“I can’t seem to stop, Anna. It’s a compulsion. I’m spending the entire week in anticipation of that one hour.”
“Do you hope to marry him?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Jaya stared at her brother in horror. “I’m a married lady. And the villagers, if they find out, they’ll… I don’t know what they’ll do, but no!”
“But.” He raised a hand to preempt her. “What if you married him and moved away? There’s no law against it.”
“There’s no law against female construction supervisors, either. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen.” Actually, Jaya had heard of one in Hyderabad, but she flicked the thought away.
“What if it were a possibility?”
Jaya considered herself fairly forward thinking. She’d broken quite a few norms, herself. But remarriage? She thought of being married to someone like Kovid, someone she could actually relate to. The companionship, the warmth of a good relationship, the love. She shook the thought off. She was being ridiculous.
“Why not?” Madhav was persistent, if nothing else.
She looked at her brother. “What will happen to my in-laws? They’re elderly. And what about Ananta? Two kids in the same family, but with different last names. How would that look? And, if she does change her name, is it fair to wipe out her heritage? To cut her off from her father’s side of the family? Because that’s what will happen.”
“Oh yeah, all that quality time she spends with her aunts and grandparents.” Madhav’s voice was droll.
“We’re assuming a whole lot of things. I don’t even know how Kovid feels.” She broke eye contact, blushing in embarrassment.
“At least think about it. Talk to him. See how he feels.”
“No! That can never happen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what you must do.”
Jaya nodded. Their grandparents had built up a lifetime of goodwill in the village. They were respected for their learning, and for their willingness to step in with a helping hand. The temple, where entire villages prayed, was built by Tataiyya’s grandfather. Their family history was tied, inextricably, to that of the twin villages. Which meant that, as a lady, as a widow, her character must never be questioned; and so, she must cut off her friendship with Kovid.
27
Jaya
Jaya walked to the stall, breathing in the spicy aroma of mirchi bajjis. How could something so sinfully delicious be so terrible for her cholesterol? Maybe she’d assuage her guilt by sharing the snacks with her brother’s family. It would also take the edge off her loneliness. It was Sunday, after all. What better way to celebrate the end of the week than to share the heartburn?
When Jaya first shifted here from Hyderabad, and was lured to the stall by the talk of bajjis that drew people from all over the district, the rickety stall did not impress. Despite urging from her brother, she resisted. She was used to restaurants in Hyderabad, ones with walls and architected floor plans, not a shed made from corrugated tin, and with a crudely painted sign that identified itself as Starbox Tea, Coffee and Snacks, near to McDonaald Idli, Dosa and Chutneys.
She held out for six months. But one taste of that melt-in-your-mouth exquisiteness, and she was a true believer. Smiling in anticipation, Jaya rounded the corner, and her heart skipped a beat: Kovid stood at the stall, chatting with the proprietor.
She stopped mid-stride, her gut churning in indecision. Should she come back another time? Then again, why should she have to leave? All she wanted was the bajjis. She suddenly felt flushed.
“Amma!” A smile split the stall owner’s face. “I have a particularly good batch of chilis for you. The bajjis are delicious today.” He waved her forward. “Come, come.”
Jaya started to walk, glad that the decision making had been taken away from her.
Kovid raised his insulated coffee cup in greeting.
What was it about this man that caused her thoughts that were so inappropriate to a widow? You’re a respectable lady. A married one. Don’t allow your thoughts to stray.
Self-consciously, she waved back.
The shopkeeper’s eyes—shiny and protruding—darted between the two of them. Watching. Speculating.
Jaya cringed.
Kovid held out his coffee mug to the stall owner, Sivanna.
“What Saar?” Sivanna, joked. “You really seem to like our South Indian filter coffee.” The portly man was dressed in red cotton kurta, with a blue-and-white chequered dhoti wrapped around his waist and folded up at his knees, displaying stout legs encased in worn, leather slippers. He took the proffered mug, pouring a generous amount of the frothy concoction into it. “We should find you a good wife to make you good South Indian filter coffee.”
Kovid leaned against the stall and joked, “You know of any?” He carefully enunciated his words so the stall owner wasn’t thrown by the accented Telugu.
Jaya’s chest spasmed in pain. Don’t react. Just DON’T.
Sivanna straightened up, pleased to be tasked with this job. He eyed Kovid. “You’ll be what, mid-thirties?” At Kovid’s nod, he continued, “Mahesh garu’s girl would work for you. Almost thirty. No prospects in sight. Ripe age, you know.” He raised his hands, palms facing outward, as if suddenly aware that he wasn’t doing a good job of selling. “Not too ripe. Just because her father would be pleased if you took his girl off his hands, doesn’t mean she isn’t a good prospect. She’s pretty, she’s obedient, she cooks well. Really well. Likes children too. Only problem, too much education. But not a problem for you foreigners, is it?”
“No, no! I was joking.” Kovid looked mildly alarmed. He seemed to realise how seriously people around here took their matchmaking duties. He nodded at Jaya. “Maybe you can find someone for Jaya. She’s been widowed a lot longer than me.”
Jaya drew in a sharp breath.
Sivanna’s smile vanished.
“I know, Saar, that you are from foreign.” Suddenly, the term “foreign” didn’t sound as complimentary. “So it is to be expected that you wouldn’t know how things work here.” His voice was stiff in its outrage. “But please, never disrespect a married lady this way. It is morally wrong. Can she stop belonging to her husband’s family just because he has passed on? Is it right to even speak of such things? Is it right that her elderly in-laws would be abandoned if she happily married and took off?” His agitation was such that spittle flew out as he spoke.
Kovid looked stricken.
But Sivanna wasn’t done.
“Not that this Amma would take off: she comes from a family of morally upright elders. And, like any respectable lady, she knows she is tied to her husband for seven cycles of death and rebirth. How can she even consider another husband? Cha cha.” He crossed his hands at the wrists and slapped his cheeks lightly in the traditional display of distress and repentance.
Kovid’s face mottled to a dull red.
Jaya’s face burned in humiliation. Should she leave, or would leaving now make it worse? She froze, unable to decide.
“Sorry,” Kovid mouthed to Jaya. He opened his mouth to say more, but Jaya shook her head sharply.
He turned away. “I’m really sorry,” he said to Sivanna. “Like you said, I did not grow up here.”
Sivanna breathed heavily, his outrage not ready to be mollified.
“I shouldn’t have said such a thing.” Kovid joined his palms together in apology. “What would I know of the customs here?”
That seemed to appease Sivanna. “That’s true. Can’t blame you for not knowing. Your parents’ fault, right, that you know so little?” He looked at Kovid challengingly.
Kovid bowed his head, accepting the rebuke.
Sivanna accepted the apology with a nod.
Kovid said, “Can you give me two plates of your incredible bajjis, Sivanna? I’m sure my parents will like them. No one makes them quite the way you do.”
“Even in America?” Sivanna cocked his head, a challenging glea
m in his eye.
“America?” Kovid snorted. “They know nothing about mirchi bajjis, let me tell you.”
“You are too much, Saar.” Savanna beamed, allowing his indignation to be allayed by the promise of a guaranteed sale. Later that night, when his portable stove was pushed back into the tin shed, and the front shutter rolled down and locked up, the indignation would rebirth as gossip, ready to be shared and dissected.
Jaya felt dread in the pit of her stomach.
“And more coffee?” Kovid said, holding his insulated coffee mug forward.
“Again?” Sivanna shook his head, but Jaya could tell he was pleased. The man had a large pot of milk on permanent low boil. He dipped a long handle attached to a metal cup, scooping out some milk into a steel bowl. Then he added a decoction of filter coffee, a whole lot of sugar, and poured it back and forth between two bowls, till it was frothing. This, he poured into Kovid’s container. “That brings up your total for this month to seven hundred rupees.”
“I can pay now.” Kovid reached for his wallet.
“I’m not going anywhere. Pay at the end of the month, like everyone else.” He put the bajjis in a newspaper, folded it over and tied it with a string.
Kovid accepted the bundle and turned to leave.
Jaya was aware he was looking at her. Probably to say, “Bye.” She did not look up.
“Amma, I’ll make you good bajjis. You’re taking them for your anna also?”
Jaya nodded, hating herself for doubling her order. As expected, that pleased him.
“Good to be taking good care of your loved ones. So hard, that man works.” He leaned forward, face serious. “Amma, you are big people from big houses. So, please excuse me for saying the truth.”
Jaya nodded again. If saying “no” would deter the man, she would.
“I might not have your fancy education, but I do know about the six enemies of the mind.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Kama, krodha, lobha, moha, mada and matsarya. They stand in the way of each person’s salvation.”
Desire, anger, greed, delusion, hubris and envy. Sanskrit or English, the implication behind his words was clear. Jaya’s jaw tightened. She wished she could walk away, but Sivanna was a vicious gossip who had brought down stronger men and ladies.
“You are an obedient daughter-in-law,” he said. “You take good care of your in-laws. But the first and last enemies of the mind might be your problem.”
Lust and envy.
Jaya was so angry, her teeth dug into the inside of her cheek. This was what her life had come down to: being lectured in the by-lanes of the village, by a man who hadn’t seen the inside of a school.
“Amma,” he said, as he fried a fresh batch of bajjis in his wide cauldron of oil. “I’ve seen the world, so please don’t take this in the wrong way: we men are simple creatures. When you ladies do unladylike acts, it gives us impure thoughts. Take my advice and get rid of the car. Buy a scooter. Why give anyone a chance to doubt your intentions? Maybe join the school as a teacher. Why this computer business? Inappropriate behaviour can never bring ladies the proper kind of respect.” He handed her a newspaper-bound parcel, the outside greasy from the hot oil of the freshly fried bajjis.
28
Jaya
Jaya parked her car so close to Madhav’s compound wall, it ground against the concrete. She smiled grimly: the first dent on her car in the ten years she’d owned it, and she didn’t give a damn. She had driven here on autopilot, even as her body continued to tremble from fury. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. The aroma of bajjis filled the car but, for once, the smell made her gag.
She looked up to see frenetic activity on the road. Three labourers in white dhotis stood next to a tempo, lightweight towels rolled up around their heads like sweats bands. When the sweat got too bad—and it would, as the day progressed—the men would unroll these thin, cotton towels and mop up.
The labourers were unloading bricks and bags of cement from the three-wheeler, stacking them by the side of the road. Jaya frowned, momentarily distracted. There wasn’t much around here—her brother’s house on one side of the unpaved road, and a semi-circle of five houses on the other side. The road dead-ended at the river. Everything else was farmland. The construction material was too little to build anything of significance.
Jaya walked into the courtyard, up the steps, and through the main door. No one bothered with doorbells in the village. If you knew the occupants, you went straight in. If not, you called out at the door. Jaya walked into the small rectangular courtyard where her brother- and sister-in-law were drinking coffee. The rooms of the house ran along the sides of the open-to-the-sky courtyard that was rectangular, with a cemented and covered walkway running parallel to the rooms. Madhav and Shyamala sat at the edge of the walkway, feet resting on the floor of the recessed courtyard. Shyamala got to her feet. “Let me get you coffee.”
Jaya waved her down. “Let this lug get it for me.” She pointed her chin at her brother. As Madhav grumbled and rose, Jaya said, “You know what? Maybe not.” Agitation roiled her stomach. She wasn’t sure it could handle coffee. Not now.
Madhav gave her a mock glare and sat down.
“Where are the girls?” Jaya asked, looking around. “Did Ananta give you trouble last night?”
“You’re joking, right?” Madhav said wryly. “Having Ananta stay overnight gets our little devil out of our hair.” He eyed the package in Jaya’s hand. “Do I smell bajjis?”
Jaya handed the package to him, waving away the offer to share. The couple worked through the spicy snacks in enjoyment. Taking advantage of their preoccupation, Jaya forced down a calming breath. “What’s happening in the front? Something involving your father?”
Shyamala gave an embarrassed smile, and Madhav smirked. “Why would you think such a thing?”
They all laughed.
“My father is getting a speed breaker built,” Shyamala said, dragging the words out.
“Speed breaker? Isn’t that the job of the government?”
“Get real,” Madhav said. “This is my father-in-law we’re talking about. Since when have little things like rules stopped him?”
Shyamala elbowed him in the stomach.
“Ow.” Madhav set the steel tumbler of coffee aside and rubbed his side. “That hurt.”
“You deserve it for disrespecting my father.” Her words held no heat.
Jaya smiled. Shyamala looked so pretty in her lovely sari, with a long strand of jasmine entwined in her hair. Her brother looked content, as well.
After everything her brother had been through—the fights with their mother over his choice of brides, his choice of jobs, his support of Jaya—he deserved every bit of happiness.
Shyamala and her mother, on the other hand, lived in a semi-permanent state of mortification when dealing with Sri G. V. K. S. S. P. Rao Certified Accountant, Certifiable Everything Else. “Rule breaker” was a mild term for Shyamala’s father. When he wasn’t getting unexpected speed breakers built, the man was an extreme penny pincher. Her business partner, Raghu, had once told Jaya that some people were too stupid to know they were stupid, and that Rao garu was one such person. Such people did not have the capacity to worry about anyone but themselves. They led blessed lives.
Rao garu was so self-involved that he put self-interest ahead of almost everything in life—his wife, his family’s welfare, the happiness of his children and grandchildren put together. He was the embodiment of Ayn Rand’s philosophy, Jaya realised with sudden insight.
“Jaya,” Shyamala said, cutting into Jaya’s internal conversation with herself. “Can I say something to you?” She sounded hesitant as she exchanged a quick look with her husband.
“Of course.” Jaya’s stomach curdled from the stress. She hoped she wasn’t going to be sick.
“Narsamma told me about… you know.”
Jaya felt restless, trapped. The walls were closing in on her. She jumped to her feet, pacing the le
ngth of the inner courtyard. Narsamma, the vegetable vendor who balanced leafy greens on her head in a straw basket and walked back and forth between the villages of Gopanpally and Lingampally, was no gossip. She had transferred her extreme loyalty from Madhav and Jaya’s grandparents to the families of Madhav and Jaya, so if she had expressed concern, there was a problem.
“Hey,” Madhav said. “What’s going on?”
“I should finish cooking,” Shyamala said, getting to her feet.
Jaya nodded distractedly.
“Well?” Madhav prompted.
“Why does it have to be something?” Jaya’s posture was combative. She was embarrassed by Shyamala’s information, even as she was smarting from that encounter at Sivanna’s.
Madhav raised his eyebrows at Jaya.
Jaya’s shoulders slumped. “Kovid was at Sivanna’s stall. When Sivanna joked with Kovid, offering to find him a wife, Kovid said maybe he should find me a husband first. Because I’d been widowed longer.”
“Ouch!”
“Yeah. So, Sivanna lectured Kovid on his improper words. After Kovid apologised profusely and left, Sivanna told me, maybe I should downgrade to a two-wheeler because I was sending out the wrong signals to men. Then he lectured me on the six enemies of the mind, diagnosing kama and matsarya as my problems.” Her cheeks burned from the humiliation.
“Oh, Jaya. I’m so sorry!”
She clenched her fists, trying to control her breathing. “What’s wrong with me, Anna? That I’m able to take on the village committee about pollution, but can’t respond to a direct insult?”
Madhav sat back, leaning on his hands. “You know all of us who get into IITs and other elite colleges? We don’t produce research worth anything in India. But we migrate to America, to Australia, and suddenly we’re wildly successful entrepreneurs and researchers.”
Jaya frowned in puzzlement. “What are you taking about?”
“Think about it. We’re taught to never question authority. We won’t contradict our teachers in school, even when they’re wrong. We won’t talk back to our elders. As a society, we’re not conditioned to think independently. Our system just does not permit it. That’s why many of us do so well outside of India.”
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 12
