Will



I wrote my will many years ago as is customary for someone who decides to get organized. All of us go through phases of becoming organized and this was one of those.
Renu Pavate: to be returned to the soils of her native land, Mamdapur. Like Nehru and Indira, whose ashes were scattered over the Kashmir mountains. If Jammu Kashmir were to be another country, their spirits would haunt foreign lands.
Far, far, away across many seas and under a sunny cloud is the village of Mamdapur. Mamdapur exists though it is not visible on major atlases. A small village in north Canara, it is on the plains. This is where I originally come from. I am a villager, a settler that has turned into a hunter looking for different foods. I take my Bedouin rustic heart and children, camping to my village. Your father would never understand I tell the children, he is a foreigner. He will not understand what it is to wake up between peanuts and sunflowers. He says he has eaten peanuts with satay and seen sunflowers in Spain. “How cosmopolitan” we will say behind his back in English. We will search for water all day and climb rocks in the outskirts. We will freshen up under the hand pump. We will wear sunflowers in our hair. We will eat johaar bread with freshly made peanut butter (our American recipe) and sunflower seeds. We will soak ourselves in oil and bask in the strong sun. Before you sleep I will rub some sunflower oil on your eyelids, so your lashes grow long. We will go to the Pavate family home to collect mail and milk. We will speak excellent Kannada. I will hold you tightly my fledgelings safe from the eyes of the village idiot and goons.
Some miles away from Mamdapur, is our family temple. It is the closest big temple near us. It is called Yellamgud. Yellamma is the name of the goddess. I suspect she is the goddess of fertility though I am not sure. Gudi in Kannada means temple. It is pronounced as goody. One evening, my paternal grandmother, Amma, told stories about out temple. People who want children and people who seek to adopt an abandoned baby, left at Yellamma’s care, go for a pilgrimage to her sanctorum. Pregnant women are encouraged not to go as the negative charge is strong and this can be fatal. Temples were great adoption centers in the past and if an abandoned child is lucky even today they will find doting parents or a fine adoption center. But sin lurks too, eunuchs and pimps scrounge for babies at the temple steps. Bombay is not far away. Prostitution is color coded. If only one could make out the worth by the color of lipstick. A north Canara girl is half the price of her Himalayan fair cousin. The politics of prostitution and it is all humiliating. I flinch as a little limbless boy and his young mother thrust their hand into my car window in Delhi. They speak Kannada. “Neev yalinda banderi?” (where have you come from?). “North Canara” they reply. I have insomnia for nights.
The politics of beauty- A fashion show. Beauty in the 90s is about being secure with oneself. Women enter the ramp in multiples. The last thing you want them to feel is threatened by each other. On the contrary, it is fantastic if they can applaud each other. Skin color is passé. Be secure with oneself. Archie is the choreographer. “The look is street smart”, he announces “not innocent, not babe in woods, just street smart. Like women who take public transport in a crowded city and push their way from one end to another of a compartment. Now imagine you have a lollipop in your mouth, so you can’t speak, so you can’t express. Twist your way past, use your arms, look aware and graceful at the same time.” We go for a field trip in a crowded bus. Archie leading the way showing how to walk. 8 women behind him with lollipops from one end of the bus to the other and then repeat. The audience in the bus are confused yet struck.
The politics of fashion. Fashion shows are about skinny women- no one identifies with and clothes no one can wear. Stretch this to all design including architecture. Closed invites, delightful trendy music, lights dazzle across the room, pulse, sparkling wine in flutes. Buildings no one can use- splashed on empty walls. The ending is awkward. Should there be questions. The designer enters amid claps, beauties on his arms, bouquets in his hands, flashes of camera, bow bow smile. A middle aged blonde woman with clip on earrings, a Mrs. Trump, sticks her hand up. “I have a question” she squeals. “Why is the lapel turned” she starts to ask. Everyone looks at her as if she were from out of space. There is silence. The designer narrows his eyes wishing to annihilate her and expose her worldly ignorance. He says calmly, “This is my India collection, inspiration from indigenous cultures” he calls it Ulat Pulat (upside down).
My paternal grandfather, Ajja, studied under the village street lights and won scholarships for math. He came back to India and as a philanthropist, inaugurated education institutes all over the country. My family began seeing itself as a math family, till then we were just intellectual farmers. Even if we are not good with numbers we have genetically inherited an analytical state of being. We analyze ourselves, our health, the stock market, the oncoming pollen season and the hurricane season with dexterity. Conversations with my brother trying to calculate when El Nino will get over and La Nina will start. Both will bring allergies.
I went to school in Karnataka (Canara) and grew up there. I was a local who had come back home. One day while walking to college I saw a chalk scribbled “sexy” to make me cringe, over my grand fathers last name- Pavate. I could see my grandfather call his grandchildren into the living room and give us a lecture. He may have accepted tall, dark, handsome. This is not what he wanted his family to become. I felt ashamed and wanted to make amends. “Eh! leave the men of my family out of this”. I called a local goon, a friend’s friend’s friend. People understand no one worries about reputation as much as locals as they don’t enjoy anonymity. I said “I want you to find this person and tell him to stop, I don’t want you to hurt him, I don’t want a scene. Just plain English. Goons are known for bad tempers but treat them as humans with a sense of humor and they can be protective towards their friend’s friend. That night he stalked someone, pounced in the dead of night, asked to stop. The poor victim was so shaken he sent an apology note the next morning.
I have been to Mamdapur once. It was a long journey. Everyone came to see us. Like circus coming to town. Short haired, short dressed, curious 9-year-old with shiny silvery braces. I was with my ma and bhai (bro). We first went to see all the ancestor’s memorials then we went to see the village school. We then proceeded to the old Pavate family house. The men were away, the women greeted us warmly. We had yum stuffed eggplants for lunch. Would lunch have been more special had my dad come? Let’s hope not. My mom took my brother and me to the big room upstairs and we could lay on the huge charpoy. I noticed a house fly and followed its flight and rest. This is how I observed the room. The fly rested on the floor and I noticed the floor was polished with red oxide. The fly settled on the sill and I noticed the wooden window and stone sill and lintel. The fly rested on the charpoy head and I noticed the intricate wooden carvings. The fly fluttered against the wall and I noticed the wall was made of yellow sand stone. Years later I wondered there must be a sandstone quarry nearby or is this also from far lands. My brother sat up with a start “mummy, I am bored.” Mother was prepared to entertain us in her husband’s home. Let’s go and get some fresh milk. I don’t like farm fresh milk I grew up on Delhi municipality corporation packets and bottles. Mummy disappeared downstairs to check on other entertainment. My brother stood by the window and gazed at the land that stretched in front of him. We were in the early 80’s. I wondered as a male if he thought this was his land. Like Simba in Lion King. Beyond his land was the badlands. The sisters would get married and change their last names. The Hindu marriage law gives nothing from parents. In the early 80s we were presumptuous. I looked at him and said using telepathy “yours.”
Land marries land a statement similar to education marries education. There is a higher probability to marry a plantation owner, whom I have never met, than the vegetable vendor who comes home every second day. Proposals from Chic-Maglur. I have grown up considering my life on farms… oh of course I’d blend in. I could run every day in the estate. Grow oysters in the backyard pool, wear chiffon saris, home grown pearls and a smile for the evening club. I could fly kites through the day- some kid far in the hutments may join me and then we could have our friendship fly in the sky. I could bring sands from the beaches of Calingute and Marvante and create a zen garden forking new patterns everyday around rocks from the deccan Vindhyas. Maybe my husband and I would get along marvelously. Alone as if on an island we could play music together and sip our coffee. He plays the cello and I learn the drums. When my inlaws come to visit I can load their cars with Xenias from the garden and prepare gateau. Ha, just in case you thought I could not cook. I am brought up well. Holgis with hot ghee and milk, maaldi and hoogi followed by my modest lemon gateau. Just like in my grandmother’s home. My mom would come visit and introduce me to Arundhati Roy and Jhumpa Lahiri as she has with me in Boston. A little yellow sticky note plastered on the cover, a rounded handwriting saying “Read this” an arrow pointing to the right of the cover… into space. She could tell me stories of courageous women and men and I would tell her my husband does not love me.
Life on the farm is not easy. Besides supervising the crops for quality and profits, the home, myself, there are- so many lives to supervise. The wife beaters, the alcoholics, neglected children their health and education. Girls who blossom into youth, honor to be kept, love to be respected. I learn to drive for that late-night hospital rush. Being a woman I know how you may feel, though we are so distant, I have seen him chase you with a knife, I have held you tight as you shiver, I have cried with you, I have threatened him. I could have been you. We have a destiny that’s written and as women we know our place. I took rifle classes as part of National Cadet Corps. I don’t think I am good. Let the bandits try and break into my 100 acres home and I will be waiting on the rocking chair holding my rifle.
In Argos, before civilization knew about Christ and considered themselves BC- A number of women came to see wares brought by the Phoenician merchants. They stood near the vessels stern, buying what they fancied, suddenly the sailors made a rush for them and bundled them into a ship. One of these women was Io, the Argos king’s daughter. Abducting young daughters is not lawful, the Greeks say, but it is stupid after the event to make a fuss and avenge it. The Phoenician’s story was that Io slept with the captain, found herself pregnant and then sailed away voluntarily to escape exposure. Sons travel the world conquering and seeking peace. Daughters cannot travel as freely. The only way to travel across the world, explore and learn is to seek marriage. The king sighs on the loss of his daughter. Luckily there is no land attached to her. After Io, Europa, Medea, Chryseis, Briseis and many others are abducted. Finally, 40–50 years later an Asiatic prince brought back someone’s wife. The war was not about Helen, who did not love Menelaus and Paris was just a young boy. Priam tells Helen, she is not to blame, the gods are the ones who wanted to go to war. They are to blame.
The world has changed by leaps in a direction we called “civilized.” We are giving land to our daughters then why not re-divide between our sisters, my cousin aunts. Mamdapur got divided into many fractions each a handkerchief plot. A din of applause, will the Pavate family please stand up. Please stand up. As you expand your mind, expand your hearts too. Let Mamdapur go to one who breathes life into it, not death. I am happy to get to camp there once in my lifetime.
At an older age, I see myself out of Naguib Mahfouz’s novel. A woman dressed in loose Egyptian cotton, big windows that lets in plenty of light and high ceilings that dwarf me. Handel’s water suite plays in the background. I sit in my chair from the Raj. I put together a floral arrangement with sunflowers and coniferous greens. I look a combination of my grandmothers. Peppered hair and lipstick that from my youth that has become a habit. Astrologers say I shall live to be very old. See me looking through the window. Old age is everywhere, its muddled. I look onto the street, the garbage collection, the seven Babblers chattering, the commadotcom and the exclamationdotcom banners flying. I see you coming down the lane. I smile and am glad to see you. So many years have passed we are now valuable repositories of oral history. You walk in. You complain of nagging spouses and arthritis. I notice you have the latest fall color on. Then the house domestic help barge into the room doing the whirling dervishes dance. They swirl. We shake our heads from side to side and tap our knees in rhythm. The frenzy escalates. “Youth” you say, “Buggers.” I look at you through my colored contacts, which I acquired when they said I needed spectacles. Fresh drinks, we toast again. This is what I have waited for all my life, dear friend, for this moment.
Designing death… Renu Pavate-Mehndiratta to wear a man’s loose soft white drawstring kurta pajama. It is comfortable to sleep in. If you choose to bring flowers a string of jasmines would smell great. Drink a gin and tonic with a twist of lemon, it is my favorite summer drink and summer is my favorite season. Incinerate me in the city crematorium. Keep it clean. Check with my children, if they have plans. In my obituary mention my only significant contribution to humankind a diary on 100 species of birds in the Indian subcontinent. Check organ donation forms. For further information check the appendix.

