Tell A Thousand Lies

by Rasana Atreya

  I grinned back.

  “I can’t believe how Lata turned out. Wasn’t she the one who was always angry at how women were treated?”

  “As years go by, I feel more and more sorry for her. If she’d been allowed to study, if she’d not been forced into marrying a man so beneath her in education, who knows how she might have turned out?”

  “We always thought she would be the one to blaze a trail across the world,” Chinni said.

  “She feels betrayed that I, the mediocre student, fulfilled her destiny.”

  “You can’t be that mediocre if people travel hours to consult you.”

  “That could be my Goddess aura, too,” I said. “Lata resents my degree, my fame, my money, even my looks. Everything she’s done in life has been driven by that resentment.”

  “What a waste of a life.”

  We were both silent.

  Then Chinni said, “How are you coping?”

  “I’ve made my first friend after you.”

  “Who?”

  “Bhavani. Wife of politician Chandrasekhar.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too. I wonder what Satyam plans to do with his information.”

  “My husband did some poking around of his own. It seems Satyam is addicted to gambling. Cock fights. He owes some very unsavoury people a lot of money.”

  “Kondal Rao appointed him as the priest,” I said slowly. “I should have known he wouldn’t have picked just anyone; he would have wanted someone he could control. Probably even got thugs to tempt Satyam with the money.”

  “And now Satyam might be getting ready to blackmail you with this information.”

  “I don’t need this,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I wish Kondal Rao and his endless machinations would just disappear.”

  “What are you going to do about Satyam?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  ”Kondal Rao is a dangerous enemy,” Chinni said. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “I have to go now.” Chinni scooted forward in her chair, balancing on an elbow to get up. “Too fat,” she said, laughing. “I will talk to my husband; maybe we can come up with a plan.”

  “I’ll talk to Srikar, see if he has suggestions.”

  We hugged again and Chinni left, promising to be in touch.

  ><

  Before I could get around to talking to Srikar, my grandmother fell sick. “Ammamma, you really need to get yourself checked,” I said.

  “Just because you are a doctor, doesn’t mean you see problems everywhere.”

  “You’ve been losing weight.”

  “Why is that such a bad thing? If you have noticed, I’ve been trying to cut down on food. At my age, one should be consciously working towards separating one’s self from earthly desires, from lust, anger, attachment; all manner of worldly appetites.”

  “It is more than that, and you know it. Why have you been suffering from nausea?”

  “Because my earthly body is still fighting its desire for food.”

  Nothing I said would move Ammamma.

  Two weeks later she showed up at the clinic. “Perhaps you should do that check-up.”

  “Why now?”

  “Well –”

  “Well, what?”

  “I’ve been coughing up blood.”

  ><

  My life had been a balancing act of sorts – if joy outweighed sorrow, sorrow moved in to compensate. And so it was, when my child started to bond with me, Ammamma was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma.

  Fifty years Ammamma had squatted in front of a coal-fed earthen stove in a poorly ventilated kitchen. Fifty years of lovingly cooked meals, and all she had to show for it was lung cancer.

  I got in touch with Dr. Govardhan, my former colleague from Hyderabad. I begged him to come to the village to monitor Ammamma’s treatment. Once he got past his astonishment at my background, he proved to be a wonderful doctor and friend. He drove in once a week to check on her. I took Ammamma to the city whenever she needed to be in the hospital.

  Ammamma’s days consisted of bouts of chemotherapy, followed by retching and intense pain. I watched with a heavy heart as she suffered.

  Chinni had become a daily visitor now. She spent an hour with Ammamma every day, and then a couple of hours with me in the clinic, helping in any way she could. My former devotee Gopal – the very person who had discovered Lata helping herself to the collections – had gotten particularly attached to Ammamma. I was grateful for his help in the clinic and around the house, because it freed up my time to concentrate on Ammamma. She had moved back to the railway compartment rooms she had come to as a bride, leaving the private quarters for the use of Ved and me.

  We were losing Ammamma, and there was nothing I could do about it. I refused to involve myself medically because I didn’t want to second-guess the oncologist, or Dr. Govardhan, but I knew enough to be depressed. I walked out of Ammamma’s rooms into the courtyard, intending to call Ved for dinner. Ved was moving back and forth listlessly, his upper body halfway through the tyre swing. I realized with a shock that it had been a long time since I’d seen a smile on my son’s face, and even longer since any of his friends had come over. How could I have become so involved in Ammamma’s condition that I’d neglected my son so?

  I slowly walked over and put my hand on his shoulder. He reared back as if struck. His eyes were damp. It shook me to the core; he had lost a lot of weight and I hadn’t noticed. I tried to pull him into my arms, but he resisted. Trying not to let my hurt show, I unrolled a straw mat and settled on it. Ved sat down, too, but a little away.

  “Amma says she cannot live without me.”

  I was stunned. “When did you meet Lata?”

  Ved wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  “Ved?”

  “She’s been coming to meet me.”

  It came back to me though the fog in my mind. Srikar had mentioned that Lata and he were alternating visits to Ved. Ved was now old enough to walk to Headmaster garu’s house by himself, so it hadn’t registered that Lata was meeting him. Taking care of Ammamma had sucked up so much of my energy that I hadn’t paid attention to anything else.

  Then the import of Ved’s statement struck me. “You’re going away?” I whispered.

  “Going back to her is the right thing to do, isn’t it? After all, she was the one who fed me, bathed me, took care of me, when you were off being doctor.”

  Lata’s words.

  I was numb. Ved was only eleven years old. He did not deserve to be torn between Lata and me.

  “Amma is miserable without me.”

  “What do you want to do?” My throat hurt, but my eyes were dry. My son had lived with me for three years, but ‘Amma’ was still Lata.

  “I will go with her. She is so sad without me. Who else will take care of her?”

  How about your father, my husband?

  Why was it that my anger at Lata was mostly infused with sadness? Perhaps it was the guilt that ate at me. Guilt that, as a doctor, I was in a place in life she’d staked claim to.

  My insides were being systematically shredded, but I wouldn’t let my child be caught in my battles. “Child, all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

  “Then you’ll let me go.”

  My chest knotted, but I nodded.

  “Amma also wants me to change my name back to Pullaiyya,” Ved said. “After all, she chose that name with so much love.”

  Chapter 60

  Is There a God?

  “Help me up,” Ammamma demanded.

  I looked with sorrow at this woman who had seen me through times good and bad. Her eyes were sunken. Chemotherapy had caused her to lose most of her hair. As I put my arm around her, I felt her bones jut out. Oh, Ammamma!

  Ammamma’s eyes flashed with anger. “How can you let Lata get away with this?”

  “Kondal Rao is behind it,” Chinni said pacing about the room.

  At this point I had no idea who wa
s manipulating whom. Maybe Lata and Kondal Rao had thought this up together. Or, maybe not. After all, there was nothing in it for Kondal Rao.

  Chinni said, “We have to do something. We should request Swami Chidananda to talk to Lata. He was able to make her see reason once, maybe he can do it again.”

  I shook my head, feeling darkness descend on my soul. Lata would not be convinced a second time. Ammamma didn’t have too much time left, a couple months at the most. I had barely enough energy to fight one battle, let alone two.

  ><

  Chinni and I were going over the accounts of my medical practice when Kondal Rao descended on us, entourage in tow.

  Why does the blasted man always have to make an entrance?

  “You have heard the news?” His eyes glittered bright enough to burn holes through me. His two sidekicks positioned themselves behind him, legs spread wide, arms locked behind their backs.

  “What news?”

  “I have a shot at being Chief Minister of the great State of Andhra Pradesh.”

  “Spare me your histrionics. I’m not your vote bank.”

  “Ooh! The little Goddess has sprouted claws.”

  “Having Satyam blackmail me over my son. Age getting to you, Kondal Rao garu, that you’re unable to do your own dirty work?”

  “Oh, him!” He flicked a finger, dismissing the priest.

  “Pullamma,” Chinni said urgently, pulling me down to her height. She whispered furiously in my ear. “He is still a powerful man. Don’t push him.”

  “You are getting extra friendly with Chandrasekhar.” He leered at me. “What a family. One sister shacks up with her brother-in-law, the other manages a little fun on the side.”

  “May the filth in your mouth choke the life out of you!” I quivered at the insinuation.

  “Tathastu!” Chinni whispered.

  I snorted. I’d given up on the so-be-it Gods.

  “For someone who has crawled out of the gutters,” Kondal Rao said, “filth is a friend, Little Goddess. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “Can’t you do better than the villain of a B-grade film?”

  “Let it go,” Chinni urged, her nails digging into my arm. “He is just trying to rattle you. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  I struggled for control.

  “I don’t care what you do in private,” Kondal Rao said. “But, publicly you will support me.”

  “Pray, why would I do that? With Srikar and my son not accessible to me, what do I have to lose?” If hatred could kill, there wouldn’t be enough of this man left to consign to flames.

  “I still hold the winning hand, Goddess,” he mocked. “One word from me, and Lata and your son disappear.”

  “He is your only heir, your only chance for salvation after you die.”

  “Screw my salvation,” he shot back.

  His eyes had a feverish glint.

  “I am an old man now. I have only one chance remaining at Chief Ministership.” He leaned forward, his face close to mine. “Only one chance, you understand?”

  If there was a God, Chandrasekhar’s feet would powder Kondal Rao’s head to the finest dust in these elections.

  ><

  The surrounding villages were in uproar. Chandrasekhar had converted more and more people to his side and his win seemed a given. I heard from my patients that Kondal Rao was getting more desperate by the day – he had been storming the villages trying to whip up frenzy, buying votes, offering rice at one rupee a kilo, invoking my name despite my refusal to endorse him, threatening people with dire consequences.

  I had thought about publicly declaring my support for Chandrasekhar, but two things held me back. Firstly, I couldn’t be completely sure Kondal Rao wouldn’t do anything to my son, and secondly, Ammamma was terrified of the consequence of Kondal Rao’s filth tossing.

  I’d told Ammamma about Kondal Rao tracking my father down in the Himalayas. Ammamma worried that Kondal Rao was saving this information to use when it would be the most damaging. She was also convinced he was just looking for a chance to have me stoned for the supposed adultery with Chandrasekhar, the same way he’d had Renuka pinni stoned to death for supposedly being a witch.

  ><

  Bhavani came to the clinic during the campaign, looking morose.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Chandrasekhar might lose. Kondal Rao has vast amounts of cash at his disposal that he is using to buy people. He has been distributing clothes and grain. A few TVs, too. Even if we had that kind of money, Chandrasekhar would never bend his principles.”

  “Which is how it should be.”

  “Sounds well and good,” Bhavani said, “but it won’t win him the election.” She gave a dispirited sigh. “This system beats us down. How can an honest candidate ever win?”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this. Where is your spirit, hanh? Where is your fire? So many people are depending on Chandrasekhar. How can you let them down?”

  She rested her head on my desk. “What can we do?”

  “Contact the Election Commission. Draw their attention to Kondal Rao’s underhanded practices. Talk to the TV stations. See if you can get them to investigate.”

  “These things take time,” Bhavani said.

  “This is not the early ‘80s, when the Government controlled the news. Talk to a private TV channel. You can’t let Kondal Rao win.”

  Bhavani straightened her shoulders. “You’re right.”

  ><

  “If I ask you something,” Ammamma said, “will you give me an honest answer?”

  “Of course.” I looked down at the shell of my grandmother. Through the months of cancer, she had lost all of her comfortable weight. Now she had barely enough outer covering to hold her bones together.

  I hoped she wouldn’t ask to see Malli. My older sister had asked her in-laws for permission to visit, and been refused. Her father-in-law was sick, too, and Malli was needed to take care of him, in addition to running her household.

  “Will I make it through the night?”

  Shaken, I turned away.

  “Tell me,” Ammamma demanded, bony fingers biting into my hand. “Will I live to hear the temple bells toll?”

  I looked down at her, tears streaming.

  “None of your doctor nonsense,” she warned.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Then will you promise me something, Pullamma?”

  “For you, Ammamma, anything.”

  “Fight for your family, Child. Don’t give up.”

  I nodded, heart heavy.

  “Now bend down and give me a hug. I am tired.”

  I hugged her as tightly as I dared.

  She closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 61

  End of An Era

  I made an incoherent call to Janaki aunty. Then I collapsed, feeling like a helpless fish caught in the currents of a breached dam. The turbulent waters lifted me high and battered me repeatedly against the rocks; I felt bruised and broken. I sat on the floor all night, my head on the nightstand, replaying the precious years of my life with Ammamma, my wonderful grandmother.

  Aunty arrived a few hours later. She sat on the floor next to me, her hand on mine, not intruding in my grief, but not leaving me alone, either.

  I thought of how Ammamma had sustained me, how she had fought the villagers on my behalf, how she had urged Srikar and me to escape, even at cost to herself. How, despite great poverty, she’d not touched a paisa of the thousands of rupees I’d sent over the years because she couldn’t be sure how that money was earned.

  Aunty put her hand on my shoulder.

  I didn’t know what time it was, but the temple bells had tolled; the milkman had made his way past on his bicycle, the distinct sounds of foot pedals clanging against the aluminium milk containers balanced on either sides of his handle bar. I looked at her, eyes dry.

  “Do you want me to check in on her again?”

  I nodde
d.

  Aunty was back in minutes. “She’s still breathing, but very weak. I think we should take her to the city.”

  “I’m afraid she won’t be able to take the journey.”

  “If she could survive the night, she deserves a chance at the hospital.”

  With Kondal Rao’s attention on his campaign, I ordered an ambulance, rode with Ammamma to the city and admitted her in the hospital. All night I sat by her bedside, aching that she was losing the fight, willing her to open her eyes. When she finally did, it wasn’t to say what I wanted to hear. Catching hold of my hand, she begged, “I don’t want to die here, Child. Take me home.”

  “Ammamma, please.” My voice broke. “I can’t treat you. I’m not a cancer specialist, and I’m too close to you. You need to remain in the hospital.”

  “No more treatment.”

  “But, Ammamma –”

  “No more treatment.” Ammamma closed her eyes, forestalling argument.

  I trudged out to the dreary waiting room, its patchy yellowed walls reminding me how depressing this place really was. I collapsed into the uncomfortable bench seat next to Janaki aunty. The smell of cheap disinfectant stung my nose.

  Aunty looked at me sideways.

  I sighed. “Ammamma’s refusing treatment. Kondal Rao is demanding I return to the village, but Ammamma’s too weak to travel back.”

  Aunty folded me in her arms. “You go ahead, I’ll stay with your grandmother till she’s strong enough to travel. Then I’ll bring her back.”

  I hugged Aunty, grateful for her support. As I moved away, my eyes fell on Ved. I jumped to my feet.

  He looked at me, as if unsure of my reaction.

  I held out my arms, hating that my cheeks were streaked with tears. Why couldn’t I be strong for my child?

  He ran to me and buried his face in my shoulder.

  I held him, trying to memorize the feel of him in my arms, storing the memory for when I was back in the village, and was missing him like mad.

  He mumbled something.

  “What?” I held him a little away, not sure I’d heard right.

  “I want to live with you.”

  I dropped my arms in distress. Yedukondalavada, I don’t think I can take much more of this.