Once Again
Two were created.
Lokidas.
Sabari.
Loku, what will you do when you are grown up?
I’m going to eat all the lollipops I want.
Idiot, talk sensibly. Tell this uncle and aunty.
I’ll buy myself a puppy.
Silly. Today he is not in the right mood. Come on, tell us what work you are going to do.
I’ll be an engineer.
Correct. See how well he answers? He’ll usually say it straight off. Today he’s being stubborn.
Loku, come here. Repeat the dialogue from Sholay for us.
Won’t.
Tch. A clever child will always do as his parents tell him. Go on. Repeat the dialogue.
I want to go out and play.
You can go out later. Give us the dialogue first. Otherwise I won’t give you your ball.
“Arré, O Samba…”
Good.
The first piece that Lokidas wrote in school, entitled “My Parents”:
“My mother’s name is Kaveri. My father’s name is Sankaran. My mother likes boys who listen to their parents. My father reads the paper. We have a TV in our house. When I grow up I won’t be an engineer.”
The teacher said this lacked logical order and gave it one out of ten.
In the drawing lesson, he wasn’t able to do circular men with arms and legs as he was told to do. He made them all square.
“Is this the way to do it? Look how everybody else has done round men. Is this how people are?”
“Yes, that’s how they are. They have square arms. Square heads. And they can fly. They fly up to the sky and play cricket there. Even the footballs they play with are square.”
The teacher said it showed an unhealthy imagination and marked it zero. His mother scolded him. She said he should repeat every morning, as soon as he got up: People walk. A ball is round.
Loku, the boy who sits next to you is a Hindu isn’t he?
Yes.
Then who is the boy who came with you yesterday?
Joseph.
Where did you go and play?
We didn’t play. He showed me their church. There was an aunty there, holding a baby. That’s Mother Mary.
I don’t want you to go to such places hereafter. Understand?
Very well, Appa.
Loku, I think you should have a shave today.
No, Appa.
Kaveri, fetch him some hot water. Here’s the brush and soap.
Appa, it hasn’t grown that much.
Here comes the hot water. Finish it soon.
If you take up mathematics, you could apply for engineering later. After the initial training you’ll earn a four-figure salary.
I like economics, Appa.
What will you do with that, after your B.A.? You’ll get a job as a bank clerk.
No, Appa, I’d go into management.
Why all that? Just go in for engineering. Here’s the form. Fill it. Here, write “Mathematics” in this space.
A man is one who earns. He who earns is a man.
Away the heroine runs. The hooligans give chase. The hero arrives. There’s a hand-to-hand fight. He wins her. He is a man.
That yellow sari
who climbed into the bus –
in my imagination, I stripped her
and lay with her.
Doesn’t matter. It was only your imagination. That’s the way a man’s mind is. There will be a woman in actual fact for you one day. For this reason. With a tali round her neck.
Aren’t the puris good enough? There will be a woman to cook for you one day.
Wear our suits, your girlfriend will appreciate you.
Wear our shoes, the girls will turn round to look at you.
Wear our shirts, the lion in you will wake up.
Use our razor blades. She will stroke your cheek. Then…
Buy our toothpaste, her face can come near yours.
Drink this. Your boss will commend your energy.
Why wear crumpled clothes? Buy our crease-proof material.
You’ll be praised for your efficiency.
You are the one who earns money
You go out to work
You are the one who has many rights
You are the one who casts the vote
You are the one who mustn’t cry
You are strong
You make decisions
You can change the world
You have firmness of mind
You enjoy women
You are forceful in bed
You want to impress your boss
You are a man.
Sabari…Must you walk around like this without your knickers? Naughty. It’s only naughty little girls who stand about without their clothes. Good little girls say, “Amma, put my knickers on.”
Amma, put my knickers on.
Sabari in the first class. Sabarikutti, who are you going to marry?
Abdulla, who’s in my class.
No, no, you mustn’t say that. That’s wrong.
Sabari in the third class. Sabari, what happened to that Abdulla?
Don’t know.
What do you mean you don’t know? Wasn’t he your friend?
No, Appa. He was a Muslim, wasn’t he?
She has sense, this girl.
Mm. You’re a big girl now. Why should you play with that Murali? What do you mean, flying kites? Why these boys’ games? Go and read a book instead.
Why do you have to run in that noisy way?
Mm. That’s quite enough eye make-up. And what sort of top is that? Go and change at once.
What were you talking to Sita about? Did I hear you say “sex?”
Why should you girls chat about these bad things? Go and say your prayers.
I bow at the feet of the Lord Ganesha
who gorged on handfuls of fruit and sweets.
Repeat it ten times. Good.
All those who work upon the land are the poor.
If they demand their rights, they are slandered
by the base rich, who aim their arrows upon
the wounded.
The wide heavens watch these scenes all day,
my brother,
And break out into pustulous stars, when it darkens.
Applause.
Where did you learn all this? Why were you participating in that debate? What’s all this talk about the rich and the poor? Is this the sort of thing girls talk about? What students’ association do you belong to?
Appa, I don’t want to do history. I’ll take up maths and physics. Then I might go on to aeronautic engineering.
Take history. After all you’ll end up blowing at the kitchen hearth.
Learn to cook. Nobody is going to marry a girl who can’t produce tasty foods. Read Femina. Collect recipes from it.
…Put in a spoonful of dalda, or the equivalent amount of oil. Throw in the onion chopped fine. When it begins to brown, toss in the ground masala. Fry, roast, blend, grind, pound.
What have you dressed up like this for? Is anyone coming to “see” the bride, or what?
Get rid of unwanted hair. Here is our cream.
Wear our bra. It will enhance your youth.
This is our special sari season. People who buy our saris have good taste. He will be enticed by this sari.
When you have bathed with our soap, washed your hair with our shampoo, tipped our talcum powder on your shoulders, used our nail polish and our bindi, and when you open the door — there will be Cupid himself standing in front of you.
Those difficult days…
Use our cooking oil. Notice the difference in your household.
Amma, the food is terrific. Terrific, Kamala.
My husband won’t eat out hereafter.
Yes, she is a clever wife.
Use this to cleanse the toilets in your house…
Amma, our bathroom smells lovely.
Yes, she knows how to keep the toilets clean.
She is a receptionist. She has to be beautiful. She wears our saris.
Let us appoint a woman secretary. Whether she works well or not, the office will look good.
It’s good for women to be teachers. It’s a respectable job.
You look after the house
You know that beauty products are for your use
You are modest
You listen to decisions
You are a goddess
You are always helpful
You work outside the house only when in dire need
You need protection
You are a woman.
Hoping Nachiketan would be at home, he slipped through the narrow gate into the huge garden, scratched at the wooden door with his fingernail and called out, “Nachiketa, Nachiketa.”
Nachiketan’s mother came to the door. She smiled. He must have told her to expect him.
She took him in, opened a small door and pointed.
Black and white and brown, they tumbled about, tugging and pulling at their mother’s teats.
Nachiketan’s mother went in quietly and picked up the little black one. She gave it to him. It moved in his hands, rubbing against the smooth skin and whimpering softly.
As he walked along, he bent to its ears, reciting into them, “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky,” in a name-giving ritual.
The chain he brought was surely strong enough to stand up to Lucky’s mischief. At the ironmonger’s, he had allowed his eyes to wander from locks weighing all of two kilos, to “rocket” locks that came apart as soon as the key was turned. When the shopkeeper began to growl, he pointed to what he wanted, tested it by pulling at it, and finally bought it. When he woke up the next morning and hurried to the back of the house, the long chain was hanging loose, broken.
He could not call out Lucky’s name, it stuck, tightly lodged in his throat. There would be half a foot of the chain still hanging from Lucky’s neck. Dragging along the road, tangling with his legs, pressing against his stomach when he sat down, rolled up between his paws. Lucky’s toy, to push about, to worry with his teeth, to bark at softly, and play with, in pretence anger.
Did it run away? Just as well. Making a mess all over the place.
Nachiketan came with him to the pound where the stray dogs were taken. As soon as the tin-plated doors were opened, fifty puppies came running to them, whimpering weakly. They looked at him with tragic eyes, licked his feet and said, “Free me.” They were skinny, almost like mice. A cart was trundled in. A whole heap of dogs, their legs and tails spread out, hanging loose. At the top, there was a white dog, nose lifted, looking upwards, soundlessly. From its stomach, its burden hung in lumps.
He broke into loud sobs when he felt their tongues, wet against his legs. He said softly, “Lucky’s not here.” When the doors were closed, he could hear their tragic howling.
Should boys cry like this? Silly. Crying for the sake of a dog.
Lokidas turned over and looked at the skies.
Her grandmother’s house in Coimbatore. R.S. Puram. She played with her cousins Shanta and Annalakshmi. Shanta was the proud one. So she was always made to be the patient when they played doctors and patients. The other two were the doctors. Even if it was only a cold, Shanta was made to lie down on Thatha’s table, and given an “operation.” Shanta was usually put down, but occasionally, after she had pleaded desperately, they would play hide and seek.
Once when she lifted the lid of the big laundry basket, she saw a litter of kittens, all curled up, like a bunch of flowers. As she stood there, lid in hand, the little world huddled together there seemed to expand before her…Caught you…Caught you…
Sabari placed her hands on his.
The old man had a deep voice, pure as bell metal. He was related in some way; a classificatory grandfather. Terribly keen on musical time-schemes.
He’d begin:
jamakkalam to be spread out
and a pillow to be slept on
then he’d demonstrate the syllable count:
jamakkalamtobe spread out
andapillowtobe slept on
once again:
jamak kalam tobe spread out
anda pillow tobe slept on
You’d actually hear the mridangam being struck. With his gnarled hands, the veins standing out, he’d tap out the rhythm and expound upon it. He was very much a part of evenings at Styamangalam. He came to Delhi, this grandfather. At evening times, he would sit on his string bed on the terrace, place the palm of his hand flat against his ear, and begin, most beautifully, “I shall never be rid of this cycle of birth, though countless years pass…When there was rasam spiked with cumin seed, and a relish of roasted gram, the most pleasurable sounds would emanate from upstairs. He would sing, “Maha sugirta rupa sundari…” with a sweep and toss of the head. He would conclude by repeating that “maha” ten times, the final “maha” vanishing away into the darkness. Suddenly he would lower his head upon the pillow, fling his arms and legs on to the bed like pieces of wood, and drop off to sleep.
Lokidas pressed Sabari’s hand.
Against the first winter, she had a woolen coat. It was pink with narrow brown lines upon it. It had been made to withstand three winters. So the sleeves hung loose, like tongues, and were meant to be folded back. Each year the coat was let out, showing a difference in colour in half-inch-wide ribbons. By the third winter, the coat had bands of different colours along the edges of the sleeve and neck and hem. A pink coat…
Then there were those swivel chairs…There were four of them, named England, Japan, America, and Singapore. With the words, “Chalo, Singapore,” she’d be lifted and spun around ten times.
Sabari stroked Lokidas’s laughing mouth with her fingernails.
He loved the smell of books. The smell of new books; the smell of yellowing pages touched with mould; the smell of pages crumbling away into dust.
Lokidas touched the lids of her wide eyes.
The hair that the barber’s knife scraped away was both black and white. The old lady who lived down their street had her head shaved once in three months. She had followed the barber to his three-foot-deep front room, a conversion from the verandah, with windows put in. When she reached up to the window and peered inside, the razor had just completed its first stroke. There was a strip running right down the middle of the bent head. Her drooping, wrinkled breasts covered with green veins showed through her white sari, jolting the spectator.
She was frightened at the thought of old age. What was it like, a woman’s old age? How would it be?
Sabari looked into his eyes for a long time.
I have never talked about all these things.
Nor have I.
I feel as if I had been shut up in a trap all this time. I can actually begin to breathe now.
Yes. As if they had built a wall all around.
…It’s like silk.
What is, Loku?
Your body. Didn’t you know?
I didn’t. It’s only after you said that, that I can actually see myself.
I like it when you touch my shirt button.
If I undo them, and touch you like this?
That’s good.
Don’t men have hair on their chests?
Mm.
But you don’t?
You’ll just have to think I’ve come a long way from the time that we were apes.
An outburst of laughter.
Aren’t there bras with a fastening on the front?
Fool. Only for nursing mothers.
Really? Are these difficult to undo?
You try.
It won’t come undone. Don’t laugh. It really won’t.
A waterfall of laughter.
I didn’t know a man’s body could be so beautiful.
What did you think?
How did I know. I thought it would be repulsive.
Idiot.
And you?
I didn’t know that lips were so soft.
A dry leaf fell on her.
You are Eve.
But there’s no apple?
I don’t need an apple.
A squirrel leapt away.
These pebbles are poking me in the knee.
Laugher as they part and come together again.
Hey, you are making me want to laugh.
Don’t laugh right now…
Hey, a drop of water fell on my nose. It’s going to rain.
Let it.
One, two, three drops of rain. Like pearls on his back.
Sabari just touch my head.
Streaming wet.
You’ve got all this red clay in your hair.
The rain was like glass screens all about them. They spread their arms and legs freely upon the earth, accepting the rain.
The rope fell upon the floor like a cobra’s head, then wriggled and retreated.
One.
It rose above her head and then hit the floor again.
Two.
It described an elongated circle above her head and then swung beneath her feet.
Three, four, five, six, seven.
The sweat dropped off her. Just above her lower belly, somewhere deep within, there was a churning.
Next she lifted her stomach and touched the floor without bending her knees. The potatoes she had eaten the previous evening seemed to give off a gas that entered her nipples, causing her acute discomfort. The sweat ran down her nose.
A spark of light fell on the balcony. The first light of dawn, like a tiny calf, leaping.
Vanamali opened her eyes, still in a drowse.
Sabari was reaching up, then touching the ground.
Reaching up again and touching the ground.
“Sabari…”
She stopped, holding in her stomach.
“What is this, first thing in the morning? First you were jumping up and down, making as much noise as if you were breaking up a gourd. Now this. What’s it all about?”
“Nothing.”
Sabari put on her tennis shoes and went out.
When Vanamali walked to the balcony, rubbing her eyes and looking about, she saw Sabari running in circles on the green lawn.
The water flowed smoothly. it was as dark as a cave. A covered basket came floating by.
That Marathi song.
Suddenly a sari pallav is moved to a side, revealing a big stomach. Sita speaks: “Lakshmana, look. I am pregnant. See for yourself. Make sure you tell your brother. Otherwise he might suspect me about this, too.”
Jaa saang Lakshmana saang Rama rajala…
The song echoes.
The basket floats out of the cave’s darkness and comes near. The covering is removed.
Ah…a loud scream.
“Sabari…hey, Sabari…What is it?”
“A weird dream.”
Vanamali came to her bedside. She upturned the water pot, filled a tumbler and gave it to her.
“What’s the matter, Sabari?”
“Shall we have a cup of tea?”
Vanamali looked at the time. Five o’clock. She turned on the heater. She filled a kettle of water and put in some cardamom shells.
Sabari looked on.
As soon as the water came to a boil, she put in the tea leaves. She added the milk. Then she poured the tea out into two glasses.
“Here.”
The tea went down, fragrant with cardamom.
“Now what’s the matter?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Vanamali spilt her tea.
“Who is it?”
“Lokidas.”
“So this was what was going on in Simla, was it? Didn’t you tell me it was a Students Union Conference? Couldn’t you have been more careful? Have you told him?”
“No. I tried. His mother picked up the phone. I put it down straight away.”
“Will he come here?”
“How can he? He’s got his exams.”
Vanamali struck at her own forehead in anger.
They went there together, all three.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Where are your parents?”
“They are away in Dubai for a year.”
“And what about you, young man, how old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Mm. Come in. I had better examine you.”
Vanamali tried to go in as well.
“You please wait outside.”
“No doctor, I’m her guardian.”
“Oh, really? And how old might you be? Fifty?”
“I’m seventeen too.”
He opened the door for all three of them and said, “Get out.”
There was the stench of blood everywhere. Added to that, the smell of urine and faeces from the waterless lavatory filled one with nausea. The tongawallah’s wife, Santoshkumari, who was sitting next to them, got up and left, full of fear. It was her fourth pregnancy. Sabari’s fingers clung to Loku’s, wet with sweat.
Santosh returned, looking as pale as if she had smeared sacred ash all over herself. Her legs giving way, she sat down, trembling.
“Sabari…Sabari Muthayya.”
There were ten medical college students there.
“Lie down,” said the doctor.
“Now look carefully. Unlike the previous case, this is past the twelfth week, therefore…”
The faces came closer. The voice faded.
A fork was scraping inside her. Roughly. Blindly. An extreme pain throbbed through her veins and shot to the very top of her head. The fine walls of her vagina began to break down
Loku…Loku…Loku…Loku…
Vanu…Vanu…Vanu…Vanu…
The doctor raised her hands. There was a formless thing between her fingers.
“Look well. Do you really want this a second time?”
She was speechless with horror.
She came out. Vanamali and Lokidas came running to her side.
They were watching an old film, Amar. Nimmi was tragic, her eyes three-quarters shut. Madhubala was flirting with Dilip Kumar, all crooked half-smiles. She had slammed the door in his face and had started on a song, “Janewale se mulakat na hone payee.” At that instant she felt a sharp pain, as if a nail had been rammed through her vagina, twisting into her.
She tightened her thighs.
“O janewalese…” Madhubala leaned and swayed against the door.
Her womb filled with scorpion stings.
“Amma…”
Loku and Vanu held her tight. She was shuddering all over. Hot blood poured down her thighs.
The hot-tempered doctor who had ordered them out showed them a ball of flesh, small enough to be held in the palm of one’s hand.
“Where? In that stinking hospital, was it? The doctor left her mark all right. If it had gone septic, that would have been the end of you. Didn’t she frighten you? She’d make you feel like you never wanted sex again.”
Vanamali sobbed. Sabari’s breath came in deep gasps. Loku wept.
A cold December. On the ground stood a square container of charcoal on which lay skewers of fragrant kebabs. They were in an open-air canteen. Behind them, the aeroplanes were descending, their lights winking. They felt a sharp winter-evening hunger. Three plates of kebabs were on order. He would bring them in his own time. Vanamali was already relishing the moment when she would put out her right hand from the shawl, just long enough to dip a piece of kebab in the hot chutney and pop it into her mouth; how she would chew on it slowly, her hand back within the comfort of the shawl. Lokidas who had been leaning back in his chair, gazing into the distance, joined in with his anticipation of the hot spiced milk to follow, half an inch of cream floating on top, as good as payasam.
“December is a good month for babies to be born,” said Sabari.
“It could have a rose-coloured cap, and jumper and socks. It could be tied to the back as with that Tibetan woman who sells noodles…only the eyes would show. Could be a blue jumper, but then it should have white flowers on it. I like those wooden cradles, the ones that stand on the floor in Gujarati houses. There’ll be designs in different colours all over it. Dark green, yellow, red, blue. There’ll be birds hanging from the top.”
Silence.
“Underneath one’s coat, a huge stomach. A niggling back pain. Now and then. Then the pains will come much closer together. You have to breathe properly, along with the pains. Suddenly, with the force of pushing a huge rolling stone, holding one’s breath and straining and screaming and pushing…sensing something pushing out…and screaming again as it bumps its way out…It will fall out like a frog, slippery, with blood and slime all over it…and hang by the umbilical cord, crying out…” Sweat bloomed on Sabari’s upper lip. She smiled.
Loku held her hand tightly.
In that cold late evening thickly spread with stars, a birth took place, true to its time.