Nine Yard Sarees, page 13
Her mother, who had come to Singapore for the birth and returned to Chennai a month after, was so distraught that she called every evening to pray for Prema over the landline. Even Padma had visited with casseroles of South Indian dishes and advised her every single time to focus on strengthening her relationship with God. But unlike what Padma seemed to have envisioned, Prema felt a distinct fraying; a wall had grown between herself and who she once thought gave her solace. What God would permit such cruelty? And if such a punitive and merciless God existed, why bother pledging her faith in the first place?
Of course, she kept up with appearances. She visited Mariamman once a week without fail to do an archanai for her husband. She observed the various festivals on the Tamil calendar from Saraswati Puja to Pongal, Karadaiyan Nombu, Avani Avitam, Krishna Jayanthi and all nine nights of Navarathri. She did everything she was supposed to, but with no heart.
Until Vani was born two years later.
A healthy and fair baby girl with a plump chin who was too easy to adore.
Even if Prema no longer believed in prayer for herself, she feared that she would leave her daughter spiritually unprotected if she refused to pray for Vani as well. It was hence purely out of maternal instinct that she continued to invest time and effort in God. Maybe it was true that God did not care much for her. But she hoped that in the grander scheme of karma, Vani stood a better chance at winning divine favours.
Another day and Prema is still alive. She is not sure how the news keeps reporting of people who literally die from heartache when it appears that her own body has been wired to survive no matter what. Like a boulder that remains standing even after being battered by a typhoon. It is a cruel thing, surviving yet not quite living. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Vani has eaten a proper meal since leaving home. If the awful psoriasis spot on the back of her neck has shrunk. If Mira has landed from New York. If they are together in some rental flat somewhere on the island. If they are happy like this, without parents in the picture.
That last thought is crushing.
Breathing shallowly, Prema moves from aisle to aisle through her neighbourhood’s FairPrice supermarket, her gold bangles jangling on her wrist as she does. Out of habit, she shops for Vani too. Just in case. Her Alpen breakfast bars, her favourite instant noodles Indomie, her Khong Guan biscuit tin, her reduced fat Chesdale pack, her HL chocolate milk carton, her big tub of Vaseline. Even if the walk home is going to be exhausting from the added weight, maybe they will come in handy when Vani decides to come home.
Shekhar had returned from work at one that morning—a record even for him—reeking of his old friend Marlboro Red, and left again some hours later. Frankly, it feels as if both father and daughter have moved out. Both outraged and hurt. Such stubborn people who are terrible at communicating their feelings, and who have absolutely no concern for hers.
At the self-checkout line, she finds herself behind a Filipino helper and a young Indian girl who holds her hand tightly and calls her “Auntie” with a wide grin that betrays her missing front teeth. Vani’s own front baby teeth had broken off during a ferocious bite of murukku—just the memory alone brings a faint smile to Prema’s face. That same day, Shekhar announced that their application to become permanent residents in Singapore had been approved and joked that Vani’s milk teeth must have brought them luck. Soon it is Prema’s turn to go to a self-checkout machine. In the hectic whirlwind of unpacking her overfilled shopping cart, she briefly lets Vani go.
The first time Mira’s name had been mentioned in the house was when Prema discovered a box of photographs on Vani’s desk while sweeping her bedroom.
Intrigued, Prema flipped through the shots. The photographer was talented, surely, because every picture was beautiful and golden with sunlight. But it was odd, she thought, that the photographer had expressly decided to showcase the scaly blotch of psoriasis on Vani’s forehead. As if it were some beauty mole like the one that actress Rekha famously sported above her upper lip. Prema simply did not understand the purpose. Why expose her child’s illness this way for the whole world to see? Had she not suffered enough privately? Physically maimed by her own misfortune, or maybe even her mother’s.
Utterly perplexed, she turned to her daughter then and implored: “Why didn’t you cover up your psoriasis before taking these photos?”
Immediately, Vani’s face soured before she retorted, “Not that you will understand but that was the whole point. Mira wanted to photograph my natural skin.”
That sharp response made Prema burn from within, with shame, though for reasons she could not quite recognise yet. Sadly, in some misguided show of self-defence, Prema could only mutter a cruel “What for? Not nice at all,” before picking up the broom and walking out. Even if she thought she could hear Vani sniffling a few minutes after, she chose to ignore it.
In the silver letterbox at the bottom of the HDB block, Prema finds, amongst glossy flyers and enveloped bills, a backdated postcard from Brussels, Belgium. Upon flipping to the back, she sees that it is signed off by none other than Mira Elangovan. When these postcards first started coming in from all kinds of cities two years ago, Prema was heartened by her daughter’s close friendship with the girl that seemed to transcend borders and oceans. But as time progressed, the postcards became more confessional, more explicit even. Fearing what was brewing between the two, Prema took it upon herself to clear out the mail each day before Shekhar even had the chance to peek into the box. Her husband, even as a senior engineer in a big conglomerate and after becoming a Singapore citizen, remains an old-fashioned man from Coimbatore; he grew up believing that a good wife is one who can make him a good mullangi sambar and rasam. Perhaps, a better mother would have confronted her child about it early. Prema knows Padma would have; the older woman hounded her daughter Keerthana about her hormone levels and sexual preferences for months after the girl had turned down the idea of an arranged marriage. But Prema found it much easier to just let it slide. Let it grow, even fester.
She knew what it all meant, of course. The postcards. That her daughter who celebrated Karadaiyan Nombu with her on the first day of Pisces each year must have been secretly praying for someone other than a good, healthy husband. She just did not have the vocabulary to talk about it. She still feels she does not.
As Prema lumbers into the lift with her grocery bags and mail, she glances once more at the final sentence on Mira’s postcard that makes her chest tighten perceptibly: “Can’t wait to take you away to New York, gorgeous.”
Once on a quiet evening after the passing of Deepavali, Amma had brought Prema and Padma, teenagers then, to the riverbank behind their home in Kalakad. They settled by the one rock that had the letters ‘ரா’ and ‘க’ etched onto it. There, Prema was told a story about an aunt she had never met that she wished she could unhear. One that made her afraid at the barely pubescent age of 14 to have daughters, even if that had not been Amma’s intention. Years later, when Padma gave birth to Krishnan, Amma said it was good that the first grandchild of the family was a boy; like the beloved god of Vrindavan, he too would protect the gopis, Lord Krishna’s beloved female devotees to come. Then, just as she had predicted, Keerthana was born and much later, Vani.
In the early hours of dusk, Prema is awakened from a nightmare about that late aunt, the one she has only ever heard about as a cautionary tale. Her mobile phone is ringing—it is her older sister. Though she has half the sleepy mind to ignore it and attribute it to being busy with housework, she reaches for the phone out of an urge to be comforted. But that urge reveals itself to be misplaced when Padma bursts into her more heightened-than-usual hysterics.
“Prema, you will not believe this. Kicha, that shameless son of mine, is living together with some Chinese girl!”
Oh, Prema thinks. That changes things. “How do you know, Akka?”
“SilkAir Mami’s grandson.” The 80-year-old auntie got her nickname from her late pilot husband. “Satheesh just moved to Strathfield and he spotted them there last Sunday, holding hands and going into some house. Firstly, Kicha told us he lived in the North. Why did he lie to us? Secondly, not a Brahmin girl, fine. Times have changed and even I know it’s very hard to find a pure Brahmin who practises our traditions when even half of those in India are eating beef. Chee! But of all things, not even an Indian girl?”
Prema wants to laugh. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks. Oh, how Krishnan is protecting her girl, even if unintentionally, that quiet rascal. If only Padma had an idea of the news she had in store for her. “At least it’s a girl.”
“What do you mean at least it’s a girl? Of course, it is! My son is not like that.” Her sister shouts back over the phone, defensively.
The way Padma stresses that leaves a sour taste in Prema’s mouth. It slowly weighs upon her tongue, swelling and swelling, until she is compelled to blurt out, “What does it matter, Akka? As long as your son is happy. Who cares if it’s a Brahmin girl, or a Chinese girl, or even a man?”
“What are you—”
“No point expecting Kicha to marry whoever you want. Remember what Amma said? About Periyamma?”
“Why are you bringing her up now? What does she have to do with anything? And I don’t want to talk about Amma. That woman hasn’t even responded to the invitation. To her own granddaughter’s wedding! I even sent her an e-invite on WhatsApp because Keerthana made one. But no. That woman went to do some soul-searching, found a man, and then never returned.”
Prema knows that their mother has seen the invitation but is hesitating; they had spoken about it over the phone. Amma worries that people may talk. About her and Senthil. In their community, even widows who continue to upkeep their appearances after their husbands’ passing are spoken of poorly, as shameless women who clearly could not wait to inherit money from their hardworking late husbands. What will they say about a widow who has found herself a lifetime companion in a widower she met at an ashram? What will they think of a Brahmin woman of her time coupling with a younger man from a different caste? A lower caste, to be specific. Most of all, Amma worries what Padma may think since she still does not know about the extent of her relationship with Senthil though it has been years; the last Prema has heard is that Amma was packing for a trip to Connecticut with Senthil to be there for his first grandchild’s birth: “Indian and American genes mix very well. His granddaughter has the rosiest cheeks!” Amma had cooed over the phone.
Not wanting to accidentally divulge any secret of her mother’s, Prema holds her tongue and exhales a belaboured sigh. “The last thing we want is for our children to end up like Periyamma. Just let them be. Don’t push them away.”
“Why?” Padma chokes up. “Why can’t that boy just tell me himself anyway? Why must I hear about it through somebody else’s grandson? It’s so humiliating. What are people going to think?”
“Because he knows exactly what you’re like.”
“We spent so much money on his medical school fees, made him into a doctor, specialty program all, internal medicine this that, and what does he do? Just throws it back in our faces like that. Doesn’t even have the guts to own up to it either. Shameful. Really Prema, you should be glad you have a good daughter like Vani.”
That forces a bitter laugh out of Prema. “Akka, Vani has been missing from the house for a week. That’s nothing to be glad about.” Before her sister can even think of a response, she abruptly adds, “Anyway, I have to do some housework now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Prema cuts the call. She then slides a hand into her batik dress to massage the spot above her left breast that still feels sore and strained. This overextended chokehold on her heart is starting to deplete her energy; she will have to up her dosage of calcium blockers at this rate. The phone rings again. It is Padma, predictably. But Prema is too preoccupied to care. For in the recesses of her mind, Periyamma, in a purple saree, disappears into thin air and in her wake is Vani, just an infant, crying to be held.
It all transpired on a Sunday. One week ago.
The day started out slow, with a light shower over the northern part of the island that accompanied Prema’s extended sleep-in. At some point, she might have groggily noted that the weight on the right side of the bed was gone. But it was only hours later that she registered the raised voices from down the hallway. Where Vani’s bedroom was. What could father and daughter possibly be arguing about over the weekend, Prema had grumbled to herself as she slowly rose and tottered towards the noise. At that moment, Shekhar stormed out of the room, chest heaving, jaw clenched. Noticing Prema, he continued his tirade.
“Did you know what your daughter has been doing?” He demanded, furiously shaking a bunch of Polaroid pictures in his hand.
Prema wiped crusts of sleep from her eyes as she looked up at her towering husband. “What do you mean?”
“Just look!”
Thrust into Prema’s hands were monochrome images more explicit than the written confessions she had secretly read. Vani, and presumably Mira, huddled up in winter clothing, exchanging kisses on the cheek, forehead, lips. This must have been from when Vani went to London “with a friend” last Christmas. Something shapeless yet vast sank within Prema’s stomach; she knew at that point that Shekhar was not going to let it slide.
“Shekhar, please stop yelling,” she said, defeated.
“You knew?” He spat, taking her frail shoulders into his rough hands. “And you didn’t correct her? Why are you even at home for then? What kind of mother are you? Is this why we worked so hard to become citizens in this country? For your daughter to learn such nonsense?”
Vani appeared at her doorway, face tear-stained, hands full with two rolling travel bags. “Get your hands off Amma.” She shrieked before forcefully rolling her luggage down the narrow hallway, deliberately bumping her father out of her way.
Shekhar let Prema go in an instant, as if burned, as if he had not realised what his hands could be capable of in anger.
“Vani, where are you going?” Prema stared, disbelieving. “We can talk about this. Amma doesn’t care.”
“How dare she humiliate us? Does she have no idea what we went through to have her? I’ve slogged so many years to put this roof over her head, to buy this flat, and this is how she repays me.”
That was rich coming from Shekhar, as if he was the one who had to give birth to a dead infant. Seething, she turned on her heel and chased after her daughter. “Vani. Just where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.” Vani already had one foot out the door and was wheeling the first of her bags onto the corridor.
“Go! Get out! We don’t need someone like you in our family!” Shekhar bellowed. “We are Brahmins. How dare you be so shameless?”
Prema screamed, helpless. “Please ignore your father. I don’t want you to go elsewhere. Aiyoh, Vani. This is your home. Please. Where else will you go?”
“Ha, do you know what your husband said to me?” Vani challenged, eyes red and wavering. The second luggage fell out onto the common corridor outside their flat with a loud thud. “That if he’d known I’d become like this, he would have aborted me. That’s the man you want me to live with? I’d rather die.”
Vani’s words fell on Prema like the final toll of a funereal bell. It made Prema tremble. She found herself struggling in that moment to rationalise why Shekhar had uttered something so cruel to their child. He must have said it in a fit of anger. He must have. He could not have meant it. He was not the sort of man who could have possibly thought it humane to look at his pregnant wife, months after a stillbirth, and demand an abortion.
Yet, he had gone and said it anyway.
“Where will you go, Vani?” Prema implored, voice breaking.
“She can go to hell for all I care!” hollered Shekhar. “There is no heaven for sinners like her.” Mahapaavi, he said.
Prema wanted to strangle him with her bare hands. How could he still see the world so strictly in black and white after what they had been through to have Vani? How could he have forgotten so easily? But despite her mounting anger, she would have to leave murder, figurative or not, for later. She was strapped for time; something too precious was slipping from her grip.
“Vani!” She yelled after her daughter as she followed suit, bare feet slamming against dirty cement.
She tripped over the dangling, frayed hem of her batik nightdress a couple of times but still persisted. The air outside was dense, the aftermath of the earlier rain, forcing her to breathe harder. Even when she began to pant heavily, she continued on her onerous chase across the 14th floor towards the lift lobby. But her young daughter was already hurtling past the gradually opening doors, agile movements revealing her track days as a teenager. Still steps away, Prema was forced to halt when something took her heart hostage, chest sharply constricting like a neck pulleyed on a noose. From a nearby tree, a mynah chirped rudely, as if in mockery. Shutting her eyes, she tried to suck in air through her mouth as she lumbered forward. Oh, how she wished she could catapult herself forward to where Vani was. To prolong conversation. To prolong family. Her family. Alas, the doors shut. By the time that one working lift came back up and took Prema down to the ground floor, her daughter was unmistakably gone.
