There are many tributes, from words to flowers, for King Kana from relatives, friends, colleagues, and staff. A tall young man says, “Mrs. Kana, Chief KK helped to arrange a housing loan for my first home. I will always be grateful to him.”
I hear two older men standing opposite me agreeing with each other as to what a capable man he was. They also mention that he was so strict that his finance division shone as the most disciplined and efficient in the whole department in all the country. The group from the office went on as to how it won several best service awards because of him. I shake my head, thinking they don’t know what I have gone through all these years.
I never got to talk back or even just chat much with KK because he said he knew all the answers to everything I needed to know. But as soon as our relatives and friends leave I can have more than a word with Thangachi. I have enough words left to make up for my lack of tears.
As mourners and temple elders chant the religious songs, I hear one chant which soothes my soul: “O namo namo namo O namo namo namo …”
It was sung at Papa’s funeral. How I wept. One second our papa was there and the next he was gone. “Our Papa is no more,” I sobbed. My psychologist friend says that my wailing at Papa’s funeral had a very useful purpose. My pent-up emotions and grief were released in one go. If the steam from the boiling kettle is not allowed a spout to escape from, it may explode later. But here, beside King Kana’s corpse, instead of the release of weeping I retreat even deeper into my silence than when he was alive. Since I am too numb and stunned to weep, will I explode later?
Thangachi watch out, I say to myself.
I lower my handkerchief to stare at Thangachi. I recall the November evening of dark clouds and thunder a year ago when King Kana pointed his forefinger. “Indra, you have been childless for so long.”
He said “you” and not “we”. Our neighbor, Katijah, says it’s rude to point with your forefinger, but I didn’t dare remind him of that.
I had just served KK his evening tea: Ceylon, strong with freshly boiled milk and one teaspoon of honey, accompanied by kolukatai. KK claimed that every cup of tea served must go with one sweet delicacy. This was how his mother used to serve his father and him. That evening the gula Melaka, brown sugar from my freshly steamed kolukatai, was trickling down his wrist. We were both seated alone in the sitting room. He, spread out on the sofa, arms resting on his favorite ‘Made in England’ white-linen covered cushion from Robinsons, and I on my brown rattan chair, with my self-embroidered beige cushion. I said nothing.
“I must do something,” he continued, while jabbing the cushion.
Now it was “I”, not “you” or “we”. It was him or me, him against me. So I remained silent.
“You know our custom.”
“Which one?” I asked, my arms folded.
“You know − the one where the husband marries the childless wife’s single sister.”
“Oh that one,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I thought the wife had to die first before the husband re-married?”
The previous evening, standing at my bedroom window after my evening shower, admiring the thick bushes of pink and white bougainvillea, I overheard KK in the garden, talking to Thangachi, on one of her many visits. He had just come home from our Kuala Lumpur Book Club Library. I couldn’t hear everything they said. He mentioned something about a date between the 7th and 10th of December as a good time for marriages according to our Hindu calendar. Silly me. I thought Thangachi was going to surprise me with some good news. I moved behind the curtain so as not to be spotted. I heard them discussing whether second marriages can be as grand, or even grander, than first ones.
“Not necessarily,” he continued later with gritted teeth, while staring at me. “If she has not been productive for many years that’s some kind of death. It’s your duty to bear children.”
Back in the sitting room, he hit our wooden table with his clenched fist, making the teaspoons jump and clatter on the saucer. I didn’t jump like the teaspoons; I was used to KK’s hard-fist banging acts. However, I felt a low punch to my stomach.
“So although I am not missing, I am still presumed dead?” I asked. Sarcasm gave me some consolation.
He wagged his forefinger. “From Alaska and Bhutan to China and India, from the Apache to the Sioux Red Indians to the Swazi in Africa they have been practicing these, what they call ‘soror’-something. Oh yes, ‘sororate’ marriages. Why should we in Malaya stick out as ignorant exceptions?”
He didn’t know that after overhearing him discuss his plans with Thangachi I had gone over to our library while he was at the club later that afternoon. The library assistant said she hadn’t had time to replace the reference books that KK had pored over. I collapsed into the same chair he had sat on earlier, perspiring in spite of the ceiling fan beating the air at maximum speed. I was thrilled to read that the same books also said that what were called levirate marriages were practiced by the Hindu Bania caste and in Punjab and Haryana.
As I read, I was reminded that this lover of English things had forgotten what the Irish nuns in our convent had taught us. That when Arthur, Prince of Wales died, his widow, Catherine of Aragon married his younger brother, the future Henry VIII. When Prince Albert died, his fiancée Mary married his younger brother, the future George V. I could well imagine how KK would have reacted if I reminded him of all this, so I decided yet again that I was better off keeping dumb voluntarily and saving whatever was left of my shrinking face. People with tempers have a way of making us frightened, most of the time.
As if he was reading my thoughts, KK flung his cup, with hot tea still inside, against the show-case where our wedding portrait and other photos were displayed. Raising his voice, which he did whenever his argument was weak, he said, “It’s your fault that I have to marry Thangachi. She should bring hope, like our sacred lotus filled with fertility to overcome your bad karma!”
As I wiped the tea from our wedding portrait I saw a smiling bride of seven years past, with large eyes, black wavy hair pinned with white jasmine, and a glow of much hope all over her face.
I was reminded of one of Aesop’s many fables Amma told us. This is the one where the wolf accuses the lamb of muddying the water, although the lamb is drinking downstream and in no way could dirty the upstream water the wolf is drinking.
In the early days it was just Thangachi, me, and Amma and Papa. Amma still did all the cooking at home, although we were both teenagers, as she loved preparing all our favorite food. The kitchen was her queendom and I felt like an intruder if I lingered there for too long. Because Amma had marked her territory firmly I told Thangachi that we should retreat into branches of domestic science that did not overlap with Amma’s. I became busy with sewing, embroidery, and an area of cooking that had required my use of the kitchen only for short and off-peak kitchen periods.
I made what Amma said was the best kolukatai. I also baked cakes in various shapes and colors, which were as elaborate as my embroidery. As a Libran, I had chosen harmony and peace over conflict. However, Thangachi had said, “Acca, unlike you, I will advance. Why can’t we have two tigresses in our kitchen mountain, since the older one looks tired lately?”
She had done so, not only whenever Amma was out of it, but had stayed on whenever Amma was too busy to notice. Yes, Thangachi, with her childlike smile, was aggressive and impatient − such a contrast to me. She would be ideal for any young ambitious man, so I couldn’t understand why she would be happy to barge into my home to be a second wife to KK, whose good looks could not overshadow his dark and violent side.
When Papa brought home bangles and other nice things for us, Amma and I had the first choice before Thangachi took her turn.
“I know you are Papa’s favorite,” she said.
“I only happen to be older than you, that’s all,” I replied. I handed her all the bangles Papa had given me, but she continued to sulk.
“We are keeping it within the family,” KK sai
d, as he finally noticed my reddened eyes.
I wanted to ask if all the world’s darkest secrets weren’t kept within families. Aren’t most wounds caused by ourselves, or within families? But I remained mute.
The malligai in my vase had wilted. My kolukatai bypassed his heart to reach his stomach, which he was stroking. I had caught him more than once pretending to stroke his stomach, as he felt it was more manly to show prosperity than chest pain. The dark clouds outside were followed by lightning, thunder, and rain. In Malaya, I’m told, we have more lightning than most other countries because of the many tailings from our tin mining, buried in our soil.
Suddenly I recalled something that Thangachi had said; it finally made sense. I was cooking KK’s dinner one evening, before KK dropped his atomic bomb on me. Thangachi had joined me in the kitchen, without being invited, asserting among other things her traditional rights as my sister. Out of nowhere she said, “Remember our unlucky aunty, PPP, ‘Poor Pitiful Punitham’? They called her that because her first bed was barren. Her husband had married her sister who produced two kids from the second bed.”
I slumped on the nearest stool in my kitchen. Thangachi took over my cooking. I had hoped that it would never happen to me. “Oh Lord Ganesha, let me never be the one to be accused of sleeping on a barren bed,” I had prayed. Yet now my worst fear had come true.
Among the difficult things about life with KK was accompanying him to official dinners, weddings, or even to our temple on Fridays, which I didn’t enjoy at all, unlike other women who were blessed with un-bossy husbands and loved dressing up. In the longest minutes before we left our home, KK often appeared all dressed up, and would push our bedroom door wide open before I was ready, place his heavy wooden armchair at the entrance, sitting cross-legged while making me turn around to check if my face and neck were evenly layered with talcum powder.
“No white patches to be seen, hair bun neatly clasped in black hairpin and black hair net, without any strand of stray hair jutting out, kondai placed not too high, slightly low almost touching the back, just above your choli saree blouse.” I can still hear his instructions in my head.
As we got dressed for KK’s annual gala dinner at the Lake Club I yearned to wear my favorite dark green or deep magenta sari Papa had bought me years ago, but KK said those colors hurt his eyes. He insisted I tie one of the pastel ones he had got for me whenever I accompanied him. The border of my sari hem should sit just above the floor, neither sweeping it, nor too high above my sandals. When his rules were not met, KK made me untie my sari and redo it all over again. I wanted to scream at having to re-wrap and re-tie myself with six yards of cloth, but just smiled, as if to say I was sorry. Once, when I took too much time getting dressed, he drove off on his own, leaving me gasping and gaping. He didn’t care about my feelings. What I minded most was that Thangachi, who should respect me as her elder sister, saw my humiliation during one of her many visits.
“Acca, small matter only. You have married such a handsome man who looks like my favorite Hollywood star Tyrone Power. He is also wealthy. So what if he has a few faults?” Although she was younger than me, sometimes I thought she seemed more worldly and wise − perhaps a bit too much.
That night I didn’t want to be left behind, as not only were Thangachi and I to be seated with KK, but his lady friends from his club would also attend. Those European and Eurasian ladies, with sleeveless and strapless blouses, and God knows whatever-else-less, and Chinese ladies in tight cheongsams, with high slits at the sides, were all to be seated at the same dining table.
I noticed one scantily dressed young woman, in a bare-back, black see-through top with a short white lacy skirt, pushing her way through to be seated on KK’s right. He even stood up to pull the chair out for her. When it was time for the group photograph she stood really close to KK as the photographer gestured us all to stand together. As Thangachi and I headed for the ladies powder room I deliberately let the long sequinned mundhani of my sari sweep over the woman’s face, hoping it might scrape off some of her makeup. Thangachi saw this, and said she wasn’t sure if I was more unhappy with KK or that woman. I slammed the toilet door. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Acca, I can see you are angry. Don’t you think you are blessed that our KK asked me to marry him, rather than one of those boldly dressed women at our table?”
Although still upset, I had to admit that Thangachi was right. KK could have stepped out of our custom and married someone from outside the family, or even further away, one of those ladies from another race and religion. That new wife would have pushed me aside totally, as we would have been strangers to each other. I would have had no influence at all on her, whereas Thangachi, who calls me Acca, would show me much more respect as KK’s first wife and her elder sister, the way no alien could do.
Barely a month later, after having been a bride myself seven years before, I saw myself in the mirror, leaning toward Thangachi to help her tie the pastel-blue wedding sari with golden embroidery our late Amma had given me as my heirloom when I came of age.
I arranged the mundhani so that the more intricate design from Amma’s sari hung neatly over her shoulder. I consoled myself that if it wasn’t Thangachi but some other bride I wouldn’t even be allowed near the dressing room, and the new bride wouldn’t be wearing anything like a sari. Yet I asked her, “Are you very sure you want to marry my husband?” The mirror reminded me of how the glow in me when I first got married had gone away. My loss of face in the past month showed physically. My face in the mirror was hollow and weary; it said to me that I was at a funeral, not a wedding.
As I tried to place an equal number of matching blue and gold bangles on Thangachi’s wrists she squeezed my hands with her henna-stained fingers and said, “Acca don’t worry, I will always obey you both.”
I heard KK reciting the same vows of fidelity, love, and mutual respect, which he had made when he led me round the agni, sacred fire of ghee and wooden sticks, seven times, seven years before. But this time KK’s little finger was clasping Thangachi’s, and not mine. At the climax of the wedding ceremony, when KK tied the tali around Thangachi’s neck, the accompanying mridangam, thavil drums, the Nadaswaran trumpets and temple bells rose simultaneously to a crescendo. As I continued standing behind Thangachi I felt I was choking with shame. I told myself that I had kept my vows intact, but this man hadn’t and Thangachi was complicit.
To prove to me, to Thangachi, and to our community, that he was right in marrying her while I was still alive he was doing the kicking. KK had fasted, spread thicker strokes of vibuthi ash on his forehead, and made special poojas to Lord Ganesha to remove the obstacles to him being a father. He raised his long arms to the temple ceiling, then prostrated himself with his hairy bare chest on the floor as he pleaded loudly with Lord Ganesha for just one boon. His gestures were so over-eager they made him look clownish. He offered the kolukatai I had made for his pooja. I had offered special poojas too, with the softest, most evenly shaped, extra kolukatai, as they are Lord Ganesha’s favorites. Unlike KK, I did it secretly. I didn’t want to lose all of what was left of my face if my prayers were ignored.
Within a month, something happened that none of the three of us had ever dreamt of. First, I threw up. KK had dismissed it as something I must have eaten. As I settled on the sofa Thangachi teased me, “Acca I come into your family officially and so soon you are going to be a mother. I brought you luck.”
Thangachi always took credit for all the good news in our family, so this remark was nothing new to me, but I was too happy to tell her that I had prayed to be a mother and at last I was to be an Amma, the most precious word I know. I smiled at each of Thangachi’s continued self-praises.
Then, two weeks later, when Thangachi vomited, KK congratulated her. “This is most welcome morning sickness,” he said. I wished I had thrown up on him. Our special poojas to Lord Ganesha had been answered more than once. He prayed to be a father and got to be one, two times over.
&nb
sp; Many a time, KK rushed home from work, bringing with him piping hot vadai, served with red and green mint coconut chutney, and sweet purple yam porridge, and showed how excited he was to have bought all that Thangachi craved for. KK brought some over to my room, and I had to pretend not to notice they were cold leftovers from Thangachi’s tea-time treat.
To compensate, I spoiled myself by having long hot baths in the mornings, gently scrubbing and massaging myself with a paste of bath powder mixture of sweet-scented sandalwood and saffron powder. Seated in front of my dressing table mirror, I dipped my thumb into my oval silver kumkum holder a few times, and took extra kumkum red powder for my forehead to be placed in front of my parting hairline.
When my contractions began, KK arranged for the driver to send me to the General Hospital to have my baby. I was in an empty double-room. As I looked through the window next to my bed I saw tall trees swaying in the wind, bringing my thoughts to names for my baby. They should start with the letter ‘K’ for KK. If it is a girl she should be named Kumari, and if a boy, then Kumar to match the father’s name. I went into labor. I woke up a few hours later to see next to me a cot with my baby, Kumari, asleep and all wrapped up. She had my thick wavy hair. At each ring of the bell, the nurse came into my room asking me what I needed, before I was served hot Ovaltine and goreng pisang. It was nice there with Kumari and all these people who fussed over me; people I could speak to, who listened, and brought me whatever I needed.
Four days later, KK rushed in to tell me that Thangachi had complained of pains and might be in early labor. He brought her to the same hospital in his new car. Although the doctor told him it was a false alarm they decided to keep her in anyway, so she stayed there.
I just listened to what he said and saw how he rushed off to see her. He spent more time by her bedside than mine. The nurses thought he was Thangachi’s husband and merely my relative.
Barely a week after my baby Kumari, hers was born. Thangachi sulked at my having my baby first. Then there was a big change. Thangachi was one up on me, as not only had she delivered a child for our husband, but one with a most vital gift.
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