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A refreshing breeze wafted through the palm fronds and stirred up the fragrance of spring. Taking in a deep breath, the old lady pushed back an unruly lock of gray hair and heaved a sigh of desperate hope. It looked to be a near-perfect market day. The kind of day that lulled her into dreams of selling enough vegetables to afford a whole bag of rice—a small one, of course. Perhaps, if the profits were especially good, she would even buy herself a few pieces of pineapple. What a treat that would be!
Cocking her head to one side, the old lady evaluated her paltry display of vegetables. She artfully repositioned her basket of peppers and pushed the four pitiful cucumbers forward and to one side. A steady stream of shoppers passed by. Men mostly, but a smattering of married women as well. Wives whose husbands had not deserted them. Women who need not fear old age, for they had sons to look after them. Many shoppers crowded by, yet few paused to glance at the old lady's vegetables.
"Beautiful hot peppers!" the old lady called in a reedy voice. A forced smile creased her sunken face. "Fresh today! Picked from my own garden this morning."
Still the shoppers hurried past.
Hours later, long after the sun had sucked away every last vestige of the morning breeze, the old lady still had not earned so much as ten paise. Not ten pennies.
"Lovely peppers, spicy hot," the old lady sighed.
No, no! She must not allow herself to sound desperate. She brushed a calloused hand across her weathered face and refreshed her smile.
"Cucumbers, fresh from the garden!" The old lady didn't dare call them lovely. Not such small ones, plucked from the vine before they had a chance to finish growing. Still, if someone should have a particular hunger for cucumbers this day, and if hers were the only ones at the market, well, perhaps then ...
A woman with two whiney children tugging at her green sari stopped to pinch the old lady's peppers.
"Fresh and firm," the old lady encouraged.
"We shall see about that," sniffed the woman in the green sari. She dug through the old lady's basket and pulled out an especially nice pepper. After giving it a thorough inspection, she laid it aside. As the old lady watched, the woman chose another pepper, then another and another until she had a pile of the best ones. The woman in the green sari scowled at her squealing children. "These peppers will do," she announced as she scooped them into her bag. She handed the old lady three ten-paise coins. Thirty cents.
"No, no! One rupee!" the old lady insisted. Even that was less than she had hoped to get for her nicest vegetables.
"Hah!" laughed the woman in the green sari. "Do you think you are the only one selling hot peppers at the market today?"
The old lady tried to protest. She tried to barter. But the loud shouts of the woman in the green sari frightened the children and made them cry all the louder. Other shoppers stopped to gawk at the old lady seller who provoked such outrage in her customer. In the end, simply to get rid of the woman and her screaming little ones, the old lady accepted the coins. The woman in the green sari pushed her children along ahead of her and hurried away, a triumphant smile on her lips and her bag filled with the finest of the old lady's peppers.
* * *
As the sun sank low, a great weariness settled over the old lady. With a sigh of resignation, she hefted her basket of leftover vegetables onto her head and, clutching the three coins in her hand, turned toward home.
Over the years, the dirt road between the marketplace and the old lady's hut had grown so familiar to her feet that she no longer paid it any mind. It used to be that she prayed to the God of the Holy Bible as she walked the road. But that was before her husband deserted her, back when her sons still lived.
As the old lady approached her home, she slowed and stared toward her thatched-roof hut. A few cautious steps, then she stopped and squinted hard into the gathering shadows. Someone sat crumpled against her door. A filthy, muddy someone with wild hair and ragged clothes. A beggar, no doubt. Yes, certainly a beggar, and right in her doorway, too.
"Get away!" the old lady ordered. "This is my house!"
The beggar unfolded her small self and lifted her dirty face. A child! Only a skinny little girl. Nine years perhaps, maybe ten. Possibly even a starving eleven-year-old.
The scrawny wisp of a little one stared up with weary eyes. "Ammama?" she whispered.CHAPTER 2
Ammama?" the shabby waif said again, but this time more as a soft question immersed in doubt.
The old lady's legs went limp, and the basket slipped from her head. The child stared hungrily at the cucumbers and hot peppers as they tumbled to the ground and rolled through the dirt.
When the old lady recovered herself, she demanded, "Why do you call me Grandmother?" She had not intended her tone to be so sharp. "Who are you? Why are you cowering in my doorway?"
The girl buried her face in her dirty hands and sobbed.
"What is your mother's name?" the old lady asked. For the girl had called her Ammama—"mother of my mother," not Achama—"mother of my father."
The girl swiped her hand across her dirt-streaked cheeks. "Ritu," she said, choking back tears. "They called my amma Ritu." She wiped her eyes with the tail of her tattered shirt. "But I do not have an amma anymore."
"Where is she?"
The girl shook her head sadly. "One day she would not wake up. Appa said we must leave her on the sidewalk where she lay. My sister and I said goodbye to her because Appa said we must. We left that day. For many days we walked, my sister and me with my father ..." Tears overtook the girl, and she could say no more.
The old lady sank to her knees. Could it be possible? Her daughter. Her sweet Ritu. The old lady's husband had insisted on marrying the girl off at far too young an age to a selfish little man whose name the old lady struggled to remember. Puran. Yes, that's what he was called. Puran. Shortly after the marriage, he had forced her Ritu to leave the village, and the old lady never saw her again.
"Why did you come here?" the old woman demanded.
The child, her black eyes flashing, shot back, "I did not come! My appa brought me. He promised a new home for my sister and me, but then he said he had grown tired of taking care of himself and wanted to find a new wife. He left my sister on the steps of an orphanage, and he brought me here to you."
"What am I to do with you?"
"I did not want to come!" The defiance in the child's voice shocked the old lady into silence. She opened her hand and looked at the three thin coins. Thirty paise. All she had reaped for an entire day of work at the market. Her earthenware rice container on the shelf in her hut contained, at the most, two handfuls of rice. Enough to last the two of them three days. Maybe four, if they ate only one small meal each day. She would take her peppers back to the market tomorrow, of course, but she could not make shoppers buy them.
"What is your name?" the old lady asked as she walked toward the girl.
"Anjan," the child said.
"Anjan! Why would my daughter call her child such a name? Fear! What kind of name is that for a little one?"
The girl stared at the ground. But the old lady had already seen the waif's face. She recognized the look of terror in the flash of the child's dark eyes. That poor young one was doomed to live out her name.
"Come," the old lady said in a gentled voice. "I will cook us some rice with spicy peppers. Would you like that? We will have cucumbers, too. They are not quite ripe, but they will still be good."
For the first time, the hint of a smile touched the edges of the girl's mouth.
The old lady pulled dried sticks from her small store of firewood and started a blaze in the cook pit. As she bent down to tend it, she took care to position herself in such a way that she could see the girl hunkered in the doorway. The girl watched her pour water into the cooking pot and set it over the fire. From the almost-empty rice container, the old lady took half a handful of rice and stirred it into the pot. Half a handful and not one grain more.
"We shall eat slowly," she told the girl. "That way we will not need much rice in our bowls."
The girl said nothing.
The old lady dropped a handful of chili peppers into the pot, too. And because it was a special occasion, she added a pinch of precious spices.
"Two cucumbers," she said to the girl. "Do you like cucumbers?"
The girl wrinkled her brow and said, "I do not know. I never ate one."
"Good!" said the old lady. "Then you will not know whether these are ripe or not."
* * *
When the old lady handed over a bowl of rice and peppers, the child grabbed it and lapped it up like a starving animal. After she licked her bowl clean, she started on her cucumber. She didn't stop until she had eaten the entire thing, even the wilted blossom that clung to the end.
"I am not particularly hungry," the old lady said as casually as she could manage. "Do you suppose you would be able to finish my rice as well?" She reached her bowl out to the girl.
The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Please take it. I have had quite enough."
The girl looked straight up into the old lady's faded eyes, but only for a moment. She grabbed the bowl and quickly scooped the rice into her mouth.
"Tomorrow I will take a water pot and fill it at the pond," the old lady said. "Pond water will be fine to wash the mud from your face. And perhaps—"
"No," the girl insisted. "Going for water is my job. I will take the empty pot to the pond and bring it back full."
* * *
The dirt-floor hut, small and cramped and almost always too hot, never provided a pleasant place to sleep. Like most everyone else in the village, the old lady pulled her sleeping mat outside at night and slept under the stars.
"I only have one sleeping mat," she told the girl as she spread it out. "Come, lie down beside me."
The girl didn't move.
"You must be very tired. Come and lie down."
Out of the corner of her eye, the old lady watched the girl's small form squeeze over close to the wall.
Anjan. Fear. The only name the girl had ever known. A name for one who must forever cower in the shadows.
"My appa was called Ashish—Blessing—because from the day he was born his parents knew he would be a blessing to them," the old lady said. "My appa and amma named me Shridula because they looked on me as their blessing—even though I was nothing but a girl."
The child pulled away from the wall and inched toward the sleeping mat.
"You did not want to be left in my doorway," the old lady said in a soft voice. "I did not want you left here, either, because I have no money to buy food for you. But here you are. We will live together, you and me."
The child crept a bit closer.
"I will not call you Anjan," her grandmother said. "I will call you Divena. I will call you Divine Blessing, because God sent you to be a blessing to me."CHAPTER 3
Five Years Later
Divena, still short and thin at the age of sixteen, sat upright on her sleeping mat and blinked into an early-morning gray sky. Something wasn't right. A gentle puff of pre-dawn breeze ruffled the tree branches overhead. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Perplexed, she looked over at her grandmother's sleeping mat that should have been empty by now but was not. Her grandmother, face flushed, groaned in restless slumber.
Odd. Usually her grandmother had a cooking fire started before the first traces of morning light. Soon, swaths of pink and orange would split the gray sky, so the cold fire pit should already be glowing. Divena should already be on her way to the well.
"Ammama?" the girl whispered. "Are you all right, Ammama?"
Shridula moaned as she rolled over onto her back. Her gray hair, damp and stringy, clung to her perspiration-drenched face.
Gently, Divena caressed her grandmother's hot face. "Wake up, Ammama!" she pleaded. If only her grandmother would rouse herself and wipe the sleep from her eyes. She wanted her to pull herself up and lay the morning fire the way she always did. Divena wanted her to grumble about her stiff old bones and scowl at the near-empty food pots the way she did every other morning. But Shridula didn't open her eyes.
Uncertain and shaken, Divena stood up and raked her fingers through the tangles in her thick black hair. She smoothed her dingy sari and did her best to tug out the worst of the wrinkles. For a moment she hesitated, but the edges of the sky had already started to turn pink. So the girl grabbed up the empty water pots and set off for the well.
Before Divena had gone far, a voice called from behind, "Wait for me!" Young Neela hurried up, a water pot balanced on her head and another riding on her hip.
Divena sighed. She had no desire to listen to Neela's childish chatter. Not this day, when she had so many worries running through her mind.
"Why do you walk so fast?" Neela demanded. "You have time. The sun is not even up yet."
"My Ammama. She is not well."
"Oh." Neela shrugged. "Well, she is old."
An overwhelming urge to run all the way to the well swept over Divena. A longing to leave foolish Neela standing alone in the dust of the road. What did that girl know about Ammama? What did she know about anything?
"Yesterday I saw a fine woman walking on our road," Neela said. "She had on a new sari—silk, I think. It had pleats in the front."
Pleats? A high caste woman, then. Only high caste ladies wore pleats in the front of their saris. It used to be a law. Now it was only a caste rule that everyone obeyed.
"Someone said she is a teacher from another village." Neela stopped her prattle to squint over at Divena. "I am as tall as you are, and you are skinnier than me. But you are very much older than I am. Is your grandmother ever going to find a husband for you?"
A deep blush burned over Divena's face. What a thing to say! Neela may be young, but even she should know better than to hurt others with her tongue.
"I have no time to talk today," Divena snapped. Without waiting for a response, she rushed on ahead.
* * *
By the time Divena got back to the last cluster of huts at the end of the road where her grandmother lived—downwind from the upper castes who didn't want to smell the stench of polluted people—the full water pots weighed heavily on her shoulders. The sun glowed above the horizon. The day had begun.
The first thing Divena noticed was a thin line of smoke rising from the cook pit beside her grandmother's hut. She grabbed a firm hold on the water pots and jogged the rest of the way, sloshing water all over herself.
"Ammama!" she cried when she saw the hunched form of her grandmother bent over the smoking fire. "You are well, then?"
"Take care with that water or you will have to go back and get more," the old lady scolded. "Of course I am well. I have no time to lie around and moan."
"Feared?" Shridula straightened her back and looked up into the girl's face. "Did we not decide to do away with our fear?"
Even so, Shridula, who usually stood so strong and sure, trembled over the rice pot. Divena willed herself to not be afraid. She knelt down, took her grandmother's shaking hands in hers, and caressed them. How she longed to throw her arms around her Ammama's neck and beg her to stay well. But Shridula pulled away. The rice had begun to boil.
"You have work to do, Divena," Shridula said.
Divena did. She had peppers to pick from their large vegetable patch. Spinach leaves to break off. Cucumbers to pull from the vines.
"Do not pick them yet," Shridula said of the cucumbers. "Let them grow bigger. You will get more money for them if you wait a few days."
Yes, but waiting was not always wise, either. Later others would also have cucumbers to sell at the market. Farmers and men with gardens. Shoppers preferred to buy from them. Divena only had an advantage if her produce appeared in the marketplace first, or if it was better, or much cheaper. Mostly her customers looked for cheaper.
Excerpted from The Love of Divena by Kay Marshall Strom. Copyright © 2012 Kay Marshall Strom. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Posted December 24, 2013
I am only familiar with the nation of India due to the fact that I grew up in a church that supported a fantastic ministry in that country. When I think of India, I only think of Calcutta, but this book does not take place there. The history I learned in this book and the understanding I gleaned from its pages were truly the highlight of my reading this book. I had heard of the caste system being against the law, but I had no idea that the rich still did their best to circumvent the portions of the law that did not favor them.
The story and the characters truly failed to capture my attention beyond the historical aspects. While the author's writing style is free-flowing and fairly easy to read, I was not captivated by this book as I thought I might be. But it is hard to judge since this is the final book of the series, and I have not read the entire series. While this final book in the trilogy could be read on its own (like I did), I think I struggled some because I had not read the first and second in the series.
I was horrified to discover that even in 1990, lower-class people in India were treated so very badly. I was shocked that the higher-caste people could relate to him, even though it was clear that he was uneasy. If you're looking for a book that may help you to understand India's recent history, this is the book for you!
I was sent a copy of this book in exchange for my honest review. I was not financially compensated, and all opinions are 100 percent men.
Posted October 10, 2012
I just finished this look into India's cast system. I cannot even imagine living under these conditions.
Anjan has been dropped at her Grandmother's door...almost literally. Can you imagine naming your daughter "Fear"? Her Grandmother changes her name to Divena ,"Divine Blessing"!
When you read what Divena's father has done to her younger sister, to make her a beggar...make sure you have tissues handy.
I love the way some of the things work out in this story. Learning to read....is the answer. Also with the help of our Lord, a group of these people become Christians. What a difference believing in Him brings to their lives.
To me this Caste systems sounds a lot like slavery in this country. Whippings, branding, beatings, and more! Such injustice.
This is the third book in this series, but it can be read alone. Don't miss this eye opening book!
I received this book through Pump Your Book Publicity Tours and the Publisher Abingdon Press, and was not required to give a positive review.