by Shilpa Raj
It was through telling others of these experiences that I was able to look beyond the conflicts I had faced at school and understand how my difficult past had in mysterious ways paved my present. It was the honesty with which we were being brought up that amazed me. There is a paradise in every childhood, and for me it was Shanti Bhavan, an enchanted place where life was simple and the air was fresh, where there was laughter even when there was pain, and always a chance to start all over again.
After eight years working abroad, Amma decided to return home for good. I learnt of her decision from the last letter she sent me from Singapore. It was the best news I had had in a long time; the thought of reuniting with my mother was simply ecstasy for me. But something that Amma scribbled at the end of the letter troubled me: ‘Chinna, if I die here, there will be no one to cry for me. I cannot die alone in a strange land.’ At first, I couldn’t understand why she was talking about death, and it scared me. As I tried putting myself in her shoes, I began to understand how desperate she was to reunite with her loved ones. No amount of insistence by my father could get her to remain longer in Singapore.
Every time the girls in my class and I spoke about our mothers and all the difficulties they endured in their lives at the hands of alcoholic husbands, ruthless money-lenders, and the demands of a dowry system, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in Amma for courageously living through the hardships of her early years. The anger that I had harbored towards her for abandoning me had eased but not disappeared completely.
Appa called one of the school staff, and asked that I be informed of my mother’s arrival. The thought of reuniting with her left me sleepless with excitement. Every time I passed by the prayer hall, I stopped to say a special thank you to God for bringing my mother safely back to me. I couldn’t wait to get to our village, and when we did, I didn’t let Appa walk me home from the bus stop either. I ran all the way to our house, and almost broke open the front door in my eagerness. Amma unlocked the bolt and greeted me with a wide smile and eyes gleaming. I cried out to her and dove into her arms.
‘My chinna, you have grown big and beautiful,’ she exclaimed, hugging me tight and covering my face with kisses.
‘You look so different. You’ve become as chubby as me,’ I said, noticing that the hollowness around her cheekbones had disappeared.
Amma laughed, and ran her hands over my hair and pulled me close. There was so much urgency in her every action. There could be no doubt that she still loved me. My fear of her resentment towards me for rejecting her brother quickly faded. I kissed her cheek and put my arms around her.
That night, there couldn’t have been a happier family than ours as we sat together on the floor, sharing a delicious meal of steamed rice and chicken curry that Amma had prepared. It was almost like a small celebration. I laughed watching Francis’s failed attempt to steal Kavya’s share of the chicken from her plate. Kavya pinched him and he yelped. I was grateful that we were finally a family again.
I would soon find out that our life together was not to be what I had imagined. I struggled to get used to Amma’s presence in our lives, just as she struggled to reclaim her role as a dutiful wife and mother. She was anxious to please us, but her attempts to discipline Francis and Kavya never seemed to work; they just wouldn’t take her seriously.
At first I hardly left her side as she went about cooking, washing our clothes, going to the village market to buy vegetables, stopping by a neighbor’s home to gossip, and visiting relatives who lived close-by. I noticed how everyone seemed to scrutinize her foreign ways—her outright rejection of the sari and the lack of hesitation to express her opinion. While others resented the change in Amma, I silently celebrated it as I wanted to find similarity to my own changing outlooks towards life.
My mother’s return brought about sudden changes in our living conditions at home. With her savings, she arranged to have a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom built adjacent to the poorly furnished hut we had known. Now that I was older and finding the early morning trips to the fields very embarrassing, I was relieved we were finally getting a bathroom built inside the house. It was all a lovely change, one that I hadn’t even dreamt of.
Word about Amma’s grand construction plans shot through the village like a bullet. Neighbors came by to praise her for being the first woman in the village to work abroad and earn money. Unemployed men seeking income from construction work eagerly turned up at our doorstep. Kavya, Francis, and I were a nuisance to them, as we kept getting in their way in our excitement to be of help.
We were not the only ones in the village whose lifestyle had taken a turn for the better. The economic boom that was taking place in urban India prompted many villagers to take up jobs in cities as factory workers, laborers, and mechanics. They brought home higher wages than they had earned working for landlords. Thatched roofs were replaced with tiles, while some people built more comfortable homes. Part of the forest had been cut down for planting crops and a few more bore-wells were drilled for supplying water. But all these developments also robbed the village of what was once its raw and sublime appearance. It was no longer the place I had grown up in, its natural beauty lost to human industry to make life better.
All the same, the usual practice of women with buckets and pots gathering every evening near common wells continued. This was their opportunity to share news about their lives, to inquire about others, and simply to gossip. No news is kept secret in the village; there are happy stories of young girls getting married, and sad stories of their broken relationships. Women seem to enjoy talking about other women and their children, especially about those who are not married by sixteen. As for men, prosperity meant more money in their hands, which in turn meant more drinking and chasing other women. The newfound wealth was like a thick moss covering the surface. But underneath, not much had really changed in Thattaguppe.
However, with passing days, the slow flow of life began to feel the pressure of discord within our family. For one thing, Joseph Thatha came to live with us in a small room built for him with Amma’s money. The fact that he still had not talked to her or treated her with civility since she married his son did not stop him from moving in with us. Yet, despite her generosity, he refused to eat anything she cooked, and so Uncle Philip would supply him with food twice a day.
‘That old man will realize one day how good I’ve been to him,’ my mother often said to me with a quiver in her voice, her words barely audible.
Most nights, we could hear Joseph Thatha coughing and chattering to himself, his senses completely overtaken by the local liquor he somehow managed to get hold of. He seemed haunted, and I was often disturbed by his cries for his late wife, ‘Arpuda! Where are you? Bring me dinner.’ He was probably struggling to face the reality that the power he once held over his wife and his children had vanished into his sullen past and he was living on the generosity and kindness of his despised daughter-in-law.
I dreaded entering my grandfather’s dark room that reeked of stale urine and worse. The walls were almost bare except for a large picture of the Last Supper of Jesus that rested on two rusty nails by the doorway. The few times I went to his room to give him meals, there was no sign he recognized me.
‘I am Shilpa, Thatha,’ I would remind him each time, placing the steel plate filled with rice on the mat and helping him to sit up.
‘Which Shilpa?’ he’d ask, peering into my face with a look of distrust.
‘I am Kavya’s elder sister,’ I would say, trying to place myself in his memory. Accepting that I was no stranger to the family, he would reach for my hand and give it a squeeze. He would ask me a few questions, the same ones each time I saw him. He reminded me of a still, giant clock that had lost track of time. I often wished I could just sit down by his side and hear him tell me stories of his life, so I could understand why he’d sunken to be the man he was in his late years.
But it was hard to ignore Appa’s anger towards his father who had for so long m
ade him feel weak and useless. He always described him as a cruel man who cared little about his family. Once, hearing Appa talking about his father, Amma teased, ‘If he hears you saying bad things about him, he will beat you like he did when you were a boy.’
‘If he enters our room, he’ll regret it,’ Appa retorted. I recoiled at the resentment and bitterness in his voice.
There was little stability in my life at home. A self-indulgent father, a distressed mother, and a perennially drunken grandfather all living under the same roof made for a chaotic family that offered no tranquility. The comfort of living in a larger house made no difference in the absence of peace.
Even worse was my relationship with my mother. Until now, Amma had been the missing part of my puzzle, and now that we were all together, I still couldn’t feel whole. No matter how hard I tried to open up to her, there was a perpetual distance between us. It was like we were constantly out of sync, unable to connect. Whenever she complained about one thing or the other, I found it difficult to remain patient and sympathetic towards her.
Kavya and Francis were also struggling; they would show their annoyance and brush off the restrictions Amma tried to place on them. Kavya didn’t feel attached to Amma and didn’t bother to hide it. She spent most of her time in Grandmother’s house and talked very little with Amma. From the sad creases around her eyes, I could see Amma was hurt by us. We had drifted away from each other, and I knew it was going to take a long time for us to find our way back.
Most nights, tucked away with my siblings on the new cot that Amma had bought for us, I lay awake wrestling in my mind with the changes that were pulling our family apart at a pace I couldn’t keep up with. I often overheard Appa and Amma talking to one another in whispers, usually about money matters. I pretended to be fast asleep, blocking out the sound of their arguing. It was harder when their whispers turned into angry brawls. Even with Amma back home from abroad, we couldn’t live together in harmony.
And it was not just our family members who had noticed Amma’s transformation. On her way to buy vegetables from the market, women passing by would stop to stare at her fancy dress and footwear—tight, colorful salwar and matching leather sandals bought abroad, replacing faded saris and worn-out rubber slippers. She had also stopped ornamenting herself with cheap, gold-plated necklaces and elaborate bangles and earrings, distinguishing herself from other village women. Her new attire helped hide her large, bulging belly scarred by ugly stretch marks, but it didn’t help her make friends with local women who resented her sophistication.
I, on the other hand, loved Amma’s new style. It brought out her youthful beauty and suggested her eagerness to live a full life. But I could also see that in the long years she had been abroad, certain feminine attributes she once had, attributes traditionally considered important—gentleness, humility, acquiescence—had been lost. I was surprised by her boldness in contradicting my father even when it risked turning him violent. Having seen how women interacted with men in an affluent society, she was no longer willing to accept her husband’s orders implicitly. Of course, I was supportive of her expressing her wishes, but others in the family made disparaging remarks about her. Grandmother once said to me, ‘Your mother has turned into a man. She’s no longer the old Sarophina I knew.’
I tried to understand who my mother had become. Her time abroad had turned her into an assertive woman who refused to remain silent when challenged by others. Amma’s varying roles as a daughter, wife, mother, cook, housekeeper, liquor saleswoman, servant, and farm worker had trained her to adapt to every situation. She could now handle what others threw at her with wit, vigor, cunning, and deceit.
I couldn’t help but notice that Amma was frightened of candor, finding it necessary to manipulate others to get what she wanted. Every time I snapped at her for resorting to lying to escape from a difficult situation, she would firmly justify her actions by pointing out that they were only for the good of the family. According to her, the society was not sufficiently fair or truthful to be dealt with in a forthright manner. I tried to convince her it was wrong to lie or act dishonestly, as I was taught in school. But she wouldn’t budge.
‘You can’t feed a family with truth alone. When you lie for another’s good, it is not a lie,’ she said. Her words troubled me, but the more I thought about it, the more I found myself wanting to agree with her, or at least not judge her. I still revered the principles of truth and honesty but how could I judge my amma harshly for dishonesty when it was for the family’s survival?
There was no doubt that Amma was proud of me and longed for my company. She would show me off to her friends and anyone who came to see her. ‘You remember my daughter Shilpa? I never thought she would grow up to be smarter than any of us,’ she would say to others with immense pride, kissing me on my forehead. Embarrassed, I would beg her to stop, but she would simply ignore and do it again when we ran into someone else.
Amma often wanted me to escort her to the village market, or go with her on evening strolls along the lane where we lived. But I had grown increasingly argumentative, often fighting with her over family matters. I thought she was wrong to demand that Kavya do so many household chores when she had homework to complete. Whenever Appa brought home vegetables picked from the landlord’s farm, I would ask her whether he bought or stole them. Amma lied every time, and once replied casually, ‘What does it matter whether he paid for them or not?’
The conflict between my parents was the worst part of being home. They simply could not get along with each other, fighting over everything. On several occasions, when their quarrels turned ugly, Amma threatened to take her own life. Once she tried to hang herself from the wooden rafter of the hut, but was stopped by Grandmother who came running when I yelled for Francis to fetch her. Another time, she folded the few saris she owned into a bundle, and screamed that she was going to run away, and if Appa managed to track her down she would kill herself by jumping into a well. It was clear she had lost all hope for the kind of life she thought she might be able to lead after working abroad. I was living with the constant fear of when the next crisis would erupt.
Once I had to send Kavya to fetch our grandparents. Appa was raging about Amma’s claim that there was no money left in her bank account. He didn’t believe her and repeatedly accused her of hiding what she had earned in Singapore. Grandmother arrived, dragging Grandfather along with her, just in time to stop Appa from beating Amma.
Although my grandparents’ intervention broke up the fight, there was no resolution. Appa looked my way with sad, red eyes, and then walked out without a word. I wanted Amma to ignore him so the fight could be over, but she confounded me by calling out, ‘Anthu! Anthu!’ and running after him.
In the space of a single second, all her bold declarations of wanting to be free of my father’s tyranny vaporized and her emotional dependence on him was exposed. She couldn’t consider living alone in a village where single women are not safe. I was furious with her for behaving as though it was all her fault, but my grandparents were glad to see her trying to make amends, for they considered it a woman’s duty to be a ‘good wife,’ which to them meant always shouldering all the blame and appeasing her husband.
My upbringing in school taught me to question what had long been the expectations in our society. Having been brought up in a place where boys and girls were treated as equals, I found it hard to understand why women would allow themselves to be ‘slaves’ to men. Even when women worked in the fields and earned money to meet the needs of the family, men didn’t seem to appreciate their contributions. I rarely noticed a village woman questioning her man’s bad behavior or lack of concern for their family. They even accepted the excessive drinking habits of men. Clearly, the two worlds I was living in saw women differently.
Despite the way my feelings had changed towards Amma, I spent most of my time at home comforting her, assuring her she wasn’t alone in the world. In turn, Amma showered special attention on me. Once, whe
n Kavya saw that Amma had bought hair clips and face cream for me, she burst out crying, ‘I want to go far away so you will get me good things when I come home. You treat one daughter like a queen and the other like a slave.’ Kavya stormed out of the house, almost tripping over the wooden threshold.
Upon her return, Kavya shouted at Amma, ‘What do you give us? Every day it’s the same rice and ragi. Not even good clothes to wear. You don’t take us to visit places.’ It was the first time I had heard her express disappointment about what our parents couldn’t give her.
‘Is it my fault I was sent to Shanti Bhavan?’ I shouted at her, but she didn’t respond. For a moment, I wished I had never left home. It was hard to believe Kavya was only twelve. She was already well aware of her situation—what she longed for and what she couldn’t have. Her resentment towards me for my good fortune was so fierce and implacable I didn’t know how to make peace with her.
As time passed, I began to take a more active role in settling disputes between my parents. I openly disapproved of my father’s heavy drinking and my mother’s habits of pitying herself and gossiping with neighbors. Contrary to the widespread village notion that girls should not voice their thoughts, I put my disappointments and frustrations on full display.
Playing parent to my parents was the most difficult task I had ever undertaken. I wasn’t conscious it was even happening until it hit me in the aftermath of one of my father’s violent attacks against my mother. In the midst of one of their quarrels about money, Amma foolishly revealed to Appa that she had gotten involved in gambling while in Singapore and had lost considerable sums. Enraged, Appa slammed Amma in the face with his fist, catapulting her to the floor in pain.