This is an excerpt from the first story in the collection, The Heirloom

‘Thwack! Thwack!’ I slapped the little girl.

My own skin tingled with the sting of my slaps. After all, I was her mother. But if her bawa heard her bawling, sterner retribution would visit my six-year-old.

‘Be quiet!’ I scolded the sniffling child. ‘Wash up. There is a lot of work. I don’t have time for your nonsense. I am going to the cowshed. Bring the milk pails out.’ I poured the simmering tea into a brass tumbler. Holding it in my sari pallav, I went outdoors. Mini’s bawa sat on the string cot looking up at the brilliant azure dome. The sun had not peeped into our beaten earth courtyard yet. Clay walls rose on four sides of the small but neat square that I smeared with cow dung daily. A sacred basil was ensconced in one corner. I followed my husband’s gaze upwards. An eagle circled lazily, just a speck. It will not rain! I thought but did not utter it. Anxious creases around my husband’s squinting eyes conveyed amply what he was thinking. Our fields were parched. The new green wheat seedlings were turning yellow. Silently, I handed him the tumbler. He held it in cupped palms lined with his pugree end without breaking his observation. Cows were bellowing to empty their heavy udders and I went to them.

‘At least, the milk helps us survive the drought,’ I whispered to myself as I cleaned the shed and untied the four cows that had been my dowry. Mini came in struggling with the brass pails. I glanced at her face. It had been washed clean of her tears. My daughter was dark-skinned with masses of curly hair constantly corkscrewing out of her plaits. She set a pail under the udders of the first cow. ‘Where will I get a dowry for my dark Krishna?’ I murmured, nuzzling my girl and breathing deeply of her baby smell.

‘I am not Krishna. I am Mini,’ she retorted fiercely. Where did she get so much fire? Calling her Krishna, after the dark-skinned god of cowherds, was a joke between us. As milk sprayed into the pail, peace stole over me. Milking always made me meditative.

‘Take her to Hardwar,’ Viji phupi living next door had advised. ‘After all, it won’t do any harm and you can take the opportunity for a holy dip at the Har ki Pauri, too. I have heard that the ganga aarti there is beautiful.’

That night, when I spoke to Mini’s bawa, he was exasperated. ‘Ever since she could speak, she has been talking of her ‘real’ family. Earlier, she would cry and scream in her sleep, calling out names. Now she has started pestering us even during her waking hours… going on and on about her Babuji, some sister called Rimi and Dadi. How she lived in a haveli; how she liked playing with her sister in its garden; how she quarreled with Rimi; how much they loved her…Don’t we love her? Are we not her parents? Is she not our daughter?’

I tried to pacify him. ‘She is our daughter. Does she not obey us? Do everything we tell her to? She loves us…she loves you, doesn’t she?’ Mini’s bawa nodded. Encouraged I went on, ‘Viji phupi says she is remembering purna janam, her past birth. It happens to many children when they are small. As they grow older, they forget all about it. Phupi was saying…’

‘What is that busybody saying now?’ interrupted my husband, harshly.

‘…that we should take her to the priest…’

‘NO. Absolutely no,’ he exploded, ‘It will incite whispers… villagers will gossip… our daughter is crazy…that she sees ghosts…and what not. How will I get her married? And didn’t I tell you not to speak of these matters with Viji phupi? She is the village tattletale!’

‘No, no…,’ I tried to improve matters. ‘…She is a good soul…’ I trailed off weakly, my courage dwindling at the fierce look he gave me.

That night the skies opened and poured down their bounty. We woke to the sweet drumming of rain on our tin roof. My husband was already up. He was sprawled in the open doorway gazing out, contentment in every line of his body. I went to him with his morning tea and dared to voice my thoughts. ‘Let us go to Hardwar to thank Ganga Mai for this blessing.’

He looked up at me, crinkling his eyes, ‘Hardwar? Alright, let’s go. Anyway, the fields will be too sodden to work in for a few days. So we can be off.’

I turned away, happy to have got my way without having to reveal the real reason.

‘Hey! Just a minute! Isn’t Hardwar where our Mini’s precious haveli is?’

Hai Ram! This husband of mine! Doesn’t miss a beat to reach the moot issue!

‘Ummh…yes…,’ and I rushed in, ‘She has been crying that she must go there.’

He turned to me with a quizzical look, ‘Why?’

‘Because she has to do something very important. And it has to be done now or it will too late…’ I sounded silly… even to myself.

But my husband was in a benevolent mood…our fields were drinking… ‘Alright. We will take her to her haveli. Let me also see this palace that she keeps talking about,’ he said with a guffaw.

And a veritable palace it appeared. I stared at the fluted columns rising two floors to support a vast open roof terrace. So many windows with the sunlight sparkling on the glass panes! White marble steps rising to a deep verandah that had chairs and tables arranged in groups. And the garden! Truly a beauty with bright flower beds and mossy lawns...no wonder my Mini could not forget it!

My heart trembled at the very idea of entering the long driveway, where a couple of cars were parked. I looked at my husband and saw my trepidation mirrored in his eyes. We were simple village folk. What will we say? Why had we come to this house? We may be driven out!

But none of our nervousness touched Mini. ‘Come Ma. Come Bawa. This is my home.’ She was pulling us in through the tall iron gates. Ever since we had disembarked from the rickety bus, my six-year daughter was in her element. My ingenuous child had clambered on a rickshaw and confidently given directions to the puller. I had been worried that her instructions would take us nowhere. But we had reached this haveli in no time at all.

Nobody stopped us as Mini dragged us up the short flight of broad stairs to an empty verandah. The tall doors were open, curtains billowing gently in the breeze. As we stood there, half-facing the stairs for flight, an elderly man in a white dhoti and kurta appeared at the door. He queried, ‘Hanhji?’

For all his pristine garments, I knew he was a servant and not the master.

‘Ramukaka,’ Mini piped up, ‘These are my parents. We have come from Kedarpur village.’

The man gave my daughter a puzzled look. I could see that he didn’t recognize her, but he smiled. With a gesture, he indicated that we may enter, adding, ‘I will inform Sethji.’

He departed through a doorway leading to the inner rooms. My husband and I took a few hesitant steps inside and stood there awkwardly. Not so, my daughter. She skipped up to a large framed photograph on the wall. It was of two teenage girls, smeared with colored gulal during the Spring festival. They were laughing into the camera, their resemblance clearly confirming they were siblings.

‘That’s me…I am Rati,’ Mini remarked, pointing to the older girl.

Right then, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, certainly the Sethji, strolled in and halted midstride at Mini’s words. We stared at him aghast but Mini smiled at him. He slowly walked up to her. Looking up at the photograph, he said, ‘How do you know Rati, my child?’

‘I don’t know her,’ Mini declared, ‘I am Rati.’

‘What nonsense is this?’ He exploded, looking at my husband.  Both of us folded our hands in supplication.

My husband stuttered, ‘Huzoor, she is our daughter… Mini. But she keeps saying this is her home. I don’t understand, Huzoor. I don’t know anything.’

Sethji gathered the ends of his silk dhoti and advanced towards us. He looked furious. ‘What do you want? Is this some kind of blackmail? How did you enter? Guard! Guard!’

‘Babuji, wait. Let us hear what they have to say.’ This soft plea came from a young girl who stood at open inner doorway. Fair and slender, her dark curls framed a serene face. Garbed in a simple salwar-kameez, she made a pretty picture. I glanced at the photograph on the wall. Yes, she was the younger girl in it. ‘They look like decent folk,’ she added in a gentle voice.

Sethji calmed down. For the first time, he looked at Mini. My little daughter piped up, ‘Babuji, Rimi is right. Please listen to me. My parents do not know anything.’

The girl, Rimi contemplated my daughter. Then she asked, kindly, ‘Who are you? How do you know my name?’

Mini announced, ‘I am your sister, Rati.’

Rimi knit her brows, ‘But Rati is dead.’

In the meanwhile, Sethji collapsed into an armchair as if his legs were not holding him up. And Mini went on to say what I had heard so many times from her.

‘I know Rati is dead.’ Her voice choked on the words. She seemed swallow her tears and went on. ‘I was Rati in my last life. In this life, I am Mini and live with my Ma and Bawa in Kedarpur village.’

‘…you were Rati in your last life?’ Rimi asked haltingly, puzzling over the meaning of each word. Her father had bent forward, holding his head in both hands. I wondered how long my daughter will be allowed to speak before we would be thrown out by the scruff of our necks.

‘Yes, Rimi,’ my daughter persisted. ‘Don’t you remember how we played in the garden? How we went to school together? How you quarreled with me because you wanted to eat my lunch too?’

‘Yes. I remember everything that Rati and I did. All the incidents of our childhood,’ Rimi said slowly, ‘But Didi was married off and…and....’

‘I was burned to death by those monsters,’ Mini added.