Switch
By Yamini Vasudevan
She had forgotten to switch off the heater — again. She stepped inside the bathroom gingerly. That old rusted metal contraption was dragging out its swan song, and the owner of the house was in no hurry to end it. She only hoped she wouldn’t have to face a mess of melted metal, broken pipes and hot water before the owner could be convinced to buy a new heater. She couldn’t even go in for a shower now. The water would be too hot. Might as well soak some tamarind and dal while she was at it.
It had irked her through the day — and the annoyance continued. Even as she pulled her hair into a bun and raked a claw clip against her scalp. Even as she splashed water on her face, wiped it with her dupatta and then tossed the cloth into a bucket. Even as she pulled out two bowls and soaked the tamarind and dal. It was right there, almost taunting in the way it sneakily dominated her thoughts.
It had been delivered to her by courier just as she was stepping out and locking the door behind her. She wished she had left a few minutes earlier — that way, they may have missed her and sent it back, and it would have been a different day. But here it was. Pearl-white and gold-embossed lettering and a gold thread with a pearl-and-red tassel hanging at the end. How much more could one embellish an invite? Unless, of course, one made sure that real gold leaf was used. A small illustration of the bride and groom in traditional attire, created especially no doubt, was the cue to understand the purpose of the card. Not for them the hackneyed “XXX weds YYY”.
She wanted to tear it up and flush the pieces down the drain. Or, maybe, burn it and watch the last of the gold-embossed letters go up in smoke.
She sighed and placed the card on the table. She couldn’t even bring herself to toss it with abandon. Is it because they will need you to hold up this card and show it at the entrance to the hall? After all, their wedding planners wouldn’t immediately understand you were their ‘relative’. That was her sister’s voice in her head. Prema, the headstrong one, the one who tossed caution to the winds, married a Marthomite Christian and moved to Germany. An act that was seen as a smear across their family name. An act so despised that she was warned against even thinking of keeping up any ties with Prema. Not that Prema ever looked back — her life had come together as she wanted it. She had always said that the sooner she was able to free herself of this family the better it was. You should have done what I did. But you stupidly agreed to their terms. Now, well, you know what is going to come when you go for this wedding. Be warned, my sister — it’s like walking into a landmine.
***
The first thing she had noticed when the taxi had pulled in through the gates was the stump with ragged edges. It had been a big tree, with branches that spread out in a wide expanse. Broad, smooth leaves that looked like little green plates. She wondered what life was like now for the crow that had built a nest there.
She had walked up the two steps that led to the house, and went into the hall. She was home. Or maybe, ‘home’ was where she thought she was heading when she had boarded the plane one morning… how long ago was it? Did it even matter anymore? She remembered the immigration officer who had stamped her passport had looked pointedly at the knitted scar near her temple, but, thankfully, didn’t ask any questions. When the stewardess gave her the lunch tray, she peeled away the aluminum foil slowly, hesitantly. Then, she ate every bit of the meal, ensuring that not even a scrap was wasted.
Her mother and father had come to the airport then. They didn’t say anything, but their gaze rested more on the ground than on her face. She wondered if it was because they couldn’t bear to see the scar that marked her face. Or if they feared that their worry and anger would burn a hole through her.
Her parents were speaking in low tones in the other room, no doubt wondering what they would tell their relatives about her ‘visit’, of how to convert the permanent into temporary. She didn’t want any part of the conversation. Sometimes, it was better not to know what was going to happen — it left room for hope.
***
They say hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. What about a woman who has had her heart broken? Her heart and her bones. Who tries to bide time as she is told but is unable to let go of her desire for freedom…which clings to her fingertips like the smidgen of turmeric that she can never wash away from her nails.
It should have been a smidgen of red on her brow or the tip of her hair parting that would never wash away. And yet, here she is, shamelessly talking about turmeric. Not that she is even a great cook! If not, would that man have let her go so easily?
Was that the voice of Lalitamma, her athai? Lalithamma, who held court in both her own and her husband’s houses well into her silver years, eclipsing the authority of her own parents and in-laws with her sharp, acerbic words and firm-set chin. Lalithamma’s husband worked in some town in North India for most of his life but made sure a substantial portion of his salary was sent home — in her name. Well, she who holds the cash holds the reins. There was no question of contesting her, the one who also lavished attention on her husband whenever he was home. Seven-course meals and tumblers of fragrant coffee were the norm, as were elaborately planned trips to out-of-town temples to pray for the well-being of her husband and his family.
That’s why my husband has never posed even one question to me all my life. Not one! And he has never grudged me anything. And THAT is why I WILL die a sumangali, with all the possible honours a woman can hope for.
Lalithamma’s voice in her head was beginning to grate on her nerves. She sighed and closed her eyes. It would be all these words and more. In the myriad voices of all her uncles and aunts.
No, she didn’t want to cry. When she opened her eyes, she realised she was clutching the invitation card with both her hands.
***
The loud cheery jingle made her jump up with a start. What? Who? At this time?
She ran over to the table and hurriedly pulled out her cellphone from her bag. It was Renu, the girl who had started out as her colleague a year ago, when she had moved out of her parents’ home, and was now one of her closest friends.
“Have you packed? We are going to be there in ten minutes.”
“Packed? Why?”
“You didn’t see your messages? Dei, didn’t you send her the message? You idiot! I told you to tell her first. Now we are going to be late, and the police will catch us!”
“What happened? Who is with you?”
“It’s me and Priya. She was supposed to message you. Anyway, you do know there is a month-long lockdown, right? So, Priya said we should all just stay together in her house till the lockdown lifts. Madhu is also coming over. Why stay alone and suffer? Anyway we are all going to work from home — might as well enjoy each other’s company and cooking while we are at it. So, go and pack madam. We are coming to get you. I will give you a missed call when we reach.”
“Lockdown? But we just did…that day… For one month? But my cousin said she is getting married! I might have to go for that, you know…”
“What wedding? With Corona going around, all public events are cancelled. You can tell them you will see what to do, but I don’t think you can make it. You can watch the wedding on your phone or laptop if they stream it live. Now go and pack!”
She put the phone down and clutched the table for support. The relief was overwhelming — it flooded her chest and made her feel lightheaded. Her lips pulled up in a smile and stretched from ear to ear. She ran inside and hurriedly pulled out her clothes and toiletries and stuffed them in her suitcase. The soaked dal and tamarind were put inside plastic dabbas — she would make them her spicy sambar with small onions. And golden-fried baby potatoes. And tomato pachadi. She would also fry some appalams. No, vadams would go better…Paal payasam to end? Or badam kheer?
The phone rang twice and stopped — they were downstairs! Just before she closed the door behind her, she ran back inside and ensured that the heater was actually switched off.
Yamini is a writer and editor, currently working with a Chennai-based start-up called SARAS Works. Fiction is her long-standing love, matched only by her enthusiasm for good food, Baileys and travel.
