Chapter 3
It is nearly three in the afternoon. The wet grinder is out of order. I need to go in person to fetch the electrician, but there is no time.
Giri has placed a pan of oil on the stove and is pressing out *Then Kuzhal* (honey-coil murukku). Ratna rises after a brief rest and begins folding the clothes from the courtyard. It seems Roja Mami is arriving; the faint scent of a foreign perfume is drifting on the breeze.
Stepping out of the kitchen and passing through the dining area, she stands at the doorway leading to the terrace and looks out. From there, her mother-in-law’s room is visible; a silk saree in a deep henna-red hue catches her eye. Whenever she visits alone, she goes straight to her mother-in-law’s room; there is no need to go to the main entrance and ring the doorbell, as that room is directly accessible from the staircase.
“There were three consecutive days off recently. I couldn't go anywhere, though. Apparently, some people have arrived from out of town, and he said he couldn't step away. I’ll have to see him next week instead...”
“I’d love to see it too, but one needs the good fortune for these things, Roja. It doesn’t always happen just because we wish for it.”
“Why worry, Grandma? Once Samu arrives, you can just go for a quick drive in the car. Or, if not, you can always just come along with us!”
“I must say, you’re looking after her even better than her own daughter does.”
“What is so special about this? To me, seeing you feels like seeing the Divine Mother herself; one must be truly blessed to have the opportunity to serve a great soul like you. I prepared this by stirring wheat milk; I rushed to pack it into this container without even waiting for it to cool and set into pieces. Just taste a bit... Others might simply buy *khoa* and *paneer* from a shop to use, but not for you. That is why I specifically bought two packets of milk and prepared the *khoa* myself...”
She pops into her mouth the treat her mother-in-law brings and gives her.
“Do you need to ask before doing it, Roja? Every one of your ten fingers works wonders. It tastes like nectar...” Giri couldn't contain himself. She goes and stands at the doorway.
“When did you arrive, Auntie? It’s enough if you just see Mother and leave...!”
“It looks like a female friend has come to see you... You seem busy?”
Just then, Rathna enters with folded clothes in her hands.
“Grandma! How are you? I’m your granddaughter, Ratna...!”
The grandmother looks her up and down and adjusts her headscarf with a flick.
“So, you’re finally asking how I am after eight hours? Where have you come from now?”
“I’ve come to stay here. Why, shouldn’t I come, Grandma?”
That’s rich. Your aunt is right there; she’ll handle everything. Why ask me? Is this my house? I’ve kept to myself in a corner precisely to avoid any trouble, haven't I?
“Oh dear! Why should you step aside, Grandma? You command authority just like a queen... why would you need to step aside?”
“Did you hear that outrage, Roja? Apparently, I throw my weight around like a queen? Tell me—did your mother put you up to saying this? How long was she actually under my authority?”
I’m not talking about my mother...
Before she can speak further, Giri moves away from there in fear.
Poor thing! Look how scared Chithi is of you!
“Oh, give me a break... what does she have to be afraid of? She’s incredibly shrewd. She just plays the quiet, submissive type in front of me. As for him, he’s constantly on the move—eating and staying wherever he can, with barely a moment to pause. Housework isn't the struggle it used to be back in the day, is it? Everything runs on switches; there are gas stoves and pressure cookers that get the job done in minutes. Coolers for the heat and heaters for the cold—what hardships could they possibly have?”
“That’s why she goes and lies down in bed as early as the afternoon. Somehow, I don’t care for it. She keeps asking why I don’t come to the front room, but how can I sit on that sofa and those cushions—places where all sorts of people have sat? It’s this cane chair here that appeals to me. Back home, too, I have a cane-woven sofa of my own—no one else sits on it, as it’s considered ‘Amma’s’,” agrees Roja Mami.
“Two girls. Kavi has come of age, too. There is no telling with them. If I say anything, they just brush me off—‘Go away, Grandma,’ ‘Come here, Grandma.’ But my heart is in a turmoil; look at the price of gold, the price of diamonds! I worry about getting their ears and noses pierced and marrying them off in time... And look at the other one! The elder sister... it’s unspeakable. She married some fellow and brought disgrace upon the whole family. And this one... she’s thirty... yet there’s no one to stand guard over her... or me. Why must I live to see all this? Not a word of respect, not a scolding, nothing at all. Why doesn’t some disease just come and devour them? Bharath isn’t even nine years old yet. And she talks about wanting to go to the movies... at this age, with such impropriety?” Pulling her shawl over her head, the old woman turns away in disgust.
The children arrive just as Girija is frying pooris for Grandma. Both girls are overjoyed to see Ratna. From their room blares Western pop music—the kind she cannot appreciate—with the thundering beat of drums and the exuberant energy of young people singing along.
“What’s for tiffin, Mom?”
“I’ve made pooris. There’s thenkuzhal...”
“Mom, I’m bored. Did you make vegetable puffs?..”
“I used up all the peas for the cheese curry this morning...! How about I make you some with milk instead?”
“I don’t want it—go away!”
They leave after just having their coffee. A short while later, Rathna takes the three of them along and goes out.
The mother-in-law will finish her snack by six o'clock. Girija is going to serve her mother-in-law pooris soaked in milk. Having washed her hands and feet and applied fresh sacred ash to her forehead, the old woman sits near the entrance, gazing outside.
“Mom... would you like a poori?”
“I don’t want it...!”
At the sight of that turning away of the head, a sharp flare of emotion ignites within Girija. She swallows it down. “Why not?”
“Why do you keep asking ‘why’ when I say I don’t want it? It’s not something I eat every single day. When I can’t manage to make it myself, what’s the need for it? You don’t need to fuss over me. Just go!”
A cataclysmic fury surges within her.
“I might have brushed against this person or that. Are you saying I didn’t take a ritual bath?”—words are poised to explode out. She bites her lip. Girija will show restraint. But if she breaks that barrier, there will be no room for reconciliation. The barrier pulls her in; it pushes the door shut.
She brings them back and puts them away in the kitchen. The lively sounds of Rathna and the children arriving reach her ears.
“Hi Mummy! We’ve brought you some piping hot vegetable puffs...”
“Usually, whenever he went out and brought back something like that, Girija would step aside. ‘That’s enough—do you want it to come tumbling onto me? Take it inside and put it away...’ she would say.”
The days when she could join her children and revel like a child herself never came for her family.
“Giri, the children bought this for Mom with such love. Go ahead and have some. You blockheads—get some plates and serve it to everyone!”
Charu brings the plates and spreads them out.
Spicy samosa, Malai barfi.
Ratna mixes the sherbet and adds a piece of ice. "I want rose milk, Aunty!" says Bharath, clinging to her.
Girija sits with everyone, sharing in the merriment. Seated in the front room, she enjoys the television serial amidst the boisterous commentary of the other women. Yet, even as she strives to break free from her shell and be herself, a sense of fear stirs within—like the apprehension felt when the sky darkens for a storm and a flash of lightning suddenly pierces the gloom, sharp and piercing as a diamond-tipped needle.