Where the Rain is Born

by Anita Nair

  My grandmother ruled the State of Travancore as the Regent Maharani. She began as a reluctant little Rani, plucked out from her family in the innocence of childhood. Soft-spoken and considerate, she initiated several far-reaching measures during her rule. After meeting her, Mahatma Gandhi wrote that he felt he’d seen the Goddess Lakshmi herself. He also remarked that he was struck by her utter simplicity. Later came Independence, Communism and a rescheduling of social priorities. Her daughters left for other cities. She found it difficult to continue living in Thiruvananthapuram and moved to Bangalore.

  I remember the small rectangular room where she spent her last days, lonely and occasionally visited, watching the dusk slip in and out of a series of windows. She read the newspaper and listened to songs by Yesudas. She kept toffees and carefully clipped-out comic strips ready for her grandchildren. She spent her days waiting for festivals like Onam and Vishu when she would get streams of visitors. One day towards the end, she confessed she was in danger of ‘forgetting how to talk’. But an inherent optimism kept her going.

  Kerala society is at best a precarious balance of the assured and the perilous. There is much political awareness, and this has generally led to a sense of frustration, the problem of helpless knowledge. There exists in the state a wide spectrum of experience, from the rigidly traditional to the wildly experimental. Imagine the plight of the unprotected, the unprepared, trying to eke out a living in this robust scenario. Imagine a bird from the gilded cage suddenly let out into bellicose skies.

  After my first novel, Lament of Mohini, was published, most interviewers and reviewers dwelt incessantly on my ‘royal past’. They seemed reluctant to accept the fact that there was hardly anything autobiographical in the book. One reviewer said I was being cruel to my family by revealing such colourful details. On the whole, this past had become a bit of a bugbear. I was considered with raised eyebrows as if I walked around with the paraphernalia of royalty draped about my shoulders. ‘Tell me how it was,’ was the refrain.

  How it was, is a good question. How it is, is even better.

  There are hundreds of tiny to big-time aristocratic families scattered all over Kerala. Their situation is far from glamorous. In fact, many of their members eke out a hand-to-mouth existence. Gone are the times when people shut their eyes and gave their girls in marriage to such families. Now the first question asked is: ‘Is the boy employed? How much does he earn?’ And that’s where quite a few of the boys take a beating.

  At any given moment, each of these families has a case or two pending with the Government, appealing for an increase in their allowance or trying desperately to hold on to their land. Some of the palaces are sooty, crumbling buildings that house nothing more than cobwebs, bandicoots and the occasional snake. Their owners have made an exodus to more livable surroundings or locations closer to their jobs. The few who remain wander about like ghosts, sticking stubbornly to tradition, discussing endlessly the past and the present, grabbing eagerly at morsels of life. Pictures of by-gone grandeur adorn their peeling walls.

  It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say these people are frozen in a time capsule neither here nor there. They are stunned witnesses to history more than fifty years after Independence. These are the reallife counterparts of the lead characters in Satyajit Ray’s ‘Jalsaghar’ and Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s ‘Elipatthayam’.

  A relative told me of the time he had lunch with such a family. They were thrilled to have him over. They were lavish as they served him. After a delicious meal, he got up to wash his hands. Standing in the veranda, the hostess poured water from a spouted vessel. He then wiped his hands on a towel hanging nearby. As he was replacing the towel, my relative noticed something colourful on the wall. On a closer look he discovered it was a painting. A soft hole had appeared on the canvas where the wet towel regularly caressed it. He was horrified to notice the signature of the artist Raja Ravi Varma at the bottom.

  The aristocratic family, who was even related in some way to the famed artist, was living in a time warp. The painting was a faceless part of their house, as faded and useless as anything else. The fact that priceless Ravi Varmas had passed through Sotheby’s had nothing to do with this wall decoration that had merged with the wall at some point or the other. This is the bewilderment that allows enterprising antique-hunters to make a beeline for such houses, quoting dismally low prices for ‘useless household items’ like spittoons, carved chests and doors, old furniture and works of art, and then display them in fancy shops with indecent price-tags.

  The palace where Ravi Varma was born is now almost deserted. Family members have moved to cities, leaving behind a remembrance of withering history. The Government recently woke up to the fact that a heritage was being ignored. The studio where the artist worked would be turned into an exhibition hall and a ‘tourist attraction’. The proud artistic past of the state would be redeemed in some measure. But then the Government changed hands and the new incumbents discovered they had little money left for routine administration let alone to keep a tradition alive.

  There are also those who survived. Resisting their family riches, they sought jobs to assure themselves of a regular income. The lucky ones did this while they still had their share of the family wealth. These are the only ones who retained their cake while routinely consuming it. Others were forced into employment when riches ran out. There are numerous aristocrats who do well as peons, clerks, and even sweepers—as long as it is a Government job.

  And a countable few invested wisely and became successful in business. A countable few. I know of several entrepreneurs with a ‘past’ who stepped out into the world, armed with money and a ‘name’. They felt they were equipped to take on the big bad world of business. By the time they realized they were no longer protected by a joint family, and that running a successful business required more than benevolent overall supervision, it was too late. I know of hotels, theatres, hospitals and factories that have collapsed under the weight of disillusionment.

  However, a new generation is fortunately finding its feet. They are breaking away from rigid rules and are open to all kinds of experience. They are marrying into other castes and even religions. They are willing to travel far and work hard to maintain a good living.

  The head of the Travancore royal family, the Maharaja, is also called Sri Padmanabha Dasa. He is a servant of the deity Sri Padmanabha, and used to rule in His name. As a child I was taken to the massive temple in Thiruvananthapuram and placed at the feet of the Lord. Every member of the family is thus handed over to Him. Thereafter, they are permitted to prostrate only on the single-stone mandapam once they enter the Lord’s presence.

  The temple is run by a Trust administered by the Maharaja. It employs a large number of people. I remember a tea-time conversation with the late Maharaja Sri Chitra Tirunal Rama Varma. The subject of the temple came up. He folded his hands and shook his head in a characteristic gesture of humility. ‘It is not in our hands any more,’ he smiled. Some decades ago these words would have meant that everything was in the Lord’s hands. But now it meant everything was in the hands of labour unions.

  However, in the first land of Indian Communism, there is still quite a bit of respect left for the erstwhile royal family. I was surprised at the passion ‘the good old days’ still evoked in some people.

  One stormy afternoon in Thiruvananthapuram, I was in a shop opposite the Secretariat, watching the elderly shop assistant fold and pack a dhoti for me. It was pouring outside. I overheard the conversation of two men who’d come in to take shelter. They were discussing the rulers of ‘those days’. I was overwhelmed to learn that they still remembered civic and welfare projects undertaken during my grandmother’s rule, quoting figures and dates accurately. Finally, one of them pointed to the grand white Secretariat building before them and said, ‘And now see what we have!’ It was an eye-opener to me. That the cynicism of our local Thiruvananthapuram Malayali should hide a soft spot for a pre-democratic dynasty!


  But there was more to come. The very next day, I was to visit the temple and then have lunch at the Kowdiar Palace. The Maharaja’s personal car was sent to pick me up. The vehicle and the chauffeur’s cap were easily recognizable because of the royal insignia on them. We entered the Fort area. The streets were narrow and crowded with people starting their day. Little bright shops. Flower-sellers and other vendors. School-going children ambling along. Suddenly I noticed pockets where people stood with folded hands, looking reverent as the car passed. I realized they were paying obeisance to the regular occupant of the car. I could do nothing but slink back in my seat, concealing myself till the car reached its destination.

  This may not have been unusual in a North Indian context. Former royals are venerated even today. But in good old Thiruvananthapuram?

  My mother was the first woman graduate from the royal family. Education was traditionally imparted at home, and there were tutors who were institutionalized by successive generations. Miss Watts was one such tutor. She handled her little wards with discipline and affection. Some of them were regular brats, playing truant, playing practical jokes, playing when they should be at their books. But Watts carried on, undimmed.

  My grandmother and her cousin, the Maharaja’s mother, read so much that they became storehouses of information, impressing every kind of visitor who conversed with them. They were exposed to western as well as traditional Indian literature. They were proficient in English and Sanskrit.

  My mother was also the first person from the royal family who went out and studied in college. For her it was a rare freedom. For the first time in her life, she was moving about with people outside the palace. It was thrilling to learn about the warp and weft of real life. ‘For some reason I went about barefoot,’ she recollects. The other students stared and commented about this.

  She also noticed with awe that her classmates and teachers wore silk saris and a great deal of jewellery. Barring ceremonial occasions, the family lived an unostentatious life, dressed and ate simply. Compared to other royal families in the country, Travancore’s must have appeared singularly devoid of glamour.

  Life in the gilded cage was pathetic in several ways. My mother wasn’t allowed to communicate like ordinary children even with relatives of her own age. A vast collection of toys and books testifies to the solitary hours of her childhood. And when old uncles and aunts came to visit, they regarded her with reverence and she had to act like an adult, making wise observations and asking after their health.

  She relates one such incident when a scholarly old uncle turned up. Her father asked her to meet the visitor in the audience hall and do the honours. She panicked. ‘What will I say to him?’ My grandfather thought for a moment and said, ‘Begin by asking him if he’s had his bath.’ And that is what she went and asked him. After that the words just dried up. It must have seemed bizarre to the old man when the little chit of a girl confronted him with this strange and single question. She was barely ten at the time.

  I feel a writer is a part of his environment, his times. Some of his influences will surely rub off on his work. Though I was born nearly a decade after Independence and my upbringing was ordinary and only as exciting as the next-door boy’s, I share a heritage that is unique. I have real-time recourse to rare reminiscences. Every experience I’ve been through has been filtered by a past that is different, enriching my writing in one way or the other.

  It is, in fact, a highly rewarding activity, watching and writing about the inmates of a gilded cage. Especially now that the door is open.

  Ancient Promises

  Jaishree Misra

  This extract is taken from Ancient Promises, published by Penguin Books India.

  The rain continued unabated through the rest of the afternoon, adding chaos upon chaos. It even seemed to doggedly follow the convoy of cars that later took me to my new home on that long road to Valapadu. They were waiting, the whole convoy of them, at about six o’clock when all the ceremonies were done and it was time to leave Guruvayur. I hurriedly gave a quick round of hugs to my family who had crowded into the lobby of Elite Hotel to say goodbye. Dad was looking suddenly bereft … Ma, always practical, whispered a cheerful, ‘We’ll see you soon at the reception, moley …’ Both my Ammummas were either crying or laughing, I couldn’t tell … Appuppa smiled toothlessly from his wicker chair … But I couldn’t be long. The Maraars were waiting, smiling. Pretending not to mind waiting. ‘We have a long journey now, you know … Five hours from here, it’ll be midnight when we get there … Let’s hope it stops raining soon … Is she ready to leave now?’ Someone had already put my suitcase into a Maraar car. Ma patted me firmly on the back, a pat that firmly told me (and her) that it was now really time to go. I turned and, without daring to look anyone in the eye, made a quick dash for the car, careful not to spoil the cream and gold mundu-sari I had been changed into. The car smelt brand new … (‘They change them every year, my dear …’ Maheswari Aunty had whispered unnecessarily to a by-then terribly impressed Ammumma.) From the deep depths of the middle of the back seat, I watched my family crane their necks to see me better and to smile reassuringly. I smiled reassuringly back at them. They and the Maraars were exchanging nods and looks that indicated that the matter at hand now was one too serious for small talk. I found myself suddenly squashed as new husband and new mother-in-law got into the back seat on either side of me …

  Nobody talked much during the journey, weddings are exhausting affairs and these were a few precious hours to be able to catch up on sleep. Every so often one head or the other would nod off, jerking awake a little later with a start. The car screamed noisily towards Valapadu, overtaking obdurate lorries and cars less new. The neck of the driver poured sweat in copious quantities that were wiped away at fifteen-minute intervals with a towel draped across his shoulder. I tried very hard not to drop off myself, terrified of putting an unaware head on an unfamiliar shoulder. But, in the drifting memories I now have of that long journey, I know that at some point I must have slept too. Closing my eyes and closing away knowledge of things too frightening to contemplate for any length of time …

  When my eyes flew open again, it was to find that the convoy had stopped. Tall iron gates were being pushed open, revealing a garden and house. We must have overtaken the rain somewhere on the national highway. It was now dark and hot. The car started up again, moving slowly up a concrete drive, carefully making room for the other cars. The house loomed out of the still night. Large and white, with all the parapets painted in pink emulsion. Some enthusiastic architect had created a large plaster rose-shaped design on the front of the house, just under the roof, making me think of a huge birthday cake. Birthday! It had been my birthday too today. Even my parents had barely been able to remember that in the day’s excitements. This new family didn’t know it at all. Happy Birthday, Janu, I said to myself, trying to be cheerful. Just imagine, a wedding for a birthday present, a big expensive wedding for a growing-up and going-away present. Eighteen now, everyone has to grow up at some time or the other …

  The morning after the wedding was as full of watchful eyes as the night before. I’d found myself suddenly wide awake at break of day and slipped out of bed as silently as I could. The windows had heavy wrought-iron grills, painted black and red. The garden outside was sodden from the rains that pelted down late at night, every little leaf looked like it carried a burden too sorrowful to bear.

  I remembered Ma’s careful instructions from the day before. Don’t go wandering out in your nightie! Have your bath as soon as you get up! Remember to wash your hair (in Kerala you haven’t had a bath even if you’d scrubbed yourself mercilessly but omitted to pour at least a mug of water over your head). I opened my suitcase, holding the clasps down with my thumbs so that they wouldn’t snap open making a noise. Gathering the set of clothes that Mini’s mother had carefully chosen and placed in a bag right on top, I crept into the adjoining bathroom. I’d been told to take everything I’d need for the first fe
w days, and there they all were in dear Ammini Kunyamma’s neatly arranged pack … soap, soap powder, talcum powder, toothbrush … oh dear, no toothpaste! I rummaged frantically around the plastic sari-shop bag that had been carrying everything. No, certainly no toothpaste. I crept back to my suitcase in the bedroom, gingerly opening it up again. I knew I had to be quiet because I was terrified of awakening my new … the word refused to form itself in my mind … husband … In my head I was using the same tone of voice that Mini reserved for ‘bloodydamn’ and ‘boyfriend’.

  Still no toothpaste. I sat back on my heels and contemplated my first foray out into the gracious, well-dressed world of the Maraars, in my crushed clothes from the night before, unwashed body and, worse, unwashed hair, strange vagabond from Delhi, begging for toothpaste. (‘Don’t they brush their teeth where you come from?’) I could picture the look of horror on my mother’s face and knew I just couldn’t let the family honour down. Creeping back into the bathroom, I slid the bolt silently shut again. I picked up the pasteless toothbrush and rubbed its bristles vigorously against my small pink bar of Luxury Lux soap. Taking a deep breath, I brushed the resultant pink gloop against my teeth. I’d never tasted anything so awful, but, twenty minutes later, I was scrubbed and clean, the ends of my hair bearing tiny drops of water like so many tremulous, glittering trophies. I got into the carefully chosen brand-new sari (yellow nylon ‘Garden Hakoba’ very-nice-madam-very-well-draping) that had been hotly debated back at home, Ma favouring a more formal silk and Kunyamma going for the more casual, about-the-house look for ‘The first day at the Maraars’. Remembering the kohl in my eyes and a little red bindi on my forehead, I was ready for them.

  The house was dark and no one seemed to be up yet. I could see, even in the half darkness, that everything was in its place and the cushions on the divan were eerily upright, like soldiers on parade. I wandered through a seemingly endless dining room with a polished table big enough to waltz on and then found myself in a small verandah. From there I could see some movements in the kitchen … a Maraar! Gingerly I pushed the door open, startling a bent little Ammumma who was pouring oil from a large urn into two little bottles.