Degreekapi

“Ranga?! Ranga!” Murthy looked irritated as he walked into the dingy kitchen. Ranga quickly stuffed the book she had been reading into the rice tin, & turned around. “Look what I bought for you,” said Murthy. 

Ranga dutifully opened the paper-wrapped package that he thrust at her. A beautiful sari in green, his favourite colour. Once, she would have petulantly asked him why he couldn’t get her the MS blue shade she liked. Now she only smiled, widening her lips to the right length. Pleased with himself, Murthy said “I knew you would like it. Look at the heavy gold borders! Never seen anything like this before in your mother’s house, I bet.”

Ranga barely registered his taunt. She had heard it a thousand times before. “Where did he get the money for this?” she wondered, as she put away the sari in the teak wood bureau, the only piece of good furniture they had.

Murthy was out of work. Again. People couldn’t understand his genius, he said. She listened quietly, as she had done so often before. After all, what did she know of such things? The kitchen was her strength. Ranga sold idlis and kept their bones together until Murthy found another job. She often wished that her father had let her study beyond high school. She had dreamt of working in a bank. Dressed in a crisp cotton sari, solemnly counting out fresh notes and shiny coins as the admiring crowd waited patiently in queue. The hand that is made for the ladle, what will it do with books, her father guffawed whenever she had broached the topic. Her husband thought it was a good joke.

After marriage, Ranga had quickly learned how to stretch every paisa, and squeeze out morsels of food from near-empty vessels. The previous year, Murthy had finally secured a good job with Mysore Lamps. He was in charge of the design department, and proudly told Ranga that his bulbs lit up even the Taj Mahal in Agra.

“Can we go and see?!” she had asked, not quite believing it when Murthy nodded a yes. Ranga had spent a blissful few weeks planning her first-ever holiday, asking neighbours for tips, and basking in their envy. Chinks appeared in her frugality; a few paise that escaped her expense notebook, a tin of the much-coveted Afghan Snow cream to hydrate her skin. When Murthy bought her a pair of heavy gold jimikis ,she protested half-heartedly at his extravagance. Her ears dangled their new-found prosperity in everyone’s face for a whole month.

Ranga withdrew into her kitchen, and into books. She saved, and sometimes starved, so that she could buy the colourful 50-paise thrillers and love stories from the nearby petty shop. The corners of her mind absorbed and stored lady detectives who drew guns from their hand bags, girls who travelled alone on buses…it was a fantastic world that she lived in, and watched at the same time. On a whim, she bought a book that was going at half-price. It wasn’t her kind of book, but something about the woman on the cover drew her eye. Perhaps it was the spear she held, or her fierce smile as men lay at her feet.  The more she read, the more restless Ranga became.

“What is this?!” Murthy shouted, bringing her back to the present.  He had discovered the hidden books.  “You bought these without my permission?! And where did you get the audacity to read such dirty things?!” He threw books, vessels, groceries, everything he could see. With his red face, and bulging belly, he looked like the asura (demon) in a Theru Koothu, stamping about in an orgy of passion. Ranga stood like stone, watching, waiting.  Suddenly, Murthy stopped and locked eyes with her. He grabbed a book from the pile and slowly ripped it in two. Then he threw it all into the mess on the floor. The fierce woman on the cover looked at Ranga as she fluttered on the floor.

The doorbell rang impatiently, shattering the silence. It was Dilli Babu, come to collect his long-pending dues. Built like a wrestler, Dilli had few enemies (most were dead, his gang claimed) and even fewer scruples.  It was rumoured that he had taken over the area by killing his mentor. His thick, guttural voice listed out the agenda if the door did not immediately open. Dilli would punch that pannadai , Murthy, chop him into a thousand pieces, and finally grind him into chutney. Like he had done to Nagarajan, the school watchman, a few streets away. Had they heard of Mani, his erstwhile boss? They wouldn’t have. Dilli had ground his bones into the earth a long time ago. 

The doorbell punctuated Dilli’s rant with shrill insistence. Ranga picked up the pieces of her book from the floor, along with a small bundle of money that she had squirrelled away. Shetook the aruvaal, gleaming on the kitchen shelf, and opened the door. Dilli stopped mid-way through his plans for bone dessert. The street bulb threw its dim yellow light on a terrifying figure, with its long hair left loose, white teeth gleaming in a hideous grin, a sickle in one hand, and an offering in the other. He would never forget the eyes, fierce and dark, shining through the black smudges of kohl. He knew that look, the blood lust before the kill. He also knew better than to tempt fate. Dilli grabbed the bundle and fled.

Ranga looked at her husband, sweating profusely in his hiding spot behind the teak wood bureau. Murthy flinched. She laughed and put away the sickle. Then she turned on the radio. Abdul Hameed’s familiar voice from Isaiyum Kadhaiyum (Music and Stories) on Radio Ceylon crackled into being, “Coming up next is an inspiring poem by the revolutionary Tamil poet, Subramania Bharathi.”

Nimirntha nan nadai naer konda paarvaiyum

Nilathinil yaarukkum anjaatha nerigalum

Thimirntha gnana cherukkum iruppadhaal

Semmai maadhargal thirambuvathu illaiyaam

With head held high, and a piercing gaze,

Unafraid of anyone in this world,

With the wisdom and humility that education bestows,

The modern woman falters not in her confidence!

Murthy watched silently as Ranga carefully glued her book together. She sat on the only comfortable chair in the house and put up her legs on the tiny teapoy. Then she settled down to read the story of Sita, the warrior who saved her husband from the kingwith a thousand faces.

“Rama fainted on the battlefield. Sita laughed. After all, could a mere man defeat the thousand-faced asura, more powerful even than his brother Ravana? Sita dissolved into the terrifying Kali and danced in ecstasy as the dark goddess and her companions, the matrikas, decapitated the one thousand heads of Sahasravadhano Ravana.”

Ranganayaki smiled. The Adbhuta Ramayana was truly wonderful.

A thousand faces or one, hero or asura, Sita needed no one to save her.

Stop!

How dare you sit in your ivory tower with your smug male privilege, and pontificate on the due processes of the law,when a woman is raped, brutalised, tortured and killed? How dare you blithely quote irrelevant statistics of false rape cases, or even worse, assure me it's not as bad as I think?

Tell me, what precautions do you take to protect your body when you go out to study, to work, or to relax with your friends?

Is pepper spray a standard fixture in your bag?

Do you plan your casual evening out down to a T, with back-up plans, just in case, because you don't know what will happen to your body outside the safety of your home?

Do you ever, in a crowd, use your peripheral vision to watch out for the unknown hand that may grope your breast?

Do you stand in a bus or a train, your bag in front like body armour while your sub-conscious monitors the unknown groins behind you that may push against your back at any time?

Do you walk on a lonely road, one hand clutching your bag while the other tightly holds your phone? And if you then see some men lounging about, rather than striking up a casual conversation, do you cross that road with downcast eyes, to avoid 'encouraging' them merely by looking?

Do you leave your drink unattended, and on returning, spend even a moment thinking about what may be in it?

Do you think twice about sharing your phone number or pictures on social media?

When you meet someone new and go out on a date, do you share your location with at least two people, just so someone knows where you are, just in case...

In your broken country with your rotting system, where criminals walk free,where rapists burn survivors and destroy their families, where justice is often delayed so long that it is denied, how dare you lecture me for wanting swift retribution?

Look deeper into your own casual misogyny. Stop normalising violence to my body, my soul and my life everyday, everywhere, in every dress.

Perhaps then you will comprehend how crippled is my faith in you and your laws.

Hope In The Time of Drought

Kavita is a farmer in Perumal Malai, a small village near Kodaikanal.Her day begins very early, and the long walk uphill is made easy by singing songs and gossiping with a small group of women,all heading to their farms on the hill side. Kavita used to make the trek uphill with Mayilsamy, her husband, but for the last couple of weeks he has been staying at the farm to watch over the crop. 

A bright yellow tent made of cheap plastic sheets forms his shelter. It doesn’t keep the cold out, but it does protect him from the rain. The small stream in the valley has no water and wild animals have taken to exploring the hillside for food and water. A torch, a stout stick and a cheap mobile phone are all he has to keep away the elephants, bison and leopards. He keeps calling out to the other farmers, and plays Tamil film songs on his mobile to get through the long vigil. The noise is usually enough to scare away most animals. What happens if a bison or elephant isn't scared? Oh, then we run, laughs Mayilsamy. As a strategy, it is simple. And completely ineffective if something were to happen to farm or farmer. 

Water shortage is a big worry. Kavita and her husband have abandoned their own farm,which has no water, and leased a few acres on the hillside. The streams here have not fully dried up. Working together with neighbours from the village,they have cleared a patch of land, and planted runner beans. Everyday, she works with her husband from dawn to dusk. Her son joins her after school. It is hard work, but its the only life she knows. Often, its a good life. She is close to the earth, tilling soil, planting seeds, watching them sprout to life. As the saplings grow, she prays to the compassionate Mother Mari for a good monsoon, and a bountiful harvest. When they harvest the beans, Kavita and other women will sing through the day. Harvest-time is back breaking, and songs are the only way they can keep up their energy. 

This year, Mari is fickle. She has sent the rain early, much too soon for the bean sprouts.In Kavita's village, the elders talk wisely about changing seasons. We have fallen on evil times. That is why the sun blazes hotter,they declare, the rain comes too early, and when it does,it is too little. They have never heard of climate change. 

Kavita dreams of a good harvest, a new cycle for their son, and money to pay back the seed loan. She knows its unlikely. A catastrophe is looming. The plants are still young, and the early rains will cause them to decay before the beans sprout. They will be lucky if they manage to harvest even half of what they had sowed. The dismal crop means they will need all the energy and hope they can get. 

We will pull through somehow, assert Kavita and Mayilsamy. They must, as the alternative is too hideous to be thought of. God will help us, they smile optimistically.

“Kousalya Supraja rama purva...”. The suprabhatham filtered through to my unwilling ears as I held on to the last dregs of sleep. “Wake up! The meeting is today. Don’t you have to prepare?!” shouted Amma as she went about her routine in a manic frenzy.

I grumbled “ Why do I need to prepare?!”. I didn’t really expect an answer, and wasn’t surprised when all I got was a vague mumbling in which words like “today’s kids”, “ impudence” and “good-for-nothing” were tossed about like sugar drowning in a tumbler of coffee.

My hand hovered over a coffee-coloured shirt as I contemplated rebellion, for about 2 seconds. “What will they think if they see you in modern clothes with hair left loose” had been the main course at yesterday’s dinner. “ No horrible black or brown, only an auspicious red or yellow” had been the garnishing on dessert, or in this case, “rose milk”.

Amma was nervous about meeting Mami and discussing the wedding preparations. The last conversation over phone had been quite tense. The all-important menu for each event had to be decided, and after much wringing of hands and consultation with family elders aged mostly 80 and more, the list of dishes to be served was almost complete. Almost!

Amma held out for crisp vazhakkai roast, while Mami stood firm on avial, the traditional side-dish which was apparently an essential drug for all her family elders. The battle lines had been drawn and neither was willing to cede an inch. “ Presentation is important. Dress well and look neat. If Mami thinks she can always get her way, then she has a surprise coming her way. Avial, instead of vazhakkai?! Everyone will complain about the food, and your father’s sister will never let me hear the end of it.” Clothes >= avial was an equation I hadn’t come across before, but who was I to question the infinite wisdom of mothers in wedding-mode? I chose a red kurta with full sleeves and a flowy dupatta. I looked and felt much like a cafe mocha topped with whipped cream and cherries.

“Food is on the table. Don’t make faces and eat whatever is there”, was shot out with a hiss and a clatter of ladles. I looked at the soggy upma and filter coffee, served with a not-to-do list. “Do not put yourself forward and talk too much like an adhigaprasangi”. “Do not stay silent like you don’t know anything”. “Do not mumble if you are asked to recite a shloka”. “Do not expound your modern views on wedding preparations like a mundhirikottai”. Don’t go to office and take off your bindi, wear it in the evening even if you do.” “ Don’t leave your hair loose”.

The words swirled around my head as I waded through the upma. The coffee seemed to have somehow escaped Amma’s wrath. The rich,strong aroma hit the septum and wafted all the way through to the medula oblongata. I tilted the tumbler and took a sip.

As the hot,strong liquid hit the palate, I waited for coffee nirvana - that moment when sight,sound, and smell become one, and the aroma of freshly ground coffee mingles with the taste of chicory, spiked with a few ladles of sugar, to hit the hippocampus and the gullet like Lakshmi bombs.

I finished my coffee and left hurriedly, with Amma shouting instructions till the last second.Time raced along as though it had binged on caffeine and before long, I was standing in the lobby to meet and greet my mother and Mami, my would-be-sister-in-law’s mother.

I couldn’t have missed them if I wanted to. Alone in a sea of pants,skirts, and l’Oreal Paris, stood an island of tradition, resplendent in light silk saris, kajal, powder and jasmine flowers. As they spotted me, Mami’s face was covered with a broad smile. My mother grinned wider. Soon we were all trying to split open our mouths, stretching them to maximum capacity. After about a minute, gravity made itself felt and mouths settled back to their usual faultlines. “Shall we sit down?” I offered. Two pairs of eyes were dragged away from the object of their affections - Maryam, the receptionist, in a tight short skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Mami and Amma shared a quick look that promised a good one hour’s discussion on today’s generation over a tumbler of hot filter coffee. Well, at least they would bond and maybe resolve the avial-vazhakkai tie, I thought.

“ Shall we have a cup of coffee?” asked Mami predictably. I looked around at the shiny chrome and leather decor in the reception of my office, and then at the Mysore Silk Sari models. I had a vision of Amma and Mami holding espresso shots, animatedly discussing 7 suthu vs 9 suthu murukkus, and the exact height and volume of paruppu thengai, while Maryam, the guard, and random colleagues of both genders milled about. It was like a free ticket to a Ram Gopal Varma or S.J.Surya movie. This could only end in disaster.

Some quick-thinking saved the day, and I suggested the nearby coffee shop. It would be more comfortable, and quieter, I explained. And they could sit as long as they wanted without any problem. Both Mami and Amma quite understood that unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to leave office right away and so would miss out on the finer points of sweets, seer and side-dishes. I promised I would join them later.

“Well-played, girl!” I congratulated myself as I headed straight to the coffee vending machine and made myself a strong cappuccino with three spoons of sugar.

I was tilting the cup, trying to lap up the last couple of drops, when I saw Mami and Amma. They were back. Early. And they didn’t look happy at all. It couldn’t mean anything good.

I sighed, and walked upto them. Before I could open my mouth, my mother shot at me “ People think they can get away with anything these days. There are no morals, no sense of right or wrong.” “ Ummm aren’t you over- reacting? Its just food after all”. My feeble attempt to cool down tempers was met with a contemptuous look that is the preserve of mothers. “ Only food? We work hard and do everything for food. Annam Brahma, haven’t I taught you this?”. I gave up and cringed, as I waited for a stinging retort from Mami. To my shock, Mami nodded her head.

“ After waiting for 20 minutes, all we get is lukewarm milky liquid, in big cups! Not even decent tumblers in the hotel.”

“ We complained that the coffee was so light. That ammanji server just said this is how all kappu chinnos are made. Kappu or Lalli, only fancy names. Coffee sahikkalai ! And they charged 75 rupees for that!” fumed my mother, her face flushed with the injustice of the whole thing. “I can get better coffee at the roadside stall! This is outright swindling!”

Mami declared, “I will ask Mama to write a letter to the Hindu!”. Amma nodded agreement.

I couldn’t see them, but I was sure that thirty-three crore devas shouted “Attagirls!” as they showered invisible flowers on the foes-turned-friends.Good or bad, coffee had saved the day!

Glossary

1.Suprabhatham - Morning song for the Gods, and played loud enough to wake them up

2.Amma - The one important ingredient in any Indian movie, without which tickets don’t sell. Mother!

3.Mami - Any middle-aged lady, usually a neighbour or relative

4.Vazhakkai - The poor cousin of potatoes, which tastes almost as good, aka raw banana.

5.Avial - A assortment of vegetables, coconut and buttermilk. Prime favourite of all Keralites, including the non-Malayali ones, and usually avoided by their tamarind and red chilly-loving cousins to the east.

6.Upma - Lifesaver for many mothers, pet hate of most kids, and much like its Western cousin porridge.

7.Adhigaprasangi - A polite nomer for over-enthusiastic meddler,locally referred to as Enthu Pattani

8.Shloka - That thing Tambrams do in the seclusion of their homes once darkness descends . Yep. Prayer.

9.Mundhirikottai- Brother of Adhigaprasangi.

10.Seer - Those wedding thingies that everyone talks about in hushed tones and are the subject of group discussions and lengthy debates among silver-haired women from the groom and the bride’s side. Usually food items, but sometimes include other miscellaneous things such as cots,cars and chains.

11.Kaapi - Tamil version of coffee

12.Ammanji - literally your mother’s brother’s son, metaphorically any old fool

13.Paruppu Thengai - a conical dish made of all things sweet and yummy and bad for health. It has to be made by experienced grandmothers or wedding cooks and is usually not found in any sweet shop. “Death by Paruppu Thengai” doesn’t have quite the same éclat as the chocolate version.

14.Murukku - a crunchy salty oily snack designed to please the tongue, not the heart.7 Suthu or 9 suthu refer to the number of rings or the size of each murukku.

15.Annam Brahma - Food is God. Totally agree.

Colourful umbrellas dot the footpath. Those who don’t have one rush into shelters to escape the warm drizzle. Hawkers at signals wave umbrellas about like cotton candy, trying to catch people’s eyes.

They fight a losing battle. Most pedestrians have their orbs glued to their smartphones. So do the people in autos, buses and cars as they wait for the signal to turn green. A few pairs of glazed eyes carry on conversations with air.

The rainbow colours an uninterested world. The sun sighs as it shines through the raindrops unseen,unfelt. Urchins of all ages chant sob stories to the waiting crowd. Time crawls or flies, depending on whether it’s a Nokia or a Samsung they are tapping on.

One little boy in an auto watches everything. He brightens up at the sight of the rainbow. He plays hide and seek with the sun, and he gives the rain his small hands to touch. A grubby little hand held out to the him comes away with a toffee.

A hawker nearby holds up his brightly spotted bunch of umbrellas like a treat. He opens up the folded umbrella like a new toy. He hopes the boy will pester his busy mother to buy him one. The boy watches avidly. The hawker doesn’t give up. He holds up a fancy umbrella with polka dots and a plastic dolphin handle. He turns it from side to side, and then points it at the boy.

The little boy looks at it, then bends down and picks up something. He holds up his grandfather’s umbrella, printed and coloured. The umbrella is old, embellished with a handle shaped like an elephant. The elephant is an old friend. He is missing a trunk and a leg, but that hasn’t stopped him sharing the boy’s adventures.