“Well, see you later,” Janaki says, at a loss. They know it’s not likely they will cross paths again.
“Bye,” Bharati rejoins, with a sweet smile. “Good luck, with marriage and all.”
Janaki reciprocates, open and genuine. “And good luck to you-whatever comes next.”
Bharati raises her eyebrows, amused and practical, but then Janaki is alarmed to see Bharati gulp as her eyes brim slightly and she blinks. “Yes, whatever comes next. G’bye, little sister.”
It has become one of their private jokes, to call each other little sister and big sister, thangachi and akka, though Bharati started the joke. Hearing the reference now returns to Janaki her guilty relief at this parting. Ever since she learned of their blood relationship, she has felt mildly cool toward Bharati, in spite of their greater closeness. She both dislikes this feeling and feels it is justified. She doesn’t think it shows; Bharati, she thinks, might not even have picked up on it.
Back when Bharati was uncertain of who her father was, Janaki and she remarked innocently on the coincidence that they both lived with their maternal grandmothers. Now that they share a father, Janaki frequently tells herself that she and Bharati really have nothing in common, because otherwise she would have to admit she identifies more with Bharati now than before. They both feel ashamed of their father, though he disappoints them in different ways.
Their slight estrangement had been facilitated by Vani’s absence, since Bharati no longer had a reason to come and sit behind their house. They continued to spend all their time together at school but no longer had an after-school relationship.
When they had outgrown their first veena teacher, Bharati’s mother had engaged a music tutor who came, once a week, all the way from Thiruchi. Bharati invited Janaki to come and participate in the lessons. It was tempting: Janaki had had to work hard to keep up with her music since Vani and Vairum moved to Madras. She practises at least an hour or two every day on the veena Vani left, which has, de facto, become hers. Once a week, there is an educational music program broadcast on the radio, and Janaki goes to Gayatri’s to take it in; occasionally, she goes to weddings, where she makes a point of learning some new songs from whoever is the best musician in attendance. The few times Vani has come back to visit them in Cholapatti, Janaki, in her desperation to learn, has been persistent to the point of rudeness, but Vani is ever patient and indulgent with her: playing, listening to Janaki play, wordlessly making corrections and modelling improvements.
When Bharati asked again if Janaki would be coming over for veena lessons, Janaki shook her head. “My grandmother says I’m too old to be going to others’ houses for lessons, that I should just practise at home.”
Bharati tossed her head a little, lifting her chin as though something were flying past it, and said coolly, “Very conservative, your grandmother.”
Janaki felt herself get hot: she had always understood “conservative” to be a compliment-why didn’t it sound that way coming from Bharati? But then Bharati appeared to correct herself. “So’s mine, in her own way,” she told Janaki with a return of the intimate joviality that Janaki now shrank from. “Too bad. It would have been fun.”
In fact, Janaki had never asked her grandmother. She wouldn’t have wanted to admit to having a devadasi as a friend, though she knows that, were it not for their other connection, she would have found a way to attend the special lessons.
And now Bharati is turning toward the rest of her life and Janaki, toward hers. Janaki knows her own near future, but not the far. She will stay home, but will receive a tutor, young Kesavan, who will help her maintain her Sanskrit and other basic academic skills. Next year, her grandmother will start to solicit potential grooms. Beyond that, she cannot see.
Janaki, Radhai and Kamalam, all of whom have come home from school together, wash their hands, face and feet, and change into everyday clothes. Radhai goes to play with Krishnan next door at Rukmini’s house, where he spends every day, the first of Thangam’s pre-school children not to pass his afternoons with Muchami. Though Muchami missed having a child with him, he had no means or desire to override Rukmini’s proffered affection for the little boy.
Kamalam and Janaki take their embroidery and go to sit on the veranda, where they will be met by Ecchemu, a Brahmin girl of about Janaki’s age, with whom Janaki has become friendly. Ecchemu is a dull, silly girl, but, by virtue of caste and age, is an appropriate companion for Janaki. Where Bharati has always made Janaki feel frumpy, Ecchemu causes her to feel her own attributes keenly. She has always known she was smart, but now she may have become pretty She is of average build, unlike Kamalam, who, at five feet and five inches, is by far the tallest of the sisters. Janaki has inherited something of her father’s square jaw and forehead, but her demure, perceptive gaze is hers alone, as are her creative talents, which always exceed available outlets.
Since Sita left for her husband’s house, Janaki has taken over the drawing of the kolam every morning, the rice flour design that ornaments every threshold. Where their house used to display no more than a perfunctory few lines and dots of the required symmetry, it is now daily decorated with a kolam no less than three feet across, often embellished with birds and flowers. Janaki admires her latest-a cobra wriggled across the threshold in perfect diagonals-as she takes her seat on the veranda and smiles condescendingly at Ecchemu, who is just arriving.
As they work together, Ecchemu chatters vapidly about her sister’s recent marriage. Janaki doesn’t listen, but instead reflects on the academic career she has just ended. She performed well-better than any of her sisters did, and likely better than Kamalam or Radhai will. None of them have her desire for knowledge, her determination and application. She knew full well she would have no more than an elementary education, though, and it doesn’t occur to her to be discontent at not going further. Rather, she is grateful to Sivakami for continuing to give her tutoring, more than most girls receive. Now she is looking forward to marriage and to raising a family, as much as she can look forward to events both inevitable and essentially unknown.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, Navaratri approaches-festival of dolls. It’s Janaki’s favourite, not surprisingly, since it offers chances for imaginative play, and because it includes several days of tribute to Saraswati, goddess of music and education, the deity Janaki feels most personally inclined to worship. Gayatri, when she comes for her morning coffee, tells Janaki stories, innocent and repetitive, of how the holiday used to be Thangam’s favourite, too.
It feels like a strange coincidence, then, when the day’s mail contains a letter from Thangam, the first Janaki has seen. It is written in pencil, in Thangam’s own hand. In places, the writing is so light that it disappears. In others, Thangam has pressed so hard that the thick, nubbly paper has torn, as though she were leaning on the pencil for strength.
“Amma,” it begins, after the usual “Safe” in the upper right corner, and the date, in the left.
He has been moved again. He has already gone and I must ready the things. I think my baby is due in some three months. Can one ofmy daughters come to help me? Baby Raghavan is very strong, red and chubby. Please send a girl if one of mine can come to help. I know all of my girls are very strong. Do not worry.
It finishes with her name, laboriously inscribed at the bottom.
Janaki is in the middle of her veena practice. Sivakami shows her the letter. “You’ll go, Janaki? Muchami will take you.”
“Yes, Amma,” she responds rapidly. Why is Thangam asking Sivakami not to worry? What does her grandmother have to worry about?