Of Marriageable Age

by Sharon Maas

  'This time it will be a son,' Ayyar said when she was with child a third time. 'Certainly it will be a son. The chances are high that this will be a boy. Take heart, wife. He will bring great joy to your heart.'

  The chances were indeed high. Ayyar had five children already, four of them girls, three of them married. His two brothers had four daughters between them, and no son. So the chances were high that this time, it would be a boy. After so many girls in one family, it had to be a boy!

  'My mother's heart is yearning to hold a grandson in her arms!' said Ayyar. 'Twenty years since my first child was born, that is too long for a grandmother to wait! I have had to give so much dowry for those daughters. This last girl must be married soon but we have no more funds for dowry. Let us thank the Lord for his kindness in removing your two first daughters. This time he will be kind enough to grant a son. You will see.'

  And so Savitri hoped this would be a son. Then it would live. She could not bear to lose a third daughter.

  But even if she had a daughter who lived, she would have little joy. What can I give a daughter? she said to herself. Nothing. I would like to give her so much but I cannot. Education, and books, and the love of a man like David. The power of healing. She stopped lashing her husband's wet lungi against the flat stone near the tank where she did her washing, and looked up at the sky and a great silent cry escaped her heart: Why, oh why! She held the palms of her hands up before her, and looked at them. Useless, now, except for cooking and washing and fetching water. She often found herself grumbling in this way and quickly pulled herself together. Do not complain, she told herself. It is a waste of time for nothing will change. Go to the place behind the thought-body, and bear it all in silence, for in silence the strength will gather and one day you will be free.

  She slapped the lungi one last time, with all her power, and then flung it out into the tank and watched it spread out beneath the water's surface and almost float away. She waded out to retrieve it, stepping cautiously down the mossy stairs of the tank into the water green from algae, wetting her sari up to the knees. Oh Lord, oh Lord. Give me the strength to bear it. And if it is a daughter, oh Lord, then save her! Save her from him! She stroked her tummy. If you are a girl, she said in her mind, then I will protect you. I will never leave your side, not even for an instant. I will watch over you, and nothing shall ever harm you. I shall bind you to my side when I fetch water at dawn, and I will hold you in my arms when we visit his mother. This is my solemn promise. But it will be easier for you if you are a boy, easier for us both. If you are a boy you will be safe.

  Near the Parvati Tank was a shrine to Ganesa, the elephant-headed god, Shiva's son, the remover of obstacles. Behind this shrine stood an old pipal tree on whose branches hung tiny hammocks of rags containing clay figurines and stones, tied there by women when they prayed for children. Savitri too had tied her cloth to the tree, and prayed fervently for a son. She vowed to Shiva that, should he grant her prayer, she would shave her head and make the sacred pilgrimage to Tiruvannamalai for the Kartikai Deepam festival.

  Savitri did not pray for herself, but she might very well have done so. The beatings were bad enough, but much worse were those nights when he came home late with stinking breath and slobbering mouth and threw his heavy heaving weight on her, and took his pleasure. Each time it was a small death. She prayed for the strength to bear it, but she never prayed for release. She had abandoned duty and had to pay a price, and these small nightly deaths — that was that price. When the price was paid she would be free. She pressed her soul into a pinpoint of strength, and bore it.

  She finished her washing. She had brought a clay vessel with her which she scooped full of water and placed on a rock at waist level, to take home for washing cooking vessels and other utensils. Then she spread a dry sari on the parched grass next to the tank and piled the wet clothes onto it, then bundled them up in the sari, tied it all together with two knots on the top, tied the remains of her soap into a corner of the sari, and heaved the bundle on to her head. She hooked her elbow around the lip of the clay vessel and heaved that into the curve of her hip, and made off towards home.

  She walked easily and quickly, the bundle of clothing balanced deftly on her head held high, her hip carrying the weight of the water vessel, the crook of her arm preventing it from tipping over. The other hip was free — how she longed to balance her baby there! In a year she would be doing just that. Her heart soared, and sank. Oh, let it be a boy! Let this family not be cursed by yet another daughter! Let it be a child I can afford to love, a child that everyone will love! Or if it is a girl, let her live!

  That evening Ayyar came home drunk again, and in a particularly filthy temper. Afterwards Savitri could not remember what had so infuriated him, what had initiated his tantrum. All that she remembered were the slaps on her face, and her body, and the shouting, and the kick in her stomach, and the rape, mercifully short.

  And she remembered the blood. The warm wetness on her legs as she tried to sleep later that night, the blood that would not stop bleeding. The coming of the rickshaw, Ayyar in a panic bundling her into the rickshaw wrapped in many saris to stop the blood that would not stop.

  The little boy was too tiny, too weak even to take a breath. He died. She named him Anand, meaning bliss.

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  Chapter Thirty-three

  Nat

  Colombo, 1969

  When they left the plane at Colombo it was pouring. The passengers were loaded into buses and driven the short distance to the airport building and hustled into the transit hall where they joined an interminable queue until, shortly before midnight, they were ushered into another bus bound for the Hotel Blue Lagoon.

  Nat was seriously disturbed by the rain. It dampened his enthusiasm considerably, which was why he had stayed with Henry instead of going on to Immigration. The word monsoon was buzzing in everyone's ear and if this was the monsoon there was no point in planning a week or two on the beach. And the airline was putting them up in the luxurious Blue Lagoon till they could board the plane for Madras the next day — which meant a good night's sleep between clean sheets and a good hearty breakfast before making new plans. Nat decided to wait. It was certainly annoying, to have to change his plans like this. He’d been looking forward to a week or two on the beach and had in his mind made a tentative itinerary for his Indian holiday: up to the north, down to Goa for another beach holiday, to the village for a few days to do his duty by his father, then over to Bangalore and the Bannerjis, and finally returning Colombo for the return flight. All of that he'd have to drop now, because if there's any hell on earth, it's India during the monsoon. He thought for a while.

  He would have to begin with his duty-visit to the village, which was particularly annoying. Nat had expressly planned this visit near the end, so as to rule out any designs his father and Henry had to keep him longer, and any twinges of his own conscience, once he was in their clutches, urging him to stay longer and help out. He knew his father was overworked and it would take a great effort of will to stick to his guns and go on with his tour, but Nat was determined. It seemed a matter of life and death, a matter of preserving his individuality, his self-determination, not to succumb to the call of so-called duty, which was a particularly Indian thing and since childhood deeply ingrained in him, drummed into him by his elders.

  Living in the West had changed all that. He now knew freedom to be as essential as duty, no, not as essential, but a hundred times more essential. He needed his freedom, needed to be his own man, to make his own decisions, spread his wings and fly. Perhaps it was just as well that he would now be called upon to confront his father, to willingly make the decision to leave, instead of relying on the tactful exigencies of a return ticket. Yes; it was better to get his duty over and then enjoy his freedom, rather than to have duty waiting for him, a deep hole at the end of the journey. It would perhaps mean a confrontation with Doctor, but through the confrontation he would make his point more clearly th
an through tact. Become a man, liberated from the dictates of his elders. But what could he do after that? Where could he go? And then it came to him: the life-saving brainwave.

  A week in the village, to pay his respects. And then, Govind. Life in the village, in this weather, would be horrible. His father would understand. There wouldn’t be much work, and few patients. That was it. He’s go to Bangalore, the Bannerjis, for the rest of the rainy season. Hopefully, Govind would be there. Thank goodness he’d written that letter before leaving! With any luck, the reply would be waiting for him at his father’s, with the usual invitation to “stay as long as you like”. Well, he’d do just that, and stay for the rest of the rainy season. The Bannerji house wouldn’t be affected much by the rains. They wouldn’t be able to play tennis or golf or use the pool, but he and Govind—if Govind was there—could have a lot of nice long talks and do some nice entertaining (visions of bored unmarried Bangalore girls wafted through his mind) and he, Nat, wouldn't be stuck in the middle of nowhere. That was it: the perfect plan. Nat felt much, much, better.

  That decided, Nat finally found sleep, lulled by the monotonous roar of the rain outside his hotel window.

  First course at breakfast was a choice of papaya or pineapple. Nat chose papaya and as the sweet, luscious fruit melted in his mouth he felt he had come home, at last, and smiled to himself.

  'Years since I've tasted anything as good,' he said to Henry, grinning. Henry smiled back.

  'Might as well enjoy it while you've got it. I fear there won't be any papayas at home for some time to come, with all this rain. At least they won't complain of drought this year. The farmers will be happy for once. You can't imagine what it's been like, the last couple of years, Nat. The well's all dried up; they had to cart water from Town or we'd all have dropped dead. Your father had two bore wells dug, but the water table's so low now that if the monsoon had failed this year it would have been a real disaster. I just hope it's not too much of a good thing. The villages aren't built for rains like this; and it's been raining non-stop for weeks now, I've heard. Doctor's house will be fine, it's got a good strong Madras roof, but I'm worried about the villagers with their flimsy thatched roofs. They don't hold back a drop. You know what we'll do? We'll buy some sheets of plastic in Madras; they're sure to come in useful. Anyway, lad, we've got you now; I can't tell you how happy I am that you're coming back with me after all! Your dad would have been too disappointed for words if I'd turned up on his doorstep without you.'

  Henry's smile was so heartfelt that Nat looked away and as he stuck the final bit of papaya into his mouth he mumbled, 'yes, well, for a week or two, just till the rain stops, then I'll be on my way.'

  Henry looked up. ‘On your way? Where to?’

  And Nat told Henry The Plan.

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  Chapter Thirty-four

  Saroj

  Georgetown, 1969

  It was not far to the Roy house from the hospital; a mere fifteen-minute walk. As she walked, Saroj made her calculations. Ma would leave the house sooner or later, on her way to the hospital. She had to be alert, in order to see Ma before Ma saw her. She would hide, then, and let Ma pass by. If she did not see Ma that meant she was still in the house, finishing off whatever Ma did in the mornings — meet her lover? Murmur sweet nothings into the phone? — when she was alone at home.

  Walking to the hospital would take Ma fifteen minutes. She would find Saroj gone, there'd be a rumpus, a panic, a search. What would she do next? Assume Saroj had gone home, and hurry back? Another fifteen minutes. Perhaps someone would give her a lift which meant ten minutes less. Or she'd take a taxi. All in all, she'd be away from home at the very least for twenty-five minutes.

  But Saroj didn't need more than ten minutes. At the most.

  She didn't see Ma on her way home. That was good. It meant Ma hadn't left yet, which gave her more time. On Waterloo Street she walked carefully, hiding behind each flamboyant tree and checking before running to the next one. If anyone was watching they'd think she'd gone crazy, but the avenue was empty and from the houses you couldn't see through the foliage.

  She arrived at the tree beyond the house and waited, watching. It was all so clear, so calm, so strong within her. She chuckled to herself, the euphoria of liberty bubbling up within. It was finally happening, then, Independence Day! So often she'd contemplated leaving, played with the thought of running away, divorcing her family. Always it seemed a mission as impossible as cutting off her own hands. Now that she was doing it, it was so easy!

  It seemed to take an eternity for Ma to leave the house. Saroj knew she was still home for the downstairs windows next to the mango tree were still open and Ma never left the house before closing those, since the mango tree was easy to climb and an open window next to it was an open invitation to thieves and arsonists. Baba had dismissed Singh — both Singhs — for sleeping on duty, and hadn't yet found replacements.

  Saroj waited. One or two cars passed by on either side of the avenue. A black nanny with two white children in playsuits and sunhats, who belonged to fat Mrs Richardson at the corner of Waterloo and Lamaha Streets. Nanny stared at Saroj curiously but walked on by up the avenue, stopping every now and again to call, 'Come on, come on,' to the children, who chortled with glee and threw handfuls of red flamboyant blossoms at each other, forgetting to follow Nanny.

  Vaguely their play brought back a similar scene from half an eternity ago, when Baba was still Baba and Saroj a toddler, and Indrani and Ganesh played with the blossoms while Saroj peddled furiously on her tricycle trying to keep up with Baba. A wave of nostalgia swept through her and something bitter pricked at her eyes. But quickly she banished such sentimentality and pulled herself back to the task at hand, which was simply — waiting.

  A dray cart loaded with planks, the driver crunched into himself, half-asleep it seemed, calling out Hey-hey mechanically and flicking his whip each time the scrawny horse stopped to pull at the wayside grass, which was every five paces.

  The closing of a sash window jolted Saroj to attention. She peeped out from behind her tree and saw Ma at the second window, jerking it up an inch before letting it fall gently into place, breaking its fall with her hands. For the split second before it closed she saw Ma framed by the window… Ma… another wave of nostalgia threatened to overtake her but she steeled herself successfully against it. Now the front door was opening. She watched from the safety of her tree as Ma glided out in her favourite plum-coloured sari, placed a basket on the concrete path and turned to lock the door. She needed both hands because the key always stuck and you had to pull the door towards you to get it to turn. Saroj pulled her head back now, trying to ignore the sickness in her stomach, and heard the lock dicking into place, Ma's latchkey turning — strange, how sounds carry when your hearing is keenly tuned for them!

  Then Ma raised the clasp on the gate, the gate opened, its chain rattling slightly, it closed again, the clasp fell into place, Ma's footsteps drew nearer as she crossed the road. Saroj was safe behind her tree, but could not help looking out to watch Ma's little back as she walked down the middle of the avenue, away from her, the palu of her sari floating out behind her, her basket over her arm and knocking gently against her hip as she briskly walked towards the hospital. The basket, loaded with good things for Saroj in her convalescence: favourite fruits, maybe genips because it was genip season, or guavas or a golden ripe paw-paw or pineapple slices in a box; a bottle of sorrel or tamarind drink, maybe some samosas or pineapple tarts or barfi…

  Funny how, when you resolve to do something strong and essential, something you know you need to do, a feeling as weak as sentimentality tries to creep up behind your fixed resolve and take you unawares with memories and prods of conscience and things as frail as a mouth-watering memory of a samosa made with loving hands especially for you. Oh Ma… There was a lump in Saroj's throat. She wanted to weep, to call out. But no.

  Ma turned the corner into Lamaha Street and disappeared from view. In a tr
ice Saroj was across the road; the gate she left open but not clasped, to save time at her escape. The front door was locked, but she knew where Ganesh kept a key hidden in the yard, under a pile of unused flower-pots. It was in her hand, turning in the lock, then she took the stairs two at a time, all the way up to the second storey and through the door into her bedroom. She looked around, at what had been home for so many years, smelled for the last time the lemon-scented polish. It was dark, for Ma had closed the jalousies, but bars of sunlight infiltrated through the slats casting a ribbed pattern on the white sheet of the bed.

  There were no suitcases in Saroj's room, and she didn't want to waste time searching for one. She slipped the pillow out of its case, opened the drawers of the dresser, and stuffed the pillow-case with some clothes, underwear, a few blouses, school uniform, shoes. There wasn't much she cared to take with her. The high-necked dresses Baba ordained, she would never wear again in all her life, nor the grey pleated skirts. Jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts: that was her future. Trixie would help.

  The pillow-case filled and bulging, she hesitated, just for one second. Dare I? Yes! Yes! Without this, this one last defiant act, without a statement, her escape could not be final. She opened the door into her parents' bedroom. She knew where Ma kept her sewing things, in a corner of the wardrobe, in a round basket. She opened the wardrobe, enveloping herself in a cloud of scent so filled with Ma's presence she almost drew back. But only for a moment. Her hands found the basket, delved into them, and felt the metallic coldness of the thing she sought.