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am sure of it.’
    Sona’s childless situation continued to make her vulnerable. She was considered to have a fund of motherly emotion waiting to pour itself into the orphaned Vicky.
    ‘Bechaara,’ said her mother-in-law to Sona, ‘he has only us now. We have to make up for his sorrow in life. It was your kismet not to have children so you could be a true mother to your nephew.’
    Sona’s position forced her to bear these remarks in silence, but her internal repartee was fierce and pointed: How can I be his mother? Or make up for anything? If it is in my fate not to have children, it is in his not to have parents. I have to accept that as much as he. How can some dirty little street boy be forced on to me as my child? I would rather die.
    Oblivious of her thoughts, they reiterated night and day, ‘Beti, now you are his mother. God has rewarded your devotion. Sometimes our wishes are fulfilled in strange ways.’
    She was the instrument of their care, and like most instruments she writhed in the hands that wielded her. Dark and vicious thoughts crept up in Sona as she looked at Vicky, the answer to her prayers.
    It turned out that his Bareilly education did not equip him for the school his cousins went to. He had to be accommodated somewhere, so he was sent to the poor-quality English medium school around the corner, where learning was crammed into the upper storey of a house, with no playground and certainly no status. If the boy showed aptitude he would be shifted to a better place. Meanwhile Sona could help develop his potential.
    The whole family rejoiced that there was something so tangible by which Sona could express her thwarted maternal longings.
    With Vicky, Sona had to be on her guard all the time. The house had many eyes quick to detect neglect, and many people quick to attack with their conclusions. As God was her witness, she had nothing against Vicky. But was this dark, ungainly, silent, sullen child any substitute for the baby that was to still the yearning in her heart, that was to suckle from her breasts, and use her ample flesh to its satisfaction? Her blood burned, and though her blood was used to burning, it now raged so fiercely that nothing but her own blood could staunch the flames.
    ‘Didi,’ said Rupa one weekend, as she was over with a new lot of mango chutney for her brother-in-law to supply to the grocer he knew, ‘how is it with Vicky?’
    ‘All right,’ said Sona tonelessly.
    ‘Isn’t the Ganesh Chaturthi fast coming up?’ It was winter, and she was well aware of Sona’s fasting schedule.
    ‘I’m not keeping it this year. What is the use?’
    Rupa clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Don’t be like this, Didi. God is watching; you should be afraid.’
    ‘I don’t care. I am tired of praying, tired of hoping,’ said Sona bitterly.
    Look at me, thought Rupa. I also don’t have a child, or half the other things she has. From the time we were children, she was the special one, always noticed for her fairness, her prettiness, and every day I had to hear how well she would marry, while I would be lucky to find anybody, dark and ugly as I was. For nine years now, I have seen her become more and more depressed. For a condition she shares with me, I have to console her all the time. Beauty is not everything; just as well, or some of us would be left with nothing. ‘Won’t your mother-in-law notice?’ she asked at last.
    ‘What will she notice? According to them my prayers are answered. Now they are busy making sure that child is a noose around my neck. Why didn’t he die with his mother?’
    Rupa examined Sona. She was thinner, her flawless skin had a dull, pallid tone. ‘Didi, you shouldn’t say such things, you are forgetting we cannot always see the purpose of what happens in our lives, maybe this is a test,’ she reasoned, while Sona let tears testify to her state of mind. Rupa started the caressing that was now automatic with her. Poor Sona, if only she could get rid of