Tell A Thousand Lies (48 page)

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Over a period of two years, I devolved from Goddess to doctor, though a little of the awe still remained in peoples’ minds. With time, I hoped that would go away, too.

 
Kondal Rao had an important post in the Cabinet, so he’d left me alone. I saw him on television often, making some self-important speech or the other.

My son was thriving. He had made friends, and spent his free time playing cricket in the village square. He missed Lata less and less, for which I was profoundly grateful. Busy with patients, I had less time to fret over Ved, though he was still the top priority in my life. I made sure I spent enough time with him on a daily basis, but not enough to stifle him. I was happier too, less constrained in what I could do. One of my favourite things to do was take a walk with Ved to the Lotus pond, and sit by the water. There we talked about school, about cricket, about life in general. Everything, but Lata, that is. Ved didn’t seem to want to talk about her, and I wasn’t particularly anxious, either.

My medical practice picked up dramatically. I had a lot of patients and although I knew that curiosity was one reason for patients coming in from villages half a day’s walk away, I felt more content than I had in a long time. I missed Srikar, but it was like a nagging toothache. Always there, in the background, but ignored for long periods of time.

One day I was seeing patients in the clinic when I heard squealing brakes. I hurried out. An older man was lifting up a child who looked like she was choking. “Food stuck in her throat,” he shouted.

I ran to the girl, grabbed her from the man and turned her over, resting her belly on my upraised knee, and thumped her on her upper back with the heel of my palm, using the Heimlich manoeuvre. A piece of vegetable flew out of her mouth. She started to breathe again. A crowd of patients gathered around us.

“A miracle! You saved my grandchild’s life, Doctor
amma
,
” the man said, struggling to hold back tears.

I touched him gently on the shoulder.

People milled about restlessly. I held up my hand. “What I did was not a miracle,” I said, moving my head around the crowd to catch people’s eyes. “Any doctor would have done the exact same thing.” They looked at each other uncertainly.

My nurse, a plump, bustling woman named
Ramani
waved her arms at the crowd. “Didn’t you hear what Doctor
amma
said? Move, move. The show is over. Doctor
amma
does not have all day.”

I could have hugged her.

I turned and walked back into the clinic, conscious of the skittish crowds. They followed me in. The tide seemed to be turning.

Chandrasekhar, the man whose child’s life I’d saved, came to see me that evening. The rugged looking man with compact build, and integrity reflected in his eyes, was accompanied by his wife, the elegant Bhavani.

“I am indebted to you,” the man said. “You saved my beloved daughter’s life.”

“I’m glad I was able to get to her in time. But I want you to understand it was not a miracle.”

“It was for us,” Bhavani said with a tremulous smile. “But I know what you mean.”

The tension in my scalp slackened. “How is your daughter doing?”

“She was climbing a tree when we left,” the woman said, laughing.

“We moved to
Mallepalli
a couple months ago,” Chandrasekhar said.

I had heard, of course. The village grapevine was nothing if not efficient. “Any particular reason?”

“My grandparents are from the neighbouring village,” Bhavani said. “We grew up on stories about
Renuka
, that woman who was stoned as a witch. Have you heard of her?”

“She was a friend of my mother’s.”

“Really?” Bhavani sounded shocked.

“These things happen a lot in the villages. More than you know.”

“Did you believe she was a witch?”

“At the time I did,” I said with regret.

“And now?”

“Do you know of my background?”

“Yes,” Bhavani said. “I know they tried to make you a Goddess by claiming you’d brought a child back to life.”

“To answer your question... no, I don’t believe it any longer.”

“Do your... uh...” Bhavani glanced at her husband, then turned back to me. “Do your healing powers come from miracles?”

I laughed. “That, and years of medical education.”

“So there’s no mumbo-jumbo involved?” Bhavani still looked doubtful.

“None at all.” I was amused. “Purely medical knowledge.”

The couple looked relieved.

“Well, then,” Chandrasekhar said. “Perhaps, you would be willing to help.”

“How?”

“I despair at the fanaticism in the villages,” Bhavani said. “Ever since I heard about
Renuka’s
death, I’ve been haunted by images of her. Chandrasekhar also wants to do something about the rampant superstition, lack of education for girls, the early marriages, and so on.”

“So we decided,” Chandrasekhar said, “that Bhavani would work with the villagers, and I would try and make a difference through politics. I intend to contest elections from here.”

“You are aware of Kondal Rao, of course.”

“Of course,” Chandrasekhar said. “I am preparing to take him on. With the Swami’s blessings.”

“You’re a brave man,” I said. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

Chandrasekhar nodded.

“We know a little bit about his involvement in your life,” Bhavani said, a look of sympathy on her face. “Just your luck to be entangled with the most corrupt politician in the history of the State.”

“My platform will be anti-corruption,” Chandrasekhar said. “I will accept no money or favours from anyone. I want to educate people about their rights, about voting for the person who will serve them best, not just for the person who waves around the most money.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Kondal Rao,” I warned.

“We won’t,” the couple said in unison.

I looked at them in turn. Chandrasekhar exuded a calm confidence, while Bhavani looked like a woman with a mission. I allowed myself to feel a surge of hope.

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Janaki aunty phoned. “How is Ved?”

“His teacher complains that he gets into all kinds of mischief. If only he’d put his brain to good use.”

Aunty laughed. “Don’t forget, I know all your stories from school.”

I smiled. I was finally reaching a stage in life where I was fairly content.

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Bhavani showed up at my house early next morning, a determined look about her. “I want your help in setting up classes for girls.”

“I already run free classes in the centre next to my clinic. Why don’t you join me?” I’d recently introduced free mid-day meal for students; anything to get the girls to class.

“You’re teaching basket weaving and child-rearing,” Bhavani said. “Don’t get me wrong, but I want these girls to set their sights higher.”

“I would love for each of these girls to be scientists or doctors or engineers. But I don’t want the elders up in arms.”

“Why would they oppose free education? It’s for the good of the girls.”

“You think that, and I think that. But for the villagers, it is great hardship trying to marry off overly educated girls. Where would they get suitably educated grooms? City alliances require much bigger dowries.”

“And you are okay with this attitude.”

“I am not.” How could I forget the pulverizing of Lata’s dreams? “But I’d rather have the girls come and learn something, than nothing at all. If they were to stay home, all they’d do is household chores. When they are here, I also talk to them about hygiene, nutrition, risks of teen marriages and pregnancies, that sort of thing.”

“But I want these girls to realize their potential.”

“You certainly won’t get that by pushing higher education. I am very cautious about how I impart information – anything too overt, and the next thing you know the girl is back at home, scrubbing the cow.”

Bhavani’s
voice rose. “But they need to understand that they have to let their bodies and minds grow before they are able to take on marriage and children.”

“I realize that, but you can’t expect to wipe away generations of belief in a few classes. We’ve been imparting this information in a manner that does not threaten their parents and elders. If they pulled the girls out of these classes, how would it serve our purpose?”

Seeing that Bhavani was not convinced, I said, “When my twin and I were young, Headmaster
garu
came home to tell my grandmother that my sister had the intelligence and aptitude to study medicine. My grandmother panicked and pulled both of us out of school.”

Bhavani was incredulous. “But you’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

I sighed. “Long story. I’ll tell you about it someday. For now, believe me when I say you’ll need to take things slowly. You’ve grown up in the city, so you don’t know how it is in the villages. You need to be patient, Bhavani. Change will come, but in increments. If you are looking for overnight shifts, you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

Bhavani agreed, but reluctantly. She and I were about the same age, but she had the fire, the burning desire to change the world. I was glad for her, but sensed the need to temper her enthusiasm. We finally agreed we would do no formal sessions. Bhavani would hold cooking and pickle-making classes, while I’d continue to offer free clinics for young women one day a week.

I felt warmth wash over me. Bhavani was the first friend I’d made as an adult.

Chapter 59

Catching up with Friends

I
settled in my armchair in the afternoons, watching my son play with his friends, unable to get over the awe that, thanks to Swami Chidananda, our house was back to being a home again.

Some days my son and his friends raced discarded cycle tyres, hitting them along the edges with sticks. Other times, they played cricket.

In one corner of the courtyard, near the old cowshed, a tractor tyre hung off the tamarind tree. Instead of the gaggle of devotees, a swarm of boys gathered, alternating swinging on the tyre, or jumping through it. I watched with pleasure as Ved argued with a friend about who had jumped higher. At eleven years of age, Ved reminded me a little of the gawky boy-man Srikar had been when I first met him.

Someone knocked.

“Ved, see who is at the gate, Child.”

Ved sprinted to the gate and opened it. A plump woman with deep creases in either cheek entered through the gate. She was dressed in a rumpled cotton sari, a big red,
kumkum
bottu
on her forehead. Her arms hung like short stumps from her armpits. Despite the weight on her frame, she had an impish look about her.

“Pullamma?” the woman said, a tentative smile on her face.

I waited for her to go on. Then it struck me. She had called me by name. It had been years since people outside my family had called me anything other than
Ammavaru
(thankfully not much anymore), or Doctor
amma
. I got up, heart thumping. It couldn’t be, could it?

“You don’t remember me?” She thumped her chest dramatically. Her chins quivered. “Me? The keeper of your secrets, the stealer of your guavas?”

“Chinni!” I squealed. Then we were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ved look at us in alarm. I urged him over. “Ved, this is my best friend.”

“Chinni, my nephew,” I said, aching that I didn’t know my former best friend anymore, not enough to trust her with my deepest secrets anyway.

My friend extended a plump arm and pulled him into our hug.

“Malli’s son?”

“No, Lata’s,” I said, almost choking on it.

My son wiggled out. From a safe distance he asked, “You’re the same person who hid in the mango tree under a white sheet, and made moaning noises in the middle of the night?”