When the Lotus Blooms

by Kanchana Krishnan Ayyar

  “Stop trying to please. That is how she is, and that is how she was brought up. She learned all of that from her mother. You know about her don’t you?”

  “Orukai Rukminiammal? Yes, Partha always talks about her. He is so proud of her, always saying how amazed he was that a lone woman could run the plantation singlehanded.”

  Orukai Rukminiammal. Everyone spoke of her with respect. Rajam had heard different stories from everyone in the family and in her mind pieced together a fine image of what she must have been like.

  Rajam knew that Rukminiammal married into a very wealthy family of landowners, Mirazdars, who owned land as far as the eye could see. Rukminiammal was widowed early in life and her only daughter, Nagamma, with five children—four sons and a daughter— moved in with her. She ran the farm with an iron hand. She was everywhere: in the fields, in the cowshed, at the market, or handling the accounts. In addition, she cooked for her family and cared for her daughter, instilling in her values of honesty, diligence and the benefits of incessant hard work.

  In spite of their wealth, the family lived a simple lifestyle. The house was large with ample space for everyone. Behind the house was a huge cowshed with thirty-forty cows. Till her last days, Rukminiammal milked the cows, even though there were many cowhands hired for that very purpose. Rajam wondered how she did that, considering she had only one hand.

  Perhaps Sushila was right in saying Nagamma inherited this streak of dominance from her mother, whom she saw as the powerful matriarch, always in control. All this in spite of having only one hand, which was what gave her the name Oru kai Ammal — the one-handed mother. Rukminiammal was almost a legend in that area and there were many anecdotes explaining the mysterious loss of her hand.

  “I say, Sushila, do you know the actual story behind her missing hand?”

  “Hmm… not really; several stories float around but Nagamma said something about her chasing a thief through the fields, only to have her hand cut off with a giant aruvaal in the ensuing struggle. The curved knife sliced her arm below the elbow and it was a miracle she survived.” Rajam winced at this new tidbit on the matriarch.

  Sushila rubbed her swollen belly and straightened her back, grimacing in pain.

  “What is it? Sushila; are you alright?” asked Rajam.

  “Nothing. I thought I felt pain in my belly and back but it was just a spasm and it has passed now. Getting back to Nagamma, she may be strong like her mother but she is certainly not generous. At the plantation, on the front thinnai, there were three large earthen jars: one was filled with water, the second with buttermilk and the third with pazhayadu. Anyone passing by could drink and eat out of these jars irrespective of their caste, be they farm laborers, or visitors.”

  Rajam jumped to attention as she was reminded of an unfinished chore. “Thanks for reminding me. I have to soak the old rice in water for the men to have pazhayadu tomorrow.” As she scampered off, Sushila muttered, “Rajam, Rajam, always worried about doing this and doing that. You can never sit still for a moment.”

  Later, the family was relaxing on the terrace after the evening meal enjoying the cool breeze and moonlight, a routine they followed before retiring for the night. Rajam could not focus on the conversation. She was anxious because she knew that tonight was her turn to use the bedroom. The house had only one bedroom with any semblance of privacy and the two brothers took turns using it.

  While Rajam lit the lantern, Sushila rolled out the bedrolls in the central hall. Nagamma slept in the middle with her sons and husband on one side and the daughters-in-law and grandchild on the other. Rajam was sweating profusely. The humidity was high but more importantly, she was waiting for the evening drama to unfold. While everyone lay down, Partha stood in one corner of the room, fidgeting and edgy, waiting to catch his mother’s eye for permission to use the room. Watching his discomfort, Rajam closed her eyes tight, wishing that magically she were somewhere else, not having to go through this. Nagamma was aware of Partha desperately signaling to her but took her own sweet time to acknowledge his presence. With a sheepish smile, he bent his head, his palms pressed together, almost begging for permission. Only his eyes reflected his embarrassment. Rajam noticed the two younger boys exchange meaningful looks.

  “Hmm…Pohalaam,” Nagamma said finally, to Partha’s relief. Partha stood at the doorway of the bedroom, now signaling to Rajam. Her heart fluttering, Rajam raised her eyes to look at Nagamma for her consent. But Nagamma had turned her back to Rajam, and now she was forced to verbalize her request, which she did in an almost inaudible whisper. “Pohalaamaa Amma?” Pretending she didn’t hear, Nagamma didn’t reply, making Rajam repeat her question, this time a little louder. The two boys sniggered, taking pleasure in watching her squirm. Beads of perspiration formed on Rajam’s upper lip. She felt like a sparrow trapped in the coils of a boa constrictor, never knowing if she would be crushed or allowed to fly free. Would the serpent be in a benevolent mood and assent, or would she take pleasure in demeaning her? The silence in the room was deafeningand everyone had their ears perked waiting for Nagamma’s decision. “Hmmm…” Nagamma said at last, signaling with her hand that Rajam could go. Blushing in embarrassment, Rajam slunk out of her bed and headed towards the room. As she reached the doorway Nagamma added, “Only because I want that grandchild,” reminding Rajam that sex was for procreation, not for pleasure.

  Rajam’s face turned red. She hated sexual references, especially coming from Nagamma. It took away from the joy of intimacy. She could hear the boys muffling their laughter and her shame was overwhelming. This was the only time she and Partha could be alone, and Nagamma controlled that part of their lives too. It was as if her whole life centered on Nagamma and not her husband. Amma was wrong. Your husband was not the most important person for a married woman; it was your mother-in-law.

  As she closed the door behind her, she turned to Partha, “Yenna, please don’t do it more than once. I have to go out and bathe each time. Last week after you made me bathe three times in one night, the boys were giving me looks the next morning, and Sushila commented too. I have been sneezing all of last week because of the cold water baths.” Nagamma told her that it was divine punishment for her carnal sins but Rajam didn’t want to complain to Partha about his mother and spoil a perfectly good evening.

  But Partha did make her bathe twice that night, and as she walked to the well and stared at the cold water, she cursed her destiny. Crouching down, she poured the water over her body as silently as possible. Even so, each splash shattered the silence of the night, the sound symbolizing her shame. She was sure to hear a comment tomorrow about this, but that would happen tomorrow and she would deal with it then. She was too tired and needed to sleep. When Rajam crawled back into bed, Partha was snoring. Grateful for the reprieve, Rajam closed her eyes, hoping to get a few hours of rest before the activity of the morning began.

  CHAPTER 3 – RAJAM

  VIZHUPURAM –1934

  “Come on. Clean up. What are you dawdling around for?” Nagamma’s voice boomed. Not wanting to hear anything more, Rajam quickly cleared the banana leaves and threw them in the garbage. She swabbed the floor, making absolutely sure there was not one morsel anywhere. Satisfied with her handiwork, she wiped her wet hands on her sari and ran in to get a quick word with Partha before he left for work.

  Rajam watched Partha dress in a white veshti, the muslin lower garment and a crisp white shirt. She handed him the angavastram and he draped the top cloth on his wide shoulders. Rajam watched him apply vibuthi, drawing three straight lines across his forehead with the sacred ash. Fragrant chandanam and bright vermillion kumkumam he drew in perfectconcentric circles in the center of his forehead. Partha noticed her looking at him and tried to steal a forbidden kiss but Rajam pushed him away in panic.

  “Yenna, can I go and visit my parents this month? I haven’t seen them in a while.” Before Partha could respond, they heard a wail from the kitchen. The family converged there from all corners of the h
ouse, where, to everyone’s horror, Sushila was supine on the floor, lying in a pool of blood. She was only in her seventh month and the baby wasn’t due yet.

  Nagamma took charge, ordering Siva to carry her to the room, while Kannan ran to fetch the midwife. Amidst feverish activity around her, Sushila was screaming in pain. Everyone was running around trying to help but not managing to actually do anything. The contractions had begun in earnest, and Nagamma was absorbed in the task of cleaning her while Rajam prepared hot water as they waited for the midwife to arrive.

  Vizhupuram was a small town and the Ayurvedic Vaidhyar was the medicine man for everyone, making potions, or kashaayams, out of different herbs. The midwife took care of all pregnancies, assisted ably by the older and more experienced women of the household. With no doctors nearby who practiced western style medicineand the nearest available hospital two hundred miles away in the city, there was no viable option other than calling the midwife. It was a long two-day trip by bullock cart to see an ‘English Doctor.’ Siva knew they didn’t have time to make that trip. Instead, they would have to rely on the midwife’s expertise. He was afraid because he knew childbirth was the most common reason for mortality in women, especially after delivery, when they were particularly vulnerable to many infections after giving birth in a dark room with no fresh air or sunlight. Siva lost his first wife during childbirth. When the baby was born, her grandmother insisted that she not bathe for eighteen days, as this was considered to be an unclean period. Especially weak after childbirth, this increased her propensity for disease and infection, ultimately resulting in her untimely death.

  Once the midwife arrived, everyone was shooed out of the room. It did not look good. Siva was silent, staring out of the window. The death of his first wife made him more afraid for Sushila. He closed his eyes and prayed she should not follow in her sister’s footsteps, who died under most unfortunate circumstances. Balu, his first-born male child survived, and Siva was forced to remarry so this child could get a mother’s love. After a lot of pressure from his mother, he married his wife’s sister Sushila, so there would be no jealousy if the new wife had other children. And now this. Would Sushila survive? The neighbors were already gossiping in hushed whispers about Siva being a wife killer. Siva thought to himself: Jackals may howl but why should the moon care? Sushila took very good care of Baluand now she was eagerly expecting her own children. She was patient and loving and did not deserve a miscarriage.

  Siva marveled at destiny. He was only twenty-three years old and already married twice. He must have done something awful in his previous life to deserve so much heartbreak. Times were bad in Vizhupuramand it was difficult to get a well-paying job. He could not think of moving away, as it was his salary that largely contributed to the family income. Partha did not earn very much as a schoolteacher, and the other brothers were still too young. His father lacked initiative, content with the job he held for years. The morning had taken off on an even note and in minutes the whole situation had changed.

  After what seemed an eternity, the midwife came out and told them the baby was stillborn but the mother was doing well. There was partial relief for the family. At least God spared Sushila’s life and as for the child, it was not destined to live. It was their fate, or karma, and one had to accept all events — good or bad — as part of Lord Krishna’s Leela, his cosmic game. Nothing was in their hands; everything was ultimately God’s will. Siva was despondent but he knew he would have to be strong for Sushila’s sake. Young Balu was sure to have other siblings. Right now, he needed to be composed and take charge. After all, he was the oldest son, and this was expected of him. He sighed deeply and went into the room to console Sushila.

  Part II

  Dharmu

  CHAPTER 4 – MAHADEVAN NILAKANTAN

  AYYAR (KANDU)

  DINDIGUL – OCTOBER 8TH, 1929

  The room was hot. Suffocating and hot. It was the 8th of October, and the rains had come and gone but the heat was unbearable. Gayatri filled the room with incense, knowing that the sulphur in it was healing, but Dharmu could not breathe. The pains in her belly and back were intolerable. She had been in labor for two days but the baby was not yet ready to face the world. The midwife looked worried. Dharmu was young but she had been in pain for a long time and pushing for three hours. The midwife noticed Dharmu was tired, not having eaten the whole day. The baby should come soon but this was going to be difficult labor.

  They were in the town of Porambur near Dindigul, on a plantation called the Ponni Malai Jameen. Dharmu’s father, Visvanathan Iyer, worked as the plantation manager for the local Jameendar, a landowner whose prosperity and generosity was legendary in these parts. Dharmu was here in the care of her mother, Gayatri, for the last month of her confinement. Her husband, Mahadevan, could not get away from work but was expected soon. It was customary for women to go home to their mothers’ to deliver babies and this was the third time Dharmu had come here for that very purpose. There were no doctors nearby and Visvanathan was worried. He sat outside swatting mosquitoes, asking every five minutes if Dharmu was all right. She was his only daughter; or rather his only legal daughter, and he knew that here in the countryside women died from childbirth all the time. The midwife was experienced and had delivered hundreds of babies. She was also the wife of the local Vaidhyar, the doctor who specialized in ancient herbal remedies. Maybe she would not need any of her husband’s medication and this would be over soon. It was strange. Dharmu had already safely delivered two baby girls, Vani and Rukmini. So why was her third taking so long?

  He could hear Dharmu’s pain-filled wail as she pushed through another contraction. The midwife came out of the hot, smoky room for some fresh air, while Gayatri crouched down next to Dharmu, wiping her face with a wet towel in between giving her sips of water. Another contraction. Gayatri sat her up and massaged her back gently, yelling at the same time for the midwife. The head had crowned. She could feel it. The baby’s head was very large and covered with slime and hair. Lots of hair. With a head this size, he would probably be good at Mathematics like his father, Mahadevan. One more contraction and Dharmu screamed as her perineum tore, allowing the baby’s heads to slip out. The bed was covered in blood.

  “Mama, we are almost there, the baby’s head is out. And it’s a fair baby.”

  All the time Visvanathan kept breathing heavily, asking, “Aacha? Aacha? Yenna kuzhandai? Aanaa penna? Is it over? Is it a boy or girl?” But the ladies inside were too busy to answer. In a few moments he had his answer partly, when he heard the wailing of the newborn. In relief, his body slumped into the chair but he wanted to know if it was a boy, and he yelled once again, “Aanaa penna?”

  The midwife held the baby in her arms. Ten fingers, ten toes, and yes, a generous bundle between the legs.

  “Mama aan kuzhandai!It’s a boy!” Dharmu smiled weakly and held the suckling neonate to her breast. But the bleeding would not stop. Ten saris were soaked up with blood and if this continued, Dharmu might die. The midwife went to the corner and gathered some herbs from her potlam. Then she ground them using a mortar and pestle and put them into a pot of water to boil. After filtering the mixture, she poured the liquid into a tumbler and brought it to Dharmu.

  “Drink, this will stop the bleeding.” But Dharmu couldn’t open her eyes. She had lost a lot of blood and her pulse was very weak. The midwife forced the liquid in, between her dry chapped lips. It was crucial to drink this kashaayam, this potion of herbs, if she were to heal. No one was thinking about the baby yet. The little boy was swathed in old clothes and kept on the floor while the ladies attended to the mother. Finally, after Visvanathan asked for the baby several times, his wife, Gayatri brought out the newborn and placed him in the strong, caring hands of his grandfather.

  His eyes that had been tightly closed, now opened, and Mahadevan Nilakantan Ayyar, or Kandu, as he would affectionately come to be called, got the very first look at the world he had just entered.

  CHAPTER 5 – DHARMU


  RANGPUR, EAST BENGAL – 1934

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  Dharmu came out of her bath wearing her jacket (blouse) and petticoat, her wet hair wrapped in a thin towel. She sat in front of her dressing table, the first part of her routine. Routine meant everything to her — when she bathed, how she bathed, what was soaped first and what came next. Everything had to be just so. Organizing gave some order to her life, making her feel she had control over something at least. She opened the first drawer and took out a small box in which she placed her jewels just before bathing. She picked up a soft piece of white muslin, remnants from her husband’s old veshti, which had been cut into even squares. One by one, she took out her jewelry — diamond earrings, and the eight stone diamond besari and mookuthi. She painstakingly wiped the stem of the earrings and noserings and then polished the stones. When she felt they were clean enough, she proceeded to wear them.

  It was hot in Rangpur. Even with the river nearby, the air was still, the climate always muggy. And when it rained, which was always but more so during the monsoon when the rain was incessant, the heat became unbearable.

  “Meera, dhuno laao.” Dharmu was still grappling with Bengali. Although all the servants mainly spoke Bengali, they also spoke a Bengali version of Hindi, which Dharmu didn’t understand. She could give basic instructions to the servants in Hindi but was fluent only in her mother tongue, Tamil. She ended up speaking a garbled mix of Hindi, English, with a few Bengali words thrown in.