"Sins and Sinners" by Priyanka Mehta

Here it goes again. The rhythm of its wheels on the track is soothing to me. Mohan thinks it’s irritating, but listening to the sound of the train passing feels like home. The horn is louder than a rooster’s call at four in the morning, though.

-

I suppose it’s time I woke up. Ma won’t be able to handle Gopi by herself. She seems weary these days. I don’t know how to help her. It’s the milking that’s making her tired. I cross the veranda to the shed next to our home where Ma has already milked Krishna and Ram. She sets a new bucket down and starts milking Gopi.

“Ma, you need to rest. Here, I’ll do that. You go back to bed. I’ll make sure to milk enough for everyone.”

“Rest? Don’t you tell me to rest! I haven’t rested since that no-good father of yours left us to rot in this village,” she says while milk falls in the bucket in a steady rhythm.

Here it goes again. She’s been telling me the same story every few days. I pay attention sometimes. I’ve heard the story so many times in the past that I’ve memorized the words. Sometimes I mouth the words when she’s not looking at me. Each time there’s something new in the story. And today it is…

“…should have never married an Untouchable.”

It’s said in a low voice, more to herself than to me. I wonder if she knows what she’s said.

“Father was an Untouchable?” I ask because I must have heard her wrong.

"What?"

"You said Father was an Untouchable."

The color drains from her face. She stops milking Gopi for a few beats and looks around as if making sure no one had heard me say that.

“Of course, he wasn’t, Chottu. Don’t let anyone hear you say that. Do you understand me? I don’t ever want you to mention that word to anyone. Do you hear me? Never!” she says while shaking her finger at me.

“Yes, Ma. I won’t mention it again.”

She sighs, then says, “People in this village are cruel, Chottu. They put on a good mask, but behind closed doors they tear people apart. You were so young when your father left us. Back then, the good women of this village used to stop me on the streets and ask me what I’d done that had made him leave us. I could do nothing but put my head down and walk away because our livelihood depends on these people buying our milk. If I hadn’t walked away, we’d be no better than beggars. Be a man of action, Chottu, never a man of words. Those are cowards.”

By the time Ma finishes milking Gopi, tears well up in her eyes, and I feel bad for being like my brother Murli. The only other time I’ve seen my mother cry was when Murli left home two years ago. I assume my brother had wanted to get out of Gangapur to look for work in Baroda. He is educated, and the city was a better choice for him. The only thing holding him in this dreary place was us. Ma had cried when she'd woken up that morning and saw the letter waving with the wind under the red brick by the door near his cot. He left by the train that’s always on time. Always at four in the morning.

“I won’t leave you like Murli,” I say.

Her only response is to nod and say, “Go on now. Don’t forget to go by Mrs. Pundit’s house. They’ve stopped using the bottled milk. She complained that the sellers were mixed up with the wrong Caste. Don’t forget to take the money from Mrs. Sharda.”

I hang the milk buckets on each side of my bicycle and two on the handles. As I peddle slowly on the well-worn, uneven roads, I think about what Ma said about my father. What if I am an Untouchable? What if someone finds out? Will they see me differently? Will the good people of Gangapur treat us like they treat Mohan and his family?

The questions roll around in my mind while I knock on Mr. Yadav’s door. I wonder if he knows he’s buying milk from a possible Untouchable. He doesn't treat Mohan differently than the other students in the classroom, but I wonder if he would buy milk from Mohan.

Mohan has been my friend for two years now, since we were eleven. I’d seen him collecting the wood chips near the carpenter’s shop one day. Some chips were falling out of his hands, so I began to pick them up with him. When I came near Mohan, the carpenter told me to get away from the likes of him. Mohan dropped all the chips on the ground and ran away.

I told Ma what had happened and she’d told me to stay away from him.

“But why, Ma? He runs away from me in school, too. I just wanted to help him. He always eats lunch by himself, and no one plays with him. It’s his first year in school. I just want him to eat with me.”

“He’s not like us. He’s an Untouchable. Having any kind of relationship with an Untouchable is a sin. You can’t be friends with him, do you understand me? No one will want to be your friend. His family is an outcast. They sweep the roads. Do you want to be friends with someone like that?”

I’d stayed away from him for a few days. One day, he’d been sick on the playground. The teachers had seen him, but no one had moved to help him. When I brought some water to him, Mrs. Pundit had yelled at me to get away from him.

“He’s sick. He needs help. Do something,” I’d yelled. But no one moved from their position.

“He’s an Untouchable. We can’t do anything for him,” Mrs. Pundit had said and turned away from us.

When the teachers had left Mohan on the playground, I made him drink the water. No one was there to see us, or to tell me to get away from him. Mohan was sick, so he couldn’t run away either.

Ma had made me bathe with scorching hot water when I told her. I still don't know why. She wasn’t angry, but Ma told me to never let people see the two of us together. After that day, Mohan stopped running away when I talked to him.

“Why did you help?” he asked with a guarded look in his eyes. He stood with his feet apart, ready to bolt any second.

“You were sick,” I said as I looked around to see if anyone could see us behind the school building. We would be safe from the eyes here. Mrs. Pundit wouldn’t yell at me for talking to Mohan here.

"I'm an Untouchable."

“So? That’s all I’ve been hearing for the past few days. Still don’t see what the big deal is.” I said as I rolled my eyes. I was getting tired of people saying one thing over and over again. “We can be friends as long as we’re not seen. I think we’re safe behind this building and on the train tracks. No one comes out that far.”

Mohan seemed puzzled by my answer, but he smiled after a few moments and said, “Thanks.”

-

The chiming from Mr. Yadav’s clock brings me back to the present. It’s five o’clock. The roosters are crowing, and the birds are singing melodious tunes. This is my favorite time of the day because everything is as it should be. The sky has turned slightly pink, but the sun won’t appear from behind the clouds for at least another hour.

I knock on Mrs. Pundit’s door and wait. I’d never liked her much before she refused to help Mohan, but I’ve hated her even more since. The feeling seems mutual, because she treats me even worse after that day by pretending I’ve done part of the homework wrong and making me do it over and over again. She stares at me as if she's figuring out how to make me confess everything.

I slowly measure the milk and pour it in the container she holds out. She wrinkles her nose as if she smells something bad when she sees me. It may be the manure I made sure to step in after I parked my bicycle by the mango tree. She looks almost sick by the time I finish measuring out the milk. It would be a good day. I can’t wait to tell Mohan. He’d think it was childish, but I hate Mrs. Pundit’s guts for making everyone feel as if they’re lower than a snake’s belly.

By the time I deliver milk to everyone and turn back to go home, the sun has come up from behind the clouds. I get ready to go to school. I hurry so I can meet Mohan in our usual meeting spot behind the school building. In two years no one has caught us. It feels great to hide from the teachers, especially Mrs. Pundit, because she pretends to know everything about everyone.

When I reach our meeting spot, Mohan is already waiting for me. I tell him about Mrs. Pundit and the manure and he shakes his head at me. Mohan’s like that. His responses are always muted. I’d asked him once why he never laughed. He’d never answered, but tears had filled his eyes. I’d pretended not to see them and never asked again. To this day I haven’t heard him laugh, or make any kind of sound above normal hearing level.

“I should be the one to hate her. Just be careful around her, Chottu. She’s more evil than the others,” he says as he bends to take the stones out of his slippers. The school and the roads are littered with rocks of every shape and size. It’s annoying to have to dig them out of the slippers.

“I’m always careful. Don’t worry about me. Let’s go back before anyone sees us,” I say as I turn to see if anyone is watching.

As we round the corner of the main building, Mrs. Pundit screams at me to get away from Mohan. Her screams bring the few people who are playing on the playground to see what’s going on along with the parents who were chatting outside of the school gate. They’d made a circle around us. No way to escape. Nowhere to run.

“I have told you over and over, Chottu, to stay away from him. He is a filthy Untouchable. You were not to go near him. How dare you consort with the likes of him and then touch our food with your filthy hands?” With each word, her voice turns louder and louder until it seems the entire village of Gangapur can hear her.

I want to tell her to shut up, but Mohan speaks up before I can and says, “It is not like that. Please.”

“Shut up, you filthy boy. How dare you speak to me? I’m a Brahmin. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance since we were forced to admit you to this school. If it were up to me instead of the government, you and your filthy parents would have been dead by now instead of polluting this school.” Her face turns an unnatural color of red by the time she finishes talking to Mohan.

“Don’t talk to him like that. It isn’t his fault,” I say as I turn toward Mohan. The look of hurt, anger, and pure hatred on his oval face almost make me turn away from him. I’ve never seen Mohan angry, but at the moment it seems like hatred is pouring out of him and at Mrs. Pundit.

He stares a hole into her, and then he picks up a big rock lying at his feet and throws it at her. Mrs. Pundit’s gasp of surprise is followed by her painful screams. Blood is pouring out of the gash on her forehead. The students and their parents who were standing by silently are now screaming at Mohan. I try to pull him away from everyone because they all look murderous that he dared to hurt a Brahmin. Before I touch him, though, Mr. Yadav pulls me away from the crowd. I try to get away from him, but his grip on my shoulders is strong and I can't move. I yell, but the screaming from the parents and the other students is loud and my voice is drowned in the face of their anger.

Then the rain of stones starts. It’s directed towards the middle of the circle, where Mohan stands staring at the ground. I yell for him to run, and for Mr. Yadav to let me go, but neither hear me. I hear voices yelling “filth” and “should be dead.” I hear Mohan’s screams and the horrible sound of the stones hitting Mohan’s flesh. It’s like listening to a helpless animal’s whining. I shut my ears and close my eyes tightly. Mohan’s painful cries for mercy are ignored from everyone in town, including Mr. Yadav.

When the yelling stops after what seems like hours, I see Mohan lying on the ground, covered in blood and lying still. It’s so quiet. I shake him, not caring who sees me touch him, but he doesn’t move. I want to take him to my mother. She would know how to help him, but I won’t be able to carry him alone. I look toward Mr. Yadav and beg him to help me carry him, but he doesn’t so much as take a step toward me. I look toward the villagers for help, forgetting for a moment that they hurt my friend. No one moves. It’s so quiet.

At length one of them says, “Good riddance. He was nothing but filth anyway.” I don’t know who said that, but I am disgusted by them. All of them. I am disgusted with myself for not being strong enough to protect my only friend in this godless village. I shake Mohan again to wake him up, but he has gone someplace where I can’t reach him.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see my mother kneel next to me. “They murdered him, Ma. All of them. He’s gone, Ma. He won’t wake up. Do something. Please, do something,” I cry as I hold on to her tightly.

Tears are streaming down her face, and I’d sworn I wouldn’t be like Murli. “Shh, no one can help him. Shh,” she keeps saying while she rocks me back and forth in her arms.

“She’s filthy, too. She let her son befriend an Untouchable and we’ve been drinking milk delivered by them. She’s filthy, too. She should die with him,” someone cries from the audience. I hear the shouts of assent and the rain of rocks starts again. My mother shields me with her body, but I cannot let what happened to Mohan happen to her. My mother will not die because of me. The anger gives me strength to pull away from my mother. When I turn to protect my mother, a rock hits me in the head. The pain is sharp and I hear ringing in my ears. I think I hear someone say “sinner.” I hear the villagers’ cry for my mother’s life, and my mother’s cries for them to stop, before I feel dizzy. I think someone is pulling me away, but I'm on the edge of consciousness. I wonder if someone had rung the school bell. It must be eight o’clock now. All the sounds stop.

-

Here it goes again. The rhythm of its wheels on the track is soothing to me. It must be four o’clock in the morning. Mohan thinks…. No, he’s gone. The good people of this village killed him. The painful memory of rocks hitting flesh comes back to me in a rush. First it’s Mohan’s flesh, then my mother’s. Ma.

I sit up in the bed in an unfamiliar room. It smells like the sick room. I realize I’m in Dr. Yadav’s son’s clinic, though saying it’s a clinic is an exaggeration. It’s a big room with cots positioned in every way they would fit with enough walking room. Mrs. Sharda is sleeping at the desk near the door.

I move to get off the bed. I need to see my mother. She must be worried about me. When my feet touch the ground, I realize my feet, hands and head are covered in white gauze. Thinking about Mohan and Ma had made me forget about physical pain. It feels like someone, probably one of the villagers, is sticking sharp pins in my head that have gone through the skull and into my brain. The painful gasp from my mouth does not wake the others, nor does it reach Mrs. Sharda. I make my way through the maze of cots to reach the door when Mr. Yadav’s voice stops me.

“You need to rest. Your head injuries aren’t healed,” he says as he looks from his position by the door. He’s silhouetted against the light from a solitary bulb, so I can’t see his face clearly.

“I need to help Ma. She can’t handle Gopi by herself.” I move to go around him, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Son…” he begins, but I shake him off.

“No! Never call me that,” I say as I move away from him.

He follows me out of the door. I try to walk faster, but the pain in my feet stops me. “Your mother. She died,” he says in a low voice.

“She’s waiting for me at home. Mohan died. She’s waiting for me at home,” I say as I walk faster, ignoring the pain. Mr. Yadav follows behind me, but doesn’t say a word for the rest of the way.

When I reach home, her body is lying on the ground, and wrapped in a white cloth. White is a dreadful color. I hate it. It makes death real. Her face looks younger. She’s beautiful. I drop to my knees next to her. I don’t want to shake her. She looks like she’s at peace. Water falls on the ground. Maybe the roof is leaking again. So why is my face wet? I feel myself detach from reality. One moment I’m looking at my mother, the next I’m looking at nothingness. No pain, no anger, no helplessness. It’s…peaceful.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at a woman who looks like Mohan’s mother. She sits with me for what seems like hours. Mr. Yadav and Mohan’s father have prepared the funeral pyre for my mother. I carry her to the fire and lay her down. More logs are placed on her body. There is another pyre at some distance from her. It is not burning.

“As her son, you will light the pyre,” Mohan’s father says as he hands me the burning wood.

I move to light the pyre. In a few moments, the burning wood casts an orange glow around us. The fire moves upwards in waves until it becomes smoke. I stand there staring at the pyre until the sun comes up and the wood has burned to a mound of gray ash.

I have another funeral to attend. Mohan’s funeral pyre has yet to turn from orange to that same mound of gray. A sense of death echoes in the silence of the morning. I follow Mohan’s parents to their home without speaking a word. His body is covered in white cloth, too. White is a dreadful color. I hate it. It makes death real. The body looks like Mohan. His face is marred by the scars. Mohan’s parents shed tears silently. I'm surprised to see Mr. Yadav move to help Mohan’s father.

“No, not you. You don’t have the right to touch him,” I say as I move to help carry Mohan’s body.

Mr. Yadav nods and follows us without making a move to help with the last rites. I say a silent farewell to the only friend I had in this godforsaken village as I wait for Mohan’s father to light the pyre.

“You were his brother. You should be the one to free him from this world. A father shouldn’t have to send his son off this way,” he says as he moves back to stand next to his wife. I nod and move to light the pyre. The fire is a less scary thing in the light of the day. In the dark, the orange glow is overwhelming even if it’s a beautiful sight. Ma and Mohan are finally free from the hatred of the villagers.

After the funeral, I go home and feed the cows. I make arrangements with Mohan’s parents to take the cows with them when they leave the village. They want to get away from the memories of their son and the villagers’ cruelty towards their child. As I direct the cows toward Mohan’s house, I see Mrs. Pundit talking to a few women under the shade of the mango tree. The conversation stops when I come near the group. I’m glad to see that the long gash Mohan’s rock has made across her forehead will be there for a long time. It’s ugly, just like her. It’s the only signature he left on this world.

When the cows are safely delivered, I return home to pack my belongings. The train will be at the station at four in the morning. It’s always on time. Once I’d tried to run with the train to see how far it went, but the track was endless. It dropped off the earth at some distance and I couldn’t see it anymore. Maybe it passes the city. I could see Murli again. Maybe it crosses the big river some kilometers out of the village. Maybe the river will be deep enough to drown my sorrows. Maybe I’ll learn to swim.