Sun & Shadow E-Book

N.H. Manandhar

• Herausgeber: N.H. Manandhar
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"A complete masterpiece that touches the life of a Dalit woman to the fullest..." Samata Foundation, Nepal

Durga and Prabesh, a young intercaste couple from Nepal, are discovered having a secret affair. The threat of violent reprisal prohibits any hope of staying together, and they are forced to follow very different paths. This is their story.

In a remote Himalayan village where casteism is rife and poverty is endemic, teenaged Durga does her best to accept her karma, and her hastily arranged marriage to a violent alcoholic. Durga’s only joy is the secret knowledge that Prabesh is her son’s father, and she nurtures hope that one day they will be reunited through their son, and they will all escape to Kathmandu together.

But there is no escape in sight. Instead, Durga is continually brutalised by her alcoholic husband and forced to endure daily discrimination because of an unfair caste system. She tries hard, but it is a struggle to accept that this is her karma. When she discovers the local community is outraged at her because she did not give birth in the squalid and unhygienic communal hut – and that her husband has stolen her meagre savings to go on a drinking binge, Durga has finally had enough. Violence, injustice, discrimination, poverty. The time has come to rebel – to fight for a better life for her children, for her neighbours, for herself. But defying age-old traditions and ingrained prejudices – by one who is the most oppressed – is an intimidating journey. Durga must find the courage – and her voice – before she can succeed.

In Durga’s home village, schoolteacher Prabesh believes it was not karma but deep-rooted discrimination – and the threat of violence – that prevented he and Durga from being together. As a high caste, Prabesh comes from privilege. His life as a respected teacher in rural Nepal is idyllic by comparison. He has never been hungry and has never wanted for anything. The only infringement on Prabesh’s rights come from his overly meddling mother, and his shamelessly bigoted and corrupt father. Angry at his inability to defy his father and marry Durga, Prabesh sets up a social work program to assist the impoverished children in his village. For Prabesh, the program has special significance. It targets children from the same caste as Durga, and their families are mostly victims of his father's corrupt practices. Prabesh's dislike for his father continues to increase the more he discovers the extent of the poverty, and it is difficult not to be overwhelmed. But he perseveres, and his dedication arouses both sympathy and donations from overseas. Prabesh's father, upon hearing of the donations, insists on becoming involved in the program, and his greedy machinations force Prabesh to confront both ethical and moral dilemmas. The only way to keep the project alive, and help all those children, is for Prabesh to find his voice, and the courage to defy his father.

Leseprobe

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction and, as such, all characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 NHManandhar

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

To request permissions, contact the author at [email protected].

Paperback: ISBN 9789937-9532-7-6

Ebook: ISBN 9789937-9532-8-3

First paperback edition October 2023

Cover art by N.H. Manandhar

Printed by B.C. Printing & Packaging Pvt. Ltd. in Kathmandu, Nepal.

Note to the Reader

Sun & Shadow is a reality-based fiction set during the period late 1990 to early 2000, and focuses on poverty, discrimination and the ill-treatment of men, women and children from the so-called lower castes in Nepal.

In order to fully describe the harsh reality of the lives of so many people in Nepal during that period, Sun & Shadow contains scenes and/or references to war crimes, violence, domestic violence, marital rape, child abuse, substance abuse, suicide, and discrimination.

Though fictional, the scenes and/or references are loosely based on first-person accounts, news reports, and human rights investigations.

Readers who may be sensitive to these elements please take note.

This book is dedicated to the beautiful people of Nepal. Your combined courage, strength, bravery, tenacity, indomitable will, good humour, willingness to share, generosity of time and spirit, acceptance, patience, and kindness inspired me to write in the first place. You are the backbone and soul of this story, and never has telling a story been such a heartfelt and meaningful experience.

1

Lost Dreams

Durga shrank back against the wall as she watched her father’s face darken with fury. Her mother was outraged; her words had been blunt.

“Your daughter’s been having sex with the Village Chief’s son!”

He strode over to where Durga was huddled, towering over her, fists clenched. Keeping his eyes on his daughter’s face, he addressed her mother.

“How do you know?”

Durga’s mother spoke through gritted teeth. “I know because I caught them this afternoon; naked and shameless!”

His mouth contorted, and he raised his fists to strike. Durga held up her hands to ward him off, crying out as she did, “Wait! Please, it’s not like that! He loves me, we’re in love!”

“In love?” Her father bent over and slapped her face. “Are you mad, or stupid?” He slapped her again. “The Village Chief is high caste, damn you! Even our shadow cannot touch a high caste. And you’ve been….”

Durga was defiant despite her tears, “Prabesh doesn’t care about caste! And neither do I! He loves me and we’re going to marry…”

Her father crouched and grasped her arms, shaking her violently. “Fool! You really think you two could ever marry?” Disgusted, he snorted. “He’s the Village Chief’s son! He’s just been having fun with you. He knows his father would never allow him to marry you.”

“That’s not true, we’ve planned it – we’re going to elope! His father will never know.” Durga struggled to her knees, desperate. “No-one will know. We’ll take the bus to Kathmandu tomorrow. Please, please let us…”

“No!” Her mother had crouched beside her father. She gripped Durga’s chin, wrenching her daughter’s face towards her. Her tone was pitiless, her voice a harsh whisper. “He’s playing with you. He’s not going to elope with you. And even if he did, someone would find out. They always do. The entire village would know before the two of you even reached Kathmandu. And then what?”

Durga’s father chimed in. “I’ll tell you what. The Village Chief will lose face – he’ll have to disown his son, and he’ll be furious. But he won’t be angry at his son. Oh no, he’ll be angry at us. Because we should have known better, you should have known better. You had no right to go anywhere near the Village Chief or his family.”

Durga responded sullenly. “I didn’t go to him; he came to me.”

Durga’s mother shoved her backwards, making her fall awkwardly against the wall. She kept her voice low, harsh. “No one will believe that, you stupid, selfish girl! The Village Chief is high caste, and everyone in the village will take his side. Everyone! And it won’t matter if you’re in Kathmandu or not, he’ll still take his anger out on us, your family. We’ll be chased out of the village!”

Durga’s father shook her arm again, his calloused hand clamped so tight it left an imprint. “Not just chased out. We’re low caste, so you know how it will go. We’ve seen it before. Our home will be burnt, our buffalo killed. They will beat your brother and me and humiliate your sister and mother. Is that what you want? Is it?”

“No!” Durga covered her face and sobbed. Prabesh had been so positive eloping to Kathmandu would work that she hadn’t questioned him. Nor had she considered the consequences to her family if they’d been found out. The confronting picture painted by her father was more painful than any blow he could administer. Durga felt sick.

Durga’s father stood up and scowled down at her, his arms crossed. He nudged her leg with his foot. “Does anyone know about you two?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Durga shook her head weakly.

“Good. We’ll arrange your marriage to someone like us from another village. You’ll move to his village, and we’ll all pray to God no-one ever finds out about you and the Village Chief’s son.”

Dressed in the same traditional red sari her mother had worn, Durga stepped over the threshold of the small village temple. She glanced furtively at her husband-to-be as she stepped to his side, curiosity briefly overcoming her misery. Ram was a stranger from a distant village about whom she knew nothing – sacrificing selectiveness for speed, her parents’ only criteria had been for Ram to be single, and a Dalit like them.

Appalled, Durga wished she hadn’t looked. At twenty, Ram was only four years older than Durga, but he’d already lost much of his hair and pockmarks covered most of his face. Tall, thin, and shabbily dressed, he’d been more interested in the small pile of coins and gifts than in the marriage rituals. When he saw Durga looking at him, his mouth curled into a leer, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. The red veil covering her face could not hide her dismay, and Durga quickly looked down, fighting her anger and distress. This was not a marriage; this was a punishment for daring to dream of happiness.

The wedding feast was simple: rice, dal, vegetables, and chicken curry. Durga’s parents were poor and there was neither money nor time to make traditional sweets or to buy goat meat. Only a few of her parents’ friends were invited to attend as witnesses. Though they would miss a day’s wages, the friends gladly came. Everyone in a poor village knew the value of a free meal, especially where meat would be served.

Ram brought supporters from his village too, and they drank and ate greedily. Durga sat quietly throughout the meal, her head bowed, unable to stomach any food. Her new husband ignored her as he ate, drank, and sang lewd songs with his friends. Inwardly, he was fuming. She didn’t serve him or make a fuss of him, as he believed all new brides should. She made him look a fool and he would punish her for that. But in front of her parents, he said and did nothing, focusing instead on the free food and drink. Punishment could wait.

To Durga’s relief, Ram eventually passed out with his friends, allowing her to slink back inside the hut and spend her last night with family.

Durga’s mother woke her early the next morning. Stony-faced, she suppressed her misgivings towards her daughter’s new husband. Together, they made a huge meal of dal bhat for Ram and his friends before they all set off. The long trek back to his village would take the best part of the day. As soon as he finished eating, Ram jumped up, calling everyone to get ready to go. With a frown, Durga’s mother reminded Ram that Durga, who had served everyone, still needed time to eat.

Barely concealing his impatience, Ram rolled his eyes and grabbed a raksi bottle, telling Durga to eat quickly so they could leave. Durga’s stomach clenched with anxiety, and she could barely force down a few quick mouthfuls before giving up. She gathered her meagre belongings to start her new life – a slightly bent pot from her mother and two kurtha salwar, one new, one mended many times over. The happy tinkle her glass bangles made as she moved seemed out of place. Finally, standing in front of her childhood home, Durga sobbed loudly and farewelled her parents. Though they’d forced this marriage on her, she loved them and would miss them.

Dragged by Ram, surrounded by his hungover friends and most of the children from her village, Durga walked slowly away from her family and her life. She pulled her shawl closer to hide her tears. As the wedding party passed the non-Dalit settlement, Durga risked a quick look around. She desperately wanted one last glimpse of Prabesh before leaving the village. Many had stopped what they were doing to watch the sad little procession, but Prabesh was nowhere in sight.

The walk from Durga’s village to the road head, the track leading to the road, was a blur of steep inclines, narrow trails, and rickety bridges. It took much longer than the usual two hours. There were no women in the party and Durga knew no-one, not even her new husband. Adding to her unease, Ram and his supporters continued drinking as they walked down the hill, drunkenly lurching into one another, oblivious to the trail’s dangerous precipice. With her belongings in the doko on her back, three chickens in a crude bamboo basket and a headstrong old goat on a rope, Durga had her hands full. She knew even a simple stumble near the trail’s ninety-foot cliff could be fatal, so she dropped right back and kept out of their way.

Once they reached the main road, they only had to wait ten minutes for a crowded local bus to wheeze to a stop in front of them. The conductor quickly and expertly tied the goat and chickens to the roof, while the wedding party was forced to wedge themselves into the cramped interior. Alternately pushing and shoving, Ram managed to carve out a couple of square inches behind the driver for him and his friends to perch, leaving Durga to stand for the entire two-hour, hot, bumpy journey on the winding, potholed road to Pokhara. Like many from the remote villages, this was Durga’s first ride on a vehicle of any kind, and she struggled with travel sickness in the cramped and hot conditions. Seeing how Ram and his friends laughed at the green faces of the hapless first-time passengers, nudging and pointing as they vomited out the window, Durga controlled her own heaving stomach by sheer force of will. She was grateful she’d been unable to eat earlier that morning.

Her relief as the bus finally lumbered into Pokhara was short-lived. They still had another bus to catch, another tortuous journey on another steeply winding road. Within an hour they were on the next overcrowded bus to Nadinagar, the goats and chickens up on the roof as before, watching another lot of sallow passengers willing themselves not to vomit. At least this time, Durga was able to sit throughout the journey.

A nightmarish hour and forty-five minutes later, Durga was gratefully standing beside the road, watching as Ram and his friends gave needless instructions to the conductor. He clambered quickly onto the roof of the bus, untied the goat and chickens, and handed them down, then gave the bus roof two quick thumps to let the driver know to continue the journey. Durga watched in amazement as the conductor swung like a monkey from the roof to the door as the bus gathered speed, belching plumes of stinking black diesel fumes. By the time she looked back, Ram and his friends had already disappeared up a narrow trail, leaving the goat and chickens for her to manage. Gathering everything to her, Durga took a deep breath, then followed her new husband up the steep trail on the last leg of the journey to her new home.

By the time they’d walked the three hours uphill to Ram’s village, it was dark and everyone else had returned to their own huts. Durga had no idea where she was and when Ram elbowed her towards a small, mean looking hut she stood for a moment, confused. Ram pushed her again while he shook the last drop of raksi into his mouth, then tossed the empty bottle carelessly over his shoulder. Durga had barely made it inside the front door when Ram wordlessly pushed her again, this time towards a thin, torn mattress on the ground. Tired and disoriented, Durga put up her hands to protest, and was rewarded with a back-handed slap that split her lip. Before she could react, Ram forced her down onto the filthy mattress, fumbling at her sari and ripping the ties from her new cholo. Dismayed, Durga struggled to get up, flinging out her arm and smashing her glass bangles against the dirt floor. The tinkling of broken glass and the sharp pain of glass embedded in her arm brought a random thought to Durga’s mind – it was bad luck to smash the wedding bangles. Durga half sat up to see if they’d all been smashed, but Ram hit her again before pulling down his pants, forcing her legs apart and thrusting himself into her. Mercifully, it was all over in less than two minutes, Ram panting and thrusting and then collapsing on top of her when he was spent. He fell asleep instantly.

Durga stared at the roof, her mind a blank, too shocked to think. It took her a few moments to realise she could see stars shining in through a hole in the thatched roof. Overcome with dread, Durga slowly sat up and surveyed her new home. The dirt floor of the one-roomed hut was littered with empty raksi bottles, and an old pressure cooker still caked with rice sat beside the crude fireplace. A tattered picture of the god Krishna was stuck to the mud wall with a bent and rusted nail. A battered tin trunk was the only furniture, and a decayed grass mat was all that kept the torn and thin mattress off the ground.

Shocked, Durga fell back to the mattress and gingerly touched her cheekbone, still throbbing from Ram’s fist. As she swiped at a small trickle of blood from her nostril, her eyes filled with hot, angry tears and despair filled her soul. Muffling her sobs with her shawl Durga wept then, for her lost dreams, for Prabesh, and at the horror her life had just become.

2

Bitter Truth

Durga gingerly eased herself up from the mattress, trying not to disturb a heavily snoring Ram. She willed herself to think positively about her situation – very few marriages were love marriages; in fact, everyone Durga knew had an arranged marriage. It was normal. Hers may have been arranged a little more quickly than usual, but she was still in the same position as most newlywed girls in Nepal – married to and at the mercy of a virtual stranger. Durga suppressed a shudder of dismay as she looked from her new husband’s snoring face to the crude and dirty surrounds. She had no choice but to try to turn this miserable hut into a home for her and Ram and their future children.

But at that moment, Durga could not face being inside any longer. Wincing, her body aching from the long walk and from Ram’s callous introduction to married life, Durga shuffled outside to face the new dawn. She focused first on the goat, patiently standing where she’d hurriedly tethered it the night before, and then the chickens, clucking contentedly in their flimsy bamboo basket. Seeing the familiar animals comforted her, and she busied herself finding some grass for the goat and letting the chickens out to scratch around. This done, Durga finally took a deep breath and looked up and around at her new home.

The morning light revealed it as nothing more than a squalid, dirty, and rundown hut, rectangular and made of mud. A crooked wooden beam at either end supported a sparsely thatched roof. A few pieces of rusty corrugated iron were stuck haphazardly under the thatch. The thatch extended to form a narrow verandah which overlooked the yard, no more than a few feet of hard-packed dirt. A kitchen garden, barren but for a few scraggly weeds, sat on one side of the hut. The yard dropped away suddenly, steeply, affording a view across the valley to the huge and greenly terraced hills on the other side, the snow-capped himal shimmering beyond.

On the hill above and behind Durga were more huts. As with her home village, this Dalit settlement was relegated to the outskirts of the main village. Durga could see some huts that were rudimentary but in reasonable condition, just like in her own village. In stark contrast, in this settlement there were also many mean and ramshackle huts, and her new home was one of the most dilapidated.

The main village was higher up the trail, which zigzagged through a jungle separating the two communities. Along the trail many smaller walking tracks broke away towards the various huts. Durga surveyed the well-used trail that wound past Ram’s hut and continued its precipitous journey down the hill to the road head. She realised this was the trail they’d followed uphill last night, but it had been too dark to see. Looking down the hill, she saw terraces bursting with vivid green rice crops. There were huts scattered all along the pathway, some in groups of two or three, but mostly single huts. The pathway, eroded by the yearly monsoon rains, cut deeply into the hill, and was packed flat by porters weighed down by the impossibly heavy loads they carried on their backs in their doko.

What she couldn’t see at first glance was the communal water tap, and more than anything, Durga wanted to wash herself. She’d already discovered the battered old gagro sitting empty beside the front door. Unwilling to wake Ram to ask where the tap was, Durga grabbed the gagro and hoisted it to her hip,hoping to either find the tap or at least follow someone else carrying a gagro.

Pausing to gather her courage, Durga turned and followed the path uphill, through the jungle towards the main village. She stopped when she saw the village clearly for the first time. The settlement sprawled halfway up the steep hillside, and beyond it the tip of another massive, snow-covered himal was just visible. There were about sixty small houses crowded together and although they were all better maintained than in the Dalit settlement, Durga could tell the village was much poorer than her birth village.

Paralysed, Durga could not venture any further up the trail. She’d lived her entire life in a much bigger village, but she’d been surrounded by family and friends – people she’d known her whole life. Until last night, she’d never even spent a night away from her parents. Although this village was smaller, she didn’t know a soul. She was an outsider who couldn’t even find the water tap. She touched her cheek, aware it was swollen and probably bruised. Unwilling to face strangers and ask about water in that condition, Durga slowly turned and headed back down the trail.

When Durga arrived back at Ram’s hut, she found her neighbour, a woman of about her mother’s age, waiting for her. Devi Aunty gave Durga a warm welcome to the village. Keen to get to know Ram’s new wife, she invited her in for a cup of tea. Durga eagerly accepted the invitation, suddenly desperate for a friendly face.

Durga’s fresh cuts and bruises filled Devi Aunty with sympathy. She was reminded of her own daughter, also recently married, and living in a distant village. She hoped her Tara was faring better in her marriage. Aware of her bruises and Devi Aunty’s sympathetic gaze, Durga was suddenly close to tears again.

“It was my fault. I must have…” Her words trailed off as she realised she had no idea what she might have done wrong.

Devi Aunty just shook her head. “Was he drunk?”

Ashamed, Durga looked down, nodding slightly.

“Then it wasn’t your fault. And you’d better learn how to duck.”

Surprised, Durga looked up sharply. “What do you mean? How often does he drink?”

Devi Aunty snorted. Ram’s drinking infuriated her. “These days, better to ask how often he is sober. He’s…”

Devi Aunty stopped suddenly as her husband, Sagar Uncle, came through the door. He took in the bruises, and the stunned look on Durga’s face and gave his wife a pointed look. They’d discussed the night before whether they should tell their new neighbour about Ram, but had agreed to say nothing. Everyone hoped being married would help Ram turn his life around. Unrepentant, Devi Aunty busied herself making tea. She’d agreed with her husband the night before, mainly for the sake of peace. But Durga’s bruises, and her willingness to blame herself for receiving them, was too much. She would tell Durga everything as soon as possible.

Ram’s father had been a bully and an alcoholic who had beaten Ram, his brother, and their mother repeatedly. A frightened Ram had spent many nights in Devi Aunty’s hut. She’d felt sorry for him and had tried to love him as his own mother couldn’t, while her son Dipak had treated him like a brother.

But when they were sixteen years old, a group of boys, who considered themselves to be high caste, had badly beaten Ram and Dipak for no reason. They had left the two bleeding and unconscious on a distant trail. Everyone knew filing a police case was pointless. Dalits had no chance of bringing a non-Dalit to justice. Ram’s father had barely waited for Ram to recover before beating him again for having allowed himself to be beaten. He’d then got Ram drunk on the potent local raksi, which Ram had quickly developed a taste for.

Devi Aunty’s son Dipak had reacted to the beating very differently. He’d begun speaking of the need for change, joining a fledgling political group to fight against discrimination. Dipak had tried many times to convince Ram to join him and fight for equal rights. But Ram had succumbed too quickly to the raksi, and the two friends had fallen out. Ram had been drinking and cursing his fate ever since.

Devi Aunty was proud of her son Dipak. He was a good man and one day he would be an outstanding leader, of that, she was sure. Though Ram’s drinking infuriated her, she still had a soft spot for him, and she held a mother’s hope that he would one day overcome his addiction and follow in her son’s footsteps. She knew Dipak’s ability to put the beating behind him and go on to greater things was because of his upbringing. In their family, there’d been no beatings, no alcohol, and a loving, respectful family life. Though they’d tried to include Ram in that, his own father’s shadow had been too close, and too violent.

Devi Aunty hoped Ram’s unexpected marriage to Durga would be the catalyst for change. Surely being responsible for his own family would be enough to set Ram on the path to sobriety. She had no idea how he’d arranged it, but he’d come back with a truly stunning bride. Though only sixteen years old, Durga had already blossomed into a head-turning beauty, with full lips and a shy but generous smile which revealed white teeth and an appealing dimple. Aside from her current cuts and bruises, Durga’s skin was unblemished, only slightly darkened from working in the fields.

Like many Nepali women, Durga’s dark hair was lustrously thick and shiny, and this morning she had twisted it into a haphazard knot at the back of her head, held in place with a cheap, plastic hair clip. But it was her eyes that held Devi Aunty’s attention. Framed by long lashes and only barely highlighted with a slash of kajal, they had an almost feline quality, their dark-bordered irises and glowing honey colour almost mesmerising. But Devi Aunty could also clearly see the confusion and hurt reflected there and as she made tea for her new neighbour, Devi Aunty promised herself she’d help Durga turn Ram into a good man, just like her own son. Thus, her first words of advice to Durga were ones she would often regret.

“Try to be submissive, just for a short while. Ram will come to appreciate you and then he’ll fall in love with you.”

Devi Aunty truly believed a beautiful wife and, in time, a family of his own, would be enough to give Ram the incentive to stop drinking and to live a good, respectful, family life.

3

Connections

Three months into their marriage, Durga quickly discovered that no matter what she did or how she behaved, a drunken Ram would always pick a fight and end up beating her. Invariably, after the beating, Ram would force himself on her sexually, further dominating her while proving his manhood to himself.

Ram found he had mixed feelings about marrying Durga – not only was she beautiful, but she was obviously intelligent too. He’d quickly discovered beating and raping her helped him deal with the feelings of inferiority she provoked in him. He sometimes wondered why her parents had agreed to the marriage, but he refused to pursue that train of thought for long. It was preferable to believe he had fooled them, not the other way around. Besides, he’d sneeringly told Durga when he was drunk, he’d only married her because his parents were dead. He needed someone to cook, clean, and earn.

Durga had felt sick when she’d heard this, but by then it had been too late to think about running away. She was pregnant – trapped with a man who was the absolute antithesis of Prabesh. Aside from his alcohol-ravaged face and body, Ram had never shown Durga a shred of tenderness. He’d only ever taunted, criticised, and drunkenly brutalised her.

Durga’s initial reaction to her pregnancy had been despair, but later that day, as she waited for Ram to return from the raksi shop, a thought had suddenly occurred to her. The more she dwelt on it, the more the idea took hold until eventually, she was certain. The baby she was carrying was not Ram’s, it was Prabesh’s. It had to be. She had not menstruated since her arrival but had attributed this to the distress of leaving home and the constant abuse by her husband. Now she realised it was because she’d already been pregnant. For the first time since becoming Ram’s wife, Durga smiled, relishing the knowledge she had Prabesh’s child growing inside her. Her despair at being pregnant turned to happiness.

She watched dispassionately as Ram celebrated and boasted of his virility in getting his wife pregnant so quickly. She felt nothing for him, and his words mattered little. Soon she would have a living, breathing connection to Prabesh and she promised herself that one day, they would be reunited through their child. This was the only thing that helped Durga endure her miserable existence with her crude, drunken husband in his crude, ramshackle hut.

As Durga’s belly grew, so did her fear of giving birth in a village so far from home. She desperately wanted to be with her mother, and in the relative comfort of her childhood home, for such a momentous occasion. To her absolute relief, it had not been difficult to convince a drunken Ram that in her village new mothers always returned to their maitighar for the birth of their first child. He’d wanted nothing to do with the birth and had been superstitious enough to accept her dire warning that ignoring this tradition would invite bad karma.

So, for the first time since she’d left in tears eight months before, Durga returned to her home village – a married woman with a very swollen belly. All the way home, she harboured a desperate dream of Prabesh rescuing her when she told him the child she carried was his. But her dream was quashed the minute she arrived. Her mother told her, not unkindly, that Prabesh had been married in a fantastic celebration the month before; it had been the talk of the village for weeks. When Durga pushed for more details, her mother would only tell her his new wife Meena was an old friend of his from school, and they’d both happily agreed to the marriage arranged by their parents.

She’d looked Durga straight in the face then, her eyes glinting with an unvoiced warning, Leave it, it’s over.

Durga had no time to dwell on her disappointment as a sudden contraction ripped through her belly. Wide-eyed with fear, she looked at her mother, who was standing in the middle of the room looking at her in disbelief. The baby should not be due for another month... unless...

Durga’s mother sprang into action. She knew what to do. Screeching for Durga’s younger sister, she told her to run and fetch the local sudeni.

Luckily the sudeni was available, and she came immediately to assist with the birth. It only took a few hours for Durga to give birth to a healthy boy. Durga immediately looked for signs of Prabesh in the baby’s face, her mother secretly doing the same. But if anyone, the baby looked just like Durga, so her mother was happy to ignore the probability of Ram not being the baby’s father. Resisting the impulse to name her son Prabesh, and knowing her mother would never allow it anyway, Durga finally settled on Kiran.

After a relatively happy month of seclusion, delighting in Kiran and spending time with her family, Durga finally forced herself to return to Ram’s village. She was disappointed but not surprised to discover that Ram had been drinking almost nonstop since she left. She’d hoped he would have tried to stay sober and get some work, giving her a chance to rest and look after her newborn son. Now she would have no choice but to labour in the fields, Kiran in a sling on her back, only a month after giving birth.

Ram had been too drunk and too ignorant to bother counting the months or question the timing of the birth. He believed Kiran was his son and after a cursory glance at him, he went out to celebrate his virility once more. Durga hugged Kiran to her chest and wandered next door to Devi Aunty’s house, wondering why the old woman hadn’t come out to greet her when she first arrived. To her surprise, Devi Aunty was sitting in her hut already holding a baby in her arms, tutting and shushing while the baby cried lustily. Devi Aunty looked up and smiled delightedly at Durga, inviting her with a motion of her chin to come and sit beside her. The newborn baby belonged to Devi Aunty’s daughter Tara, who was curled up asleep on a mattress in the corner, exhaustion from a long birth etched on her face. Durga felt instant empathy for the young woman, having been through the same herself only weeks before. Devi Aunty wrapped the baby tightly in a blanket, then gently placed it on a grass mat on the floor. Durga sat on the mat, tickling the baby’s face, Kiran still clutched in her arms. Devi Aunty started making tea then turned to Durga.

“Chora ki chori?”

“A chora, Kiran,” Durga replied, looking down lovingly at her son.

Devi Aunty laughed, “Good! You won’t have to look far for a wife! My chori had a chori, Shyani, born last week.”

Durga smiled and placed Kiran on the mat beside Shyani. The two babies lay companionably together, blissfully unaware of the suffering and joy they would both experience in their lives, and of how their lives would, from this moment forward, always be intertwined.

4

Windfall

Devi Aunty looked at Durga, shaking her head and sighing. “ Bichara, you’re so big, you look like a hati.”

Durga tried to muster a smile.

“I feel like a hati. I also feel tired and sick all the time.”

They were trudging slowly back from the water tap, each with a gagro full of water balanced on their shoulder. It was early morning, and they both continually waggled their heads in greeting as a steady stream of girls and women headed to the water tap. Many shouted to Durga, asking when she was due, joking she was so fat it must be soon. Durga acknowledged them complacently, knowing she would say the same to one of them if they were as hugely pregnant as she was.

“It must be twins,” continued Devi Aunty, “it runs in your old man’s family.”

Durga stopped in the middle of the trail, her mouth open in surprise as she looked at the woman who had become her best friend and substitute mother.

“Really? I didn’t know. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Devi Aunty couldn’t believe she’d omitted to tell Durga this juicy piece of information earlier, but she covered it by blaming Ram.

“Your buda never said? I thought he’d tell you.”

Durga just pulled a face and walked on, unable to think of even one occasion where she and Ram had spoken about anything. A few steps later it occurred to her she still knew nothing.

Curious, she turned to face Devi Aunty. “So, what happened to the twin?”

Devi Aunty allowed her face to go solemn. “You shouldn’t worry about that. It definitely won’t happen to you.”

Durga was frustrated at having to dig for information from her friend. “What!”

Devi Aunty relented. “La, la, I’ll tell you, but you can’t worry about this, especially now you’re about to give birth.”

Seeing the look on Durga’s face, she hurried on.

“The twin, the second baby, wasn’t right and died only two days after birth. They say something happened to Ram’s mother while she was carrying. That’s all. I’m sure it won’t happen to you. After all, you’ve already had a healthy son.”

Durga could not reply, images of the many beatings she’d suffered at Ram’s hands during this pregnancy replaying in her mind. He’d punched her more than a few times in the stomach. The pregnancy had made her so sick she'd been unable to work as hard as she had before, which meant less rice in the cooker. Ram didn’t enjoy going without. Not that he often did. When there was rice, he always got first serve. Then Durga would make sure Kiran ate before she took what little was left over for herself. Often, there was nothing left over.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the little Dalit settlement where they lived, side by side in thatch-roofed huts, far from the water tap and the homes of the non-Dalit villagers. Durga smiled warmly at Devi Aunty, then turned towards her hut. She truly loved her older neighbour, who had been the first to befriend her when she’d arrived and had acted as a mother-figure ever since. She’d comforted Durga as Ram’s drinking and beatings escalated, and they’d worked together in the fields almost every day since Durga’s arrival.

Durga’s smile widened when she saw her young son, Kiran, playing outside the hut, amusing himself by chasing the chickens. She hadn’t told a soul, not even Devi Aunty, that Ram was not Kiran’s father. Kiran was the light and joy of Durga’s life, and she was always buoyed to see him, though it saddened her to see how skinny he was. At two years old, he already looked like a little adult. No trace of baby fat remained, and his face was thin and drawn like his mother’s. He was wearing just a grubby t-shirt, his skinny arms and legs blotchy, his belly slightly swollen and protruding incongruously from the t-shirt, malnourishment giving the appearance of a fat belly. At his mother’s arrival he jumped up and tried to climb into her arms. Hating her pregnancy even more now that it might be twins, she gently pushed her cherished son away.

“Later chora, later.”

Going inside her hut, she wished not for the first time that the pregnancy was over.

The following evening, Devi Aunty came to the door of Durga’s hut, breathless and excited. Behind her stood a man Durga did not know, though he looked vaguely familiar.

“This is Sagar Uncle’s younger brother Suman. He’s just come back from India. He’s got a message for you!”

Curious, Durga invited Devi Aunty and Suman to sit outside while she brought water in a small lota. She waited until Suman had drunk his fill, noticing the resemblance to Sagar Uncle in his kindly eyes.

He looked closely at Durga’s expectant face. “Are you Prajol’s didi Durga?”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded cautiously, wondering what news he had of her younger brother. When their parents and sister had been killed in a bus accident the previous year, Ram had refused to allow Prajol to stay, despite knowing the local money lender had taken possession of their parent’s hut in payment of their father’s outstanding debts. Prajol had instead gone to India to find work, and she hadn’t heard from him since he’d left. She couldn’t bear to hear bad news about her last remaining family member. She stared hard at Suman, trying to glean what news he had of her brother from the look on his face. He saw her concern and reassured her.

“Everything is fine. Your bhai is fine. He works at a factory across the road from mine in India, and he asked me to give this to you.”

He drew a folded and worn-looking piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to Durga. She barely restrained herself from snatching it, instead respectfully holding out both her hands. He placed the note, and she savoured the feeling, rubbing her finger along the neatly folded edges, marvelling at how far this message had travelled to get to her.

Seeing that both Devi Aunty and Suman were waiting for her to open the note, she took a deep breath and slowly, carefully, unfolded the paper. They all gasped as the paper unfolded to reveal a handful of Indian rupees – five one-hundred-rupee notes! A small fortune! Tears sprang to Durga’s eyes, and she was too overcome to deal with the struggle of reading. She thrust the scrawled letter back into Suman’s hand and begged him to read it aloud.

Durga held the Indian currency reverently in both her hands, unable to stop herself from stroking each note. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life.

Suman slowly read the note to Durga, but it did not say much. Prajol had found work in a factory; he was well and living in a small room with ten fellow Nepalese. He hoped she could use the money to buy clothes for herself and Kiran.

For the first time in a very long time, Durga felt a small dose of happiness. Already she was planning how she could spend the money. She would buy Kiran some clothes, buy a sack of rice, perhaps fix some of the holes in the roof or maybe buy some more chickens… The possibilities were as endless as they were exciting.

5

Chaupadi

Labour came suddenly in the middle of the night and between her screams of agony, Durga cried bitterly for her dead mother, wishing she could have gone back to her own village for this birth. Devi Aunty came running and sent Ram urgently to fetch the local sudeni, hoping the midwife would be skilled enough to help in what was obviously going to be a long and difficult birth. After he returned, Ram was unceremoniously kicked out of the tiny hut and entrusted with the care of Kiran. He took Kiran and went to sit with Sagar Uncle and his brother, who had been awakened by the commotion. Placing Kiran on a grass mat, Ram looked around and asked Sagar Uncle if he had any raksi. He did, and he, Suman and Ram sat and drank, talking loudly of nothing to block out the noisy childbirth going on next door.

Finally, an exhausting twelve hours later, the first of the twins was born. It was a girl, and she was quickly wrapped and placed at her mother’s breast, only to be pushed away as Durga convulsed with another contraction, the beginning of another long labour to birth the girl’s twin. Devi Aunty shrieked outside, desperate for someone to fetch another midwife. Their sudeni was old and the stress of the labour had left her near to collapsing. No-one was listening. Kiran was too young, and Ram, Sagar Uncle, and Suman were all drunk. The rest of the villagers had gone out to the fields. Durga could only scream and moan and try to push. It took another excruciating ten hours before finally, with only the help of an exhausted and sobbing Devi Aunty and a somewhat revived sudeni, the second twin, another girl, was born. Ram was informed, but he was not impressed. He told them he’d wanted another son, not two useless girls. He shoved Kiran back inside the hut and went out to get drunk again.

When Ram came back to the hut a few hours later, he was angry. He’d been talking with other villagers, and they’d scorned him for allowing Durga to give birth inside. It wasn’t done. Women were not supposed to give birth inside their home – they had to go to the buffalo shed, or if they didn’t have one, to the small chaupadi hut down the hill, the same place they went when they menstruated. He should have insisted Durga get out while she was in labour – now his hut was impure. He slammed open the door of the hut and started yelling, but he did not cross the threshold, worried about becoming contaminated.

Durga had been in an exhausted sleep since the birth, and her husband’s angry ranting from the doorway barely registered. Devi Aunty, however, was furious. She had been by Durga’s side since the birth, doing the best she could for the two tiny girls and caring for Kiran, because Ram had gone drinking rather than help in any way. And now he had the audacity to come back drunk, shouting about chaupadi.

Devi Aunty hated the chaupadi custom and couldn’t believe some still practised it. The little communal hut they were all meant to use was falling apart and full of holes. Years before, her daughter Tara had nearly been bitten by a cobra coiled up inside the hut. Tara had been traumatised by the near miss, and had woken them all with her nightmares, which had grown worse as her menstrual cycle progressed. When the first drops of blood from her next cycle arrived, Tara had cried hysterically, begging and pleading to be allowed to stay at home. Devi Aunty remembered the moment vividly – it had been the first time she’d demanded anything from either her husband or her son.

Tara’s brother Dipak, who had not long recovered from his shared beating with Ram, had been sitting in the sunshine with his father. He’d decided his goal in life was to fight against the unfairness of caste discrimination, and he and his father were discussing – yet again – the best way forward. They’d stopped in surprise when they heard Tara’s shrieks from inside and were about to investigate when they were confronted by Devi Aunty. Arms akimbo, tears of sympathy for Tara’s anguish running down her cheeks, she was both angry and determined as she addressed Dipak.

"I’m proud of you, my chora. You hope to bring great change to our Nepal, and I know you can. I know you will! But first, look around you. Life is unfair for many, not just for Dalits. I am your mother; Tara is your sister. Why are we impure when we bleed? That is nothing but andhabishwas! It is ignorant and baseless. Without blood, how does a woman give birth to a son? If not for our blood, you would not exist. Our blood is not impure! Forcing women to chaupadi when we bleed is unjust, and it must stop.

Listen well, because I am not asking you, I am telling you – from today, Tara and I will not practise chaupadi. We will not be banished when we bleed, and we will not go near that terrible little hut again. Son, a true revolutionary fights against all anyāya, including chaupadi, so we expect your support in this.”

It was the longest, and most important, speech Devi Aunty had ever made in her life. It was the first time she’d ever actively tried to influence her son. She tilted her chin up a little, almost defiant, as Dipak considered her words. Sagar Uncle had said nothing, waiting for Dipak’s reaction. It had not taken long for Dipak to respond.

“You’re right, Aama. Nyaaya should be for everyone. Chaupadi is just a stupid superstition, and we saw last month it’s also dangerous. The only bad luck surrounding menstruation is when our sisters and mothers risk their health and their lives in those squalid chaupadi huts. My fight must be against all forms of discrimination, and it starts here, today. I will support you. This family will not practise chaupadi again.”

Both Devi Aunty and Dipak turned to Sagar Uncle, expecting an argument. There was none. Sagar Uncle simply nodded, proud of his son, and secretly proud of his wife. He could see now where Dipak got his idealism – and his passion – from. His mother. It had been a watershed moment for the family.

Devi Aunty knew Durga hated chaupadi as well. Durga had already told her they didn’t practise it in her village, and she’d been appalled to discover the custom was still being followed by many in her husband’s village. Since she’d arrived, Durga had only ever gone to the hut on a couple of occasions, trusting that Ram was usually too drunk or too self-absorbed to notice. It was clear to Devi Aunty that Ram’s current anger stemmed more from having been scorned by others than from whether Durga followed chaupadi. However, she was not in the mood to argue with Ram about it, especially when he was drunk and aggressive. So she simply turned her back on him. Without an audience and unwilling to enter the hut to force the women to pay attention to him, Ram eventually got sick of yelling and turned on his heel, slamming the door.

Devi Aunty quickly dismissed Ram’s rantings. She had more important things to worry about. Durga was exhausted and had lost a lot of blood. Worse, one of the twins did not look right and had been crying continually since entering the world. She called to Sagar Uncle to fetch the local jhakri – she needed help and advice. The jhakri, when he arrived, was also unwilling to cross the threshold, so Devi Aunty brought the tiny girl out to him. In the sunlight, what was not obvious before was clear – the girl’s spine was twisted, and one leg was obviously shorter. The jhakri told Devi Aunty they would have to do a healing, but he needed the mother to be present, for the blood to have stopped coming and a chicken to sacrifice. He would come back when everything was ready.

He also advised Devi Aunty to get Durga as soon as possible to the chaupadi hut. There was no way her husband could come into the hut while Durga was there with the newborn. It was dirty, and it was wrong. They would have to clean the hut thoroughly and do a special puja before he came back.