Organization: University of Illinois at Chicago
Date: Saturday, 10 Oct 1992 21:42:54 CDT
From: Shyamala Parameswaran <U11983@uicvm.uic.edu>
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: This Life To Live - a story

This Life to Live
-----------------

Oh, _that_ poor girl? What was her real name - Raji? Rajam?
Rajashree? Something...

Shaguni, that was her known name, no one knew any better. It just
seemed to suit her since she was such an ill-fated creature. Of bad
shagunams. The recipient of pent-up, irrational diatribe whenever
anything went wrong. Only a few who knew her from a distance felt
a twinge of remorse. But even they remembered her mostly as Shaguni.

Early in her youth, Shaguni contracted polio which left her with
a legacy in the form of a limp. Yes, the vaccine was available,
but barely just, as it had not yet reached all pockets in the
country. Nor was information well disseminated about the nearest
place dispensing the vaccine. Add to that indifference among
parents, it was only a girl child, and you have a neat scenario.
Shaguni emerged into the world, premature, while her mother was
was at _her_ mother's. A midwife from the village assisted. Shaguni's
own mother was quite insulated from wordly matters. Other than her
her own cocoon of a traditional running of the home, doing chores,
cooking, washing and cleaning, nothing outside really mattered.

The stars were bad. The jathagam showed doshams. When it was being
drawn up, the jossier shook his head several times, mumbling feebly,
'Tchhe, Tchhe...' Someone slipped inside hurriedly to fetch a hot
kaapi. The jossier gulped it down, slurpily. And then the folks
around him assuming reverent postures ventured to ask, was anything
the matter, was the jossier not happy about something? Their inquiry
was steeped in curious deference, an admixture of awe and
trepidation. He held the fate of this child in his hands. True, it
was only a girl but nevertheless, it was their first grand-daughter.
And their brows creased.

Neither her face nor her body would bring her fortune. The thick,
wavy tormenting mass of hair was nature's only act of defiance in
body landscaping that was no symphony in art. Shaguni's arms, at
eighteen, were like sticks emerging rudely out of their sockets.
Her neck had no strength. Her torso was painfully thin and flat
as beaten rice. Her wasp-waist measured a bare eighteen inches.
How all that hair got there on her head when her body was so
emaciated, was everyone's mystery. How she survived on that
pathetic frame was even more of a mystery. Still, this creature
could never get by. Not with that thin crow-like face and
awkward gait. And, certainly not, with all that was ordained.
On that square scrap of paper.

********

Ramamurthy had sired three sons. One, Jagadesan, his first born and
legitimate heir to family vedic rites. He'd be the one to hold the
pillu, on his death. Outside the family, that Jagadesan was portrayed
"a useless slob", "B.Com fail", seasonally hunting for jobs, never
learning, puffed-up and obstinate. The father heard of this faintly,
and gave his verdict: he was his first-born and a son. Then came
Shaguni, and then Ganesan, Jayaraman and Natarajan. Kanna, as
he was affectionately called, was the coddled one being the
kadakutti. He even sucked his thumb and played with the tassles
at the end of sarees as any properly spoiled kadakutti might,
right on till age ten. Ramamurthy ignored this. And would coddle
him on his lap when he returned home from his petty bureaucrat's
job at the Royapettah town office. He always looked forward to
returning to his three-room haven, smack in the middle of Mylapore.
And getting changed and relaxing in his favorite easy-chair and
ordering Mangalam, his dutiful wife, to fetch his piping-hot coffee
and the tamil journal. Later, he would listen to the radio while
chewing betel leaves and tobacco. And then he'd be ready to be
served dinner, Jagadesan by his side. Then he would go for a
walk as the shops closed while his wife and daughter cleaned up
after dinner.

Recently, the planets seemed to have revolved for the better.
Some benevolent pixie had monitored Jagadesan's survival as a
billing clerk at Murugan's Co-operative. Murugan, a friend of
a friend had done a big favour in giving Jagadesan a job. Six
long months and still at the job... and Ramamurthy was struck
by an idea: Jagadesan should get married, his son was steady
and ready! Off went all alarms in all directions to friends
and relatives, jossiers and vaadiyars. But the horoscopes
were only a trickle. Then Ramamurthy was visited by another
idea. The matrimonial column in The Hindu.

This time it not only rained, it poured. They came in postal
envelopes, crudely handmade envelopes, white parchment envelopes,
on inland letters, too! The squares came dabbed at the four corners
with vermillion, turmeric, sometimes plain, and once, redolent of
of soft sandlewood. Anyway, a nice old toffee box stood ready on a
table by the wall to catch the fortune notes. Five weeks later,
Ramamurthy marched off with the box tucked under his arm and a
purposeful gleam in the eye, at an auspicious hour to see his
own jossier.

********

Tomorrow was an important day. Some folks were travelling down
to discuss terms with Ramamurthy. Their daughter was already
seen and approved. Ramamurthy was filled with pride; Jagadesan
even beamed at his sister. Things simply had to go well. Father
and son knew that. A slight tension was there but their airs
covered it.

A knock on the door. Kanna, who was nearby, promptly opened it.
And then bedlam broke. It was only four and the girl's party
had already arrived! They had said _six_ in their letter, why
were they so early? And then tragedy struck, too. The visitors
were being ushered in, by a hassled Ramamurthy. They came face
to face with Shaguni. She'd stopped dead in her tracks, wielding
a broom, her face flushed, the sweeping lengths of her sari
gathered and tucked in a bunch at her waist revealing her
stricken leg, her crooked stance. Her jerky, nervous movements
released the crude knot on her head, let her hair come tumbling
down in a stunning cascade. They all saw her and were riveted, in
shock. In a few minutes that seemed like an eternity someone
nudged her sharply from behind. She stumbled and hobbled hastily
across, towards the washroom.

Her thoughts were chaotic. She hadn't meant to stand there with
that broom, that symbol of ill-omen, she was trying to escape
unseen when she heard strange voices. She hadn't meant to look
like badrakali, with that unkempt hair. She was planning to get
dressed right after the sweeping got done, was busy earlier
helping her mother make mysore-pak, the flour fudge that was so
so tricky. It _had_ to come out right, they had to serve it
to the guests. Oh, dear!... she stood peering at the tiny wall
mirror, combing her hair in swift, jerky movements running into
tangles, not caring, rapidly snatching that wretched hair into
a tight, tight braid. Her eyes looked enormous. With regret, fear
and some unspelled emotion.

*****

Shaguni needed a groom. Jagadesan's marriage that so nearly
happened, didn't. Shaguni was passing through a Sani dasa and
so what happened on that fateful day was no accident. It was
decreed by her evil-fate. And after the fatal embarrassment of
Shaguni's shagunam, the marriage negotiations foiled, Ramamurthy
sought the jossier again. He pronounced a new turn. Shaguni had
to be married off first, if her brother was to ever get wedded!
So, now, they were waiting for the Sani dasa to end. They never
quite forgave her for her bedevilled spectacle, were quite rude
and taunting in their limited speech with her. Her mother was
quieter than usual. And Shaguni treated each day as it passed
heaving a sigh of relief only to tense in the morning, again.

********

When the news reached Shanti, she could not believe it. Such
a quiet fighter despite all odds, oh, God, _what_ happened?

Shaguni was married off after two years of desperate searching
to a vaadiyar, a rather lazy, unambitious, niggardly fellow.
Even that match was negotiated with great difficulty. They
promised him she was trained well in the affairs of the home,
would do as told. She was given in marriage, without fanfare,
at a distant temple with just the two families present. Within a
week of living in Manargudi, Shaguni realized her husband was
jobless. Although some kindly neighbors enquired about her health
they maintained a meaningful distance from her husband. Months passed
and miraculously that thin frame gave birth to a son. She nearly
died at childbirth, right there at the village with only a
midwife and some kindly women to help while her husband was
away on a spell, as usual. She could not have survived her
pregnancy had it not been for the concern of her neighbors.
She'd refuse help but they were insistent, in her condition.

Her husband's joblessness took its toll on her. She tried to
feed the baby and keep things going, this time meekly accepting
help without resistance. The husband, fearing his son would
not grow strong in her care, took him with him wherever he
went. It ensured meals for the child and him. Shaguni quietly
wasted away, succumbing to the inevitable.

When Shanti heard the news, Shaguni's husband had landed at
Ramamurthy's doorstep with a two-year old, a wife dead now
for over a year. Ramamurthy was entreated to take care of
the toddler; was told for the first time about Shaguni's
death, an act of betrayal, leaving behind a husband and
son to suffer.

********

It took several minutes for the news to sink in. Then her
limbs moved and Shanti found herself searching the boxes
in the bedroom closet. She found one and opened it, pulling
out a large black book, thumbing the leaves till she came to
the right one. A group picture, taken in their last year at
school just after graduation. There was Shaguni, her head
tilted towards Shanti, a joyful smile lighting up her face,
her hand clasping Shanti's, not showing in the picture,
because they were in the second row. Shaguni, who had fared
well at school, had no complaints about anything. Shaguni,
who never stopped after class hours for any fun or easy games,
always hurrying home saying she had to help her mother. Only
on one occasion, had she stopped to watch Shanti at play, a
wistful look in her eyes. Shaguni, who kept silent as others
talked of college and subjects and choices. When they'd force
her, she'd say she didn't think her father could afford to send
her to college. She was happy she was allowed to finish
school. Anyway, her mother needed her at home.

Shanti slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor,
tears streaming.

"Why, oh... why Aandava, she was so _good_! Why?"

********

Shyamala Parameswaran

[This story was inspired, in part, by Rama Ratnam's account
of a relative. My sincere acknowledgements to him.]
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian