“Ganga was an ayah there,” Aunty said slowly. “She might be able to help.”
“Can you get in touch with her?”
Aunty set things in motion.
Ganga phoned a week later. “The Warden is away for two days. Come now.”
“Right now?” It was five in the morning.
“By evening. You don’t know what a risk this is for me.”
“I do know. I’m very grateful –”
“Just bring the money. Meet me at the tea shack behind the Home. At seven, sharp. If you’re late, I’ll leave.”
We were at the shack by six o’clock. “What if she isn’t able to bring the register?” I said.
“Money is a good motivator, Child. Don’t worry, she’ll be here.”
I rested a cheek on the grimy chipped decolam of the table. “What if the Warden lied? What if I had a girl? For all I know, she is somewhere on the streets, abused and battered.”
“You need to stop this, Pullamma. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
I paced the length of the tiny shack till I drove Aunty crazy. “Sit down,” she begged.
Ganga arrived at five minutes past seven. She looked around furtively, unbuttoned her sweater and withdrew a register. I stared at the book, throat dry. If this didn’t have what I needed, what would we do? I reached for it.
“The money,” Ganga said.
Aunty placed two hundred rupees on the table.
Ganga grabbed the notes.
I opened the register.
“Check the day of baby’s birth,” Ganga said.
I turned the pages till I reached March 13. I ran my finger down the names. ‘Pullamma. Baby boy. Live birth.’ I closed the register with trembling hands. So I did have a son. “Where?” I cleared my throat. “Where is he?”
“How should I know?” Ganga shrugged. “Not like the Warden shares information with me. Money comes to the Home, child leaves.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to ask for your money back? You can’t, you know. I took a lot of risk for you.”
I waved my hand, indicating she could keep it. She shoved the notes into a cloth drawstring purse and stuffed it in the cleavage of the blouse she wore under her sari. Then she left.
I rested my elbow on the table, leaned my head against my palm, and let the tears flow.
><
Over the next two years, Janaki aunty built a two-storied structure, a clinic on the ground floor, a flat above it. After I finished my internship, the two of us moved upstairs into our flat, and settled in. Then we set up practice. I wondered what Ammamma and Chinni would think of me now. And Lata.
The day Aunty handed me my share of the income, I was a little shocked. I’d never seen this much money before. “Aunty,” I said, “you’ve been like a mother to me.”
Aunty smiled, a puzzled expression on her face.
“This is my first salary.”
“Child,” Aunty said, expression clearing, “that you even considered me, means a lot.” She touched my face. “But that honour belongs to your grandmother.”
I hugged her, glad she understood. I sent Ammamma my entire first salary, wishing I could have given it to her in person. I started sending her a big part of my salary each month, hoping it would ease her hardship. God knew what Kondal Rao had put her through.
I had lost my parents, and Ammamma and Chinni came in to occupy that spot. I lost them, found Srikar instead. He was lost to me after giving me a baby. Janaki aunty took over the void left by the baby’s absence. Without her presence in my life, I wouldn’t have had the strength to go on. She’d become the mother I hadn’t known I missed.
I lived in a curious limbo. Time – hours, days, months – no longer had meaning. We did the exact same thing everyday – got up, finished with the cooking and cleaning, went to the clinic. Worked from 9:00 a.m. till 1:00 p.m. Had lunch, finished paperwork, took a nap, went back to the clinic to see patients. We did this six days of the week. On the seventh day, we rested.
Most days that I saw patients passed in a haze. It was only when I saw little boys that I came alive. Could he be my child? No, too light skinned. Perhaps he was blessed with Ammamma’s colouring? How about the one I saw yesterday?
There was no way to tell. Rare were the nights I didn’t cry myself to sleep – either for my son, or for my husband. It was a completely uneventful existence, but for the constant pain.
After work, we often relaxed on the balcony. One night I sat on the swing, one leg on the ground, swinging back and forth, watching the noisy traffic honk its way past. A few intrepid pedestrians darted onto the road, risking life and limb. The flow of vehicles rearranged itself around them.
“You should get married,” Aunty said.
“Aunty, I’m married to your son! Besides, are you forgetting bigamy is illegal?”
“If you think my father-in-law will ever let you go back to Srikar, you’re being extremely naive.”
I breathed in the jasmine-scented air wafting over the spicy scent of sambar. Or was it curry? That reminded me how much Srikar had loved my vankay curry. Did my son like it, too? I swallowed against the pain in my throat. After work I often wandered the streets, looking at little boys, trying to determine if any of them could be mine. Where was he? Had he been adopted out of the country? How would I find him if he was? I’d thought about contacting the police, but the risk was too great. If Kondal Rao found out, I might not live long enough to see my son.
The street lights were long on. Time was moving on, life was moving on, and I had still no idea where my baby was. Was he happy? Was he fair? Did he have to suffer for the colour of his skin? Was he being taken care of?
“Pullamma?” Aunty said now. “What do you say?”
I wished Aunty wouldn’t pressure me so.
“Get married in the temple,” she said. “No need for divorce.”
Registered marriages were for people like me, who were forced to elope because their families couldn’t, or wouldn’t, support them. Couples from respectable families got married in the temple; husbands who abandoned their wives without the hassle of divorce, remarried in the temple.
Abandoned women didn’t remarry, not unmarried men anyway; it just wasn’t done. Those brazen enough, ‘married’ already married men and set up a second house with them, and were vilified for it.
“Who’d want to marry an already married woman?”
“There are always men out there if you look hard enough.”
This was assuming I was interested. “As far as I am concerned, Srikar is, and will always be, my husband. I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. Besides, why are you pushing me to remarry, anyway? Don’t you want me to be married to your son?”
“Yes!” Aunty was vehement. “There’s nothing more I’d like. But I’m trying to be realistic here. Srikar might have remarried, you know. I don’t want you to get old and bitter, while he is happily married.”
“He broke off contact with his beloved grandmother just so he could protect me from his grandfather. I know him. He won’t remarry.”
“Child, for you, remarriage is also a way of keeping you safe. Who’d expect a girl from a decent family to marry a second time?”
“I’d rather be controlled by Kondal Rao, than be a wife to anyone but Srikar.”
Aunty sighed.
“You never did tell me why you left your husband.” I’d been so lost in my misery that I’d never thought to ask.
“I didn’t. My father-in-law threw me out.”
As close as we were, there was a part of her she held private. I understood, because I had enough secrets of my own. This was the reason I was unable to make friends with other people my age. Their biggest problem was which movie to see, while I was driven by the need to find my child. I felt unable to relate to them. “What happened?”
“He managed a small shop in the village. He thought it would be prestigious to get a doctor wife; free medical treatment for all his relatives, and all tha
t. Build his stock among his family and friends, you know.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “It was easier in theory than in practice. You have to remember, in those days lady doctors were a rarity, and therefore awe-inspiring. I was so much more educated than he, had so much respect in the village, he couldn’t handle it.”
“Why did your family agree to the alliance in the first place?”
“My parents knew Srikar’s grandmother. They felt a cultured family was better than an educated one.”
I gave a short laugh. “You let him throw you out?”
“I fought back, refusing to leave. Call it youthful arrogance, call it too much belief in my own capabilities, but I challenged my father-in-law. He’d sucked my father dry by demanding more and more dowry, till all my father had left was his pension.”
“So he made his money off your family?”
“Oh, no. He was a big landlord himself. Didn’t stop him from stealing. He stole from helpless widows, weak men, anywhere he could get his hands on. I refused to leave, threatened to go to public with his dowry harassment.”
“And?” I asked.
“He had my brother beaten up, left him a bloodied pulp at my father’s doorstep.”
I drew in a sharp breath.
Aunty cleared her throat. “They warned me they let my brother live that one time. There would be no second chances. I was to get out, leave my son behind.”
I shook my head, unable to believe Aunty’s story. And yet, I’d seen enough of Kondal Rao’s to know this wasn’t implausible.
“I kept returning, unable to stay away from my son. But Kondal Rao never let me meet him. Not a single time,” she said viciously. “The only time I managed to get in was when he and his henchmen were called away. You know what happened then.”
I nodded.
“My parents died a month before you were dumped at the Home. My brother waited barely long enough to finish the rituals for my parents, then moved his family to Sri Lanka.”
Poor Aunty! My heart ached for her.
Aunty said, “You know I was away the week they did that Caesarean on you?”
I nodded.
“I went to say my goodbyes to my brother, and also to make plans to take you and run. I don’t know how they found out, but they panicked. That’s why they did that emergency surgery on you. They are less afraid of God than they are of Kondal Rao.” She broke down. “They got away with it, Pullamma. I let them steal your baby.”
I put an arm around Aunty, letting her cry on my shoulder, my heart heavy with what ifs. What if Aunty’s plan had succeeded? What if I’d been raising my son? I waited till Aunty’s cries reduced to sniffles. “So what happened with your husband?”
“One day when I was at the hospital in town, he just packed up and left. He left the keys, and the explanations with the neighbours. My father-in-law threw me out soon after.”
“In most cases the men throw their wives out, they don’t disappear.”
“Kondal Rao’s family is hardly most cases.” She gave a short laugh. “In any case, he returned home after his father threw me out.
“You didn’t remarry, but you want me to?”
“It is precisely because I didn’t, that I want it for you, Child. Safety is the big part, definitely. But it is too hard to grow old alone. I was lucky to find you. What are the chances you will find someone like you?”
“I can’t imagine being married to anyone but Srikar.” I looked to her. “I want to track him down, Aunty. I need his help in finding our child. Do you think his grandfather will really harm me?”
Seconds ticked by as I waited for Aunty to respond. “He had his own great-grandson given up for adoption. What kind of person do you think that makes him?”
“I want to find my husband, Aunty. I’m ready to risk harm to myself. Does that make me a fool?”
Aunty shrugged, but her face showed strain.
I’d exhausted all means of locating my son. It was time to seek my husband’s help. I prayed I wasn’t making a huge mistake.
Chapter 40
Where is Geeta?
I settled into the backseat of my car, and gave the driver directions to our old apartment, mine and Srikar’s. Aunty and I had decided it was unlikely Srikar still lived here. But Geeta, or someone from my past, probably did.
Back when I lived in the village, the farmers loaded up carts with produce, and let the oxen loose, free to find their way home. I felt like those oxen, now. I carried my own load – of guilt, of pain, of sorrow – as I plodded my way back to Madhuban Apartments, the place where I had set up domestic life with my husband some eight years ago. To me, Madhuban Apartments would always be home.
Forty minutes later, we pulled up at the Apartments. There was still some evidence of whitewash left on the building, but mostly it was blackened with mildew. Several shutters hung askew; a few windows were boarded up. Madhuban Apartments was now ‘Mad mens’, the missing letters having been helped along by enterprising kids, perhaps? I felt a pang to realize how rundown this place was – back then I had viewed it through the tint of domestic contentment.
I got down from the car. I’d not been back since the day of Kondal Rao’s attempt on my life. The urge to turn back was strong, but I put one foot forward, then another till I neared the gate. I compared the squalor here to the luxury in my own life – spacious apartment, a nice car, cook, maid and driver, fancy interiors, the ability to pay for any luxury I chose. Even a municipal water tap which dispensed water at reasonable hours of the day. Yet, Madhuban Apartments was where I had been the happiest.
A few people milled about in the courtyard. Almost all had turned to look when I stepped out from the car; people getting down from privately owned vehicles was not a frequent occurrence in this locality.
“Who are you looking for, Madam?” a woman asked respectfully.
Old Rukkamma! Gossipy old crone, Geeta had called her. It was obvious Rukkamma hadn’t recognized me. Next to her stood another woman, baby on her hip. It couldn’t be, could it? I looked closely. She was Sandhya! I stepped forward, a smile trembling on my lips, desperate for the chance to catch up with an old friend. She looked at me, her eyes not quite meeting mine, a puzzled frown on her face. Then she turned away. I felt a stab of disappointment.
In this part of town, a car and good quality clothing could change features; in my case I also had a makeover to assist me. My first instinct was to introduce myself. For old times’ sake. Then I decided against it; it might bring up questions I wasn’t willing or able to answer.
“A lady called Geeta used to live here,” I said to Rukkamma. “Seven or so years ago. Two children, in-laws?”
“Talked too much? Had big dreams? That Geeta?” my former neighbour asked. At my nod, she said, “She lives not too far from here.”
“If you don’t mind, can you give me her address?”
The old woman gave me a curious glance before rattling off an address which was only fifteen minutes away by car.
I thanked her, and turned to go.
“She moved up in life, leaving us all behind. Too fancy for the likes of us now,” the woman said. “Shifted to the other building right after that Pullamma ran off.”
I froze.
Seeing she had my attention, the woman said, “There used to be a really nice, young fellow. Srikar was his name, the poor unfortunate soul.” The woman looked around. Everyone was listening; I had forgotten gossip was the main pastime around here. “One day the wife, Pullamma, ran away with her lover.”
There was a collective gasp. Including mine.
“That’s right,” the old woman said, very obviously relishing the attention.
“What are you saying?” Sandhya exclaimed. “Pullamma was from a very nice family. She would never do such a thing to her husband!”
“Did you see her leave, hanh, did you?”
“No, but –”
“Well, I did,” the old woman said triumphantly.
&nb
sp; Liar! Rukkamma was down with fever. I could never forget the details of that night, how could I?
Rukkamma looked at one of the men. “Pullamma and Srikar used to live in your flat.” Then she turned to me. “What a woman, hanh? She couldn’t even realize how lucky she was, being so dark and everything, still managing to snare such a fair, and decent husband.”
Nothing like affluence to lighten the colour of one’s skin.
I struggled for a blank face, trying not to let her words wound, still unable to accept that Srikar had thought I’d run off with someone else.
Old Rukkamma continued with no hint of self-consciousness. “On top of that she left a note for her husband saying she had fallen in love with another man. And she coolly ran off with this man.”
“How do you know?” My voice was harsh. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself to prevent trembling.
“Madam,” Sandhya said, looking agitated, “don’t believe a word of what spews out of this old woman’s mouth. Pullamma was a very sweet girl. No one knows what really happened. This old woman’s gossip gets more and more vicious with each retelling.”
My heart overflowed with gratitude.
Rukkamma looked at her avid audience in irritation. “Do you want the true story or not?”
“Yes, yes,” a swarthy man said.
“Okay then.” She shoved Sandhya aside, plonked herself on the stairs with a dramatic sigh, and continued with her version. “That Geeta told us. She personally saw everything. She was the one who found the note.” The woman grinned maliciously through the gaps in her reddish brown paan-stained teeth. “Completely shameless, hanh? Holding hands, they were, as they ran down the stairs.” The people looked around, at each other, jaws slack, eyes wide.
“And…” the woman said, drawing out her tale, “she was seven months pregnant!” She inspected the sea of shocked faces. “No one knew whose baby it was.”
“And Srikar?” I whispered.
“Oh that poor fellow? First he refused to believe it. Then he went mad.”
“Such a nice couple.” Sandhya shook her head, eyes soft with compassion. “Such a terrible tragedy.”
Tell A Thousand Lies Page 20