Truth Has Its Way

By Sulakshana Sen

Sammy overhears the truth about their mother’s death. She promises to bury the truth from all, including her sister Rani. Years later, from the carefully buried past, the horrific truth of Rani’s life, including the story of their mother, comes out in the least expected way—a generation apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649793263

Book preview

About the Author

Sulakshana Sen moved from east (India) to west (Florida) in 1992. A college professor, having three master degrees and a doctorate degree has passion for teaching and life that involves around the people. The story tells about the family saga of two women in British time, India, and the society which influenced the author to build a heart-touching narrative of human spirit. Educating hundreds of students in both the worlds, helping them to dream, is author’s vision beyond culture.

Dedication

For my mother.

Copyright Information ©

Sulakshana Sen (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloguing-in-Publication data

Sen, Sulakshana

Truth Has Its Way

ISBN 9781649793164 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649793256 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781649793263 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021915527

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street

33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I am grateful to my husband Dr. Shukdeb Sen, for the development of the book from start to finish. I thank him to be on my side for every step up to the fruition of the journey.

Chapter 1

Sammy wanted to get away from it all. She preferred to sit on a concrete bench isolated in the backyard, looking into space. Sammy wanted to see her mother’s face and be with her for at least a few minutes. It would be just Sammy and Priya.

She remembered her father, Mahesh, less often but thought about her mother more and more and got lost in her thoughts. A flash of beauty dazzled her eyes, and then a sudden sadness covered her like a blanket, making everything dark.

When Sammy’s mother died, she was only five years old. All she remembered about her mother was a lovely woman. Sammy remembered that Priya loved singing songs and telling stories. Sometimes, Sammy felt her mother around or heard Priya calling. But there was no one.

Sammy left for the backyard well, where the jugs of water were, covered with earthen lids. A long rope snaked down to lift water from the well. Sammy sat on the bench, looking at the acres of paddy fields and trying to get closer to her mother.

She wished she could hold her hand and put her head on her mother’s lap, just Sammy and Priya alone. Sammy felt lost thinking why her mother had left her and her little sister, Rani. The cruel thoughts engulfed her, even though she didn’t like to dwell.

She remembered the worst day of her life.

She was only five years old. Early one morning, Sammy looked for Priya. She couldn’t see her around. Every day, when she woke up, the first thing she wanted was to be with her mother. Sammy would usually hear her mother in the kitchen, boiling milk for Rani or making eggs with buttery breads for Sammy, holding her cup of chai in hand. Some mornings, her mother woke Sammy up, reminding her to brush her teeth to keep them sparkly and bright. She never forgot to put Sammy’s favorite pink jug at the end of the verandah, filled with water.

But on that morning, there was an unusual silence in the house. As soon as she got up from bed, Sammy looked for her mother in the kitchen and the bathroom. She couldn’t see her pink jug. Sammy looked for her mother in the kitchen, hoping her would be there and she’d be able to complain about someone stealing her jug. But there was no one there. She called, Mom, where are you? I can’t find you. Mom?

She looked into the bathroom but still couldn’t find Priya anywhere. Sammy cried as loud as she could, hoping her mom would hear her. Sammy opened the door of the master bedroom with a little push. Rani was sleeping sound in the next room. The bed was empty, but in the corner, she found her mom hanging from the roof; her anchal tied to a metal railing from the ceiling. She called to her, Mom, get down! Why are you up there?

Her mother didn’t respond or even look down. Sammy was confused. What could she want up there?

Sammy moved toward her mother’s feet, trying to reach and pull her down. She cried out, Come down, Mom! Come down. I’ll brush my teeth, Mom.

But her mother still didn’t look down or even seem to be listening. Rani was still asleep, her face down on a little stuffed animal.

A chair was upside down on the floor, beneath her mother’s feet. Sammy tried to lift the chair upright but was too small to do it. Instead, she climbed on the top of the chair and raised her hand to touch her mother’s feet but couldn’t reach high enough. Sammy sobbed. Rani shifted to her side, clutching the stuffed animal tighter.

Sammy heard the back door open and ran out to Mania, who came every day to help her mother in the kitchen. Mania asked, Why are you crying, baby? Where’s your mother? Is she in the bathroom?

Mommy is there, hanging. She pointed to the room, sobbing.

Mania didn’t understand. She took Sammy’s hand and walked into the bedroom.

When they entered the room, Mania let out a howl that frightened Sammy. She ran into the street, running from door to door. The neighbors came rushing, one by one. Someone brought a ladder and climbed up to undo the knot. Two more neighbors had to help, but they managed to get her down.

Sammy remembered the dark blue stain around her mother’s neck and the foam at the corners of her mouth. Priya’s eyes were open, but she was looking at nothing.

No one could understand why such a woman would do such a thing. She was the wife of a renowned police officer and the mother of two beautiful children, whom she loved. People wondered if it might have been a murder made to appear like a suicide.

Mital, a nurse, attempted first aid, pressing Priya’s chest and blowing air into her mouth to get her lungs working again. Nothing changed. Mital shut Priya’s eyes.

Everyone looked down at the two innocent girls. Rani was sucking milk from a bottle in Mania’s lap, holding the stuffed animal. Sammy stopped crying. She was speechless, astounded by the sudden gathering of people around her mother. She looked at her mother, lying still. Sammy wanted to sit by her but was tired of these unfamiliar people. She wanted them to leave her mother alone.

A few of the neighbors ran to get the village doctor. Others walked to the nearest police station to send the news to Mahesh. They all knew that there was no chance, but they hoped a doctor could perform a miracle.

The police inspector sent an emergency telegraph to Mahesh. It took him three hours to return home. At Mahesh’s order, the inspector rode his motorbike to a renowned doctor to examine Priya as soon as possible. A few other officers came running, only to see the lifeless body of Mahesh’s wife.

Mahesh sent his daughters to their aunt, who lived sixty miles away, accompanied by another officer and Mania. Sammy was reluctant to leave her mother. No one asked Mahesh why the unthinkable happened. Nobody ever knew.

Sammy wanted to ask why they had to leave and why their father sent them away. But people did not question Mahesh, a class-one officer under the British rule.

The neighbors helped cremate Priya. In Indian society, sindoor, a red powder, was a sign that all married women wore until they die. They wore sindoor on their hair and in the center of their forehead. When women became widows, society forbade them from wearing sindoor, richly colored saris, and bangles. The widows must wear white.

Society considered it lucky if a woman died before her husband. She would be treated like a goddess when taken for cremation.

Women dressed Priya’s body, their eyes full of tears. They put garlands made of red roses on her neck and other flowers over her body. They wrapped the body in a new, colored sari and poured sindoor on the part of her glossy black hair. They slid new red bangles onto her wrists. They took off her gold necklace, earrings, and bangles, which they tied in a handkerchief and handed to Mahesh to save for his daughters. They left a tiny nose stud on her face. A red dye called alata was smeared on her feet. Priya looked incredible, even lifeless.

After the women finished their rituals, the neighbors prepared a bamboo bed to carry the body. Four respected police officers lifted the bed onto their shoulders. Mahesh walked ahead with a basket of rose petals to scatter as a tribute to his wife. Some neighbors held incense sticks of sandalwood. Some held pots of jhuna, a sacred powder that burnt with scented fumes, melting away in the air. People in the procession chanted, "Ram Naam Satya Hai, meaning, God’s name is the last truth as the soul leaves the body".

Except for the chant, silence prevailed. The neighbors erected a funeral pyre with wooden planks and poured on ghee and other combustibles, like jhuna and chips of sandalwood. They placed the body on top of the pyre. According to tradition, the husband lit the fire with a wooden stick then placed it on the face. With tearful eyes, Mahesh put the burning wood on Priya’s face.

Mahesh couldn’t bear to see Priya burned. He turned his back. A friend held his hand, and the others waited until the body became ashes, which took hours. One of the neighbors brought a brass jar to fill with Priya’s ashes.

Four officers, including his friend Raman, accompanied Mahesh home. The home was empty and felt cursed. Silence was the only communication.

When the sun rose the next day, Mahesh left the house without turning back, not knowing what was next.

Chapter 2

A major road went straight toward the big city, Cuttack, in Odisha, the eastern part of India. It passed a tiny village, Hanspal. A narrow side street ran off to Hanspal from the major road.

The village had thirty-seven houses. One stood tall with a big thatched roof, and the rest looked like caves where one must bend to enter. The villagers made bricks to build their walls by burning the sticky mud from the riverbank. They stacked palm leaves and small river rocks on the top of the mud until it dried. The roof protected people from the monsoon rain or summer heat. Before the monsoon season started again, men and women worked together to replace the roofs with new palm leaves.

The tall thatched house was surrounded by huge neem and mango trees. In the evening, when darkness swallowed the village, a spot of light beaming from the thatched house attracted all, where Hanspal road ended.

There was only one bus stop, which people used to get to Cuttack. The bus stopped at Hanspal at eight in the morning and eight in the evening. A nearby tea stall, Garam Chai, provided seating to commuting villagers and stayed busy from morning to evening until the last bus. Crowds sipped the hot chai made with milk, molasses, ginger, and cardamom adding with Darjeeling chai powder. Fastened to the back wall, a heavy, faded blue tarp stretched to cover the stall.

Hari was stout, with dark brown hair. People called him "chai-wallah", or teaman. He greeted each customer, handing them the garam chai in earthen cups. He collected twenty paisa per cup and slid the coins into a small bag hanging from his waist. After a couple of hours, when his bag was full of coins, he put them in a tin box. The lid of the box was painted with the goddess Laxmi’s picture. Indians associated Laxmi with prosperity and wealth.

The teaman’s wife, Tara, was a dark-skinned, youthful woman. Tara wore a long sari with no blouse. She wrapped the end of the sari twice to cover her bosom. An Om charm hung from a black thread around her neck, touching her cleavage. She tied her dark hair into a bun, accented with a thin garland of jasmine.

Hari and Tara didn’t have children yet. They worked in the Garam Chai stall from morning till night, rain or shine. Every morning, Tara ignited matchsticks to burn dry leaves in the oven. The earthen oven was filled with dry charcoal made from cow dung. She puffed air into the charcoal until it was red-hot. She sat on a low stool and made the chai in a rusted saucepan. In the saucepan, Hari mixed milk, molasses, and Darjeeling tea powder into boiling water. Tara stirred the mixture, careful not to spill it.

It was dusk. A man around fifty, gray-haired and wearing a white shirt, got off the bus. The evening sun was setting. Darkness clouded the man’s vision. He didn’t bother looking at the tea stall.

He adjusted the two heavy bags hanging from his shoulder and headed toward the narrow dirt road leading to Hanspal. The road was not wide enough for two people to walk side by side. If not careful, they might fall into the ditch at the side, which was at least thirteen feet deep.

A sharp pain in his foot stopped him. The man flinched. Through the thin sole of his shoe, a thorn came halfway to his toe. It was hard to see. He untied the shoe and pulled the thorn out. He straightened his back, lifted the bags again, and limped the remaining distance. He was eager to reach his house.

His name was Mahesh Das. No one in the village knew his background.

A dog ran toward Mahesh and then stopped at the bamboo gate, barking and wagging his tail. The dog jumped to welcome his master, licking at his shoe. The light from a lantern hanging on the verandah wall helped Mahesh step up. It was an oval glass lamp, sitting on a little metal holder of kerosene, burning a cotton wick. The lamp opened at the top, like a chimney. The soft evening wind bent the fire from one side to the other.

A petite woman greeted Mahesh in a green sari. She was Rebati, Mahesh’s wife. She asked, Was the bus crowded? Did you get a seat, or did you have to stand for the two hours to the city?

There was no seat, Mahesh replied without mentioning the pain in his foot. He walked to the end of the concrete veranda. Rebati couldn’t see in the semi-dark that Mahesh was limping.

A bucket of water with a red plastic mug and a small towel hung on the bamboo hanger on one end of the veranda. Mahesh took off his shoes to wash his feet. Blood came from the pricked toe. The water mixed with his blood, still dripping, and he felt the pain.

Rebati took his bags to the kitchen, where a lamp was flickering. She closed the door halfway and poured the contents from the bags onto the kitchen floor. She organized the groceries on the shelf: a big bag of rice, a small bag of lentils, red potatoes, a few mid-size onions, a dry coconut, a bottle of mustard oil, and two soaps, one for the body and the other for washing clothes.

Rebati’s face glowed. She picked up the soaps, one with green and the other with yellow wrappings. She opened a little slit on a corner of the green one. It smelled like sandal paste. I like the soap with the green wrapper. How much did it cost?

A lot more than the other soap.

A smile flicked across Rebati’s face, which Mahesh missed. Rebati realized he must be hungry. She rushed to get a big brass plate with rice, fish fry, and a mixed vegetable curry made with mustard sauce. Mahesh cleaned the plate, leaving a small piece of