Ramya's Treasure

by Pratap Reddy

  Ramya underwent fertility treatment with a local doctor who had a miraculous reputation in the field. Every time Ramya visited the clinic, she couldn’t help wondering how many issueless couples there were in a country with nearly a billion people. Pinned on one of the walls of the clinic were scores of snaps of proud, beaming parents holding their firstborn. Despite many expensive cycles, Ramya couldn’t conceive.

  “Just my luck,” she thought.

  It was in the aftermath of the unsuccessful rounds of treatment that Prakash told Ramya about his first marriage and his son. Ramya felt neither jealous nor angry about his first marriage. She merely shook her head in mild wonderment — and, if it were possible, Prakash sank further in her esteem. But when she heard the whole story, she experienced nothing but compassion for Sandeep and his mother. Prakash’s first wife had contracted leprosy, and it wasn’t diagnosed as such when the first discolouring patches appeared. While there was a cure for leprosy in this modern age, a severe stigma was still attached to it — hence the separation.

  But Payal’s therapy for Prakash was apparently a success. He was declared clean. Later Ramya learned that Prakash and Payal had had an affair.

  No, it wasn’t Payal’s blood-red lipstick stain on Prakash’s collar. A couple of Ramya’s friends tipped her off that they’d seen Prakash with a fashionably dressed woman. On one occasion, through the car window Ramya glimpsed two people who looked like Prakash and Payal, at least from their backs, walking arm in arm on MG Road.

  When questioned, Prakash said: “Today? No, I didn’t meet Payal. But I’ve taken her shopping a few times to Commercial Street.”

  Prakash would’ve made a good chess player. But she knew Prakash. He always had his eyes on the main chance. For that matter she knew Payal too — a fling with Prakash would only be a minor distraction for her, something to occupy her leisure hours on her trips to Bengaluru.

  Not surprisingly, Payal and Prakash fell out quickly. After he was dumped, Prakash was moody and irritable for a few weeks, and he seemed to get fewer phone calls and text messages on his mobile. Ramya could never understand what Payal, an intelligent and sexy woman, saw in Prakash — a coarse-grained hunk. Maybe it was a strategy Payal employed to secure success. It explained how Prakash, a person totally lacking in perseverance, persisted with the program. That he didn’t take to the bottle again immediately after the break-up was testimony to the fact that it wasn’t an intense affair. It must’ve been just casual recreation for them — not that Ramya really cared.

  Soon afterwards they applied to migrate to Canada.

  Ramya telephones Wilma.

  “So, what’s the good news? Did you receive your first cheque?” Ramya asks.

  “It’s much better than that. True North is restarting one of their lines. I received a letter from them asking me to return to work. Lisa also called me. I was hoping you too would’ve received the letter.”

  “No, I haven’t received any such letter.”

  “Did you check your letterbox? How long has it been since you last checked?”

  “A week,” Ramya says.

  “Ramya! You’re too much! When will you change? How many times can I tell you, you won’t win the lottery unless you buy a ticket!”

  “I receive mostly junk mail. Anyway, I’ll check the next time I go out.” Ramya’s letterbox is at the end of her not so long driveway. It’s an effort to pick up mail, especially in cold weather. As far as Ramya’s concerned, the cast iron letterbox is just an ornament decorating her smallish lot.

  “No, do it now. As soon as I disconnect.”

  “Ok, ok.”

  Ramya puts down the receiver. The news hasn’t stirred any excitement in her. If she did get the job back, it would mean returning to her old life. She’s not sure if that’s what she wants. But then she’s not sure exactly what she does want in life.

  When Prakash was preparing to leave for Alberta, one of his businessman friends threw a farewell party. Prakash had found a respectable job in the field of engineering, thanks to his excellent networking skills.

  “No more survival jobs for me,” Prakash said. “Boy, am I sick and tired of lifting crates in a warehouse!”

  It was loosely decided that Ramya, who had a reasonably good job, would follow Prakash once he settled down and got to know the lay of the land. They didn’t want to the run the risk, as they had when they first came to Canada, of both having to start life anew, right from scratch.

  The party which Raj Mehta hosted for Prakash was lavish in every way. So different from the slapdash potlucks immigrants usually held. It was coincidentally the weekend of Deepavali, or Diwali as it’s known in north India, so there were twinkling coloured lights strung along the eaves of the house. The party was held in the open, beside the private swimming pool. That year Diwali came early, and fall was late, so there was only a rumour of a chill. Guests sat around the open-air stoves, women wearing shawls and men pullovers. All the guests were Indian, and most of the conversation was about India. Many had returned from their annual holiday there, and had lots to say about its growing prosperity in the wake of privatization and liberalization — words which just meant the government had given Nehruvian socialism the unceremonious boot.

  The evening had an enchanted feel to it. There was outside catering and the best of wines and liquor. Waiters circulated with delicious hors d’oeuvres made of roasted vegetables and meats on small skewers, and cheese and seafood on crackers. All the meats at the party were either chicken, fish, prawn, or goat. No beef or pork — the first a taboo for Hindus, and the latter for Muslims.

  Prakash who was on and off the wagon depending on his whim decided to go in for the kill. He started with beer and then moved on to hard liquor. Now and then he’d glance sheepishly at Ramya. His looks seemed to say: “It’s only for today. Let me enjoy myself.”

  He was ignorant of the fact that Ramya, so inured to Prakash’s impetuous decisions, didn’t let anything about him bother her. Anyway, Ramya didn’t know what got into her on that night; she too decided to let her hair down. Perhaps it was the gorgeousness of the party, the likes of which she’d never attended, at least in Canada. Wan evening stars in the darkening sky, the coloured lights reflected in the pool, the conviviality of the guests, the aroma of fabulous food — what exactly it was, she never could quite tell, that gave the evening an enchanted feel. But she felt a little sad too and missed India, and longed for the loved and cherished feeling she had when she was growing up. But not for a moment did she feel unhappy that Prakash would be gone in a couple of days.

  She had some of the champagne and liked it immensely. She lost count of how many glasses she had, as no sooner she finished one than somebody would replenish it. She was pleasantly high, but not drunk. She was sure of it because she felt slightly embarrassed when Prakash, tight as a fiddle, made a maudlin speech. When he was done, there was much cheering from the guests, especially the male ones. Then one of them, with a reedy off-key voice began to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Mercifully others were quick to join in, and the song turned into a boisterous performance.

  After the elaborate dinner which had many Punjabi dishes, tastier than what she’d had ever eaten in restaurants whether in India or Canada or anywhere for that matter, they left. Indian parties end when dinner is over, as if a curfew is declared, and the guests leave en masse. Neither Ramya nor Prakash was really fit enough to drive. Prakash took charge of the wheel anyway, though he was more sloshed than she was. It was just their good fortune that nothing untoward happened.

  That night, after she switched off the bedroom light, and prepared to go to bed, Prakash pulled her violently towards him and kissed her, smothering her with his butter chicken laced bad breath barely concealed behind the flavour of minty Colgate. If Ramya had been in complete control of her senses, she would’ve shouted, “Rape!” and threatened to call 911. But that night the champagne she’d guzzled took over her soul. She responded to Prakash’s overture, a
nd they made love in a way they’d never done before. Ramya’s entire body was on fire, painful, pleasurable. Prakash dug into her like a maniac. Both grunted as they thrust their hips at each other. Ramya stopped only when she was in the throes of an orgasm. She screamed as her pubis turned into a river, flooding their limbs and soaking though the sheets.

  Next day when they woke up they were both embarrassed. Prakash pretended nothing had happened while Ramya felt shy and ashamed. Their marriage was too far-gone to be saved by a night of torrid sex.

  The following day Prakash took a plane for Calgary from Terminal 3 at Pearson airport. When she turned her back on him in the foyer, after saying her goodbyes, Ramya decided that she wasn’t going to follow Prakash to Alberta. She was turning her back on her past. Their marriage was over.

  The stain on the mattress, which Prakash left for Ramya to clean up, was the only thing to show for over two decades of marriage.

  A few months later she visited India because Daddy wasn’t keeping well. He was over eighty and wasn’t so much ill as simply growing old: His tired overworked organs were slowly giving up on him.

  Most of the day he’d sit in the drawing room with eyes closed meditatively; Ramya never knew whether he was dozing or merely resting. On one occasion he opened his eyes and demanded: “Why hasn’t Prakash come?”

  “He has a new job, and it isn’t easy to get leave,” Ramya said, surprised how fluently she could dissemble. Cohabiting with Prakash for over two decades must’ve made her adept at giving evasive answers. Prakash always played fast and loose with the truth, calling his mistruths white lies.

  “Your mother and I were always together,” Daddy said. “Never was there an occasion when I sent her out alone.”

  “I know.”

  “Only when death parted us,” Daddy said, and fell silent, closing his eyes, as if he’d fallen asleep.

  Ramya idly picked up the Deccan Chronicle, and glanced at the sensationalist news on the front page. Looking at the papers in India, anyone would think the end of the world was close at hand.

  Daddy suddenly opened his eyes and started to speak, spooking Ramya. “Do you know how your mother died?”

  “It was jaundice or something like that, wasn’t it?”

  “Something like that, but not quite. Imagine! All the top doctors of Hyderabad were consulted but what was the use? We were treating her for jaundice when she had another disease all together.”

  “I didn’t know about that. Were you not able to detect it?”

  “It’s a bacterial disease that’s common only in some parts of coastal India like Tamil Nadu. Leptospirosis. That’s the name of the undiagnosed disease. The symptoms are very similar to those of hepatitis. Your mother contracted it when we visited Chennai for Ramu-uncle’s son’s wedding. I came to know of it much later. I’ve never been able to forgive myself.”

  “How is Ramu-uncle?”

  “Dead as a dodo. How else could he be? He always had a weak heart. Told him many times to go slow on smoking and drinking. All my old friends and classmates have predeceased me.”

  Ramya was silent. There was an inkling of glee in his voice when he spoke about his acquaintances.

  But his tone changed. “I should’ve been the first to go — hanged for murder. I killed your mother with my ignorance.”

  Ramya sighed. It wasn’t just the Indian press that was sensationalist.

  After copying Sandeep’s number in India from the voicemail recording to her old phonebook, which was almost in tatters, she dialled it.

  “How are you, Sandeep? How is Vidya?”

  “I’m fine, so is Vidya. We have some good news for you. I was meaning to call you. But before that I want to apologise — I spoke too much last time. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind. I know Prakash is your father, but for me anything to do with him will always leave a bad taste — and I’m sorry for saying so. But what’s the good news?”

  “Vidya is … expecting,” he said.

  “It’s good news indeed! So I’m going to be a grandmother soon. You made me an old woman with this one bit of news. But I don’t mind it. I feel nice that there’s a grandchild on the way. When is the baby due?”

  “In mid-August.”

  “A Leo or a Virgo. Your mother must be so happy!” Ramya said. Ramya had lately begun to read the horoscope section in the newspaper. Even there she hadn’t found a shred of hope, though it mentioned an unannounced arrival of a relative — but the astrologer meant it differently.

  There was a pause. “I’ve not told my mother yet. I wanted you to be the first person to know, Mom.”

  It was Ramya’s turn to be silent. She was touched. In a way it was understandable. He met Prakash and Ramya often, dropping by for vacation when they were still in India. He saw his mother maybe once a year.

  “You should tell her as soon as possible. If it is difficult to call her, you must go to the ashram.”

  “We’re planning to meet her this weekend,” Sandeep said.

  While leprosy began to be called by the euphemistic name of Hansen’s disease, and modern medicine could contain the infection, the social stigma associated with it still prevailed. Prakash had already planned to leave his wife because cohabiting with someone with the disease was a serious health risk. He was young, in his late twenties, and didn’t want to jeopardize his future.

  Sandeep’s mother voluntarily took herself out of the picture by moving to an ashram. Hers was a different kind of separation. And Sandeep, only two then, went to live with his maternal grandparents.

  13

  To Dust Returnest

  IT’S THE DAY of Subbu-Auntie’s funeral. Ramya wakes early, takes a bath, and has a quick and light breakfast of coffee, jam and toast. Anything she cooks now, if she does any cooking at all, is quick and easy. Gone are the days of making a south Indian breakfast like dosa or idli or vada, where grinding, steaming or frying were involved. Being made of lentils and rice, they’re nutritious, loaded with proteins, but come with a lot of prep work.

  The hastily slapped together sandwich tastes like nothing and she has trouble ingesting it. Maybe she’s too frugal with jam and butter, wanting to consume less sugar and fat, the two tasty killers. Or, perhaps, it’s the mild stress she feels at the thought of going to a funeral. It’s not just the funeral per se that troubles her, though god knows how unsettling that can be, being in the presence of Death, and all that. The real reason for the stress is that she feels ill at ease hobnobbing with Indians in large numbers. It has always been so, even when she was with Prakash, and now that she’s separated the discomfiture is more acute. The preoccupations of her countrymen (their children and their activities, and/or their homes and the ever-rising real-estate values) and Ramya’s outlook of life, to live and let live, don’t seem to find common ground.

  But go she must. Not just to “show her face” as they’d say in India, but because she really wants to say goodbye to Subbu-Auntie. She was one of the few Indians Ramya had met in Canada who was genuinely willing to help others.

  Ramya steels herself and enters the garage by the side door. Ms. Peggy is waiting for her with her habitually dour expression. Possibly, she too doesn’t like the prospect of going to a funeral in this weather.

  When Prakash and Ramya left for Canada, her father was already old, nearing seventy. He continued to live alone in their house in Hyderabad. Of course, there were a couple of servants and a watchman — but that provided only Dutch comfort to Ramya. The local newspapers were full of stories of servants murdering and robbing their elderly employers. But Savitramma the old cook and Anjali the young maid were not the stuff assassins were made of, Ramya was sure. Though Das the watchman was reliable as to character, he took his guard duties lightly. Since he had a day job too, he was a heavier sleeper than Daddy himself. But there was always the chance that Das’s loud snores, more akin to a hungry tiger’s growl, could keep a not so determined cat burglar away from the premises.

>   Though Daddy was in good health and was comfortably off, Ramya still worried after him. Her father told her firmly that she was better employed in making a success of their decision to immigrate than worrying about him. He’d heard from his friends that immigrating to Canada was no cakewalk. He assured her that their neighbours, who’d been known to him for decades, were more than willing to give him a helping hand even before being asked. Aside from being innately kind and helpful, they felt obliged to Daddy as he’d given them free medical advice when they fell ill. They called on him regularly, and helped him with things like shopping, and paying property taxes and utility bills.

  Daddy died fourteen years after they left for Canada. The call came at 3 am. In that wee hour, the ring sounded loud and shrill, like a heavy-duty drill boring into the mantle of the night. Roused violently from her sleep, Ramya jumped out of bed to answer the phone, having not yet acquired the habit of letting calls slip indifferently into the voicemail. A late-night call always spelled bad news. A young man calling himself Kumar announced her father’s death. He turned out to be her childhood friend Raghu’s son. They’d lived down the street in a villa-like house which hid behind a veil of creepers and climbers. The house was later converted into a block of apartments with nary an inch of open space anywhere for a skinny shrub or even a tussock of grass to grow.

  It wasn’t the peak season for air travel, so Ramya managed to get a ticket for the same day. But she had to fork out a large sum — the airline management know that people who buy their tickets at the last moment don’t have the luxury to blanch at the price on the sticker.

  The journey was gruelling — twenty-eight hours with two tiresome stopovers. When she arrived in Hyderabad at the crack of dawn, surprisingly she felt neither tired nor jet-lagged. Bereavement can be numbing.

  It was a new and different airport she landed in. All swanky and shining, with high vaulted ceilings, god knows why. So unlike the cramped old airport in Begumpet, which though small, was conveniently located, just off one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city.