Her fear of saamiyaars was planted when she was a child. Rajam was a bit of a tomboy and loved to run around outdoors and climb trees. Her mother, Mangalam, was exasperated with her. She worried that this wild nature would create disharmony in her married life. If she behaved like this in her mother-in-law’s house, it would only reflect on her upbringing. Girls had to behave in a controlled and modest manner, especially if they were from Brahmin Iyer families. The advent of the British had changed many things in the country, especially for Brahmins. Since they were traditionally the educated class, they took to western education and broke out of traditional apprenticeships into priesthood. Rajam and Kunju belonged to the first generation of Brahmin women to attend an English school. Swaminathan was also educated in the western tradition and believed in equal opportunities for both men and women. Mangalam tried to oppose his decision but he was firm; the girls would go to school until they were married.
Mangalam worried that Rajam was such a free spirit. She always blamed Swaminathan for encouraging the girls to express themselves too freely. Rajam was active from sunrise to sunset. She explored, questioned and chatted all day long. As soon as she awoke in the morning, Rajam would slip out of the house to play in the mango groves and climb trees. Mangalam would have to call out for her for hours and then send someone to look for her before she finally reappeared. This was not acceptable behavior for a girl. In addition to escaping household chores, Mangalam also worried about her daughter’s safety. Rajam always wore gold earrings and a gold chain around her neck. At the tender age of five, she would be easy prey for predators or thieves. Swaminathan always laughed it off, saying no one would dare touch the daughter of the Inspector of Police. But Rajam was beautiful and the village had many traveling peddlers and gypsies who did not know about her ancestry or genealogy. No matter how much Mangalam tried to reason with her, Rajam would not reform.
Finally, like all mothers, Mangalam decided she had to frighten her into obedience, and she did so by telling her that a saamiyaar would carry her away. This tactic also proved unsuccessful for a while, mainly because Rajam had never seen a saamiyaar and so was not scared of one. But that was soon to change.
Every Friday, Mangalam took her children to the neighborhood Kamakshiamman temple to offer prayers. This Friday, like every other, she bathed the two children very early and once they were all dressed, she got her pooja vessels ready. The silver flower basket was filled with a small garland of fragrant jasmine, which she had woven herself. To this, she added a coconut, betel nuts and betel leaves. Lastly, a few sticks of incense and two paise tucked into the recesses of her blouse to pay the shoe keeper and she was ready to go.
The temple was about a half mile away from the house and the stony pathway was quiet, except for the occasional bullock cart or wobbly bicycle trundling by. The road was a little busier as they approached the temple. Mangalam paused near the tall gopuram at the entrance to the temple admiring the diminishing tiers covered in stone sculpture. As Mangalam collected their slippers to be deposited with the shoe keeper, Rajam and Mani stared heavenward to see who could name a statue carved into the topmost tier of the gopuram, a game they played every Friday. They chose a different statue each week and took turns giving strange unpronounceable names to each carving.
The temple was bustling with activity. People collected at all the different altars around the central sanctum but the lines were particularly long at the sanctum sanctorum to catch a glimpse of the deity in all her finery. Mangalam lifted young Mani so that he could get a darshanam or sacred view of Goddess Kamakshiamman. The priest noticed her straining to get a look at the deity amidst a hundred oiled heads and signaled to her to come forward. He knew she was the Inspector’s wife and to everyone’s chagrin, she moved through the seething crowd to the front of the line, from where she got a clear darshanam. Mangalam gave her flower basket to the priest, who then performed a special prayer in her name.
The peace and calm came to an abrupt end when Mani loudly proclaimed he had to pee. Of course, this could not be done anywhere in the vicinity of the temple and Mangalam hurried to collect everyone and briskly walked towards home. In the meantime, Rajam hurtled down the street, intent on racing her brother. Mangalam screamed at her to stop, scaring her with the proverbial saamiyaar who was sure to kidnap her but Rajam yelled back, “There’s no saamiyaar here. I’ll see you at home. I can run faster than Mani.” And she could. As she took the next corner she ran full tilt into someone and fell backwards, her fragile head hitting the muddy floor with a thwack.
As she came to in a few seconds, she looked up at her human obstacle. Feet, large and filthy, with long curved unkempt toenails. Long never ending legs, covered in dust and ash. Her eyes took in the orange sarong-like garment over a protruding hairy stomach and then moved up to see a surprisingly contrasted skeletal chest, over which hung hundreds of rosary beads made with the sacred Rudraksha, straight from the Himalayas. And then the beard: long, black and tangled, over which was an even longer curled moustache. Fierce red eyes below a bushy unibrow. And the hair — black tangled locks. The forehead was smeared with red, yellow and grey from the sacred vibuthi, kumkumam and chandanam
From her horizontal position, all she could see was this saamiyaar outlined against the sky; his body seemed to stretch to the heavens. His face looked like that of a demon sent by the gods to scare the life out of her. Rajam stared for a moment and then as the image got transfixed in her young mind, she opened her mouth and screamed a loud and prolonged shriek. It came from the recesses of her gut, resounding and increasing in volume as it passed through her heaving chest and when it escaped from her mouth, it traveled through the air in one interminable resonant wail that continued through the rest of the day and into the wee hours of the morning. She was unaware of her mother urgently picking her up and holding her in her gentle arms. She screamed interminably, only stopping momentarily to catch her breath and once her lungs were filled, she began again. She saw the fearful saamiyaar whether her eyes were open or shut. And every time the image reappeared in her mind, she screamed. Nothing could calm her down.
By evening, she had developed a high fever and with it came hallucinations of the saamiyaar, his face distorting, laughing like a madman, his ash-smeared arms, curved talons reaching out towards her. In her delirium she clawed the air, pushing it away, screaming and crying. Mangalam and Swaminathan were helpless. The night was long and stressful, spent holding their darling baby, comforting her, promising her she was safe and that they were there for her.
But the fear never left her. It remained in the deepest recesses of her mind and came back to haunt and taunt her. It would never go away. Firmly ensconced in her subconscious, when it surfaced, it bubbled through her entire being with a visceral volcanic force, engulfing her very existence in a scorching blaze. No loving arms could quench it, no calming mantra could extinguish it and no prayer could calm it. It was a phobia with an onset early in life, which had manifested itself with regularity over the years, making her timid and scared, a perfect victim for the likes of Nagamma.
“Rajam. Come on out. Your saamiyaar is waiting for you.”
Did cruelty have no boundaries?
Rajam sat quaking, watching the door of the cowshed.
Part IV
Dharmu
CHAPTER 10 – KAMALA
SONARPUR, EAST BENGAL – 1934
Kamala balanced three large brass pots on her head and set off down the narrow path. She was a little nervous. There had been many tiger sightings and only last week, there was a killing but that had taken place much farther upstream. Filling water for the kitchen from the river was a daily chore and nothing bad had happened so far. At the shrine of Banobibi, the village deity, she put down her pots and fell to her knees. With her eyes tightly shut, she prayed. ‘Hey, glorious Banobibi, you are kind and giving. Protect me today; make me strong and brave. You, the bountiful slayer of the demon tiger, stay in my heart always.’
Strengt
hened by her prayer, she confidently placed two pots on her head and the third one she cradled in the curve of her waist. It was only a short walk through the forest to the ghat. In any case, it was not dark yet and she had enough time to get water from the river for the next day’s cooking and still reach home before dusk.
She increased her pace as she entered the thick jungle, constantly listening for any strange sounds. If she heard a cheetal shriek, or monkeys chattering too loudly, then she would be forewarned and could run back to the village, or at least scream for help. She stopped and turned around. She could see many of the villagers still working in the fields, all within earshot. Emboldened, she quickened her pace and in a few minutes was at the ghat.
‘Quick’ she told herself. ‘I shouldn’t wait here longer than necessary.’
Her heart was pumping rapidly. She was nervous.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she comforted herself. ‘You are only five minutes from the village.’ The village headman told them tigers don’t move away from their territory, so there was no fear. The last tiger kill took place several miles upstream. ‘This village is too far and tigers are scared of humans. It cannot come here.’ Thus consoling herself, she lifted the brass pots and placed them on the steps of the ghat. The topmost pot tipped over and bounced down the stairs with a noisy clang a few times before falling into the water. Kamala felt uneasy. That had never happened before. Was it an omen of sorts? ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she chided herself. ‘These things happen.’
She leaned forward to reach for the pot, which was bobbing away from her. The jungle sounds of crickets and birds created a musical symphony, broken only by the gurgling of clear water filling the brass pot. Her fingers were numb with fear. She was tense and her body on high alert, listening closely for any strange sounds.
She heard the unmistakable crackle of movement against the undergrowth. Someone must be approaching the ghat. Kamala paused and sat up, her body rigid with apprehension. She felt the perspiration dampening the insides of her blouse. It was very hot and rivulets of sweat trickled down her back. A shiver went down her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She regretted coming alone to fill water. Maybe she should have listened to the warnings and brought someone along with her. She pictured the image of Banobibi in her head and felt the fear ebb, if only for a moment.
“Ke?” She called. “Who is that?”
There was no sound except for crickets. She waited for a while, but was quite certain no one was approaching. There was no unfamiliar noise and she reproached herself for being so anxious. Picking up the second pot, she immersed it in water, when she heard the distinctive crackling sound again, this time much closer. She turned around and looked in the direction of the sound.
The sight was so shocking, she could not move. There, framed in the thick shrubbery, was the face of a fully grown Bengal Tiger. Her jaw dropped open, drying the saliva within. All her life she had heard stories of tiger encounters but nothing prepared her for this ferocious sight.
Fearlessly, the magnificent animal boldly stepped out of the foliage that had camouflaged it all this time. It was a gigantic cat, ten or twelve feet long, with striking auburn yellow and black stripes. Its coat was mangy in parts but its stance was regal. Its head slunk low, resting on powerful shoulders and its feline slanted eyes locked on its prey.
Kamala sat transfixed, unable to move. Her gaze was riveted on the slanted golden eyes of this large feline, playmate of the goddess Banobibi. Even though it dawned on her this vision was going to be her last, she couldn’t move. She was mesmerized by the mystique of those yellow eyes and the majesty of its carriage. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound escaped her mouth.
The tiger roared, the sound echoing through the forest in vibrations that shook the leaves making them fall to the forest floor in ripples of fear. It was so close that Kamala could smell its fetid breath, the stench of putrefying flesh. The two canines that should have been on its upper jaw were missing. Kamala’s heart sank and all her muscles went limp as she prepared for the inevitable. Her grip on the brass pots loosened. The tiger crouched on its hind paws, its muscles rippling under the striated flesh.
The last thing Kamala saw were those yellow mesmeric eyes.
The pots rolled over, the water emptying onto the damp forest floor, as they tumbled noisily down the steps and splashed into the turbulent water. Sinking beneath the tide, then slowly filling up, they rose to the surface once again to bob in the churning water.
Only this time the water was not clear; it was tinged with pink.
CHAPTER 11 – DHARMAMBAL
RANGPUR – 1934
The sound of the phaeton bell jerked Dharmu out of her afternoon nap. Mahadevan had already arrived from work. Was it that late? It seemed as though she just lay her head down on the pillow to sleep. Her thoughts went back to the letter and she hurriedly ran into the study and collected the pieces of paper from the dustbin, quickly transferring them to the one in the kitchen before rushing out. She reached the verandah just as the chowkidar opened the front gate to let the covered phaeton into the compound. Mahadevan stepped out of the carriage and right after him, someone else got down. Dharmu was puzzled. She was not aware of any visitors coming. To her dismay, she noticed the surprise visitor was an Englishman. Her heart sank and started beating rapidly. Every English phrase she knew ran through her head. ‘Good evening, how do you do? Nice to meet you, lovely evening.’
‘Oh Lord, tell me this is not happening to me,’ she thought, as the panic went out of control. Thankfully, Kandu ran past into his doting father’s open arms and began chattering away, not waiting for a response.
Mahadevan climbed up the stairs with his visitor. “Chowkidar, saaman andar laao,” he called over his shoulder. Dharmu watched the chowkidar take two brown leather suitcases out of the phaeton and to her consternation, two guns!
“Wow,” said Kandu excitedly. “Guns! Can I touch them? Can I play with them?”
“Oh no!” said Mahadevan quickly, knowing what might take place next. “These guns are real and you cannot go anywhere near them.” Turning to his visitor, he added, “Mr. Corbin, may I introduce my wife, Dharmambal, and my energetic son, Kandu.”
Dharmu stuck out a clammy hand, mumbling, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” under her breath.
“Mr. Corbin has been assigned here for the next few weeks to take care of the man-eating tiger that attacked again last week. He will stay with us. Please make arrangements for his stay.” Dharmu scampered off, her mind in a whirl as she tried to think of what to do next. She ran towards the kitchen, barking instructions to the servants. “Change the sheets. Don’t forget the mosquito net. Dust the windows.” Then she ran into the kitchen where the cook, a khansaama from the neighboring state of Bihar, was marinating fish to be baked in the clay oven. Fresh Darjeeling tea was being brewed and the bearer prepared the tray, using fine English china and silverware. “The Angrez Saab will be with us for a while. Make sure you put an additional table setting. Is the fish fresh? Make a soup and salad as well and cut fresh fruit for dessert.” There were a million things to attend to and even more instructions to be given.
The two men sat in the comfortable wicker chairs in the verandah as the orderlies removed their dirty mud-splattered shoes, replacing them with home slippers. Though Mahadevan adopted many British ways, he was very finicky about not wearing outdoor shoes inside the house, an ancient Indian custom designed to keep the house free from outside contaminants. In a few moments, the bearer brought out the tea and biscuits and the two men continued to talk. Dharmu took a breather and made her way to the verandah to join them. She stood just inside the hallway, listening to their conversation as she gathered courage, wondering whether to sit with the men or not.
“Your wife looks very young to have had a child.”
“Not so young,” replied Mahadevan, “This is our third child. She was twelve when we married.”
“Twelve! Quite the cra
dle snatcher, aren’t you! Did you love her before you married her, or was it an arranged match? I don’t know how you natives do this — marry a stranger, with no love in the equation.”
“Mr. Corbin, you have a lot to learn about the way things work here. In Indian marriages, love comes afterward. Marriage is not between individuals but between families.” Dharmu listened silently, fading out of the conversation and retreating to the comfort of her own memories. Love and marriage; she remembered her marriage like it was yesterday. Only, at that time, she had no idea how it was going to change her life. Her mind wandered back to the time when the marriage proposal to Mahadevan was the topic of excitement for her family.
CHAPTER 12 – DHARMAMBAL
DINDIGUL– 1920
Dharmu wailed loudly as her mother, Gayatri, attempted to tame her hair. She washed it with shikakai and her curly hair, which was unmanageable to begin with, was now completely out of control. Gayatri oiled it with warm coconut oil and was in the process of untangling the knots with a thick comb. The third one this month. Two others had succumbed to the battle of tangles. Although she wrapped a thick strand of hair around her fingers, she was in the midst of a raging encounter with the lower half of the coil of hair. Dharmu felt as though her brains were being pulled out and screamed continually, begging for the ordeal to be finished. After almost a half hour of torment, Gayatri was satisfied with her handiwork and braided her hair into two thick plaits.
When the Lotus Blooms Page 7
