Achhut

By Navraj Patial

The bright sun shines down on me, waking me as she normally does. I rise, I stretch, I breathe. Already the humid air weighs heavily on my lungs. My clothes stick to me from sweat and cause an aggravating itch. All of my days start with weight and most of my days stay heavy.

I glance sideways at my bed. It has a faded pattern, covered in holes and dust. No matter, though, it helps me blend into my home in the slums. My back aches as I move our heavy water pot outdoors to cleanse my hands. The dusty water trickles on my fingers, which are cluttered with blood and dirt from the toil of other days. I caress my wet hands over my face which is weathered and rough. I have only been alive for only 18 summers, but I have wrinkles fit for an elder. I pour murky, brown water on my head, as I stroke my grimy hair trying to clean it. My shower drains the water we had left, so I will have to slog to the river to replenish it. Determined not to waste the day I mask my pain; I mask my face and I begin my journey. I turn around and pull up the decaying, brown sheets that make my home. The decaying, brown day awaits.

I trudge outside my home, and I see Bhima on the floor tanning leather. He is lean and strong; he is a sturdy wall among flimsy ones. Bhima’s face is the same as the leather that he tans, it is dark and worn from years of distress. His raven eyes blend in with the night. Though Bhima is a dark man, his smile is more brilliant than any star. His sweet tone eases any troubles that we experience. Bhima and I were married five years ago through an arranged marriage. Although this man was chosen to be my husband, I would not have chosen anyone else. He insists that I eat at least once each day, though his waist is thinner than mine.

“Are you going to get water?” Bhima asks.

“Yes.”

Bhima worries. “It will be hotter than anything when you arrive. You will faint. I can go get water this time!”

“I will be fine, Bhima.” I reply with a smile on my face. I put my water pot down, give my husband a reassuring hug, and ready myself to lug the pot as I do every day.

“Alright.” Bhima said with cautious eyes. “But remember which side of the path is ours. By the time you return, the Brahmins will have finished reciting the Vedas at the temple. More of them will be out than usual.”

My body tenses as I understand Bhima’s warning. I timidly grab a broom and set out to get water. My broom is attached to my waist, with its hard bristles covering the footprints that I leave behind. Achhuts must dust our paths so that those of a higher caste are not tarnished by our ugly footsteps. I follow the road that connects the Achhut slums to the wealthier settlements of those with privilege. When I fetch water, I can smell the turmeric and ginger of the plentiful and scrumptious street food being sold. Their flavourful aroma makes my stomach rumble out of hunger and out of jealousy.

After, I walk back home my feet are covered in blisters; every step becoming shakier. The density of the pot affords me no breaks. Those blessed with good varna: Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and Vaishyas all enjoy fresh water from a nearby well. For Achhuts, sweet dreams of flawless water come only when we sleep on garbage heaps.

While I head back home, I find a tree with some shade. Finally, I had a small break from the waves of heat. Coloured pools of imaginary water are scattered on the ground from the sweltering weather. I see a group of older men coming back from a nearby temple. They are a group of Brahmins; the type of men that Bhima counseled me to avoid. They are wearing purple and gold robes. I can tell they are older than me, but their bodies show no signs of wear. The men display a sour look on their faces as they march down the dirt path towards me. I give them space, but my shadow accidentally grazes one of the men. My heartbeat increases as their heads jolt back towards me. I know that there will be consequences for my shadow’s infraction.

I look at the ground, desperate to escape these furious, luxurious men. One steps in front of me with a frenzied look. Another declares: “You have come too close to us, slum girl!” That is my last memory before a blunt object smacks my head, and I hit the ground with a sickening thud. My vision begins to fade. The clay pot falls from my grasp and the dirty, precious contents explode as it shatters. These men have reduced me to a minuscule drop of water in a violent ocean.

When I awaken, the sun’s heat is starting to settle. I struggle to lift myself up. I feel my heart thumping inside of my brain. I begin to limp home, dreading every step, as I return to Bhima in this condition. My broom drags behind, dusting a new path that has not been soiled by my polluted blood. If I left any maroon powder behind, these men would ensure that I bled until the last drop. I see Bhima outside, standing on top of the trash that covers the ground of the entire colony. He approaches me quickly, bewildered by my injuries.

“What happened to you?” He demands. “Who hurt you?”

I am unstable from my attack, but I reply firmly: “It is not worth your trouble.”

Bhima silently understands. He glares at the arm that was cut off in the chowk closest to my village. Bhima was taught a lesson when he pushed a Kshatriya’s daughter out of the harm of a runaway carriage. Bhima grows bitter each day with the reminder of our fate at the hands of our prestigious neighbours.

To regain my strength, I investigate the house for foraged food. We are out, and we cannot afford food again until next week. I set out again to rummage through the discarded food piles of those distinguished with higher varna. As I approach a newly harvested pile of toxic food, the overwhelming smell of rancid fruits burns my nostrils. After I feel like I have gathered enough food to feed us, I start to go back home. The night is already starting to set.

Today, has been painfully quick. As I approach home, I see the radiant orange light of fire in the chowk in the other direction. Anxiety creeps up from my battered toes, as fires there are typically only lit when people are turned to ash. What has Bhima done? I begin to run home. Each step pokes me like broken glass, and my breath becomes shorter with every second. My gathered food falls as I run for eternity in a panic. At long last, I arrive at my sheet-house, but I do not see Bhima anywhere. I call out for him, but I hear no response. Our neighbour, and Bhima’s closest friend, beckons me outside.

“Whe-where is Bh-Bhima! Do you ha-have any idea where he is?” I stammer.

I wait for his response for what seems like days. He finally moves his hand and slowly points where those with higher varna live. All that Bhima’s friend says is, “They attacked you. It was the last of their abuses that he was willing to tolerate”.

My heart nearly collapses at this news. Even knowing his ghastly fate, I cannot leave Bhima by himself. What if he’s still alive? What if I can still save him?

I run again towards the crowded chowk. I stop dead when I see Bhima tied to a post. Blood is oozing out from whip marks that envelope his remaining arm and his proud chest. I start to weep. I stagger towards Bhima for one last kiss. Our reunion is interrupted when I am tackled by servants of some nearby Brahmin, ready with torches. They had all taken in the spectacle of Bhima’s retribution. These men pin me down, but I have decided that my struggles end here. The blisters on my feet widen and worsen as the flames ignite my body in a slow, agonizing cook. My consciousness starts fading with each second becoming excruciatingly longer. Not even the purest water can save me.

I look at Bhima one last time with a smile on my face. I hope that we will reunite with smiles once I, too, become ash.