Both Vani and Rukku knew this, although it was never openly discussed. Dharmu simply never had time for them. It was always ‘Go find Meera. Go find the ayah. Go find someone else.’ Meera did everything for them. She bathed them, told them stories, combed their hair and even put them to bed. They met Dharmu and Mahadevan only at mealtime and it was not polite for girls to talk with food in their mouths. Kandu however, could not only talk with food in his mouth but could also spit the food or feed it to the dog and Dharmu would laugh and say, “How sweet.”
Sweet indeed! Vani always complained this was pure and simple favoritism. Since Kandu was never punished, periodically the girls would slyly pinch him. But his skin was so fair it would swell and create a telltale welt and they would be punished anyway. A lose-lose situation.
The chowkidar called out, “Bhola Memsahib aa gaye.”
He was announcing the arrival of the English tutor, Mrs. Elizabeth Bowler. She had arrived at the gate by tonga, a horse-drawn carriage and the main means of public transport in Rangpur. It was not as classy as the phaeton, the covered carriage that Mahadevan used to go to work. The tonga had a tin cover and one had to climb in from the back and sit on the edge, letting the legs dangle, or simply sitting with them curled up under. Either way, the ride was bumpy but it was the fastest mode of transport in these parts for those who did not own a bicycle. Mrs. Bowler got out as elegantly as possible after a bouncy tonga ride, paid the driver and waved to Dharmu. She was out of breath as she carried her portly self up the stairs.
Mrs. Bowler was Anglo-Indian. On seeing her, Dharmu was immediately reminded of the nasty comments people in Calcutta passed about Anglo-Indians, calling them misfits, born as a consequence of a roll in the hay with a tea picker, or the result of spilled seed by some Englishman in an uncaring, drunken stupor. They rejected them as half-breeds but Mahadevan said that Anglo-Indians actually considered themselves superior to Indians, whom they called ‘darkies.’ Dharmu grew up in a community where caste purity was esteemed more than anything else and she felt sorry for them. An accident of birth left them hanging in the middle, unable to hobnob with Europeans and not caring to associate with Indians. Mrs. Bowler was fair skinned and Dharmu wondered if there was a Mr. Bowler. She could easily pass off as being white. Mahadevan knew many Englishmen, soldiers in the army who had Anglo-Indian wives. Dharmu wondered if they had gotten duped into marriage, thinking their wives were English ladies with impeccable genealogy. Thank heavens Mrs. Bowler was fair skinned. If she had been darker, the poor soul might have spent the rest of her life as a white person in brown skin, hating her color, her situation, her destiny but most of all hating the society she had the misfortune of being born into. Ironically enough, Dharmu envied Mrs. Bowler. She spoke English like an English Memsahib and made Dharmu feel like the misfit.
There were no schools in Rangpur and Mahadevan was hell bent on getting a decent education for the children. He knew it would only be for a short time, as ICS officers were transferred every few years. It was only a matter of time before they moved to Delhi or Calcutta, where there would be many schools to choose from. He was grateful to find Mrs. Bowler, who had moved to the Rangpur district to teach the Collector’s children. When Mahadevan replaced the previous Collector, she was actually thankful for the job, even though it meant working for a ‘darkie’ family. Mrs. Bowler usually arrived at their home mid-morning, a little before noon. She first taught Kandu for an hour and then it was Dharmu’s turn. Finally, the girls were taught English, Math and the Sciences until four in the afternoon.
“Awful weather isn’t it?” she said to Dharmu. Then she turned to Kandu who did not look too happy. “Come on Kandu, time for school,” Mrs. Bowler said cheerfully. Kandu ran in ahead of her into the dining room, where he normally spent the better part of the hour either under the table or behind the chair. Meera had to be around to periodically plonk him back into the chair. Of course, there were at least a couple of urgent toilet breaks.
“Come on Kandu; get out from under the table. That’s a good boy.”
“Mrs. Bowler, there’s a spider under the table.”
Then all hell broke loose, with Mrs. Bowler shrieking and flapping her dress around, with Kandu laughing in glee watching Mrs. Bowler’s thighs jiggle. That took care of at least five or ten minutes. It was amazing how Kandu thought of different ways to avoid sitting down to study. The only time he sat for any length of time was when they did Math. Then he would stick his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and finish all the assignments in minutes. He always complained that Mrs. Bowler spoke too slowly. Actually, Kandu’s mind worked too fast. At five, he could read sentences and do addition and subtraction problems and Mrs. Bowler just could not keep up with him.
When Dharmu finished her lesson, she stood up and aimlessly wandered around the house. She found herself sitting at her husband’s desk staring vacantly out of the window. The boring sentences she had just read kept repeating themselves in her head like a broken record: “Peter and Kate, Peter sees Kate, Kate sees PeterGood morning. How do you do? Very well, thank you.” Why do I need to know this? She was mentally exhausted spiritually drained. She looked at the sky — the same sky that perhaps her mother was looking at right now. Then her hand reached for a pen and she began writing.
Dear Amma
Aneganamaskaaram. (my greetings to you)
I am well; at least my body is functioning the way it should. The girls are growing. Vani will turn twelve and Rukku is nine. But you know that. I am trying my best to be a good wife to Mahadevan but it is so hard. Life is good here. I have a dozen servants in the house but I feel so alone. I wish I could just lay my head in your lap and forget my problems. I try to be obedient and change my ways to please my husband but how can I wipe out five thousand years of culture, the rules you taught me, the values you gave me, in just a few years? I eat meat and I have tasted alcohol. I am so ashamed of myself I can’t face God. I have stopped praying. What is the point? I feel so unclean eating the flesh of dead animals; I cannot go in front of his altar. I haven’t been to a temple in three years. My children are growing up without any religion. What can I teach them? I don’t understand anything anymore. How can I tell them to do all the things that I do, when it doesn’t feel right? I don’t know what is right anymore — to follow what you and Appa taught me? Or to listen to my husband? He isn’t a bad man. He doesn’t beat me like Meera’s husband. She sometimes comes to work with a swollen eye and prefers to stay here, where she feels safe, hardly ever taking leave to go home. At least I don’t get physically abused. But who will I tell about the turmoil in my mind. I can’t tell Mahadevan. He would not understand. At least he lets me wear a sari and a pottu. Some of the ICS wives wear dresses and look foolish. I can’t deal with the change. It is too much too soon.
My brain is full of new rules: how to eat, how to talk, how to sit. I can’t sit on the floor and I can’t talk at the dining table. I am always so tense, wondering if I am doing things right. At times I get so unhappy. I used to cry a lot but never after Mahadevan came home. I could not let him know how I felt. He would not understand. He works from his intellect, not his heart. He does what has to be done irrespective of how he feels about it. But I function from my heart, my emotions. I have cried so much, emptying my eyes of all their tears. Mahadevan is too busy at work. When he comes home, he eats and sleeps. He sleeps next to me but we hardly ever share any intimacy. I think I repel him. I am too dumb to be attractive to him. But I am trying. I am trying so hard. I long for someone to hold me, love me, or care for me. Only Mrs. Bowler visits me. All the other people here speak Bengali and English. I think I will slowly even forget Tamil. No one in these parts speak Tamil. My life has really changed. I am tired of eating soup and cutlets, chicken and fish curry. I long to sit on the floor in your kitchen and eat rasam and rice with my bare hands. The monsoons will be here soon. Maybe Mahadevan will send me to Dindigul. I don’t even know why I am here. The servants can take care of everything.
They don’t really need me. Maybe if I learn English quickly Mahadevan will talk to me more. I am not a fit companion for him. He is so clever and I am so ordinary. Only Kandu lifts up my spirits. He is always full of mischief. He makes me laugh and forget all the things I have to do, all the things I have to learn. I have to become someone else. I cannot hold on to the old Dharmu. Maybe then I will be happy. But first I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Amma, I can’t send you this letter because it would break your heart to know that your darling daughter ate meat. But I feel better after writing this.
Dharmu tore the letter into shreds and threw it in the waste bin. She picked up Kandu and carried him to the bed. Then softly, she sang to him a little ditty that she always sang to the children when she put them to bed.
“Nini baba nini, makhan roti cheeni, so baba so ja, nini baba soja.”
“Sleep baby sleep, butter, bread and sugar, sleep baby sleep, sleep baby sleep.”
Part III
Rajam
CHAPTER 7 – RAJAM
VIZHUPURAM – 1934
Rajam truly missed her sister-in-law, Sushila. Ever since her marriage into this family, Sushila had been her confidante and friend, always helping her, giving her tips and just being her companion and ally. She was the only one other than Partha who really understood her. The two women shared their moments of woe and happiness and Rajam was absolutely devastated by Sushila’s miscarriage. Conceiving a child was difficult enough but to lose a growing baby in the seventh month was appalling. Poor Sushila. She was so looking forward to having her own children. Perhaps all the housework had been too much for her, although the elders said exercise was supposed to be good for a pregnant woman. Maybe the additional strain caused by Nagamma’s mere presence made her miscarry. Even as she thought the worst of Nagamma, she knew in her heart it was not possible. Nagamma may be domineering and a wretch but she was not a sorceress and would never wish harm to befall her own grandchild. Perhaps this was just Sushila’s fate and maybe next time she would be luckier.
Sushila was at her mother’s home convalescing and the entire burden of the household fell on Rajam. The days seemed never ending and at night she collapsed in sheer fatigue into deep sleep. She barely had time to sit down and rest and by evening her feet were always swollen from exertion. She was tired of her name being called out andfor a change, couldn’t wait to get her periods. At least that way she would get a break, leaving Nagamma to deal with all the housework. Rajam chuckled at the thought.
She wiped the last of the vessels and rushed to change into a fresh sari. Partha had told her to be ready, as he was taking her to the market. Rajam enjoyed going there and browsing through the stores. Most of all she loved the bangle store. Sometimes the bangle seller brought special gold inlaid bangles from the north, which Rajam couldn’t wait to add to her collection.
When she heard Partha coming in, she rushed out to the thinnai and looked apprehensively at Nagamma for permission to leave the house. Partha had already told his mother he was taking Rajam out, so she was thunderously silent. As they walked down the street they passed by their neighbor Muthu Mami’s house. Rajam could see her daughter-in-law sitting in the thinnai weaving jasmines into a garland. Rajam had tried to make friends with her at the temple but she wasn’t particularly friendly. As they reached the marketplace, Rajam saw the new priest from the temple with his wife and son. Rajam had not met her yet but she seemed nice. Somehow, with the burden of housework, there never seemed to be any time to go out and make friends. The only people Rajam met were those who came to their house. She made up her mind to change that. She could begin by befriending Muthu Mami’s daughter-in-law and the priest’s wife.
The marketplace was buzzing with activity and shopping was a pleasure, especially since she was with Partha. After finishing their purchases, they were walking home, when they heard the drone of a vehicle behind them, a sound not so common in these parts. Rajam covered her nose to prevent the dust that it raised from entering her nose, when to her surprise the van came to a halt right by her. She turned to see her father getting down from the police van. “Appa!” she screamed in delight and ran to him, hugging him tight.
“Hey Rajam, my chella kutti,” said Swaminathan, rubbing his hand over her head gently and holding her close.
“This is a surprise. You should have told us you were coming,” Partha added, beaming from ear to ear. He enjoyed his father-in-law’s company. He was friendly and full of anecdotes and always excellent company. Recently, Inspector Swaminathan’s visits were drastically reduced ever since the family shifted to the nearby town of Chidambaram.
“Well, I had some official work in the next village and thought I would stop by and see my chella kutti, whom I haven’t seen for a month now.”
“I’m glad you did, Appa. We were just going home for dinner. Will you join us?” Rajam survived the first few years after her marriage because of her father’s regular visits to their home. Living in the same town, she was also able to see her mother frequently and share her problems with her and take her advice. The unconditional love showered on her by her parents relieved her burden and made Nagamma’s nagging much more tolerable. Now their meetings needed to be planned and since Nagamma did not approve of her spending too much time with her parents, she only went for a week at a time. Seeing her father was such a treat, she couldn’t stop smiling.
“Why not, Rajam, I would love to join you for dinner if it isn’t a problem — In fact, why don’t you both get in? I can give you a ride home.” Rajam got into the back of the van, excited to ride in an automobile, something she hadn’t done in a long time. Here in the village no one possessed cars. The vilvandi or bicycle was much more useful on the bumpy roads. The van took the corner and turned onto the street where Rajam had grown up.
“Appa, can we stop here?” Rajam asked excitedly. “I haven’t seen this place in so long.” The house was unoccupied and looked rundown. Rajam opened the rickety green gate, which creaked just like she remembered. “Appa, do you remember how Mani and I would swing back and forth endlessly on this gate?”
“Yes I do. And you trained Baby to do the same,” he said, referring to his grandchild — his older daughter Kunju’s first born.
Rajam looked at the bare thinnai. It was filled with so many colorful memories. She remembered a time when the thinnai was adorned with one wood and rattan easy chair, Appa’s favorite, where he would spend hours just sitting and talking to visitors, fanning himself with a coir hand fan. The thinnai belonged to Appa. It was his regal durbar where he reigned. This was where he met his friends, listened to local gossip and entertained them, while Rajam and Mani sat behind the door to eavesdrop. “You know, as a child I always wondered why Amma never sat outside with you when you had visitors. Even when she came out to serve coffee, she always had the end of her sari covering her arms and never sat down to talk to anyone, merely handed the coffee over the threshold for you to serve your friends.”
“Her upbringing is different. It was not polite to talk with men. I know you have modern rules and you speak with Partha’s male friends but our generation cannot give up some things.”
Swaminathan sighed as he nostalgically recalled happy memories in the house which was their home for several years. Turning to Partha he said, “Every day I returned from work, parked my bicycle in the compound and removed my dusty shoes and socks. Right here, Mangalam always kept a huge brass pot filled with water, where I washed my hands and face. I remember thinking that along with cleaning of dust and dirt, I cleansed my spirit and washed away the weariness of the day’s work. Then I kept my shoes on a rack and my constable collected them later in the evening to polish and shine. Mangalam always waited for me with a tumbler of hot filter coffee in her hands. I would hand over the string of jasmine I bought for her and then sink into the easy chair.” His eyes were wistful, in spite of thinking about something as mundane as cooling his coffee and pouring it from tumbler to davara, two containers of shining silver. T
he further apart his hands went, the more the coffee would froth.
Just then, the old caretaker ran up to them and on recognizing the Inspector, was all smiles and salutes. As he unlocked the main door, Rajam ran towards the mutram, the open rectangular courtyard. The central tulasimadham was still there, though the plant had wilted a while back. She smiled as she thought about how her brother, Mani, and she ran around the cement pot for hours, pretending to reach out but still ensuring they didn’t touch any part of the basil shrub. Amma said it was sacred and you could only touch the leaves after a bath. Even though Kunju was several years older, she would play hopscotch in the mutram with Rajam and Baby. The images flashed by her in vivid colors almost as if no time had lapsed. Such simple yet pleasant memories of them pottering around in the mutram, their bright clothes, pavadais and chattais, contrasting sharply with the dull grey slate floor. Partha walked in just then. “Yenna Rajam?Lost in memories?”
Rajam walked towards the raised parapet which bounded the mutram on all sides. She stood by the spot where there used to be an antique swing, recalling how Mani and she routinely launched themselves onto it much to their mother’s horror. It was a wonder it lasted so long. “You remember the swing, the Tanjore oonjal that was kept on this side? Of course you do. We sat here silently every time you came to visit,” Rajam said with a naughty smile. Partha raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes not wanting to remember that unsettling period of their marriage. That was before Rajam got her period, when she continued to live with her parents and he visited her daily. Rajam continued, “Somehow this place looks so empty. The mutram was the center of activity in this house. This was where Amma dried the chillies and aired the bedrolls. Every week something else was out, roasting in the bright sunlight. I loved to help make the appalaam and vadaam. Amma kneaded the dough, rolled and flattened it till it was paper-thin. Then we arranged them in straight lines on white sheets. Every five minutes I would be back to see if they were dry.” Rajam’s eyes were glistening with tears as she thought about her happy childhood.
When the Lotus Blooms Page 5