I replied, “I am not nervous. But Sir up there is very nervous. Please see that he gets safely back home.” From the next day onwards, he stopped bothering me.
I would cry to myself: “All these problems are because I’m alone!” I would pray to the Goddess that she should come and save me. One day, these words rang in my ears: “Not to worry. There is someone to take care of you. You know him. He will come into your life soon.”
As usual, I went to work the next day. Within a few minutes, I was told I had a telephone call. When I took the call, I was surprised. It was Diwakar! I told him about Aravindhan passing away. We met that evening. Diwakar said, “All through yesterday, I kept thinking about you. Some voice urged me to speak to you today. And that’s why I’m here.”
Surya, I know an atheist like you might find this surprising, but that is how it happened. Not just that; I forgot to tell you—even when I met Aravindhan in Thiruverukadu temple the first time, that same voice rang in my ears. What is surprising, Surya, is that I hear no voice about you.
Diwakar was up front with me. “I cannot marry you. You have a daughter, and therefore you will never be accepted in my home. But I promise to support you all through your life.”
We became very close. Within a few short days, our relationship became a strong one.
Appa and Geetha kicked me around like a football. I told Diwakar about all this. The only place we could meet was my office. We could not live together; Diwakar was too scared to take me home.
It was around that time that my anni, my sister-in-law, died in a road accident. That is a separate story. Still, I shall tell it to you now.
They looked for a bride for Anna in different places. Several horoscopes were exchanged. Behind closed doors, a family from Nanganallur appealed to Appa and Anna, and got the alliance fixed. The horoscopes matched perfectly. The girl worked as a teacher. It was only after the marriage that we came to know about that family and the girl.
She would fight with Anna constantly. Perhaps because Appa had retired, he suddenly seemed to have become very old. His authority could not stand up against Anni’s; she pushed him to the corner. Although she was the same age as me, she would hit me. If Anna took my side, that was it!
One day she was screaming horrible curses at Anna. The reason for the fight was this: she had been in love with another man before her marriage. It was to break that relationship that her parents had got her married to Anna.
My family is a family of lunatics. How could a woman marry into it and not go mad herself? Anni still had a relationship with her lover. He was her real life partner; my brother was just the public face. We couldn’t do anything about it. She had already convinced her parents that we were abusing her and threatening to kill her. We couldn’t say a single word to her without her family hearing about it.
One night there was loud shouting from Anna’s room. Anna walked out. He told me this: she had insisted that he use a condom. Apparently he had asked, “I haven’t used one until now, why should I use one tonight?” She had replied, “I want to become pregnant only by my lover, not by you.”
Finally we came to know that she was already pregnant. She even agreed to have a D&C done. Do you know what the nurse told us in the hospital? “This is her fourth D&C. If she continues doing this, she’ll puncture her uterus. Are you mad?”
We had no idea. Imagine how Anna must have felt.
When we returned from the hospital, her tantrums grew even more violent.
Do you know what she said to Geetha’s son Vaasu one day? “Dey! You will be run down by a lorry on the street! Your head will be smashed in! There won’t be enough of your body left for your mother to cry over—it will all be crushed into porridge!” Geetha had no word to say against her. We were stunned. Anna gave her a tight slap.
“I will not rest until I see you in prison!” she screamed. “If I don’t hang myself right here in this house and land all of you behind bars, my name is not Kausalya!”
Vaasu must have been around seven years old when his aunt threw this curse at him. From that day on, every time he stepped out of the house, he had heavy security; two people in front of him and two behind. The entire household was expecting a huge misfortune to befall him. We felt as though we were enveloped in a curtain made of curses. We stopped speaking to each other. A fear of impending death threatened us all.
It was a Sunday, exactly seven days after Anni spoke her curse. It was seven o’clock in the morning. Anni was going out.
“It’s a Sunday. Do you have to go and teach?” asked Anna.
“I don’t need to answer your questions. Just drop me off on Hundred Foot Road.”
Anna did not argue. He started the scooter and left with Anni. A little while later, Anna returned with this news: a lorry had come from behind and crashed into the scooter. Anna fell to the left, and Anni to the right, under the wheels of the lorry. Her head was smashed in. There wasn’t enough of her body left to have a postmortem done—it had all been crushed into porridge.
Whatever was left of the body was on the doorstep, wrapped in a white sheet. Even the face was smashed beyond recognition.
Her elder brother came and stared at what was left of the face. He started tugging at her gold earrings. They would not come off. With no warning, he took a pen knife from his pocket and chopped off her ears.
And that was the end of my anni’s life.
The next year, Geetha’s husband, who had separated from her several years back, was burned to death in a factory fire. Not even a bone was left.
Once Anni was dead, Appa resumed control.
I cried to Diwakar, “I cannot take it anymore. I am going to die!” Diwakar found me a house in St. Thomas Mount. He introduced himself to the neighbors as my husband. But once I moved there, my nervous problem returned, along with epileptic fits.
I would lay there unconscious for God knows how long. My limbs would be spasming, my mouth foaming. Nithya would sit next to me, courageously, feeding me spoonfuls of water.
At that time Diwakar was working at St. Thomas Mount. His house was in Chinmaya Nagar. He didn’t come home every day, except during holidays. I told Diwakar it was difficult to handle the child alone.
Anna had bought a house, also in Chinmaya Nagar. Diwakar spoke to him and I moved to the first floor of that house.
Diwakar’s visits became more and more infrequent. Suddenly, one day, he came and announced that his mother had been diagnosed with uterine cancer, and so he could no longer refuse her wishes.
And that meant…?
He was getting married the next day.
It was much later that I learned that he did not get married to the girl whom his mother chose. It was a girl who worked along with him in the same office. The relationship had been going on for a long time.
I hate having to write this, Surya. Are you tired having to read it?
How many times can the same thing keep happening to me?
And so my relationship with Diwakar came to an end. But living life is not as simple as writing it. I do not know if one lifetime is enough for the wounds that Diwakar and all the others inflicted on my heart, and my body, to heal.
Because Diwakar could not marry me, he did not want to have a child with me. Because of that I had to undergo D&C three times. I even tried Copper T. But the flow during my periods became so heavy I had to have it removed. With every D&C I thought I would die. I would keep chanting my slokas, crying my heart out. I felt like killing Diwakar. This, too, was a life. It might be a very tiny one—but once it was born and grew up, it would be a child, like Nithya. Would that child resemble me or Diwakar? Just because it hadn’t yet been born, did I have the right to kill it? Is it right to kill a living being just for a few moments of sexual pleasure? My little baby appears in my dreams, and begs me: “Amma, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!” Does Diwakar understa
nd this suffering? The letters “D&C” kill me every time I hear them. Delivering a child is a blessing. It is a birth of life; it is joy. One can put up with any amount of pain for the smell of a newborn. But this is death—no, it’s murder. How many times can one commit murder? And having murdered, with whom do you share the guilt?
When I went for the third D&C, the doctor said, “It’s only 30 days. It may still be in the tubes. Once I clean up the uterus, it may go in there. So wait for a few more days.”
So I went after a few more days. She laid me on the table. Even as she was checking my blood pressure, I felt a pain inside me. When they gave me the tranquilizer, I wasn’t able to go unconscious like the previous times. I was still half-awake.
The mouth of the uterus was dilated and I could feel the scraper enter it. Now it was scraping the walls of my uterus. Surya, I cannot describe the pain I felt; only a woman could understand that. I was bleeding profusely. That was the only time I ever I regretted being born as a woman. I wanted to die. I thought of all those women who, during their abortions, were not scraped fully, or who had the fetus stuck inside them as a mashed piece of flesh and had to undergo another D&C to have it cleaned again, or who had to have their uterus removed because it was damaged beyond repair. Some women even lose their mental balance during this experience.
I, too, had a bad session then. I had to go back to my doctor friend Jessy because I kept bleeding for a month non-stop.
I was still working as an RTP. My body had become a torn rag, and even as I bled, I had to keep up with office work. It was Jessie’s care and love that saw me through that.
When you and I decided that we were going to marry, Surya, I asked Jessie, “Will I still be able to have a child?” She said she would have to do some tests. What will the test results be? Has Diwakar ruined my uterus forever? Will I never have the fortune of bearing of your seed in me? I don’t know, Surya.
Remember, you told me once: “I don’t need a child of my own. You and Nithya will be enough; when I have you two children, why would I need any more?” Surya, I love you, da.
Once, after I separated from Diwakar, I was coming out of the office holding Nithya’s hand. Suddenly a speeding car rushed towards me. I grabbed Nithya close to me, but the car knocked me down. My head banged into a lamppost. I lost a lot of blood, and had to stay bedridden for two months.
How much can this body take? I went into a depression. You wanted to know what happens when one is depressed. It’s like being drowned in the sea, the water weighing down on me. I lose control of my body. I can’t understand anything you say to me. I can’t even understand the words I say myself. My senses are somehow delinked from my brain. I’m unable to bear the pressure; I grind my teeth together, my hands and my face twitch involuntarily.
Anti-depressants give some temporary relief from this agony. But then they begin to rule my senses. It’s impossible to manage without them, though. It would be impossible to sleep. My nerves would be completely shot.
But Surya, I did encounter one wonderful thing in my life. I have met you. I don’t need my pills anymore. Since I met you, I don’t get my fits. My depression has disappeared. Your love has been the medicine that has saved me.
After so much pain, finally my life has taken a turn onto a new, joyous path. I have left myself—my life—in your hands. You cradle me in your eye, scared to even blink lest you hurt me. That’s enough for me. I have no more words to describe my happiness.
Yours,
Avanthika
P.S. I forgot to tell you about Vasumathi. After her wedding, she moved to Calcutta. Her husband was an engineer. I met her a year after her marriage. She did not want to return to Calcutta. She wanted to stay with her mother and get a job here.
Besides the usual problems with the parents-in-law, her husband’s elder sister was also living there with them, along with her two sons. Her husband was employed in Dubai.
The problem was with the boys. Besides serving them, she also had to also suffer their slaps and punches. They didn’t know how to feed themselves. One of them, when she went to feed him, pulled the plate out of her hand and threw it at her face. Her lip split open and there was blood. They both clapped their hands and jumped in joy. “Ah, blood! Blood!”
One day, while she was bathing, they locked her inside the bathroom. She had to stay there until her husband returned from work in the evening. He thought it was funny. When her parents-in-law returned in the evening and were told about it, they all laughed as if it were a huge joke.
On another day, the boys opened the gas cylinder. She barely escaped death that time. It was on that day that she finally demanded, “Why aren’t these two put in a mental institution? Why do I have to put up with them?” That was it—the mother-in-law yelled back: “Are you calling my grandsons mad? Wait, I’ll make sure that you end up in a padded cell.”
I told Vasumathi not to return to that home. But Vasumathi’s parents convinced her to go back to her husband. Within a year, the members of that house drove her completely insane.
The maid in Vasumathi’s house was puzzled about a locked room there. Sounds of sobs and laughter would emerge from the room. One day, when no one was in the house, she looked through the keyhole.
Inside was a woman, naked, sitting in a corner. The maid rushed to the police station and made a complaint.
When the police arrived, Vasumathi was unable even to tell them her own name. The old hag and her husband said, “Our daughter-in-law has gone mad. If we let her out, she’ll try to stab us with a knife.” The police informed Vasumathi’s parents, who brought her back.
Now all Vasumathi can do is point at her half-burned vagina, sobbing and trying to say something that no one can understand. She is being treated in a mental asylum.
The man whom she married, his sister, and his parents, have reduced her to this state in just two years. Why do such horrible things happen, Surya? Shouldn’t a man celebrate a woman’s body? How can he violate it like this? How beautiful Vasumathi used to be! I pray to my Goddess, even now, that she will someday recover.
33
“I’VE NEVER SEEN such a beautiful woman in Tamil Nadu before,” Surya said, the first time he laid eyes on Avanthika. “You look like you must have just traveled over from Central Asia, across the Khyber Pass.”
“I know what you mean. But I’m neither Aryan nor Mughal, and I don’t believe in caste or religion. I’m just a woman.”
“That sounds like a line from some Tamil movie.”
Within a few short days, they decided to get married.
Avanthika wanted to have the wedding in a temple.
The only person who helped Surya with the wedding was his friend Nila Magan, “Son-of-the-Moon”. Nila Magan was a pulp writer. He taught Surya that by sending any piece of invented gossip about movie actresses to a certain tabloid magazine, he could earn forty-five rupees, enough to buy his daily beer. Surya tried to keep this practice a secret, but it leaked out eventually. His circle of literati friends boiled over with righteous outrage that anyone could sink to such depths just for beer money.
They all broke off their friendships with Surya. He was left with a single confidant, Thirumalai, to whom he confessed his love for Avanthika and discussed his plan to marry her. Thirumalai’s response was, “Oh, get lost. Today you say Avanthika is the height of perfection, she’s an angel. After nine months you’ll be grumbling that she’s a demon, that you were better off with Nalini, that you want another divorce. Then after the divorce you’ll probably write another novel, Gunfight Kanchana or something, about your latest failed marriage, and force us all to read it. Why should we have to suffer?” After that, Surya never discussed his marriage plans with the literati set.
There was another reason to keep it a secret. The members of the literati set were all friends with Nalini, too. If they came to know about the wedding, the news would be
sure to reach her. But he had to keep it a secret for nine more days.
The problem was this. The wedding couldn’t be postponed for too long; Avanthika couldn’t stay on anti-depressants forever. But the divorce still hadn’t come through. He had given the court clerk a little bribe of ninety rupees to get to know the exact date when the divorce would be finalized, and had fixed the wedding for the following day. But a new coalition government had just taken over at the centre, and declared the birthdays of three political leaders and three visionary founding fathers as new national holidays. A weekend in between meant that the nation would come to a standstill for nine consecutive days. And so the divorce papers would come too late.
Thirumalai warned Surya that if he tried to get married without first getting the divorce finalized, he could be arrested under the bigamy law. Surya had sworn never to meet Thirumalai again, but had by chance bumped into him on the road, and Thirumalai had jumped at the oppor- tunity to drop this bombshell on him.
He had been hurrying to meet Avanthika at the Museum Theatre when he happened to run into Thirumalai near the LIC building on Mount Road. Thirumalai had invited him for a beer. Even if he hadn’t had an appointment with Avanthika, there was no way he would have accepted the invitation. He knew Thirumalai too well. As soon as he was fully drunk, he would start demanding: “You owe me 144 rupees—135 rupees for the beer plus 9 rupees for the boiled egg. No need to chip in for the 18 rupees I spent on cigarettes.” Why bother to have a drink with such a cheapskate?
Surya still remembered the last drinking session they’d had. Between them they had polished off a litre of Maha Muni rum—Old Monk—when Thirumalai pulled a long face and began to calculate how much Surya owed him. The cigarettes, of course, were complimentary. Surya remembered clearly that they had ordered in quarter-bottles, and that he himself had paid for the first quarter. But Thirumalai denied it.
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