Novel

Mothers and Virgins
Asha Bernard
Copyright © 2007 by Asha Bernard
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-6151-6451-9
For all girls, big or small.
For all worlds, first or last.
For all realities, factual or fictional.
Welcome to the Nazrani Show.

Anarkali
Anarkali’s mother had wanted to name her Atlanta, after the girl in
Greek mythology. But everyone said that it was too outlandish. Then
her father came up with Anarkali – A-naar-kali. The pomegranate bud
or blossom. The fruit from the Nazrani Tree of Knowledge. That
created some snickers too, still the name stuck. When Anarkali started
to walk at eight months, everyone in the family was excited, especially
her father. Her aunts and uncles were delighted. And amazed. They
were sure that it was a sign of things to come. The little girl was going
to be famous. She was already a genius in their eyes. Some were
skeptical of course, and some were envious, and some not that
interested. Her grandfather – paternal -- was particularly thrilled by the
little curvy bottom. He must have felt that pinching and slapping her
bottom was not enough to show his appreciation. Maybe that was why
he tried to enter her. There were some bruises, some scratches and a
little blood. The family was able to hush it up. Even if it had come out,
no one would have believed it anyway. The family was respectable.
The grandfather, a gentleman. Did not drink, did not smoke, did not
womanize. The only person who could not accept it was Anarkali’s
mother. But Emily’s inacceptance manifested itself in a surprising
way. She loved her daughter, the little girl who was so trusting, so
naughty, so loving and who depended on her. But she also hated the
evil in her. After all how else could she explain the act of the old man?
The only man in her husband’s family who treated her as a human
being?
Anarkali’s mother yelled at her husband in the privacy of their bed
room. She was scathing in her comments about the lecherous old goat.
Anarkali’s father sat with bowed head, silent and pained. But after a
while he woke up from his stupor and attempted to stand up for
himself, and his family. It was a valiant effort which he himself knew
was doomed to failure. Still he also knew that these things,
uncomfortable and unwelcome though they may be, occurred in many
homes. Anarkali’s mother went berserk when he started to gloss things
over and sort of generalize everything. And when the next morning she
saw her husband kissing their daughter and her daughter’s delight,
something exploded. Inside.
2 MOTHERS AND VIRGINS
Anarkali was diligently loved by her mother. She was tucked in at

night without fail. It was a nice little ritual played in numerous Nazrani
homes. The short prayer, the sign of the cross on the child’s forehead
to protect it from all evils and hurts and other things. And the special
kiss on the forehead. Most nights, Anarkali felt her mother’s tears on
her face. And she ached for her mother. Her mother loved her so very
much, she thought. And she promised herself to love her back forever
and ever. When her mother caressed the areas where Anarkali had felt
the sting of her slaps and hits and kicks during the day, and asked her
if it hurt her badly with tears in her eyes and a sob in her voice,
Anarkali hugged her harder. She wanted to console her mother, tell her
it was all right. That she knew her mother was forced to hit her
because Anarkali was a bad girl. She was thankful for her mother’s
care. And she knew what will happen to those poor children who did
not have mothers. Her mother had told her any number of tragic stories
of such unfortunate lives. She was such a lucky girl.
One fine morning two year old Anarkali was playing in the kitchen
with the little doll she had. Thresia the young maid was standing near
by watching. Anarkali was bathing her “baby”. Thresia asked her if
she wasn’t going to feed her baby. That gave Anarkali the idea. She
had seen their neighbor nursing her baby. So she lifted her tiny frock
and held the baby close to her and beamed at Thresia. Thresia did not
smile back, but went to Anarkali’s mother and informed her of the
matter. Things went fast from there. Anarkali did not know what was
happening. All on a sudden she was yanked up by her arm, her doll
was prized and thrown away and she was shaken till her head seemed
like it was going to fall off. Anarkali started to cry somewhere along
the way. When she would not stop crying, her mother slapped her and
asked her to cover her mouth with her hand. Anarkali stopped crying
for a minute and stared her mother with huge eyes. She started to cry
again at the hatred she saw there. Of course she had to be punished
then. Those wet spiky lashes were ugly. “I will teach you to behave
from now on. Can’t wait to be a mommy, eh? You slut. Dirty, ugly
girl! Just like her grandfather. You are an ugly, stupid girl, did you
know that? You think your daddy loves you? No one loves you, you
idiot!” Anarkali stood there her body wracked with sobs, her little
hands covering her mouth. This time she wasn’t spanked. “Stop staring
at me, you devil’s child! No wonder you are so dark! You are so bad it
shows on your skin. I will gouge your eyes out if you don’t stop
staring at me!” She went closer to the child with two fingers pointing
ASHA BERNARD 3
dangerously at her eyes. Anarkali was scared to death. She did not
want her eyes to be gouged out, so she shut them tight. “Look at me,
you fool! I will teach you to be obedient! When I am talking to you,
look at me!” she screamed, her face contorted with anger and hatred.
Then Anarkali’s mother grabbed a firewood from the burning stove,
turned Anarkali around , pulled down her panty and pressed it hard
onto her bottom. Anarkali writhed in pain, but learned many lessons. It
was all right even if she forgot some of them. She would be reminded
again and again over the next months and years. Thus she was
punished for many faults – dirtying her hands or dress or the floor,
talking too much or too little, smiling too much or too little, eating too
much or too little. If she fell and was bleeding, she would be spanked
first or made to kneel on gravel with arms extended sideways and then
warned, before any relief was given. She had to learn many lessons in
order to be her mother’s daughter. She would learn too that the outside
world was worse. Vultures hovered outside her walls.
That evening when her father came home from work, Anarkali was
asleep on her stomach, her bottom covered in ointment, tears dried up
on her cheeks. A piece of white gauze was on the burn. In the dim
light he could not see the extent of the wound, and when his wife told
him what had happened, he could not believe his ears. “The poor
baby” he could not help but say. “You will kill her one of these days!
Sometimes I wonder if you are her real mother!” That infuriated his
wife.
“How dare you say that I will kill my own daughter! You want me
out, don’t you? You would like that, I know,” she sneered. “And
where were you when your father did that to your daughter?” she
walked off triumphantly.
Thresia, when she brought him his morning coffee, recounted all
the details. As she took the cup away from his hands she was careful to
brush it with hers. And bend low enough to let him admire her ample
cleavage. Anarkali’s father saw her for the first time then. Seventeen
years old. Round cheeked, fair, buxom with flashing dark eyes,
Thresia was delicious. “You have grown!”, he exclaimed. Thresia
blushed. He had known her family since his childhood. They had
always worked for his family.
“Don’t let anyone know of what happened here, Thresia. Anarkali’s
mother is kind of upset now with all the problems in her family.”
Thresia was sympathetic.
“Of course! I would never say anything to anyone outside. These

things happen, I know that!” Anarkali’s mother came in then. The
scene of closeness and comfort did not escape her sharp eyes. But she
let it be.
That night Anarkali felt her mother’s kiss and sign of the cross as
usual. She also felt the tears. Her mother was truly sorry for what she
had done to her little girl. As usual she hugged her mother hard, happy
to be close to her, loved by her. And smell her skin. Anarkali took a
deep breath. Cuticura powder and Binaca Snow. And feel her long
silky hair. Anarkali adored her beautiful mother. Later, when she went
to boarding school, one of the attendants pointed the deep ugly scar to
others and wondered at it. Anarkali let them know what she was told
by her mother. It was an accident that had caused it when she was a
baby. The attendant admonished her to be careful and warned other
children that this was what happened if you are naughty or too curious.
As she grew up, there were hints and innuendoes floating here and
there about the bad thing Anarkali had done as a child. Anarkali never
knew what she had done and since no one except Thresia who was the
origin of those hints, knew what the real facts were, it remained an
unsolved mystery. This worked for Emily too because while the
scandalous act of her father-in-law remained inside the house,
Anarkali would always be guiltily cautious in her behavior.
Time flew. Anarkali proved to be an intelligent student, brilliant in
fact, although the beatings and the punishments and the night time
ritual continued . But that was for Anarkali’s own good. And as was
done according to the ancient traditions of her motherland, everything
stayed within the walls of their home. To the outside world, theirs was
the perfect family. Anarkali was the luckiest girl alive. Pampered,
always dressed in the best of fashion, sent to well known expensive
boarding schools, always driven around in the car like a princess.
The pattern was set. The pattern of the loving hatred of her mother,
the contempt of Thresia and the silence of her father. Anarkali was all
set for life.
Chapter 1
In which the Narrator introduces Anarkali, waiting for her future
that always gets lost in her past, and wherein Anarkali writes down
her story of India, and in which Anarkali talks of a land that she calls
Ill Paradiso.
Anarkali sits near the window, looking out through the wrought
iron bars, at the calm river, its white sands, and the green rice fields,
across the river. She knows that the local train, bearing the hopes and
fears of a million people will come sighing by any time now, along the
tracks on the other side of the fields. Towards the left is the small
temple, on the grounds of which, the leaves of the lonely banyan tree
glint and shake in the silver sunlight, like sequins on a dancer’s dress.
In the evening, there will be men – young and old – on its concrete
base, smoking, thinking through the smoke, talking, looking at the
sky, and at the young girls, and older women, going into the temple.
Beautiful women, with their long, black hair, wet from a bath, wafting
heady scents of aromatic herbs and oil, with sprigs of tulsi in their hair,
kajal in their eyes, and sandal paste on their foreheads.
She can see a bit of the temple – the earthy brown brick, and the tip
of the tall, multileveled brass lamp, the nilavilakku. The church spire,
and the temple flagpole with its golden finial on top, both vying with
each other to reach the heavens, gleams among the green tips of
coconut palms. Home – not a single day goes by without Anarkali
being thankful that she is here. Anarkali, the quiet mouse has returned
home. To this little corner, of a little village, called
Kombodinjaaplaakkal, meaning “Place of the Broken Branched Jack
Fruit Tree.” It was a name that had fascinated her as a child, when she
had passed through its narrow dirt roads, bordered on either side by
green hedges, and fences smothered with flowers, on her way to
boarding school. Then, she had wished that she could stop there, hide
somewhere among its jack fruit and mango trees, behind those little
thatched houses, which glowed from the inside, in the twilight, (like
jack-o-lanterns, she thinks now), watch the fireflies twinkling away,
and savor the smoky essence of burning firewood. And not go to
school.
Now, Anarkali wishes she could go to the nearby teashop for a chat
with the newspaper-reading villagers. Or just listen to their comments
on present politics. But this is Kerala. A woman has her place, though
things are changing. Maybe it is better this way, Anarkali thinks. She
is glad that they do not let non-Hindus into the temple. There was a
time when she had felt bad about that. Not any more. It is better this
way. There has been enough encroaching into, and acquiring of their
culture and beliefs, in the name of equality, freedom, and progress.
For the past ten years, Anarkali, or Anu (to some of her friends),
had lived in a place she calls “Paradise.” Ill Paradiso – actually Ill
Paradise.
And now, if you must know, she is waiting. Anarkali is an expert at
waiting. She can wait forever and make things happen, or wait forever
for things to happen, sometimes for things that never happen. Anarkali
waits for her friend, her one best friend, who is still in Ill Paradise. She
is convinced that her friend wants to come home, but cannot, at least
for now. But Anarkali is hopeful. Anna will come one day. After all, it
was Anna who declared that she felt despised in Paradise. Despised.
De-spiced. Anna loved her drama, Anarkali smiled. And to think that
they both wanted to get away from Kerala. To fly away. Break off the
cords that were tightening around their throats. For them, Paradise was
the ultimate place to be. Once you get there, everything would be fine.
Now that she is back home, she believes that Anna’s return will
make everything perfect. Like before. When they were young, and full
of fire, and of dreams. But the fire was not hot enough, the dreams not
bright enough. Never enough.
Anarkali gets up to look at the red hibiscus flower – its common
name, shoe flower - how proud she was to learn it in school. Her front
yard is filled with flowers – varieties of jasmine, hibiscus, canna,
konna or the gold shower tree, the big neem tree in the corner. There
was a time when she had longed for firs, and pines, and daffodils, and
tulips, and asters. Just like she wished they had apples and pears in
their back yard, instead of mangoes and bananas. And that she was fair
and had wavy hair, instead of her brown skin, and poker straight hair.
She is over all that now. In that sense, those ten years in Paradise were
not a waste. She learned a lot more, read a lot more. She could even
accept her wish to be someone other than who she was. Because in
Paradise, just like in India, she saw brown women wanting to be fair,
curly-haired women wanting straight hair, and white women wanting
to be blue-eyed blondes, with tan skin, and big breasts. She learned
ASHA BERNARD 7
that money was the most important possession, the only worthwhile
goal you reached for. She had entered the adult world. Where
everything that she had thought of as inappropriate or unacceptable
was legitimized. You get everything in Paradise – packaged, patented,
copyrighted, in small, medium, large and extra large, and happier
sizes. Canned, frozen, cooked and cut. Except truth. Even of that, she
was not sure. In Paradise, truth could be bought too. If there is truth as
she knows it to be, if she knew it to be, where can it be hiding?
Almost two years of soul searching, and still she has not found all
the answers to her questions. There is always something just around
the corner, enticing her, eluding her, like the golden deer that
tantalized Sita. The one piece of truth, of understanding, of knowing
what is good for everyone, in the end. And the why of it all. Of life. Of
life as a human. The real and the unreal. The unreality of reality. After
all, we may get up one fine morning thinking that this is the first day
of your life, or that the early bird catches the worm. But do we realize
that in another part of the world, the day has already ended? And that
death always lurks just around the corner?
Anarkali sips the tea that Kalyani brings. Tall and straight, trim and
brown, like seasoned mahogany, Kalyani, as usual, is in her traditional
white, cotton mundu, and red blouse. Kalyani is ageless. Like India.
Single and loving it. Kalyani’s family were tenants of Anarkali’s
people. By the time Kalyani grew up, times had changed. Kalyani got
work in the local timber factory and soon was a member of the Labour
Union. Marxism had taken roots in that rural corner, bringing with it
many changes. Kalyani knew her rights. When she retired from her
job, Kalyani came to work for the family again, now and then. Early
on, she could not get away from the needs of her numerous nieces and
nephews. She was their favorite, trusty nanny, later babysitter, even
midwife. When Anna, Anarkali’s friend, wanted someone to take care
of her son as she had to go to work in Paradise, Anarkali asked
Kalyani if she would like to go.
To Paradise. Across seven seas, seven mountains, and seven forests.
Where people dreamt of going. Along the way, you encountered
witches, and old men with long white beards, and you rested in the
little hut, rotating on chicken legs. To reach the gold, and jewel paved
streets of Paradise – its beautiful stars and starlets, and space age
architecture, and money flying about, like so many green birds. To
wake the sleeping giant. To meet its friendly people, who smiled and
waved, people who did everything in well-coordinated, rehearsed
ways. They even rehearsed their death, let alone weddings, and
divorces. Anarkali told Kalyani that in Paradise, every menial, tedious
work was done by machines, or illegal immigrants. People could enjoy
– they did not have to cook or worry because packaged food and guns
grew on the streets. Everything was clean and sterile. Except for the
pet poop and hair, Anna would have reminded her. Its old people were
supposedly clean and sterile too. They had their own homes, with
other old people. Even the children had all sorts of medicines to keep
them out of sadness and trouble. Anarkali tempted Kalyani. Lots of
money and gifts to bring back home. She may even learn to drive. And
fight a war. Just kidding.
Kalyani said No. Why not, Kalyani? Kalyani’s answer was simple –
she wanted to die touching the soil of her land. She wanted to drink the
water from her land, she wanted to speak and hear her mother tongue.
No amount of money would change that. But she added that if
Anarkali ever returned home, Kalyani would be there to help. And
Anarkali did return, and Kalyani was there. That alone let Anarkali be
by herself. Or her mother would have said no to the idea of a woman
living alone.
Her mother. Anarkali does not want to think of her mother. She is at
a point in her life, in her thinking where she has reached a conclusion
that a good mother is a dead mother. That some mothers hate or love
their children so much that they wished them dead. That some mothers
want their girls to be girls forever. Virgins. No, little girls. And the
same mothers despise their girls when they stay virgins. Then some
virgins, after futile years of trying to make their mothers love them by
doing exactly what their mothers want, end up hating their mothers. In
fact, if some mothers were dead, or had run away from home, their
little girls could have flown. So if their mother was alive, Anna’s
Bronte sisters would not have written, or published their novels.
Anarkali feels pity and disgust towards the warped, stunted, timid
person she had been, as her mother’s daughter. The pathetic creature
that she had become. The bud that was ashamed of the whole process
of blooming. Shriveled. Ignorant.
Anger. All consuming anger has entered her. Anarkali knows she is
waking up. She refuses to think of her mother. Nevertheless, the
picture of a small girl who ran around with her brothers and her male
cousins keeps intruding. They called her vaikkol maalakha, literally
meaning “straw angel.” A thin, fair girl, with long, straight hair. A
wild girl, by all accounts, who could keep up with the boys in anything
ASHA BERNARD 9
they attempted. Why should she think of her mother as a little girl?
Her mother is no longer a little girl. Anarkali herself is no longer one.
But these images that she got from her grandmother, has become part
of her. A little girl whose favorite food is pomegranate. The
pomegranate tree, with its tiny green leaves, is still there at her
grandmother’s. The little fingers picking the lush, red pearls out of the
fruit. The little girl who acted drunk with pleasure at the very sight of
the red, fleshy, pomegranate seeds. She could even see the tips of her
little fingers pink from the juice of the fruit. Anarkali gets up, and
starts walking. She still cannot believe what her mother told her, a year
ago on St.Sebastian’s Feast Day in her mother’s house. To add to the
other images. She finds her eyes fill up with anger, frustration. All
those years when she hurt. All those years when she needed her
mother. And all the while, her mother was a little girl – a wounded
little bird. And needed a mother.
There were those special birds that Anarkali used to see on the
grounds of her university. They ran on a pair of thin, long, yellow legs.
Anarkali had never seen a bird like that in her hometown. It had a
faded brown breast, like the wimple of a nun, with a white belly that
was clearly demarcated. It looked like a sprightly nun in a brown habit.
There was this bright yellow around its eyes and beak, and a black cap
on its head. Anarkali used to spend hours watching the bird. She found
its name in a book on birds – it was a lapwing. Such an exotic name,
like Robin Redbreast, and plover. Not a mere crow or “kaakka.” When
she showed it to Anna, hopping around on the rocks and stones of the
place they called Beauty spot, Anna started to sing,
Two little tricky birds

Sitting on a wall
One’s named Anu, one’s named Ann
Fly away Anu, fly away Ann
Come back Anu, come back Ann.”
Anarkali remembers laughing. Because that song was their theme

song, when they were little girls, in boarding school. Another image.
Another time. This one evoked happiness and nostalgia. Two little
girls altering/adapting a nursery song. They were on the swings, from
where they could hear the nursery kids singing the song about the
“dicky” birds, Peter and Paul. Anna starts to sing, “Two little icky
birds,” Anarkali giggles and joins, and their song is born. Two girls
singing, swinging their legs dangling, their pig tails flying. Peter and
Paul are gone. Never to come back. Anarkali and Anna– Anu and Ann
– have taken their places. The usurpers.
Anarkali decides to think of her grandmother, before her thoughts
take her to her mother, and other mothers. Her mother’s mother. The
martyr. The pious virgin, who wanted to be a nun, but was forcibly
married off. A cad of a husband, Rich, and later an alcoholic, and a
womanizer. But she was her own person, once upon a time, when she
had taught in a school. Anarkali had not known that until she met an
old nun at her school, who had been a colleague of her grandmother’s.
Her stoic grandmother, who bore with all the excesses of her husband,
stayed with him, and his extended family, because that was what was
done. For the sake of her children. She is the one who taught Anarkali
the virtue of moderation in a real lady/ a girl from a good family.
Never be too sad, or too happy. At least, never display it immodestly.
Feelings are low class.
Anarkali remembers her first day at school. Boarding school.
Anarkali was five. The local school where she was thinks she is a
prodigy. Take her to a good school, here she is wasted . Malayalam
medium. Muslim area. Just three subjects – Malayalam, Arabic,
Arithmetic. Anarkali deserves better, the Christian teacher tells her
father. Her father, who is there on account of his government job, gets
to choose. Anarkali’s future is decided. She joins the elite English
Medium School for girls, till high school, and little boys, till fourth
grade. She has to be a boarder.
Five-year-old Anarkali watches as her mother and her mother’s

right hand, Thresia, pack things into the big trunk, which has her name
on it. Anarkali. What a name to give a Syrian Christian child! Her
relatives were aghast when they heard it for the first time – the name
of a (mythical ?) gypsy dancer, from the deserts of Persia. In the court
of the Mughal Emperor Akbar. Not very ancient history by Indian
standards. A dancer who was buried alive by the order of the Emperor,
because she dared to reciprocate the love of Prince Salim, the heir to
the throne. Now, Anarkali knows that the name is apt. Racially,
genetically, personally. That gypsy girl, and this Nazrani girl. That
Pakisthani Muslim, and this Malayali Muslim. That Persian and this
Parsi, that Jew and this Arab.
Anarkali the Persian pomegranate.
ASHA BERNARD 11
Anarkali starts to write. The Muslim and the Hindu .The Jew and
the Christian. Indo-Aryans, she should say. India, the home. India, the
cradle of civilizations. All went out of India. People, civilization. And
more was plucked out of India, including its idea about itself, and its
relationship with its own. So much so that the country was cut in three,
and the three parts became sworn enemies, foolishly fighting each
other, when the real criminal grabbers – the Other – watched and
profited. Of course, they did not learn this in India, for India still
learned what the Others wanted them to learn.
Anarkali has to stop. She is in search of new or different

terminology, to describe the dispossessed, some of whom became the
“discontents,” the “terrorists,” the “whiners,” as you may call them.
Yes, we are not the developing world, or the third world. We were
developed long before the so-called developed nations developed. The
new terms should be “the exploited” and the exploiter.” No, the
“grabbee” and the grabber. Or better, the “old money” and the
“nouveau riche.” As long as the grabber nations do not acknowledge
their criminal past, and respect the earlier, advanced civilizations, and
acknowledge their greatness and contributions, the “discontents”
would not be contained. When the histories and thought systems of
civilized nations were erased, distorted, and rendered worthless and
meaningless, for sheer greed, by the Others, all the while holding up
their moral superiority, there is a responsibility on the part of the
perpetrators to own up, to pay, and to apologize. After all, there are
the visible, tangible holocausts, and then there are the invisible,
intangible ones. The ones that are forgotten, the unspeakable ones,
that if one spoke of, one would be blamed as being racist, blamed of
belittling the real holocausts. What they did was terrorism – come a -
begging for trade, and then, through treachery and deceit, conquer,
and divide and mutilate a nation, by creating and propagating
spurious myths, and blatant lies.
Anarkali has to look up the book, Myth of Aryan Invasion. We are
the Aryan nations. Just like they gave our name to native Americans,
and shamelessly named certain groups of immigrants to Paradise, as
Brahmins, and are grabbing and patenting our basmati, and turmeric,
and numerous other things that are part of our very blood, they have
taken the noble Aryan name for themselves. The Pretenders. We, the
Hindusthaani, the Pakisthaani, the Afghan, the Persian, the Iraqi, the
Arab, the Syrian, the Lebanese, whether we like it or not, we are the
Aryans. One race, one origin. And we have close ties to Africans from
way back, and also the Mediterraneans. If there is Aryan in the Other,
it came from us. They are albanoid versions of the true Aryans, or
noblemen.
Anarkali is angry. She wishes Anna were here. They could have
had a wonderful discussion. Though, Anarkali can imagine what Anna
would say.
“Are you going to publish this?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because you are the only one who will. No one else will
touch that.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Why not? You know they are going to call you crazy. That you are
a racist, a fundamentalist, anti-white, and so on.”
“What if I changed my name to Joseph Mueller or Aaron Toynbee?
Will they want to read it then? Will they say it is possible? And if a
smith’s onion company can write in its pages with confidence, that
Jehangir (Prince Salim, by the way) is the son of Ghenghis Khan, then
I guess I can rightfully say this.”
Anna will laugh at that, and she will join in.
“Any peaceful means to help us reclaim the lost dignity and self
respect and wealth of the exploited civilizations.”
“But that is the point. Writing is not peaceful. It is angry, and full of
resentment, and sadness. There are irresponsible, ignorant, violent
people out there, who will take only the anger out of your piece, and
not the higher understanding, if there is any. And there can be others
who can manipulate these lost souls, for their own end.”
“I know. I will have to be more objective. And you have to admit it
– where will some of the now-famous journalists and writers be, living
in the West but belonging to the ex-colonized, but still subaltern
nations, be it not for the fundamentalists?”
“Objectivity! Don’t you make me start on that! Male – objective.
Female – Subjective. Male – Rational. Female – Emotional . . . .
Haven’t you heard of that crap?”
“Yes. And also the crap of the West – objective, the East –
Subjective. West – male, aggressive. East – female – passive . . . and
so on, and White – good, open, honest. Black – evil, secretive,
dishonest. They turned the sunniest of all continents into the darkest.
So I know the dichotomies dictated by the Other and handed down as
ASHA BERNARD 13
the Scripture. So isn’t it time we made our own theories? Systems of
thought?”
“There is another matter – of evidence. How can you prove that
what you say about the oneness of these races is true?”
“Truth? This is my truth. I am the historian. And think of me as a
white, male historian. As for evidence, who says Alexander defeated
Porus? Who says there was an Aryan invasion to India? Where is the
evidence? Others have defined history as it is, far better than me. Or
ask your Umberto Eco.”
Eco is Anna’s favorite writer.
“So you have decided to complete your Ph. D dissertation? Good.
But don’t base it on anger and hatred. It is about time you returned
from the past.”
Anarkali smiles at the pun.
But isn’t terrorism inevitable? Considering the inescapable past?
Why does most of the Other pretend to hunt for reasons for these
“meaningless” uprisings? Mutinies? Senseless massacres? When they
must know that at some point, we all have to pay for the mess that they
made all over the world. For all the senseless massacre that they
instigated and perpetrated then and now. Because of their greed and
arrogance. Or do they expect all the people all over the world to be
dumb all the time? Thank them for the wonderful holidays that the
Others’ advent bestowed on them? The Independence Days! If there is
war, there will be terrorism. War is terror. Cheating nations of their
resources, riches, heritage, and pride is terror.
Anarkali wants to say that she does not hate. But why not? Hatred
burns in their eyes. In their indifference. In their condescension and
their uninterestedness. In their ungratefulness. Or do they think that
hatred is their prerogative, that they can start a war when they want,
end it when they feel like it, or not at all. Do they think that we deserve
to be hated? She realizes that she is angry, and that injustice fills her
with anger and with distress, born out of that anger. Not hatred. She
cannot hate. How can she, when she cannot hate her own mother? Or
for that matter, when she cannot hate her own country? The great
Mother India, who let the Others take advantage of her? The good
mother who alienates, and even murders her own children, especially
her girl children? The mother who sacrifices her virgins? Why can’t
she hate India now? One word. Paradise. Where she had gone to
escape and where she was imprisoned. And from where she escaped
again.
However, Anarkali is still not sure what she will do with her ideas.
She is a responsible person, and she will have to think twice before
attempting to publish anything. Or maybe not. What is wrong with
trying to make the world think better, because that will surely lead to
peace and prosperity for all. On the other hand, she realizes that her
mind may be getting ready to take up her unfinished work.
She underlines the title of her article, “The Anger of Civilizations.”

It is the reluctance to acknowledge, and respect other civilizations,
and cultures, that is the bane of civilization. Anarkali puts down her
pen. No, it is not just anger, it is anxiety born out of anger. The
Anxiety of Influence? She has read Bloom from Anna. The Anxiety of
Influence of Civilizations. The anxiety on the part of the developed that
they may be looked down upon as upstarts, as uncouth newcomers.
They hide it under hatred, arrogance and bluff, and their refusal to
acknowledge. They pretend that they are not interested in the past. But
all the time, they try hard to construct a past, and preserve it. The
anxiety on the part of the ancient civilizations. They fret and fume
when their greatness is forgotten, when the newer civilizations look
down on them. They are angry at the way these newcomers built and
build their castles on their ruins. They are angry that they do not
hear, at least a verbal apology, let alone receive material restitution. It
is easy to dismiss their frustration as jealousy, but the fact is that then
the newcomer can also be accused of the same thing. It is not a
question of finders keepers, losers weepers either. Because it is
obvious to the dispossessed that they were never that lost, that anyone
had to find them. In fact, whenever we were “found,” we suffered.
Anarkali wonders why she cannot forgive her mother, even after all
those apologies. She does not want her mother to interfere with her
thoughts any more. This is her work time, a time for something other
than mother-bashing.
Anarkali sets to remind the world of her country’s contributions
towards the evolution of the human mind, its soul. When Buddhism
was founded in India, the Hindu/Aryan/Vedic civilization evolved
naturally, and progressively. Respect for life. What other civilization
in the world can claim that? What other Emperor can claim that he is
as evolved a being as Ashoka? But the rest of the world did not. The
fact that India was ahead in everything including this thinking, and
that others lagged behind proved to be the cause of India’s ruin.
Anarkali is against any form of violence. She wishes that the
ASHA BERNARD 15
dispossessed would find other ways to teach the Other a lesson. By
being self sufficient, maybe. But what if the grabbers still will not let
go, and will never let the “grabbees” in? Here, the good side of the
grabber’s nature, if there is one, has to be evoked. Any little speck of
goodness must be nurtured. The “grabbee” should see the grabber for
what he is – an ignorant teenager who resists learning. An old cad set
in his ways. But everything passes. Wait and see. Meanwhile, work,
educate, and treat your women well, Anna would have added. Anarkali
laughs derisively. Anna would say that this is the expected outcome of
a thinking shaped by a mishmash of Hindu acceptance of destiny, and
Christian exaltation of suffering. Anarkali will always find excuses for
other’s bad behavior toward herself. Like she has started to with her
mother. Both Anna, and herself have come to a conclusion about
themselves, that they cannot help but think from the other’s
perspective. Put themselves in their shoes. Did that make others take
advantage of them? Did it make them weak? What good does it bring
except inaction, and letting the others continue in their bad ways? Or
isn’t this empathy the answer for all ills of the world? If everyone can
think from the other’s point of view, will that not make the world a
better place, for all? For that matter, what good does hatred bring?
Like hers for her mother? But does she really hate her mother? In spite
of all her anger, Anarkali understands that she does not hate her
mother, she pities her, her loss of dreams, loss of childhood, loss of
freedom,-- she pities her for growing up.
For Anarkali knows that everyone has dreams. They may stop
dreaming at some point in their lives, but one day they will dream
again. If not, they die inside. A few years ago, Paradise had sucked out
Anarkali’s dreams, and left her half dead.
Still, Anarkali cannot bring herself to embrace her mother, even
smile at her, wholeheartedly. She is glad of the distance. Maybe one of
these days. Or never. Did she ever have it in her to be completely
forgiving? Maybe not. But she can try. That is what life is all about,
little trials, big and little failures, and little successes. Little dying, now
and then. Then a tiny coming back to life. Back and forth. Up and
down. The seemingly endless cycle of hope and despair, joy and
sorrow, and then finally death.
Anarkali picks up her pen again. Her thoughts move on to
“globalization.” To her, it is the connection of human beings. Not just
a network of trade -- of thoughts and goods, but also of races and
genes. Globalization was always here – the Silk Road, for instance.
But take the history of a Malayali Nazrani. Who is s/he? Who were her
ancestors? If she went far back enough, she may find that they were
Jews. This interest is one of the reasons that she chose to live in
Kodungallur, which in ancient times was called Musiris. She was
amazed to learn that people had sent gifts to King Solomon from this
place, that there was a Roman garrison here, that St. Thomas came
here, and converted the Jews. Not even the Nazrani (who believe that
they were Brahmins, converted into Christianity by St. Thomas) realize
that. It was what was done, by the Apostles, at that time. They went to
places where there were Jews already. (Records of the more recent
waves of migration of the Jewish people to India and Kerala is well
documented).
The Jews have been in India, and other places, for more than two
thousand years, since they were a group that were persecuted forever,
by Persians, Syrians, and so on. Hence, it is natural that St. Thomas
came to India, and Musiris being a famous port, he landed there first.
There were no Brahmins in Kerala at that time. So the Nazrani
believed that the Romans killed Jesus, which was true, of course.
Later, politics made the Romans pure and Christian, and the might of
Rome succeeded in creating a mighty religion, which had license to
kill all those who opposed it. And it made Jesus white. And it renders it
difficult, if not impossible, to believe or acknowledge that Jesus could
have come to India.
There has been so much give and take between the areas –
commodities, and thoughts, from the time of the Indus Valley, and the
Sumerian civilizations, why then is it so hard to accept? And many of
Jesus’ ideas are Buddhist, and Buddha was an Indian prince, and
lived six hundred years before Jesus. Zarathustra lived around the
same time as Buddha. The Hindus gave the world, the Vedas and the
Bhagavath Gita before that. Long before Christ, the Persian
Zoroastrians broke off from their Indian Vedic friends, and started
calling their “devas,” demons. And the Hindus still call their gods
“devas”. See the connection? The network of relationships among
these people? When the Portuguese came to Kerala, in the fifteenth
century, they either took away, or destroyed much of the historical
evidence of all this, and brought the group they called,“ pagan
Christians,” under the Latin Church. Even now, there are the
descendants of a group in Kerala that refused this inclusion, and had
the courage to resist this change. The present day Malayali is a
mixture of Jew, Roman, Phoenician, Greek, Syrian, Persian, Arab,
ASHA BERNARD 17
African, Mediterranean, and Chinese. Just like any other nation in the
world now. All are Aryans, all are Dravidas. Including the gypsies of
Europe.
So where is my “albanoid” version now? The great divide between
people? Anarkali wonders. Anarkali wants to return the word “Arya”
to its original meaning – noble – anyone who is noble towards his/her
fellow human beings, is Aryan. Anna may say that writing is born out
of anger, but that same anger may be channeled to understanding, and
forgiveness, and nobility if there is empathy. Change, needless to say,
is inevitable.
It is apt that Anarkali and Anna had to go out of India to learn her
story, the story of her country, its distortions and half-truths. The
world is connected, and she had to realize that. They had to go to
Paradise to learn that fact. Anarkali has to admit that Paradise has
many resources. If you really want information, you can find it there.
The sad part is no one uses it, or if they use it at all, they get the wrong
message. That lack of that longing for knowledge on the part of most
Paradisians has always been a matter of surprise to Anarkali. The lack
of curiosity to know the meaning of your name, but the eager curiosity
to know your age. Anarkali thinks she knows the logic behind this
paradox. Knowing the meaning of your name is validating another
culture. Not knowing kind of denies it an existence, and the word
remains conveniently another piece of gibberish, as can only be
expected from “uncivilized/inscrutable” cultures.
And as Anarkali says now, the world will come back to India, its
ways, its thoughts. Its embarrassing riches. It has to, if it has to
survive. (Anna calls this “Anarkalian Indo-centrism”.) They
discovered this, once they were away from India. Anarkali, the
militant nationalist in exile. Anna, the militant feminist, who wanted to
escape India. And its hate mails. Anna the shocker, the diva. Anna will
shock Paradise one day, and then she will run back to India. Whiners
must be changers, at least in the level of thought. Anna will make fun
of all this, dubbing it as homesickness – transformed – into
patriotism. She will make fun of the “militancy” too. When were they
ever actually militant? Except in their thoughts? If they had been really
militant Anarkali wouldn’t be alive today to write this.
Poor Anna – she finds it hard to make friends in Paradise. When
Anarkali was with her in Paradise, she used to feel sorry for her
beautiful, intense-eyed friend. Anna wanted everyone to like her, love
her. Anarkali remembers now, with amusement, the days when, as
students back home, they discussed the invisibility of the black race.
The enthusiasm which drove them. It was another abstract idea that
was there to argue on. But they did believe in the universality of the
works of fiction from Paradise, and other western nations. But only in
Paradise did they learn the facts of the matter. There, they saw another
heart of darkness. The darkness born out of blinding white light. Black
hole. Because in Paradise, they learned that they were invisible. While
Anarkali drew inward, Anna lashed out, angry and frustrated. The
blind people around them stopped giving her even their usual sneers
and scary grins.
Abstract theories, hot tea that came in little stainless steel tumblers
set on little stainless steel saucers, and a special pair of brown eyes
with specks of gold in them – looking, sparkling, through smoke from
a cigarette. Taboo. Anarkali cannot think anymore. She is back in the
University with Anna.
Early morning, and late evening walks on the campus. Dreaming,
talking, laughing. Anna and Anarkali. Anu and Ann. Two little big
birds. Always longing for something just beyond their grasps. Anarkali
knows why those women in Paradise disliked, or avoided Anna. She
could discern the envy, and the surprise in their blind eyes. Like the
time one called Anna skinny. They were disturbed not just by her
figure, but the way she carried herself, the intelligence in her eyes.
They saw Anna as a threat in some way. Anna has that effect on
people, no matter how good her intentions are. Now, if Anna had been
heavier, and/or dowdier/gaudier, they would have been all right. Or, if
she had gone around telling sob stories of her life back home. The utter
misery that was her life in any place, other than in Paradise. Anarkali
cannot believe that so much time has passed. Just that morning she had
discovered a few grey hairs near her forehead. Forty years old. Half of
her life is gone.
Anarkali needs to get out of the house. She walks to the tiny gate in
the front. Young girls wearing blue and white uniforms, skipping
towards home after school, or tuition. Smiles, frowns, an occasional
sad face. Is there one who makes the sign of the cross? Anarkali used
to do that when she was a day student. That was her one magic that she
thought would help her. She believed that her mother would not be
mad at her that day if she did that. If she came second in class in the
monthly tests, of course no amount of crosses would help her. She
ASHA BERNARD 19
knew that. She would be taken to the storeroom and spanked, and
caned. There was a special cane for that. Some tribal people had
presented it to Anarkali’s father, on one of his field trips. They gave
him a big bamboo container filled with honey too. The cane came in
handy for her mother. But she used to be more scared of the
spankings–for–no–reason – maybe her mother was angry at Father, or
maybe she thought that Anarkali was being a bad example to her
sister, or her cousin. If they did some naughty things, Anarkali got hit.
Her mother used to knock Anarkali’s head hard against the concrete
wall, but her most preferred method was to push her down on to the
floor and kick her on the chest. Making her kneel on the gravel outside
was another method. Anarkali had believed that she deserved all of it –
if the oldest turns out to be good, naturally, the younger ones will
follow.
Anarkali had always known that she was never good enough. No
matter how many times she came first in class. No matter how many
times others called her beautiful. She could never believe them.
Because she had been told so many times by her own mother that she
was a curse, a cross that her mother had to bear. That she was the
laziest girl her mother had ever seen. And that she was the ugliest, and
the most evil. So Anarkali always felt that she was a fraud when
someone said nice things about her. She found it hard to smile at
people. Since she got good marks in class easily, without as much
effort as the other children, she thought she did not try hard enough.
Her mother was right.
Anarkali was lazy. She was evil too, otherwise why would the men
in her town pinch her bottom and try to grab her breasts when she
walked by? Maybe they could see through her façade, the real
Anarkali. Worthless, bad, evil – a slut. They would never have touched
her if they thought she was good. There must be something in her
attitude, in her appearance, in her whole body language, in her eyes
that invited and welcomed such attentions. And she so wanted to be
good, that she started to walk around with a frown.
Going to the university away from her home and away from the
nuns in school and college freed her somewhat from these thoughts.
And there was Anna to support her. But deep in her heart, Anarkali
remained the same little girl – scared, wary, full of guilt and sorrow.
That sorrow itself gave her guilt. What was there to be sorry about?
She had a good family, her parents wanted her to be good and
successful, they loved her,they had sent her to good schools – what
more could she want? She must be a spoiled brat if she wanted more.
Or a slut like her mother said – was that what she wanted? To sleep
with a man? No. Never. Anarkali had no such feelings. She was still a
little girl. But she had other longings. To be loved. Unconditionally, by
her mother. To be needed. To make her mother happy to see her. She
had vague ideas as to what had happened during her childhood, she
tried to make sense of all, tried to understand her mother and father.
But she was sure of one thing – that she loved them both dearly. She
would die if something happened to them. She believed that her
mother was protecting her from the pitfalls of youth and growing up –
men cheated. They took advantage of you. Beware! Getting married
and going to Paradise and returning home changed many things.
Anarkali’s mind worked differently. She is amazed at the strength and
stamina of the human mind. The power of it! She realizes that she has
survived. Somehow she has to succeed in going on surviving. She is a
lucky lady.
What really humiliated Anarkali back when she was a schoolgirl

was the fact that Thresia had seen Anarkali’s cross business from the
kitchen window. How Thresia laughed at that, and with what relish did
she recount it to Anarkali’s mother. Just like the time she laughed
when her father sent Anarkali out of the house at night. Her father
never taught Anarkali anything, other than the ABCs, when she was
quite young. However, when she was four, one evening, he
commenced teaching her arithmetic, in earnest. She was being taught
the multiplication tables. He expected her to learn it in that very hour
that he was teaching. In the end, he got so mad at his daughter’s
stupidity, inattentiveness, and ingratitude, that he pushed her out of the
house.
Four-year-old Anarkali stands there in the yard, not daring to look
around her. It is dark, wooded, with not another house nearby. There is
this big, brass chamber pot, that Anarkali’s mother had got from her
family, along with other things. No one used it anymore, though later
in some houses, it was used as a planter. Her father comes out, and
puts this vessel on Anarkali’s head, with a blanket in it, and a rosary
around her neck, and then leaves her. Anarkali stands there. Rigid.
She is careful that the pot should not fall. Ashamed of her stupidity. Of
how she looks. The utter shame of it. She sees Thresia look out the
window, and laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. Her mother is
ASHA BERNARD 21
mad at her father that night. But Anarkali did learn her tables soon
enough.
Ten pairs of uniform skirts and shirts – maroon and white. Ten
home dresses. Ten pairs of underwear, ten petticoats, all cotton. Two
sheets. Pillow cases. One counterpane. One blanket. Shoes. Slippers.
Bath towels. Kerchiefs. A mug. Toothbrush, tongue cleaner, soap and
shampoo go in that. And here comes the most fascinating word, one
woollen sweater. In their tropical climate, no one had any need for
sweaters. But the school asked, so there it was. Anarkali loves it.
Exotic. A bright yellow cardigan. She wonders when she will wear it.
Later when she finds out, she hates it. You wear it in the lonely sick
room, with its smells of pills, and syrups, and Dettol. The itchy, lonely
sweater. Even now she can remember the bitterness of that room.
The trunk swallows everything. Everything has her initials on it.
And the red, round tin with the pictures of beautiful, pink-cheeked
women – into it goes the kajal, the comb, the hair brush, talcum
powder, cream, ribbons, slides and clips. Anarkali is at once proud,
and distraught.
The night before she leaves for school, her mother comes to her
bedside. Anarkali pretends to sleep. Her mother smiles, and puts her
hand on Anarkali’s forehead. Combs her hair back with her fingers. A
tear falls down Anarkali’s cheek. She breathes in her mother’s scent.
Binaca snow, and Cuticura powder. Her mother brushes the tear away,
kisses her forehead, and says, “good, brave girls do not cry.” If she
cries the next day, when they leave her at the boarding school, she will
make her parents sad. They are doing this for her own good. She is
fortunate to be able to go to this school. And isn’t it wonderful that she
passed their test so well? She could learn in a month everything those
English medium kids had learned in a year. Anarkali nods her head. At
least her mother is in a good mood. She is not angry with her. She
opens her eyes, and smiles at her mother. Her mother loves her so. Her
mother makes the sign of the cross on Anarkali’s forehead, like she
does every night. Who will do that in school? Anarkali wonders.
Somehow, the tears in her mother’s eyes make her feel better.
The next morning, Anarkali is woken up early. She is given a bath,
her mother helps her into a new frock – off-white, with a silver lily
embroidered on it by her mother. Her mother puts kajal in Anarkali’s
eyes, and a bindi on her forehead. Then she plucks a pink rose from
her garden, and pins it into Anarkali’s straight, dark hair, which is not
wavy at all, like her mother wanted it to be. Anarkali feels bad that her
hair is not wavy, because she wants her mother to be to be proud of
her. The driver takes the trunk to the car. After a small prayer in the
prayer room, with its idols of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, her mother
makes the sign of the cross on her forehead and kisses the picture of
the Sacred Heart. Anarkali waves goodbye to Thresia and her little
assistant. She gets in the car with her mother and father.
Her father declares, “Every time you get a first rank in class, I will
give you a gold bangle.”
Her mother smiles, “You spoil her.”
Anarkali is happy that her parents are happy. Kumaran, the driver,
says what a lucky girl she is. Anarkali agrees.
They reach the school. Anarkali is in awe of the tall, thick wall,
around the school compound. The boarding house is further in. It’s a
solid, brick and concrete, two-storied building. They go to the Parlor,
where an attendant waits. She fetches the Warden, and the Assistant
Warden, from the office next door. Anarkali looks at the pink,
embroidered curtains on the parlor windows. And the cold, red floor,
and the cushioned chairs, and round teapoys. Anarkali likes the room.
It reminds her of home. But later she finds out that that area is off
limits to the students. The nuns talk to her parents. They assure them
that Anarkali is going to do well. She is such a smart, good girl. And
brave.
Anarkali sees other families arrive. Old students, coming after the
long summer vacation. Bawling kids. Embarrassed, flustered parents.
Anarkali fears her heart will burst, and the unshed tears, rushing to
come out from some part behind her throat, would pour forth. But she
is strong and brave. And she does not want her parents to be sad. So
she stands there, staring hard at the rainbow-hued glass peacock in the
corner curio cabinet. Soon her parents have to go. They hug her. She
sees her mother’s tense face, her flower falls off from her hair. The
rose now dead. Anarkali holds it in her palm carefully. Her parents
wave, and leave. The Assistant Warden, Sr. Josepha, takes Anarkali’s
hand and says, “You are a good, brave girl.” Anarkali is proud. She
still cannot smile.
The nun takes her out of the building to the side where there is a big
pond, with steps leading down to it and a brick wall around it.
Anarkali is grateful that the nun does not ask her anything. She wants
to know what the pond is for, but does not ask. She does not want the
good nun to be mad at her. Somehow, the pond frightens her. In the
ASHA BERNARD 23
gathering darkness, the water in it looks almost black. Then she sees
the big, round shrub, next to the low wall, around the pond. Its leaves
are a lush, fleshy, dark green, and it is covered with fleshy-petalled,
lilac-colored flowers. Anarkali imagines it to be a beautiful and happy
plant. The nun takes her around to the back, where there is a big
playground, with swings, and seesaws, and merry-go-rounds. The little
kids’ classrooms are over there. Anarkali has her mother’s flower still
in her hand. She is afraid that the petals will fall off. Her palm is
sweaty. The nun takes her back to the boarding house. She has lots of
other things to do. More and more kids keep coming. Soon, it will be
night. Then she sees Anna. Bawling. Her parents are crying too.
An old nun sits on a chair in the corridor. She beckons to Anarkali.
“What is your name, little girl?” she asks.
“Anarkali,” says she.
“Pomegranate bud,” says the nun. “Beautiful name. I know your
grandmother.” Anarkali’s mother’s mother, when she was a young
girl. “She was a mathematician, your grandmother.” The nun smiles.
Then she asks Anarkali to say the ABCs. Anarkali recites, the nun
nods, and says. “Now sing it.” Anarkali is perplexed. The nun sings
the ABC song. Anarkali sings too. The nun says, “You are a quick
learner.”
Meanwhile, Anna’s parents have left. Anna comes along, red-eyed,
and red-nosed, with one of the attendants, whom the girls call chechi,
meaning older sister. Chechi stops before the nun – she calls the nun,
“Mother.” The nun introduces Anna to Anarkali. Anna looks at
Anarkali. They are excited that they have the same middle name –
Anna. They smile, and a friendship blooms. Like the lilac flowers on
the dark, green leaves. That night, Anarkali puts away her mother’s
flower in her red, tin box in her trunk, in the toilet room.
Anarkali moves away from the gate. She is angry, and lonely, and
sad. Where is Anna when she needs her? Still in Paradise – confused
and frustrated. And where are those sparkling brown eyes now? The
charms of which Anarkali had to resist, or else she feared that she
would have been buried alive, in her parents’ heartache, and shame at
the scandal she might have caused, the stain she might have brought,
on the family honor. Virginity being the equivalent of family honor.
But then she still did not know if he even liked her that much. If he
had, wouldn’t he have pursued her harder? Anarkali feels the
beginnings of a headache. Too many things on her mind, she knows. A
lot of things going on – in her mind. Like some circus act. Like India.
Too many thoughts, memories, dreams strangling her. But she also
knows she is being born one more time. The pain of being born. The
last suffocating pressure before that first breath of air in a new world.
The last squeeze before the chrysalis opens. Somehow, the thought
excites Anarkali.
The brown-eyed boy was Anarkali’s temptation. There were
differences in religion, age, so many differences. But did they really
matter that much in the long run? Would the Earth have exploded if
she had succumbed to the temptation? Maybe not. Would her parents
have gone berserk? Insulted among their relatives? Yes. She is sure of
that. But more than that, she knew that would have proved her mother
right – that Anarkali was a slut. That she was shameless and low class.
Nazrani girls had to behave in a certain way. Look at Anna, she wrote
that story, somehow it got published, and she was made to feel so
much guilt. So Anarkali had to give up, no, not even think about the
brown-eyed boy. Was she tempted! Anarkali smiles. And the world
would have exploded! Their world. With their passion for each other.
She has a mischievous smile now. For she still remembers the way her
heart lurched whenever she saw him. Even now, just thinking of him
Anarkali feels a disturbing need somewhere shameful. Her heart
jumps. Anarkali feels fresh tears in her eyes.
Kalyani brings the lighted lamp to the front, and chants, “Deepam,
deepam.” She has showered, her hair hangs wet behind her, and now
she will place the lamp on the low wall around the tulsi plant. Anarkali
does not mind Kalyani doing her Hindu rituals. She smiles at the shock
that a modern Hindu, or Jew would have if she told them of the
similarity of their fire worship rituals. The Aryan and the Semitic.
Where is the great Divide? And Aryans did not come from any place.
Not Europe. They were in India, and all mankind came from Africa,
before they were Aryans or non-Aryans. Arya meaning noble, which
we are, the only civilization that evolved forward, at least in thinking –
vegetarianism, and non-violence for instance – as opposed to non-
Aryans. Anarkali decides that this should be the terminology. The
Noble and the Ignoble. Instead of taking our fatalistic, non-violent
stand as a weakness, we should build on that. World wars would not
have happened, and bystanders would not have been brought into
those wars. Colonization would not have happened and famines
would not have happened in India. Anarkali does not want to write it
ASHA BERNARD 25
down now. She is too lethargic. And why not be fatalistic anyway?
Everyone dies.
Kalyani has made the real Syrian Christian fish curry today. The
one smothered in mildly spicy coconut milk. Yellow with turmeric.
Seasoned, and garnished, with aromatic green curry leaves, sautéed in
coconut oil. And the plump, brown -- lined, Kerala rice. Beans thoran.
Tender mango pickle. Red hot. And yogurt from fresh cow’s milk.
Unpasteurized. Unrefrigerated. Made fresh daily.
Anarkali thought of the way Paradisians understood curry. Well,
ignorance is bliss. She had tried the so called “curry powder” once. It
tasted a little like sambaar masala. To think that people added that
same powder to all dishes, meat, fish, vegetables, and thought they
were eating Indian food! That is another insult that the grabber added –
to reduce to a single term, “curry”, thus dismissing the whole complex
cuisine of a nation. The variety of which, an outsider cannot imagine.
To not know that curry, to an Indian, just means a dish with sauce, as
opposed to a dry dish, Anarkali has to pity them.
When she was young, Anarkali hated to eat – especially in the
boarding house. They had good food there, but not by Anarkali’s
standard of goodness. For instance, take breakfast. A typical breakfast
had a main dish, idli, dosa, or puttu, its side dish like chutney, masala
kadala, egg, Kerala banana, and milk. That was what was in the
prospectus. But when it really appeared before the children, the idli
was as tough as a silver bullet, dosa thick like a wet towel, and puttu
as dry as sand. Anarkali had asked for full boiled eggs, but every day,
she was the only one who got a half boiled one, and minded. The milk
came in a tiny stainless steel tumbler, and it usually had the film of
cream on top that Anarkali hated. Later, Anarkali hated food, because
that made her grow up too fast, a fact which, Anarkali had learned
slowly and vaguely, that the mothers of virgins may not welcome.
Chapter 2
In which, the Narrator lets Anna introduce herself, as a very
private person, and Anna describes her notions of exhibitionism and
voyeurism, her early romantic escapades, and her present adventurous
life, and she compares herself to Jesus, in Paradise.
Hello! My name is Nina Anna Zachariah. Don’t think you know

me. You may call me Anna, or Nina, like my dad, and some of my
friends, do. I am Indian – actually Malayali, Syrian Christian (also
called Nazrani) from Thrissur, Keralam, a state at the southernmost tip
of India. But I live in another country, the name of which is
circumspect to avoid. Regretfully, I did not come here as a student, or
on account of a career, although I had hopes for both, when I first took
the step. The step of marrying an Indian – another Malayali Christian–
who came here as a student, and ended up working here. I love Mother
India, but I wanted to get away from her too. If you were a Malayali
female, aged anywhere between four and eighty that is, considering the
fact that you can walk on your own, not having to be carried by any of
your loyal folks, and have walked the streets of Thrissur, my home
town, which is the cultural capital of Kerala, you will know what I
mean. You will be pawed, and pinched, nudged, and groped, and left
feeling degraded and exploited and abused, so much that you would
start thinking of yourself to be a continent explored by, you know who.
Well, I could have closed up like China, or hung an iron curtain and
seriously, I had thought of starting to wear the burkha. Apart from the
fact that it lets you wear anything underneath, it also protects you from
the sun – far better sunscreen, than the ones churned out by the
multinational companies. I tell you, those are not meant for us
brownies. However, if you are a typical Malayali shaaleena naari,–
roughly translated, coy/modest/shy Malayali lady, the whole Malayali
sensibility is involved here – you would deny all that I just said about
Thrissur, because it is in the nature of the Malayali sthree rathnam –
again, roughly translated, it means, symbol of the perfectly submissive
(highly imaginary) womanhood – to deny everything. She is like
Adam. He did it to me, she made me do it, she was pawed, because she
had that provoking dress (a salwaar kameez!) on, or because she had
ASHA BERNARD 27
cut her hair. I never got pawed! You would also deny it if I said that,
there is another important reason for people like me, who escape from
the coziness of India. One of my aunts was honest enough to tell me,
and she proved it to me too. That the reason comparatively well to do,
educated women come here, is not just for self-actualization, but to
escape the stranglehold of family, especially that of the in-laws. I
know, I know, not you, you Malayali bahuraani ( trans. princess-
daughter-in-law), but there are some bad women, who did just that,
and are still doing it.
Before I write another word about myself, I have to explain why I
am doing this. I am a very private person, although I have been known
to declare the date of my periods, and my miserable condition during
those trying times, to a woman whom I met for the first time in my
life. Still, I haven’t told anyone that I had been fondled as a child,
actually I was five, by one of my male relatives when I was five. That
was in good old India, the land of fine family traditions, and values.
Note that I did not say molested, I said fondled. Because the guy did
not hurt me, he just touched, and I don’t remember the rest. I hate him.
I hate him for making me shameful that I, the clever girl, let him take
advantage of me. I fear what he would have been capable of, of what
he is doing to the little girls around him now. (But there is still this
niggling doubt – did I imagine all this? Did it really happen?) I hate
him for the smirk on his face (maybe that is his habitual expression,
maybe someone complimented him on that smirk) when I see him,
once in a while, at family gatherings. I will not say his name, and
abuse my tongue, and this, my monologue. Instead, I will call him the
Bad Guy.
My grandmother was the one who caught him, and myself. The
shame and the guilt of it. She told me not to say this to anyone,
because it reflects badly on me too, and because if my dad knew of it,
he would never let me stay with her again. And she took me to the
prayer room, and asked me to say sorry to Jesus. The old she-goat!
What should I have done? Punch her in the nose? Or tied up both of
them, shaved their heads, painted red dots on their eggheads, put them
on a pair of donkeys, and paraded them through the streets of our little
town? That was what they did to thieves and liars in our folk tales. I
don’t know.
I only know that I had a healthy fear of getting pregnant for a long
time, particularly when I watched those Malayalam movies, where
they showed us helpless audiences the fruits of sin. There will be this
man and woman, or boy or girl, who are about to hug each other, there
will be a shot of a butterfly drinking nectar from a flower, and then it
all fades. Soon we see the girl gagging and crying if she is unmarried,
and gagging and eating green mangoes if she is married. She is teased
and picked up and twirled around by the man if she is married, and
hurled and cursed and pushed to suicide if she is not. You can imagine
how I felt, but then, this guy did not really hug me. Then why did I
fear? Really, I do not remember what happened.
But the fact that I may have enjoyed it caused me no end of guilt --
so much so that I said it to every available priest, to whom I made a
confession, up till my early twenties. I said, “I have done bad things to
my body.” Because that is what the nuns taught us to say, when we
were preparing for our First Holy Communion. If Jesus is to come and
dwell in our unworthy sinful hearts, we had to do that. And the nuns
particularly reminded us, in a very pointed manner – confess, if you
have done anything very bad – like touching certain parts of your
body, or getting touched by others. She seemed to be looking at me
when she said that, and I smiled at her. I saw Anarkali, my best friend
then, bow her head. Sister seemed to relish making Anarkali
uncomfortable. Well, Anu (that’s what I call her) became
uncomfortable for no reason at all. Like for breakfast, if I got a half
boiled egg instead of what I wanted, I asked. The dining room Sister
sure did not like it, but soon I learned to manipulate her. Flattery, even
when she knew it was so, she couldn’t resist. So I got away with it.
Anarkali did not ask, or flatter. I don’t know if she could have got
away with it even if she tried to ask and flatter. I was the only one who
had the guts to do it, and the luck to emerge triumphant. But I have to
admit it did not help me that much later, as I had lost it somewhere
along the way.
So what I have been saying is that I am a very private person. I do
not like to expose my innermost feelings or thoughts to utter strangers.
We all know that nothing in this world can be purely objective, except
math, maybe. But that too, I am not sure. For instance, there was that
Pre Degree mark list scandal in Kerala. When it came out, we all saw
that 0+ 1+ 4+ 0+ 3+ 2 = 484. Well, the moneyed parents wanted their
dummy children to be doctors and engineers, and engineered some
extra scores. And a new math was born.
So nothing is objective, or considered objective by others, let alone
one’s imagination, and creativity. As for history, I am not going into
ASHA BERNARD 29
that. Women’s issues, science – no, not going to start on that.
Remember Galileo and the Catholic Church.
So leaving aside objectivity, what am I doing here? Why?
Spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions? Emotions recollected in
tranquillity? Maybe, but why tell you? I came to the conclusion that all
writers are exhibitionists, and all readers are voyeurs. Living here for
the past twelve years, I have become aware of my nature. When I was
six, I remember thinking that I could entice one of my male classmates
with my fair legs, and wet lips. Must have got the idea from a movie.
Entice for what? I am sure I did not know. Maybe I thought it would
be fun to have him follow me around, which he did. His name was Joe.
There I was, in my sleeveless, red, cotton frock that came just to the
middle of my thigh, displaying my silky skin, golden in the evening
sun. Later, I remember pouting at the Math tutor in third grade – and
feeling a distinct sexual tingle in my mind. I was flirting. Do all little
girls think like that? Then what happens to the much touted innocence
of childhood? I don’t know. I don’t even know if it was a dream that I
had later. But if it really did happen, where did all that exploding
sexuality disappear? Because if it had really happened, and had
progressed naturally at that rate, by the time I was nineteen, I would
have developed into a female Casanova. How did I end up as this
asexual being, whom my friends called a Puritan, later?
Around the same time that I was Mata Hari, I had pretended to be
crazy, and tried to catch a worm (which I detested, but the fools
around me did not know that, and they went and told the play minding
virgin). I got the attention I wanted. Thank goodness, the nun did not
deem it wise to take me to a psychiatrist. She just smiled at me, and
maybe the fact that I was giving her a naughty smile put her mind to
rest about having a raving lunatic in her care. Later on, I started
making up these stories in my head, mainly of a Mills and Boon
variety – but conscientiously stopping at the about to hug/kiss part.
Because I had been taught that even thinking about it is a sin. Actually,
I was fifteen when I first heard from a female classmate, (obviously,
an all girl’s school), that sex meant putting the man’s thing into a hole
in the woman’s bottom. I was not even sure I had that hole, even
though I had had my period. But the thing is, I did not believe her.
Such a grotesquely funny way! I laughed so much that day, imagining
the act, and the facial expressions of the actors. I made fun of the
morons who believed this. There were some girls who laughed with
me, because they thought that since I was smart, I must know. At
sixteen, when my college friends, again in an all girl’s terrain, told me

the same thing, I believed it, albeit reluctantly.
Anyway, I was too busy dreaming about tall, handsome, blue-eyed
strangers. Taking English literature as my major fueled those fantasies.
Jane Eyre’s Rochester, and Cathy’s Heathcliff entered my world.
Somehow, Romeo did not interest me. I preferred mature, older men.
But there weren’t many men around there, except for the old security
guard, a gurkha from Nepal, and the gardener, a local alcoholic. And
the fat, big moustached guy at the cafeteria, the one place we had on
the campus where we could go up to six in the evening. They served
masala dosa, tea, banana fry, biryani, and meals for the teachers. And
some sweets, like laddu, jalebi etc.. My friends and I took full
advantage of that. We stuffed ourselves in grand style. We did not
have this back in our school, but the freedom of college life! We were
grateful, and joyful. Note that this was the nineteen eighties. To find
out later that while we were living up in the clouds, and in the above
mentioned cafeteria, and the college chapel, in other places, girls of all
colors were running, escaping, flying away to places, experiencing
things that we had never and would never experience in this life was
heart breaking.
But I was efficient. I soon found the man of my dreams. One of the
priests who came to say Mass from the nearby boy’s school. Boy, was
he handsome. And older. In his thirties, I guess now. Fatal attraction.
Loving him from afar. How I loved those days. Imagining, dreaming,
smiling. Later, when I read Thorn Birds, I saw what I missed. Jokes
apart, I will tell you, about this first and early foray into the field of
love, in a little while. Besides, around that time, TV came to Kerala,
and soon videos, and I fell in love with Clint Eastwood, Sylvester
Stallone, Gregory Peck and Montgomery Clift. By the way, my priest
looked like M. Clift in Confession. So, besides my love for Sherlock
Holmes from England, and Hercule Poirot from Belgium, I had these
white heroes from America. A chimerical blend of fiction and reality
that transcended time and space. Also at that time, England and
America and Europe all blended into one cozy whole for me. I was
flying, going places in my mind, without the effort. If these people had
really come and stood before me, I would have run off to the
Himalayas.
We were talking about writers being exhibitionists. You should
have told me that I am digressing. Well, you can’t, can you? That is
the beauty of writing. I can write anything, and you can’t tell me to
ASHA BERNARD 31
stop. Not when you are reading, anyway. Please don’t say it. Like
sermons given by ignorant priests in our local church (not all are
ignorant, but the way some of them talk about the role and status of
woman a la St. Paul, and the painful glory of childbirth, and the sin of
abortion, I am constrained to differ,) no one asks questions, or
demands him to stop, or interrupts him in any other way. (Much like
my old school.) An unwritten code of behavior that both parties
expect, and respect. Just like us writers and readers. That is nice, is it
not? Exhibitionists cannot afford to be private, although I would
suggest that you take everything that I say, or anyone else says, for
that matter, with a pinch of salt. After all, what are reminiscences, but
history with feeling. Imagine the director imploring the wooden-faced
actor, “With feeling,” “A bit more feeling, please.” And we all know
what history is, don’t we? Half truths, and outright lies. Here, I would
like to remind you that I am in full control of my narrative. There is no
middleman/ woman to poke his/her nose into our internal affairs. This
is between you and me.
Again, pardon me for the digression. As another evidence of a
writer as exhibitionist, or I have to say, as someone who experiences
vicariously, I put forward my habit of describing myself in third
person. For instance, I think, Anna is walking along the side of a lake,
and is frightened by a wasp when this tall, handsome man appears, and
rescues her. Not very original, I am afraid. Kalidasa did it before me,
for beautiful Shakunthala, centuries ago. But you get the gist. You may
have had the same idea, maybe with a little difference, like say, a
hornet, instead of my wasp. What am I doing? Rambling on, like Ellen
in her sitcom. Now sitcoms, I would say, are the forerunners of reality
shows, which by the way, is surreal. I wish I were in a sitcom. So, if a
British person cuts me off when we are standing in line, and tells me
later, “Oh, I did not mean to push you off.”
I could say, “Oh, but you guys are the experts in that field, or is it
divide and rule?.” Hahahaha. I know, it is lame. But I wanted to write
that. Want to hear another funny thing? When I turned forty, I looked
back at my life. I was not pleased with what I saw. So I started farting
in front of my husband.
Look at the effect of conditioning – the guy who would not say the
word fart, without a frown of distaste, actually laughed, and said,
“Anna, that killed me.”
And when I said, “Hon, you want me to put some gas in the car?,”
you should have seen his face. I was so proud of myself that day. I
have converted him! To be the instrument that brings change to a

person’s life! I was sure that from then on, his life will be perfect – he
will be civilized. Now I know why those colonizing evangelists kept
on doing their work. Praise the great, white Lord!
Back to exhibitionism – laying bare your, or your imaginary
characters’ (whom you identify with) thoughts, and feelings, before
strangers. No, we have moved on to vicarious pleasure, haven’t we?
There is a connection between the latter, and driving, at least in my
case. When I drive, I put on these CDs of old Malayalam, and Hindi
movie songs, or fifties, and sixties rock music, and I am in another
world. I don’t know if you have seen old Indian movies, even present
day ones, but in the second group, it is mostly, well-choreographed
dance moves. In the old ones, you see these handsome guys chasing
beautiful women – they could be either in nice cars, following the
angry girl, or both together, in a horse-drawn carriage, with the girl
pouting at first, and then being coy, or both riding horses, or bicycles.
The songs that they (pretend to) sing were so romantic, funny, and
profound: “Akele akele kahaan jaa rahe ho? Humein saath le lo
jahaan jaa rahe ho” (Alone, alone, where are you going? Take me
along, wherever you are going) or “Yeh chaand sa roshan chehra,
zulphein ka rang sunehra / yeh jheel se neeli aankhein / thaareef
karoon mein uski jisne tumhein banaaya.” (This face, as beautiful as
the moon, this hair so shiny, these eyes, as blue as this river, [this
being a Kashmiri girl], I congratulate the Person who created you).
The same pattern can be seen in all lighthearted Indian movies, of
all the languages, in all states. So while I am driving, listening to the
song, I am the heroine. Except that no one is there to chase me, for
which I am grateful because I do not want any psychopath /serial
killer, breathing down my neck. But sometimes, I am holding my
breath, my eyes are dreamy, and in my mind, I look out the window
for a handsome face. Here the exhibitionist in me takes over. One day
I did this, and this car seemed to be following me, maybe the driver of
the other car felt that I was following his/her car too. Anyway we came
side by side, after a lot of exciting anticipation and trepidation, and I
did what I usually do not do. I turned my head, and looked at the
driver. With great expectations. Maybe a Pierce Brosnan, or one of the
Khans, or Khannas or Kapoors from the Hindi moviedom. And I don’t
call it Bollywood. Just at the same instant, the driver of the other car
turned, and looked too. It was a girl. Quite an anticlimax. We both
turned away immediately, sheepishly.
ASHA BERNARD 33
At other times, I am ashamed of my petit bourgeois, romantic
notions a la Madame Bovary, particularly, when I see the weary face
of a truck driver, or that of a grandfather driving his pickup truck. This
is how I make drama in my life. No pain, no gain. And I am bored. It
is so that if there is not anyone to see what a great and beautiful, or
what an ordinary, pathetic creature I am (depending on the mood), my
very existence seems invalidated. Other people are who gives it
meaning, and value, and even life. Legitimization of a human life.
Somewhat like my living my life for my parents, in my youth. My one
goal was to make them proud, happy. Strange are the ways of the
exhibitionist. Well, if we want to exhibit ourselves, there must be
something of value that others will want to see. In this sense of
wanting someone to watch lovingly, without scaring us, I would say
we human beings are the writers, and God is the Reader.
Sometimes, I wonder at the depth of the incapability of the human
race. I regret that I will never get to know, or attempt to know of all,
no, at least half or even a quarter of the world’s inhabitants, in this life
of mine. And they will never know me either. I am depressed that I am
such an insignificant unit in the vastness of this universe. No wonder
the Hindus came up with the idea of many births. Reincarnation. At
other times, I marvel at our self-important ways, like a venerable, old
sage, about our complacent thinking, that we are an important and
active part of this world. Maybe we are, if we are who gives meaning
to ourselves, and to the immediate world around us. By the way, I may
be old, but you cannot accuse me of being a venerable sage.
Got to go. My hour of adventurous living is here. I just washed
yellow split peas for tonight’s dinner. Six times. Wash, drain, wash,
drain . . . Ah! The excitement! I am wearing my old cotton nightie,
which I pretend to be a Balenciaga gown. Of course I read Vogue.
Now I have to go pick my son up from school. The drama that goes on
there! In the olden days, we moms waited in our cars. So no one had to
talk to, or smile at each other. I wished I had some friends, but no one
else seemed to want me, for a friend. So I huddled in the car, and read
about the directness, high-mindedness, and honesty of the British, in
Agatha Christie. Funny, I had never noticed that thread of superiority
before, when I was a school girl or college girl in India. (for instance,
try reading The Cat Among the Pigeons and you will learn about the
“racial guile” of people from the Middle East. As if! Hmmphh . . .
imagine Obelix struggling to hold his laughter at the Romans) But
then, I read those books for the mystery, of course, and the English
countryside, the cold weather, the fireplace, the hardwood floors , the
shepherd lamps, and hot cups of tea and crumpets. Now I have all that,
except for the Mystery.
Anyway, now the school has a kind of parlor for us waiting moms,
and they use it for other meetings too. There are the regular moms,
who drive up and pick up their children. But here are the waiting
moms. Anarkali aka Anu, when she was here, had come with me to the
school once, and she hated it. How can you sit there among those rude,
uncivilized people? she frowned at me. It is so uncomfortable and
lonely. I am aware that I am an outsider here, and an invisible one at
that. But then, I thought of the time when we had gone to a famous
research library in India, for reference work, when we were research
students. There, our fellow Indians were not just snooty, but malicious
too. But later, we did make friends with some of them, who turned out
to be nice. So I told Anu that it is the same anywhere. There is the
good, the bad, the ugly.
I have noticed that the color factor exists, in Paradise. Or something
that conceals the real reasons for hatred – jealousy? What is there to be
jealous about? Ignorance ? Again, people, when they are ignorant
about other cultures, find it hard to befriend them. And most people do
not want to know of other cultures. They have their own worries,
hurries, jealousies, and hurts. Don’t think I am this understanding all
the time, at least not in my mind. But I did not want Anu to worry
about me. And I made a game out of it. I watched the lengths they go
to just to avoid looking at me. Soon, I got tired of it. Now, when a
mom refuses to give me eye contact, I do the same. Childish. But my
doing it will at least give them the chance to say that I am the one who
is rude and snooty. Again, when a mom who has talked to me before
pretends that she does not see me, the next day, I say to myself, “She
smiles, she smiles not.” And, “She looks, she looks not.” There is
another type that baffles me. She smiles and says hello, but if and
when her husband is with her, she does not see me. Women like her
have developed this into an art – the art of being a stranger forever.
Did I say that human beings are complex? And predictable? But again,
I may be at fault too. I have this habit of judging people. If I think, and
usually I am right, that a lady finds it difficult to smile at me, even
though she makes a gallant effort, I help her out, by not looking at her.
My mom is a very loving person who wants everybody to love her
too. In fact, most of my cousins call her Ammachi, like I do. Because
they have stayed in my home during vacations, or to take a course in
ASHA BERNARD 35
our town, and they have known her love. But there are some, who later
forgot all that, because of other familial politics, especially on my
father’s side. Consequently, my mother sees them in church, or visits
them in their homes, and comes home saying one, or another of these
things: “Today, she smiled at me.” “Today, she did not even look at
me.” “Today, the older sister smiled, and talked. But the other one!
What did I do to them, that she hates me so?” “Today the younger
sister smiled, but the older one was mad at me.” Poor Ammachi.
My brother and I used to make fun of her by asking her when she
returned home, “Today, who smiled, Mommy?” She would look so
hurt, but then she would laugh with us. Come to think of it, who are
these women in my son’s school, to me? They are not related to me, in
any way. Nor have I done anything important for them, say like
saving them from the attack of a tiger, or from drowning. So I should
not bother, if they see me, or not. But what is it that makes you so
happy, when some stranger smiles at you? I do not remember being
this affected by unsmiling faces back home. But then, back home, I
had my family, especially my father, and my friends, and Anu. And a
wide network of cousins, and neighbors, and relatives.
Some time ago, I used to teach at a university, around here. There, I
met a few black, and brown, and even white faces that made me
happy. Friendly, smiling faces. Very few, but they were there. Well,
universities are always different, aren’t they? I have to admit that, at
the Paradisian university, to my surprise, I did meet a couple of guys
of the white denomination who seemed very interesting. But my being
a married woman/ mother is a real wet blanket. I should not even be
thinking of this. So I should not be bothered by the hostility or
indifference of these mothers. Or, maybe, I am like Jesus. I prefer to
go after the one sheep that is lost rather than taking care of the ninety-
nine that I have. I hope you are not one of those morally superior
beings who will take this as blasphemous. I am not saying that I want
to be God, black or white. I would not want to be crucified, or eaten by
my followers, as in Holy Communion. I also would not want anyone to
kill and maim other people in my name. Nor do I want them to grab
what is not theirs, in my name.
I am in the car doing my thing – listening to music, dreaming, but
my son’s homework keeps intruding. It is a project – cultural. What
the heck do they know of culture? Well, it will be good if the adults
including the teachers went and trained in some culture.
Like smiling at people like me, or just looking at me to see me.

Then they may teach kids about culture and diversity and sharing and
whatnot. Haha! I have to make him wash his hands when he gets
home, before he has his snacks, make him sit down, and do his
homework, and then make him take a shower, before his dad gets
home. Once he comes, they play. Well, first there is the part, where I
have to say, “Ajay is still at school,” and when he makes his dad run
all over the house, looking for him. In between, he will come to me,
and say, “Mom, do something. If Dad says he saw me, tell him it is his
imagination.” This, in a whisper that can be heard in Thrissur, my
home town. I can’t wait to have my tea.
And when his dad says, “Hey, I think I saw him. What was that
thing that passed by in a flash?” He knows his son wants to be known
for his supersonic speed.
So I say, “It is your ima-gi-na-tion.” I draw out the word, in a
lengthy, monotonous drawl.
Then a hiss from behind, “Do it with feeling, do it realistically,
Amma..”
Then all of the evening goes by in the reverberating refrain, “Ajay,
wash your hands. Ajay, wash your hands. Ajay, did you wash your
hands? Ajay, where are you?”
And Ajay sometimes deigns to say at this point, “Your wish is my
command, Amma.” And proceeds to tinker with whatever he sees on
his way to the washroom.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Ajay, I can’t believe I have
to say this every day. I don’t know why I do this.”
Ajay saunters over to the washroom, and then comes, “Hug?” I
have to smile, even though I am seething, and fed up. I look into his
eyes, so like mine, the delicate line of his chin. How can children be so
trusting ? I feel sorry for the guy. And then a whole lot of love. I am
awed that I have such a huge responsibility. I am one of the reasons
that he is here in this world. I have to make it right for him at least till
he is an adult. I sigh. This goes on for the whole school year. You get
the idea, I suppose. Starts in the morning, when I wake him up, and
ends at night, when he asks for one more story. This is just part of my
adventurous life here. I have more adventures – shopping, watching
TV, going to Church, the movies, doing the laundry, cooking, and so
on. Learning to eat chicken legs, which I used to hate when I was back
home. Because now that I am the one who cooks, I don’t want to
throw it away, as no one else in the family likes it. What else can you
ASHA BERNARD 37
expect from adult life, eh? The remarkable point is that I could have
done almost all of this, except the chicken leg part, in India if I went
back, like Anu asks me to.
But I have realized that I hope to recapture my youth, and youthful
friends and family, by that. At least that will be one of the underlying
reasons to go back, and I know that is not possible, as my family and
friends have changed. India has moved forward.. Maybe it did not let
us move forward, back then, that easily, but India has gone forward in
time. I will not be happy when I find that out in India, and I will not be
happy if I refuse to see that, in the end. Also, the grass is always
greener on the other side. And I have recognized this perverse need in
me to see the negative side of any situation I am in, and also to prove
any expectations or certainties that others may have regarding myself,
to be wrong. Therein lies my success, and my failure. The point is that
I am not sure that I can be completely happy anywhere.
And apart from the psychic and political ramifications of being a
colonizer, or a superpower, we all know that there is the all-important
economic effect. The pound sterling is a case in point. Whereas what
happens to the rupee, in the post-colonial era? Likewise, the value of
the dollar, as against the rupee. Greed for more plays an important role
for people like us, who can really make an honest, good living back
home. Along with it, consider the springy step of a Nike-clad pair of
feet, the attention grabbing logo of a Ralph Lauren top, and the stoking
of the flames of envy and greed in fellow Indians, on a visit to India.
And the gum chewing, and the special diet of juice, and cereal for the
kids (although Ajay is all for spicy food). For a few days, I am one of
the stars of whom I had dreamt a long time ago. I know many,
especially the youngsters, believe that the place where I come from has
money lying about, that I hobnob with the stars and celebrities, and
travel to faraway lands. We, the Paradise – returned, spend, and give
away gifts and money to anyone and everyone, like there is a money-
growing tree in our backyard. The show must go on. All eyes on me.
Paradise-returned! Whispers behind my back at the cousin’s wedding.
They expect my child to shit in English. Do you drive? Yes. Wow!
gushes one of my aunts, who has a chauffeur to drive her around. I am
not sure if she is mocking me.
Who is to know that once back in Paradise, it is the lonely routine?
Who is to know that the Nike is from a discount store, and that I hurt
my fingers cutting coupons? That we live from paycheck to paycheck,
and mortgage to mortgage, and credit card to credit card? That in
Paradise, it is an unthinking, drugged existence – drugged by sales,

and TV? Who is to know that we do not see our neighbors for months
together, that no one will know if I lay dead in my house or if my
husband is away? No one knows that my child learned at an early age
of something that he would never have learned, or even been aware of,
in India. He has learned that he is different (and is treated differently in
many places) from the other children in his class. He is aware of his
brown skin. Isn’t it strange, and even disturbing to think that the same
child, who when he gets to India is looked up to, as the little Prince
from Paradise, thinks of himself as Indian? It would be perfect if he
were in India. But what if he decides to live here? I worry about my
son. How will he feel when he grows up? If he grew up to be the kind
of person who does not think or feel that deeply about these things, or
who would not recognize an identity crisis if it hit him in the face, it
will be fine. But what if he has a different sensibility? I want him to
feel things as they are, but learn to transcend those things, and even
change them. A tall order for the poor child.
What I do not want Ajay to feel is that sense of homelessness that I
feel now. No, even before. When I read for the first time on a notice
board in front of our local Hindu temple, back in India, “Non-Hindus
are not allowed inside the temple.” It made me sad and mad. I was
fascinated by the Hindu culture, and their rituals, but I was an outsider.
Who am I? An Indian, or a Christian in a Hindu land? And what does
that distinction entail? Am I then part of the world’s Christian
community? But do the Christians outside the country even know that
we exist? Do they care? When I was at the University, an upper caste
Hindu girl in the Sanskrit Department used to say the word “Nazrani”
in front of me, in a very derogatory, sarcastic voice.
Who are we, Nazranis? We believed that we were Brahmins
converted by St. Thomas, the Apostle. But any historian will tell you
that there were no Brahmins in Kerala, at that time- -52 AD. So who
are we? By the way, I should start calling my homeland, Kerala Nagar,
as that is what it is turning out to be. Gone are the fields, and the
forests. Instead Kerala is quickly turning into a sprawling residential
complex. A crowded suburb. And then there are the Chaldeans, and
Sorais, and Syrian Christians, and Knaanayas too. The last group came
comparatively recently – in the eighth century, and they have their
written history, which states that they came from Canaan. But we were
there before. Recently, I read that my ancestors were Jews, mostly
ASHA BERNARD 39
Iraqi Jews, who were in Kerala, and that it was for, and because of us
that St. Thomas came there.
So now if I meet that girl again, I should be able to inform her that
we were there before her ancestors. A long time before that. It is a fact
that later, we were forced to join the Roman Church, and forgot or
gave up our rituals, and our language of worship. As recent as when
my father was a boy, the Holy Qurbana was said in Aramaic. But will
the Israeli Jew consider us to be a part of the Jewish diaspora? Will the
Indian Hindu consider us to be part of the Hindu diaspora, after, say, a
hundred years, or even now? What is this yearning to know who we
are, where we come from, where our home is? What is this yearning to
belong? What is this yearning to be understood? I don’t know why I
bother about these things. After all, for over two thousand years, we
have been living in India. I have come to a point where I know that I
have to come to terms with my being an Indian, and a Nazrani. And a
permanent resident in this country. No matter wherever I am, I am an
outsider. And I know it is easy to worry over these things, when you
have a roof over your head, clothes to wear, and a full tummy, as one
of my mom’s lackeys would say.
Chapter 3
Wherein Anarkali talks to her mother, and remembers other events
from her childhood, struggles to deal with those, and what she
considers to be a failed life, and waits for Anna.
Anarkali gets a call from her mother, in the evening.

“Hello Anu.”
Anarkali is silent. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“How have you been? How come you don’t come home?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what? Sitting moping, and eating the mush that Kalyani
makes?”
“Kalyani is a good cook.”
“Oh, is she now? When did she become that, I wonder.”
“Why did you call, Ammachi?”
“We want to see you, that is why. Appachan would like to see you.
You know that.”
Anarkali knew that. After the one incident with the brass pot and
rosary when she was a child, her father had been different. It was as if
he had learned something about himself that night. And he did not like
it. He was not a bully. And he never hurt her after that, except by
omission, as the times he went along with his wife when she took the
decisions regarding her future. Still he was one support that she had as
she grew up, albeit silent. People learn, and they change, Anarkali had
known it for a long time.
Her mother was saying something. Anarkali stops thinking.
“I don’t know why you show this bad face to me, Anarkali. What
did we do to you?”
“What didn’t you do to me? And don’t say we. It is you.” Anarkali
yells.
“I have apologized to you about many things, Anarkali. I did not
know any better at that time. I was ignorant about the changing times,
and about you. I told you that a million times. Why don’t you forgive
and forget?”
ASHA BERNARD 41
“Because I lost my youth because of you, and you can’t bring it
back. You ruined my life.” Anarkali still does not know the half of
what had been done to her.
“No one can, Anarkali. Bring back their youth that is.” Ammachi
sounds wistful. Then she adds, “You sound like that character played
by Carol Burnett in that show. Mama’s Family.”
Anarkali is silent.
“We tried to do what was best for you. We thought we were doing
the right things.”
“You mean you thought. Don’t include Appachan. You and your
brothers.” Anarkali is vengeful, and ecstatic that she brought the
uncles in. She knows that her mother will let no one touch her sainted
brothers.
“What have they done to you? Every time we have this talk, you
bring them up. If you wanted to be somebody, you should have done
something about it. You can’t blame others for your shortcomings.
Nobody tied you up here. You did not have the initiative for anything.
You were a sulky, morose little bitch.” Her mother is out of breath.
Anarkali can hear the sob in her mother’s voice. But she has hardened
her heart. No more of that.
She slowly puts the phone down. Tears flow down her cheeks. Oh,
but you cut my wings. Every time I wanted to fly, you cut my wings.
No, you cut them off, right when they sprouted.
Maybe because you were not allowed to fly. Like your brothers.
Maybe because you did not want to be tied down with children. Maybe
because you yourself wanted to remain that child, that tomboy who ran
around and climbed trees with the boys.
Anarkali sits down. She is tired. Oh Anna!
Anna is not God. She cannot do anything for you, Anarkali.
Anarkali cries. Loudly. Uncontrollably. Wildly. Like a beaten dog.
Such a failure. Her whole life, a waste. Lost. Spent.
Kalyani comes running. “What is it, moale? What happened?”
Anarkali does not hear. She cannot be reached. She is beyond help.
Blighted. Beyond redemption.. But she has stopped that unnatural
howl.
Kalyani says, “Molu, go take a shower. Put some oil in your hair,
and on your body. Kalyani will bring some tea.” Oil bath, and tea – the
wonder treatments for bad feelings. Or physical hurt. Anarkali gets up,
and goes to the window. Her eyes do not see anything. After a few
minutes, she starts to see the moonlit shores of the river. The shores of
which, poets had sung, comparing it to the off-white, shiny pudava, of

the Malayali bride. The water beckons. What is so different about this
water that she finds it beautiful, unlike the dark pond of her childhood?
The river glimmers in the moonlight, and winks at her. Anarkali never
learned how to swim. If she were to be pushed into the water, would
she survive? But what if by some miracle, she thrashed around
frantically and swam to the shore? For what? Kalyani is here with the
tea. Anarkali slowly sips it.
Anarkali is in the shower. Her mother used to give her oil baths.
She remembers the way she used to draw designs with her nails on her
tummy, sleek with oil. She had to stand in her panty, with oil on her
body, and hair, for an hour. Anarkali hated the oil on her face. And the
irksome touch of oily hair on her forehead. But she dared not complain
too much, or her mother would be angry. The oil was made of ten
medicinal herbs, with coconut milk, and camphor added in the last
minute. It was very fragrant, and of a lush green color. Made by
Anarkali’s grandmother from a prescription, by a famous ayurvedic
physician. Then the bath. Thresia would bring the coconut fibre
loofah, and the scrubbing commenced. The agony of it, when her
mother scrubbed the back of her neck, and all the joints. Anarkali
would be red all over, once it was over. Some areas would be bruised.
But not a word of complaint escaped Anarkali’s mouth. For the hair,
Ammachi did not allow any shampoo in the house. That was for
boarding school. At home, she used the frothy water from an overnight
soaking of some special tree barks – incha and thaalee it was called.
Or some other ayurvedic powder. All these left the hair somewhat oily,
but smelling good. Not many Christian children had to endure this
ritual, which was more Hindu. But then, Anarkali’s family had to be
different.
Anarkali lets the water flow over her. She has a love-hate
relationship with her body. She is ashamed of it, its roundness, its
curves and valleys, its ups and downs. She wished she was more like
Anna. Less voluptuous. Less jutting out in the front and the back. Less
dirty and ugly down there. Hour glass figure, Anna had assured her a
million times. But Anarkali has to deal with it yet. She was eleven
years old when one day Ammachi wanted to give her a bath, after a
long time. Anarkali was asked to take off her clothes, in the closed
veranda off the kitchen. That is where she usually stood, after she
applied oil. Only Thresia would be around anyway.
ASHA BERNARD 43
Anarkali takes off her clothes, except for the panty. Suddenly, she
notices Thresia pointing at her and laughing. Her mother is also trying
to control her laughter. But Anarkali could sense anger too. She was so
attuned to her mother’s moods. Anarkali is perplexed. She looks down
at herself, and for the first time notices the two little bumps that had
grown on her chest, as if overnight. Anarkali is mortified. And angry.
She hates Thresia, at that moment. She forgets to hate her mother. She
runs into the bathroom, and closes the door. Soon Ammachi comes
thumping on the door, “That’s enough. What is there to be so mad
about? Such melodrama. Now, you better open the door, and stop
acting like the spoilt brat that you are.” Anarkali has to open the door
now. Her eyes are red from crying. Her mother starts pouring water
over her, and commences the scrubbing. As she sits down, and scrubs
her groin, Anarkali hears a snort of disgust from her mother, “Devil’s
child! No shame at all to stand before me like this. You have hair
growing down there!” For a second, Anarkali does not understand.
Hair? Where? She had not seen it, not in any place where she can see,
and she dare not look either. She knows it is a sin. What she is
ashamed about is that she put her mother through this despicable
experience. And this could be what being a slut is all about. The
beginning. She feels ugly and dirty. So she stands there silent, not even
daring to breathe, until her mother finishes giving her bath. It does not
occur to her to say that she never asked her mother to give her baths.
After that, she is thankful that her mother lets her take her own
showers. And every day, she kneels on the bathroom floor and begs
Jesus to take away the two growing, fleshy lumps on her chest, and to
stop hair from growing in her private parts. She cries when she prays,
and hits at her chest to stop the growth, and as punishment for being
so evil. Hadn't she heard her mother saying that only low class and
immoral women had big breasts? And that night, her mother comes to
her bedside as usual, and pats her head, and makes the sign of the cross
on her forehead. And Anarkali is grateful.
Anarkali gets out of the shower, and dries herself. She looks in the
mirror, at her swollen eyes. The still long, spiky lashes. She
remembers the nun who once commented on her lashes. “Anarkali, I
have never seen such long eyelashes. No dust will enter those eyes. It
looks like a curtain.” Anarkali was never sure if it was a compliment,
if the Sister liked it or not.
Sometimes Anarkali feels that she is fighting a losing battle. Of life

and death. Of anger and pain. Whatever she does, or says, or thinks,
she is destined to suffer. Like her grandmother. But there is, and was
something in her that refuses to submit to that destiny. Very unlike her
grandmother.
If only Anna were here. Like the time when she came to her, when
they were in boarding school. Anarkali was sitting in the study room
as usual, with the other girls in her class. There was a study-minding
teacher for the room, usually a spinster. The Warden walked by, often,
to check on things. It was 9:30 at night. Bedtime was at 9:45, after a
small prayer. Most of the girls – five and six-year–olds – will be
nodding their heads off by now. Anarkali and Anna had devised a
plan. First one, of them would throw something under the desk, and
then the other would lean down, as if to get it, and put her head on her
lap, and dose. Then the other would do the same thing. That night,
while they are busy doing this, a chechi comes to the study- minder
and says something. Anarkali and Anna look up. Mrs. Thanda, in her
starched, white, mundu and kuppayam, and cream colored kavini,
bordered with hand painted flowers, walks gracefully toward them,
and asks Anarkali, to go down to the Warden.
Anarkali is bewildered, and scared. She is ashamed too, because
everyone seem to be looking at her, and whispering. She walks down
the stairs, looks up at the statue of the Virgin Mary on the window
niche at the landing, (praying to Mary who looked inward,) makes a
sign of the cross, and goes down the second flight of stairs, to the
Warden’s office. Sr. Cleopatra was behind her desk. A fair, short,
buxom nun, who could petrify you with one look out of her spectacles.
“Where is your soap dish?” she asks. Anarkali just looks at her.
“Didn’t you hear me, Anarkali?”
“Yes, Sister.” Anarkali does not know why Sister is so interested in
her soap dish. It should be in the mug, with her toothbrush and
toothpaste. What is there to ask about that?
But then, she would better answer the nun, or she may get angry. So
she says, “In the mug.”
“Ha! Show me.” Sister gets off her chair, and walks Anarkali to the
big shelf on the wall, near the toilet room. Mugs in a variety of colors
are arranged neatly on the wide shelves. For the first time, Anarkali
notices the beauty of it all – the bright colors, the order. Like rows of
parakeets, of all colors, on ledges. She sees that Sister is watching her,
waiting. “Where is your soap dish?” she asks again.
ASHA BERNARD 45
Anarkali looks for her mug. She finds it, she knows where it is, for
her name is on it. It is orange in color. She takes it off the shelf, and
holds it to the sister. Then, she notices some of the chechis standing in
the darkness in the corridor, just outside the circle of light, where she
stands with the nun. Sr. Cleopatra asks again, “Where is the soap
dish?” Anarkali looks inside the mug. It is not there.
She says, “It is not here.”
“Then why did you say it is in the mug? You knew all the time it is
not in there. You were lying. You bad girl.” Anarkali stands with
bowed head. “Look at me, you liar, tell me the truth.”
Anarkali looks up, with tears in her eyes, “I don’t know, Sister. I
don’t remember.”
“You don’t know! You forget! You, with your prodigious memory,
that you defeated our best students here? You are a liar. And do not
look at me with those eyes. Devil’s eyes!”
Anarkali looks down, her long, spiky lashes wet, concealing. “Tell
me where the soap dish is, or you will not go to bed tonight. Spoilt
brat. Parents buy everything, and anything the children want. And the
ungrateful children do what they like. Or they don’t care.” Anarkali
cannot suppress a yawn. That makes the nun really angry. She grabs
the cane from the top of the shelf, and starts hitting Anarkali.
Anarkali does not run, but her body sways at the force, and the
hatred. She is familiar with this. The nun holds her by one hand, and
keeps on hitting. On her legs, on her back, her hands. She faintly hears
the nervous twitters, and the gasps of excitement mingled with alarm,
from where the chechis watch the show. These are some of the things
that made their drab lives within the walls of the convent interesting.
Then and there, Anarkali refuses to cry, ever again. Not in front of
anybody. In private, yes. But not in front of uncaring, unfair, cruel
people.
That Anarkali can just stand there, without letting a single tear fall
makes Sr. Cleopatra go berserk. Her beatings escalate, till Sr. Josepha,
the Assistant Warden who had taken Anarkali around, on her first day
comes, and takes the cane away. One of the chechis takes Anarkali
away, and shows her the soap dish – the oval, stainless steel soap dish,
with the Pears soap in it. Hers was the only stainless steel one, all the
others had plastic ones. She looks at her initials engraved on its side.
Anarkali notes that the chechi is the one who used to make her go to
the back of the line in the morning, when all the girls stood with their
combs and ribbons, for their hair to be dressed for school. She blamed
Anarkali’s long hair. She still does not remember what happened to
the soap dish, and how it came to be outside the mug. The nuns had
long gone, and Anarkali was sent off to bed. She sees the girls come
down to get ready for bed – brush their teeth, use restrooms, plait their
hair, and Anna is with them. Anarkali is embarrassed at her situation,
and turns away. That does not deter Anna, who steps out of the line – a
very courageous deed – and holds Anarkali by her shoulder. Anarkali
wants a hug, but they have to hurry up. That night, she wishes her
mother was there, to pat her hair, and her forehead, and make the sign
of the cross. But then, she is scared of what her mother would say if
she heard of this. Will she think she lied? She soon falls asleep, and
the tears dry up on her cheeks. Every morning, the wake up bell goes
off at 5:30, and they have to get up, and be ready for Holy Mass, in the
convent chapel at 6:00.
It was in the next evening, after their showers, when she saw the
stepping stone on which the girls stood to reach the clotheslines, to
hang up their bath towels, that it came to her. She had put down her
soap dish on the rock, to hang up the towel. She had hurried off to the
study room, as it was getting late, and had left it there, until one of the
chechis found it, and reported it to the Warden. Since no one had
bothered to ask for an explanation from her later, Anarkali knows that
everyone had taken for granted, that she was lying. Now, at forty, she
finds that it may have been one of the reasons she became so
suggestible in her adult life. She was not gullible, but if someone lied
to her outright, and said that she was the one who said, or did
something wrong, Anarkali resisted at first, but soon gave up, even
though she was sure that she did not say it, or do it. She used to be so
unsure of herself, wondering if she had really done it, or said it. How
her mother-in-law played on that, in her doomed marriage.
Anarkali’s parents visited her in boarding school, the weekend after
she was Sr. Cleopatra’s victim, by chance. Before she left with her
parents, for an evening in town, the nun warned Anarkali, “Don’t you
dare tell any lies to your parents.” Somehow, that made Anarkali less
worried about her mother’s reaction. As she sat on her father’s lap, on
their way to town, Anarkali told her parents about the incident. Her
mother was very angry at the nun, especially since Anarkali was
feverish. Anarkali was happy. In town, her father took her to a
restaurant, where they brought vanilla ice cream, in footed, cut-glass
bowls. What Anarkali enjoyed the most was the thin, flat, orange
wafer stuck into the middle of the smooth ball of ice cream. Then they
ASHA BERNARD 47
went to a store, and her father bought biscuits and sweets for all the
children in the boarding house. And a fountain pen for Anarkali. Her
first pen. Grey, with gold lining at the tip of the cap. When they took
her back to the boarding school, her father had a long talk with Sr.
Cleopatra, which Anarkali did not hear. That evening, during Reading
hour, Sister smiled at Anarkali, who was surprised. The adults were
very confusing.
Chapter 4
Wherein Anna talks of her adventures during her school, and
college days, and explains how she discovered the intensity of her
eyes.
Hello again, my friend, my reader! We parted on some heavy stuff

the last time. No more of that. Why burden you with my doubts and
my angst! Or even my ennui! Let’s have some fun. I am going to tell
you about my intense eyes. I was in college – age nineteen. Yes,
around the time of my fatal attraction, the great love affair of my life.
The results from the second year examinations were out. Now, for
those readers, who have no idea of the university rank system in my
place, here is a brief explanation. There were only two main
universities, other than the specialized ones, in my state at that time.
Kerala University, which was in Thiruvananthapuram, the capital of
Kerala, and the University of Calicut, which was located in
Kozhikode. There are, and were a number of private colleges mostly
run by nuns (for girls), priests (for boys), and other religious
denominations, and government or public colleges, all over the state.
By the way, Kerala is the only state in India with a hundred percent
literacy rate, and also, it is one of the states where there are more
educated and working women than any other Indian state. Having said
that, I have to remind you sadly about the boys and men who paw. Let
us bow our heads in silent prayer for their souls, at this juncture.
Well, back to university. All these colleges come under the
jurisdiction of one or the other of the universities. So basically, one
can say half and half, regarding the number of colleges affiliated to
each universities. These colleges provide pre-degree, undergraduate,
and in some cases, master’s courses, whereas the universities focus
mainly on master’s and Research, leading to M. Phil and Ph. D. There
is a rank system that is there in Kerala, right from Lower Kindergarten
onto Master’s. So instead of a group getting high grades, in Kerala,
one student – sometimes tied – gets the first rank. When it comes to
matriculation, and college degrees, the photos and interviews of these
winners will be published in papers. Now, of course there are more
universities, and the winners appear on TV.
ASHA BERNARD 49
I was a potential rank student in B.A. English, especially after the
results of the second year examinations came out. I had scored high
marks in Grammar, which was the main subject in second year. Also, I
had got a considerable increase in score after I had given the first year
paper for re-evaluation. So I was riding high, when this girl in the
Math department comes to me. I had seen her around, and smiled at
her once or twice. Since she was a day student, our paths did not cross
that much. We were getting out of the auditorium, after a reception for
the previous year’s rank holder. The Principal was very pleased with
us, as we had defeated our main rival, St. Ursula’s in Thrissur, in the
number of ranks won that year. She had given us the rest of the day
off. Off to the cafeteria, my friends and I were unanimous. As if there
was any other option. It was then that Diya Mary Mathew appeared
before me. I had heard that she had a smart brother in St. Ignatius, our
brother college, and that he was a handsome dude though I never saw
him. Exciting days! To be able to talk to the sister of an exciting
brother!
Diya says, “Won the bumper, eh?” I have forgotten about the
results. It takes me a few seconds to enter her frequency. I smile. “You
know, Anna, you have the sharpest pair of eyes that I have ever seen.
Something in those eyes that bores into people.” Wow! No one had
ever noticed my eyes before, except for my dad, for whom I am the
most beautiful Princess on Earth. But dads are like that. Though, come
to think of it, there were one or two occasions when I myself have
detected a special spark, a star in these eyes of mine. I am elated that
this smart girl, who has a smart brother, noticed that. Then she throws
the next question, “Are you Catholic?”
I say “yes.”
“Will your family marry you into a Mar Thomite family?” That
jolts me.
I don’t know.” I am embarrassed. She smiles at me, and walks off.
My heart pounding, I turn to my jabbering friends. From that day on, I
work my eyes hard. The intensity has to come through. So far, only
Anarkali has said they are intense. But then again, Anarkali is like my
dad. When I tried it years later, at the aforesaid famous research center
with its library and hostel, some women were offended. They said I
stared so hard at them that they felt uncomfortable, even scared. The
men thought I was crazy. My husband seems to be oblivious of it, and
so are the people around me. Maybe you, my reader can tell me, if you
see me. I am sure that on that evening, that girl had a funny anecdote
to tell at the dinner table, and I am sure she and her brother had had a
good laugh over that. But I did bag the Rank in the Final examination,
and my photo did appear in newspapers, and so did my interview,
wherein my replies were described as having the heat of fire, and the
power of a tornado, and that I was a girl with an unusual thinking
ability, not a mere bookworm.
Now, bookworm – that word is anathema to me.I grew up hearing
disparaging remarks about bookworms. And my all-knowing, but
dumb, older male cousins used that word to describe their female
classmates who were winners. “Well, anybody can win, if they sit and
gnaw at texts, day and night like a mouse,” they declared. And I
noticed in admiration that they never opened their books, and also that
they did not have any books with them when they went to college. I
goggled at them in wonder when they said that really smart people do
not study, they do not have to. So free. So smart. Of course, they were
eternal Pre-degree students, and in the end, were absorbed into the
family businesses. So what? They all married young, were beautiful,
and untouched (by modern ideas of womanhood) Syrian Christian
virgins with fat dowries. Like they always wanted . They despised
educated women. A college degree is fine, but no master’s. Some of
my cousins married pre-degree students, and even magnanimously let
them go to college till they had their babies. A chance for the husbands
to ogle at the other girls, while waiting to pick up their wives. So these
were my role models. But one problem, I was a girl. It was all right
when I was in school. I did not have to study that much, but I did listen
hard in class, and did my homework. I just worked hard enough to be
in the first three ranks in my class. Most of the time, Anu beat me. I
was all right with that. And I knew she was no bookworm either. But
she was quiet, and a dreamer. It was like she was always in the past. If
not her past, one of her family member’s past. It is no wonder that she
took up history. But boy, was she in trouble with her family for that! I
wish she continued her education. The world lost a historian when they
married her off to that man in what she calls Ill Paradise.
My dislike for bookworms brought about my fall when I joined
college. As per every Malayali parent’s motto, “vaidyam padikkanam
dravyamundaakkuvaan” – you have to learn medicine to make money
– I took Science second group: Physics, Chemistry, Biology, for my
Pre-degree. And I was in the hostel again. I met some new friends who
had the same idea regarding studies. Kindred souls. We were sixteen.
Suffice to say that most of the time was spent in talking and eating.
ASHA BERNARD 51
Anu was not there. She went to another college. She wrote me asking
me to study, said she heard that I was wasting my time with some new
girls from a fashionable city far away. I threw the letter away with
some guilt, and a little regret. I did not bother to reply to her. You
would think you need bars, or malls, or clubs, or boys, or amusement
parks to while away your time. You are wrong. We were not allowed
to go anywhere from the hostel except to the aforementioned
cafeteria, which was only a stone’s throw from the hostel, all in the
same compound. We managed. Dissecting the nuns, listening to my
new friends’ almost close encounters with boys, on my part, and
dreaming. And reading. I found that reading novels did not make me a
bookworm. When the results of the finals came, I knew that I would
not get even a standing status in any medical school, and that I did not
want to. But I also knew I had better clean up my act. The cousins had
long gone back to their homes, and although I was my daddy’s girl, I
found that he was not that pleased with me. I could not bear to make
him sad.
So I go up to him and say that I want to take English Literature as
my Main. He asks, “Why English? Why not Sanskrit? Or Malayalam?
Or Hindi?”
“But Dad, I love English. I want to go to England and see all those
places.” I do not say I want to marry a tall, dark, handsome, blue-eyed
man. I don’t think he knows I think of marriage and men, yet. That is a
specialty of my schooling and home life – we were not allowed to
even think of boys, let alone talk. Soon, we learned to make do with
what we have. Thus came the “piri” system, literal translation,
“craze.” Especially for us boarders, that was a wonderful pastime.
Huge crushes on teachers, seniors, even class mates. I do not know of
any physical relationships between girls, but we had our share of
special looks, smiles, gift giving, flower giving, heartbreaks, tiffs and
so on. Surprisingly, most nuns took it in their stride. An outlet for all
that pent up girlish emotion.
“I guess you have to find out your own way. And I know in the end
you will. You are a Malayali and an Indian,” my father says. I did not
understand fully what he meant by that. Of course I am a Malayali.
But what is wrong with learning about other cultures, going to other
places? I had everything going for me in my land and I took it for
granted that it would be the same anywhere I went. I was not aware of
even these thoughts.
But then my dad says, “Nina, I know why you want to take
literature. You think it is easy. That you will not have to work that
much. But remember, you will have to work hard if you want to excel,
no matter what field.” I nod enthusiastically. Then he dashes my hopes
without any compunction, “No, not literature. Take Botany or
Zoology. You can take the Medical Entrance test the next year. You
are a smart girl with so much potential. I know you are going to be a
great doctor, and later IAS.” There we go again. Doctor or IAS. I was
fed up of listening to that drivel.
I decided to starve myself in protest. I knew my mom and dad
would surely surrender then. But I underestimated the strength of their
desire to see me as a doctor. They did not budge. Either I become a
doctor, or I will be married off by twenty. I took my next step. I
approached one of the uncles. Let me explain something here. Even
though the Syrian Christian family is patriarchal, there are some
exceptions, like the status of the mother’s brothers. Almost like in the
matriarchal Nair households, the mother’s brother(s) have great
influence. In fact, the Malayalam word for uncle, on the mother’s side,
among Syrian Christians, is Achan. And Achan in many Malayali
communities, is father. You may notice the power of the uncle. Thus
my move was not unpremeditated. I called my favorite uncle, and told
him my sad story. He empathized.
John Achan is someone who has spent ten years in a medical
school, following the dream of his father. He never got his degree, but
now has his own drug store. In fact, he was a fixture – and a lovable
one – in the medical school for so long that he was Achaayan – older
brother and uncle– for the freshmen. They even discussed about giving
his name to one of the side streets. John Achan did not let them do
that. He said he was not dead, yet. The drug store was not his idea
either, but his businessman father’s, that is my grandfather. It worked,
in the sense that it made money in that small town of theirs, and it got
him a beautiful young bride of the Syrian Christian variety. But all this
did not make my uncle happy. He wanted to be a singer. My
grandfather put a stop to his attempt to join the Church choir. He said
he was embarrassed that one of his five sons was a sissy. Singing! No
man from his macho family had done it, and never would, he decreed.
And John Achan cried inside. He always laments the lack of a Disney
dream making/ spirit searching team in Kerala, who would make
inspiring movies for children. To follow the star – to focus on the goal.
ASHA BERNARD 53
Now, the Marxists would not like such a capitalist venture, would
they? Maybe one on Das Kapital?
Anyway, he put my case in front of his sister, who is my mother,
and my father. He even promised them that I would win the First Rank
for the B.A Finals, and make them somewhat proud. Here, I
interrupted with my condition that if I got the Rank, I should be
allowed to go to Madras, or New Delhi for my Master’s. I would even
agree to a girl’s college in those cities. This was to show them that I
was not interested in boys at all. My parents weren’t easy at all. They
held off till the very last minute. In fact, it was on the first day of class
that I got to make the change from Botany to English Literature. John
Achan came with me to the college office, and it was accomplished.
The rest is history. I got the Rank, but my parents did not keep their
promise. They sent me to St. Ursula’s, the Marriage college. That is
another story.
I have to send that email to Anarkali. She is going to be mad. Oops!
Still did not tell you of my great love at nineteen. Later.
Chapter 5
In which Anarkali waits for Anna’s email, and has a discussion
about the past with Kalyani and Anna, and remembers her pet rabbit,
and other things.
“What is it with you, and your Chinese connection?” Anna had

asked Anu, the last time she was with her. It was in the middle of their
usual conversation about the past. As usual, Kalyani had passed her
comments and opinions about Paradisians.
“Annakoche, is it true that saayippus don’t wash their bottoms after
they go number two?”
“Do they take baths these days?” And then, “What is the use of
being a saayippu if you can’t speak Malayalam. I can’t believe they
still haven’t been able to learn Malayalam.”
Again, “Is it true that they steal smart Malayali brains?”
Anna was laughing so hard as usual that Anu thought she would
choke on the nuts she had in her mouth.
“Kalyani, you are the woman. The Malayali manka,,” Anna
declared.
They are in the kitchen, helping Kalyani with the making of

biryani, one of Anna’s favorites. They watch Kalyani skin, and clean
the chicken. Wash it over and over. Checking for any stray feathers on
the wings. Anu’s mother had trained her well. The long grained,
fragrant, basmati rice is half-cooked. The cashews, almonds, and
raisins are already roasted in ghee, the aroma of which permeates the
small room. Anu and Anna are sorting the spices to be roasted –
coriander, black pepper, cinnamon, cloves, poppy seeds, ginger, garlic,
and star anise. Anu picks up one of the flower-like things, and holds it
up to Anna. “Do you know where this is from?” she asks.
“From Paradise?”
“No. From China. We have been using this for so long, without
knowing that.”
“So we have been putting a Chinese spice in Persian food.”
“And look at that cast iron wok. Where did that come from?”
ASHA BERNARD 55
“I knew that. We even call it “cheenachatti.” And we always see the
cheenavala, the Chinese fishing nets.”
“What about the shape of the temples? Don’t they look like
pagodas?”
“I wonder who had that shape first. And don’t forget our traditional
naalukettu.”– the design of the traditional Kerala home with the
central courtyard, wood paneling and columns.
“And where, and from what, do you think karate and kung fu
originated? From Kalaripayattu, our ancient martial art. Chinese
travelers took it to their countries, where they adapted it to their climes
and conditions.”
“Talking of influence, I wonder if our “chaverpada’ was the
inspiration for some wars that are going on. Youthful boys and girls
being sent to fight like some pagan ritual…”
“Anna! Stop joking.”
“I am not. I fear for my son. In this world ruled by men, little
children are not safe. If they survive the trials of childhood, there is a
chance that they will be asked to die fighting windmills, or oil wells.”
“You used to talk about your ideas regarding childbirth and so on.
Have you changed your mind now that you have a child of your own?”
“No. It has made those ideas more relevant.”
“When will the world hear of it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe never.”
There is a pause , and then Anu says, “I know why you hesitate,
Anna.” They are slicing the onions now. A huge amount of onions.
“You fear people may think you don’t love your son, if you could
write all that. Even women, particularly women, would say you are an
unnatural mother.”
There are tears in Anna’s eyes. They must be from the onions. She
is quiet. Anna, the clown, is in hiding for a minute. Meanwhile,
Kalyani is busy heating up the uruli, a wide, round, shallow copper
vessel. She has already ground the masala.
“Yes, I am afraid. Not of the people. But of what my son will say
when he grows up. Will he think my ideas rendered his existence
meaningless?”
Anu looks at her friend doubtfully. Is she joking? That is the
trouble with Anna, you never know if she is joking or not. She
discerns the familiar, mischievous smile on her face now.
"Anu, do you remember that statue of the Virgin Mary on the
landing at our boarding school?"
"How can I ever forget that?"

Anna starts chanting, "Oh Mary most gracious, pray for us!"
Anarkali is puzzled. Anna citing the litany? Wonder of wonders! Of
course, she always knew Anna was endearingly naive when it came to
religion. She declared that God is dead, but Anarkali could sense the
wistfulness and the despondency behind that.
Anna sounded like a pouting little girl who has quarreled with her
dad. But then Anna says, " Oh Virgin among virgins! Pray for us!
"Oh the Virginest of Virgins!
" Oh Mary of the flat chest!"
"Oh Mary of the balloon belly!"
"Stop it!" Anarkali cannot control her laughter. Kalyani looks
bewildered. These girls!
“Do you remember the girl with the guts to pick her nose when she
was sitting right under Miss. Parvathi’s nose, in her class?” Anna
looks at Anu. Anu accepts the change of subject.
“My God! She used to do it almost every day. Unaware of the rest
of us or of the teacher.”
“So unselfconscious. So nonchalant. Like Paradisians. No, they are
self-consciously nonchalant. Anyway, the concentration with which
she inserted her index finger into first one nostril, tentatively
exploring, probing, then maneuvering deeper into the labyrinths and
the twists and the turns of it, and emerging, slowly, tenderly, with a
nugget. And then the rolling, rolling of the same between her thumb
and forefinger, again with diligence, at the same time seemingly
gazing at the teacher, as if she is lapping up every word of hers, as if it
is amruthu or ambrosia. And then the attempts to get rid of the nugget.
The other nostril is waiting. The flicks and the snaps that miss. In the
end, she uses one of her other fingers. Some nuggets do manage to
escape. I wonder where they fell. If a magic tree grew out of that.”
Anna says all this and acts it out. Not really digging into her nose, but
pretending to, and when the time of the rolling comes, both Kalyani
and Anu are gagging and choking.
“Stop it, please,” they say. But Anna is on a roll.
“I showed this to John, and he was disgusted.”
“I wonder how he tolerates you,” Anu says.
“Oh, he likes me. I do it to wake him up, and get him to notice me.”
“What a way to make someone notice you!” They laugh at that.
ASHA BERNARD 57
“Have you watched some of the talk shows in Paradise?” They
laugh again at the lack of understanding of anything subtle on the part
of Paradisians.
“Did I tell you of the time I went to see Memoirs of a Geisha?
Throughout the movie, I could hear snickers and mocking laughter. I
even read some reviews that did not seem to understand the Eastern
sensibility. Can you imagine a Paradisian understanding the subtle
seduction of a wrist or a pair of eyes? The great value we put on
virginity, on fidelity? At least hypothetically,” Anna is breathing hard.
“How can they? When everything is out in the open? You want
wrist? Here are my legs and my arms and then some.” Kalyani thrusts
her hips forward with a sneer. They have to laugh.
Anarkali had been in a rather understanding mood that day.
“I am sure there are Paradisians who can appreciate that culture of
abstinence, and longing and suppressing . . . . And as for dressing, our
mundu and midriff baring blouse will look funny and revealing to
others.” Kalyani looks amazed that her garments may be considered
immodest.
Anna turns on her, “Oh so you are so understanding now! I know
that! The book was written by, and the film was made by Paradisians.”
“And don’t forget, the fidelity and the virginity and the suppression
is valued mainly in women in our cultures. Men can get away with
most things.” Anna conceded, and became quiet for a while.
“The need, the fire– that was what was missing,” she starts again.
Anarkali had looked up in wonder at her friend. Jumping from one
subject to the next – that is Anna’s specialty. Now she smiles. “Why
we did not go for love marriage. The men did not want us enough.”
“Persistence where it is not appreciated will drive both parties
nuts.”
“That is true. And we will not have any respect for a Keatsian lover,
a Ramanan. Still, that Keats – La Belle Dame sans Merci dynamics is
exciting, don’t you think?”
“Is this you, the great practical, rational, dispassionate, even
asexual, Anna speaking?”
"All that was based on a theory that I concocted out of cool
reasoning. I believed or made myself believe that sex and passion was
overrated, downright unnecessary. Stupid, of course. But that made the
parents happy, I guess. But now I have come to think that variety is
what is wanted. All kinds of romantic experiences – out there,
everywhere, oh, I don’t know. No wonder some women give birth to
children of different men. Variety. And experience. Otherwise, how do

we know that we got hold of the best man that we could have had? Or
how could we compare, say his prowess in bed? There are some things
to be admired about Paradise. Dating and sleeping with men before
marriage.”
“I don’t believe that you are saying all this, Anna! You have
changed! What will John say to all this?”
Anna laughs. “Have you noticed something? The interdependence
of things? Like that of Keats and his “merci lady”? There should be a
goddess and a devotee for either of them to exist. If one is gone, the
other is not there either. Like the Litany to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
The qualities and the titles that the prayer-writer attributes to that
Heart! The projection of his innermost desires, insecurities, and pain.
We created God and bring him/her up as his own. If one is dead, the
other is dead.”
What are you girls talking about? God is dead?”
“Oh no, Kalyani! God is very much alive. As long as we are alive.
Don’t be sad, Kallu. Just crazy talk.” Anna laughs again. “Armchair
activists,” she murmurs.
Anarkali laughs then.
Anarkali misses that laughter. And the conversation. May be she

should get a puppy. Once upon a time, she had a pet. A little brown
rabbit with big ears. Her father had found the baby rabbit on one of his
field trips. He had almost stepped on it. It was hurt. Her father brought
it home and gave it to Anarkali. At first, she had not known what to
do. Thresia brought a little bowl of milk, the poor thing started toward
it, but could not drink it. Then Anarkali had an idea. She found an
unused dropper in the medicine cabinet, and used it to feed the rabbit.
When it drank the milk, Anarkali felt she had done something good.
She feels needed.
She calls it Thuppan, after a Namboothiri (Malayali Brahmin) who

was a character in one of her father’s jokes. And soon they are friends.
She makes a home for him in an old carton, lined with mull and cotton.
Every morning she feeds him, and leaves for school, after giving strict
instructions to Thresia. She cannot bear to leave him, for fear that
something might happen to him. In the evening, she plays hide and
seek in the yard with him. She finds him to be very good at hiding
among her mother’s plants. When it is time to go in, he comes running
ASHA BERNARD 59
to her, she picks him up, and carries him to his box. Before putting
him in, she gives him his food. Green cabbage leaves, carrots or a
special kind of leaf that Ammu the daily maid brings. And milk. She
watches him wipe his face thoroughly after he finishes eating. The
same routine every day.
One evening, he disappears in the middle of their game. Anarkali is
worried, and will not go in until her mother scorns her wanting to be a
mummy. “Little mom!” she says in distaste. "Must be in a great hurry
to be a mother, eh? All set to sleep with a man!" Anarkali flinches
when her uncle laughs derisively at his sister's joke. But she is all
right when she sees Thuppan coming, running toward her, with his
ears sticking up. She scoops him up and goes in.
The next day is a Saturday. Anarkali gets up late, and slowly walks
to the kitchen to get some milk for her rabbit. She knows her mother
and father have gone to Church, for a special novena and a meeting
after that. The kitchen is empty. Where can Thresia have gone?
Chatting with the neighbor’s maid? Ammachi will not like that. Ammu
has not shown up yet. Molly, Thresia’s minion has gone to her house
for a break. Where is she? Anarkali calls out her name. No sound. She
notices that the pantry door is closed. Is she in there? What is she
doing there? Anarkali knocks on the door. No sound. She pushes it,
and finds it locked from the inside. Now that is strange. The pantry is
never locked, not from the inside anyway. Anarkali is determined that
she will find out what is going on in there. She keeps on knocking and
calling. At last, the door opens, and Thresia is about to step out, tying
up her curly black hair, her arms up, her bare midriff showing. She
does not meet Anarkali’s eyes, but there is a secret smile on her face
which irks Anarkali. Anarkali senses that Thresia does not want her to
enter the room. Anarkali pushes her off and charges in. And stops.
Shocked and hurt, beyond words. Her father stands pressed against the
wall, scared, ashamed. Anarkali looks at him, and sees a human being
there instead of a god. In that instant, she feels she has lost her trust in
people, forever. Along with it, a nebulous sense of acceptance, of
understanding, a vague sense of inevitability. Of change — in people,
in civilizations, for good, and, for bad. And hatred toward Thresia. Her
mother trusted Thresia, and relied on her. She also knows that her
mother trusted her father. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she
is not sure. Does any one? Anarkali wonders now.
When her mother returns from Church, Anarkali tells her what
happened. Her uncle, who had come along with her mother, enters and
scolds her for making up things. And for having such a dirty mind at
such a young age. Her mother is silent. At dinner, Anarkali notices that
her mother has been crying. Curiously, Anarkali’s father does not
show any difference in his treatment of his daughter, then or later. He
is the same quiet, well read father. Still, Thresia is not sent away. Nor
does Anarkali know if her mother really believed her.
The Monday after that, Anarkali’s rabbit vanishes. When she
returns from school in the evening, the rabbit is not there. She walks
around the house looking for him, calling him. No sign. When her
mother asks her to go in, she reluctantly obeys. She has to take a
shower before she sits down for her homework. Her mind is outside,
wondering if some stray dog or cat attacked her Thuppan. Or if a car . .
. . Night comes with no sign of him. Anarkali goes to bed with a
heavy heart. He may be there at the door when she wakes up, she
hopes. Morning arrives, still no Thuppan. Anarkali does not want to
get ready for school. But fearing her mother’s wrath, she gets dressed.
As she is about to step out, Thresia says she found him at the back
door. Anarkali races to the kitchen verandah, to see Thuppan
struggling to breathe. She sits down on the floor, and places him on
her lap. She does not know what to do. She looks around for some
help, and sees her mother, uncle, and Thresia looking on. She asks
Thresia to bring her some water or milk or something. “That is not
going to do any good, now,” she says. Anarkali pats her friend, and
cannot believe it when he stops breathing. Dumbly in a blur, she
notices his legs stretch tight and become rigid. And then relax. Her
eyes well up, but when she hears her uncle laugh at her “intense
feelings for a rabbit,” she bows her head, and gently lays Thuppan on
the floor.
“That’s enough drama, little Mummy. Now don’t pretend to be too
sad, and think you can skip school. Hurry up, or you will miss the
bus.” As Anarkali gets up from the floor, she can hear Thresia
snickering.
“You did it! You killed my rabbit.” Suddenly she turns toward
Thresia.
“What ? Ithu nalla karyam. Whatever did I do?”
“Anarkali, mind your words. What has she got to do with your
rabbit going off and getting killed? Now, enough of this nonsense. Get
going,,” her mother says.
“She is spoilt, chechi. That is it. Aliyan and you have spoiled her.”
Anarkali can hear her uncle displaying his wisdom. She walks off,
ASHA BERNARD 61
about to choke with unshed tears. On the school bus, she is afraid she
will start crying out loud when she recounts it to Anna.
Anarkali goes in search of Kalyani for company. Kalyani is busy

with her sweeping and mopping of the kitchen. To leave it ready for
another day. How does she do this? Day after day. Isn’t she fed up of it
all? Doesn’t she have dreams? Want more? According to her mother,
that is Anarkali’s and Anna’s fault– always discontent.
Wanting more and more. More love, more success, more
acceptance . . . . Anna says it is a “divine discontent” that leads to the
creation of the world. She was quoting Milton.
The other day, Anarkali had seen a most unexpected face in town.
Her ex-- mother-in-law. The lady who successfully pushed the usurper
out of her nest. Anarkali still cannot fathom the depth of that lady’s
hatred towards her. Was she a threat to her in some way?
Anarkali had just returned from a vacation in India, along with her
mother-in-law. She had brought a couple of Malayalam movie tapes
with her. But she had to get it converted to the Paradisian system if she
wanted to watch it. Actually, she had already seen the movies before.
But these were some of her favorites, and she thought her mother-in-
law would enjoy them too. Getting back from home was always
depressing, especially with her husband’s cold, apathetic welcome at
the airport. She had wistfully watched other couples hug and kiss, and
her husband hug and kiss his mother with considerable pleasure. And
the feeling of loneliness and homesickness engulfed her, once they got
to her mother-in-law’s house. She missed Pearl, and her home and her
parents. And Anna. But she was careful not to show any of it. After all,
she made her bed, and was determined to lie on it.
There she is, all dressed up to go to the video store, to get her work
done. Her husband gets in the car as usual with her mother-in-law, and
Anarkali climbs in the back. Halfway through, her mother-in-law
wants to go to the bank. Anarkali waits in the car, as mother and son
go into the bank. After about an hour, they come back. Her husband
starts driving, and soon they are back home. Anarkali asks hesitantly if
they were not going to the video store. Her husband says no. She can
see the mocking smile on her mother-in-law’s face. That ignites
something in Anarkali. She is in a towering rage, everything comes out
that evening. The way he treats her, how she feels, and how she is not
going to take it any more. Her husband sits and reads. Out rushes her
mother-in-law from her room, and points a finger at Anarkali, “How

dare you speak to my son like that? Who do you think you are?”
“I was not talking to you. I was talking to my husband.”
“He was my son before he was your husband. And he was a happy
man before you came into his life. You have destroyed his
personality.”
“Personality, my foot!” Anarkali has a stricken look on her face
now. She is about to cry.
“I will not tolerate such language in my house. Or such women.”
Her mother-in-law points at her.
Anarkali feels like dying of shame, anger, and hurt. She says, “I
wish I were dead, rather than live like this.”
“Why don’t you, then? No one wants you! Your own parents don’t.
Isn’t that why they married you off to America?” Anarkali is shocked
at the hatred in her husband’s mother’s voice, in the sneer on her face.
Her mother-in-law taunts her again, “Why don’t you die?” She is
goading her. She reminds her of her own mother a long time ago. By
the time she had married, Anarkali’s mother was somehow changed,
not altogether, but considerably. Age, her younger sister Pearl,
Anarkali herself – she wasn’r sure of a particular reason. Except
maybe the power of the mind and of thoughts to bring about change
and to influence another’s and one’s own behavior.
Now, Anarkali feels ashamed that she really had wanted to oblige
her mother-in-law. Die. Who or what is to stop her? She was that
depressed. The terrible helpless feeling of being all alone. Far away
from anyone who cares for her. And in a corner of her mind, pity
towards the old woman. A woman trying to hold on to her possession.
A woman trying to survive. Anarkali wanted to let go of her husband
in name. Give back to the old woman what was never Anarkali’s
anyway. Look at the matter from the other’s perspective. Anarkali had
done this with her brown-eyed boy’s mother too, a woman she had
never met. Wondering what his mother will feel when her son brings
home a Nazrani girl as his wife. Sympathizing with a mother.
Will Anna be like her mother-in-law when it comes to Ajay?
Anarkali wonders. Hope not. Hope she lets go. For her own sake.
That night, to her surprise, her husband asks her to get ready to go
to his apartment. Anarkali declines. She does not want to do so
defiantly – triumphantly taking the old lady’s son away from her. She
thinks it will be like a slap on her mother-in-law’s face. So Anarkali
goes back to her basement bedroom. Where she had been buried alive.
ASHA BERNARD 63
But that was the place where she started to dream again. Of open rice
fields, drunken, swaying coconut palms, and blue skies so bright it hurt
your eyes. Her own black eyes, and his brown ones. Around then, the
brown-eyed boy had started to appear in her dreams. Never in her
daydreams, but when she had no control over her mind. Anarkali
always woke up ashamed and guilty after one of those dreams. But in
the dreams he was always out of reach. Either talking to some other
boy or girl, unaware of Anarkali's presence or smiling from a distance,
mockingly. Anarkali knows that her mother-in-law thinks it is her son
who made the decision to stay, and naturally, considers Anarkali to be
pathetic.
When Anarkali met her mother-in-law that day in town, she did not
think of all this. And it was not anger that she felt either. It was fear,
an irrational, suffocating fear. As if she was in a tiny, closed room,
without air. Or in a car, locked from the outside and the windows
jammed shut. Anarkali had in fact been shut up in her mother-in-law’s
basement when she lived there. By accident, her mother-in-law had
said. But then why did she come back in an hour, when she said she
would be gone the whole day? Anarkali had used an old knife she
found after some frantic searching among the junk, and come out, by
then. To this day, she is not sure what really happened. Maybe it was
her imagination. Maybe she panicked for no reason. It may really have
been an accident. Maybe it was her whole life then that made her
claustrophobic. The life in the basement, because that is where she was
made to live for three long years. Days when she longed to see a tree, a
friendly face. Her husband was busy, her mother-in-law was busy.
Anarkali was allowed to come up to the kitchen to cook. And clean. At
the end of that time, somehow Anarkali was allowed to go with her
husband to his place. She still wondered at the reason behind it. Did
one of her Malayali friends talk? Was her husband scared of the law?
She still wondered at her own quiescence. It was as if she had accepted
it as some punishment for her past transgressions, known and
unknown. Nevertheless, to see the lady in her hometown brought back
all those breathless feelings to the surface.
Anarkali is surprised to see her mother-in-law smile at her

tentatively. She smiles back. Beyond saying a hello, Anarkali did not
have any plans to linger. She usually did linger when she did not know
what to say, and did not want to seem to be rude and busy. Afraid she
would be hurting the other person. That reluctance to appear to be rude

has caused her no small amount of embarrassment.
Like the time in Paradise when a kind lady she was acquainted with
invited her for Gratitude Day dinner. Anarkali was alone that year
during Gday, as her husband had to take a trip abroad at that time.
Anarkali had smiled at, and once in a while talked to this middle- aged
lady, whom she had met in Church. When she heard that Anarkali was
by herself, she said with feeling that no one should be alone for
Gratitude Day. And that Anarkali should come and join her family for
dinner. She said that although all of her extended family would be
there, Anarkali need not worry. They would welcome her. Anarkali
had not known what to do. This was the first time a white woman had
really asked her home. She wanted to see how they celebrated the day.
On the other hand, she was painfully shy when it came to meeting new
people. She was lonely and wanted to be among people too. This was
before Anna came to Paradise. She knew her mother was amazed that
even after a couple of years here, she had not made any friends or even
met many people. She could not understand that newcomers were
ignored in Paradise. Her mother knew only of Kerala, where when a
new neighbor came, the old residents visited them, had tea at their
house, offered them help if needed, and invited them to their homes –
any time, just come. Evenings are visiting time back home. Tea and
snacks. Anarkali was blamed for her boorishness, her shyness, and her
arrogance, by her mother. So in the end, Anarkali did not want to seem
rude, and accepted the invitation. She took a couple of bottles of wine
when she went. She was really grateful that this one lady thought her
to be human. That she saw her. The dinner was a success. Good food,
not much conversation for Anarkali, as naturally, the others in the
family would be uncomfortable with a new face. That she was in a
saree must have put some off. But some did make an effort to talk to
her, and the hostess, Anarkali’s kind lady, was exceptionally nice.
Anarkali’s shyness was gone. She was happy. It was time for her to
say goodbye. As she thanked her hostess for being so kind, and
informed her that she was glad that she came, the kind lady said,
among other things, “I wouldn’t have come if I were you.” Anarkali
felt stripped. She wished the lady had told this when she invited her.
Or not invite her at all. She did not say anything then, but gave a
stupid smile. As she got into the taxi, she was trying hard not to cry.
ASHA BERNARD 65
Shame and hurt. And the feeling that she should not be ungrateful for
the kindness of that person.
A closer look at her mother-in-law shows Anarkali the changes.

More grey hair. More wrinkles. Thinner. Ravages of time? No. This is
more than that. The proud carriage is almost invisible. Did the new
daughter-in-law kick her out? Or has she stepped out of her own
choice, upon seeing that she is not welcome? Whatever it was,
Anarkali does not want to know. She turns away to look at the new
styles that just arrived in crepe silk sarees, according to the young
salesgirl. As Anarkali feels the softness of the material, and admires
the embroidery work on the border, she feels her mother-in-law’s
presence. The scent of Dior’s j’adore. A long time ago, Anarkali had
given that as a Mother’s day gift to her mother-in-law, who never used
it, at least when Anarkali was there. Maybe this is another bottle. From
the new daughter–in-law. She looks up from the dark purple saree she
is holding to find her ex-mother-in-law standing near her, but looking
away. They talk about the sarees. Anarkali listens to the lady’s
preference for pure silk in pastels.
“I am too old for these crepes.” Anarkali smiles. She decides to
keep quiet, unlike the old days, when she would have protested that
anything looked great on the older woman. Which was a fact.
“How are you, Anu?” That was the first time she had called her by
that name.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I know you live in Kombodinjaaplaakkal.” Anarkali nods.
After some fidgeting with the sarees, “Would you mind if I came to
visit you some day?”
“Of course not.” Anarkali smiles.
Kalyani is done with her work in the kitchen. Usually, she comes
and sits on the floor in the living room and watches TV with Anarkali.
Tonight, she seems interested in talking. Anarkali turns the television
off, as Kalyani starts her reminiscences about her days as a laborer.
“By evening, my whole body will be aching. All that walking, and
climbing hills, and carrying bundles of wood. A massage with coconut
oil, and a hot shower was the only remedy. And Amrutanjanam. The
burning from that ointment was pure pleasure at that time.”
Anarkali can still get the scent of that ointment when Kalyani
enters. She is relaxed. Just lying back on her chair and listening to
Kalyani.
“Though I don’t like Tiger Balm. Your grandmother once gave me
a bottle. One of your uncles brought some from the gulf.” Kalyani runs
her fingers through her long hair.
“My mother used to tell us that your grandmother had a gold hip
chain under her muri. Part of her dowry, it was. I wonder who got it
after she died.” Anarkali knows the answer will come soon. “Maybe
one of your uncles’ wives. Who knows?” Kalyani pauses. “Your
grandmother was a saint.” Anarkali has heard this before. She has also
heard from talk among the elders that Kalyani’s mother was one of the
mistresses of Anarkali’s grandfather. And that the small house and
land that Kalyani’s family owned now was given to them by her
grandfather, for their mother’s services.
Kalyani is silent for some time.
“I don’t know if you know this. About my mother and your . . .”
Kalyani stops.
“I have heard some stories. Are those true?”
“Yes, though he did not have any children with any of his
mistresses.”
“What about Meera? The one who committed suicide?”
“Oh, that’s just rumor. Meera was the daughter of one of the keeps.
But her mother had relationships with many men. And the girl killed
herself because of that.”
“I vaguely remember her working in my grandmother’s kitchen.
My grandmother liked her, I thought.”
“Oh, your grandmother was a saint. When all this happened, she
would just go into the prayer room and pray. How could she do that?”
Perhaps she did not care for her husband any more, Anarkali thinks.
Another survivor in her own way. No divorce, no elopement, no guns,
no suicide, and no shrinks. Just managed. To live till she died. Like
herself. Did she try hard enough to save the marriage? Maybe in the
beginning she did, but surely, not later. Was there love between her
grandparents ever? Anarkali does not know. Anarkali is sure of one
factor – that no one outside the marriage, including their own children,
will ever know for sure. Anarkali knows that almost everyone
considered her mother’s mother to be a saint. And her grandfather to
be a boor beyond redemption. A drunk who spewed forth blasphemous
sayings that he adapted from the Bible. And to think that once when he
ASHA BERNARD 67
was young, he had joined the seminary. What makes people change
so? But Anarkali has known, has experienced her grandfather’s great
affection. He may not have called her moley or some other pet name,
but she felt it in little actions. A packet of dates and sugar and nuts at
the end of the day just for her when she visited him. A proud smile
when he hears of her latest win in studies. A softening of the stern
lines on his face when he sees her. And a million other things. Hero to
some, villain to others. Like Muhammed of Ghazni – he was a hero to
Afghanistan, but a villain to India. He built his affluent empire on the
plundered riches of India. And the Others, their much-quoted, much-
admired, physically challenged leader during war time. Who is
Churchill to Indians?
Chapter 6
In which Anna talks of her calendars of hope, and her relationship
with her father, and of her Ammaayi and her tricks.
Hello again! In this segment, you will learn of my interest in

astrology. Even though I forget most of what I read, of my monthly,
weekly, daily astrological forecasts, I make it a point to read it. At one
point, I even started to mark the special effect days, and note down
important transits and retrogrades and entries and exits of various
planets, and stars, in my calendar. Quincunx -- I like the word. I live
like this month to month. The forecast being like a paycheck. Days,
weeks, and months pass – always with the hope of something
wonderful just round that corner. All of a sudden, a year is gone. As I
turn the pages of my good luck and cautious days, I am aware that it is
my calendar of hope. For the past few years, I have been keeping these
calendars of hope. What good do they do me? They save me from utter
depression. Giving me hope. Hope of what? Better days? But I am not
doing too bad, am I?
All that education accompanied by the discussions of change of the
ways of the society around us, where did it take me? Must have been a
preparation for what I do now – grocery shopping, Internet shopping,
taking care of Ajay and his school work, cooking, and cleaning. And
whining. Good. So what am I hoping for? Career? Fame? Fortune?
Romance? Adventure? Maybe. But mostly, I want to change things. I
want change. Even though I am scared of change.
I just picked Ajay up from school. As is usual on some days, he
does not use the restroom in his school before he gets in the car, and
soon I can hear and feel the kicks on the back of my seat as he tries not
to pee n his pants. I feel like a horse being urged to run faster by her
owner. Thankfully, he sees a huge flock of blackbirds suddenly rising
on his side, and flying over us. They look almost like dead leaves
scattered across the sky. Little black specks. Must be at least a
hundred. “Hey, Mom, they look like someone is sprinkling black
pepper.” He is right, and I am glad he has stopped the stomping action
of his legs. I come to a halt at the stop sign, and the oncoming car also
ASHA BERNARD 69
stops. I like this ceremonial bowing of the cars, before they move
again.
Cars are the ones with personality in this country. People are
invisible. That car which hesitates to merge brings to mind a shy five-
year-old, ready to go on stage for the first time. There is a brash
youngster, and here is a lazy bugger. A majestic queen, a roly-poly
person bumbling along, an outdoors person — thus goes the
personalities of cars.
Ajay likes to read. But somehow, I cannot get him to read some of
my favorites as a child. Anu and I grew up on the usual Enid Blyton
Secret Seven and Famous Five. At one point, we actually formed
groups like that, though we did not solve any mystery. But inside the
walls of our boarding school, those books provided us with adventure,
and pictures of faraway places and the people who lived there.
Gingerbread, scones, and ham, and plum puddings achieved
adventurous aspects. Even the humble lemonade became exotic. We
learned bike riding, as we wanted to be like the children in those
books. In those days, girls did not ride bikes, in our part, and we were
a rare sight.
However, there was one writer who had complete power over me in
those days - -Erich Kastner. My father had got me two of his books for
a birthday. The Flying Classroom and Emil and the Detectives. They
were boys’ stories. But they were stories of friendships – strong and
sincere. Of courage, of freedom, of responsibility, and of love. Even
now, when I read some parts of the Flying Classroom I cry. Like
where the housemaster, Dr. Bokh talks of his childhood and his long-
lost friend. Why don’t people write books like that anymore? Those
books, and the children in those, affected me unlike anybody else.
Jonathan Trotz and Martin Thaler were, and still are to me, the best
models for friendship, and for children. Besides the snow and the
dance and the play and the fights, I loved every bit of those books. I
tried to recreate them in my school. Anu is the Martin Thaler to my
Johnny Trotz. I think I am always on the lookout for that childhood
again. Silly me. I wish Ajay would read these old books. But then he is
of a different time, a different place. Where respect and humility and
trust could be looked upon as weaknesses.
Gratitude Day is here again, and my son cannot wait for the school
to close. Yesterday, I was reading a magazine that had this article on
the origins of the festival. I wonder how the native Paradisians feel
about the celebration. Do they see it as an insane, unfeeling dance on
their dead bodies? After reading that piece, I do not want to celebrate
the day. Like swarms of locusts, the illegal immigrants landed on this
land, and stayed to multiply, and destroy its original owners. And said
it was divine providence, when the cleaner natives died off the
diseases brought by the newcomers. Unapologetic, unquestioned, even
now. Instead of pardoning the goose, the least the present leaders can
do is bring in a native Paradisian, and ask his/her forgiveness. And
rename the day as “Forgive us Day.” I see what Ajay is learning,
regarding the same holiday. How the native people, and the white
newcomer joined hands for the first gratitude day dinner in a very
lovey-dovey manner. When I first heard that, I had this picture of the
reds and whites doing the jitterbug together. Though with the higher
moral nature of the immigrant, that picture seems to be wrong.
I have to say this of their confidence in their own moral superiority.
I firmly believe that it is this sense of ms that gave, and still gives them
the confidence and conviction necessary for waging wars, and
distributing freedom like so much candy, during the “dress-up-as-evil”
holiday. Hats off to ms. And to the belief that all Paradisians are free
and rich. But I have to admit that Paradise is better than where I come
from, in many ways. But not all. Dear Reader, you may be thinking,
who am I to pronounce opinions like these. I can only say that I am the
daughter of my father. My father, who thinks I am the best of the best
and the worst of the worst, and still adores me. I will show you a clip
from my past to reveal the depths of his love for me.
It was in the days when my mother would go straight to the Prayer
Room, after getting back from Church. I would follow her after some
time, to see my dear mother prostrate herself before the idols. She
would be weeping inconsolably, raising her eyes to the heavens,
imploring God, and St. Anthony and St. Theresa, St. Ann and all other
saints to bring a good alliance for her daughter. Here, I would let her
know that St. Anthony is not going to do it, because he is said to have
been very sympathetic towards pregnant women, and seemed to wish
they did not have to undergo such suffering. And as usual, I tell her to
keep these male and female saints separate, as it looks immoral. My
mother will soon ask me to leave the room without uttering further
blasphemy. I will go out and wait in the living room sofa for her to
emerge.
“You can make fun of me. But at Church, all the women keep
asking me if any proposal came for you.”
“Why don’t they bring me any?”
ASHA BERNARD 71
“How will they? Look at you – cut off all that beautiful hair, and
you look like a scrawny chicken. And that story, don’t make me start
on that. The ones that they bring, you refuse.”
“Forget those jealous, rude busybodies, Ammachi. Think of it this
way, I just have to wash my own underwear if I don’t get married.
Nobody else’s.” I smile at her.
That is how I deal with my mother. You see, she is putty in my
hands. Now around this time, I got a job in a magazine as a sub editor.
Against my parents’ wishes, I resigned my temporary job as a lecturer,
and became a journalist.
My parents give in, because they are on a guilt trip regarding my

education. I go to this town in my own state, and start my life as a
working woman. I stay in a working women’s hostel run by nuns,
again, but contrary to expectations, very unhygienic and unappealing. I
am partially starved, because I fear the food they serve in the mess.
And the lukewarm water in dirty glasses. There was a drain right in
the middle of the mess hall. A piece of interior decor that I have
never seen before, or after this period. Anyway, soon I get sick. I am
tired and fretful. I have a slight fever.
That day I was at work– not my usual dapper, suave self–
translate, clownish, clumsy. Especially since there was a new face
among us. A tall, fair guy named Ashwin. He had come from the
parent newspaper to oversee something here. I see him look at me, and
I see his eyes. Yes, you guessed it. Or not. They were brown. Live,
bright pair of eyes. I thought he was perfect to look at. I could hear the
grand thumping of my heart, and feel the accompanying somersaults.
Let him be older than me, I pray. I pretend to do some work, and I
notice that I cannot hold the pen steady. When I look up again, he is in
the chief’s room, and soon I see him being escorted to a room where
he was given a temporary office.
After lunch hour, I sit in my chair feeling sick and nauseous. The
peon comes and says that I have a visitor. I get up eagerly and feel
dizzy. I think I am going to fall. Fortunately, Ashwin catches me as he
is right behind me. No, I am not making this up. This happened. My
visitor who is observing all this sails forward. It is Ammaayi, my great
aunt, and my godmother. She was passing through the town, as part of
the trousseau hunting for one of her nieces, and remembered me. She
takes one look at me and says, “Anna, you look pale. Are you well? Or
did you put on too much talcum powder?”
I am embarrassed as I am aware of Ashwin beside me. I mumble,

“No Ammaayi.” This can also be called a “feeble protest.”
“You look like paper.” Ammaayi won’t stop.
I dare to look at his face. He looks serious and he seems to be
examining my face like a doctor. I want to kill Ammaayi. I introduce
Ashwin to her, and she gives him a nice smile.
When he is gone, Ammaayi says to me, “He seems to be nice.
Good-looking. Looks like he is from a good family. Good catch for
some lucky girl.” And she looks at me closely, “Why don’t you try
your hand, girl?”
“AMMAAYI!” I am shocked. To hear those words from the bastion
of moral correctness, and upholder of Nazrani tradition and family
values and whatnot! I cannot believe my ears. The old lady adjusts her
pale pink, silk saree, and pats her pearl necklace. I keep staring at her.
Does she think I was so over the hill that no one from a good Catholic
family will ask for my hand in the traditional way? Or does she think I
already have a relationship with the guy, and wants to find out what I
would say? Or is she just playing her tricks for fun? Nothing is too
farfetched as far as she is concerned.
“He is Hindu.” I tell her now.
“Bah! Hindu, Christian. We are all Indians. The Paayedan’s son
married a Hindu. But she is from a very good family. Old and well
known. And she is a Brahmin too.”
So that is it. Marrying a high caste Brahmin or a Nair is all right.
And one of her cronies, the fashionable Mrs. Leelamma Paayedan has
set the standard. Maybe I should not be too harsh on the old lady. She
is the one who sets the standards. Probably, she encouraged the
Paayedans in this matter, so that she can make fun of them later.
“I understand times have changed, you young people are educated,
you go out to work and meet new people. And you have a right to
choose your partner. But all I say is when, and if you choose, choose
well,” she was saying. And then, “Is he a Brahmin? Looks like a
Nair.”
“I don’t know that.” I am almost sulking by now.
Ammaayi then told me I had her support and blessings, in any
venture of mine. The only reason for this volte face that I could see at
that time was that senility was setting in. Maybe she was having some
vicarious pleasure in indulging me. Who knows the minds of these old
mothers? Like Obelix used to say about the Romans, these women are
crazy. And speaking of vicarious pleasures, a writer may be guilty of
ASHA BERNARD 73
that too, eh? So voyeur, and an exhibitionist, hmmm. No wonder my
old hate mailers called me neurotic.
That evening, Ammaayi took me out to dinner at the best restaurant
in town. I had their spicy chicken biryani. She then took me to the
saree shop, and asked me to pick any saree. It was then I got a glimpse
of the workings of her mind. She was sorry for me, because her niece,
who was eight years younger than me, was getting married. And there
I was, an old maid at twenty-eight. She made me get two sarees that
evening – a pale pink silk one with a gold border, and an olive green
one in chiffon, with elaborate bead work. I told her I would wear the
pink one for my cousin’s wedding.
As it happened, I was not destined to attend that function. Because
the next day, I was in the hospital. I had hepatitis. At first, the
handsome doctor was disbelieving at my condition. When I asked him
directly if he thought I was making a fuss for nothing, he ordered a
blood test, and soon I was admitted. This is what I don’t like about
being single. Every man thinks we are after him. This guy was
handsome all right, but not my type. And he looked married. Anyway,
while I waited for the results to come out, Ashwin sauntered along
with one of my female colleagues. Our chief had sent Maya to check if
I was all right, as I had taken off from the office that noon. And
Ashwin had met her by chance at the hospital.
I decided not to let my parents know of my sickness and stuff. I was
a mature, working woman, and did not want any parental help any
more. That night, I thought I was dying. Chest pain, throwing up, and I
started to panic. Especially since there was no doctor around, that
being a weekend. He/she would come only if there is an emergency.
Some little nun nurses ran around, trying to give me saline and
glucose. Although I was very thin with the veins on the hand sticking
up, the little nun could not get one to put the needle in. She poked and
pricked and the vein started swelling after a while. I was in pain and I
started to moan. I was too tired to yell. When I saw Ashwin in my
room, I was miserable. He took matters into his hands, and he was
effective because the doctor appeared in minutes. I slept peacefully.
The next morning, I called home because I was scared about
Ashwin’s presence there, (what was I doing leaning on and enjoying
the company of a man who is not my father or brother or husband or a
relative?) and I was also scared that I would die of neglect in that
hospital. Immediately, my father came, talked to the doctor, and took
me to the hospital in my hometown. I saw him talk to Ashwin too. I
knew my father liked the guy by the look on his face. “Nice young
man,” he said to me. I found out that my mother had a severe back
pain and was in complete bed rest.
The doctor in my town informed me that I was severely dehydrated,
and the treatment started in earnest. The first day, my dad fed me with
bread dipped in weak milk, and I lay there, with tears flowing down
my cheeks. Seeing the anxiety in my father’s eyes. Feeling like a little
girl again. And feeling sorry for myself. And missing someone
already. Later, my dad would joke about that to my mother and
brother, “The mighty feminist lay there like a little sparrow. Every
time she opened her mouth for the bread, I was reminded of a baby
bird.” Then he would add, “It touched me so.” But after that, I could
not keep anything in, including water. So my dad brought me tender
coconut water every day. That was the only food (fast food too!) that
went in, for weeks after that, apart from the drips. More potent and
harmless than any modern medicine, for a sick stomach. Thomman,
our driver’s son, picked whole bunches of tender coconut from our
trees.
Meanwhile, my colleagues sent me flowers and get well cards.
They used to call, and inquire about my progress too. After almost a
month of sickness and convalescence, I went back to work. When I got
there, I saw that Ashwin had left as his job was done. I felt sorry and
relieved at the same time.
The same evening, as I was regaling my roommates with an
account of my great illness, the number of times I threw up, the color
of my skin and other things, my heroic fortitude through all this, and
subsequent recovery, I got a phone call. I was sure it was from home,
but I was wrong. Ashwin wanted to come and see me the next day,
about some article he had to write on feminism.
The next two months flew like butterflies. Beautiful, summery,
dreamy days. Not as fast or high as I would have liked. But still, a kind
of flying. Whenever we got the chance, we went to a movie, or to eat,
but always in a group. There were discussions on all topics where my
female friends always tried to portray me either as a brainless,
thoughtless airhead, or a manly, militant, feeling-less feminist. Anu
has spoiled me forever. She is such a wonderful friend with not an iota
of spite or jealousy in her mind that I have a high standard when it
comes to friendship. I know there are other women out there like Anu,
like me, who would not deliberately hurt a person, for no reason. But I
also know that it is hard to meet one. Somehow, the presence of a
ASHA BERNARD 75
member of the opposite sex turns them into spiteful cats. No wonder
the women here look daggers at other women who they think are
attractive. I mean, here they have to do all the work, don't they? Hook
and hold a man with no help from parents or family. By that I mean,
no arranged marriages. And the way they mingle -- all free and
outwardly friendly. Poor things! No trust, no love lost between women
here.
Surprisingly, Ashwin still seemed to like me, though I was never
sure. We showed each other our family pictures, talked about them,
joked, and laughed a lot. He had a brother and a sister, both married
and settled. And he was a Nair. His parents were Sanskrit Professors,
and so on. Even before all that, I was attracted to him. Very much. But
still, we were never together by ourselves. I could always feel his eyes
on me, and sometimes I looked back, and smiled as if it was nothing
special. At other times, I made a joke out of it. I would look into his
eyes, and make a face and ask if there was anything wrong there.
Frivolous, flippant, airy, clownish. That was me. Inside, I wanted him
to chase me, hold me, and kiss me. If he wanted to, really, that is. I
thought we had all the time in the world, and I was prepared to wait.
Towards the end of the second month of the retreat and advance
games between myself and Ashwin, I got a call from my father. A
good proposal had come for me. The guy was a doctor in Paradise, and
he and his parents could drop by any time to see me. I objected to their
coming to my office. But my father pointed out that they did not have
that much time, and wanted to speed things up. Here, I tried to sow a
seed of suspicion, regarding their unholy haste in my parents’ simple
mind. But he was way ahead of me there – he had already sent feelers
among the various relatives and acquaintances in Kerala and in
Paradise, and the verdict had just come in. The guy was single, had
never been married, and was a doctor. Although Ammaayi had serious
doubts about it, somehow, she had this obsession about him being a
gardener, pretending to be a doctor. These old women are crazy. She
could have been right, I found later. Because we Malayalis back home
did not know that custodial engineers and janitors are one and the
same.
And they came. They “saw” me. They liked what they saw, and
they wanted to conquer, and duly passed the info to my parents, who
were triumphant. The mighty Anna was a wimp after all. The marriage
was about to be fixed. When I told my colleagues about the whole
thing, they wanted to celebrate. I agreed because I knew Ashwin was
in town. We all gathered in the restaurant, with Ashwin listening to

everyone who was talking about my upcoming nuptials. I was the only
person he did not look at. I was angry and hurt. I wanted him to sweep
me off my feet and carry me off. Needless to say, nothing of the sort
happened. He left earlier than the others, with a nod to me. I felt
wretched. I wanted to call him back, but with all my friends there, I
did not know how to do it without attracting attention.
As I walked to my new hostel that evening, I felt as if I was more
dead than alive. I wished I could fly to where he lived and yell at him.
But I am a Nazrani girl. We have pride, and standards of behavior.
Here, I have to digress. Please? With a lisp? And an f instead of the
p? Mind you, I am not trying to be cute here. Somehow I remembered
one of my brother’s friends from childhood. A cute little guy who said
“flees” for please and “tanks” for thanks . All right. I have to talk
about the pride of the Nazranis. Although the Nazrani pride resides
mainly in its daughters’ virginity, and sons’ fertility, we are also proud
of the fact that we were Brahmins converted to Christianity by St.
Thomas, the Apostle himself. Yes, Doubting Thomas converted us.
We are proud of the fact that we were Christians right from the start of
Christianity, 2000 years ago. No matter that Brahmins were no show
in Kerala at the aforesaid time, but we are still proud. That is why most
of us bent to the will of the Portuguese newcomer and went under the
Roman Church.
And even now, we are proud of the fact that we fought shoulder to
shoulder with the British as believers of one God, against our own
countrymen who were infidels! We still believe with pride that the
British helped us against the bad Hindu patriots! We are still enamored
of whiteness, and are proud of our imaginary kinship to it, even though
evidence as to our Semitic ancestry peeks its head everywhere. We
squish it in the bud with pride. We are proud of the white man’s
special affinity towards us because of our common faith, even if in
some corner of our minds, we know it is non-existent! And we are
proud that we are still under the Roman yoke where neither our
ancestry nor the ancientness of it is worth anything. We are a proud
race.
I walked on faster because the nuns would close the hostel gates
otherwise. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm and I knew it was him.
He walked me to the side and stood before me, barring my way.
Looking into my eyes. I was about to make my joke.
ASHA BERNARD 77
“No. Stop it Nina.” He always called me Nina. “Is it really true that
you are going to marry this doctor guy in Paradise? Or is it one of your
jokes?”
My perverse stubbornness took over, “What if it is?”
“Nina, you are being childish.”
Now I am defiant. That word, “childish” always put my back up.
“Ok, then don’t talk to me. Anyway what do we have to talk about?
And what is it to you if I am marrying or not?”
I walked away after that, because my throat was getting constricted.
I heard him call me, but I did not stop. Curiously, I felt cheap and
stupid, standing there in the dark talking with a man like some dumb
heroine in a movie. I was different, wasn’t I ? And is this how I repay
my parents for their love? What would my dad say? I cannot imagine
that proud head bowed before his friends and relatives at the scandal
that I caused. And for what? Ashwin never said he loved me. I myself
did not understand what I felt. Mere infatuation. Or physical attraction.
What an idiot I was!
Ashwin did not call me or visit us after that. The wedding was set
to be in two weeks time. I went to my office with invitations to
everyone, including Ashwin. I knew he was in town. But I did not see
him. One of my male colleagues, Joseph, told us later that he gave
Ashwin the invitation. And he added in a surprised voice that Ashwin
looked bad. I heard Maya ask if he was going to attend my wedding.
Apparently, Ashwin said he was not. He did not say why.
My father came to take me home for the betrothal. And there were a
million things to do. Shopping and getting sari blouses and petticoats
stitched, wedding sari selection, getting the veil embroidered, jewelry
picked and so on. All the other arrangements – dinner, hall, church –
would be delegated to the rest of the family. My parents had to
personally invite all the people, as per custom, and that took time.
As I sit in the car with my father, I am quiet. My father looks at me
now and then. I can see the question in his eyes. Usually on my way
back home, either from boarding school or college hostel, or from one
of those research libraries outside the state, I talk nonstop to my dad.
About everything that happened, well, a little bit censored and some
other bits exaggerated, and everyone I met. When I told him of the
sarcastic but envious opinion of some ladies, as to the devotion of my
father in his accompanying me to and fro, in being so protective of me,
my father would laugh. He would ask me to tell them to mind their
own businesses. So he knew every one of the people who passed my

way, and he also knew of Ashwin and his visits and our outings. He
also knew that there were others with us always. I never told my dad
how I really felt, but my very silence would have told him the truth.
Obviously, at that time I could not utter a word. With every mile
that took me away from that town, I felt I was being torn inch by inch.
But seeing the proud, happy look on my father’s face compensated for
everything – almost. When we were getting near our home, my dad
took my hand in his, and said, “I know.” I was devastated. Tears
started to flow. When I saw his stricken face, I tried to stop. But my
tears were drowning me. Sobbing, I told him I was sorry.
“Don’t be. I am sorry.” I could see he was mad at himself for not
being able to help me. The family name can never be muddied. I knew
that too. Especially now, because the wheels have been turned on.
They cannot be stopped for my insignificant, personal whim. After all,
it could have been just that – a whim. A toy that a spoilt brat wanted to
have. I knew that was what the ignorant people around us would say
about my dad. He deserved it – letting the girl be a journalist! Should
have known this is what would happen if you give girls everything that
they ask for. Give a girl an inch and she will take a mile. Only a fool
would educate a girl. A bachelor’s in Home Science is more than
enough. And look at her, cut her hair, wears pants, and that story!
No girl from a good family would do all this.
And what if Ashwin really told me he loved me? And suppose we
married. Won’t disillusion set in after a while? He maybe in love with
an image that I project unconsciously or otherwise, an image that I
think he would like. Will I be the same person in say, a year? Won’t he
hate me then? Or worse, be indifferent to me? And when the children
came? I am not a big practicer of my faith, but when it came to my
children’s faith, what if my ego played up? After all, my faith/ my
ancestry is part of my identity. If I forget that, that means I forget my
whole existence as I know it. And we might have ended up hating each
other. I rationalized that it was better to end it – if there was an it – like
that.
That evening, when we got home, my mother asked me why my
eyes were red. My dad answered that I had the pre-wedding nerves. As
most of my immediate relatives, especially, the youngsters -- were
already there, my mother was distracted. And soon I was gathered into
the bosom of my family. My cousins sang teasing songs, we ate,
ASHA BERNARD 79
drank, and talked of the trousseau, and of the guy who was going to
marry me. My mother’s friends were trickling in pairs and groups like
flocks of colorful parrots – to look at the saris and the jewelry, and
pass comments and compliments. I was carried away into an almost
unreal world.
And here I am. Now.
Chapter 7
In which Anarkali waits for Anna’s email, and gets mad and sad,
and remembers the reason behind her aversion towards red sarees.
It is Saturday. Children, mainly boys, although one or two girls can

be seen tagging along, play at fishing in the river. Another bright blue,
almost white day. The rice plants are top heavy, and bend this way and
that in the playful wind. Harvest would soon begin. The capricious
monsoon seems to have stopped in time this year. Dragonflies, like
helicopters hovering over the field, A sure sign of Onam. The thrill she
felt as a child at the sight of the first dragonfly is not forgotten.
Anarkali hugs herself. And the scent. The intoxicating scent of earth.
Voluptuous, fertile Mother Earth. Anarkali cannot help but be happy.
She leans back on the wall of her verandah, unable to take in all this
lushness. The saturation of beauty. She feels the clichéd lump in her
throat. Why does it hurt to see Nature in all her glory? In all her
unbridled sensuality? Like a beautiful woman with her long hair
undone, her head thrown back in ecstasy, against the pitilessly blowing
wind, the pallu of her green saree being whipped this way and that,
revealing her golden brown, supple waist, her kohl-lined eyes shining
like diamonds, her long arms heavy with gold bangles flung outward .
. . . Anarkali closes her eyes against the wind, against the image. Does
her abandon scare us poor mortals? She wonders. The reddish brown
soil under her feet gleams in the sun. Golden brown. The color of the
hair of that boy of whom surely the Carpenters wrote the song about.
But the eyes were not blue. They were brown. She does have a
weakness for that certain shade of brown. (By the way, doesn’t your
Earth goddess closely resemble actress Sridevi of Mr. India? Anna
whispers in her ears, and Anarkali laughs.)
The dream that Anarkali had the previous night was rather vivid
and disturbing. She was making love to Ashok with all the wanton
abandonment that her mother had warned her of. And this time, Ashok
was not mocking at all. He had all his attention on her too. Anarkali
could not help but smile at the memory. She had had the same dream
once during her marriage, but then she had really felt that she had
committed adultery.
ASHA BERNARD 81
There was this boy in boarding school. His name was Joe. Joe with
the big brown eyes, and very fair skin. He used to sing songs. The
nuns loved him. He had an angel’s voice, they used to say. Joe used to
follow Anarkali around, tell her that he would marry her when they
grew up. Anarkali was embarrassed and worried as usual, and angry
too. Naughty boy. He used to tease her so much that she had to
complain to the teacher. An Anglo Indian teacher named Angie. She
smiled at them both, indulgently. So Anarkali dared to like the boy.
Still, when he said that he wanted to marry her, because he liked her
bed, she was doubtful. He said then he can take her bed. Anarkali was
very mad at that. She would not talk to him for days after that. Joe’s
father had a clothes shop – an old family business -- in town, one of
the shops that Anarkali’s father frequented. Once she went to the store
with her father, and Joe’s dad asked her if Joe studied well. She
remember saying nothing. And being a boy, he had to leave the school
after fourth grade. She doesn’t remember much about the boy after
that, but he is a bittersweet memory that pops up now and then. Later,
she felt robbed when she heard from someone, that Joe died of brain
tumor when he was fourteen.
Anarkali does not want to think of the other brown-eyed boy. He
wouldn’t be a boy now, she smiles. She hopes Anna has found time to
write to her. No, she is too busy to sit and write two lines to her. She
knows Anna gets caught up in what she calls her inert phase. If only
she got into her writing mode! Anarkali smiles. Anna should write.
But she has to come to terms with her fear. That is what it is. Fear.
Anna would not admit it because she has not recognized it. Fear of
failure, fear of success, fear of being misunderstood, fear of bringing
pain to her parents. Anna always did everything for her parents. Well,
that is what she did too. Until we start doing things for ourselves, we
are going to be disappointments in our own minds.
Anna makes a big joke of her first published piece. But Anarkali
knows she is shutting out the pain. Anna will write again, Anarkali is
sure. And once she starts writing, she will return to her roots. A new
idea pokes its head in Anarkali’s mind. “Constructive
fundamentalism” for protection of land, and of identity. Anarkali
writes it down. Anna would say this is what leads to eugenics and
euthanasia. But that will be destructive. That is why I used the word
“constructive,” Anarkali reminds Anna, in her mind.
The sound of a car entering the small driveway in front rouses
Anarkali. She guesses who it will be, as not many people come to visit
her. And the next door house has been vacant for some time now. Sure
enough, Kalyani enters and announces the arrival of Kumaran, another
of Anarkali’s mother’s faithful servants. Their driver. Anarkali sits up.
“Mother has sent some things, Anu mol,” he says.
“Oh.” Anarkali stops. She does not want to say anything in front of
Kumaran. “What is it?”
“Some dried beef, tender mango pickle, mango bars, and your
favorite mangoes. Thresia asked me to tell Kalyani that the beef has
already been fire roasted and shredded.. She just has to sauté it with
garlic and spice.” Kalyani snorts.
“Mother asked when Anu mol wants her to send the car to come
home for Onam.”
“I will let her know later,” Anarkali says.
Kumaran, as he partakes of tea and snacks in the kitchen, asks
Kalyani, “Is she not talking to her mother? Thresia says so. You don’t
want to know what she says about Anu mol.”
Kalyani interrupts, “We all know what she says, she doesn’t keep
her mouth shut. And as for Anu mol’s talking or not talking, it is none
of her or our business. Poor girl, she has suffered enough.”
“What suffering? Parents got her married to a nice young man
from a good family – gave such a big dowry too and all that gold – and
she is so spoilt she comes away. Got everything she wants, with her
mother and father supporting every whim and fancy, always wanting
more, always looking for what is next. Everything is a game for these
people. Though, to be frank, I never expected that of this little mouse
here. Now, her friend, from that Tullian family, I thought she would
surely run off from her marriage. I tell you, girls should not be
educated. All the wrong ideas, just like what Thomas Saar says. Just a
waste of money.”
“And what does Thomas Achan say, Kumaran?" Anarkali enters.
“Nothing I haven’t heard before, I am sure.” Kumaran looks pale.
Anarkali goes away.
Kalyani can’t stop laughing.
And Kumaran has to aim one last jibe at Kalyani, “Thresia says you
being a Hindu, you may not know how to prepare Christian dishes.”
Kalyani responds as expected “Tell her, anything she can do, I can
do better.” Kumaran chuckles.
Soon it is time for him to head back, or Anarkali’s mother will start
calling. He coughs to get Anarkali’s attention, and smiles. For the first
time, Anarkali notices he has lost his once beautiful teeth, except for
ASHA BERNARD 83
one, that stands red and proud, like a milestone with a reflector.
Because of chewing Paan. Anarkali feels sorry for the man. Suddenly,
she can see her mother in a few years time – old, with a fading
memory - and with Thresia by her side. Helping, guiding, controlling.
It looks like Thresia will never get old. Even now, when her mother
looks like she is shrinking, Thresia with age, seems to bloat, to
enlarge, and to absorb and swallow everything around her.
Anarkali nods her head at the old man, and he leaves. A thank you
would embarrass him, so she says, “Take care.”
Anarkali does not know if she will go home for Onam. She had
plans. Something that she had forgotten. She wanted to finish the Ph.D
dissertation that was abandoned when she got married and went away
to Paradise. Making plans, daring to dream, again. Onam does it to
her. In school, she wrote that Onam is a harvest festival, the national
festival. It was later that she discovered that it is the festival of hope
and of giving. What a difference from Paradisian gift-- receiving for
Christmas. Santa, bearing gifts. You leave him milk and cookies,
expecting gifts. You be good, expecting gifts. But Malayalis wait for
their beloved King every year, hoping, praying that he will be happy
with what he sees. Putting on a brave face for him, showing him his
people are still happy and prosperous. What if he does not ever come?
Anarkali realizes that she is, and has been afraid that it would be
another year’s futile wait for Maaveli. When she was young, not many
Christian families celebrated Onam. But Anarkali’s family did –
maybe they thought it was their right, as they were Brahmins
converted to Christianity. She wondered what Anna would be doing
this Onam. Anna was the one who had tears in her eyes when she told
the story of King Mahabali. Anarkali was sure her friend would be
regaling her son with the story.
Anarkali had gone to her mother’s some time back, a few days
after she returned from Paradise for good, an act that her mother could
not understand. Why should she come away from Paradise? That too
after a divorce? Wasn’t she crazy to live in Kerala as a single woman?
What will people say? What will people think? What will her brothers
and their wives think? The same questions that have haunted Anarkali
all her life. But Anarkali’s mother had changed tactics once Anarkali
had turned twenty-two. No more hittings and spankings. All of a
sudden, Anarkali was marriage material.
Anarkali prefers to leave those matters alone, for now. If she went
home for Onam, she could see her sister, who is back from Delhi. Her
mother wants Anarkali to talk her sister into submitting for pennu
kaanal – something which Anarkali had hated, much to the mocking of
her female cousins. They were very practical about it – anyway, you
have to marry, and if you want to marry, you need a man, and if you
want to get a man, you have to stand before him and his family, as an
exhibit. What is wrong with that? That is how things are done. What
Anarkali found harder was the overnight change in her mother’s
attitude towards her. Of course, there was the wish that if only her hair
was wavy, that if only she was fairer, if only she was shorter. But
Anarkali could not take in this new mother who wanted her to dress
up, to wear sarees, to put kajal in her eyes, to put makeup on. She
found it hard to believe it was the same person who went berserk if
Anarkali petted a puppy, let alone a baby.
“Can’t wait to be a mother, eh?” She would ask sarcastically, and
Anarkali got the innuendo all right -- hadn't she heard that one before?
– “Can’t wait to sleep with a man, eh?” Anarkali would flinch, and
soon learned not to show any gentle feelings toward anything. She
would be made to feel like a wanton, sex-starved female. Anarkali
remembers the day she wore a sari to Church. She was home for the
holidays. A nineteen-year-old. When it was time to go to church, a sari
was the only option, because that was what they had to wear in
college. They had uniforms in college – plain saris. Her mother was
not used to seeing Anarkali in a sari. It was as if she did not want her
to grow up. So when Anarkali enters, wearing a red sari, which one of
her uncles had given her, with her long hair silky and shiny from a
shampoo, her mother frowned, “Is this the only thing that you have to
wear?”
When her father said she looked nice, all grown up , Anarkali knew
she had done the wrong thing. She had long since noted her mother’s
dislike of her father noticing his daughter. And usually he kept up the
charade of not seeing her too. Pearl, her little sister, who had arrived
when Anarkali was fourteen, said she looked like a princess.
“Red makes you look darker,” her mother said. Anarkali was
embarrassed, as if she was caught doing something to grab attention,
meaning male glances. Something dirty, evil. Since it was already
getting late, they had to leave for Church.
Thomas Achan had to arrive at that exact moment with his
comment, “Wow! Who is this bride to be ?” And then looking at his
sister, “All dressed up and ready to be married, eh? That saree is sure
ASHA BERNARD 85
to get some attention. Emily, be careful. Your daughter is no longer a
little girl. Kettiyorukki nadathu.” His voice oozed sarcasm.
At church, Anarkali felt like a whore in the saree. She blamed
herself. Whatever made her wear it? And when she looked at it in
church, she did notice that it clung to her body, because it was so soft
and thin. She was miserable. The next morning, Anarkali heard that a
marriage broker had come to her house, asking if some guy and his
family could come and “see” her. The boy, an engineer working for
some big firm in Bombay, saw her in church and liked her, so he told
his family who sent the broker. Of course this added to Anarkali’s
sense of guilt.
Anarkali’s parents say that she is too young, she is studying. That
night, Anarkali’s mother gives away the saree to Thresia, who does not
wear saree, but the traditional Nazraani mundu and kuppayam. But
Thresia has some nieces who can wear it.
Anarkali is neither surprised nor sad. In fact, she is relieved. She
never wants to see that cursed saree again.
Chapter 8
In which Anna talks about her habit of note making that she picked
up a few years back, her meeting a new friend, and she remembers the
day she met evil incarnate, and deals with the fear factor.
Hello again, I don’t know why I keep making these notes, and not
just write a book – a novel or something for publication. All right, I
know what Anarkali will say, she will say, fear. Fear from an earlier
experience. She may be right, but I think after all these years in this
free country, where every bedroom has to have coordinated
furnishings, I should be rid of fear. In fact, we are so free that we want
everyone to be free all around the world. And when we see that the
rest of the world does not have, say, a Laura Ashley or Martha Stewart
bedding and/or window dressing, and that the women cannot wear
Ralph Lauren bikinis and shorts to church, we are sorry for them. And
when we see that some of them can do it because they have the money
(and the oil) for it, but will not do it, in the name of some stupid
beliefs, we are understandably indignant. Because we are sure that
there are people in those places who long for our help and guidance.
Also, we fear, rightly, that they may spread their style-less, designer-
less culture everywhere, like so many germs. So we are ready to fight
for them, even sacrifice the young, biological apples of our eyes, for
their freedom. We care for those poor decor/fashion-challenged
people.
From the above, you may glean that fear is not a factor these days. I
live in a free country. Doesn’t everybody? But it is a fact that I cannot
write for publication. I can only make notes, prepare, like a student.
When I was twenty, remember I told you my parents, the promise
breakers, sent me to St. Ursula’s for my Master’s. That was the only
place that made me feel an alien till then,where I could understand to
a certain extent, what Anu felt almost all her life so far. There I learned
that no matter how well you behave, and what good intentions you
have, there are some who are so evil, they try to kill the goodness in
you.
ASHA BERNARD 87
I am mad at my parents for sending me to this place, but I am ready
to make the best of things. So on the first day, I smile and nod at
everyone in my usual optimistic manner, and the teachers look through
me. I am puzzled. They do not hear my answers in class, they do not
see my raised hand, that in a class of sixteen. One of my kinder
classmates, who was not a spy of the reigning despot or her minions
tells me that the teachers are miffed because their pet student did not
win the rank, and St. Ursula’s had held the monopoly of B.A English
rank for some years. I am the one who broke the chain of their winning
record. I could have salvaged the situation by saying to the head nun,
Sr. Devious or Dubious, I name her, that I was interested in becoming
a nun. But I did not do that, or maybe that perverse streak in me
prevented me. And since I was a day scholar now, I did not care.
Instead, I wrote satiric poems in the Alexander Pope mode, about that
mountain of flesh that was the nun. There was a lackey nun in the
same department, who tried to befriend me in her own way,but I did
not like her patronizing tone. And as I said, I went home in the
evening, where I could unwind with my brother and the cousins who
dropped by. We would play anthaakashari, a game of film songs
where one player sang the first song, and after that, each had to take
turns singing a song that began with the last consonant of the previous
song. Needless to say, I was an expert because I cheated at times, and
changed the rules to my advantage. We said fart/shit jokes and laughed
till we cried. No sex jokes. I have always wondered what is with the
Malayali and shit jokes. Why are we so fascinated by it? I found the
answer in my literature class. Jonathan Swift. He was so horrified that
his girlfriend sh– , he wrote a poem about it. The revulsion/obsession,
love/hate syndrome. Exactly like the Malayali’s fetish.
You may be interested in learning about how I met evil incarnate.
Smile, smile and be a villain. I had got married to this guy I told you
about. Arranged as is done. You may ask how a Ph. D holder in
feminism and feminist writing could submit to such a thing in this
modern age. I can give you many reasons. First, I did not want to hurt
my parents or bring shame on them. They had conditioned me very
well. Second, I did not believe in love. I reasoned that if you fall in
love once, you can do it again with someone else. Whereas if you
think of marriage as a sacred contract that stands till death do us part,
an arranged marriage is better. Third, you do not have any
expectations in an arranged marriage, at my age, that is. Girls who are
usually married off after their B.A., when they are around twenty, may
have some romantic expectations from their marriage. Not me. Fourth,
there is no way that you will be disillusioned by your lover, because
your husband was not your lover, silly. Fifth, I was lazy to find my
own. No initiative. Did not want to work too hard. Did not want to
steal other girls’ boyfriends, their hopes and dreams. Other mothers’
sons.
Back to evil incarnate. I am at the airport with my family, waiting
to catch the domestic flight from Cochin to Madras. The whole family
is there. My brother, my cousins, aunts, uncles. My family is coming
along till Madras, from where I will catch the flight to Paradise.
Suddenly, I see my old teacher from St. Ursula’s. A Brahmin lady,
with a sweet smile, and sweeter voice. She was one of the few teachers
in that college whom I thought to be human. It had been almost six
years since I left that college. I am happy to see her, and I go to talk to
her. She smiles,
“Oh, Anna! I did not see you!” Then I knew she had seen me. Most
of the time, if you have seen somebody, the chance is that the other
person has also seen you, or will see you any moment. Unless you are
drunk, or so deep in your book or your thoughts, which was not the
case here. She is standing there making small talk to her husband.
There could be another reason behind her not seeing me. Like the habit
of most teachers in nun- run colleges and schools, it could have been a
test – to see if the student will come and talk. I know this because we
have sat through any number of anecdotes by our teachers about how
one past student came and said hello, and how another pretended not
to see. Or maybe she was afraid I would kidnap her husband, which I
see is a serious worry for many women. Anyway, I speak to her.
“Hello Miss Parukkutty , how are you? It has been a long time.”
“Getting by, getting by. So what have you been doing?” As if she
did not know, I thought later when I was licking my bruised ego.
I am very happy to let her know, because I am naive, “I took my
M.Phil from — University, got my Ph.D from —University, got
married, and am going to Paradise.”
She gives me that smile again, her eyes crinkled. I cannot see her
eyes, “What does he do, your husband?”
“He is a doctor.”
She nods. I still cannot see her eyes. I start to say goodbye, as she
looks at her watch. Then she opens her mouth to speak. I am ready to
say thank you to her sincere congratulations. I am happy thinking that
she is proud of me. She says, holding her head at an angle, “I met your
ASHA BERNARD 89
research supervisor. He said you had to rewrite your dissertation
before submitting. He said he had to write it for you.” I could see the
deliberate malice, and the petty jealousy in her narrowed, almost-not-
there eyes.
I am dumb with shock and hurt. I mumble something and walk
away. Looking at my face, my brother says, “Who asked you to go and
talk to that idiot? Can’t you see she is pathetically jealous of you?”
“For what?” I ask, and see my brother making his special gorilla
face. I laugh.
I tell him that if she had read my dissertation, she would have
known it could not have been written by a man.
St. Ursula’s. Where old virgins specialize in breaking young
virgins’ spirits, and teach them snobbery. It was where I wrote a short
story in Malayalam. I wrote it in English first, and then translated it
into Malayalam myself, and sent it to a magazine. They published it.
The plot was simple. A girl named Rebel goes to University, where
she talks of her ideas of women’s rights, equality, the idea of God. She
falls in love with a married professor, gets pregnant, and leaves, saying
that she has much to do in this world. The plot was just a vehicle for
my thoughts, and my need to change people’s perceptions, wake them
up from their complacence. I wanted to shock the 1986 Malayali man
and woman. Hence, the affair with the married man, and the pregnancy
of the unmarried girl, – all taboo in my society. The funny thing is, at
that time especially, except for the part where I wished to work for
change, I would never do any of the rest, had never done any of that,
or had any plans of doing it in the future. All hell breaks loose. The
nuns give me the evil eye, my parents are ashamed, pained,
disappointed, and will not talk to me. It is as if there has been a death
in the family. For the first time, I am a freak.
Then the letters come. My parents do not show me the letters at
first, fearing I would be hurt. But their worry that I may try this again,
coupled with the fear that I may not get a good marriage proposal,
make them show me a couple. Nasty, hurtful things. Hate mail, now I
know. I am ashamed to say they scared me. For strangers to hate me so
much that they found the time to sit and write those vile things. One
person, or group, I don’t know – it scared me that they may have been
written by people I know, friendly faces that smile at me – wrote that
he, and his cronies were coming to get me, to rape me, because that is
what I wanted. That I was asking for it. So you want to walk the streets
by yourself at midnight? Watch what happens. They had used words,
which I later found out were derogatory terms describing female

genitalia. Another letter called me a crazy, a neurotic, and said that he
has reserved a room for me at the local mental hospital.
I do not even know if they were all written by men. I had lost my
confidence, my trust, and my sense of security. There was no support
from my parents either, it was as if I brought it all on myself.
The interesting and stupid factor is that I ignored all the nice letters
that I got. Letters that congratulated me on my courage, on the
relevance of my thoughts, its originality, and even a couple of letters
from movie and serial makers. My parents would not even consider the
latter, as we all know that movie people are an evil bunch, out to lure
and force innocent young maidens onto their casting couches. So I
buried the story somewhere in the bottom of my mind. I stopped
writing, or even thinking of writing.
Then, of course, I channeled my “creativity” (I always wonder what
I create!) into research. My topic was based on feminism, so I was able
to work in my preferred field, without having to get letters. Because no
one other than a few professors read a dissertation, however
controversial or iconoclastic it is, if it is from a little known corner of
the Third World, and if it is in the field of English Literature. When I
said, ‘little known corner,’ I mean, in the modern days. That place was
once important to the then hungry West, as it was the gateway to the
riches of India, as Anu would say. At the university, where Anarkali
joined me, we, along with a few other women, tried to make some
changes, and were dubbed as sex-starved, and later, as lesbians. After I
submitted my dissertation, I got married, if you remember the arranged
marriage I described earlier. Suffice to say that, in my determination to
make my marriage a success, I stopped thinking of anything other than
cooking and cleaning, let alone writing. Poor, poor Anna.
Of course, these days, I laugh about my fear. Come on, I could have
written, once my son started school. I am basically a lazy bum.
I think it is time I told you about my sizzling love affair at nineteen.
I have already told you about the piri system, in girls-- alone circles. (I
call the other one with Ashwin an infatuation. Nothing touched me like
my first love.) I liked all my undergraduate teachers in the English
department. But there was one special teacher, a nun, who encouraged
me more than any one else to focus on my writing, and my studies.
And in those times, I could churn out stories, and poems like some
creative writing machine. Obviously, this was before the advent of the
fear factor.
ASHA BERNARD 91
This nun, whom I will not name, I felt, had a special regard for me,
and I was happy. Love and acceptance is something which I never tire
of. I don’t know if it is the same for you. I sure can't get enough of it.
And if anyone shows an iota of love for me, I am so grateful and
delighted that I shower love on them till they tire of me. I respected,
admired, and liked this nun too. And in my free time in the hostel, I
wrote poems about my secret love - for the M. Clift look-alike priest.
During the final year, when the time for the printing of the College
Magazine came, another nun, who was in charge of the writing
selection, came to me, and asked if I had any poems to submit.
Without thinking, I gave her my little maroon diary, with all my
poems. She chose one or two, and gave it back. Years later, I go to the
same college as a lecturer, and the teachers tease me about my secret
love for someone in a robe. One of them tells me, “You had a piri on
Sr. Austin.”
I am puzzled. I tell her, “No, it is true, I liked her very much, but
not piri.” She laughs and says, “But you wrote poems about her.” Then
it struck me, but I did not dare to reveal my real love even then. Better
that they think it was piri for a nun rather than a sacrilegious passion
for a priest! Let us talk about my passionate affair here.
The priest used to come to say Mass every day. On Wednesdays,

we had Mass in English, and I loved it for its brevity, unlike our
Suriyani version in Malayalam. And for the fact that the priest said it
beautifully. His English pronunciation was perfect. I dreamt away
throughout the Mass, not necessarily of him all the time, but making
up stories with myself as the heroine. Sad stories, happy stories,
adventurous stories. He came on his motorbike, and in the light chill of
the early December mornings, he had a jacket on. A grey colored light
jacket. Exotic. I have seen no one wear a jacket in Kerala. Coupled
with the robe, and the motorcycle, he was the epitome of style. As he
entered the church through the side door, we would already be seated
on the smooth, cold, brown floor. A group of Syrian Christian girls in
the front, and nuns in the back. Only the old nuns had chairs. He went
into the vestry, without looking at anyone, and some of us dared to
peek at his profile. He walked so tall, fit, and proud, his head held high
and aloof, with his jacket thrown carelessly on his arm. He had
chiseled looks – a light brown, lean face, sharp eyes with thick spiky
lashes, an aquiline nose, and lips that were neither too full nor too thin.
And the chin, with the cleft – which I was so tempted to touch. He had
straight black hair, which was combed away from his high forehead.
We did not look for too long, because we were aware of the nuns’ eyes
boring into our backs. Come to think of it, we were wrong, they must
have been looking at him too.
Then the Mass, and we all got to look at him. Just imagine a pack of
thirsty does, sending their sighs and longings to the one eligible male
in the area. And the songs that the nuns lead in the Mass – a sample,
“My soul yearns to reach you like a thirsty doe, oh my God” – had
multiple layers of meaning for us. I savored every second of those
days. I can say I have never felt anything close to that ever again; it
was so pure, so innocent, yet at the same time, so passionate. After the
Mass, the nuns would bear him off to the convent for breakfast, and as
we passed by, we could hear his voice, and the twitter of the nuns. And
laughter. There was one nun who made me really jealous. A young,
pretty one, who sometimes took him to the garden, in front of our
hostel, we could see them talk and laugh, and I would seethe with
jealousy.
Then the day comes, when we celebrate his feast day. The nuns cut
a cake in the convent, which we do not see. We are asked to come to
the front of the convent in the evening, to wish him a happy feast day.
So, some thirty of us girls are crowded before the door, when it opens,
and he comes out. I am so deliciously nervous with anticipation. We
yell, “Happy Feast, Fr. Paul!” There, I said the name, which by the
way is not real. He looks around, and I feel his eyes on me. I look
away, and he turns to the nun who is holding the candy basket. He
starts giving out candy to all the pushing and rushing girls. I feel kind
of embarrassed to be standing there, with an extended hand, one
among a crowd of “wanters,” like those pictures that you see of the
Third World poor, holding out their hands, palms up. And he does not
seem to see my extended hand. Girls were pushing me off too. I give
up. I drop my hand, and slowly wiggle my way backwards. All of a
sudden, there is a comparative silence, and I see the empty space
between him and me. I pretend to have already got the candy, and turn
to go.
“What is your name?” I hear him ask. He is talking to me!
I say, “Anna.”
“What is your main?” he asks me. “English Literature,” I say. I am
suddenly overcome with shyness. I dare to meet his dark eyes
twinkling in the light, and am warmed by its glow. Somehow, I am
sure something passed between us. He is about to ask something else,
ASHA BERNARD 93
but the nuns who hover in the background, and were looking on in an
amused manner till then, are impatient now. They hurry him inside. He
smiles at me, and waves at all of us, as he goes in. I am glad of the
darkness as we walk back to the hostel. I can’t breathe - - with
excitement, and with anger at the nuns.
The girls surround me in the darkness, “He talked to you! Wow!” I
am flying on winged feet, towards my room. I want to be alone, which
is not possible as there are five of us in a room. I gaze outside the
window at the guava tree that grows close by, and at the dark, starry
sky, remembering his eyes. I am in love.
Next morning, I can’t wait to go to Mass. I act nonchalant before
my friends, but I tremble with anticipation. As expected, he comes to
say Mass, and the usual collective sighs and pent up longings of
virgins resonate in the Chapel, in the stillness of the early morning. I
wonder how that poor man could refrain from laughing out aloud
during Mass. And that is the story of my one pure romance.
Years later, I learn that he works in a boys’ school in a big city in a
neighboring state. I am a Research student then, confident, moving
among boys at the university, and I hear this from a fellow passenger
on the train. I could not believe in the coincidence. So the next time,
when I go for reference work in a library of that city, with my friend
Anu, I go to that school. Much against the inner voice, which warned
me of the consequences, if this reached my parents’ ears. Going after a
priest! Add to that Anu’s disbelief at what is happening. She is aghast
at my audacity. Frightened to death. But I don’t care. I want to see this
man. We get there on a Saturday. The watchman comes forward
inquiringly. Two strange girls lurking around in a boys’ school. Not a
very common sight.
“What do you want?” he asks.
Ignoring the festival fireworks going on inside my heart, I ask him,
“Does Fr. Paul work here?”
He frowns suspiciously, “Yes?”
At this point, I want to run away. But I persist. “Is he in?”
“No,” he says. I am disappointed, and relieved. What was I
thinking? I must be crazy to do this. What an idiot.
“Thank you.” I smile at the now very observant watchman, and we
walk away. Again leaving our virgin sighs in the air. That was the end.
Intermission
Wherein the Narrator tries to explain these two girls and their
relationships, their ideas of morality, virginity, and love, and makes a
case against arranged marriages after 25.
You have a choice here, you know. You may read this chapter now
or you may skip this and read it after you are done with the story.
After reading so far, you may wonder at the tortuous “thinkings” of
these two girls, now women. You may think what a hullabaloo or to do
or ado over nothing? Are they nuts? Or just plain idiots? There are
times when even I wish that they would do something. And I can
imagine my western reader and many Indian readers who will be
impatient with such inaction, or rather, non-action. For instance,
instead of sipping tea and thinking thoughts, Anarkali could get hold
of an Uzi and start firing at people. But then I would change the title to
The Anarkali Anna Identity, Supremacy, and Ultimatum. Not a bad
idea really. The least she could try is do some yoga asanas. Could
come in handy when she dreams of her brown-eyed boy.
So I concede that they could be either morons or nuts, but also, they
could just be products of their time and geographical location. I, for
one, would blame their parents. The parents who set out flunking
many traditions, but got cold feet when it came to the crux. They
conditioned these girls so well in the artful morals of the Nazrani girl,
but let them go for higher education. If they had got these girls married
off by twenty, as is usually done, they would not have had any
problem adjusting to married life. And even if they did have any
problems, they would have had ample time on their side to correct
their mistakes. Now they are past their youth, and they feel they have
been cheated out of their youth.
As it was, the girls were allowed to study on condition that they
would not go for a love marriage, let alone have an affair, casual or
otherwise. On the other hand, if these girls had been allowed to fly, to
go wherever they wanted to in order to pursue their future, they would
have found other paths, more difficult, probably, but paths of their
choosing. So now they end up as two ineffectual, bitter, pathetic has-
beens, would-have-beens always living in their past.
ASHA BERNARD 95
You may wonder why these girls think so much, talk so much --
and do not act. For one, these are not action heroines, they have not
been programmed for that. (But I wish they could be Bond girls.) Their
schooling, family upbringing, all directed and trained them to be silent.
Inert. Passive. In the most literal sense of those words. No athletics, no
running around, no questioning, no answering back. Think Victorian.
For the smarter ones, thinking became action. They questioned,
doubted, discussed among themselves, to themselves. Thinking was
living and vice versa. I think, therefore I am. That is the only way the
intelligent and the imaginative ones could keep their sanity. Some of
the questions came to them very late. Those questions could only
torment them at that point in life. Until they moved on.
Now, don't you think Anna is a bit secretive about her sex life?
Well, speaking from my vantage point, I think that jumping to
conclusions in such things is a mistake. These Nazrani virgins have no
idea what to expect in a sexual relationship. Oh, they are well versed
in the theories. But idiots when it comes to the practical side, as
neither of them had even been kissed or touched by another man
before their marriages. You may point out the very valid point that
Anna conceived. Virgin Mary conceived! And still is a virgin, isn't
she? I am not saying that Anna is a Holy Virgin impregnated by the
Holy Ghost or that Ajay is a Messiah. But I have to point out the fact
that even if a man and woman did not have a deep sexual encounter --
I mean deep -- a woman can get pregnant if the time is ripe. Ripeness
is all, as the English Kalidasa said. I have given this immaculate
conception quite a good deal of thought. Creation without penetration
is possible. Da Vinci knew it. That is why he did his finger touch
finger Creation painting. Well, all this may be speculation. But
wouldn't you like to be there when and if Anna realizes that there are
better things outside? That she may have been shortchanged? But then
again, Anna, I have always thought, is an asexual being. For her,
perfect sex is the one between minds. The most erotic, the most
orgasmic of all feelings for her may be the exciting intellectual
connection between two minds -- one male and the other female. That
is worth more than mere physical coupling. Anyway it’s all in the
mind. How do you feel a special something for a certain person? That
person may not be that different from the next one. But in our minds,
s/he is all that and more. Ah! Fantasy! Isn’t that what gives meaning to
one’s life? What if there were no dreams? I am not sure about
Anarkali, though. She is a dark one, our Anu. But she might have
stayed in her marriage in spite of all the nothingness between her and
her ex if they had had that intellectual relationship. Well, we can only
imagine. Though, it is fortunate that her time was not ripe during her
marriage. She might have stayed on in that hell of a marriage for the
sake of her child. Thank goodness she is not a celebrity. If she were, I
cannot imagine the pressure on her to conceive, to bring up a child, or
at least to adopt.
I am talking about the Paradisian circus. Where she is now, there
would not be much pressure, now that she is forty and single and
divorced. Small blessings!
Anna is a crazy case actually. She lives vicariously like the heroines
of her books, movies. So one day she may be Madame Bovary, and the
next day she is one of the house proud women admired by Hercule
Poirot. Next day, she is wise, old Miss Marple, or one of Barbara
Cartland’s delicate but spunky heroines. But always she is a woman's
friend -- loyal and understanding. That is why she finds it so hard in
Paradise where sincere and trusting friendships between females are
rare. Little does she know that it is very rare in India too. She still sees
India through her college day eyes when it was for most of her studies,
it was an all-girls environment.
And she and Anarkali had avoided any regular girl's experience --
each had their own reasons. Fear of hurt, shame, loss of dignity, and
pride and loyalty to the family all had played their parts in their
unnatural existence. But in avoiding pain, they avoided the pleasures
associated with it too. By this I mean they mainly avoided love and
romance. They avoided stepping in dirt so that they did not have to
wash. So they missed many things and remained ignorant in some
important facts of life. They were either old souls or little babies, when
they should have learned things and experienced feelings first hand.
No amount of books or imagination could take its place. By the time
they realized that they were no longer young, they mourned the loss of
their youth and freedom of choice.
By the way, do you wonder who this busybody know it all narrator
is? Who is the real teller/writer of the story? And Anarkali and Anna?
Do you think they are one and the same person? That one is the
creation of the other? Well . . . .
Anyway it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. After all, we are only what
we think ourselves to be. Others to be. The world to be. Just a bundle
of thoughts. Which keeps changing by the minute. We are only as real
as our thoughts are.
Chapter 9
In which Anarkali receives an email from Anna with attachments,
and Pearl comes to visit Anarkali at night.
The computer takes a long time to start. Anarkali waits patiently,

meanwhile, looking out the window. In the darkness, the fields appear
as a greyish black, magical, ocean in the distance. It does not scare her
anymore. But it brings back memories of Paradise, of herself sitting in
the car, in the back seat, while her mother-in-law sat in the front with
her son, Anarkali’s husband. The back seat hurt her back. Anyway, by
then, Anarkali was fine with it. Just like she was fine with her mother-
in-law sitting between Anarkali and her husband at the movies the few
times they went. Why should she care? It was no big deal, as her
husband had pointed out. In the car, she could look out the window,
and shut her mind to everything, and everyone around her, and try to
dream. That is when she discovered that somewhere along the way,
she had lost her ability to dream, and fly. Mother and son thought she
had fallen asleep. They were driving along the expressway, and in the
darkening night, both sides of the road looked like the same magical
ocean – greyish black with some lights glowing in the distance, like
tiny candle flames. Mother is happy to declare when they get home, “I
never sleep when my son is driving. Keep him company, that is what I
do. So that he may not fall asleep on the wheel.” Good for you,
Anarkali says to herself, as she prepares for bed.
All right! Anna has sent a message.

Hey Anu,
How are things in kombodinjaaplaakkal? You must be having a
grand time, I know, it is the Onam season, you will be the Abyssinian
maid wailing for her demon lover under the harvest moon, last part I
made up. I read the Aryan stuff you sent me – “Anarchy,” that is what
they are going to call you, instead of Anarkali. Good to see that you
are keeping busy. Now start brushing up that dissertation of yours.
And conquer the world. As for me, I am still in the note-making mode.
Even in my note-making it seems that I want an audience. So I
address an imaginary Reader. Like one of those cooking show hosts,
who talk to an imaginary audience. One of these days, I will start the
real writing.
How is everyone at home? I heard from Ammachi that they are
looking for a boy for Pearl . How is Pearl taking it?
Ajay is doing well in school. The other day, one of the office
bearers – a coconut personality to brown skins – came to me, when I
was sitting there waiting for him. I thought he came to pass the time of
the day, was I wrong! He had come to tell me that my son had crushed
crayons in the classroom, with his shoe into the carpet. I was
ashamed. And the man said it in such a way that I felt that Ajay was a
criminal in the making. Sometimes I wonder if that is what they want
him to be. To be frank, I have felt like doing the same when I see some
of the faces there. The alienating vibes. If there is some to do in the
classroom, they want your money and pretend they want your presence
too. But if you make the mistake of going, they act like you were
something that the cat dragged in. But I did not say any of that. So
now, I have to sign a letter that they made him write to us. They really
do involve the parents, don’t they? Well, better than getting hit with
canes, eh? Or is it? Is mental torture/deprivation better than physical
ones? I don’t know. I just hope the coconut personality is a good
coconut. Because don’t we know of rotten ones! There was another
shooting incident in a school here. All these violent cartoons and TV
and games and medications and drugs and whatnot. And the easy
availability of guns. And the alienation, the subtle and open racism. I
don’t know what is really going on. It is scary. Life was so simple,
when we were growing up.
Another important matter – I have a friend now, I think. Another
mom. I had seen her before, but did not think she was the friendly kind,
at least not to us brownies. You are right, the female, especially, of the
white species, are afraid of not acknowledging a black person, while
they seem to pride themselves in not acknowledging a brown person.
Why is that? Or maybe they are selective in that too – they don’t mind
“seeing” a fat, or dowdy brownie. Or maybe there is something wrong
with my face/attitude. But then I remember, your mom-in-law is an
Indian, and not very different.
I have developed my game of she looks, she looks not, I look, I look
not, to an art. It is fun. Anyway, we plan to have lunch tomorrow,
Jenny and I. She seems nice, not condescending, when she listens to
me talk of India. She did not seem to want to ask that familiar
question, “If it is so good over there, how come you are here?” Thank
ASHA BERNARD 99
goodness for small blessings. And by the sound of it, she likes to whine
like us, isn’t that nice? One of the discontented. And she likes our kind
of books and movies, and is not afraid to clown.
About that article on evolution of woman, I will send it later. It is
still in the note stage. Maybe I will send you the notes. For now, I am
sending some pics of our Malayalee pot luck . Malayalees here, I
think, have started to think like Paradisians. I see the lack of trust
there too. Or is it the adult world? Wish we stayed kids forever. I don’t
know why they find it hard to believe what I say. Like, say the color of
my hair. For one thing, I don’t know why they should bother. Even the
men! For another, why they cannot believe me, once I bother to
answer. What do I get from lying about the color of my hair? Or my
age? Why do they think I will stoop to that level. It is not a life and
death problem! Or is it because they never tell the truth to anyone
about anything so they assume others do the same? American
Malayalees are a people of assumptions. And illusions. And Recipe
stealers. Hahaha (Not going into that. As I am one of them, no matter
how much I protest. Another bubble dweller). Thus, just because they
dye their hair jet black, they assume that everyone else must do it. Or
at least color it! Or, just because they do not know how to cook some
dish, they assume that no one else can. These Malayalees are crazy.
I am planning to come home for Christmas, and maybe stay for St.
Sebastians’ Feast. Ammachi has been bugging me about that. It has
been a long time since I was there for the festival. The thing is I will
have to take Ajay out of school for a couple of weeks then. I will let
you know.
How is Kalyani? You still into her split pea curry? I tell Ajay,
“Don’t be in a hurry, or you will be in a curry” and he laughs so
much. He sends his love to you. And John too. He is busy, as usual.
And preoccupied. I tell him, “Just tell me if you are in an affair or
something, I can escape, and make arrangements. Like finding
someone who will fall in love with me passionately.”
He does not even hear that. And do tell me if you want any books
from here.
Lots of love, miss you,
Anna
Anarkali reads the letter again, so Anna found a new friend, that
means, she may not return to India after all. Anarkali looks at the
pictures. The usual smiling women, in colorful saris, and lovely
jewelry, the usual men talking with food in their mouths, and plates in
their hands. Children looking at home, stopping in their run, and
making faces at the camera. The little girls in Indian dresses far bigger
or smaller than them, the boys tugging at their kurtas. Anarkali had not
gone to many parties like these, because her mother-in-law did not like
it. Anarkali’s husband’s mother disliked to dress up, and show off
one’s jewelry and saree and compare one’s house with another’s,
enquire what kind of car they drove, etc., she said she hated the gossip,
the jealousy and the rivalry. Who cooks better? Whose home decor is
best? Does my husband look at that woman? Is she flirting with my
husband? Why bother? She used to say. And above all, she did not like
the equalizing ways of Paradise. Her family’s tenant back home has a
son in Paradise now. Before, she said, we knew most of the
Malayalees who came here. All of them from good families. Rich,
educated, able to travel. Now, she pointed out, any Tom, Dick and
Harry who can peck at a keyboard can come here. Who are these
people? What are their backgrounds? She could not imagine mingling
with these upstarts. Just a waste of time, energy, and money. The
consequence was for Anarkali. She did not get to meet many people,
Indian or otherwise. Because, her husband did not have any Paradisian
friends either. Her mother-in-law, in her old age, was not affected,
Anarkali realizes. She had had a good time when she was young, and
when her husband was alive. Friends from where she worked, with
whom she used to go to bars and restaurants. And her husband’s
bachelor friends. Once her son brought a wife home, she did not like
going to their places any more. Anarkali cursed her stupidity and
weakness, which led her into agreeing to that marriage.
A taxi stops before the gate. Who is it at this time of the night? In a
taxi? Anarkali looks out to see her sister Pearl pay the driver.What is
she doing all alone at this time, in a taxi? Anarkali hurries out. Pearl
runs to her, and hugs her. “What have you done to your hair?”
Anarkali blurts out. Kalyani joins her, wiping her hands. Both stare at
Pearl, who has a sheepish grin on her face.
“I cut it.”
“Why?” Anarkali and Kalyani together.
Pearl plops into the armchair by the window. She looks like a
naughty little girl, in her red T shirt and blue jeans.
“Has Mother seen you?” Anarkali asks, knowing the answer.
Suddenly, she remembers that the next day is a Sunday. That is when
ASHA BERNARD 101
that boy and his parents were coming to “see” Pearl . They are coming
from Kottayam, which is some distance from Thrissur. She
understands why her sister did this, at this time. She feels she is in a
replay of a familiar movie. Anarkali’s friend, Anna had done the same
thing before, and it worked for her for some time. But in the end, John
came along, and he seemed not to notice the short hair. Anna says he
was satisfied with the dowry. Anna and her jokes.
Pearl is busy tucking into the fish cutlets that Kalyani had made for
dinner. Anarkali sits by her side. “Pearlie, what do you think is going
to happen now? Another of Mother’s lamentations and complaints.”
Pearl is silent. “Do you have a plan?”
“You tell me. You are the experienced one. Tell me what to do.”
“You know what a mess I made of my life. Ammachi should hear
this. You asking me what to do.”
“There is no one else, Anuchechi. I know you have had a bad time,
especially with Ammachi. I don’t remember everything, but I do
remember some things. And Ammachi is aware of what she has done,
where she went wrong.”
“I know. But not completely. Just bring in her brothers’ role, and
you will understand what I mean. She is ready to take responsibility,
the burden of guilt, like she is some martyr, which she is not, but she
won’t face the truth about her brothers. Well, I admit that I have to
take responsibility too.”
Pearl shakes her head, “No, it was not easy for you. You were the
prodigy, and they wanted you to be famous, but they were not sure in
what way. They did not know what to do with you. And you suffered.”
Pearl is thoughtful. “For me, it was easier. Because you paved the
way. In your silent way, you fought the war, and you won small
battles. They wanted you to be a doctor, and you wanted to be a
historian. And you took that, against their wishes. You have guts,
Anuchechi. They did not let you go abroad to study, even when you
got the fellowship, and you had to marry that spineless idiot, and stop
your studies. I think you were purposely paying for your choosing
your field of study. And after the divorce, you had the guts to live
alone. I really thought you would rush home, to Mother and father.”
Pearl takes a sip of the tea that Kalyani brings.
Anarkali marvels at her baby sister’s perception and understanding.
But she also is aware that there are many things that her little sister has
no inkling of, regarding Anarkali and her mother, or their father.
Anarkali had no intention of enlightening her either. It was time she
bore her own cross. “But that is exactly what is going to work against
you now, Pearl. My divorce. Mother is afraid and rightly so, that you
will not get a good alliance because of that. And the fact that these
people are willing to overlook that is fortunate.”
“You know, Anuchechi, when Mother would not buy me a bra?
When I was so self-conscious that I started to walk with a stoop?
Remember? You took me to the store, and brought me the damn
thing?” Anarkali had forgotten that.
“I will never forget that. How mad Ammachi was that day! And
you so very quietly told her to calm down. And said, “Don’t treat her,
like you did me.” Wow! I was impressed. And Ammachi usually was
nice to me. I can imagine a little bit, how life was for you. And they
did not send me to boarding school, either.”
“She was always afraid of our growing up. By the time you came,
she had mellowed a bit, I think. In some part of my mind, I am aware
that I know why she behaved like that. Think of her childhood. A
martyr mother, a womanizer for a father, joint family, a girl – it is a
wonder she has evolved to this level. People do change.”
“That is because of Appachan, to a certain extent. And his
introducing her to reading.”
“Yes, I know. (if it were only that simple! Anarkali thought) But
have you noticed that people only take what they want from books?”
“Yes, but how can you be so forgiving, Anuchechi?”
“Maybe I am just pretending. Or, I guess I am changing too. This
period for me is one of meditation, and coming to terms with who I
am, and where I want to be. More than that, I am aware of, and
concerned for the world around me, its future, along with its past.
I realize that after all I am not that important, you know. The
individual is expendable. The only reality may be death. Maybe not
even that.” Anarkali looks embarrassed at her own pomposity.
“Don’t you scare me now!” her sister says laughing.
“Anna went to boarding school, she did not turn out to be a
brooding loser like me.” Anarkali has to point out now.
“What-- she did not turn out like you? She used to be the ‘it’ girl
with all the potential – everyone saying she will go places. And where
has she got to? To the kitchen? Or does getting to a kitchen in Paradise
constitute going places? Or having a baby in Paradise? She could have
done all she did, right here. She and her jokes, and her philosophizing.
Fraud! A feminist indeed! Self-righteous prude – that is what she is. A
spiteful would- have- been.” Pearl stretches herself, and runs her
ASHA BERNARD 103
fingers through her very short hair. “Need to take a shower,” she
declares.
That makes Anarkali smile. Her loyal little sister. A tad bit jealous
of her friendship with Anna.
“Anna will be the first one to agree to what you said, Pearlie. For
that matter, what you said applies to both of us. We are the same.”
Pearl looks disbelieving.
Anarkali looks at her sister. She looks more like Anna’s sister than
hers. In her, Anarkali’s mother and father got their perfect daughter.
Fair, dark, wavy hair, and sunny. Whenever she entered the room,
Anarkali could see the pride in their eyes, the involuntary smiles on
their faces. Anarkali is proud of her sister too.
There had been times when they were proud of Anarkali too,
especially her father. When she came first in school, in college, won
prizes in essay competitions, and on her wedding day. But somehow
they expected more from her. What exactly did they expect? And why
did they treat her in ways that now she knows, not many sane parents
did? Her father had looked so victorious that he got his daughter
married to a doctor, from a wonderful family settled in Paradise. Upon
her marriage, even her mother had looked like she could forgive
Anarkali for all the disappointments she had caused, for all her
shortcomings. And the boy’s family would let her continue her studies
in Paradise. Her father knew she would shine there too, and win laurels
for herself, and her family. She would be able to pursue her choice of
study, and excel in it. Paradise was the place for that. So many
resources for higher education and research. Yes, there was their
prestige issue. But now, she understands that they were also trying to
compensate for what they did not do before. Their not allowing her to
accept that fellowship she had won, to go to study in England. Well, it
was her uncles who had a hand in that decision.
“Go ahead! Send her away to foreign lands! She can’t wait to sleep
with men, can she? Your prodigy? What do you think is going to
happen there? Do you think she is going to study there? Don't we have
good colleges here? We all know what goes on in those foreign places.
Immoral, unbridled sex. That's what! And the parents who encourage
it? Fools! That's what they are! Idiots! I am not saying anything. Your
daughter – your money – your decision. But I would not be this stupid
and pour dirt on my own head.” That was Thomas Achan, her mother’s
favorite brother. Her parents tried to make both the people around
them, and her happy, by marrying her off to a man in Paradise. But
nothing works as planned. We end up blaming each other.
Now, what to do with her sister? Could she be in love with

someone at the university? Anarkali knows that the atmosphere in any
university, let alone the one that her sister goes to, which is in Delhi, is
conducive to romance. Hadn’t she once upon a time, fallen hard for a
brown-eyed boy? Not that romance is the only thing reason for not
agreeing to arranged marriages.
She still does not know if he was interested in her. Sometimes she
felt he was. At those times, she pretended she did not see. And when
he did not seem to notice her, Anarkali would be sad. Then the day
they went to have tea in the cafeteria, Anna was there too. Anarkali
thought he had eyes only for her. One evening, Anarkali was walking
to the girls’ hostel along with her friends, when this guy comes on his
bicycle from the opposite direction. He slows down and looks into her
eyes, and does the Muslim salute of respect, “Aadhaab” where he
brings the tip of the right hand to his forehead, and bows his head
slightly. A beautiful gesture. The girls go hysterical. They start to sing,
“salaam- e- ishq meri jaan . . .” a famous song from a movie in which
a Muslim dancer dances, a girl very much like the legendary Anarkali
of Akbar’s court. That night, as usual, Anna and Anu are sitting on the
terrace, after dinner. The night is cool. Soothing. They are looking at
the stars. Dreaming. “Anu, be sure of what you are getting into.
Remember your parents. Nothing is worth hurting them.” Anarkali is
wide awake. Ashamed that she was so transparent. “You know he is
Hindu. Imagine the brouhaha. And you have a sister whose future will
be affected.” Anarkali can imagine very well. But it is so hard to let go
of something that one wants. Something so close to one’s grasp.
The next day, Anarkali pretends not to see him. But he follows her
to the library. There they talk. For the first time in her life, Anarkali is
able to talk freely to a boy. They do not know that time flies. Anarkali
has to be in the hostel by six pm. The watchman closes the gate then.
The boy walks with her to the women’s hostel, which is quite a long
way from the men’s on the other side of the campus. Anarkali cannot
wait for morning to come. Again a first, she does not go to the terrace
after dinner. She stays in her room. Anna does not come to chat either.
Days pass, and Anarkali gets her taste of lovers’ tiffs. She was not
there when he had expected her, he was talking to another girl, and
ASHA BERNARD 105
laughing with her for hours, she was smiling at another boy, and so on.
All the while, there are other girls who compete for his attention.
A disturbing dream put a stop to Anarkali's dream world. In the
dream, Ashok is laughing at her. They are walking along a lonely road
on the campus. Cashew trees spread their shadows in the moonlight.
Ashok was going to kiss her. Anarkali can see his eyes sparkling, and
as he comes closer, everything turns darker. All of a sudden, Anarkali
is filled with self-loathing. The boundaries between dream and reality
were blurred then. She is behaving exactly like her mother was afraid
she would. Wanton behavior. She does not wait to think that she is
twenty-eight. She wants no more of this madness. She is sure he will
lose any respect that he had for her. Or did he think that she was one of
those women who was waiting to be kissed by any man? Women of
loose morals? Slut. And come to think of it, why should he show so
much interest in her? Was it some kind of dare? Or why should he like
her? Dark, ugly Anarkali? And how could she be so selfish? Not to
think of her family, her sister, all those who will spit upon her parents!
She deserved all that her mother said, and did to her. If she had not,
she would have turned into a prostitute.
Anarkali gets up to go to her sister. She sees her curled up, in her
bed with a book: The Myth of Aryan Invasion.
“Didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed so lost in thought. Where
did you get this book? Very interesting.” Pearl says.
“In Paradise. Where else? And what do we study in history here?”
Anarkali does not feel like continuing.
“Oh my! The British burned many ancient Ayurvedic texts in
Kerala. I never knew that.” Pearl exclaims.
“Well, we still learn what they wrote about themselves and us. And
in school, it never entered my head that Travancore was never under
direct British rule, and our state fares better than other parts of the
country in many ways – education, healthcare and property
distribution because of that. In the last matter, maybe we have to thank
the Marxists for some of it. And, we don’t dwell on the fact that we
have defeated the Dutch in a battle. We learn it so superficially. What
our historians do is to teach us to hate Muslims, and vice versa.. What
is needed is a new education of the past – ours and the world’s. And
understanding. A new curriculum starting from primary classes. Nip
the idea of our inferiority right from the bud. Curb the tendency for
violence. For greed.” Anarkali is in another world.
Pearl nods, “Yes, Madam. By the way, I never thought I was

inferior to any one.”
Anarkali laughs. “That’s enough history lessons for today. Tell me
what is going on.”
“I think the nuns in our school thought they are white, because of
their religion,” Pearl says.
“That may be true, because once the west got hold of Christianity,
they made it white. And because they taught English. But then all
those who hold any sort of power in our government think they are
British and the public are the inferior, untrustworthy, ignorant natives.
The legacy of British Raj. Now tell me what you have been up to.”
“Well, I do not want to get married right now.”
“Why not? You are a doctor now. If you plan to marry and have
children, this is the right time.”
“I know, but I want to see what is out there. I have applied for this
fellowship and if I get it, I want to go. I will come back to India
because I want to work here. And yes, I have a friend. His name is
Rahul. He is Hindu. I don’t know what will happen. And yes, I am
still a virgin. And not like the virgins in Paradise that you told me
about – doing it every way except the regular way, and calling
themselves virgins. I don’t promise I will stay a virgin, but that is how
it is for now.”
As usual, her little sister falls asleep right away, while Anarkali lies
awake, trying to find a good position. And soon, as expected, Pearl
starts moving towards her, her butt that is, pushing Anarkali right off
the bed.
Chapter 10
In which Anna sits in the parking lot, and decides that variety, thy
name is woman, and talks of the brown-eyed boy who loved her.
I have left my son at school, and now am preparing to do some

grocery shopping. I wait in my car, not wanting to get out. Different
types of people pass me by. That tall, leggy girl seems to be wearing
her jeans at her knees. I don’t know why they make the same butt-
slipping jeans for older women like me, who have carried a nine-
pound child, who waited till the full forty weeks to come out,
meanwhile stretching his mother’s tummy to breaking point. The girl
sways a bony hip and an invisible butt. There is another woman trying
to balance a two-month-old on her hip, and keep her handbag from
falling, and hold on to the hands of her skipping little girl. And she is
pregnant with a third. (I want to ask her, “Are you kidding?” Get it?
Meaning “Going to have a kid.” Just kidding.) Self sufficiency.
Isolation. Depression. This is a sight that never ceases to astonish me.
Not that there are no mothers or children in Kerala. There are plenty.
But either I hadn’t noticed it when I was young, or mine and my
friends’ mothers never carried their children. They left us at home with
the ayahs, or took the servant around to carry us. I know it sounds
snooty, but that is how it was then. If you did not have ayahs at home,
you had family members – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and so
on. But then, we did not have apartments in Kerala, until the late
nineties, that too only in our towns. It was, and is for the most part,
just an old-fashioned way of living. It is changing now, slowly and as
surely as inflation, and we no longer are in control of the rupee, nor do
we get value for the money, although the Malayali always looks for a
higher standard of living. And rest assured that our per capita income,
even that of the rich in our place, is way lower than the poor in
Paradise. The disparity in exchange rates.
Now, that is a good-looking guy. Wish he had dressed well. Oh
well, I might as well write about my brown-eyed lover, whom I gave
up for my friend.
One day, I am walking to my hostel. I think Anarkali was with me,

as were some other girls. This handsome guy comes on his bicycle,
and slows down. I look at him, and he looks at me, and says,
“Aadhaab!” Doing that graceful thing with his hand. I say hi! I
remember I left my purse in the library, and start to walk back. It is
getting late, and the campus is safe, but the girls say they will
accompany me. I tell them not to bother, Anarkali seemed to be
walking in a daze, and one of the girls comes with me anyway. I go to
the library, and there he is, among the newspapers. I go there, and start
doing a crossword puzzle. I turn to him and ask if there is such a word
as tuboid. He does not answer, but smiles and gets up to leave. I am
embarrassed. Did he think I was coming on to him? I feel a little angry
at him. I sit there for some time, and make sure he is gone. Then I pick
up my bag and leave. I go directly to my room to sulk. So I am losing
my charms, eh? Who does he think he is? Anyway, it is not going to
work – he is Hindu, and I am a Nazrani girl from Thrissur. I should not
even be thinking this. By the time I take a shower, I am in a better
mood. And when I listen to all the teasing aimed at Anu, I feel foolish.
But when we are alone, I warn her to be cautious. I do not want her to
get hurt, or hurt her family.
I have to go in now. Fat free milk, two percent milk, that is
something that I like about this place. Any kind of things, any number,
any size, any time. So what if it is all artificially preserved? You are
not going to be here forever. Have to die some time. I think I am
jealous of Anu. Her single state. She escaped. The mouse had the guts
to do what this clever girl, whom everybody loved to love, could not.
My friend is her own person, and the world lies before her. She has
options before her. She can still dream of romance, and passion, and
success. I am being morbid.
Stop it, and carry your shopping to the car, another thing your
mother never had to do.
You must know there are different types of women. For example,
there are the tigers and the lambs, and the athletes and the logs of
wood, as far as sex is concerned. In my mind, I am a tiger. I want to be
one, but cannot gather the necessary strength of purpose or need. I am
not a lamb either, but I am surely a log, or let us say, I am a fasting
tiger, to save face. That is enough of my sex life. Why should it
interest you? And I did say that I am a private person. I even did not
let my husband into the delivery room. I thought it was too personal.
Let’s face it, when it comes to these things, I am shy.
ASHA BERNARD 109
Back to varieties of women. There are some women, whom I have
met in India and here, who should write how-to books, for the
dummies among us. First, let me tell you about my great aunt, on my
mother’s side. Ammaayi. You have already met her. She is my
godparent, even though rightfully, she should not be. She got the job
because of the hold she had on my mother, so much so that if she were
not asked, she could have sabotaged the whole function, and I would
have been cursed to death by a needle at sixteen. You get the idea of
her as a legendary personality. She is not very highly educated, she
was not interested in that, but no one can argue with her and win. She
is an excellent manager, and her servants dare not breathe a word
against her even in their deathbeds. She is an excellent cook that no
cook could put any masala in her eyes. Her appams were soft as a
cloud, and her fritters as crisp as her starched cotton saree, her curries,
the perfect balance of spice and heat and color and texture. She was,
and is not beautiful, but the way she carried herself made the beholder
think beyond beauty. She is a Queen with a presence. She was a good
knitter, and she could create fine embroidery and lace in minutes. She
was an excellent gardener and so on. And she is always tastefully
dressed – her sarees are always the latest in fashion, and the best of
handlooms and silks, and her whites, the brightest of whites. She has a
tongue that could slice you in clean halves, and you would not even
bleed.
When my mother told her – she had to be the first to hear any news
in the family – that they were going to fix my marriage, she said, “So
finally, the chicken develops breasts, eh?” I was thirty when I got
married. She always said my feminism was a cover to avoid marriage,
that I was having immoral relationships galore at the university. That
was the reason why no one wanted to marry me, apart from the fact
that I had cut my hair, and published that immoral short story. Not that
she did not like me. In fact, when I was young, I used to go and stay
with her, and she used to cater to my every whim. She used to call me
Annakili, kili meaning bird. It is just that she did not let anyone get the
better of her. My mother says I was her pet great niece, and that I
really loved her when I was little. All I know is that in my late twenties
and early thirties, I was in awe of her. Once, she told me when there
was no one around, “Annakili, we women must not give in one bit. If
we do, people will start defecating on our heads. So before they do
that, we better do it.”
I will always remember the time she and Anarkali’s mother-in-law

introduced themselves to each other. It was at my wedding that they
came face to face. Anarkali’s husband was not able to come, instead
she brought her mother-in-law. (It was as if she had married her
husband’s mother.) Of course, her family were all there too. But once
married, a Syrian Christian is part of her husband’s family, and as per
custom, I have to invite her in person at her husband’s place.
Ammaayi, that is what I called my great aunt, imitating my mother,
presides over a small durbar, with sycophants hovering around, trying
to catch her every word with trepidation that her mocking glance, and
knowing smile will be directed at them any moment. But they are
transfixed, and attracted to her presence, like the good old moths in the
flame element. She enjoys the attention, and is conscious of her power.
Anarkali approaches her, with her mother-in-law, and prepares to
introduce her mother-in-law. But her mother-in-law, Mrs. Uthup from
Paradise, does not want Anarkali’s help. She introduces herself, “I am
Mrs. Shiela Uthup.”
Ammaayi smiles, and gives the namaskaar. “Pardon me for not
getting up. Bad back.” There was nothing wrong with her back. My
brother watched the whole drama and recounted it to me. Ammaayi
settles back in her chair comfortably. “You are from the Pottan family,
aren’t you?” For your information, pottan in Malayalam, means
‘idiot.’
“No I am from the Pottian family,” Mrs. Uthup is no delicate
darling. And she adds, “I heard that you are from Pullur. She pauses,
and adds, “Maanalis are the only notable family in Pullur. They are
related to me on my mother’s side.” She smiles. This to Ammaayi,
whose family has always been number one in that and the surrounding
area. People who kept elephants, had the only car in the region, and
owned schools and a movie theatre, and employed hundreds, and gave
dinner to at least fifty in a day.
Without wasting a minute, Ammaayi says, “Oh yes, yes ! Maanalis
were well known, I should think. Especially since their mother used to
sit in the junction of our town, selling boiled tapioca to laborers and
poor kids. (This is a fact.) I still remember the fan in her hands, with
which she shooed away the flies. Yes, they were a notable family.
Now, I hear that some of them have gone to the Gulf, and made
money.” She pauses, and smiles. “They were such nice people. The
eldest boy used to carry my father’s bag for him.”
ASHA BERNARD 111
Anarkali’s mother-in-law is green. But she has learned some tricks
from Paradise. She rolls her eyes upward, and at the surrounding
people, where she gets no response. “Time to go,” she tells Anarkali.
The second type of woman is sweeter. Pretty, most of the time, and
of an open, outgoing, sunny disposition. There was this editor of a
literary magazine who was also a teacher. She asked for an article
from the students in our university. I sent one out. Since I did not hear
from her in months, I wrote her asking about the status of my article.
She wrote back saying it was accepted for publication. Again, I waited
for a couple of months. This time I asked her very politely if she knew
if my article was published, and also if she did not think it was worthy
of publication, to please let me know. Pop comes the reply, “If you are
not satisfied, you can have your article back.”
I write back, “I just want to know what happened to my material.”
No reply. Months later, she comes to our university to give a talk on a
subject closely related to my article. She does not understand one of
the questions I ask her, during the question session. I approach her
after the talk. She smiles sweetly at me and says, “Oh, you did not hear
anything from the magazine? I am so sorry. Just let me get back to
you. I will look into it right away.” I never heard from her, nor have I
seen my article anywhere in print to this day. But I did hear that she
climbed the highest rung of the career ladder. I was sure she would go
places.
The third type is by far the most difficult to emulate, but if you can,
you are set for life. I met this friend at a seminar. It was a month-long
seminar, and we stayed on the campus. Hence, we had plenty of time
to know each other. She could lie as easily as you and I can eat jack
fruit chips. She was attracted to this guy there, and the first thing she
tells him, “Anna is a feminist.” So I am out of the competition, right
from the start. Then, she is free to say sex jokes to him, saying she
heard it from me. No self-respecting Indian guy will want his little
girl– woman, to be friends with a loose woman like Anna. How she
giggled at what she did, when she retold it every night in my room.
And she always made me promise not to let any of this out. I did not
care what he thought of me, so I did not say anything. But the fact that
I was being used, that my name was being maligned did rankle. When
I pointed this out to her, she looks at me with her head at an angle, and
with a knowing, irritating smile on her face, “Why! Are you falling for
my guy?”
“Nonsense,” I said.
And she retorts, “Then how come you make a big deal of a
harmless joke?” And she is married to the guy now.
Now comes my favorite type. She is the ideal wife, or beloved of a
man, who likes to be the helpless maiden. Even when she is a hundred
years old, and has had any amount of experience, she can act like she
is young, and new to the business. She practices her skills early before
marriage. This girl, Kamala, whom I met at the magazine where I
worked for some time before my marriage, tells me that one of our
colleagues took a trip to Ootty, with another of our colleagues, and
spent the night there. I say okay. The next day, I find out that she has
told this to every one of our colleagues. It is big news, shocking news.
But the guy was her brother, and the whole family, including her
parents, had gone with her. After a week or so, the other girl, the trip-
taker, comes and tells me that Kamala’s fiancé’s family has broken off
her engagement due to a dowry problem. I say okay.
Soon Kamala finds out that everyone knows her secret.
She comes to me and says, “What a meanie, she told about my
broken engagement to everyone.”
She starts sobbing. I console her, but cannot help pointing out, “But
remember, you said that about her, and it was a lie.”
Then Kamala looks at me with tears in her eyes, and says, “So
what? What is wrong with that?” Imagine what this girl can
accomplish in her husband’s family! But I hear she holds a high
position in a prominent political party, back home. Oh, my country! I
weep for you!
You may have noticed a certain bitchiness in me today. I am angry.
At myself. My type of woman who says big things, but cannot do it.
Last night, I talked to my mother. Nothing unusual. But something that
she said in passing has upset me. Remember Bad Guy? It seems his
wife and kids had come to visit. I did not like that, but what she said
after that disturbed me more. I could not sleep last night.
The wife was talking about the sad condition of her niece who lives
with them. The child is sixteen. She has these episodes of fits, she
cannot study, she is always afraid. And she is very quiet. They do not
know what the matter is with her. Their regular doctor says there is
nothing wrong with her physically, apart from the fact that she does
not eat much, and is painfully thin and pale. I remember her from
when she was a baby. I had thought she looked like Snow White. She
was so fair, and had such red lips. The last time I saw Lily, she was
ASHA BERNARD 113
six. Just a glimpse of a pretty, shy girl. I asked my mother if she told
them to take her to a psychiatrist. My mother had laughed.
“What are you saying, Nina! This is not your Paradise. We have to
think of what people would say. And she is a girl, just let the word
around once that she was seen by a psychiatrist, and someone will see
it first hand, no matter how secret we try to keep it, and the girl will
never have a life. No good family will accept her as a wife.”
“I know all that. But that will be better than her life now.”
“What do you know about these things? The girl is all right. It is
that age. She is a quiet mouse of a girl. She just has to eat well, and
once she is married and has some kids, she will be fine.”
I say to myself, “Oh, yes. Don’t I know that? And me with just one
encounter. I cannot think of what this girl may have endured in that
house.” But I did not say anything to my mother. I did not want to
upset her. And somehow the blame and the shame will be on me, for
what happened back then. And even if I told the girl’s aunt, they will
not believe me, families will quarrel and I will be ostracized. All this,
and the girl still won’t be helped, because she will deny everything.
And what if I am wrong? I may have imagined everything anyway.
I do not know what to do. I am not so clever after all.
Chapter 11
In which Anarkali goes to Delhi to meet her Professor, and is
reminded of her trip to Paradise.
There is a wind that comes from the Western Ghat, which enters
Thrissur, and its neighboring areas, via Palghat. Anarkali feels the first
sign of it on her lips. They are dry, and will soon crack if she does not
apply something. Kalyani puts ghee or butter. Anarkali teases her by
saying that ants or roaches may visit her lips at night. The sound of the
wind in the early December morning, and the mad swaying of the
coconut palms, like crazed kaavadi dancers, somehow makes Anarkali
want to run. Wildly. Swiftly. Anna and herself as girls had gone
around with cracked lips, with little droplets of blood on them,
shocking their classmates.
Anarkali laughs, as the wind pulls her hair this way and that way.
Sweater weather, only in the early morning. She can see men covered
up in their mundu, hurrying to the tea shop in the creeping fog.
She has to get ready for her trip – to Delhi. The play of
circumstances. For her research supervisor to be in Delhi now. One of
the most well known universities in India, where her parents did not let
her go years earlier, apparently for fear that she will not get a good
marriage alliance. Somehow going outside the state even for higher
studies was seen as her devious way to sleep with men. Her mother’s
brothers were very sure of that. Now, she is going at last. She is not
young anymore, but she hopes her mind is as sharp as before, or even
better. In Delhi, she will meet her professor, and do a bit of reference
work in the library. She could stay with her sister, but she has decided
to stay on campus. Delhi will be colder, she remembers. She will have
to take some of the stuff she got from Paradise. Not much of it. Her
husband had thought it a waste of money to get new winter coats when
she could use his mother’s old things. So what if it is a little too big?
Who is going to see? Anarkali, who had always worn nice clothes, had
found it hard at first, but soon stopped caring about it. She will never
forget the day her husband took her shopping for the first time. He had
asked her not to bring too many clothes, Indian or otherwise, nor any
ASHA BERNARD 115
jewelry. He did not want her to attract attention. Her mother-in-law
called and said she should bring underwear.
Anarkali’s mother was furious, “What does she think of us?”
Anarkali and her sister had laughed so much. So Anarkali had left
most of her beautiful sarees and salwar kameezes that her father had
got her.
And in Paradise, she goes shopping with her husband to a big store.
He takes her right away to some dusty racks, which said seventy
percent off. She is embarrassed to be there. In Kerala, they did not
have this type of sale, nor do they allow bargaining like in other parts
of India. Discount sale to the Malayali is the sale of cheap stuff on the
roadside, and means you know that you will be cheated. And people
from good families did not go to those sales. Her husband tells her not
to be snooty. So she says sorry and starts looking. She finds two tops,
and takes it to the counter. She does not have any money or credit
cards. She calls her husband, who comes from where he was
contemplating on his feet.
“You want both?” He frowns. He starts to pay for them. Then he
turns to her in front of the saleswoman, and says, “I don’t know why
you want both.” Anarkali is mortified. No wonder people call her
spoilt. Her father got her everything she asked for, and more. Her
husband asks her to put one back. She obeys.
She learns many things in Paradise. “How many green chilies did
you use? They are expensive.” And when she went before him wearing
one of the tops, hoping for a compliment, “All this doesn’t last, you
know. You will not be young forever.” Anarkali is silent.
So someone is buying the neighboring house at last. Anarkali can

hear the sounds of workers. Cleaning, hammering, painting. She is not
sure if she will like it. Most wives will not like a single woman as a
neighbor, unless they are really old. She is sure Kalyani will have
some news. Sure enough, Kalyani enters like a frenzied engine, “New
people coming to live. They are from Thrissur. And Nazranis. Maybe
somebody we know.”
“Maybe. I just hope it is not a relative. Kalyani, could you bring
down that suitcase from the attic? I want to see if there are some coats
or jackets that I can take.”
“All right.” Kalyani rushes off.
Anarkali calls home, and Ammachi answers the phone.
“You sure you don’t want Appachan to go with you?”

“I am sure. I will be all right.”
“Oh, I heard from Anna’s mother that your new neighbor is a
relative of theirs. I did not ask the name. You will meet them anyway
when you get back.”
Anarkali talks about the weather in Delhi, and the time of her flight.
“Kumaran will take you to the airport. And I will send some things
for Pearlie.”
Anarkali knows there is no use reminding her mother that Pearl is
not starving, or that she had just left with a suitcase full of goodies.
But then, if she did not take any banana chips with her, Pearl is going
to kill her. So she agrees.
A few days later, Anarkali waits for her flight at the local airport.
As she looks around her, Anarkali feels the same anticipation that
catches hold of her whenever she travels. Will she ever see the brown-
eyed boy again? She remembers the trips she had taken with other
girls, to Calcutta and Hyderabad. That was by train. The romance of it.
The freedom. She looks at the families, at the young girls, so
confident and ready to take on the world, and Anarkali is soon taken
back to another day in another airport .
Ten years ago, Anarkali was sitting in the First Class lounge of
Lufthansa, in the international airport at Madras, a city in the
neighboring state. Anarkali is alone, knowing that she will be so for a
long time now, unless her husband proves to be friendly. He, and his
parents had left three days after the wedding. They said they had not
got many days off. Before the wedding, she had seen her husband
thrice, once when they came to see her, then for the engagement, and
last for the betrothal. Engagement is when the bridegroom’s immediate
family, at the most twenty-five people from his side, goes to the
bride’s home, and fixes the date of the wedding, the venue, the number
of guests from each side for the betrothal and the wedding, the dowry
to be given – are all discussed and decided upon. The bride’s family
will have their own close friends and relatives for the function.
Betrothal is usually done in the girl’s parish church, and most of the
girl’s relatives and friends are invited. There is a ceremony in church
where the priest asks the bride and the bridegroom if they agree to the
marriage in front of all the guests. They may exchange rings here.
There will be a dinner thereafter. Then the regular wedding in church,
ASHA BERNARD 117
and dinner thereafter, and then another reception in the boy’s or girl’s
place, depending on where the wedding was done.
After the wedding, Anarkali had gone to her husband’s house in
Kerala, which stays locked up when they are in Paradise. They did not
go on a honeymoon because his mother said Indians did not go on
honeymoons. Thresia’s niece went on a honeymoon. Maybe fifty years
ago they did not. But Anarkali did not mind really. On her wedding
night, the first thing her husband told her was that he found her mother
attractive. Anarkali had felt like laughing, after the initial shock. Her
mother, who considered herself a saint, who did not try to attract
another man’s attention, who had begrudged Anarkali’s growing up
before her own father, and drummed into her head that only bad girls
attracted unwanted attention! But he says again, “I wish I had married
her.” Anarkali takes a quick look to see if he is joking. He is not.
She tries to make light of it, even though she is uneasy, “Don’t let
my father hear this.”
Then he smiles wanly, and says again, “Really, seriously, I wish I
were married to her. She is very pretty – so fair and that long, wavy
hair!” This time Anarkali is angry. But she suppresses it. She is in a
strange house. Even if she were in her own home, she would not have
done anything drastic. There would be guests still. She cannot bring
shame to her family. And she had decided that she will not fail in this
marriage. Her mother would say that this is how men are. As a woman,
it is your duty to bear with it, and then gradually guide him, mold him,
make him love you.
So Anarkali is ready to make him love her. They lie down after
some time. Anarkali turns to the other side, her heart doing its
somersaults. Fear. The twenty-eight year old virgin. Unkissed. Sure
enough, she feels a palm on her arm. Before she knows it, the man is
on top of her, groping and pawing. Anarkali wants to push him off.
She feels suffocated. But it is her husband, maybe she will learn to like
him. He has lifted her nightie up, pulled her panty down . Now she is
inert, waiting. He starts fumbling with his thing and starts poking.
Anarkali is in pain. She is rigid and tense. That does not stop him. He
is almost inside her, and that is it, he is done. Anarkali lies there
waiting for something more. He is asleep. When he starts snoring,
Anarkali gets up and goes to the washroom. She washes him off. As
she lay there tired, and in pain, after a long day, and waiting for sleep
to come, she realizes that she is still unkissed.
The next two days went much like the first day, except that she was
smiling at strangers in a different house. After the Paradisians left,
Anarkali went home. She told her mother what her son-in-law said
about her, “It seem he likes older women, and I had thought I was
old.” Her mother looked shocked, but Anarkali detected the hint of a
secret smile – one of triumph, and pity for her daughter, who is so
smart, but cannot hold her man’s attentions. But it was fleeting. Her
mother was indignant that she was thought of like that, like an
available woman. Anarkali now knows that that incident went a long
way in changing her mother’s thinking regarding virgins and
daughters. And Pearl’s feminist readings. Anarkali was amused at the
way their mother lapped up those ideas. She was fascinated, and then
started nodding her head at the double standard meted out to boys and
girls. In fact, Anarkali’s marriage had brought them together a little
bit, until the divorce. Anarkali realizes that this is what life is all about.
Relationships of the blood. The ups and downs. The coming together,
and the breaking apart. The learning and the unlearning. Some people
change, some do not. Some change for the better, some for the worse.
Fighting again. And loving again. Hating and hurting. Forgiving and
forgetting. Nothing is easy, she recognizes. But there is no other way.
Until death.
Ten years ago, Anarkali had sat in the lounge of another airport.
Madras International Airport. The ignominious memory of the
physical check up by a strange doctor in Madras for the visa still
lingers. She, who had never undressed before another, like any other
Nazrani girl, had to strip to her underwear. The lady doctor seemed to
be as embarrassed as Anarkali. The tests for T.B., and AIDS – as if all
of the Third World are sick untouchables. The pain, the anger at the
humiliation of an ancient country with a heritage that can only be
achieved in dreams, or by plunder by these nouveau riche nations.
What right do they have to institute visas and order medical checkups
and dub people as aliens?
It is white all around in the First Class Lounge. No trace of brown
except herself, and the man behind the counter. Anarkali is out of
India, even before leaving it. For the first time, she is aware of her skin
color. The person behind the counter asks her if she wants something
to drink. Anarkali chooses lemonade. He brings it to her in a tall glass.
It is too sour, too cold and too large. Her father is angry with her
husband for not coming to get her. After all, it has been a year since
ASHA BERNARD 119
the wedding, and he had not come even once. He said he is too busy.
Anarkali wants to cry. She knows no one will mind her, even if she
bawls out loud. What do these people know about her? Nothing, and
no one wants to know anything either. They are all busy reading. The
lady in red tells the lady with the surprised porcupine hairstyle that her
new hairstyle suits her. That lady smiles like a happy porcupine.
Anarkali thinks about her future in a strange country, and all of a
sudden, she is aware that she is going to be absorbed into a vast
anonymity, where she will still have her brownness. The ladies turn to
look at her, but know exactly when to turn their heads away, before
they make eye contact with her. Later, she sees this phenomenon on
the plane too. The white stewardesses are not sure if she belongs in
First Class. Most of the time, they do not seem to see her. Anarkali
covers herself with the blanket, and cries herself to sleep. A brown
body under a gray shroud.
Frankfurt Airport – big, and strange. Anarkali finds it hard to
understand the announcements. She quickly realizes she will not get
much help from the people behind the counter. One grudgingly tells
her he will call her when it is time to board. But he does not. Anarkali
sees some Indian guys laughing at her. M.L.As, Mouth Looking
Agents, as they used to call the unwanted attention -- giving guys. The
“wanted” ones were called “scope.” Again, the stewardess/clerk
scrutinizes her boarding pass suspiciously, as if Anarkali is trying to
sneak in to the First Class. Anarkali has never done international
travel, never come in contact with white people. Now she discovers
that it is not a pleasant experience. They are so different from the
heroes and heroines of English movies.
At last she is in Paradise, tired and hungry, and feverish. A typical
immigrant she has turned out to be. A refugee. Anarkali cannot even
smile. She did not eat anything on the plane. Just some cups of weak,
tepid tea. Most of the time was spent weeping safely under the blanket,
knowing that no one will enquire. Paradise turns out to be a jungle.
Shifty-eyed natives. Unsmiling, avoiding her eyes, watching from a
distance. Frightened natives wary of strangers. Will they take my land?
My job?
Anarkali joins the long line of weary, angry travelers. A line that
wove in and out, and around vast areas, and ribbons of limits. After
more than an hour, she gets to the counter, and finds that she was in
the wrong line. She is sent to a shorter line this time. They take her
packet. She is asked to wait. Anarkali is afraid she is going to faint.
She is afraid to go and find some water to drink, what if they call her
when she is away? So she sits there looking around. The place is
slowly emptying. She had landed at 1p.m. local time. She is made to
sit there till half past six. She still does not know why. By four, there
were not many people there. Anarkali is about to cry, but she does not.
She had stopped crying in public. Now she thinks maybe she should
have. Then someone might have noticed, maybe one of the security
guards who walked around. She is worried that her husband might
have left already. Will he ask them what happened to her?
As she sits there, her fears regarding her husband’s marital status
plague her. She has heard these stories of rich and successful Indian
men in the clutches of white women who will not let go, men who
come to India and get married, bending to their parents’ will, and in
the end, give up their Indian wives. Anarkali particularly remembers
the story of a young Syrian Christian girl from Thrissur, from a very
good family, who committed suicide after being greeted by a
Paradisian wife and children when she got here. Anarkali knows her
father has enquired with people and they know as much as they could,
a fact that her husband’s family resented. But who knows? If someone
wants to keep a secret here, it would be easy.
Anarkali’s flight to Delhi is announced. It is time to board the

plane. As she walks to the plane, she wishes she had the guts and the
sense to return to India then and there in that airport in Paradise. But
she had been determined to stick with it. She made the bed, and she
would lie in it. And imagine the shame on her parents if she had been
that selfish.
In Paradise, Anarkali is called at last, when the airport is empty,
except for the workers. She looks for her suitcase. They had sent it to
the airline office. She walks out in fear, but is relieved when she sees
her husband. He is mad at her for being late. She asks if he had been
waiting for long. “What do you think?” he asks irritably. “I called
home to my parents, and told them that I had no idea of your
whereabouts. They had to call your home to see if you had really got
on the plane!”
Anarkali asks, “Didn’t you ask someone in charge here?”
“Of course not. Who will I ask? This is not your India.” Anarkali
thinks of her father, who would have turned loose all hell if something
like this happened to her mother, or for that matter, to his daughters.
ASHA BERNARD 121
She has to call them and let them know that she has arrived safely.
They would be really worried by now.
Anarkali looks out the window of her husband’s car at the tall
buildings, the concrete expressways, which in her mind had been of
marble inlaid with precious stones. Still, to think that people built all
these out of nothing. Within a few centuries. Where are the Red
Indians? So far she has not seen even one of them. She has seen some
original Indians at the airport. But everyone seemed preoccupied, and
busy, and worried. She sees the house in which her husband’s parents
live. Quite small, but inside it looked all right. Anarkali is determined
to like everything here. Is this how, all those dream makers who visit
home from Paradise live?
Anarkali has heard of Indian in-laws living in Paradise giving a
reception to their new son-in-law or daughter–in-law from India. Just
an introduction of the new addition to the family, to their friends in
Paradise. But Anarkali does not get one. After a couple of days of
sitting around in her in-laws’ place, she follows her husband to the city
where he works. He lives in a nice apartment away from the city.
Anarkali cannot believe she is going to start living in her own home.
No one to celebrate it with her – no parents, sister, friends or relatives.
Anarkali soon learns that her husband is a dutiful son who calls his
mother every evening, and reports the day’s activities, without missing
the tiniest of detail. So when her mother-in-law finds out that Anarkali
had tried to get two tops at first, she advices Anarkali to be cagey with
money. This is a foreign country. There is no one to support you if you
do not have money. Anarkali nods. When he tells his mom that
Anarkali made a special curry that day, her mother-in-law calls her and
ask her about the ingredients. “Remember, no ghee or butter. It is bad
for him.” Anarkali says she did not put any in. Her mother-in-law
seems not to hear that.
Life soon takes on its routine. Her husband leaves for work early in
the morning. He has a private practice. Cardiology. That keeps him out
of the home till late at night. Anarkali is asked to lock the door and sit
tight. The place is bad. Anti-social elements. With guns. Anyway she
cannot drive. So she sits inside, wondering why she was there, and
crying, and dreaming of home. At times, she calls home, and talks to
her sister or Anna. But when the phone bill came, her husband blew
his top.
Her mother says, “Every marriage is like this in the beginning. A
lot of compromise on your part will be needed. And remember, he is
quite older than you, and he has lived alone for a long time. He is used
to certain ways, it will take time for him to include you in his life. Be
patient.”
Anarkali says, “By then I will be old.”
Her father is interested to know if she has visited any universities,
or at least contacted any, regarding the continuation of her education.
It is difficult for Anarkali to say no.
That night, as she brings up the subject to her husband, and reminds
him of his parents’ saying to her father that she could easily get into a
university, he frowns, “That takes time. This is a different country.
You can’t have instant gratification like the Americans.”
The same night, he calls his mother and recounts it. Anarkali could
hear his laughter, “Yeah, she thinks it is easy. Just come here, and
things will be given her on a platter.” As far as studies and material
things went, Anarkali had got things on a platter in her homeland. For
the first time, she dares to say to herself, “What an idiot! What does he
know about me?”
When she broaches the subject of driving, his parents say, “Why
should she learn to drive? Don’t you take her around? What is the
need? Anyway, there is only one car.” And when she listens to his
obsequious thank you’s and pardon me’s to the whites, she squirms
with shame. But that does not stop him, nor does he let anyone inside
his house, or near his wife. A man who has lived in this country for
almost half of his life, and having no friends. That is a feat for anyone,
Anarkali has to admit. There is no TV, because her husband thinks it is
bad. No newspapers because it is a waste of money. The routine goes
on for a year, until Anarkali's place of living is shifted to her mother-
in-law's basement. For her husband, work, home, eat, sleep. For
Anarkali, waiting, waiting, waiting. Sex only on weekends, although
Anarkali still does not know if it can be called sex. The same
fumblings, and he was done, at the first touch of her skin. The same
snoring afterwards. And as usual, the bedroom door left open.
Anarkali recalls that he had left it open back in India on their first
night too. After a while, when Anarkali went to close it, he asked her
to leave it ajar. And she felt she was loked upon as whore for doing
that. Anarkali tried to understand the reason behind his action.
Embarrassment as to what his parents would think. Especially his
mother. Maybe he felt she would feel left out? Kind of shutting the
door on her face? Or was he concerned that she would think that he
considered himself an adult? Anarkali had gone through some of those
ASHA BERNARD 123
feelings with her own mother, where she guessed that her mother did
not want her to think that she is an adult. With adult needs, thoughts,
and desires, especially sexual ones. Was it the Indian or the Catholic in
them that made them so warped? When her mother-in-law asks her
why she is not getting pregnant, she cannot say anything. But her
mother-in-law is sure it will only be a girl anyway, as Anarkali herself
has only a sister, and not a brother. Anarkali is happy to convey this bit
of Paradisian science to her mother.
Anarkali realizes she is in a prison. But what is the use of
complaining? She wanted to marry an older man, she wanted to go
abroad, she got her wishes. Now she cannot go back without achieving
something in her career. To see the pride in her father’s eyes once
more. They had started to worry about the lack of news on the baby
front, after a year. At the end of the second year, she had thought
herself to be pregnant, though she herself is at a loss as to explain how
she could think that. These days, she can only reason that she did not
have much else to do. Apart from the short car rides through her
husband's hometown with her parents-in-laws, and listening to, and
later pretending to, listen to the reminiscences of their family, which
always managed to exclude Anarkali, she did not have much to look
forward to.
It was on one of these days, after maybe five years of marriage, that
Anarkali met Lorna. She had just returned from Belgium, and soon
Anarkali learns from her father-in-law that Lorna had been her
husband’s childhood friend, and classmate. The families had lived
close by, and the children went to college together. Her mother-in-law
never liked the girl, but looking at them now, Anarkali thought, no one
would know that. Her husband had a sheepish look about him, and his
mother was busy reminiscing. Anarkali sat there, and no one seemed
to mind that she was not smiling. By then, Anarkali’s husband had
bought a house, purely for investment sake, he said, because he
planned to live with their parents, once they retired. The house gave
Anarkali something to do, especially in the garden. She did not listen
to her mother-in-law’s opinion about dirtying one’s hands. “We had
servants to do this back home. We girls never worked outside like
this.” Anarkali had never done this either, but she was glad she had
something to do. Anna started coming over, and soon Anarkali started
to learn how to drive. Before long, her husband found the convenience
of her driving and around the time Lorna arrived, he gave her a car –
her first and last gift from him. Which he got back anyway.
Anarkali could only survive those days because of Anna. Anna used
to call her most of the days, once she got to Paradise after her
marriage. They met sometimes, but Anarkali’s husband was not in
favor of close friendships. Leads to trouble, he said. And Anna’s
husband also seemed to reciprocate the feeling. Once, they had gone
home to Kerala together, when Anna had her baby. It was one of the
best trips Anarkali had ever taken. After Lorna came, Anarkali’s
husband allowed her to go and stay with Anna, once in a while, and to
go home to India, more often. Anarkali had more than an inkling as to
what was going on, but she did not mind. It was as if she was getting
ready for a big break. She was determined that she would not complain
or recriminate. After all, she did not love him. The last couple of years
were tense and funny in a way – her husband’s superior ways of
deception, her mother-in-law’s mocking manner towards her, and her
own boredom, and sense of failure, and loss of pride.
At last, her husband says he wants a divorce, and Anarkali
consents. She gets her dowry back, and that is it. Anna repeatedly asks
her to consider living in Paradise, find some work, study something.
But Anarkali had decided. She was back in India. Older and single.
Still unkissed. And with no career.
Anarkali is startled out of her reverie by the announcement that

informed of their arrival in Delhi. Anarkali steps out of the plane, and
follows the crowd, and rams right into someone – she looks up to say
“sorry,” and cannot speak. Those eyes. The brown as glowing as ever,
and the dark pupil in the center, and the golden rays emanating from it.
She feels the familiar pang somewhere around her heart.
“Hello Anarkali,” he says.
“Hello Ashok.” She sees he is smiling. She does not know what to
say. She has dreamt of this a number of times, but she finds it hard to
believe when it happens. She looks away.
“How are you, Anu?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“What have you been doing? I heard what happened with you. I am
sorry you had to go through all that. I did not know you were in India.”
Suddenly it strikes her that he must be married.
“How is your family?” she enquires. She notices that he has not
changed much, except for some grey at the sides. His hair is still as
thick and wavy as ever.
“Fine.” He smiles.
ASHA BERNARD 125
Anarkali is sure he can hear her heart beat. She is thankful to see
Pearl coming, with a handsome young man.
“You have not changed at all, Anu.” Anarkali hears him say.
Soon, there are introductions, the goodbyes, and promises of
keeping in touch, as he leaves to catch his plane. Pearl will have some
questions later. She knows she should tell Anna. But then their
relationship is such that they could continue their conversation
whenever they saw each other. Like they had been together always.
Joined as one. From those first lonely years till this time. Anarkali is
Anna and Anna, Anarkali.
Chapter 12
Wherein Anna tells the story of Onam, of crying and driving, and of
her last visit with Anarkali, and missing her parents and brother.
Again, I am at the school, waiting for my son to come out. I get

here early, because I get to dream here. It takes me back to the
atmosphere of my college chapel. Mothers, and virgins, and their loves
and their dislikes. There is that little boy – he is exploring deep into his
nose, oh no, he put his find in his mouth. I am gagging. Hey, wait a
minute. Did I do it when I was young? I hope my son does not do this.
Why do I think that it would affect people’s opinion of him, more than
it will affect this white boy? Am I the only Indian who feels people
will see my son’s act as an Indian’s act, rather than a little boy’s? That
my son’s act will muddy the face of India? What is happening to my
thinking? There is that little girl, who pretends to gag as she sniffs
around her baby brother. She cannot stop gagging. She cannot stop
sniffing. I have not been able talk to Jenny for some time now.
Everyone is busy.
I cannot joke about anything anymore. I cannot smile at my
deliberate misunderstanding of some Paradisianisms, when I first came
here. Moving sale – what is so moving about it? Baby sale – they sell
babies? Last evening, I remembered my mother’s stories when we
were children. They were so unlike my grandmother’s. My
grandmother always told us the same stories – always with morals – of
a greedy person, of a lazy person, of a liar, and so on. My mother, on
the other hand, told stories of a prince who was born with the imprint
of a little half moon on his forehead. A prince who crossed seven
oceans, climbed seven mountains, and passed seven forests to find his
beloved.
My mother was a tricky one too – when my brother was born, she
anticipated my jealousy, and started telling me these stories. It was
only a long time afterwards that I knew that she had made those up.
Like the one where a little boy is kidnapped by beggars, and tortured –
burning, arm twisting, eye poking to mention a few – and in the end, is
rescued by his clever, loving older sister. You can imagine my
condition at the end of this recital. Copious crying, and generous hugs
ASHA BERNARD 127
for my baby brother. I don’t think I was much marred for life by the
violence in the story. (I don’t know about the Elizabethans.) But I sure
was happy with the ending, the meting out of justice, and the winning
of good.
There was another story, which was actually a song from a movie,
in which a mommy parrot takes her baby to a concert, naturally, of
birds. Upon getting there, she puts her baby to sleep, and joins the
adults for the music. Amidst the songs, mommy parrot asks, “Who is
grinding her teeth?”
The fat, old mama eagle cries out, “It is the stone in the new rice.”
After the concert, mommy parrot looks for her baby, and does not find
her. Instead, she sees the tiny beak and feet and little feathers of her
baby. My mother sang well, with feeling and spirit. Needless to say, at
the end of this one, both my brother and I would be crying our hearts
out. As we grew older, we would ask her to sing it, and then start
crying .
Even now she can make us do it, though we pretend to laugh, and
tell her, “Oh no. Not that again.” By then, I was hopelessly protective
of my brother. As a three-year-old, I used to caress his round, baby
cheeks and say, “Just like a pomegranate.” That is a family saying
now.
When I was a child, I used to have this recurring nightmare of my
headless father. I know when it started. When I was five, I heard my
mother reading a newspaper item to the maid about a Naxalite strike in
our neighborhood. They cut this man’s head off, and placed it on the
compound wall, anyway that was what the report said. The man had
my dad’s name. My mother later said she did not think I was listening,
it was my nap time. But I just ran to her bawling my head out and no
amount of persuasion worked. I had to see my dad.
Last night, I had the same nightmare after a long time. I miss them.
I miss my home. Today, I called home, and I know they are all right.
But I am not happy. I can never be happy. I see my son come. Poor
baby, what kind of a mother does he have? Someone once called me a
child-woman. I don’t want to be that. Is that why my husband is so
aloof? Do I really love him? How would I know if I have never loved
anyone? I mean really loved?
In the evening, I tell my son the story of Onam, my favorite story. I
want to see the colors of my land, smell its smells, hear its sounds, and
feel its love. Not the stillness and the silence of this tomb, not these
sterile, forced, stunted relationships. Telling this story somehow brings

me close to my green banana leaf of a land.
Once upon a time, Kerala was ruled by the great King Mahabali.
An ideal king deserves ideal subjects, and his people were just that.
People, and not subjects. During his rule, the land was prosperous, and
the people happy. There were no liars or thieves. No pain or suffering.
All were equal. This does not make the gods happy. At this rate, these
mortals will soon forget them. So they go to their chief god Vishnu,
and ask him to do something about this. Vishnu turns himself into a
dwarf Brahmin – Vaamana – and goes to Mahabali. Now, good kings
always respected the Brahmin, and gave them whatever they asked for,
though usually their needs were moderate. And Mahabali was the best
of kings, and he asks the Brahmin what he, the King can give him. The
Brahmin asks for land – as much as he could measure with his feet.
Remember he is a dwarf. The king, who already knows who this
person is, says yes. The Brahmin suddenly grows big, I mean really
big, and with one foot, he measured all Earth, and the other, all the
heavens. Now where shall I put the third foot?
The noble king bows his head, and with his palms held together, he
says, “Put your foot on my head.” The Brahmin does just that, and
sends Mahabali to the underworld. But he allows the king to return to
see his people once a year – on Onam day. As usual, my son says,
“Cool!” My eyes well up, like they always do when I see my little
green piece of land for the first time, from the plane, on every visit.
There is another side to this story that later struck me, the fact that the
king belonged to the group of “asuras” or demons. Anu always
reminds me that the Hindu demon is the Zoroastrian god now, pointing
to the connection between Indians and those around them.
I do not want to lose my feeling of closeness to my homeland, and I
continue my narration – now, of the celebrations. The new clothes, the
swings, the children collecting flowers along the fences for the
pookkalams – elaborate designs made of flowers in every front yard,
for ten days, until the culmination day of Thiruvonam – the fireworks,
the pulikkali in which men painted their bodies like tigers and danced
in parades. The slow, sensual dancing of young virgins and mothers,
dressed in the traditional, mundum neryathum. And the dinner. All
vegetarian. I recite the names of some of the dishes to my son, which
he repeats, laughing all along – parippu, neyyu, olan, kaalan, aviyal,
erissery, sambhar, rasam, thoran, koottucurry, inchampuli, kadumanga,
pappadam, payasam and so on. Served on big, green banana leaves,
ASHA BERNARD 129
along with steaming rice. The brown-striped, white Malayali rice. He
knows all of them because I make it here, and he recounts the names
of his favorites.
He wants to go to see his grandparents now. I tell him we will,
soon. “Won’t you miss your friends?” I ask.
He says, “I will get over it, and I can have a puppy when we are in
India. You promised.”
I say, “Yes.” There we can have a pet. Somehow, I cannot, like
many Indians and Paradisians too, I am sure, welcome the idea of pet
hair and pet poop all over the house. And as for friends, Ajay has
learned at an earlier age to adapt. Like he has learned that he has
brown skin. And he is aware that he rarely sees his friends out of
school. They live far apart, they cannot walk along the busy roads, and
their parents are too busy to drive them around to friends’ houses,
especially to a brown friend’s house. Anyway when they play, and if
the play turned to fight, and one of them got hurt, Ajay would be
punished by his teachers. If it was Ajay who got hurt, they would
acknowledge it to be an accident. If it was a white boy who got hurt or
he bled, God forbid! Ajay would be treated like an unredeemable
criminal who had spilled more valuable white blood on purpose. All
are equal, but some are more equal. It is also very hard for the teachers
to praise Ajay when he did well, when he was way ahead of the other
children. “Do you have friends, Ajay?” I ask him.
“Oh yes, I have friends. We have so much fun at school.” I am
relieved for now. He tells me of the stories they write – all about
mummies coming back to life, explosions, and dragons and lasers. He
sets to draw a picture for his grandfather.
I cannot shake off my despondence. The bare trees and the cold,
dark outside does not help me, either. I know I will not be able to
unless I do something about Lily. At least I should find out the truth. If
I ever can.
Dear Reader, let me tell you of something else. Hey, I see a cardinal
on the bare branch! He is so bright, and overdressed among those
naked brown limbs. He is pecking at the red berries. Looks like a
picture postcard. About my father. I am sure if I had told him then,
about the BG, that is, my father would have mutilated him. But I did
not. Not even to my mother, as per my grandmother’s instructions.
Now will it be too late?
One day, when I was twenty, I was walking along the street near
my house. It was before noon, and there were not many people out.
The time after the local girls got in the college bus, and when the
school children are long gone to school. Women will be busy
preparing lunch, or chatting with friends on the phone. A long
weekend at home. I was slowly walking, dreaming, when this man
came from nowhere on his bicycle, and pinched my bottom. It all
ended within minutes. Before I recovered from the shock, this man
rode off in a rush, but turned and looked at me, when he got to a little
distance. I could clearly see his hideous face and the smirk on it. I ran
home shaking with anger.
Luckily, my father is home. He is about to go out again. I run to
him and grab his arm. My father takes one look at me and knows
something has happened. Before I finish telling him, he pulls me by
my hand, and we get into the car. We are on the streets now. We live
in a residential complex, and there are two exits and entrances out of,
and into it. Soon, we see the man – looking for more fun? – but he cuts
into another row. My dad knows he needs someone to drive the car.
We see one of our neighboring youngsters drive out of the recreation
club building. My dad stops him, and asks him to drive us. The young
man is all agog, and we start our chase. The boy driving, with my
father in the front, and myself in the back. We see the guy, I point him
out, and when we get close to him, and as the car slides to a stop, my
dad opens his door quickly and forcefully so that it hits the man and he
falls off the bike.
What followed is written in the annals of our subdivision. Before
long, we have an audience. My father picks the man up by his shirt
collar with one hand, and slaps him with the other. The man starts
bleeding from his ears. My father pushes him down, and the
youngsters rush forward to stop him from doing further damage. Soon,
stories of assault on girls surface – so far, concealed stories – they call
the police, and the man is handed over. We soon found out that this
same man had been going around doing his thing. He was married and
had children. What made me silent was the look on my father’s face
when he got hold of the man. He was no longer the funny dad I knew.
He was the god of vengeance. Anger and hatred are frightening things.
Still, there were people who said that I got pawed because of my
sleeveless salwar kameez, along with my attitude. Anyway, that man
never showed his face around our area again.
I am crying now. Anu is right. This is not where I belong. I am
homesick. And I am aware that it is the sight of my father waiting for
me at the airport that makes me conscious of the fact that I am home.
ASHA BERNARD 131
My father, who wishes India had followed Netaji in our fight for
independence. Better a fight than a struggle, he would say. My father’s
beaming face when he sees us. My mother says he doesn’t sleep the
night before Ajay and I arrive, fearing that he will oversleep, and the
plane will land, and we will have to wait for him. But he is always
there waiting for us. Ahead of time.
Last time I went to India, it was for Christmas, and I visited Anu. I
stayed with her for a week.
“So how is Mother India?” I call her Mother India just to irritate
her. She laughs. She did look happier than I had seen her ever. We
talked about our university days, as usual – about the dark girl who
claimed she had a fair butt, (we never saw it,) and about my cousin
who married a girl, whom everyone thought to be beautiful, because
she had perfect features, and lovely hair. But my cousin says to me,
“Anna, I am in such a dilemma. Everyone says she is beautiful. I don’t
feel so lucky, as they say I am. And it is not something I can say out
loud either.”
“What is it, Jerry?” I ask him.
And he whispers to me with feeling, “She is a Manchester.” I burst
out laughing, and commiserate with him.
Anu and I laugh so much we start crying. At university, we had
made up this club called Manchester club. Anu was the only one
among us who really did not belong in it. I laugh when Anarkali
protests, “Don’t say that about yourself. That is not true.” We get onto
other topics, like the time we called ourselves little red riding hoods.
There was a function at the auditorium. By the time we got there,
the hall was filled up. As usual, there is a boys section and a girls.
When I saw that the girls section was full, except for some seats at the
back, where we could see that the hooligans of the area had already
reserved standing positions. And on the boys’ side, no one had yet
showed up. So I urged my friends to sit up front on the boys’ side, and
I led the way. There we were, five girls sitting calmly, waiting for the
show to begin. Boys were trickling in by then.
And the show does begin - a committee member approaches us with
a frown: “Could you step outside for a minute?” We troop outside.
“You are not supposed to sit there,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask. There are lots of empty seats for the boys.
“But it is not right.” Then with a sly smile, “We all would like very
much to get closer with each other. But this is not America. Here, we
have certain standards of behavior.” Yeah, like prescribing the limits

of a woman’s sphere. Like pawing her in buses and trains, and on the
streets. Like raping little girls. I was fuming by the time he finished. I
wanted to wipe that smug sneer off his face, along with some skin. My
friends started pulling me back, before I even said anything, and we
walked out. I am sure most of the girls on the other side had a good
time laughing at us that night.
So I did the only thing I could. I wrote a letter to a prominent
newspaper, titled little red riding hoods and the big bad wolves. We
are only supposed to watch from the periphery. And make babies. And
wait for more. The men cannot get it into their heads that we sat there
for the convenience of watching the show, not to have sex with the
idiots. (And what do they know about our likes? Only one among the
whole university boys had caught my attention. And he was not
available.) One or two who saw the letter declared that we were
always whining. Whining for more. More space, more rights, more
visibility, something other than that of pregnancy, childbirth and
motherhood.
Anu smiles at my leftover anger. “Do you remember the time you
curled your hair, and we put up that charade?” She changes the topic.
“Oh yes, I still cannot believe that we pulled it off so easily. For a
whole week too! I am Sheila --- Anna’s twin sister. Why do you think
the boys fell for it?”
“Shows you they did not know anything about modern beauty
parlors.” We giggle.
“But somehow, it was disappointing too. That they did not see the
real me, the real Anna. I did feel sad.”
“You mean they did not see your soul?” We laugh again.
Soon we get into the serious business of saving the world from
future wars, and total destruction, and bringing prosperity to all.
“I don’t think going into the past will really help with that. It just
creates hatred, and breeds fundamentalism, and soon terrorism.” I say.
“But when the past is the reason for the present inequalities, there is
a responsibility on the part of civilized people to redress the situation.”
“You can’t blame the colonials for our backwardness, and for
everything else. We brought about our own downfall. The caste system
itself was a good excuse for the others to sneak in. And admit it, our
kings and princes were more interested in their own little intrigues,
wine and women, art and music, and building temples, than
ameliorating the condition of his fellow human beings. Than looking
ASHA BERNARD 133
into questions of national security, or uniting all of India. Come on, we
were and are, still little nations.”
“You may be right, Anna. But the riches of our country stayed here.
And I contend that we would have evolved in our own way, taking our
time. We were not allowed that. Do you say that we were not
plundered? That our riches and resources were not taken away to fill
up their coffers? What about our history? Our identity? The lies that
they still propagate? All right, it was easy for them to divide and
conquer because of all those things you mentioned. But does that make
it right?”
“No, of course not. Speaking of identity – who are we? Two
spineless, gutless idiots, who imbibed their parents’ cunning
manipulations, and obeyed them to a fault. Now that is the power of
conditioning, distortion of personality. Even our parents must have
been amazed at the strength of their conditioning. The way we feared
to hurt them!”
We laugh ruefully. We come to the conclusion that first-borns
really are idiots.
“You know something? I really thought I would be given an award
for being a virgin on my first night, by my husband or others around
us! We have been stuffed with the value and greatness of being a
virgin from the time we were born!”
“At the very least, a mini pushpavrishti from the heavens! Or a
round of applause for our accomplishment! We stayed virgins even
after we had all the chance in the world to be otherwise! After all, we
were not married off at twenty. And we did not stay home like some
others. We went out to study and we did just that! No curiosity, no
enterprise, no initiative! We should be congratulated with a medal of
honor, as per our Indian standards!”
“Stop it, Anna! I can’t breathe!” Anarkali was laughing so hard that
tears were flowing down her cheeks.
“Or we could have begged our husbands, “chod dho mujhe! chod
dho! meri izzath na lootna! And screamed, please don’t loot my honor,
your honor!”
Anarkali threw back her head and laughed harder.
“About our country’s history, it is all in the past, why bring it up,
when we should look forward?” I asked.
“Because our past is what helps us to understand the present and we
learn from the past. At least not to make the same mistakes. The Other
have to be honest with themselves, they are the main reason for
today’s unrest. They fooled everyone long enough, with their high
moral intentions of civilizing the savage. Not just them, The Holy
Roman Church too. The atrocities done in the name of Christianity.
The forced conversions, the massacres, and the establishment of
colonies in the Americas and elsewhere. Do you think those
dispossessed will ever forget? The few remaining I mean.”
“That article you showed me about the Papal Bull. Frightening. I
wonder why we don’t hear of these things more often? Who are the
ones who decides what to let the common person know and what not
to?” I do not mention the conversions that goes on in the present day.
“The one where the Pope sanctions the killings of natives for
religion? No apologies from any quarter. Mum’s the word. I heard that
after Mel Gibson made that movie, Braveheart, there was a huge
awakening of Scottish nationalism and that the British returned the
King’s stone to the Scots. When will they return the Koh i noor or all
the other precious stones, and gold, and the numerous ancient texts
that the Other has taken?
“Come on, all our teak and mahogany is in their great houses. What
will happen if we strip those off? They will be left naked. And in that
cold climate, they will freeze, Anu.” I say this with great drama.
“Hey, here is a riddle – ‘Whodunnit?’”
“The B- did it!” We giggle again.
“Maybe someone should make a movie about India,” I add.
“Oh no, they will put a song and dance number in there, and the
whole effect will be lost.” Anu says with a laugh.
Our talk entered the world of Indian films here, and we had to agree
that in spite of it all, we liked to watch those movies. Anu was pensive
for a moment before she spoke. “You know, it is not hatred. It is
anxiety born out of anger, or anger born out of anxiety.”
I knew she was talking about the Third World. “You may be right,”
I murmur reluctantly. Now I can see where the personal and the
individual meets the collective, the world. The anger that I feel in
Paradise is born out of my anxiety, my loneliness. Out of the feeling of
being misunderstood. Of not being appreciated. Of being with people
who do not want to know my name, let alone its meaning. Of being
with eternal strangers. Of that unshakable feeling of homelessness.
The feelings of an exile? Or an eternal wanderer? We are whiners after
all. The same whining of civilizations that Anu talks about, a whining
that no one can afford to ignore – neither the whiner, nor the listener.
ASHA BERNARD 135
That night, our talk went on and on, till Kalyani woke up in the
middle of her sleep, and came in yawning, “Are you girls still up? Do
you want some coffee or something?” We said no, and she went back
to sleep. I miss those days now. There is no one here to hear my
whining, or to whine with me.
Ajay had a grand time there, I remember. I don’t know how he did
it, but I saw him make friends with some local school kids – boys and
girls – and playing with them. One day, Kalyani took the whole gang
to a small creek where they fished all morning, using homemade
fishing rods, and bath towels. He was so proud to show me the little
fish he had caught. Kalyani had given him an old jam jar with holes
poked on its lid. He could not stop saying, “It is a mullet, Mom. A
mullet!” I am sorry that there is no one to take him fishing in Paradise.
His father is too busy, and I am sure he would be concerned with the
rules and regulations, and whatnot and he would not know where to go
either. Maybe when Ajay grows up, he will go with his friends.
How will he be when he grows up, I wonder. Will he be torn apart
by his identity? Isn’t his brown skin going to be a handicap? Doesn’t
his brown skin cause the others to watch him with even more
suspicion? And make them give harsher punishment for his
transgressions? Will they ever stop to think if the strength of their
reaction and the nature of their punishment are determined by my
son’s skin color or not? These are questions that never entered my
mind in India. Well, I had no son in India. Then what makes me stay
here? The chance of a superior education for Ajay? And what does he
learn here? The arrogance and sense of superiority of a superpower?
To only learn in the end, that after all, he is different, and does not
really belong? Or to learn that what he sees in cartoons is true? That
violence, and killings and explosions are all right, and that dead people
return to life? To be a father at sixteen? Or is it the dollar that keeps
me here? Or my failure to fulfill my parents’ expectations regarding
myself? Am I doing things, leading my life even now, because of
them? Anu is right. We are not just products of our past, but we are
here at this particular point in time because of our past. And our past
will define our future – for better or for worse. What is this great
obligation that I feel towards my parents, my family? What is this
great burden of responsibility that we carry for our parents, and for our
country? These past ten to twelve years of hibernation, of anonymity,
have proven to be my time for evaluation. A chance to collate and
compare and elucidate. To learn.
There is this ad that I saw on TV recently. Where a regular

housewife/woman enters her home to find her favorite romantic hero
from the movie waiting for her. Yesterday, I saw that the ad people
went a step further in their new ad – almost the same ad, except that
the movie hero chooses to stay with the housewife, his viewer, rather
than go with his heroine. Who are these people who know the human
mind so intimately? Writers, I believe. The merging of fiction and
reality. Playing on the longings of a romantic soul. Shifting away from
reality, into fantasy world. Maybe our future generation will live in a
fictional world, living up all their fantasies, where fiction becomes
reality. That virtual world may prevent wars after all. Or will it make it
worse? By the way I have upgraded my adventurous living wherein I
rinse and drain split peas and make chappatis, to a more glamorous
level. I have different screensavers on my laptop on different days –
of the Bond boys, and the aforementioned Khans and Khannas. I work
under their gaze, listening to Indian movie songs. The glamour! The
energy!
That day we talked, Anu asked me if I knew that the wonderful
bastion of knowledge, Yale, was built on money stolen from an Indian
Maharaja by its founder? “Do we learn any of this in our history
classes? Had it registered in our brains that Kerala was never under
direct British rule? And that while the rest of the country lagged
behind in the fields of education and equality, we the ones who did not
let the Other in, but kept it away by paying the devil his dues, were
and are ahead?.”
“You mean Travancore.” Because I know the British were in
Cochin, though now we are one. But Anu is on a roll.
“Yes, have we ever learned of the regular famines that occurred in
India during the famed British Raj? Have we ever seen the results of
our riches, in these Others’ lives? At least pictures of their castles, and
palaces built with our money and our timber, and written underneath
that they acknowledge that they got this from India and other colonies?
Do we learn of India’s greatness – of its thoughts, its language, its
connections with the then civilized world?”
“No. We learned about the wonderful educational system founded
by Macaulay, and that Ashoka planted trees, that Akbar was tolerant,
and that the British built railways, and the postal system. Oh, and that
Muslim invaders plundered Hindu temples.” We laugh.
“And why do you think it is so?”
ASHA BERNARD 137
“Because the Other wrote our history. And our historians followed
them blindly. We even believed the myth of the Aryan Invasion. But
you have to hand it to them – the way they made it up by paying
Mueller, and used it brilliantly in creating an unbridgeable north-south
gap.”
“And don’t forget the convent education. The nuns who think they
are white males,” Anu goes on with a laugh, And we have Mueller
Bhavans, and leaders who use that divide even now. The show goes
on. By the way, the Other built the railway and the postal system for
their own good– to facilitate the plunder and transfer of goods. In a
very efficient manner.”
“With a stiff upper lip,” I add. We laugh again.
“Oh. What’s the use? We have some leaders worse than the
Others.”
“Some? What about the rest?” We were quiet for a long time after
that. Listening to the sounds outside. Night sounds.
“And you think all this will not incite the violent tendencies of at
least some? The past will play over again. And there will be crooks to
exploit the situation.”
“I know. But the truth has to come out. Do you think there is no
violence now? Look at Kashmir. What the Other did was to direct our
tremendous anger toward each other. Hindu vs. Muslim. Partition was
just the icing on the cake. And we morons fell for it big time. The
same thing was happening in the Middle East.”
“May I ask, in the long run, what is truth?”
“Why not the short run? I am against violence, but I also know
every crook can say that.”
“I believe you, Anu.”
“You will be the only one.”
“What are we? Dilettantes? You know dilettantes can cause great
harm. So what do you want the Others to do?”
“Acknowledge what they have done, apologize and stop doing it.”
“Like how the nuns made us say sorry?” I joke, and sees the frown
on Anu’s forehead. “What will we do then?”
“We get it in writing. We forgive and try to forget. And move on.
Maybe we will have a special holiday. Instead of Independence Day,
we will have a Truth for Peace Day.”
“Not bad,” I say. The writing part is like they make him do in
Ajay’s school, I think now. But wasn’t it worse for me at St. Ursula’s?
For Anu, in that old school of ours? I must talk to Jenny.”
Anu asks me, “Anna, remember, you used to tell me that if there is
religious persecution against Christians in India, the world will not
remain silent. That all the white Christian countries, not to mention the
Pope, will fight for us, rescue us. Do you think the same way now?”
“No. I was a fool to think that I was different from other Indians.
And I do not think those Christians even know about us. They do not
know we have been Christians for two thousand years. And they will
not care if we were either.”
“What made you change your mind?” She is curious. I know she
knows the answer already.
“Living there,” I say.
“Maybe we ought to go to Israel,” I add after a minute.
“That will not work at all. Most of the brown, Indian Jews who
went there came running back to India, because of serious
discrimination. India is our home. Mother India.” Anu smiles at me.
I want to change the subject. “However, the Others, to borrow your
term, are worried about our population explosion, and the resulting
burden on Earth’s resources. We are breeding like rabbits, they say.”
Anu pretends not to notice the change of subject.
“What do you mean? We are an ancient country that welcomed
people from all parts of the world – who started living here by force or
otherwise – by the way, without visas or passports. And let us say we
have had more time to make babies. Our land has been cut down to
size too. And just look at any modern immigrant country. The
immigrants, who were the surplus, the overflow of the mother country,
arrived, saw the space, and decimated the natives and appropriated it, –
virgin land, by the way, and vast lands, six times the size of their
mother countries. Look at those countries now – they are filled with
people, structures, weapons, huge SUVs, gigantic washers and dryers
and stoves and parking lots . . . You think they never used, and are not
using Earth’s resources?”
I like to listen to Anu talk. She is so passionate about these things.
“Speaking of structures, I see that our little banana leaf is
saturated.”
“Yes, sadly,” Anu agrees.
As for me, what am I passionate about? I remember wondering.
Where was that girl who wanted to get to the center? Who refused to
be marginalized? What has happened to that militant feminist?
Paradise is what happened. The drugged existence in the bubble.
The bystander who nobody notices. Drugged by cheap shopping,
ASHA BERNARD 139
cheap restaurants, cheap wine and TV, and anger. The invisible
woman who preferred to forget her past. The realization that there are
things beyond female bonding. That brown and white don’t mix. Even
black and brown does not mix. The knowledge that brown and brown
look at each other with more suspicion and more wariness when they
are outside their country. That what I learned in English literature class
about the universality of themes and characters was not fully correct.
They are white, we are not.
But I had to go beyond that negative position. Anu did – she is
proud of her brownness. That is not enough either. I have to really
accept in my mind that there are some who go beyond the color
factor– wherever they are. Really, so deep in their minds that it is part
of them. If I do not believe in this, I will fail as a human being. If I
were honest to myself, I think I have only met a handful of people, so
far, who belong to this category in Paradise. I am sure there are others,
but I have not met them. Some, I will say are trying hard, some
pretend, whereas most, either are not aware, or do not care, or show
their animosity outright. The thing is I need to talk to someone who
can put my anxieties about my son and myself at rest. To get another
opinion, the other side of the story, and to know how they deal with
these things. I have to meet Jenny. More than that, I must be able to
move beyond the color/nation factors, and belong to the world. Such a
short time we have here, I will do away with divisions.
I know I am starting to sound like Anu. There are times I wish I
were her. She is lucky to be free. But then, I am her, and she is me. We
are one.
I cannot wait to go home.
Chapter 13
In which Anarkali meets her Professor, visits the Taj Mahal, wishes
she could see the Sun temple, and returns home.
Anarkali wants to weep for no reason that night. Ashok. He said he

will call. But when? She did not give him her home phone. In her
flustered situation, Anarkali had given him her sister’s number.
Anyway, why should he call? Anarkali thinks she should be glad that
she saw him at least, after all these years. But is she really that excited
now that she has seen him? Anarkali is not sure. All that waiting had
not been just for him, she is certain now. Is she the type that is in love
with the idea of being in love, like her professor used to say in class?
Well, she has work to do. She is thankful that her teacher is not the
kind that is common in our universities, who belittles the intelligence
of their female students, jokes about their physical attributes to the
males around, basically harping on their sexuality rather than their
abilities as a researcher, a scholar. Granted, there are idiot students, but
there are idiots in both sexes. Anna is the one to answer that, Anarkali
thinks amusedly, as she walks to the Department office. She is
thankful that her guide has given the green signal for the completion of
her work after all these years, and that too, even though he is no longer
at her old university. But she knows that she faces more work – more
reading and more thinking. She may even change her original topic.
Anarkali hurries back to her room. Her sister awaits her there, and
together they go to Pearl’s place. There is no call from anyone. The
next day, Anarkali goes to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, the only item of
wonder that the Westerner knows of. The only great piece of
architecture that they were impressed with, that could be compared to
a European classic. Was it because it was white? Anarkali wonders.
Because the Europeans were more used to the whiteness and
smoothness of white marble? Or because they had a sentimental
attachment to it, because at some point, they had pried off the precious
stones inlaid on its walls? She is aware that they were more familiar
with the lines of that building than with that of the ancient temples of
India. That is why many of those were destroyed and the remaining
ones were belittled. They could not or did not want to acknowledge
ASHA BERNARD 141
greatness in a different thing. They did not have a standard against
which to measure the greatness of those mammoth constructions.
Anarkali acknowledges the symmetrical beauty, and the clean,
sleek lines of the mausoleum. She is impressed with its fountains and
gardens, although she knows it is not the same as it was when it was
built. But she cannot help wondering about the other classic structures,
more ancient, and more intricate works of art that India has produced.
Those ancient temples may not be made of marble, but of stone, but
the majesty and the complexity were unmatched by anything in the
world. The Sun Temple, with its huge chariot, and the horses that draw
the chariot – signifying Time, Ajanta and Ellora, the ruins of a once
famous international university – Nalanda – and scores of palaces and
temples that she has not seen first hand, what do the world know about
those? For that matter, what do they know about the great urban
civilization of the Indus Valley, its written language, the Vedic
language.
The Partition aided the Others in depriving India of its wealth – of
history, its heritage, and its legacy. Today, they dare to say that they
do not know who the people who lived in the Indus - Saraswathi plains
are. An advanced civilization that stretched for centuries on the Indian
shores, whose designs of jewelry is still worn by Indian women, whose
little clay cart toys are still found in parts of India. The audacity to
doubt the very identity of the Indian, to Anarkali, the Indo-
Aryan/Vedic. Partition does not affect the fact that Indian and
Pakistani are of the same race. Not from recent religious conversions
either. They are the same people who traveled back and forth, who
settled here and there, but always around the same ocean and the same
seas.
The same partition caused India another loss – of the University of
Taxila, the most ancient of all international universities. And Kashmir.
Anarkali sees the news item in the paper her fellow passenger reads on
the train. The conclusion always irked her – the two nuclear powers
have fought three bitter wars over the disputed territory of Kashmir,
after their independence from the Other. The distortion of truth for the
sake of political correctness. A foreign reader would not know that
there were no two countries here, when the Others came. It was one.
One great, ancient country. Diverse. And here, by diverse Anarkali
does not mean just stealing other cultures’ cuisine and fashion, or
medicine and knowledge, like say, yoga and curry, and calling it
diversity.
Diversity is not a pomegranate/sherbet and lotus/cow’s milk,

harmoniously balanced, supremely aesthetic, easy concept. It involves
pain and hurt and anger and frustration. But when it moves beyond
that, when individuals grow beyond that, it creates unity and harmony.
Again, it does not stay fixed. The same cycle repeats. But there is the
hope and the certainty that the wheel will turn. Life as it is. Just like
any community. Difference and sameness. Change and
changelessness. Like her mother and herself. Relations of blood. If we
let the Other, any Other between us, like we did in the past, we are in
for unending pain, with no hope of redemption. A linear narrative of
pain and anger, culminating in hatred. Anarkali wishes that India and
its counterpart learn from their past, that its common people learn to
forgive and forget, and not let any Other, be it a leader with his/her
own agenda, or an outside power that has its own selfish interests at
heart., come back into the circle of love. Not a pipedream at all, but it
takes effort. Just think, if the Paradisians – and all nations in the world
has its own struggle with diversity – finds it difficult to deal with their
diversity, will they call in a middleman? Will they let the man divide
their country? Divide its people?
Anarkali regrets she cannot visit the tomb of her namesake. It is in
Pakistan now. Maybe one day she promises herself. Eating out,
talking, laughing – time flies for Anarkali. Pearl drops her off at the
airport. She says she will be home for perunnal– St. Sebastian’s Feast
celebration. The green of the trees and the blue of the waters remind
Anarkali that she is back home. Kalyani is waiting for her, but she may
have to stop over, in her parents’ place. They may want to hear the
news about herself, and about Pearl. They still do not know about
Rahul. Anarkali is not unduly worried any more. Everything in its
time.
Kumaran is waiting at the airport, and Anarkali notes a new respect
in his manner. What is it with the Malayali mind? They adore people
from other places, they admire people who have been to other places.
When somebody comes home from other countries, and even from
other states of India, the neighbors and the relatives and the servants
and their relatives drop by to hear stories of other lands to imagine the
wonder of those faraway places. Maybe they do not want to go there,
they are tied to their motherland like Kalyani, But they want to know.
To listen to fairy tales of hardship and success, of strangers and
friends. To see through the eyes of the teller. The homecomer all at
once dons the guise of an adventurer, a story teller, a fortune hunter.
ASHA BERNARD 143
And Anarkali is sure that her mother must have dropped some
appreciative hints about her trip, and its possibly wonderful outcome.
That she is smart, everyone acknowledges. But her failure is, in a way,
disappointing to so many. Anarkali thinks that disappointment may
play a part in their anger toward her. Malayali is an expert at vicarious
living. Her loss, and her failure had become their loss and failure. Now
she has given them hope. Surprisingly, Anarkali is no longer burdened
by the weight of others’ expectations, she is oddly excited. She does
not berate herself for wanting to please others. She accepts that she
wants to make people happy, but with an addition. She wants to be
happy too. At this point, she does not mind thinking of her mother.
The woman who brought her to this world. The woman who carried
her in her womb, whose body she fed on, to grow, and to live. The
woman who was a virgin once, a child herself.
Anarkali cannot help but wonder at the power of the human mind.
Apart form its tenacity and resilience, Anarkali thinks of it as a video
player. Fast forward, rewind. The analyses, choices, conclusions.
Living, working, growing through entire cycles of evolution, in
thought. Always trying to move toward happiness, and often
succeeding, if one’s mind lets itself. The extraordinary power to heal.
And progress.
The last time her mother hit her was when Anarkali was nineteen.
There was a big party going on in her grandmother’s place. It was the
baptism of one of her cousins. As per custom, her aunt had gone to her
mother’s place during the seventh month, where she would stay until
the baby was three months old. There is a big party when the would-
be-mother is brought to her home, and gifts are taken to the husband’s
house. When the daughter-in-law is in her home, her in-laws will come
and visit her with gifts, usually gold. After the baby is born, the mother
gets full spa treatment for ninety days. Daily massages with special
ayurvedic oils, bath in water boiled with special herbs, a special diet
that includes pearl onions sautéed in fresh ghee, and mutton prepared
in special spices along with regular dishes. The Syrian Christian
mother also gets to partake of a broth made from a whole goat, and of
other medicinal preparations guaranteed to make her healthy and
beautiful. Anarkali thinks she is starting to sound like Anna. Anna the
educator. Aquarian. The water bearer. She wishes her friend to be
happy like her. Sincerely happy.
Anarkali’s family is there for the party. But Anarkali has to take a
test of some kind on the same day in town. Her father takes her to the
testing center, and by the time she gets back, most of the guests are
gone. And Anarkali has a bad headache from the hot day, and from an
empty stomach. The headache is so severe that she finds it hard to hold
her head up. Her mother wants her to be sweet to all her uncles. By the
time she is done with smiling at her uncles and their wives, Anarkali
thinks she is going blind. Her entire head is in pain, and she rushes to
the bed. The coolness of the pillow is a slight relief. Along comes one
of her cousins, who informs her haughtily that she is wanted in the
drawing room, that her uncles wanted to talk to her. Anarkali had not
eaten anything or drunk even a glass of water yet, because the whole
kitchen area was filled with servants and helpers, and her grandmother
was supervising the division of left over food and sweets to all who
hang around. She says to her cousin that she has a headache. He laughs
and goes out to give the news. Anarkali knows she is not supposed to
mind a headache or something stupid like that, when her elders called
her. But that day she did not care. It was a strain even to think.
So she remains lying on the bed, with her eyes closed. Suddenly,
she is in a deluge. She opens her eyes to see her cousin standing there
with a grin on his face, and a pitcher of water in his hand, saying,
“How is that headache now?”
Anarkali is wild with anger. She calls him his nick name,
“Viddikooshmaandam,” literally, idiot gourd. Meanwhile, her mother
and one of her uncles come in. Anarkali is sitting up by now. She can
see her mother is very angry at her. Nothing new, she thinks. Her
mother, when she is mad at her, regularly wished her dead, cursed her
very presence in her life, and on the whole, hated the sight of her.
Anarkali sits there, looking at her mother. Her mother’s brother
says, “Look at her! Sitting there with that stare. The spoilt brat! Look
at her eyes! Arrogant girl!” Anarkali understands one of the reason for
his hatred. Just that morning, her grandfather had as usual asked the
whole family the meaning of an English word from his well-worn
dictionary. As usual, Anarkali had given the correct answer, which not
even one of her bright uncles could do. A fact that their father pointed
out gleefully. She could also sympathize with her uncles. Who would
like to be embarrassed by their own dad, before their wives? However,
when the women were alone one of the wives made it a point to ask
Anarkali word meanings– words that she had picked at random from
ASHA BERNARD 145
the dictionary, and she concluded that Anarkali was not as smart as
everyone, including her uncles, thought her to be.
Anyway, Anarkali listens to her uncle inciting her mother. And sure
enough, Anarkali feels the first sting of a slap on her cheek. Her right
cheek was burning. “Who do you think you are? Showing disrespect to
your elders? Where did you learn all this? For a stupid headache?
What headache? We would jump from our deathbeds if our elders ask
us to. Say you are sorry to the uncles.” Anarkali just sits there looking
at her. She thought of the night her mother had made her show the
latest dance piece she had learned to her uncles, who did not care
anyway. Waking her up from sleep. When she was a little girl. And
when she demurred, she was beaten back and blue, right before them.
It was as if her mother thought that it made her brothers happy.
“Look at her, chechi. She is so stubborn.” Anarkali turns her face to
look at her uncle. Her eyes bore into his, as she is determined that not
one drop of tear will fall. She does not waver her gaze, all the time her
mother slaps her. How many times did she slap her that day? Ten?
Fifteen? Anarkali does not remember. But she remembers that her
uncle turned his face away, and walked out. Then her mother stopped,
saying she hurt her palm. That night, when her father came to take
them home, Pearl told him what happened. And Anarkali listens to her
father scolding her mother. Which was ineffectual anyway.
That was the last time, Anarkali’s mother hurt her physically.
Once they start to look for a marriage alliance for Anarkali, by the
time she was twenty-two or twenty-three, her mother wants to see her
daughter grown up. But not too eager, of course. To dress up, to wear
beautiful sarees, and all the rest. And to eat. Now Anarkali becomes
the tormenter, and her mother, a martyr. The girl will not eat, the girl
will not put kajal in her eyes, the girl will not smile sweetly at the
nazrani lambs of God in their parish church. That is a big matter,
because her getting a good proposal depends on them, on their good
opinion of her, on their contacts, and networks. Now her mother is all
sweetness and sunshine, as she pleads with Anarkali humbly to get
dressed for a boy’s family to come and “see” her. She makes Thresia
cook Anarkali’s favorites. Ripe Kerala bananas fried in ghee, and
sprinkled with sugar, and kesari, a sweet made of cream of wheat and
milk. Shrimp sautéed in spices and coconut. Pumpkin, and yellow split
pea with coconut and spices, garnished with nutty mustard seeds, and
curry leaves popped in coconut oil – Anarkali can smell the aroma
right there on the plane. She misses her Kerala food, even though she
likes the North Indian dishes.
Anarkali refused to grow up. At least, as her mother wanted her to.
But in the end, she succumbed to all the entreaties, the emotional
blackmails, and finally, the one about the future of Pearl. The period
before, and after the wedding was one of euphoria for everyone in the
family. They had been able to get a Doctor as a son-in-law, as they,
especially her mother, had wanted. For a few years, Anarkali’s mother
could reclaim her throne of the fortunate mother among her friends
and relatives, including her brothers. The brothers were proud of
Anarkali too. In spite of being a spoilt brat, and in spite of her
education, she obeyed her elders and followed tradition. For a few
years, Anarkali was the ideal daughter, the model cousin whom her
uncles pointed out to their offspring. Then the divorce. All the spoilt
brat thing came back. Anarkali wonders if she really is a spoilt brat.
Could she have tried harder to make that marriage work? After all, no
one has everything perfect. In boarding school, the nuns used to
complain about her to her father – that she was too picky about her
food. Maybe she is too picky.
The last time all her mother’s family got together was for her
grandmother’s funeral. Anarkali was there too. As were the uncles.
After the ceremony in church, the family came back to the home
where they had grown up. While some of the cousins and her aunts
were having some fun by organizing a fashion parade where the boys
dressed as girls, (an act which was unthinkable days ago, in that house,
and even now is unacceptable in most homes on the day of a funeral),
Anarkali’s uncles called her. They gave her the old, worn dog--eared
dictionary of her grandfather, who had passed away some time ago.
The binding was ruined, the pages were loose, and it was held together
by a rubber band. Anarkali remembered giving him a new dictionary –
one she got as a prize for the best student – and he was very happy.
But he put it away safely, and used to show it to his cronies, who came
to drink and play cards most evenings. When he died, Anarkali had
thought of his dictionary, but had not dared to ask. No one had thought
of giving it to her, either. She wondered why they were doing this
now, especially considering that she had let down each one of them
with her divorce, but was kind of accepting of it all. Because by then,
she knew that most people did change over time, once they could be
rid of the effects of growing up with humans as parents. Virgins who
grow up to be mothers of virgins and boys. Because she knows that
ASHA BERNARD 147
she has changed, that each little detail of our past that blends into our
present – those which we remember, and those which we do not,
transform us subtly, surely, slowly.
Anarkali has started using that dictionary.
The next day was St. Sebastian’s festival in that Parish. Where her
own mother was a little girl. When her grandmother was alive, the
perunnaal was done with panache, in all its glory, although, it was
nothing compared to the old days, as her grandmother used to say.
Anarkali herself has a vague memory of the scramble in the kitchen, in
the front yard, where the young plantain trunk would be fixed. The
kids were called to light the candles on the stakes driven into the soft
whiteness of the trunk, then there was the rush of the servants running
back and forth arranging the garlands of fireworks on the side, from
coconut tree to coconut tree, the tasseled hangings of colored paper all
over the lights. Then the final race to light the torch on top of the
plantain tree, and the great hush just when the band is heard, heralding
the arrival of the procession with the priest in front, and one person
carrying the sacred golden bow and arrow replicas. And then the mad
dash to light the fireworks just as they entered the compound, with the
band getting to an exciting crescendo. In the old days, the statue of the
saint was carried on the back of an elephant, an elephant owned by her
grandfather’s family. And the procession began, and ended in the yard
of their ancestral home.
Anarkali, as a child had watched the feeding of the elephant, at the
huge copper containers, filled to the brim with yellow rice, prepared
with special herbs, and at the mahout pushing big balls of rice into the
elephant’s mouth. She had watched the elephant play with his favorite
food, a variety of palm leaf – long and green – and the elephant
swinging it. Her grandfather had let her feed the elephant with snacks,
such as, a whole bunch of bananas, jaggery and coconut. She looked
on in fascination when Mani – that was his name – broke the coconut –
a slow but steady dance with his foot - -a roll and a tap and the hard
shell cracked. Anarkali was scared stiff when she gave the food to this
huge creature, but she did not show it. But her grandfather always
carried her when he took her to the elephant. And she was grateful for
that.
Anarkali is aware of her love and admiration for her grandfather.
The bad husband who hurt his wife by keeping mistresses, the bad
father who treated his sons like dirt. But to her, he was kind. His sons
were surprised when he brought sweets and dates to the girl. When he
took her to watch the local temple festival, and brought her balloons
and glass bangles of bright colors. It was as if he felt that she was an
outsider like him. Later, he turned into an alcoholic and Anarkali grew
up. But even then, in his state of utter disregard for anyone’s feelings,
when he saw Anarkali his face lit up. When he had his first heart
attack, Anarkali had gone to see him in the Intensive Care Room. All
his children were there. That was the one time that Anarkali cried in
public after a long time. She tried hard not to, but the tears and the
sobs just would not stop. The once proud, almighty lion lay there like a
spent force. Anarkali saw that he was old. When he heard one of his
sons scold Anarkali for crying in that place, her grandfather opened his
eyes and looked at her. He said, “Don’t you cry, girl. Appaappan is
going to be all right.” Anarkali remembers he wanted her to be a
lawyer. Not even her own father had dared to show his love for her.
But this old reprobate did.
And then the dinner. Paalappam and mutton stew, beef cutlets and
salad, rice, fish curry in coconut milk, fish fry, beef fry, chicken
masala, pork vindaloo, vegetables, pickles, yogurt. And then the
sweets and snacks and fruits – all homemade. Jackfruit halwa,
achappam, kuzhalappam, unniappam, vatteppam, a variety of chips,
and fruit cake. It is a heavenly feast.
This time, of course, because of a death in the family, no one would
celebrate the festival. For forty days, they will eschew meat and fish.
So some are miffed, especially the servants who would not get their
usual take home package of edible goodies.
Anarkali finds her mother sitting alone in the dark of her
grandmother’s room. The sound of distant fireworks startle them. As
Anarkali is about to leave the room, she hears a sob. She goes to her
mother, and soon listens to a bizarre confession. Anarkali does not
understand why her mother told her all that then. But what she hears
disturbs her. In a hushed voice, she describes a perunnaal night. The
fireworks roar. Anarkali hears the sobs of a ten-year-old girl. She sees
the tear-stained, little face of a straw angel. A girl who lost her trust in
people, in herself. A girl trembling in the arms of her rescuer, a little
boy not much older than herself – her brother, Thomas. Little Emily
who grew up in fear of growth and maturity. A girl who was chastised
and silenced. Fed with guilt and anger. Later, she told her husband
about the servant who pounced on her, and threatened her of more pain
if she made a sound, about the ugly eyes and dirty hands of that man.
All this, to a husband who did not seem to understand why it had to
ASHA BERNARD 149
happened to her, and her alone. Anarkali’s understanding, well-read
father failed to understand his wife.
The fireworks have stopped. Anarkali wishes she can empathize,
console her mother. But an angry, stubborn streak in her stops her. She
suffered too, she wants to shout. Because of you, Mother. Why did you
tell this to me? Why should I care?
She knows the answer to that – because she is my mother, who was
once a virgin. A little girl. A little girl whose frock is stained with
pomegranate juice, her mouth pink, the tips of her chubby fingers red.
A little girl who climbed trees, threw stones into the muddy water of
their pond, and reached the mango tree on a December morning to
collect in her frock the ripe mangoes that fell the previous night, way
before the boys.
Because she was her blood. She was her.
Kalyani is waiting for her when Anarkali gets home from Delhi.
Her face is wreathed in smiles. Anarkali smiles back, as she gets out of
the car. Kumaran brings her things in. Anu is aware that Kalyani is full
of some news. She can hear a baby’s bawl from the house next door.
She looks enquiringly at Kalyani.
“Yes, that is the new people. They have a little baby. And there is
the father, the mother, and another girl – some twelve or thirteen. Kind
of quiet. Oh, and there is a servant girl.”
“When did they move in?”
“Oh, right after you left for Delhi And they have named their home
“parudeesa.”
Paradise? Anarkali has to smile at the name. “Nice name, eh?”
“Yes. Every evening we can hear them say the rosary. The whole
family say it, and there is the singing. That song about the Holy Spirit.
Very pious family. Like when your grandmother lived.”
Anarkali was always sleepy at prayers. She had had enough of
prayers and charismatic retreats to last a lifetime, in all those schools
where bevies of virgins ran amok. She remembered a beautiful young
novice who was in her class. Someone said she joined the convent
because of a broken love affair. Others said it was because of the
influence of a senior nun. Anarkali discovered that she was there
because of a vow of her mother. That if she had a boy after six girls,
she would send one of the girls to the convent. And little Mary got to
be a nun.
Lazy days pass and the sky is still blue, the sun still bright. The
little sparrows and the plump pigeons strut about. Anarkali dreams of
Ashok's eyes, his smile. Anarkali puts away her books. She cannot
believe what she is about to do. Call a man who may have forgotten
about her already. Inviting a man to her house where she is practically
alone. These days, Kalyani is busy playing with the baby next door,
any time she is free. Because Anarkali is absorbed in her work, she
does not mind. But now she is doubtful. Forty, and still worried about
what Mother, and all those around will say. As if they have nothing
else to do. But that is exactly the thing. They have nothing else to do.
Even if they did, there would be someone who finds the time to know
what is going on, and let others know. But what is she worried about?
Two grown up people meeting after a long time. Two friends talking
about old times. Just like Anna, who will be here in a few days.
Anarkali is waiting for Ashok. The dream again. Daydream. She is
in a pale yellow saree, with bright yellow embroidery on it. He used to
like her in yellow. Soon she hears the car drive up to the front. Kalyani
opens the door as Anarkali waits. Ashok enters, and Kalyani rushes to
the kitchen to get tea and snacks. Anarkali feels awkward. Is she
overdressed? Like Anna used to make fun of herself, when she
described her appearance at a Christmas sing-along in Ajay’s school.
She said people tried to pretend they did not see her, feeling pity for
her. But Anarkali had told her that was not the reason – they were
uncomfortable that their men were looking at her. They were jealous.
Anna did not believe her of course.
Ashok is smiling at her, “Where are you?”
“I was thinking of Anna,” she blurts out.
“Yes, Anna. The terrible two.”
Anarkali laughs. “The guys did hate us, didn’t they? They called us
“self sufficient units,” and then, lesbians. They even called us drug
addicts, because one day I had black tea at the cafeteria. Just because
we did not run away pretending to be shy, and work to hook them.”
“Well, that is what they will expect. After all, it is a university coed,
and we were all over twenty-five. By then, girls are usually married
and the ones who come to university are thought to be on the lookout
for men.”
“We knew that, and we hated that. That is why we took extra care
to show that we were not looking for a man.” After a pause, she says,
“Ego, that is what it was, I think.”
ASHA BERNARD 151
“Well, I think the men had not met girls like you before. You were
the topic of discussion in the men’s’ hostel. You were so aloof and
unfriendly, but the guys from your department stood by you. It was
obvious that they cared for you.”
“And we know the girls in our hostel worked against us too. We
were threats to them.”
“Well, can you blame them? When their man asks about you girls?
In fact, I know some who befriended some of those girls, hoping to
find out more about you, and ended up with the girl. And I also know a
girl who befriended a boy by talking about you to him, and later
married him.”
“Are you telling me the whole men’s hostel was yearning for our
attention?”
“No, of course not. Many hated your guts because they could not
figure you out. Who were you? They knew you were smart, led the
fashion on the campus, that you were feminists, and so they expected
you to be ‘loose’. But you always broke their expectations.”
“You mean they could not put us in convenient slots. We ourselves
did not know what we were doing. That was our first coed experience.
Both of us came from a protected lifestyle, which you used to call
convent culture, and we had heard of these stories of girls going
overboard in such situations. And were you able to figure us out?”
“Well, not completely because you never let anyone close. So
suspicious of our intentions. You were anomalies, all right. But to me,
very likeable.”
“Yeah, Neither fish nor fowl. Always. That is why we got those
anonymous letters – one saying that the writer saw us sleeping with a
professor, and the other calling us lesbians. And it had pictures too.”
Why are we talking about this? Anarkali wonders. All the same, she
is glad that they can talk like friends, after all these years. Her eyes
wander all over his face – those eyes that haunted her for years, those
chiseled lips, and the straight nose. Her gaze is stuck on the side of his
chin -- on the little nick from shaving. It gleams, it beckons. Anarkali
wants to touch that little mark. Kiss it. She stops herself from going
that far, and lowers her eyes.
Meanwhile Kalyani has brought the tea and her special banana fry
and uzhunnu vada and chutney. Anarkali watches him sip his tea. She
cannot believe this is happening. It was as if time had stopped. That
they were back at the university. As if they were never apart. She felt
closer to him even more than before.
“I cannot believe this is happening,” he says. Her eyes wander over

him again, and lands on the mark on his firm chin. Somehow, she
thinks it makes him look dashing, and vulnerable at the same time. She
feels hitherto barely there sensations consuming her whole body and
mind.
“So what is your plan? Are you moving to Delhi?” she hears him
ask from afar.
“No, no. I am trying to complete my research. I don’t know if I
want to teach, but maybe some day, write.”
“That sounds good. Writing is another way to teach.”
“How about you? I thought you would be going into politics. Or
become at least a well known Marxist intellectual.”
“That’s it. I found it to be very difficult to be an intellectual, and a
politician at the same time. And you had influenced my thinking in
ways I am learning even now.”
Anarkali looks at him enquiringly.
“Like feminism. The fact that the empowerment of the working
class did not necessarily mean that of the women. A fact that you
pointed out. I was so much into equality of the proletariat, and was not
introduced to that perspective till then. Till then, I had taken for
granted many things about women, like a typical Indian male. You
really made me think differently.”
“We were so young. I really did not know that I did all that. But
you used to accuse me of being a capitalist, predict so annoyingly that
I would go to Paradise after my education, and you used to look down
on us convent cultured, English medium girls. There were times later
that I felt you were right.”
“I am not against learning another language, at least it would enable
us to know what and how the others think. But the brain drain from
India is a reality, which, I may add, is now bringing some positive
results too. I learned that at least some of us confused efficient
technology with consumerism. And so we were against anything
western, any new innovation. It was silly, considering the fact that
Marxism is a western import. Like feminism. We were busy blaming
you for aping western women.” He pauses. “Anu, what do you think of
your Paradise’s interest in China?”
Anu laughs. “Yeah, they are into opening up China. Maybe the idea
of a big Bakbak Corporation, with all other countries on the planet as
franchises, appeals to Paradisians. To think that democracy is the only
way for any country, and be dogmatic about it – I don’t know. Just the
ASHA BERNARD 153
other day, I was reading about Bhutan’s King. How he wants to
abdicate, and pave the way for democracy, and how the people do not
want him to, because he has brought prosperity and literacy to their
country. A benevolent despot. That goes to show –. “ Anu stops.
She feels she is talking to Anna. She savors the intellectual
connection that she has with this man. “Well, we were young, and it
was our prerogative to be opinionated and inflexible about our ideals.
As time goes on, I learn that things are not black and white, even
though I may want them to be,” Anu says.
Kalyani comes in to take the tea things away. She wants to go to the
neighbors – the baby is calling her. Anarkali consents.
The house is silent after she leaves. Anu and Ashok are silent. They
look outside at the waning sunlight.
Anarkali cannot remember what they talked about afterwards. She
was no longer awkward or shy. Ashok gets up to go, “It is getting late.
I should go.”
Anu nods.
“How is your family?” he asks, as he puts on his shoes.
“All fine. How about yours?” She is afraid to ask if he is married.
He must be, it has been so long.
“All right. I am not married,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes.
Anarkali smiles, embarrassed. “Family responsibilities. Sisters to be
married off. Father died right after I finished college. Then, building
up my business. Travel and stuff – not time enough.”
And then,
“Can I think of this as a new beginning? Do we get a second
chance?” he looks into her upturned face.
Anarkali says, “Yes.” She is warmed by the sparkle in his eyes. She
watches as he bends toward her, and slowly draws her up. She looks
into those eyes where she sees herself. She feels the warmth of his
palms as they cup her chin. His eyes seem to drink in her.
Remembering. Memorizing.
“These eyes!” he says as he kisses her eyes. And then on her lips.
First on the cupid’s bow, then on the lip. Anarkali feels her lips
tremble, till his lips latch on firmly, surely. She is ablaze all over. But
when she thinks she hears some noise, she tries to move away. He
stops and looks at her. His stern mien is gone. The calm facade is no
more. Anarkali revels in his need. She reaches up, and touches the
mark on his chin. He holds on to her hand. Anarkali smiles at him, and
plants a kiss on the mark. Her tongue darts outward, and soon their lips
are locked tight again. They are open, welcoming each other, inviting.
She feels the heat from his palms on the curve of her bare waist,
moving down, to rest just at the top of the skirt of her saree, on her
hips. He pulls her closer to him, his other hand pressing her to his
chest.
Anarkali hears the gate and sees Kalyani coming down the front.
They pull apart. As he leaves, Anarkali’s hand goes to her lips . Not
bad, she smiles. Her first kiss.
Chapter 14
In which Anna talks with Jenny, and where there is a shooting in a
school in her city, she goes home for Christmas, and plans to stay for
perunnaal, and she visits Anarkali.
I am getting old. Look at my face. Like a desiccated arecanut. The

other day, I was looking at my old pictures, my wedding pictures, and
I saw this young, innocent woman. A stranger. Look at me now.
Where have I got to? I am not comfortable with this new person. Full
of anger and hatred and distrust, and sadness. What has happened to
me? Adulthood? Is this what adulthood brings? Suspicion and anger?
Hatred and distrust? And loneliness and sadness? Where is that naive,
trusting, funny person gone? Has she gone forever, like my youth? I
won’t say childhood, because childhood is not all that it is made out to
be. Is my yearning just a wish to get my youth back? Is this how one
truly loses her innocence, her virginity? No longer am I a virgin. Or an
innocent. Looking back, I tried to hold on to that, consciously or not,
for quite some time. Long after my peers grew up, I acted the wise
fool, rather than a sex-pot, or a coy child -woman.
In my heart, I know that I should not be finding fault with
Paradisians for my problems. As I told you before, there are all sorts of
people all over the world. Then why am I so conscious of my
brownness? That somehow it defines me to these people? Why do I
fear that they do not see beyond my skin color? Why should I care? Is
it my ego? That I Anna Zachariah , a Malayali Nazrani from India, the
cleverest girl in her class, who was and is the apple of her parents’
eyes, and most of her relatives, who had a great life in India is a
nonentity here? That no one here cares if I live or die? Anonymity – is
that so bad? As opposed to celebrity and fame, maybe it is good. But
as opposed to the feeling of being a part of a group, having a sense of
belonging, anonymity is sinister. I always invite my parents to come
and live with us. They, especially my father, do not want to. A visit is
all right, he says. But to live? No way.
“I do not want to die like a stray dog. Who knows me there? How
many people will there be for my funeral?”
When I hear that, I am amused, “What does it matter who comes to

your funeral, or who cries, or who laughs, when you are dead?”
He says, “It matters to me.”
Now I think he would not survive if he came here. Without the
attention and admiration and the respect of his fellow men and women,
he would wither. My all-powerful father, who brags that he can
survive in the densest of jungles, among the fiercest of animals, that he
can fight the strongest and win, will turn into a recluse, and soon lose
his mind. The boredom, the loneliness, and the silence. Paradise.
As I write these sentences, I learn many things about myself, and
my past and my present. I am slowly learning to come to terms with
many things, as I am trying to understand them. Individually, if I met
any of the more human Other, as Anu would describe them, I would be
comfortable.
But my mindset is so different from what it was when I was in
India. I owe this country that – it has opened my eyes regarding all the
above matters to more knowledge. I have read more about what they
have done to my country, from books, from my friend’s writings. My
own experiences, very nebulous and some quite apparent, have made
me rethink my romantic notions. I was angry, I still am, but I seem to
understand. Today, I was talking to Jenny about it. She seemed to
understand my confusion and my conclusions. She has Irish ancestry.
But she is white too. My trouble started, I think, when I began to be
conscious of my brown skin. And who or what made me conscious of
that? Was it the clerk at the Immigration who doubted my integrity,
and by that, insulted me, and my country? Was it my obstetrician who
failed to help me with my bad and sickly appearance during my
pregnancy and subsequent delivery? Was it the stewardess on the
plane who found it hard to serve me? Or that suspicious,
uncomfortable salesperson who was not sure that I was there before
the white person, even though she saw me waiting there first? Was it
the person who I met at a party who asked me very doubtfully and
humorously, “Is that good?,” to my happy announcement that I was
going to India for the holidays? Was it my gradual awakening to their
ignorance about my country, and its people? (I don’t know if they
know of their own country’s history; if they did, some of them would
not be as jingoistic, and as arrogant) Do I detect the same superiority
or boorishness in every glance that fails to see me? In every evasive
eye?
ASHA BERNARD 157
But then, as Jenny reminds me, having listened to my stories, are
there not people like these in India? I say yes. There was, and there
are. And I used to be angry, and used to want to change things. I used
to argue, and fight, and write. But this feeling of knowing that the
others think of me as inferior, that is new. No, wait, is it not the same
after all? I used to feel that the men thought us women to be inferior.
And remember, I told you about the men in my town? Isn’t it the same,
except here, it is color, rather than sex. Does that mean I deem color to
be more basic and important than sex, now? I have to know. And if I
am the kind to fight, to protest wherever I am, so be it. My mistake
was to expect Paradise to be perfect, like Mahabali’s Kerala.
To think that escaping from the special rules - written and unwritten
– for women, I could get rid of them without having to break them.
But I did not think it would cut me off from civilization, from people.
Accepting, resisting, life has to go on. My life. My own way. As long
as I do not hurt others.
As an Indian, I have been trained in the best of Hindu and Christian
traditions. Hospitality, humility, politeness and so on, which somehow
seem out of place and out of date here. Add to that, the qualities of a
loyal servant ingrained in the Indians by the Others, and continued in
the educational system that they left behind. It is strange that even
people like us Malayalis who did not let the Others in learn the same
themes.
Life in Paradise is a trip from one project to the next. Getting the
floor done, calling the landscaper, building that sun room, remodeling
this bath. And from weekend to weekend. The routine of school, and
work, and homework during weekdays, and that of no school, no
homework, and no work at weekends. In between, we shop eat out,
and pray – in total anonymity. No interruptions from the outside
world, from another human being, unless an appointment is taken, or
permission is granted. Except when the again anonymous, faceless
salespeople call. Or the anonymous children come to sell things for
their school, children, and their parents, who will remember you only
the next year around the same time. No letters except for the flyers that
warmly welcome us to spend our money. We are practical people here.
Project oriented. And our son seems to be our greatest project.
We bring up our son here. Maybe that is what makes me focus on
color now more than sex. Maybe it is because this is in my present.
Maybe I have come to terms with my sexual equality. And now it is
the color factor that I have to deal with. A newer, stranger experience.
And because I am in a foreign land in the guise of a regular, sweet

Indian housewife, and mother, I do not speak out. I wonder what we
are doing to our son. He is in a cocoon, like us. In limbo. In a bubble. I
was in one back home, but a bubble with doors and windows. Here we
are in one with no entry or exit. We are observers, and prefer it to be
that way. We monitor what our son watches on TV, what games he
plays, what language he uses. We are model people before him. We do
not say bad words in front of him, either in our language, or in
English. We do not watch our movies, because we do not want him to
see them. We are the only adults he sees, apart from his teachers, and a
couple of other Malayali families much like us once in a blue moon.
We have never had a baby sitter. And he does not have an older
brother, or sister to lead him astray. Or uncles or aunts or irascible
grandparents who might say a bad word or two. Or people on the
street. It was when I heard that he was duped by another child into
saying f – aloud that I was aware of this. And he is a very smart, and
cool kid. I know he will go out once he is a little more grown. But the
fact that we live in this bubble – not letting anything or anyone in – is
disturbing. For how long can this show go on?
I had lunch with Jenny today. She has traveled a lot, met a lot of
people, and been through a lot of experiences – romantic and
otherwise. I am like a child when I listen to her stories. Her real
adventures in foreign lands. Her break off from a stifling marriage.
She was able to fly, like we used to dream about. She was not worried
about what others thought, she made her own choices, led her own life.
But then, she is white. Doors open for them. Maybe not all the time,
but more than doors open to a brown or a black. I learned that here. I
am thankful that I came to this country.
This is the best part of living here. Getting ready to go home. To
India. For a month. No cooking, no cleaning, and lots of talking. Love.
Attention. Respect. Envy. The list of feelings goes on. It is a saturation
for the senses – physical and mental. A provocative, inclusive,
embracing country. My country where I belong. Even though I know I
have the right to be anywhere in this world.
The first look at the tickets. I read each and every line on it, on the
airline brochure. These days I do not take many gifts. That was in the
beginning. Now I buy them in India. But this time, I am taking some
champagne with me. My brother and his wife are going to be there,
and some of my uncles and aunts, apart from my parents and
grandparents. No, they do not all live in the same house, but we gather.
ASHA BERNARD 159
And of course, I will visit my friend. She has asked me to stay with her
for at least a week. I can leave my son safely with my parents or any of
my relatives. Maybe I will take him to Anu’s house. He likes it there
too. It is really a rural country. With farms and temples and mosques.
And churches. Every time before we start for home, my mother asks
me what I would like to eat on my first day home. We tell her we will
not be feeling like eating the moment we get off that plane. But she
never listens. She asks the same of all of us, and makes everything,
and then some.
Ajay has asked for a pet goat, and I know she would have found
one through her various connections, and will have it ready by the time
we get there. Last time, it was a tortoise. It is still there, and he
enquires about it, over the phone. My mother always have kept love
birds or parakeets, and mynahs and parrots. We used to have dogs, but
after the death of the last German shepherd, we stopped. Ajay is
deliriously happy to be there. He is a little boy, and I am like his sister.
He just blends in, like he has always been there. They are all surprised
that he looks so Indian. Why is he so thin? How come he is at home
here?
They ask me about his school, and are amazed at the freedom the
children enjoys in the class room, at the variety of things they get to
do. My brother and I go back to our school days and compare. The lab
that was used, say once a year, the library that was so sacred we never
went in, the teachers who were mostly the nun’s cousins or nieces,
most of whom did not know what they were doing. We marvel at the
books that are available to these children. We shudder at the raps on
our knuckles with a ruler, and the canings that we got as punishment
for doing this, not doing that, and sometimes for just being there. I
recall the times when some teachers used to give their favorites
absolute power over us lesser mortals. There was this girl who was
kind of an idiot when it came to studies, but very smart when it came
to punishing, and writing the names down of those who dared to talk
when the teacher was out. She would rap us with the teacher’s ruler on
our knuckles. We were really terrified of this creature. And of the
minions who seemed to thrive around her. I wonder where she is now.
My brother and I joke that if we were the ones who had all the
resources and chances that the Paradisans got, we would all have been
Einsteins or Ramanujans.. And we had gone to an expensive school
too. And the universities back home! Nicely constructed. Badly
maintained. The stink of the restrooms. No place for girls. Well, do

you go to the university to study or to poop? We may be asked.
Two more days and we are off. Although I do not want to think of
the flight, which is becoming more and more like the slave ships of
olden days. Cramped legs, hurting back and neck, – no breathing
space. And then the antics of the white or sometimes brown
stewardesses. The glazed over eyes, the looking away, as if listening to
a higher voice (say, like the farting of gods), when you come in. There
was this one stewardess who was so busy folding something that she
did not see me standing there with my baby in my hands, waiting for
her attention, for over five minutes. I try not to press the bell for these
glorified maid servants, since I know they are woefully understaffed.
But when you have a tiny baby with you, sometimes you have to call.
And when you still do not see any sign of them, you have to go. That
day I came away at last, saying to her, “Oh I’ m sorry. I did not know
you were folding the President’s underwear.” Then there are the times
when they do not see you when they serve the meals, or when it is time
to take the trash. The invisible passengers, whose money is not
invisible. And how can one forget the herding off of the Third World
would-be terrorists/ criminals on our way back, to a separate secluded
bubble where we sit around like refugees. May be some time in the
future they will start branding us or pin the yellow star on us. What
with the rigmaroles of visas, transit visas, medical checkups, and
whatnot. Ironically, they are eager to extend this treatment to
postcolonials more than to anybody else. To people from whom they
have plundered the most. Afraid that these riffraff would do to them
what they did to them some time back and keep doing it even now?
Last time we went, my son says, “I know what I am going to do
when I grow up. I will have a plane factory that makes huge planes
that can take us to India in less than two hours. And an airline and
airports. It will be cheap but comfy. Lot of planes. Lot of space in
every plane. People will be able to walk around, play games, eat what
they want, when they want.”
His father, who had just scolded him to sit still, asked him, “What
will I have?”
He says, “You will be given oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and
dinner.” We all laugh at that. But the thing is, we forget all the troubles
and trials once we get home.
Just two more days. I do not want to think of the return now.
Today, I got some of my summer clothes together though I will not be
ASHA BERNARD 161
wearing western clothes there. Too much of the show off look. On the
other hand, my Indian clothes will be out of fashion by the time I get
there. At least in the group that I belong. I will have to go shopping
when I get there. And we have this family tailor who will stitch dresses
in a jiffy. We have ready-mades where we live. But for really good
choice, we may have to go to Bangalore or Madras. But I prefer
getting custom-made clothes because the rest is common. Although I
know here, in Paradise, only the very rich can afford that.
I am waiting for Ajay again. These days I forget to be in that
dreamy, romantic mood when I drive. The other day I went to this
drugstore, part of a huge chain in this country, with a bottle of pills
that I had got from there. I had seen these dark stains inside the bottle
and on the pills. I did not have any plans of extorting money from the
store. All I wanted to find out was if it was safe to use it. The
pharmacist, and I am sad to say she was brown, treated me like I was a
liar and a criminal. She said I must have poured something in it. How
can she say if it is safe when she does not know what I had put in it! I
was shocked and sad. I did not feel like saying anything. There was no
fight in me. And I am ashamed to say I cried when I drove that day.
These days, I do that a lot. Crying and driving. I wonder if that is
against the law, and if it will get me a ticket.
Today was a bad day. I cannot bring myself to write about it. There
was a shooting in a school in this city. An Indian-American boy was
killed. So far, no one knows why. He was a smart, good-looking boy
from a nice family. I see this on the news, and I rush to my son’s
school. I know this did not happen there. But I do not want to be by
myself in my house. I wanted to be one among humans. Even if as a
bystander. My son has not heard anything about the shooting. And he
is excited it is Christmas vacation at last, and that we are going to
India. I smile at him as we walk to the car.
Packing, locking, and checking. Over and over. The house will
remain locked while we are gone. We have let our neighbors know
that we will not be here for a month, though my husband will be back
in a week. The security alarm is on. Ajay runs around the house, not
able to contain his excitement. I am happier and am back to my old
self. The clown. When my husband gets back from work, I jump on
him like I used to do, very much like Cato did on Clouseau. He is
woken up from his preoccupation, and we have a good fight. We spar
like wild cats. Though he is the one who gets hurt, as of course he lets
me. Some of my frustration is gone by the time we stop. We end up
panting and laughing on the bed. I have many other tricks up my

sleeve to get his attention. Or to just let off steam. I sing like a diva,
and dance the cabaret. Only for him. At other times, I imitate him.
Along with Ajay. My husband says I am crazy.
And my son gives me his highest compliment, “Mom, you are
weird.” Sometimes, I tell my husband that I regret not being courted,
serenaded, and chased after. I haven’t told him about my driving and
dreaming thing. He will be worried that I may have an accident. Who
knows, maybe he does the same thing. Maybe everyone does.
And then, my dad will be waiting at the airport. Home is where
your dad is. That is what I think. Moms are all right as far as I am
concerned. But I always feel they hold you back – from flying, from
exploring, and from experiencing. Everyone says it is because they
love you, they want to protect you, that they fear what others will say,
if the child went bad like a rotten mango. We all know it is the mother
who will be blamed the most. But I think there is more to this holding
back. Jealousy perhaps? At least for some mothers, especially when it
comes to their daughters. Why do they have children in the first place?
I am sure many women will not do this if they really knew the whole
details of pregnancy and childbirth. The pain, the discomfort, the
incontinence before and after childbirth, the lasting effects it has on
her body and her mind – the last part can of course be greatly reduced
if you are rich or a celebrity. Their tummies gets back to pre-
pregnancy shape and firmness in no time, as if by magic. They call it
work out. The question is who is the one working out – the plastic
surgeon, and the nannies and the spa person, or the personal trainer.
Well, we ordinary women can forget those ladies.
How about us? Why do we do this? We have seen that women can
love their adopted children as much or even more than some biological
mothers do. Is it conditioning that makes us do this? Or the thought
that it helps us hold on to the man? To endure without questioning all
the pain, danger and the ignominy of a normal delivery or the danger
and pain of a C-section. To willingly submit to torture, I don’t know. I
know the talk about the beauty that comes out of the pain – the baby.
But what if the baby can grow and be born without rupturing a human
being’s body? Why isn’t anyone thinking of it? After all, we have
money to spend on making and looking for weapons of mass
destruction, and going to the moon and Mars. Why is this part of the
life of this section of human beings conveniently forgotten? Why is
this exaltation of pain not considered masochistic? I have serious
ASHA BERNARD 163
doubts regarding the brains of us women. Whatever in that brain of
ours makes us accept this without complaint? Babies are lovely, they
are what takes the world forward. But how come they do not take us
women forward in evolution? I know many of you will think me crazy.
Including women. But I also know that many will understand. Women
who want their bodies back. Women who love being women, women
who love the feminine side, the feminine sexuality, but would rather
not endure the pain and the suffering. The sixth mystery. The
sorrowful mystery.
There, I am back to being a feminist – in my own way. Going home
makes me that.
Chapter 15
Wherein the narrator sneaks in and presents Anna’s notes on the
conscious evolution of women. To read or not to read – dear reader,
you have a choice.
Recently, I saw this very space age, highly technological science

fiction movie. Very advanced, very imaginative and creative, I
thought. But when I saw the poor woman screaming and writhing in
pain, and the baby coming out, hurting her, rupturing her, I think, “Oh
well, there goes advanced! This is the woman’s lot.” (And she is an
alien!) Why can’t anyone dare to imagine a birth of a baby that does
not involve the breaking of a woman’s body? Isn’t she human? What
is evolution, after all, if we cannot improve our conditions
consciously? Walking is natural, but we invented vehicles. How come
this is the only natural thing that cannot be touched?
I imagine a time when people can watch their babies grow – the
mother and father together. Together, they will nurture it, care for it in
a controlled environment. Hands on experience.
And more controlled than cloning. If babies who haven’t reached
full term can be taken out of a celebrity’s womb, then this is not
impossible (regarding celeb babies, they give a lot of reasons, which I
do not believe. Because I had pre-eclampsia and the doctor did not
even know it until I got to my fortieth week.) Torn muscles of the
stomach, and elsewhere, fractured cervical bones, incontinence,
instability of the uterus – many are the reasons that I see for bringing
the foetus out of the woman’s womb. Procreation is all right, but not at
the expense of a woman. The need for research into this has to be
acknowledged, at least.
There are some mothers, mainly mothers- in-law, who begrudge the
newcomers their present comforts and convenience. For instance, they
go on and on about how they had to blow hard at the damp firewood
(although many of these had people to do it), while the daughter-in-
law can turn the stove on with just a flick of her hand. There are others
who boast of the ease with which they gave birth to sixteen children,
and brought them up very well, and contrasts it with the carryings on
of the modern female. Well, I can only say things have changed.
ASHA BERNARD 165
Women have changed and are changing, as I write this. Their needs
and wants are different. They have, at least in the western world, for
the most part come out of the kitchen, and the bedroom. Also, there is
a vast gap between the mindset that is resigned to its fate like the
slaves and serfs of ye olde days, and the modern human being’s
mindset that sees it as having every right to be happy, without harming
others, or oneself, like any other person.
Modern women may feel a little difficult to accept being treated as
animals whose pain and suffering are not worth ameliorating. Some of
these older woman, and likewise some younger ones too, exalt the pain
of childbirth as a pleasure. They look down upon epidurals, or other
anesthetic procedures that might take away from the purity of the
experience. What is this longing for crucifixion? Come on, we are
mortals, and we cannot resurrect on the third day, looking like new. Or
is it jealousy and anger that prompts such a reaction to progress? If I
had to suffer and smile, then why should you be spared?
Artificial wombs are not impossible. If we can invent machines and
vehicles and weapons that defy gravity, the limits of time and space
and mind, we surely can at least try to do something here. Forget the
pros and cons of C-sections and normal/natural delivery, although I
find it hard to see anything normal or natural in the second. Think of
alternate ways. If a time comes when childbearing and rearing is
outside the woman’s body, I am sure a better equality will come into
being. People – men and women – will have the right to choose. Do
they want to be parents together – not after the baby is born, but from
the start of conception? Adoption of course is a great option. But those
who want to be biological parents get the chance to be just that – from
the very beginning. It will be a work of love – something that they can
see and nurture and grow.
I see postpartum depression as a sign of the times in which we live
– an increasingly prevalent phenomena – while it surely shows the
lack of human companionship and support that should accompany
pregnancy and childbirth and child rearing, like we have in India, and
other non-westernized countries. To me, it is a big pointer towards the
change that is sweeping the minds of women. They have started to
protest. Remember the female maladies of the past, where the women
were branded insane for their sexuality. This is the next step in that.
Now women want to go forward. Consciously or not, they are
evolving. They want a better quality of life, without having to sacrifice
the love and happiness they would feel at seeing a newborn.
Or are women to be cursed forever for their instigative role in the

enactment of the original sin?
I have heard people – including male doctors – talk of mother’s
instinct. To me, every decent human being has this instinct, and it is
not the monopoly of women. Some fathers are better mothers than
women. Some mothers eat their children, metaphorically speaking.
And this instinct can be developed too – if that instinct means caring
and nurturing. Haven’t we all seen little girls taking care of their dolls?
How about the little boys who take care of their stuffed animals or real
animal pets? When do we let them lose that instinct? Is it a huge
conspiracy that prevents the females from escaping/ sharing their
enormous responsibility? The responsibility of bearing pain happily?
And when both the parents work hard in bringing out this baby,
they will really be able to experience the maternal instinct, unclouded
by jealousy, pain, or loss of self-image or dignity on the part of one or
the other.
It is time for what I call a conscious evolution of women, and
thereby that of human beings who inhabit this Earth. The next step in
the evolutionary process may be a new human being.
Chapter 16
In which Kalyani learns that something is rotten in Parudeesa, and
Thresia is ill.
Kalyani is busy spreading bamboo mats in the sun. She has some
spare time, and she is about to dry red chilies and coriander seeds. She
prefers making her own chili powder and coriander powder, in fact
most of the masalas. She doesn’t trust the contents of the packet
powders in the new supermarket in Kombodinjaaplaakkal. She spreads
the yellow coriander and the red chili, and they roast in the sun. Now,
for the stick with a piece of rag on it to scare away the crows. Though
they would not be interested in these. Kalyani thought of the mats
spread with layers and layers of mango pulp and juice. And the chunks
of beef rubbed with turmeric, which Anumol’s grandmother called a
cleanser, and salt, hanging on a long wire, slowly drying in the sun.
Now those needed your attention, or the crows would have a field day.
Kalyani, who was a pert girl in those days, was the one who got the
job of watching the birds. She thinks of the green of the fresh peppers
that will dry up to be black pepper. Like her, she thinks, as she gets
older, she turns blacker and drier. Her mind goes back to the time
when they found that bird with a broken leg. Anu’s grandmother had
asked her to put turmeric paste on the tiny break, and tie it up in clean
white mull. She wishes she has some chicks or hens, or a duck, and a
rooster, – the last mentioned, to strut about and to do his wake up call.
But they will start eating up the plants, especially the duck. Still, she
can enclose them in a mesh fence, or something in the back. She looks
around her. There is enough room between her vegetable patch, where
Anu liked to potter, and the nutmeg tree.
Her thoughts wander to Anumol’s visitor. Nice man. Good
manners. He took off his shoes, before he entered. Kalyani is proud of
her polished, well mopped floor. Hindu, she is almost sure, and must
be high caste. Anumol sure looked happy after he left, but pensive too.
But Anna is coming. That will cheer her up, Kalyani is sure. Anna is
fun, she clowns so much. Kalyani smiles, but listens to a sound from
the neighboring house. She had been hearing that sound for some time
now, off and on. It is only now that it registers. She had seen the mom
and dad leaving the house together. Last evening, they had told her
something about going to visit a cousin in the hospital. Lily and the
baby must be there by themselves. She hopes they are all right. The
girl is such a mouse. Morose and scared all the time. Some girls are
like that, Kalyani says to herself, even though she has to go and find
out. She goes in and tells Anu about her worry.
“Oh, but I saw the baby’s dad go in some quarter of an hour ago.”
Anarkali looks at Kalyani.
“That’s good. Because I heard this strange sound.”
“Oh well, if it bothers you, why don’t you go and see if we can help
in any way?”
Kalyani hurries out, and jumps over the brick wall between the two
compounds, stepping on a conveniently placed drumstick tree stump.
Since there are more trees in this yard, Kalyani’s progress is slow. As
she gets closer, she hears the angry voice of the man. Now Kalyani is
confused. She did not want to intrude on a family quarrel. But then she
sees something through the kitchen half door, something that she will
never forget in her life time. In fact, she is some way away, and later
she is not sure that she did see it. The sobbing girl and the jeering man.
Obviously, the girl had run to the kitchen. What hit Kalyani was that
the girl was almost naked. Her blouse was off , and her petticoat torn
revealing a painfully thin chest, and her skirt nowhere to be seen.
Kalyani feels like killing the man. The hypocrite! The worm! But she
knows she cannot deal with this by herself. No one is going to believe
a servant, that too, an unmarried person like her. She has seen too
many movies, and has lived long enough to know that she will be the
one accused – maybe of stealing something, and him catching her, or
even of her coming on to him, and him refusing her. Kalyani hurries
back home. She will tell Anumol. Anu will know what to do. And
since Anna is coming, this man being her relative, they will do
something. Meanwhile, she vows to find a way to never let Lily be
alone in that house with that monster.
Anarkali, as usual, is poring over a book. She looks slightly
alarmed at Kalyani’s disturbed air.
“Anumol, that man . . . that poor girl . . .” She cannot complete the
sentence.
”What is it, Kalyani?” Anu gets up to go to Kalyani.
Kalyani gives her the details. Anarkali is silent for a while. She
knows this is not as easy as calling the police. For one thing, they are
women living alone. That makes them more or less outsiders. She
ASHA BERNARD 169
could ask for help from her father, who can deal with the police. But
then there is the question of credibility. The girl may deny everything,
for fear of shame. Families and relationships are an important concern
too. That something must be done is certain. But what? Yes, Anna.
She will know. And it is her relative, and she will have other familial
sources to deal with this man. Punish him, expose him, so that he will
not dare to do this again.
“We have to keep an eye on the girl, till Anna gets here.” Anarkali
says out loud.
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Daytime it is all right, but night, I
don’t know how we can manage.”
“But at night, his wife is there. No, we can’t depend on that. Better
have some one there.”
“Who?”
“Do you know of someone in your family who can be there?”
“Not anyone old enough. “
Both women are thoughtful.
“And how do we get anyone there? Their maidservant already left.”
“I wonder why. We may have to contact her.”
“I know where she comes from. Not far from Thrissur. Anna’s
family knows her.”
“There is only one way. You will have to get in there somehow.”
“How? The lady says they do not want any full time maid there.
And I cannot leave you alone here.”
“That’s all right. Pearl is home for Christmas. I will ask her to come
stay with me for a few days.” Anarkali’s mind works. “You will have
a fight with me.”
“What?”
“That is the only way. And you run to them.”
“Do you think they will take me?”
“Who wouldn’t? Such an experienced, mature woman. Great cook,
good with the baby. They will fall for it. I am sure. If they don’t, we
will think of another way.”
“If you say so, Anumol.”
So they start their bickering. Sound of doors being slammed. Raised
voices. And then, Anarkali witnesses a most amazing piece of drama
on the part of Kalyani. She falls to the ground and weeps inconsolably.
Beating her chest. Anarkali feels like she should join the fun. But soon
she hears footsteps down the side of the house.
The next door villain stands there, “What is the matter? What
happened?” The concern on his face is genuine. Anarkali hates the
sight of his face. The close set eyes.
Kalyani is the one who answers him, “I will not stay in this house
another second. I want to go home.”
“At this time of the night?” The man is concerned about a woman
walking the streets alone. He says now, “Look, I don’t know what is
going on. But whatever it is, we can discuss it like sensible people.”
He looks at Anarkali.
She tells him, “I don’t want this person in my house.”
Now the man turns to Kalyani, “Maybe you should stay with us for
the night and then decide what to do in the morning. That is if
Anarkali does not mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
So Kalyani picks up her little bag, and goes off for her job as the
hawk. The hawk who will guard the little bird.
After they leave, Anarkali calls home. Pearl will be there the next
morning. Anarkali does not mind being by herself for one night. She
can catch up on her reading.
However, things do not turn out as planned. Next morning,
Anarkali gets a call from Pearl. She will not be coming. Thresia had a
stroke the previous night, and was taken to the emergency room. They
will send Kumaran to Anarkali’s place, and she can come and stay
home for a few days. Thresia is in bad shape. Anarkali gets ready to
go. She wonders how she can let Kalyani know of the happenings. In
the end, she goes to the neighbor’s parudeesa, and tells the lady that
Kalyani may want to know about Thresia. The lady is all sympathy,
and gushes about the virtues of Kalyani. She cannot part with such an
efficient servant even for a minute. But Kalyani may go and see her
friend at the hospital, and be back before evening. That is exactly what
Anarkali wanted. It is decided that Kalyani will travel by car with
Anarkali to the town and will return by bus. So Anarkali thanks the
lady and waits for the car. Soon Kalyani joins her, both the women
careful not to talk with each other, until they are past the area.
Kalyani breaks the silence. “What happened with Thresia?”
Anarkali informs her of the stroke. Kalyani places her fingers on
her mouth, touching her nose with the tip of one. “I can’t believe it.
She is like a horse, I have always thought. Such stamina. This goes to
show you, eh? Kashtam!”
ASHA BERNARD 171
They look outside at the passing greenery. “Yes, it is sad.” Anarkali
says. Still, she does not want to analyze her feelings at this moment.
Thresia is a survivor. With all the techniques and wiles of a successful
woman. She might win this one too.
When they get to the hospital, there is a crowd there. Thresia’s
sisters and their children and spouses. When Anarkali goes in, they get
up, and look at her expectantly. There are some whispers among them.
She goes towards where the women are. At first, they seem
uncomfortable to talk to her, but when one of the older women
approaches her, they all come closer. Anarkali can feel Kalyani by her
side. She can see the pride in Kalyani’s bearing, as the women see her
in such close proximity with a member of the family. But Kalyani is
too canny a person to be a show off. She, at once goes into the circle
and the silence is broken. Enquiries, commiserations, expressions of
hope, despair, wonder, and memories. Until the nurse from the
emergency room comes out, and chastises them. A lull occurs, then it
is back to coping, sharing and helping, albeit a bit more quietly.
Anarkali finds out that her mother and Pearl had just left for home,
from Thresia’s sister. Mariam is very happy and grateful for the
family’s care and support. She extols Anarkali’s mother’s kindness
and understanding and timely intervention. It seems Thresia had been
feeling rather out of sorts all morning, and Anarkali’s mother had
insisted that Thresia lie down. And if she had not checked on her at
night, Thresia would not have made it to the hospital. Mariam wipes
her eyes with the edge of the kavini .
Anarkali goes to the door of the emergency room where the nurse
appears. She asks about the patient’s condition, and if they can see her.
The nurse lets her in for a minute. Anarkali is aware of a sudden rush
at the door. She asks the nurse if they could come in one by one. She
listens with a half ear to the nurse explaining that most of them were
allowed in some time ago, and that doctor had ordered the minimum of
disturbance. But the nurse knows that Thresia was Anarkali’s ayah,
Anarkali’s mother had told her she would be coming. What draws her
attention is the still form of the old Thresia amidst all the medical
paraphernalia. The laughing, mocking Thresia. Her enemy. The spy.
The center of all intrigues and insinuations. Her thick, wavy hair is no
longer midnight black. Anarkali notices the grey hair around the tired
grey face. Two tears run down Anarkali’s cheeks. The nurse pats her
back and leads her out. As she hears the words of sympathy and
appreciation around her, regarding her love for Thresia, and vice versa,
right from her childhood, Anarkali is nauseous. What are the tears for?
She wonders. Not for what these people think. She does not know
what she is crying for. She does not want to think. Anarkali hurries off,
nodding to everyone around. Kalyani follows her and tells her that she
will stay for a while longer, and then leave for Kombodinjaaplaakkal.
Anarkali and Pearl talk about Thresia’s condition. She knows Pearl
is particularly affected, because she was Thresia’s pet. By the time
Pearl was born, Thresia had grown too. She was more ready to shower
love on a child, like a mother, that too on such a beautiful baby as
Pearl. Like their parents, Thresia was proud of the baby’s looks and
dressed her up to the nines when she took her out. She even put a black
dot on the pink, chubby cheeks, so that she did not get the evil eye.
Over the years, Pearl had grown apart from Thresia, but never forgot
her completely. Always remembering to ask about her in letters, to
bring her gifts –a purse, new kavini, lovely rosaries, a brooch, and so
on. Thresia cherished these gifts. Anarkali had brought her a nice
shiny brooch from Paradise, and Thresia had said it was too much for
her. She gave it away to one of her nieces. Anarkali reasons that some
people just do not get along. Prejudices die hard. And Thresia was
someone who tried to do what Anarkali’s mother did. So when she
figured out which way the wind blew, she flew with it. Sometimes she
even created the wind, or the storm if she felt like it. And other
jealousies and grievances with which she dealt with in her own way.
The survivor. Anarkali notices her mother sipping her tea quietly. She
wonders what goes on in that mind now.
“We have to give Thresia a fitting funeral,” she says.
“But Ammachi, she is not gone yet,” Pearl protests.
“It is good if she survives this. But we have to think of every
eventuality,” her mother points out.
Pearl is mad, “I did not know you were such a big planner. Why
don’t you do a rehearsal then?” Her eyes fill up as she continues, “I
would have thought you would be devastated by your loss. Oh, ladies
should not show their feelings, eh? Or is it that you are glad to get rid
of her? What use is an old woman, eh? You ought to be ashamed to be
thinking of her death. After she has given her whole life for us.”
“Just my thinking of her funeral will not kill her,” her mother
replies calmly. “And don’t talk of things you don’t know. You don’t
know a thing about me, or about Thresia. Trust me, I know what she
would want. She would not want to die like a stray dog. She is a
religious person, and she has a whole lot of family and friends. I need
ASHA BERNARD 173
to tell them that they may organize a grand funeral that we will bear
the expenses. And it takes time to do all that, and I may have to help
them with some things. And what if a stage comes when her family
has to decide if she is to be kept alive on machines or let her go in
peace? These are realities that we may have to face.” she adds.
Pearl gets up to leave the room, “I have a feeling you are enjoying
all this,” she tells her mother.
If someone had told Anarkali that she would support her mother
about Thresia to her sister, that night, before the cock cowed three
times, she would not have believed it. But now, she finds herself
saying, “Look Pearl, we cannot do anything for Thresia now. She is
being taken care of by people who know what they are doing. So far,
the prognosis is not good. Anything can happen. It is not a bad idea to
be prepared. Not that I am suggesting that we go right away, and tell
her people.”
Pearl goes up to her room. Anarkali and her mother sit there
listening to Pearl’s footsteps fading away, and the closing of her door.
Anarkali wants to go up to console her sister, but some perverse
curiosity as to know what her mother was thinking, how she felt about
not just Thresia’s illness, but about Thresia and herself and Anarkali,
roots her to the chair. She waits. For an explanation, for words that
proved to her that her mother knew what was going on between the
three women, that she regretted at least part of it, that she cared for
how it affected Anarkali. And the secret that Thresia used to pretend to
hide – about the bad thing that Anarkali did as a child. What was the
bad thing that she had done or come to think of it, knowing her family,
was done to her? After the incident with Lily and aware of how the
minds of Thresia and her mother worked, the secret must be sexual in
nature. Will she ever find out? Does she want to at this point? Isn’t the
facts that she knew how she suffered and that she survived her
sufferings already enough?
But her mother says, “It is good that Thresia has trained Mary so
well. She can take over the kitchen now.” Anarkali looks at her mother
wonderingly. Now her mother looks at her and says, “What do you
want to hear, Anu? Forget the past. It is dead.”
How convenient. How easy for people to say to forget the past. To
not speak of the past. Especially when they have won, when they were
the ones who took all the advantages. Anarkali realizes that this fight
between herself and her mother will go on till they die. Eternal war.
With brief periods of truce. Intervals of dialogue, love, kindness, pity,
forgiveness. Then back to the battle. Anarkali gets up to go to her old

room. A room of her own, where she can cry or rave or die. Where she
had once spent days and nights filled with tears and hopes and dreams.
Anarkali sits at her old desk. Her father had got it made especially
for her. But she never used it much, as it hurt her knees. Now, she
notices that its legs have been lengthened. She can sit comfortably.
Anarkali picks up her pen.
The never-ending fight of individuals. Of civilizations. Anarkali
deems it better to bestow the process an alternate name. A name of
promise, and of hope. The eternal dance of individuals all over the
world. Of civilizations down the ages. The dance of love and of hate.
Of anger and of forgiveness. Advance and retreat. Embrace and push
off. The race and the chase. The finding and the missing. Give and
take. But as we evolve, if we are to stay human, if we want to evolve,
the so-called feminine qualities of loving, forgiving, embracing, and
giving have to take the upper hand. Understanding is the key word
here.
That night, as she lies down, she leaves the door open. In case Pearl
wants to talk to her. After a while, she sees her mother standing by the
door. Anarkali closes her eyes. Her mother walks in and sits by her
side. She leans toward her, and plants a kiss on her forehead. Then she
makes the sign of the cross on Anarkali’s forehead. When she hears a
sob, Anarkali shuts her ears too. But as her mother gets up to go,
Anarkali cannot help herself.
“Ammachi?” she calls softly, and gets up.
Her mother turns and hugs her. Crying, mumbling, sniffling.
Anarkali pats her mother on her back.
The next day, they all go together, to the hospital. Thresia still looks
the same. When they go inside, she opens her eyes, and looks at them .
Anarkali is not sure if she sees them. When her mother goes closer,
Thresia closes her eyes. Anarkali’s mother goes to talk to the doctor, a
young man who seems to be very busy, but has eyes for Pearl.
Before they get back home, Thresia passes away.
“She spared us further quarrels, didn’t she?” Pearl asks.
Anarkali and her mother are silent. Pearl goes to the study to let her
father know. The telephone rings, and Anarkali goes to answer it.
“Anu?” She is relieved to hear Anna’s voice.
“Where are you calling from? Are you here?”
“No. But we are almost there. The usual delays and missed
connections and herding us onto some rickety plane via some
ASHA BERNARD 175
roundabout ways. We are stuck in Kuwait Airport. I tried calling home
to let my dad know of the delay. But I can’t get through. Maybe he has
already left for the airport. But there should be someone there. Can
you call and see? And if you get anyone, tell them that I will be there
tomorrow evening, if all goes well. I hope we don’t lose our luggage.”
“All right, I will. And, Anna, we have some bad news this side.
Thresia was in the hospital, and we were just informed that she passed
away.”
“Oh my goodness, I am sorry.”
“Thank you. We will talk when you get here. The funeral will most
probably be tomorrow.”
“How is your mother taking it? And Pearl?”
“They are coping well. Hang up now, you are calling from afar.”
“All right. I will come by.”
Chapter 17
Wherein Anna gets home and visits Anarkali and learns of some
disturbing happenings in the neighborhood, and takes steps to put an
end to it.
We look like refugees when we land at the Cochin International

airport. But the people who wait there look upon us as adventurers,
explorers, with money. Of course, there are some subdued whistles
and catcalls at the western outfits. But we are busy waiting in the line
at the security clearance, my eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of the
waiting Malayalis. And I can’t wipe off the stupid happy smile on my
face. The sense of ownership, of belonging. As usual, I cried when we
were flying over Kerala. Every time I see its green hills and fields and
rivers, and the little houses and the canals, I cry. My heart swells with
so much pride and love that one day it will burst. I know my father
will be waiting for me, right up in the front. With that wide happy
smile for us, and a special one for Ajay. Thomman, the driver, will be
hovering behind jangling the car keys. Ready to help with the bags.
We are done with the stampings of passports and such, my husband
and son are foreigners here as they are citizens of Paradise. Who are
they in Paradise, I wonder. I am still Indian, even though I am no
longer seen as one here, by many. What a homeless, nationless lot! I
want to see my father. The Indian. I don’t see him anywhere. And my
heart starts to speed up its beat. Something is wrong, or my dad would
be here. He has never missed it, and I don’t know if I would travel this
far if he is not there.
“You are panicking,” my husband tells me. We see his mother
waiting for us. By the time we get our luggage, I am frantic. Then I see
Thomman right behind my mother-in-law. My dad is not there. I do
not want to take another step forward - - I want to return to my
loneliness, my exile. Where I can go on dreaming of going home,
seeing my father, teasing my mother, hugging my brother. Knowing
that they are all happy and healthy. Somehow, they get me into the car.
I listen to my mother-in-law’s soothing voice. She holds me close, as
she talks of my dad. My dad had a heart attack. He is in the hospital.
ASHA BERNARD 177
He is conscious, but sleeps all the time. She turns to hug Ajay, who is
bewildered. I cannot cry.
I am sure that my dad will be all right once he sees me. If I were
here, he would not have been sick in the first place. What was
Ammachi doing? She should not have let him have all that fried stuff. I
want the car to fly. I must reach my dad. He waits for me, his little
sparrow. His Nina.
My mother must be in bad shape now. She will be broken. I cannot
imagine what she will do if something happened to my dad. She leans
on him completely. We all do, I realize now. And my brother? Where
is he? Did someone inform him? Of course they will have. And my
mother will have all her brothers to help her too. And my aunt. Once I
get there, everything will be fine, I decide. I have to be strong now. I
wonder if he is getting the right treatment. I know there are very good
doctors here. My mother-in-law assures me there are good doctors
here, and good hospitals with all the latest equipment. Even foreigners
come here for treatment. The talk goes on about how people from
other countries, especially the Middle East, come for ayurvedic
treatment in our hospitals. At last, we are at the hospital.
I walk slowly towards his room. He had been in the Intensive care
room, but by the time we get there, he was brought to the room. I am
happy to see that the hospital rooms and surroundings are clean. The
congregation of nuns who run the hospital has seen to that. My father
lies wan against the white sheet of his bed. Every time I see him, I
notice more gray hairs. His unshaven face is haggard. I walk to him,
holding my son’s hand. My father opens his eyes and smiles at me. I
had been afraid that he would not recognize me. I go closer and look
into his eyes. He winks at me. I am relieved. He is all right. He will be
his old self in no time. Now I am aware of other sounds outside the
room. My mother and Ammayi and one of my uncles enter.
“I see, now that his daughter is here, he is all right. What a scare he
gave us! And the moment he sees his daughter, he smiles,” Ammayi
says happily. I let go of my dad’s hand, and Ajay gets closer. My dad
has his hand on Ajay’s head.
I move towards Ammachi and Ammayi. We hug. My mother starts
crying. But I am euphoric. I tell her, “Don’t worry, Ammachi. I am
right here. I have brought along my cardiologist.” My husband is
looking at the prescriptions and the chart that the nurse brought with
her. I watch his frowning face as he reads up everything.
He looks at me and says, “They are good! He is getting the best

treatment.” He looks at my dad and says, “You are going to be all
right.” My dad smiles.
My dad will be home for Christmas if all goes well. I don’t feel like
going home without my parents. Ammachi tells me everything has
been made ready for us at home by the servants.
“Yes, go take a bath and change your clothes. Rest for today. Look
at Ajay. He will fall asleep on his feet,” my mother says. I tell mother
of Thresia’s death. She had already heard of it through the local
grapevine.
“Why don’t you go visit Anu tomorrow at her home?”
“I will. But in the evening on my way back from here.”
“Sounds good.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here with you?”
“Of course. You take care of Ajay.”
I know my mother will not leave my dad’s side. Ajay is asleep on
the spare bed. I go to my dad, who whispers to me to go home and
rest. My husband asks me if I would like to accompany him to the
doctor. So we say our goodbyes, and Thomman carries Ajay as we
walk through the corridor. I can see young nurses going to the chapel
for night prayers. I promise myself I will visit the chapel before I
leave. We go to meet the doctor, who is very amiable and my husband
discusses my dad with him. I listen closely and the doctor smiles at
me.
“No, we are not trying to trick you. Mr. Zachariah is going to be all
right.”
“Thank you.” I smile back.
Appachan comes home for Christmas. As I sit in the car on our way
home, I look around happily for the first time after my return. The
familiar houses with Christmas lights. Stars in every house. Some like
the star of David. I haven’t seen this in Paradise, but we Nazranis hang
pretty paper stars lit from within, in our front porch.
I am excited, and relieved. I knew it. If I am there, no one in my
family gets hurt. Appachan will laugh if he hears this. When I was
small, he showed me this plump, little bird – a black bird with a nice
shape and a white stripe running through its wings. It is called
“vaalaatikkili” or tailshaking bird. My father told me that when this
little bird shakes its tail up and down, which it often does, it thinks that
the world revolves because it shakes its tail. And he used to make fun
ASHA BERNARD 179
of some of my ideas, and my unyielding stubborn behavior, by calling
me vaalaatikili.
I am glad he is home. And my mother. And brother. Now I feel I
am home too. Meanwhile, I had visited Anu at her place. She said she
had something to tell me. She sounded serious. But then she always
sounds like that. I told her I will go to her place after our perunnaal.
But she said she will come see me in my house. She and her parents
had visited my dad at the hospital. I wonder what she has been up to.
Today Anu came. And left. I heard what she had to say. Now I have
to act. I am angry. Ashamed. Hurt. So it did happen. He did do it. And
he is still continuing. Getting away with it. And no one knows. Except
for Anu and Kalyani. The poor girl. I am angry at myself for not doing
anything before. What shall I do? Who can help me? Whom can I ask?
Suddenly it came to me - Ammaayi!
She is the only one in the family who will know how to deal with
this in a fitting manner. And we do want her on our side. We cannot
afford to have her as our adversary. Her word carries weight in the
family. No one will dare doubt her. After all, most of the gossips
ended and began at Ammaayi’s. If I tell Dad, he will want to kill the
man then and there. And not only that, in his condition now when he is
recovering slowly, I do not want to disturb him. My husband has
already left for Paradise. Even if he is here, he will not interfere. He
will ask us to inform the police which would be ideal if it was an ideal
world. I will not go into that. I will surely have to let my mother know
this because she is the one who will talk to Ammaayi at first. So I tell
my mother about Lily.
“What are you saying, Anna? Still want to make trouble wherever
you go?”
“But Ammachi, can you just listen? Why do you think the girl has
been moody and listless and afraid? And Kalyani saw it!”
“Saw what? A girl being scolded by her uncle?”
“Do you call that scolding, Ammachi? A young girl half naked?” I
can see that my mother is disturbed. She says after a while, “I can’t
believe that something like this happened, has been going on, and
nobody knew.”
I had to say it now, “Nobody knew he did it to me.”
“What?” my mother screams. She stares at me, and then asks, “Are
you tricking me, Nina? Because if you are, it is not funny at all. Even
by your standards, you have gone too far.”
I can see my mother struggling for breath. I tell her, “Do you think I
would joke about such a thing? In fact, for a long time, I did not
believe it myself. Because I felt that if it had happened and no one
knew about it, that meant I was a willing accomplice. I must have
enjoyed it. And I felt guilty. I decided it was just another bad dream.
Until now. I am kind of relieved now.”
“What do you mean, enjoyed! Of course not. Maybe the fondling
part. Much like tickling, a child might think. Because you did not
know you were doing something bad. What if he had gone further?
You would not have enjoyed that. You were just a baby. Oh my
baby!” My mother starts to weep. “I never knew. I never knew.” She is
miserable.
“But Ammachi, I must have known it was wrong. Otherwise, why
didn’t I tell you then and there?”
“Fear, Nina. Don’t you know? Haven’t you read about these
things?”
“I have. But nothing registered when it came to this. I was too full
of guilt.”
My mother hugs me to her and holds my face in the palm of her
hands. She looks into my eyes and says, “I am sorry, Nina, I am sorry I
did not know. I was not there for you. You did not trust me enough to
tell me.”
My mind is already off onto the next step. “All right, all right. That’
s all very fine. But do you believe me now?”
My mother looks about to yell at me for my flippancy. Then she
smiles and says yes.
“Call Ammayi now. And tell her.”
“What do you mean, call her? You can’t talk of this over the phone.
We will have to go tackle her in her den.” My mother laughs.
She calls and tells Ammaayi that we will be there the next day. Of
course, we could have gone without taking any appointment first.
Nobody does it – take an appointment to visit family and friends
anyway. But we do not want to be there when she is out.
We are in the car on our way to Ammayi’s. I like going there. The
heat of the summer never enters its cool hallways, its smooth and
gleaming black floors, or the long open verandah with its beautiful
wooden columns. Her house is hundreds of years old, it had been in
her husband’s family for centuries. It was built in the traditional Kerala
style, even though over the years changes have been made. But they
have left the main parts of the house intact. The traditional plan of a
ASHA BERNARD 181
central courtyard, much like a Chinese nobleman’s house, with a
verandah running around its rectangular shape, and rooms going in
from the verandah is still there. It is called the naalukettu. I have seen
old high caste Hindu houses that were bigger and grander. Instead of
four sides, some had eight and even sixteen! Modernization, decline of
feudalism and plain family partitions took a toll on these mammoth
mansions. The fact that parts of these houses can be dismantled and
moved with ease also speeded up the process of disintegration. And
the fascinating ara, which is really a huge granary used in the olden
days. Completely made of wood, it has thick doors with ornately
carved brass handles. Lot of wood, mostly locally available teak was
used in the building of these houses, as it is termite proof. The ceiling,
the staircase, the doors and windows are solid. As a child, I spent
many hours exploring the upstairs and the underside of the stairs.
I know every nook and cranny of that house. And it is built
according to traditional rules of architecture and design in its
placement of windows and doors, which is an ancient Indian science
called Vaastu Shastra. Anu loved the place when she saw it.
Something in the same vein as Feng Shui of the Chinese. Under the
floor, and above the ceiling, when the house is being built the builder
used to place a kind of leaf that acts as another termite repellant.
Remember, this is a tropical area.
We are at the house. There is a small gatehouse attached to the tall
compound wall as is usual in these houses. We enter through the
newer gate, which allows vehicles in. Again, I am impressed by this
old house, and its inviting blue verandah and cool steps, much more
than by any modern monstrosities built in a tradition that is alien to
this land. Their air conditioners cannot compete with the coolness of
this house. Before we ring the bell, Ammaayi herself comes to the
door. One of her minions must have notified her.
My mother does not know what to say after the initial preliminaries,
which includes Ammaayi chastising my mother for marrying me off to
someone so far away.
“You are going to regret this when you get old,” she warns my
mother again.
Her maidservant brings tea and snacks, and in between our
conversation, Ammaayi watches her closely. Must be a new recruit, I
guess correctly.
When she leaves , Ammaayi tells us, “Girl is new. But we know the
family. You know? Paaru’s granddaughter. They tried sending her to
college. But she wasn’t interested in studies. Crazy about boys,

though. So Paaru comes to me and asks about my employing her. She
seems all right now. Wants to learn typewriting, don’t know why.”
I interrupt, “Maybe she wants to work as a secretary or something.”
“Secretary! Here? You must be joking. This is not your Paradise,
not even Bombay. Anyway, I don’t think there is much point in her
learning to type, when she can’t read even Malayalam properly.
Modern education!”
I remember my parents never allowed me to learn typewriting,
saying ladies did not do that. Anu’s parents were the same. When
computers came, I started using it and I am even now a two-finger
typist.
“It is about Lily.” I hear my mother begin. I see the shrewd look in
Ammayi’s eyes. At that moment, I was sure that she knew. And when
she heard what Kalyani had seen, she exploded.
“I knew it. In fact, I had hinted to that idiot wife of his not to leave
Lily alone with her husband. She called me a dirty old woman. And he
dared to confront me with his stupid explanations for some things I
had noticed. But I did not have solid proof. Even without proof, I
could have created a furor, (a sly smile here) but I had to think of the
girl too. What if it is not true? But now . . we will see.”
Then she turns to me, and gives me an understanding look. “It is all
right, Annakili. Don’t beat yourself up. It is that grandmother of yours
– the sanctimonious old goat – who is to blame for any guilt you feel.”
I am not surprised that she had known all along. I blurt out,
“But I can’t be sure of so many things. Like, did I cooperate
completely? If so, why?” I am miserable again.
“There could be any number of reasons. But fear is the main thing.
He might have scared you, maybe blackmailed you some way. Or
maybe you were curious about it all. You were a child. And children
are sexual beings. Only thing is they just don’t know what is what.
Even some adults do not. Or what if you did enjoy the initial fondling?
Any child would if it is done like a game, say of tickling. What if he
started frightening you into thinking that you did a bad thing and he
will tell the adults if you did not let him do it again? And you escaped
because your grandmother caught him at it. You were never left alone
really for him to trap you. What if he had got the chance to take the
abuse a step further? What if you were hurt physically? I am sure you
would have told someone. Either your parents or at least your brother.
Because you are not, and were not an orphan.” She stops to take a
ASHA BERNARD 183
breath. I am mesmerized by this old woman. So what if she has a
caustic tongue? She is gold. Twenty-four carat Indian gold. Now she
asks me to stop dreaming and drink up my tea. I lift the cup and saucer
in a trance, and sip the wonderfully strong chai, what Paradisians call
‘chai tea.’
Ammaayi is done with my problem. She sits looking out through
her window at the gooseberry tree -- thinking. I can see her mind
spinning a web to trap the villain in the family.
“The thing is, he should never attempt it again, and the girl should
not be harmed in any way.” She is silent again. “When is Anarkali’s
perunnaal?” she asks, just when I am about to suggest meeting at
Anarkali’s. Both of us look at each other and smile. We had the same
idea. So we thresh out the details of the plan. It is convenient that
different parishes celebrate St. Sebastian’s feast on different days in
January. Soon, we say our farewells, and I am off to Anu’s house. She
is still at her parents’ place, so that makes it easier. When I get there, I
find out that Anu has already told her parents and sister. I put forward
our plan. Everyone is enthusiastic about it.
So on the eighth of January, we meet at Anu’s house in
Kombodinjaaplakkal for her perunnaal – Anu’s parents, Pearl,
Ammaayi, four of her little grandchildren, my parents, my brother and
his wife, Ajay, myself, and a couple of Ammayi’s loyal
“bodyguards.” My mother had lent our cook to Anu as Kalyani is still
at Parudeesa. Alice has prepared a big feast for us. Above that,
Ammayi’s helpers bring out big baskets of homemade snacks and
sweets from her car. My mother has taken some of her sweet wine and
fruit cake. I take the champagne bottles with me. Anu’s small house is
full of people. As per our plan, she has invited the neighbors from
Parudeesa on the premise that he is our relative. Something that is
done in Kerala anyway. You invite the neighbor if you are having a
big party, say for a wedding, funeral, baptism, or holy communion,
even if they are strangers to the area. The idea is to share whatever
little you have. Otherwise, to a Malayali, it seems uncouth, inhuman,
and selfish. And not to invite a neighbor, whose relative is your friend,
and who is invited for the party – that is unthinkable. Ammaayi had
counted on that tradition.
There we are waiting for the family to come. And as we had
expected, but were not certain, Lily is not there. Kalyani has come, as
Anu had invited her too as a sign of the goodwill of the season. I
would have preferred not to have looked at his ugly face, but I have no
choice. I know I have to face this.
“Why didn’t Lily come? Still shy? We are family. You should have
forced her to come. She would have enjoyed the fireworks, and the
lighting of the candles.” I hear Ammaayi tell them as they sit down.
The plantain trunk is ready, stuck with stakes. Children will soon start
putting little candles on them, and then the lighting. Ajay is already out
running around with the children, until they will be rounded up by one
of the servants for the job. There is excitement all around me, laughter,
and conversations, and drinking.
Then the dinner before the procession bearing the statue of the saint
and the arrows come. As usual, the procession is going to be late. So it
is decided that we will eat early. That will give the servants enough
time to get ready for the procession, some of the men will follow it
too. The traditional appams and dishes are eaten, the wine drunk and
the next step is nearing. As expected again, before the dinner plates are
taken away, the bad guy gets up, and soon everyone is done. No one
really saw him leave in the melee, but we know he is gone soon
enough. We are not that worried because all is going according to plan.
And Kalyani will be in her place, with her equipment before he gets
there. We give him five minutes after he gets there, and then Ammaayi
and I sneak out one after another. We tell the others to join us when we
give the signal.
Anu’s mother wants to go with us too, and I am surprised. But
Ammaayi lets her come along. Her mother wants Anarkali to mind the
kids, Kalyani has left the back door open for us. We creep in like
spies, and I am afraid he will hear the creaks in Ammayi’s joints. But
all is well. We see a light shining from under a door, and we know we
have reached our destination. I hear sobs.
“Please Uncle, I am not well today.” I cannot control the sudden
anger that washes over me when I hear the soft voice plead. Ammayi
presses my arm as much to control herself as me. I look at Anu’s
mother’s face. In the dim light, it is so frightening in its intensity that I
look away.
We hear a dignified snort, “When are you ever well, my dear water
lily? Come on. Uncle will cure you of your illness.” He laughs now.
“Has been some days now, hasn’t it? With that damn old hag roaming
around the place. I missed our rendezvous. I know you must have too.”
We can hear the sobs. I hope Kalyani is doing her job of recording
this.
ASHA BERNARD 185
“Stop your moaning, you whore. I know you love it. Dirty, ugly
little piece of sh --! If someone hears, you are the one who will be in
trouble. No one will believe you if you utter a word against me. And
where will you go then? To Red Street?”
We hear the sound of a scuffle, and the muffling of a sob. We stand
still for a moment. None of us can believe we are in this bizarre
situation. Then as one, we push open the door, which is not latched.
We would have broken it open. But Kalyani is ahead of us. She has my
grandfather’s silver-headed walking stick in her raised hands. The man
seems surprised. He looks at Kalyani and at us. Lily is cowering on the
corner of the bed, her yellow blouse and skirt awry. Anu’s mother
reaches her before any of us. Ammaayi does not take her eyes of the
chagrined man.
“I was checking to see if she was all right,” he says, smiling at her,
adjusting his glasses.
Kalyani fumes, “Oh yes, you were. I saw and heard everything. He
was going to rape the poor girl!” This last part, looking at Ammayi.
He does not even hear her, and when it registers, he dismisses it.
“What did you hear, Kalyani? Don’t tell me you too are like all of your
lot – liars. Ammayi, you know what these people are. I know you
would not fall for these tricks. You know what her mother was. Same
thing she tried on me, and I ignored it. I did not even tell Marykutty. I
felt pity for the old woman.” He looks mockingly at Kalyani. Kalyani
is shocked, and turns to us, hurt and apprehensive. Does she for a
minute think we don’t believe her? I go to her and pat her on the
shoulder. I can feel her relax. I watch Ammaayi, who looks ominous.
Tall and imperious, she steps towards him. The sound of a stinging
slap.
“Quiet! Not another word from your filthy mouth. Liar!” As she
turns away, she throws further orders, “Another sound, and my men
can do things to you. You will never walk again, after they are done
with you.”
There is complete silence for a minute. I can see Anu’s mother
holding Lily close to her. I see Raghavan, one of Ammaayi’s strong-
armed men looking in through the window I open. Soon, we hear
footsteps. Anu and my mother and all the men are there at the door
ready to pounce on the beast. He tries to brazen it out once more.
“Why don’t you hand me over to the police?” There is a thread of fear
in his voice now.
“I can deal with you better than them,” says my father.
“Do you think there is no evidence? Kalyani, show him the

camcorder.” Ammaayi orders, and Kalyani obeys with alacrity. She is
proud that she had been trusted with the job, and that she has done it
well. My father is already advancing towards him. But my mother
stops him. Instead, at Ammaayi’s signal, Raghavan gets to do some
roughing up. By the time he is done, the glasses are broken, and the
man is bleeding from the side of his mouth. He looks around, his eyes
full of hatred and fear.
“YOU SAINTS! I will not forget you,” he screams.
“Shut your filthy mouth!” my father hisses, and slaps him hard. I
should have known that my mother cannot keep a secret from her
husband.
No one sees Marykutty come inside. Her eyes are puffy and red.
The man tries to go to her, “Marykutty, don’t you believe me? That
girl is evil. She is the one to blame.” Mary takes one look at him, and
goes out of the room. Ammaayi follows her. Before going, she warns
him again of the consequences. He will be watched by the family now.
“The procession is here! Ambu vannu!” we hear the children shout.
We hear the sound of drumbeats getting closer, and as usual, my heart
keeps the same beat of excitement and anticipation. And then, the
deafening sound of fireworks. Like thunder. I see Anu looking at her
mother, who smiles at her. We all troop back to Anu’s house, taking
Lily with us. We do not notice Marykutty anywhere. She is with
Ammaayi.
The little golden arrows rest in a dish filled with raw rice. One of
the sons of the neighbors on the other side holds it in his hands, while
a man holds a decorated silk umbrella over him. He enters Anu’s
house, and places it between the candles on the table set before the
picture of the Sacred Heart, and then leaves. As the arrow enters the
house, the sound of the band rises to its exciting crescendo, vying with
the thundering fireworks. We all kneel before the table and Ammaayi
leads the prayer. One by one, we kiss the arrow, and place our
donations on the rice. Anu asks Ajay to hold the dish now and carry it
to the next house. He is thrilled to walk like a prince under the
umbrella, with the band and the procession behind him. His face is
wreathed in smiles. My father and brother keep him company.
The next morning, Anu and I sit in the verandah looking at the
debris of the festivities – millions of torn bits of red and white paper
from the fireworks, the burnt out candle and torch on the plantain
trunk, and the leftovers of sparklers lit by the children. The smell of
ASHA BERNARD 187
fireworks still lingers in the air. I can see Kalyani slowly coming with
a broom to sweep up everything. Mariam brings us tea as we sit
watching the little birds flit about. Everyone is fast asleep still. The
real beds were given to the older people. We had slept on mattresses
laid out on the floor. It took us back to our dormitory in boarding
school, except we had cots there. We were too tired to talk. Ajay was
excited about the sleepover too. I could hear giggles and muffled
screams late into the night. Where do they get this energy? I remember
we did not open the champagne. For lunch today, I decide.
Marykutty had called her home last night and one of her brothers
came to take her and the children home. Ammaayi has offered to take
Lily in. So has Anu. But I have a feeling she will stay with her
mother’s family now.
“What if he tries this again?” Anu asks the same question I have in
my mind.
“Ammaayi tells me that these things are not new in families. It was
worse in the old, joint families. Public humiliation and chastisement
usually worked in such cases. This is India, remember. Shame and fear
of society has not left the minds of her people, completely. At least not
yet. Reality TV will change things pretty soon, though. But as she
says, we can never be sure. If she has the slightest inkling of another
occurrence like this, she says she will hand him over to the police. She
has contacts, she said.”
“Won’t he need a psychiatrist or someone?”
“I did mention it, but Ammaayi says no. She says Raghavan or
Vaasu are the best treatment for this.” I cannot control my grin.
“She is savage.”
“Yes, and I am too.” We laugh out loud this time. The morning
breeze caresses us. For a few moments, we are absorbed in our own
thoughts. I can see a lady, her shoulders covered by the graceful pallu
of her blue saree, walking to the church, probably for morning Mass.
She looks at us, and smiles as she passes the gate. Who is she? Who
am I to her? Of all the people in this world, how many care what
happens to me? How many do I care about? Suddenly, it strikes me
that ten years from now, we may be sitting, talking, planning, and
dreaming like the way we have been doing, forever. In fact, I would be
fortunate if I can do all this then. And to look into the sharp eyes of my
son twinkling at me from his little face, to feel the fragility and
strength of his pointy chin . . . . To be able to make fun of my stick-in-
the-mud husband. To be able to imagine my dad waiting for me at the
airport. And to be able to whine and fight my little fights. My way of

changing the little world around me. I realize that life is about the little
big things. For ordinary people like me. It is at once painful and
relieving, to accept my ordinariness. No fanfare, no fireworks, no
audience or applause. I am no ordinary exhibitionist. Oops, there I go
again.
“So how have you been?” I ask Anu.
“Fine. I met Ashok again.”
“Really? You did not tell me, eh? How is he? He is married now,
isn't he? Are you going to see him again?”
“Oh! is he? He said he is not. Slow down, slow down. He is the
same, just older and more mature. And I still feel the same about him.”
She paused. “I am not sure how he feels -- now.”
“I am not going to dissuade you again, Anu. I realize I was wrong
to do that before.”
“No. And even if you hadn’t dissuaded me do you think I would
have had the courage to do it? Or confidence in my own powers of
attraction? If I have learned anything at all, it is that everything takes
place in its own time.”
“Mother India speaking?”
“Maybe. But I do not regret not marrying Ashok. Maybe that would
have ended in divorce too.”
“Maybe not”
“Maybe not. But I do not intend to marry again.”
“Afraid? I wish I could turn the clock back, though. And I wish I
knew all that I know now. I would have stayed unmarried as I had
always said I would. I mean it wouldn’t have mattered that much in the
long run, would it? My dad would have survived it. As for the
relatives, I wonder if they even remember me now.”
“Maybe I am afraid. But I don’t think so. I love my freedom too
much.”
“But what do I know now? I wonder. And to think that our
marriage preparation courses were given by nuns and priests!
Remember that? Just before tying the knot? After listening to them I
really wanted to put a stop to my wedding. Maybe I should have. Oh I
don’t know. Live till I die, I guess. So what are you going to do?”
“For now, I will focus on my work. I am going to our old university
as a guest this time. I can use the library and write there.”
“Wow! That is going to be interesting. I wish I could come too and
write my book.”
ASHA BERNARD 189
“Have you started it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You have! You did not tell me! How is it coming along?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Flowing like a river, or gushing like a waterfall?”
“That is the catch. I think it is like fireworks.”
“Does it have mangoes and jackfruit?”
Anna laughs, “Oh yes!”
“Then they will expect you to write like Arundhati Roy. Style wise,
I mean.”
“Oh damn . . . it has no style to speak of. Some stream of
consciousness maybe.”
“Oh no, that is only for the great white! You are doomed, Anna. To
die unread!” We laugh.
“I will make you read it for sure. At gunpoint. At last, some action
in real life!”
“Good. When can I see it? Is it long?”
“One day, and no, it is not. Too lazy to spread it out.”
“Why don’t you come home then?”
“Which home? And I am not as free as you are. I have to think of
my son, my husband.”
“Why can’t you come away for good, Anna? There are good
schools for Ajay here. You can even send him to the university school.
I know you worry about getting out and about here, with the men folk
and their antics. But don’t you think we should fight it here by
staying? This is our country. We have to change it. Where did the
militant feminist go?”
“I am an escapist, Anu. I wish I could. May be I will. But I will
wonder if I am trying to escape the boring travails of Paradise. Which
come to think of it, isn’t too bad. No power cuts, working, efficient
machines at home, better broadband connection, safe roads,
anonymous existence – you know, the works. John can practice here,
can’t he? "
“How’s Jenny your Irish friend?”
“You know how it gets. You lose touch. She is always busy. And
then I realize that white is always white. They may try, say, like those
crusading movie stars, who hunt, stuff, and mount a cause they find to
be dramatic enough. But somewhere at some point, they will reveal
their condescension, their feelings of superiority, their whiteness, by
making a reference to some ‘third world country’. Same with Jenny.”
“Just like we think we are superior to them. I guess it is a cycle. A

dance forever. East and West, North and South. Power. Fight for
power, against power, against powerlessness, to maintain power.
Change, resistance to change, a struggle, a striving, a death, a rebirth.
In between if there is at least an attempt to understand, for dialogue,
that is all we can hope for, eh?”
The little birds dare to come closer to them. Pretending that the two
women are invisible. But one slight movement from Anna, they fly
away in a rush.
“Aw! Come on! I wasn’t going to eat you!” Anna exclaims.
Anarkali is pensive. “I don’t know if Ashok is married, do I?" And
other thoughts remained unsaid.
“Didn’t you ask him when you met?”
“Yes. And he said he is not.”
“Why can’t you believe what he told you?” What if he is married?
Will it stop her from contacting him? It would have, for sure, in the
past. But now she is not that sure. Doesn't she deserve some
happiness? Isn't it time that she got selfish, and grabbed what she
could when she could? Shouldn’t she start to think from her point of
view, for herself? On the other hand, isn't it time she forgot those
brown eyes and got on with her life? Forget the past, which had
become a burden? Maybe not forget it, but look to the future?
“It was just a dream, well, many dreams. One day at a time.”
Anarkali smiles. “Let me see if someone will chase me hard enough.
That was the matter with us, wasn’t it? No one really wanted us
enough to really pursue us. Someone who would rather die of a
broken heart than not live with us.” We laugh.
“Yeah, ‘really’ is the key word here. Hahaha! Let John chase me,
though I will not hold my breath about that. I will have to do the
chasing, with him.”
“But then we will be fed up with that too after a while. Would we
really want to get caught? Are’nt all men the same once they become
husbands? Life! What is it? Why?”
“A mystery till death. Maya. Actually, it’s no big deal. You laugh,
you cry, you die.”
“Oh, well! Which song?”
For a second, I am at a loss as to what she means. Then I get it.
Indian movie world.
ASHA BERNARD 191
“Dream girl, dream girl, kisi shaayar ki ghazal . . .?” (Dream girl, a
poem written by some poet/ a lotus in a river/ I will meet you some
day).
“No. Mere sapnon ki raani kab aayegi tu? (Oh queen of my
dreams/ when will you come?)” I pout, and hold my head at an angle,
and look around coyly.
We sing and laugh again. We look at the little sparrows on the wall,
and another song comes to me,
Two little picky birds, sitting on a wall
One’s named Anu, one’s named Ann
Fly away Anu, fly away Ann
Come back Anu, come back Ann.
Curtain

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Mothers and Virgins

All Rights Reserved

Welcome to the Nazrani Show.

Anarkali was diligently loved by her mother. She was tucked in at

“Of course! I would never say anything to anyone outside. These

Two little tricky birds

Anarkali remembers laughing. Because that song was their theme

Five-year-old Anarkali watches as her mother and her mother’s

Anarkali has to stop. She is in search of new or different

She underlines the title of her article, “The Anger of Civilizations.”

What really humiliated Anarkali back when she was a schoolgirl

Hello! My name is Nina Anna Zachariah. Don’t think you know

sixteen, when my college friends, again in an all girl’s terrain, told me

have converted him! To be the instrument that brings change to a

Like smiling at people like me, or just looking at me to see me.

Paradise, it is an unthinking, drugged existence – drugged by sales,

Anarkali gets a call from her mother, in the evening.

which, poets had sung, comparing it to the off-white, shiny pudava, of

Sometimes Anarkali feels that she is fighting a losing battle. Of life

Hello again, my friend, my reader! We parted on some heavy stuff

“What is it with you, and your Chinese connection?” Anna had

They are in the kitchen, helping Kalyani with the making of

"How can I ever forget that?"

children of different men. Variety. And experience. Otherwise, how do

Anarkali misses that laughter. And the conversation. May be she

She calls it Thuppan, after a Namboothiri (Malayali Brahmin) who

Anarkali goes in search of Kalyani for company. Kalyani is busy

mother-in-law from her room, and points a finger at Anarkali, “How

Anarkali is surprised to see her mother-in-law smile at her

would be hurting the other person. That reluctance to appear to be rude

A closer look at her mother-in-law shows Anarkali the changes.

Hello again! In this segment, you will learn of my interest in

My parents give in, because they are on a guilt trip regarding my

I am embarrassed as I am aware of Ashwin beside me. I mumble,

in town. We all gathered in the restaurant, with Ashwin listening to

own businesses. So he knew every one of the people who passed my

It is Saturday. Children, mainly boys, although one or two girls can

which I later found out were derogatory terms describing female

The priest used to come to say Mass every day. On Wednesdays,

The computer takes a long time to start. Anarkali waits patiently,

All right! Anna has sent a message.

Now, what to do with her sister? Could she be in love with

Pearl nods, “Yes, Madam. By the way, I never thought I was

I have left my son at school, and now am preparing to do some

One day, I am walking to my hostel. I think Anarkali was with me,

I will always remember the time she and Anarkali’s mother-in-law

So someone is buying the neighboring house at last. Anarkali can

“You sure you don’t want Appachan to go with you?”

Anarkali’s flight to Delhi is announced. It is time to board the

Anarkali is startled out of her reverie by the announcement that

Again, I am at the school, waiting for my son to come out. I get

sterile, forced, stunted relationships. Telling this story somehow brings

have certain standards of behavior.” Yeah, like prescribing the limits

There is this ad that I saw on TV recently. Where a regular

Anarkali wants to weep for no reason that night. Ashok. He said he

Diversity is not a pomegranate/sherbet and lotus/cow’s milk,

“I cannot believe this is happening,” he says. Her eyes wander over

I am getting old. Look at my face. Like a desiccated arecanut. The

When I hear that, I am amused, “What does it matter who comes to

And because I am in a foreign land in the guise of a regular, sweet

maintained. The stink of the restrooms. No place for girls. Well, do

panting and laughing on the bed. I have many other tricks up my