An Immigrant's Memoir

The apartment was warm and the smell of Indian spices clung to clothes. Asha opened the window in the living room and let the cold blast in for a few minutes as though to purge the room of some of its staleness. She donned a ratty black sweater over her faded nightie. She did not have to leave for work till noon and decided to sit down with a cup of coffee and Oprah. She felt a twinge of guilt, since she had left her child at the daycare at 7 a.m., when she could have delayed taking her there. Of course, she had rationalized, it was important for the child to follow a routine. Something, she herself had a hard time doing. The mind craved pleasant sensations and avoided anything that was remotely painful.

She could have made the morning shift. But she had decided the mornings were slow so she would go in the afternoon. She had hurried back home from the daycare and curled into bed for an hour before waking up to coffee and Oprah.

She could apply for other jobs and could at this moment be poring over the newspaper looking at the “help wanted” column. Telemarketing was alright for now, but for how long? However, she could not bear the thought of wearing her ill- fitting skirt and shoes to an interview where she would be stared at rudely as though she were some strange animal because of the diamond nose-ring that she wore. The clothes, the lack of the red dot on her forehead and her confusion as to how she should wear her flowing locks so she did not look totally “immigrant-like” added to the utter unpleasantness of her experience. She stared down at hands that had often been coloured with henna, the toes adorned with toerings the ankles with anklets and felt barren, unfeminine, stripped of her glamour. For after all, had she not turned heads when she had walked down her street in her home town, the chiffon saree contouring her ample and sensuous hips, her hair in a long braid, her eyes glistening with kohl and her ears and nose showing off her precious diamonds? The bells on her ankles had tinkled as she walked an apt accompaniment to her lilting laugh, which had sounded like someone had strewn a thousand little shells on the cement flour. Now her face, which could barely summon up a smile, felt tight and strained. Her eyes had lost their sparkle and her movements were mechanical and functional. Dressing to go anywhere was a chore since it meant ensuring one was warm, with socks and gloves and coat. She could never get herself organized enough to get out on time properly dressed. She did not know what to buy so she could look graceful and casual like some of the women she saw on the subway. She marveled at how they were all coordinated, with their hair neatly coiffed, their finger nails painted, shoes matching handbag and coat. She went to the bargain counters and bought clothes without thought for what they would go with. The sweaters ended up being too bulky to wear under a coat and usually did not match the pants or skirts she had. Likewise the gloves were mismatched with her coat, hat and shoes. She bought cheap without visualizing them on her body. Besides, she was also clueless as to the clothes that would flatter her looks. She tried to imitate but with disastrous effect.

Oprah was a great escape. She made her believe that she too could get out of her rut. She gave her a short term “high” teasing her with possibilities but never really showing her how. When the “high” had passed Asha felt totally inept, wondering what would become of her in this cold and alien country, where she had to reinvent herself and where it seemed to her she would never amount to anything. Her Masters degree from India mattered not at all. She could type only with some difficulty and hence had no skill to speak of that would get her a position here. She had won numerous awards in public speaking and writing but nobody wanted those skills. Her verbal communication skills had landed her the telemarketing job, but nobody would hire her to work in an office, it seemed, because she did not possess the look. She found telemarketing extremely stressful, besides being unethical, intrusive and totally manipulative. Could there be a job out there for someone who had such limited “hands on” skills as her? Her interview experiences had been quite traumatic. In one, she had gotten the distinct impression people had a hard time following her train of thought and at another they kept asking her to repeat her responses because she spoke too fast. In yet another, where she had waxed philosophical, one panel member had actually dozed off.

Asha dragged herself into the shower willing the hot water to dull the pain of homesickness that she experienced in her underbelly and to wash away the total feeling of inadequacy, which made all her actions tentative. Today was a new day. She would make her list, follow through on her job search efforts, endure the insults and make something of herself.

She chose a grey skirt and a light blue top with puffed sleeves and a lace collar. She would don stockings and her black stilettos. She confined her hair in a pony tail, brushing it smooth, split ends and all, wore some powder and eye-liner, some lip gloss, because she could never decide what colour of lipstick suited her. Her eyebrows were poorly done with a pair of tweezers, since she did not know of beauty parlours that would clean them as they had done expertly back home.

The phone rang and it was the Manpower consultant whom she had met the previous week. Would she be interested in some packaging work, they asked? It was a cosmetic company and the work would be light. She took down the details and sat down staring at the floor bemoaning her fate. She was supposed to have joined the Administrative Service and become a high level civil servant. Or gone into politics. How had she gotten here from there? She had wanted to get out of home. In her mind she had fantasized about somehow miraculously becoming one of those women she had seen on television or read about in newspaper columns. Within a few months of arrival, the process of demystification began and the barriers to success seemed to loom higher than Mount Everest. The right look mattered and this meant cloning oneself into a being that was so foreign to her own true self. Even with that there was nothing she could do about the colour of one’s skin. Then one needed the right manner of speech – intonation and tone conveying a certain conviction and confidence, words enunciated with the right emphasis, appropriate and polite responses which sounded “intelligent” even if they did not mean a thing, use and understanding of cultural phrases such as “way to go” and “what’s up” at the opportune moments, all so one fit right in. Asha had to metamorphosize her very being she realized. She was shy and coquettish, having interacted with few persons except close family members, a quality that men at home had found very sexy, but which had her tongue-tied and tentative when she was thrown into company here. She also found because of the “look” she did not have instant credibility as her white counterparts who dressed with studied “casualness”. She had to work at being listened to.

Her soft-spoken husband meekly went about his work, dreading being laid off. He was a misfit, overqualified but ironically not possessing the skills of a shop floor supervisor the job he had been hired to do. He was an R & D engineer with post-graduate degrees and yet this was the only job he could land and that too only because his interviewer had been impressed with his command of English. That he had a couple of graduate degrees did not matter. At interviews for other positions, more in his line of work, he had been pronounced overqualified, a.k.a “a threat” to people who would supervise him.

Asha was caught between a rock and a hard place. Continue in telemarketing, which she hated or take up this factory job? She needed a mentor she realized. She needed someone who could tell her the career she was suited for, that she could aspire to.

She set out at noon after eating a plate of curry and rice, not washing her hands with soap so she could inhale the smell of home as she rode the subway. At the telemarketing place she felt a sense of homecoming. Immigrants of every stripe and local Canadians who were social misfits, or filling time in between jobs inhabited this unique world. They sold stuff to unsuspecting gullible persons, enduring “hang-ups” and insults along the way. The turnover was high, with some people giving up early, others enduring but getting fired due to their inability to make the sale and yet others coming and going as they pleased. The job offered flexibility, paid well if one was successful and provided a certain buffer for persons in dire need. She had gotten off to a shaky start but in week two had made her sale and had since never looked back, climbing to the top of the sales charts. She was not proud of her accomplishment since it only meant she could manipulate better than the next person. She waved to her close buddies, “John”, “Jack” and “George”, all telephone identities of persons who did not look like their assumed names and who were really Jagannathan, Jivaratnam and Go Chok Tong. Then she assumed her post, put on her headphones, physically and mentally preparing for the difficult six hours that lay ahead, as she engaged in her deception game. People assumed different identities for different calls and let the customers guess their accents even tell their story. Often a woman from the deep South in the United States had no clue that there was such a country as Canada and dug into the far reaches of her brain and came up with “are you from New York?” or another with a little more knowledge of geography “are you German?” John, Jack and the rest went along with that fantasy whatever it was and weaved a story that their listener wanted to hear about a wonderful world of bounties that awaited them if only they would take the step of providing them their credit card number. Of course a long and friendly conversation ended abruptly when the guileless person disclosed to them that she did not have a credit card. Asha tried to be scrupulous within bounds. She never intentionally lied, always stuck to her script, thereby not taking ownership for the deception, and made the sale often by listening to people ramble on about their life’s trials. She did, however, capitalize on the opportune moment to introduce the purpose of her call and her victims succumbed every single time. However, in this business one’s job was only as good as the sale one made the previous day and over the last couple of days, bouts of conscience had severely impeded her ability to perform. She had spoken to Jay about it and he appeared to empathize, although she had serious misgivings about having done so, now.

Today, “Jack” the dentist from his country of origin said he had decided on a career change and was studying accounting. His wife also a dentist was training to be a dental hygenist. “John” a leading cardiac surgeon from his country of origin, having come here in his early forties, had decided he would sell real estate. It appeared to Asha that these close pals of hers were conveying something to her with their news. That she too make a decision about a career path. Telemarketing could not be a life long avocation, why not even for another year. Jay, her supervisor, an Indian from Fiji, the man with the golden tongue and a demi god in telemarketing circles, who could get credit card details from the hands of a dying man or one taking wedding vows or in the middle of a sexual orgy, called her aside and said “Can I talk to you?” Asha’s stomach sank. She was going to face the ultimate humiliation of getting fired from her telemarketing job, she thought. Jay began by saying “I have to go back to Fiji to tend to my father who is very sick, and I have asked for a leave of absence. I am going to request that you manage the shift when I am gone. I have spoken to Anita (our supreme boss) and she is ok with any decision I make. These guys get along with you and I know I can trust you to not take over but to keep the seat warm in my absence. All you need to do is confirm the deals by calling the customers back and verifying their credit card information and logging in and out. At the end of the day you just tally the sales. I will show you everything this week”. Asha was stunned and could not contain her joy. She clasped her hands and held them to her chest, profusely thanking Jay for his offer. She knew that she did not deserve this benevolence. She was just the wise choice in a “dog eat dog” world, soft, respected by the guys because of her gracious manner, and for being a tad ethical. So those conversations with Jay about her stabs of conscience had paid off in spades. It had bought her time. This had to mean something. She only had three months now to decide her fate. She had to make that call to the University to pick up her application for the Masters program commencing this fall. She would save up for it. That seemed the only way out.

Ambulu Chithi

Ambulu Chithi was getting ready for her bath. She picked coconut barks and dried twigs that were strewn all around the garden of that old house, gathered them in a woven basket and carried them over to the bathroom located outside the house, beside the well. There a big copper pot filled with water had been set to boil. Chithi added the fodder to the fire which then blazed with an orange glow. A column of smoke escaped from the top of the pot and caught by the sunlight entering through the tiny bathroom’s open chimney, revealed a discotheque of dancing dust particles. Chithi removed her faded saffron coloured saree which she wore without a blouse, and slipped it outside the door. Devika the young and pretty maid picked it up to wash along with the day’s laundry. Chithi then wrapped herself in a piece of cloth which she wore while bathing, reveling as the warm water she poured over herself soothed her aching limbs. She was 65 years old and had lost her husband when he was only 25 and she 16. He had been a school teacher and she found out about 10 years ago that she was entitled to a small pension as a result of his service in a government school. Every month, on this day, she made the trip to the government office to enquire after her pension entitlement. She then stopped by at the ration store picked up her meager quota of rice, sugar and, sometimes, 6 yards of coarse cotton clothe in beige, which she later had dyed to saffron by her niece Bhagya so she could wrap it around as a saree. That piece of cloth was the extent of her security in the world. With no source of income and dependant on the largesse of others for food and shelter, she had to make this dreaded trip every month to hold up her covered bald head as someone who made a contribution.

Today, after her quick bath and a cup of porridge, which Bhagya grudgingly made for her, she would once again make that trip. She had woken up an hour earlier than her usual 5:30 a.m. to cut the vegetables and scrape the coconuts for the day’s meal. This day there were guests in the house. Visitors from America. Bhagya’s son Mani and daughter in law, Vidya. They had just arrived last night and there was much excitement. Although, the visitors enquired after her, she felt like an intruder and compensated by doing all that she could to make herself useful. It was awkward to abandon the kitchen on a day like this, when Bhagya needed her the most. But what could she do? She had to go. She quietly slipped out of the bath and went into the prayer room beside the kitchen, which afforded her some privacy. Since she slept on a mat in the living room, there was no corner in that house which she could call hers. She had hung her dry saree on the string that was tied across the prayer room where kitchen towels were hung to dry. There in front of the deities, she peeled off her wet cover and wrapped the saree around her, with no blouse inside. Her bulbous elongated breasts and the nipples that showed through the thin cotton fabric, embarrassed her. She worried about the young men who stared at her their cruel gazes dehumanizing, their crude, obscene remarks painful and oppressive. She made a mental note that she would make a gesture threatening to slap them if it happened today. Maybe she should break free from a tradition that condemned widows to be “blouseless” and start wearing a white blouse she thought. She could ask, Mani, for some money. After all she knew him since he was a little baby. God knows how many times she had asked Bhagya, who nodded but did little about it. As she smeared ash on her forehead and covered her head with the saree, she made a mental note to send for the barber to shave the stubble that grew on her head. The years had desensitized to her to these rituals that were meant to deny her femininity. She placed her worn purse, which contained all the money she had in the world, ten rupees in change, in her little cloth bag and quietly bypassing the porridge, which she noticed had not been made amidst all the commotion, left the house. She walked barefoot, as had always been her practice. Maybe she would have the young man buy her a pair of Hawaii slippers she thought. She did not dwell too much on her desperate financial straits. She thanked God that for now she had a roof over her head and 1.5 square meals a day. Her niece was kind to her. Granted, she used and exploited her. But, she thought, it is definitely better than living in one of those old age homes for the desperately poor, where non Brahmins cook the meals and where she would live along side people from the lower castes.

The bus stop was right beside the market. She bought herself a banana for 10 paise as insurance in case she felt faint from hunger. She got on the bus and asked for a ticket to Mambalam. She could only see through one eye, a botched up cataract operation having robbed her of the other, so she brought the ticket close to the good eye to make sure that it was punched at the right spot. Then her cloth bag in one hand, she held on for dear life to the back of a seat with the other. The bus was packed and tilted to the right as it moved at 20 km per hour, maneouvring itself through traffic. No one stood up to offer her a seat on the left half of the bus, which was the ladies’ side. Young men deliberately grazed against her body, some touching her breasts as though by accident. She gritted her teeth, but could do little. She did not want to cause a scene and bring further shame on herself.

Widowed and a menial all her life, Chithi was cursed with upper caste pride. In a previous era, as a Brahmin widow, she could have acted outraged and sanctimonious. Now, in a political era rife with intense anti-brahmin sentiment, she was just a “bald Brahmin woman”, a pejorative, symbolizing society’s disdain for everything the caste represented, and aimed at its most vulnerable members. Due to some vestige of caste loyalty fiercely held by family members, she was the object of their pity and was provided shelter and food. Bhagya was her late husband’s older brother’s daughter. She knew, however, that these relatives exploited her to the fullest.

Usually she stopped by at Jambagam’s (Bhagya’s sister), on her way back from the ration store, to rest a bit after a strenuously long wait in the queue under the strong Chennai sun. The minute Jambagam saw her by the gate, she would soak rice for murrukkus or begin preparations for some other snack that took time and effort. She would give Chithi lunch and then have her grind the rice on the stone mill, thereby beginning the arduous process of making murrukkus or vadams from scratch. Chithi would have to finish making a huge batch of murrukkus or vadams before she returned home. As she entered the house, after sundown, Bhagya would greet her at the door with a scowl demanding where she had been loitering all day and stating that she had chosen the wrong day to abandon her with all the housework. It was a no win situation.

These days Chithi had developed a sharp tongue and gave as good as she got. “Well what do you want me to do? Don’t you realize my age? I cant do any more than I am doing, my body is giving way”. Chithi tolerated Bhagya’s moods, her fits of temper and her hurtful remarks. She survived purely on cunning strategy. She knew what she had to do to be Bhagya’s physical and emotional crutch. Besides offering Bhagya sound advice on running a household on a tight budget, she planted greens in the backyard, made brooms from coconuts leaves, innovated in the kitchen, thereby saving Bhagya money every month. She was lively and entertaining, with lots of stories from her visits to relatives homes and from her colourful past. She also capitalized on Bhagya’s insecurities, praising her often with insincere remarks about how good she looked, urging her to wear her nice silk sarees and jewellery, validating her at every turn and serving as an ally when her husband or children yelled at her. All this took a lot of effort and sometimes she found her patience wearing thin, but she forebore. Bhagya’s mother who was a widow in poor health, lived with Bhagya’s brother. Chithi had come over to help Bhagya when she had surgery for a stomach ulcer 10 years ago and stayed.

Chithi got off at her stop and moved quickly towards the Central Government building which housed the department responsible for pensions. The clerk looked up when he saw her enter and smiled. She was a familiar sight and he had hoped someday to convey the tidings that he had for her today. “Patti”, he said “Your pension allocation has come. You will receive Rs. 75 every month and there is an arrears of Rs. 10,000 which you will receive in one lump sum. You will need to open a bank account and deposit the cheque. Tell us what your address is and we will send it to you. You don’t have to make this trip anymore”. Chithi was overwhelmed. Heart of hearts she had not even dreamed that her efforts would come to fruition. Now that they had, it all seemed anti-climactic. She suddenly had control over her destiny. She did not know what this meant for her future. She could not live by herself anyway. But with the money, how would her relatives, especially Bhagya, treat her? Would Bhagya exhibit palpable greed and try to extort money from her now. How could she use this money to protect herself? Her mind disturbed by this turn of events, she rode back home without going to the ration store or making her usual detour to Jambagam’s. Brunch was just getting over and the young woman from America told Chithi she would serve her, obviously trying to impress her in laws. Grateful, Chithi sat down and ate in silence. She then mechanically cleared the kitchen and went to lie on her mat to take her siesta. She suddenly felt stifled, invisible and alone in a house full of people. She did not count as anything, other than a caricature, a two dimensional relic from the past. No one cared that she had a mind, thoughts or feelings. Bhagya was drunk with thoughts of visiting her son and daughter in law in America. She said aloud “ we will have to do something with Chithi, we can’t leave her here alone, she will set the house on fire”. Chithi’s mind was made up. When the cheque arrived, she would give Bhagya Rs. 5000 for all that she had done for her and donate the balance to a home for the aged run by a Brahmin sect, in exchange for a room and the same 1.5 meals. At least her mind and body would be rested and she could spend her last days in dignity.

Angapradarshanam

I hark back to a day following the death of eminent statesman Rajaji. We were visiting my young mama, a bachelor, who was avProfessor in the Physics department at the university in Madurai, a recent PhD fresh out of the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore. He took us on a trip to Pazhamudircholai, one of 6 famous Murugan temples in Southern India. We set out early afternoon with another family - Venkatamuthusubramaniam and his new bride, the former my uncle's colleague. I was smitten by him and floored unabashedlyby the attention he showered on me. I recall that climb up the hill, the stream beside us gurgling along as a companion. I experienced a curious mixture of joy and yearning; I cherished the moments, I was infatuated and I kept wanting time to stop..I revelled in my fantasies about a little town, a cozy home, a domestic love nest (what? in my prepubescence??). I pictured my future as in the movies, where things did not go wrong ever..time caught in a snapshot of pretty women in half sarees, sensitive men, full embraces, laughter and lots and lots of intimacy. Ah Patti with her curly hair, her blue/green cat’s eyes and gap tooth enters the memory. She had remained obscure and now I see her heaving, heavy body, making that pilgrimage barefoot, her feet tough as leather and completely out of shape that they could not be maneouvred into a pair of Hawaii slippers, which she wore only in the extreme heat. On this balmy afternoon, as I slipped my hand into her firm grip and tripped along my oiled braids bobbing she mumbled repeatedly Lord Muruga’s name in utter reverence, only stopping to chide me when I went too close to the stream. I never noticed then patti’s beautiful tanned skin, the gorgeous evenness of her features, spectacular, razor sharp nose and full sensuous lips. I did not realize that she had been a young woman once before those years of physical abuse and marital rape, 5 livebirths, innumerable bloody abortions, with coat hangers and concoctions from quacks. I did not know that the blood stains still remained on that smooth cement floor of the house in Seerkazhi, despite the years of repeated washing, so like the pain in her pelvis. The doctor who opened her up later said her uterus and ovaries were like rotten fruit. Her innards were rotting then as I tripped along beside her. Patti reined me as I got a little ahead of myself saying “ammalu, slow down..”. Her perspiration dripped down the sides of her face, soaked her white blouse down the back and under her armpits there were wet circular blotches. I asked my mother why patti sweated so much and she said with concern and pathos “ her body is like a white pumpkin, porous with too much water”. As we reached the peak and emerged from among the crush of humans straining for a look at the inner sanctum, patti’s face grew serious, frantic, almost hysterical. She had a higher purpose and I tried to find meaning in my mechanical movements, as I clasped my hands, prostrated on the floor, mumbled the few mantras I had picked up, carefully selecting only those that pertained to the particular deity. I felt a hypocrite, unable to dredge up feelings of piety that were commensurate with the mood around me, my mind and eyes wandering towards the clean-cut face of the young scientist, who ruffled my hair and gave me money to drop through the hole into the big money chest. I wondered if one day I would marry someone so handsome and smart and visit the temple, my bangles tinkling on my henna covered hands and the anklets chiming as I gracefully walked around the altar, knowing what I was doing at the temple, actually meaning business. The archana cards were gathered and Patti asked that ours be dedicated to the God. I did not understand why she always asked for the God to receive further blessing and not a mortal such as myself, for instance. I could use a lot of grace, I thought. Anyway, I closed my eyes at the appropriate moments, cupped my cheeks and tapped on them when the lamps were lit and were taken close to the deity’s face so we could catch a glimpse of the oily stone face and its apparent look of munificence. Then my mother made a surprise move. She revealed to me that she was going to roll on the ground (angapradashanam) around the entire outer sanctum. I was mortified and filled with embarrassment – why me? Why now? Anyway, a tremendous calm came over amma and she said it is penance that she must do – I have sought favours from the God. Patti’s eyes welled up with tears and pride as they dwelled lovingly on her beautiful and determined daughter, rafe thin but strong of mind and will. She soothed my mother’s hair in a gesture of deep affection and tugged me along saying I will give you sugar cubes and raisins and buy you some flowers for your hair. Distracted I tripped along, got caught up with the flowers and picked a kadambam (pot pourri) strung with flowers of varying hues. The flower lady her oiled hair neatly combed back, her face the startling colour of vermillion from all the turmeric she had polished on her shiny dark face, took a hairclip off her hair and clipped the string of flowers on to mine. Patti fished out a little newspaper packet from her handmade plastic wire bag and gave me some raisins and cashews. The handsome scientist and his wife were walking around inner sanctorum, their bodies close and brushing against each other, her eager face shining with love and admiration looking up to him and his bright eyes focused on her with affection. I experienced a twinge of jealousy at her having usurped my place as the object of his attention. In the meantime, amma was rolling on the dirt as her penance. I then asked patti why amma had to do this. Patti’s eyes welled up and she said, “you remember the time you had a high fever and we had given you up for gone, well she prayed to God that she would do this if you became well”. I was stunned and speechless. I told patti I wanted to go to my mother. Patti said it may not be a good idea to disturb her now, why don’t we just go and sit down and rest our legs and later on we would all have a picnic. The nadaswaram players piped up and I perked up as the familiar sounds of “muruga muruga enbar” in saveri welled up and flowed out in torrents, a few discordant notes here and there, but the overall effect quite stunning. I went and sat beside the players on the floor and watched closely to see how they took a breath between the long notes. Their brilliant orange kurtas showed off their ebony skin, their hair was stylishly long and combed back and they looked quite spectacular. They smiled indulgently at me and I looked back shyly uncomfortable with the sudden attention. The music was loud and hard on my ear-drums but there was a hypnotic quality to it and I could not move. I captured the moment knowing fully well that the strains of this music had soaked themselves into my body, become part of my very being so much so I would yearn for it, and its association with the comfortable chaos of the temple. The chants of “vel vel vetri vel..” roused me from my stupor and I remembered amma. I quickly got up and ran to patti and asked if we could go to her. We walked towards her as she continued to roll mumbling “muruga muruga” her body the colour of sandlewood, covered in dust, the perspiration making her clothes stick. I felt disturbed by the sheer barbarism of her act, but was moved to tears. I hid my face in patti’s chest and we walked towards our spot to wait for her. Mama, his friend and wife joined us and we chatted as we waited. Finally Amma stumbled into sight. We helped her up, and mama lovingly supported his sister all the way down the hill, into a taxi and we made the ride home in solemn silence. At the bottom of the hill Venkatasubramaniam and his wife parted company after having informed us with shy sideways glances that they were expecting their first baby in 7 months. Patti invited them over for lunch the next day. For no reason, I felt a bit cheated. That night we returned home, showered and ate. As we settled into bed, I asked amma why she had performed the penance, half expecting her to tell me it was because of me. To my utter astonishment, she said “Patti was diagnosed with cancer last month. I prayed she would be well soon.” I was ashamed at my selfishness and all choked up with the nobility of her selfless act. I hugged her close, an important lesson learnt.

Onam Memories

Onam Memories

Uma was beginning to sprout breasts. Omana noticed it and wrung her hands in frustration, as this meant fear for her safety. She was relieved that Sajitha and Sathi the two girls who followed Uma had chests like washboards. There were just Usha and Uma to guard for now. Omana surveyed the land around their thatched hut lush with cassava which afforded the hungry family their sustenance. They were hungry but very proud and took care to appear clean and well groomed at all times. There was no electricity in their home or running water. But she and the children had built a little bathing enclosure with thatched coconut palms, right beside the well. Often they ran into their makeshift bathroom with a towel wrapped around them and let the rain wash their long black hair and supple bodies, as the water fell unimpeded from the clear Kerala sky, in columns, clear, cool and pristine. They were all very fit because they walked everywhere. Getting on a bus meant spending money which they could use to buy soap or even fish for a special meal. Their bodies and hair were shiny from the oil they massaged on themselves before every bath. Their sense of well being was accentuated by their penchant for telling jokes and laughing all the time. They also had an abundance of faith in their God. They walked 5 miles to the temple every Tuesday to fulfill some penance for some good that had befallen them. If the jackfruit on the tree ripened, they went to make an offering and also to give thanks for the gift of fruit. Their simplicity was innocent and touching, their joy in little pleasures infectious. Omana’s brother visited from Kuwait and gave them a few yards of cheap shiny fabric. They made it into four knee length skirts and wore them to the temple, with a spring in their step, uncaring about the garish colours or the “uniform-like” look.

It was Onam, a special day of festivity. The family awaited this day with great eagerness. They saved up money to buy staples so they could invite neighbours and feed them a grand meal. Every year, on this occasion, Monita and Anita who lived in the beautiful brick house next door were special guests. Monita looked forward to the meal, since her mother, a busy doctor, hated to cook and the servant made indifferent meals which were insipid and uninspiring. Whenever she went to Uma’s at mealtimes, the family seemed to have such fun eating hot rice that came out of a pot on the firewood stove. The sparse meal of rice and curry made from cassava was so tempting, she salivated and stared. The family, always generous, apologizing profusly for the simplicity of the offering, made her a plate, which she guiltily ate with great relish. She never touched cassava when it was served at home and knew that the family was giving up their portion to share with her. On Onam day she could take her rightful place on the mud floor of that hut and partake of the feast that the family took care to prepare. Omana who only bought a glass of milk from the milkman everyday, to make tea for her husband and herself, bought 3 extra bottles the day before Onam to make yoghurt for cooking and to serve as buttermilk. For this special occasion, she bought cashews, raisins and cardamoms in little newspaper packets and jaggery for the adai pradaman (dessert); pappadams and enough oil to fry them in; fine, long grain rice, vegetables for the thuvarans (sauteed vegetables), kaalan (yoghurt based stew), olan (coconut milk based stew), chillies and ginger for puli inji (tamarind ginger). They had trees that yielded coconut for the pradaman. Omana cleaned the firewood stoves at 7:00 a.m., and then set the pots early so the meal would be ready by noon. Uma took out the 2 stainless steel plates that they reserved for guests on this occasion and washed and dried them. The four girls had picked wild flowers that grew all over the grounds and on the other side of the paddy fields that abutted their home, gathered cowdung from Kumari's dairy next door and made a beautiful athappu (floral decoration on a bed of patted dung) in front of that home. If the house was usually clean, on Onam day, it was spotless, the mudfloor smooth like sandwood, the cobwebs all cleared from the ceilings, the whitewashed mud walls wiped clean.

Omana was a skinny nervous woman. She wore a “kaili” with a tight fitting blouse. Modesty and notions of shame compelled her to cover her blouse with a white towel which she hitched onto her lungi and slung over her left shoulder. Her hair was prematurely grey and worn in a lose bun. She spoke in a soft conspiratorial voice with a mild stutter and in short halting sentences. As a Nair she looked down upon members of the “lower castes”, and with every utterance found some way to establish how she and her family were in fact upper caste and were not uncouth and unrefined like other members of her class. She felt trapped by her poverty and encouraged her children to fraternize with the likes of Monita and Anita rather than with Kumari’s daughter Amini with whose lifestyle they had much more in common. For Omana, the most important virtue a human could possess was self reliance and she toiled alongside her daughters from dawn to dusk with a hope of liberating the family from penury. Her pride would never allow her to fall prey to some pawnbroker’s wily ways. She, however, did not have a grand plan. She just prodded on from one day to the next tending to the grounds and her chores.

Uma was the tomboy and caught butterflies which she stored in jars. If she found a rare fruit growing on a tree at the far side of the house she would eat it with great daring. She climbed mango trees with a flourish, plucking and eating the half ripened fruit as she did, uncaring about the scratches on her legs from the rough barks. She knew from looking at the Cassava plants, which ones had reached their prime, ready to be felled. She had a perpetual giggle, always making jokes about someone, laughing at how they walked or talked, or how they had tripped and fallen into the paddy field while balancing along the narrow ledge. Monita looked up to Uma whom she trailed, constantly seeking her attention and approval. She found her company exciting and challenging in that any minute she knew she could be the butt of her jokes, for the way she spoke Malayalam or shrieked in horror at some harmless insect. She admired Uma’s strong limbs, her sixth sense about everything and the way she relished every little experience with her whole being her full mouth which could not quite contain her teeth sucking it all in with a slurping sound. She marveled at her hardened calloused hands which appeared to know a lifetime of hard labour, compared to her soft silk like ones and at the nimble manner in which she caught the chicks they tended to for a rare chicken meal and the deft manner in which she fed and nourished injured and dying creatures to restore them back to their health. In comparison to Uma’s, Monita felt her life had no relevance. She also admired how Uma was undaunted by the darkness that fell like a thick blanket on that little hut at 7 p.m. each night and at how she squished centipedes and scorpions under her rubber hawai slippers, chased mongooses, knew the benign snakes from the poisonous ones and jumped into the well to retrieve coconuts that fell in.

Monita felt safe around Uma and wished to do something that would impress her. Little did she know that Uma secretly envied her fair skin, and straight silky hair. Everything about Monita spoke of her privileged upbringing, something Uma craved but did not let on, given how self respecting she was. On Onam day Uma took care to dress in her polyester skirt stitched, from one of her mother’s old but unused sarees, specially for this occasion. Monita chose a lovely chungudi skirt, white with an elegant red and gold border with matching white blouse. She tied her hair in a pony tail, wore matching pearl jewellery.

Lunch time was heralded with great expectation. The wonderful smell of the Sadya feast permeated that hut and hunger gnawed at Monita’s tummy. Suddenly, Uma grabbed Monita’s hand and tore outside with her into the yard overgrown with lush vegetation telling her mother she would cut banana leaves for the family to eat off. When they were behind the tree, Uma cupped Monita’s face in her hands and stared into her eyes. She murmured in Malayalam “ you are so sweet, I want to eat you”. Monita’s heart began to pound with excitement and her cheeks flushed pink. Uma said “you are so pretty like a rose bud” pinching her on both cheeks and then slowly bringing her lips to each cheek. Monita had never known such intimate physical touch. Her parents were undemonstrative and their show of affection was limited to an absent-minded gentle ruffle of her hair. Uma brought all her passion for life to her kisses and slowly daringly moved to Monita’s lips. Monita felt faint from the intense feelings of pleasure that cursed through her every nerve. At the deep recesses of her mind, a voice which she chose not to heed, told her this was not right. She stood there glorying in the munificence of this sensual bounty. Uma’s hands now moved to her full breasts arousing her nipples causing them to pout. Slowly, she began to experience an ache right near the part from where she peed. She felt confused and a little scared. They were both startled out of their reverie by a crow that began cawing loudly just above them. They hurried to gather the banana leaves and returned, breathless and awkward, avoiding each other’s eyes. Monita barely tasted her lunch. She stole glances at Uma who also partook of her meal rather indifferently. The moment had passed and she did not know if it would ever return. She dared not initiate the contact. But would Uma, knowing the social chasm that lay between them, not to mention all the societal taboos around girls not kissing other girls? She knew that no future experience would ever come close to this one, when she was sensually awakened, made to feel utterly desirable.

The Paying Guest

The Paying Guest

It was a particularly hot day. As Ganga stood before the stove, sweat plastered the back of her blouse and rivulets flowed down either sides of her forehead. Her cheeks had a rosy flush and she pushed back the damp ringlets that teased her forehead carelessly. She ran her hands down her satiny waist and hips and remembered wistfully how her beloved husband had felt them when they were alone, just the two of them, and commented “so soft, just like silk.” She remembered those strong and tender hands and longed for their embrace. She turned the dosas on the pan, as she remembered how at this precise moment every day for 20 years she had stood making him his afternoon coffee and a snack while he sat at the kitchen table regaling her with titbuts picked up from his morning walk and interesting news items from the day’s paper. How could she wipe away 45 years of memories in one fell swoop? How could he have let her down so badly, after all those promises of living into his nineties? Ganga experienced loss at so many levels that she peeled each layer to discover many more. Everyday he had praised her cooking, the clothes she wore, the jewellery that she adorned her dusky body with, always noticing something new, always praising, teasing and loving. What hurt the most was her de-feminization as a result of his passing. Not just at the societal level, where she would be stared down if she wore flowers in her hair, henna on her hands, or anklets and toe rings. She continued to colour her hair and to wear her large red dot since those appeared to be acceptable transgressions of the Code that society set out for Hindu widows today. However, anything else could cause a stir and have “friends” treat her as an embarrassment. What Ganga missed the most was being woman to a man – as a companion, friend, intimate partner – one to walk beside, to reach and hold on to for solace, someone to banter, bicker and budget with. She also guiltily yearned for the time when she had dressed with care gracefully and modestly accentuating every feminine feature of her gorgeous face and form, dusky satin skin, delicate features and graceful limbs all still very youthful.

Today, a year later, Ganga had learnt to live with memories, thousands of them. She liked the solitude and resented any disruptions in the quiet moments that she shared quietly romancing her husband as if he were away on a trip and would send for her soon.

This afternoon, Ganga was expecting a visitor. A voice from the past, a faded memory. She had last seen him forty years ago. A kind man who had been a paying guest in the humble flat that she and her husband had shared with their child. She remembered how he had helped take care of the child while she cooked the evening meal on that small kerosene stove. He had told the child stories and had gone on all fours taking her on donkey rides around that small hall. Unlike other men, he had made conversation with her, asked after her family, also telling her about his, why even exposing his vulnerabilities regaling her with accounts about his tough boss and his hearbreak over his inability to marry his neighbour’s daughter because she belonged to another caste. She had devoured his stories sometimes shocked, mostly flattered over his trust in her and entertained by his uncensored, often funny narration of events and experiences. A moment passed and the glimmer of a smile on her face was replaced with a look of deep sadness. A memory long suppressed of the events leading up to his sudden departure from that humble flat and life resurfaced. Her daughter bore the mark on her forehead like a tattoo, emblazoning the end of a cherished memory, of the only time she had come close to living a little dangerously, talking so freely, even flirting with a man other than her husband. As the cobwebs parted from over that picture of a cheerful kitchen, him, her and her daughter she shuddered at the memory of her husband entering that house and taking in the scene of cozy domesticity. He silenced the two adults in that room with one look and pointing his finger at the paying guest said “you get yourself another place tonight” No explanations offered, none asked for – just like that. The paying guest startled, knew better than to protest, put on his outdoor clothes, grabbed his purse and left in a huff leaving behind his meager belongings. The child started to cry at the sight of the departing back of her beloved companion of the past year. Ganga had been transfixed from fear and shock. Her mother had drilled it into her that she should obey and never argue with her husband or elders. The muscles in her face tightened and she had gritted her teeth at the memory of her husband blatantly flirting with his brother’s wife, her arch rival. Why he had even taken her out, leaving Ganga behind to care for his mother. Outings that continued from before when they were married, since the said brother in law was preoccupied with other women. Ganga was not dumb or mute but she had stood there swallowing her words along with her pride and indignation and made a valiant effort to forbear. For where would she be, if he threw her out with just a gesture of his finger? She had felt sorry that he wanted to possess not just her beautiful body but every thought on her head as well. Maybe that was his right? Who was she to question him, uneducated dependant woman that she was?

After her husband had left for work the next morning, the paying guest had come back to pick up his belongings. The child could not contain her joy and bolted towards him, crashing instead into the door knob of the half opened door. He scooped the child in his arms and rushed out to hail a cab, his shirt soaked in her blood. He contacted her husband, from the hospital, and the latter arrived there in the nick of time to stop the nurses from disfiguring that pretty young face with sutures. Handing the child over to her father he left never to be heard from again. Until today. He had called her this morning saying he had just learnt about the death of his dear friend and wondered if he could come over to offer his condolences in person?

Ganga had a moment of pause over the request. What should she say? Would she be betraying her beloved husband’s memory and going aginst his wishes, she wondered? However, her curiosity got the better of her and she proceeded to give him directions to get to her flat. She decided to make some dosas and coffee so she could offer him something to eat and drink. She casually mentioned his proposed visit to her daughters, when they called, to guage for reaction. She was somewhat relieved when there was none.

Now in about half an hour he would be in her home. She showered and took care to dress choosing a crisp cottee saree for the proper look, somber yet graceful. She carefully combed her hair and patted talcum on her face and body. She wore a large dot on her broad forehead. She felt ready to make the desired impression of an independent woman, smart and poised. She felt guilty about the lightheadedness she experienced from this new found independence. This was now her domain and she made All the rules. It was a heady feeling and she sought foregiveness, for her vile thoughts, from her husband’s picture which hung on the wall facing the entrance.

The bell rang and there he was looking quite distinguished, tall, tanned and fit in white kurta pyjama, a full head of silvery white hair. He was five years younger than her husband and therefore five years older than her. Life had been kind to him, she thought wishing suddenly that she could have shown off her fit and handsome husband to him. He sat on the seat beside the door, head bent. After a few moments of silence, he tentatively raised his head daring to catch her gaze, his large expressive eyes filled with compassion. The words “I am so sorry..” came out in a tremor. He seemed to be apologizing for all those years of silence, for leaving without so much as challenging her husband, offering an explanation, putting up a fight. In a sense he had abandoned her that day and a curious anger welled up in her bosom against him. How dare he have done that? Now he asked her “how did he die?” She spoke with a strong voice conveying the depth of her love for her beloved husband and the breadth of her loss – words gushing out, tripping over each other in a rush of a hurried account – of the diagnosis, the hospital stay and the painful end.” He hung on to her every word, only nodding his head, murmuring words of regret and sympathy.

Several minutes passed and by now they felt somewhat at ease with each other. She offered him coffee and dosas, both of which he readily and graciously accepted, any reason to prolong his visit, it seemed to her. As she served him, she bucked up enough courage to ask after him, his life, the past 40 years. He had never married, he said. He quit the bank soon after he moved out of their house and took up an assignment in Africa. He then joined the United Nations Development Agency and worked on projects all over the world. One year here, another there. He made friends everywhere he went, but never kept them. She would have loved some of those places, he let it slip. As their conversation became more and more animated, their genders became irrelevant. They were just two souls in close communion, sharing and entering into each others’ spheres of reference, listening, exploring, processing, joyous in their newfound kinship. His eyes sparkled with life and his unabashed adoration of her. She was not shocked. She took it all in cherishing this secret between them, her eyes telling of her fondness for him, the chasm of 40 years disappearing in an instant, for what was time, but a creation of thought.

Her heart lifted when she heard him say he had moved to Chennai and lived within 5 minutes walking distance with his younger sister who had also been recently widowed. He would bring her over he promised. He asked if she would be interested in joining him and his sister on a tour of South India in his car the following month? She was already making plans for him to meet her daughters. She just hoped they would not think she was dishonouring the memory of their beloved father. For the first time since her husband’s death, she felt a twinge of excitement a sense of her own womanhood. As the door clicked shut, she leaned back against it and pressed her hands against her hot cheeks first and then her bosom – What had she done?!