Tell A Thousand Lies

by Rasana Atreya

  Srikar slipped an arm around him.

  Pullaiyya shook it off.

  “This is your mother,” Srikar said.

  “I already have a mother.” His mouth was set in a stubborn line.

  And I’d waited years to hear my son’s voice.

  “Don’t you want to get to know her?”

  “Not really.”

  I felt my lungs getting crushed inside my ribcage. God, please, what did I do to deserve this?

  “You made me come here,” Pullaiyya said, not looking at Srikar. “Even when I didn’t want to. I am ready to sleep now.”

  “Can I take him to your bedroom?” Srikar asked.

  I nodded, my throat full from unshed tears.

  Srikar came out fifteen minutes later. “How much longer can you stay?” I needed his comforting presence tonight.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “What?” I sat up, heart beginning to pound.

  “I have had it with Lata and her manipulation. She let it slip today that she was the one who led my grandfather to us.”

  “Marriage to you was her payoff.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can’t believe Lata would behave in such a manner. I thought I knew her. I lived with her for six years, for God’s sake!” Srikar shook his head in disbelief. “You know, when you were forced into coming back as Goddess that first time? We should have just taken Ammamma and run.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were trying to do right by Lata and Ammamma.”

  “To compound my mistakes, I married Lata.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Not that my grandfather gave me much of a choice, but I convinced myself that it would provide a loving home for our child.”

  “Did it?”

  Srikar shrugged, a hand covering his eyes. “It’s not like she tortures him or anything...”

  “But?” I asked, throat raw.

  “Sometimes, ignoring a child can be as bad.”

  I tried to swallow against the surge of grief. My poor baby!

  “You know what?” he asked.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “I’ve had it with Lata and my grandfather.” He held out his arms. I walked into them, buried my face in his shoulder and broke down. Once I started to cry, I could not stop. Srikar pulled me onto the swing with him and held me.

  “What happens now?”

  “You, Pullaiyya and I are going to find a way of living together openly as a family. I don’t know how, but we are.”

  “How will we get away?”

  “Pullamma, I’m thirty years old. I cannot continue to live in fear of my grandfather. We’ll find a way.”

  I smiled up at him through my tears. “That’s wonderful!” But I still hurt. “Pullaiyya is not ready to accept me.”

  “Give him time, Pulla,” Srikar said. “Till a month back he thought Lata was his mother. We can’t rush him.”

  I nodded through my tears and held my husband, without guilt, for the first time in eight years.

  ><

  “How dare you!”

  I opened my eyes, a little disoriented. Lata stood at the door to the private courtyard, eyes blazing in the early dawn. I moved away from Srikar, feeling guilty. Then I sat up. I had done nothing wrong. Srikar and I must have fallen asleep on the swing, my head on his chest.

  “You spent the night with my husband!” Lata screamed.

  “Don’t start again, Lata,” Srikar said wearily. “We’ve already been over this.”

  Lata’s face darkened till it was almost black. “What about me?” she screamed, the pupils of her eyes dilated. “What about the years I spent taking care of Pullaiyya and you?”

  “Be honest, Lata. You never wanted me,” Srikar said. “It is Pullamma’s husband you wanted.”

  “So you’re going back to her.”

  “Can’t we keep this pleasant? For Pullaiyya’s sake?”

  “So you can whisper sweet nothings in the rich Goddess’s ear? How sweet.”

  “This has nothing to do with money, and you know it.”

  “It has everything to do with money.” Lata’s face was white. “I wouldn’t count on her financial support, if I were you. Doctor garu keeps her money very close to her chest.” She trembled with rage. Suddenly, she turned and stalked out.

  “Amma!”

  Pullaiyya! How much had he heard?

  “Take me with you.” Pullaiyya started to cry. “I don’t like it here.”

  Lata did not look back.

  “Amma,” Pullaiyya called out.

  Lata ignored him and continued towards the gate.

  “Please!” He took off after Lata.

  Srikar ran after them. I followed. Lata streaked out of the gate. I followed them to the road, breathing harshly. I turned my head left, then right. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did she go?” Srikar asked in disbelief.

  I wished I knew.

  ><

  The villagers were called out to form a search party. Srikar had been on the road for hours. At my suggestion, the doctor from the nearest town was summoned; I doubted Lata would want me anywhere near her.

  Ammamma often said, giving birth is not merely bringing forth a child. It is cutting out your heart and gifting it to your child. If he feels pain, your agony doubles.

  My little son sat slumped in the empty courtyard by the sampangi tree, there since Lata had gone missing. My chest convulsed each time he looked at the gate for his mother.

  Ammamma had been trying to tempt him with food all morning, with no success. “I give up,” she said, choking. “What kind of a woman am I, that my great-grandson won’t feel comfortable with me?” She sat down heavily. “Won’t accept even water from me.”

  “Let me give it a try.” I walked across the courtyard, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. At least there were no devotees milling about – we’d shut the ashram down for the day.

  “Pullaiyya,” I said, trying to tempt him with a glass of buttermilk.

  “Don’t,” he hissed, as he hit my hand. The buttermilk splattered on his shorts. He didn’t spare it a glance. “Stay away from me. It is because of you that my mother is missing. You are the one who makes her sad, you are the one who makes her cry.”

  As I stood in front of him, heart ripped, he leaned back against the tree. “I already have one mother. I don’t need another.”

  I continued to stand there, willing him to look at me.

  But he turned away, mouth set in a stubborn line.

  Slowly I walked back to Ammamma, feeling like an old woman. Srikar had sent for Janaki aunty. Maybe my son would react to his grandmother better.

  “Aiyya! Aiyya! ” A cowherd hurtled into the courtyard.

  “What?” Ammamma screamed. “Tell me.”

  The cowherd bent over, trying to catch his breath.

  Ammamma grabbed him by the shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me.”

  Dragging in a deep breath, the cowherd straightened. “I was sick this morning, so I got up very late. I was able to tend to the cows only after lunch. When I reached the –”

  “I don’t need the Ramayana,” Ammamma snapped. “Just tell me if you found my granddaughter.”

  “She was curled up behind Devamma’s cows.”

  “And what?” Srikar asked, out of breath himself, as he rushed into the courtyard.

  Pullaiyya sat in his corner, trembling.

  “Was she all right?” Ammamma asked.

  “I don’t know, Amma,” the cowherd said apologetically. “I just ran to tell you.”

  Even as Ammamma was getting started on the cowherd and his clan, Srikar grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the gate. Ten minutes later, he returned, Lata in his arms. “Doctor!” he shouted, shoving his way through the crowd gathered by the courtyard gate. “She is unconscious.” He kicked the gate shut behind him.

  Pullaiyya, Ammamma and I paced by the door
to the front room while the doctor examined her. How I hated the waiting. How much worse for my little boy.

  In another ten minutes, Janaki aunty arrived.

  “Bamma!” Pullaiyya ran into her arms.

  She held him tightly, her face in his hair. She straightened up and said to Pullaiyya. “Shall we go over and give Pullamma a hug?”

  I was grateful for Aunty’s sensitivity towards Pullaiyya. To refer to me as his mother, when Lata lay sick, wasn’t what my child needed.

  “I don’t want to,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” she said, giving him another hug. “Is it okay if I do?”

  He didn’t say anything, so Aunty held out her arms to me. I hugged her, soaking in her warmth.

  “Come, come,” she said, wiping away my tears.

  Finally, the doctor came out. Srikar followed, his lips a grim line.

  “How is she?” Ammamma asked.

  “What were you all thinking, hanh?” the doctor said. “Letting her loose on the roads? That too, such an unstable person?”

  “Doctor,” Srikar said pointing his eyebrows at Pullaiyya. His voice was rough.

  But sensitivity didn’t seem to be something the good doctor was familiar with. “The child is stupid, or what? He won’t know his own mother is a mental case?”

  Pullaiyya had a stricken look on his face.

  Srikar grabbed the doctor by his arm. “So glad for your help. My mother has arrived, so she will take over now. She is a doctor, too.” He steered the doctor to the gate.

  I ached to comfort the huddled figure of my son, but his attention was riveted on his father.

  Aunty knelt by him. Srikar came back in. He looked down at Pullaiyya and Aunty, his face tense. Aunty put out a hand. Pullaiyya put his small hand in hers. “Is my mother really mad?” he asked in a small voice.

  My heart clutched.

  “Of course not, Child.”

  “But the doctor said…”

  “Some doctors are good at one thing, others at another. Do you think I am a good doctor?”

  Pullaiyya nodded.

  “Then you’ll have to believe me when I say your mother is not mad.”

  “My friends in school call her ‘crazy Aunty.’”

  Srikar closed his eyes briefly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

  Pullaiyya shrugged. Ammamma’s eyes were bright with tears.

  Aunty cupped Pullaiyya’s face. “Sometimes children say things without knowing what they are saying.” Her voice was gentle. She looked up at me. “Pullamma, you are a doctor, too. Do you think Lata is mad?”

  I shook my head, throat too tight to get the words out.

  “See? Pullamma also says your mother isn’t mad. When two good doctors tell you the same thing, you have to believe them, don’t you?”

  Pullaiyya nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.

  She drew my son to her. “You know sometimes the body gets hurt and needs treatment?”

  My son nodded, face streaked with tears.

  “Your mother’s thoughts are hurt. She just needs some rest.”

  “Then she can come home with us?”

  “She is sick,” Aunty said gently. “Remember the time your friend Raman got pneumonia and had to be in the hospital for a few days?”

  Pullaiyya nodded.

  “This is no different. Your mother will need to spend some time in the hospital, too.”

  I thanked God for bringing Janaki aunty into our lives.

  Srikar gave his mother a tremulous smile and grabbed Pullaiyya in a bear hug.

  I watched them, feeling about as needed as rain in midst of pickle-making season.

  ><

  Srikar looked at me, eyes bloodshot. “You know what I have to do, don’t you?”

  I said nothing.

  “It’ll destroy Pullaiyya if we abandon Lata now.”

  I nodded dully.

  “He says she needs us now more than ever.”

  I sat, unable to get the words out.

  “I’m going to take her back and hire a full-time nurse.” His shoulders slumped.

  “How can you let Lata near Pullaiyya?” Ammamma burst out. The last few hours had added twenty years to her. “It is not healthy for a child to live with so much uncertainty. What happens the next time she decides to run away, hanh?”

  “What choice do I have? She is the only mother he has known.”

  That’s what it came down to always – who was there first.

  Chapter 51

  Swami Chidananda

  Kondal Rao was in Hyderabad, doing what he did best – hanging onto power. Srikar, Janaki aunty and Pullaiyya were in the city as well, where Aunty spent all her time protecting my son from Lata’s emotional outbursts. My childhood friend, Chinni, was in the village visiting her mother, though she had not taken the trouble to get in touch. Perhaps I wasn’t worth that extra effort.

  Loneliness gnawed at my soul. To be shown the promise of family life, only to have it all snatched away. Ammamma made excuses for my absence from the ashram activities, worrying about my deteriorating mental state as I spent hours in bed, grieving for my child. And my husband – each time I thought of him, my heart splintered afresh. I found it harder and harder to drag myself out of bed each morning.

  One day I did not get out of bed at all. Ammamma came into my room and touched my head, checking for fever. “It is seven o’clock. You need to get up, Child,” she said. “People are waiting.”

  I gave a short laugh. “People queue up to ask me for blessings; they don’t know I’m unable solve my own problems.” I broke down. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted was my son and my husband.”

  Ammamma sat on the bed and clasped my hand in hers. “I’ve sent for Swami Chidananda.”

  I’d heard about the Swami, of course, as had most of the State. The revered Guru was known for his discourses on being accepting of one’s self, the meaning of life, and all the other ancient philosophical mumbo-jumbo people seemed to want. I didn’t see how meeting with him could possibly unite me with my family.

  “I’ve sent word that you will receive him after lunch.”

  “What’s the point, Ammamma?” My voice slurred.

  “Do this one thing for me, Child.” She bent to kiss my forehead. “He might be able to help. Srikar holds him in very high regard, you know. Seeks advice from him all the time.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “I will tell them to close the ashram in preparation for the Swami’s visit. You rest until lunch.”

  I closed my eyes, about the only thing I had the energy for.

  ><

  I forced my eyes open a while later. With some effort I got up and pushed aside the curtains; it was dark. Like the day, my life was slipping away. In the bathroom, I scrubbed at my face, trying to scour the sadness out of my soul. When I stepped out, rain was falling.

  A mountain of a man in white – white kurta and pancha, white bushy eyebrows, white beard that reached his belly – arose from the chair on the veranda and reached out to cover my hands with his.

  I closed my eyes, hearing the rhythmic sounds of water hitting the courtyard floor. I remained like that for many minutes, saying nothing, visualising the falling rain carrying away the torment of my soul. I opened my eyes and looked up.

  “So much sadness,” Swami Chidananda said. His eyes were incredibly kind.

  I felt grief afresh.

  “I’ve spent the last few hours telling Swamulavaru about your situation,” Ammamma said, using an honorific for the Swami.

  The invisible band around my head loosened; I did not have to put on an act with this gentleman. I fell at the Swami’s feet. He put his hands on my shoulders and bade me to rise. “Sit, Child.” He led me to the chair next to Ammamma’s.

  I sank into it, suddenly thinking longingly of Ammamma’s two rickety chairs – back then our biggest worry had been to remember on which side of the chair our clothes caught. Or was it just nostalgia making it seem so?
>
  “Swamulavaru,” Ammamma told me, “has frequently counselled Lata and Srikar.”

  I wasn’t sure where Ammamma was going with this. As far as I was concerned, I would be happy if I never heard Lata’s name again.

  “He is the one person Lata respects,” Ammamma added.

  I looked sideways at the Swami; I hadn’t known.

  “Child,” Ammamma said, “you should feel free to tell Swami Chidananda all that ails you.”

  The dam within burst. “My life is a sham, Swamulavaru. I am a married woman, but can’t acknowledge my husband, I am a mother, but can’t lay claim to my child. I have to live my life as a Goddess, without the freedom any ordinary woman could expect.”

  “This is your penance for the sins of lives past,” Ammamma said.

  But I wasn’t ready accept this explanation any more than I was ready to accept ‘God’s will’; this was a convenient way of explaining away life’s little knife jabs.

  “What do you want, then?” the Swami asked.

  “What I want and what I can have are two different things,” I said.

  “I got a phone call from Srikar this afternoon,” Ammamma said.

  Let it not be anything bad, Oh Yedukondalavada!

  “Lata is not doing well. She lies in bed all day, unable to care for Pullaiyya, unable to care for herself. If it weren’t for Janaki…”

  I felt tears clog my throat. My poor child! At what inauspicious moment had he taken birth?

  “Srikar is at his wits end.” Ammamma’s voice wobbled. “Trying to take care of them both.”

  “Help me out of this vortex,” I begged the Swami. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “How can I be of help?”

  “Help me get my family back.”

  “Srikar might not agree to leave Lata,” the Swami said.

  “It’s just guilt that’s holding him back.”

  “Guilt can be a powerful motivator, Child. Don’t dismiss it so lightly.”

  “So you’re saying I have to live out my life without my husband or child, because my husband feels misplaced loyalty to another woman?”

  “No, I’m saying your best option, your most realistic option, is to negotiate with Lata. Srikar might continue to live with Lata, but at least you’ll have your child back.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “You don’t have that many choices, Child. I talked to Srikar before I came here. He won’t leave Lata because the child won’t allow it, but he is willing to let you have your son. Besides, we need Lata’s cooperation, too. If it came down to you and her, who do you think the child would choose?” He let that sink in. “Lata is an angry woman. I may be able convince her to let you raise your child, saying that it is getting to be too much for her. But she’ll need to feel she hasn’t totally given up control. Lata’s child for her maangalyam.”