A Thousand Words, One Life
When Kamakshi found herself pregnant for the third time, she was somewhat shaken. She did not know at what impulsive moment, during which upsurge of emotion, her womb could have received the seed.
The Second World War was going on at the time. There was severe rationing. Life in Bombay afforded them little chance of savings. A household managed by carrying bags of wheat to the Panjabi family that lived three floors above them and receiving their rice in exchange. It was a life which avoided scarcity. A life that avoided luxury too. There were no objects in their house which were in the least bit showy. She wondered if this third pregnancy was itself an unnecessary luxury.
She tried various potions during the next two months: green papaya, powdered sesame seeds, crushed henna leaves dissolved in water. The foetus was like a stone, unmoved by any of this. After a while, she gave up all such attempts. But a fear lurked in the corner of her mind: In what shape would this foetus finally arrive, having resisted all attempts to shift it?
Her father wrote from Coimbatore. She had a fragile body. She would find it very difficult to manage this pregnancy as well as taking care of her two older children. She should return to her parents’ house in Coimbatore, as early as her sixth month. Her husband gave his consent. The eldest child, a boy, was just coming up to his Christmas holidays. The school authorities agreed that it would not matter greatly if he could not attend classes for a month or so. The second, a girl, was a chatterbox. She came away, having informed her teacher, “My Amma is going to have a baby. I’m going to Coimbatore with her.”
Her younger sister Gauri also arrived in Coimbatore, from Chennai. She too was expecting her third. Kamakshi’s father had only recently been transferred to Coimbatore, from Kovilpatti. The house was in R.S. Puram. It was a quiet place, without a fly or crow to be seen anywhere near. The next house was a short distance away.
As soon as she arrived in Coimbatore, she felt a huge relief. Her older two played with Gauri’s children, in the garden or in the street. After herself and Gauri, there were eight other younger siblings. The last of them, a little sister, was only three. The house was animated and lively, full of all the children.
Their mother was full of care and concern for Gauri and Kamakshi. She would massage them gently with oil and give them baths. She would make Kamakshi lie down and spread out her long hair upon a basket upturned over a vessel of smoking frankincense. Gauri’s hair was short. Their mother would make her sit up and untangle it with her fingers. Even at her relatively young age, their mother always had a tevaram on her lips. She was always singing softly, “Kaadalaagi kasindu kannir malgi,” “Melting with love, eyes brimming” or “Mandiramaavadu niiru,” “Magical is the sacred ash.” As Kamakshi lay there, leaning her head against the frankincense basket and gazing up at the ceiling from which the huge rings of the swing were suspended, she could not feel at all the weight of her stomach. She felt as if she were an apsara, floating in a world of smoke. It was as if Bombay and its severe regulations, and all the attempts she had made to abort the baby, belonged far away, in a distant world.
Her husband was adamant that the baby should only be born in a hospital. He was terrified of a home birth after hearing about an incident which happened in a household nearby. Customarily, the much experienced older women in the family took charge of any childbirth themselves. The barber’s wife would come only to cut the umbilical cord. Or if the women knew how to do it, they would attend to that business as well. Kamakshi’s great-aunt Rajammal was a woman who had delivered many babies. She could do everything. She bought clean new razor blades with her own money, and kept them in a small brass box. She would set off with her brass box, at whatever time she was summoned, and to any family that needed her. However difficult the delivery, she wasn’t frightened. Once when she arrived at one of the hutments, she found the baby in a breach position. Without hesitating a moment, Rajammal Paatti put her hand through the birth passage and turned the baby.
As soon as she had cut the umbilical cord she would set off home. The family would attend to bathing the new mother themselves; in some households the washerwoman did it. As for Rajammal Paatti, she went her way, after advising them to splash plenty of hot water on the young woman as they bathed her, and reminding them to bind her stomach tightly with strips of cloth. After every delivery, whoever the girl, she had a bath as soon as she returned home, and then sent to the new mother a small brass box full of the special legiyam that she made, from time to time, and stored away. Even if a midwife attended to the actual delivery, people turned to Rajammal Paatti for the legiyam.
But the irony was that Rajammal herself had no children. Nobody had ever seen a smile on her husband’s face. He never addressed Rajammal by name. “Ask that barren prostitute to come here,” he’d say. The story went that just once, when he was sitting in the thinnai playing cards with his friends and summoned her loudly in this way, she came outside, placed a kuuja of coffee and four silver tumblers near him, and asked, in front of everyone, “Who is the barren one here, you or I?” She stood quietly, asked her question, then went inside in haste. It seemed that after that, he stopped talking to her altogether.
Rajammal came to Kovilpatti from Satyamangalam, to attend on Kamakshi, for her two earlier deliveries. But now, Rajammal wasn’t there. One day she delivered a baby in her usual way, came home, sent the legiyam and fell asleep. She never woke up. The baby girl she delivered last was named Rajammal in memory of her. Every child she touched became part of her dynasty. If a man creates his dynasty through his seed, how many families does a woman create through those she touches in this way? Families that are not confined by the direct relationships of caste, religion, blood, status. In Satyamangalam, a girl named Rajammal must be running about. Would she remember Rajammal’s touch? The touch of those hands which held her even before she reached this earth? Would she remember any of that? How can we say which of the events that make up history are remembered, and which forgotten? History is made up of so many silences.
Kamakshi’s eyes would close as she lay there, head against the frankincense basket, lost in her thoughts. But her mother would insist on waking her up. “You mustn’t fall asleep after an oil massage and bath. You will get a headache,” she’d say. She would wake her up, plait her hair for her, loosely, and bring bowls of hot rava-kesari for both the young women, made with milk and semolina and dripping with ghee. Later, she and Gauri would sit on the thinnai and chatter away as they picked stones out of the rice, or chopped the vegetables.
It was during those times too, that they often talked about the terrible event which made them both agree to the decision that they should have their babies only at the hospital.
Their parents heard about that incident a couple of months after they settled in Coimbatore. An old woman who lived a few doors away spoke to their mother about it. When the old woman’s second daughter, who lived in a neighbouring town, became pregnant, her mother-in-law and she attended to her delivery. Neither of the older women realized that the girl was carrying twins. When the girl’s labour appeared to continue, even after the first baby had been delivered, this lady voiced her suspicion that there might be yet another baby in the girl’s womb. But the mother-in-law proceeded to bandage the girl’s stomach tightly, proclaiming firmly, “There have been no twins in our family, ever.” The child’s death poisoned the girl’s entire body, and she, too, gave up her life.
“We killed our girl ourselves, amma. The life inside her was not able to come out. We went and bound up a life that was about to be free. It was only when the bandages were loosened that we realized what had happened. After that, by the time we rushed her to the hospital, before mother and child could be separated, both died.” The old woman repeated her story to their mother several times, lamenting loudly. It might have been an error that happened very rarely. All the same, the very thought of it made them shudder from the depths of their stomachs. Rajammal Paatti’s gently warm hands weren’t there to give them courage. So it was that they decided it must be the hospital for them.
It looked as if Gauri and she would go into labour more or less at the same time. Her third child decided to arrive at a time when their father was on tour. She had just had her evening meal, washed her hands, and popped a betel into her mouth when she felt that stabbing pain at the middle of her back. Six years had passed since the birth of her second. She had forgotten the pain. For a second she was shocked, and then she realized what it was. Before she could call out to her mother, there it was again. Her mother was taken by surprise, just a little. Then, she called the gardener, Velucchami, and sent him off to fetch a rickshaw. She decided that Velucchami’s wife Mutthamma should keep Gauri company. As soon as the rickshaw arrived she helped Kamakshi into it, and climbed in after her. The rickshawman left for the hospital, pulling the vehicle gently and without haste. Yet each turn of the wheel seem to go right across her waist. Her mother’s cheek, smelling of turmeric, was close to her face. There was no movement along the street. Streetlights shone here and there. When she leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder, and looked upwards, she could see the moon very clearly. A journey that felt endless. It would always stay in her mind, she reflected.
As soon as they reached the hospital, her mother asked the rickshaw to wait, and went inside with her. She made Kamakshi lie down on a bed. The hospital was dusty and full of rubbish. Mosquitoes swarmed about. The doctor who examined her pronounced that she would give birth only the next day. Kamakshi told her mother to go home, and to return in the morning. Her mother found the hospital uncongenial. She decided to go home.
At about four in the morning, the pain became much more forceful. In the delivery room, the nurse spoke sharply to her, for no reason at all. She had moaned softly, without even raising her voice. At once the nurse fell on her. “What’s all this moaning and groaning for,” she rapped out. At about four-thirty, as she thrust her neck and head back and gave a strong push, her gaze fell directly on the window; a single star filled her eyes. The baby fell against the crook of her thigh, bringing it warmth. The words, “A baby girl” sounded, as if from afar. In an instant there was a loud cry. Then she sank into oblivion.
When she came to, briefly, she could see that both she and the baby were covered in a white sheet stained with shit. She called out softly to the nurse and said, “Please change this sheet.” Once more she was overcome by weariness.
In the morning her mother arrived with piping hot kanji made of rava. As Kamakshi drank the kanji, her mother examined the baby.
“Kamu, she is the very same colour as your sister-in-law.”
“As dark as that?”
“It’s as if her whole body is covered with moles. Just take a look.”
“Amma, please see if her arms, legs, ears, and everything are all in place.”
Her mother’s face darkened. “Why? Did you go take some sort of potion?” she asked.
When she nodded, her mother said, “You wretch…” and proceeded to stroke the baby’s fingers, her limbs, the flaps of her ears, and all her body. Nothing wrong whatever.
“Nothing at all wrong, Kamu.”
“Thank goodness for that much. If there were something wrong, and being a girl at that, where could I have gone and knocked my head?”
“What does she lack? She is going to be exactly like her maternal grandmother.”
“I’ll give her the same name as you,” Kamakshi said, Ranganayaki.
“Today is Friday. An auspicious day. You are going to become very wealthy through her.” She added the good fortune of Friday to the name.
Sriranganayaki.
The name was shortened to Nayaki, even before Kamakshi brought her home. Nayaki did not care for her mother’s milk. She refused stubbornly to drink it. She lay silent, while the boy baby, born to Gauri the following week, screamed through the night. If she was given a bottle, she drank the milk. Otherwise, she didn’t make the slightest noise. Sometimes, Mutthamma would carry Nayaki to her home at the bottom of the garden. Mutthamma had a two-month-old baby. For some reason, whenever Mutthamma picked up Nayaki, Nayaki would develop a sudden desire for milk. She would turn her head towards her breasts and begin to whimper for milk. Sometimes Mutthamma would feed her own baby at one breast, and give her other breast to Nayaki, who by this time would be clamouring and throwing her limbs about. When she was done, she would lie there, quietly smiling. Once Kamakshi came to the bottom of the garden to see. “Mutthamma,” she said, “Nayaki doesn’t care for my milk, she likes only yours.” As long as they stayed in Coimbatore, Mutthamma fed Nayaki at least once a day.
After three months, her father put them on the train to Bombay. There were twenty-five packages including appalam, various spice powders and prepared condiments. Gifts from the bridal home, sent by her mother. A Singer sewing machine. (“You have given up music, now at least keep this. What is in the heart has to come out in one form or another. Otherwise, you’ll just go mad.”) That was put in the luggage van. Her father accompanied her as far as Arakonam, and helped her to change trains. A telegram had already gone off to Bombay.
The train arrived in Bombay. She couldn’t see her husband. Fear seized her heart. All the same she began to think hard as to how best she should reach home. First of all she made the older boy and girl climb down from the train. She placed the three-month-old baby in the boy’s arms and told him to hold her very carefully. She made the girl stand close up to her brother. The little girl, for her part, also put an arm around the baby.
Then, with the help of a coolie, she brought down all twenty-five pieces of luggage. She ran to the luggage van and collected the sewing machine.
She came outside the station with everything, and negotiated the fare home, on two Victoria coaches. They arrived home, the bigger pieces of luggage with herself, the baby, and the little girl in one coach, the boy and the rest of the luggage in the other. The total fare came to a rupee: eight annas for each coach.
When they reached home, she found that her husband was just about to set off to his office. The telegram had never reached him. He was totally surprised by her arrival. All of them went inside.
Nayaki arrived, too. She was laid in a corner. The husband did not pick her up in his arms. That night he complained: she was dark-skinned, she was not chubby; she was a girl. He did not say that they should take the baby to a studio and have her photographed. Neither did Kamakshi think of it. Her return to a life of coping with wartime shortage left no time for anything else.
When Kamakshi’s younger brother visited them in Bombay, Nayaki was already four and sucking her thumb ceaselessly. Her brother insisted stubbornly that he should take the child to a studio and have her photographed. He claimed that she looked exactly like the film star Nargis. So Kamakshi made a beautiful dress for the child. The Parsi woman living next door subscribed to a women’s weekly which came from London. Kamakshi borrowed the magazine and copied one of the children’s dresses modelled there. A cotton material, patterned densely with flowers. It had a full skirt and a bib front, with decorative shoulder straps which crossed over at the back. A white blouse with puff sleeves. When she wore it, Nayaki was as pretty as a doll. She had tightly curling hair.
In the studio photo that her uncle arranged, Nayaki looked straight ahead of her, slightly bewildered. She looked a little shy as she stood there, the thumb she always sucked held together with her forefinger, in a circle.
At the age of four, Nayaki loved her thumb above everything. Because it had been sucked constantly, it looked somewhat pale and was worn smooth at the knuckle. As soon as anyone spoke sharply to her, that thumb would be popped into her mouth. She would sit down and lean against the wall, finger in her mouth.
She first began to draw with a slate pencil. She made many pictures using the coloured crayons belonging to the Bengali woman who lived next door. She would lay a blue oil crayon against white paper, press it down, and roll it across. Waves would form across one part of the paper. As soon as she finished, she would go and show Kamakshi her picture. Kamakshi would very likely be fast asleep, tired out from her morning’s chores. The two older ones would have just gone back to school after their midday meal. Sometimes, she would glance at the pictures and say wearily, “Yes, yes, now off you go.” The paper would be tossed in a corner, and end up on the dust heap. Nayaki would go off and draw another picture.
On the advice of her mother, Kamakshi began to massage Nayaki’s stick-like limbs with castor oil before bathing her, in the hope of strengthening and filling them out. She would smear oil all over the child and then massage her firmly. There would be a Ramayana story at the same time, to stop her from crying. Always it was the story of the birth of Rama.
“A Gandharvan came out of the fire-pit bringing a silver bowl full of milk payasam. He gave it to all three of them: Kausalya, Sumitra, and Kaikeyi. So all three of the queens drank that payasam. After that, some days later, a baby came and lay down in each of their stomachs.”
“Amma, did you too drink payasam, Amma, before I came into your stomach?”
“Payasam? Of course I did.”
“Out of a silver bowl?”
“Of course. It was a beautiful silver bowl. You know the bowl in which I place flowers for the puja? That very same one.”
It was a finely worked bowl. Creepers rose from its base and spread all over it, covering it with flowers and leaves and fruit.
“Mm. And then?”
“You know, I drank that payasam? It was a payasam in which the milk was boiled down and boiled down. A payasam in which the rice and the milk were so well mixed and mingled, it melted in my mouth. I drank it and drank it and made you grow. Then I went to Coimbatore.”
By this time she would mix the shiyakai and place it on the child’s hair. Nayaki had to shut her eyes tightly to stop the shiyakai from falling into them. Coimbatore would begin to take shape within her closed eyes.
Amma would describe the hospital: a palace such as the one where the sons of Dasaratha were born. A hospital that had just been built, brand new. A building as freshly white as tumbai flowers. Inside, the walls covered in pastel colours. New iron bedsteads. Shining white sheets. Window curtains patterned in tiny flowers in rose and violet. Nurses and doctors all in white, like angels. At dawn, Nayaki was born, surrounded by these angels. The auspicious goddess of the family was born.
Nayaki would emerge from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around herself, given new life. In her imagination, a princess.
She pressed the red button, and then said to Nayaki, “Go ahead.” The journalist was interviewing artists in order to write about their life and art.
Nayaki began, “I was born during the Second World War…”
Everything had to be contained within a thousand words. Artists, after all, once they started speaking could go on for ever. So each was allowed a thousand words. Only a thousand words. Nayaki had spoken about her birth and how her mother had described the hospital to her, imagining it to be a palace; she told it as a story. She said that although her mother was not an artist by profession, she was indeed an artist. She said that the story of her birth was a good example of the selectiveness of memory, and how the events selected by the memory become changed. She ended that section with the words, “I never tried to find out what that hospital was really like. Nor did I enquire about any of the other details. It is not that I cannot face the truth. But that imaginary version is my mother’s gift to me. It has the warmth of the fine fibres lining a bird’s nest. A safeguard. I can’t tell whether she told it for that reason. And it isn’t important anyway. Because we live this life through the real and the imagined, memory and forgetfulness.”
That section alone went on for over ten minutes. Once transcribed, it would run to two or three pages. The journalist, who went about her task meticulously, wrote down only her date of birth and pressed the button to fast forward the tape.