Nirmala had never been inside Munnuswamy’s house. All her conversations with Mrs. Munnuswamy had been conducted over the wall or near the gates. It was a large and well-maintained abode. Inside and out, the walls were painted a horribly bright shade of copper-sulphate blue, but the dadoing was white and, mercifully, relieved some of the pressure on the eyes. And at least there was no sign of water damage. There were ornate ceiling fans in every room, with small chandeliers dropping from their centres. Envy pinched at Nirmala, and resentment too. So much money they must have to keep such a big house so nice and clean, she supposed. She thought about Big House, so rundown, its state of disrepair enhanced during the monsoons, when large patches of moss formed on the walls and ceilings like maps of fertile countries. They hadn’t even whitewashed it for ten or more years. She felt Mrs. Munnuswamy’s eager eyes on her, but could not bring herself to say anything. Then suddenly she relented, guilty that she was repaying kindness with arrogance.
“Such a nice house you have built,” she said. “Nice colour also, the walls and all.” The lie didn’t bother her much for the pleasure it gave the small, round woman before her.
“My husband got all that paint half-price from a friend. If you want, we can get for you also,” said Mrs. Munnuswamy smiling bashfully. “My husband has lots of contacts. Any problem you have, he can take care.” She paused. “If you want, only.” She then begged Nirmala to sit down on one of the chubby, overstuffed chairs covered in a silky pink material.
“Please, you must take some refreshment,” she pressed, and Nirmala yielded despite the initial prickling of guilt at going behind Ammayya’s rigidly orthodox back. The feeling was followed almost immediately by annoyance—with herself. How could she, a grown woman, a grandmother herself, still be afraid of a senile old woman with backward ideas?
“Ishwara!” shouted Mrs. Munnuswamy, startling Nirmala with the strength of her vocal chords. She beamed happily at her guest and said, “Ishwara is a very holy boy. He gets dreams, you know. So clever, you can’t imagine.”
After tea, Mrs. Munnuswamy insisted on taking Nirmala on a tour around the house. Nirmala followed her from one bright blue room to another until she thought the sky had fallen into her eyes. But she said only the most flattering things, unwilling to hurt. In any case, who was she to comment? As if her own house was any better. The last stop on the tour was the terrace from where Nirmala had a good view of the surrounding area. Her own home dwarfed by all the apartment blocks, crouching sullen and nondescript in its pool of filthy water.
Mrs. Munnuswamy noticed it as well and, clapping a hand to her mouth, exclaimed, “Why drainage is so bad in your house only? Better do something. Call corporation people, maybe.”
Nirmala nodded and peered uneasily at her home, old and forlorn, stranded in the middle of the rippling grey-green mess. She really ought to tell Sripathi—or Arun since her husband was still unwell—about this. Surely water wasn’t supposed to stay for so long, even though it had been raining for days.
Just before Nirmala left, Mrs. Munnuswamy caught her arm, and said hesitantly, “There is something I wanted to talk to you about. Don’t be offended, please. My son has been insisting, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Is it about my sister-in-law?” asked Nirmala, coming straight to the point.
“Yes. We will come and ask properly of course, but first I thought I should speak to you. It is hard to talk to your mother-in-law.”
“Gopala wants to marry Putti?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come over, with tambola and all, after Deepavali festival is through? I will take care of everything, don’t worry. I know Putti will be happy also.”
Nirmala was amazed at her own daring. To begin with, she would have to deal with Ammayya’s hysterics. And Sripathi, how was he going to react? He had cut off their own daughter for marrying out of caste, religion, race. Would he support his sister now? Especially since it was this goonda fellow, the same man whose thugs had beaten up Arun twice.
“You are sure?” repeated Mrs. Munnuswamy, stunned by Nirmala’s invitation. She had expected some resistance—shock, or perhaps anger, at the thought of an alliance between her son and the Brahmin girl. A sharp doubt entered her mind. Perhaps there was something wrong with Putti. That’s why nobody had yet married her. She looked doubtfully at Nirmala now and got a warm smile in return.
“Yes, why would I simply say it?” said Nirmala.
“You should talk to your mother-in-law first, no?”
“Such matters ought to be settled fast. Neither Gopala nor Putti are young any more. How much longer do you want to wait? Till they lose all their hair and teeth, or what?” Nirmala laughed, in high good humour at her daring.
“What you say is right,” agreed Mrs. Munnuswamy, bustling to an ornately carved sidetable with an assortment of silver boxes on a tray. She picked a small tin, opened it and offered it to Nirmala, who took a pinch of vermilion and smeared it in the parting of her hair. The familiarity of the ritual soothed her. If they could manage a half-foreign granddaughter, why not these people who at least had the same rituals?
Again she waded through the ankle-high water around Big House, wrinkling her nose at the stench of rotting vegetation that wafted up with every movement of her feet. God only knew what kinds of dirty diseases were breeding in the mess. She reached the verandah and, with an expression of disgust, squeezed the filthy water from the ends of her sari, bunching the cloth and twisting it vigorously. Then she held the fabric away from her legs and entered the house. Once again she was struck by the difference between the peeling walls of her own living room—the ancient furniture, the musty odour that muffled all other smells—and the brightness of her neighbour’s. Again that sting of envy. And then Ammayya appeared, demanding to know whether she had been to the upstart’s house, and Nirmala forgot about the water outside and the sad deterioration of their home.
“Yes,” she said. “I took some chakkuli to thank them for their help.”
“Why suddenly so friendly you have become with them?” asked Ammayya suspiciously.
Nirmala hesitated, wondering whether to break the news of the proposal that would be arriving for Putti. This was probably not the most propitious moment, she decided. She had to think of a strategy first. Tell Putti and Sripathi and Arun. Get them on her side before telling Ammayya. The old woman noticed her hesitation and pounced on it, shaking it like a rat.
“What?” she demanded. “What you are hiding from me?”
“Nothing, Ammayya. I was just thinking how kind they have been, and we …”
“Liar! Something else you are hiding. I know you too well, Nirmala.”
Nirmala thought quickly. “Well, Munnuswamy’s wife said she could get us some wall paint half-price, and I was wondering whether you could lend some money to buy. The house needs painting.”
As she had expected, the idea of lending money put Ammayya off the scent immediately. “Money? My husband left me a pauper, and I have to live on my son’s charity. Where do you think I will get money from?” she grumbled, retreating hastily into her room.
Nirmala made her way up the stairs, still holding her soggy sari away from her legs. First she would tell Sripathi about the proposal, then Putti, then Arun, and finally Ammayya. If her husband dared to do ooin-aayin about caste and creed, she would remind him of their Maya. Cruel tactic to get her way, but sometimes cruelty was necessary. Squelch-squelch-squelch, she climbed, her feet cold. But Nirmala barely noticed, so busy was she, plotting a marriage for her sister-in-law. A happy occasion was needed in this house. It could be a small wedding, no need to call the whole world. Maybe even an Arya Samaj wedding, which would be over in five-ten minutes and cost less than a traditional one. If everyone agreed, of course. It would be nice to have a full-scale celebration, but money was a consideration, naturally. In her stolid, practical way, Nirmala had decided that the best way to deal with her own loss was to put it behind her and forge on.
She went upstairs to tell Sripathi about the water around their house, hoping to find him awake. She found Arun sitting at the edge of the bed, conversing with his father.
“The boy has a job,” Sripathi said, before she could open her mouth.
“What? When did this happen?” she asked, surprised.
“Why are you both so astonished?” Arun wanted to know. “Even Appu acted as if I had won the Bharat Ratna or something. It is a small job in Delhi.”
“So far away?” Nirmala said.
“An environmental group—non-governmental, so the pay is not great—but it is what I want to do. I will be able to send some money home; I don’t need much for myself.”
Sripathi cleared his throat and said, “You might not have to. I am selling this house. I have decided.” He didn’t know when he had reached the decision, but now that the words had left his mouth it seemed perfectly right. “Yes, that is what I shall do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this? I always come to know last of all. Is this not my home too?” demanded Nirmala. “What will Ammayya say? You haven’t talked to her about it, have you?”
“It is the best thing for all of us,” said Sripathi. “This property is worth a lot of money. We will need money from the end of this year. I might not have a job for much longer.”
“But what will you do sitting at home?” There was dismay in Nirmala’s voice. “The whole day you will be here?”
“Don’t sound so worried,” Sripathi said ironically. “I will keep out of your way. Maybe I will start giving tutorials in English and mathematics.” He leaned back against the pillows and stared out of the open balcony door at the apartment block. Soon, he thought, soon they would all be living in one of those boxes. He didn’t mind after all. This house was like a grindstone around his neck. There were too many memories haunting it—some good, it was true—but it was time now to create new memories.
20
A NEW DAY
THE DEEPAVALI FESTIVAL had come and gone. A number of the apartments kept the strings of electric lights hanging from their balconies, perhaps to make up for the heavy darkness that had descended on Toturpuram since the rains arrived. Although they had decided not to celebrate the festival this year, Sripathi had bought a box of sparklers, some fountains and ground chakras for Nandana to play with. He had also bought her a small packet of coloured pencils and a set of hair clips, dithering a long time over the choosing of these gifts. It had been more than twenty years since he last purchased something for a child. Nirmala, too, had got Nandana a new frock and some pretty, multicoloured plastic bangles, and had made a few delicacies to mark the festival of lights.
“But should we be doing this?” Sripathi had asked on Deepavali morning, suddenly overcome with a bout of guilt at celebrating so soon after a tragedy.
“What is gone is gone,” Nirmala had said as she rolled out thin discs of puri dough in the kitchen, her bangles tinkling briskly. “Wipe your hands and carry on, that is what I say. I will always miss my Maya, but tomorrow’s meal still has to be cooked, no? The child’s future is more important than past sorrows.”
In the weeks that followed his breakdown and slow recovery, Sripathi watched his wife, admiring the sturdy resilience that allowed her to cut and cook every day, trudge up and down the stairs to oil, bathe, cajole and care for Nandana, or sing her to sleep after dinner. He had lived with her for thirty-five years, and still he had not learnt her optimism. He looked always over his shoulder at the night instead of waiting hopefully for the next day.
It was the middle of December now, and the cyclonic activity over the Bay of Bengal had again intensified after a brief hiatus. It was impossible to keep schools and offices closed indefinitely, although the streets were still drowned in water. People went about their daily lives with a shrug.
“What-what will happen, will happen-ay-happen,” said Balaji, the bank manager, one morning, when Sripathi was squeezing through the gates of Big House. He had gone to Advisions, but only to work out the notice of resignation that he had handed in a month ago. Better that than to wait like a dog for Kashyap to throw him out. At least he had some dignity left.
Balaji continued to hold forth. “If my fate is to die of drowning, so be it.” He adjusted the bright woollen balaclava cap, a size too small, over his large head and shrugged. There were many of those caps around Toturpuram this year. Beauteous Boutique was doing a roaring business in woollen caps and sweaters, not to mention mufflers, gloves and socks, as a result of the lingering cold. The cyclones had brought the temperatures in Toturpuram down several notches. Kumar Jain, the owner, had even managed to sell woollen jackets to the Palanoor family, who were convinced that the polar ice cap had finally made its move to Toturpuram. The shopkeeper had bought the consignment of woollens from a merchant in Kashmir, whom he had met on a family holiday in Delhi several years ago.
“Poor fellow,” he had told the Raos when they had gone to buy Nandana’s Deepavali dress. “It is my duty to help my Kashmiri brothers. He said that he did not even have money to feed his family the next day. I was in tears, you know. Ask my wife. She will tell you how I was nearly in tears.”
His wife had nodded her head and looked worshipfully at her husband. “He is a very sentimental person, too-too generous and fond of doing charities of all sorts,” she agreed.
“Rascally liar!” Ammayya had proclaimed on the way home. “He must have got the woollens at a price too low to resist and hoarded them till now. And made a 200 per cent profit. Have you noticed his wife’s new jewellery? Two diamond florets on her nose. And six gold bangles that I have never seen before, latest pattern that too!”
The house smelled of damp clothes that had been strung up in almost every room. Nothing dried, not even the thinnest of cotton blouses. It was as if the rain had percolated into every pore of the house.
This morning, Sripathi was busy filling water in the kitchen. He heaved one pot out of the sink and replaced it with another. He filled one last container and tiptoed into Ammayya’s room, hoping that she was asleep. In the dining room he passed Nandana, who woke up absurdly early every morning. A few days ago, to her intense joy, Arun had brought her a bedraggled kitten. After much debate, during which Ammayya protested loudly and ineffectually, they decided to keep it in a closed basket in the dining room. The child spent every available minute with the creature. She looked up at Sripathi as he passed and gave him a small smile. She didn’t speak to him as freely as she did to the others, he knew. Sometimes, while he was on the balcony, he would notice her peeping at him around the bedroom door, disappearing as soon as he looked up.
Ammayya was wide awake in her favourite chair. She was in a bad mood. “Oho, Sripathi,” she started off when she saw him. “There are too many mosquitoes in this house. Why can’t you do something? No sleep at all I had, and now I will fall sick.”
“Please, no drama first thing in the morning. I have no time,” he said briskly, peering into the bathroom. He knew that the grumbling was a prelude to something else. Ammayya was not pleased about the sale of the house, although the thought of having an apartment of her own had mollified her. What she was actually upset about was the marriage proposal from the Munnuswamys’ and Putti’s obvious delight at the thought of being Gopala’s wife.
“Tell me when the tank is full,” he said and headed back to the kitchen. The child was still in the dining room, dragging a small toy on a string across the floor and giggling every time the kitten pounced on it.
“Don’t you have school today?” Sripathi asked, watching her play.
“She does,” replied Nirmala, who was also in the kitchen, measuring out cupfuls of ingredients for the snacks she was making for that evening. “The naughty one isn’t getting into her uniform. That kitten is too much of a distraction.”
“Why do I have to wear that stinky uniform?” Nandana whined. “Why can’t I wear my jeans?”
“Sister Angie will get angry, my sugar,” said Nirmala.
“What is wrong with your uniform? You look so smart in it. Now go and wear it, or you will be late.”
“But it scratches my neck and my arms,” argued Nandana. “See, it gives me a rash, an itchy one. I am allergic to it.”
“Nobody is allergic to uniforms. It is the starch that is making you scratch, that’s all,” said Nirmala firmly. “From tomorrow I will tell the dhobi not to starch your clothes. Now I am getting tired of all this fuss-muss. Go upstairs, otherwise I am going to ask Arun Maama to take that kitten back to wherever he found it.”
“You are mean,” grumbled Nandana, getting reluctantly to her feet. “I wish my mommy was here.”
“Your mother was my daughter,” said Nirmala. “She would have said exactly the same thing, my sweet chicken. I’ll have a treat ready for you when you come back from school if you are a good girl. Okay?”
Just then the doorbell rang. “Three cups of sooji,” she murmured. “Ree, will you remind me that I measured out three cups already? I’ll see who it is.” She hurried out of the kitchen, pausing to shoo Nandana up the stairs, and to the front door, which was wide open already. Over the sound of water running, Sripathi heard Raju’s voice. He thought that he must be mistaken, that it was actually somebody who only sounded like his friend. A few minutes later, Nirmala came into the kitchen. “I’ll take care of the water,” she told him. “Raju is here. You better go. Something is wrong, I think. I will make some coffee and bring.”
“What a surprise this is,” exclaimed Sripathi as he entered the living room. “The sun is surely going to set in the east today! If we see it at all, that is. Come on, sit down. Why have you decided to visit on this stormy morning, my friend?”
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