Curtain Of Shells

My heart was pounding fiercely. So loud that I feared it could be heard outside, past the closed doors. Those were the worst five minutes of my life.

There was a knock on the door. Chandru and I did not expect this. We were just back up on our feet, straightening out our clothes when Amma’s voice called from outside. Amma? At this hour? Why is she here? Once she leaves for the farmland carrying her lunch bag with her in the morning, she returns only in the evening. She has come home today when the sun is blazing overhead. Terrified, Chandru searched for the backdoor or  another way to get out. There was none. I opened the door. ‘Did you doze off,’ she said, almost stepping in through the doorway, when she saw Chandru. She froze, her composure shaken, if only for a minute. Without a word, she dropped her bag, turned around and walked away. Chandru, too, slipped out quickly and fled.

Like a splash of water on a person’s face lost in a pleasurable dream, Amma’s unanticipated visit left me disoriented. My body that had been lulled into lethargy by love began to throb as if every atom in it had been split open. Waves of panic surged and receded in my mind until, suddenly, it turned numb and sensationless. I picked up the bag, walked back into the house and shut the door behind me.

Inside the bag were jasmine flowers Amma had picked. Stringing the jasmine flowers she brings me every day and adorning my hair is the extent of my daily beauty ritual. I have seen myself in the mirror so many times – mine is an ordinary face with unremarkable features. I have a slim frame and a few strands of grey here and there. I will be thirty-seven this September.

I never completed twelfth grade. For many years now, I have become just another object in this house, weaving wire baskets all day. After me, a brother was born, and died. Next is a sister, who is now thirty-one years old. She works as a teacher in a matriculation school in a nearby village for a meagre salary. She also tutors students after school and returns home late only to eat and sleep. The sister after her is twenty-eight. She is a nurse in a hospital in Trichy and comes home only once a month. The youngest sister travels an hour by bus each day to attend college.

Appa leaves home every morning wearing a white vetti and shirt, and a towel bordered with his political party’s colours over his shoulder. Not that he holds any official post in the party. Like a shadow to the ones who do, he follows them wherever they go; his days filled with taking on the tasks they assign. Amma, accustomed to nights when he wouldn’t return home, labours all day in a leased farmland. In his presence, she was neither able nor permitted to say more than a few words.

Look at this curtain made of shells hanging from the doorframe of the bedroom. My younger sister brought this home from a trip to Mahabalipuram while she was in nursing school. It is made with an assortment of shells and conches, strung together, braided and decorated. When it was first brought home, we were all enthralled by it. We marvelled at the conch shells, touching and feeling each one of them. How white and exquisite! Every time we passed by, we felt such joy from nudging the curtain to listen to its delightful clatter. If it became grimy, we soaked it in soapy water, rinsed and dried it and hung it back up. Its whiteness dazzled us. Over time, its brightness began to dull, its charm faded. Eventually, we barely noticed it at all. Now, it hangs there gathering dust, yellowed and ignored.

In my twenties, I was bedazzling like the conch shell. My heart brimmed with dreams. My mind and body were precious, treasures that had to be veiled and guarded. ‘You’re a young lady, don’t go out at odd hours, don’t stand here, don’t sit here,’ Amma and the neighbours constantly cautioned me. Like a delicate mug made of glass, I carried my youth with utmost care; its arrogance formed a luminous halo around me.

When Saravanan handed me a love letter, I tore it up and threw it away right in front of him. A foggy imagery, but there still remains in my memory traces of how I had walked away, making it clear that winning me over wasn’t so easy.

In the beginning, many young prospective grooms came home to see me. I dressed up for them and stood shyly amidst the playful teasing of my younger sisters. Each time we had such a visitor, it became customary for my mind to wander, picturing that young man as my husband later that night, only to realize over the next few days that such a union existed solely in my imagination. A father with no real employment, three younger sisters, a house barely big enough for us all – that resolute truth eventually forbade suitors from even approaching our doorstep.

That Saravanan who gave me a love letter is now married, his son already in school. My dreams have begun to fade and yellow. My mother and neighbours have become silent and don’t protect me anymore. My presence has gradually disappeared from the world’s attention. Like the curtain of shells, I, too, am abandoned.

By the time I turned thirty, my younger sisters had gained some perspective. They began to put away a considerable portion of their salaries into saving schemes to buy jewellery. They are like plants that know how to thrive even through cracks in stone.  My sisters, who once waited for me to lead the path to marriage, are now prepared to forge ahead, surpassing me.

I have forsaken my dreams of marriage.  After all, are they really remarkable, the lives of the ones who are married? Here, in this one room-house, I have never once seen my father and mother share a light moment with each other. Beyond the mechanical act of breeding and producing children, what else remains in their marriage? I am all too familiar with the endless quarrels and complaints that fill the homes around us. Love does not bloom from the mere bond of marriage; it only appears to do so. Marriage is a never-ending drama performed by two differing hearts. Those most skilful at being the best actors become known as ideal couples. So what if I never get to perform in this charade?

But silencing the clamour of my body was not as easy as consoling my mind. When I was by myself, my body pounded on the drums. Its howls ricocheted against my ribs and scattered within me. Demons descended down the walls of our small house to rip me into shreds.

Words have mushroomed in abundance, collecting everywhere in my mind. With no one to use them with, all I do is weave wire baskets. My hands braid wires non-stop day and night, as if my sole purpose in this life is to craft wire baskets. Even the beautiful pattern created by intertwining two wires together agitates me. There is no permission to voice out loud the desires of a woman. This makes it harder for them to disperse; so they linger, soaking within, festering. Fearful of tasting their sharpness, this world has been writing innumerable rules and regulations for women.

Sometimes, when I smoulder in loneliness, I tell my family that I am going to the neighbouring town to buy wire and catch the bus. In the bustling market streets, where everybody is rushing around with purpose, I stand alone, motionless. For a long time, I stand rooted to a spot, as though my life has begun to build an anthill around me. I imagine myself decaying and merging with the earth right here.

Shaking my head, I force myself to move and wander from street to street. I step into a shop and buy myself kajal, bangles, handbag and different varieties of hair clips. In a hotel, I choose a seat against a wall and bite into a masala vadai while sipping on tea. How about this solitude! I have no restrictions; I am an independent person. The warmth of the tea seeping into me wipes away the heaviness in my heart. I amble to the park nearby to rest my legs. I am making a habit out of this ritual, in an effort to fill the potholes in my life.

The only pastime for the women in my small village is to sit on the pyol and gossip. Whether they are the young ladies yet to be married or women my age who already are, their subject of conversation has often barred me from fitting in with them. By steering clear of gossip and withdrawing from that crowd, my only chance for people-watching is in the streets of the town’s market or at the park. There is a quite comfort in being among people who don’t know who I am.

It was in this park that I first saw him. A little boy, running at full speed, tripped and fell right in front of the cement bench where I was sitting. I hurried over and helped the boy up. ‘Aiyo,’ came a man’s voice from behind as he rushed over to examine the little boy for injuries. He straightened up, looked at me and said, ‘thanks’ with a smile. I simply nodded looking at him in the eye and returned to my bench. He comforted the little boy who whimpered, ‘Appa, Appa,’ and led him away. Later, when the two of them played with a ball, his eyes met mine a few times before darting away. Unable to stay on any longer, I went back home.

A few months later, I saw him again at the post office in my village. He had taken charge as the new postmaster. His name was Chandrasekar. The post office was just four doors down from my house. But don’t picture a large government building when I say ‘office’. The post office operated from a rented front room and pyol of a tile-roofed house. The previous postmaster was a very old man who pushed his eyeglasses up his nose and wore a frown on his face while he worked. Chandrasekar was nothing like that.  This being a new place for him, his eagerness to meet and familiarize himself with the local people was evident in everything he did.

I have been putting away the money I earn from selling my wire baskets in a small savings scheme. It isn’t much, but it is something. That day, I had gone to the post office to make a deposit.

‘Hey … I have seen you before. Do you remember me? How are you? Are you here to make an RD deposit? That’s wonderful. It makes me happy to see women from villages take such an interest in small saving schemes…’ He chatted on, effortlessly.

‘It is only for a hundred rupees,’ I mumbled.

‘That is okay … Even if it’s a small amount, your intention to save is what matters. And that’s admirable.’

My first compliment. Had anyone ever praised me before? I couldn’t recall. For some reason, my heart bounced with glee the entire day. Because the occasion to talk to him came only once a month, even the few words he spoke felt so important, like food for a whole month. I think he too looked forward to my visits. He started visiting everyone’s homes to talk about and canvass for an insurance policy offered by the post office. He came to our house a few times as well. Our brief encounters became a little more frequent with those visits.

Chandru told me that his wife showed him no affection. He claimed there was no joy in his married life. It was the same tactic that married men use to get close to another woman. Just three months after he complained about his wife, he told me that she was pregnant again. Chandru was a good actor, I knew that. This wasn’t love. He was not going to marry me either. Nor did I love him. I certainly didn’t believe that my life would end without him. But I enjoyed talking to him. I had the satisfaction of adding, to my days that often dawned to pointlessness, a small measure of meaning. Our conversations, which began as an effort to understand my village better, branched away and spread in no particular direction. With immense happiness, I unburdened myself of words I had long collected within me. I felt as if I was gliding like a feather set free of its restraints.

He was impatient to move our conversation to the next level. That impatience. That restless impatience characteristic of men. Perhaps he thought he could get into the anxious mind of an unmarried woman who was at the onset of aging and attain her very easily. I was determined to challenge his confidence. I offered him just enough space for conversations and kept him at a distance otherwise. Later, I allowed only fleeting touches and strokes before withdrawing again. I savoured his impatience with tremendous composure and took pleasure from it. After all, no matter how much it yellows, a conch is still inherently white, isn’t it? Months went by. His confidence crumbled, transforming into supplication. I was now in the position to give, not receive as I once was. On that afternoon when we came together for the first time, Amma became an unexpected witness.

Amma did not return home in the evening. She could not have anticipated such a shock. She always harboured a soft corner for me. She didn’t say much, but her love was always deeply felt. I have heard her speak to my father about my marriage – only for my sake has she ever dared voice her thoughts to him. Many of her nights have been spent in tears. Over the years, she became very proficient in the art of crying quietly. So quietly that even I, sleeping beside her, wouldn’t know. I too mastered the art of appearing asleep to my mother when she, awakened by my father standing over her and prodding her with his toes in the middle of the night, hesitantly followed him inside.

She walked away then, leaving her bag behind, but is she going to pick a fight with me when she returns? Will she lament that I have ruined the name and reputation of the family? Would she go to Appa and would he, in turn, say horrible things to insult me? How will I respond to them? What right does Appa even have to question me? Should I talk back if he yells at me? How am I going to explain to them the pains I suffer from feeling unfulfilled when I have never once raised my voice with anyone before?

My thoughts drifted to Chandru who had slipped away without a word.  Exactly as I had expected. My helplessness choked me and made me cry. As I cried, my heart felt hollowed out. There was always death, as the last option. The more I dwelled on suicide, the greater was the strange confidence that surged within me. If I was prepared to die, could living really be so hard? Let what happens happen.

I bathed, changed my clothes and picked up a wire basket to weave. My younger sisters returned home. Surprisingly, Appa too has come home this evening. The sight of him heightened my anxiety. I was tiring myself mentally rehearsing the questions they might ask and the many ways I would answer them. I tried to act normal in front of everyone, but I was failing. Amma, when will you come home? What are you going say to me? Whatever it is, please come home soon. Kill me, if you want to. But do not punish me with these tormenting moments of ambiguity. My heart hurts, Amma.

Amma returned at twilight. Her face was as composed as ever. But she had cried. I could not learn anything more from that face. After she washed her face, hands and legs, I held out a tumbler of tea. My hand was shaking. She accepted it calmly. I settled into a corner by the wall. My sisters chatted about trivial matters and Appa interjected something. All that fell on my ears as mere noises. It was Amma’s silence that stood out distinctly, amidst everything, and it scared me. Too frightened to look her in the eyes, I picked up a wire basket and set it on my lap. She drank the tea unhurriedly.

Then, she looked up at me and said, ‘Why haven’t you strung the flowers? See how they’re wilting in the basket. String them up and wear them in your hair … Is there any kuzhambu left over from the afternoon? Should we make just a little chutney to go with the dosai?’ As she spoke, she brought over a coconut and began to grate it.