“I will not leave without seeing him.”
Malati went to the door to join the fray. Unable to resist my curiosity, I followed her and stood leaning against the doorframe. Up close the woman was attractive, slightly dark-complexioned. I could see a healed scar on her left temple and the odd grey hair amid the black. Her green sari had a fine brown pattern on it. In her hands was a small package wrapped in plastic. A black handbag hung on one shoulder.
Amma was emboldened by Malati’s arrival. “Ey,” she said, her voice now raised. “It’s better you leave now. Do you want me to kick you out? Who do you think you are?”
The woman was taken aback by Amma’s aggression. She seemed to realize the matter was getting out of hand. Making to leave, she brought out a steel container from the plastic bag in her hand and attempted to hand it to Amma. She said, “I’ve brought this because he’s fond of it. It’s masoor dal curry. Please give it to him.”
“What is all this? Do you think we don’t cook our own meals?” Amma was infuriated. She pushed the container back toward the woman.
“It’s not like that . . . ,” she said, and tried to press the container into Amma’s hands. Amma shrank back and it fell to the ground. The lid shot off to one side; the contents formed a thick puddle on the ground. The smell of garam masala wafted into the house. We all knew that Chikkappa was fond of masoor dal curry. All of a sudden, the woman seemed crushed. She went down on her knees in front of the spilled curry, making helpless little noises. The liquid traced bright red trails along the ground, leaving behind dark clumps. The woman’s affection for Chikkappa was evident. There was an awkward silence. I suppose we were all a little flustered now, and wondering what he would do.
The lull did not last. Amma burst into unprovoked invective. “Get out! Get out, you whore!” she screamed.
I walked back a few steps and glanced toward the dining room to see how Chikkappa was taking it. He had abandoned his breakfast and retreated to his room.
The woman had not abused us. She had not come here to pick a fight. We were thrown off balance by her love for one of us, and so we tore into her with such vengeance that she collapsed to the ground, sobbing. Amma and Malati called her a beggar, a whore, and it was clear from the disbelief on her face that she had never been spoken to in this manner. Perhaps she remained because she was certain that Chikkappa would come to her aid. That must have been Amma’s worst fear, too, not that it stopped her.
On that day I became convinced that it is the words of women that wound other women most deeply. I’d never imagined Malati and Amma to be capable of such cruelty—they were like dogs protecting their territory. All that woman had wanted was to see Chikkappa once. But these two felled her with their words, and they kept at it as she sobbed, sitting there on the ground. Suddenly, she looked up through her tears as if searching the house behind us. She called out in a hoarse voice: “Venka . . . Venka . . . Come outside. It’s me, your Tuvvi.”
There was silence once more. She had deployed her most powerful weapon. It was embarrassingly clear now that there had been something between them. Venka and Tuvvi! Those private, affectionate names, now out in the open. Would he acknowledge this part of his life? We waited. If he was going to respond to her cry, it would be at once. Amma continued to stand firm, but I noticed her turn and glance into the house. When a few seconds passed without sound or movement from within, it became clear that Chikkappa wouldn’t be coming out. A strange unexpressed fury radiated from the woman. Who knew how deep their relationship was? What mattered was that we had prevailed, and now all that remained was to bring the scene to an end.
Before any of us could say anything, she got up and left. She walked briskly out of the yard and then turned for a moment to close the gate. Even now, when I recall the contempt in those eyes, it feels like someone just spit on me. She changed her mind about the gate, as if even the gate of such a house were too loathsome to touch. She walked off down the road and was soon out of sight.
There was no trace of Chikkappa. Why didn’t he respond when she called him? He could have addressed her as Tuvvi, invited her in. He knew we wouldn’t contest any decision he made. Then why didn’t he? All that was left now was the smell of the curry she had brought, inviting enough to make one wonder if there might not be a little left unspilled in the container. Amma ordered that the container be thrown away.
Anita did not participate in the events of that morning. She’d remained inside the house, and she felt that an injustice had been done to the woman. But does being just necessarily entail shooting oneself in the foot? Even in the flush of their victory, Amma and Malati noticed Anita’s dissent. It’s an unwritten rule that all members come to the family’s aid when it is threatened. Anita had broken that rule. She should not have.
Silence descended on the house. It was somehow rendered thicker by the lingering aroma of the woman’s curry. Amma must have sensed that this was the sort of silence that, left unchallenged, could consume the family from within. She began to speak nonstop. With no one else in the mood to talk, she fell upon our maid, Sarasa.
“Look, Sarasa, when you’re buying a dosa pan it’s not enough just to inspect the upper surface. You should look at the base, too. It, too, must have an even surface. And if you start using it from day one as if it’s a nonstick—that’s it! Your dosas will stick to the pan and come out a mess. There’s a procedure to get it ready for use. In our house growing up we would apply oil to the pan and keep it near the stove’s flame for several days. Sometimes we’d leave it out in the sun, too. After it was heated up we’d wash it, scrubbing it with coconut fibers. We’d keep doing this till the pan soaked up all the oil and became ready. An ideal pan should be coarse enough for the batter not to slide away, but smooth enough that the dosa shouldn’t stick when lifted. That’s when a pan is ready . . .”
She went on in this vein for a while. Sarasa emitted grunts of acknowledgment at intervals as she washed the pots and pans. Amma has a voice that fills the house no matter which room she’s speaking from. On this day she raised it even higher. After a while she grew dissatisfied with Sarasa’s responses and roped Malati in.
“Malati, ask Goyappa to come here for a bit if he visits the house opposite. Our jasmine creeper is wilting. I asked him to manure it, but he seems to have dug up the roots. Today is Sunday, isn’t it? That’s when he visits . . .”
“Which house, Amma? Meera’s?”
“Yes, go tell Meera. She’ll send him when he comes. The plant in your room’s balcony also looks limp. Bound to happen if it isn’t kept in the sun . . .”
No one noticed when Appa got up and went to his room.
I walked back to the table and, still standing, gobbled down the remaining piece of dosa on my plate. When I went to wash my hands, I noticed Anita glaring at me from the kitchen. Then she emerged, swept past me muttering under her breath, and rushed up the stairs to our room. I followed her, a little surprised.
“I didn’t abuse her,” I pointed out.
“It’s enough for a man to simply stand there and watch. It’s worse than shouting at her yourself. How could you all pounce on that woman without knowing a thing about her? Is it her fault alone? You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Not one of you had the guts to even hear her out. How could they treat another woman like that?”
I could not refute her. How was I to explain to her that Chikkappa must be protected at all costs? She wouldn’t understand. For that, she would need to have lived through those earlier days with us—when the whole family stuck together, walking like a single body across the tightrope of our circumstances. Without that reality behind her, it’s all a matter of empty principle.
THREE
Second in the family after Chikkappa is my father. He owns half of Sona Masala. Appa is a quiet man who lives in his own world, heading out somewhere like clockwork every morning and evening. If he dies without a will, his assets w
ill be divided equally between me, my sister, and my mother. Our only fear now is that he might lose his mind with age and become ruinously entangled in some philanthropic enterprise. So we try to keep him in a good mood, making sure he doesn’t lose his taste for food or develop other ascetic tendencies. We steer him clear of thoughts about the futility of life and so on. An unfortunate consequence of this is that we must endure his garrulity whenever he emerges from his shell—the same old stories, again and again. Who knows what pleasure he gains from reminding us of the days when we struggled to get by in this city on his tiny income.
Appa enjoys our current prosperity with considerable hesitation, as if it were undeserved. He’s given to quoting a proverb that says wealth shouldn’t strike suddenly like a visitation, but instead grow gradually like a tree. It’s as if all we now have is nothing to him, and that is the root of our unease: What if this man loses his head, writes a will asking for his assets to be poured down the drain of some noble cause, and dies? Those swayed by lofty ideals don’t think twice about doing such things. Casting one’s own family out on the street is an achievement to them.
Appa used to be a salesman for a company dealing in tea leaves. His salary was barely enough for all of us to subsist in a city like Bangalore, but we managed to get by in a small, rented house. We had enough to feed and clothe ourselves; so what if the clothes were sometimes old. And if we didn’t always feast, neither can it be said that Malati and I ever went to bed hungry. He also managed to look after Chikkappa like a son and put him through his commerce degree.
Appa’s work began at nine in the morning and went on until eight in the evening. Every morning he would go to the company’s warehouse, and set off in a small truck carrying packets of tea leaves. He’d go to the market areas due for a visit that day and refresh stock in local shops. The cash he collected was tucked away in a bag that hung from his shoulder and across his chest. He’d developed the habit of running his thumb and index finger along the strap like a priest stroking his sacred thread. He was inordinately proud of being a salesman. “What do you think a salesman is . . . ?” he’d boast, especially when launching into stories about his prowess—how, for instance, he’d managed to sell to a shop whose shelves were already brimming with tea. He polished his shoes every morning and put on an ironed shirt. He’d leave home looking like an officer and return at night, wilted from the day’s sun, his clothes rumpled. One glance at his scuffed, dusty shoes was enough to betray the nature of his day’s work.
After returning home, he’d have to finish the day’s accounts. He would bathe, change into pajamas and an undershirt, have a cup of tea, and settle down to another round of work. On long sheets of paper the company provided, he’d enter the quantities of tea and coffee powder sold that day, the corresponding sums collected and outstanding. He’d sit on a mat in the middle room, surrounded by papers, his receipt book on one side, his money bag on the other. If the figures didn’t match, he’d go over them again and again until they gave in and agreed. “Not one paisa should go astray” was his refrain while doing this. After he was done with the forms, he’d bundle the day’s cash collection, tie it with a piece of thread, and keep it under the altar. The next morning he’d go to the bank, draw a demand draft for the amount, and send it to the company by registered post. With that ended the cycle of a day’s work.
Appa’s work was the whole family’s work. We all knew the brand names of the various tea packets he sold, even the company’s code numbers for them. Some days, Malati and I would help him with the accounts. The long leaf of paper was called a stock sheet. Malati would hold a corner so the carbon paper beneath wouldn’t shift and I would race through the list of numbers. On a couple of occasions I discovered mistakes in Appa’s tallies. Sometimes he’d talk to Amma about the people in his company. The most frequently recurring character was his boss, the sales manager—or “SM,” as he always referred to him. We all read the letters and circulars that came from the company. They ended with “Happy Sales!” and I recall wondering what that could possibly mean, how something as demanding as sales could ever be happy.
Every year, he would take off for a day or two to another city for a sales conference, and return with a gift from the company. Our house’s alarm clock, iron, and suitcase all came this way. As the conference approached, he’d recount to Amma the speculation in the company about that year’s gift. We once went nearly a year without replacing our pressure cooker because of an unfounded rumor about what would be given at the conference.
Appa’s salary seemed never to increase except for the odd year when sales happened to be good and he brought home a slightly higher commission. He had commitments to meet—he had to run the house, pay for our education and Chikkappa’s. As a result of these expenses, Amma never got any jewelry from him. She brought it up on occasion, but she knew that it simply wasn’t possible on our income. As long as the house ran on Appa’s earnings his finances were known to us all. If we wanted new clothes, we knew exactly how much he could spare and what cuts would have to be made elsewhere. The result was that we simply did not desire what we couldn’t afford. When you have no choice, you have no discontent, either.
One evening, Appa did his accounts and found a discrepancy of eight hundred rupees. This had happened before, so none of us took much notice. Appa drank another cup of tea and tried again. But the numbers wouldn’t tally no matter how many times he redid the calculations. By ten at night, we were all worried. He refused to come to dinner until he’d found the source of the error. “Serve the kids. I’ll come in a while,” he told Amma. Malati and I sat down to dinner; Chikkappa joined us. Usually Chikkappa didn’t involve himself in Appa’s work, but that day was different. He sat down with Appa as soon as he had finished eating, and they began to go over the numbers together. Appa would look at his receipts and read: “Three eight zero. Eight zero five. One fifty. Sixteen. Two twenty . . . ,” and Chikkappa would go, “Hmm. Hmm,” as he ticked off the numbers on the sheet.
The entire day’s account was redone, the cash counted again. The discrepancy remained. Amma called Appa in for dinner. He went muttering into the kitchen. The power went out as he was eating. Amma lit two kerosene lamps. She placed one in front of Appa and the other in the living room for Chikkappa, who was still trying to trace the missing money.
In the kitchen, a thread of dark smoke rose from the lamp. Amma questioned Appa as he ate: “Where did you go today? Did someone who was supposed to pay not do so? Did you count the money properly? Could you have put some of the cash in a different compartment of your bag?” Appa was angered by the interrogation. He finished dinner in a hurry, went out into the living room, and shook his bag empty. The lights came back on with a sudden glare.
“I have never placed cash anywhere else. That’s our Ramana-sir’s training. He’d say, ‘Cash should never be in your hand except while counting it. It should either be in the shop owner’s hands or in your bag.’ Everything was in this compartment. Impossible for it to go anywhere . . .” Eight hundred rupees was an enormous sum for us. If it didn’t turn up, Appa would have to make up the difference himself. Worse, the SM was due to visit in two days’ time. “If this isn’t sorted out by then, I’m finished,” Appa said.
Malati and I slept in the middle room, which was also where Appa did his accounts each night. Malati fell asleep quickly. I lay awake and watched Appa, still frantic with worry, going through the receipts and cash yet again. I must do something to help him, I thought, just as sleep drew me away.
I woke up a little before dawn. Appa and Chikkappa were still there amid strewn papers. I heard the sound of pots and pans from the kitchen. My feet had extended beyond my blanket and grown cold. I drew them in, searching for a warm spot. Who knew when Appa and Chikkappa had woken up, or if they had slept at all. They were hunched close together and whispering so they wouldn’t wake us up. Suddenly Appa exclaimed, “That’s it! You’re right. I think that’s it. Pull
out yesterday’s sheet . . .” Chikkappa drew a long sheet of paper from a bundle, and they began to whisper again. Appa, who had been leaning over the sheet, relaxed and sat with his back resting against the wall. Chikkappa, too, looked up. There was a relieved smile on both their faces.
“This is it. We’ve got it. Twenty times forty,” said Chikkappa.
“The sixty-four somehow appeared as eighty-four. I looked it over yesterday but missed it. You’ve caught it now,” said Appa, beaming at his brother. I had never seen them like that—sitting so near each other, talking. Their relief must have radiated into the kitchen. Before long Amma joined them. A moment I can never forget: Appa leaning against the wall, clapping Chikkappa on the thigh and looking up to tell Amma, “He spotted it.” It was fleeting, but at no other point in my life have I felt so completely secure. “I’ll make another round of tea,” Amma said with visible excitement, and hurried into the kitchen. I sat up. I nudged Malati, who was sleeping on a mattress laid out perpendicular to mine. She was usually impossible to wake up in the morning—it took repeated attempts. On this day, however, she got up at once when I told her the news. There was a festive air in the house that made it feel like the morning of Deepavali.
Breakfast was akki-rotti. It’s a special dish in our house, made only rarely. And I can’t recall another occasion when Amma had been as generous with the chutney. There was an ebullience to her moving about the house, to how she patted the rottis, even to the way she sat on the floor in front of the stove. It felt like we had all come together and averted a calamity. The four of us sat in the kitchen in a row on the floor, our plates in front of us, chatting, in no hurry as Amma made the hot rottis one by one. As each rotti came, we’d tear it in four and quickly eat a piece each. By the time we were finished with breakfast, we had eaten much more than usual.
Ghachar Ghochar Page 2
