BY Purabi Sinha Das
Copyright is held by the author.
MY CREATOR and his sponsor have reached an agreement; they shake hands. I have just been sold.
The apprentices loiter trying to hear the conversation of the two men as they draw up the contract, until a sharp word from my creator sends them scuttling back to their work.
A sound of rustling, like dry leaves sifting in the breeze, invades the space around them. My future owner is laying a large sheet of paper on the drawing board. He says, “You must ensure it’s an exact copy of this drawing. If I find even one flaw I will cancel the contract immediately. I will be back next week to check on the progress.” With this injunction hanging in the air like a hangman’s noose, he strides off in the direction of the river where his barge awaits. His attendant unfurls a blue silk umbrella and runs to catch up – the soles of his bare feet slapping on the hard ground in perfect synchronization with the tap tap of his master’s leather shoes.
That man is an influential citizen of this town, owning three houses and acres of farmland; he employs hundreds of people for various types of work, and even conducts business with faraway lands. He is rich. I know.
My creator loves to whistle while he works. The dark cap on his head hides the white in his hair. The white is not from age but experience; fine particles from stones settle on his person as he chisels. His one-room cottage nestled on a hill overlooks the river. The studio is a quarter of a mile away and hidden in the woods where humans are rarely seen. Except for the three apprentices and one servant who arrive every morning and leave as the sun is setting. Sometimes, he sleeps on a pallet on the studio floor. I fancy he would rather be here all the time, among the many objects he has picked up during his travels, never going home to the lonely cottage. The studio is the birthplace of his creative genius.
After the rich man leaves, my master continues to stand, hands hanging at his side.
His hands are strong and capable. When he found me by the riverside during one of his forays, he wrapped me in a cloth and lifted me to his shoulder as if I weighed nothing. The moment his hand with the thousand callouses touched me, I leapt to life and my soul was born.
***
When I was very young, my parents succumbed to the dreaded cholera which swept through our city and I, an only child, was sent to live with an uncle and aunt in a village in the south of India. Due to its remote location, the village had survived the disease.
My uncle and aunt brought me to the temple to learn to be a divine dancer. Since then, I lived at the temple as a temple dancer, devadasi, dedicated to dancing only before the gods. The general public was not allowed to witness the dance performances.
One afternoon I stole into the temple to practice my steps. I knew I was taking a huge risk by being there by myself but I wanted to be perfect for the evening performance. Everything was going well until I heard a sound. I stumbled, missed a step, and stopped.
Instinct told me I wasn’t alone. Fear froze my limbs.
It turned out to be a young man. We stared at each other for a long time. The fear I had felt earlier turned to annoyance. “Who are you?” I asked, trying to still the tremble in my voice.
“Dev,” he said, “I am here to repair a cracked column in the temple portico.”
“Then why are you here, inside?” He was clutching a piece of paper in his hand.
“What’s that?” I demanded.
He tried to hide it behind his back but I was quick. I snatched it up and running to the farthest corner, scrutinized the paper under the light of a hanging lamp. It was a drawing of me in a sacred dance pose. It was me, yet not me. An aura of mystery surrounded the dancer; a strange light shone from her eyes, and her entire structure was that of a sculpture, not human. “Why? Why did you do this?” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Because you entrance me.”
“But, but . . . you have never seen me before.”
“Yes, I have. Many times.”
“What? When?” I could not believe I was having a conversation with a man inside the temple. Sooner he left better it would be for both of us.
“In my dreams.” That was a foolish answer. I was about to speak but he forestalled me by raising a hand, palm up. “Actually, I saw you only once. It was early morning; the dew still cool on the grass when you ran to the mango grove by the pool. I watched as you climbed up, like a cat, plucked some of the ripe fruit and clambered down. You were swift, and graceful at the same time. How could I forget? Since then, I have wanted to draw you.”
I had been listening with growing alarm. What if he told the high priest? I was supposed to be safely ensconced in the temple, not roaming the countryside without a chaperone. “Please let me have the drawing.” I pleaded.
“I am sorry, but I need it to make the sculpture.”
I was speechless.
Yet, in that moment of confusion and fear, another emotion was slowly making its way up, only I did not recognize it then.
Dev carved images on the stone walls of temples. After that day, Dev and I met many times, always secretly, always at great peril to both our lives. I was fifteen and he twenty. He wanted to marry me but he was dirt poor. While, I . . . I was destined to marry a lord of the aristocracy.
When I turned sixteen a particular lord — I refuse to take his name — married me and took me away to his estate. I was the third wife. I had no say in the entire transaction. I suppose I could have run away but where would I have gone? Dev was travelling. I did not know how to reach him. My uncle and aunt wanted nothing more to do with me.
***
I hear the apprentices whisper among each other. “That one’s a fool. He shouldn’t have paid such a high price for a sculpture.”
What makes one statue more valuable than others?
My creator consults the piece of paper before starting on me. Everything is going well, or so I imagine. After six months I have a body, arms and legs, a head and face. Although he spends all his time in the studio, he does not always work. There are times when he simply stares into space. When the lamps are turned down, he places me on a raised platform; then lays down facing me, the drawing clutched in his hand.
One day while carving one of my eyes, he stopped suddenly. Minutes ticked by. I waited, eager to get my other eye done. Suddenly, he flung the chisel away from him. Then rushed out as if the devil was after him.
I was shocked by his behaviour. He is usually quiet while he works always careful with his tools treating them with great respect, making sure they are cleaned and stored properly. The chisel landed on a brown and white coral reef with jagged edges, like the sleeves of his jacket. This was a gift from one of his admirers; a rich lady who wishes to marry him.
The apprentices came and went, bickering and sniggering, while I languished gathering dust.
My creator returned after two weeks.
Today, I am being prepared for the long journey to my new home. It took my creator 10 months to create me. The labourers lift me clumsily, their rough hands with sharp fingernails try to get a grip on my butter smooth body; I twist and turn making it even harder for them to tie me up in the burlap sacking. They truss me up and lay me on a bed of straw in a cart. I panic. Where is my creator? A hefty arm is thrown across my face and, try as I might to move, it sits there like a rod of iron.
Luckily, the sacking has holes affording me a quick glimpse of my creator. He is sitting with his back to the wall, shoulders slack, eyes far away looking at nothing. In his hand is the drawing he had received from his sponsor who is now my owner. I note the slight tremble as he lifts the paper, then laying it across his lap smooths it over and over with long, caressing movements.
Night appears in a rush as if it cannot wait to clothe everything in its dark mystery. I travel under a cloak of mystery myself, suffocating, hurtful, and undignified. The burlap they used to wrap me in reeks of manure.
Is there no end to the indignities heaped on a stone statue?
***
The bull pulling the cart strains and heaves; the bell around his neck chimes as though announcing our arrival, and we get past yet another deep rut. Our journey takes us through dense jungles where the sun never shines. How much longer? I will never survive if our cart overturns. Now I understand why my creator had me trussed up in this sack, and placed on a bed of straw. How I miss the feel of his hands, the way he coaxed me gently with his chisel into my present self.
The cart has stopped, finally. Our destination. It is eerily quiet. The driver is speaking, presumably to the gatekeeper. I pick up a word or two. We are expected. Clang, rattle, bang. The estate gate opens, then closes, as we trundle inside.
I am familiar with the opulent garden with its many trees; the intoxicating scent of jasmine, mogra, rose, magnolia, and juhi. The serpentine vines wrapped around a wooden pergola; alluring birdsong in the air out of the throats of birds locked in gilded cages. Each wife had her own unit in this mansion. Being the youngest I remained petrified of these women until my last day. Foolishly I had sent a message to Dev, begging him to rescue me. That letter was intercepted — probably by one of the wives — and before my husband could punish me, I ran to the river.
Gazing down upon this wondrous garden is the same frothy moon. Does it remember that fateful night when the third wife walked into the river? Did it hide its face as the water rose high, until all that was left of her was just the head which then disappeared under the rippling currents?
Will it recognize me when the statue is set up? Will its cold rays enter my body, leaving tracks, devouring and burning as they make their way down from my head to toe? Or will the moon rays take pity on a silent statue; pour compassion on my limbs, to soothe and comfort?
What about the sun? Will I suffocate by its heat? Or bask in the light of the golden orb?
Will Dev come to see how his creation survives in the world of humans?
***
Purabi Sinha Das, originally from India now settled in Pickering, ON, writes literary fiction, poetry, personal essays, and travelogues.
Purabi has been a Marketing Specialist, Human Resources Manager, mentor to high school and university students, and is a compulsive traveller.
Purabi is the author of three books. What Will It Be This Time, a collection of personal essays, explores an immigrant’s life unfolding in a new country that can be daunting yet exhilarating. Her early nineteenth century set in India debut novel Moonlight-The Journey Begins shines a light on female bravery amidst heavy odds. Twenty Two For 22, a collection of stories, poetry, magical travel vignettes upholds hope through adversity. Purabi’s short story Child of Water won a scholarship from the Writer’s Community of Durham Region. Purabi earned her Honours BA in English literature from Ranchi University, India. Connect with Purabi.
Magical, absorbing. Thank you.
Thank you Moira Garland.