Stony Sister

Impulsively, I  gripped her arm before she could drop in the murky waters.  Her coffee colored skin was cold on my rough fingers pressed into her arm. She pressed on stubbornly, attempting to escape my vice-like grip, like a rabbit with its front paw snared in a rusty bear trap. I grunted, clinging onto her other forearm.

Rigid bone and dry skin met my palms instead of the softness of flesh every healthy human was supposed to have. I clicked my tongue. Skinny, far too skinny.

The one time I decided to have a morning walk and this happened.

I dragged her to the dusty path as she screamed to me in Bengali. Despite spending four years in Calcutta, I still wasn’t fluent in the language. But the few words I could make out were:

“Please!...Let me go! ”

She thrashed in my grasp, her mica black hair sticking out of her low bun, like a demented banshee.  

My pity for her was growing to irritability. I was in no mood to deal with a childish tantrum this early in the morning.

Why did people even consider suicide when there were people barely hanging on the strands of life? My Mother desired nothing more than to extend her life after malaria held her in its unforgiving clutches and this girl, the perfectly healthy girl has the audacity to willingly cut her life short. Not on my watch.

“Don’t be foolish! Like Hell I’m letting you go kill yourself. And speak in English. I can barely understand a word you’re saying.” I added more pressure to her arms, earning a yelp.

I know I was being a bit too harsh, especially to an unstable girl.

You’re letting your temper get the best of you Matilda. My Mother’s voice sweetly scolds.

With a sigh, I compose myself and loosen my hold on her slightly.

Sweat wetted my palms as she whipped her head towards me. And I couldn’t help, but stare back. If a stone could be a person it would have probably been her. Round eyes, so impenetrable and solid they could practically shatter a window. Thin lips were cracks on low-grade cement.  Her large forehead reminded me of those beach-side caves my Father used to take me to the Maldives. It was a type of face that come to your mind randomly or in dreams for how terribly striking it was. She wasn’t beautiful, but certainly unforgettable.  

Maybe it was the utter hopelessness in those dark, dark eyes or her feeble figure, for what I did next.

“Come with me.”I offer my hand.

She skeptically darted her eyes up to my hand and my face, biting her bottom lip. After a moment of hesitation, my impatience was clear as day, on my face as she gently placed her hand in mine, akin to a wild animal exploring uncharted territory.

***

From that faithful morning, I adopted a sister. Or a spirit would be a more fitting title. Despite treating her with the royalty only a guest could afford, she stalked the halls.  The only sounds she made were the pattering of her nimble, tiny feet. She would daydream; sit in random corners of the house. Her gait was heavy, as if boulders were wrung around her small ankles.  When I asked her about her parents or where she came from during meals, where I forced her to my empty dining table, she would stare down at her food, silently pleading for the discussion to end.

Patience me. Patience. It will definitely take time for her to open up.

But patience was a virtue I never seemed to possess.

One morning, when I was fed up with her stagnant nature, I marched to her lavished bedroom. She never slept on the bed, always sleeping on the floor on a long stretch of cloth. But that was fine; I knew that some Indians preferred hard bedding. They said that it prevented back problems apparently.

“What’s your name?”

She absorbed my words, tilting her head. Silence filtered the air, burning my short fuse.

“What’s your name…” I repeat, in my broken Bengali that sounded even more pathetic to my own ears.

I sighed, heading to the door.

“Leela.” She whispered.

I turned back, eyes wide as she shrunk under my graze.

“Leela.” She said as she covered her face with a blanket.

A genuine smile stretched across my face.

“Matilda.”

It was a start.

***

My favorite room in the mansion was the library. Hardcover books filled the wooden shelves, occupying every available space. From Fitzgerald to Fydor to Frans Kafka, the library had every book that did and did not matter. There was a grand window that let the sunlight slip through.

I’ve been learning Bengali lately to understand what’s she saying.  While I scribbled the words down, she appeared at the doorway. She peered behind the doorway, observing she like a doe. A terrible hider, but it was endearing it a way.

I waved my hand, gesturing for her to enter.

She hesitantly roamed the room, eyeing the décor and books, like uncharted land. Wonder sparkled in her eyes as she analyzed her surroundings. I stand up and reach for a picture book.

“Here. You’ll like it.” I offer the picture book.

She licks her dry lips in nervousness, before taking the book. And that was how our evenings were spent, studying and reading books til the cook called us for supper. She taught me Bengali and I taught her English. A fair exchange.

“Can I call you Dee-de?” She asked in one such lesson.

“What does that mean?”

She smiled at that,”Older sister.”

“Of course then.”

And with every conversation, that eerie hardness in her eyes finally seemed to soften. Little by little.

***

One night, I felt something bump my shoulder. I sat up, gasping in shock as I recoiled from the touch. My silk nightgown clung to my sweaty figure as I turned on the lights.

“Dee-de, It is just me.” Leela muttered.

“You gave me a heart-attack there dear girl, what’s the matter.” I pat to my side of the bed.

She twisted the hem of her night sari. No matter how much I insisted on western wear, she settled for her saris. But it was fine. Her comfort meant more than what I thought she should wear.

She curled into herself, hugging her knees to her chest.

“I can’t sleep. My thoughts they are…they are.”

“Troubling you” I finished for her.

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Then tell me. I won’t judge.”

“You promise.”

“Yes.”

She fiddled with her tiny calloused toes. The calm before the dam spilt. Then the dam snapped. The flimsy wooden barricades unable to contain what flowed within her and flooded into me. She told me how her parents forced her to marry a man two times her age and how her wretched husband would abuse her. How he would hurt her in such a way, nobody could ever notice her. But things were turning for the better. The baby was coming and that meant everything was going to be alright. Except the poor baby didn’t make it.  It was too much. It was too much for a girl barely what seventeen? Eighteen? She was strong. Stronger than I imagined. Women without any choice were always so unbearably strong.

“He disowned me after that and now…now I do not  know what to do.” She sobbed into my shoulder,” I am free, I am free, but I am scared…scared that he will come back and snatch it away from me.”

I was furious, enraged with the adults that were supposed to protecting her instead of hardening her.

“Don’t worry I won’t let him or anybody else dare hurt. Never again.” I kissed her forehead.

That was a promise.