The Elephant Chaser's Daughter

by Shilpa Raj

  By now all the guests had taken their seats. Prasad, who was the master of ceremonies, came up to the podium and thanked everyone for coming. The vice principal followed with a speech of welcome. The ceremonial lamp was lit, the keynote speech was delivered by the chief guest, and soon it was time for us to receive our diplomas. The moment we had been waiting for had finally arrived.

  When my name was called, I nervously walked up to the podium, paying close attention to my sari not to make a fool of myself by tripping on it. Once safely up on the stage, I turned to greet the audience with a Namaste. I glanced at my parents and smiled at them before bowing respectfully and receiving my certificate.

  The next item on the agenda was the announcement of special awards. ‘The award for the top student in the liberal arts stream goes to Shilpa Anthony Raj,’ announced the vice principal. Loud applause accompanied me as I made my way to the stage once again. I couldn’t have been happier, beaming joyfully in the direction of my parents.

  I wondered whether my mother liked the way I carried myself in a sari. For my father, I guessed it was probably enough for him to hear my name called out twice. He was always excited when I took home prizes and certificates with my full name printed on them. As he stared at them, I would point out, ‘Appa, your name, Anthony Raj, is here too.’ He’d grin with pride.

  Next, Amuda, the valedictorian, walked gracefully up the steps, her head held high, carried by a wave of enthusiastic applause from the audience. Many of us knew what she was going through in her personal life and the sadness she was concealing from others. We were drawn to her, our hearts filled with admiration and love. Composed and dignified, she accepted the coveted award.

  The room fell silent as Amuda adjusted her notes and prepared to deliver her talk. She began in a strong voice, thanking everyone for their support and affection. ‘I have learnt in the past fourteen years that a family is defined not simply by blood ties, but by what we are to each other,’ she said. Her eyes scanned the children and staff. ‘As many of you are aware, my mother, the only blood family I have, cannot be present today.’ Tears filled my eyes as she talked about her mother, and I could see the pain on my classmates’ faces as well.

  Amuda had gone to see her mother just two weeks before graduation. She had been hiding from Amuda’s stepfather who was terminally ill with AIDS. Not wanting his family to live after he died, he had vowed to kill both Amuda and his wife by pouring acid on them. Amuda, terrified that he might carry out his threat, had packed up and run from their home, and she and her mother were still in hiding.

  Back at school, Amuda received word that her mother had also contracted AIDS. While the rest of us rehearsed for graduation, Amuda was busy looking after her sick mother in a single-room hut they had managed to rent as a temporary hideout. She fed her, helped her to the bathroom, and frequently stayed awake at night to check for fever.

  Poised and calm at the podium, Amuda turned to DG. ‘Dr. George, you told me I have the potential to accomplish great things in my life.’ Taking a deep breath, she continued, ‘You helped me write a better beginning to my story.’

  Amuda turned to us and began to address each of her classmates by name. When it came to me, she said with a big smile, ‘To think of Shilpa is to think of a sculpture made with her mind.’ Amuda’s vivid and intuitive remarks about each of her classmates spoke to the importance she attached to all of us. She ended with the words, ‘My friends, wherever you go, go with all your heart.’

  The entire audience was in tears. An added wave of sadness washed over me as I realized our time together as classmates had come to an end.

  We grew quiet again as DG approached the podium. He was dressed in a long white formal jacket called a kurta, with matching pants and a contrasting red shawl. ‘Like any proud father, I am thrilled to watch you on this special day,’ he began, his face radiant with joy. ‘Despite your young age, you have overcome many hurdles and accomplished a lot.’

  As DG delivered his speech, it struck me how much he meant to us. We worried about letting him down, not living up to his dreams for us, though we sometimes felt he was expecting too much from all of us. I listened carefully as he came to his parting words.

  ‘You will transform your families in many ways, bring comfort and dignity to their lives, and offer them choices they have never had,’ he said. ‘You will set good examples for others with your character, ideals, and moral standing. You will be thoughtful towards others, especially those who live each day at life’s mercy, and come forward without being asked to help those in need.’ DG paused for a moment to look at our faces. ‘When you are such individuals, then you will have upheld what this institution truly stands for in your lives and in the lives of those who will follow you.’ He thanked everyone and walked back to his chair as the audience broke into enthusiastic applause.

  I had been in DG’s care since I was four, and he had helped shape me into the confident person I have become. I have always felt his love and caring—from my first memories of him bringing lollipops from America to the important lessons of life that he imparted over the years. Though we were afraid of him when he scolded us for misbehavior, he was never indifferent. None of the children had spent much time with him, and yet we knew he was always there behind the scenes, like Erik in The Phantom of the Opera, pulling strings and working tirelessly. DG had taken over the helm of the school at the peak of the financial crisis. He had steered us through difficulties with an uncanny determination and optimism that made us feel secure. He had taught me what true courage is.

  I heard my mother calling my name and turned to see her hurrying towards me, her face lit with pride. I ran into her open arms. ‘Shilpa, I am so happy, my chinna,’ she whispered as we hugged each other.

  By then, my father too had found his way through the crowd. Unable to openly express my affection towards him, I joined my hands respectfully in Namaste. He said little, but his eyes revealed joy in my accomplishment—the first in our family to graduate from high school. There were no hugs; we hadn’t embraced for as long as I could remember. But we both knew the love we felt.

  I told my parents I had come second in my class with nearly eighty-four percent in the national examination. My mother gave me a kiss on my forehead, but I couldn’t tell if my good performance meant anything to either of them. My passing alone would surely earn the respect of the entire village for our family.

  ‘Shilpa, if it weren’t for your father, the two of us would never have seen you like this today,’ Amma said, clutching my hand in hers and pinning jasmine flowers in my hair. Appa kept silent, but could not hold back a smile. None of us could forget the ridicule and scorn he had endured in the years following my joining the school.

  I led them up the stairs to where the rest of my classmates were waiting with their parents to have their photos taken with DG and his wife, Ms. Mariam. She looked beautiful in a white sari dotted with green flowers. She had always been genuinely concerned about our progress and showered us with love and encouragement. She hugged me tightly.

  We stood in line behind my classmate Manikaran and his family, eager for our turn. Manikaran’s father had spoken on behalf of all the parents. He said in Tamil, ‘I was one of the laborers who built these buildings. Today, I watch my son rising from it.’ His words of appreciation for Shanti Bhavan resonated with the other parents, and on this day his quiet pride in his son was apparent. And yet, not too long after, this simple man would take his own life in desperation at not being able to repay the family’s debts.

  For the first time in my life, I felt no hesitation in introducing my father. I had been ashamed of him, worrying that he couldn’t speak English or handle a pen to sign his name on my report cards. I remembered the times he arrived at school in faded clothes and worn-out slippers. He always smelled of sweat and it wasn’t easy to sit beside him. And I remembered how, when he learnt that I found his dirtiness repulsive, he started bathing twice a week whenever I was home.

  Aft
er our photos were taken, I escorted my parents to the side. I had to find the courage to tell them what was on my mind. ‘Appa, Amma, I am not going to college yet. I’m staying back a year to write my book.’

  The joy on their faces vanished instantly and was replaced by stark disappointment.

  I struggled to sound confident, wavering at their shocked looks. ‘That was why I interviewed all of you. I want to write this book,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat.

  ‘So you won’t go to college?’ Appa asked. ‘Why are you wasting a year?’

  ‘I am not wasting a year.’ I knew it was difficult for my parents to understand. ‘It is your story too, Appa.’

  Amma remained silent, but from the way her lips quivered, I knew she was struggling to control her distress.

  I’d find out later that, back at home, Amma found it embarrassing to tell the neighbors; neither she nor they could understand what I was trying to do. ‘All the other children are going to college, but not my daughter.’ Leelie would be in college, and everyone in the village had heard about it and ridiculed my parents.

  The path I was preparing to traverse was bound to be worrying until I began earning money to support the family. But I couldn’t be dissuaded. I had to write my story.

  I believe now that from the beginning I was destined to take a different path. I had entered the world in a haunted hut in a village in South India bound to centuries of tradition, one that didn’t smile upon the likes of me. Yet, I was spared a spot at the edge of the woods where baby girls like me were poisoned and buried, never to be spoken of again.

  So much has changed since then. Today, I can aspire to be a writer, to travel the world and learn about other cultures. I want to be in touch with people, to interact with them, and perhaps become a psychologist. I want to be a voice for the poor and the deprived, and a catalyst for change. I can’t know where my future will take me, but so long as I spread my wings, I trust the winds will carry me.

  The atmosphere remained festive as we neared the end of the celebrations. I saw a group of my classmates, aunties, and a few volunteers sitting outside the Foundation House not far from the entrance to school. I could tell from the overlapping voices and laughter that they were happily sharing good memories. There was no doubt about what Avnith had once said: ‘The relationships we have built at Shanti Bhavan are for life.’

  I walked my parents to the school gate. The three of us remained silent. Amma tried not to acknowledge the fact that it was time to say goodbye. As I put my arms around her, her eyes filled with tears. Appa stood to one side like a shy boy watching us. ‘Bye, Appa,’ I called out to him. He turned to face me as I walked up to him and took his hand. ‘Call us once in a while,’ he said, smiling sadly.

  As my parents slowly walked away from me, it struck me that they wouldn’t find it easy living a life foreign to their own. If I succeed professionally, I will improve their lives by making sure they always have good food to eat and comfortable clothes to wear, but they have grown too old to be interested in learning new ways. They would prefer to be with the people they have always known, whose beliefs and customs are like theirs.

  There is also the fact that my mother and I think very differently, and we will likely never agree on matters like careers or marriage. I keep a certain distance because I know I disappoint her and cannot explain myself in a way she will understand. I cannot blame her; her life has been in the ragi fields of her village, as the subservient wife of an alcoholic, and as a maid to a wealthy Singaporean family. She has never had the opportunities I have, nor experienced the independence and empowerment that come with them. Despite our separate lives, she longs for my company and craves my sympathy and love. Yet, sometimes I get the feeling that she is jealous of the life I lead. I must somehow find a way to make her happy.

  I must also make peace with my own decisions. There is no way I can live with my family permanently. I have come to understand the world I left behind simply cannot accept me as I am now. This I see as the price of my education.

  As I watched my parents turn towards the woods, a feeling of intense sorrow gripped me. The joy I experienced during the ceremony was marred by worries about my family. My thoughts flew to every member of my family. It hurt to think I had become distant from my grandmother, the one who had showered me with so much love. She no longer advised me on any topic whatsoever. Joseph Thatha hadn’t spoken to me for many years, preferring to drink each day away. As for my parents, I couldn’t foresee much change in their relationship: Amma and Appa would never get along. My brother was attending school but faring poorly in his studies and nothing I might say now could make a difference. In a few years, when I planned to be earning a salary, I would be able to help him. As for Kavya, she had taken up the company of bad men, and despite Appa’s efforts to protect her from them, she found ways to evade his control. She wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to guide her, and my worrying constantly about her did neither of us any good. I could only hope she would someday accept me and love me. Uncle Naresh, meanwhile, was still waiting for his parents to select a bride for him. I knew I would always have to keep my distance from him.

  Appa and Amma gradually disappeared from view. A track through the countryside would lead them to a main road junction where buses stopped. Having trekked through the forest all his life, this was no difficult task for my father. But Amma would find it hard to walk over the narrow track in her sari. They left carrying my other world.

  I turned around and headed back up the cobbled pathway to join my friends who had gathered around DG outside the Foundation House.

  ‘Will you occasionally come to tell me what you have accomplished?’ he asked.

  All around him stood young people about to head into the city for their next big adventure, struggling with how to say good-bye to the one man who had done everything in his power to shape their lives. All replied emphatically that they would.

  Finally, left alone, I reflected on my future. Despite all the excitement of the day, I was still afraid of the unknown. Could I be destined to a life of hardship and indignity for no fault of mine? Suddenly I remembered my grandmother’s words: ‘What God has written on your forehead is your destiny.’ It was no comfort. I was not going to leave my prospects to a pre-ordained fate.

  I had many reasons to be optimistic, and couldn’t let fear overtake me. The culmination of my schooling brought me hope. Standing in the middle of the pathway that day, I knew I had been given much to prepare me for the outside world and I felt confident that my future would be what I would make of it. For the first time, I felt I was in control of my life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: AN ENDING

  It was barely a year after my graduation when Kavya died. Just a few months before, she had run away from home with my mother. The rest of us did not see her again until Amma returned with her lifeless body.

  Grandmother and the other women in the family believed that Amma joined in Kavya’s escape not because she was truly afraid that Appa would set Kavya and her gangster boyfriend on fire as he had threatened, but because she could not bear the world she had returned to after working in Singapore. Who knows what these men might have promised both mother and daughter? If Amma, in her desperation to live free of her husband’s control, had succumbed to the promise of a new and exciting life, can I blame her?

  I spent nearly the whole day mourning by my sister’s side. By evening, arrangements were made to take the body to the graveyard for burial. Dragging myself along at the front of the procession, I frequently turned to look back at the small wooden coffin carried by four men. My mind kept shuffling through old memories, remembering what I had wanted for my sister and what she had craved. I imagined her riding in a chariot, with me by her side, to the stone church on the day of her wedding. But now instead, here I was with the rest of my heartbroken family for her last journey—one of a vastly different kind.

  Aside from our close relatives, there were no more than a dozen people in attendance. Wh
ere were all the neighbors and relatives who had taken her in their arms when she was a baby, and grumbled about her being too talkative when she had grown older? Where were the little children Kavya used to bring to our house on hot afternoons for lunch with whatever was left over while their mothers were away at work? Where were the girls she played with until sunset every evening? Where were the grown-ups who would call out to her to come to their houses and sing folk songs for them?

  I found the answers on our way to the graveyard. The village women simply watched us, sitting at their wooden doorsteps, cleaning rice in straw pans. They turned to look at the procession, eyes full of pity, but not one got up to join us or show respect. Grandmother would later tell me that many didn’t want to be seen taking part in the funeral ceremony of a person who had died in a ‘disgraceful’ manner.

  The receding sun was still warm, slowing the pace of the marchers as we neared the graveyard that lay at the village entrance. The men placed Kavya’s coffin by the side of a small, deep pit that a few relatives had already dug for the grave at a far corner of the yard in the secluded section reserved for those who died in unholy ways. It was hard for me to understand how my sister, even in death, could be relegated to lowliness in the same house of God where she used to worship.

  My fear that the church might refuse to conduct the ceremony because of Kavya’s unexplained and unnatural death disappeared when I saw the priest standing at the head of the grave, reading from the Bible. My little sister, too young to be anything worse than a fun-loving, mischievous girl, was indeed going to be blessed before her dishonorable burial.

  Grandmother sat like a stone before the empty grave. I put an arm around her, holding her tight through the brief prayer. Despite her broad frame, she felt frail, small, and vulnerable. All through Kavya’s life Grandmother was a mother to her, and her loss was unbearable.