Saree

by Su Dharmapala

  Karuna looked at her in the dark. ‘I don’t know that they are happily married, Sarojini. I know they both love Laksman very much and they’d do anything to keep him happy.’

  ‘A child is a blessing, the greatest gift anyone could ever be given,’ Sarojini replied. ‘Did I tell you I saw Kalpana the other day?’

  ‘How? I thought she was in Uddur?’

  ‘Yes, well, the barracks are near Uddur . . .’

  ‘They are living together? Did they get married?’

  ‘Oh no! Kalpana would never cut her red beads. It would unravel the vow that keeps her father safe, and there are stories, Karuna. Horrible stories of what has happened to women who walk away and cut their beads.’

  Karuna looked sceptical. Sarojini knew he was a devotee of the goddess Saraswati, who seemed a great deal more benevolent a deity than Yellamma.

  ‘You were in Uddur, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, for a performance. She’d come with several other army wives to do a Hanuman pooja. She came to see me while I was changing. She’s pregnant, Karuna. She and Abhay are over the moon. She only just found out. And because it’s been several months since she’s stopped being a devadasi, Abhay’s sister cannot claim that the baby is a bastard!’

  Karuna grinned. ‘We must do something for her. I’ll weave her a layette myself. Lots of clean white cotton cloth for nappies and I’ll even show you how to embroider a few baby shirts.’

  ‘You sew?’

  ‘I am a master saree maker, my dear. I can weave, sew, embroider, dye cloth, make lace and design!’

  He noticed then that Sarojini had fallen quiet, and even in the dim light he could see something was troubling her.

  ‘What is it, my darling? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking . . . Well, I was thinking it’s a pity that . . .’

  ‘That I am a dwarf . . .’ Karuna said wryly.

  ‘I didn’t say that!’ she cried. ‘It’s just that . . . it’s just that . . .’

  ‘It’s just that you can never have with me what Kalpana has with Abhay. My dear girl, I can give you affection. I can give you money – as much as I have. I can give you comfort. But I cannot give you a child. I can never be a father. Being a dwarf is in my blood. I will never do that to another living soul, make them live the cursed existence I have,’ he said softly in the darkness.

  ‘I hear your new arari is a dwarf!’ Rekha giggled. It was yet another Monday morning at Moona Mahal but the morning pooja had finished and the ladies were milling about enjoying cups of chai and munching on sweet ginger biscuits.

  ‘My mother said she saw you down by the Devaraja markets. She wasn’t quite sure if he was your son or your slave!’ she continued nastily.

  ‘Oh, the time of keeping dwarves as slaves has quite gone in the past . . .’ the sharp-tongued Bengali Sujata added. ‘Maybe he’s her houseboy!’

  Sarojini glanced across the floor to where Mamaji sat, surrounded by older devadasi who worked in the temples.

  ‘It is the very opposite of needing to use a ladder, nah?’ Rekha giggled.

  ‘Is his poolu as small as him? Surely it’d be like not having anything down there at all!’ Rekha said.

  ‘So what exactly is he paying you for? If you ask me, you are on the winning side of this deal. You get his money and . . . he gets nothing!’ Aradhana hooted with laughter.

  ‘It’s not like that!’ Sarojini snapped and walked away.

  She found herself making her way down to the little ornamental lake in the corner of the property. It’d been a favourite haunt of hers when she’d been a resident at Moona Mahal. This was where she used to go to dry her tears after brutal dance masters insisted she practise until her feet bled, or when her voice was hoarse from singing.

  Life with Karuna was more difficult in some ways than Sarojini had expected. ‘Come now,’ she had insisted a few days ago. ‘We have been stuck in this little annex for three days. Let’s go out.’

  ‘I am more than happy to go out, my dear,’ he’d replied. ‘But I thought we’d spent a great deal of time in the garden yesterday already!’

  ‘I’m not talking about the garden, silly!’ Sarojini had laughed, watching the little man pull on a singlet before donning his lungi. ‘I am talking about the market! We need to get some fresh fruit and vegetables.’

  ‘Why don’t you go?’ He gave her a hundred rupees. ‘If you can, please get some fresh sugar cane. There is lime in the garden and I thought I could make you some fresh juice this afternoon.’

  Sarojini had rolled her eyes. Under Karuna’s care, the little garden outside the annex was looking lush and beautiful. In the week or so he spent with Sarojini each month, Karuna spent hours weeding, pruning and tending it. ‘I know I am not beautiful, Saro,’ he’d confessed. ‘But I cannot survive without having beauty around me.’

  ‘Come with me, Karuna,’ she insisted. ‘You are so much better at choosing fresh vegetables than I.’

  She understood his reluctance as soon as they stepped out of the gate and onto the street. Sarojini had always attracted a fair amount of attention, even when she was dressed in a simple blue saree. Maybe it was her fair skin, so uncommon in the south of India, or even her natural dancer’s grace; people were aware when she was in their midst. Eyes of both men and women would trail her through crowds. When she was followed by a dwarf, though, it all became too much. There were whispers and comments. Some people pointed. More than one street-side thug called out helpful hints about what a small man could do with Sarojini. Even the traders at the market had been rude, speaking only to her rather than the man who carried the purse.

  ‘Six rupees for four banana leaves! That is insane!’ Karuna had grumbled at a vendor.

  ‘Away with you, you filthy dwarf!’ the vendor had roared back.

  It had confused Sarojini no end. She bargained more rigorously than Karuna ever did and knew that many of the sellers would usually be offended if deprived of the chance to haggle.

  ‘What? What do you want? Are you here to cheat us?’ more than one vendor had demanded as Sarojini and Karuna stopped to inspect their stalls. ‘Those little fingers filch things faster than a monkey!’

  They had abandoned the market after no more than a quarter of an hour, fleeing home without any fruit or vegetables to speak of. Sarojini had had to brave the night markets later to buy them a simple dinner of dosai and sambar.

  ‘How do you do it?’ she’d asked Karuna that evening.

  ‘My dear, I have been a dwarf all my life. It is what I am used to.’

  ‘But why do you put up with all the abuse?’

  ‘Because I don’t have a choice. I wanted something more for myself than being a village dwarf and working with other village dwarves. I found I had a gift for weaving early on and I was very lucky that old Mr Nair, Raju’s father, took me on as an apprentice. I now have a life that is beyond anything most other dwarves reach. I have my own home. I can travel. But if I want to go out into the world, I have to put up with the abuse.’

  Standing by the shore of the little lake, Sarojini heard the rustle of sarees in the distance, indicating that the devadasi had started to leave Moona Mahal. Like migratory birds, the brightly dressed women would be leaving in droves, going back to their little rooms and houses where they would start to ply their trade in the afternoon. She waited for a while to be sure they had all gone. She’d given in to a fit of tears thinking over the horrible things the other devadasi and the people in the market had said, and she didn’t want anyone to know it.

  The thing was that she didn’t know what she thought about Karuna herself. Her feelings of revulsion had long ceased, but she knew that life with him would be difficult. She could not bear to see him reviled and abused. The only world she could share with Karuna would be the one in their home. Yet Sarojini was young enough and passionate enough to want more.

  She stood and made her way through the gardens, so focused on escaping without being seen or t
eased by the other devadasi that she didn’t notice the frail Mamaji until the old woman pounced on her, putting a firm hand on her shoulder as she was about to sneak out the back gate.

  ‘Everybody has a right to love, child,’ the old gharwali insisted with a fierce fire burning in her eyes. ‘Everyone has the right to be touched. Everyone has the right to feel the life-making fire that is sex. Denying anyone that is what is wrong!’

  ‘Close your eyes. And if you peek, you don’t get it!’ he commanded in a stern voice. Karuna had arrived unexpectedly early from Kanchipuram again that month. A whole three days in advance in fact. And he’d brought something for her.

  ‘I am not a child!’ Sarojini protested, poking out a pink tongue.

  ‘Oh, really? How have you managed to damage that heliconia plant, then? And don’t get me started on the state of your kitchen. I have only been away a fortnight, and look at it!’

  ‘All right! All right! I’ll close my eyes,’ Sarojini grumbled. ‘What now?’

  ‘Hold out your hands . . .’

  ‘No snakes?’ Sarojini queried, quickly opening her eyes again.

  ‘My dear, would I give you any snakes?’

  ‘My cousin Aravind used to always do that.’

  ‘The one who died?’

  ‘Yes . . . He’d tell me to close my eyes and stick out my hands and he’d put baby king cobras, green lizards and spiders on them! My uncle said it was his destiny to become a snake-charmer!’

  ‘So why did he go to school, then?’

  ‘With the money they got from my pattam they thought that he could finish college. But my uncle hadn’t thought of him not being able to find a job. It’s such a pity – if only he’d become a snake-charmer, he’d still be alive today.’

  ‘If onlys were flowers, the world would be filled with rose petals,’ Karuna replied sadly. ‘Come now, close your eyes and hold out your hands.’

  Sarojini never expected to feel what she did next. It was something soft, small and mewling. ‘Oh! Oh!’ she cried, lifting the little kitten to her neck to caress it. It was grey with the brightest green eyes.

  ‘Laksman’s cat gave birth to yet another set of kittens. Shanthi was threatening to drown the whole lot of them, so I took one for you and gave the rest away to the workers at the mill,’ Karuna said dryly. ‘This way you’ll have some companionship while I am not here. Are you sure you don’t want your mother to come live with you for a little while? I am more than happy to pay for her rail ticket and the additional expenses.’

  ‘No, Karuna. She is best on the farm, although I am sure my sisters-in-law would appreciate the holiday from her company.’

  ‘Is she a traditional Indian mother-in-law?’

  ‘I suppose. She doesn’t know how to be anything else. She was tortured by her mother-in-law, so it is her turn now to torture her daughters-in-law. Every generation of wives, waiting for the husband’s mother to die.’

  ‘And the same applies for sons-in-law. I sometimes struggle to understand how Raju puts up with Shanthi’s mother.’

  ‘Why?’ Sarojini asked curiously, following Karuna into the kitchen. She helped him with the ingredients for his special potato dish, peeling the potatoes, chopping the onions and shredding the curry leaves. The little spicy balls of boiled potato dunked in batter and deep-fried were simply divine with a yoghurt dipping sauce.

  ‘She blames him for not giving her a blood grandchild. Not that either Raju or Shanthi could love Laksman one jot more if he were their own flesh and blood, but he is not their real child.’

  ‘Is Raju incapable of fathering a child?’

  Karuna sighed and looked at Sarojini as he mixed the spices. ‘I trust you will never repeat this, my dear. Not to anyone. And especially not to Raju and Shanthi, should you meet them someday. I haven’t told anyone – not even Gauri. But Raju did father a child with his first wife, Nila. A little girl. I only found out very recently.’

  ‘But you told me Nila died in a crash on her way to the hill country,’ Sarojini protested.

  ‘That is what we were led to believe when Raju tried to find her, but I went to a ball up in the high country not long ago. There I met an old lady . . .’

  ‘It’s such a pity that girl who used to work for you is in the lunatic asylum in Nuwara Eliya,’ the old lady had said sadly to the weaving master. ‘I gave dhanay there and I saw her. She was such a kind girl!’

  ‘Which girl?’ Karuna had asked curiously.

  ‘I think her name was Seela . . . no . . . could it be Anjula . . . oh, something ending with la. Sold me five sarees. Not very pretty, though. Dumpy like an oil cake,’ the old lady said.

  Karuna’s heart had jumped to his throat. ‘Are you sure? Are you sure she used to work for us?’

  ‘Of course I am sure, man! I may be old but I am not senile!’ the woman had huffed. ‘I know the very girl who sold me five sarees and I know it was her I saw tethered to the wall in the asylum.’

  ‘I was sure she meant Nila,’ Karuna told Sarojini, ‘so I went up to the asylum the very next day to have a look. Someone had taken her out just three days previously. But I was able to get most of the story from the matron who’d cared for her—’

  He was cut off by a sharp rap at the door. It was already well into the evening and too late for visitors.

  ‘Who is it?’ Karuna called out, automatically standing in front of Sarojini.

  ‘Abhay,’ came the voice beyond the door.

  ‘What? What is it, ana?’ Sarojini demanded, hurrying to open it.

  ‘Saro!’ the army captain cried joyfully. ‘I have a son!’

  Pranay was an easy kitten – a delightful bundle of fur who gave no trouble and learned to do his business outside within days. And he was a very placid cat, too, happy to go into his basket and be carted all the way to Uddur a couple of times week so that Sarojini could help Kalpana with the baby.

  Abhay had gone against his parent’s wishes in starting a relationship with Kalpana, so he could not, as custom would dictate, demand that his mother come and help Kalpana with the baby.

  Aunty Pimmi also had responsibilities. Kalpana’s older brother’s wife had given birth to a child several days before Kalpana and she was needed at home to help with that baby. ‘If I could split myself in half and be in two places at the same time, I would!’ she cried.

  ‘Don’t worry, Aunty. Kalpana has another family she can rely on,’ Sarojini had said calmly before getting in touch with her devadasi sisters. When Sarojini had to go into town for dances or other performances, Aradhana, Rekha or even Sujata would come. And when Karuna came into town, he would stay at a little bedsit just outside the army base, so that Sarojini could visit him surreptitiously at night.

  ‘This is so unusual for me! I never have to sneak to see a man. A man usually has to sneak around to see me!’ Sarojini giggled.

  ‘I usually don’t have to sneak,’ Karuna confessed. ‘No one sees beyond the fact that I am a dwarf to have any interest in what I do!’

  But the sneaking around and subterfuge were essential on the army base. Kalpana was petrified that if anyone found out she’d been a devadasi, not only would she and her baby be ostracised but any hopes Abhay had of progressing in his army career would be cut off.

  Abhay did not seem to agree with her. ‘The Indian army is well used to scandal,’ he chided. ‘Everyone knows the brigadier sleeps with anyone who is willing – and there was even a book running on whether Major Bagum’s third son is actually his or the child of the tuktuk driver who works at the market!’

  ‘All the same, it is what it is,’ Sarojini replied, taking care to hide the red beads on her thali. ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry.’

  ‘You are sounding more and more like Mamaji, you know!’ Kalpana told her playfully. ‘Turn the other cheek! Don’t fight! Don’t make trouble! Are you planning on taking over from her to become the gharwali of Moona Mahal?’

  They were careful not to discuss this subject in front of Major R
akesh, who often visited to see Abhay and the new baby. Sarojini had not been pleased to see him, and had wondered at first if she could remain in the cramped little house in his company, but he had been surprisingly pleasant, even courteous, and had not said anything to give her offence. The turnaround was puzzling, but she could not complain. He had been a great help while Kalpana had been in hospital, ferrying people around in his army jeep.

  He’d also protected Kalpana, always in attendance when the more virulently gossipy army wives chose to drop in and visit the newcomer.

  ‘So, why isn’t Captain Promod’s family here helping? Especially since they live right here in Mysore,’ Sonia Bishwari had observed icily.

  ‘It’s just that my sister-in-law is busy as a teacher and Abhay’s mother is really busy too helping her,’ Kalpana hedged.

  ‘But it is highly inappropriate! It’s as if his parents did not approve of you!’

  Rakesh stepped in. ‘Mrs Bishwari . . . how is the major doing these days? Still doing a great deal of travel to Hyderabad to visit his sick mother?’

  Even now Sarojini felt grateful to him for intervening to save her friend. She thought of it again as she stood in the kitchen of the little army house and took out a large steel bowl, starting to put together the ingredients for Mysore pak. That weekend, Kalpana and Abhay’s little baby boy would leave the house for the first time to visit the temple and be given his name. Sarojini was making food and sweets for the celebration that followed.

  She took out besan flour, jaggery, milk powder, ghee and semolina, and became so caught up in her task – mixing the ingredients, kneading the dough, spreading it with coconut oil and evening it out with a banana leaf – that she didn’t hear Rakesh come in, and when he placed a few dishes in the bucket for washing she almost jumped out of her skin.

  ‘Oh! What are you doing here?’

  Rakesh pointed to the plates in the bucket, then looked at the small trays of food she had already made, unimpressed. ‘Abhay is a rich man,’ he said. ‘You can afford to make more sweets for the baby’s first going out ceremony than just some Mysore pak and a few gulab jamun. The family will expect more.’