The Revenge of the Goddess

By Revati Kapur

Nineteen-year-old Devi lives in a sleepy town in India, in a house where her uncle is in charge and her parents struggle due to their lack of sons. Devi has been groomed all her life to become a good and obedient wife. In spite of her discomfort with the tradition, she agrees to an arranged marriage.

Devi soon finds that her relationship with her in-laws is difficult, and Hari, her new husband, is cold and distant. Eventually she joins him in the United States, hoping that things will improve once they are together in their own home. Although at first Devi is eager to please him and be a happy and dutiful wife, she is quickly disillusioned. In the years that follow, she struggles against all odds to free herself and find happiness in her new home despite her husband. When Devi finally gives birth to a daughter, her resolve is strengthened: she will protect both of them and build a new and independent life. But when her goal is in sight, circumstances change, and her life is forever altered in a way she could not have imagined.

Set in India and the United States during the 1970s, this novel tells the story of one young womans struggle to empower herself within the confines of an unhappy arranged marriage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480826397

Revati Kapur

Revati Kapur grew up in India during the seminal period of Indian Independence. She came to the United States as a graduate student in 1960. She practiced as a speech pathologist for several years and now enjoys retirement with her family in Beach Haven, New Jersey, and New York City.

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Copyright © 2016 Revati Kapur.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2638-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2639-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015921233

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/7/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

This book is dedicated to all oppressed girls and women wherever they may be.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank my editor Robbie Tucker for her invaluable advice and contribution to my book.

I would also like to thank my family and friends who, through their input and encouragement, motivated me to write this book, especially Elizabeth.

Thank you also to my granddaughter Isabella for creating the wonderful artwork for the book cover.

PROLOGUE

T he woman hangs up her white coat as the last of her patients leaves. All day the line of people has snaked around the low-slung bungalow. Now she is alone. She looks out at the hills. The mist is creeping in, shrouding their peaks. There seems to be a sudden chill in the air. Or is it just her? She wraps her sari protectively around her. The night shadows are beginning to creep up. At times like this, she is filled with melancholy.

She mulls over the events of the morning. One of her patients came in barefoot and in a torn sari. She carried a plump child on her hip and on her head a basket of fruit. She laid the basket at her feet and touched them in reverence.

Ma, I brought you these as an offering. You are truly a savior. Remember my child? I was in despair, and look at her now. You gave her back her life.

She wants to protest. Who will believe her? The villagers hold her in awe because she brings them relief from their pains, real and imagined. For many years, she has been their hope in times of illness. Can she break that trust?

But the ghosts of the past urge her on. She cannot shake them. Finally, she puts pen to paper, and sitting beneath the naked lightbulb, she writes her story.

CHAPTER 1

I am Devi, named for the mother goddess. Hindus worship her as the protector of all of us, her children. What of it? There are so many goddesses in our household of women that I certainly don't feel singled out for any special attention. Still, as a child, I would look at the pictures of Devi in her fierce forms of Durga and Kali, avenging evil and causing destruction, and I would quake with fear. I didn't like her much. But I am Devi, and there it is.

We live in a sleepy town in India. In its crowded bazaars, pedestrians jostle with cows and cycle-rickshaws for the right of way. The streets are narrow with overhanging balconies almost touching each other. In the distance, perched on a hill, are the remains of an old fort, echoes of a distant past. The raja's palace sits in a secluded section of the town, a crumbling edifice but still imposing. He lost his power with the end of the British raj, but we still view him and his family as royalty.

We live in the heart of the town, in a centuries-old haveli, with courtyards and terraces leading to strings of rooms. In the inner courtyards are the women's quarters, the zenana, away from the business of men and the prying eyes of the rest of the world. Here, rich tapestries, low divans, and gaadis (padded floor mattresses) with wide bolsters are the main furnishings. Cool breezes waft in from the shaded courtyards. We have given the nod to modern plumbing, but otherwise we live pretty much as our ancestors did. The more public rooms---the men's quarters---bear the marks of Westernization, but we seldom venture into that world.

We are part of a culture that is steeped in ancient restrictions and prejudices.

I am one of three sisters and no brothers, a curse in this family where boys are worshipped as gods and girls are goddesses only in name. Ours is an extended family. My uncle, Mr. Mittal, is the head of the household and the purse strings. He also has many sons. Whatever he decrees happens. My father, his younger brother, is a gentle soul, a dreamer. He loves his daughters well, but he is helpless in the face of tradition. My mother suffers many barbs for her inadequacy to produce sons. Her sister-in-law lords it over her for her superior skills in producing heirs. Girls are just a financial burden, Mother is told, and are to be married off as soon as possible.

Although we are educated, we are groomed to be good and obedient daughters and, when the time comes, ideal wives---sati savitris. Our husbands will be chosen with approval by the elders. I don't question it. This is the way it is. I am secure in the bosom of my family and trust them to do the right thing.

And so here I am at age nineteen.

Devi, my mother says to me one morning as she oils and brushes my long, black hair, you are turning into quite a beauty. We will have to find a nice young man for you.

Oh, Ma, I'm still finishing college, I protest, blushing.

My sisters giggle in the background. "Didi, Didi, is he going to be handsome and sweep you away?" they tease.

Oh stop. You are just so immature, I chide them, forever their big sister, their didi, but secretly I am curious and pleased.

Isn't this what I have been waiting for? Except for my male cousins, I have little contact with young men. Everywhere we girls go, we are chaperoned. In college, I avert my gaze if I see a boy looking at me. If he talks to me, I answer abruptly and walk away. I would like to be freer, but at the same time I am afraid of the family's disapproval. Talking to young men other than your relatives invites scandal. So I shy away, secretly envying the girls who can talk and joke with boys so easily. The idea of a fiancé seems appealing. Of course, a wedding can wait. After all, I am still in college.

And so I romanticize and am not surprised when one day my mother rushes up to me on my return from classes.

Hurry and change into something pretty. And fix your hair. Your uncle and father are waiting for you in the study.

I make haste with my grooming, and as soon as I am presentable, I head toward the study.

Wait, wait, calls my mother and hands me a tray of refreshments to take in. She and my aunt follow me.

There is a rather severe-looking middle-aged man, dressed very prosperously, with my uncle and father.

"Mehra Sahib, this is my niece," my uncle introduces me as I offer the refreshments.

The man nods and looks me over. Can she speak English? he asks.

Yes, my uncle replies for me.

He gestures toward a chair. I sit tentatively at the edge and cast my eyes down. I can feel the man's eyes scrutinizing me. Can she cook? he asks.

"Of course, Mehraji. Our girls are brought up to be obedient wives," my aunt simpers.

The man gives a sheepish laugh. Very good, very good. That's how it should be.

There are a few more moments of awkward silence, and then my uncle nods at me. You may go.

My father says not a word and does not look at me, but I sense his distress as I walk out. My mother accompanies me.

What was that about? I ask my mother.

Ah, he's a very rich man! His son is in America, very successful and working for a high-powered company. He is looking for a wife for his son.

I don't want to go so far away, I protest, but my mother only strokes my head in reply.

That night, I cannot sleep. Is this to be my fate? All my life I have been prepared for this day when I will be displayed as a prospective bride. One part of me hopes that I will pass muster, but now that it is a reality, I'm scared. I don't want to go away from the family and all that is familiar. It's enough to be marrying a stranger, but to go to America! I will protest. I cannot let this happen.

The next morning, I approach my father. "Babuji, I say, are you and Chachaji planning my marriage? I hear the boy lives in America."

My father is quiet for a moment. He flushes guiltily. I can read the conflicting emotions in his face. Nothing is settled. We have to first meet the boy, and then we will see.

But I don't want to go so far away, I protest.

Patience, daughter. Wait till you meet him. He smiles as if to reassure me, but his eyes look sad.

I grasp his arm. "Babuji, I don't want to leave you; please don't make me," I beg him. My father releases my hold gently. He does not look at me.

Devi, are you planning to be an old maid? he teases. If not this boy, there will be another. It has to be.

I'm in tears. You just want to get rid of me. I know we are burdens.

No, no, he protests and hugs me tightly until I am calmer. My daughters are my jewels, but we parents have to let go sooner or later, so no more arguments.

I realize this must be hard for him as well. He has always been a gentle father, guiding us by kindness and example rather than harsh words. I think of my friends who quake in front of their fathers, and I am grateful. I must trust him and not cause him any further anguish.

That evening as we sit around for the evening meal, my uncle appears to have shed his usual, stern countenance.

Devi, he says and turns to me, it looks like you have made a conquest. Yesterday's visitor approves of you for his son. He will be coming from America next month, and we will settle your engagement at that time.

But Chacha I start to protest.

"Bas, enough! he interrupts. There will be no more discussion."

I bite my lip but determine not to appear so weak as to cry in front of everybody. The food swims in front of me, and I taste nothing as I pick at my meal. There is joking and laughter around me. I can hear the teasing voices of my cousins, but nothing registers. One of my sisters squeezes my hand in sympathy, but I feel no solace. As soon as I can, I rush to my room and sob in despair. I barely hear my mother enter the room.

"Beti, daughter, she cajoles, I know this is sudden, but it's a good match. They are a wealthy family and business associates of your uncle. It will help all of us. You know your father lost a lot of money recently in the stock market, and that's put a big burden on your uncle."

So I'm to be the pawn. Is that it? I cry.

Don't talk like that, she scolds. You knew this day had to come, and we are doing our best to marry you into a family where you won't lack any comforts. I am sure he is a nice young man. His family is held in high regard in the town.

Can't you find someone equally nice who doesn't live abroad? I counter.

Foolish child, scolds my mother. Do you know how many mothers would like to see their daughters have such an opportunity? And with that, she leaves the room.

I stay awake all night thinking about this turn of events. It is no use fighting such a formidable force as my uncle. And if I consent, it might make things easier for my father. I understand my mother's unspoken words that he is in a bind, and it is payback time. At that moment, I hate my uncle. If he had daughters he would not give them away so readily. Still, I resolve, I will not acquiesce so easily. I will make my conditions, and I will wait to meet my intended fiancé before saying yes.

There is no more talk about the subject, and after a month I think with relief: Good! It has come to nothing.

But some days later, my uncle summons me again to the study. My father is there too but not the women of the house.

"Your fiancé to be will be visiting us in two days. I have instructed your mother to prepare for the occasion. Conduct yourself demurely, and make us proud," my uncle commands. I appeal to my father.

Don't I have a say in this, Father?

But all he can say is, Trust us. This is not a comforting answer, and that evening I seek him out privately. "Babuji, promise me that you will not give them a dowry."

I promise, my child; I promise, he whispers, wiping a tear. I know this is hard on him, and his hands are tied. There is no point in worrying him even further.

The next two days are spent in a flurry of activity. I am relegated to the kitchen where I prepare a host of delicacies under the supervision of a critical aunt and mother. This is to impress the prospective bridegroom and family with my housewifely skills.

But I'm missing classes, I protest.

You are not going to need classes where you're going, missy. It's time to do your duty and produce sons. What nonsense, classes indeed. Look at me---I'm living in luxury. Did I go to college? scolds my aunt.

I look at my aunt with her rolls of fat, her teeth stained red from chewing paan, the betel leaf so popular with the women of the zenana.

I hope I'm never like her, I think to myself. All she thinks about is food and money.

On the day of the event, I am bathed with fragrant oils and dressed in my best sari. My eyes are darkened with kohl. A string of flowers garlands my hair. I am adorned with my mother's wedding jewelry.

My mother beams with pride. Look at my beauty, she says, putting a black dot by my ear to ward off the evil eye.

Hmph, sniffs my aunt. Beauty is as beauty does. She has a rebellious streak in her. Yes, I think to myself, you have that right. I am not going to give in so easily.

The doorbell rings, and she leaves in a flurry of excitement with my mother. I wait nervously to be called.

It isn't long before my sister Sita pops in. "Didi, they're calling you! she giggles. I glare at her, and she becomes grave. It will be okay. He's quite handsome," she adds as consolation. I pull my sari over my head and check myself in the mirror. I'm pleased with what I see. I hope he will be too.

I enter demurely. Come, come, urges my uncle encouragingly. Turning to the young man, he says, Hari, this is my niece, Devi.

I look at him squarely in the eyes as I say, "Namaste." I'm undecided about what I see. He is good-looking, tall, and clean cut, but his eyes seem cold and distant as he nods in response. I greet the rest of the guests, and there is an awkward pause.

What are you waiting for? Offer some refreshments, chides my aunt. I hurry to the kitchen with my sisters and come back with trays laden with freshly prepared snacks.

This is delicious, says Hari's mother, biting into a pastry. Her prosperity is evident in her considerable girth and the display of jewels and brocade with which she has bedecked herself.

Yes, my daughter's a good cook. My mother smiles proudly, but I want to scream at her. Is cooking my only virtue? Haven't I aced every exam in school and college so far? But girls in my world are marketable commodities, their worth judged by their dowries and housewifely skills. An education is looked on as a liability.

Hari's mother beams in approval.

Well, son, what do you think? She will make us a fine daughter-in-law, won't she? asks the father.

His son stares at me long and hard until I am blushing with shame.

Yes, she fits the bill for a good daughter-in-law. He emphasizes the last words. A sardonic smile plays on his face. His father looks away. I'm confused. What does he mean by I fit the bill? Is my family paying them after all? Everyone else seems to be pleased, clapping and laughing in congratulation.

Wait, I shout above the noise. You didn't ask me if I agreed.

There is a shocked silence as everyone stares at me. My mother looks embarrassed, my father looks anxious, and my uncle is glaring at me.

What is this nonsense---

No, no, interrupts Hari's father. Of course, we want to know how you feel, child. Well then, I agree on three conditions. One, I will not bring a dowry and---

But before I can continue, my uncle expostulates, Don't be absurd! But of course, we'll give a dowry.

No, says a loud and clear voice. It is my father. My daughter is not disposable to be given away for a dowry. She's a jewel in herself, and that's how she will come into your home.

Yes, yes, of course; daughters-in-law are like the goddess Lakshmi. They bring prosperity and, we hope, many sons. Mr. Mehra is trying to smooth over the situation. "After all we are modern people and don't believe in dowries. I see your daughter drives a hard bargain, though, Mittal Sahib. He gives a sheepish laugh. What else, child?"

I want a promise that I can return to India every year to see my family, I say, my voice quavering at the prospect of leaving them.

Why not? replies Hari's father. I am sure my son will be coming to see us every year.

And I want to finish my studies and get a degree, I conclude with a determination that surprises even me.

My prospective mother-in-law is indignant. "Hmph! So many conditions and not even a dowry! And who is going to pay for this degree-figree, pray?"

Mr. Mehra looks affronted. A frown is etched on his face. I am hoping this will put an end to the negotiations. The prospective bridegroom has been remarkably detached from the conversation until now. But suddenly I hear him join in emphatically.

It's fine. I agree. She might as well get an education. I don't want an ignorant wife who will embarrass me with her country manners. She will fit in better if she learns American ways.

I warm toward him, ignoring the implied insult. After all, I know I'm not familiar with Western ways.

Then it's settled. My uncle sighs with relief. "Are we agreed, Mehra Sahib?"

Yes, yes, if that is Hari's wish. Let us settle the wedding date for a few days from now, and then Hari can apply for papers for her to accompany him back to America, says the father.

And so it is settled. At the time, I am too naïve to recognize that Mr. Mehra seems all too eager for this match. I have bargained for my future as best I can and am determined to make it work. At least the boy is not repulsive to look at.

Why don't we leave the two young people alone to get to know each other? someone suggests.

So they all troop out of the room. Hari and I sit in an awkward silence. I avoid looking at him.

"Thank you for agreeing to