Tell A Thousand Lies (39 page)

I stared at him, appalled. He wouldn’t, would he?

“No Goddess – no honour for grandmother.” He grinned.

Hot tears flooded my eyes. Ammamma would commit suicide, rather than live with the dishonour. “Your wife and my grandmother are childhood friends.”

He snorted, as if my outburst were unworthy of attention.

“And there is something else I can do,” he purred.

“What?” I shivered in spite of myself. I had been very wrong to underestimate this man.
He was no more harmless than a snake charmer’s basket of cobras.

“I will personally guarantee your boy is never found.” His tone was conversational, like he was discussing the latest fortunes of the Indian cricket team.

The bastard would do it, too. “Why now? There are no elections. You are secure in your post. Convince Lata to back off, and you’re safe.”

“Ever heard of an invention called the television, Doctor
garu
? Very useful. Tells you all kinds of things. Like the fact the Chief Minister's government is in danger of collapsing. No confidence motion. New elections might be called.”

“When did that happen?” God, how had I missed that?

Kondal Rao peered at his watch. “Umm... about twenty-two hours ago. Let me weather this crisis, then I’ll worry about your little sister and you.”

I sagged against the door. If Pullaiyya disappeared, both Srikar and Aunty would be devastated. As for Ammamma’s dishonour... that did not bear thinking about.

“I was hoping age and your ‘
doctory
’ would have made you a worthier opponent.” He sighed. “Such a fancy degree. Of what use?
Aiyyo
!
So disappointed.” He grinned, the pink of his tongue pushing against the fence-like gaps in his teeth.

I looked at him in mute appeal.

“
Cha
!” he complained. “What is this? You are taking away all my fun.”

“Don’t you care at all for the happiness of your grandson and great-grandson?”

“
Bah
!” Kondal Rao said with an expression of distaste. “Still the village mentality, I see. You learned nothing in the city?” He abandoned his casual pose, body stiff with tension. “Power, Pullamma. Power. One who has power, has it all. Never forget that.” His eyes had a feverish glint. “Last time you publicly endorsed me, I got a berth in the Chief Minister’s Cabinet. I will not allow anything to get in my way. Not you. Not your mother-in-law. Not that sister of yours.” He jabbed a finger at me, lips tight. “Do. You. Understand?”

I nodded, understanding dawning. As long as one of us lived, I would never be free of this man.

He looked at me, stubby forefinger tapping his chin. I knew what was coming, of course.

“You’re ready to pack, or what?”

Chapter 48

Back At Ammamma’s

L
ater that night, I stood at Ammamma’s door, suddenly desperate to see her.

Kondal Rao, in a surreal rerun of my journey to the Home, had escorted me back to Ammamma’s, jeep loads of henchmen and all. The sickle-and-bamboo sticks wielding henchmen had given way to gun-toting sidekicks – a sign of changing times.

Ammamma came out. She looked curiously at the group of people at her doorstep.

Eight years had passed since I left behind my beloved grandmother to try and make a life with Srikar. Ammamma’s hair had more grey now, her face more wrinkles. The crumpled cotton sari tucked in at the waist was the same, the white
bottu
on her forehead, slightly off-centre, was still the same. Throat clogging with emotion, I gave her a tremulous smile.

“We are blessed,” a man exclaimed. “
Ammavaru
has taken on a new avatar. She’s given
darsanam
again after so many years.”

The confused expression on Ammamma’s face changed to shock. “Pullamma!” she squealed, dragging me into her arms. She pulled back, her eyes darting from me to the group of people behind.

Kondal Rao’s lackey, to whom I’d supposedly given
darsanam
by appearing to him in my Godly form, had become the celebrity of the moment. The man beamed.

“
Jai
Ammavaru
!” a roar went up behind me. Long live the Goddess.

Ammamma’s face paled to the colour of flattened rice.

“Can I come in, Ammamma?” I said softly. “I am very tired.”

><

Ammamma dispatched the people at the gate saying I would give
darsanams
only after a week of meditation.

I closed the gate and hugged my grandmother tightly, my heart awash with love for her. It was good to see Ammamma again, no matter what the circumstance.

Ammamma pulled back, wiped her damp eyes with the back of her hand and cupped my face, examining my features one by one. “You cut your hair short!” She looked dazed.

Good thing she hadn’t seen me in sleeveless blouses. “Long story. Can I tell you about it later?”

“Of course, of course. Come, I’ll make you coffee.” She took my hand and led me towards the kitchen.

I looked around the courtyard, saddened by the air of neglect. The marble floor, even in the moonlit night, seemed grimy. The walls were patchy.

“You should have used some of the money I sent, for repairs.”

Ammamma smiled noncommittally.

“You did get the money, didn’t you?”

“Every month,” Ammamma said.

“And yet, you never used it. Why?”

Ammamma appeared uncomfortable.

“Ammamma?”

“When a girl sends so much money every month, more than what a man in the village can hope to earn in a year...”

“You thought I’d been selling my body?”

Ammamma’s reddened face gave her away.

I started to laugh. “Oh, Ammamma!” I clutched her and laughed till my sides hurt. “How could you think such a thing?” I said through gasps. “Didn’t you know me better?”

“I didn’t think you were the kind to abandon your child, either.”

That sobered me up. “Kondal Rao stole my child, Ammamma. He kidnapped me, then gave my son to Srikar.” Telling her he’d tried to have me killed would only scare her.

Ammamma’s jaw dropped. “I never, ever believed that you ran away with another man.” She was quite emphatic about that. “But your child was with Srikar, and you were gone.”

“And yet you thought I’d prostituted myself?”

“Perhaps you were desperate.” Ammamma seemed embarrassed.

“Not that desperate. Never that desperate.” I gave Ammamma a hug.

“So what are you doing here?”

I would never, never tell Ammamma about Kondal Rao’s threat to dishonour her. “You know Srikar married Lata?”

Ammamma looked sorrowful. “I know.”

“Lata informed Kondal Rao about our whereabouts in Hyderabad because she couldn’t bear to stay married to
Narasu
. Kondal Rao kidnapped me. Marriage to Srikar was her payment.”

Ammamma’s face drained of colour. “I can’t believe she descended to such depths.”

“Well, she did.”

Ammamma gave me a lingering hug. Her voice choked. “I’m sorry you suffered so much, but it is so good to see you, Child.”

I held her tightly. I’d missed her so much.

Some fifteen minutes later, we settled on a mat with coffee the way only Ammamma could make.

“Did Kondal Rao harass you a lot after I left?” I said.

“Petty things, nothing major.”

“Like what?”

“Suddenly people I’d been selling pickle to for years wanted to try out someone else, their relatives in the neighbouring villages started to sew their clothes, that sort of thing.”

Paapaatmuda
!
That sinner had struck at Ammamma’s livelihood!

“I lived alone, it wasn’t hard to get by.” She looked at my face every few minutes, as if to reassure herself that I was really back, but carefully avoided looking at my shortened hair.

“I wished you’d used the money I sent,” I said.

“I managed.” She shrugged. “Enough of me. How did you end up here?”

I realized with a shock that she knew nothing of my life after I’d supposedly sent Pullaiyya back to Srikar for raising. I sat on the floor next to Ammamma, taking her through the happenings in my life. I stressed the love and support I’d received from Janaki aunty, glossing over the more painful moments.

“Would Srikar have let you take Pullaiyya away?”

“He’s a good person, Ammamma. He feels obligated to Lata because she took care of Pullaiyya when he needed the help, but is appalled by what his grandfather did to me.”

“Oh, Child.”

I held my head in my hands and started to cry. “By now I could have been on my way with Pullaiyya, Ammamma. I could have had my son with me. She doesn’t care for him. She’s been using him to remain close to Srikar, and now to control me.”

Ammamma held me as I sobbed. When I raised my head, her face was wet, too.

“All I’ve ever done is bring you sadness, Ammamma.”

“Don’t be silly, Child. You are a mother, too. Could you ever regret Pullaiyya?” She sighed. “The three important people in your life – your child, your husband, your mother-in-law, I hardly know them.”

Catching up with Ammamma was bittersweet. So many changes. Lakshmi
garu
and Murty
garu
had moved to the city to be with their children.
Vanita’s
brother, who had spent all his time playing cricket, was now a teacher in the village school. That one was a little hard to believe. And Chinni. Her family had prospered in Kurnool.

Ammamma brought me up to date on my older sister’s life. Within a year of marriage, Malli was back at Ammamma’s, pregnant. She was there till her delivery, and another three months before she returned home.

That first time Malli delivered two healthy girls. The in-laws claimed to be happy, but there would be more pregnancies. A male heir was not merely a matter of pride, or necessity for the continuity of his clan, he was also needed to perform rituals for the well-being of his parents and ancestors in after-life. Luckily for Malli, she was fertile. In the next six years, she would be back at Ammamma’s annually, delivering another four daughters and then thankfully, three strong sons, the last two, again twins.

“When I finally had enough of this,” Ammamma said, “I told Malli to discretely visit a lady doctor and get herself fixed. No need to involve men in such things, is there? It was a huge relief to both of us.”

It was strange having Ammamma recite Malli’s story to me; I felt like a railway passenger whizzing past the stations in my sister’s life. I was sad for having missed the births and milestones of my nieces and nephews. Before I left, all our energies had been focused on trying to get Malli and Lata married off; Malli and I had not had the time to be sisters; Chinni was more a sister to me than Malli or Lata ever were.

The months Malli was home for her deliveries would have been the time to get to know her; that was when in-laws typically let go of their daughters-in-law. Strict in-laws like Malli’s rarely gave permission to their daughter-in-laws to visit their mothers’ houses at other times – after all, if the daughter-in-law went away, who would cater to their needs?

In the midst of Malli’s pregnancies, Lata’s troubles, and worries about me, Ammamma had aged quietly, but gracefully. She couldn’t be much more than sixty because she’d had my mother at fifteen or so, and my mother had Lata and me when she herself was nineteen; but in village years, it was a lifetime.

I lay back exhausted, marvelling at the starlit sky. The ‘luxuries’ of the city had denied me life’s simpler pleasures. Because of the street lights, stars weren’t always visible in the city.
 

“How much I missed you, Child. How much I begged
Yedukondalaswami
for your return,” Ammamma said. Her voice broke. “But not like this; never like this.” She stroked my hair tenderly. She peered at me. “You’re the same, but not the same.”