“Amma, what is happening to her?”
“Nothing. Don’t look. Just come away.” She did not want to tell the girls anything, hoping that in time they would forget what they saw. Jameen Amma came close to her and whispered, “Tell the children what is happening; otherwise they won’t understand and will get frightened.”
“Rukku, Vani, don’t get scared — this girl is getting fits,” spoke Dharmu with trepidation.
“Fits? What is that?” asked Rukku much to Dharmu’s annoyance. She did not want this conversation to go on any longer. Luckily Jameen Amma stepped in.
“I don’t know exactly but when it happens they lose consciousness and control of their limbs.” Of course this led to more question about the yellow stuff near her mouth and the spear and Jameen Amma answered them patiently. But their questions continued, much to Dharmu’s annoyance.
“And the priest, why he is beating her?”
“He isn’t beating her hard. In any case she can’t feel anything. The villagers believe that an evil spirit has entered her and the priest is trying to get the evil spirit out.” Naturally, this led to another tirade of questions about spirits and exorcism and modern medicine. Dharmu became agitated. She didn’t see the need for the children to learn about this and was in a hurry to get them out of there.
“Come on. We have to go to Thatha’s before lunch. Hurry up.” The children hurried up; their memories being short, they forgot all about the incident as soon as they entered their grandfather’s house.
The house sat in the middle of a large wooded estate. This was where Dharmu and Mahadevan got married. The garden looked a little bare, though the grass was green after the rains. Dharmu’s grandparents were older now and no longer had the energy of youth. The upkeep of the house kept them occupied, so the garden was left to care for itself. The children were meeting her grandparents after almost a year and were happy to be in the house. Dharmu had wonderful memories of this house, filled with people going in and out, with something or other happening all the time. Her grandfather lived in the main town of Dindigul, and people in the country were known for their hospitality. No visitor ever left the house without eating or drinking something, which was the tradition in these parts. Dharmu had spent most of the summer here all those years that she grew up in Porambur. After a sumptuous lunch, the women cleared up and then retired to the mutram to sit and talk while Paati made beeda for them, using betel leaves, areca nuts and grated coconut.
Dharmu was lying face down on the swing, the same swing that was used for her marriage ceremony.
May 26, 1920. Almost fifteen years had passed since that day. The muhurtham, or auspicious time during which the wedding thaali had to be tied around the girl’s neck, was set early that morning, from 7:00-8:30 a.m. The ceremonies were going on all week but that particular morning they woke up very early. The older ladies of the household gave Dharmu an oil massage and bathed her, after which her mother tied a beautiful magenta pink sari with a bottle green border — her oonjal sari. She was still painfully thin and the sari looked out of place on her. She wore a thick gold odiyaanam around her waist and her hair was braided into one long plait. On her head, she wore an uncut ruby and gold headset, which ran along the hairline framing her face, with a centerpiece along the parting of her hair. On either side of the centerpiece were ruby adornments in the shape of the sun and the moon. She had ruby and gold bangles on both wrists and on each of her upper arms were two identical armbands in the design of a serpent. Fresh jasmine and Kanakambaram, an orange flower native to the south, adorned her hair; and then of course the nose rings and jimiki on her ears completed the ensemble. The flowers on her hair were so heavy that she could barely lift her head.
“Good!” exclaimed her grandmother. “Girls must be shy.”
Once she reached the wedding platform in the front of the house, three or four rose and jasmine garlands were put around her neck. The additional weight of the garlands bent her head forward until her chin almost touched her chest. The scent of the flowers was so strong she could barely breathe. She had not seen her prospective husband before this day. He had been busy with exams and had not come for the Ponpaakal or the engagement ceremony. He, too, had agreed to the match without seeing his bride. She looked at him for the first time as he came into the marriage hall and he was not bad looking: fair, a little short and maybe not exactly slim but he was acceptable.
Her grandfather had made elaborate arrangements for the wedding. A huge pandhal had been erected in front of the house where the actual wedding ceremony would take place. The central mutram was also covered with a pandhal to seat guests for lunch that followed the ceremony. Although the wedding guests from the groom’s family were staying partly in Dharmu’s house and partly in Jameen Amma’s, the actual ceremony was held in Dindigul, and the whole family traveled the short distance back and forth for two days.
The garland exchange was about to begin and someone pushed Dharmu forward with a garland in her hand; and from the other side, Mahadevan was brought closer. She reached up, all the while looking at the floor, mainly because of the weight of the flowers around her neck and put the garland around Mahadevan’s neck. The exchange went on for a while. The proceedings were now more lighthearted and the revelers tried to make it harder for them to trade garlands. Her uncle lifted Dharmu on his shoulders and Mahadevan reached up, unable to get the garland anywhere near her neck. Then two of his maternal uncles lifted him up to successfully complete the task. Everyone was laughing but Dharmu felt stupid and wondered why this ceremony existed. Perhaps in ancient times, children married much younger, at five or six, and this was one way of amusing them at their own wedding ceremony. She did not get the point of all these rituals. They went on for so long and besides, her neck hurt. After this, the couple sat together on the swing while ladies from both families performed a ceremony to lift the evil eye off the couple. They washed the groom’s feet with milk and wiped it clean with a silken cloth; all the while the women sang wedding songs.
“Paal aalai kaal alambi pattu aalai thudaithu …. Laaaaa….li…”
Inadvertently Dharmu caught herself singing “Laaali,” letting slip to the family around what her thoughts were focused on.
Jameen Amma laughed, “Are you lost in your wedding thoughts, silly girl?”
“How did you know?” asked Dharmu sheepishly, realizing almost immediately that she had been singing a wedding song.
“Mummy?” said Rukku out of the blue. “Were you in love with Daddy when you married him?”
Dharmu looked annoyed. “Now who has been saying silly things to you?”
“Vani reads Women’s World romances and she told me that English people only marry when they fall in love. So were you in love?”
“No, silly, I was only twelve. What did I know about love?”
“I will only marry when I fall madly in love,” Rukku declared.
Dharmu shook her head in disbelief but she said nothing, not wanting to disillusion her young daughter.
“Mummy, you didn’t answer Rukku. Do you love Daddy?”
“Yes.” The word slipped out of her mouth before she knew it. But she wasn’t sure.
Love. What exactly was that? What were you supposed to feel when you were in love? How did you know if you were in love? Were you supposed to shiver in excitement and feel hot and confused? If so, then maybe I have been in love, but when I shivered and was hot and confused, I attributed it to my fear of the unknown. Then was fear Love? No it couldn’t be. Love was not something to be feared; it was supposed to be something you longed for, something you relished, something that lifted your soul to melt with the divine. Am I too simpleminded, unable to recognize love even as I am embalmed in it? Is it locked in the deepest recesses of my soul, and if so, what is the mysterious key that I need to access and unleash it. What I feel for Mahadevan is so different from what I feel for Amma, the girls and Kandu. For them I feel affection, possession, ownership and even obligation. Is that love
? Then I cannot love Mahadevan because he alienates me and keeps me at a distance. With Mahadevan I feel a vacuum that longs to be filled, sensations of comfort and anger, often at the same time like sunshine during rain. Which of them is love and which is not? Maybe love between a man and woman has only to do with the physical act of union but if that were so, men would not treat their wives as callously as Appa treated Amma. Is love admiration of a person’s qualities? If that is the case, then I love Mahadevan terribly because I admire him for so many things: his level headedness, his intelligence, his calm attitude. But then I admire so many other people and their qualities too. Am I in love with all of them?
Do I love Mahadevan?
I really don’t know.
CHAPTER 30 – KANDU
NAGARCOIL
“Have we reached?”
“No Kandu, not yet,” replied Dharmu patiently for about the hundredth time.
“How much longer?”
“Soon, we will reach soon,” Dharmu said inattentively. In reality, she had no idea when they would actually reach their destination. She watched Kandu bobbing up and down restlessly. The train should have reached Trivandrum station hours ago but was delayed. They just found out someone had committed suicide on the tracks, but there was no need for Dharmu to tell the children about that. The train had stopped in the middle of nowhere for almost three hours and was now inching along in the direction of Trivandrum, moving way too slowly for Kandu, who couldn’t wait to see his grandfather.
In Trivandrum station, an impatient Nilakantan Ayyar was fed up with waiting and asking the station master when the train would arrive. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was past his lunch time. He was ravenous. He sat on a bench and opened his tiffin ready to swallow its contents in one gulp. His annoyance and demeanor mirrored Kandu’s and this similarity connected them in a tight bond. They had comparable natures: both were perfectionists, quick witted and quick tempered, strong yet kind, controlling but sensitive, both with the same sense of humor, able to laugh at the same jokes. And now both were restless and angry for the same reason — the train being delayed! Nilakantan peeped over his shoulder to make sure he could see his blue Baby Austin, his pride and joy, the only car in Nagarcoil and the envy of his neighbors. A man was bent over looking at himself in the side mirror combing his oily locks into place. Nilakantan shook his head, huffing in disbelief. Keralites! Never miss a good opportunity.
Kandu spotted his grandfather almost as soon as the train pulled into the platform. “Thatha… Thatha…” he yelled, and like a streak of lightning, he was out the door racing towards the exit; he would have happily jumped off the moving train onto the platform if the agile orderly had not stopped him. Nilakantan waited for the train to come to a grinding halt. He made a handsome picture in his silk veshti, black coat and golden yellow turban, his large brawny arms crossed across his great barrel shaped chest. His pride and self-confidence were evident in the mere carriage of his head, which exuded an overwhelming sense of authority. No power could contain a wiggling Kandu once the train finally came to a halt and he ran across the platform, hurling himself into the arms of his beloved grandfather, only to be tossed into the air before Nilakantan held him close, nuzzling him roughly.
The car was a recent purchase and Kandu was delighted to ride in it. If Nilakantan could have seated him on his lap and driven simultaneously, he would have but Kandu had to be content to sit next to his grandfather, looking up and watching him adoringly as they made their way to Sita Gardens.
Driving into the compound, they could see a beaming Appanshayal framed between the central arches, which were covered with green ‘Rangoon Creepers.’ Kandu was special to him, too, as he was his first great-grandson. Kandu loved the smell of camphor and vibuthi that he always associated with Appanshayal. You could smell the fragrance even as Appanshayal entered the room. Everyone had their own characteristic aroma and Kandu was especially attuned to linking people with this. Camphor and vibuthi with his great-grandfather, sandal wood with his grandfather, lavender with his father and jasmine with his mother. Kandu, as usual, got the first hug from his grandmother, Sita Paati, who incidentally smelt of coconut oil.
Almost immediately Kandu ran out into the gardens behind the house. He loved being here. It had so many secrets, unidentified hiding places, undiscovered treasures and constant activity that was all-consuming and interminable. Gardeners and cowherds worked in the vast garden at all times. The house was always alive with people coming and going. The family itself comprised almost twenty people at any point of time and food was cooked and served on a grand scale in this house.
The clock struck four and almost like clockwork, ‘Coffee Mami’ emerged from the Coffee Room with a tray full of steaming, freshly brewed coffee in silver tumblers. Janaki—Coffee Mami was the original owner of the property where Sita Gardens stood. She had been widowed and left with no source of income. For a few years she sold produce from the land at the local market to make ends meet but over time, was unable to maintain the property. When Nilakantan Ayyar bought the land from her, he realized that she had nowhere to go and insisted she stay on in the house. Janaki Mami was a proud woman and did not like the idea of living on anyone’s charity. But she had no children and no place to go, so she agreed to stay with the family on condition that she work to earn her living. Nilakantan Ayyar was unwilling to make this noble Brahmin woman work for him, but he knew she was too proud to accept charity, so he told her she could make coffee for the family. The coffee beans were stored in a special room near the kitchen and every morning and evening Janaki Mami made coffee, a technique that she had perfected over the years. With almost thirty family members and visitors coming at odd hours, she made coffee almost all day. Soon, everyone stopped using her real name and she became ‘Coffee Mami’ to one and all.
Kandu crouched down in the cowshed intently watching the cowherd as he washed the fat cow’s udders before milking her. “Splish splosh splish splosh,” he went, mimicking the sound of milk as it filled the can, foaming at the top. Appanshayal always drank the first glass, frothing and still warm from the heat of the cow’s udder. Then it would be Coffee Mami’s job to boil and store the rest of the milk and set aside a large container with culture to make fresh yoghurt. The women collected thick cream from the yoghurt then churned it to make butter, which was then melted for fresh ghee to be used in the kitchen. As the milkman stood up to find a new container, Kandu bent under the cow and pulled on her teats, getting a warm mouthful of milk and savoring it for a few seconds before making a second attempt. His aim wasn’t good enough and most of the milk went into his eyes and up his nose. His coughing alerted the horrified milkman, who rushed back and pulled Kandu out from under the cow.
“Chinna Saar, please don’t drink directly. Your spit must not touch the cow or it will spoil the milk and I will get into trouble with PeriyaSaar (Appanshayal).”
In the early evening the men took a dip in the ‘water tank,’ a swimming pool that was behind the house close to the cowshed. Nilakantan had this tank specially built because he loved swimming. He liked to drive to Kanya Kumari, a town twenty miles away at the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent and swim in the ocean. Sitting at the edge of the waters, Nilakantan could identify three distinct colors in the sea around the cape on all three sides — the sands from the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean; a sight that he savored.
Nilakantan taught all his sons to swim, and today he was swimming with his father. Kandu saw them from a distance, gleefully taking off his clothes as he approached the tank, jumping in buck naked. He was almost six years and had not yet learned to swim but that did not deter him. His darling Thatha was there to catch him as he hit the water and he rode on his back up and down the tank. After an afternoon of frolicking in the water and a quick shower, the children were ready for the evening meal
Paati had planned Nila Shaapaadu, dinner for the children, under the open moonlit sky. All the children s
at in a row in the back open verandah. In two huge bowls, Sita Paati had made vatha kuzhambu shaadham and thayir shaadham, the former being rice mixed with a spicy sauce and the latter, rice with yoghurt. Everyone had a small plate in front of them with roasted appalam, a dry vegetable and spicy lime pickle. Kandu was thrilled because Kannan Chithappa, his favorite uncle, was also here and he gleefully sat next to him before anyone else did. The youngest of the brothers, Kannan had a brilliant sense of humor, and laughter and horseplay dominated the proceedings whenever he was around. Paati narrated a story about Krishna and how he fought with the evil King Kamsa and defeated him. As she told the story, she put a ball of rice in each outstretched palm. Then the children added the vegetable and appalam and gobbled it up. Within minutes, the large bowl of mixed rice was finished; the children had eaten it all and were ready for the second course of curd and rice. Kannan frightened the children with ghost stories and Kandu was not too happy about it. Once the elders had eaten, they retired to their respective rooms. Kandu snuggled up to his grandfather under the mosquito net in the large four poster bed. Nilakantan and his wife slept in separate rooms and had separate prayer rooms, not because of any marital strain but for mere convenience and privacy. After all these years and thirteen children later, Sita felt gratified to have her own space.
“Thatha, I don’t ever want to use the toilet,” Kandu declared to his puzzled Grandfather.
“Why? If you don’t use the toilet, then you will be in trouble.”
When the Lotus Blooms Page 23