The Rice Mother (30 page)

Inside her head she saw crystal clear the dreaded old Chinese fortune-teller and recalled the words she had fought so hard to forget.
“Beware your eldest son. He is your enemy from another life returned to punish you. You will know the pain of burying a child. You will attract an ancestral object of great value into your hands. Do not keep it and do not try to gain from it. It belongs in a temple.”
But if she gave the statue away to a temple, it would mean she believed the cursed man and his wild predictions. Yes, she had lost a child, but so had thousands of people. It was the war. That’s what war did. It killed your children. The fortune-teller could not,
must not,
be believed. Her favorite firstborn was
not
an enemy. She simply refused to believe it even when she held the green jade doll very close, and it whispered, “Beware your eldest son.” If she put the statue deep into the showcase behind the corals and behind the colorful pipe-cleaner birds, she thought she could will the fortune-teller wrong. But her will consumed her, and her eldest son’s destroyed her.

I remember Mother saying that Lakshmnan had begun to grind his teeth in his sleep after Mohini died. Suddenly I began to fear Lakshmnan. I don’t know where the fear came from, but I was terrified of him. It was not that he hit me or hurt me, or that I had seen him punch a hole in the wall in a temper or do some of the other things that Anna and Mother grumbled about. But suddenly in my mind he was no longer beating the clothes on the stone with the sparkling water droplets flying like diamonds around him, but an angry
asura,
one of the cruel giants that rule the underworld. I felt his anger under his skin so close to the surface that the smallest, slightest scratch could make it come rushing out, red-faced and uncontrollable. I don’t even remember when he stopped calling me, “Hey, kid,” in that stylish way of his.

After the Japanese left, I was sent to school, but I was only an average student. My best friend was Nalini. We found each other when the Chinese girls in our class refused to sit beside us, complaining to the teachers that we were dark because we were filthy. When the teachers forced them to sit with us, they complained to their mothers, who arrived in school to demand that their daughters be allowed to sit apart from the Indian girls. “Indian girls have lice in their hair,” they claimed haughtily, untruthfully. So Nalini and I ended up sitting together. We were both dark and plain, but she was a great deal poorer because I had something she had not. I had Mother.

To me, Mother is a fine woman. Without her, none of us would be here today. I am deeply sorry for my inability to make her proud of me. I would gladly become the successful extension of her that she worked so hard to mold us all into. How I wish I could have been in the picture that Mother painted in her mind. I can imagine that picture; it is a perfect birthday-party scene in a beautiful house. Perhaps it is the birthday of one of Lakshmnan’s children, and all of us are driving into his grand driveway in our expensive cars. We are all wearing nice clothes, with our husbands and wives smiling beside us and our children running forward to fling themselves joyfully at their smiling grandmother. Her arms are open to receive the many tiny bodies in their beautiful clothes. Then Lakshmnan bends his six-foot-two-long body and kisses Mother gently on the cheek. Lakshmnan’s wife smiles indulgently in the background. Beside her there is a table full of gaily wrapped presents and a delicious spread of food.

Why, I sometimes wonder, does Anna not want this picture? Why does she have such carefully concealed contempt toward Mother for wanting it? I long for it. Anna behaves as if Mother has ruined this whole family. That is perfectly untrue.

Lakshmnan’s wife accuses Mother of being a tan-colored female spider. She says that to avoid being devoured, our poor father brings home a brown envelope full of money every month. Yes, perhaps Mother is a tan spider. All her life she has spun from nothing food, exquisite clothes, love, education, and shelter for us all. I am the daughter of the spider. I can’t but think her beautiful. I have spent my whole life trying to make Mother happy. For when she is happy, the entire house rejoices, the walls smile broadly, the curtains flutter with joy, the light blue cushion covers laugh in the sunshine that pours through the open windows. Even the flame in the cooker dances with delight. As I look to her, inside me strange feelerlike things are unfurling in the wish to be like her, even though I know that it is Father that I resemble.

I can’t think of a problem that has ever defeated Mother. She takes them in her hand easily, fearlessly, as if they are only handkerchiefs needing to be folded. Occasionally there are tears to be shed, but they too can be tidied away. When the Japanese left, Father was fifty-three years old. There were still seven mouths to feed in the house, and so Mother and I got on a bus to see Mr. Murugesu, a distant relative on Father’s side. He worked in a hospital. He ushered us into his bright, roomy office with whitewashed walls and a paper-filled desk as if we were important guests that he felt honored to have in his presence.

“Come in, come in,” he invited earnestly. You could tell straightaway that he was the decent type. Behind him large bay windows opened out into a pretty square garden. A covered corridor ran through the middle of the garden, joining two buildings. Nurses and doctors chatted and walked along the corridor. Mynah birds rested in the trees, and two boys played conkers. Outside it looked rather fun, but inside, Mother was crying. Mr. Murugesu had visibly shrunk in his chair. Mother dabbed her eyes with one of Father’s large handkerchiefs and begged Mr. Murugesu to offer Father a job.

“Look how small my youngest is,” she implored, her face turning to me. “How will I feed and clothe them all?” she asked the bewildered Mr. Murugesu. A few more minutes of this, and he shot up from his chair as if his seat had suddenly become too hot to sit on. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he assured her gruffly, adjusting his glasses and opening a drawer on his left. “Ask your husband to come and see me. I’m sure we will find something in the accounts department for him. We can talk about his salary when he gets here.”

Mother stopped crying and thanked him profusely. Big, warm waves of gratitude came out of her to envelop the discomfited man. “Pleasure, pleasure,” Mr. Murugesu mumbled. From inside his drawer he produced a square tin. With the tin in his hands, his eyes were losing that bewildered helpless look. He opened it and offered the contents to me. Inside was a selection of Indian cakes, glazed with sugar and shiny with temptation. I picked out a
ladhu.
“Thank you,” I said shyly. It was big and substantial in my hand. The aroma of sugar and cardamom wafted tantalizingly up into my face. By now the benevolent Mr. Murugesu had completely recovered himself and was wearing a delighted smile.

“Don’t eat it here. You will make a mess of Mr. Murugesu’s office,” Mother advised in her don’t-you-dare-show-me-up-in-front-of-strangers voice.

“No, no, let the child eat it now,” Mr. Murugesu insisted in his high, happy voice.

I bit into the bright yellow-and-red round ball. Instantly, soft round crumbs fell on my nice going-out clothes and rolled onto Mr. Murugesu’s polished gray floor. I remember looking up surreptitiously at Mother. She was glaring at me angrily. Her eyelashes were still wet, but by then all her tears were already neatly folded into Father’s white handkerchief.

The war was over, and there was much to rejoice about. Old Soong was turning sixty. Third Wife had decided to throw him a gala birthday party. A fortune-teller had predicted that this might be the last birthday for Old Soong. So it had been decided that it would be a celebration to rival all celebrations. All the wives and children would be there. For days the cook had soaked, stuffed, tied, marinated, baked, fried, and stored in airtight tins all sorts of delicacies. Mui Tsai cleaned, polished, washed, and helped in the kitchen. The whole house had been decorated with red banners painted with special writing for even more prosperity.

Even Third Wife spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, tasting, advising, and scolding. Cook had prepared the master’s favorite dish, dog meat, in three different guises. In one she had dropped powdered tiger’s tooth for continued vigor, in another powdered rhinoceros horn for sexual vitality, and in the last aromatic roots for good health. Special long noodles had arrived to bestow the master with longevity. There was a glazed suckling pig grasping a gaudy orange in its mouth. There was even a dish of bearded wild boar. To start the meal there were two types of soup—shark’s fin and bird’s nest.

Everything was ready. Even Mui Tsai had been given a new plum-colored outfit for the special occasion.

On the appointed day the guests began to arrive. In large shiny cars they poured out, their prosperity evident in their corpulence. In beautiful clothes they entered Old Soong’s house. Mui Tsai had passed by our house in the morning, and in her tired eyes had been barely contained excitement that Mother said she had not seen for a very long time.

“My sons will be here today. I will see them all,” Mui Tsai whispered to Mother.

It was a very big occasion, so the whole neighborhood came out onto their verandas to watch. From our veranda I could see Mui Tsai flitting in and out of the kitchen, keeping an eye on the arriving guests, waiting impatiently for her first look at her stolen sons. Eventually, the First Wife arrived, Mui Tsai’s sons flanking her. They were dressed in identical flame-red Chinese costumes embroidered with colorful birds of paradise. They stood erect and proud beside her, looking around them curiously. I could see Mui Tsai standing by the kitchen door, transfixed by the sight of her second- and third-born. Then came Second Wife, and she had the other two younger boys. They wore blue silk and pushed each other boisterously.

At the sound of crashing cymbals the lion dance began. Six men inside a colorful lion costume pranced and danced to an enchanted audience.

After the children were fed, they were allowed out to play. While everybody was inside eating, I saw Mui Tsai slip out to watch her children playing, going as close to them as she dared. She stood very still, watching her sons. They rushed about with sticks, pretending they were guns. Perhaps they were the victorious British, for spotting Mui Tsai staring at them, they pointed at her and, shouting in Chinese, they began picking up handfuls of sand and small pebbles from the driveway and bombarding their Japanese enemy, Mui Tsai. I saw her go rigid with shock.

“Hey!” Mother screamed from our veranda. Putting on her slippers, she ran toward Old Soong’s house. “Hey, stop that!” she called out angrily, but in the throes of their cruel game and their own whoops and shouts of victory, Mother’s voice was lost. Second Wife appeared at the doorway and said something in such a stern voice that the boys hung their heads in shame. Mother stopped running. The boys ran to Second Wife and kissed her hand in apology. She said something else in a gentler voice, and they ran to the other side of the house, where a selection of sweet Nyonya cakes specially ordered from Penang waited. Second Wife went back into the house without looking at the stone figure of Mui Tsai.

At the gate I saw Mother call to Mui Tsai gently.

She walked toward Mother in a daze. There was a small cut in her forehead, and blood was trickling out.

“When I was young, I used to throw stones at the pregnant stray dog at the marketplace. Sometimes we even threw stones at the beggars who came to our houses. This is my punishment,” she said softly.

“Oh, Mui Tsai, I’m so sorry. They don’t know,” Mother consoled the poor girl.

“And they will never know. But they look well, don’t they, my children? Their eyes are bright, and one day they will inherit all that is my master’s.”

“Yes, they will.”

She turned away sadly and entered the house through the back door. That was the last time Mother saw Mui Tsai. Suddenly she was no more, and in her place was another Mui Tsai who went about her business without a smile or the slightest inclination to befriend the neighbors. For a time no one knew what had happened to our Mui Tsai or where she was. Then one day, Old Soong’s cook answered Mother’s query by making a circling motion with her index finger against her temple. “No,” Mother said, her head shaking, her feet moving backward. “No, no, not her.”

I
t all happened such a long, long time ago, and to return to that time so full of hope is horrendously painful now. I was a young man then, and it didn’t seem wrong to gain a bride with a bouquet of lies, but I have paid dearly for it, and yet I wouldn’t change one moment of my life with Lakshmi.

Not one moment.

I wasn’t allowed to see the bride until the day of the wedding. When I heard the drummers quicken their beat, I knew it meant she was approaching. Unable to wait another moment, I looked up to see the face of my new bride, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I saw your grandmother. The only secret aspiration that I had ever harbored was to stand in a cave of ice, but here in my grasp was something far better than my wildest dream. Here was a girl of unimaginable wild beauty.

As I stared at her, she looked up, but because I was so big and ugly, the first emotion that came into her face when our eyes met was horror. She looked like a small, frightened deer caught in a hunter’s net. And if she had remained so I would have cared for her dearly and tenderly like I did my first wife, but as I watched, a wonderful transformation occurred. Her spine straightened, and her eyes became fierce and bold. I watched a deer turn into a large and beautiful tiger. And quite without warning my drab little world turned upside down. Inside me I felt my stomach slip, slide and softly sink right down to the bottom of my body. “Who are you?” my shocked heart whispered inside my body. Then and there I fell in love. So deeply that the organs inside my body moved.

I knew straightaway that she would never be just someone to bring up my two children or the companion of my old age, but the woman who would turn me into a puppet on a string. With one fair hand she had jerked my motionless limbs into life. Ah, and what exquisite movements my limbs made under her bold hand.