Tell A Thousand Lies Page 3

  “Use it to wash her children's backsides?" Lakshmi garu suggested, slapping her thigh like Duryodhana from the Mahabharata, laughter rumbling up her chest.

  That set Ammamma off again.

  Headmaster garu looked at the women, both of them rocking with laughter. He turned to Lata, sorrow on his face. He stalked out.

  “But Ammamma –” Lata protested.

  “Hush, Child,” Ammamma said. “You think that pompous fool knows better than me what’s good for you? Look at Pullamma, is she complaining?”

  I shook my head vigorously. Not me. No reason to complain.

  “And Malli, is she aching for education?”

  Malli started to sweep energetically.

  Ammamma sniffed, wiping away tears of mirth. "Him and his stupid notions. If girls study too much, they will get funny ideas in their heads. They won't do as they are told in their in-laws' home. Then what will become of our family honour, I ask you? How will we hold our heads high?"

  No one but me noted the distress on Lata’s face.

  ><

  The news of Headmaster garu’s visit spread. The villagers shook their heads over Ammamma’s foolishness. Letting a girl study all the way up to 12th. What was she thinking? What girl ever needed to read more than an occasional letter from her husband? And if that weren’t bad enough, the foolish woman had sent Chinni and me to keep Lata company, and let me write – and pass – the exams, too. At least Chinni’s mother, though a widow herself, had the good sense not to permit any exam-taking nonsense after 7th class.

  Were the villagers fools to stop this school-going foolishness for their girls before it was too late? Were they brainless to marry their daughters off before the girls got grandiose ideas fixed in their heads, and brought dishonour to their birth homes by refusing to do as told by their in-laws? The villagers tut-tutted. Leave a woman in charge and look what happened. What else could you expect when there was no firm male hand to guide the family, no husband, no son, not even a grandson?

  “Aiyyo,” Ammamma lamented, “what have I done?”

  “What is the point in regretting now,” Lakshmi garu said, “after the girls have slid out of your hands, and the time for reining them in is past? Going behind your back, they are, sending Headmaster garu to demand more education. Like you need the headache. And that Lata, not even like a normal girl. Always getting out of housework, troubling her head with a book.”

  Ammamma hung her head in remorse.

  ><

  For Chinni and me, things continued as usual. We passed time telling each other ancient sayings, within Lata's hearing, of course.

  “Don't tell lies,” Chinni said, her eyes twinkling in her plump face, “otherwise girls will be born to you.”

  “How about this one,” I countered. “Help arrange a marriage, even if takes a thousand lies to do so.”

  “So you’re racking up lies?” Lata asked.

  “We want to get married,” Chinni said, her face angelic. “Don’t you?”

  “How can you think so little of yourself?” Lata demanded, head inclined in that imperious way of hers, making us giggle even more.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do in life than giggle?”

  “We tell lies, too,” Chinni said.

  Lata shook her head and walked away.

  Lata had more use for books than friends. For her, marriage was yet another milestone; for Chinni and me, it was The Goal, The Ultimate Truth, The Purpose of Life. We spent all our free time discussing our future husbands – plump-yet-pleasing-to-the-eye Chinni kindly overlooking the fact that I had virtually no prospects – and how we would live out our lives.

  When Chinni and I weren’t together, it was because we had housework to do. One of our daily chores – mine and Malli’s – was sweeping and washing the courtyard. Over the years patches of flooring had broken off at awkward angles, making the navigation of our walled-off courtyard an adventure for my friends and me. Ammamma had part of it cleaned up, exposing the earth below, before she ran out of money. Because of the uneven flooring, cleaning was a challenge. The walls of our courtyard weren’t much better; the straw and mud were plainly visible. Patching them with cow dung was another chore I didn’t care for.

  Then there was the washing and milking of our cow. I complained about it endlessly, but Ammamma was quite unsympathetic; we should be grateful we even had a cow, she said. Ammamma’s tailoring supplemented the family income we got from selling milk and cow dung; Malli and I helped out by sewing buttons and hemming edges, but this was a bearable chore.

  What I truly detested was the water duty. The well water was good enough for daily use, but we depended on the municipal supply for drinking water. The municipality, in their wisdom, chose to turn on the drinking water only at three in the morning. We arose, I – complaining that Lata wasn’t doing her bit, Malli – calmly doing what she had to do. We filled all available utensils and drums with drinking water, because the days the municipal water man overslept, we had no water. Then we put utensils on the stove, one at a time, waited for them to boil over and left them to cool, so water would be ready for drinking in the morning.

  Chinni and I swore that when we married, it would only be into rich families where we could expect a municipal water connection that worked during the daylight hours, but more importantly, where the servants took care of such menial chores, leaving us to do important things – like shopping and gossiping.

  The one good thing my grandfather did – the only thing, if you asked Ammamma – in the short time he was part of my grandmother’s life, was to get his name on the rolls of freedom fighters. He hadn't been one himself – too much of a coward, Ammamma said. How he got his name there was a mystery, but after he died, the pension from the Government of India was what kept us from lining the road to the temple, tin plate in hand, dependent on the generosity of worshippers.

  Once the day’s chores were finished, and Ammamma’s head had hit the pillow for the afternoon, Chinni and I went in search of fun.

  A favourite pastime of ours was to sneak past the house of our local oracle, Ranga Nayakamma, daring each other to go inside her house for a ‘session.’

  Four days a week Ranga Nayakamma was an ordinary woman.

  For the other three, she transformed from a meek housewife tending three children and a goat into a whiskey guzzling, chicken-leg chomping, cigarette puffing oracle. She started her day by going into trance, out of which she erupted with frenzied dancing – lips curling, diamond-studded nostrils flaring, kohl-lined eyes flashing, bejewelled arms slashing – sort of like Goddess Kali after she had killed a demon, except I didn’t think Goddess Kali drank, smoked or ate meat. This trance-and-dance routine continued for a good three or four hours before the oracle collapsed on the floor, ready to bless people with whatever it was they wanted – in return for gifts of whiskey, chicken (never any other meat – for, on her days off, Ranga Nayakamma was a staunch vegetarian) or beedis – the coarse, tendu-leaf cigarettes the villagers favoured. Her mostly-male followers were many.

  Chinni and I couldn’t imagine what would make a housewife give up a respectable life with a husband and children, for this kind of spectacle.

  We were expected to spend our free time in the courtyard of my house, or in the village square, where the elders could keep us in check while Ammamma took her nap.

  A huge banyan occupied the place of pride in the centre of the village square, with a cemented ledge running around it for people to sit on. In the heat of midday, when the chores were done, the men lay down to gossip, making themselves comfortable on creaky wooden cots made of coir. It being unseemly for women to lie down in public, they settled on the ledge, watching the children play, taking a breather from the labours of the day. The boys, for the most part, spent their time swinging from the hanging roots of the banyan tree, or chasing discarded cycle tires with a stick, while young girls played endless rounds of hopscotch. Older girls like us sat demurely on the ledge, pretending to
be immersed in embroidering and sewing, but in actuality waiting out the elders. Inevitably, sleep overcame them and eyelids drooped. With the elders no longer awake to keep us in check, Chinni and I felt free to sneak looks at the boys and giggle.

  Life was good.

  Chapter 4

  The Bride Viewing

  Now, as we waited by the gate of our compound for Kondal Rao garu to arrive and bless Malli’s bride viewing, I tried to ignore Jhampaiah’s words. Bad talk, indeed! Such a respectable politician like Kondal Rao garu!

  The marriage broker hurried up to us, rubber slippers slapping against the dusty road. “Got late. Is Kondal Rao garu here?” She looked worried.

  I shook my head.

  She sagged with relief, and joined the anxious crowd.

  A spicy smell wafted in the air. Pulusu? My stomach growled. Hopefully no one had heard. Where was Kondal Rao garu anyway?

  Thirty-five minutes later two jeeps, each loaded with rough-looking men armed with bamboo sticks and scary-looking sickles, screeched to a halt behind Lakshmi garu’s tractor. A fat little man, with a droopy moustache, and oily hair knotted at the nape of his short stubby neck, descended from the first jeep. Kondal Rao garu scared me now, as he had when Ammamma, my sisters and I visited his house two years ago.

  He was dressed in the standard politician uniform of dazzling white kurta – which strained at his generous belly – and a white cotton pancha that barely skimmed the tops of his black patent leather shoes.

  Ammamma and Murty garu hurried up to greet him.

  Lakshmi garu took a few steps, then stopped. Turning to the villagers gathered by the gate, she said, “Such an important personage Kondal Rao garu is. A politician with so much power visiting this house!” She puffed up as if she’d herself conveyed the politician to our house.

  They nodded, appropriately awed.

  Ammamma joined the palms of her hands together in greeting. “I am honoured you have personally come to grace the occasion.”

  Kondal Rao garu shook his head and got back into the jeep, making me wonder why he had bothered to get down in the first place. “Too many things for me to do. Too little time. I am such a busy man, you see.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Ammamma stammered, her face a bright red. She slapped her cheeks in remorse. “How could we even think that an important personage such as you would have the time to sit through a trifling event such as this?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Pullamma, Child,” she said to me. “Seek blessings from Kondal Rao garu.”

  To Kondal Rao garu, she said, “With your blessings everything will go well today. My Pullamma’s next in line.”

  I touched his feet.

  This seemed to mollify Kondal Rao garu. “I came merely to reassure you that you couldn’t be marrying your girl into a better family. My man,” he said, pointing an imperious finger at the groom’s father, “has often performed important jobs for me.”

  The groom’s father preened.

  Ammamma and Lakshmi garu exchanged a quick glance – had the market price for the groom just gone up?

  As the engines rumbled, the groom’s father hurried forward, palms of his hands joined together. Kondal Rao garu raised a hand and the drivers of both vehicles killed their engines. He cocked his head, waiting.

  “Please,” the groom’s father said. “I humbly beg of you to consider staying on to preside over this occasion.”

  Kondal Rao garu tapped a stubby finger on his chin. “I drove seven hours to get here. I can’t fritter away my time sitting through the whole bride viewing, you know.”

  “Aw-wa!” The other man slapped his mouth. “How could I be so foolish as to expect you to waste your time over such trivial issues?”

  “I suppose I could relax at the Party guest house till you finish with your function. Send word if the outcome is positive. I shall arrive and give my blessings.”

  “I’m deeply honoured.” The groom’s father bowed.

  Tyres screeched. The jeeps were off. The atmosphere lightened, like the aftermath of a violent thunderstorm.

  Murty garu gestured at Ammamma. “The girl’s grandmother. Name is Seetamma garu. The mother passed away, such a tragedy. As for the father – well, the less said, the better. Poor lady, the grandmother, to be stuck with such responsibility. I am G. V. K. S. S. R. Satyanarayana Murty. I live next door, so it is my duty to help with the marriages of the granddaughters, you see.”

  Murty garu, named for a good number of Gods in the Hindu pantheon, thereby accounting for most of the initials in his name, lived for the respect bride viewings accorded to elders like him. In his daily life Murty garu was showed none – not by his sons, certainly not by his wife.

  Tradition decreed that married women perform a myriad of rituals and prayers for the well-being of their husbands. Talk in the village was Lakshmi garu did these with barely concealed resentment. Since no respect was forthcoming from her, Murty garu spent a lot of time attending bride viewings as an elder, trying to leverage his stately appearance to gain the respect he so desired.

  “Please come.” He led the party past the open shed. Our only cow, freshly scrubbed and decorated with a long slash of vermilion on its forehead, sat chewing cud. It watched our procession incuriously.

  “Pullamma,” Ammamma said.

  I hurried forward and settled the parents of the groom, the young child and the groom himself on folding chairs borrowed from the priest’s house for just this occasion; our two rickety metal chairs, with their curling edges, simply wouldn’t do.

  An assortment of relatives – the women in bright silk saris, the men in pristine white panchas and kurtas – sat on either side of them, while Lakshmi garu’s two sons arranged themselves on the straw mat. Lakshmi garu and I hovered by the door.

  I wiped damp palms on the sides of my half-sari and took a jerky breath. If they accept Malli into their family, I will circle the shrine of Goddess Durga one hundred and eight times, I will milk the cow for a whole month without complaining, I –

  “Time for refreshments,” Murty garu said, pointing his chin at Lakshmi garu. He sat across from the groom’s family in a straight-backed chair, his hand resting on a walking stick, the latter more for effect than anything.

  “No, no, please don’t bother,” the groom’s father protested, bouncing the toddler on his knee.

  It wouldn’t be proper for a guest to accept an offer of drinks or snacks without being cajoled, so Murty garu tried again. “What sir! You have come from so far to see our girl. What will you think? We don’t know how to offer proper hospitality, or what?” Turning to his wife he said, “Tea.”

  “Coffee,” said the father of the groom.

  “Coffee,” said Murty garu to Lakshmi garu. He turned to one of his sons. “And some mirchi bajjis from the shop. Pronto.”

  The groom’s father frowned. “Why are you getting food from the shop? The bride doesn’t know to cook, or what?”

  Ammamma shot Murty garu a look. “My granddaughter made the bajjis with her own hands. She has been properly trained in cooking.”

  “Of course, of course,” Murty garu said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Can’t eat anything made with green chillies,” the groom’s father said, patting his expansive belly. “Too spicy. Some mixture, perhaps?”

  “Mixture?” Murty garu said.

  Ammamma nodded.

  “Laddu, laddu,” the child shouted from his grandfather’s lap.

  “Laddus for the little one,” Murty garu said to his son. He leaned forward and put a finger under the child’s chin. “Like sweets, do you?”

  The child bit the finger.

  Murty garu snatched it back.

  “Cute, isn’t he?” said the beaming grandfather.

  “Of course, of course.” Murty garu massaged the finger discreetly, his smile wobbling just a little. “Can I be of further service?”

  “Some kaajas, perhaps?”

  “Ah!
Kaajas!” Murty garu’s face cleared, pain forgotten. He thumped his cane in approval. “Good choice. Our shop-man... uh... our Malli has magic in her hands when it comes to kaajas. Makes them in perfect shapes, she does. Fries them just right – a warm, honey brown.” He leaned back in his chair. “And when you sink your teeth into their delicious sweetness… mm...” He gave a dramatic shudder.

  The groom’s family exchanged looks.

  Lakshmi garu cleared her throat, but Murty garu’s eyes were closed in bliss. “Psst!” she hissed, sounding desperate. Mortification at her husband’s behaviour caused her face to appear even more angular than usual.

  Murty garu jerked out of his trance and sat up, a beatific smile on his face.

  The groom’s father squinted at Murty garu, a suspicious look on his face, but Murty garu showed not a hint of embarrassment.

  The two men resumed their chitchat. The child tried to put his finger up his grandfather’s nostril. The groom’s father waved it away, and accepted the glass of water I offered.

  “Pullamma.” Murty garu raised a bushy white eyebrow at me.

  I nodded, heart kicking against my ribs. It was time to bring out the bride.

  Chapter 5

  The Bride is Viewed

  Malli was hovering behind the curtained door. I escorted her out. No previous instructions on comportment were necessary for my sister. We had seen enough Telugu movies to know that the bride was supposed to walk demurely, head down. No need to peek at the boy or anyone else – what else were the elders for?

  She stood still, a large tray balanced in hand, staring at her big toe, newly painted a shiny red. I stood by her, willing the day to go well for my sister.

  A round of introductions ensued. “The bride-to-be is the eldest granddaughter of Seetamma garu,” Murty garu said.

  “And the grandfather?”

  “Passed away.”

  “So sorry. The father?”

  “Has found a nubile maiden in the Himalayas.” Murty garu tittered. “She is helping him find God, you see.”

  Ammamma’s jaw slackened.