Tell A Thousand Lies Page 10

  The next morning, Sandhya and I bought two hundred raw mangoes at the farmer’s market after testing to make sure they were very sour. “Are you sure you can handle so many mangoes?” she whispered.

  “Back in the village, we did as many as two thousand mangoes in a season.” I might not know a lot of things, but thanks to Ammamma, I knew my pickle-making.

  We paid a coolie to deliver the sacks home. Then we washed each mango and dried it with a cloth; any hint of moisture, and the whole batch of pickle would be ruined.

  We’d planned the mango cutting for the following day, a Sunday, when we’d have men around. We piled up the mangoes on plastic sheets in the courtyard.

  “Let me try,” Srikar said, as the men behind him flexed their muscles.

  I showed him how to use the cutting board. One end of the long eighteen inch knife was attached to a wooden platform which rested on the floor. The other end swung free. I sat on the floor, next to the platform, centred the mango on the platform beneath the knife, raised the blade, moved the hand holding the mango away, and brought the blade down with so much force that it sliced through the pit cleanly.

  Srikar’s first few tries didn’t work.

  “No, no. Let me show you again,” I said. “If it doesn’t slice through cleanly, the pickle will spoil.”

  “Enjoying bossing me, aren’t you?” Srikar teased.

  I blushed.

  It took Srikar a few tries to get it right. Then a few more men volunteered. Each mango was sliced into eight pieces.

  Sandhya dragged out big, aluminium utensils. I washed my hands up to my elbows, thoroughly dried them, then had Geeta pour in the dried ingredients. I dug in. When they were mixed well, I instructed one of the women to pour in enough oil to make the ingredients damp. Then we made sure each mango piece was coated with the mixture before we dropped them into huge ceramic jars. By the end of the day I was exhausted.

  On the third day, we removed pickles from the forty-odd jars, adjusted seasonings to taste, hand mixed them again to make sure that everything was smoothly blended, then put them back into the jars.

  By the end of the pickle-making session, I was firm friends with Geeta and Sandhya.

  ><

  Between all that cooking and carrying water up the stairs, I failed to notice what else was happening. One day I was standing in front of our Godrej bureau, with its full length mirror, tying my sari when Srikar came up and put his arms around me.

  “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “See what?”

  “You silly girl,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “You’ve lost so much weight. Look.”

  I looked.

  I turned sideways, then around, and finally had Srikar hold up a mirror so I could view myself from behind.

  “What do you think?” Srikar asked.

  “Hmm.”

  “What kind of response is hmm? You’re pretty!”

  “I wasn’t before?”

  He turned serious. “Your weight isn’t what makes me happy, Pullamma. It’s your goodness.”

  Did my colour not bother him? I wished I had the courage to ask. But I blushed with pleasure.

  “Still,” he said, faking a sniff, “I have lost one-third of my wife.”

  I discovered that I liked this concentrate version of me – I was like the ghee that remained after all the impurities in butter had burned away. This was like getting a wish without having prayed for it. Very unexpected, but still very welcome.

  Soon enough, Geeta from next door was giving me tips on how to improve my appearance. “First,” she said with the natural authority of the good looking, “get rid of that ghastly hairstyle.”

  Ammamma had taught me to oil my hair till the strands glistened, then braid my hair very tight.

  “Stop using so much oil,” Geeta ordered.

  “But it makes hair grow,” I wailed.

  “Maybe so, but you need to apply a little bit, not dump half a bottle over your head.”

  Next, we experimented with a few different ways of doing my hair. Even Geeta wasn’t so forward as to suggest I leave it unbound – the style that suited me best – but we finally settled on braiding it so it no longer stuck to my scalp.

  “And for God’s sake, keep using those fairness creams!”

  That I did.

  After Lata had pronounced, back in the village, that Goddesses were rarely of medium colour, I doggedly stuck to using the fairness creams. Twice daily I inspected my skin between applying a liberal helping of the cream, and dousing myself with Pond’s Talcum powder. At the municipal tap, old Rukkamma recommended a mixture of turmeric and milk cream. She didn’t know about my Goddess past, but felt sorry that I was forced to live with all that darkness on my skin. There had been no change in my skin tone as yet, but who knew? Like Geeta said, “All that blackness might get tired of being on your skin and finally take itself off.”

  Then Geeta took on my clothes. “You have such a good figure, why do you drape your sari like you are wrapping a pole?”

  We practiced tying my sari till she was satisfied. When we finally got it right, Geeta said in surprise, “Why, you look almost as good as me! Too black, of course, and too tall, but still...”

  Geeta made me give away one of the two saris I’d brought with me. I’d always known that particular shade didn’t suit me, but since almost all the clothes I owned were hand-me-downs from Malli, or ones I shared with Lata, I hadn’t had a choice.

  “You don’t need a cupboard full of saris,” she instructed. “Just a few that enhance your appearance are enough.”

  Not that I had a cupboard full. Srikar had bought me three brand new saris, but that was it. I wasn’t complaining, though. Now, when I went with Srikar to the city, I no longer worried about embarrassing him. We often took a bus to Tank Bund and walked along the lake. Our favourite corn-seller beckoned us to his cart and roasted us the most tender cobs of corn, coating them with just the right amounts of salt, chilli powder and lemon juice. When I had enough of the walking, we settled on the grass and stared out at the water, watching the lights come on. Talking, making plans, feeling grateful to be alive.

  One day Srikar said, “I have a good offer, Pulla.” He had taken to calling me ‘Pulla’ – twig – in honour of my new, slim appearance. Coming from him, this diminutive of my name made me feel cherished. “We should move closer to the city. I can get to my new job easily, and you can start college.”

  I was taken aback. “I thought you were joking. About the studies, I mean.”

  He looked at me, eyes serious. “It is true that girls in the village don’t study too much. But we now live in the city. You’re already at an advantage, being sixteen, and 12th class pass. In the city, students join college at seventeen, even eighteen. Don’t you want to do something with your life?”

  “I have everything I need right here,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. I tried not to think about how happy I was. I wasn’t stupid enough to tempt fate.

  “Think, Pulla,” Srikar said, putting his arm around me. “Think. We are young, still. Let us make something of ourselves. There will be plenty of time for children. You want a better life for them, don’t you?”

  “Yes…”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It can’t be nothing.”

  “I have no burning desire to study. That is my sister Lata’s department. I’d rather settle down.”

  “Have children, you mean?”

  I nodded, my cheeks warming.

  “And?”

  “I’d like to have two children. Hopefully they will be closer than my sisters and I were. I want them to grow up with a mother and a father. I want them never to doubt our love for them.”

  I’d name them the nicest possible names, I added silently, so they’d never face the kind of teasing I’d suffered.

  Srikar smiled. “You don’t have to do only one or the other. Why don’t we go with both our plans? Get yo
ur college degree, then we can have as many children as you want.”

  I wasn’t convinced, so he said, “Don’t dismiss the college option completely. Keep an open mind. If you really don’t want to do it, we’ll reconsider.”

  I nodded reluctantly. I felt disloyal even thinking this, but Srikar’s whole plan seemed to be against the natural order of things.

  If God had meant for women to study, he wouldn’t have made dowry, would he?

  Chapter 19

  Life in Madhuban Apartments

  Srikar and I spent our Sundays in the city. My favourite destination was the historic Charminar area, built some four hundred years ago by Quli Qutub Shah, and past it, the Laad Bazaar – known the country over as the Mecca for bangles and other artificial jewellery. The main bazaar consisted of one narrow lane lined with at least a hundred shops, each crammed with stone and “lac” bangles, stone-studded necklaces, elaborately designed sari-belts, earrings, bags, purses, mirror studded earthen jewellery boxes, adornments to put in the parting of hair, embroidered clothes, the list was endless. As we walked past the shops, the wares dazzled us with their brilliance. So many frivolous things. How Ammamma would shake her head.

  Srikar would point to one set of jewellery or the other, saying, “When we have our own company, we’ll drive down here in an Ambassador, and I will buy you that. Head-to-toe you’ll be in shiny jewellery. Or, you know what? I’ll buy you your own shop.” I’d shake my head and walk on. We peered into each shop, smilingly ignoring the blandishments of the bangle sellers, enjoying the incredible beauty of their glittery creations.

  Most things were beyond our budget, but Srikar did buy me a globe – a papier mâché sphere, the surface of which was decorated with small hexagons of mirrored glass. When I held it up by its thread, it spun around, catching sunlight on each individual piece of mirror, casting its brilliance as far as the rays reached.

  “What is this for?” I asked.

  “To remind you of me.”

  I giggled from embarrassment. The only person I knew who talked like this was the Telugu superstar Chiranjeevi, and that was onscreen.

  When Srikar was at work I spent most of my time with Geeta. She hovered by her door till he left, then streaked in, shutting the door behind her. Geeta was a talker; she talked with her hands, her mouth, her eyes. Once she tucked the free end of her sari at her waist, and did an impromptu Goddess Durga dance. With the huge red kumkum bottu on her forehead, her eyes lined with kohl, and a dozen glass bangles encircling each perfectly rounded arm, she even looked the part. Sandhya, a skinny girl with protruding front teeth, applauded. She came over frequently, but not as often as Geeta. There were no in-laws she needed to get away from.

  Most days Geeta grabbed a pillow, propped it on the floor against a wall and settled down for a few hours of gossip, till her mother-in-law came in search of her, screaming, “Oh, where did that useless girl go and die?”

  “Anything to escape that house,” Geeta said with a sigh and got up to go cook.

  Chapter 20

  Call to Ammamma

  It was almost three months of idyllic existence, with occasional bursts of loneliness because I missed Ammamma and Chinni, before I felt safe enough to telephone my grandmother.

  Srikar cautioned me against revealing too much information, for both my grandmother’s safety, and our own.

  Hoping desperately that my grandmother hadn’t had any visits from Srikar’s squat-necked grandfather, I dialled Lakshmi garu’s number. At this time of the evening, Ammamma was almost always at Lakshmi garu’s house.

  “’allo?”

  “Are you well, Lakshmi garu? This is Pullamma.” A sharp longing for the village, for Ammamma, for Chinni, for Malli, for Lata, even for Lakshmi garu, welled up. It didn’t matter that Lakshmi garu had looked down on me due to the colour of my skin. It didn’t matter she’d bossed over Ammamma. She’d stood by Ammamma’s side in her time of need, and in the end that’s what mattered.

  What does that make Chinni? I had an unbidden memory of my best friend, five years old, sitting by our cow and tying a bright red ribbon to its tail.

  “Pullamma!” Lakshmi garu said. “Oh my God! Wait, let me get your grandmother.”

  It was Lakshmi garu’s dowry of the telephone connection that was allowing me to talk with my beloved grandmother. Because of Lakshmi garu, Ammamma didn’t have to line up at the village kirana shop like every other villager, waiting to use the phone. Talk in the village was that too much money in her mother’s home had caused Lakshmi garu’s disrespect for Murty garu. I could only be grateful – for Lakshmi garu’s support of Ammamma; not her disrespect of Murty garu – never that.

  “Child, is that you?” Ammamma’s voice sounded choked.

  I started to cry, too. “Ammamma, I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you, too, Child. How are you? Are you happy? Is my son-in-law treating you well?”

  “Very well, Ammamma. I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy,” I said softly.

  “I’m glad.”

  “How are you?”

  “I have my work, and Lakshmi. Nothing has changed for me, Child. You don’t need to worry on my account.”

  Despite what Ammamma said, it couldn’t have been easy dealing with the devotees after I went into hiding.

  “How’s Chinni?”

  “Married, and settled in Kurnool.”

  Her wedding had been delayed when the groom fell sick. I was grateful for this because the wedding took place only after I left for Hyderabad. I don’t think I could have borne it otherwise. “Did you go to the wedding?”

  “No.”

  I pictured Ammamma, sitting by the phone, tears pooling in her eyes. She had loved Chinni, too. “And Murty garu?”

  “He’s gone over to the neighbouring village for a bride viewing.”

  “Hopefully, no Goddesses will emerge from there.” I laughed nervously.

  “Don’t come back to the village,” Ammamma said, voice serious. “That man’s goons keep haunting our house to see if I have been in touch with you.”

  “Oh, Ammamma! Did he find out…?” That I had married his grandson? I found my throat closing.

  Srikar put his ear closer to the phone. I held the phone slightly away so he could hear, too.

  “Ammamma,” Srikar said, “I am on the phone with Pullamma.”

  “God bless you, Child,” Ammamma said without breaking her flow. “I don’t think he knows. But his Goddess is on the run. As you can imagine, that isn’t making him too happy.”

  “Oh.”

  “The day after you left, he came with a huge platoon of goons. He screamed and shouted, and threatened all kinds of vile things. He said we had no right to hide his Goddess.”

  Three months of wishing the infernal man away had made not one whit of a difference. I started to tremble. Srikar put his arm around me.

  “Luckily,” Ammamma was saying, “he still doesn’t know of that other connection.”

  “I am very sorry, Ammamma,” Srikar said into the phone.

  “Son, you – of all people – shouldn’t have to apologize. May God always watch over you with benevolence for having given my granddaughter a married name.” She started to cry. Srikar moved away from the phone.

  “How are Malli and Lata?”

  “Malli is with her in-laws –”

  “She’s married!”

  “Well, yes. The in-laws didn’t want to let go of a good alliance like ours. Even though you were no longer around, the mother-in-law insisted only our Malli would do as their daughter-in-law. She has settled so well in her new house.”

  “They... they didn’t ask?”

  “About you? No. Kondal Rao must have told them something.”

  “Ammamma, I hate to put you to more trouble...”

  “What, Child?”

  “Will you break five coconuts at Goddess Durga’s altar for me? And circle her altar a hundred and eight times? I promised to do it if Malli’s allia
nce went through.” I couldn’t afford more trouble with the Goddess.

  “Of course!”

  Much as I enjoyed the hustle and bustle, this was one wedding I was happy to have missed. Not because of my sister, but because of her in-laws. If I’d been forced to preside over the wedding… I shuddered. Still, my brush with Goddess-hood seemed to have done some good. “I missed Malli’s wedding.”

  “And I missed yours. I wish I could see you as a married woman.” Ammamma sighed. “And Lata is going to be married off to Malli’s husband’s cousin.”

  “But she always wanted to be a doctor!” I was genuinely shocked. Though Ammamma had forbidden us from studying further, a part of me believed she would relent when it finally came to Lata – hadn’t my twin always gotten away with skipping household chores just because she had schoolwork? I couldn’t see Lata in the role of a housewife, cooking and cleaning, getting up in the middle of the night to fill water.

  Ammamma snorted. “I’m an old woman. Haven’t I raised two generations of girls? Don’t I deserve to finish up with my responsibilities? After that, if her husband permits, she can go be a doctor or train ticket collector or lorry driver.”

  “Did she agree to the marriage?”

  “Do I have to ask for permission to settle my own granddaughter’s wedding?” Ammamma harrumphed. “It is a good alliance. The boy has passed 12th class, too. He is a motorcycle mechanic. What more can one ask for?”

  I felt deep sorrow for my twin. For as long as I could remember, being a doctor was all she had talked about. But there would be no changing Ammamma’s mind. So I tried to be supportive. “I’m glad, Ammamma. All your granddaughters settled.”

  “All my earthly responsibilities are fulfilled,” Ammamma said. “Now I can concentrate on spiritual matters, and hope to die in peace.”