Javni was born in the neighbouring village of Koteballi, where her father cultivated the fields in the winter and washed clothes in the summer. Her mother had always work to do, since there were childbirths almost every day in one village or the other, and, being a hereditary midwife, she was always sent for. Javni had four sisters and two brothers, of whom only her brother Bhima remained. She loved her parents, and they loved her too; and, when she was eighteen, she was duly married to a boy whom they had chosen from Malkad. The boy was good and affectionate, and he never once beat her. He too was a washerman, and ‘What do you think?’ said Javni proudly, ‘he washed clothes for the Maharaja, when he came here.’
‘Really!’ I exclaimed.
And she continued. Her husband was, as I have said, a good man, and he really cared for her. He never made her work too much, and he always cooked for her when she fell sick. One day, however, as the gods decided it, a snake bit him while he was washing clothes by the river, and, in spite of all the magic that the barber Subba applied, he died that very evening, crying to the last, ‘Javni, Javni, my Javni.’ (I should have expected her to weep here. But she continued without any exclamations or sighs.) Then came all the misfortunes one after the other, and yet she knew they were nothing, for, above all, she said, Goddess Talakamma moved and reigned.
Her husband belonged to a family of three brothers and two sisters. The elder brother was a wicked fellow, who played cards and got drunk two days out of three. The second was her husband, and the third was a haughty young fellow, who had already, it was known, made friends with the concubine Siddi, the former mistress of the priest Rangappa. He treated his wife as if she were an ox and once he actually beat her till she was bleeding and unconscious. There were many children in the family, and since one of the sisters-in-law also lived in the same village, her children too came to play in the house. So Javni lived on happily, working at home as usual and doing her little to earn for the family funds.
She never knew, she said, how it all happened, but one day a policeman came, frightened everybody, and took away her elder brother-in-law for some reason that nobody understood. The women were all terrified and everybody wept. The people in the town began to spit at them as they passed by, and left cattle to graze away all the crops in the fields to show their hatred and their revenge. Shame, poverty and quarrels, these followed one another. And because the elder brother-in-law was in prison and the younger with his mistress, the women at home made her life miserable. ‘“You dirty widow!” they would say and spit on me. I wept and sobbed and often wanted to go and fall into the river. But I knew Goddess Talakamma would be angry with me, and I stopped each time I wanted to kill myself. One day, however, my elder sister-in-law became so evil-mouthed that I ran away from the house. I did not know to whom to go, since I knew nobody and my brother hated me — he always hated me. But anyway, Ramappa,’ she said, ‘anyway, a sister is a sister. You cannot deny that the same mother has suckled you both.’
‘Of course not!’ I said.
‘But he never treated me as you treat your sister.’
‘So, you are jealous, you ill-boding widow!’ swore my sister, waking up. She always thought people hated or envied her.
‘No, Mother, no,’ Javni pleaded.
‘Go on!’ I said.
‘I went to my brother,’ she continued. ‘As soon as his wife saw me she swore and spat and took away her child that was playing on the verandah, saying it would be bewitched. After a moment my brother came out.
‘“Why have you come?” he asked me.
‘“I am without a home,” I said.
‘“You dirty widow, how can you find a house to live in, when you carry misfortune wherever you set your foot?”
‘I simply wept.
‘“Weep, weep!” he cried, “weep till your tears flood the Cauvery. But you will not get a morsel of rice from me. No, not a morsel!”
‘“No,” I said. “I do not want a morsel of rice. I want only a palm-width of shelter to put myself under.”
‘He seemed less angry. He looked this side and that and roared: “Do you promise me never to quarrel with any one?”
‘“Yes!” I answered, still weeping.
‘“Then, for the peace of the spirit of my father, I will give you the little hut by the garden door. You can sit, weep, eat, shit — do what you like there,” he said. I trembled. In the meantime my sister-in-law came back. She frowned and thumped the floor, swearing at me and calling me a prostitute, a donkey, a witch. Ramappa, I never saw a woman like that. She makes my life a life of tears.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘How! I cannot say. It is ten years or twenty since I set foot in their house. And every day I wake up with “donkey’s wife” or “prostitute” in my ears.’
‘But you don’t have anything to do with her?’ I said.
‘I don’t. But the child sometimes comes to me because I love it and then my sister-in-law rushes out, roaring like a tigress, and says she will flay me to death if I touch the child again.’
‘You should not touch it,’ I said.
‘Of course I would not if I had my own child. But, Ramappa, that little boy loves me.’
‘And why don’t they want you to touch him?’
‘Because they say I am a witch and an evil spirit.’ She wept.
‘Who says it?’
‘They. Both of them say it. But still, Ramappa,’—here she suddenly turned gay — I always keep mangoes and cakes that Mother gives me and save them all for the little boy. So he runs away from his mother each time the door is open. He is such a sweet, sweet thing.’ She was happy.
‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Four.’
‘Is he their only child?’
‘No. They have four more — all grown up. One is already a boy as big as you.’
‘And the others, do they love you?’
‘No. They all hate me, they all hate me — except that child.’
‘Why don’t you adopt a child?’
‘No, Ramappa. I have a lamb, and that is enough.’
‘You have a lamb too!’ I said, surprised.
‘Yes, a lamb for the child to play with now, and, when the next Durga festival comes, I will offer it to Goddess Talakamma.’
‘Offer it to the Goddess! Why, Javni? Why not let it live?’
‘Don’t speak sacrilege, Ramappa. I owe a lamb every three years to the Goddess.’
‘And what does she give in return?’
‘What do you say! What!’ She was angry. ‘All! Everything! Should I live if that Goddess did not protect me? Would that child come to me if the Goddess did not help me? Would Mother be so good to me if the Goddess did not bless me? Why, Ramappa, everything is hers. O Great Goddess Talakamma, give everybody good health and long life and all progeny! Protect me, Mother!’ She was praying.
‘What will she give me if I offer a lamb?’ I asked.
‘Everything, Ramappa. You will grow learned; you will become a big man; you will marry a rich wife. Ramappa,’ she said, growing affectionate all of a sudden, ‘I have already been praying for you. When Mother said she had a brother, I said to the Goddess, “Goddess, keep that boy strong and virtuous and give him all the eight riches of Heaven and earth.”’
‘Do you love me more or less than your brother’s child?’ I asked, to change the subject.
She was silent for a moment.
‘You don’t know?’ I said.