Clay
Indu Suryanarayan
Thangachi looked out of the window from
the ill-lit dining room that late summer morning. The huge hibiscus bush by the
window had grown out of control and darkened one half of the dining room while
the massive jackfruit tree on the other side darkened the rest of it. Sometimes
Thangachi turned on the light and often forgot to turn it off way past mid-day.
Kamalam would then say with a frown on her kumkum marked forehead, ‘Thangachi,
you forgot to turn off the light again. Electricity costs money. Turn it on
only in the evening.’
Thangachi
had moved to Perundarai to become a family member of Ramesan and Kamalam’s
household last year on their son Mahesh’s third birthday. A child widow at
fifteen, Thangachi had lived in the village almost all her life with her
brother, who was Ramesan’s grandfather. When the brother died at eighty-nine,
Thangachi at eighty-five moved in with Ramesan who was a school teacher and
lived in the small town of Perundarai on a street that had, besides small
houses, a Hanuman temple, a tailor shop and a vegetable store that she
sometimes visited accompanied by Kamalam.
Thangachi
put the last touches on the meal she had cooked and looked at the clock. She
turned off the dining room light and went to see what Kamalam was doing. She
peeked into the bedroom adjoining the verandah and called out, ‘It is almost
one o’clock. Are you not coming to eat lunch?’
‘I
will sit by the child a while longer. You go ahead and eat your lunch,’ Kamalam
answered in a tired voice.
Ramesan
had seen Thangachi as someone who would help in his household, and she had not
disappointed him. She helped Kamalam in the kitchen and kept Mahesh entertained
with stories of Rama and Krishna. She was allotted a corner of the dining room
with the adjoining enclosed passage as her living quarters. At the other
corners were the entrances to the kitchen and the puja room respectively.
Thangachi kept her rolled bed inside the passage and just outside of it was her
straw mat where she spent most of the day.
Thangachi
got ready to eat her single meal. She placed the plate, filled with rice,
vegetable and dal on the red cement floor along with the water tumbler and sat
down on the edge of the mat. She chewed the soft food as best as she could with
her gums. A little hot rice with vegetables and ghee tasted so good.
Kamalam
rushed by to enter the puja room. Kneeling down, she folded her hands, and
began uttering Sanskrit sthothras to the array of gods’ pictures on the wall.
Thangachi
stopped eating and stared at Kamalam’s back. She knew that in times of dire
trouble or intense joy, Kamalam was in the habit of doing this kind of inspired
puja.
Thangachi
called out finally. ‘Has the child’s temperature come down at least a little?
The poor child was burning up when I felt his forehead this morning. Should we
get the doctor?’
Without
answering, Kamalam went swiftly back to the front bedroom where Mahesh was
sleeping. Mahesh had been sick for more than a week. Exhausting all home
remedies, Ramesan had brought the doctor who had diagnosed the illness as
typhoid. ‘Solid food will kill him. Only liquids.’ The doctor prescribed.
Slowly
getting up, Thangachi was straightening her back when she heard a scream from
the front room. ‘Thangachi, Thangachi, come quick,’ Kamalam screamed.
Dropping
the plate, Thangachi hobbled to the child’s bedside. She recognised death like an old friend. She
left the room, picked up her plate and went through the back door to the tap
outside, to wash it.
As
a gloom hung over the house, only Thangachi seemed to have her feet anchored on
the ground. She cooked and cleaned and consoled Kamalam the only way she knew
how: by forcing her to eat at least a little for lunch or dinner. She would describe her own losses and griefs
to an un-listening Kamalam.
Almost
a month later Kamalam slowly got back to the routine of making the morning
coffee. Ramesan decided to approach the subject of her father’s letter that was
still in his coat pocket. Her sister Chellam would be coming to Erode for
delivering her baby. They should all go to Erode for a family gathering.
Kamalam
shook her head, ‘No need. We are not going anywhere,’ she said. The subject was
dropped right there. Ramesan resumed his teaching and Thangachi her chores in
the kitchen. Kamalam talked no more of her sister or of her baby that was due
any day now.
The
rainy season had broken loose like a freed force. Kamalam sat in the verandah
on a wicker chair watching the rain fall steadily. The broken gutter on the
side of the house was making a loud splashing sound. She watched till the rain stopped,
and there was a sudden silence. She hoped the sun would come out.
The
postman was early and handed her a letter. Kamalam tore it open and began to
read: It is a baby girl. We are shocked and sad. The doctor could save the baby
but not our beloved daughter. Chellam died with child birth complications and
excessive bleeding. Our prayers went unanswered. Gods closed their eyes on us.
We have named the baby Deepa.’
As
Kamalam threw the letter on the table by the chair and walked in, Thangachi
eagerly asked, ‘What is the news from Erode? Is it a boy or girl?’
Kamalam
looked at Thangachi as if she were seeing her for the first time in her life.
This old lady with her bent back and toothless gums was full of questions? All
these young lives were being snuffed out right and left, but this old flame
burnt unwaveringly. Was this some kind of miracle or a joke? Or was it the jinx
that was being cast like a net of death by this little old woman?
A
little frightened by Kamalam’s strange expression, Thangachi changed the
subject.
‘I don’t know why, but my head is itching
since morning. I put coconut oil and combed my hair but it still feels
scratchy?’
Kamalam
just stared and kept on nodding her head slowly. She was still nodding as she
watched Thangachi squat on the floor and scratch the back of her head with both
hands.
Kamalam
felt a dull throb at her temples that got stronger till it seemed to consume
her. She gives nothing, takes nothing, receives neither love nor attention and
gives neither. She makes but one statement with her existence, and that is her
existence. Kamalam caught this truth as if it were a burning ball and held on
to it tightly, testing its ability to burn her. Was it Thangachi’s love of
life? The dust, the dirt, the mud, the clay that is life? She clings to it and it clings to her. God,
how she holds on to it! And how it holds on to her!’ The words beat like the
hammer strokes of a sthothra in Kamalam’s mind.
Thangachi
scratched her head vigorously.
Kamalam
asked in a level voice. ‘When was it that you had your last oil bath,
Thangachi?’
‘Oil bath? Did you say oil bath? For the three
plus one hairs on my head? Oil baths are for young people.’
‘Thangachi,
you should take an oil bath today. I will give you an oil bath.’
‘All right, if that makes you happy. I used to
love oil baths a long time ago. I don’t even remember when I took the last oil
bath. Since you insist, I will take one now.’
Kamlam
got busy. She got a bowl of castor oil and heated it on the firewood under the
big copper pot of hot bath water. Next she got the soap-nut paste ready to wash
off the oil. She would give Thangachi an oil bath the way it should be given.
Finally she brought two dry towels, one for the hair the other for the body and
hung them on the single wooden rack on the side wall.
When
the first bowlful of hot water came cascading down her head, Thangachi was
startled and protested weakly, ‘It may be a little too hot.’ But Kamalam did
not stop. ‘The second and third bowlfuls will make it feel just right you will
see.’ After pouring a few more bowlfuls, Kamalam asked, ‘Now tell me,
Thangachi, and is it too hot?’
‘No,
no, this is just right. I like it; it feels so good,’ Thangachi answered
closing her eyes. When she was rubbing herself dry, Thangachi said. ‘The sun
has come out. Ah, that bath was good but it has made me so sleepy. I don’t know
how I will cook the meal now.’
‘Don’t
you worry about cooking. Today I will do all the cooking. You rest on your mat.’
Thangachi sat on the mat wearing her crisp white sari and began humming one of
the many religious songs she knew by heart.
Kamalam
had finished cooking the rice, curry, rasam and sambar with the dal. She went
into the backyard to pick some curry leaves for the rasam from the plant by the
tap. As she stood on tiptoe and pulled down the branch, she slipped and looked
at her muddy foot. As she stepped back to wash both feet under the tap she bent
and scooped a lump of the wet clay, closed her fist on it and came in. The
rasam was boiling on the stove; she dropped the lump of clay in along with the
curry leaves in it, and turned off the stove.
‘Lunch
is ready’, she shouted. ‘Thangachi, get your plate and tumbler ready. Time to
eat.’
After
the lunch, Thangachi washed her hand and went to her corner. She would have a
nice nap; she took out her bed roll and spread it out. She lay down, and fell
into a deep sleep.
It
was late afternoon and almost coffee time. Kamalam woke up from her own nap and
went to wake up Thangachi. She called out to her. Getting no response, she went
and shook her gently. Thangachi offered no sound or resistance.
Kamalam
ran out of the house into the street and began screaming for help. People
poured out from all houses on both sides of the narrow street. They went in to
see Thangachi’s body folded up like a heap of sticks. They came in, came out,
wheeled around; Kamalam, however, stood like a statue at the gate, her gaze
fixed in the direction from which Ramesan might make his appearance now.
Indu Suryanarayan is a writer
and a poet and divides her time between Bangalore, India and Kingston, Rhode
Island USA. She worked as a professor and a university librarian in Providence,
Rhode Island, and is now retired. Her articles and stories have been published
in The Deccan Herald. Her husband Suryanarayan, a Math professor, gave her
America not on a platter but on an aerogramme, she likes to say.
Beautiful written!
ReplyDelete