Nine Yard Sarees, page 5
“I know, Madam.”
It had been Sivagami’s neighbour Parameswari Amma, the butcher’s wife, who first mentioned the idea. Parameswari’s son-in-law had lost his job at the factory and was squandering his already abysmal savings on gambling. With an unreliable husband and two young children to feed, her daughter Meenakshi was desperate to find work. Then a relative mentioned that an old employer, who had moved to Singapore with her husband, was looking for affordable domestic help to take care of her elderly in-laws. Without a second thought, Parameswari’s daughter took up the sponsorship and flew to Singapore.
“Meenakshi sends me back thousands of rupees every few months,” Parameswari Amma said, exposing the blackening gum between her top teeth as she grinned. “The only problem is that I haven’t seen her in almost two years. What to do, she’s doing a man’s job.”
Sivagami’s situation had not been too different. Her husband, having lost a leg from a mining accident, wasted their savings on toddy too often. With debt to settle and three daughters to save up dowry for, she was determined to earn, even if it meant moving out of India.
“Don’t think I don’t know why you’re going there. Disgusting woman.” Her husband admonished her the night before her flight to Singapore, pushing himself up on his creaky wheelchair to grab a fistful of her hair. “Don’t you have any shame?”
“Don’t you?” She retorted, teary-eyed, as she pushed his hand away. “Your tongue will rot, speaking to your own wife like that.”
“Oh-ho, wouldn’t you like that? If I rotted along with it? You can sleep around with all the men you want if I’m gone. Whore.”
He disgusted her as much as she disgusted him. But as soon as the Tiger Air flight lifted off the tarmac, she wept for him. She wept for what they could have been.
The couple that sponsored Sivagami had migrated to Singapore from Madurai some years ago. Selvan, short for Selvakumar, and Chelvi, born Tamizhchelvi. They ran a modest flower shop in the west of Jurong, just a short bus ride from the Murugan temple. The shop was attached to a small provision store that carried staple items from home such as jaggery, Q.B.B ghee, Bru coffee, Ruchi mango pickles and Daisy hair dye. Six months ago, when Sivagami first met Chelvi at Changi Airport, she seemed kind. The strange woman, recommended to her by Meenakshi’s friend, offered to carry her luggage and gently beckoned her into a light blue taxi. But as the days went on, the truth reared its head behind closed doors. It dawned upon Sivagami that it was not kindness that she had seen in the woman’s round, pearly eyes that first morning, but false civility.
“Sivagami, don’t wash your hair every single day!” Chelvi yelled at Sivagami as soon as she returned to their rented four-room flat from Madam’s house. “And don’t scrub your clothes under running water. This isn’t India. This is Singapore. Everything costs a hundred times more here. Do you know how much our bill was this month?”
Sivagami loathed Chelvi. Unlike in Madam’s house where there was at least an empty shelf to store her handbag, here, she lived out of the large duffel bag she had arrived with. She had nothing but the corner of the living room, a straw mat, and Madam’s son’s used pillow and blankets to call her own. It did not help that despite Sivagami’s efforts, the flat easily became filthy. Selvan and Chelvi were always at their shop, which meant there was no one to watch over the other Indian national in their flat, Gopal, whom they had illegally sublet to, an alcoholic bastard who always left open packets of chips and empty cans of beer lying around his room. There was even a growing infestation of roaches from the pipes in the kitchen toilet that no one did anything about.
“Why are you ready to sleep at 11pm? Why do you think I sponsored you? To be lazy and take advantage of me? To go to everyone else’s house but not clean my own house? Do you think these dishes will wash themselves?” Chelvi hollered. “There are many other women like you, Sivagami. All waiting for a sponsor like me who is kind enough to let them go out and earn extra cash. One word and I can send you home. Remember that.”
All three parties in this sorry flat were leeches. All were breaking the law in some form or capacity by latching onto the other. Sometimes Gopal went further, his vile wandering hands just inches from Sivagami. Yet Selvan and Chelvi, especially Chelvi, never cared to play nice. Even with the possibility that their illegal dealings might be uncovered, they chose to wring Sivagami like a used rag. Fixed hours did not exist. She simply worked till she was told to stop, and usually that was only when they had to leave for work or retire to bed. Even if Sivagami entertained the idea of lodging a complaint, she knew she had nowhere to turn to, not unless she was willing to put herself on the line as well. Why risk incarceration or deportation when she could just keep her mouth shut and keep earning? Still, her lips trembled each time Chelvi lashed out at her. There was a burgeoning arsenal of harsh words that remained hidden under Sivagami’s tongue too, waiting to be used. It was only the thought of her girls Madhumita, Azhagu and Saraswati that kept her in check. Ten dollars an hour, and in a couple of years, she could finally pack up and go home.
In Sivagami’s early years, the nickname Draupadi followed her everywhere thanks to her mother. After several miscarriages and endless prayers for a child at temples, finally giving birth to Sivagami was akin to biting into a sweet, ripened mango in the dead of a rainless summer. It was the end of all of Amma’s trials. Even if Sivagami’s father had been disappointed that she turned out to be a girl contrary to the village psychic’s prediction, her mother was overjoyed. At last, she had a child of her own. No one could question her womanhood now, not when her own Draupadi was playing in her lap, silver anklets ringing around her tiny ankles. Neighbours and relatives alike though frowned at the inappropriate nickname. They pointed out that the goddess was a royal, not some lowly villager. Or they would exclaim that Draupadi had been married to not one man but the five Pandava brothers, which meant that she was promiscuous. Who in their right mind would forgo a beautiful birth name like Sivagami and instead willingly choose to set their child up for a bad reputation from young?
But Amma would only laugh at their derision.
“What do you know? My daughter was born during a fire, just like Draupadi. Look at her skin, so dark and beautiful, just like the Draupadi Amman in our temple. She’s going to bring me glory, I tell you.” Her mother once proclaimed, beating her chest with the wooden board of her arivalmanai that she was about to cut vegetables with. “This Chellamma is the only woman in this village who is proud to have a daughter!”
Each time, Sivagami’s face would heat up from embarrassment. Her mother was known for her fair share of hysterics. But it was her mother’s unwavering faith in her that instilled the first seeds of her self-confidence. She might have been just a girl, but she was her mother’s Draupadi, a miracle child. So, she bloomed, strong and unshakeable.
That was until her brother was born when she was 6, and later killed in a flood two years later. After that, her mother was never the same again. And neither was Sivagami.
The following Sunday evening, Madam trailed Sivagami around the flat as she cleaned, exchanging stories about ooru. Madam too had grown up in Tamil Nadu, in an agraharam outside of Tirunelveli, and only moved to Singapore for marriage. Even if the edges of Madam’s memories were fading while Sivagami’s burned brighter than ever, there were many nostalgic memories to share. As Sivagami mopped the living room, she found herself telling Madam about her husband’s accident. It was not difficult to bring up since it was her everyday life by now. But horror grew in Madam’s eyes at the revelation.
“You see, Keerthana.” Madam spoke to her 22-year-old daughter who was lounging on the sofa. The girl put her feet up as the mop neared; she always did that to make Sivagami’s job easier. “You see how people suffer? You should be thankful that you lead such a good life at all!”
This was not the first time Madam had said something like that. As kind as she was, Sivagami’s life was a mere example to Madam, a tale to be passed among women like herself to feel better about their own lives. She was both their object of unending pity and disdain. A living reminder that all it took was an unfair little trick in the universe to end up in their shoes, instead of hers. She wondered if Madam’s daughter too was just the same.
But then the girl snapped and began yelling at her mother. Sivagami could not understand most of what she said; English was not one of her skills. It was only after the girl left for college that Madam laughingly translated her words for Sivagami: People don’t need your pity, Amma. That’s patronising.
“She’s an odd thing, that Keerthu. Sometimes she seems so cruel, like a typical city girl with no concern for anything or anyone. Other times, she’s suddenly Mother Teresa wanting to help all the less fortunate.”
At least in the girl’s eyes, Sivagami was not someone to be pitied or a tale about destined misfortune. She was simply a woman. An individual with her own life and choices. Later, as she ironed Saar’s endless collection of formal shirts and suit pants, a job she usually loathed, she unexpectedly found herself smiling. Maybe she was not so far from Draupadi after all.
Gopal returned home that night reeking of sweat, smoke and spilled beer, and tried again as he always did. To latch onto her. Pombala pillai. Woman. Come here. Then began a terrifying game of cat and mouse from the living room out onto the balcony. Until the fool tripped from his own unsteady gait and landed face down into one of Sivagami’s wet sarees that had been hung out to dry. The peacock blue cloth of six metres unfurled over the rack, covering his burly frame and drawing quite the tangled web. Hurriedly, Sivagami slipped back into the living room, and locked the balcony doors from the inside, leaving the drunkard to lie passed out in his own rancid vomit for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Selvan released Gopal from his exile. Despite the fact that Selvan and Chelvi had overheard the night before, they did not care to kick him out. Since they actually earned from him, it did not matter if he was scum. It was Sivagami who was the easily replaceable cost and living burden, constantly invading their shared space with her things and presence, even if it were no fault of her own. If Chelvi so wished, another woman with another tragic backstory could easily come to take her place with the snap of a finger.
“Why do you make things so difficult for everyone? You should know your place, don’t you think? You could have given in. It would have been easier,” Chelvi muttered under her breath before leaving the flat.
Alone, Sivagami laughed in disbelief, eyes welling up. It was incredible what people would overlook, so long as it did not affect them. That too, a fellow pombala pillai. Amma thought she would bring her glory. But what glory was there in this? And her daughters—what would they say if they knew? Would they feel sorry for her? Their poor mother who was struggling to make ends meet in a foreign land for their sake. Maybe they would be ashamed, like their father was? Or worse, they could grow up to be just like Chelvi, having no qualms about telling other women beneath them to just give in.
Fuelled by anger, Sivagami began hunting for a new sponsor. But as days passed, she learned that she was not capable of convincing even the desperate. Every Madam she worked for came up with excuses to reject her advances. Bukit Timah Madam said her current maid was enough, even though she was calling on Sivagami five times a week to do the cooking because the Indonesian, Aisyah, did not know the first thing about Indian cuisine. Chinese Garden Madam said that there would be no room for Sivagami, and it was mostly true because their flat was already at full capacity with her husband, two sons and elderly mother-in-law with dementia. Yet, it was still Sivagami who showered the old woman every weeknight, cleaning between sagging folds and around discoloured crevices. Yew Tee Madam said no, simply because. Though the reason was likely her husband, who had an affair with a previous helper, at least according to her sister-in-law Chinese Garden Madam. Sivagami then turned to the last Madam on her list, and her last hope: Clementi Madam.
“Madam, I… am looking for a new sponsor.”
“You should. You shouldn’t have to suffer in that house. What kind of sponsor makes you sleep outside in the living room without a room to call your own?”
“I was wondering if… Madam…”
“Oh, Sivagami, don’t look at me,” Madam said hastily. “It’s too expensive for us to keep you.”
“Oh, but—”
“With the levy and 500 dollars for your salary, we cannot possibly afford it.”
But they lived in a “million-dollar condo unit”, something Madam herself said every now and then, and Saar drove a brand-new Lexus that Sivagami had to wash every other week. What exactly could they not afford?
“I’m sure you’ll find someone, Sivagami. You just need to be patient.” A few beats later, “Hurry up with the mopping. Our guests are coming at 8.”
As Sivagami heaved a pail of soapy water across the flat, she overheard Madam in the master bedroom complaining to Saar that Sivagami was “asking for too much” and that she should just return home. Outraged, Sivagami slowed down to mop the same corners over and over again, and later urged an indignant Madam to pay her extra for working past her usual three hours.
That night, Sivagami called her mother using the Hello international calling card that she had bought in coins at a 7-Eleven next to Clementi Madam’s condo. Once the call connected, Amma shouted, “You said you would call. It’s been three weeks! Why haven’t you called?” Sivagami calmly explained that her data had run out, though she left out the fact that she did not have enough cash to top up her SIM card that regularly. Then she said quick hello’s and how are you’s to her daughters, though her voice cracked with emotion. In her mind, she paired their faint voices with the faces she remembered but knew were slowly changing out of recognition. Over the months since her move, it became clear that it was impossible for her to parent them over a phone call, let alone one with unreliable reception. Her 10-year-old Saraswati only screamed “Amma!” before passing the phone to her sisters so that she could play outside with the neighbour’s children. What could ‘Amma’ even mean anymore if she was this far from them? When Sivagami asked her oldest Madhumita to hand the phone to her father, she overheard his hoarse voice hollering, “Tell that whore I won’t speak to her for as long as I live.” Right on cue, Amma began screeching at Sivagami’s husband. Madhumita’s sobs intermittently filtered through the chaos, and Azhagu could be heard urging her sister to “go outside and leave these crazy people at home”. Overwhelmed, Sivagami ended the call, and as soon as she did, there was silence. Except for the occasional hiccup of sadness that escaped her throat and the high-pitched buzz of crickets that reminded her too much of home.
Sivagami started working past stipulated hours in the other houses too. She subtly asked for additional payments, pulling a face of naiveté when she did, and even created stories about various sponsorship offers in the hopes of better image making: the sought-after helper. Not all women fell for it though. Bukit Timah Madam mostly seemed relieved that Sivagami would no longer approach her for sponsorship and mentioned how she had already contacted a new part-time helper, a sweet unmarried Sri Lankan woman. Chinese Garden Madam was too preoccupied with her mother-in-law’s kneecap fracture to pay any attention to Sivagami’s stories. Yew Tee Madam in turn complained that her sister-in-law was so irresponsible, though it was ironic when she herself never chipped in to take care of her own mother. It was only Clementi Madam, free of problems aside from her son’s refusal to call home, who actually listened to her fictional tale.
“This lady’s husband is dying of Stage 4 cancer, lung cancer I think, and they want me to stay in their house to take care of him until he passes.”
“Oh, that’s so sad. But people like that need your help.”
“That’s true. But my mother isn’t happy. She thinks it’s inauspicious to live in a house that will be tainted by a long and slow death.”
“It’s good karma, Sivagami. You will be serving someone who is in need.” Unlike us, she seemed to have left out.
“But they aren’t allowing me to go out and work like Chelvi does. I won’t be able to come to Madam’s house anymore if I take this job…” Sivagami trailed off, widening her eyes at Madam to stress her point.
“Oh.” Madam frowned slightly as she broke open pistachios and tossed them into a portable stone mortar. “Can’t you negotiate with them? You are the best helper I’ve had in years. The only one who knows how to iron Saar’s shirts without starching them into stiff cardboard. Our last one burned Keerthana’s shirt and tossed it down the garbage chute. She will murder me if we get another part-time helper like that.”
Sivagami sighed, quite dramatically. “I also want to come to Madam’s house but if I don’t get another sponsor, I have no choice.”
Madam’s eyes flickered. “I’ll talk to Saar tonight and see what he says.”
Sivagami mustered a gracious smile, hoping it would convince Madam to actually take her in. “Okay, Madam. Thank you, Madam.”
“What thank you? Don’t thank me so fast. I have not confirmed anything yet,” Madam said dismissively before the pounding of pestle against mortar took over.
Some nights later, when it was warm and rainless, Sivagami dreamt of her husband. He was dressed from waist down in his threadbare blue and brown checkered kaili that he had worn regularly since the time of Azhagu’s birth. His wheelchair was nowhere to be found and his right leg was still perfectly intact, lean like a runner’s. He did not speak to her. Instead, his hands roved her body in ways that were both comforting and enticing. For many moments, they were just Sivagami and Vasudevan, briefly one in a wild search for release. Then, at 5.30 sharp, Chelvi’s morning alarm clock went off. Sivagami woke up with a start, wet between her thighs with forgotten desire and tears beneath her eyes. An hour later, Chelvi shook her shoulders and handed her the cordless landline phone: “Urgent call, from your family.” It was Sivagami’s brother-in-law, telling her that Vasudevan had met with an accident. Or rather, that Vasudevan, filled with liquid courage from his last bottle of toddy, had wheeled himself into oncoming twilight traffic of large lorries and inter-city buses. And just like that, through only a handful of words transmitted over crackling reception, Sivagami became a widow.
