Tell A Thousand Lies (15 page)

Srikar had been forced to leave his well-paying job as a site supervisor with a big construction company. The only work he could find in a hurry was as assistant to the supervisor for another site on the outskirts of town. The new job meant more work with less pay, but that didn’t bother him. He had big plans for our future. We walked to the park near our house after dark, when the kids of the locality were long in bed. Srikar leaned against a metal slide, while I settled on a swing, and swung my way through grandiose plans.

“We’ll form our own construction company,” he said. “We won’t have to be at the beck and call of others. Let us not rush into having children, Pullamma.”

I blushed.

“You should go to college, get a degree. Then we will work together, and build the best company in India.”

I was endeared by his silliness. I knew my station in life was to bear heirs; without a male child, I was nothing. That I had studied up to 12
^th
class was unusual in itself. In the village the search for a groom began as soon as a girl hit puberty.

Back in the village, when Headmaster
garu
suggested a second time that Lata be allowed to go on to college, Ammamma had pulled the two of us out of school right in the middle of the school year. It took a solemn promise from him that he wouldn’t be putting anymore silly notions into our heads before she would allow us appear for the final exams of 12
^th
class. After that, she wasn’t open to negotiation.

So, of course, I knew Srikar was teasing.

What I did do was practise my housekeeping skills. By the time Srikar got home from work, I was ready with hot food. Because he was so appreciative of anything I cooked, I started experimenting – nothing out of the ordinary, just tastier ways of making the same
pulusu
,
pulihora
and
payasam
. Soon I was cooking so much that the women in our building, and then the women in our locality, started ordering food from me. No one had ever expected anything of me before, so I bloomed from this unexpected attention. I pushed myself to cook better and better. It didn’t hurt that Srikar was so encouraging. I was proud the money I earned was a welcome addition to our household budget.

Then it occurred to me to try my hand at pickle-making. At the municipal tap one night I made the suggestion. “We have eighteen flats here, at least eighteen women. Instead of making pickles in each house, why don’t we get together and make pickle in the courtyard? The area is big enough to dry the mangoes, and do the pounding.”

“Why?” old
Rukkamma
asked.

“Because the labour involved will seem lighter if all of us do it together.”

“And it will be fun.” Geeta clapped her hands in glee.

Old
Rukkamma
looked me up and down. “You’re what – eighteen years old?”

“Sixteen,” I said.

“Sixteen!” She snorted. “And you are going to teach us how to make pickles? Child, I’m four times your age. I’ve forgotten more about pickle-making than you’ll ever learn.”

“Well, I want to join in,” Geeta said.

I gave her a smile of thanks.

There was a chorus of acceptances from the other women. After we finished with our water duties, we settled on the steps. There were ten of us, not including Old
Rukkamma
.

“I can’t wait,” the old
Rukkamma
said, spitting out red
paan
. “This should be fun.”

“Ignore her,” Geeta whispered.

I said to the women, “We’ll share the costs between the ten of us. If we allocate twenty mangoes per family, that should last us the year.”

The women nodded. We calculated the amount of ingredients we’d need. Early next morning,
Sandhya
and I set off for the market. We bought vast quantities of red chillies, rock salt, mustard powder, fenugreek, asafoetida, turmeric and sesame seed oil.

Over the next three days, we spread out thick sheets of plastic in the central courtyard. Two women were assigned to the mortar and pestle. After the women in charge of preparing the chillies cleaned them, pulled off the stems and sun dried them, the women in charge of pounding took over. Huge amounts of chillies were poured into the two-foot diameter mortar. One woman stood on either side. The first woman pounded once with the four foot long pestle, then passed it over to the other woman. Back and forth the pestle went, in rhythm with the singing women, till the red chillies were reduced to a fine powder. Same with the rock salt. Then the turmeric roots. We pounded and sieved, then pounded some more before sun-drying them. Finally, the ingredients were ready.

The next morning,
Sandhya
and I bought two hundred raw mangoes at the farmer’s market after testing to make sure they were very sour. “Are you sure you can handle so many mangoes?” she whispered.

“Back in the village, we did as many as two thousand mangoes in a season.” I might not know a lot of things, but thanks to Ammamma, I knew my pickle-making.

We paid a coolie to deliver the sacks home. Then we washed each mango and dried it with a cloth; any hint of moisture, and the whole batch of pickle would be ruined.

We’d planned the mango cutting for the following day, a Sunday, when we’d have men around. We piled up the mangoes on plastic sheets in the courtyard.

“Let me try,” Srikar said, as the men behind him flexed their muscles.

I showed him how to use the cutting board. One end of the long eighteen inch knife was attached to a wooden platform which rested on the floor. The other end swung free. I sat on the floor, next to the platform, centred the mango on the platform beneath the knife, raised the blade, moved the hand holding the mango away, and brought the blade down with so much force that it sliced through the pit cleanly.

Srikar’s first few tries didn’t work.

“No, no. Let me show you again,” I said. “If it doesn’t slice through cleanly, the pickle will spoil.”

“Enjoying bossing me, aren’t you?” Srikar teased.

I blushed.

It took Srikar a few tries to get it right. Then a few more men volunteered. Each mango was sliced into eight pieces.

Sandhya
dragged out big, aluminium utensils. I washed my hands up to my elbows, thoroughly dried them, then had Geeta pour in the dried ingredients. I dug in. When they were mixed well, I instructed one of the women to pour in enough oil to make the ingredients damp. Then we made sure each mango piece was coated with the mixture before we dropped them into huge ceramic jars. By the end of the day I was exhausted.

On the third day, we removed pickles from the forty-odd jars, adjusted seasonings to taste, hand mixed them again to make sure that everything was smoothly blended, then put them back into the jars.

By the end of the pickle-making session, I was firm friends with Geeta and
Sandhya
.

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Between all that cooking and carrying water up the stairs, I failed to notice what else was happening. One day I was standing in front of our Godrej bureau, with its full length mirror, tying my sari when Srikar came up and put his arms around me.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“See what?”

“You silly girl,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “You’ve lost so much weight. Look.”

I looked.

I turned sideways, then around, and finally had Srikar hold up a mirror so I could view myself from behind.

“What do you think?” Srikar asked.

“Hmm.”

“What kind of response is hmm? You’re pretty!”

“I wasn’t before?”

He turned serious. “Your weight isn’t what makes me happy, Pullamma. It’s your goodness.”

Did my colour not bother him? I wished I had the courage to ask. But I blushed with pleasure.

“Still,” he said, faking a sniff, “I have lost one-third of my wife.”

I discovered that I liked this concentrate version of me – I was like the
ghee
that
remained after all the impurities in butter had burned away. This was like getting a wish without having prayed for it. Very unexpected, but still very welcome.

Soon enough, Geeta from next door was giving me tips on how to improve my appearance. “First,” she said with the natural authority of the good looking, “get rid of that ghastly hairstyle.”

Ammamma had taught me to oil my hair till the strands glistened, then braid my hair very tight.

“Stop using so much oil,” Geeta ordered.

“But it makes hair grow,” I wailed.

“Maybe so, but you need to apply a little bit, not dump half a bottle over your head.”

Next, we experimented with a few different ways of doing my hair. Even Geeta wasn’t so forward as to suggest I leave it unbound – the style that suited me best – but we finally settled on braiding it so it no longer stuck to my scalp.

“And for God’s sake, keep using those fairness creams!”

That I did.

After Lata had pronounced, back in the village, that Goddesses were rarely of medium colour, I doggedly stuck to using the fairness creams. Twice daily I inspected my skin between applying a liberal helping of the cream, and dousing myself with Pond’s Talcum powder. At the municipal tap, old
Rukkamma
recommended a mixture of turmeric and milk cream. She didn’t know about my Goddess past, but felt sorry that I was forced to live with all that darkness on my skin. There had been no change in my skin tone as yet, but who knew? Like Geeta said, “All that blackness might get tired of being on your skin and finally take itself off.”

Then Geeta took on my clothes. “You have such a good figure, why do you drape your sari like you are wrapping a pole?”

We practiced tying my sari till she was satisfied. When we finally got it right, Geeta said in surprise, “Why, you look almost as good as me! Too black, of course, and too tall, but still...”

Geeta made me give away one of the two saris I’d brought with me. I’d always known that particular shade didn’t suit me, but since almost all the clothes I owned were hand-me-downs from Malli, or ones I shared with Lata, I hadn’t had a choice.

“You don’t need a cupboard full of saris,” she instructed. “Just a few that enhance your appearance are enough.”

Not that I had a cupboard full. Srikar had bought me three brand new saris, but that was it. I wasn’t complaining, though. Now, when I went with Srikar to the city, I no longer worried about embarrassing him. We often took a bus to Tank Bund and walked along the lake. Our favourite corn-seller beckoned us to his cart and roasted us the most tender cobs of corn, coating them with just the right amounts of salt, chilli powder and lemon juice. When I had enough of the walking, we settled on the grass and stared out at the water, watching the lights come on. Talking, making plans, feeling grateful to be alive.

One day Srikar said, “I have a good offer,
Pulla
.” He had taken to calling me ‘
Pulla
’ – twig – in honour of my new, slim appearance. Coming from him, this diminutive of my name made me feel cherished. “We should move closer to the city. I can get to my new job easily, and you can start college.”

I was taken aback. “I thought you were joking. About the studies, I mean.”

He looked at me, eyes serious. “It is true that girls in the village don’t study too much. But we now live in the city. You’re already at an advantage, being sixteen, and 12th class pass. In the city, students join college at seventeen, even eighteen. Don’t you want to do something with your life?”

“I have everything I need right here,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. I tried not to think about how happy I was. I wasn’t stupid enough to tempt fate.

“Think,
Pulla
,” Srikar said, putting his arm around me. “Think. We are young, still. Let us make something of ourselves. There will be plenty of time for children. You want a better life for them, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Why the hesitation?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing.”

“I have no burning desire to study. That is my sister Lata’s department. I’d rather settle down.”

“Have children, you mean?”

I nodded, my cheeks warming.