On the morning of the festival, the women were up before daybreak as usual and after a bath they went out to the front entrance and began the long and intricate task of making complicated kolams. The design for each kolam was unique, extending all the way across the street, and the women in each household competed against one another to see who had the most elaborate kolam. The planning began weeks in advance, getting all the materials together and deciding on the basic design. This year, Rajam and Sushila designed their kolam in the form of a lotus, decorating each petal with different colored rice, lining the outer shell with rows of dung lamps filled with oil. In the evening when they lit the lamps, the whole outline of the lotus would be illuminated. The men tied fresh banana leaves on either side of the front entrance, and in between garlands of mango leaves and orange marigolds formed a canopy. After sunrise, the clay pot with the rice and lentils would be put to boil. Nagamma was the major domo, busy barking directions to everyone. “Rajam, did you wash the clay panai nicely? Partha, move the garland a little to the right. Pattu, stop singing and cut the vegetables for the seven-curry kootu.”
Finally everything was ready just the way Nagamma wanted it: the clay pot washed and anointed with turmeric and kumkumam, sugarcane leaves tied around it, the kolam completed except for a few final finishing touches, the banana leaves and marigold garlands hung, the seven vegetables cut and stewing in a rich, spicy, coconut curry, sugarcane chopped and ready to be eaten. The family had gathered in the back thinnai around the clay pongal paanai.
Everyone except Rajam. She was in the bathroom for the tenth time since she woke up this morning, checking to see if her period had come. Her stomach had been feeling queasy all morning and she was expecting to get her period, but so far her petticoat was unstained. This was really strange. Every month her period came like clockwork and it should have come three days ago but so far there had been no sign of it. She seemed to be cramping and felt an empty sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. She had been unable to drink her morning coffee for two days now, which was unusual, because as far back as she could remember, she never skipped her morning coffee. Somehow the coffee churned her stomach and she felt like throwing up. She probably had a bug from the food but there was no diarrhea, only this churning and emptiness in her stomach. Normally she had pain in her thighs two days before the onset of her period but so far she felt nothing. She was terribly anxious and felt a headache pulsing at the nape of her neck. As she stepped out of the bathroom to wash her feet, she heard everyone calling out her name and rushed into the thinnai to take her rightful place next to Partha.
Nagamma had already put the rice and lentils into the pongal paanai and Sushila added the jaggery. The fire beneath the pot was flaming, burning bright and strong as the men kept adding more firewood so the pongal could boil faster. Balu had his brass plate and spoon ready and waited impatiently for the pongal to boil over. The water simmered as Nagamma added the milk. She turned to the family.”Pray all of you that as this pot of pongal boils over, so does our life boil over with good events and happiness.” She barely finished speaking when Balu noticed the pongal rapidly rising to the top of the clay pot.
“Pongalo pongal!” he yelled gleefully, hammering his spoon against the brass plate. Everyone shouted in unison, “Pongalo pongal!” clapping their hands and shouting as loudly as they could. Rajam stuck her tongue half out of her mouth, rapidly moving it from side to side in a warble louder than Sushila’s. Balu looked at her and tried to mimic her, but no one could hear his soft voice amidst the din. Rapidly removing some sticks of the firewood from under the pot, Nagamma reduced the intensity of the flame. The evil spirits hovering around the house were sure to have been frightened away with the racket they made. Rajam closed her eyes and prayed for all bad events to end and for new happy moments to surround their lives. In her mind she knew she was only praying for that one elusive event to take place.
The day was going to be extremely busy. Since Rajam had not yet got her period, she decided to spend a few hours at the temple helping Savitri serve the temple prasaadham. But first, the pongal had to be made at home. The women went into the kitchen to finish the rest of the cooking. Somehow cooking for a festival was always enjoyable. For one, they prepared different food items than usual, which gave them a break from the mundane cooking. Today there would be no rasam and sambar but instead they would eat delicious venn pongal, shakkarai pongal and the seven-curry kootu. Just thinking of it made Rajam hungry but they could not taste a morsel until they placed the food in the altar and offered it to God.
Before noon, Rajam and Sushila were at the temple, carrying between them a large pot of shakkarai pongal that they had promised Savitri. The line for the holy prasaadham was long and the temple was milling with devotees all dressed in their new clothes. Everyone talked at the same time and the excitement and positive energy in the atmosphere was palpable. The temple was radiant, decorated with flowers — and just being here made one feel peaceful. The deity had been decorated with special care in a new maroon Kanjeevaram silk sari, adorned with temple jewelry. The air was thick with the smoke from the incense and camphor.
Savitri had been up for hours preparing the prasaadham for the devotees and she looked tired. She waved to Rajam and indicated with her eyes that she needed assistance. Rajam and Sushila took over the task for the next hour, allowing Savitri some respite. By late afternoon the temple doors had closed and Rajam and Savitri sat on the stone steps, exhausted from all the work. The silence was strange but definitely welcome after the hectic activity of the morning. Finally Savitri spoke. “How come you’re here? You were so sure you would not be able to help me.”
“I know, I have been waiting all morning to get my period but since it did not happen, I thought that I would come and help. Hey, I thought you would be grateful for the help.”
“That I am. Where did Sushila go?”
“Back home I think.”
“Oh gosh, I don’t think I could eat another morsel. I have had about six helpings of shakkarai pongal already and I feel sick.”
“So do I,” said Rajam massaging her lower belly.
“Really? You feel sick? You don’t think…” Rajam knew what she was about to say and she did not let her complete her thought.
“No I don’t. I don’t even want to hope. I know by the evening it will come, so don’t say anything.” Savitri was not convinced and continued to probe, not realizing Rajam was terribly superstitious and felt if you said something, just the opposite would happen.
“I don’t know Rajam. How many days are you delayed by?”
“Three.”
“You said you are never late.”
“Maybe I have reached menopause. I feel old with all I have been through.”
“Come on, Rajam, it’s not that bad. Seriously, somehow I feel maybe this time…”
“Please Savitri don’t say anything. I hate the disappointment that follows.”
“I know, I won’t say anything. Okay? Happy?” Savitri conceded, pinching Rajam’s ample cheeks.
Rajam felt a twinge of pain at the base of her stomach as she got up to leave and she rushed out of the temple. She knew it was sinful to be anywhere near the temple if you had your period. As she walked into the side street, her stomach churned and she felt the bile rush into her mouth. She doubled over by the side of the road, holding the wall for support and all the pongal she had eaten found its way into the gutter by the roadside. She groaned loudly, holding her aching belly. The churning stopped but her legs felt weak and her head was spinning. She stood up slowly, waiting for the sensation to pass and then walked towards her house with slow, deliberate steps.
‘I should make a ginger kashayam to settle my stomach,’ she told herself as she entered the thinnai.
CHAPTER 44 – VELANDI
VIZHUPURAM
“Muniamma… Muniamma… wake up!” Velandi called out to her, softly rubbing her clammy forehead, pushing the damp hair away. Muniamma stirred and
tried to open her eyes but her lids felt too heavy and she allowed them to droop, closing them once again. The fever had broken, leaving her weak and exhausted, unable to wake up even to eat. Velandi poured a few sips of water between her lips but Muniamma was hardly aware of his actions.
“Amma… Amma… get up, Amma!” Muniamma was barely aware that her little boy had been calling her repeatedly, trying to wake her up. Velandi’s eyes filled up with tears. What was the point in feeling sad either for himself or his children? Until Muniamma recovered, he would have to take care of everything. Velandi picked up his youngest son and took him outside. He touched the child’s forehead with trepidation but thankfully he had no fever.
“Nandu, Amma is not well. What do you need? Food?”
“I’m hungry. Tell Amma to wake up and make something to eat.”
What could Amma make? There was nothing in the house. Velandi had to take care of his wife and could not go out to get any food. He had sent a message to Muniamma’s mother, telling her to come as soon as possible but four days had passed and she had not arrived. It was hard having to do it all, working and feeding the small children, as well as taking care of Muniamma, and Velandi was drooping with fatigue. Only now he realized how much Muniamma did in the home, how many things she took care of. Not only did she do housework, she also worked in two homes, cleaning vessels and sweeping. Now ever since the baby, she had not gone to work and there was less money coming in. The children were amazingly patient, but they were young and needed their mother. Muniamma’s breast milk ran dry and he gave the baby to a neighbor who recently delivered a baby and still had plenty of milk. Nandu, his oldest, was a great help but he was still a child and he could do only so much. If Muniamma’s mother did not arrive soon, the situation would become unmanageable. Velandi closed his eyes and prayed fervently for Muniamma to recover.
“Amma needs her rest. Today is Pongal. I will bring back some delicious shakkarai pongal for you. Just now, drink water and go to sleep, and before you wake up I will be back with your food.” Velandi hoped he was not too late to get food. Today, everyone would be waiting like hungry jackals to get the food before anyone else got to it. He knew he should hurry or he would be too late.
Velandi looked sadly at his wife. After the birth of the child, she had been confined to bed. She had been bleeding constantly and the old Amma from the next village came to see her. She gave her some kashayam to drink but nothing seemed to help. Muniamma was weak from hunger and malnutrition. Velandi felt tears well up in his eyes. What was the point of it all? How could he call himself a man? One month had gone by and no one in the house had eaten properly. The children were uncared for and he was so tired from everything that he was sometimes short with them. Why was everything so difficult? Why could life not give him some semblance of happiness? Just when he thought things were going well, everything changed, making mere existence a misery. He was so happy Muniamma’s childbirth had gone well but now she was not recovering. What was he going to do? Why was God testing his faith? He did not ask for much. All he wanted was food at least once a day for his children but instead, every day became a challenge, with a scramble for one square meal. Sometimes he wished he did not have children so there would be no stress about food. But almost immediately he felt ashamed that such thoughts had entered his mind. His children gave him so much pleasure; it was a crime to wish they didn’t exist.
God alone knows why such an evil thought entered his mind. Perhaps it was the constant hunger gnawing away at his insides, playing tricks on his mind. Hunger was strange. It began as a mere rumble in his stomach and then his insides churned, making it impossible for him to think straight, until it felt as if an enormous, unending gnawing pit had replaced his stomach. No matter how much he ate, the hunger was back like an evil spirit to haunt him the next day. No amount of food could exorcise this insatiate spirit. It was an evil curse his kind cohabited with. Living with hunger constantly made him wonder if hunger was his friend or enemy. Its unappeasable pangs constantly tore away at his innards but yet, whenever he ate, he had so much appreciation for the Almighty who blessed him that day with a full stomach. Hunger he could live with but he could not think about what life would be like without Muniamma. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it into the farthest recesses of his subconscious, not wanting the angels to dwell on such a chilling predicament.
He washed his face, ridding himself of this distasteful thought and prepared to leave for work. It was early but he needed to be in town at daybreak to be guaranteed food. He walked into the hut one last time and crouched down next to Muniamma. Her forehead was cool but her breath was coming in sharp, shallow gasps and her stomach heaved with each strained breath. Today he would send another message to her mother. Why had she not come as yet? Once he left, there would be no one with the children till noon. He soaked a piece of cloth in cold water and woke up Nandu.
“Nandu, keep this on your mother’s forehead and keep wetting it and putting it on again every few hours. And don’t forget to give her water.”
“Appa, is there anything to eat?”
“Soon, Nandu, I need to go to work and bring back some food. Take care of your mother till I get home.”
With a heavy heart Velandi walked briskly toward the Brahmin Agrahaaram. After the gloom in his wretched hut, the village looked bright and clean. He spent all of last week cleaning the village along with his fellow parayans and everything looked so festive, a sharp contrast to his state of mind. He could hear the cries of “Pongalo pongal” from several houses. He had to wait until after the families ate before he could hope to get any leftovers. Almost mechanically he made his way down the street cleaning latrine after filthy latrine, soiling his hands and body as he made things sanitary for others. He just finished cleaning the latrine at Nagamma’s home and from the back he saw the family congregated in the thinnai. How happy they looked. What did they do to get all of this? He was angry with the whole world for having so much when he had nothing. He watched the child, chubby and well fed, with plump shivering jowls as he vigorously banged the spoon against the plate. He was quite sure this boy never knew the meaning of the word hunger. He thought of his own children, gaunt and filthy, scantily dressed in soiled tattered clothing and another wave of anger swept over his whole being. He looked at the beautiful young girl standing behind her strapping husband. She was so beautiful, like an apsara in Indra’s court. She was kind too. Many times she left clothing for him along with the leftovers. He saw her turn and head for the bathroom and he ran out, not wanting to get caught spying on the family. Just as he closed the back door he heard her call out to him.
“Velandi, come back in an hour. I will have food for you.” And she was true to her word. He was back in an hour and only had to wait a few minutes before she came out and kept the folded banana leaf on the floor. He waited till she left and pounced on it tearing the leaf in his urgency to see what she had given him. There was venn pongal, kootu and shakkarai pongal; just the sight of the food brought saliva painfully into his mouth and he was tempted to take a small bite but then his self-control prevailed and before he was hit by another wave of temptation, he picked up the food and ran home.
When he entered the hut, it was dark. The children were still sleeping. He went up to Muniamma and picked up a handful of pongal.
“Muniamma, wake up, see what I have for you.” But she wouldn’t stir. He tried to pry open her mouth but he could not get her to open it. He was too late. Fever, weakness and malnourishment had laid prior claim on Muniamma’s life.
A cold fear gripped him and he felt his bowels release. The pongal slipped from his hand and splattered on the floor. He let out a long, unending wail. The only sound that could be heard in the hut was his heart wrenching, lamenting.
CHAPTER 45 – SUSHILA
VIZHUPURAM – FEBRUARY, 1935
“Sushila, Sushila, where are you?” Siva returned home early from work and appeared agitated as he searched for Sushila. H
is voice sounded urgent and his face wore a worried look. Recently, he had been travelling a great deal in his new job as a salesman. His work took him to remote villages in Tamil Nadu and he was away from home for over twenty days in a month. He constantly complained that, considering the amount he travelled, his remuneration was a pittance, which was a problem, especially since a large portion of the financial burden of maintaining the family was his.
Somehow Sushila felt uneasy when he travelled. Twice she had seen kumkumam stains on his white shirts. She herself used only a deep maroon color and these stains were in different colors. In her mind was that niggling doubt about his fidelity but she was too scared to even allow the thought to express itself. Fidelity was a rare breed and women needed to live several lives and gain good karma to get a man who was completely faithful. She was Siva’s second wife and knew she was not his first woman. She accepted that he had shared the bed with his previous wife, but prostitutes? Just the thought made her shiver. All kinds of debauched images of street prostitutes and devadasis dressed in gaudy mitthai pink saris drove her crazy every time she saw the telltale kumkumam stains. She was too scared to broach the subject with him, fearing his response. It was easier to merely ignore that part of his life. Pretending she did not know dulled the pain of rejection. When he slept with her, her mind was filled with images of him coupling with fat prostitutes and she hated that part of her life. But what was the point of knowing the squalid details of his meanderings? It would only intensify her pain and make it impossible for her to talk to him normally but more importantly, continue to respect him. The kumkumam marks and the cloying smell of cheap perfume on his unwashed shirts made her sad and angry simultaneously. She knew he had a roving eye but there was precious little she could do about it.
When the Lotus Blooms Page 32