MY SISTER, A CLASSY LADY
By Chaganti Tulasi.
(translated by Malathi Nidadavolu)
[Editor’s note: Tulasi brings out the native flavor of familial relationships in this story with full
zest. I kept the original relational terms as they reinforce family values in our culture. They
are nostalgic for native speakers like me and informative for the foreigners who are
interested in the interpersonal relationships of family members.]
000
Akkayya arrived by the first bus in the morning. She loves me so much … so much more
deep than that of mother and father. She came with her three children. We—my wife, the
children and I, arrived in the afternoon by Bokharo train.
Poor father! He is getting old yet didn’t mind coming to the station and waiting for us in the
train station. The train was running late. By the time we reached home it was past 1:30. The
entire family was waiting for us at the gate, watching each rickshaw passing by on the street.
Our rickshaws stopped at the front gate.
“They are here, they are here,” the children started shouting and ran into the house for
further announcement. Akkayya rushed out in a flurry, put her arm round my shoulder and
said, “It has been so long, so long.” She kept repeating as she walked me into the house.
She is past 40 but has not slowed down at all. She is zesty as always. She lives a simple and
a very ordinary life. Yet her shapely nose, curved like the plough blade, the sharpness in her
eyes, and her curly hair are still the same. No change in her demeanor.
The children formed a circle and held Akkayya and me closely. I was touched by their
exuberance. All of my brothers and sisters—we all are in good positions. Akkayya is the only
one amongst us looking small. She is just one year older than I but hundred times more
intelligent than I ever could be. She came first in all the six schools in town in her final year of
the high school. She always scored 100% in mathematics, not one point less ever. Algebra
for intance. I got it only only when she taught me, not the teacher in our school.
Bava garu [brother-in-law] is making a modest living as a teacher in the local middle school.
He has a small house and a strip of land, which yields just about enough paddy for them. Our
family is above average, I could even say well-to-do. Yet my mother and father and every well-
wisher in our town went into brouhaha about this marriage of my sister with bava guru. They
all said we would not be able get a better proposal even if tried. So that was that. She was
married to him.
Probably that was the best decision they could make at the time. During those days women
were not rushing for college education like now. Nobody considered even the possibility of
sending Akkayya to school. They all stuck to the same logic—whether she went to school or
not, she has to get married. What is the point of getting her educated? Would she go for a
job or what? We might as well get her married off since we have got a wonderful proposal,
meaning bava garu. Strange, even in these modern times so many people hold the same
view. In reality they could not “marry her off” that easily.
In the past, both our families were fairly comparable. My father’s economic status was not all
that much better. I could even say that bava garu, being a property owner in Ranasthalam
village, was in a better position as opposed to father who depended on a monthly income.
We—all our brothers—have excellent jobs. We are earning four figure salaries, traveling in
first class coupe, and we are scattered all over the country. The two sisters who were born
after us were educated with our support, got married to the men in higher class and now are
wheezing around in their fancy cars. Only Akkayya, our eldest sister, remained in the same
old village and continued to live the same below average life with her husband who did not
make much of his life. Bava garu became the headmaster of the same school while farming
the little strip of land they always had. None of us think slightly of her. Yet when I see her and
her children, could not help thinking, “It would have been so much better if she were
educated. She was so smart. She could have outshone all of us and married a man much
higher in status.” My eyes would turn moist at the thought.
Akkay was wearing a very ordinary sari. She looked very ordinary compared to my wife. Her
children looked even worse by my children’s side. Wearing cheap outfits that were washed
several times in some murky waters, the children looked like the kids of class IV employees
but not like my cousins. My wife made my son wear a red jersey shirt and my daughter a
yellow colored jersey. My children were also wearing socks and shoes in style. Imagine my
sister’s children in front of mine!
My wife is a class by herself when it comes to attitude. Her natal family compares well with our
position. That shows in her face—the pride that comes naturally to people of higher position.
But the sharpness in my sister’s face is matchless. None of us in our family or in any other
family for that matter has the glow my sister radiates. She walks tall with her chin up.
“Ah! Do you know how long, tammuduu , since I’ve seen you last? Oh, so long ago,” Akkayya
said affectionately.
Mother replied, “What do you mean how long ago? He was here three years back. But then
you and your husband went to attend your brother-in-law’s wedding at the time. Prior to that it
was two years back. So it is about 5 years since you have seen him last. At that time also it
was just for the special holiday, like now,” mother said.
We all moved into the hallway. During my childhood, we used to eat, sitting in that hallway—
Akkayya at the head of the row, me next, and then the rest of the children. It was one of my
memorable events from my childhood. In summer we used to roll over on the cool cement
floors in the same hallway. We used to play on the swing in the same hallway.
I sat on the swing. My sister’s children jumped on me calling out, “Mamaya, mamaya.” This is
in a way my first visit after they could recognize people. I wondered where was this coming
from? Blood is thicker I suppose. My children also climbed onto the swing.
“Come on. Yo go and freshen up. Let’s us finish lunch early,” mother suggested.
“True, tammuduu! Get up. Father didn’t eat either. He is waiting for you,” Akkayya said.
Nobody ate! “Oh, no. None of you ate, yet. You shouldn’t have,” my wife said and turned to
the children. “Move, quick. I will give you bath. Your father won’t get up soon anyways. He is
used to eating late,” she said and walked the children to the backyard.
After the children left, Akkayya came and sat next to me on the swing. “How come you left
bava garu alone?” I asked her.
“All his vacation is used up End of the year you know. He wanted to come but no vacation. In
fact he was the first to start packing. It’s okay. He will be here on Sunday. Anyways,
tammuduu, you must test my children. I am teaching them. They are doing all right in school.
But they can’t rattle on in English like your kids. I can’t teach them either. If it about
mathematics, that is different. I can do better than bava garu. I know it is not nice to say that.
He has earned the reputation as the best teacher around here.”
“If you are teaching, there is no question I’d say. If you had not taught me math, my education
would have stopped with high school diploma. I am not saying this to flatter you. I am saying
this standing here under our roof. It’s only because I made good the younger ones turned
out to be success stories. They did not let you go to school in those days. If only they had let
you ...” I said.
“If they had let me to go to school I would have excelled several others. There is no question.
Forget higher education. If they had sent me for teacher training at the least, I would have
become a teacher too like my husband. But neither our family nor the in-laws would agree to
that back then. Never mind my training. It’s okay, tammuduu, it is not all that bad. We are not
short for food or clothing. Our farm brings us enough for a living. Everybody round here
agrees that we have a good life. You can’t see your kind of style and color in our lives. you’ve
got to admit that. We are villagers and that’s all there is to it. But then we all must agree that
nobody owns intelligence.”
“I agree. You are right,” I said.
That is the thing about Akkayya. She can bear herself royally, evince amazing self-
confidence without any streak of jealousy. It does not bother her that we all are doing so
much better than she. I know in my heart that her children will rise to greater heights than any
of us. I have no question in my mind about that. I was depressed only with the thought of her.
She was not disappointed, for all the success we were flaunting.
Actually it was bava garu who was really messed up. He acts half his size in our presence. He
clearly comes out as a small person, just an elementary school teacher. On the other hand,
akkayya is akkayya in every sense of the term. She was equal to us in every way. She holds
her chin up. She was my mentor. I rose to this level because she taught me. Because I rose
to this level the kids born after me were able to rise to higher positions. Akkayya gave me her
hand and pulled me up. In turn I gave my hand to the kids next to me and pulled them up.
“Hot water is ready for you,” mother yelled.
“It is cold today,” akkayya said.
“Last night I was shivering,” father added.
“You call this ‘cold’? This is nothing compared to what we have there,” I said walking toward
the well. I finished bathing quickly.
It was not a special holiday but certainly looked like it. My homecoming after three years
made it a special occasion. Mother cooked a huge feast. Akkayya made tamarind rice.
Akkayya was a much better cook than mother. The hallway became noisy like the peepal tree
full of birds. We finished eating amidst loud chitchat. Every bite brought memories from the
past. I could identify each of the items from our childhood days. My wife would not be able to
cook them, not even one item. I ate like I was dying for each of the items. Mother and akkayya
were saying “you like this,” “this is your favorite,” and were dumping the food in my plate. My
wife did not eat with us. She was busy feeding the children. It was really late, yet they—
mother, akkayya and my wife—did not eat until rest of us finished eating.
I told my wife, “You must eat this tamarind rice. Ask them the recipe. Or ask them to make it
tomorrow and again, and watch.”
Her pride, mixed with embarrassment, flashed on her face for a second. She must throw in
the towel when it comes to cooking.
My wife said, “Well. Let’s stay here for a week and I will learn everything. You plan only short
trips--two or three days and ask me to master everything. What is the point of blaming me?”
“You cook tonight,” I said.
“She need not cook for us. I will teach her just your favorite dishes. Tell her to learn those
items. You have a month’s leave. Stop running around saying ‘I have to see this brother, that
sister and so on.’ You just stay here for the rest of the vacation and I will make my kodalu a
match for me,” mother said.
“Tamarind rice is delicious,” I said.
“Even I can make that delicious tamarind rice,” Akkayya’s daughter said.
“No surprise there.You ARE her daughter,” my wife said.
“You know how to cook?” my son asked, surprised.
“Ah! It is not cooking, I will show you. Ammamma! Tomorrow I will cook for us children
separately,” said Akkayya’s daughter.
“She doesn’t know the correct measures. She can manage preparing rice, dal, some
vegetable and soup and such. They are okay. A girl you know. Has to learn some minimal
cooking, comes in handy,” Akkayya added.
“Only cooking? You are asking me to test their learning too,” I said.
“What grade you are in?” my wife asked.
“Ninth.”
“She will finish the high school in our village next year. I am thinking of leaving her here with
mother. She can attend college here,” Akkayya said.
“I have no problem with that,” father replied.
“Father, I will be sending the boys as well,” Akkayya said again.
“Why do you say you will send them. We will bring them ourselves,” mother replied.
Something occurred to me like a flash. Why not I take those two boys with me and get them
admitted in the English medium school along with my children. Questions like-- would they
come with me? Can they stay in our town?—did not occur to me. They were so affable. They
jumped at me as soon as they saw me, calling me ‘mamaya, mamaya.’ Mother said, ‘we will
take the kids ourselves.’ Good idea. Why not I do the same? That could be my way of paying
her back in a small way at the least. Yes. That’s what I would do, I told myself wholeheartedly.
I could notice that the kids inherited their mother’s brains. Generally children finish high
school in our villages and go to towns like Vijayanagaram and become scholars. But children
who are educated in English medium schools in big cities, who learn not only English but also
Russian, French and German, can become scholars even with an average IQ. So there is no
question what could happen if the smart kids like akkayya’s are educated in our big city
schools.
Mother served yogurt to us. The yogurt was too sour. It was past 2:00 in the afternoon. After
we are finished, mother took father’s plate, my wife took mine and my sister helped herself on
a small banana leaf.
“Tammuduu! She put the bed for you in the other room. You must be tired after all the long
journey. But you can’t go. You must sit here with me until I am done. I came by the first bus
early in the morning. The stupid train runs only in the late afternoons, you know. I was so
anxious to see you, my eyes nearly wore off waiting for you,” she said. I sat next to her.
You all must come to my village. Okay?” she asked.
“Will you take us to your farm? I would like to see the peanut plants. If you dig them, you can
see the peanuts hanging from the root, right?” my son asked.
“Oh, you silly boy! Peanuts are picked a month ago. You can have all you want,” akkayya
said.
“Can I have palmyra chunks , too?” he asked again.
“You are not in a position to offer anything to the boy,” father said.
“His requests are fair enough. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to offer anything. My luck,”
Akkayya said.
Something tugged at my heart. To speak the truth, akkayya could give us peanuts and
palmyra chunks. That’s all. She could not give us the food they eat and the clothes they
wear. Her financial position would not permit it. Father said she was not in a position to offer
anything to her nephew, my son. That crushed me. Now she is financially in a lower status.
She never thought of herself in those terms though.
We came from the Northern parts of India. We brought a basketful of apples with us. After
lunch, my wife brought out the apples, cut into pieces and gave them. I thought akkayya’s
children never saw apples before. I was expecting them to jump at the sight of the new fruit.
“Apples are sold in our village too. All the paan shops carry them,” akkayya’s daughter said.
Really?
“Chi. I hate apples,” she said with a grimace.
“Yes. Nowadays, they are selling in every nook and corner,” Akkayya said.
That’s true. Although many cannot afford them all these expensive fruits, like apple, grapes,
pomegranate and oranges are being sold in villages for the rich. I don’t like apple all that
much either. I would not be able to eat it everyday. I can eat four mangoes in onea day, no
problem there.
“Your daughter has taken after me, I suppose. I also hate apples and am crazy about
mangoes. But what can I say. In the stupid city we live, we can’t get our kind of mangoes. I
don’t even remember how long ago I had eaten so many varieties of mangoes. I remember
pancadaarakalaka, cerukurasam, banganapalli and suvarnarekha. We buy them and then
kick ourselves for wasting so much money,” I said.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you coming or not?” Akkayya asked.
“Why won’t I come? Of course, I will. Let’s rent a taxi and go together to your place. We can
spend a day. It is just as important that my children should see a village, and we must visit
your village,” I said.
We have decided to go to Ranasthalam in a taxi after spending here with mother for a few
days. That evening my wife and I went shopping with the children. We bought a gadval sari
and a kanjeevaram sari for Akkayya and four pairs of ready-made, terry-cot dresses for each
of the kids, got them packed and returned home.
“Mamaya bought us new clothes,” akkayya’s children made a big announcement to the entire
family.
“Let’s see,” father asked.
I showed the outfits we bought for the kids but not the saris. I wanted to give them to akkayya
when we visit her in Ranasthalam. Then I bit my tongue. I forgot to buy a dhoti for bava garu.
It didn’t occur to either of us—me and my wife. I went back to the shop and picked a pair of
dhotis for bava garu.
We went to Ranasthalam as planned. It was almost ten years since I went to that place, that
was in my younger days. After all these years I did not see any difference in the set up—the
same old house, the same hallway, and the same hardwood bench. The car stopped in front
of the house. Bava garu was lying on the bench, resting his head on the arm. He didn’t
budge, didn’t care, I believe. Probably he was wondering why any car would stop in front of
his house? I am sure he thought it was Samiti’s vehicle.
My wife went in and gave the saris to akkayya. “Why did you buy all this stuff for me? Where
are the occasions to wear these saris,” akkayya commented. Kids have already worn two of
the four pairs while we were in Vijayanagaram (mother’s place). They showed the remaining
two pairs to their father, bubbling with enthusiasm.
“It is okay to buy for the kids. But why for me? You must have wasted a few hundred rupees
on these two saris,” akkayya said.
I noticed a trace of sadness in her tone. In the afternoon bava garu wore the dhoti I gave him.
“Bava garu, how much did you spend on the saris?” he asked me. He was anything but
subtle. He used to address me as ‘hey, bava’ in our younger days. He started using ‘garu’
after I started in my job. I didn’t like it.
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.
“Your sister said it would have been better if you had given her just the cash in stead of the
saris,” he said.
Once again, I felt a note of sadness in those words. Now bava garu mentioned it, I wanted to
get to the bottom of it. I don’t have to mince the matters when it comes to speaking to
akkayya. I asked her straight.
“Ccha. Yes. I did say something like that. It was a casual thought. There is no particular
reason. The saris must have cost you several hundreds of rupees. And I rarely get an
occasion to wear them. So, I said something on those lines. Not because we needed money,”
Akkayya said.
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
“No. That’s not true. I am sure you needed the money. Or else, you wouldn’t have said it,
wouldn’t even think of it. I know you are too proud to tell the truth. Come on, tell me, akkayya,
tell the truth. Tell me how much and take it. You have no reason to hesitate to ask me.”
“This is how your bava garu gets me into trouble. He always gets me into sticky situations.
Last year there were no rains and so the crops suffered. As a result, we had to take out some
loan. The year before we had only fifty percent of the normal yield. In all, we are a little short
for cash. It’s true I mentioned it to my husband. That does not mean we really need money.
This year we have got one hundred percent yield. We can sell the peanuts and the paddy
and settle the account in no time. No big deal,” she said.
I tried in so many ways to make her accept some money from me but didn’t succeed. She
refused outright.
She said, “I am glad you bought me the saris. I did accept them, didn’t I? I certainly will not
accept cash from you.” In addition, she also refused to send her kids with me. We all—
mother, father and the entire family—tried to convince her but in vain.
“Look, my kids must learn from me. They must stay only with me. As for the college education
goes, I will take care of it myself. Did you study in big cities? It will be same with them as well.
It is going to be all right,” she said.
“Whatever you decide,” I said.
“Also, remember. Next time you come here to visit, you must bring me again saris that reflect
your status. No cheating. And I will accept them. I promise,” akkayya said with that magnificent
smile that comes so naturally to her.
***