Motherland

by Vineeta Vijayaraghavan

  “What is it, Brindha?” my aunt said.

  “Look over there, see behind those trees. I think Sushmila Jain is there!”

  “Who’s Sushmila Jain?” I said. The driver had stopped short and leapt out of the car and was standing at the edge of the road. In the clearing outside Brindha’s window, a herd of people came into focus. There were women wearing full peasant skirts and carrying baskets of vegetables on their heads. There were men wearing turbans and white kurta pajamas with their hands clasped behind their backs holding hoes. They lined up in two rows facing each other, not moving.

  “What are they farming?” I asked.

  Brindha and Reema auntie burst into laughter.

  “It’s a movie, Maya,” Reema auntie said. “Many movies are filmed in Ooty—that’s all that’s up here besides boarding schools and summer resorts.”

  Brindha said, “That’s Sushmila, over there, the tall beautiful one. Amma, can we get out of the car, please, so we can see better?”

  “We need to get going,” Reema auntie said, even though she said this without herself turning away from the window.

  “Just for one song?” Brindha asked. Reema auntie nodded and we all got out of the car.

  The crew was trailing behind the actors and still setting up their equipment, and the director shouted for a run through of the scene. The two lines of men and women began a dance routine, the women dancing around their baskets, the men running off with them, the women running after the men, the men returning the baskets but only in exchange for a chance to hold their hands. Meanwhile, the star Sushmila Jain, who was wearing a sari rather than a peasant skirt, danced amidst her entourage, accompanied by a man with slick hair and black knee-high boots. They mouthed verses to each other, and then the peasant men and women mouthed the refrains. The songs would be added in later, but to help the dancers keep time, loud instrumental music crackled from two speakers. Sushmila Jain shrieked when one of the cameramen came up to her and dumped a bucket of water over her head. They started the dance routine over again, Sushmila’s pink chiffon sari now stuck to her body, her long untied hair gleaming wetly in the sun.

  “I guess the water was cold,” Brindha giggled.

  Reema auntie snorted, “Honestly, these movies are ridiculous.”

  “Jayalalitha wants Sushmila to join her party,” Brindha said. Jayalalitha, who had been a film star before becoming a politician, had become Chief Minister of the state of Tamil Nadu last week. The previous state government had been dismissed because it was suspected of aiding the Tamil Tiger cause. Jayalalitha and her party were suspected only of general corruption.

  “I wish some of our film stars would just stay film stars and do what they know how to do,” Reema auntie said.

  “Amma, won’t you let me ask for Sushmila’s autograph since she might even become our next Chief Minister?” Brindha asked.

  Reema auntie snorted. “Definitely not. Let’s go,” she said.

  WE TUMBLED OUT of the car an hour later, in front of a trim white bungalow. It was a guesthouse of Sanjay uncle’s company, where my aunt and uncle stayed when they made overnight trips to visit Brindha at school.

  My aunt said, “It might be occupied by some other company people right now, so be polite. We’ll just stop in and have tea and change.”

  Reema auntie walked onto the porch, and a servant came to the door. He took our things and brought us inside. The sitting room had a high ceiling with two overhead fans swirling lazily.

  “Do you know who’s staying here right now?” she asked.

  The servant said, “It is a Mrs. Sangeetha Ayengar and her mother, mem.”

  “Sangeetha’s here? How lovely, I didn’t know. Please tell her she has some surprise visitors then. And I think we’ll have our tea now—we’re in somewhat of a rush.”

  The servant came back with tea things, and then a woman wearing a housecoat floated into the room, hugging each of us effusively.

  “God, I’m not even dressed, I was just napping, but how wonderful to see you, Reema!” Sangeetha auntie tried to smooth out the many creases in her housecoat. Her eyes were lined with thick black kajal that had gotten smudgy in sleep and, on her unusually sallow skin, gave her a haunted quality. Sangeetha auntie’s husband had worked with Sanjay uncle some years ago.

  “Brindha’s so grown up, I haven’t seen her in at least a year. And, Maya, do you know, I saw you last when you were such a little girl, three I think, living with your grandmother—you would hide in her sari folds when anyone new came to the house. Do you remember?”

  I shook my head and smiled. I didn’t remember her. I did remember being shy, not liking new people.

  “How is Grandmother now, 1 hope she’s keeping in good health? We all adored her in our old neighborhood.”

  Reema auntie said, “She’s doing well, she had some heart trouble last summer, and high blood pressure generally, but she’s been living with us up in the mountains, and it seems to suit her.”

  “My husband says that’s one of the best postings, he’s put it on his list for his next transfer. And my mother, too, is living with me, perhaps we will all be in the same place one day again.”

  Brindha made funny faces at me over the top of her teacup.

  “It’s boring here, there are no kids to play with,” she whispered.

  “Brindha, why don’t you and Maya go get dressed in auntie’s room,” Reema auntie said. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  Brindha changed into her uniform, blue stiff cotton, with a white shirt underneath. And black buckle mary jane shoes with white socks. Reema auntie changed from a sal-war kameez to a sari and put on lipstick and powder and lined her eyes in black. I changed to a new salwar kameez, and wore the earrings that Brindha had asked me to wear, two big sparkling silver stars.

  “I don’t think this looks good with Indian clothes, Brindha,” I said. I undid the clasp to remove them.

  “The girls at school will think it’s cool. Trust me, Maya, okay?” Brindha said. “Don’t you want to make a good impression for my sake?”

  I thought of how I interrogated my mother on what she was going to wear before each swim meet she came to.

  “And look, Maya, I brought your scarf,—I knew you’d forget it and I want you to wear it.”

  “Brindha, that’s not going to look right.” It was a red silky scarf that she must have taken from my suitcase. I often twisted it through my belt loops at home and occasionally wore it over my shoulder. I gave in and let her tie it around my neck the way she wanted, Cub Scout-style.

  Sangeetha auntie had come into the bedroom too. “Reema, you almost let me forget, I was going to show you the fabulous necklace that new jeweler made for me. If you like it, ask San jay and then let me know if you want to meet him next time you come down here. I’ll just get it.”

  Sangeetha auntie brought from her closet a bright green plastic box. Inside on two pins lay a heavy gold necklace with paisley cuts.

  “My mother has that same box, maybe she’s been to the same shop,” I said. I had seen green boxes like that cluttering her dresser at home.

  “This box?” Sangeetha auntie held it up. “These are just cheap plastic, all the jewelry stores use them.”

  Reema auntie said, “Sangeetha, you should see the beautiful boxes Maya’s mother brings me from New York, stores there wrap everything so handsomely, with ribbons and velvet and tissue, even if you’ve just bought a barrette.”

  Sangeetha auntie did not look impressed. “With our jewelry, you aren’t paying for fancy decor in the jeweler’s shop or fancy packaging. You pay by the weight of the gold. Feel this.”

  She took the necklace off the pins and put it in my hands. It was heavy, like a whole rollful of quarters from the bank.

  “When I was your age, I had necklaces already, as fine as this, from my father and mother. But only now, after buying for our three daughters, now that they are married, have I accepted my first one from my husband. “

  I hoped
the collar of my salwar kameez covered the thin gold chain I was wearing. It was so thin it was more like a shiny piece of thread, really. Steve had given it to me last Valentine’s Day. I’d never seen him so bashful before, and I was too surprised seeing him like that to be as appreciative as I should have been. He couldn’t have known that in our tradition, necklaces are more important than rings, my mother would take off her wedding band to do dishes or check the oil in the car, but she never took off her wedding necklace. I wore my necklace almost all the time, sometimes at night I reached up inside my T-shirt to glide the tiny links back and forth between my fingers.

  “I hope your mother has been putting away some things for your special day?” Sangeetha auntie said, holding the box open for me to put the necklace back.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You don’t know? Well, what does your horoscope say? When is the right year for your marriage?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t think I have a horoscope,” I stammered, looking to Reema auntie for help.

  “Nonsense, everyone has a horoscope; your mother would have seen to it when you were born. Reema, what does her horoscope say?”

  Reema auntie didn’t look at me, “Actually, Maya doesn’t have a horoscope, her mother didn’t want it done.”

  Not having a birth-chart, or horoscope, in India was like missing a basic appendage. Families commissioned a horoscope based on the date and time of their children’s birth to guide them in every endeavor: what subjects to study, what medicines to take, what gods to propitiate, what husbands to marry. My mother had not made one for me, and I hated when it came up in conversation.

  Sometimes I lied and made up a horoscope for myself, I knew what star I was born under, and I would just adapt the formulaic things I’d seen written in cheap Indian tabloids. But I couldn’t lie to Sangeetha auntie, not with Reema auntie right there who knew the truth.

  “Oh,” Sangeetha auntie said. She looked perplexed. “But then how will she marry?”

  Reema auntie said, “Hopefully, we’ll find a family who doesn’t follow these things.”

  “Oh,” Sangeetha auntie said again. She looked unconvinced and patted my cheek in a pitying way. “Oh, well, then 1 can’t really help. But I’m sure you’ll find someone suitable.”

  WE DROVE INTO the carport at Helena’s and were greeted by a line of tall girls, most wearing saris, some salwar kameezes.

  “I can’t wait to be in the upper school and not have to wear this stupid uniform,” Brindha complained. One of the upper-school girls was dispatched to take us to Brindha’s hostel and introduce Brindha to her bunkmates for the year. There was silence among eleven watchful girls while the upper-school girl helped Brindha open her suitcase. A teacher checked off a list of requirements—three white shirts, two blue skirts, two blue dresses, two sweaters, one exercise outfit, etc.—and the girl held Brindha’s clothes up for inspection. The teacher and the girl conferred over a few items, and when they were in agreement on everything, Brindha was allowed to put her things away in her assigned bureau.

  Reema auntie was asking a teacher some questions, and they walked out into the hall. As soon as the adults were at a safe distance, Brindha’s bunkmates crowded around us. “So what did you bring for your cigar box?” they asked.

  Each girl was allowed one cigar box to keep mementos and trinkets in. Brindha had thought hard over the last few days about what she wanted to bring to school this year. She had pasted scraps of wrapping paper around the outside of the box, and on the lid Reema auntie had drawn a picture of our house. This is what Brindha showed them as she took each item out of the box and lined them up on her bed: her red velvet-covered collar for her dog; a hotel soap carved like a conch shell from a weekend beach holiday to Cape Comoran; a photo of Ammamma from when she was young, black-haired, and shy; a pink embroidered handkerchief of Reema auntie’s; a glitter pen that Sanjay uncle had brought from Bombay; and a shiny black locket.

  The girls seemed to approve of Brindha’s choices. They listened hungrily as Brindha described the new posh hotel in Cape Comoran where she saw not one but two movie stars. She agreed to let another girl try out the glitter pen to make a “We Miss You” card for a girl who this year had been separated from them for too much troublemaking and put in an older girls’ hostel where she could be constantly supervised.

  The upper-class girl, who had quietly rejoined the group, grabbed the black locket off the bed and asked sharply, “Where did you get this?”

  Brindha answered airily, “I just found it somewhere.”

  “Do you know what this is?” the upper-class girl said grimly. She said she’d seen them on the news, these Tamil Tiger lockets. She kept poking at the locket until she found a spring release that unveiled a cyanide capsule wedged inside. She threatened to give the locket to the headmistress. Brindha begged her not to. She hadn’t meant anything by it, and it was only the first day of the new term. The upper-class girl dropped the locket into her blouse as the teacher walked back in to summon the girls to the storeroom to collect their textbooks for classes. Then Reema auntie reappeared and whisked me off with her for an appointment with the headmistress.

  I could tell by watching Reema auntie dry her clammy hands in a crumpled handkerchief that she was nervous. We sat in Miss Granville’s office for fifteen minutes before she even came in, and when she did she hardly looked at us. Standing at her window, looking off into the distance, she said tersely, “I don’t usually like to meet with parents on the first day because there are pressing things that need my attention.”

  “Yes, well, I won’t take up too much of your time, Miss Granville, there’s just one thing …” Reema auntie said. Reema auntie had asked the doctor and he said it would be better if Brindha could have a glass of milk every day rather than every other day the way the school scheduled it.

  “So, let me see what you are asking, Mrs. Pillai,” Miss Granville said. “Just your daughter is to have this special dispensation because her bones are more important than all the other girls’?”

  “Well, no, the other girls should have equal treatment,” Reema auntie said, weakly.

  “So then the whole school is to undergo this additional expense because one doctor has it in his head that we should do something differently? Do you know all the parents who come to see me, Mrs. Pillai, asking for the girls to have castor oil once a week or sweet potatoes with supper or only wheat flour no rice flour or only rice flour no wheat flour?”

  “Yes, but—” Reema auntie was cut off.

  “1 shall take it under advisement, Mrs. Pillai.” Miss Granville stood up, dismissing us.

  Brindha came to say good-bye to us at the carport. When Reema auntie turned to give some instructions to the driver, Brindha pulled me aside.

  “Maya, there is a girl in my grade who is the cousin of that upper-class girl. She says she will get the locket back and make sure I don’t get in trouble if I give her what she wants,” Brindha said.

  “What is it?"I said.

  “She wants your earrings. We can’t wear earrings at school, but she wants to have them for her cigar box. I don’t want to get in trouble already. Please, Maya,” she said.

  I took off my earrings and gave them to her and she jumped up and hugged me.

  “Where did you get the locket?” I asked.

  “I took it from Rupa—she kept her things in my room. I know what everyone says about the Tigers, but Rupa would never hurt anyone. You won’t say anything to Amma, please?” Brindha said. I was tackled in another hug. There wasn’t time to ask even the obvious questions. Since Rupa had left the house anyway, it was not that hard to do what Brindha wanted and not tell. Telling would inevitably involve those smug, self-important men from the airport. I didn’t feel like seeing, or helping, any of them.

  Brindha was downcast and quiet saying good-bye to her mother. Reema auntie waved cheerily to Brindha as we drove out of sight.

  We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then Re
ema auntie asked the driver to stop the car. She asked if I could sit up front so she could have the back seat, she said she wasn’t feeling very well.

  “You don’t mind do you, Maya dear?” she said.

  I moved to the front seat, not looking at the driver. I was conscious of his dark-skinned, hair-covered arm with the sleeve rolled up to the elbow, lying between us, loosely gripping the gearshift.

  Reema auntie lay down in the back, her arm up over her eyes, and cried quietly. Hearing her, I thought: So that is what it would be like to have a mother who loved you. When she had stopped crying, she slept. For the seven hours homeward, I stayed awake, afraid that in sleep I might make an odd expression or look disheveled, or even accidentally lean into the driver’s arm. I was too embarrassed to take off my shoes or open buttons at the neck of my salwar kameez to feel cooler in the heat. I tried to keep before me what I had observed about how to conduct one-self around servants, how to project the sense of being the mistress of the house. I sat straight and still and quiet into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Secret Garden

  REEMA AUNTIE’S GARDEN was full of what my mother called illegitimate children. Some of Reema auntie’s rose bushes had five kinds of roses on the same bush. My mother kept trying this at home, but the grafts wouldn’t take. She had a pathetic-looking branch with other buds taped onto it, like something a kid would do, believing in alchemy. She attempted to re-create a tropical garden—lilies, jasmine, curry leaves, hot peppers—brought from Texas, Florida, Louisiana. Each of our three vacations to Disneyworld included excursions to nurseries and hothouses.

  No one brought plants to the U.S. from India because it was against the law, and it was a credible fear that we would bring some plague or pestilence to the Western hemisphere that had never been seen there before. But everyone drew the line at different places; one friend of my mother’s brought seeds, but not plants, and some others would sneak plants from Mexico but not from India, arguing that airborne and waterborne diseases traveled back and forth across that border anyway. My mother didn’t finesse; she just worked within her constraints, telling us that that was a certain feat in itself, to re-create India from all things American.