The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

F O C U S O N F S F I C T I O N 42 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 5 D REAM R EINCARNATE ourteen-year-old Madhura pulls down on the cold pump handle, ducking her head of silky black hair under the rushing tap. Today she will don the red and gold sari and weave jasmine flowers into her fresh- ly-washed braid. Her recently widowed mother will line Madhura’s round dark eyes with black kohl and paint paisley designs in henna on her hands and feet. The marriage to Prem- kumar had been arranged quickly after the death of her father, once an employee of the local agro factory. Her father’s meager pension could not provide a dowry, but Premkumar has a steady job doing maintenance at the Taj Retreat. And Madhura, as sweet as her name, will surely make a good wife. Leaving her village of Vadi- patti, Madhura and Prem- kumar move into the cement and stucco staff quarters pro- vided at the back of the hotel. The Taj, situated atop Pasu- malai Hill, affords Madhura a panoramic view of the temple city and verdant Kodai Hills. In the evenings she could stroll with Premkumar among the hotel’s acres of landscaped gardens and abundant orange- flowered kadamba trees, but the idyllic setting belies the reality of her daily existence. Madhura has no idea how much Premkumar is paid; she sees little of the weekly wage. And she sees even less of her husband, except for the nights he comes back to their one-room bungalow reeking of stale sweat, hand-rolled bidis and cheap whiskey, and asserts his conjugal rights. While Premkumar’s hands grope under her thin cotton choli, Madhura allows her mind to wander everywhere but the present. She learns to distance herself from the weight of his body pushing her thin frame against the damp wall or into the thick ropes of the narrow charpoy. Her thoughts return to Vadipatti ... she feels instead Mama’s hands deftly weaving her hair into thick ropes that she then secures with crisp red ribbons. She smells instead the glass of sweet chai served on the small oval brass tray, brought by her mother each morning. She listens instead to the sweet song of the nightingale perched in the bottlebrush tree, near the village well. When Premkumar’s ardor is spent, Madhura can count on his falling into a deep sleep. She creeps out from under his heavy limbs and searches furtively through the pockets of his crumpled shirt and trousers for any unspent rupees. It’s the gleaning of these coins that allows Mad- hura to purchase the weekly allotment of rice, garlic, toma- toes and onions. On a good night she might collect F F OR ONE YOUNG I NDIAN WOMAN , HOPE TRUMPS REALITY . B Y B ARBARA M. B EVER Philippe Beha