The Retreat
Jennifer Marshall
27 May 2009, 17:13Bindu squatted on her haunches in the red dust, her hands kneading the mixture of clay and cow dung until it was a thick, orange paste. She added a little more water and slapped it onto the wall of the circular stone tower, one of four that stood atop the sand dune, marking each corner of the square courtyard inside. The Boss re-built the retreat every year after the monsoon in preparation for tourists and visiting friends. The stonemasons had finished the main structure of the camp two days ago and she and the other girls now worked through the heat of the day to cover the stone in the red clay, working swiftly in the sun to avoid it drying before they had smoothed out the surface. The sulfuric stench of the shit didn’t bother her. She hoped it would bring prosperity to the camp and that this year travelers would spend their rupees like seeds scattered in the fields after harvest.
Bindu’s mother had also worked for the Boss and Bindu had inherited the debt her mother had incurred as a young woman, a loan to pay for Bindu’s food and clothing as a child. Bindu’s father had been a servant of the Boss’ brother, a self-made man who had sacrificed his father’s inheritance to his sister and established a successful import and export business dealing in fine fabrics and furnishings. He had visited the camp to outfit the Boss, bringing her father along to take measurements and cut patterns. Bindu’s mother had described him to her a number of times, laughing warmly as she remembered the soft scar running through his weathered palm, bonding his flesh together in a smooth, pink groove, like a river of rose water. His hand frozen in a claw, he would pretend to pounce on Bindu’s mother like a tiger. She would squeal in protest and slap him and push him away in mock contempt.
Bindu looked down at her own hands bound in gauze. The bandages were moist and soiled with ochre earth. They pulled at her skin as she peeled the layers from her palms and re-bound them tightly. She found the heat of the sun comforting, unlike the stifling fumes of the brick kiln where she worked every winter. She preferred not to think of the previous winter, her mother’s teeth chattering and torso shivering against hers in the sharp, night air and then the stillness of her chilled body. She had pulled her mother’s shred of the woolen blanket over her and sobbed into it, its sharp fibres scratching her face and stinging her eyes.
The Boss summoned Bindu to the main house, a large, open room concealed in one of the turrets off the courtyard. Its floor was littered with large cushions, faded, velvet throws and the yellow walls were cluttered with sepia photographs in tarnished frames. Rows of Rajas stood proudly to attention, rifles at their hips, a tiger skin stretched between ten or twelve men in the foreground like an emperor’s robe. Another photograph framed a boy leaning against an ivory horn reaching twice his height, its smooth, slender arc emphasizing his awkward pose.
“Bindu, girl, fetch me some chai and some tobacco, I am dry.”
Bindu bowed hurriedly and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground. She turned to run to the kitchen and bumped into a man’s chest with a solid thump. The Boss’ nephews had joined him to inspect the progress and stalked the camp with a threatening air, daring any of the girls to flinch. Jasmer, the older of the two, leered at her, his teeth stained red, and spat his chewed paan at her feet. His younger brother shoved her from behind so that she stood wedged between the two of them, inhaling the salty sweat of Jasmer’s damp, open shirt. He grabbed her matted hair, his face twisted in disgust.
“Look at you, dirty dalit. Clean yourself up or I’ll throw you in the trough and see to you myself.”
“The boss told he is dry,” she muttered hesitantly under her breath.
“Not for long I hope, make haste!”
Sneering, he pushed her into the sand and she tumbled a little way down the dune, her tattered skirt billowing over her head. She dusted herself off and scrambled across to the kitchen, terrified and excited to have been so close to a man but most of all anxious to fulfill the Boss’ request. The head workman looked on, keeping her in his sight and tutting softly under his breath.
Bindu watched closely as the fat cook crumbled strands of saffron into the Boss’ rice. He wiped sweat from his brow with a giant, grey sleeve and grumbled to himself upon hearing her at the doorway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and scratching her scalp. He tossed her a ball of fried milk, sticky and soaked in golden syrup. She rolled it around in her mouth, savouring its sweetness until her parched tongue ached.
She left the tray of steaming chai at the entrance to the main house and returned to the cluster of girls who had started plastering the last of the towers. Bindu sat slumped over her mound of clay, shaping and moulding it with long, deliberate strokes. She paused to pick at the grime caked on the back of her neck and glanced up to see a trail of red dust signaling the approach of the entourage. As it neared the entrance to the camp, she heard male voices, young and old, high and deep, chanting a tangle of melodies.
The Boss sent for his folk band every year in high season to entertain the guests. On quiet evenings, he would lounge amongst the cushions, requesting old favourites and swilling his brandy and ice whilst belting out anthems celebrating royal battles and the glory of the Rajput rulers. Every now and then he would toast an imaginary comrade, a wave of brandy spilling over his glass and staining his silk tunic. Bindu often hid, crouched in the corner, watching the lighter-skinned boy sitting cross-legged at the front of the group. His nimble fingers skipped over the holes of his slender, wooden pipe. Her toes twitched, itching to follow the notes away and escape into the empty desert night. As the hours wore on, the Boss would ask the boy to play a sad and wandering tune that reminded Bindu of her mother’s animated tales of intrigue and unrequited love. She imagined he played each tune for her pleasure alone and sat listening until she felt giddy with nerves.
The trail of battered jeeps grew larger in the distance. Scales of discordant notes dispersed into the air and the sounds and the sight of the musicians’ turbans bobbing in time combined into a jumble of chorus and colour. The thunderous echo of the Dhol drum announced their arrival as the party reached the foot of the camp. The drum hung like a huge medallion around the neck of an old man in a racing green turban, its barrel, engraved in gold, glistening in the sun.
She watched as the beggar children scrambled through the scrub from the neighbouring village to pester the newcomers. They swarmed the first jeep and grabbed at the air, swiping at each other and scrapping for the invisible prize. The pushing and shoving came to an abrupt halt and the children dropped the fluttering marigold blooms in disappointment. One of the musicians displayed his torn garland proudly, like a bird of paradise flaunting its brilliant plumage. The other men slapped him on the back heartily, shaking their heads and throwing their arms into the air. Bindu recognized the faint hope of a wedding song. The children frowned angrily and picked up stones from the ground, hurling them at the jeep. The golden petals lay bruised and trampled on the ground, lost in a fog of dust.
Bravo!! Beautiful story…love the imagery and the emotions you’re trying to convery! Brilliant, really…
— Roy Lazarus · May 30, 21:30 · #