Breaking free, p.3
Breaking Free, page 3
ran alongside.
Nattuvanar Muthulingam looked freshly bathed, with neat streaks of holy ash on his forehead and bare chest, and a long gold chain glittering around his neck. He sat down on a mat spread on the floor with the kattai in front of him. He prayed for a few moments with his eyes closed. Then he grunted softly, prompting everyone to touch the ground, half kneeling, and pay obeisance. The little girls knew that from here on, he would not waste even half a second. Just as they formed a quick row and stood ready for practice, the stick sounded, keeping time as the master sang, ‘Thaiya, thaiya.’
It was as though she had been prodded awake; Kasturi’s drowsiness left her and her mind became engrossed in the rhythm. The practice of adavu was very important. If any girl slipped up, the master’s stick would be hurled with perfect aim at her ankle. The pain of that moment could not be adequately described in words, only in tears.
‘Lakshmi,’ the master’s voice rumbled. The next moment, the stick had smashed into Lakshmi’s ankle. She writhed in pain. ‘Learn to dance at least by looking at your mate Kasturi. Sit over there and watch her dance.’
Kasturi felt as though he had hit her instead. She experienced a mix of inexplicable fear and shame. As soon as the master commenced the jathi, she began to dance. Whenever the other girls made a mistake, the stick was hurled at them.
‘Why does the master get so angry, Paati?’ she had once asked her grandmother.
‘Who knows!’ Kanagu Paati said, sounding somewhat irritated. ‘When a man is nursing a disappointment, he snaps at everyone like this.’
‘What disappointment?’
Kanagu Paati lost her patience. ‘Listen, girl. Every man suffers some disappointment or other. If he can’t talk about it, he tends to pounce on people at random.’
‘What are you saying to that little girl, Amma?’ After Sengamalam had admonished her mother, Kasturi had no way of understanding the reason for the master’s anger.
She glanced at the master’s wife, Karpagam, who was chopping vegetables in the veranda adjoining the courtyard. She wondered if the master had ever hurled the kattai at his wife. Would she have sat quietly like Lakshmi, her eyes filling with tears? When the master flung the kattai at them, Karpagam looked as if she relished it. Sometimes, she even had a smirk on her face as if to say ‘You had it coming, girls. Now, take it.’
As though he was fed up suddenly, the master laid the kattai on the floor. ‘That’s enough for today. Be off, all of you,’ he said. Absorbing this incredible reprieve, the girls bent down to touch the ground and paid obeisance.
‘Listen! If you make the same mistakes again tomorrow, I’ll finish you off. Watch yourselves. You trudge in like a flock of sheep. Among you, only Kasturi is going to make the grade.’
His praise made Kasturi squirm. The other girls would certainly not like it. They would show their displeasure in time. She was annoyed at the master. Why did he have to say it?
The master went near Lakshmi, pulled her cheek and pinched it. Anger flaring in his eyes, he said, ‘If you don’t want to dance, what else would you like to do with yourself?’
Lakshmi stood with a pained expression on her face while protectively covering the other cheek. Kasturi couldn’t bear to look at her and bowed her head.
The master would not let go of Lakshmi. ‘You don’t have a voice good enough for singing, either. Girl, what are you even thinking? I hear arrangements for the wedding of our Periya Mirasu’s daughter are going on in grand style. Do you imagine he will do the same for you?’
Startled to see a few of the other girls snigger into their hands, Kasturi turned to Lakshmi, who stood with her eyes downcast. Her lips trembled, and her face was red.
Kasturi heard the master’s wife say in a somewhat reproachful tone: ‘Why do you talk about such things with these girls?’
The master’s reply was cruel. ‘They’ll understand only if I tell them. I’m not giving away a secret, am I?’
Though she could not fully understand his remarks, Kasturi knew that it was demeaning talk. Lakshmi’s face was flushed with anger and shame.
As soon as the master said, ‘All right, you can go,’ Lakshmi and Kasturi fled without taking his leave. Lakshmi ran at a furious pace.
‘Wait, I’ll come with you,’ Kasturi cried as she followed Lakshmi.
When they reached the temple tank, Lakshmi stopped. She retreated to a deserted corner, sat on the steps and buried her face between her knees. It was obvious from Lakshmi’s heaving back that she was crying. Kasturi sat beside her and clasped her shoulders. She, too, was close to tears. ‘Don’t cry, Lakshmi. I don’t know why our master gets so angry. I can’t bear it when he beats you like that. Does it hurt a lot?’
Without raising her head, Lakshmi said, ‘No.’
Kasturi hugged her and said, ‘That movement is so easy, di. Come home, I’ll show you.’
Lakshmi shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I won’t come to that class any more.’
‘Then …?’
‘I don’t like dancing. I want to go to school and study.’
Eyes wide in wonder, Kasturi said, ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m going to be a lawyer.’
‘Will your amma agree to let you study?’
‘I have to persuade her. There’s a school in the nearby town.’
‘As a lawyer, will you go to court and argue your case?’
‘Yes, I will,’ Lakshmi said emphatically. ‘You know what I am going to do once I become a lawyer? I’ll file a case against our dance master for breaking the legs of ten-year-olds.’
Startled, Kasturi looked at Lakshmi. Her chin was up and a smile appeared on her lips. Kasturi felt like laughing too.
‘Beat him to a pulp and put him in jail,’ Lakshmi said.
‘The police should thrash his legs just like he did with us.’
Imagining the prospect filled them with delight. Both girls fell about laughing.
4
LAKSHMI HAD A clear memory of the marriage ceremony. She remembered even more vividly how she had waited for her father to come home that night.
Thulasi cast a troubled glance at Lakshmi, who was sitting alone in the hall, playing a game of pallankuzhi with herself.
‘Dear girl, why haven’t you gone to bed yet?’
Face brightly adorned, Thulasi was sitting on the swing in the hall dressed in a silk sari and wearing a profusion of fragrant jasmine in her hair.
Carefully depositing tamarind seeds in the pits on the pallankuzhi board, Lakshmi replied without looking at Thulasi, ‘I want to meet Appa.’
‘Why?’
Ignoring the note of surprise in her mother’s voice, Lakshmi said even more assertively, ‘Because I want to speak to him, that’s why.’
‘What will you say to him?’ It wasn’t clear whether Thulasi was amused or upset; Lakshmi had no interest in finding out.
Suddenly she was angry. ‘A daughter can have many things to talk about with her father. Why should I tell anyone?’ As she spoke, a lump rose in her throat for no reason.
‘But you should tell me. I must know,’ Thulasi said sternly.
‘It’s no use letting you know. To make this happen, I need to talk directly to Appa.’
Thulasi gave her daughter a look of alarm. ‘What will he make happen for you? Something like his daughter Paapa’s wedding, is it?’
‘Chee, chee! I don’t want a wedding or any other farce.’ Even as Lakshmi said it, the shame induced by her mother’s apprehension filled her eyes with tears.
Thulasi came and sat next to her. ‘What do you want, kannu? You said you don’t want to dance or sing, and you stopped taking lessons. The master keeps reminding me whenever I see him.’
Lakshmi felt a sharp pang of fury. ‘Don’t talk about master aiya.’
‘All right, I won’t. But what on earth are you going to do with yourself?’
‘I’ll do whatever I want. What’s it to you? That’s why I have to talk to Appa in private. I don’t want you there.’
‘What! Is it a great secret?’ Thulasi laughed.
‘Yes, it’s a secret. I won’t tell you.’
Countless questions roiled up in her. Should I be forced to sing just because I am your daughter? Am I obliged to dance too? Should I get dolled up every night and wait for my patron to arrive? Amma wouldn’t have the answer to any of those questions. Nothing was in her power. From the food she ate to the clothes she wore—everything was alms from some patron. There was nothing wrong in asking for yet another dole.
Thulasi looked at her daughter with concern. ‘By the time he comes in, it’ll be late.’
‘Never mind. I’ll wait. Tell him his daughter wants to speak with him. I’ll go to bed after talking to him.’
‘How old were you then?’
Lakshmi came back to the present. It felt like an episode from a previous birth. Her age at the time was irrelevant. As she looked at Dharini sitting before her, she thought it must have happened on a different planet. That she had embarked on a very long journey from that place was a great feat in itself, but Dharini wouldn’t understand. For her, it was mere history. How could Lakshmi explain that it had been a struggle for the right to choose her livelihood, that she had stood and fought all alone in that struggle? When she thought about it now, she couldn’t believe it. She was not yet twelve then. Where had she got that steely resolve from? She was not propelled forward by some supra-human power, as Kasturi seemed to think. Yearnings, rejections and humiliations were enough to make her strong and tenacious. Her mother had not understood it then, because Thulasi believed that the guile she possessed was her sole weapon for self-protection, and she felt no shame in using it. Lakshmi could now analyse the sociological reasons for her mother’s actions, but when she was eleven, she had been overcome by an uncontrollable rage—anger so intense that it made her despise her own mother. She was furious at everyone: at Periya Mirasu, her mother’s patron; at his daughter Paapa; at her mother and her superbly arrogant gait; at the dance master; at Kasturi, the simpleton. Wrath that would burn everything to ashes.
In those days, a fire had raged in her belly. A blaze fit to scorch the universe. It glowed like red-hot coals in her heart. Had that little girl’s life not changed course, Lakshmi thought now, she would have destroyed herself as well as those around her, like a fighter from a suicide squad.
She recalled vividly the anger that had erupted in her that day, making her want to burn down that pandal, a large, flat-roofed thatched shed temporarily erected for the wedding. It was a giant pandal, with festoons of jasmine dangling from the roof, and tinsel that sparkled amid the chamomile bouquets. Why couldn’t she turn into a monkey and rip everything apart? Realizing now that her fervent wish had been a natural instinct, she was moved to self-pity.
Since it was a wedding in Periya Mirasu’s family, the whole street bustled with activity. Thulasi had been restless with excitement for the past two days. Spreading out several saris on the bed, she queried her daughter like a little girl, ‘Tell me, which one should I wear to the wedding?’
‘Wear anything you like. It will look good on you,’ Lakshmi replied without betraying her boredom. She thought that her mother’s excitement and eagerness made no sense at all.
On the wedding day, Amma woke her well before dawn. ‘Get up. Don’t you want to bathe and wear a new dress? He has insisted that I should adorn the bride. Get up, quick!’ she nagged Lakshmi as she readied her. She had decked herself up to look really special.
‘You are the one who looks like a bride.’
‘Right. Of course, I am a bride,’ Amma said, jerking her chin sideways in a gesture of dismissal, but the smile that lit up her face meant that she had taken it as a compliment.
As Lakshmi walked behind her mother in her rustling long skirt, wearing a dancer’s gold earpiece and waist-band at her mother’s insistence, she felt a puzzling twinge of shame.
The street wasn’t awake yet. Kamalam who came out of her house at the end of the street to clean the front yard looked at them and said, ‘Is it Thulasi? Why are you going so early for the wedding? The muhurtam begins only at nine.’
‘I know, Akka. They’ve called me to dress up the bride. We have to start now if we want to get her ready in time for the swing ceremony.’
‘Oh, of course. Carry on. When Periya Mirasu has called you, you should be there, right? After all, you are entitled to every privilege.’
As they walked down the street, Thulasi muttered to herself: ‘All these women are simply bursting with jealousy.’
‘What is privilege, Amma?’
‘What do I know? We’ll have to ask her,’ Amma said, quickening her stride.
Periya Mirasu’s residence was huge. It was a house with four bays. There was enough vacant land in front of and behind the house to build four more mansions. There was a thick cluster of mango, jackfruit and plantain trees in the backyard, making it cool and shady. The backyard was the only place familiar to Lakshmi. She could safely lurk unseen in its semi-dark areas. Though it was not yet daylight, the front entrance was illuminated by the glow from the petromax lamps. The compound wall and iron grille gate distinguished the house from the others on the street. Tall plantain trees had been erected on both sides of the gate and a pandal made of coconut thatch had been put up enclosing the open space in front of the house. The roof was covered with white cloth and decorated with silk tassels. Lamps dangled from various points on the roof. Lakshmi had never seen such decorations before. She hesitated even to cross the threshold and enter the house; her steps faltered. Her mother too stood diffidently at the entrance.
In a sudden panic that made her stomach churn, Lakshmi said, ‘Come, Amma. Let’s go back.’
‘Wait. Someone will come for us,’ Thulasi said softly.
Just then, as though he had been sent expressly for the purpose, a man came running from inside and addressed her, ‘You’re Thulasi, right? Please come.’
Lakshmi didn’t think he was old enough to call her mother by her name. Instead of the front entrance, they were led through a doorway on the side of the house into the second bay.
‘Mami, Thulasi has come,’ the man said in a loud voice.
A woman emerged from inside. She was slightly plump. Diamonds and gold glittered on her ears, nose and neck. She was wearing a silk sari with a wide zari border in the traditional Brahmin style. A bunch of keys hung from her waist. She appeared to be Periya Mirasu’s wife. Lakshmi wondered if she could laugh or even smile. The woman looked enviously at Thulasi.
‘Come. The poor girl has been waiting for more than half an hour,’ the mirasdar’s wife said listlessly. Noticing Lakshmi’s presence, she remarked, ‘You’ve brought your daughter along so early in the morning? No wonder you got delayed.’
Lakshmi squeezed her mother’s hand to convey her denial. Being impervious to such slights, Thulasi said with an ingratiating smile, ‘We’ll do the job in no time. Don’t worry,’ and walked to where the bride was waiting. The girl was seated on a rug. She had plump cheeks and big, round eyes. To Lakshmi, she too seemed incapable of laughter. Thulasi had told her that the girl was three years older than her. A large brass salver next to her held an assortment of make-up items and jewellery. Lakshmi sat a little apart. Before Thulasi finished adorning the bride, the girl had been offered milk, fruit and snacks two or three times. No one asked Thulasi or Lakshmi if they wanted something to eat. Lakshmi was hungry. She felt drowsy as well. She curled up where she was sitting and went to sleep.
Periya Mirasu appeared in her dream—tall and well built, wearing a silk veshti and a silk stole, like Arjuna in a play enacted from the Mahabharata. ‘I am father to you too. Come here,’ he said. ‘You also have a right in this house.’
She thought of asking him what he had meant by ‘right’, but did not. Instead, she said, ‘I am hungry, Appa.’
‘Come closer.’
When she went to him though, he moved away, like Arjuna exiting the stage after the scene was over.
She is hungry. She is waiting with her mother in the backyard for food. The cook who has come to the well says, ‘Oh, you’re here already?’ and goes inside. She is sitting on the washing stone near the well, looking on idly as the squirrels scurry up and down the mango, coconut and jackfruit trees. The cook arrives, finally. He hands over a lidded food pail to Thulasi. Without ornaments, flowers in her hair or a silk sari, her mother looks like a beggar woman. Lakshmi feels like crying. She wants to knock down the pail from her mother’s hands: We don’t need this food, Amma!
Someone was gently shaking her awake. Lakshmi sat up with a jolt. ‘Here is some ginger coffee.’ Amma had a bronze tumbler in her hand. ‘Eat this too,’ she said and held out pongal heaped on a plantain leaf. Beggar’s alms. Still, her hands stretched out involuntarily in hunger. Amma led her to a secluded hallway. They sat on a mat there and ate, then washed their hands in the backyard. When they returned to the room, daylight had spread everywhere. The bride sat there like a doll. Amma must have worked some magic, for the girl’s face had been transformed: it looked beautiful, as in a painting of a bejewelled goddess.
‘Your father is coming to see you all decked out,’ Mirasu Mami said.
Lakshmi stood up abruptly. Her heart started pounding for no apparent reason. As if she had been hit by a spray of thick drizzle, she felt suffocated. Periya Mirasu arrived. To her surprise, clad in a silk veshti and silk stole like Arjuna in the Mahabharata play, he looked exactly like her father in the dream, the one who had told her only a short while ago that he was her father too. But this man hardly spared her a glance. It seemed that here, in this house, his whole personality had changed. A sacred thread slid across his bare chest. The double-stringed golden chain around his neck hung down to his navel. This plump-cheeked Paapa couldn’t be his daughter, Lakshmi thought.
Periya Mirasu strode in, and gazed steadily at his daughter, the bride, who asked in a tone of mild anxiety, ‘How do I look?’
