Chapter 2

The maid is ringing the bell. In most homes, the sink for washing dishes is located in the kitchen. Although this house also had one in the kitchen, the landlord installed an additional sink and tap in the small, veranda-like area at the back upon request—and promptly raised the rent from three thousand to three thousand five hundred.

Vessels scrubbed by the maid could be brought inside only after being rinsed again and left to drain upside down. If she washed and wrung out the children's clothes and dried them on the terrace, she would come back at four in the evening to gather and fold them. She would also take the school uniforms and bring them back neatly packed in a box when she returned in the evening.

Come what may, Girija must not touch children's clothes or unhemmed fabrics like curtains. She must not come into physical contact with the women of the house until her mother-in-law has finished her evening meal. Bharath is the only exception; she may touch him, provided there is no fabric between them. Neither the cloth containing the gold offering nor the son is subject to ritual impurity!

“Didi-ji, I won’t be coming this evening!”

Maya, the maid, speaks while thoroughly washing, wiping, and turning the vessels upside down.

“Why?”

“The child isn’t well, Didi-ji; I need to take him to the doctor!”

“What’s wrong with him? Yesterday, he was playing with a stray dog. How many times have I told you not to let him touch that dog, Maya? It has mange!”

“Oh, they just won’t listen, Didi-ji. Fever all through the night... I have to pay one rupee to get the slip, Didi-ji!”

It isn't a burden of even a single rupee. If she doesn't come in the afternoon to fold the clothes, she herself will have to wring them out and hang them to dry right now!

After closing the door to keep the area ritually pure for Maya, she begins cooking by placing rice and lentils in the pressure cooker. She has been instructed to prepare *payasam*. She wrings out and hangs up the laundry, and finishes making the *payasam*, readying it as an offering.

Just as the chanting and scriptural recitations have concluded and the offerings are being made to the deities, a bell rings at the entrance.

Who is coming at this hour?

Girija opens the front door. Adorned and with her hair rising in a voluminous puff, she stands there—lean and taut, with not a pinch of excess flesh on her frame...

“What is it, Giri? Don’t you recognize me? ...I’m Kalpana’s sister, Rathna. Your mother-in-law’s granddaughter!”

Girija lets a smile play across her face. "Oh... you’ve lost so much weight, you’re barely recognizable... and you’ve done something different with your hair... Come, come..."

“Even if you didn't want me to come, I was going to come anyway. And here I am...”

She places her arm around her shoulder. Girija flinches and shrinks away, ticklish. “Hey, what is this—acting like a pious mother-in-law? How is Grandma?”

She places her suitcase in the front room. She is amazed by the carpets, the corner décor, the 'Batik' paintings hanging on the walls, and the crystal chandeliers suspended in the center! “Wow...! Fantastic! It was Kalpana who gave me the address. I heard she had visited here on office work two months ago...?”

“Yes, he called one day... and brought both the son and his father over for dinner, saying your uncle had suggested it. He had come back from Saudi Arabia with plans to start some kind of industry here...”

“Things aren't going well in the family right now. Suddenly, he’s picking fights—complaining that she wears a *pottu* and visits temples, asking how his son is supposed to get married someday if she carries on like that. She has such a good job and a high position; she really ought to just tell him, ‘Get lost—I don’t want your money or this family.’ She doesn't talk about it openly, but it’s agonizing... they’re all just rogues and scoundrels. After fifteen years, he’s singing a completely different tune now—it’s the arrogance of wealth. He doesn't have anywhere near her level of education; he used to be just a mechanic. He went away and made a lot of money, and now he’s pressuring her to cover her head and change her name...”

Giri remained silent. Kalpana was her junior by a year in college and used to visit her home during their college days. Neither of them had a father; both had only their mothers. It was through that friendship—when the two mothers met at a temple after a gap of four or five years—that this marriage proposal was brought for Girija.

Kalpana’s father was the son from her grandmother’s first marriage. While his father was still alive, he claimed his share of the property and squandered it all on drink; eventually, he fell ill and died. Even during her father's lifetime, the family had lost touch and moved to Bangalore. It was only later that Kalpana’s mother sought refuge with her brother’s family; she supported the household by doing tailoring work and ensured her children received an education. Both children were girls.

“What... are you doing right now, dear?”

“I did my M.A. in Sociology. Now, I’m pursuing my Ph.D. My guide is here at the university. I’ve come to stay for a while and do some fieldwork... Samu, are you off to the office now?”

He has gone to Japan. He is returning this coming Wednesday.

“I arrived yesterday. A cousin of my mother lives here in Karol Bagh. Mom gave me that address and told me to go there—poor thing, they are living in a *barsati* themselves; it’s a very small unit. So, I just set out this morning and found my way here...”

“Come inside, stay in the children's room...”

Girija would not go near that room while in this state of ritual purity. Before bathing, she would gather the clothes and tidy them up. There are three cots in the spacious room. Open bookshelves and a large study desk stand there, while booklets lie scattered across the desk and cots. The radiogram, covered in a layer of dust, bears the weight of a miscellaneous assortment of objects.

A bottle of paste, a book, a crochet hook, and all...

“I need to serve rice to Grandma, Ratna. If you want to bathe, the bathroom is right here. Go ahead and bathe.”

“Hi... are you still trembling? Is Grandma still pestering you to sit on her lap?”

“Don’t ask about that. If she finds out I’m standing here right now, she won’t eat!”

“Let them starve! Why should you be scared to death?”

That question strikes deep within Giri's chest, acting like a lever.

“Won’t Uncle say anything?”

“Hmm... that is indeed the key point!”

“Hmm... male chauvinism! Giri, it’s because you’re so cowardly that they keep lording it over you...” Giri turns away without a word.

My mother-in-law is sitting there, having finished her prayers, with a fixed, intense stare. I need to lay out the leaf and serve the meal.

“Who has come?”

“Ratna!”

With a look that spews hatred, she pulls her headscarf tight. This is an act that expresses anger.

“So, you stood there chatting with her when she arrived! What has she come here for? The elder sister showed up with some guy—no regard for caste or kin; now, the younger one has brought someone along too? A real pair of characters. We have two young women in our own home; what business do we have associating with the likes of them? No *thali*, no nose stud...?”

What would she say if she found out she had come to stay here? Besides, what is she afraid of? Doesn't Giri have a right to this house?

Without saying a word, she brings and lays out the leaf.

Krithigai... she brings and serves payasam, rice, dal, ghee, curd, brinjal chutney, rasam, and raw banana curry. And warm water to drink...

Ratna emerges from the bathroom after a thorough bath and washing her clothes—having scrubbed away the grime from the train journey and the day—carrying the rinsed and wrung-out garments. She is wearing a floral housecoat.

She is drying her salwar kameez, skirt, undergarments, and a saree on the clothesline on the terrace. She pats her short hair dry with the cloth she had used to tie it up, shaking the strands loose so they don't stick together, while the scent of shampoo mingles with the air.

“Is this house yours, Giri?”

“Hmm. Rent. Three thousand five hundred!”

“Oh! That’ll keep me company! Have you eaten, Grandma?”

“Yes. Come, I’ll serve you some food too...”

Giri picks up one of the guest's porcelain plates from the dining table and steps forward to serve.

“What about you?”

“You eat; I’ll eat after serving you...”

“Why, are you cooking rice because there wasn't enough? Alright then, let's eat together once it's ready.”

"Oh... no!"

Before Giri can say anything, Ratna goes to the kitchen to take a look. She checks the ritually pure food, the vessels, the *kuzhambu*, and the *rasam*, opening each one. Then, she brings out a plate and sets it down. Without pausing, she opens the refrigerator, takes out a bottle of cold water, and places it on the table. Pickles... curd...

“Hi, what kind of pickle is this, Giri?”

“Sweet gooseberry. You sit down; I’ll serve.”

“Nothing at all. Why? Can’t you eat with me? Did your mother-in-law say you shouldn’t eat with me just because your sister married some guy?”

In truth, Giri now fears that with her arrival, her long-standing resentment and sense of incompatibility might reach a breaking point.

“What is this stubbornness of yours? Sitting on the floor in that filthy kitchen—serving everyone else first and then eating whatever scraps are left—are you some kind of four-legged animal? Why did you get your M.A. and B.Ed. and work for eight years? Where did that Girija go? Why be so afraid of this bald old man? Don't you have the sense to think for yourself? Oh... come on, Giri...?”

Has anyone ever shown her such compassion—even for a single day? Her own daughters, her husband, her mother-in-law?

She had obligations to everyone. Even during her confinement, her mother had stayed for only twenty-two days. After that, she would gradually manage her work and the baby's care on her own. Within two months, she would have to take full charge!

In those days, her husband’s office was in Chennai. Her two young daughters would often be unclothed, looking just like children from the slums. Girija would be consumed by embarrassment whenever any of her friends or students visited!

Later, she sternly conditioned the children not to touch her. The girls. In their tender years, they were denied a mother's loving embrace and the joy of physical touch! Now, because 'Bharath' is a boy, that strict rule does not apply! He can touch her without the barrier of clothing. After all, he is a boy!

“Sweet gooseberry—wonderful... Giri! Hey, hush now... what is this? Why are you shedding tears? This is exactly what I don’t like...”

Giri wipes her eyes shyly. She pulls the plate towards herself and serves the food.

“...You’re an excellent cook, Giri. The sambar and this cheese curry are fantastic. What have you put in them?”

“Just onions and peas.”

Sitting at the table with her, I am tormented by a nagging sense of guilt—like a thorn pricking me—that my mother-in-law might wake up and see me eating, touching everything with the same hand without a care for notions of ritual impurity or contamination.

Holding the plate with one hand, Rathna mixes the rice with the *thuvaiyal* and, using the same hand, pours some *sambar* over it. She eats with relish.

“It’s been years since I ate it like this... this sambar and thuvaiyal make a really great combination!”

She heaps praise upon her. Giri finishes her meal in just five minutes. Yet, the other woman sits there watching her eat, captivated by her guileless nature; she possesses the courage to stand tall and face life’s challenges head-on. Why, then, must she alone cower in fear and shrink away...?

Rathna wipes the plate clean and savors the taste by licking her fingers.

“Shall I serve some curd rice?”

“Oh no... my stomach is completely full. There’s no room left...”

“Have some payasam...?”

“Oh, is there that too? Alright, pour a little into the bowl.”

Kiri also pours a little into the bowl.

Now... tell me, Giri—your intellect and your talents are all confined to this kitchen service. Giri, are you happy with this life?

Tears well up in Giri's eyes again. Ratna is striking directly at the source of his pain.

“...You ask why the sight of this old woman—with her shaved head—makes me so furious? She’s the very one who went and got her head shaved, claiming she wanted to visit the deities. Giri, I simply couldn't fathom her mindset back then. When Grandpa passed away, she had stood guard to ensure she wouldn't be subjected to those rituals. I was young and didn't fully grasp the details, but in reality, she was the one who drove a wedge between my father and Grandpa, eventually beating Mom and chasing her away. Perhaps my father was at fault too—I’m not denying that—but she always harbored such spiteful intentions. I never once saw her smile... whenever it came to Grandma, she’d react with fear, warning, ‘Don’t come near me, don’t touch me’...”

“Why bring all this up now, Rathna? Just get up and wash your hands...!”

“Never mind the hand-washing. Would someone like you—with an M.A. and B.Ed. and eight years of independent work experience—submit to her foolish notions of ritual purity? What kind of purity is this, if it means tormenting people? Her own son travels all over the place; do you think he abstains from eating beef or pork? What justice is there in tormenting *you* like this?”

“Hey, Ratna... don’t shout. She might overhear... why make a scene for nothing now?”

Tears, both sweet and salty, well up as she flicks them away. She feels an urge to embrace Ratna. For her, languishing without human companionship in this barren, loveless existence, the mere threads of affection only stir a deeper yearning.

“Let them ask, by all means... If this mother-in-law were a great intellectual—someone holding significant social or official positions—and serving her were considered a duty, we might accept it. Even then, one wouldn't have to sacrifice one's self-respect. But here? You come from a respectable family, yet you’ve become a slave simply because her son tied the *thali*... Mother once saw you when she visited Madras. She was pained to see Kavitha and Charu—poor things—wandering in the rain without proper clothing, suffering from chest congestion, and wearing ill-fitting woolens... Is there any other woman in this day and age who would be like you?”

“After coming to Delhi, there was some restraint. But for Bharath, there were no limits at all.”

“The boy is going to make his mark. He has given his son full authority to torment the woman he married, hasn't he? Won't Giri or Samu say anything about it?”

“... Oh dear! My mother is elderly. He told me the very day we got married that, for the few years she has left, we must do exactly as she wishes...”

She will reign grandly as a tyrannical queen for a hundred years—a long time indeed. But you won't be around! You will waste away, your life cut short! Will her son ever understand? Do you think I would come here now and *not* demand an answer?

“Ratna, please, don’t just say whatever comes to mind before you leave! Family harmony is important...”

“If you think that ‘harmony’ lies merely in toiling like an insect or a machine, that is pathetic. Harmony emerges only when all the musical notes blend together in unison; there is no harmony in a singular perspective!”

With a single, decisive remark, Rathna gets up and leaves.