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.
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