by Veena Rao
PURPLE LOTUS
Copyright © 2020 Veena Rao
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2020
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-761-6
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-762-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906103
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
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She Writes Press
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All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
In memory of my father
and
For my family, both Indian and American
“Nothing that grieves us can be called little:
by the eternal laws of proportion, a child’s loss of a doll
and a king’s loss of a crown are events of the same size.”
—MARK TWAIN, Which Was the Dream?
Chapter 1
The sleeper class compartment was dirty. The noisy family of four that had occupied the berths opposite had alighted sometime in the middle of the night. But they had left their presence behind, in the peanut shells and crumpled newspaper strewn over the floor. The alley was wet with rainwater. Each time the train slowed down or pulled into a station, the stink of urine emanated from the toilets three compartments down the corridor, overpowering Tara’s senses.
The West Coast Express spewed black columns of smoke that trailed over the coaches. The soot had settled over Tara, darkening her face, lodging under her fingernails. The wind mangled her short hair as she peered into a vast canvas from the window-side seat. Her happy thoughts splashed everything she saw in bright watercolors. The rain gods had worked furiously all night. The rice fields were waterlogged along the way, shimmering emeralds. There were dark clouds too, smudges of dense black ink that threatened to let their wrath loose again, but she only saw how an orange sun reached out, dousing everything he embraced in his glow.
Beside Tara sat Amma, her beautiful face still clean, hair coiled into a neat bun—like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. But her eyes, like the ink clouds on the horizon, were mist laden. Her blue-and-yellow sari with the geometric patterns fluttered every once in a while, revealing her taut, bloated belly. Amma’s belly reminded Tara of a birthday balloon every time she looked in her direction, but she didn’t smile, because Amma looked sad.
Every now and then, when her happy thoughts permitted her, Tara wondered about it: Why was Amma sad? A few times, Tara put her dirty little hand on Amma’s swollen, hard belly and gently stroked it. Amma said little; she only looked at Tara with those large, melancholic Belle eyes that threatened to brim over. But Tara’s thoughts were whimsical; they strayed and inevitably wandered back to Pinky, her new doll, and a gush of joy erupted in her chest.
Daddy was still asleep on the top berth, as if he were the one under the sleeping spell. He had slept almost all the way—during the first leg of their train journey from their town by the Great River off National Highway 5 to Madras Central—and now, from Madras to Mangalore. He had come down once last night, though, to order railway meals for the three of them, his usually slickly brushed, lush hair unruly, and his handsome face a bit frog-like from all that sleeping. He had ordered two plates, and the three of them had eaten in bland silence, amid the cacophony of their travel companions across the berth.
Amma and Tara had shared a plate. Tara had hard, flaky puris dipped in sambhar. Amma had the rice with the rest of the sambhar, yogurt, and lime pickle. The mother from the opposite berth had offered Tara a ripe, black-spotted plantain after their meal. Aunty from the opposite berth looked kindly, but Tara had declined, with an uncertain shake of her head, because she had received no cues whatsoever from Amma—no nod or subtle nudge on her elbow to indicate that she should accept the plantain. Amma was busy staring at the palms of her interlocked hands that guarded her belly, as if there were so much to decipher in them. And Daddy had already reclaimed his spot on the top berth. Soon, his snores had wafted down, rhythmic over other human sounds and the steady clanging of the moving train.
Tara had slept well and dreamed long dreams of lovely Pinky. She remembered only snatches of her dream, but every shard of what came back to her was imprinted with pink skin, luminous golden hair, and violet-blue eyes that closed and opened and closed and opened.
Pinky was like a real person, not a doll. She even wore a real blue-and-white-striped frock, and her soft feet were encased in white rubber shoes. If only Amma had thought of giving her the doll before her best friends Pippi, Leenika, and Runa had left for the summer. What a smashing hit Pinky would have been! She could imagine the wonders that came with owning the prettiest doll in their neighborhood, the clamor of her friends to play with Pinky at her house. She had never had that standing before.
The day Amma gifted Pinky to her, Tara had spent all afternoon in the square shoe room next to the verandah, the only calm spot in a chaotic house. Seated among empty shoe racks, she had brushed Pinky’s golden hair, fed her make-believe tea and biscuits, run her forefinger over her long curled up lashes, stood her up and laid her down again and again to make her open and shut her beautiful eyes.
The packers had come in. Twelve sturdy wooden boxes were being filled with household items. Daddy and Amma were busy packing the two metal trunks, a green canvas holdall, and the large, brown, leather-trimmed suitcase they would be traveling with. Tempers were frayed, and Tara knew better than to be in her parents’ way. In the evening, Daddy had peeped into the shoe room, a frown on his sweaty brow.
“You can play with it at your grandparents’ house in Mangalore,” he had pointed toward Pinky. “It needs to go into the trunk now.”
She knew better than to displease Daddy when he was tired and irritable. She had handed Pinky over to him, and then followed him to the bedroom and watched as he laid her down in one of the two identical trunks, over Amma’s peacock-blue-green-yellow sari, the one with the whirlwind-like swirls.
One afternoon in a shoe room; brief enough to seem like a dream. Almost. But Pinky was real, even if she was not of flesh and blood. She felt more real than their long train journey.
Tara turned toward Amma, tapping her arm. “Amma, how much longer?”
“Soon.” Amma had turned monosyllabic as soon as they had left home.
“Soon,” repeated Tara, then in a whisper, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of the trunk soon, okay?”
Pinky didn’t get out of the trunk soon. The day they arrived at Shanti Nilaya, Amma only opened their brown, leather-trimmed suitcase to draw out essentials—home clothes and toiletries. The next morning, Amma had just unlocked the trunks when Grandfather Madhava, Daddy’s father, called out, rather loudly, his older son’s name. The urgency in his gravelly voice made Amma stop her job at hand and follow Daddy downstairs to the verandah. Tara had no choice but to do as Amma did. The prime minister had declared internal emergency in the country, Grandfather Madhava said. The Philips
radio that sat on the blue-linen-clad round table in the verandah was crackling, and over the shortwaves, a child-like voice filled the room. It drew Grandmother Indira and Daddy’s younger brother Uncle Anand out to the verandah as well. They huddled around the radio as the prime minister used big words in her speech—widespread conspiracy, inciting our armed forces to mutiny, country’s stability to be imperiled, deliberate political attempts to denigrate, and she used the word democracy many times, even though, Daddy said, Madam Prime Minister had just suspended the democratic rights of six hundred million people when the country was under no threat of war.
When the speech ended, the prime minister’s subjects, those circled around the Philips radio, found themselves in uncharted territory.
“Emergency may not be such a bad thing. We need discipline to progress,” Grandfather Madhava said in his gruff voice.
“Such a bold woman,” whispered Grandmother Indira, of her namesake.
Uncle Anand only shook his head, the slightest hint of a smile on his face, as if he had secret insight into the matter.
Amma, seated at a distance on a wicker chair, muttered to herself with a big heave of her chest, Emergency in the country and emergency in my life!
Tara knew what the emergency in Amma’s life was. It was the poop that was accumulating in her balloon belly. Also, perhaps this gloomy antiquated house was growing more real to Amma, as it was to Tara.
From down the dirt road leading up to Morgan Hill, Shanti Nilaya had looked like an imposing castle—the kind that fairytale princes and princesses lived in. But now it was just a large old home with a moss-ridden compound wall and narrow blue front gates. Its ample front yard was thick with coconut palms, mangos, and jackfruit trees that formed a thick canopy and kept the sun out. The semicircular verandah was large, but the many inner rooms were small and dark. The kitchen was dungeon-like, and the flames from the wood stoves danced and leaped like dragon’s tongues. At night, the incandescent bulbs threw strange shadows upon the walls, and biscuit-colored lizards with bulbous eyes lurked on the wooden beams of the ceiling.
All of yesterday, Tara had latched on to Amma, clutching a fistful of her sari like a handkerchief. At night, the family had slept in an ornate teak bed in Daddy’s childhood room upstairs, and the wooden floorboards had creaked like in a haunted mansion when Tara stepped on them.
Daddy said he had happy memories of his room, which smelled of dusty old books, because bookshelves filled with hardcovers and paperbacks lined almost the entire far-end wall. But Tara couldn’t help but focus on the rickety fan that rotated slowly, as if burdened with age and secrets, and wonder if it would come unhinged and crash over them. Back at home, they had large air-conditioned bedrooms. Their living room was flush with sunlight and furnished with beautiful colonial-style furniture, and their garden was a profusion of colors. If only she had Pinky in her arms, she could make her new surroundings fade away from her mind.
After the unnecessary, endless flutter created by the voice on the radio had died down, Amma finally swayed up the stairs, her breath a series of whistles, to unpack the trunks. In their room, Tara hopped from foot to foot and clasped and unclasped her hands.
“Amma, Pinky!” she cried every now and then, lest her mother forget the most important thing in the trunks.
“Stop whining. You are not three years old, Tara.”
“I’m only six.”
“I am trying to find her, no?”
Soon, both the trunks and the suitcase were empty, Amma’s peacock-blue-green-yellow sari—the one with the whirls—was in the pile on the bed, and Pinky still had not been found.
Amma’s eyebrows furrowed. She turned to Daddy, who was lolling in bed with the Hindu newspaper.
“I don’t understand it. Are you sure you put the doll in one of the trunks?”
“Positive,” Daddy replied.
“Strange. I don’t understand it,” Amma repeated, pulling Tara to her bosom. She sounded too anxious to be reassuring. Daddy must have made a mistake, she said. Instead of packing the doll in the suitcase, he had dropped her in one of the boxes that were being shipped into Mangalore. The boxes would arrive by ship next month. “That’s not very long, is it? That’s less than thirty days.”
What? How was it possible? How?
For a moment Tara was bewildered. Then she was shaking like a boat in a sea storm. When her wails, loud and piercing, drew Grandmother Indira and Uncle Anand into the room, Tara buried her face deep in Amma’s sari and continued her howling.
“What happened?” asked Grandmother. “Did she hurt herself?”
“I cannot find her doll,” said Amma, stroking Tara’s hair.
“Make her stop crying,” Daddy said to Amma. “You’d think she hurt herself or something.”
“She hardly got to play with the doll, poor thing.” Amma turned to Tara. “Shhh, now. Good girls don’t cry.”
Tara stopped sobbing and cleaned her running nose on Amma’s sari. She didn’t feel like a good girl, but she was afraid of upsetting Daddy.
Uncle Anand stooped down and wiped the tears from Tara’s cheeks with the pad of his fingers. “It’s only a doll. Come, let’s go to the barn. I’ll show you a real baby. Amba delivered her new calf only last week.”
Uncle Anand was tall and lean like Daddy, but his face was younger and kinder. Also, his voice wasn’t commanding like Daddy’s voice usually became when she cried. Tara let go of Amma’s sari and allowed Uncle Anand to lead her to the barn.
They watched from the barn door—and it was fascinating—Amba fawning over her newborn, Appi, and Appi, her soft black coat twitching, trying over and over again to stand, as if her legs were on slippery ground.
That night, Tara dreamed that she had morphed into a calf. She struggled to stand, bounced about in the barn, then dropped on her fours, palm-hooves deep in dung, searching, desperately searching for Pinky.
Chapter 2
The calf emerged before her eyes now, a quarter century later, as she gripped the handrail and steadied her feet on the escalator. It was easy to feel lost in this enormous gleaming airport, even for an adult. The sudden burst of people who emerged into view at the top of the escalator crowded her mind. She blinked a couple of times. She had finally made it to the arrivals lounge after walking through a labyrinth and riding a train. She scanned the crowd—past people holding placards and others waiting for their loved ones—for the brown face among the different shades of humanity.
She was relieved when she spotted him finally, but her chest heaved involuntarily at the sighting. He stood—as broad shouldered as she remembered him—one hand in his pocket, a flip-top cell phone in his other, looking dapper without trying. He wore faded jeans, a blue-and-white-plaid cotton shirt that was open down to the second button, and a faraway expression on his face.
Tara knew him as an enigma, the stranger she had married three years ago. She felt lightheaded with apprehension as she waved to catch his attention, to see a glimmer of recognition in his lost eyes. He pursed his lips into a straight thin line when his eyes fell on her. She tried to read his smile—if it was a smile at all, because it fell short of reaching his eyes—but a fresh bout of nervousness impeded her deduction abilities. He motioned her to walk toward baggage claim, then caught up with her in a few giant strides. She was tall, but he was many inches taller.
She wondered if she should give him a hug. She didn’t.
“Hi,” he said. “You had a good flight?”
“Hi, Sanjay,” she said self-consciously. “Yes, it was comfortable.”
“Was it smooth sailing at immigration?”
“Yes. They even welcomed me to America.”
“Good.”
“This is a huge airport.”
“Hartsfield–Jackson airport is the busiest in the world,” he said. “I hope you took the train?”
She nodded. “I followed the others.” She left out the silly details, like feeling weak-kneed as she stepped out of the aircraft
into the looming unknown, or her anxiety at the immigration line, or her fear of not being able to get into the right train to get to baggage claim.
His American twang seemed even more pronounced now, after three years. It made her acutely aware of her own convent school English accent. He said her baggage would arrive at Aisle 5, so they walked up to it and waited. The bags were slowly being loaded on to the conveyor belt; the early ones traveled in an elongated circle, waiting to be picked up. She wondered who the bags belonged to. Were they people like her, on the cusp of a new life? Not one person seemed nervous—tired and sullen maybe, but not nervous. They looked like they were eager to get home—to love and warmth, to comfort and cheer. She didn’t know what awaited her.
He said little; his eyes were fixed on the conveyor belt. She filled the silence with senseless non-thoughts that weighed her heart down. She wished her bags would arrive quickly. It seemed like an eternity since she had left home. She was hungry and tired. She looked around again. Her mind swam as it absorbed the picture—the deeper picture. It cast her under the spotlight because she looked so different from everybody around her; so different even from the man next to her. A deep yearning arose in her chest for the comfort of the familiar.
She had waited three years to get here. Now, she was being ridiculous. That is what Daddy would say; perhaps Amma would concur. Stop being ridiculous, she said to her mind, to her heart, to the tight knot in her belly. Tara, you are finally where you belong.
Marriages are made in heaven, but theirs had been made through a matchmaker. Their families were both from Mangalore but weren’t known to each other, although a distant common family connection had been discovered during the bride-viewing three years ago.
Sanjay’s family’s visit had been brief, the party small. Only his father and mother had accompanied him and the matchmaker to Tara’s home. Amma had insisted on an Indian-English high tea—triangle-shaped mint chutney sandwiches, vegetable cutlets, and her homemade fruit cake with tea, all set out in their fine old china—because she didn’t want to appear clueless about Western ways before the groom. Small talk was made. Daddy had been extra courteous. Amma had talked too much, as usual. Then Tara’s parents had suggested that she and Sanjay take a stroll outside to learn more about each other.
