‘All this business began in Hardwar, in my twentieth year, when I was with you. Even while I felt that I was being reborn — that, having lost my mother, I was reborn in your mother — even in those days I kept a big secret, without any regret, and I was happy with that secret. But now I want to understand what happened to me then.’
Such words went round and round in Dinakar's head as he tried to bring himself to speak of what was so important to him. Hopelessly, Dinakar looked at his old friend. Meanwhile, Narayan Tantri was flattering Dinakar with elaborate hospitality. Perhaps, Dinakar thought, his friend had also prepared for himself a voice meant to obscure some hidden sorrow.
12
Banana leaves cured on the hot ash of the bathing-room fire. On these fragrant, bud-shaped banana leaves, kadabu steamed in cups made of jackfruit leaves, and on the kadabu, yellow-coloured ghee from cow's milk. Three different types of chutneys. In a banana cup, creamy curd. On the side, hot steaming coffee.
Dinakar, who didn't know the Kannada names of any of these foods, sat and ate with great appetite. Narayan Tantri and his son Gopal had bathed and, sitting by Dinakar's side, ate more than he did. It was Sunday, the courts weren't in session, and Narayan Tantri seemed more relaxed. But although Gopal ate his food, he was eager to go and share news of Dinakar's arrival with his cronies.
There was a sound from the backyard — somebody calling out ‘Amma.’
‘Who is it? Chandrappa? Just stay and wait a little,’ Sitamma said, going into the yard.
She came in again, ladled some kadabu and chutney onto a banana leaf, and on her way to the backyard said to her son, ‘Gangubai wants to meet you. Chandrappa has come to ask whether you will be at home. I told him, “Let Gangubai come.”’ Then she took the leaf-plate out to Chandrappa.
Sitamma, who was very fastidious about eating taboos, didn't serve Chandrappa or Gangubai or Prasad inside the dining room. But she would never let them go without giving them something to eat and exchanging courtesies, inquiring after their joys and sorrows.
Gopal seemed displeased that his grandmother had invited Gangubai home, and Narayan Tantri's face fell when he observed his son's angry look. Dinakar could not quite make out what was happening between father and son, but he remembered that Gopal had been a very obstinate child, and that when Gangubai was a girl looking after him, she often resorted to the four upayas to get him to sleep. Sitamma took no account of the tension of the moment, but went to the backyard and began to talk of this and that with the dull-witted Chandrappa.
‘How much milk does the cow give? Has the white cow become pregnant? Were you able to sell the male calves? How much did you get for them? How long is the school holiday for Gangubai? Why doesn't Prasad show his face here at all? How is his music going? How well he sang in the temple on Ramnavami.’ Sitamma had already asked most of these questions many times that week. As usual, she expected no answer from Chandrappa. Her only aim was to make him happy.
Chandrappa looked at her, listening to her affectionate words with his mouth slightly open. Seeing his open mouth, Sitamma said, ‘What, isn't the kadabu tasty? Shall I bring some more curd? It is the curd of Tunga, your own cow, so thick you have to cut it with a knife.’ This Chandrappa understood. He shook his head, said, ‘No, Mother,’ and began to eat the kadabu.
Sitamma, seeing a coconut which had fallen from a tree in the backyard, brought it and said, ‘Chandrappa, will you please shell this for me?’ There was no need for it to be shelled, but she knew that Chandrappa delighted in any manual job, especially where he could use a knife. In his house, it was he who cleaned Prasad's bicycle so that it shone without a speck of dust, then oiled it and tied a garland of marigolds on the handlebars. On festive days, it was he who brought mango leaves and festooned the door with them.
When Sitamma came back into the house, she looked angrily at Gopal. She knew what he was waiting to say. Gopal spoke with a heavy face. ‘Let Father go to her, if he wants. But she should not come here. You must know how the whole town talks…’
‘Can you or anyone stop wagging tongues? Who are they to us? Let your politics go to hell! I know your worry is only that the brahmins here won't vote for you. Just think, your mother died immediately after giving birth to you and didn't even see you, do you know that? It was Gangu who carried you about and played with you. Get up, go, bow down to God and ask forgiveness for your bad thoughts. Take this rupee and put it in the box for the god of Tirupati.’ From the coins tucked in her waistband she gave him a rupee. She had many coins left there, for the beggars who came to the house.
Gopal took the money from her like a little boy and, with a sigh, walked to the puja room.
Sitamma sighed too. With relief.
13
As Gangu came down the stairs after finishing her talk with Narayan Tantri, she seemed to be in tears. Narayan Tantri followed, looking down as he descended the steep, old-fashioned stairs, holding onto the railings so as not to lose his balance.
Even after twenty-five years, Dinakar's heart pounded at the sight of Gangu. Still slim, with her salt-and-pepper hair in a bun, her pallu pulled around her shoulders and held with both hands, Gangu looked a mature, handsome woman. She came downstairs without any support, touched Dinakar's feet, and, in traditional welcome, said, ‘Have you come?’ She didn't seem to have lost her passion for bangles. The many she wore on both arms expertly harmonized with her sari and blouse.
Dinakar managed not to reveal his feelings because Sitamma came over and began to talk pleasantly. He noticed that Narayan, with hands clasped behind his back, was observing his reaction to Gangu. Dinakar reflected that his sexual impulses had not changed in spite of the Ayyappa clothes he now wore. Feeling awkward, yet wanting to say something for the sake of propriety, he began making small talk in Hindi.
Even in the old days Gangu knew Hindi, which she had learnt in high school. She used to speak with such playfulness, but now she stood quietly, listening to Sitamma who was saying, ‘Our Gangu is not an ordinary person. Can you say that she has aged? Doesn't she look as she did in Hardwar? I tell her, “Dye your hair just a little, here and there,” but she has got vairagya in her. She has become a madam after finishing college. Whenever she comes back from school, she has a bunch of children following her. She is truly a kindari jogi. But can one say that only she has vairagya? Her son also has vairagya. He is like sage Shukamuni. Not at all like our Gopal, the jewel of our family. Gangu's son doesn't even wear a shirt, he puts on a white dhoti and white upper cloth, and sports a long beard. You should hear his singing, when he is singing it seems as if Tyagaraja was born again. Our Gangu is truly blessed.’
Gangu looked pleased by what Sitamma said. And Dinakar was amazed at Sitamma. Even though he couldn't understand the language she was speaking, he could see how her words made everyone happy.
14
‘The beach near Suratkal is beautiful. Let's go there,’ Narayan said to Dinakar as soon as it was evening. Narayan drove his car himself, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Dinakar suspected that Narayan, like himself, was waiting to say something. But Narayan talked on and on, full of praise for Dinakar's TV show about the election, his report on South Africa, his various articles, and so forth.