Of Marriageable Age Read Online Free PDF Page A

line. You are not to eat or rest before you are finished.'
    T HAT WAS how Ma found Saroj when she came home before sundown. Bent over an open page and carefully pencilling in the words Baba had given her, cheeks wet with tears. She felt Ma's hand on her head and looked up and more tears rushed out, a torrent of them. She heaved with sobs.
    Ma lifted her from the chair and carried her to the bed. She took off her nightdress and turned her on her tummy so she could inspect the wounds. She disappeared into her own room and into the puja room. Or maybe she would bring the sword and go and kill Baba. That was what Saroj wanted most.
    When Ma returned she was mixing something in a cup. It was one of her special potions, Saroj knew. With fingers as light and soft as a feather Ma smoothed a cool paste all over the wounds, and Saroj lay there and let healing sink through her. When Ma was finished she sat the child up and wrapped a sheet loosely around her, took her on her lap and held her, not saying a word, taking care not to touch her wounds. Saroj tried to speak.
    'I have to write some more!'
    'No. It is over. All finished, Saroj.'
    Saroj thought then it was all finished with Baba and rejoiced because they'd go away and leave Baba forever. But Ma didn't mean that. She only meant the punishment was over, and that Baba would not strike her again, which he didn't. But Saroj really hated Baba now. A few weeks later the Camerons moved out. Saroj never spoke to Wayne or any of them again. Baba sent Parvati away forever, because she had allowed Saroj to play with Wayne. Saroj never saw Parvati again, either. She hated Baba for that most of all.
    M A WAS MAKING DHAL PURIS , flinging them into the air, clapping them as they fell light as feathers like flakes of layered silk across her palms. They smelled of warm ghee and soft dough baking and aromatic spices, so tender they'd melt in the mouth.
    'Ma,' Saroj began, tugging at the skirt of Ma's sari.
    Ma looked down and smiled. Her hands were white with flour up to the elbows. 'Yes, sweetheart?'
    'Why's negro bad?'
    Ma's brow creased but her smile remained. Her hands went on working as she spoke.
    'Don't believe that, dear. Don't ever believe that. Nobody's bad just because of the way they look. It's what's inside a person that counts.'
    'But, Ma, what's inside a person? When people look different are they different inside, too?'
    Ma didn't answer, she was looking at her hands now, kneading a ball of dough. Saroj thought she had forgotten her and so she said, 'Ma?'
    Ma turned her eyes back to Saroj. 'I'll show you in a moment, dear. I'll just finish making these.'
    Saroj watched the stack of dhal puris grow into a flat round tower and then Ma said she was finished and covered them with a cloth and washed her hands. Then she opened the cupboard where she kept her spare jars and bottles and took out six jars and placed them on the kitchen counter.
    'Do you see these jars, Saroj? Are they all the same?'
    Saroj shook her head. 'No, Ma.' The glasses were all different. There was a short flat one and a tall thin one and a medium-sized one, and other shapes in between. Some were different colours: green or brown or clear.
    'All right. Now, just imagine these jars are people. People with different shapes of bodies and colours of skin. Can you do that?' Saroj nodded. 'Right. Well, now the bodies are empty. But look…’ Ma picked up a big glass jug, filled it at the tap and poured water into all the jars.
    'See, Saroj? Now all the glasses are filled. All the bodies are alive! They have what we call a spirit . Now, is that spirit the same in all the glasses, or different?'
    'It's the same, Ma. So people are —'
    But Ma broke in. 'Now, can you run into the pantry and get the tin where I keep my dyes? You know it, don't you?'
    Saroj was back even before Ma had finished speaking. Ma opened the tin and picked up one of the tiny bottles of powdered dye. It was cherry-coloured. Ma held the bottle over one