Beads of sweat were slithering down her forehead. Penchalamma’s hands were not free to wipe them. The red kumkuma dot on her forehead, the size of a rupee coin, got mixed with the sweat and splashed all over her face. Her blouse was wet and stuck to her body. She wound a piece of red cloth on her head as a protection either from the scorching sun or the dust.

 

Penchalamma was sweeping the street thoroughly with a small broom in one hand and a tin sheet in the other. The road-roller[1], parked on the left side of the street was making noisy. Seenayya was melting tar, throwing in coal and splinters to keep the flames ablaze.

 

Pentamma was on the side of the road. She was crushing the stones from the pile next to her. An improvised cradle, a piece of cloth, hanging from a branch about four yards away from her. Penchalamma’s baby was in the cradle. Pentamma looked at the cradle and called out for Penchalamma, “Look, the boy’s wiggling. Go, feed him. I’ll tell explain if case the supervisor shows up.”

 

Penchalamma put the broom and the tin sheet on the ground, took the baby into her arms, and sat down in the shade. She pulled out the little cloth bag which was tucked in her saree-folds at the waist, took a couple of wilted pan leaves, a sliver of tobacco leaf, and dark betal nut piece and popped them inside her mouth.

 

Just in that moment, a scooter whizzed by making loud noise. Despite its honking, the workers on the roadside did not budge, not even one inch, with a “don’t give a damn” look, like the students when the lecturer walked into his class. The man on the scooter grit his teeth, called them “dirty rogues”, slowed down, and walked the scooter through the crowd. And then he kicked the pedal to speed up.

 

Penchalamma feeding the baby and Pentamma crushing the stones went on staring at the couple on the scooter without bating an eyelid; they were mesmerized by the sight, forgot even to breathe. The man on the scooter looked like a hero in the movies. He wore a large belt and sun glasses. The woman on the backseat was looking modern in her nylex saree. Her hair was not braided but loosely rolled and tied, and she wore a plastic dot on her forehead. The woman threw a resentful look at them, as if saying, “How dare you sit in the middle of the street and get in our way?”, and then she turned away.

 

Penchalamma’s eyes were glued to the sight, she did not even notice that the boy in her arms was waddling his arms and legs. After the scooter had disappeared round the corner, she turned to Pentamma. Pentamma said crabbily, “We crush the rocks and lay the road and they get to havin’ a ball.”

“Well, that’s the way it is, that’s our lot. They’re the blessed ones,” said Penchalamma. She laid the child in the cradle and picked up the broom again. She pictured in her mind the charming view of she going around on a scooter with her husband and sighed.

 

The scooter started out at first like a race horse and then turned out to be mulish. It’s owner removed his sunglasses, handed them to his wife, and began checking the engine.

 

The wife was getting smoldered in her nylex saree. She kept wiping her face with her handkerchief. In the process, her make up was wiped out and the face was looking greasy. Tired of carrying the two-year-old baby in her arms, she put her down and began fixing her hair. Next minute, the child started screaming. The mother remembered that the child had no shoes, and quickly picked up the child again.

 

In all, everything–the heat from the sun, the problems with the scooter, and the fact that the baby had no shoes–summed up and made her furious. And she redirected it toward her husband. She said, “Get rid of that stupid scooter, that’ll end our miseries. Here we’re checking meena meshaalu[2] to buy shoes for the child, and yet decided to go on a picnic. Isn’t that foolish?”

 

The pleasure the husband had been enjoying up until now evaporated in a second. Downcast, he started kicking the starter over and again in the hope of reviving it.

 

Just in that moment, a gorgeous car slid by softly as though it was airborne. For a split second, a beautiful face flashed through the car’s window like a lightning. The young woman standing by the roadside in blistering sun, with the child in her arms, twitched pitiably. The lingering lavender aroma left behind after the car had passed for well over ten minutes, the scooter that would not start, and the husband who was dripping with sweat–they all bothered her even more. “What a dreary life. Two of us tear our guts [at the school] from dawn to dusk, and still our income is like a sheep’s tail, barely covers our daily necessities, leaving nothing for any other pleasure in life. Can’t even remember for how long I’ve been dreaming of buying a Georgette saree just like the one the woman in the car was wearing. Our children don’t even have a couple of decent clothes, how can I expect to have good clothes and expensive desires for myself?” she said to herself desperately. She remembered the children she left with her neighbor and wondered if they were giving her hard time. Lately she and her husband did not even go to the movies, because of the costs–the rickshaw and the tickets. This trip to a nearby village, Maipadu, was pretty much like once in a lifetime chance. What fun one could have on a scooter like this in this heat? One should go by car, like the other couple who had passed by earlier, that’s what I’d call fun. I think this is the way it’s going to be for us … She drew a long deep breath.

 

The car stopped in front of the traveler’s bungalow. The couple got out of the car, helped the two children to get out, and went into the bungalow, carrying the basket, bedding etc. .

 

The two children were chattering jubilantly and peaking from one end of the verandah to catch a glimpse of the sea. Their mother on the other hand was tired. She sat down, and was pondering, “Is it enough if one has wealth? No, I would call it life only when all the others pay us their respects. Nowadays only the man in power receives such respect. I still remember the day we celebrated our baby’s birthday? The district collector’s wife came. One peon opened the door for her, and another walked behind her carrying the gift. Between the two, she walked like a royalty, while all the others around bowed to her in veneration. That’s what I’d call being fortunate.”

 

Poor husband. He was lost in his own thoughts. “I could do gold business and earn a stash. But how can how can I get the ‘power’ she’s hankering for?”

 

The sun was blazing as always. The day laborers continued to crush rocks on the roadside. They would skip a day’s meal, and barter that money for their colorful dream–losing themselves in the fantastic life of the hero and the heroine on the screen, live their dreams in their imagination, and recoup their strength for the hard labor on the next day.

 

The waves in the sea are attempting to force themselves further and further on to the shore. People riding scooters, cars and flying planes are trying harder and harder to move up to the next step.

[End]

 

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, October 2006.

 

 

(The Telugu original, aasala metlu, was published in Vanitha monthly, December 1, 1978, and included in the anthology by the same name, published 2005).

——————————

[1] Machine used to smoothen the tar surface.

[2] A common phrase, meena meshaalu lekka hettu, means literally waiting for the right time, and by extension, delaying.

My name is Malathi, nicknamed Smallathi, always in the front row in group pictures. Back home I was considered average height. Here in the States, just cute.
I sit in my living room watching the snowflakes as they whirl and descend on the branches; hear the nerve wracking noises of the snow plow from below my unit. They seem to highlight the anomaly in my little world. Up until now the jarring noise from the snow plow has been music to my ears.
It’s ten years today since I moved in. I’ve been watching the snowflakes gracing the window panes, some balancing on the bare branches of the trees on the lot line, and flocks of birds forming a sharp cone and heading south. A strong urge for hot tea springs my head. I go to the kitchen, fill a cup with water from the faucet, and put it in the microwave.
Flop, flop … drops of water trickle from the faucet to a beat. Probably it’s not shut it fully. I push the handle down, swing it left and right. The trickle stops. Ha, my mistake. I drop a teabag in the cup, and return to the dazzling sight of the rising sun. The whiteout cloaks the branches.
***
I recall my realtor’s words when I started looking for a house. “For you, condo is the way to go,” she, Jenny, said. ”You can own a home without worrying about shoveling snow or mowing lawn. Trust me, that rattling of those machines will be music to your ears. You may even enjoy watching ’em with a book in your lap. … It’s a small complex you see, just four buildings, thirty-two units, just like your home in India, the extended family and all …”
I could see that she was trying to impress me with her knowledge of my culture. I turned away.
“Beautiful view of the trees and the lake farther up there,” she said.
I strained my eyes to see the water glistening through the branches.
I had nothing to say. Sold! I moved to my own place the following month.
***
A car pulls out from the garage across from my unit and stops. A lady gets out of the car, goes into the garage, returns with a shovel, and starts clearing the snow that piled up in front of her garage entry. That means I have to do the same. I go out and shovel the snow in front of my garage. She sees me and smiles, I smile back. No big deal, shoveling a little snow is not all that bad.
But the faucet is another story, it is erratic, sometimes drips and other times doesn’t. I can’t decide whether I should call a plumber or not. Maybe the manager can help me. It seems such a small problem.
I call the manager.
“Hello.”
“Hello, this is Malathi.”
“Who? Monica?”
“No, not Monica, Malathi. I am in South Oaks complex.”
He doesn’t remember, which is understandable. He manages three complexes.
“Sorry, what’s your name again, Molina?”
I waddle through the spelling. “No, not Malina. Malathi. Em as in mother, A as in …” I go blank.. I can’t think of a word that starts with A.
“M as in Mary, A as in Adam?”
“Yesyesyes, sir. Adam. And then L as in lost.”
“N as in Nancy?”
“No, L,” I yell, almost. Better be careful lest I should offend him.
I get through my name. Now, to the real problem.
“My kitchen faucet is leaking?”
“What?”
“Leak … uh …Faucet. The faucet leaking.”
“Ma’am, you’ve to speak slowly. Tell me again. Start with your unit number.”
I start all over again. Like English composition class. Spellings, similes, metaphors, …
“The problem inside your unit is your responsibility. You need to call a plumber.”
“Okay,” I hang up. I don’t know any plumber. I was hoping the manager could find a plumber for me. I’m wrong, hum. What the heck, maybe easier to live with an occasionally leaking faucet than finding a plumber. I decide to postpone the call until the faucet gets real bad.
It has not always been like this. At the beginning there was no professional manager. The unit owners formed into an association in my third year. Everybody pitched in, yard work, gardening, little repairs, suggestions for improvements … we worked together. We hired professionals for snow removal, mowing the lawn, and trimming the trees, etc. We all felt the pleasure of living in a condo, pride of home-ownership. For over four years now, we have a board of directors, a manager; and things are changing fast.
The board calls for a meeting. The president looks around, counts the heads, twenty-three, “We’ve quorum.”
President’s report, Secretary’s report, Treasurer’s report. President speaks of a brilliant idea suggested by the manager; he says his plan helps our units to appreciate in value. He suggests to buy the piece of land between our complex and the lake and build more units. A great investment opportunity, he says. The board of directors agrees. A couple of unit owners disagree. Who owns the building? We all own, we’ll be shareholders Who’s got the money for such a big project?
“I can advance the money,” the manager says.
Somebody from the back row says, “We thought all units are owner-occupied.”
“We’ll offer the units with a rent-to-own option. In a few years, we can convert them to owner-occupied. Since there is a lake, the units will be sold as lakefront properties. The entire complex appreciates in value.”
There is one more glitch. Before we embark on that project, we need to make improvements on our lot. Chop the trees and put something contemporary like a rock park.
“No, we like the trees. They serve as a barricade shielding our buildings from the street.”
“The trees are old and rotting. They’re going to come down soon enough. You don’t want that kind of problems.”
He has ready-made answers for every question raised. Every rule has loopholes, only you have to find them …
The discussion is over. A unit owner in the front row makes a motion and another seconds it. The secretary counts the votes – eleven ‘yeah’s, eight ‘nay’s and four abstain. The motion carried.
What a crock, my heart moans. Look at the numbers. In a complex of thirty-two owners, a board of five draft a proposal and six more approve it. Just eleven, that is 33%, and they succeed in getting a proposal put in place. Put it another way, twenty-one unit owners – nine unit owners who did not care to show up, eight nays, and four abstentions – do not support this proposal. Still the motion carried.
My pleasure of home-ownership starts to fizzle. A white hair gleans on my dark sleeve. Am I losing my hair? Am I going to lose an arm and a leg, and a piece of my mind too with all the new things that are being proposed to help the complex appreciate in value?
Then comes my heating bill. A whopping one hundred and fifty percent higher than the preceding season, a shocker. I always kept the thermostat setting at the same level. I get online and check the degree days in Wisconsin which gives me a comparison of heat for the past three years. There numbers seem to be fairly the same, there is nothing to show that this year temperatures are much higher than in the previous years. And I certainly did not leave the doors and windows wide open. How is this possible? I don’t remember ever seeing heating bills like these – for five months in a row the amounts are $72, 53, 75, 53, and 75. Strange sequence, unbelievable. Somebody should rewrite the old adage that women and weather are unpredictable, I guess. I return the bill to the manager asking him to see if he made a mistake.
Six months go by, no word from the manager. Maybe too busy for small things like my heating bill. For someone who could advance money for an eight-unit building, $200.00 is probably lunch money. Or, is it just me?
Finally, I receive a letter from the manager. There is no explanation for the ridiculous hike in my bills; just a reminder, a “past overdue” notice. It ticks me off. What happened to my request to check the bill for accuracy?
I sit down to write another letter reminding him politely of the contents in my previous letter. I know they, the board and the manager, prefer a phone call but I am not a phone person. We in India are used to be around each other, sitting in the same room, eating in the same kitchen, and sleeping in the same room most of the time. Even after thirty years in the States, I haven’t gotten used to the phone. It feels like talking to a wall (come to think of it, I do stare at the wall while on the phone). Besides, in a case like this it is hard to explain a lot of things on the phone. I can’t. When I write, I can think, edit, rearrange my thoughts and present them clearly.
Anyway, I start writing again, giving all the details why I thought the bill was a mistake. Once again, no response.
A few weeks go by, and a third bill arrives with the amounts showing past overdue. What is he doing with my letters? Is this his way of telling me that I must call if I want his attention?
Frustrated, I write to the board. I don’t hear from them, but the manager shows up.
“Let me check your thermostat,” he says.
“It’s working fine. It’s new. I installed last year.”
“Let’s see. That’s a start.”
I say okay. After a few minutes he tells me the thermostat is working fine.
“What next?”
He says he’ll be back next week and leaves.
A month goes by. No sign of the manager. Time for the next billing cycle. I get the bill for October. I did not notice that the heat was on in October. Nevertheless I got the bill showing my usage and the amount due. My anger reaches a new level.
I ask my neighbor about their heating bills. Nothing unusual in his bill. I tell him my sad story.
“Well, the manager has no time to look into all the details,” he says.
Details? I don’t understand. I am not talking about a twenty or thirty dollar hike; two hundred dollars is big enough amount, a cause for concern for me at least. If I let it continue, this year my heating bill will exceed my mortgage. My blood boils. Somebody has to account for this atrocity. Manager is not giving me answers, nor the board president or the secretary. And I can’t expect answers from the other unit owners.
I find an attorney and try to explain the problem. He shakes his head, “No, you don’t want to involve me in this. Try to work it out with the management.”
“Can you send the manager or the board a letter at least?”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let’s see what the manager says.”
I am losing it on the double. I turn on the TV. Peoples court is on. A tenant suing the manager and the manager counter-suing the tenant. The case is about the plaintiff blaming the manager for not taking care of repairs and the manager, claiming he never got a phone call from the tenant.
Amusing, almost similar to my situation. I pull up my chair and turn up the volume.
I go over various scenarios in my mind, what if I drag my manager and the board of directors to the court.
The judge on the 24″ screen delivers the verdict, “It is your word against his. You say you’d written to him and he says he never received your letters. You don’t have his replies to show that he had received them. I feel sorry for you but I need evidence. Without evidence you have no case.”
I slouch in my couch and let the steam out. I hate the judges who say “You have a case but you did not prove it.” In disgust, I flip the channel.
The president is delivering his weekly speech, clutching the dais tight.
“We are winning.” Really? Why don’t you talk about the soldiers who are being killed every day and the families that depended on them?
“We are making progress.” What progress? Where are we heading?
“The economy is booming. We have created 150,000 new jobs.” People are taking low-paid jobs with no benefits. Does that count? You call that economic boom?
The president throws his arms into the air and says with a plastic smile, “You should look at the big picture.”
The big picture – that throws me off. Next president, next war, next disaster – the same argument, the big picture … the greater good. There lies the crux of the problem. You look up, look at the big picture, and you lose sight of the little people at the ground zero level. They don’t mean a thing for those who are looking up and looking at the big picture.
I get the message. This complex is growing big and I am too small for the big picture. Something inside my head snaps. I am not going to go away without letting the big picture folks feel my existence.
I sit down to write my last letter to the manager.
“I haven’t heard from you in a month. I’m not going to wait for one more season, go through the same rigmarole one more time, and let you blame it on the power company and the hurricane Katrina for the big hike in my next heating bill. If you don’t or can’t do it, I’ll arrange for an inspection by a professional heating system inspector myself and deduct the cost from the condo fee.”
This time the letter goes by registered post, requesting for acknowledgement.
“Don’t hold your breath. You know you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip,” my neighbor says.
I see her point. I pick up the phone to call Jenny, my realtor. “Let’s meet. I want to move out.”
She comes in that evening. “Where do you want to move?”, she asks, with her eyes gawking the lot across from the street.
I see the big picture again, writ large on her face.
[End]
(Published in www.MuseIndia.com, September 2006 and thulika.net, October 2006)

“Mommy…” Kinjalka came running, from school.

“Ah! Don’t jump on my like that,” Sarada said, annoyed a little. Kinjalka’s face fell.

Sarada noticed her mistake. “Come here,” she said, pulling her close.

That’s all the little Kinjalka wanted. What does she know the havoc in mommy’s heart?

Sarada can’t explain it either. Poor thing. A simple “Come here” is enough to please her!

Kinjalka showed the picture she painted at school.

“See. This is for you,” she said.

“Beautiful. I like it very much. I’ll put it on the refrigerator,” Sarada said.

Kinjalka’s face blossomed like an early morning bud.

Murari walked in. “Here, a telegram from your mother,” he said, throwing the piece of paper in her lap.

“Telegram?” Apparently it was a surprise to her too!

“Yeah! She is coming at the end of this month.”

Sarada did not say anything.

“Send another to her; tell her it’s not a good time,” he said, trying to me casual about it.

“Ha?!” Sarada was almost shocked.

“I mean…” He did not finish the sentence.

“It is over ten years now. Not a weekend passes by without setting one more plate at the table. They are all your friends. Now, for once, one person, my mother to be specific, would like to visit us; and, you want me to tell her that it is not a good time?”

“You know what I mean. Do you, honestly, believe that she can have a good time under the circumstances?”

Sarada turned to Kinjalka and said, “Grandma is coming.”

“Really! When?” Kinjalka felt elated at the prospect. She didn’t spend a lot of time with the grandma, but remembers her very well, because of all the gifts that keep coming from her. Grandma sends silk outfits and jewelry through the friends, traveling back and forth.

“So, are you going to do it, or should I?” Murari pressed for an answer.

“I won’t,” Sarada replied, watching Kinjalka, playing with her saree end. The atmosphere in the room is getting tense; and that showed in the the little face.

Sarada added, “See this. She did it at school today.” She showed the picture to him.

“Wow! Beautiful. You will become a great artist, one day. You know, my cousin on my father’s side, thrice removed, is an artist. It is in your genes,” he said enthusiastically.

“I will make one for you tomorrow, daddy,” Kinjalka said, expressing her sense of fairness. She does not want daddy to feel left out.

“I’ll put it on the fridge. We all can enjoy it,” Sarada repeated her offer.

“Come. Let’s go shopping.”

“What for? Why now?”

“Your birthday is coming soon. Isn’t it?”

“Not yet, you silly,” Kinjalka said, with a naughty smile.

“I know that, you silly! Just, in case I am not in town at the time,” he replied.

Sarada sighed, and got up to go into the kitchen.

***

Mother arrived the same day, as planned. Sarada went to the airport, and brought her home.

Kinjalka jumped at her like a leopard, even at the door, “ammummaa..”.

Mother’s face lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. She wouldn’t mind traveling ten thousand miles for that brief moment!

She stroked the little girl’s cheeks gently, and said, “You are so thin. What is your mom feeding you?”

Kinjalka cracked up, “I told you.”

“Look. I don’t understand all this wishy-washy language. You must talk to me in Telugu,” said mother.

“Okay,” Kinjalka shrugged her shoulders as she replied in English.

Sarada explained with a smile. “In India, people always say ‘you’re losing weight’ all the time; as a matter of concern, you know! She thinks it’s funny,” and added, “Come in. I will show you the bathroom.”

While mother was freshening up, Sarada made coffee. After taking a sip, mother opened her suitcase and started pulling out the gifts—a silk saree for Sarada, a pair of dhoti for Murari, a silk skirt, and jewelry for Kinjalka…

Kinjalka could hardly contain her joy, for all the gifts she is getting.

Sarada’s heart sank.

Murari left the room, sulking.

“You shouldn’t have gotten all these things. There is no need…” Sarada mumbled, trying to hide her heartache.

Mother kept quiet.

***

Mother kept herself busy with Kinjalka. She is teaching the little one, songs and games, playing with her, getting her ready for school, putting her to bed, and so on…

There is one song, Kinjalka liked very much, and learned to sing, very quickly.

chitti chilkamma, amma kottindaa? (Little birdie, Did your mom spank you?)

thota kellaavaa? pandu thechaavaa? (You went to the grove? Brought a fruit?)

gutlo pettaavaa? Gutukku mingaavaa? (Put it in the cupboard? Gobbled it up in a snap?)

Kinjalka started singing ‘chitti chilkamma, kinjalkamma’. It was fun, to build her name into the song. Mother tried to correct it but Kinjalka wouldn’t listen.

“My mommy will never spank me,” she said firmly.

Mother tried to explain to her, that it is not about her mom; that is the way the song was.

Sarada laughed. “You can’t argue with her,” she said.

The phone rang. Sarada picked it up and said, “hello!”.

Revati was at the other end. She called to invite the family for dinner on Saturday.

“I heard, your mother came from India. How was the flight? How is she? Please, bring her along,” Revati added.

In the evening, Sarada told Murari about the dinner invitation.

“I am busy. You all can go,” he said.

“Come on, daddy. It will be fun. You like Vishnu uncle too!” Kinjalka wants him to go with them.

“Not now. I have work to do. We will see next time,” he replied.

“You tell him,” Kinjalka would not let go. She wanted her mom to try.

“May be, you can make time, for this once. All the other children come with both the parents,” Sarada tried to be as specific as possible.

“I will go with you next time, I promise,” he is just about as stubborn.

Sarada got up to do laundry, and asked mother to bring her clothes for washing as well.

While sorting the clothes, she felt something in Kinjalka’s pocket. It was a pack of cigarettes.

“It’s not mine,” Kinjalka said.

“How did it get into your pocket?”

Kinjalka closed her lips tight.

“Come on. You have to tell me. How did they get into your pocket, if they are not yours?” Sarada asked tauntingly.

“I am telling you. They are not mine.”

“What happened?” Murari walked in.

He heard the story and hit the roof. Hell was let loose.

He starting stomping all over the living room. He wanted to know what Sarada was doing, while the child was taking to bad habits; Isn’t it her job to take care of the child? Isn’t it her responsibility to teach propriety and good behavior? Today, she started with cigarettes, and tomorrow she would steal cars… Mom is at home, doing what?

“That’s cute. If she shows talent, it’s in dad’s genes; and, if she errs, that’s mom’s fault,” Sarada commented calmly.

“Stop, daddy! It is not mommy’s fault,” Kinjalka said.

“Never mind whose fault. How did they get into your pocket?” he insisted.

After a few minutes of wrangling, Kinjalka finally let the cat out of the bag–a boy from the fifth grade asked her to save the pack for him; he was afraid that his mother would kill him, if she finds out.

“There is a smart idea! What are you thinking? Your mommy would give you a big hug, and pat you on the back?” mother asked her.

“My mommy won’t spank me,” Kinjalka said, pouting.

Sarada is losing heart. “Please, mother! Let me handle this,” she said meekly.

“A fine way to raise a kid,” mother said, seized the child by the arm, and whisked her away into the next room. Instinctively, she knew that this argument between the husband and the wife was not going to end in near future.

***

At night, Sarada lied down, next to the child in her bed, and tried to talk to her. In this country, people’d say, “Talk, talk, talk.” But, she never knew how to do that. She did not grow up “talking” to the parents. They talked, and she listened. She didn’t find anything wrong with that either. Actually, she became a good listener, in the process! Now, it is time for her to talk; but, the child is growing up in a different culture, with a different set of values.

Sarada could not figure out a viable way, between these two streams!

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, after what seemed to be an eternity.

“No,” the child replied.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk to someone else?” Sarada asked, holding her breath.

“Can I?” Kinjalka almost jumped at the prospect.

Sarada’s heart felt a thump in her heart.

“With whom? Amy?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’ve been friends all your lives.”

“Her mom says you will leave us.”

 

Oh God! The words were lashed out across her face like a whip. She held the child tight to her bosom.

For the first time, a huge fit of sorrow leapt to her throat, like a massive tidal wave. All this time, she was thinking, only about the other children, who might give Kinjalka hard time. She never thought, that other mothers could be as cruel! All along, she was looking at the problem as her own. People keep asking her how she (Sarada) is doing, but nobody seem to think how a child thinks; I mean, the workings of the little mind. Of course, they do ask, “How is she?” or “How is she taking it?” But, who knows what really is going on, in the child’s mind?

“Sorry, mommy” Kinjalka said.

“It’s okay,” Sarada said, and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

***

Next morning, she woke up early, to make coffee. Mother walked in, and asked, “Did she sleep okay with you?”

Sarada was confused. “What are you talking about?”

It seems Kinjalka woke up in the middle of the night, and said that she would go, and sleep in mommy’s bed. But, she did not go to mommy. She was not in the house.

Murari heard the noise, and woke up.

All the three started searching all the rooms, under the beds, in the closets, in the garage… and even inquired the neighbors … hoping, and praying, that the child is okay, somewhere…

The phone rang, as they were about to call the police.

Janet called to ask, if they wanted her to keep Kinjalka for today, also.

Janet is a long-time friend. She knew Kinjalka from the day she was born. She lives nearby. It’s a five-minute walk, if one takes the short-cut, and a ten-minute drive, on the road, by car.

Relief and anxiety took over; Sarada talked, simultaneously, to Murari and mother on this side, and to Janet, on the other side, over the phone. She said that the child is okay; and told Janet that she is on her way, to come and get the child.

Kinjalka, after telling her grandma that she was going to sleep in her mom’s bed, grabbed some shirt, slipped it on; opened the door; and went straight to Janet’s house. She knocked on the door; and told Janet, that there was some family emergency at home; grandma had to be taken to the hospital, and so, they dropped her off, here, at Janet’s door. Nobody ever thought that Kinjalka could fabricate a story like that, not until now.

Murari was irate, like any father would, under the circumstances. How could a six-year old child leave home in the middle of the night, like that? What was she thinking? It seems she is past the “talking” stage; he must take some drastic measures to make her understand; yesterday it was cigarettes, and today running away?… Where will she stop?.. How could a mother not know when the child is not home?…

“You two squabble as you please, and as long as you please. I will take the child back to India,” mother said.

“I am not going anywhere,” Kinjalka said, crossly.

“Pull her out of that school. We will send her to a private school, or to a boarding school,” Murari said, making the decision on the spot.

“I am not going anywhere,” Kinjalka was just as firm.

“First, tell me why did you run away like that, in the middle of the night?” he asked her straight.

“I did not run away.”

“What would you call it, leaving home in the middle of the night, like that, without telling us?”

“I went to see Janet. Janet is nice. She understands.”

“Look! You might as well get this straight, right here, and right now. You are not going to do any such thing again. Understood?”

“I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Oh, yes, you will. You must listen to mom and dad. Got it?” Murari nearly screamed.

He was losing patience.

“I hate you.”

“Shut up. Learn to listen.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I am your dad!”

“I don’t care. Did I ask you to be my dad?”

Wow! Mom and dad were stunned, and looked at each other. Where is she getting these ideas from?

Sarada picked up the child abruptly, and took her to the next room.

Mother went into the kitchen. Murari disappeared into his office.

Sarada kept thinking all day. “Choices” is a huge buzzword in this country. The grown-ups “choose” to marry whomever, and whenever they please; “Choose” to have a child, when, they think, they’re ready; they even get to “choose” the gender; and “choose” to get a divorce as and whenever they want.

Where is the choice for the child? Does anybody think what the child might “choose” to have or not to have?

Who decides, what the child wishes to have, or not to have?

The adults and the courts decide, pretty much, like kicking a football; and the child falls wherever she is destined to!

Sarada couldn’t help wondering, how many children would “choose” to be born into this world–a world brimming with violence, hatred, greed, and selfishness!

***

On Saturday, Sarada and Kinjalka asked Murari one more time to go with them. He said he has work to do, and stayed home. The others left, without him.

At Revati’s home, it was an interesting mix. There were about 30 adults and six children. They all were speaking in about half a dozen Indian languages, between English phrases and sentences. The atmosphere is funny for mother. She has some knowledge of English, but, this hybrid language is hard to follow. She sat in a corner, feeling a little lost.

At the other end of the room, Revati’s father-in-law, Krishnaya was sitting, looking, just as much, amused, or lost, or both! After his wife passed away, a year ago, his son, Vishnu and the daughter-in-law, Revati insisted that he move to the States, and spend his golden years with them.

Krishnaya and mother struck a conversation.

“How are you managing in this god-forsaken country? It is about a week, since I arrived here. I am feeling like the chataka bird, hanging upside down, in the sky. What is it our people see here, that is such a big draw?” mother wondered, sounding a little despondent.

Krishnaya smiled complacently. “It is all in our minds. Once we set our mind to it, and create an environment for ourselves, these outward trappings will not touch us,” he said, philosophically.

“Probably, you are right.”

“Could you, please, come this way,” he said, as he walked toward the fourth bedroom.

Mother and Sarada followed him.

It is a small room, could be a walk-in closet. It is sparkling clean, and filled with floor decorations. The traditional designs on the floor; the red and yellow dots, the green mango leaves—all comprised of plastic and oil paints, yet, for some reason, did not look odd. Against the eastside wall, there was a wood frame, built like a little temple. In the center, the Goddess Syamaladevi was set, looking gorgeous, in a silk saree, and jewelry.

Krishnaya lit up an incense stick, and, suddenly, went into a reverie.

In an uplifting voice, he started singing the famous verse, Syamalaa dandakam, in praise of the Goddess Syamaladevi…

Maanikyaveenaam upalaalayanteem madaalasaam…

    The music was from out of this world. Krishnaya was miles away.

Maatangee, madasaaleenee, maahendradyuti…

Sarada, also, was lost in the reverberating sounds. She was feeling goose bumps all over.

Saagaraabdha sangeetha sambhramaalola..

She did not realize when Kinjalka came in. The little girl was sitting, cozily curled up, next to her. The child was staring at the entire setup, with amazement.

The noises in the next room, also, subsided.

Krishnaya finished the song softly, like a plane landing, and prayed for a few more seconds. After that, he gave them raisins for prasadam.

Kinjalka held out both her palms, respectfully, and looked at her mom. Sarada nodded with a little smile. The child took her palms near her eyes, as per custom, and ate the prasadam.

Krishnaya gently touched her cheek, and said, “The goddess is gorgeous, like you.”

“I know,” Kinjalka replied, narrowing her eyes playfully.

Sarada laughed. “You’ll have to excuse us. We are a little short on humility,” she sounded apologetic.

Krishnaya did not laugh. “No! That’s good. We all have to have that self-esteem. That is important for survival,” he said solemnly.

They stayed there for a while, and were ready to leave.

“Can I get a ride?” Raghava asked Sarada. He lives, not too far from their home.

“Sure,” she said, and walked toward their car. Raghava sat in the backseat, next to Kinjalka.

Raghava started talking. “I can’t understand our people. Our Indians are so brilliant, yet, they act like total morons. Here, in the West, the scientists are building ladders to the skies. We, Indians, are still digging deeper and deeper into the nether lands, like ostriches. In stead of looking up, we are wallowing in the rut of the outmoded traditions; we, continue to believe, that the boulders and tree trunks save us from our miseries. While the West is producing great scientists, we are looking to the stones for rational solutions. Look at Krishnaya. He is an intelligent man, I am sure. Why can’t he use his faculties for some logical thinking?”

“So be it, Raghava. We all follow our hearts,” mother said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes, madam, I agree. At the same time, what is wrong in developing some concrete mode of thinking. He has a stunning voice. I’ll give it to him. He will be a smash hit, if he holds a concert. But invoking a goddess? Ludicrous, if you ask me! The man is deluded.”

“No, he is not,” Kinjalka said.

Raghava looked at her, surprised, as if he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

Sarada looked, at both of them, in the rear view mirror, and turned to mother.

Mother was, complacently, looking straight ahead.

“I saw her too. She is beautiful,” Kinjalka said again.

For some reason, Raghava did not want to continue his speech, anymore. Sarada dropped him at his place, and reached home by about 9:30.

Murari and a couple of his friends were playing cards in the living room.

“You said you had work to do,” Kinjalka asked.

“I did. I just finished it. They just got here, a few minutes ago. How come you are home early?”

“Mother is not used to staying up late,” Sarada said and went in quickly. She was in no mood to offer explanations to anybody.

She changed into pajamas, and was going to the kitchen for a glass of water. She heard mother talking to Kinjalka and stopped at the door.

“Come with me to India, honey! You can play with grandpa, uncles, aunts, and your cousins. They all can teach you songs, games, and all that, you know,” mother said to Kinjalka.

“No, ammumma! I can’t. I have to be here. Mommy and daddy need me. Don’t you worry. That little girl will take care of us,” Kinjalka said.

Sarada forgot about the water. She went straight to bed, and kept thinking about the words Kinju said, for a long time.

The verse Krishnaya sang was an elaborate description of an adult woman, in the prime of her life. Kinjalka called her the “little girl”. That is strange!

But the words that kept coming back to her, all night, were “Mommy and dad need me”!

[End]

Published on thulika.net, March 2002