many others milled about, apparently awaiting

transportation elsewhere.

A fork in the road took the Erskine coolies northwards. Usha

noticed that a branch line of the railway followed the track and

wished for the comfort of a seat on the train. The heat made her

dizzy and with no water to drink her throat stung from dryness.

The edge of town saw the rutted, red earthed track weave

through forests of acacia, mahogany, red beech and wild date palm

trees. Occasional patches of scrubland found African mud huts

sitting on exposed red earth, but mostly the cover was green, a

thick jungle. Sheltered from the ocean breeze the heat was nowdoubly intense, Ushas lungs struggled with a swirl of heavy

moisture and red dust. Her feeling of suffocation was accentuated

by a cacophony of sound from the jungle around them: the chirping

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of a million cicadas, the chorus of discordant bird calls, the soft yak

yak buzzing of Natal forest tree frogs, the whooping of Samango

monkeys.

Several miles along, the track was interrupted by a large river,

which dissected the coastline. An African boy - a hawker - ran up toher. He held out a bead necklace, his smile a flash of ivory

brilliance. Usha had no money.

What is this river? she asked, as if in compensation, not really

expecting the boy to understand. Surprisingly he did.

Umgeni, miss, like the acacia tree, look!

She understood. A forest of the elegant African thorn trees lined

the river bank, extending inland as far as she could see. Thank

you, she said, ruffling his thick black hair, wishing that she had

something to give him. Across the river bank, an assortment of

herons, plovers and other wading birds congregated in the

shallower water and several salt water crocodiles basked on

sandbars that lay between the channels of faster flowing water.

The tide was out and the remnants of wagon wheel tracks marked

the sand where drivers had forded the river. A narrow wooden

bridge had been built across, linking two of the sandbars in themiddle of the river. Usha was relieved to discover that they had

safe passage, mercifully elevated from the crocodiles!

The party of Erskine coolies ventured across the rickety

wooden bridge, Usha trailing at the back. Half way across, the

clattering of horses hooves made her turn. Two mounted British

army officers rode furiously towards her. Why did they cross the

narrow foot bridge rather than fording the river? Hit by the horses

thundering blow, Usha found herself falling. Time stopped. She

hung in the air, blind to the reality of her predicament, before

plunging into water. Cold arms were wrapped around her and once

again she was four years old, floundering in the murky depths of

the Ganges, the river monster claiming her soul.

Then she realised that that was then and this was now. This

wasnt the Ganges, she was about to lose her life in the murky

depths of an African river, the Umgeni. Unable to swim, Ushagrabbed useless handfuls of the suffocating water. Thankfully her

natural buoyancy pushed her body back to the surface. Arms

flailing, she emerged from the deathly embrace. The mu