Roses and Broken China

Roses. I smell roses. Not the overpoweringly heady scent of jasmines, or the seductive depths of the queen of the night. No, this was the distinct, light, airy, almost-smell of roses. Not the hothouse, differently colored ones that last forever in crystal vases. No, the real kind. The tiny, deep red ones that start to pucker and dry the instant they are picked. Those, whose petals are ripped apart, mangled, tossed like spots of velvety blood on pristine white sheets of newly-weds everywhere. The ones which swing at the ends of gajras, caressing every well-dressed woman’s ears and neck. Those are the roses I smelled that evening, a long time ago.

My sister and I were alone that evening. Our parents were away, attending one of the weddings that appeared with clockwork regularity, every week, during the short, pleasant winter. The servant after spraying the house with ‘Flit’ had gone for the night. The first line of defense against our never-ending war against mosquitoes. Some ‘Flit’ law recorded somewhere, dictated, that we stay away from the rooms for forty-five minutes, precisely.

So we sought refuge in the large courtyard. Sitting on cane chairs, on the black and white checkerboard of the patio, we tried to entertain ourselves. We giggled at the crown of mosquitoes, flying in perfect formation on top of our heads. Occasionally one of us would swing abruptly, while the other watched the crown pitch alarmingly. Apparently, the Flit had driven all the mosquitoes outside, to feast on all the uncovered parts of our bodies, al fresco dining at its best.

“Accha, achha, tell me a story, I am soo bored,” I begged my elder sister, since she seemed to be in a rather indulgent mood.

“What story, you idiot? Here I am being eaten alive, and all you can think of are stories. Totally useless." Since this was not accompanied by a hard swipe at my head I did not get too worried. She liked being begged.

“Please, please, na,” I begged, with no shame, “if you tell me a story…I won’t, won’t tell Amma that you beat me while she was gone.”

“But I haven’t hit y…” she started, and I saw the dawn in her eyes. I smiled, expectantly, smugly.

“I will kill you one of these days...” but then she began.

“This is the story of an old house. It was one of those big, old “bunglas,” you see in north India all the time. Yellow brick, accented with white. Huge grounds, once full of mango trees, that had been cut down in the middle of the night, to reappear as boats on the Ganga, and rickshaws somewhere else in the city. Its ceilings were high, and its floors were made of old china. Not just any china, but tiny chips from the finest tea and dinner sets, which once broken had been sold in bulk to some junk dealer. Each individual piece had once been a work of art, and together, they made the house unique.”

“I know, I know, it’s this house. It’s the only house I know whose floors are made with broken china. It is isn’t it?” I was jumping with excitement, paying tribute to my Holmsian detection. How often had I lain on the coolness of that floor and traced out the individual pieces, making up stories of the people who must have once used the fine china?

“Shut up. Do you want to listen or not?”

“Yes, yes…keep going.”

“Like a grand courtesan the house was adored and pampered in her youth. She was beautiful, with her grand sparkling chandeliers, and the lush velvet drapes that highlighted her graciously tall windows and doors. And like the rest of her trade, she was fickle and tempestuous. Once, after a new roof had been added instead of a new chandelier, the still-wet roof caved in. A crystal chandelier was added to the main dining room the next day. She bargained for attention, and usually got it. But like all courtesans pampered and adored, she too was cast aside, once she got too old. But that was later.”

Much later, when pieces of plaster from the ceiling would assault unsuspecting heads. Or, the moisture that crept up from its foundations one night, giving the walls a rather strange two-toned look. That innovation in home design persists today, undaunted by subsequent and numerous slatherings of Snowcem. And trapped within those thick layers of paint and cement, her spirit languished.

“A woman we called MJB (something, something Begum) bought it in the 1920s. She had too much money and time, both of which she squandered refurbishing the house. After she bought it the house was gutted and totally renovated, unveiling its inherent beauty. Her husband, a successful and rich lawyer, perhaps glad to be rid of her company (she had a nasty tongue and a quick temper) gave her full rein, a rarity in those times.

Something happened in that house one summer, but no one quite knows what it was. Nothing spectacular or earth shattering, but something nevertheless. Perhaps that was the summer when after visiting many doctors she realized that indeed she was really barren. Or perhaps, it was then, that she accepted that all the saints and fakirs who had promised her a son, were lying to her. That despite all the money she lavished on them, and all the strange rituals she forced her husband to follow, she could and would never conceive. She would never have a child. No, not even if she made her husband dig up the grave of fertile women who had died ten years ago, on a moonless night, and bring her a pinch of the soil to drink in her tea. Not if she abstained from sex for ninety days to purify her soul, preparing her body to be implanted. Not even, if she spent ten days and ten nights in prayer and fasting. For nothing worked, and she was shrewd enough to realize that she had been tricked.

Or perhaps that was the summer when she heard of her husband’s mistress. A delicate courtesan with a powerfully throaty voice, she captivated him, even as his wife’s behavior grew increasingly bizarre. And was it then that she found out about his child with her? A son, who looked like his own, stamped with his blood and his strong features. Even though he would never officially acknowledge him as his heir, that child would inherit vast amounts of money after his ‘mamoo-jaan’s’ death. That too, was, of course, later.

Something made her plunge deeper within herself. She had no reason to protest really, especially in a time when most prosperous men needed a mistress to proclaim their freedom and virility. And it wasn’t even that there had ever been a great love, even liking, between her husband and herself. They were like any other married couple, bound by a contract, and ties of intertwined family relationships, money and property. And most of all, she had no right, because she was unable to bear children--a son-- a grievous sin. For a barren woman was the ultimate pariah, unable to create anything. Nothing beautiful, vibrant and good was ever created by a barren woman. Her childless fate was what women dreaded and whispered about, furtively, breathing sighs of relief as their own bellies swelled with progeny, and hers never did.

It was this summer then that the broken china floors were added. The white marble that had been installed just three years ago was ripped up to make way for the new floors. Legend had it that this rather pampered lady watched the installation of each section as it happened. The workers could only work in small sections because of the delicacy of the task. First a smear of cement would be painted onto the bare floor, then each piece placed just so. Then, on to the next small section, until two years later, it was complete.”

Some of the smaller, pulverized tiny fragments were used to create her entwined initials, MJB, embedded into unexpected places within the floor, one in each room. A forerunner of ‘Where’s Waldo?’ I had made many a new friend slither around on their bellies looking for the hidden initials in each room.

“She adorned the doors and windows with brocade curtains, supervising the lush gardens from behind them. Her floors were like a beautiful piece of art that needed a spectacular frame to display them. She shouted at the servants to be gentle on the floors if they scrubbed too hard in their frustrated zeal. “You heathens. Never seen anything decent in your lives. Now you are hell-bent on destroying my beautiful floors. Rascals” They learned to avoid her random slaps aimed at their cheeks.

The house and its floors consumed her. After a while, she refused to go on out of town trips with her husband. Soon she started to miss weddings, births and funerals, events she had never missed before, if only it had been to flaunt her status and showcase her temper. But now it was as if she felt no need to go anywhere, visit anyone. She even refused to venture outside the house. Servants said she carried on long conversations with someone, in the dead of night, in gentle tones. If it was not for the fact that her husband still attended social events and met people, society would long ago have forgotten that she had ever existed. She would have melted into the background like a niggling, forgotten, unremarkable smell.

It is said friends and relatives, even her husband, forgot what she looked like. In fact, the day he died, after a long lingering illness, she was busy supervising the polishing of her beloved floors. They were polished gently each day. No dust or grime was tolerated on them. They had to be perfect, softly gleaming.”

Often I wonder about the original owners of the china. Was that purple triangle, gleaming with a tiny burnished paisley part of a plate or a dish? Perhaps it was part of a dowry collected by some young bride’s parents? And where did that rather common blue and white patterned piece come from? From a teapot used to fuel lazy afternoon get-togethers? And that translucent piece of jade? Perhaps from a simple and elegant serving platter used to serve a nawab or a prince? And that flirtatious, blushing rose piece. Was that from the drinking cup of a haughty nautch girl?

A million stories vied for attention and whispered to anyone who would care to listen.

“MJB died the year you were born,” my sister looked at me as if I had something to do with it. Indignant yet interested I stayed silent.

“Gradually, as she grew old, unscrupulous associates, servants and distant relatives stole her husband’s money until she was reduced to renting out rooms from the house, to survive. Since none of her relatives and former friends really remembered her, she spent her time alone, unrelieved except for two servants, who robbed her blind, even as they tended to some of her most immediate needs, ignoring her most of the time. Her husband’s ‘nephew’ had moved into the neighborhood, a few houses down, with his ailing mother. Or that is what one of her servants told her. As always, she gazed silently into the floor, a small smile playing on her lips.

Her only joy was to gaze into her floors and talk of the time when they were installed, to anyone who would listen. And there were not many that did. Years passed, and as it happens to everyone, her body and mind and spirit began to betray her, gradually, one by one. And as her vision failed, she would lie on her stomach, letting her hand dangle and trace out the edges in the china. Her wrinkled, arthritically bent fingers caressed the smooth, cold, hardness, relentlessly, almost as if she would wear out the china.

Then, one day, she died. Just like that. It is said that she let out a heart-rending scream as the death rattle sounded in her throat, reminding her that time was running out. It grew louder and more insistent. “I can’t leave. I can’t leave,” she shouted as the snake consumed her.”

“But we are not really sure if she has gone, are we?” my sister looked up at me, and I felt the goose bumps rise on my body. “She wore an attar of roses,” she murmured, “and she comes back to look into the floors. Many people have smelled her perfume as she returns occasionally to gaze wistfully into her floors .”

Both of us fell silent. I tried to smell the air without seeming to do so.

“Why aren’t they back yet?” I wondered aloud of my parents. My sister looked pensively into the distance.

“Oh God, it’s eight already. I promised Smita I would call her tonight.” Gingerly opening the door so as not to let the Flit out, she went back inside to talk with one her giggling, silly friends I despised. Talking about boys or movies or something. I hope I never become like that.

A leaf rustled on the old bel tree and a little frog hop-hopped away. Silence gathered strength, punctuated by the gentle sounds of the night. The silver platter of the moon hung low over the trees, improbably approachable. The wind stirred, as it often did on late winter evenings, a gentle reminder of snow, high in the faraway mountains. Everything was exactly as it should be.

And suddenly, there it was, the smell of roses. Re-tracing ghostly steps from the past, it entered from the back door and wafted past me. Silently I followed, as it entered the Flit laden great room, consuming the air. From there it went straight to the main bedroom, which housed the most intricate floor pattern of paisleys and squares. The smell of chemicals instantly dissipated into a thousand roses. From there it wafted into the main bedroom, growing stronger, yet never cloying. Wandering slowly, yet methodically, it went about, like the lady of the house, doing a final reconnaissance before a big party, straightening a flower here, a tablecloth there.

It returned to the great room, as if compelled. There, it lingered for a while, and then as if something, or someone, was pulling it back it started to shrink into itself. The concentrated core hung in the air for an instant, and then with an inaudible sigh, it vanished.

Vanished. Just like that. Like it had never existed. As if the scent of roses I had followed around, had never been. I awoke, as if from a trance. And it left me to wonder if someone nearby had been burning incense that night. Incense, that smelled of old roses.

I re-trace that path often, years later. I tend carefully to the floors, with some buffing and gentle handling. I live in the home my parents left behind, as most spinsters do. But I know people wonder why I don’t sell the place and move to a more manageable, smaller house. “Sell it before it falls down around you,” some well-meaning souls advised. I cannot do that, just cannot do that. For even as the plaster descends around me in flakes and chunks, and the structure shrinks into its foundations because of the rising, unstable water table, and the floors remain flawless and pristine. And someone has to take care of them, right?

And, some nights, some still moonlit nights, I take that journey into the inner rooms, with the fragrance of roses filling my senses with remembrance.