Fishy Chronicles 80: The Webs We Weave (12) – Sarah’s suitor

Sarah, Johnny and I returned to Appachan’s (grandfather’s) home through the field at the side of the house – under the barbed wire, through the tapioca crop and in through the side gate.

When her holdall and knapsack wouldn’t squeeze through the window bars of my room, I went in and Sarah unpacked and handed me her clothes and then the empty bags. I saw Sarah and Johnny have a short conversation and she watched him go back through the field. If anyone saw…

I couldn’t stop thinking of the crossword puzzle in the newspaper (FC79). At the bus stop and after, I was certain there was a conversation in progress on the sides of the newspaper under the guise of deciphering a crossword puzzle.

Normally the newspaper disappeared in the afternoons and was returned to its pile in a corner of the sitting room in the evenings. While everyone was nursing their tea and snacks I decided to look for the newspaper. I couldn’t think of who to ask to decipher the scribbles. There’d be too many questions. Finally, I decided, my mother was the best person. She’d give me a lecture, but keep my secret.

But the paper wasn’t on the side table. That was strange. It was today’s paper and no one was allowed to keep it in their rooms.

“What are you looking for, mol?” Pilipochyan, my father’s younger brother-in-law, asked. He was my favourite relative this vacation – I felt safe being myself with him.

“Er, today’s paper.”

He lowered further the newspaper he was reading. “You don’t know how to read Malayalam.”

“Uh, yes. But I only wanted the crossword.”

“That’s in Malayalam too.”

I stared at Uncle. He was looking at me somewhat blankly, but there was something else.

“Y-Yes. I think there was a cartoon I w-wanted to look at.”

“You know, I never noticed cartoons in the newspaper.”

Neither did I. Only grey unclear pictures that were probably clarified by the article they were banged into. “Is that today’s paper, Pilipochyan?”

“Yes.”

“May I have a quick look at it?”

He brought the two edges of the newspaper together and held it out to me, watching with interest as I placed it on a nearby coffee table and quickly turned the pages.

There was a quarter page hole in the page – where the crossword had been torn out roughly. When I got over my shock, I noticed some words at the sides of the tear – half words, it seemed. I didn’t have the courage to ask Pilipochyan to read them to me. I’d have to come back when no one was around and tear out the rest of the page.

Pilipochyan’s voice sounded softly over my head, his breath rustling the hair on my head, making my scalp tingle, “Do you know where that quarter page went?”

It was not said in an intimidating way. He just sounded curious. He went back to his armchair and sat on the edge, waiting for me to reply.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Isn’t it strange? Just that part of the newspaper disappearing,” he lowered his reading glasses to look at me better.

“Y-Yes.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“… No.”

“What I don’t understand is why you’d be interested in a Malayalam crossword when you don't know how to read Malayalam?” he grinned suddenly. I backed away and bumped into a body. “Someone got to the crossword before mol. Any idea who, Sarah?” the grin broadened.

I felt my cousin Sarah’s hands tighten on my upper arms, holding me still. “No, Pilipocha.”

“Hmm. Did you manage to do it?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other, Pilipochyan smiling at us expectantly and Sarah and I silent.

Suddenly I was released and Sarah moved into the dining room, picking up dishes and walking straight to the kitchen sink. I turned to follow her but held back when I saw the baleful looks of my grandmother and her daughters, who were sitting at the dining table. I turned the other way and skipped out of the front door, making for my guava tree. Romeo, my favourite rooster, was in my spot, fast asleep.

                                                       ******

The general mood that night was upbeat. People joked about a wedding in the house, but piped down every time Sarah came into view. The women chattered about it and my cousins, boys and girls, lurked unobtrusively to listen. When I stood near the adults, I heard little of interest. So I went to my room to read an ancient issue of the Women’s Era magazine.

The door to Sarah’s room was open and she was sitting at the dressing table and staring into the mirror vacantly. I slowed, wondering why she was sitting alone and wanting to talk to her. On our walk back from the bus stop (FC79) she was near human and I felt we were almost back to how we were.

Her eyes widened when she saw me and I scooted towards my door. “Wait, mol. Come here. I want to talk to you.”

I stood where I was and Sarah came to her door. She held it open for me. She latched the door after me, and grinned, “Too many nosey parkers about.”

She showed me to a loveseat in the corner. “Just to confirm… we’re not talking to anyone about what happened today, right?”

“Right.”

“I have to choose a sari, help me pick out one that matches that blouse,” she pointed at a white and pink blouse on the seat of a chair. I was surprised… and elated. Sarah never fussed about clothes or asked anyone for advice or help. We went to her mother’s cupboard and looked through. We pulled out the beautiful silks, but nothing matched the blouse. Then we opened Sarah’s suitcase and she pulled out a cotton sari that matched the blouse.

“Chechi, here’s the matching sari, and it’s beautiful. Why do you want to match the blouse to the silks? It doesn’t seem to look good with any of those.”

Sarah sighed. “Amma wants me to wear a silk, but I didn’t bring too many saris. The only silk blouse I have is this.” She pulled out a scarlet blouse. I had seen her in the bright red sari at an engagement party. She had looked great in it, but for some reason it had annoyed the elders. “And Amma and Ammachi don’t want me to wear it.”

“Okay. Shall I ask my mom for a sari and blouse?”

Sarah shook her head slowly, a smile forming. I knew the pink sari was a Maheshwari, because my mother favoured them. “Your Amma gave me this sari,” Sarah said. I nodded. I knew that.

She laid out a maroon dupatta on the bed and pulled out several jewellery boxes from the cupboard and opened them. I felt excited. She pointed at two large velvet boxes, one had an elaborate gold necklace and the other a simpler one, both with matching earrings and bangles. “Well?”

“The sari goes well with pearls.”

She looked surprised. She got up, and reached into her mother’s cupboard looking for something. She emptied out a worn silk pouch. An old pearl choker, with three thin strands slipped out. Another pouch revealed matching earrings and tasteful old gold bangles with a few pearls inset, individually wrapped in soft cloth.

Sarah draped the folded sari across her shoulder and chest and sat at the dressing table. I closed the clasp of the choker at the back of her neck. We nodded involuntarily – the pearls and sari paired well.

“Ammachi won’t be happy you’re wearing pearls,” I said. Only gold was an accepted form of jewellery among us Syrian Christians. Middle class malayalis frowned on precious stones.

“Then we must make sure we annoy Ammachi,” Sarah murmured, looking at herself in the mirror critically.

She folded the sari carefully and hung the blouse and sari on a hanger in the cupboard. She began to put the jewellery back into their boxes. When she reached the sapphire ring and earrings Ammachi had made especially for her granddaughters (FC73), her hand stilled. She held out the earrings and ring in the palm of her hand. “Choose what you like.”

I was stunned. “N-No. No.”

“I insist. Ammachi should have given you a ring like she did the others. Leaving you out was cruel. So take whichever one you like – I have one too many.”

“No. Ammachi and Appachan will get angry.”

She shrugged, caught my hand and tried to put the ring and earrings in my hand, “They don’t need to know.”

My fingers closed into a fist. “I don’t want something they didn’t want to give me,” I said through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to touch the dark blue stones. I still felt raw at being left out.

“Don’t be silly, mol.”

“You’d have done the same if they had done it to you. Besides, if they didn’t want me to have it, I don’t want it.” I got up and started hurrying to the door, my eyes filling.

“Wait. Wait. How about this rin…”

I wasn’t looking back, I had reached the door and was moving the latch back when Sarah’s hand closed over mine and I felt her arm around my neck, squeezing me into her body. My tears started to fall. I refused to turn.

“Sorry, molu, so insensitive of me. I really want you to have a pair of earrings or a ring.”

I shook my head. “How can you bear to part with a gift that your grandma gives you? I don’t like some of the things my other Ammachi and great grand Ammachi give me, but I love that they want to give me those things. I love that they’re old and have their history in it. And Amma says I’ll think about them differently some day!” I turned and looked at Sarah, at this moment annoyed at her many transgressions.

She looked thoughtfully at me, cupped my face and wiped my tears slowly. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way. I just think of Ammachi as a silly woman, clinging to her traditions from the dark ages – not that I’m trying to diss her gift. Gifts.”

“Also, Chechi, my parents would be angry with me for taking it from you. And how would I have ever worn that ring or earrings knowing what had happened (FC73).”  

Sarah pushed my hair behind my ears. “I never took you for a thinker. Though, now it makes sense why Pilipochyan prefers you to everyone else.”

I pushed my cousin’s hands off me, gently. She had no idea how much torment I had suffered in the last few weeks. One night I had crawled into my parents bed, in between them, and grumbled labouriously. Appa had asked me a strange question – whether I had a takeaway from my experiences. I had to ask him what he meant.

“What has all this shown you?”

“That people are cruel.”

A sigh. “What else?”

“That they don’t think before they hurt. That you think people are kind and wonderful, but they can bank on a lie and turn evil instantly.” My parents were silent. I poked my father. I wanted him to hear about everything ailing me. “Are you sleeping?”

“No, mol.”

“Why are you silent?”

I felt him shrug. “I’m sorry all this is happening. They all seem shallow and silly. I hear a lot of complaints about you, but I’d rather you had a spine and could think for yourself than just be part of the crowd. I don’t know if things will change, mol. But until then, be brave, be yourself… you’ve already started making tough decisions.”

“It feels like hell.”

“Do you think everyone hates you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Er, not Rita, or Roma... Or Pilipochyan.”

“See.”

“But they won’t help me in any way.”

“Why expect them to?”

“Then what use are they?”

There was more silence. My mother had been holding me tightly for a long time. Now my father’s hand combed my hair. My universe, so far, had no answers.

******

The children were ordered to wear their best clothes and stay in the inside rooms.

So I wore my Sunday church kurta salwar, a ‘ping’ affair, and hung about. But I felt a niggling tension. I wanted Chechi to be married to someone nice. Someone like Appa or Pilipochyan – but livelier… and, of course, more handsome. In the middle of the night, I had hunted for the newspaper and tore out the edges around the hole that represented the erstwhile crossword. I went back to sleep, somewhat at peace and sure that I would get to the bottom of the crossword business.

Everyone in the house was on tenterhooks. I didn’t believe it was possible, but my hairy cousins had all shaved and had haircuts in the past few days. And today they wore gold-bordered white mundus and starched white jubbas. The order had come from Appachan. I thought the only reason the boys obeyed was because they were curious about the boy Sarah was going to meet.

My cousin sisters were forced to switch to cotton saris, from silk, because Sarah was wearing a cotton sari and she was the one that was supposed to be in the limelight today. My cousins were expected to look pretty in case they caught someone’s eye.

Yeesh!

In the preceding days we had changed all the covers on the sofas and armchairs and washed and ironed all the curtains, and my father’s sisters’ (Sarojmama and Sarayumama) embroidered tablecloths from a 100 years ago were fished out and they looked like they were starched to their eyeballs. Plus the furniture had been repolished and unsightly pieces of furniture moved to other rooms. All the nest tables in the house were collected and stacked tastefully in the corners of the sitting room and the boys rearranged the furniture several times until Appachan was satisfied.

We were taken aback when several cars rolled into the courtyard. Some older couples and younger men entered and sat in the sitting room.

Our best cutlery, and some more from granduncle’s house next door, was stacked on the dining table and all the snacks were ready – all home cooked. There was water and milk on the boil, with my aunts tending to it.

I wanted to see if I knew the 'boy' and tried to push my way into the sitting room. There was a wall of smiling humanity crammed into the doorways of the dining room, the corridor and even of the study. I decided to push through like I did in the buses and trains in Mumbai. I spotted Sarayumama smiling at someone and poked her ample bare midriff with my index and middle fingers. She gasped and jumped to the side and I pushed through… only to enter a room that had just gone silent.

And there he was. Handsome. And smiling at me like we were best friends. I beamed back.

I felt a hand grab the scruff of my neck and another violently shove it away.

“Come here, mol. Meet my parents, grandparents and uncles and aunts,” Johnnychyan said. Sarah chechi was sitting next to him on the sofa, a wide space between them, her eyes focused on the floor and her face pink.

I tottered into the room, feeling drunk. It was Johnnycha! Johnnychayan was Sarah chechi’s suitor! No wonder he was so insistent on her returning home. I opened my mouth to say something, but heard a throat clear. It wasn’t my father who had cleared his throat, but he had that look that said ‘behave’.

Sarah’s mother Anniemama, seated nearby, murmured in her direction. Sarah stood up, moved towards the dining room and held out her hand to me, “Help me get the tea?”

I smiled again at Johnnychyan and followed Sarah. My cousins suddenly swarmed around us, piling the snacks on to serving plates and pouring the tea into the cups. Nina carried the tray of tea to the doorway of the dining room and handed it to Sarah. Suddenly my cousins felt shy, so someone pushed a tray laden with eats into my chest and several hands pushed me into the room.

I felt stricken with embarrassment. Traditional stereotypes were not for me. I wanted to dump the tray and disappear. But I inched forward uncomfortably. Sarah served the tea and I followed her while she served the guests snacks and placed their quarter plates on nest tables that Rajiv moved nearer the guests. When I was done, I stood next to my mother and watched.

After an eternity, the guests left. It appeared that things were sealed.

******

In the next few days, there was a quick engagement with only close family invited and a marriage date was debated and set.

Johnny returned to Mumbai almost immediately. The words I had retrieved from the crossword meant nothing – they were alphabets missing the words. And Sarah was let off the hook for most chores – but she had to prepare one traditional dish every day or prep the makings of others under Ammachi’s watchful eyes.

Sarah looked happy, but disappeared after her efforts in the kitchen. I was bursting with questions but was unable to get Sarah alone.

But, eventually, I discovered something else.

                                                            ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. Her cousin Sarah is being forced to meet a suitor, but things end surprisingly. 

Read the entire The Webs We Weave series here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94