There was an eerie silence in the afternoon at our house. It was only 2 pm but the hall was dark, the curtains were drawn and the only active, glowing member of the house was switched off. Restlessly I walked around; went to the fridge for the 10th time to find only disappointment, I had gone through my fifth cup of tea so that wasn’t an option. The faint hum of the Shiva Tandava Stotram reached my ears as I walked past my parents’ room. I went in knowing I wasn’t going to get any attention, wandered for a while, looked at my mother without saying anything. An involuntary sigh left my being as I realised I didn’t want to stay there. The beige sofa to the wall of the main balcony was nearly invisible in the dark, so was my grandmother sitting to its corner. It was easy for her to become invisible. She woke up earlier than the rest of us, made tea for her husband of 70 years, swept the house (like a preliminary round before the maid came in the afternoon), planned our breakfast; all this without a single sound. She once told me that the mark of a good woman is to go about her work without noise. I was a kid then, newly curious about cooking, especially (actually only) the part where we mix the contents in the vessel around with a large spoon-like thing. I made as much noise as possible, purposefully beat the spoon on the vessels’ side and screamed in delight as she gently took it away from me and told me that the men in the house must not know that cooking was happening in the house. I thought then that she was wonderful. That she could do so much without making a mess. I was her opposite. I used to go about the house hopping, playing with the tiles, stamping around to the rhythm of whatever song was playing in my mind at the time. I used to sing loudly in the shower, for everyone to hear and appreciate. Whatever step I learnt that day had to be performed in front of the rest of the family, to applause and a standing ovation. I never studied quietly either, I never wrote notes in a small 100 pages classmate notebook. I stole the chalks my grandma used for the muggu in front of our house and scribbled on the door of entire wardrobe and refused point blank to erase them. When guests came they used to admire my handiwork and often told my father what a hardworking child I was. I used to eavesdrop and feel elated. I had a crush on many guys and sung in their memory. I kept no secrets.
There was a rubber band on the table in front of this sofa. My wild hair was irritating my neck so I went to grab it when suddenly the sofa moved. I jerked back, startled. And saw that my grandma just got up from there. I looked at her and she looked back at me. I sat her back drown, crouched on the carpeted floor and put my head on her lap, clutching her cotton, soft saree and making and unmaking folds on it again and again. She didn’t speak a word. After a while we both got up, I went back to studying not feeling so restless anymore and she had decided that I needed dosa.
I sat in front of the book and stared at it for awhile. She came inside timidly, placing a plate on my bed and asked me how contacts are saved in a phone.
“Let me just do it for you. Which one?”
“No just tell me, you must have a lot to study..,” she trailed off.
Both of us were well aware that teaching her would take more time.
“Here, first click this button in the centre. Then this star shaped button at the bottom. It gets unlocked. Then the number.. What is it? See, you just have to type in the number. After this click the left side button. Go down, click “new contact.” Now what’s the name? Okay, for p press the button nine once. For s three times, but quickly. You see, the letters on top of the numbers; their order tells you how many times you have to click it. But remember to click fast, okay? Here, you try one now.”
She smiled like a school girl as she attempted her first one. After her first “saved” tick had come she giggled gleefully and sat down with her ancient pocket notebook in which the numbers of our entire village were written and spent the next hour in extreme concentration. She stood nervously as I read her phonebook aloud. “Poojitha” became “Putspru” and “Santosh” became “Samptg.” We laughed until I fell on the floor. “See?,” I said, “You’re perfect.” No one could get their way around her mobile but her and I. It became our joke, our secret.
I was PMSing one day when only she and I were at home. I was in a severe need of ice cream with no money. When I asked her, she said that she didn’t have any. Looking down she explained, “I forgot to ask your grandfather before he left.. And I don’t know where we keep the money in this house.” I’d never forget the tension of shame that was present in the air at the time. I knew then, her streak of pride, her independence. The utter and complete humiliation of her present life. The life she had been leading since she was 12 years old. I understood why I cant ask for help comfortably either. We were quite alike. She was the best student in her school, she had a natural inquisition about science, she loved to calculate, she abhorred superstition and disapproved of many of my mother’s religious beliefs. She allowed me near the prayer room when I had my period. She was married off to a guy who became a school headmaster, a respectable one, a renowned one, but one who hadn’t allowed her to continue.
Today, she cooks for him, she serves him because he wont let anyone else, she teaches him how to save contacts on his phone, repairs the television for his evening news, talks to her sons abroad on face time and learns new recipes on youtube. She learns craft. She makes new muggus for the front of the house and teaches them to me with the patience of a mother. She listens to me talk about my studies, about the cases I see in the hospital, asks me questions and tries to understand. She takes long walks with her companions in the garden and on coming back silently sits on that beige sofa, massaging her right knee, without even the faintest moan. She eats milk bread with warm milk at night but only after all of us have eaten and are nearly asleep so that we don’t notice that she cant eat anything else. That her right hand is on her jaw and she’s wincing with pain while she chews.
Her eldest son grew up and bought her a car to roam around in. She liked taking the Kondapaka bus that left from Jubilee bus station at 6 o clock in the evening, like the rest of her friends. Later, her eldest son grew richer, he now had three cars. One which his daughter had to use. She liked taking the auto with her two friends who lived close by. Both of them though, remained silent. Women, make no noise.
A few years later though I wasn’t quiet. I had had enough. I couldn’t stay at home on Thursdays and Sundays and holidays. I needed to explore. I needed to not care what anyone would think. I rebelled against the car. I fought everyday. And everyday she would come to my room and ensure that I was okay and had slept. I won; after a few weeks, I won. I got to go in bus. I got to stay out late. I wore sleeveless clothes and one-piece dresses. No one at home liked me anymore, no matter what grades I got, or how well I could dance. I came back home everyday to suspicious and often malicious questions regarding my whereabouts and habits. I wept myself to sleep on many days. One day, things got really out of hand. My parents had discovered the journal I hid under my clothes, and read it while I was away at school. I was 15 and in love with a boy in our class. I also was discovering then that I wanted to study arts instead of science. When I came home, my parents were sitting ready for me on the sofa with a furious hatred burning in their eyes. I was condemned to death and sent to bed.
A few hours later, I found myself staring with red, wet eyes at the ceiling fan, unable to eat or sleep.
After a while I heard a sweet, out of tune singing of the stotram outside my room; it was 12 am, the lights were still on, the curtains wide open, cool breeze coming in from the rainy night. My grandma was sitting on the sofa, singing from a book of devotional songs. Her feet were on the table, she was clutching her knee. I sat down and massaged her leg for awhile. She didn’t pull away. After a few minutes in silence she asked,
“You didn’t eat, no? I also didn’t. Come lets go and make something. I’m tired of milk.”
I didn’t say anything, I might have cried, for it felt like I heard her for the first time and she sounded like the sweetest person I knew. Simply, I followed her into the kitchen.
“Shall we make poha?”
I nodded.
She cut the onions and added the garlic paste whose smell I loved so much. I stood on my toes and bent forward into the vessel to take it all in, as she laughed and handed me the spoon-like thing to mix.
“What are you doing, like some mouse only! Mix it properly!”
“What about the noise?”
“Picha light,” she said, with a mischievous glint.
HardBound Banter 