Saraswathi had a hare lip and her limbs looked frail. An astrologer was called and his prediction was foreboding. Saraswathi would not live long but she would be happy, and yes, she would also get married! Paati did not know what to make of this prediction because nobody in their right mind would agree to marry a deformed, ugly child. But she hoped against hope that things would change. By the time Saraswathi was a year old, Paati’s worst nightmares were realized. She was certain something was not right with the child. In addition to the hare lip, her eyes had malformed lids and one leg was shorter than the other. The baby cried constantly and had very limited movement. Paati knew this was not a normal child and looking after her would not be easy. It was not uncommon in those days to abandon such children in the temple or in the forest, because taking care of them required too much effort. It was just easier to have another normal child. Some even fed the unwanted child a potion made from juice from poisonous cactus, called Kallipaal, which they would brew and add to milk. After ingesting the poison, the child would die a quick and painless death. But Guruswamy was vigilant and let his mother-in-law know that no harm should come to the child. She was the last child born and as such, was the living memory of his late wife. Guruswamy devoted his life and energy to his motherless children, giving them the extra care they now needed. He knew he would have a lot of trouble raising this child but he happily took it on in the memory of his dead wife.
After Saraswathi’s birth, Mangalam’s childhood came to an abrupt end. She suddenly had to grow up and take care of her sisters. Paati was not able to work as she used to and spent most of her time caring for the new baby. The atmosphere in the house had changed too and everyone smiled and spoke less often. It was as if a dark rain cloud had cast a shadow over the family and their fortunes. Mangalam virtually became the surrogate mother for her sisters. She dressed Parvathi and made sure she ate. She helped in the kitchen, learning to cook from Paati, who now worked with less efficiency. At other times, she played with baby Saraswathi, hardly aware of her abnormality. Guruswamy aged considerably over the next few years. His hair turned white and wrinkles appeared, etched deeply on his forehead, bearing testimony to his grief. He did not even notice that his oldest daughter had reached marriageable age.
Paati was the one who found an alliance for Mangalam. In the same village she heard of a boy from a decent Brahmin family, who attended school in the city and had a very promising career. Although he was not a priest, he belonged to the same sub-caste. It was better to arrange the match before people got wind of Saraswathi’s deformity. Mangalam was only eleven years old when her marriage to Swaminathan Iyer took place. When she finally left her grandmother’s home two years later, she felt miserable to separate from her sisters. Her whole life so far had been devoted to them and it felt as though someone were tearing away her limbs but she knew they would both get all the love and affection of their grandmother. Living in the same village, she would not be far away from them after all and she could visit them regularly.
Destiny, however, brought the three sisters together again very soon, when the situation in the Guruswamy house became grim. Paati died suddenly of a stroke the following year. To add to their troubles, Guruswamy developed debilitating arthritis and could not go to work. With no money coming in, things became extremely difficult. Parvathi was not old enough to take care of the home as well as her sister and father. For over a year Mangalam spent time at her father’s home, cooking and caring for her family. Guruswamy was in constant pain, his joints mottled and gnarled, sucking out the desire to carry on. He never really got over the death of his wife; the mental and physical pain weakened him, taking a toll on his health and within the year he became bedridden.
At almost the same time, Swaminathan got a job as a constable in the Police department in Vizhupuram. Mangalam was torn between staying with her father and moving with her husband. Her sense of duty was very strong and she did not know which way to turn. As if the gods had answered her prayers, Guruswamy got a merciful release from his agonizing existence and passed away peacefully in his sleep. No one in the family was willing to take the responsibility of the girls and Mangalam was at her wits end until Swaminathan magnanimously suggested they come to live with them in Vizhupuram. He knew Mangalam was very attached to her sisters and having them live with her would make her happy. Vizhupuram was a new town for him and having company would keep Mangalam occupied, leaving him free to focus on his new job.
As it turned out, the sale of Guruswamy’s Pudukottai property enabled Swaminathan to buy a small house in Vizhupuram in the Brahmin agrahaaram, not far from his place of work, with enough money remaining to provide some security for the girls, maybe even celebrate a marriage. In Vizhupuram, Parvathi began her life-long career as midwife when she assisted in the birth of Kunju, Mangalam and Swaminathan’s first daughter. Parvathi was past marriageable age, but by now people knew about Saraswathi and her condition and it became impossible to find someone willing to marry her. Every month the astrologer who officiated as matchmaker brought new varans, alliances which would fizzle out as soon as they heard about Saraswathi. Mangalam enjoyed having Parvathi around to help, not only with Saraswathi but also with the new baby. It was customary in India at that time for women to go home to their mother’s to give birth, where they stayed for two or three months till their babies were strong enough and they had recovered their strength and energy to return to their husband’s home. But as Mangalam had no mother, she stayed in Vizhupuram for the baby and was grateful for the support of her sister.
Saraswathi was really little trouble to anyone. She could use the toilet by herself but she had very few fine motor skills and needed help with small things like dressing, making her hair and eating. She enjoyed herself thoroughly when allowed to play with her food and would have food all over her face and chin. Her muscles were very weak and once a day one of the sisters would rub Ayurvedic oil over her aching limbs, massaging her muscles, helping to bring fresh oxygenated blood into them, but her condition got progressively worse. Her speech was slurred but the sisters knew exactly what she said and what she wanted. She never asked for much and was very glad to sit on the swing all day and despite her constant pain, was blissfully happy and content. The poor child was blameless and innocent.
In the meantime, the astrologer was paying weekly visits to the house, but the alliances for Parvathi were getting more inappropriate and the age of the boys progressively increasing. After many months of searching, they finally found a family that agreed to a match with Parvathi. The boy was an orphan who lived with his paternal uncle in Thirunelveli district. He was well off and their family had been the headmen in the village Panchayat for a long time; as a result, he was well respected in the community. He had been married before but his wife had died of cholera a couple of years ago. The only other thing that bothered Mangalam was his age. He was almost thirty years old, much older than Parvathi. The astrologer advised them to conduct the marriage quickly in case the other party changed its mind. Following his advice, the family arranged a simple ceremony in their courtyard with very few invitees.
After Parvathi left for her new home, Saraswathi became very morose. She must have sensed that her sister was not around and her health went downhill. Every physical act became more and more taxing, leaving her gasping for breath. There was no point taking her to see a doctor, even though her vital functions were weakening. She spent long hours sleeping, exhausted by simple acts like eating and dressing. Mangalam knew it was just a matter of time before her end came.
The astrologer came by the house one time just as Mangalam finished feeding her. “She looks very sick. Does not seem that she will live for very long.”
Mangalam shook her head sadly.
“You know if she dies as a kanya, a virgin, your family will have seven generations of bad luck. Your daughters will never get married because her spirit will hover around preventing it from happening,” the astrologer added.
Mangalam look
ed at him quizzically. “What do we need to do to prevent this from happening?”
“You have to get her married before she passes on.”
“But who will marry her? Look at her. She can barely get out of bed. It was hard enough finding someone for Parvathi, who was hale and hearty. How could I possibly find anyone willing to make such a supreme sacrifice by marrying this disabled, sick girl?”
The astrologer paused. He certainly had no one he could recommend. Finally he said, “Ask your husband. All he has to do is put a thaali around her neck. After all, it is his family fortune at stake.”
Mangalam was taken aback. A second marriage! Swaminathan had already put up with so much. Would he be willing to make this one last supreme act of kindness? It might result in a scandal if the neighbors got wind of it. Mangalam was terribly confused. All of the next day she thought about what the astrologer had said. Once the idea was put into her head, she had to follow directions. She did not want poor Saraswathi to be blamed for any misfortune in the family, but the bile rose up in her mouth at the thought of making such an unreasonable request of her husband.
That evening she told her husband what the astrologer said.
Swaminathan listened quietly. Then, without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Call the priest. I will marry her tomorrow.”
The marriage was conducted in secrecy and the priest was paid handsomely to keep the secret. Saraswathi was so sick the ceremony had to be performed in her room next to her bed. No one knew if she even understood what was happening, or if she realized she was getting married. After the ceremony, she touched the M-shaped pendant on her thaali and she smiled.
That night Saraswathi passed away in her sleep. The curse of seven generations would be avoided. The girls of the family would now find good husbands and happiness.
She was honored as a sumangali, a married woman and her kriya was performed with solemnity, celebrating the honor of dying as a married woman. She was dressed in a red wedding sari and had a peaceful smile on her face.
In her life she had been a burden to everyone around her, even as she brought out the noblest in them. In her death she brought peace and good karma to the entire family for successive generations.
Part VIII
Dharmu
CHAPTER 23 – KANDU
CALCUTTA – 1934
The train rattled into Howrah station at the unearthly hour of four in the morning. The children were shaken out of their slumber and herded onto the bright, lively, bustling platform.
Kandu rubbed his half-closed eyes, shielding them from the bright platform lights. Mummy held his hand in a vice grip and Meera was holding the girls’ hands. There were so many people here it was easy to lose your children — not a rare occurrence, especially in such crowded places — and Dharmu was extra vigilant. Kandu looked around at the incredible activity around him. Chaiwallahs touted their wares in loud, raucous voices and then stopped for customers to pour piping hot tea into little clay cups. With the river nearby, potters molded the red mud from the riverbank into small cups and dried them in the sun, perfect for drinking chai, the red clay enhancing the flavor of the strong Assam tea. Once used, they were thrown back into the river, to dissolve and replenish the source for more clay cups.
Coolies in red shirts and white dhotis walked around coercing passengers to hire them, literally picking up the luggage, ready to carry them to waiting tongas or cars. But the Bengali women would not allow them to touch the luggage without a raging fight to fix the cost of their fee. Coolies were notorious for charging exorbitant sums and would refuse to deposit the luggage till they were paid. It was amazing how much one man could carry. Kandu watched in awe as one coolie folded his turban into a round base and then with the help of an associate, placed two or three suitcases on his head. Then he slung a carry-on cloth bag on each shoulder and picked up two smaller bags in each hand. With the weight perfectly balanced on each side of his body, he began walking briskly down the platform. If he carried the entire luggage himself, he wouldn’t need to share the fare with another coolie.
Coolies knew the locals always haggle and as the train lumbered into the station, would initially head for the first class compartment, some boarding the train even as it approached the platform. They preferred carrying luggage for the Angrezi sahibs, as Englishmen were better paymasters. The spillover trickled down to the rest of the Indian passengers, the slower coolies settling for third class passengers, who rarely paid more than two paise, having greater bargaining power, content in the knowledge that the coolie came to them only because they could not get a better fare elsewhere. Then they happily overloaded the man with a dozen overstuffed suitcases and packages, smugly walking ahead with a satisfied smile on their faces, pleased that they got the best bargain. It was a matter of pride to get paisa vasul–value for money. Mahadevan had no patience for haggling and left the dirty job to his orderly. Kandu watched awestruck as the price battle raged on. Finally, the much experienced orderly was happy with the price and two coolies with long waxed moustaches picked up the luggage but not before pinching Kandu’s plump cheeks, much to his chagrin.
The rest of the world was asleep but Howrah station was alive and buzzing with activity. There were newsstands and makeshift carts stocked with all kinds of goods, from English newspapers to food and bidis.
“Gopal Bhattacharjee’s News Stand, Established 1910.” Kandu tried to decipher the names of the newspapers as well, but they were mostly Bengali publications and he had little success figuring out the letters. Besides, Dharmu was dragging him really fast across the platform to beat the crowds and it annoyed him when he couldn’t read all the signs.
“Number 1 bidis… Hamam soap soft on your…Yardley perfume fragrance for…” Not one sign could he read completely. The platform was a melting pot of people from all walks of life. English Mems sweated profusely in their incongruous, full-sleeved, high-neck dresses, completely unsuitable for the hot Bengal summer. He noticed several Marwari seths, merchants who ruled the financial world, especially here in Calcutta, having moved here generations ago from their native Rajasthan. They could be distinguished by their typical embroidered cap, similar in shape to the Nehru topi. Marwari women draped their saris differently, always with their faces covered in public, walked rapidly, to keep up with their pot-bellied husbands. Dharmu had to slow down, as the crowds were milling around the third class compartments and Kandu noticed one Marwari Seth pause by the central pillar. After quickly checking that no police constables were around, he blatantly spat his red betel nut juice onto the already red, paan-splattered pillar. Kandu’s eyes widened in shock as he watched the offending red juice emanate from the man’s mouth, sail through the air like a ruby red arc and then make a perfect landing against the pillar. The offending spitter must have seen Kandu’s horror-struck eyes locked on his face and he cracked a smile, exposing his bucktoothed, blood red teeth.
“Ahh … Mummy…the man spat blood. Look, look his mouth is full of blood.”
But Dharmu was too busy trying to keep up with the disappearing coolies, making sure she could spot their heads bobbing above the oceanic crowd, in case they made off with her trunk filled with silk saris, so she didn’t answer him. Of course, this paan chewing Marwari was only the first in the army of his brethren, many of whom Kandu encountered in his short journey from the compartment to the end of the platform. In fact, he soon lost count of the many bloodstained mouths that passed by. Kandu’s neck ached from all the swiveling it was doing. He shook his head in disbelief. Calcutta was filled with sick men, whose blood was oozing out of their mouths!
Never having been exposed to paan chewing or the sight of its red-mouthed consumers, Kandu didn’t understand how common it was in India. Paan leaves grew from a creeper and in almost every street corner was a paanwallah, a vendor who specialized in making paans. This addictive leaf was famous in the city of Benares and even in the station was a sign saying, “Lalloobhai phemus Banarsi Paan.”
P
aan was rarely eaten by itself but was usually combined with varieties of areca nuts, some sweetened and others spiked to cater to different tastes. It was offered to guests after a heavy meal to ease digestion. The only problem with paan chewing was the large quantity of fluid filling your mouth, created by a combination of saliva and the lime applied on the paan leaf. Ordinarily, this juice could easily have been swallowed but people who ingested large quantities of betel juice all day were quite at ease spitting the liquid out when they could no longer hold it in their mouths. That was fine in their homes when a washbasin was around but with no spittoons on the street, they made the entire countryside their spittoon. The technique of spitting had been developed into a fine art of sorts and Kandu was quite astounded at how and where people spat. They spat when they were sitting, standing, crouching, sleeping, getting onto a tram, or off a train, at street corners, in the middle of the road, climbing up stairs, or through their car windows; some could spit five or six feet away, in straight lines and from all angles. In graceful arcs, this river of juice landed on pavements, street corners and streetlights, staining whatever it came in contact with, smearing the area with an indelible, blood red tarnish.
When the Lotus Blooms Page 17
