‘Nothing like that, mapillai. People can spot if anyone comes and goes. Only I come here. You know my father, don’t you? This is where I come to escape him,’ Muthu replied.
Once, when they were preparing the land for sowing peanuts, Muthu bought a large pitcher of toddy and hid it in one spot. Two ploughs were working on the land. Once in a little while, Muthu ran to the rocky patch and while returning to the field, he made a show of tightening his loincloth and said, ‘My stomach’s upset.’ But how many times could they halt the ploughing? Annoyed, his father ran after Muthu the next time he took off, and discovered his secret spot.
‘Are you a rat?’ he laughed. ‘You have made a hideout in this little nook.’
After that, everyone started visiting the spot, if only to marvel at Muthu’s genius. So he had to abandon that spot, but it was not as if there was a dearth of possible secret locations there.
There was certainly one spot that he’d had since childhood, which no one had been able to discover. Only Kali was privy to it. The elevated fields ended at the stream, the edge of which was bordered by ten large, fully grown neem trees. On one of those trees, Muthu had fastened two of the branches together to form a loft and had completed it using long stalks, ropes and plaited palm fronds. To an outsider, it would just look as though the neem branches had entwined. He could spend days and nights over there. He had also furnished the place with all the things he needed. Though he could not really cook there, he could pretty much do everything else he wanted to. If there was an argument or a fight at home, he would run away and spend at least a night and a day there. On one such occasion, they had looked for him everywhere, without any luck. After a whole night and a day, he returned home as if nothing had happened. But they still hadn’t been able to locate this spot.
When Kali said, ‘You should have been born a crow or a cuckoo,’ he replied, ‘I would have been much happier that way, you know.’
Muthu too had a barn, but it was his father who was the master there. He always remarked when he visited Kali’s barn, ‘Only children without their fathers around are the lucky ones.’
Remembering all this, Kali thought that they were now going to one such haven. But Muthu seemed to walk past all the fields. The sun had started going down, but in its slant it could be felt more sharply.
‘How much further?’
‘If you want to see a new place and taste new stuff, you should not mind such discomfort. Wait and see. You will hug me and give me a kiss!’ said Muthu.
Kali’s curiosity was piqued. He kept walking with Muthu past the barren lands.
TWENTY-TWO
Ponna’s parents got busy as soon as Kali and Muthu left. ‘We are late,’ they said to Ponna and rushed her to get ready.
Before he left, Muthu came into the house and said to Ponna, ‘We two will be fine. You go, Ponna. Think of god in your mind.’ She had stepped out eagerly to say bye to Kali. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her seductively. He wouldn’t talk to her when they were in a crowd or even when there was anyone else around. But he would communicate everything to her with his facial expressions. His eyebrows would arch and talk to her; the curve of his lips would contain his message for her; and just a nod of his head would let her know what he wanted. It was only she who was afraid that someone would catch them at this game. She was surprised that her brother had managed to speak to Kali and get his permission for this. After walking a little distance, Kali turned to look at her. She stood right there, since she knew he would do that. She sent him off with a shy smile.
A little while after their departure, a bullock cart pulled up in front of the house. There was hay spread on the cart for her and her mother to sit on. In the sack tied under the cart, there was some fodder for the bull and two coarse mats. Her mother had packed some food, and it was now next to her on the hay.
Ponna hadn’t known her mother had packed food for the way, though she had been with her all day long. She must have soaked tamarind and made the rice when Ponna was busy with Kali.
‘When did you manage to pack the food, Amma?’ said Ponna.
‘You two are all over each other like you just got married. You talk through signs. In the middle of all this, where do you have the time to pay attention to what I am up to?’ her mother replied. ‘If there is a child, it will teach you some modesty,’ she added. ‘Well, at least now your husband had the good sense to say yes. Pray that this time it should all go well.’
Ponna heaved a sigh of relief. When she had menstruated in the first month after the wedding, her mother-in-law sniggered in displeasure and turned her face away. Since then, the snigger had continued every month until that day. Nothing had happened to change that. But now, Ponna was going with her blessings. It was Kali’s change of mind that was surprising to her. Perhaps it was because her brother and Kali were friends since childhood. That’s why his words had had some effect.
In a very short while, the bullock cart reached the main road. Huge tamarind trees lined the road that ran between Tiruchengode and Erode. From the point where their mud path met this main road, they saw that it was already lined with bullock carts. Traffic was quite bad even on days when people went to see the chariot, but nothing compared to this day. Their cart too inserted itself into the line. They saw there were a lot of carts without roofs and which had only hay spread on them. There were only one or two bullock carts that had a covered box to sit in. In all of these, men, women and children were packed tight. Both mother and daughter felt strange that it was only their cart that was not crowded.
Every cart carried stacks of grass and fodder for the bulls. They could even hear the crowing of hens and roosters from under some of the carts. People would go see the gods that night and the next day they would offer pongal and sacrifice a rooster for the snake god in the forest. After they’d cooked and eaten, they’d wash and clean their utensils right there before leaving. Hundreds of roosters would be sacrificed the next day. Needless to say, it would be another crowded day in Tiruchengode.
Not only did the dust from the roads settle on their bodies, it also flew on to their faces and made it hard to breathe. People walking by the side of the carts did not mind this even one bit. They carried on as if the dust was nothing but holy ash smearing itself on them. Taking a cue from her mother, Ponna covered her face with her sari. It looked like her mother was wearing a faded sari. Maybe this was the best one she had. However tirelessly she worked in the fields, she was unable to wear good clothes. Nor was she keen on doing that.
Ponna remembered a story from last year. Apparently, when people went to Pallipalayam with the carts to trade in hay, a man came to conduct an auction for them. They did not want to get into an auction, so they all bought a sari each. Ponna was now wearing the sari that Kali had bought her from that sale. He always preferred light-coloured saris. She loved this one—a light sandalwood colour—and she was now concerned about it getting caked with dust. Thankfully, after a little distance, women were sprinkling water from either side of the road, helping the dust settle. This was a service that people from the villages along the road took on during the festival season.
There were also water pandals every few miles or so. They were made by plaiting palm fronds together and then fastening them with coconut fronds. Two or three carts pulled up in front of each of the pandals. Everyone could get as many pitchers of cold water as they needed. The Chakkiliyars, in deference to the upper castes, removed themselves to the other side of the pandals and drank water out of palm-fruit shells. Some of the pandals even had watery buttermilk in pots. This was like nectar to someone in thirst. Nothing could compete with that. Watching everyone around her, Ponna was filled with the excitement of a child.
The young men who drove the carts were keen on overtaking the carts ahead of them. Every time they managed to do that, all the young men and the children in that cart would shout and jeer at the one they overtook. All of this took a toll on the poor bullock that heaved, panted and struggled. Excitement pulsed thr
ough the entire stretch of the road. Ponna’s father drove slowly and carefully. It was enough if they reached when there was still some daylight left. After all, there was nothing new about the festival that he needed to see after all these years. The last time he went was when he took little Ponna to see the festival. The years had rolled by. Now, looking at this crowd, Ponna had little doubt that all sorts of rules would be broken that night. Perhaps different rules applied to crowds?
Just like this road, the other roads that led to Tiruchengode from all the other villages around it would also bring in similar crowds. Would the four quadrangle streets hosting the Tiruchengode chariot festival suffice to accommodate these thousands of people pouring in? Just for this day, the town would expand into the distant lands surrounding it. The noise of the crowds continued to ring in her ears.
Her father stopped the cart at a water pandal. It was in the village of Karumagoundampalayam. They could get watery buttermilk there! They only said it was watery, but it turned out to be excellent buttermilk. If you drank a small pitcher full of this, it would relieve not only your thirst but your hunger too. Nearby, there was also a large tank filled with water for the cattle. While the passengers were busy drinking the buttermilk, some of the drivers unharnessed their bullocks and took them for a drink of water.
All of these were acts of service that people from the villages along the road took upon themselves. These pandals lasted the entire duration of the festival. On some days, you could get not only water and buttermilk, but also panagam, sweetened with jaggery. All the palm-tree climbers of that village made sure that enough Karuppatti jaggery was available to make panagam in large vessels. When they were heading back to the cart, a man approached them. He was wearing a dhoti around his waist and had a folded towel under his arm. When he said, ‘Samee …’ Ponna’s father turned around. ‘What?’ He could tell that the man was a Chakkiliyan.
He said, ‘Samee, the little ones are unable to walk. If you can give us a little space in your cart, you will be blessed.’
‘Where will you sit?’ Ponna’s father asked.
‘Samee, you go to the back and sit restfully on the hay. I will drive the cart and have these three sit next to me.’
‘Are you a good driver?’
‘Samee, I work for the Periyagounder’s farm at Periyapalayam. My name is Maran. You can ask him. Everyone speaks highly of my work, samee. I will be gentle on the bulls. You will have nothing to fear.’
‘All right. Come. Get in carefully,’ said Ponna’s father, handing over the reins to Maran. Moving the bull on the right slightly aside, Maran climbed on to the driver’s spot. Then he lifted his two little children and made them sit. His wife was a little on the heavier side. She hoisted herself up by placing one foot on the pivot of the wheel and sat herself behind her husband, making sure she did not touch anyone sitting on the hay spread. Since now an entire family was to the front of the cart, the weight imbalance bothered the bullocks. So, Ponna’s father moved further to the back to make it easier for them. Now they also had people to talk to.
TWENTY-THREE
It made Ponna anxious when her father started asking Maran about his family. Her fear was that once that ended, Maran might reciprocate. Gradually, it would come to his asking, ‘How many children does your daughter have?’ And when they would hear she had no children yet, they would take pity on her and suggest some medicine or some ritual. ‘I have nothing but humiliation to expect, even from a Chakkili,’ she thought. She did her part to make sure the conversation did not head that way. Thankfully, her father started talking about cultivation instead.
The two children were very beautiful. The one sitting on the father’s lap must have been eight years old. A small kandangi cloth torn from a sari was all she was wearing around her waist. The other one, sitting naked on her mother’s lap, must have only been three. Ponna felt like keeping the baby on her lap. But caste laws forbade her from touching the child. She refrained from even playing with caste children, since she feared some rebuke or comment.
In the month of Purattasi, it was a tradition to offer pongal at the Perumal temple at the foot of a hill. If one took the shortcut through Kollipalayam at the crack of dawn, one could reach the temple by the time the sun was overhead. Of course, if someone was going like this by bullock cart, you could all go together. Earlier, Kali used to take the initiative to arrange for and even drive the cart. Those were very happy journeys. He would take as many people as the cart could hold. If they left very early, they would be at the foot of the hill by the time it was bright and sunny. The hill was basically a bare rock that resembled a giant basket that had been turned upside down. The region surrounding the hill was all forest. On the Saturdays of the Purattasi month, crowds from nearby flocked to the temple. You could see stoves busy preparing pongal for the offering. The sambar made with green gram dal, pumpkin and ladies’ fingers—all specially made for this offering for Vishnu—were delicious. Everyone followed the same recipe.
On the mud roads leading to that hill, one could never spot any sign of a human dwelling. It was all green and lush vegetation. Elevated fields cultivating groundnuts dotted the edges of the roads and filled everyone with joy. And the plants that yielded toor dal stood with their leaves spread out like the unfurled tails of proud peacocks. It was soothing to the heart just to drive on this road. Ponna had promised three head shaves and three pongal offerings to this deity. When would she get to complete that?
Once during their trip there, Kali’s cart was so crowded that they were practically elbowing each other for space. Accompanying them from Thundukkaadu were Kannaaya and her two children. Her son, who was three or four years old, was dark and snot constantly dribbled from his nose. The girl was an infant; she hadn’t even started to crawl. Kannaaya was struggling to take care of the children while also holding on to all the things she was carrying for the temple offering. Her husband was walking behind the vehicle, since there was absolutely no space for him in it. Ponna took the infant from Kannaaya and kept it on her lap, making sure the sun didn’t bother the baby. The child was in utter delight at the vehicle’s bouncing up and down on the road, and it laughed whenever Ponna made a ‘kooooo’ sound twirling her tongue around.
Kannaaya’s wedding had happened only a year after Ponna’s, but she already had two children one after the other. Whenever Ponna saw someone like that, she shrank from within. Despite her best efforts to cheer up, she would be sad the whole day. There were no words to describe the pride and joy glowing on the faces of women who managed to have a child within a year of their marriage. They also overdid it in front of Ponna. The baby, who was laughing until then, suddenly grunted. Ponna saw that the baby had defecated, wetting the little white cloth tied around her waist.
The stench was overpowering. What had Kannaaya eaten before feeding the child? Ponna’s sari too was wet with the child’s faeces. ‘Why does it stink so badly? Did you eat anything that you were not supposed to during the festival weeks?’ Ponna asked as she handed over the baby to Kannaaya. She could not bear the stench and the dampness on her sari. Everyone in the cart felt assailed by it and were trying to manage it by covering and twitching their noses. Kali stopped the cart at a well by the side of the road. Ponna ran to the well, took some water from the large water holder next to it and cleaned herself. Kannaaya cleaned the child’s legs and feet and also rinsed the cloth it was wearing.
Why carry the baby when she was travelling so far? Was the god going to be mad if she decided to come the next year instead? All right, if she still chose to go, shouldn’t she know what to feed the child before travel? Ponna was really annoyed. It felt like the stench from her sari had not fully gone.
‘This is making me retch. Kannaaya, don’t you think you should feed the infant something she can digest?’ she said.
And Kannaaya retorted, ‘Shit will stink. Is it only my baby’s shit that stinks? Does yours smell wonderful? You’d know if you’d had and raised a child of your own. Yo
u keep saying it stinks, as if I don’t know it!’
The worst thing was not Kannaaya’s remark that Ponna didn’t know what it took to raise a child. It was what Kannaaya muttered under her breath after that, which everyone heard anyway: ‘This childless woman smells a child’s ass and squirms at the sight of a child’s shit. How does she expect to be blessed with a child?’
Ponna broke into sobs. Kali did not know what to do. He just made a general remark: ‘Can’t you keep quiet? These women! They can never keep their tongues under control.’ But the argument had rippled out among the other passengers by then, and they took sides.
‘Once you have a child, you will have things like shit to deal with. You can’t be squeamish about that.’
‘Well, you promptly lifted the child and gave it to its mother. Whom can she hand it over to in turn? Nobody. She has to do it herself, doesn’t she?’
It turned out that Ponna was more upset with the words of those who claimed to speak in support of her than those who took Kannaaya’s side.
‘Who knows what curse it is that has kept her childless and suffering? How can you speak to her like that?’
‘Had she handled a child before, she would have done better. She didn’t know. That doesn’t mean you call her barren.’
‘Don’t cry, Ponna. This time next year Perumalsami would have given you a child.’
Until they reached the temple, this was their only topic of conversation. Ponna was mad at Kali. Not only had he given Kannaaya a ride in the cart, he had also included Ponna in his admonition.
‘Do I have a problem controlling my tongue? What about what the other woman said?’ Ponna said. She had long since lost interest in the deity, in climbing the hill and in making pongal. But she did it anyway just for the sake of it. Thankfully, when they got ready to leave, Kannaaya did not join them. Her husband informed them that they were going to stay on longer. They might have chosen a different cart to return by. On the way back, everyone in Ponna’s cart scolded the absent Kannaaya: she talked back, she was arrogant, she was haughty—all sorts of words rolled around. But Ponna knew that they felt obliged to speak against Kannaaya because they were in Ponna’s vehicle. When they would meet Kannaaya, they would talk ill of Ponna.
One Part Woman Page 11
