The Strength of Marigolds

Bhakti rises before the sun. Though the room is as dark as a cave, she steps easily over her sleeping children and to the plastic bucket that serves as the family’s toilet.

She tries to relieve her bladder quietly, not out of a sense of privacy but courtesy. She shares this one room with her children as well as her brother and his wife and children. She can do nothing about the odors released from the contents of the bucket by the addition of her urine.

It’s hot in the room and she permits herself a minute to luxuriate in her nakedness before wrapping herself in a pink saree, Promod’s favorite. She smiles at the memory of the first time she wore it for him.

“You are beautiful,” he’d said as she twirled in front of him.

“How beautiful?” She had challenged.

Promod had taken her hands and pulled her to him. One hand rested on the small of her back while his other hand caressed her cheek. “As beautiful as a marigold,” he’d said.

“There are many marigolds in India,” she’d replied. He’d smiled, understanding her meaning. “You are my bright orange marigold.” He’d twirled her around and brought her back close to her. “And I must pluck you.”

She’d blushed, understanding his meaning.

Now she blushes again, feeling the heat warm her cheeks like the noonday sun. The heat quickly dissipates at the realization she will never see that look in his eyes again. Never see his smile, never feel his caress, never watch him sweep the children into his arms and snuggle them.

Bhakti bites the inside of her cheek, the pain helping her fight the tears from falling. She has mourned the loss of Promod for far too long, according to her sister-in-law, Fatima. Mourned until her heart and soul dissolved and poured from her eyes. She is empty. But she has five children, four daughters and the baby boy Promod always wanted.

She has watched Fatima frown sidelong as the food brought home by Sanjay feeds not only her three boys but Bhakti’s four girls. Fatima has said nothing directly to Bhakti, but Bhakti heard Fatima speak to Sanjay in the darkness after she finished pleasing him.

“We don’t know Promod’s dead,” Fatima said. “He could’ve simply run off. Your sons are growing. They need the food her girls are eating. She needs to work. She needs to feed her own children.”

“But my sister has no skills.” Sanjay said.

“She can sew,” Fatima replied. “She can sew masks and sell them in the street.”

Sanjay scoffed. “She has no material to sew masks. And besides, do you know anyone who wears a mask? Have you seen anyone in our slum wear one?”

After a moment Fatima said, “She knows how to spread her legs. And her daughters can—”

Bhakti heard the slap Sanjay administered to Fatima’s cheek, heard the thud as Fatima’s head struck the concrete floor.

Fatima did not utter another sound the rest of the night. In the morning, when her sons asked what happened to her face, she told them she’d tripped over the water jugs on the way to the toilet. She said nothing to Bhakti that entire day.

Fatima has promised to watch her daughters and her son as Bhakti runs her errand this morning. But Bhakti is afraid. The wolves have already come. They showed up on her doorstep just minutes after Promod left, offering rupees. A thousand rupees for her eldest daughter, Ranya. Fatima was there, pushing Bhakti to accept the thousand rupees and see what they might take for her second daughter.

And what will Fatima do if Bhakti isn’t back when the water trucks come this morning at ten? Will she leave the girls to fend for themselves with door unlocked? Has she made arrangements with the wolves? Has she agreed on a price or is it enough to Fatima that there are no longer more mouths to feed?

Bhakti decides in that moment she will be back before ten, whether her errand is completed or not. She opens a vial of red powder, applies it to the part in her hair, and quietly moves to the door. She pulls the bolt, which squeaks, but not enough to awaken anyone. Opening the door, she pulls it closed behind her. She has no way to lock it from the outside, but it shouldn’t matter. It’s too close to morning for robbers.

She offers a prayer to Ganesh for a quick success.

Her worry now is the bands of men who roam the narrow passageways and dark corners in the slums waiting for a woman on her own. They don’t offer to pay, only to leave her with her life, if she’s still alive when they’ve finished with her. No one will rescue her. No one will run for the police. And even if someone did, the police wouldn’t come. This is a slum. Residents here aren’t citizens.

So, Bhakti moves slowly, cautiously through the maze of passageways, ears straining, eyes darting, heartbeat pounding. Other than an elderly woman sitting on a stoop, rocking and moaning, she encounters no one. Finally, she steps from the slum into the muddy road.

She’s immediately assaulted with the tang of decaying bodies, smoke from the hastily assembled crematoriums throughout New Delhi, and the exhaust from a million tuk-tuks, motorcycles, cars, and trucks. It strikes her nostrils as hard as Sanjay’s palm hit Fatima’s cheek.

She covers her mouth and nose with a scarf she’d powdered with saffron and inhales the earthy odor deeply. She takes in her surroundings. Just because she’s no longer in the slum doesn’t mean she’s any safer, though her heart beats normally.

Bhakti has never received a call from a hospital, or a visit from the police informing her of Promod’s death. Promod wasn’t taken to a hospital. At his first Covid symptom, Promod left the slum, hoping to keep his family and the other families living in the slum safe. He told Bhakti he would find a test center and then, if he recovered, he would come home. Months have passed. Bhakti hasn’t seen him or heard from him.

But she has heard that outside crematoriums are bags containing ashes of unclaimed Covid victims. Is it so hard to believe that Promod’s ashes are in one of these bags? That they are in fact at the top of one of these bags? At the top of the very bag she chooses to open?

And just as sure as she will collect Promod’s ashes, she will find the most perfect bright orange marigold. And she will find them this morning. And with that thought, she begins to move towards the nearest crematorium.

As Bhakti approaches the makeshift wooden structure which serves as the office, the sun casts a soft pink hue, greased gray by smog and smoke, across the sky. She removes the scarf from her nose and mouth. Her eyes water, her nose burns, from the stench. Her throat seizes and bile blisters its way up her esophagus. Her knees buckle, her head swims, and she looks for somewhere to vomit. Finding none, she drops onto her haunches and spits furiously into the dirt.

Bhakti fights the urge to place the scarf back over her mouth and nose. It has a different purpose now that she’s here. It will hold Promod’s ashes.

Scanning the front of the building, she sees six white bags. Full. But not closed. Ashes. Her head turns left and then right.

No one.

She looks at the bags again. Selects one.

Her head has stopped spinning. The bile has receded. Her eyes no longer water. She prepares the scarf to receive the ashes. Her eyes never leave the bag. She stands and walks with purposeful intent. She belongs here.

She reaches the bag, heart beating a steady tattoo. Her breathing is slow. She thrusts her hand into the bag and gasps. The ashes are still warm. She wasn’t expecting that.

Bhakti stands there, hand in bag, fingers closed around warm ashes. Warm enough to be a living body. But they’re not a living body. Not even a body. And yet…

“Promod,” she whispers.

“What are you doing?”

Bhakti looks to her right and sees a tall man, gray track pants, blue sport shirt, mask covering his bearded face. Hairnet covering his blue pagri.

The man seizes Bhakti’s wrist.

His grip is hard and Bhakti squeals in pain.

“What are you doing?” The man repeats.

“Please.” Her voice is a squeak. “My husband. Promod. Please. He’s…” Her voice falters from the pain.

She looks up. Her eyes meet the man’s.

He stares back. Hard. His eyes are dark, set deep in their sockets. It’s like looking into onyx.

A long moment passes.

Bhakti waits for the sting of his strike. For his rebuke. For his shout for the police. He’s a Sikh. And she’s a Hindu woman from the slum.

But then his eyes drop, gaze at her hand clutching a fistful of ashes. When his eyes look back into hers, they are softer.

“You are a Covid widow.” It’s not a question.

She nods.

He scans the surrounding area.

“I have to check on something.” He releases her wrist. “Be gone before I return.” He turns without another look at her and disappears inside the building.

Bhakti drops the ashes into her scarf. Grabs another fistful of ashes. Drops them into the scarf. She turns. Fast walks from the crematorium as she closes and ties up her scarf.

After crossing four streets, she stops. Collapses against a wall, clutching the scarf to her breast. She breathes hard. Looks back towards the crematorium. There are no shouts. No pounding steps of pursuing police. She looks around.

No one notices her.

She pushes off the wall, then stops as if hitting another wall. Her mouth falls open at what she sees.

There, lying in the street, untouched, unscathed, is a bright orange marigold.

Bhakti drops to her knees, scoops up the flower. Cradles it, like she would one of her children. Like she would her baby boy. Promod’s baby boy.

Bhakti looks from the marigold to her scarf. Offers a prayer of thanks to Shiva for her good fortune. She jumps to her feet.

She is running. The heat is rising with the sun. She still must get to the Yamuna River. She still must spread Promod’s ashes upon the water. She still must return to the slum before the water trucks arrive. She is running out of time.

And then she stops.

Why must it be this moment?

His body has been cremated. His soul has already been released. His rebirth into a new form has already occurred. Certainly, Shiva did not prevent this simply because he died from Covid. Perhaps the immersion of his ashes in the Yamuna River can wait. Perhaps Shiva had her collect the ashes and marigold for something else.

Bhakti turns and begins running. Towards home. She prays Vishnu will uphold her.

She enters the street leading to her slum, panting. The water trucks are early. The slum’s residents cluster around them, filling their water jugs.

Fatima is there with her three sons, and Bhakti’s four daughters. Bhakti’s son cradled in her arms.

Bhakti approaches. Opens the scarf

Fatima looks up. Sees the marigold. The ashes. Her lips purse. She hands a coin to her eldest son. Whispers in his ear.

The boy nods and sprints away from the trucks.

Fatima says nothing to Bhakti.

The boy returns as Fatima and Bhakti are filling their jugs. He holds up a pot and lid.

“For the ashes,” Fatima says.

Bhakti deposits the ashes. The marigold. Closes the lid.

“Thank you,” Bhakti says.

Fatima smiles. It doesn’t quite touch her eyes. She nods, a slight tilt to the right. She turns toward the slum.

Bhakti follows, not sure if she can trust Fatima. But safe for now.