Life Among the Scorpions Page 2

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  Despite the Hindu Succession Act of 1956 and the Joint Hindu Family System (Abolition) Act which finally ended the legal entities of the matrilineal system in 1976, many families in Kerala still give the name of the mother’s taravad to the child in the form of the initial before the given name. Named after my maternal grandmother, as per practice, I could choose to call myself T. (for Thottekat) Jayalakshmi, or Jayalakshmi (Jaya for short) Chettur, after my father, according to Western or north Indian practice. In the midst of these typically Malayali matrilineal confusions in nomenclature, an English nanny employed by my parents to look after me in New Delhi found it impossible to grapple with my real name. Nanny Gwynne thus decided to call me June after the month in which I was born. While she left when the British officially quit India, she left me with the name, in quite the same manner as India was left with Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, Cawnpore* and the rest, for quite some time. My mother didn’t mind because the slight colonial warp still functioned in her psyche. Alongside high-heeled shoes and tennis at the Gymkhana Club, she rather liked an English name for me, and made me wear a fringed, short-cut hairstyle and learn to play the piano. I hated all of it but dared not rebel. As an only child, one had no instigators or a reliable support system that siblings usually provide.

  Those who were in school and college still ask, ‘Aren’t you June?’ In college in the USA it was June Jayalakshmi Chettur. It was only when I was about to be married to Ashok Jaitly that I decided that if I was changing one name, I might as well change the other. Thus, Jaya Jaitly finally emerged.

  The transforming process of the matrilineal system is well demonstrated by the fact that I could legally use and be addressed by both my family names when I was in Kerala, without any sense of a fractured identity. Today, it enables me to recognize any person with the taravad names Chettur or Thottekat as being related to me, even if these names are hidden in an initial preceding the more widely used Nair, Menon or Pillai surnames to indicate the caste. This is quite different from the North Indian practice of nearly always using a caste name such as Sharma, Singh or Yadav to define the person’s main identity. These cultural contrasts came to mind quite often when I settled down to a long life in North India.

  Meanwhile, even within my own matrilineal household, there was a subtle distinction made between descendants from the Brahmin line and those from Kshatriya mothers. I experienced the disquiet of discrimination without understanding it when some of my cousins parted company from me at mealtimes to eat in a separate dining area. The banana leaves were laid out on the floor in a similar fashion; the food was cooked for everyone by the Brahmin cook and served by the same assortment of maidservants. The girls all bathed together in the natural water tank or in the large bathhouse and slept side by side, giggling and whispering till the elders rebuked us. Yet, those of us who weren’t of pure Brahmin parents could not eat with the others. When I repeatedly asked why, my mother would scowl at me for asking embarrassing questions while her Brahmin cousins looked away.

  *See http://www.nytimes.com/1988/01/29/world/trivandrum-journal-where-births-are-kept-down-and-women-aren-t.html

  *The names of these cities have now changed to Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai and Kanpur respectively.

  2

  MALABAR MATRIARCHY

  Experiencing My Roots

  AFTER INDEPENDENCE, THE STAY AT the summer capital of Simla ended. The government remained in Delhi. That gave my mother the opportunity of going to Kollengode to her cousins, or to Trichur (now Thrissur), to her brothers and sisters, during my summer holidays. She continued this practice even when my father was sent abroad to head the first Indian Liaison Mission, and then Embassy, in Tokyo in 1950. Thanks to this new summer routine, I could continue with my almost passionate attachment to all things Malayali. It allowed me to avoid practising ‘The Blue Danube’ on the piano, snacking only on chole bhature or Bengali Market’s pani puri*, listening to ghazals and watching kathak performances. The latter never caught at my heartstrings the way Guruvayur temple’s vadyams or chakyar koothus** did.

  The completely different way of life practised in a matrilineal taravad of Kerala became the foundation of childhood memories that defined my identity. It was embodied in many things. For instance, mukkeri, the gritty, black tooth powder wrapped in small square pieces of newspaper, which were wedged between ierkalas, the finely stripped, split lengths of flexible cane, used as tongue cleaners. They were laid out on the edge of the verandah with shining brass water containers for us to brush our teeth every morning. The elders and young ones lined up together to brush their teeth and clean their tongues with these homemade toiletries. The tart flavour of kadugu manga pickle with crisp dosas and freshly set curd, or white spongy idlis dipped in podi and melted ghee for breakfast, the delicious soft mush sucked out of the murungyakaya in the sambar, with chunky unpolished red rice, raw banana vegetable, and finally tomato rasam and small puffy papadams crumbled into the slightly warm and slightly sweet curd at the end of the meal, mapped out my taste buds forever. The waxy feel of the two foot-long banana leaves on which we ate, the clang of the brass tumbler being put down on a stone parapet, the sweet smell of dark green body oils and the rasping sound of gas lanterns being pumped to life at dusk—are special markers of a Malayali memory. I recall the beautiful quietude while the lanterns lit up the long corridors flanked with huge teakwood pillars, deep red floors and elaborately carved doorways over thresholds that were a foot-and-a-half wide. The Vengunad Palace in Kollengode, or the imposing Kollengode House on Museum Road, next to the zoo in Chembukavu in Thrissur, became the worlds in which I gathered my memories of belonging rather than of transition.

  At the sprawling house full of elders and cousins, Shakuntala was our special playmate.* She was a pert, pretty, fair-skinned maid, full of fun and stories. She was so brisk at her work that all the aunts called for her to oil their bodies and pour water on them in the bathhouse. We too would insist that she help with our baths which for us was often the main event of the day. These were often elaborate two-hour affairs with time for swimming in the women’s side of the water tank with either just knickers, or torthu mundus, garments wrapped around the upper halves of those who had begun to develop contours. It was a time when sweet-smelling oils like the greenish neelibhringadi, the garnet-red medicinal kuzhambus or pale yellow coconut oil, each with its own distinctive aroma would be applied on us. This was followed by a good scrub with kadalamavu (or gram flour) which we loved to mix into a paste ourselves. For those under ten, Shakuntala did the scrubbing. We hated it when it was done by the crabby older maids who would put oil in our eyes. Ugly, dark green Hamam soaps, melon-red Lifebuoys, or Mysore sandal soaps, meant only for the elders, were kept at hand in case anyone wanted fashionable toiletries. We had to oil and wash our hair every day; otherwise, it would not have been a proper kuli, the Malayalam for bath that was inclusive of hair-wash. The evening bath, not requiring a hair-wash, was a melgarugal, which translates into ‘a wash of the body’. Malayalam is full of these subtle definings. We were allowed to avoid a kuli only if we were sick. We considered each other filthy pigs unless we had a bath in the morning and a melgarugal in the evening every day. After dusk, following the prayer-ritual towards the family deity, the priest came over to everyone with the oil lamp for the ritualistic obeisance. We all had to have finished our melgarugal and settled down to more contemplative play for the evening. Bathing was almost a complete pastime in itself. Sometimes, wrapped in torthu mundus, we would practice dance steps or enact plays in the bathhouse in which the king and queen were given large-sized ‘English’ towels to wear as capes.

  One dull summer afternoon, while the elders were napping, Shakuntala introduced us to the Ouija board. She told us that if we wrote out the alphabet with chalk in a circle on the floor, upturned a glass at the centre of the board, put our fingertips on the glass very lightly, decided on a question for which we wanted an answer, closed our eyes tight and concentrated on a dea
d person, the spirit of that person would come to tell us the answer. We were enthralled. It was scary, mysterious and fun. It also made us fight raucously, accusing each other of pushing the glass and cheating—and that made it even better.

  ‘Did Gopalan steal Venu Mama’s pen?’ we asked the spirit of Napoleon. There had been a big commotion one morning about an uncle’s lost pen.

  ‘No,’ replied Napoleon through the Ouija board.

  ‘Who did, then?’ we wanted to know.

  ‘Ammalu Amma,’ the glass spelled out.

  ‘Will Ettamma* allow us to stay up all night at Arattu**?’

  ‘Yes,’ assured the Ouija board.

  ‘Where is June’s Achan going to be posted next?’

  ‘Rangoon.’

  Of course, we already knew that, and had only asked the Ouija board to check whether Napoleon really knew the correct answer. He seemed to understand Malayalam and no one else knew French except me.

  For many afternoons, we frowned, concentrated, shushed each other, and asked the Ouija board many things. The favourite ones were about the love affairs of the servants or famous movie stars. Shakuntala would feed us the questions. She loved to tell us about who said what to whom in the kitchen or bathhouse. She also told us how she and Gopalan, who, according to the Ouija board, was the one who had not, repeat, not stolen Venu Mama’s pen, were, well…going to get married. They had to save up some money first. This got us so excited that we ogled and giggled knowingly at Gopalan every time he walked past us on his way to uncle’s quarters. He seemed to not notice us at all.

  For almost two months we were totally engrossed in this delicious and mystical journey into the unknown spirit world; Shakuntala was the driving force. Then suddenly, things changed. Shakuntala began to make excuses to stay away from the game.

  Where are you going? Why are you not playing with us? Are you going to meet Gopalan on the sly? Have you fixed a date for your wedding? What is keeping you so busy? We interrogated her ceaselessly. Her answer was always a vague smile. She would promise to be back in a minute but not return. Sometimes her excuses did not ring true. Now we saw her only at bathtime or when cleaning utensils and mopping floors. She seemed to be looking downwards while doing all these chores and not at us. Her spare time was no longer ours. The fun and laughter seemed to have gone out of her. Yet we noticed that she put more kohl around her eyes, and a couple of extra gold bangles around her wrists. Her blouses were getting too tight. The elder cousins speculated if her romance with Gopalan was so ‘hot’ that she could not play with us anymore. She’s just too fat and getting lazy, we younger lot offered. But by then, the game had taken possession of us to such an extent that we were lost among an eclectic set of ghosts like Queen Victoria, the mahout of the old family elephant Kesavan who had died two years ago, Subhas Chandra Bose, a distant uncle’s first wife who had died at childbirth, and anyone else we could think of. The very idea of a glass that lurched a few inches this way and that, was enough to make us believe that we were in a special world of spirits who would be at our beck and call if we concentrated hard enough. The thrill was often all-permeating. In the evenings, I would be scared to go alone up the main staircase to our sleeping quarters in case one of the spirits had decided to stay back and follow me.

  One afternoon, during our Ouija session, a cousin went off to the toilet, taking a rarely used route through the long outer corridor. She returned, agog. She had spotted Shakuntala slipping through the half open door, looking about to ensure that no one had seen her. We speculated on this for a bit but it did not hold our interest for long since we were busy coaxing the Ouija board to give us our exam results. As usual, the glass was moving in various directions and giving garbled replies that spelt nothing. Shakuntala’s absence irritated us when this happened. When she used to be around, the answers would come quickly and clearly, despite everyone swearing on god that they were not moving the glass themselves.

  A few weeks later, we heard raised voices from the main verandah where the aunts usually gathered in the evenings to socialize and discuss public problems, family news and administrative matters relating to the retinue of servants. Today, they sounded very angry. We crept up along the low parapet wall to see what was going on, but kept out of sight. To our amazement, the objects of our aunts’ ire were Shakuntala, standing teary-eyed, and Gopalan, looking sullen, as he usually did, and slightly defiant.

  ‘Useless woman! No time for work? Only time to spread your legs?’

  This was a common accusation hurled at the young maids from time to time, in which the older maids often joined in.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Gopalan and I are getting married,’ Shakuntala’s voice quivered but she was trying hard to defend her dignity.

  ‘So, Gopalan, when do you intend to marry her?’ asked aunt Radha.

  ‘Why should I marry her? I do not know for sure that she is carrying my child,’ Gopalan became more distant and surly.

  Shock among the aunts.

  ‘Girl, what do you have to say to that?’ asked aunt Thangam.

  Quietly, Shakuntala replied, ‘Thamburati, this is his child. He is refusing to own it. But it was he who told me to earn more money so that we could set up our home sooner. So you better ask more superior menfolk why they call me to their rooms in the afternoon,’ she spat out bitterly.

  There was a deathly silence among the aunts.

  ‘Who will touch her?’ asked Gopalan quietly, with a sneer, with no change in his sullen expression as he walked away.

  Shakuntala was ordered to leave immediately. Gopalan stayed. The elders never discussed the subject in front of us.

  There were only a few days of that holiday remaining before my mother and I set off for Rangoon (now Burma) to join my father and a new school.

  ‘There was a letter from Kollengode today,’ my mother said some weeks later as we sat at the end of the verandah of the Indian Embassy residence in Rangoon. I was in the midst of doing my homework.

  ‘Remember that poor young maid Shakuntala? They say she hanged herself from a tree outside of town.’

  We gathered at Kollengode again during my next summer holiday. One afternoon, a cousin remembered the Ouija sessions. Someone thought we should call Shakuntala’s spirit. After all, she had taught us the game; surely she would return to play with us. But the glass refused to move and we soon lost interest. We were also a year older.

  ~

  Despite the undermining and subtle exploitation of women, there were some unusual and path-breaking occasions at Kollengode that created history in their own way. One was the visit of Acharya Vinoba Bhave during his famous Bhoodan movement when he traversed the country persuading big landowners to give up large portions of their lands to be distributed to the landless. My mother’s first cousin, Padmanabha Rajah, Appu mama to us, was by then holding the title of Rajah of Kollengode. (My mother would chuckle under her breath at the continuing use of the title by others when it was actually only accorded to my grandfather by the British and was not an inheritable title at all.)

  Appu mama announced that Vinoba ji was coming to Kollengode and had to be welcomed graciously. A few lands were also to be ceremonially handed over but we children were not enlightened with the details of all that. I was asked to prepare and deliver a speech in Hindi on behalf of the family, since no one else knew the language. Although I was merely a twelve-year-old girl who could speak Hindi, I was given a major role to play that day. I died a hundred deaths at having to speak in front of such a big gathering and yet I did it. All my uncles and aunts treated me like the star of the show because they had been able to produce someone who could deliver a speech to Acharya Vinoba Bhave in Hindi. My cheeks were hot and red when it was over but Vinoba ji gave me an appreciative hug. Does a little thread of destiny run through our lives? Did that little speech in Hindi in the heart of Kerala form a thread of an unchangeable pattern of life’s events that had me addressing thousands in rallies more than forty years later a
lthough I had never planned it that way?

  My grandfather’s eldest sister, Dhatri Valiya Rani, Ammu Amma to all of us, was a tall, elegant woman with a regal bearing. I remember seeing her draped in kasavu mundus, the two-piece gold and cotton dress, in a way that they never looked crumpled. She produced wonderful oil paintings and water colours, and encouraged the arts. She was the female head after Pati died but did not follow her mother’s predilection for changing husbands. In her seventies, Ammu Amma suffered a paralytic stroke which cruelly arrested her grandeur and confined her to bed, practically speechless. She shrank in size and spoke in a garbled manner but insisted we sit by her bed every day and talk to her about all kinds of things. Sometimes she would turn over on her stomach, lean over the edge of her bed and write words on the floor—a bit like our Ouija board—except that these were questions, and not answers. If our replies delighted her, she would laugh loudly with saliva dribbling from the side of her mouth.

  Ammu Amma particularly loved Kathakali. This ancient and highly sophisticated dance form was a special love of the family. The Rajah’s High School had decided, through Ammu Amma’s encouragement, to offer a full scholarship to any student who learned Kathakali. Although popular among the people, economic and social transitions of the time, particularly with communist rule, had deprecated the value of this art form because of lack of patronage. The family felt that Kathakali had to be revived. The school employed the best teachers and provided the finances for the costumes, the musicians, and everything required to conduct regular performances for the townsfolk. This dance form was traditionally performed exclusively by men. Even the women’s roles were always enacted by men.

  Programmes started after dusk with drummers standing in the open ground drumming vigorously for an hour or so to announce the evening’s performance. A tall oil lamp would be lit just before the performance was to begin and the tera, a multicoloured silk ceremonial curtain, would be held up by two assistants when the artists came to take their places. The excitement would be palpable as people from all over town gathered after dinner for a show that they would watch till the early hours of the morning. The drumming would make our hearts beat faster. The heady mix of flashing eyes, elegant hand gestures, swirling costumes, the tiny nuanced twitch of an eye muscle to convey an emotion, the electrifying battles fought between Bhima and Duryodhana (characters from the epic Mahabharata), the brilliant make-up of the dancers right down to the tiny seed placed inside the eye to change the white of the eye to red—transported us children and elders alike to the world of the gods.