Episode 9: Nathuli
Shikari | Season 2
She ran to see Laxmi. A quick hammering on the door drew the older woman to it. She looked recovered from her long night.
“I have to tell you about Gautam. He said he sees a woman in the woods at night. Crawling. Crying that her body was broken from a great fall. She is the witch. The demoness who caused his fever. There is no doubt in my mind. We have to drive her out. We need a witch doctor.”
Laxmi blanched. “A witch doctor…here? Are you certain?”
“What else can we do?”
“They’re are drunks and charlatans. Why don’t you take a trip up to Badrinath? Make an offering to Narayan’s temple?”
“That is a week’s journey. I can get a shaman in a day.” Parvati’s mind was racing. She remembered what she had forgotten in the morning. “I have a way to pay him. I will be back. Please keep an eye on Gautam for me, masi!”
“Where are you going? I have money. I will pay!” Laxmi called after her but the younger woman was already running back down the hill.
*
Flying down the slopes, running past same raw stretch of path that scarred the side of the mountain, Parvati could see the great green cauldron of the terai below. The stands and groves of tree that had held such fear for her in the night were stripped of their menace in the daylight. For daylight always changes everything. Always.
The field was empty when she came upon it. A warm wind caressed the tops of the trees on one side before scurrying up the slopes. A lone peregrine wheeled below a sun winking with intensity.
She invaded the field, pierced it all the way to the centre and confirmed that the bundle was gone. The Gujjar had taken it. What else could it be? The other bundle was still where she dropped it in the woods. She could fetch on her way back. But half her work was now gone.
The spray of light she had seen on the other side of the mountain. Another village. It was still early in the day. She could go there, confront the Gujjar, but…no. Doubts were womanly things. She needed a man’s certainty.
She threw herself headlong along the opposite slopes, climbing at the angle she reckoned the village might be. She followed well-trod paths until cattle-nibbled bushes. dung heaps and pottery shards told her she was getting closer.
Another hour and she stood, not a little out of breath, before a village that appeared a sister to hers. Terraced, golden wheat fields backstopped with stacked granite. Lines of slate-roofed homes. The sky blue and cloudless behind them.
Some of these houses would be walled off on all sides, but others, the ones of artisans, would have an open wall. They would have people listening.
She strode into the main square abutting the terraced fields, bracketed her hands around her mouth and shouted as loudly as she could: “I’m looking for a Gujjar. He wears black-grey robes and is young. He smokes a pipe. He would dishonour a woman he finds alone and steal from her when she isn’t looking.”
Shutters shot open. Faces peered. “Is this true, sister?” Inquired a young woman. On her nose was the large nathuli that denotes a new bride.
“Yes, I’m here to bear witness against this man.”
Another woman came out of her house, leaning on a cane. “Are you new here, daughter? I know someone who fits your description but I can’t bring myself to think he’s the same man.”
“Let him come out. Let him name himself and face up to what he’s done.”
She rounded the corner leaving a trail of imprecations, curses and threats behind her in the market square. She had ascended another terrace and drawn in a deep breath for a new bellow when a hand clamped over her mouth and dragged her into an open-walled shed.
“Not another word. I will move my hand now.”
She was spun around by the shoulder. The Gujjar man stood before her. The arm where she had cut him was bandaged now. Parvati was breathing deeply from fury but she didn’t scream.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“You stole my bundle of grass.”
“Why would I want your stupid bundle of grass? It’s not even worth the trouble of carrying it anywhere.”
She slapped the man, rocking his head back. Her palm stung from the force of the hit. The imprint of her fingers bloomed bright pink on the parts of his cheek that was beardless. He raised his hand and she flinched, but he only caressed his own face. The way ones does a lover’s.“Yesterday you slashed me. Today you’ve slapped me. Will you murder me tomorrow?”
“I worked hard for that bundle of grass. Now you either produce it or give me eight annas. It’s your choice.”
“You ran all this way for eight annas?”
“Yes. Now either you give me my money or I’ll yell until the headman comes.”
“He won’t have very far to go as he’s standing before you.”
“How can you be the headman?”
“The same way I can be the blacksmith, patwari and bania as well. You name it and Himmat Ali will do it. It’s a small village and I fill many roles.”
“I thought only Hindus could be banias.”
“Most banias are Hindu, that’s true, that doesn’t mean others can’t lend money as well. You think all us Gujjars do is roam the forests with cattle singing songs to God?”
“I don’t want to borrow money. I don’t need an axe fixed, and I don’t want land records. I want either my grass bundle, or its price.”
“Alright then. I put it in the stream in the forest so it wouldn’t dry out. We can go get it now. After that, never return.”
“Gladly.”
He peeked around the wall. Beckoned her to follow. The path was deserted. The market square was a level down and the commotion hadn’t reached here yet. “Walk alongside me,” he said. “Create the illusion that we know each other.” He looked to her to confirm her compliance. “Stop scowling!”
Reaching into the forest bordering the village, the road greened with grass and grew less distinct. He took her to where the path drove through a tangle of spruce and blue pine. She could hear the gurgle and chuckle of a brook. “I dipped it in the waters there and tied it to a tree stump. We need only go and get it together.”
“I am not going into the woods with you after what you tried yesterday.”
“Yesterday I tried to help a woman who looked in need.”
“Go fetch it. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Himmat didn’t move.
“Now or I’ll start yelling again.”
“Alright, alright.” He hurried into the woods.
She waited. She counted breaths. He returned on her fiftieth, the bundle of grass on his back. It was wet as he’d claimed. He swung it down by her feet. “Here, as promised.”
She lifted it up on her back. She loosened the rope and braced it against her forehead so her arms would be free and walked away without a word.
He yelled out behind her. “Not even a thank you?”
*
She was halfway down when she heard footsteps behind her. The stillness and lethargy of noon was settling into the hills. The sun was directly overhead.
She veered into the centre of the path and turned and stood until the Gujjar appeared, brambles sticking to his beard and clothing.
Parvati took our her sickle. “Was my friend’s cold kiss yesterday not enough?”
“Don’t be silly, sister. You caught me by surprise yesterday. All I was guilty of was kindness.”
“Then do another and stop following me.”
“Why the hurry?? What do you need the bundle for?”
She thought about it and shrugged. “I need a shaman. Something is haunting my son. We need rid of it.”
“What? A tiger? A wolf?”
“A demoness.”
He laughed. “There aren’t such things.”
She put away her sickle. “You learned a little bit of reading and writing. You work as a patwari. You add up your numbers for the English sahibs. You start to think you are one of them. You forget what your mother and grandmother taught you.”
“My mother and grandmother told me stories so I wouldn’t go wandering out in the woods.” The Gujjar rolled up his sleeve to show her where she had slashed him with her sickle the day before. His smile was mocking. “People are far more frightening than anything our grandmothers can dream up. Fine, let’s say I believe you, but even if you find a shaman what makes you think you can hire one for eight annas? They charge five rupees, at least the good ones do. Not to mention they’ll ask for liquor, meat and eggs as a bonus if they drive out whatever is haunting your son. Five rupees is ten times what you’ll get for selling that bundle of grass.” He looked up at the sky. “That is if you can make it to the market in time. The nearest one is a half day’s trek. The traders will be gone by the time you get there.”
She put the bundle of grass down, her will draining away. She was tired enough to lie down and sleep right there.
Himmat Ali looked at the bundle, then her. “I know a man a few hills over. We played together as children. He’s a medicine man with a good reputation. If he’s home we can bring him back to your child by sundown. That means you will have to come with me. That means you will have to trust me.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in such things?”
“He believes in it, and you do too. Maybe that’s enough.”
“I don’t have enough to pay a shaman.
“Don’t worry about money.”
“I don’t want charity.”
“How do you propose to pay him, then?”
“Will he take gold?”
Himmat frowned. “My dear sister. Don’t do this. Don’t sell your wedding ornaments.”
“What good is a nathuli when my husband’s left me?” She caught herself too late and bit her lips. The Gujjar only nodded as though it was what he expected. “Let’s see what he wants before we think of selling your jewelry. If we are going though we must hurry. Leave the grass here. No one will take it.”
“Don’t be in such a rush. I still don’t trust you.”
“How do I earn it?
“If you walked ahead while I kept my sickle ready in my hand.”
“I’m beginning to understand why your husband left.”
“Just start walking.”