Devi Doesn’t Write in English…

My entry for the prompt in Artoons Writers room: you see something you were never meant to see…

                                             Devi Doesn’t Write in English

Shantabai pulled out the nauvari pallu to wipe her hands, more out of habit than actually feeling the wetness on her hard and calloused palms.

Hurrying into her modest hut, she said a silent prayer in front of the tiny pedestal, housing the scratched, worn-out photo of Yamai Devi. It was Sarvesh dada’s funeral, and she needed to contribute her bit. The old man had been the only person who stood up to people who taunted her for being infertile.

Vaanjhdi… her late-husband’s words still pierced her, or whatever was left of her at 45.

She glanced around and removed a loose brick beside the rickety pedestal. From the dark hollow, she drew a tiny tin box that housed her life savings. Inside lay a bundle of crumpled, soiled notes, bound by an overstretched rubber band. She slid out a hundred and tucked back the rest. As she lowered the lid, her eyes fell on the worn-out envelope. Sarvesh dada had given it to her for ‘safekeeping’ about 20 years ago.

“Shanta… Just keep it.” He had instructed.

“Englisss aahe, dada…”

“You don’t have to read it…”

Today, dada was no more.

The envelope beckoned her. It felt like something forgotten… yet stubborn. Faded and worn like an old secret. Its skin was wrinkled like her own palms, rough from years of scrubbing other people’s floors. With trembling hands, she took it out and carefully tore the top edge. Inside lay a letter untouched yet heavy… as if waiting.

Shantabai unfolded it and felt something unfolding inside her.

The alphabet seemed cramped and breathless. She could not read them.

But she saw it.

Her name.

‘SHANTABAI JADHAV’

The memories from the city hospital years ago… all came flooding in. The name tag that she had stared at for days.

Her chest tightened. This letter was no stranger.

Vaanjhdi…

As if in a trance, she ran to the gramin davakhana. The disinterested compounder gave her a once-over as he continued chewing on his daily dose of betel and tobacco. He squinted as he held the letter. His eyes widened, bulged out of their sockets, but retreated even faster. He looked around hesitatingly. Was he nervous?

“It’s n..nothing, Shantabai…”

“What does it read, bhau?” Shantabai pleaded.

The man looked around and spoke in a voice barely audible.

“…long-term infertility markers…”

“Mhanje…?” Shantabai was confused. Though it sounded familiar.

“It’s just… women’s issues.”

He folded the letter and handed it to her before rushing away.

Too quickly.

That afternoon, as she stared at the flames of dada’s pyre reaching for the skies, she couldn’t forget those words.

Women’s issues… she had always been an issue.

Vaanjhdi….

The next day she visited the mothe doctor. Sarvesh dada greatly respected him. He had treated her in the city hospital all those years ago.

At her turn, she gathered her pallu closer and handed over the letter to the doctor. The creases on the old doctor’s face deepened further. His face lost colour.

“Shantabai, this was not for you to see…” He looked away.

She paused, the letter still staring at her now untouched on his table, an eyesore amidst clean, important papers.

She placed a trembling finger on a random line.

“Saheb… he kay?”

The doctor sighed, “…subjects unaware…”

“Mhanje?”

He shook his head, his eyes not meeting hers this time.

Shantabai was drained out and left the clinic with the letter in tow. But for the next two days, she couldn’t get the words out of her head. The unease stayed with her as she cleaned the floors, washed vessels, clothes…

She didn’t understand those words, but she knew what it meant to not know anything. To be the last to understand. To be spoken about and not spoken to.

Vaanjhdi….

She saw the doctor again on the third day, the letter clutched in her palm as if seeking courage. The old man wasn’t surprised this time, but his eyes held… pity. She hated it.

“Saheb… this is about… me. I thought… it was all me…” Her voice shook as tears gathered, threatening to spill out of their boundaries anytime. “…Vaanjhdi…. They all called me… I thought it was true…”

There was a pause that seemed louder than the loudest sounds she had ever heard.

“Saheb… what’s written here…” She placed the crumpled letter on the table attempting to straighten the creases. Her life was a crumpled heap anyway.

The doctor looked at the letter for a moment and let out a resigned sigh as he took off his golden-rimmed reading glasses.

“…no children expected…”

The words fell. Soft. Simple. Final.

Something churned within her. “Who… who decided, saheb?” The tears now flew freely.

The doctor shifted uncomfortably.

“These were… important studies,” he said carefully. “Programs. For population control. Long ago.”

She nodded, though she did not understand everything. Heavy words…

“Saheb, in that hospital… You gave me injection… did you know, then?” Shantabai’s voice trembled, her throat clogged.

Subjects… Program

The words continued to echo.

The doctor remained silent, staring right ahead.

“Saheb, I always thought Yamai Devi did this…” she said, touching her belly. “…But Devi Maa doesn’t write in Engliss…”

Shantabai took the letter and folded it neatly. This time her hands didn’t tremble.

She walked out into the afternoon sun. Today it wasn’t scorching.

Not because it didn’t carry any weight. But Shantabai finally knew… it wasn’t hers to carry.

Glossary:

Nauvari: The Nauvari is a traditional Maharashtrian saree, characterized by its distinct nine-yard length (approximately 8 meters) and draped in a trouser-like kashta style

Vaanjhdi: a derogatory term used to call out infertile women. Marathi slang

gramin davakhana: the village dispensary.

Bhau: brother

Mhanje: what does it mean

Mothe: big. Here, big in stature.

He kay: What is this?

Aahe: it is

cover picture: Photo by Marcelina Pawlikowska on Unsplash