Ramya's Treasure

by Pratap Reddy

  She felt shy, not having any practical knowledge of sex, other than hearsay or what she read in books. Prakash was also shy — just shy of being completely drunk. He’d loaded himself with smuggled Scotch, a gift from his colleagues. Maybe he too was nervous, though he must’ve had more practical knowledge of sex. Men always do — in matters of car repairs and sex, if not anything else. She hadn’t known then that he was married.

  Prakash offered her a drink. There was a wine bottle and a couple of glasses on the bedside table. She shook her head. He suddenly switched off the light and was all over her — for a moment she thought he was wrestling with her. In violent jerks, he removed his clothes, and proceeded to disrobe her. Pulling out a sari, and the petticoat guarding her chastity, is a cumbersome job for the impatient. So he pushed her back on the pillow, rolled up her sari and petticoat, which were all askew by then, and spread her legs apart. He tried to dive-bomb into her. When he failed to hit the target, he made her take his member in her hand to insert it. It felt much harder than a tube of toothpaste. More like a fresh field cucumber.

  Prakash’s mouth clamped on hers; it was wet and slobbering, and smelled of whisky and cigarettes. When the expected moment of searing pain came, she wanted to scream, but Prakash bit her lips.

  10

  Maid of Dishonour

  RAMYA TAKES OUT a potentially hazardous item from her casket, a small bottle with the alpha numerals ‘Tik 20’ printed on the label. The printing looks coarse and the yellowing label has turned stiff and has begun to peel. Tik 20 is a commonly used pesticide for bed bugs in India. Though Ramya can recall the events associated with the bottle, she’s unable to fathom why she bothered to secrete it in her box. Did seeing so many people trying to grab the vial make it covetable?

  Newspapers and news channels in Toronto have been agog with stories about bed bug infestations in condos and hotels. Ramya finds it difficult to believe that bed bugs should be a problem in an OECD country like Canada. But Canada being a nation of immigrants, the pest must’ve entered as a stowaway, hiding in personal baggage. Undeclared by passengers, unseen by border officials. Like immigrants’ dreams and aspirations.

  Ramya picks up the bottle again. It’s full to the brim. Could its contents be effective after all these years? It’s a pity that the only token she has of the many maids and cooks who worked in her father’s household is a small bottle of insecticide.

  There’s no gainsaying the important role played by servants in their household. A rich and successful professional like Daddy in those days needed a retinue of servitors to keep the homestead going — a cook, a night watchman, gardeners, and sundry maids. And what with Mummy being so eccentric, the cook and the maids had to step in to take care of Ramya, each in her own way, however crude, ignorant and illiterate. Surrogate mothers they were to Ramya, though different from the kind of surrogacy talked about now. Their love was alloyed with a trace of pity, but it was unstintingly showered upon Ramya, a poor waif of a child. Poor, only metaphorically. Poor in terms of maternal love and care. Ramya felt in her heart that she was forever in debt to the servants. A debt she’d never be able to repay.

  In an age before machines usurped the work of maids, her father needed the proverbial seven to keep the house in order, often requiring more than just mops. Brooms, rakes, and pope’s head, being other likely implements.

  Ramya looks around her room. It’s far from shipshape: There are newspapers and mugs scattered about. The sofa cushions are all out of kilter. Ramya sighs; she’s neglected to care for her home. Never house proud, hitherto she had at least gone through the motions of trying to keep her immediate surroundings tidy and clean. But in recent months her housekeeping has gone downhill. Of late she has little enthusiasm for anything in life. A feeling of languor envelopes her like a shroud. Ramya’s very much aware that cleaning has a therapeutic effect on the mind. The entire house needs a good once-over with a Hoover, and her laundry basket is so full that there’s a danger she’ll run out of clean clothes to wear.

  Spring cleaning. That could be the ticket to her well-being. Ramya resolves to dive into a marathon session of cleaning and washing. She hopes to emerge with healthy mind and healthy body into the salubrious surroundings worthy of a doctor’s daughter. After all, when she was a young and impressionable student in a convent school, she was taught that cleanliness was next to godliness.

  She separates her unwashed clothes into white and coloured heaps, as if she’s an uncompromising segregationist. She loads the washing machine with white clothes and tosses in a Tide pod, like throwing a coin into a sacred river. She calls the enormous twin washer and drier Rajaiah and Ramuloo — the father and son duo who laundered unwieldy stuff like bed sheets, quilts and curtains. They’d turn up on a Sunday morning, on their bicycles, with a stack of freshly laundered linen, and take back a huge bundle of soiled stuff. First, was the elaborate ritual of counting the cleaned linen, which would be checked off in a notebook with the word Laundry written on its cover. This job was done by Amma or the cook (a self-appointed caretaker, as Mummy was absolutely useless in such matters). If there was any discrepancy, a war would break out. Accusations and counter accusations would fly like mortar shells. Once peace was established again, the number of dirty clothes would then be entered in the notebook under each heading — cotton saris, bed sheets, pillowcases, curtains …

  When the washing machine starts to fill with water (sounding much like Rajaiah’s disgruntled mumblings), Ramya brings out her red Dirt Devil upright, which she affectionately calls her Sanna Lakshmi. She starts the machine and drags it over the area rug in the living room. After going over the rug, she resets the head height before taking on the hardwood floor. As the weeks’ accumulation of dust vanishes into the vacuum, the floors begin to lose their blurred look, like a scene brought back into sharp focus in a camera’s viewfinder …

  Ramya grew up in an age when Time sauntered by at a leisurely pace. It was common for people of Hyderabad in those days to live in villas which would have a lawn (even if bedraggled) in front, and a fountain (often malfunctioning) in the middle of the lawn. It was understandable that such establishments required a lot of extra help. This was before mini apartment buildings mushroomed everywhere, like a blight on the landscape of the city. People started living in what are called flats, and because of the reduced size of homes and families only part-time maids and cooks were needed.

  In days gone by, it was a tradition for maids to assume the professional name Lakshmi (a nom de broom, to coin a phrase), whatever their given name. Lakshmi was the Hindu goddess of wealth, and by calling themselves after her, they implied that they brought good fortune to the homes where they were employed.

  Ramya believes the English word “luck” is probably derived from a version of the goddess’s name — Lakmi or just plain Lakki. (The French turned it into Lakmé — talk about chic!) Perhaps the wandering gypsies, the most persistent migrants ever on the earth, had imported the word from India centuries ago.

  Since there were many Lakshmis around, it was common to give them a prefix to differentiate between them: Sanna Lakshmi meant thin Lakshmi, Potti Lakshmi meant short Lakshmi, Dobba Lakshmi meant plump Lakshmi and so on.

  There was such a large turnover of servants that even Ramya couldn’t recall the names and faces of some of them. The maids had the habit of leaving just like that, without giving any notice. They left because they’d found a better job, or got married, or somebody gave birth, or somebody died. Sometimes they went back to their villages because of good rains, or sometimes if there were no rains at all. It was as if the servants lived on another planet where different rules applied. They didn’t live in constant terror of losing their jobs, and gave more importance to life events.

  Ramya wishes she had their insouciant attitude. But no, she has an Indian middle-class mindset, where the importance of employment and paycheques — such cherished objects! — is indelibly ingrained. No work, no money … So everything leads to the
elephant in the room: The EI forms are yet to be completed.

  Must she drop everything and start filling in the forms that very instant? Perish the thought!

  While it’s true that when Ramya looks back she has nothing but affection for their maids, not all of them were likeable souls. There were bad ones too — the outliers. And liars.

  But the most remarkable of them all, whether good or bad, was Devamma. She was a sincere and hardworking young woman. Tall and well built, she could do a lot of heavy work too, the kind of tasks that would usually fall on Sailoo’s shoulders. One day, one of Daddy’s patients came to the house. He was a film producer. When he was offered the customary chai, Devamma brought it in gold-rimmed china, laden on a german silver tray. The guest scrutinized Devamma from head to toe, as one might inspect a cow at a cattle fair. Daddy was puzzled, even disconcerted.

  Later the producer rang up Daddy, and through him offered Devamma a minor role in his upcoming film. There was confusion, consternation, elation and jealousy — in different quarters. Devamma was dark complexioned, and in a colour conscious society, her looks went unnoticed and much less admired. One needed the eyes of a film producer to recognize her photogenic beauty.

  Devamma changed her name to Devayani, and started shooting. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her lot to have a Cinderella moment. She appeared in only a couple of scenes, the bulk of her shots was left behind on the cutting desk. The movie was a flop, so not many noticed the new actress Devayani. The film producer too went bust.

  Except for Daddy and Ramya, the world seemed overjoyed at Devamma’s debacle. It would’ve been too much if a duckling of maid had become a swan of a star. While she didn’t become an overnight sensation, a few odd roles did come her way. Daddy and Ramya made a point to see each and every one of her films. But even these stray roles petered away when films switched to Eastman colour. Indian audiences, especially south Indian, wanted their heroines to have skin the colour of a jasmine petal.

  One day, years later, the newspapers broke the news that Devayani had committed suicide, and in a bizarre way. It was reported that she’d swallowed the diamonds from her ring. The ring had been given to her by her live-in partner, but he’d never acted on his promise to divorce his wife and marry her.

  “Amma, are diamonds poisonous?” Ramya asked.

  “What a funny question! I don’t know.”

  “Would you die if you ate diamonds?”

  “What an expensive way to kill yourself! I’ve only seen it happen in cinema — but why do you ask?”

  Ramya showed her the paper which carried the news of Devamma’s death. Amma looked at the newspaper, focusing on the picture of the beautiful woman, with a sad, wistful expression. Amma couldn’t read English, though she could make out a few words, and sometimes she deciphered the headlines all by herself. Often, she’d enlist Ramya’s help if the newspaper contained a humaninterest story (the return of a long-lost child or the outing of a prolific polygamist).

  “She’s very good-looking. Who is she?” she asked.

  “She’s Devamma. She used to work in our house.”

  “Oh! I’ve heard about her.”

  “She took her own life.”

  “Poor soul. But Ramya you’re much too young to read about these things. Put the paper away. These papers are always full of such stuff — murders, accidents and war. I don’t know why they can’t print good religious things.”

  “Amma, I’m fifteen! I was told that at my age you were already married!” She folded the newspaper and put it away. She neglected to add that in her opinion, young and callow as she was, more violence was caused in the name of religion than anything else. Ramya was used to writing scathing editorials about social issues in her school magazine, but her convent school had drawn the line at religion.

  Once they had a cook named Ramulamma, and she was one who was definitely not up to par. While she was an expert at cooking party dishes, she was tardy and careless — forgetting to add salt, or allowing some dishes to char on the stove. It also turned out that Ramulamma was a dipsomaniac. Every now and then she stole out of the kitchen for a chota of country liquor which she’d kept hidden in the cabinet under the wash basin in the back verandah. When she returned indoors after taking a large draught, she’d pop a pod of clove into her mouth to mask her breath. One day before she could pop anything into her mouth, Amma walked into the kitchen. Amma didn’t have to wear a deerstalker on her head to realize what was going on. Ramulamma was sacked forthwith.

  The worst of the worst was most decidedly Kanthamma. She joined service at short notice when Potti Lakshmi suddenly left to return to her village to care for her house and her siblings following the death of her mother from pneumonia. Kanthamma showed attitude right from day one, driving Amma mad. The funny thing was that workwise Kanthamma was brisk and efficient. Once she finished her work, instead of resting in the verandah or going home, she’d loiter about the house. Amma always had to order her to leave.

  There was a practical reason for her behaviour. Apparently, she was scoping the house. There was nothing she didn’t think was worth stealing. Food, clothes, curios, money — not even Ramya’s story books were spared — anything she could tuck into the fold of her sari, or toss over the back wall. Later, when it was time to leave, she’d make a great show of opening her carry-bag in front of Amma to prove she wasn’t taking anything that didn’t belong to her. Once outside, she’d slink around the house to recover her spoils. This went on for many months with no one the wiser, for Kanthamma was very shrewd — she’d pilfer nothing that would be missed immediately.

  It was no wonder that Amma was in a bad mood all the time — she never seemed to find anything in its rightful place. She often rooted about for some object thinking it was mislaid, not realizing that Kanthamma had already snagged it. Instead of turning the house upsidedown, Amma should’ve paid a visit to Kanthamma’s house, where most of the stolen property was stashed.

  But on one occasion, greed got the better of Kanthamma, and that was her undoing.

  It happened when Ramya was eight. She insisted that she wear an expensive necklace she’d received as a birthday present. It was a hideous affair — a string of pearls with a peacock-shaped pendant studded with emeralds. Mummy was as usual uninterested, but Amma, who was visiting at the time, forbade Ramya from wearing it. Ramya went crying to her Daddy, her court of last resort. He told Amma that it was no big deal if Ramya wore the necklace for a while. Amma pursed her lips but let Ramya have her way.

  When Daddy was out of earshot, she said sternly to Ramya: “Don’t blame me if you get robbed or kidnapped. I’ve warned you!”

  Ramya ignored her grandmother’s dire utterance, and joyously pranced around the house, the emerald pendant bobbing on her chest. The matter was forgotten until late in the evening.

  At six o’clock, when it was time to switch on the lights in the house and light wick-lamps for the gods in the alcove, Amma said: “Ramya it’s time you returned the necklace.”

  Ramya’s hand flew to her throat, but the necklace wasn’t there.

  “Ammamma, I don’t have it!”

  “Did you remove it and leave it somewhere?”

  “No.”

  Though Amma didn’t exclaim, “I told you so!” the air was thick with the unspoken comment, and Ramya began to cry. Amma made everyone in the house hunt for the necklace, but it couldn’t be found. Amma threatened the servants that she’d call the police if the necklace didn’t turn up in the next half hour. True to her word, when the necklace didn’t show up, she called the nearby police station, making Ramya look up the number in the telephone directory.

  Daddy was at the clinic then, but the local police knew him. The inspector came with two constables and interrogated the servants. At that time of day, only the cook and Kanthamma were present. The cook began to weep, but Kanthamma was cool as a cucumber — at first. But when the police decided to take her to the police station to do a body search, she was terrified. It
was getting dark. She began to make a scene. She fell at Amma’s feet and said a hundred times that she was not a thief, and not to send her to the police station.

  “They will beat me!” she said. “They will rape me!”

  She began to sniffle. There was such naked terror in her eyes, the earlier supercilious indifference having all but vanished. She ran into the back verandah, to the stinky cabinet under the wash basin where supplies like phenyl, bug spray and Tik 20 were kept. The same cabinet where Ramulamma used to hide her hooch. Kanthamma flung open the cabinet door, and reached for the bottle of Tik 20. As she attempted to drink the poison, Amma tried to wrest it out of Kanthamma’s grip, spilling some of the liquid on the ground. Then the police inspector, who’d followed them, strode up to Kanthamma and prised the bottle out of her hand.

  “If nothing else, we’ll book you for attempted suicide,” the inspector said. It was an empty threat because he left the evidence, the bottle of Tik 20, on the kitchen counter.

  The constables were dragging a protesting and struggling Kanthamma into their jeep, when Daddy arrived in his car. He stepped out and spoke to the inspector. From where she stood in the verandah Ramya couldn’t hear anything that was being said. While Daddy and the inspector were having a man-to-man talk, the constables held on to Kanthamma as if she were a dangerous criminal. Kanthamma was twisting and squirming wanting to break free. Then the inspector barked out something, and the constables released Kanthamma. The police got into their jeep, and left. Kanthamma too left, wiping her eyes with the pallo of her sari.

  After that, they never saw Kanthamma again.

  The next morning a maid sweeping the front yard found the emerald necklace. It was lying on the ground in the exact spot where Kanthamma stood, struggling to get out of the clutches of the two burly constables. The necklace must have got dislodged from Kanthamma’s blouse or sari or wherever it was tucked away.