Tell A Thousand Lies (30 page)

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It was March 13
^th
again. I was at Vennela’s grave. The years had not dulled my grief. Each anniversary I felt as weighted by pain as the day I’d lost her. Janaki aunty stayed with me for a brief while, then left; she knew I needed the time alone. “You were in my life such a short time,” I told my daughter. “Nine wonderful months.” I studied the
gulmohar
tree, its flowers a bright red against the cloudless sky. How cruel that the flowers should be in full bloom, while my baby never had a chance. “Your father felt such awe when you kicked against my belly. That was the only time the three of us were together as a family.” Memories of Srikar washed over me, our time together, our plans for the baby. My chest constricted with pain. “You’d have been five years old today. You’d be in school by now, talking like a parrot. My heart splintered when I had to leave your father. When you left, you shattered it.” I leaned my forehead against my palm, blinking back tears, unable to continue.

Something caused me to raise my head. A couple, both of them short and skinny, stood across from me, eyeing me strangely.

“What are you doing here?” the man said.

I looked at them, not sure what he was getting at.

“You are sitting at our daughter’s grave.”

Had the man lost his mind? “You must be mistaken,” I told him. “My daughter is buried here.”

“No, she’s not,” the woman said. “This is our daughter.” She pointed to the
gulmohar
tree. “I was leaning against that when they buried her.”

I felt lightheaded. Something wasn’t right. “When did your child die?” I had to force the words past the terror in my throat.

“March 13, five years ago,” the couple said together.

“Are you sure?” I wiped my damp hands on my sari. I shivered despite the heat.

The woman took a step back. “Not something I’m likely to forget, is it?”

“Where was she born?”

“Government Maternity Hospital,” the man said, compassion in his eyes.

I got up so suddenly, the woman gave a start. I started to run. I ran past the gates of the cemetery, past the open plot of land, through the gate of the Home for Destitute Women. The watchman’s jaw went slack as I bolted past him to the building in the centre, up the stairs to the office of
Manga
Madam, Warden.

She looked up. “You came,” she said. There was no inflection in her voice.

“What did you do with my baby?” I screamed, pouncing on her, clawing at her face.

“
Ayah
!
Ayah
! Get this mental woman off me,” she screeched.

Two
ayahs
flew in, but not before I had drawn blood, I saw with savage satisfaction. Drops started to trickle down the Warden’s face. The women pulled me off, each tightly holding onto an arm.

“My baby,” I shouted, crying. “Where is my baby?”

“We were instructed by your grandfather to give him away.”

“Him? Him? I had a boy and you never told me?” I lunged at the Warden, feeling a hatred so intense that if I hadn’t been restrained by her flunkies, I would have strangled her. The Warden took a step back. “You crazy woman! You gave birth to a healthy boy. We just told you the dead girl was yours so you wouldn’t cause trouble. Don’t ask me where the child is, because I don’t know.”

I crumpled to the floor.

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When I came to, I was in the hospital. Janaki aunty sat there, the strain on her face showing. This was getting familiar.

“Aunty, do you know what they did?” I asked. I didn’t even have the strength to cry.

“Yes, Child,” she said, stroking my hair, crying. “I found out.”

“All these years, Aunty. I thought my baby was dead. But they gave him away.”

“When they showed me the stillborn girl, I thought she was yours,” she whispered. “They fooled me, too.”

“I have a little boy somewhere.” My voice broke. I grabbed her hands. “Please find him for me, Aunty,” I begged. “Please, please. I can’t bear not knowing where he is.”

“Pullamma,” Aunty said. “The Home maintains no paperwork. Even if it did, they’re not likely to tell me.” She put her head to my cheek. “He could be anywhere in the world by now.” She started to tremble.

When Vennela died, I thought I’d experienced all the pain I could endure in a lifetime. How wrong I was. I felt as if my body were on fire, like hot knives stabbed my heart, like cleaning acid dripped into raw wounds, all at the same time. I started to gasp, I clutched at my throat. The nurse flew in – to put me out of my misery, I hoped.

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Early next morning, Janaki aunty helped me down the steps of the hospital, and into the waiting taxi. Our luggage was already loaded. “Let’s go,” she told the driver.

“I need to make a stop along the way,” I said.

Janaki aunty gave me a questioning look.

“I want to say goodbye to Vennela.”

Aunty seemed stunned. “But I thought… I mean…”

“I may not have given birth to her, Aunty. But I held her, I named her. Five long years, I grieved for her. She will always be the daughter I lost.”

Janaki aunty seemed at a loss for words, but instructed the taxi driver anyway. At the cemetery, she held on to my arm, giving me worried looks. After visiting my daughter’s grave one last time, we got on the National Highway, heading away from Vennela, towards Bangalore, towards oblivion.

Chapter 39

The Search for my Son

B
ack in Bangalore, I couldn’t settle back in my internship. The thoughts of my son consumed me. “Aunty, what if he’s out on the streets, uncared for, unfed, unloved?”

“Child, don’t do this to yourself. Think of him safe and happy. That’s the only way you’ll get through this. Till we find him.”

I tried hard to remain positive. I’d imagine him in my lap, his sticky little hands holding my face, his plump little arms winding around my neck. Was he doing this to some other woman – a woman he thought of as his mother? Did she love him, appreciate him, take care of him? I’d sit on the chair in our flat, watching traffic, thinking, thinking, thinking.

“Don’t ruin your future with your own hands,” Aunty begged. “You’ve come this far. Finish your education. Start working.”

“My child is out there; where, I don’t know. My husband is lost to me, as well. Is there even a point to my existence?”

“Snap out of your self-pity, Pullamma.” Aunty was angry. “You think I’ve had it easy? I have a grown son who wants nothing to do with me, a grandchild who… I…” Aunty swallowed. “You have a husband who loves you, you have some hope of finding your child. Pull yourself together so when life gives you a second chance with your family, you’re ready to take it.”

I squared my shoulders. “You want me to finish my education, I’ll finish my education. But it has to be in Hyderabad. I will not live in Bangalore. If I cannot be with my husband, I can at least be in the same town as him.”

“What about Kondal Rao?”

“To hell with Kondal Rao.”

“You want to leave in the middle of your internship?”

“That’s your problem. You want to me finish, you find out how to transfer me to a college in Hyderabad. Because that’s where I’ll be.”

“Fine, we’ll move. But you listen to me. Before we move, you’ll get your hair cut. You’ll also get the mole below your nose removed, eyebrows thinned. And change your clothing style, make it more modern. The chances of being recognized in Hyderabad are much greater.”

I stared at her, trembling in shock. Cut my hair? Wear sleeveless blouses? What was Aunty saying? I came from a good family. What would people think? What would Ammamma say? What would Srikar? “But Aunty –”

“Don’t ‘Aunty’ me.” Her voice was harsh. “I’m trying to help you here.”

That evening I sat in a beauty parlour awaiting my haircut. When the woman snipped the first lock, I felt a pang. How Srikar had loved my long, silky hair! My hair was styled professionally – none of that jasmine scented Parachute coconut hair oil for me. My eyebrows were shaped, one painful pluck at a time. The stylist urged me to look in the mirror, probably wanting acknowledgment of her handiwork. But I couldn’t. I was embarrassed at my bold behaviour, at the attention it was sure to draw to me. How could I have agreed to such a thing?

As if that weren’t bad enough, the sleeves on my blouses were snipped off. People’s eyes fell on my bare arms, then skittered away, as if consciously trying not to rest their eyes there. Meanwhile I worked hard at looking directly in people’s eyes, pretending I wasn’t dying a little each time. The mole, which had caused me hours of agonizing, was removed.

It took me a few days before I was able to look in the mirror. I had to agree it brought out my best features, though I couldn’t get over my self-consciousness.
  

Aunty made the arrangements for me to transfer to a different college in Hyderabad. We packed up our apartment.

Then we moved to Hyderabad.

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The hospital staff in Hyderabad, where I restarted my internship, often complimented me. Assuming Aunty and I were mother and daughter, they’d tell me how pretty I was, even though I didn’t have my mother’s skin colour, ‘you poor thing.’

But I did not feel pretty. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a pretty woman all right, but I didn’t see me.

Aunty also taught me how to carry myself. Above all, she tried to teach me to value myself. She saw me use my fairness cream. “Why do you use that?” she asked.

“I… I don’t know.” And I really didn’t. It was like eating with my right hand, or oiling my hair daily – something I had been taught early on, but never thought about.

But Aunty was having none of it. “Have self-respect, Child,” she said. “You have such lovely skin. Let it be. The colour of your skin can’t reflect the person you are. The skin is just external – all it does is hold your body together. It’s what’s inside that counts, what defines you as the person you are. Look at Kondal Rao. His skin is as white as can be. Is that colour reflected in his soul?”

I must have looked unconvinced, because Aunty continued, “Surely there are more important things in life than the colour of one’s skin? You are demeaning yourself by thinking you will somehow be a better person if the tone of your skin is lightened. Besides, God chose your skin. Are you saying he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

God might know, but all those television ads exhorting me to buy fairness creams to make myself ‘lovely’ apparently didn’t. I threw away my tubes of fairness cream because it seemed to make Aunty happy. But I felt bereft without them.

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Every spare moment I had, I spent walking the streets of Hyderabad, searching for my little boy.

“What are you doing to yourself?” Aunty said, despairing.

“What other options do I have?” Then it occurred to me. “Aunty, do you have any contacts in that Home?”

“What do you mean?”

“There has to be some proof of my son’s existence. Some private records they won’t let us see. He couldn’t have disappeared without a trace.”

“Ganga was an
ayah
there,” Aunty said slowly. “She might be able to help.”

“Can you get in touch with her?”

Aunty set things in motion.

Ganga phoned a week later. “The Warden is away for two days. Come now.”

“Right now?” It was five in the morning.

“By evening. You don’t know what a risk this is for me.”

“I do know. I’m very grateful –”

“Just bring the money. Meet me at the tea shack behind the Home. At seven, sharp. If you’re late, I’ll leave.”

We were at the shack by six o’clock. “What if she isn’t able to bring the register?” I said.

“Money is a good motivator, Child. Don’t worry, she’ll be here.”

I rested a cheek on the grimy chipped
decolam
of the table. “What if the Warden lied? What if I had a girl? For all I know, she is somewhere on the streets, abused and battered.”