A Kitchen in the Corner of the House
It seems that Kishan’s father had bought the land at the rate of eight annas per square yard and built the house upon it. A row of rooms like railway carriages. Right at the end, the kitchen, stuck on in a careless manner. Two windows. Underneath one, the tap and basin. The latter was too small to place even a single plate in it. Underneath that, the drainage area, without any ledge. As soon as the taps above were opened, the feet standing beneath would begin to tingle. Within ten minutes there would be a small flood underfoot. Soles and heels would start cracking from that constant wetness. Kishan’s mother—called Jiji by everyone—would present a soothing ointment for chapped heels on the very first day one entered the kitchen, cooked a meal and was given the traditional gold bangle.
There were green mountains outside the window that looked eastward from the kitchen. Somewhere on top of them there was a white dot of a temple. A temple to Ganesha. The cooking area was beneath this very window. The green mountains might have made one forget one’s chapped heels. But since the clothesline was directly beyond this window, trousers, shirts, pajamas, saris, and petticoats spread out to obscure the view.
As one looked up from turning the pieces of meat which had been sprinkled with coriander, chilli powder and garam masala, spread with ground turmeric and ginger, and marinated in curd, what one encountered might well be a pair of pajamas with their drawstring hanging down. But nobody seemed to object to this.
Their style of life did indeed encompass the kitchen; was woven around the concept of the kitchen. The lineage had reputation for its love of food and drink. They were people who enjoyed the pleasures and experiences of life. In fact, at their wedding — Kishan’s and hers — the one thing the Ajmer relations objected to was that no sort of alcoholic drink was served to anyone.
Even the prasad for their clan goddess, Amba, was spirits. Whatever was opened, whether it was Scotch whisky or country liquor, it was drunk only after first being sprinkled on the walls with the words, “Jai Ambé.” The first thing to enter a new-born baby’s mouth was a finger dipped in spirits. When such was the case, what sort of marriage celebration was this? Very well. Perhaps there was no need for rum, gin or whisky. But what about the orange-coloured kesar kasturi made in their own Ajmer? After all, it had a kick that went straight to one’s head! Tch. Tch. How could you get married like this, they asked him, without the horse and the drink that is appropriate to a warrior, how can it be a wedding? Older women, whose heavily pleated and hugely flowered skirts in deep earth-brown, green, orange, and bright red flared and swayed from their wide and swollen hips, lifted silver-edged veils to ask him: Isn’t there anything to drink?
In the days when Jiji could get about, she would start cooking pappads at the stroke of seven. Papaji would be ready and waiting in the outside verandah, having finished all his other business. Jiji would bring him pungent, spiced pappads stacked on a plate. As soon as the pappads were finished, there would be Bikaner sev, sharp upon the tongue. If they tired of that, then pakoras of sweetcorn. Or groundnuts dipped in chillies and besan and deep fried. They would sit opposite each other, and begin with, “Jai Ambé.” If the sons and daughters were there, the entire family would join in. Jiji would sing country songs. “If you go to the fair, bring me tassels for my hair…and a bright-coloured dupatta for me to wear.” Papaji would laugh. “Do you still care for these things?”
On a small stove, in the corner of the kitchen, there was always water boiling for tea. If anybody they knew appeared at the threshold of the house at meal times, first they received ice-cold water. Then, Papaji would begin.
“You must eat with us. Give chacha a plate.”
“O no, thank you. I just dropped in”
“Yes, quite so. But what about a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Coffee, then?”
“This water is plenty”
“How can we allow you to drink plain water? At least have some sherbet.”
“Very well.”
Jiji would get up.
“Just put one or two kebabs for him on a plate to go with his cold drink.”
Even before Jiji reached the kitchen, Papaji would remember the methi parathas which were made that morning. “Suniye ji,” he would call to his wife, “warm up two of those methi parathas and butter them,” he would say. “Let chacha just have a taste.”
The visitor would be forced to accept defeat. “All right then. Let me eat my meal with you.”
Jiji would go into the kitchen in any case, to fry up a couple of eggs, sprinkled with salt and pepper. Suppose there were not enough to go round?
All the same, the actual details, the concrete facts of the kitchen and its space didn’t seem to matter to them. It was almost as if such things didn’t actually exist. In their family houses, one crossed the wide stone-paved front courtyard and the main room before reaching the kitchen in a dark corner. A zero-watt light bulb hung there. The women appeared there like shadows, their heads covered, their deep-coloured skirts melting into the darkness of the room, slapping and kneading the chappati dough or stirring the fragrant, spicy dal. The kitchen was not a place; it was essentially a set of beliefs. It was really as if all that delicious food which enslaved the tongue appeared as from a magic carpet.
On one occasion, when they were eating, Minakshi raised the subject. Papaji was building a room above the garage at that time.
“Papaji, why don’t you extend the verandah outside the kitchen? If you widen it, we could have some chairs out there. If you then build a wash place to the left, you could have a really wide basin for cleaning the vessels. And then beyond that, you could put up some aluminium wire for drying the clothes.”
Papaji looked for a moment as if he had been assaulted by the words expressing this opinion. Jiji in her turn looked at him, shocked. Daughters-in-law had not thus far offered their own opinions in that house. Radha Bhabhiji stared fixedly at her plate. Kusuma straightened her veil to hide her agitation. Papaji turned to Kishan. Kishan continued to eat calmly. At last Papaji cleared his throat and asked, “Why?”
“The basin in the kitchen is extremely small. And the drainage is poor. If the servant woman washes the vessels there, the whole kitchen gets flooded. And, Papaji, if you hang the clothes outside the window, the mountain is hidden.”
Again he looked at Kishan. And that skilled architect agreed with his wife.
“What she says is right, Papaji. Why don’t we do it?
“And when did you go near the kitchen?”
“When she cooked us that Mysore-style meal, it was he who sliced the onions and chillies for her,” said Jiji.
“It seems we might as well present you with a gold bangle and be done with it.”
“Never mind the bangle, Papaji. You could give me a ring, though.” Papaji laughed.
The new room was completed. The state of the kitchen remained unchanged. Two more nylon lines were added, for drying clothes. Outside the window. Papaji’s silent retort:
Woman, woman of Mysore, you who have not lived here for many generations, why do you need mountains? Why do you need their greenness? What possible connection is there between Rajasthani food customs, and the window, and the washing-up basin? Dark-skinned woman, you who refuse to cover your head, you who talk too much, you who have enticed my son…
At the first fading of the night, as early as three o’clock, the peacocks began to call. One after the other, with their harsh discordant voices; broken music. When she and Kishan came to the open terrace at five-thirty in the morning, a peacock in the tree opposite spread its tail, wide as Siva’s spread locks. As it turned, there were sudden flashes of soft green, then dark blue, and then again, the deepest of deep green. Most unexpectedly it flew over to the terrace and sat upon the parapet wall, trailing its tail feathers. Then two more came, without extended tails. Before you could turn around there were another two, this time with tail feathers as long as whips. A gentleness and coolness spread within one, as of a weight being eased. Those dark-blue and green icicle-like feathers seemed instantly to calm all unruly passions. She ran her tongue along Kishan’s mouth and kissed him very gently. A kiss like a snowflake, the passion contained within.
The door to the terrace creaked. Bari-Jiji had woken. She had come to collect charcoal from the big drum near the door, and to light the portable stove. Bari-Jiji was Papaji’s stepmother. When Papaji was seventeen, his father had married a second time, a young girl who was also seventeen years old. In the following years five daughters were born to her. Papaji had been her mainstay and comfort. She was only Bari-Jiji in name. Between her and Jiji there was only a difference of two years. She was now completely toothless. She refused to have false teeth, claiming that she didn’t need teeth any more, now that she had given up eating meat.
Bari-Jiji left, her heavy silver anklets clinking on the stone steps.
“Shall I bring us some tea, Mina?”
“Hm.”
As soon as he had gone, she opened the tap of the water tank in the terrace, washed her face and cleaned her teeth.
Kishan brought the tea in a kettle, covered with a cosy. When he set it down and poured the tea into two cups, the delicate smell of ginger and basil rose from it. A single morning star shone in the sky. The peacock sprayed its green and blue. The tea descended, warm to the throat.
When they went downstairs, Bari-Jiji sat in the corner of the kitchen, blowing upon the hot tea which Kishan had poured for her, and holding the hot tumbler with the end of her dupatta. Radha Bhabhiji was pouring hot water into another large kettle with tea leaves in it.
“Shall I mix the dough for breakfast?” asked Bari-Jiji.
“Papaji has gone for a walk. He’ll bring samosas and jilebis. We’ll only need some toast. I’ll do that in the toaster. What sort of cuisine shall it be today? Our style or Mysore style?”
“She and Kishan bought vegetables and coconut yesterday.”
“What sort of bland food is that, with coconut. Just do one thing, Bari-Jiji. Grind up some turmeric and ginger. We’ll do a mutton pulao. Grate some of the gourd for me. We’ll make a few koftas. Then I want you to peel the colocasia. You must also pound some cardamom, pepper, cinnamon bark, coriander seeds and cloves. Really fine, please. I also want some coriander pounded separately for the alu-gobi tonight.”
Radha Bhabhiji came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with the teapot and cups.
“Well, Mina, what are you going to cook today?”
“Nothing whatsoever. We are going to the Ganesh Mandir mountain.”
“Very well.”
Minakshi went into the kitchen to prepare another round of tea. Bari-Jiji opened her toothless mouth to smile. She held out her brass tumbler.
“I want some tea too. Shall I add some ginger, Bari-Jiji?”
“Yes, please. I love the tea you make.”
A command was spoken from outside the kitchen, to everyone in general. “I’ve brought the samosas and jilebis. Put a few jilebis into hot milk.” Minakshi took the packet of jilebis into the kitchen and began to open it.
“Sh…here…here.”
Minakshi turned around.
“Give me four,” said Bari-Jiji.
It was a food war. The protagonists were: Jiji, Bari-Jiji. When grandfather was alive, Bari-Jiji ruled absolutely and tyrannically. Jiji kneaded mountains of chappati dough. She sliced baskets of onions and kilos of meat. She roasted pappads in the evening while Bari-Jiji drank her kesar kasturi. She made the pakoras. She fried entrails. Then grandfather died. Within ten days Jiji was sworn into power. Bari-Jiji lost her rights to kumkum, betel leaves, meat, and spirits; she also lost in the matter of everyday meals. Every day there was meat cooked in the kitchen. In a democratic spirit, the vegetarians in the family (actually only Bari-Jiji) were served potatoes. Bari-Jiji celebrated her loss in the battlefield with loud belching all night long, by breaking wind as if her whole body was tearing apart, and then muttering in the toilet. Before she could be attacked again, she started a second offensive of her own. Once in six months, Bari-Jiji began to be possessed by Amba.
Amba always chose the moments when Jiji and Papaji were seated at evening times with their pappads and their drinks. At first there would be a deep “hé” sound which came from the pit of the stomach. When they came running to her panting with fear, she would yell in anger, “Have you forgotten me?” The instant Jiji bent low and asked reverently, “Command us, Ambé,” the orders would come. “Give me the drink that is due to me. I want kesar kasturi. I want a kilo of barfi. I want fried meat…ah…ah.” When she was given all these things, she would say, “Go away, all of you.” And for a while there would be loud celebratory noises emerging from Bari-Jiji’s room.
The next morning Bari-Jiji would appear in the kitchen lifting her alcohol-heavy eyelids with difficulty and smiling her toothless smile. “Amba tormented me very much,” she would say.
It might have been possible to bandy words with Bari-Jiji, but Jiji did not have the courage to question Amba.
“Give me jilebis,” said Bari-Jiji.
Minakshi gave her four jilebis. When the jilebis were served to all the family, Bari-Jiji would get her fair share. This was for pure greed. At first, Minakshi used to wonder where Bari-Jiji hid away these things. It was only later that she realized that there were a couple of secret pockets in the heavily pleated four-yard skirts that Bari-Jiji wore. She had shown them to Minakshi. She put the cover on the teapot.
“Give me the masala ingredients before you go,” said Bari-Jiji. “And I need ghee as well. For the mutton pulao.”
This was a recent thrust of the battle. Jiji’s asthma and blood pressure had restricted her activities somewhat. Next to her bed was the wooden cabinet in which were kept cloves, saffron, cinnamon, peppercorns, raisins, cardamom, sugar, ghee, cashew nuts. You could not get to any of these things without going past her. Before that you were subjected to a severe catechism: Why do you need the ghee? What happened to the ghee I gave you yesterday? If there is half a katora left after spreading on the chappatis, a quarter katora should be sufficient now. Show me all the masala ingredients you have taken out before you go. That saffron was specially ordered from Kashmir. Don’t dump it into the pulao. What are you cooking for the vegetarians today? Wasn’t there anything left over for them from yesterday? What is the use of just eating and then going to the toilet?
From that dimly lit, narrow-windowed kitchen, there were hands reaching out to control, like the eight tentacles of the octopus that lives in the sea. They reached out to bind them, tightly, tightly; and the women accepted their bonds with joy. If their waists were bound, they called them jewelled belts; if their feet were held back, they called them anklets; if they touched their foreheads, they called them crowns. The women entered a world that was enclosed by wire on all four sides and reigned there proudly; it was their kingdom. They made earth-shaking decisions: today we’ll have mutton pulao; tomorrow let it be puri-masala.
When the window was opened to gather in the mountain, the open air, the blue and the green, it was as if their strength was sucked out of them. Like Vina Mausi, Kishan’s aunt. She was now fifty and had been a widow from the age of fifteen. She was a teacher in a village. She had a room and a kitchen at one end of the garden belonging to the owners of the school. An asoka tree stood in front of the house, and behind the kitchen, a champak tree, with its creamy flowers and yellow stems. Flower-laden creepers entered through her windows freely. In the evenings, all the neighbouring children would come to visit their teacher. Otherwise there was the koel song from the asoka tree. But Vina Mausi would still say, “I don’t have any authority.” The little ones surrounded her, calling out, “Teacher, Teacher.” She had the entire responsibility for primary education at the school. She could walk down to the bazaar at will. If she put a charpoy under the asoka tree, she could share the companionship of the koel and its calling voice until her longing ceased. In the early mornings the white flowers were at touching distance the minute she opened her door. But Vina Mausi’s breath caught in her chest. As soon as she reached open spaces, something in her moved towards the earth. Her nipples and her womb became as stone. Heavy. Pulling her down. Descending, descending, descending to the earth in surrender. Forcing her to stand stock still, her feet buried deep.
From the edge of the lake white wings were raised, lowered and tilted as the birds began to move. Minakshi was shaken with astonishment on the very first instant that they came into view. As the birds circled over the entire spread of the lake, coming to rest upon its waters, their red beaks shone through the distance. Then they rose again, smoothly separating their wide wings, tilting to the left and then to the right, now gliding…the swish of their wings was very near, almost in one’s face. Their coral beaks were flat and thrust forwards. Russian birds. They came to Anasagar Lake for a few months; sudden visitors.
The picnic to the lake had been decided upon only the previous evening. The plan was for all the relations to make a trip to the lake together. For twenty people: a hundred puris, with enough potato, and tomato chutney; a hundred sandwiches, things to munch, bottles of milk for the babies, hot water in flasks. A portable stove to cook hot pakoras in the evening. Oil, besan, onions, chilli powder, salt and green peppers for bhajias.
A light burned in the kitchen from four o’clock when dawn broke. On a large tray, Jiji began to mix the wheat flour into dough. Kusuma was heating oil in a pan, ready to cook the rolled-out puris. Radha Bhabhiji was spreading bread with butter and chutney, the packets of bread opened, surrounding her. Bari-Jiji was filling small plastic bags with things to nibble and rubber-banding them. Mina had not thought about this whole aspect of the trip to the lake.
“O, Mina, are you up?” said Radha Bhabhiji. Her hair was glued together with sweat. “Will you make some tea?”
Mina started to make tea for all of them. She put basil leaves into the hot water. Kishan, joining them after brushing his teeth, put out the cups on a tray.
Radha Bhabhiji was muttering to herself, “The children have to be bathed. It might be a good idea to take two or three extra pants in a plastic bag. Priya sometimes forgets to ask. I must roll up five or six rugs for spreading on the grass. How many tiny babies will there be? Four. Milk powder Glaxo for Minoo. Archana’s baby takes Lactogen. Mustn’t forget the packet of biscuits. Mine only likes salty ones. If there aren’t any, we’ll stop on the way. Otherwise the child won’t stop crying. And he hates that. Sugar. Mustn’t forget the spoon. Serving spoons. Plates. Kusuma, take that bottle of soap to wash the plates. There’s a tap there. Bari-Jiji, please slice ten or fifteen onions. If we take them in a plastic bag, the pakoras will be done in minutes. Mina, please, will you bathe the children?”
“Bhabhiji, it’s only six o’clock now. They’ll cry if they are woken up. Why doesn’t Gopal Bhaisaheb give them their baths later?”
“O yes, he’ll bathe them. Keep thinking that.”
Mina handed her the tea. She poured some tea into Bari-Jiji’s brass tumbler. She understood Radha Bhabhiji’s sarcasm. Radha was brilliant at maths. Because her family would not consent to her taking up further studies in this subject, she was working in a bank, in quite a high position. A few months before this, she and Gopal Bhaisaheb had invited Kishan and Minakshi to spend a few days with them in Jodhpur. Gopal Bhaisaheb was a doctor at the hospital there. It had been really hot at the time. The midday meal had not been ready.
“The heat in these parts absolutely burns you up. It’s impossible to do anything. Radha was out of town recently for a couple of days, on her bank work. I was completely helpless. I couldn’t so much as stand in the kitchen. And you can’t even get servants over here. Can you imagine what it was like, Kishan. I couldn’t even stand in the kitchen long enough to make a cup of tea.” Kishan said quietly, “Isn’t Radha Bhabhiji, who also has a job at the bank, cooking in the same kitchen at this very moment?”
“Certainly. So what? After all, women are used to it.”
True. You could not expect Gopal Bhaisaheb to wake up early during his vacation in order to bathe his children.
“Radha Bhabhiji, what sari are you going to wear? asked Kusuma.
“My red silk. I pressed it last night, and then did his clothes and the children’s.”
“I was thinking of wearing my white sari with the black spots, but my choli needs ironing. Mina, will you lend me your black choli?”
“Why not? Do take it. But it is sleeveless.”
“O dear. In that case please iron my choli for me, Mina. I cannot wear a sleeveless choli. I haven’t shaved under my arms.”
“Make sure you have left a long enough pallav, and just cover yourself with it. After all, who is going to come and peer under your arms?”
“Look here, Mina, don’t try to be funny. Are you going to set up the iron?”
“All right, all right.”
Jiji came in very slowly, holding on to the walls, and opened the large pickle jar.
“Whatever are you trying to do, Jiji? Go and lie down quietly,” Radha Bhabhiji scolded.
“But they’ll all enjoy some pickle. Let me put some out.”
“What’s all that racket in the kitchen? You are not allowing us to get any sleep,” came a voice.
Immediate silence. Then, in hushed tones, “Mina, will you put the potatoes on to boil on the little stove?”
“Radha Bhabhiji, why don’t you spice them and put them in the pressure cooker? Then you won’t have to boil them first and then peel them.”
“You do that then. Leave Bari-Jiji to fry the rest of the puris.”
By the time eight o’clock struck, all necks and underarms were raining sweat. Cholis were stuck to bodies. Oil smoke irritated their eyes. Their eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep. Papaji peeped into the kitchen.
“As soon as the trip to the lake was mentioned, the lot of you began to leap with enthusiasm.” He laughed aloud.
Chirping and clucking, the small birds floated on the water, yellow and black. All of a sudden, white wings swirled above, coral shadowed.
Upon the rugs, card games. A few of the women were playing too, until children tugged at them, clutching their backsides and pleading, “Mummyji, dirty.” Then off they went with old newspaper in their hands. There would be a swift knock on the child’s head, enough to hurt. When the mothers got up, the younger girls took their places. Every now and then they rose, offering the men water to drink.
Radha Bhabhiji and Kusuma washed the plates. Then the stove was lit to make pakoras.
“Arré, what a marvellous smell! Two for me please, with only green chillies.”
Intermittently was conversation with the children:
“Raju, what are you going to be, when you grow up?”
“A pilot, z-o-i-n-g”
“You, Priya?”
“I…I…I’ll make the thapatis in my house.”
“How cleverly she talks,” Jiji laughed.
“I’ve climbed all the mountains which surround Ajmer,” said Papaji.
“Jiji, what about you?” asked Minakshi.
“Every time he climbed a mountain, I was carrying a child,” Jiji laughed whole-heartedly. Everyone laughed with her. Jiji had borne fourteen children.
At last, they gathered up everything, firmly changed the minds of the children who were wondering whether they should go “dirty” one last time, and started homewards.
Kusuma lingered. “Mina, walk a bit slowly. I haven’t even seen the birds properly yet.”
“Shall I call Satish?”
“No, no. Let him go. Otherwise there will be trouble.”
They walked on slowly.
“I was ten days late. Just as I was thinking of going to the doctor, it’s come on.”
“Did you come prepared? If you had said, we could have stopped by the shops.”
“O yes, I came prepared. Even so, it’s a white sari. Can you just have a look?
“It’s all right. Nothing’s happened.”
“Should we walk a bit faster? There’s no time to sit by the lake shore. I have to peel the garlic for the evening meal.”
“Just come. Don’t talk.”
She silenced Kusuma and made her sit by the lake. She had asked Jiji once, “What sort of daughter-in-law would you like, when your third son marries?” Jiji had answered at once: educated, fair-skinned, quiet. “Well said,” Papaji had agreed. Minakshi had refused to believe that such a girl existed. She had assumed that Jiji’s answer had been a continuation of that afternoon’s incident. A friend of Papaji had visited them, an expert in skin diseases. At that time, Minakshi had found a few whitish spots on her hand which gave her some discomfort. Papaji introduced her to the skin specialist. This is Kishan’s wife. She never stops roaming the town. She always has a book in her hand. A chatterbox. Examine her hands.
The expert’s advice: Just stay at home. Be like the other women. Everything will come out all right. If people live as they ought, why should anyone fall a prey to disease?
“Aha,” said Papaji, in admiration.
She had thought that what Jiji said was a kind of joke, following upon this. But when Kusuma was found, she was like a fine illustration and commentary to Jiji’s exposition.
An M.A. in politics. A diploma in French. It wasn’t quite clear why she had studied French. It seemed that collecting a diploma in some language or the other was a necessary part of waiting for marriage. If the bridegroom had a job in foreign parts, then it seems the knowledge of a foreign language would come in useful. During this time of waiting, Kusuma had also embroidered cushions and pillow cases, handcrafted small objects, decorated saris with lace and embroidery. She had not missed out on classes in flower arrangement, bakery, sewing, and making jam, juice, and pickles. She had learnt all these skills. She was the perfect daughter-in-law.
As if they had remembered them suddenly, the white crowd that had gone a long distance rose high, wheeled about, and flew in towards their left. They came floating, at a moderate speed now, circling by them. Kusuma wept.
“That beak…what a red,” she sobbed.
Winged coral floated against a reddening sky.
The unpeeled garlic…
Wings opened to the beat of another circle.
The unformed foetus…
One, two, three, four, five — in series they slid gracefully into the water and began to float. Kusuma sobbed quietly.
Jiji’s worst attack happened when they came to Ajmer for the Holi holidays. One afternoon she sorted out the ingredients needed for the cooking, tucked in her keys at her waist, and came walking slowly towards the fridge to check what was left there. Before she could reach it, her breath caught, and then came in loud, dragging sighs. Before the family could come rushing to her aid, her heavy body had fallen to the ground. She was streaming with sweat and was drenched in her own urine.
“I am going…I am going…My daughters-in-law are all elsewhere…That wretched Bari-Jiji will rule in the kitchen…Hé Bhagawan.” She kept turning her head from one side to the other. The doctor who lived downstairs came in haste to give her an injection. At last, she began to breathe evenly once more; her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes again, she first made sure her keys were as usual at her waist. “What are you cooking for the evening meal?” she asked. When they answered, beans, she grumbled, “Why? Didn’t I say cauliflower? Did she change it? Did she think I was going to die?”
“No, no, Jiji. It was just that there was no cauliflower available in the bazaar.”
“My sari…give me…another sari,” she said.
Kusuma opened Jiji’s wardrobe and took out a green sari, a green underskirt and a pale yellow choli. She placed them by Jiji’s bed. Jiji turned her head to see. She asked in a feeble voice, “Where are my bangles?” Minakshi opened the bangle box to take out some green glass bangles.
They closed the door and removed Jiji’s clothes. Her body was like a fruit that has passed its full ruddy ripeness and is now wilting. Upon the backs of her wizened hands, the veins stood out. Heavy lines ran along the palms. There were scars of childbirth on her lower abdomen, as if she had been deeply ploughed there. Her pubic hair, whitened, hung in wisps. Buttocks and thighs, once rounded, now shrunken, hung loose with deep creases. The upper part of her inner thigh was like withered and blackened banana skin. Dry nipples hung low, like raisins. On her neck were dark lines caused by heavy gold chains. A wide, polished scar, as if she were going bald, shone at the lower edge of her centre parting, where the gold band with its heavy pendant had constantly pressed.
A body that had lived. A body that had expelled urine, faeces, blood, children. A body with so many imprints. As soon as the sari was on, Radha Bhabhiji combed Jiji’s hair and plaited it with a dark string finished with coloured tassels. Kusuma tucked the cabinet keys at her waist. Jiji leaned back on her bed.
After the others had left, Minakshi sat by Jiji’s side. Jiji’s hands burrowed at her waist. The room was darkened, the curtains drawn. Jiji began to speak. Because of the medicines, her tiredness, and the onset of sleep, her voice was deep, yet it seemed curiously weightless, as if it had roamed about in the wind and then returned.
“A red skirt.”
“What is it, Jiji?”
“My wedding skirt. It was bright red, with gold and silver decorations all over. Twelve gold bangles. Two necklaces. Earstuds in pearls and red and green gemstones. Another set of earstuds in coral. Five sovereigns worth of centrepiece to the gold headband. A silver key-hook. I was just fifteen years old. At the time of my bidai, when my parents sent me to my new home, my mother spoke to me in my ears. The memory of that bidai is still heavy in my heart. With her head covered she leaned over me and held me to her. Her big nose-ring was sharp against my face. ‘Take control over the kitchen. Never forget to make yourself attractive. Those two rules will give you all the strength and authority you will need.’ ”
“Let it be, Jiji. You sleep now.”
“I…remember…everything. There were thirty people in the household. I used to mix five kilos of atta to make three hundred chappatis. On that first day, the palms of both my hands were blue with bruises. There were shooting pains in my shoulder blades. Papaji said…shabash…you are an excellent worker.”
She let out a huge breath.
“We had a baby, a son, even before Gopal. Did you know that? He died at the age of one. There was a puja that day. Everyone was in the kitchen. The baby had climbed the airs and fallen off the parapet wall. He had crawled up thirty steps…I heard that huge scream just as I was putting the puris into the hot oil…It seemed to knock me in the pit of my stomach…The base of his skull was split…His brains were splattered all over the stone pavement, like white droppings…After all the men returned…I fried…Mina, are you listening…I fried the rest of the puris.”
Minakshi stroked Jiji’s forehead.
“After Father-in-law died, I slipped the keys onto my silver waist hook. Mina…see how much I gained. I am like a queen…Don’t you think?” Jiji muttered. She was almost asleep.
Minakshi bent low to those withered earlobes wearing flower-shaped earstuds covered in pearls and brightly coloured gemstones. They were alone, Jiji and she; alone as Maha Vishnu on his serpent bed floating upon the widespread sea. In that darkened room, there was a feeling like that of the cutting of an umbilical cord. We cannot be certain whether this conversation was actually started by her, or whether it happened on its own, or whether it only seemed to her to have occurred because she had imagined it so often. It is not even certain whether that conversation was between the two of them alone.
Jiji, no strength comes to you from that kitchen; nor from that necklace nor bangle nor headband nor forehead jewel.
Authority cannot come to you from these things.
That authority is Papaji’s.
From all that
be free
be free
be free.
But if I free myself…then…what is left?
You alone, having renounced your jewellery, your children and Papaji. Yourself, cut free. Just Dularibai. Dularibai alone. And from that, strength. Authority.
And when I have renounced all that, then who am I?
Find out. Dip in and see.
Dip into what?
Into your own inner well.
But there is nothing to hold on to…I’m fright…
Dip in deeper, deeper. Find out the relationship between Dularibai and the world.
Had there not been those three hundred chapatis to cook every day, nor those fourteen children who once kicked in your womb
If your thoughts had not been confined to mutton pulao, masala, puri-alu, dhania powder, salt, sugar, milk, oil, ghee
If you had not had these constant cares: once every four days the wick to the stove has to be pulled up; whenever kerosene is available it has to be bought and stored; in the rainy season the rice has to be watched and the dal might be full of insects; pickles must be made in the mango season; when the fruit is ripe it will be time for sherbet, juice, and jam; old clothes can be bartered for new pots and pans; once a fortnight the drainage area in the kitchen must be spread with lime; if one’s periods come it will be a worry; if they don’t come it will be a worry
If all this clutter had not filled up the drawers of your mind
Perhaps you too might have seen the apple fall; the steam gathering at the kettle’s spout; might have discovered new continents; written a poem while sitting upon Mount Kailasam. Might have painted upon the walls of caves. Might have flown. Might have made a world without wars, prisons, gallows, chemical warfare.
Where did you go away, Jiji?
How could you think that
your strength came
from food that was given in the appropriate measure
and jewellery that weighs down ears and neck and forehead?
Sink deeper still
When you touch bottom you will reach the universal waters. You will connect yourself with the world that surrounds you.
Your womb and your breasts will fall away from you. The smell of cooking will vanish away. The sparkle of jewellery will disappear. And there will be you. Not trapped nor diminished by gender, but freed.
So touch the waters, Jiji
and rise
rise
rise.
Jiji turned, searched for and held fast to Minakshi’s hand.