Eating Women, Telling Tales Page 10

  “She said that? She told you that about me?”Ashok said, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes as if he suddenly could not recognize Masi anymore and needed to see who she was more clearly.

  Masi realized she had gone too far and shrugged her shoulders. She offered another piece of guava to Ashok who took it, feeling its edges like a blind man before putting it in his mouth. They heard him bite the seeds. In the kitchen the servant began to bang the dishes noisily once more. They were waiting for the family to finish so that they could clear the table and then sit down to eat. A rich red curry, the sixth and the strongest one, hissed angrily on the fire for them. Bejon snored gently.

  “Masi, I don’t think Ma could have said such a thing. She did not mind when I married Chong though he was half American. Ma was way ahead of her time though she was not educated, and she had a lot of instinctive intelligence. She was not an old wife like most other women of her generation,” said Bonti speaking quickly before Masi could fix her piercing gaze on her. Ashok looked at his youngest sister with gratitude. He never thought she was so brave and would come to his rescue. If only she had not married that funny Chinese American he would have liked to visit her more often. There was a cheap flight to New Jersey from Seattle. But the thought of Chong and his yellow face made him nervous. Her house smelt like a Chinese takeaway and though Sandra liked them, he could not get used to having a Chinese brother-in-law. Why did she not choose a decent white man? She was a good looking woman. How could anyone marry a Chinese?

  ”Ma did not say anything about your half-caste husband who is neither a white man or a black or brown one! She did not talk about you at all. All she said once was that you should lose weight or else that Chingchong-chinaman would divorce you one day soon,” said Masi who now knew for sure that her position as the last person to have spoken to the departed soul was undisputed by all the other family members. Sharada was the only one who had met the old lady before she sank into a year long senile dementia which had gradually floated her into a coma. But Sharada was an outsider and did not matter. Sandra the other outsider mattered even less since she was white. Very sensible and thoughtful of her to have fallen ill.

  “Ma never bothered about my weight. She always said ‘eat more, eat more, you look weak.’ In fact she told me Jaya’s the one who should watch out,” said Bonti, not looking at her older sister. Jaya, who was feeling relieved about Masi not crossing over to the enemy side as far as the gold necklace was concerned, was taken aback by this unfair barb from her sister to whom she had just this very morning given a pure silk sari – a new one which Sharada had given her last winter for Diwali but which she had not worn since it was blue and Sharada knew very well that she hated blue. Anyway she never wore saris at home. Dressed in pants and jackets she passed off as one of the tribe. No one ever thought of her as Indian at the store. A blue silk sari would make her stand out like a sore thumb. Jaya longed for her quiet, flower filled home in the suburbs of Manchester. A week more to go. She tried to come up with something to hit back with but all that she could think of was bathing Bonti once when she had chicken-pox. Ma had told her to put lukewarm water but Jaya had poured hot water by mistake and Bonti had cried for an hour trying to tell Ma what Jaya had done but Ma had scolded her for being a crybaby for nothing. Ma did love her. In her own way she loved all of them though they were never sure what that way was. “Ma liked plump women. She was thin herself but she said women should have some padding or their husbands run away,” said Jaya though she knew this was a feeble rejoinder. Bonti suddenly looked at her and smiled. Jaya took a little bit of chutney, placed it on a small piece of guava and put it in Bonti’s mouth. They laughed like two little girls caught in a naughty game.

  Sharada thought this was a good time to get up from the table and tried to get Masi into the kitchen by waving a red flag. “Please, could you see if the servants have finished all the rice?” Bejon could be left at the table, he was fast asleep and Babi had gone into the kitchen. But just then Ashok Bhaiya spoke, “When your husband died Ma said he was all alone with only a servant. You had gone out to play cards with your neighbour.” No one was quite sure who this remark was meant for since there were two women with dead husbands around the table and both played rummy. When nobody responded to this, it flew around the table and then sank on the ground where the paper napkins lay crumpled. Ashok Bhaiya decided to be more direct. He looked at Jaya who was his actual target and not Masi who was a witness. “America has made her a bad wife, Ma wrote to me once. I may still have the letter….I have heard Jaya plays cards all day while her poor husband cooks and cleans. All my training gone to waste. One daughter a card sharpie and the other a slow lazy slob,” Ashok’s voice rose in a whine that sounded like an old woman’s voice.

  “She could never have said such a cruel thing about us,” muttered Bonti, “I know I am slow but Ma said I was methodical. She hated anyone doing anything quickly. You remember how she slapped you one day when you wore your nighty inside out at night to save time folding it the right way in the morning?” she asked her sister Choti from London who was trying to scrape the last bit of mild curry from the dish and had not taken part in the conversation till now since she had a painfully sore throat and could only grunt. But now, her voice cracked and hoarse, burst out like a series of rapid gun shots. “No, I don’t remember. You are talking rubbish. Ma never hit any of us. She was the kindest, gentlest soul that ever lived,” said Choti with a long sigh and everyone waited – tears on hold – to see if she would cry. Mild sniffles were allowed but real tears were kept on hold for the evening post-dinner sessions but sometimes, if the situation demanded it, one could sob during lunch. But Choti, her eyes puffed up with jet-lag, only cleared her throat and then she began to mix a spoonful of rice with the gravy she had salvaged. Then there was only the sound of her chewing. Vinod, who had also kept out of the conversation since, had been busy talking on his cell-phone throughout lunch, decided to sing an old song which had been his mother’s favourite. “Mere piya gaye Rangoon,wahan say kiya hai telephoon..thumari yaad satati hai, jiya may aag lagati hai …” (My love has gone to Rangoon, from where he telephoned, saying he missed me, his heart burned for me) he sang as if to lull his older siblings to sleep. The servants sighed in the kitchen as they quietly helped themselves to small handfuls of rice and curry. They should have waited till the table was cleared but the sun had already travelled far beyond the roof and soon they would be demanding tea and god knows what.

  The others began to hum along with Vinod and those who had forgotten the words of the song helped themselves to whatever bits of food were left at the bottom of the dishes. As their lazy fingers salvaged bits of curry their dead mother’s face floated past them, her white hair streaming behind her like a silver shadow. She looked down at them, her sharp gaze broken into fragments by the afternoon light. Each one thought only they had seen her so they kept quiet, their hearts fluttering with fear and joy. She hovered quite close to them, her white eyes glittering over the remnants of food on the dining table, the curry stained tablecloth, her assorted family. Her hands touched each one of them briefly, lingering over Bejan, her first born, longer than the rest. He raised his eyes, dull with sleep and food, but she rose in the air, scattering her gentle touch into tiny pieces. So she remained, curving, encircling, arching and floating over them for a long time but the fragmented image she gave to her family gathered around the table could not join into a whole. They tried but could not hold her, feel her gentle, unfamiliar touch, she had never caressed them as children and they were hungry for her touch. They lifted their hands to catch her but there was only a shaft of silver light, shiny with dust. Then as the afternoon faded into dusk, she went away, gliding over the trees and the servants came in to clear the table.

  Nine

  “Duty is the most important thing to remember all your life. Duty to your dead ancestors, your father, your husband and then your son, and if you are fortunate, your grandson. It is the women
who fulfil their duty without complaining, without even thinking they are doing it…” said Badibua.

  “Yes, I too did my duty,” whispered Nanni. The women were surprised to hear her voice because she hardly ever spoke. Was she going to tell her story today? They waited. Almost all the vegetables had been done, the rice cleaned, and as soon as Badibua gave the signal, they would start the cooking. Nanni would have to be quick with her story or else wait till next year. Just as they were fretting about this, Nanni obliged.

  NANNI’S STORY

  The first day Nanni had to cook was when she was a three-day old bride with henna still dark and fragrant on her palms. She was sitting on the bridal bed, her head aching with the scent of rose petals which lay scattered all over the bed sheets, the pillows and the floor. A few stray petals, curling at the edges like pink claws, clung to her hair and when she tried to remove them her heavy gold pins – the ones her mother had tied her hair with – pierced her head and she began to cry. Home suddenly seemed so far away yet she could hear her mother’s voice as she shouted at the servants to get the food ready for the wedding feast as she put the golden pins in her hair one by one, grumbling about how much they had cost. “But let them see we are not paupers like them,” she had hissed, the pins clenched between her teeth. In this house where her mother said she would have to live till she died, there was just one old servant. She was still brushing off the rose petals when he had come into the corridor outside her room and coughed. “What is it?” she had asked finally after he had coughed and cleared his throat many times, because she was not sure whether she was supposed to speak at all and that too to a male servant. “Bhabhi has fallen ill. Dada is asking if you can cook something or should he ask someone to come from the village.” Nanni, her head dizzy with the perfume of stale roses, took the decision that was to ruin her life for ever.

  She got up, tripped over her heavy bridal sari, and said in a clear 16-year old voice. “I will make the food today. Tell Bhabhi to rest.” Then she took off her sari, folding it carefully like her mother had shown her. Most of her jewellery had already been taken off by Bhabhi and locked up in a tin trunk, with a curt “I am keeping them safe for you, tell your mother.” She took off the remaining chains and two heavy bangles and hid them under the mattress. She knew she had to keep her mangalsutra necklace, her nose ring and six toe rings on as long as her husband was alive. Then she quickly dressed in a plain cotton sari, a pink one with yellow flowers, pulled the palla over her face and opened the door. There was no one outside so she uncovered her face fully and looked around. There were two doors on either side of her room but both were locked with big padlocks. She could hear someone snoring, the sound was coming at regular intervals through a half open door at the end of the corridor. She decided to go towards it.

  The kitchen was a dark hollow with a tiny window covered with a red curtain that made everything look darker that it was. The mustard oil jars lined up on the shelf gleamed like blood, the onions had a strange pink colour and the white marble chakla too looked as if they had pounded meat on it. A brick stove stood in one corner, the embers were just about to die out. Nanni pulled out a few pieces of wood from a pile next to the window and as she fed the dying fire she saw through tear-filled eyes her mother’s kitchen at home. The gleaming floor which was polished with coconut fibres every morning, the brass vessels that shone like gold and the line of 30 glass jars each filled with a special pickle. Her father refused to eat the same pickle everyday so her mother gave him a new one, every day for thirty days and then repeated the cycle because he had forgotten what he had had by then.

  “We were never good enough for them,” her husband said as he chewed the bones with his eyes shut. She hated the way he talked and ate at the same time, his words always slurring with curry and malice against her family. His hatred for her, crushing, mingling with his saliva, poured into the food she had cooked for him. She had not minded at first because her mother had told her to be quiet and well-behaved all the time, however aggravating the situation may be. “Remember you are our daughter. Raja Dinkar’s granddaughter. Do not bring shame on us.” She had sat silently through hundreds of meals, listening to her husband berating her family, each meal would bring out a new dislike, a fresh grudge he held against her father, her mother or her brothers. So many years had passed, both her parents were dead, her brother had renounced the world and become a sadhu yet Harish would not let go. Like a rabid dog he kept yapping at them, chasing their memory, recalling each word they had said to him, digging out hidden insults. When his mother had been alive, she would join in too and together they would eat and spit venom at her. She had a sharper tongue and sharper memory and could even say on which date at what hour her father had let them down. “Remember,” she would say, wagging a finger stained with food, “remember the day your uncle got married, it was when the wheat crop had failed on our farm, the day you got chicken pox. It was at lunchtime that the great sahib arrived. Just a box of sweets, plain burfee. No money, no clothes, nothing. The mean goat. What was he going to do with all his money, I asked him. Has he taken it with him? Has he? Has he?” she would say, jutting her chin out at Nanni and pointing for another serving of dal.

  That first day when she had cooked, twenty years ago, she should have poisoned them all. His mother, father, brother-in-law, uncle, and him. But she had been young and foolish and wanted so much to please them all. Her mother had been a great cook and she wanted to show them how well she had been taught by her. She wanted to manage the house, look after the old people and most of all she wanted her husband to love her. That first meal she had cooked, her eyes blind with tears from the smoke, her hands shaking with fear, had stunned them. “You little sparrow. How did you cook so much?” her husband said later when they were alone. The rose petals now suddenly seemed fragrant as they lay together sharing the same pillow. They had been so pleased with her cooking that day that for the next twenty years she was sent to the kitchen to do all the cooking. “A wife’s first duty is to feed her husband well,” they said to her as the entire family, thirteen of them, sat down to eat. She got up at dawn, coaxed the kitchen fire into life, ground the spices and began the first meal of the day. The old servant felt sorry for her and tried to help but her mother-in-law would not let him touch the food. ”I have been cooking for the family for thirty years and now it is your turn. Do not think you are a princess just because your father claims to be so rich. All lies. We have yet to see the colour of his money in this house.”

  The old lady had died five years ago, keeling over at a wedding feast after eating three bowls of kheer. “She went straight to her maker, a short, sweet death,” said the neighbour in whose house the feast had been held. Harish did not seem as distraught as she thought he would be without his beloved mother, who had never left his side from the day he had been born –a breech baby with a head full of black hair. She slept next to them all throughout their married life and the only time they had been alone had been a few days after her wedding. Then after that the old lady had moved her bed into their room, thrust her bundle of saris into Nanni’s dowry chest. Her father-in-law had been alive then but he stayed out most nights. Nanni had heard the aunts whispering about another wife somewhere in a village beyond the hills. When Harish wanted to make love to her, he would touch her with a pillow and they would tip-toe to the other room. She had loved the secrecy and Harish had seemed so romantic during their stealthy, hurried but urgent lovemaking. Later during the day he would come and stand near the kitchen door and watch her as she cooked. They spoke in whispers and laughed with their hands on their mouths. But that was such a long time ago. Harish was a different man then with another face, another voice. Now she hated his touch and even wished his mother were alive for then he would not spend hours smothering her in their bed, his weak helpless body trying and failing to make love to her.

  Though now they had two servants, Harish would not eat if she did not cook the food. “You cannot let them touch the
food. I will die if I have to eat food cooked by those two dirty scoundrels. I would throw them out if I could walk to the door,” he screamed each time Nanni let one of the servants into the kitchen. “I am shackled and bound to the kitchen. He will not even have tea made by anyone else. He seems to know at once. He sniffs the food like a dog and then if I have not cooked it he will throw the plate away. He has broken so many plates and glasses. Now I use steel plates for him,” she told her mother one day, breaking years of silence about her life. “I wish you had made me a bad cook then maybe they would let me be,” she whispered stroking her mother’s hair as she lay on her death bed. “Feed him, child, feed him all the richness, all the sweetness that he has not given you till the gods see it fit to take him away,” her mother said and turned her face to the door to meet the spirit of death who had been waiting for her.

  Nanni sang softly, her hands gleaming as she churned the yogurt for the lassi Harish would have for his breakfast. Butter and cream, sugar and khoya, almonds and pistachios – there were so many rich things one could put in a glass of milk. So many wonderful and delicious things that would slowly and gently choke the life out of him. He would not even feel the hands of death gripping him till it was too late and his arteries were clogged with all the sweetness and richness she had poured into his greedy mouth. “I have told you a hundred times not to put whole black pepper into lassi, you bitch can you not hear me? Or have you gone deaf like the rest of your family, the miserable cripples?” he said and threw the glass at her. For the last two days he had been lying in bed with a toothache. One side of his face was swollen. Could the butter and ghee be working their magic already? No, it was too soon. He would die slowly after many years but he would die by her hands, by her cooking. Nanni sliced the almonds finely along with the black pepper in the new glass of lassi which she poured into another tall glass to make it froth. As her bangles tinkled she remembered how he had loved to see her doing this. “You move like a swan rustling its wings. I want to crush you in my arms,” he had whispered. His mother was outside supervising the servant as he cleaned the wheat and they had quietly gone up to the attic and made love.