Of Marriageable Age (45 page)

'No!'

'What? No?'

'No, Miss Quentin, I er . . . I just decided I'll talk to Ma myself. This is between the two of us, really it is, I'm sorry I tried to get you involved, I guess I was being a coward, but, well, Ma won't talk to you, I know it. She just won't. You… um, you see, Ma's different. You don't understand her. I realise that now.'

Lucy Quentin frowned. 'You're such a child, you know. You're the one who doesn't understand. You heard what I said to your mother, I hope. I called you a prude, and that's what you are. You're seeing your mother through rose-tinted spectacles and that's why you're so shocked. But it's
you
who doesn't understand, can't understand. Possibly, no, probably, your mother doesn't even understand herself. But, very well, then, have it your way. As I said, you can live on here for a while. But as long as you aren't prepared to see your mother as she is instead of how you want her to be, there's no hope for you. For either of you.'

She looked at her watch. 'Goodness, it's nine already. So late. I've given you enough of my time for today, Saroj, and if you want to solve your problems by yourself, go ahead. Trixie, it's high time you both were in bed, school tomorrow. Have you done your homework? If not you'd better…’

'Homework? At this time of night? And after a day like this ?'

'Well, that's your problem. I'm off; I've got a load of typing waiting downstairs. Good night.'

She turned abruptly on her heel, obviously disgusted by Saroj's ungrateful obstinacy, and walked stiffly, elegantly down the stairs to her ground-floor office. A few minutes later they heard the clacking of her typewriter echoing up the stairwell. Trixie looked at Saroj and grinned, winking.

'Never mind her,' she said. 'Now we can have some fun. Oh boy, it's just like having a sister. Or being at boarding school. Look, I bought some new comics today, and a copy of
Seventeen.
Let's read in bed.'

38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SAVITRI

Madras State, 1939-1941

A
YYAR'S BEHAVIOUR
improved even more after Ganesan's birth, except for the drinking. He was so proud of the boy. And he was pleased with Savitri for having, at last, done her duty, and began to be kind to her.

'What is that book you're reading?' he asked, coming home early from work to play with Ganesan, as he often did these days.

'Oh, it's a book of poetry.
The Swallow Book of Verse.
I used to read it a lot when I was a child.'

Savitri had brought back three books from her visit to Madras. It was a miracle, even, that
The Swallow Book of Verse
still existed and had not been thrown out by Mani at the time of her marriage. But with great foresight Amma had salvaged it, and kept it safely for her till the day when she could safely give it back. For her mother was a woman too, and knew of love, and knew that the book was all Savitri had left of David, and that David was now out of harm's way, and the book could do no harm.

'I want to purchase some books for you,' Gopal had said to her the day before her return, and taken her to Higginbotham's Book Store and told her to choose what she wanted. She had chosen a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita and a book of Rabindranath Tagore poems. He had encouraged her to buy more, and more costly books, but she was adamant.

'I will find all I need in these books,' she told him, and indeed, she did. She read for at least an hour every day, for somehow, since Ganesan's birth, she had less instead of more work. Ayyar thought it was beneath her dignity, as the mother of his son, to go to the Parvati Tank for the washing so she gave her laundry to a
dhobi
and all she had to do was cook and keep the house tidy, and look after Ganesan, who anyway spent a good part of every day with his grandmother. So Savitri had time to read, and life was beginning to be good. Even the nightly gropings—no longer rape!—had stopped completely since Ganesan's birth. Ayyar did not bother her at all now, and that alone was heaven. She had her son, and her books, which were a wellspring of wisdom and joy, and she had freedom in her heart. Really, she thought, to ask for more would be ingratitude.

'Read on, read on!' Ayyar said now, and smiled down kindly at her. 'I am glad you are educating your mind. I am proud I have an educated wife, for you will be able to educate our son. So I am allowing you to read as much as you please. You are a good, devout wife and I am very pleased with you.'

Savitri bowed her head and continued with her reading.
If he only knew,
she thought, smiling to herself. For, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper and glued to the inside spine of the book, was a little gold chain with a cross pendant, hidden there long ago with great prescience and presence of mind, in the days when her world was still whole and innocent. And now, when she held this book in her hands, David was with her, and all around her, and she too was whole again, and innocent, and she had Ganesan, and he was healthy, and alive.

Ganesan was the most beautiful baby ever. His golden brown skin was polished to a gloss every day when Savitri laid him, naked but for the string around his hips, on her stretched out legs and rubbed his body with coconut oil, smiling and laughing with him as he cooed and blabbered in delight, and her skilful fingers kneaded the firm flesh of his chubby legs, arms and buttocks, the softness of his back and belly and the round apple cheeks. He had a thick thatch of strong black hair, which was growing out again after having been shaved off completely two full moons ago, when Savitri shaved her own head and made the pilgrimage to the great Shiva Temple at Tiruvannamalai last Deepam, to give thanks to the Lord in keeping with her vow.

Ganesan looked up at her with his great black shining eyes as she rubbed his body, and he waved his arms and reached out to grab her fingers and pressed with the soles of his feet against her belly. It seemed to Savitri, as she lifted him up and outlined his eyes with lines of kohl and marked his forehead with a black spot, that she had always known him, that he had always been a part of her, and was a part of that great love she shared with David, for love is love and cannot be divided, it reaches out and embraces every living thing, and this little boy was the form love had chosen to approach her in, now that David was lost to her. She hugged him to her breast and laughingly kissed him all over till he struggled to get away and called out,
'Pal,
Amma,
pal!

She smiled then and opened her
choli,
and replied, 'You want
pal,
little Ganesan? Come, here is Amma's
pal,
come, my darling!' And the little boy snuggled into her arms and opened his little red mouth and took her breast to drink her milk sweet with her love.

Ayyar's drinking grew worse. She knew he kept a grubby brown bottle in the back pocket of his trousers — Ayyar, like Gopal, never wore a lungi, since he, too, considered himself modern-minded — and that all through the day he took a swig or two, whenever he thought he was unwatched.

It would not have bothered her were it not for Ganesan. The boy was almost a year now, older than any child she had ever had, and at an age when fathers begin to take yet more interest in their infants. So it was with Ayyar. He loved to carry the boy around, to take him with him to work, or to see his mother, or his friends, and Savitri was certain that at the homes of certain friends yet more alcohol was passed around. Ayyar came home in a rickshaw, then, hiccupping and burping and reeking of drink, and hardly able to carry the child the short distance between rickshaw and front door. Savitri waited anxiously on the front verandah on these occasions, a book open on her lap, but looking up whenever she heard a rickshaw bell or the creaking sound as a rickshaw's wheel rounded the corner. And when she saw it was Ayyar with Ganesan she would leap to her feet and run to meet them, and gather the child into her arms, and pay the rickshaw-
wallah,
and she was so grateful that Ayyar was safely home that she was kind to him and he really believed she loved him as a good wife should, and he was pleased, even through his drunken stupor.

'What a good wife you have become!' he stammered then. 'What an excellent wife. But you would never have turned so good, wife, if I had not beaten you the first few years. You would never have borne me a son if I had not beaten you for bearing me daughters.'

And he advised his friends, 'Yes, yes, a woman needs a good beating now and then, just until she turns obedient. Once she has learned to be obedient, though, it would be a sin to beat her. Yes, yes. Look at my wife. One could not find a better wife, or a better mother. And she has borne me an excellent son. But —' and here he would waggle his forefinger at his listening friends, 'never beat your wife once she has learned her lesson, for that would be a sin. I never raise a finger to my wife any more. I adore her and worship her as the Divine Mother herself.'

And he would smile in satisfaction at his own great wisdom, assured that theirs was a perfect family life. Especially now that the youngest girl was married off, and it was just the three of them, husband, wife, and son. A perfect happy family.

Ayyar had to make some adjustments to his ledger this Saturday and so he went to work for half an hour, taking Ganesan. He had taken a swig before leaving and he set the boy down to play as he entered his office at the train station. He took the thick, heavy, yellowed ledger from its place in the overflowing cupboard, leafed through the dog-eared pages but couldn't find what he was looking for; in fact, he had forgotten what he was looking for. To give his memory a jolt he took another swig, belched, licked his thumb and leafed through the pages again. He found the right place and got up from his swivel chair to find some papers, but they seemed to be buried under a heap of other papers in the cupboard. He pulled at them and the whole lot came tumbling out of the cupboard. Ayyar swore and went to the table to take another swig. Papers lay all over the office, now.

Ganesan thought it was delightful. He picked up a heap in both hands and threw them up into the air. Ganesan was fourteen months and had just learned to walk. His hands were everywhere, and Ayyar knew he would never get the papers back into the cupboard, and in the right order, with Ganesan in the room.

'Go and play outside!' he told the boy. 'Look, there are some goats over there. Go and play.
Po-i-va! Po-i-va!'
He shooed the boy out and closed the door. The work would take half an hour longer. He wished he had a secretary who would look after the paperwork. In Madras train station there were lots of working girls; they had typewriters and could do shorthand. He had to do everything himself. He deserved a secretary. A pretty one. He wondered if he should go and get Savitri to help him, but dismissed the thought immediately. People might say his wife was working and that would be a scandal. No, he'd have to sort out this mess by himself. He took another swig and got down to work, sitting on the floor and placing the papers in their appropriate heaps.

For half an hour he was completely lost in his work, and lost to the rest of the world. It was then that the shrill whistle of an arriving train bore into his subconscious and stirred him. He knew the times of each train by heart. He looked at his watch. Two-thirty. The through-train from Coimbatore. He frowned. He had the feeling that he had forgotten something important, but he couldn't for the life of him think what. The train's whistle stopped and the silence now was palpable. A goat bleated into that silence. The goat's bleat reminded him of something… Ganesan. He had sent Ganesan to play with the goats but that was half an hour ago. He'd better check on the child, he was so quick on his feet…

Ayyar stood up slowly. His left foot had gone to sleep and he could only limp towards the door, which he opened to cast an eye on Ganesan. The goats were still there but Ganesan was not. Ayyar frowned. Where was the little imp? Had he gone off down the road? He stepped down into the sunny, sandy courtyard in front of the station building and peered down the road in both directions. It was deserted, asleep. People were still at rest, for it was the hottest time of day. Could Ganesan have gone into one of the houses?

'Ganesan!' he called. 'Ganesan!'

The train's whistle blew again, much louder now. He heard a child call, coming from the behind the bramble hedge which flanked the track.

A dark knowledge grabbed him in the form of panic, a deep, dark premonition, a certainty of grave impending danger, like the cool breath of Yama, the god of death, at the nape of his neck. His mind cleared and he raced towards the track.

'Ganesan!' he screamed.

'Appa!'

'Ganesan, Ganesan!'

He had reached the track but there was no sign of the child at first and the train's whistle was one long drawn out piercing screech. 'Ganesan!'

He couldn't hear his own scream now, and there was Ganesan, twenty yards uptrack, with a nanny-goat who was nibbling at the hedge, Ganesan crouched beside her and pulling at her udder and smiling in contentment.

'Ganesan!'

Ayyar catapulted himself towards the child while the black, snorting, screeching engine loomed in the background. Ganesan noticed this for the first time, and pointed at it with a pudgy finger.

'Da!' he said, beaming at his father, and then with the same finger pointed at the goat.

'Pal! Pal!'

Ayyar's eyes were fixed in terror on the snorting monster storming up towards them, furious, raging, ruthless.

'Appa!' cried Ganesan anxiously, in the very moment when, simultaneously, Ayyar gathered him into his arms and the engine's cow-catcher swooped them up and flung them into the air, the two of them and the nanny-goat, and pitched them aside as if they were no more than three little rag dolls cast away by a child in a tantrum.

The moment before his head cracked open Ayyar thought:

'It is because of the daughters I killed. All things return. Shiva, Shiva, Shiva.'