In one house lived Prabhakara Rao and his brother Percy Lawrence, his half brother’s wife, and their four children. In the other lived Prabhakara Rao’s maternal aunt’s family, with her eight children of various ages between thirteen and twenty-five. So many uncles, aunts, cousins, all living side by side. For Manjula, who had never had even one complete family, it seemed a dream come true.
And the way they dressed! The older ones looked dignified, the younger ones stylish, and all of them perfectly groomed. They were cultured in their manner and refined in their speech. Some of them even spoke English.
The women arranged a bath for Manjula. Wearing the sari she’d been given at the nischitartham, she came out to meet the fifty people who were there to see the bride. Among them was a petite woman of fifty—beautiful, well-groomed, with long dark silky hair—in a white sari with a fine border. Uncle Paulus jokingly introduced her to Manjula: “Amma, come here, this is our cook.” It was, in fact, Manjula’s future mother-in-law, Rathnamma, who, as a widow, could not come to see her before.
Rathnamma had been anxiously waiting to see her beloved son’s bride. She took one look, and Manjula could see the thorough disappointment.
“What is this!” Rathnamma said, turning to her sisters and sisters-in-law. “This is what you found for my son?” When she had asked her son to describe Manjula, he had told her she resembled a pretty girl they knew, and Rathnamma was pleased. Now she felt deliberately misled. “Is this the marble figurine he dreamed of marrying?” When Prabhakara Rao was a little boy, he would point to a marble figurine and tell his mother, “I will marry a girl like this.”
Paul’s wife quickly took Rathnamma’s elbow and steered her away, consoling her, “The girl is tired from the long journey.”
*
EVEN PRABHAKARA RAO HADN’T BEEN informed that his wedding was being fixed. He, too, received a telegram after it was set. This is how it came about:
Paul, Rathnamma, Satheemani, and David John were siblings, Paul being the eldest.
Rathnamma’s husband had died, and so it was Paul’s responsibility to marry off Prabhakara Rao.
Because he was the eldest living son, it was also Paul’s responsibility to marry off his own brother, David John.
Satheemani and her husband, Paulus, took sadistic pleasure in interfering with the lives of Satheemani’s widowed sister, Rathnamma, and her two naive sons, Prabhakara Rao and Percy Lawrence. For years they made sure the two boys never married and connived to condemn them to eternal bachelorhood.
Satheemani and Paulus had a daughter named Hemalatha, whom they wanted David John to marry. They were keen on this match because David John was a doctor. They went to Paul, who told them, “I cannot afford two wedding ceremonies. You have to wait until Prabhakara Rao also finds a girl.”
Because of Paul’s parsimonious stipulation, Paulus quickly settled for Manjula (she being considered, of the brides on offer, the least desirable in looks) and informed the parties by telegram.
The more Manjula learned of the circumstances surrounding her marriage, the greater her humiliation. It was a two-for-one deal for Paul: the two couples would be married in a single ceremony. And it had been arranged for the sake of David John and Hemalatha, with Manjula and Prabhakara Rao added on to save money.
Of all her new in-laws, she found David John the kindest. He addressed her as “amma,” like Satyam, and advised her, “Eat well, amma, and avoid greasy food. Sleep well, nothing to worry about.”
The morning of the wedding, Manjula felt sorry that she had no female relatives to fuss over her in front of the mirror. As she took out her sari, a girl her age came rushing in, Prabhakara Rao’s cousin Sucharitha. Sucha, as she was called, was always darting here and there like a butterfly.
“Vadina [sister-in-law], wait, wait, what are you doing? You think you have no one? You are my vadina, and I am going to get you dressed.” Sucha turned to her sisters, who were also gathered around Manjula. “Look how beautiful vadina’s skin is. So smooth, so silky, soft like butter! Her hands and feet—so divinely beautiful, they should be displayed in a museum! They are not for anyone to touch!” Sucha helped Manjula with the sari, applied makeup to her face, then combed her hair ever so gently into an elegant wedding bun. The final piece of the ensemble was brought in, a white lace veil.
Manjula said firmly, almost harshly, “No. No veil.”
When this news spread, women from both houses came running in. Holding their chins between their index fingers and thumbs, they gasped, “What, what, no veil?”
Manjula repeated, “No veil.”
In the other room, Hemalatha was being fussed over by her sisters, mother, aunts. When she heard the news, she threw a tantrum. “Well! If she’s not going to wear a veil, I am not either.”
Knowing how much Hemalatha had dreamed all her life of wearing the veil, the women begged Manjula to change her mind. “If one bride veils and the other doesn’t, where is the symmetry?”
Manjula gave in.
She went outside escorted by Prasanna Rao and Carey. They gaped at the sight of a car decked in roses, lilies, and chrysanthemums waiting to take them to the church. They had never ridden in a car before. Even the kammas they knew didn’t use cars in their wedding processions.
As the two couples entered the church, the organist assumed his position, held his hands poised over the keys for a moment, and began to play his solemn music. The congregants fell silent and got to their feet.
Paul’s wife, Graceamma, and Prasanna Rao walked Manjula to the altar, where the two couples were to stand before the pastor side by side. As Manjula passed by him, she spotted Rama Rao sitting among Prabhakara Rao’s guests. She was pleasantly surprised to see her aunt Nagarathnamma and all Manjula’s six cousins sitting in the front row. Her cousin Sarojini acted as Manjula’s bridesmaid, but as Sarojini was a medical student, she was too dignified to perform a bridesmaid’s subservient duties and merely stood beside Manjula. Sarojini didn’t even lift the bride’s veil when the time came for the groom to tie the three knots around her neck. With those three knots, Manjula was irrevocably married. The final prayers were said. “O Lord, guide this young woman and this young man to lead a moral life.” Manjula clearly heard Aunt Nagarathnamma sniggering from the front row: “Oh, come off it! He’s not so young a man!” Manjula realized she had never been told Prabhakara Rao’s age.
David and Hemalatha got into one car. When the second car drove up, a man came up and asked Manjula and Prabhakara Rao to step in. The polite man, completely bald, was probably fifteen years older than Prabhakara Rao, in Manjula’s estimation. Prabhakara Rao introduced him to Manjula, telling her, “This is my younger brother Percy.”
Manjula almost dropped her bouquet in panic. “Baboy!” she thought. “Younger brother? This old, bald man is a younger brother to my husband? This whole wedding is so shameful.”
She couldn’t get over the shabby way her family had gone about getting her married. All along, all they had wanted was to find some man and get rid of her fast. When the Prabhakara Rao match seemed to have fallen through, Rama Rao said right in front of her, “Let it go. Even if Prabhakara Rao does not want Papa, he has a brother, we can offer her to him.” And look at this brother Rama Rao had been talking about! He looked to be forty, forty-five years old.
Manjula stayed silent in the car. By the time they reached the photo studio, she had forgotten all about her grievances. Percy treated her with great respect, just like in the Sarat novels she read growing up. He was the younger brother-in-law character in those novels with whom the heroine would form a close bond. It was already revealing itself, the beautiful, loving family of her dreams.
On that day, Manjula acquired a new family that included not just her husband but her mother-in-law and brother-in-law: Prabhakara Rao (who was to lean on her in adversity), her mother-in-law (whom she was to respect and take care of), her brother-in-law (whom she was to love and find a wife for), and herself. In this new family of h
ers, there was no room for her father or brothers. They were all receding from her life, even Satyam.
In the photo studio, against the background of a false marble pillar, the four of them stood, the grooms in their suits and ties (no man in Manjula’s family ever wore a suit) and the brides in their white silk saris and veils, with bouquets in one hand and the other in the hook of the groom’s arm. Prabhakara Rao was smiling in his charming way, from ear to ear. They took a photo, a photo of their lives.
In the afternoon the feast was held under the colorful wedding tent. Many goats gave their lives for that meal. Those pukka houses of Prabhakara Rao’s family that Manjula was in awe of were nonetheless in the middle of a filthy slum and surrounded by hutments. Facing the tent was a large public lavatory equipped with ten holes in the floor. The area swarmed with millions of flies, and every now and then the smell of shit wafted over the feast.
In the evening, the brides had to change their saris for what was called a reception. Prabhakara Rao’s family had already boasted to one and all that Manjula had a “double M.A.” To show off to the guests, they asked Manjula to say something in English. She was terrified, but thought fast and giggled and blurted out, “Thank you for your attendance.” All the guests waited, but she said no more. She felt ashamed of not measuring up to the family’s expectations and started to reproach herself. The correct word, she knew, was not attendance, but presence.
The next morning, Manjula observed a stream of neighbors and relatives knocking on the door of the Gidla household, asking back what they had lent the family for the wedding. One by one, right before her eyes, the furnishings that so impressed her disappeared: the chairs the guests had sat in, even the bed Manjula had slept in, belonged to someone else. The cups, saucers, and plates had come from the people who lived in the house behind. In the end, not even four plates were left for the four of them: Rathnamma, Percy Lawrence, Prabhakara Rao, and Manjula. The family had put on a show, and now the show was over. Despite their large, pukka house—which Manjula later learned belonged to Paul—they were as poor as her own family.
According to custom, after the reception the couple leaves for the bride’s home.
Satyam, Maniamma, and Santhamma received them at Veeravalli. The celebration there was a simple prayer meeting with fifty people and a small feast.
The consummation ritual had to be postponed because Manjula was having her period, but her family allowed the couple to sit alone. They didn’t talk much, and after a long silence he tentatively touched her hand. She became like a stone. It was a new feeling. She didn’t respond or touch him back. After some time, they went to their separate beds.
The next day, despite Manjula’s period, the couple was allowed to sleep together. As Uncle David had warned Manjula, it was painful.
In the morning, Manjula could not look her father or brothers in the eye. She avoided them now that she’d found out what a man is like and what he is equipped with.
During a stroll by the river the next day, Manjula found out her husband was seven and a half years older than her. Outraged, she stopped in the middle of the path. “What kind of nonsense is this! Why was I not told you were so old!” He told her to calm down. She saw he was embarrassed and did not pursue the matter, but it continued to bother her.
After a week in Veeravalli, the couple returned to Kakinada, where they were to live in Prabhakara Rao’s family compound with the rest of his extended family. An upstairs room had been set aside for the two of them to sleep in. In the morning, as Prabhakara Rao descended, Uncle Paul asked him in English, “Ha, nephew, how did you fare?”
He blushed, yet replied, in English, “I did very well, thank you.”
Prabhakara Rao’s cousins on his father’s side invited the couple to the nearby town of Rajahmundry, where Manjula went to sleep and the rest played cards. Prabhakara Rao, after losing awhile, came in to the bedroom, kissed his wife’s foot for good luck, and went back to the game.
Manjula was not sure yet if her marriage was a good one, but after the first time sleeping with her husband she began to crave physical intimacy. She liked the feel of her husband. She didn’t like to be apart from him, even for a second. Wherever he went, she would go; wherever he sat, she would sit; and if he was talking to someone, she would stand next to him, clinging to his side. When he left her alone to go hunting with his friends, she moped. She discovered that he loved going hunting more than anything else in the world.
After the monthlong wedding celebration, it was time for them to return to work. Prabhakara Rao went back to Anantapur and Manjula to Guntur, hopeful that they would soon manage to find jobs in the same city and live together.
Manjula’s principal’s wedding present to her was ousting orders: she would not be rehired for the coming academic year. Luckily she found another post as a lecturer in the night college in Vijayawada.
In a rickshaw on her way to the college one day, she looked at the furniture in the shop windows on Bunder Road and thought, “Whatever my life has been so far, my future is going to be fine. I have a husband. Soon I will set up a home. In that home—see those sofas in that shop—I will put such sofas in my house.”
Four months after their marriage, Prabhakara Rao finally found a job for Manjula in Anantapur. A month later she was pregnant.
Her morning sickness was severe. She stopped going to the latrine because the filth made her nauseous. Nowhere in the whole city was there a clean lavatory. She developed constipation. When she tried a laxative, she began to miscarry. The doctors managed to save the pregnancy and confined her to bed rest for a few weeks. Prabhakara Rao could not help because he did not know how to make a cup of tea, let alone cook. They went hungry. The house was in shambles, strewn with trash and unwashed clothes.
Their first Christmas together, with Manjula two months pregnant, Carey visited, carrying presents. He took charge of the household, cleaned and cooked. As long as he stayed, they ate well. When the time came for him to leave, he took Prabhakara Rao aside and gave him valuable advice. “I saw how you treat my sister.” Carey had seen her sitting cuddled up in Prabhakara Rao’s lap for hours. “Women should never be treated so kindly. You need to treat them sternly; otherwise, they climb on your head and sit there.”
Carey had to leave before the couple were able to look after themselves again. So Rathnamma came to stay with them. She not only cooked and cleaned but combed Manjula’s hair and set out her own saris for Manjula to wear at work. She wanted her daughter-in-law to be healthy and look good. An ideal, loving relationship seemed to be forming between the two women.
During her morning sickness, Manjula always clung to her husband. Rathnamma, being old-fashioned, did not approve. She also feared that her new daughter-in-law, with her double M.A., would push her into a corner, usurping her authority as mistress of the household and relegating her to an insignificant position. Things soured between them.
Anantapur is a city in Rayalaseema, a region in Andhra known sardonically as Rallaseema—“terrain of rocks.” The sun blazes down year-round on the dry, cracked earth strewn with boulders. One hot night, when Prabhakara Rao took a chair outside for Manjula to sleep on, Rathnamma could not believe her eyes. “You emasculated bugger, you carry chairs for your wife now?”
Right in front of Manjula’s eyes, her husband transformed into a monster. He looked like a different person when enraged: face red, nostrils aflare, hair bristling. He had to restrain himself from attacking his mother. Instead he called her unmentionable names. Prabhakara Rao could not tolerate being called effeminate.
Rathnamma did not want to stay. Prabhakara Rao refused to take her back to Kakinada. Manjula, eight months pregnant, had to accompany her.
When Manjula returned, the heat was worse. There was no air inside. She asked her husband to set up a chair outside. He said no. She tried to set it up herself. He said, “No, you stay inside.”
“I cannot breathe, please.”
He shouted “No!”
She was scared to utter another word.
Manjula panicked. She, who prayed only in direst need, began to pray. “O Lord Jesus, what should I do, I cannot breathe. This man says I cannot sleep outside.” Suddenly she started saying, “I am not going to live.” She knew this was the end of her life, hers and her baby’s. This was their last day on this earth.
At that moment, rain began to fall. The rain that visits Rayalaseema once in a decade. The earth cooled down.
Carey returned to take Manjula to Warangal for her delivery. There were no clean clothes to pack. He said, “We have no time.” He gathered all the dirty clothes to wash in Warangal. When they left, Prabhakara Rao didn’t say goodbye, let alone give her any money, even for her ticket.
In Khazipet, her brothers treated her as if she were a princess. When she went into labor, they took her to St. Ann’s Hospital. By the time she delivered the baby—a tiny girl—Manjula desperately needed sleep. But she was filled with so much joy that sleep wouldn’t come, and besides, she was afraid to miss a single, precious moment. Satyam’s son Siddhartha, seven years old, came to look at the baby. He fell in love with the baby’s feet, always touching, caressing, and kissing them, exclaiming delightedly all the while. Nancharayya came to see the baby. “Papa, your daughter is going to be a star. What a beautiful girl! Look at her fingers! She’s going to be an artist, a pianist.”
Carey sent their father a telegram. A month passed with no response. Maniamma looked after Manjula. For the first time, Manjula admitted to Satyam, “I should have believed you. You really did marry her for the sake of our family.”
But the situation would soon be turned upside down when Satyam refused to allow Maniamma to accompany Manjula to Anantapur. Maniamma’s heart was set on seeing the new city.
So Maniamma went on strike. She stopped cooking and taking care of her own children, including her six-month-old son. She climbed on a cot and covered her face with a sheet. It was chaos: a houseful of children wailing, unfed, unwashed. Carey had to take over. He was physically exhausted, and with Manjula’s hospital bills the family was financially exhausted as well.
Ants Among Elephants Page 24
