by Pratap Reddy
Ramya’s
Treasure
Guernica Editions Inc. acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. The Ontario Arts Council is an agency of the Government of Ontario.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.
Ramya’s
Treasure
Pratap Reddy
TORONTO • BUFFALO • LANCASTER (U.K.)
2018
Copyright © 2018, Pratap Reddy and Guernica Editions Inc.
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.
Michael Mirolla, general editor
Julie Roorda, editor
Errol F. Richardson, cover design
David Moratto, interior design
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Distributors:
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First edition.
Printed in Canada.
Legal Deposit — Third Quarter
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2018930400
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Reddy, Pratap, author
Ramya's treasure / Pratap Reddy. -- First edition.
(Essential prose series ; 158)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77183-328-8 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77183-329-5 (EPUB).
--ISBN 978-1-77183-330-1 (Kindle)
I. Title. II. Series: Essential prose series ; 158
PS8635.E337R36 2018
C813'.6
C2018-900251-4
C2018-900252-2
For the loved ones who have passed on.
In memoriam.
Contents
1.The Sandalwood Box
2.Plans for Departure
3.Arrival
4.Witch & Doctor
5.Atom Auntie
6.Amma
7.Barghest
8.BFF
9.The First Kiss
10.Maid of Dishonour
11.Midnight’s Child
12.The Stain on the Mattress
13.To Dust Returnest
14.Groundhog Day
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“Nothing can match the treasure of common memories, of trials endured together, of quarrels, and reconciliations, and generous emotions.”
— ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPERY, Wind, Sand, and Stars
1
The Sandalwood Box
RAMYA AWAKES THINKING of the small sandalwood chest that has been lying undisturbed for many years on the topmost shelf of the closet in her spare bedroom. She turns on her side and squints at the clock. 7:25 A.M. Ever since being laid off from work, she’s been waking up at half past eight or nine, a far cry from the days when she had to set her alarm to 5:30 in the morning. If the alarm failed to sound (or she was too deep in sleep to hear it go), there would be hell to pay.
She lolls in the bed, luxuriating in the indolence of the jobless, wondering what it was that made her think of the box. Was it the fragrance, so sweet and cloying, of the wood the casket was made of? Though the scent of sandalwood could be overpowering it would have dissipated over the years — the 8" × 12" intricately carved box must be nearly a hundred years old. Whimsically, Ramya wrinkles her pert nose and sniffs the air. She catches a hint of the Hawaiian Breeze which the automatic dispenser in her bathroom religiously farts at thirty-minute intervals.
Outside, a shy sun is mustering confidence to shine upon the world. It is the middle of January; she lost her job just before Christmas. A nice Christmas gift that was. But why should she care? She is not even a Christian. She is a Hindu, a childless, single woman (separated from her husband a few years ago), who will turn fifty soon, and is living in a characterless, cookie-cutter townhouse in a suburb of Toronto.
The overheated air, quivering like a beast, hangs over her. Maybe it’s time she got up and shut off the heat. Even after living in Canada for over fifteen years, she hasn’t got used to the cold. She always has to put the heater on high despite the big hydro bill she receives in the colder months — which is the better part of the year. Besides, if the room is too cold, she wakes up in the middle of the night with an urge to go to the bathroom, and then always finds it hard to get back to sleep.
But right now, she’s not going to get out of bed for any reason. She lies supine on her side of the bed, the side she occupied when her spouse still lived with her. Prakash had upped and left. No, that’s not exactly true, but his share of their king remains cool and empty, with the pillows in place, the sheet only a tiny bit dishevelled.
It has been so many years since she’s given a thought to the sandalwood chest, and today, god knows why, it was dredged up from the unfrequented depths of her memory. As a rule, Ramya is not given to reminiscing. Crying over spilt milk isn’t her cup of tea (as she proudly tells people). If she could, she’d lock up her memories in a closet in the basement, and throw away the key.
The box is exquisite, made from a scented tropical wood that grows mostly in Karnataka, a province in the south of India. Until recently, sandalwood trees, a protected species, belonged solely to the provincial government, even if they grew on private land. Her grandmother gave her the box when she was a child. The old lady had been using it to store her rosary and a pocket-sized version of the holy book, the Bhagavad Gita, along with other small knickknacks.
The nine-year-old Ramya had begun to add the little treasures of life which came her way: the good conduct medal she had won in Grade 7; the gold locket that was a hand-me-down from her mother; the cheap pale purple lipstick her best friend Maunika had given her; the green and gold Hero pen, an inducement from her college-mate Prahalad … Over the years, a number of small memorabilia — some pleasant, some unpleasant — had found their way into the box. Some of the souvenirs, which had such cheerful connotations once, were now steeped in so much sadness.
Ramya tries to go back to sleep, but as usual it eludes her. Many a night has she tossed and turned, churning up the edges of the bedsheet from where it is tucked under the mattress. Instead of counting sheep, she should tot up all the troubles in her life. Having had Prakash for a partner, she doesn’t have to look hard.
She’d often told herself that, on the next visit to her family doctor, she’d ask him to prescribe her a sleeping pill. However, when the time came, she always changed her mind and stuck to the current ailment — most often a stubborn cough or a cold — that brought her to the clinic.
But what could have awakened her? Unlike back home in India, the windows here keep the sounds of birds and traffic out. How many birds trill in winter in these northern latitudes anyway? And there’s so very little traffic on the street where she lives — Maple Grove Court. A dead end.
Ramya finally rises from bed to make herself a cup of coffee. On the way to the kitchen, she notices a sign on her phone’s display screen, indicating a new voicemail message. Ramya ignores it. Right now, she has neither time nor inclination for voicemails. In all probability, it’s the same dodgy company that calls every few days promising a free vacation for two in the Caribbean.
What if I did take up that offer? Ramya wonders, following the whi
msical train of thought to its illogical conclusion. Who would I go with? She wishes she had a male friend, a thirty-five-year-old bronze hunk — like the half-dressed men you see in ads for manly products, holding a surfboard, with a fine dusting of white sand (like salt which may have been added for taste) on their bodies.
The only man in her life at the moment is Gerry, whose name might well be a diminutive for geriatric. Well into his sixties, he is the maintenance superintendent who can be seen doddering about the condominium property, with a tool box or a step ladder in his hand. But she has nothing more than a nodding acquaintance with him.
In the kitchen, Ramya makes herself a strong cup of Bru, a brand of south Indian coffee that she buys at the local Indian grocery. With mug in hand, she goes to the front of the house, and, opening the door just enough to let her arm slip through, she picks up her Toronto Star. The newspaper has come in a blue plastic bag because of the predicted bad weather. On the wrapper there are remnants of pre-dawn snow flurries, like tear drops. She goes through the paper, stopping now and then to take a bracing sip of coffee, for the news — an earthquake here, a suicide bombing there — is as gloomy as the weather that has been forecast. Snow, even rain maybe, accompanied by winds.
Ramya has made plans to go to a hairdresser in a nearby mall, to have her hair dyed and cut, and her face massaged — to knead some glow into her lifeless features. Then she’ll do some window shopping — clothes, jewellery and shoes — which may turn into actual shopping if she finds a good bargain. Have a bite in the food court — there’s a new takeout called Thai Express which she’d like to try. She has charted out all these activities in a mental to-do list with a view to bring some purpose back into her life. Of late, the days have begun to unfold with a boring regularity. And a terrifying sameness. She can’t even remember what day it is, not even whether it is a weekday or the weekend.
She decides to test herself: What day of the week is it today? Wednesday? It’s not a Tuesday, she’s sure, because she wouldn’t have planned to visit a hairdresser on a Tuesday. Old habits die hard — it’s considered unlucky in south India to have your hair cut on that day, and most barbershops remained closed on Tuesdays. It couldn’t be the weekend either — her newspaper would have announced it, changing its handle to Saturday Star or Sunday Star.
She has to look at the newspaper’s masthead to verify the day of the week: It’s a Thursday. How eventless her life has become!
An hour later, despite the invigorating cup of coffee, her determination to go out has all but evaporated. A kind of inertia has stolen over her. The very thought of bundling herself into voluminous winter garments dispirits her. She feels overcome with lethargy, though it’s only a couple of hours since she woke up. All her energy, it appears, has been drained out of her, and no amount of self-will or second cup of the slightly acrid coffee will be able to rejuvenate her.
She potters about the house, righting the cushions on the sofa, removing old newspapers from the end tables, wiping clean coffee-mug rings from the centre table, doing any odd thing, but the one job that’s crying out to be done.
There’s an urgent need to complete the Employment Insurance form. It’s long overdue, but Ramya’s been irresponsibly putting it off. Really, there’s no excuse at all for the procrastination — but it’s not going to happen today, that’s for certain. Unreasonable though it is, the very thought of taking on all those demanding forms online fills her with an emotion which is almost revulsion.
On an impulse, she goes into the spare bedroom to retrieve her old sandalwood casket. She has to stand on her toes to reach it. There’s a layer of ceiling-dust, as if someone had sprinkled Pond’s talcum powder — the old-fashioned cosmetic she still buys from an Indian shop — on the wooden box. A faint halo of fragrance clings to the chest even after all these decades. She brought the box from India, wrapping it in a turkey towel before jamming it down into her already overflowing suitcase.
Blowing the dust off, Ramya carries the box into the dining room. She settles down at the far end of the dining table, an area that doubles as her study table — though in her basement there is an office-like set-up with an executive table and a plush swivel chair. The table and chair in the basement room are placed next to an unwieldy bar — a feature that made a delighted Prakash decide on the place at once when they were hunting for a house ten years ago. The bar still harbours Prakash’s old beer mugs and wine glasses, turning misty with abandonment. Nowadays, she never goes down into the basement except to vacuum the place once in a blue moon. While it’s surprising how much dust an untenanted and unfrequented part of the house can collect, even that chore has become infrequent of late.
Ramya opens the casket …
There’s a jumble of objects in it, curios and souvenirs of her life, mere bagatelles — random milestones on a road going nowhere. Unlike the mythical box of Pandora, there’s nothing in her box which even remotely resembles Hope.
2
Plans for Departure
ANOTHER DAY, a clone of the previous one: grey, with the promise of more snow. The sun is playing truant again — it must have gone south to an island destination to bask on a beach lapped by an aquamarine sea. Only loons stay in Canada in winter.
In the low adrenaline period of a wintry day, an hour or so before lunchtime, having nothing better to do, she once again returns to her sandalwood box and rummages in it … She fishes out a small transparent plastic canister from the job lot of memories. The canister rattles like a coin box. It contains brownish-black seeds, blurry through the plastic. Ramya knows that they are only kidney beans. A hundred and eight of them, if she has not mislaid any. She has been misplacing things a lot lately. Her husband, for instance.
Ramya unscrews the container, and pours a few of the dried-up beans on to the palm of her hand …
It all started a little over fifteen years ago. Prakash and Ramya were in the kitchen rustling up an elaborate Sunday morning brunch. On such occasions Prakash would always want Ramya to make traditional Hyderabadi cuisine, for no other reason than she hailed from Hyderabad. In Hyderabad, if her family wanted to savour typically Hyderabadi food they would go to a restaurant. At home they, especially Amma, prepared only a humdrum variety of food. This meant Ramya had to consult a cookbook or download recipes from the internet if she had to make bagara baingan or mirchi ka saalan.
The phone rang. Prakash gleefully abandoned the task of chopping onions, which he had manfully volunteered to do, and skipped out of the kitchen to take the call.
Ramya could hear the intermittent mumbling of the telephone conversation in the living room. Then suddenly: “Hey, Ramya!”
Prakash had a deep, carrying voice.
“What’s it? I’m busy,” Ramya said, teary-eyed from the onions.
“I want to see today’s Deccan Herald.”
Prakash could have got it himself. The folded paper lay sedately on the centre table, less than a few feet from where he stood. Not half an hour ago, Ramya had patiently reassembled the newspaper after Prakash had a go at it and left the pages scattered all over the living room furniture.
Ramya had to rush out of the kitchen, leaving a simmering pan unattended to hand the newspaper to Prakash, and returned to the kitchen to finish the dishes by herself.
When Ramya re-entered the living room, sweaty and tired, Prakash said: “Have a look at this.” Ramya glanced absently at the newspaper, folded into a quarter, which Prakash was holding.
“Read the ad,” Prakash said, tapping the paper with this forefinger.
It was a good-sized advertisement on the cover page of the paper. It was about a seminar on immigration to Canada being held that evening in a five-star hotel.
“What about it?” Ramya asked. For some reason a chill crept into her heart. What wildcat scheme was Prakash thinking of now? Ramya knew, once Prakash mounted on a new hobbyhorse, which might have had the name From Westward Ho By Canada, nothing could unsaddle him.
“Shall we check
it out? There’s no harm in seeing what it’s all about. Ramesh and Suri and their families are also going.”
It was Ramya’s considered opinion that there was harm in whatever Prakash chose to do, but she refrained from saying so to his face. She also knew full well the futility of arguing with him. So, she decided to accompany him to the event — just to keep any eye on him, if not anything else.
She combed her shiny hair, smelling of Dabur’s herbal hair oil, and let it fall loosely on her shoulders. She wore a pretty pink-and-blue patterned Poachampalli silk sari and ran an Angel Face powder-pad over her face. Prakash, wearing Ray Ban sunglasses and leather gloves as if he were going to a drag race, drove his silver Ford Ikon, which had all the bells and whistles, to the hotel. Cursing fluently, he jackrabbited through the traffic, surprisingly heavy for a weekend afternoon.
The meeting was held in a large conference room, with thick pile floor covering underfoot. Hanging ponderously from the ceiling were giant chandeliers, which looked like bursts of fireworks frozen in time. The temperature was cold as a freezer and the room smelled of recently shampooed carpet. They listened to a hyper-lively talk from a moustachioed speaker who smiled and smiled as he revealed all the hidden glories of Canada — its universal healthcare, its educational system, and its high living standards. Anyone would think that Canada was the best-kept secret in the world. The speaker did not mention that most of the year Canada was cold, and in winters the temperatures could dip to minus thirty degrees Celsius even in a southern city like Toronto — after all they were competing with other aggressive immigrantseeking countries like Australia and New Zealand, which had weather on their side.
Even Ramya, in spite of her innate scepticism, was impressed. The cost, however, seemed a bit prohibitive — there were so many components, like landing fees, visa charges, consultant’s commission and proof of funds. The consultant promised to make it easy by taking his money in instalments, a ruse which never failed to succeed in baiting the undecided. Prakash and all his friends resolved to take the plunge in unison. There was a sense of security, however false, when one did things collectively — Canada’s atrocious weather and its chronic unemployment be damned.
