Ammamma knelt next to me and exclaimed, “Your arm is broken!” She didn’t need a degree in medicine to determine this – the bone in my arm had pushed all the way through. “What happened?”
The little body across the room stiffened.
“I was careless. I slipped and fell.”
My child raised his head slightly and looked at me from the corner of his eye.
My arm felt like someone had set fire to it. Ammamma opened her mouth to say something, but I gave a slight shake of the head. My son had actually turned around to look at the offending piece of bone. The pain was so fierce I wanted to claw my arm off. And yet, if this was what it took to get a positive response from my son...
Ammamma got up. “I am going to get a doctor.”
“Isn’t she a doctor?” Pullaiyya said, jerking his head at me, as my grandmother ran out of the room.
I almost passed out – from the pain, or from the joy of hearing my son speak, I couldn’t tell; probably a little of both. I was beginning to see two of him. I blinked hard to focus. “Doctors can’t treat themselves,” I said, voice beginning to slur.
“Is that really the bone?”
I supported my broken arm with the good arm and raised it to him; sweat broke out over my upper lip. “Do you want to see?”
He scooted closer. “Are you going to die?”
A laugh was wrenched out of me, even as tears threatened. “I hope not. After all, I’ve just found you.”
“Good. I don’t like to be near dead people.”
I leaned my head back against the wall, not bothering to hold back tears. I would happily break my arm a thousand times for the pleasure of having my son respond to me.
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It would be a stretch to say that was the beginning of our mother-and-son relationship, but at least my son did not push me away when I talked to him. Since we had two-bedroom quarters, and Ammamma and I used a bedroom each, I got a small bed for Pullaiyya and set it next to mine.
He didn’t talk much at nights, but during the day he followed me around, intently watching everything that went on. I no longer gave darsanams, but people came for blessings, nonetheless. Unable to refuse, I met a limited few in my private courtyard each day.
Pullaiyya did not interrupt, but at night he had a stream of questions. ‘Why was the man upset at the birth of his second daughter? How come that little girl was born with a crumpled lip? Why did that boy’s father have to die?’
But the one thing he didn’t talk about was Lata. I knew he missed her. Many times I heard him weeping softly, face stuffed in his pillow. I longed to drag him into my arms, to never let go. His anguish made me feel terrible.
But Ammamma was adamant that he belonged with me. “It is unfortunate that he is suffering because of what Lata and Kondal Rao did, but you’re doing the right thing.”
“But Ammamma, he’s hurting.”
“Through no fault of yours. If you send him away, he is never going to know you, his real mother. It’s not like Lata’s is in a position to take care of him anyway.” And she would not reopen the subject.
Sending my son back was not a real option. Just two days ago Janaki aunty had summoned Srikar home in the middle of the day because Lata was missing. After an hour of search he found Lata wandering about the streets in her night clothes, weeping. Aunty had had to take over Srikar’s household. Aunty said that days went by when Lata acted completely normal; during those days no one would believe she was having breakdowns.
Swami Chidananda was more approachable, but he refused to make my decisions for me. “I wish he would tell me what to do about my son,” I complained to Ammamma.
“That is not his way. He will listen, but he wants you to arrive at the solution yourself.”
“But why?”
“Because you are the one who has to live with the consequences of your actions.”
But the Swami listened to me.
“Am I doing wrong, Swamulavaru? Denying my son his mother?”
“You’re doing what you have to do. The question is, what do you feel about it?”
“It makes me more happy than I thought possible.” I had to stop because suddenly my heart was full. “But I live with guilt.”
“Why?”
“Each time my son cries, but refuses my comfort; each time he waits for you to share his joy with.”
“What do you think is the best thing for him?”
“Lata is unable to take care of him. She doesn’t really love him. Even the name she gave him was to punish me. Being with me is the best thing for him.” This, I was sure of.
“There’s your answer, then.”
><
My breaking an arm had an unintended, though welcome, consequence.
My devotee, Sarala, was puzzled when I appeared with a cast. “What purpose does your breaking a bone serve, Doctor amma?”
“Nothing. I’m just an ordinary mortal, Sarala, not a Goddess.” Despite the bhajan session, a sliver of doubt remained. “Think about it,” I said. “Avatars of Gods arrive on the earth for a specific purpose. Lord Rama was born to rid the earth of an evil like Ravana. Does it make sense to say I arrived on the earth to further the political ambitions of someone like Kondal Rao?”
“Then why were you a Goddess before?”
“I wasn’t. People were manipulated into thinking I was.”
Sarala did not respond, but I could see it had given her something to think about. She bowed and left. I would chip away at Kondal Rao’s voter base, one devotee at a time.
Chapter 54
Kondal Rao Makes an Appearance
Pullaiyya began to get more comfortable with the Swami. He often sat at the Swami’s feet, resting his chin on the elderly gentleman’s knee, not saying much, but listening to us talk about the various people that had come my way, or the Swami’s. I wasn’t much into philosophy, so we talked more about practical matters.
One day Pullaiyya said, “Something happened at school today.”
“What, Child?” the Swami asked.
Pullaiyya shot a quick look at me and flushed. “Uh... nothing.”
It hurt me that Pullaiyya was unable to open up to me, but knew he needed someone he could talk freely with. I started sending him to the Swami’s ashram in the neighbouring village on some pretext or the other. I never asked what they talked about, and he never said, but I sensed the visits were helping.
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The Swami had not let me forget about my desire to start practicing medicine again. “Why are you not doing anything about it, Pullamma?” he asked one day. “It’s been long enough since that bhajan. Your arm is fully healed, too.”
“I’m not ready,” I said and left it at that, because Pullaiyya was listening. He knew a sanitized version of his birth, but I tried to keep away as much unpleasantness from him as possible; he had as much ‘real life’ as he could handle right now. Already he knew there were certain things he could not talk about in public – his mother’s deteriorating mental health, his relationship to me. Besides, how could I practice out of the same ashram I’d presided in as a Goddess?
I was also nervous about Satyam, the priest. He hadn’t done anything with his suspicions that I knew of, but with a person like Satyam, one could never be sure.
Then Kondal Rao stormed into the house just before dinner one night, his two gun-toting sidekicks following. In a way I was glad. Waiting for him to make an appearance was like waiting outside in an open field in a thunderstorm, metal rod in hand.
“Where is my great-grandson?” he shouted. Fortunately, Ammamma had already put Pullaiyya to bed.
Ammamma pointed with her eyes at the few volunteers cleaning up.
Kondal Rao subsided.
“Why don’t you come tomorrow morning?” Ammamma said, palms of her hands joined together deferentially. “Swami Chidananda will be there, so the ashram will be closed. We can talk things over a cup of tea.”
Kondal Rao stood there, his stubby neck tensed, a
vein twitching madly. Making a conscious effort to relax, he gave a short nod and stormed back out. It was amazing how fast the portly man moved once he set his mind to it.
We finished dinner and went to our private quarters. Occasionally I had dinner with my former devotees, now that I had completely stopped giving audiences. Meeting them was a humbling experience. I had a lot to learn about faith and selflessness from them.
I called Srikar and told him about his grandfather’s visit. Calling him was bitter-sweet. Bitter, because there was no hope for us. Sweet, because I yearned for the sound of his voice.
Srikar arrived at the ashram in the early hours. I hadn’t been able to sleep all night, knowing I would see him again. As he sat across from me, I saw that he had hollows under his eyes, a few grey strands in his hair. Funny, I had just discovered grey in my hair, too.
Ammamma greeted him and went back to her room.
Srikar appeared exhausted. We sat apart, avoiding one another’s eyes. I grieved for the awkwardness between us; he was still my husband, the man I’d hoped to share more than grey hairs with.
“How is Aunty?” I asked. A safe topic.
He smiled. “She is wonderful, isn’t she?” Then he sobered. “I’m glad she was in your life, Pulla.”
A little prick in my heart at the endearment.
“She must miss Pullaiyya terribly.” Aunty didn’t say much about this in our weekly phone calls. To spare me the guilt of separating her from her grandson, I suspected.
“She does. But she is happy he is with you.”
Lata knew, and I knew, and probably Srikar knew, too, that if it were up to Aunty, Srikar, Pullaiyya and I would be a family. She’d been firm that Pullaiyya’s place was with me. I loved Aunty for her loyalty to me, even over her own son. Some bonds were made, then strengthened over shared suffering – ours was one of those.
“What do we do about your grandfather?” I asked, addressing the real reason he was here.
“Let’s not talk about him. He will be here soon enough.” All of a sudden Srikar knelt next to my chair and put a hand on my cheek. “Remember, how we used to talk about studying further, making something of ourselves?” he asked softly.
I smiled tremulously.
“I am so happy you were able to make something of yourself, despite great sorrow.” His damp eyes shone with pride. “Use that education now,” he urged. “Now that you’re distancing yourself from the Goddess chapter, start practicing medicine again. Do this for yourself.”
I nodded.
“I wish the three of us could live together as a family,” he said, lowering his head to my lap. I stroked his hair gently, trying not to let regrets overwhelm me.
He got up and stumbled back to his chair, stiff. “What a mess.” He massaged his eyes with his palms.
I looked at him, pain twisting my heart. He had set out to rescue me all those many years ago, when he married me. How had it come to this?
“Anyway,” he said briskly, “my grandfather is an old man now, with only pretensions to power. He can bluster all he wants, but there isn’t really much he can do. There’s probably no reason for us to worry.”
But I worried; I would not make the mistake of underestimating Kondal Rao again.
><
Morning arrived, and with it, Kondal Rao.
Ammamma and the Swami were settled in chairs. I perched on the steps of the veranda, while Srikar lounged against the wall. Pullaiyya was safe at Headmaster garu’s house.
The gate was slammed. All of us whipped around. Kondal Rao. Furious, I opened my mouth, but Srikar beat me to it.
“What are you up to?” he demanded, his nostrils flaring.
Kondal Rao stopped midstride. “Wha...at do you mean?” The obligatory henchmen behind him froze into postures.
“Out,” Srikar said to the henchmen. “This is a family meeting.”
The men looked at Kondal Rao, who nodded slightly.
“And close the gate behind you,” Srikar ordered as the men stomped out.
“I want my great-grandson back with his mother,” Kondal Rao said.
“He is with his mother,” Srikar and Ammamma said simultaneously.
“What do you mean?” Kondal Rao sounded incredulous. “Lata is your wife; the woman who mothered your child.”
“Pullamma is still my legal wife, the mother of my child.”
“Lata is distraught without her child.”
Lata was playing a dangerous game, blackmailing Kondal Rao.
“Pullaiyya is not her child,” Srikar said.
Kondal Rao’s nostrils flared in disgust. “Don’t be stupid, Srikar, wasting your time on a black twig like Pullamma, when you can bed a luscious flower like Lata.”
Srikar swooped from his position, grabbed the older man by the collar and slammed him against the tree. Kondal Rao’s head bounced from the impact.
Time froze. Ammamma and I froze.
With an expression of extreme disgust, Srikar let go and Kondal Rao stepped back, rubbing his neck where Srikar had grabbed him. “Why are you angry with me when I’m saying the true thing?”
“Why?” Srikar roared, blood rushing to his face. “Why am I angry, you grimy-souled bastard? You lied, and you cheated, and you ruined lives, and I never said anything. You took Pullamma away from me, deprived my son of a mother, my wife the right to family life, and I never said anything. You know why, hanh?” He went nose-to-nose with his grandfather. “Because I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t have your blood running in my veins.” Rage poured out of him. He grabbed Kondal Rao by the shirt and shook him hard.
The Swami rose and placed a gentle hand on Srikar’s shoulder. Startled, Srikar jerked his head sideways, breathing heavily. He shoved Kondal Rao backward into the chair. “You deprived me of a mother, now you want to inflict the same on my son?”
“But I provided both of you with a perfectly good step-mothers, no?” Kondal Rao looked bewildered. “Lata is a good lady, your step-mother was a good lady.”
Srikar shook his head in disbelief. “My step-mother was a perfectly nice lady. But she was not my mother. You were my grandfather, one of the adults who should have kept my world safe. But you damaged it beyond repair. And now you want to do that to my son?”
My eyes swam, but my heart bubbled over with joy because Srikar had stood up for me.
“It broke my heart to send Pullaiyya away,” Srikar said. “But every child deserves a mother. And every mother deserves her child. All this while I thought you were merely amoral and dangerous. But you truly don’t understand, do you?”
“But I gave you a pretty wife, a fair wife,” Kondal Rao exclaimed.
“You talk like any fair-skinned girl would have done. The only woman I’ve ever wanted for my wife is Pullamma. All I wanted was the chance to raise my son with her.”
I held my breath, counting out the beats in my head.
“But I don’t know how to extricate myself from the mess you’ve made of our lives – my son’s, Pullamma’s, mine, even Lata’s.” Srikar looked sorrowful. “Not without hurting my son.”
I watched Srikar, hurting for him, hurting for me.
“Fine, after the next elections are over, take Pullamma back, send Lata on her way. You want me to set her up in a mental asylum?”
Srikar looked at his grandfather bleakly. “You truly don’t understand what you’ve destroyed, do you?”
Kondal Rao started at Srikar with a puzzled frown, shook his head, then turned to the Swami. “Swamulavaru?” he said, addressing the Swami in a respectful manner.
“It’s time for us older people to step out of the lives of these youngsters,” Swami Chidananda said gently.
Kondal Rao looked as if he would have liked to argue, but he was nobody’s fool. He couldn’t afford to ignore the clout the Swami wielded. He bowed and left, leaving me fretting about his next move.
It was not in Kondal Rao to give up this easily.
Chapter 55
Pullaiyya
Questions
No one seemed concerned about Kondal Rao’s non-appearance during the hot summer months.
“He is too quiet,” I said to Janaki aunty during our weekly phone conversation.
“Perhaps Srikar’s unexpected blow-up shook him up.”
I gave a short laugh. “Kondal Rao, the self-involved, amoral, conscienceless politician, worried about something as insignificant as someone’s feelings?” Glad as I was to see Srikar stand up to his bully of a grandfather, nothing had changed for the two of us. He was still in Hyderabad, I was still here in the village. “He’s up to something, Aunty.”
“Don’t invent trouble. It is more likely he is just busy managing his new portfolio in the State Government. No time to bother with you.”
I certainly hoped so.
“I miss our days together,” I said.
“I do too, Child. Much as I am grateful to God for giving me a second chance with my son, I miss you terribly.”
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Swami Chidananda, meanwhile, had not been idle. He mobilized funds and started building a complex, with rooms and a central courtyard, around the existing Durga temple. He planned to move over all bhajans and prayers from my ashram to the temple complex. Then I would be completely free of this onerous responsibility. Dared I think I could lead a normal life?
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A commotion drew me outside. A group of children stood in a circle, chattering excitedly. Wondering what had caused it, I went closer. Two boys were engaged in a fist fight, rolling in the mud so hard that they were raising dust.
“Stop,” I barked, moving to separate the boys.
One of the boys snarled and pushed me back. He saw me and froze. Pullaiyya!
Wordlessly, I pulled the boys apart. I helped the other child up – his clothes were caked with dirt, his face grimy. He harrumphed and started to limp homeward.
I held out a hand to Pullaiyya, but he ignored me. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, smearing mud and blood. My heart lurched. The gash above his upper lip ran all the way across his cheek. “Go home, all of you,” I said, shooing away the children. Silently, I walked Pullaiyya home.
Inside, Ammamma rushed up. “What happened?”
Tell A Thousand Lies Page 29