A Disobedient Girl (28 page)

So she went back to explain to Madhavi that she should return to her room, but she didn’t have to. Madhavi had been removed forcibly by her parents and sent, crying, to her own room, where she waited, Latha knew, for her to come and make things better again. Instead, Latha helped the houseboy in and laid him down on her bed, which he filled with his body grown gangly over the thirteen years of his life, and she cleaned the stripes, some smaller, some like bands around his back and legs. She cleaned them with
Dettol,
hushing him when he winced. She got
Cicatrin
powder and covered the soft oozes with it. There were no bandages in the house, so she tore up the rest of the white little girl dress and wrapped those strips around the wounds. And since he was lying on her bed and she liked it to be clean, she washed his dirt-caked feet, bringing basin after basin of water into the room and scrubbing them till they were as spotless, though not as soft, as hers. Then she went to the kitchen to make koththamalli.

Something in the aroma of the coriander seeds, popping and dancing over the high heat, and the sweetness added on by the ginger she threw into the water, cleared her head. It was like the whole house was being fumigated of old ideas, old hopes. It was such a strong sensation that she grabbed a tea cloth and held her own head over the steam, inhaling and inhaling the sharp scents, as if her whole body could be cleansed by the strength of this one simmering pot. Of everything that was leaving her, the hardest to let go was her bond with Thara, the sense she had that they were united in some way, tied together even though she had glimpsed it only in flashes in the years after her return from the convent. So she forced herself to stay under the cloth, the heat burning her nostrils until she could be rid of that last illusion, and though she couldn’t be sure that it had left her entirely, when she pulled her head back out, the pores of her face open, perspiration beading on her upper lip, her brow, she felt renewed.

When the brew was ready, boiled down to a single cup, she strained it into a glass, put a spoonful of sugar into it, and took it to the boy along with a dissolved
Disprin
in an old cup. She watched him drink it and then told him to lie down and go to sleep. Then she got dressed, put on her best shoes, and went out to buy him a pair of DSI sandals for his own. On her way out she threw his old rubber slippers, held together between the toes by a rusted safety pin, in the kitchen dustbin.

“Podian will be sleeping on the floor in my room until he gets better,” she told Thara later that night. “Whatever happens, someone needs to look after him after all.”

Thara pursed her mouth and looked away. How thick her neck had become, like her mother’s, except with much less poise. Latha felt pity for her, for the way her transgressions kept her away from her children, for the lack of courage to stand up to a man who beat her or to go to the man she loved, for not remembering their friendship enough to at least go and look at Podian’s wounds. Latha felt sorry that what kindness Thara had to offer had been used up over her, with those few days of care. It made Thara seem barren, that lack in her psyche, which had only a finite amount of goodwill to bring to the world.

Which is why Latha wrote to Leela. To tell her about Podian, who had no family and who had been ordered about all his life, certainly ever since Latha met him. She wrote about what it felt like when she moved into the new house, Gehan bringing his servants, first one houseboy, then this second one, Thara bringing hers.
We were like the dowry, I suppose,
she wrote,
except we couldn’t be put in the bank or marked off with barbed wire or pawned.
She smiled as she wrote that, anticipating a smile when Leela heard those words read out to her by someone at the convent, even though it wasn’t funny. It was the truth.
Now we are three,
she wrote:
Leelakka, Latha Nangi, and Podian.

But after she had sealed the letter and walked down to the sub–post office run out of a house behind the
New Eros Theater,
which showed only Tamil films that Podian longed to see and had never been allowed to, she walked home musing over those words. They
were three, but they were really five. Somewhere in the country were two children, hers and Leela’s, two daughters without the benefit of her resourcefulness or Leela’s kindness. In a few years, wherever she was, her daughter would be as old as Latha had been when she had given birth to her, alone except for the waiting nuns. Her daughter would be fourteen years old now, only a little older than Madhavi, the daughter she had been given to love. So Latha went to the temple on the way home, in the middle of the hot day, and poured oil into five lamps, one for each of them. She lit incense and waved them over the lamps until the smoke from the fire and that from the incense mingled and floated above her head. And though she was not given to asking for things, or praying for them, that day she did. She hoped that something in all their characters would see them through life, together or apart. She hoped that their daughters were part of their own families, not serving those to which they would never belong. Then she stood there for a long time, trying to put her finger on why she always felt a sense of foreboding when she stood before a real shrine in a temple, why the way the air moved around her head, the stillness, and the sensation of inevitability disturbed her. So she brought her palms together again and stayed that way, reciting every fragment she knew: precepts, prayers, sutras, and even, at the very end, tagged on like a small decoration, the Our Father and the Hail Mary she had been taught at the convent.

And after all that she went home to tend to Madhavi, to tell her stories about how things were when she was a little girl, growing up with her mother at the Vithanages’, about how Thara came of age and how she bathed her.

“I can’t imagine it,” Madhavi said. “I can’t picture you bathing Amma, Latha.”

“I did. She wouldn’t have anybody else come near her.”

“Can you bathe me too?”

Latha gazed at the child before her. Madhavi was sweeter than any child she had met. She had grown from being a serious-faced little girl with strangely adult cares and worries into a serene-eyed
eleven-year-old. Everything about her was simple, which only accentuated how truly lovely she was. Latha felt she had played a role in that transformation, in drawing out and discarding the fears and nurturing the inner calm that Madhavi now possessed. She would have liked to bathe this girl, the one who was closest to her heart, but she knew better. “I don’t think so, petiyo,” she said. “I think Amma has made plans for you. Or if not her, then your grandmother would have.”

She was right and wrong. Thara had made plans, and Mrs. Vithanage had endorsed them, but Madhavi suddenly proved to be just as obdurate as her mother had been, and no amount of cajoling or threats could convince her that anybody but Latha should bathe her.

And so Latha did. She woke up early, boiled the water, carried it in, prepared the herbs and flowers, and washed the child. This time Latha’s admiration was wrapped in her recognition of her innocence, and that misted her eyes and made her get soap in Madhavi’s so that she ran around the bathroom hopping her reed-thin body up and down on both feet and turning around in circles shouting,
“Ahh! Ahh!
Wash it out! Latha, wash it out!
Auw auw auw!”
and that made Latha laugh. So it was a happy morning, a happy girl stepping out toward her mother and grandmother, who waited, one with a coconut and the other with a carved knife, safe in the knowledge that she, Latha, stood behind.

Latha took Madhavi to the shops one afternoon that week and bought her a new pair of shoes, with a heel on them. It was a pair that Madhavi had been hoping for, to wear with the baggy jeans and hooded shirts that were all the rage among the girls at her school. And Latha bought her a bar of chocolate from Podian, who had, of his own accord, given her ten rupees for it, understanding at last that something of significance had taken place in Madhavi’s life, and finding generosity now that he had someone to emulate.

And perhaps that was why Madhavi came into her room one night before going to bed, dressed in her baby blue pajamas, her hair in two long braids, and worshiped Latha.

“What is it that you are doing Madhavi baba?” Latha asked, backing away, alarmed.

“My Buddhism teacher said that it was better to worship the servants who work in our houses than the politicians and people that we are supposed to at the prize givings and other events at school. She said the servants actually do something for us. So that’s what I’m going to do from now on. I’m going to worship you, Latha.”

Politics, Latha thought. What right had that teacher to insert politics into her class? Still, it was the first time anybody had ever worshiped her, and if that was Madhavi, well, it wasn’t so bad after all. She had looked after this girl for almost twelve years, watched her, fed her, protected her, and taught her. Yes, it was all right. So she let the girl bow before her, and she laid her hand on Madhavi’s head and blessed her.

T
he children look over their shoulders at the sound of the explosion, but they don’t stop walking. It is as if this too is now just old experience to them. I am amazed at their resilience. It must be their youth, for I feel my heart thudding in my chest in time to our steps. There’s a small temple on the side of the road when we take the next bend, walking single file just in case some vehicle comes speeding by, a silly thought, I know, on a mountain like this, where the air is so quiet that an engine can be heard miles away.

“Let’s stop here and light a lamp for the people on the train,” I call out to my boy, who has already passed it by. It’s not a real temple, just a little white-tiled ledge set into the earth in the shade of a Bo tree. There’s a spring nearby, and two old clay pots. I put our bags down and fill the pots so each of the children can water the tree. Then we find an unlit lamp and pour the oil out of another that has gone out into ours. I tear a strip of cloth from an old underskirt, and the little one helps me make a wick, standing opposite me and twisting the cloth in reverse to my direction. She puts her finger in the middle and I let mine go, watching her delight as our separate parts wind around each other in a loving embrace. It is peaceful, standing there shoulder to shoulder before our lamp, under that tree. I feel grateful.

We recite Pansil, and then I bless each of them, my fingers grazing the smoke from our lamp before I place my warm, hopeful palms on each of their heads. Chooti Duwa imitates me, gathering
something—I don’t know what she imagines she is gathering—from the air around her and blessing us with a pouring motion over each of our faces, bent low to receive her piety. The older children laugh.

“Amma, can we wash here?” my son asks.

“I suppose it is okay, if we make sure that the water runs away from the Bo tree,” I tell him.

The water is cold, very cold, on our skin, but it feels good to wash ourselves, finally. Wash the dust, the tiredness, the anxiety, everything, and then to wipe it all away with our towel. I drape the towel around Loku Putha’s shoulders.

“It will keep you cool for a while, and it will dry it out too.”

“Aiyya is a rack,” Loku Duwa says.

“Aiyya looks like an old man,” the little one says. “He looks like the old man who gave us bread.”

Loku Putha smiles but doesn’t argue, happy to be within our happiness. I let each of them drink a fistful of water from the stream to quench their thirst, trusting that they will not fall sick.

“Let’s get going now,” I say, though I don’t want to leave the shade of the tree or the coolness of the water. I don’t want to pick up the bags or keep walking.

“How far do we have to go?” Mala asks.

I look ahead to where the road takes a turn around the mountain and goes who knows where; the world seems to end where my line of vision does, a sudden, precipitous termination to the forward motion of our life. “I don’t know, Loku Duwa,” I tell her, “but it can’t be far.”

“I’m tired of this trip,” Chooti Duwa says, and none of us responds, seconding her statement with our silence. I pick up the big bag, and Loku Duwa reluctantly takes the other side. After a few turns, Loku Putha walks back to where we are and squats beside the little one. Wordlessly, she climbs up on his back and puts her arms around his neck. He holds on to the feet she has wrapped around his waist and struggles to his feet. He continues to walk, still ahead of us but slower now. I am happy for my Chooti Duwa, that he is there to take care of her in this way. And happy for him that he knows to be mindful of her.

At each turn we expect to see the thé kadé that the driver told us
about. Each time, we are disappointed: vistas drop and rise to our right, and the thick foliage, some with thorny flowers, crowds us to our left, short, sturdy bark glistening with numerous greens, but ahead of us there is nothing but the road, hot and unending. Nineteen such turns before the mountain begins to gain ground with the road beside us so that I no longer feel the need to watch my children quite so closely, afraid that their feet might slip and they themselves be lost in the tumbling forests beneath. Now the road is sheltered on both sides.

At the twenty-seventh turn we see it: the shop, a portion of it beside the road, the rest stuck in the earth behind, like an inverted
L.
It sits at the end of this stretch of road. I wish it were brighter, painted in some fresh color, this beacon of ours. But it is dark and old, part stone, part brick, part wattle and daub; something that seems to have risen from the unseen ground and clawed its way up onto the road, where it stakes the barest of claims upon the progress implied by broken granite and rolled tar.

“Amma, there it is!” Loku Putha says, pointing at the shack. “It doesn’t look like it sells egg hoppers,” he adds, a little sadly.

“We’ll see, you never know. They might make some just for us.”

“I can see plantains!” Chooti Duwa says, contented, at least for now, by that prospect. “I hope they are seeni kesel. I don’t want any other kind.”

“You always want sugary things,” Loku Putha says to her, putting her down and stretching his shoulders, “even with your plantains! You’ll get worms soon, and then you’ll see. Ambul kesel is better for you. I hope they’re ambul.”

“I won’t get worms,” Chooti Duwa says, unperturbed. “I never get worms.” It is the gift of a youngest child, this conviction that ordinary difficulties will pass her by, and I am glad she has that. I secretly hope that the shop sells sugar plantains, a little bonus for my baby, who has traveled so far without complaint. And ambul too, for my Loku Putha, who has done so much to help me and his sisters.

“Let’s get there and see what they sell,” Loku Duwa says, practical.

Loku Putha takes the towel off his shoulders and carries it in his
hand. He gets there first, Chooti Duwa close behind; my Loku Duwa keeps pace with me. By the time I get there, the owner has come out. He gestures with his head toward my son and speaks in the gurgling, curved-jaw speech of a betel chewer.

“This son of yours doesn’t say much,” he says, teasing my boy.

I smile. “My Loku Putha is tired, isn’t that so? And hungry.”

I follow the man’s gaze toward the shady interior of his shop, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness within and the one glass cupboard that sits next to his counter. Arrayed on the topmost shelf is an assortment of chocolates, their wrappers dusty, their faces pressed against the glass, a clear indication that the inventory is both low and old. A short pile of steamed bread leans against one corner on the second shelf; next to it are two round cutlets on an enamel plate. Besides those, there are two plates of string hoppers and two bowls each of sambol, kiri-hodi, and fish in a heavily peppered brown gravy on the third shelf, and, on the last, four plain hoppers. I look back at him. He is an older man, closer to sixty than fifty, though who knows how the chilly up-country life weathers a person. I wonder if there is a wife or a daughter somewhere in the house.

“We have been walking for a long time,” I say, “and the children…I was hoping that there would be some food for them here.”

He shrugs and gestures with his hand toward the display of food, his mouth turned down in regret. He picks up a tin and spits out a stream of red juice. “This is what we have left from the morning.” His voice is clear and sounds heartlessly matter-of-fact now that his mouth is free from spit.

The children look at the food, Loku Duwa biting the fingernail on her left thumb, anxious and hungry and disappointed, but not as much as Loku Putha, who looks like he might cry. My Chooti Duwa is in imminent danger of actually doing so. The plantains are neither the sweet kind nor the sour kind; they are the long, pasty aanamaalu. The man must feel sorry for me, for he says, “We don’t sell lunch here. Nobody comes this way at that time, but my family, we’ll be eating soon. I can ask my daughter-in-law to cook some extra rice for you as well. The children might like hot food. You can sit there and wait while I go and ask what is available.”

“Thank you,” I say, sinking down onto the smooth bench on his veranda. The children join me, casting their belongings to the ground, glad for the rest. They look haggard again, the wash back at the Bo tree having completely evaporated off their skins, off their minds. Off mine, too.

“Here,” the man says, coming into view in the relatively bright light of the veranda, and holding out a comb of sugar plantains that he has brought from inside. “Give the children some of these while they wait. They must be hungry.”

Chooti Duwa beams at him and helps herself to the fruit without waiting for my permission, and the others follow her lead. I am too tired to reprimand them, mother them, coach them on proper behavior; I just murmur my thanks and take one and hold it in my hand, too tired to peel it or eat.

“Where are you coming from?” the man asks.

“We are traveling from Matara,” I tell him. “It’s a long way, I know, but I didn’t expect it to be this long for us. We had to get to Colombo and then switch trains from there. Our second train had trouble on the tracks, and then it got stopped, a long way back it seems now, somewhere after Pattipola—”

“Deiyyo sākki!
Were you on the train with the bomb?” I nod, and he calls out loudly to someone in the house below. “Sumana!”

Sumana, when she comes, is about my age, though her manner is that of an older woman. She is fair-skinned and homely. She wears a long skirt like a sarong and a blouse with a cardigan over it. She looks intently at me. She must be the daughter-in-law, for, right behind her, is a formidable woman who is clearly the lawmaker in the house. The storekeeper’s wife is round-faced with a trickle of tiny warts between her left ear and her throat, and she is three times as large as he is, the way wives are supposed to be in these parts. She stands there with her hands on her hips, the fingers twitching compulsively. Their poverty is visible. Sumana’s ill-fitting clothes, the way the colors don’t suit her, and the fact that the older woman’s sari blouse is held together by safety pins and worn on the outside at that, a clear sign that she has little to hide or be ashamed of; impoverishment has blighted her all her life.

“This is my son’s mother, Dayawathi,” he tells me, “and this is our daughter-in-law.” He turns back to them. “These people were on that train we heard about on the radio,” he tells them, and they are instantly kinder, our fate their excuse to take care of us. They both start talking at once, overlapping each other’s sentences yet neither seeming to care.

“You must eat with us…so far to walk…where are you going?”

“How frightened you must be…I would be terrified.”

“I heard it was old JVP people…but some others said Tamils…do you know?”

“Children had died…how many children?…did your children see?”

I can barely keep up with their observations and questions, so I give up trying. I nod or shake my head and shrug when appropriate and leave them to tell my story. My children stare at them, openmouthed, as if learning about all this for the first time; it certainly sounds more important in their voices, the event that we have survived.

“Leave them alone now, they should rest a little. Sumana, break a bottle of
Portello
for them,” the man tells the younger woman. The children perk up when the drink is mentioned, but I am only reminded of the half-eaten meal beside those dead bodies.
Portello,
too sweet like new love and dark purple like bad blood. When Sumana returns with a tray of cloudy glasses and the bottle of lukewarm
Portello,
it feels ominous. I want to refuse, but I cannot; I watch the children drink and feel nauseated, the bile rising up to my throat. I stagger to the corner of the house and retch over the side of their half wall.

“Better stay here today. You can’t travel like this. You are sick, and the children are tired,” the older woman says, and her voice is both comfort and temptation.

Before I can argue, the children start to beg: “Nangi and Chooti Nangi are tired, Amma,” my son says, “they can’t walk any more today.” He curls his toes as he says this, and I feel like weeping for him, for those weary feet. Theirs, yes, but mostly his oldest-child feet, the uncomplaining ones.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask the man, Veere’s Father. That, Sumana tells me, is what she calls her father-in-law, ever reminded of his importance and contribution to and role in her life. I ask repeatedly over the next hour, making the customary protestations, feigning polite reluctance, gauging the strength of their offer. But it stands. They are good people. We stay.

The meal they serve is simple: rice with white leek and potato curry, a spicy tinned fish curry, and sambol. The children are delighted, and so am I. It feels good to be inside a home, at a table with hot food and more plantains and plain tea with ginger to follow. Afterward, I help them wash the blackened pots in the equally blackened sink, its cracked concrete crevices packed as if by intention with years of dirt and grease. Still, I am warmed by the sight of the ineffectual bar of
Sunlight
soap. I imagine that people of our means will always buy those hard yellow cakes with dogged determination; it is as though we imagine faith and loyalty alone would transform it from a rudimentary lard-based block into billowing suds that make everything in our lives sparkle. I imagine it now, that possible transformation, as I scrub and scrub with the wad of coconut fiber in my hands, the thick soap oily and useless. These things are the same everywhere. We are the same, our people, up-country or from the South, down to the calendars we leave on the walls, long after their years have passed, as our simple decorations, our paintings.

There is no way to stave off the “father of your children” questions, and by evening I have told Dayawathi the entire story of our journey. I tell her of the abuse, but not about the infidelity, for she would not sympathize. Women who are loyal to good husbands never understand, and the others, tied for unexamined reasons to some variety of louse, feel only hatred toward people like myself, we who choose, we who don’t live by those rules of propriety that are established for us by men: For the sake of. For the sake of the children, the parents, our honor, our appearances that fool nobody. All one earns by living that way is pity, and of all the emotions I wish to arouse in another human being, pity is the least of them.