We had no compunction toward our enemies and took to increasingly desperate and violent means of dealing with them. If we noticed they’d laid siege to a snack, we might trap them in a circle drawn with water and take away whatever they were eating, then watch them scurry about in confusion before wiping them off the floor with a wet cloth. I took pleasure in seeing them shrivel into black points when burning coals were rolled over them. When they attacked an unwashed pan or cup they’d soon be mercilessly drowned. I suppose initially each of us did these things only when we were alone, but in time, we began to be openly cruel. We came around to Amma’s view of them as demons come to swallow our home and became a family that took pleasure in their destruction. We might have changed houses since, but habits are harder to change.
• • •
The first time I saw our old house well-lit was the day we moved out. It’s a day I will never forget.
All the windows on both sides were opened, and light came streaming into the house. Chikkappa had arranged for gunnysacks and cardboard boxes in which to pack our belongings. There wasn’t that much to pack, so it only took about an hour. We loaded it all into a small Tempo. Appa left to accompany our things to our new home, sitting next to the driver. The house we’d lived in until then looked shockingly bare. Dust and the detritus of moving were everywhere. With their contents gone, the rooms looked even smaller and strangely lifeless. Where the floor had been covered by something, there was dirt along the edges. The wall behind the cupboard that held our pots and pans was caked with ant nests. Appa had argued against taking the old cupboard to the new house, but Amma insisted. For the first time, I wore my slippers inside the house. The crack in the wall of the middle room now seemed enormous. I’d had no idea our walls were so dirty. There were bits of paper lying about; dirt; dust on the tops of windows; a bright rectangle on the wall where we had hung the calendar; indentations where the backs of chairs had pressed into the wall; purposeless nails; a piece of paper soaked in oil; the smell of the kitchen. These scraps were the only remaining markers of our home. We were leaving something behind, though I couldn’t say what. Amma must have felt something similar. For no good reason, she swept the house before we left.
Saying goodbye to the neighbors was a moment of both pride and worry. Our newfound prosperity was common knowledge in the neighborhood; still, our having bought a house, and in an upmarket area at that, was liable to provoke surprise and envy. So Amma did not dwell on the details. I suppose we, too, viewed our ascent with a touch of disbelief—could money acquired overnight also not depart with equal haste? As Amma and I went to each house, they all said, “Don’t forget us. Keep visiting.” At the age I was then, this seemed absurd. I had grown up among them—how would it be possible to forget these people? Now I see what they meant.
By the time we reached our new house, the Tempo had dropped off our belongings and left. Sacks and boxes were lying in the middle of the hall. The house was huge in comparison to the one we had left. Two stories. A room for each person. The smell of fresh paint still lingered. Our bench and two chairs couldn’t make a dent in this expanse. Everything we’d brought from the old house appeared more worn, even unrecognizable in this new place. Soon, Chikkappa had a dining table with six chairs brought in. We’d visited the house twice before buying it, but it seemed different now that we’d moved in.
The kitchen had a counter on both sides, so all the cooking would have to be done standing up. There was no scope here for sitting on the floor. It was apparent at once that the old cupboard Amma had insisted on bringing along simply did not fit here. It was shunted to the backyard. There was no need for the gas-stove table, either, and this went to the storeroom. The bench on which Chikkappa used to sleep was installed on a balcony on the second floor. One chair each in Malati’s room and mine. Everything we had from the old house was now scattered. Chikkappa brought home dinner. For the first time, we all ate together at a table.
“Feels like a hotel,” Appa joked. No one laughed.
“We’ll get used to it,” Chikkappa said.
Chikkappa announced that he had set aside some money for buying furniture. He told Malati and Amma, “My friend owns a furniture shop. I’ll take you there tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about the price. Just pick out whatever you like. I’ll pay for it all later.” Never before had I seen Malati look so enthusiastic about a task assigned to her.
FIVE
Malati had always been unstable—a pile of gunpowder waiting to go off. All it took to light the fuse was our improved finances. She was in college when we moved to the new house. We’d been painstakingly frugal until then; what choice did we have? We consulted each other when money was to be spent, gave precise accounts. We thought of the family as being interdependent: a person who spent money was also taking it away from the others. All that changed overnight. There was enough now to buy things without asking for permission or informing anyone or even thinking about it. Appa’s hold on the rest of us slipped. And to be honest, we lost hold of ourselves, too.
We needed things for the new house, and this freed us in the matter of making purchases. For the first few weeks we bought as we had never bought before. Amma and Malati obeyed Chikkappa’s instructions with diligence and emptied his friend’s furniture shop. Soon the house was crammed with expensive mismatched furniture and out-of-place decorations. A TV arrived. Beds and dressing tables took up space in the rooms. In retrospect, many of the new objects had no place in our daily lives. Our relationship with the things we accumulated became casual; we began treating them carelessly.
Malati personified the chaos in our family. She’d always been quick to anger and inconsiderate of others, and those attributes found fuller expression in our new way of life. Her restlessness revealed itself in the harsh tone she took with others, and in violating the household’s unwritten rules. She was the first in the family to start eating out whenever she felt like it. Then she’d pick at her food at home, which would lead to a tussle between her and Amma.
Until then, eating at a restaurant had been an infrequent treat. Every fortnight or so we would all go out for tiffin on a Sunday afternoon. Appa was in the habit of taking a nap after lunch on Sundays, and on the appointed day we’d wait impatiently for him to wake up, Malati growing increasingly desperate for her masala dosa. The budget was fixed—it bought a masala dosa for each of us and a single coffee shared between Appa and Amma. Sometimes one of us would ask for another snack. Then, Appa wouldn’t feel like a coffee. You only had to see the plates off which Malati and I had eaten to know what we thought of the food—not a trace remained, even the chutney licked clean.
It wasn’t easy to confront Malati. You’d have to listen to ten words for each one you spoke. Amma asked Malati once with some hesitation if she had eaten out. “Yes, Amma, I ate out,” she said loudly. “I ate till I was full and then I drank coffee, too. What about it?” If anyone asked Malati where she’d been, she would give it back to them: “Do I ask you where you go? Why is it that everyone only asks me? Don’t you trust me?” There was no one in the house who could stand up to Malati in a battle of words. Rather, there was no one until Anita joined the household.
It’s true what they say—it’s not we who control money, it’s the money that controls us. When there’s only a little, it behaves meekly; when it grows, it becomes brash and has its way with us. Money had swept us up and flung us in the midst of a whirlwind. We spent helplessly on Malati’s wedding. No one asked us to; we simply didn’t know how to stop. The main actors in that month-long orgy of lavishness were Amma and Malati. I don’t think even they knew what they wanted. They’d set out every morning to shop, and when they were at home they spoke of nothing but saris and jewelry. The most expensive wedding hall we could find was booked. The caterer was dumbstruck by the number of dishes he was asked to serve. He would come to inquire about the menu and when he gave options of chiroti, holige, jalebi, pheni for the swee
t, they’d say yes to all. He had only to mention a vegetable for them to say, “All right. Add that one, too.” On the wedding day, after the ceremonies were over and the guests had been served, we all sat down to eat in the last round. Amma was weighed down in gold, beaming as she accepted compliments about the food. The couple was having their photo taken as they fed each other. Appa was sitting at the end of the table, looking dazedly at the plantain leaf crammed with food in front of him.
Perhaps it is not right to conflate Malati’s short-lived marriage with the wedding expenses or our family’s wealth. But I can’t help wondering if she would have given up as easily if Appa had still been a salesman. Maybe she had gotten used to having whatever she wanted and it diminished her capacity for making the inevitable compromises that accompany marriage. Her husband, Vikram, was not a bad man. He ran the family business—a large sari shop—and worked from morning to dinnertime. He was free only on Sundays, but Malati expected him to spend more time with her. Initially they had small fights after which she’d come home in a huff. “He doesn’t care,” she’d say. “He would die for that shop of his.” Perhaps her vision of an ideal life lacked room for hard work. Vikram, too, was helpless, having no source of income other than the shop. Her breaks from her husband’s house began to grow longer and longer. In less than two years, she announced she wanted to leave him. Appa, Amma, and I went with her to Vikram’s house to see if a reconciliation was possible.
We went on a Sunday afternoon around four. It had been cloudy all day. By then Malati had not lived there for three months. They received us in their large hall, where Vikram and his father engaged us in inconsequential talk. Malati was in the kitchen with her mother-in-law. I suppose we—all four men in the hall—were struggling to get to the point. We didn’t have to. Just then there was a crashing noise from the kitchen. Malati stormed into the hall. Her mother-in-law, who was arthritic, limped out behind her, looking distraught. “Look what she has done,” she said. “She’s broken the whole tea set. It was such a good one.” She was panting with rage and exertion.
“Tell them what you said first,” said Malati, with a familiar curtness.
“What did I say wrong?” her mother-in-law asked. “I asked why she unpacked a new tea set, that’s all.”
“Why not a new tea set for my family? Why serve them in old, chipped cups?”
“We’ve never used old or chipped cups in this house. There’s nothing wrong with the cups we use every day. I only asked what need there was to open a new one, that’s all . . .”
“And that’s why I broke it. There’s no need for it after all.”
Her mother-in-law couldn’t resist. “Is this what your parents have taught you?” she asked, in front of them.
“Yes. This is what they have taught me. You can ask them yourself since they’re here. Go on, ask!”
It had all gotten out of hand. Vikram’s father said to Appa and Amma, “Look, now you’ve seen for yourselves. How is it possible to get along when anything we say leads to a scene?” Malati’s mother-in-law was in tears.
Vikram couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Why are you weeping, Amma? Everyone’s seen how she behaves. Let her go stay in her parents’ house if she doesn’t like it here.” His tone was not particularly harsh, but there was an obvious touch of male authority in his words.
His father raised his voice now. “Look,” he said, pointing to his wife. “I’ve lived with her all these years and not once have I made her cry. It’s only after this girl has arrived that I’ve seen her in tears.”
Malati could hardly be expected to stay quiet. “Yes, yes, it’s all my fault. You’re all very gentle people.”
Her mother-in-law wiped off her tears and said, “You can’t buy graciousness. It’s something that’s handed down through the generations. They say the newly rich carry umbrellas to keep moonlight at bay . . .”
Amma was wounded by this. “Yes, it’s true we’ve lived in poverty. That doesn’t mean our heads have spun around because some money came our way.”
It was clear that all this was not going anywhere. We rose to leave. They didn’t ask us to wait. Nor did they come to the door to send us off. Malati led the way, still fuming. I felt it was mostly her fault, but I wasn’t going to say anything while she was in this frame of mind. Appa hadn’t said a single word all through the afternoon’s farce.
• • •
The next Sunday I went to see a film in the afternoon. When I got back home, everyone including Chikkappa was sitting in the hall. Something about the way they were gathered struck me as ominous.
Appa and Amma were on the sofa. Malati was sprawled in a chair. Chikkappa was in the chair opposite her. Malati was somewhat triumphantly ticking items off on a list of jewelry. I knew there had been some concerned talk of recovering her jewelry from her husband’s house. It seemed to have been done while I was out. Chikkappa greeted me as soon as I entered: “Come, come, you were the only one missing.”
Malati started from the beginning for my benefit. “I went there at one in the afternoon,” she said. “I knew they’d all be home between noon and two. Chikkappa’s friends were waiting in the park nearby. Their leader is called Ravi. He’d told me, ‘You just get there and give me a missed call, sister. We’ll be there in no time.’
“I went there and rang the doorbell. My mother-in-law opened the door. She refused to let me enter. ‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll scream and make sure all the neighbors know what you’re doing,’ I told her. She said, ‘Go ahead. I’m tired of your antics.’ I quickly called Ravi from my mobile. He and his friends were there in no time, six of them, hefty men. My mother-in-law was scared. ‘Who are these people?’ she asked me. ‘Just my uncle’s friends,’ I told her. ‘Are you trying to scare us?’ she asked. Just then Ravi pushed her aside and entered the house. Vikram and his father emerged from within. ‘What’s all this? Who are these people?’ Vikram shouted, looking at me. ‘I’m going to call the police,’ he said. And then you know what? Ravi simply stepped up to him and gave him a sharp slap. You should have been there! Vikram was so scared. ‘Please, sir, don’t hurt me. Please,’ he started saying. I wanted to laugh. He was actually calling Ravi ‘sir’! I told Vikram, ‘Look here, I’ve just come to take my jewelry. I only want what belongs to me. You can keep whatever your parents gave me.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘What? Did you hear what she said?’ Ravi asked, taking out a long knife and placing it on the table. One of Ravi’s guys shut and bolted the front door from inside. I went into the bedroom. The keys to the almirah were still where I remembered them. My gold was all in one box, lying there since the wedding. I brought it out with me. I took my taali and the bangles they had given me and threw them at my mother-in-law’s feet. You should have seen their faces! Vikram’s father was sitting mute in a chair. Ravi was speaking to Vikram in a low voice. Every time I heard Vikram calling him ‘sir’ I had to stifle my laughter. I opened the box in front of him before leaving. ‘I’ve only taken what is mine. See for yourself,’ I said. He didn’t look. He didn’t say a word. I left. Ravi called sometime before you got here. He said they sat there for a while after I left and even had my mother-in-law make tea for them. He’s warned them that the matter better end here, peacefully.”
Chikkappa was sitting in his chair, looking very pleased with what Malati was reporting. Amma didn’t approve of the phone call. “Was it so important to report that they had tea?” she asked.
Appa didn’t seem happy with the day’s events. “This means we’ve broken all relations with them,” he said to Malati. “You shouldn’t have gone there and frightened them like that.”
Chikkappa cut in: “They’re all my friends, nothing to worry about. Don’t family members go in these circumstances and bring back valuables? Same thing. It’s also their work. They call themselves recovery agents. It’s these times we live in . . . Nothing is straightforward. If I didn’t use their help to
get payments due to Sona Masala, all I’d be doing is walking from street to street, knocking on doors.”
Appa got up and left the room. My guess is that Amma didn’t approve of these rough methods, either, but she would never say that. “Where’s today’s paper?” Chikkappa asked, indicating there was nothing more to be said. Malati went to her room. I followed soon after. When I passed the closed door of her room I thought I heard sobs from inside. Perhaps it had all gone too far, and she was being pushed down a path she really didn’t want to take. I wanted to go in and console her, but I didn’t know what I would say. And what if she thought it a loss of face to be seen crying? I went on to my room.
• • •
Amma had hopes that Malati’s marriage could be salvaged. I suspected that Malati was not entirely indifferent to Vikram either; perhaps she even loved him. But she settled in at home and attempted no reconciliation. Nor did he. None of us had the courage to ask her where she went or what she was up to. Occasionally, she halfheartedly helped Amma with the housework. But this was aimed only at asserting her position in the house, and it became more conspicuous once Anita joined the household. The rest of the time she was thumbing messages into her phone. Sometimes I heard her on the phone late at night and wondered who it could be. That Ravi? Or was it possible she was softening toward Vikram and meeting him without the knowledge of the families? Malati forever invoked a friend named Mythili with whom she would watch films, at whose place she would stay, in whose company she would take trips to Mysore and Madras. I suspected this Mythili was a front behind which she was having an affair with someone. But even if that were true, what could I have done?
Ghachar Ghochar Page 4
