The Elephant Chaser's Daughter Page 10

  Aunty Jyothi came over and asked Amma in Kannada if she was hungry. Amma surprised me by replying in English, ‘Yes, ma’am. I am hungry.’ I couldn’t wait to tell the girls in my class that my mother could speak English. I didn’t care if I made them jealous.

  I stayed with her for the rest of the morning. I had so much to tell her about my days in school and she seemed both eager to hear my excited babble and fascinated by the way I talked. ‘You have forgotten how to speak Kannada,’ she said, noticing that every line I spoke in Kannada was interspersed with English words.

  I nodded in embarrassment, then retorted, ‘And you’ve learnt English,’ making her laugh.

  ‘Amma. That is Sheena. She’s my best friend,’ I said, suddenly catching sight of her seated next to a large, dark man with a rough face. Amma told me not to stare as it was impolite. I looked away, disturbed that I didn’t recognize him and wondered how Sheena knew him.

  For the next two hours Amma and I talked, or more precisely, I talked and she listened. When it was time for her to leave, Aunty Shalini pulled her aside and they spent several minutes together. I noticed Amma’s face growing taut. Aunty Shalini being unhappy with me, I worried what she might be telling Amma. Was she talking about all the trouble I gave my teachers and aunties? But couldn’t she see that my behavior had been improving? My fears partly faded when Amma returned, kissed me, and promised to visit me again the following Sunday. We parted in tears but this time we both had something to look forward to.

  That evening, as Sheena and I sat watching the boys play basketball, I asked about the man she had been with. ‘Was that your uncle?’ I asked cautiously, remembering the terrible stories she’d told me about him. She once mentioned that Rafil, Aunty Nela’s husband, had fondled her when his wife was not home. ‘Why was she seeing him now?’ I asked myself.

  ‘Yes,’ Sheena replied softly.

  My face betrayed me. I didn’t like the way he looked. His protruding belly and bloodshot eyes reminded me of the ruthless villains of Kannada movies. I was afraid for her. Sheena didn’t look concerned but I couldn’t be sure how she really felt.

  The week passed almost as quickly as I had hoped it would. My mother was coming to visit me again.

  I was overjoyed to see Amma waiting for me in the dining hall. She was seated with my father, Aunty Shalini, and Ms. Nirmala. I rushed down the stairs and ran to her.

  Without giving me a kiss or holding my hand she turned to follow Aunty Shalini who led us immediately along the paved pathway to a small garden rich with cherry trees and bright red mayflowers. I walked quietly beside her, overtaken by anxiety. Amma gestured for me to sit beside my father on a stone bench. Aunty Shalini and Ms. Nirmala joined them, seated on another bench facing us.

  Amma stared coldly at me. There was no hint of a smile. For a moment, she appeared a stranger. She had definitely heard about me from Aunty Shalini. I didn’t dare to lift my head to look her in the eye.

  ‘Shilpa, I heard you are behaving badly in school,’ Amma said sternly in Kannada. ‘If you are sent away from Shanti Bhavan, I will make you work as a servant and sweep roads in the village. Do you understand?’

  I cringed in fear. And remembered Ann-Mary.

  Ms. Nirmala joined in, ‘Shilpa isn’t doing well in class, either.’

  ‘She does not listen to anything we say,’ Aunty Shalini added. ‘All of us find it so hard to take care of her.’

  ‘You better watch out,’ Amma warned, pointing her finger at me. I was afraid she would hit me, but she held back. Parents had been told by school authorities not to beat their children. I kept my head down, ashamed and fearful, concentrating on my falling tears.

  Appa suddenly spoke, addressing me first by my sister’s name before correcting himself. This slip only confirmed how absent I had been from his consciousness.

  Slowly, I lifted my head to look at him.

  His eyes were red and his lips parched; I had heard from Amma he had been ill for almost a week. ‘What will you do if you are dismissed from Shanti Bhavan? You will have to marry some useless fellow in the village and end up having lots of babies,’ he said with tears filling his eyes. Having lived a life of hardship, my father greatly valued education and was upset to find I was taking my good fortune for granted.

  I didn’t reply. It was hard to believe in the genuineness of his concern for me. Why hadn’t he come to visit me in school? Why did he hand me over to Grandmother and ignore me when I was in the village?

  He paused. ‘Look here.’

  I stared through tears as he slowly undid the buttons on his shirt. I screamed at what I saw: all over his chest were big gashes—some healing, others raw and deep.

  ‘I almost died from a tree falling on me,’ he said softly.

  I covered my mouth with my hands. Aunty Shalini gasped and turned away.

  Nobody but Appa spoke, his voice weak. ‘If the other woodcutters hadn’t come quickly and pulled me from under it, I would have died that day. My chest still feels heavy.’

  Angry with myself, I looked down, feeling terrible for being such a disappointment to my parents. The guilt was unbearable.

  ‘Shilpa, do you see how much your parents are suffering?’ Aunty Shalini said. ‘Your mother has to work as a housemaid far away and had to leave you, your brother, and your sister to earn enough money to take care of the family.’

  ‘Both your parents are hoping you will be able to help when you are older,’ Ms. Nirmala added.

  Seeing me remorseful, something she thought was rare, Aunty Shalini asked with sudden softness, ‘Will you work hard?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Will you listen to your elders?’ she asked, her voice firmer this time.

  ‘Yes, Aunty.’

  ‘Will you be a good girl?’

  ‘Yes, Ms. Nirmala.’

  Everyone appeared satisfied with my answers. ‘It is time for your parents to go,’ Aunty Shalini announced.

  I remained on the bench with my head low, crying, while Appa buttoned his shirt. Both of them stood, and I looked up to find them staring into my tear-streaked face. Appa appeared sad, but Amma was still angry. I badly needed my mother to hug me at least once and kiss me goodbye. I wanted to assure her that I would be good. And I longed to give her farewell kisses. Instead I heard my amma announce coldly, ‘We are leaving.’

  I stood up, wishing to run to my mother but the look on her face fixed me to my place. ‘Amma,’ I cried out, still hoping that she would scoop me up in her arms and tell me everything was okay and nothing had changed between us.

  ‘Just go,’ she snapped.

  ‘Go to the dorm,’ Aunty Shalini ordered.

  Rage like I had never felt before surged through me. I had been living without my mother for so long and now Aunty Shalini had succeeded in turning her against me. What kind of lesson was this? She was my worst enemy now, the one who was separating me again from my mother. The remorse and softness I had felt just a few minutes before vanished entirely.

  Amma gestured for me to leave with a quick, dismissive motion of her hand. I was wounded by her open indifference towards me and could not make sense of her sudden transformation. What had become of the loving mother who embraced me so warmly only a week ago? The black hole of abandonment took hold of me once again and this time I had no strength left to resist its pull.

  Many years would pass before I learnt that she behaved this way to appease Aunty Shalini who had instructed her to treat me the way she did. Amma clearly recognized that my time at Shanti Bhavan would come to an end if my bad behavior continued. She had seen this happen to Ann-Mary, once a schoolgirl like me and now a plaything for men, dancing in the streets of our village.

  Amma turned around and walked away with no trace of affection, with Appa following her. I stood transfixed, watching her disappear at the bend in the road marked by the looming presence of a tall tamarind tree. I wheeled and cut across the lawn to my dorm. I didn’t want my classmates to see me crying. They were
engrossed in watching a movie in the television lounge. Entering the dorm with my head down, I managed to make my way to bed without attracting their attention.

  A few girls who entered the dorm to go to the bathroom stopped by and asked what was wrong. I didn’t answer.

  Leelie sat on the edge of my bed and tried to console me. ‘Please don’t cry, Shilpa. Shall I ask Sheena to come to see you?’ she asked gently.

  I snapped at her. ‘I don’t want to see or speak to anyone.’

  By now there was a small group of girls standing around my bed helplessly watching me suffer. Leelie guided them away. ‘Best to leave her alone for now,’ she whispered. ‘Sheena will know what to do.’

  They all silently walked away.

  That was the last time I would see my mother for the next five years. Grandmother told me that even though Amma wanted to return, Appa was adamant that she remain abroad for a few more years to finish her contract and generate more money. At the time I was certain that she didn’t return because of me.

  From that day, my nightmares began.

  Sister Sheila was silent for a few moments when I ended my story. She studied me, her eyes dark with sadness. ‘Shilpa, pray to God every night before you go to sleep. Ask God to look after your mother and you. A child’s prayers never go unanswered,’ she said, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  I didn’t believe her. The last time I had earnestly prayed to God was for the rains to stop so I could go swimming in the pool. But heavy showers continued for two more days, turning the weather too cold to swim. I had lost all faith in my prayers.

  Sister Sheila tucked me under the warm blanket and I wished her goodnight before she moved on to the next bed. I lay awake thinking of Amma. What was she doing now? Did she tuck in the children she looked after every night? Did she sing lullabies to them or tell them the stories of the Kings of Mysore that she used to share with Kavya and me? I missed her so much.

  That she left me again without telling me she loved me was unbearable. All I could conclude was that there was no one in the world who cared for me deeply, except Sheena who was always kind to me.

  After a few days, I recovered from the short bout of fever and went back to school. My defiance returned with a vengeance. When slaps and public shaming couldn’t get me to surrender to her wishes, Aunty Shalini finally ordered me to pack my clothes and stay with the younger girls who lived downstairs, adding banishment to the usual punishments of sleeping on the floor at night and cleaning the dorm instead of going for games in the evening. Aunty Shalini hoped humiliation could get me to mend my ways.

  I returned from evening snacks and flung myself onto my mat on the floor. A hushed silence spread through the dorm; the little girls grew anxious seeing me so disturbed. I hated my life. Why was I even born?

  In seventh grade, my body became as stubborn as my personality. My height froze and I didn’t grow an inch after that. My small round face with its frame of bouncy, unmanageable, thick, black hair gave me a confused look that accentuated the troubled daze I always seemed to be in. ‘Your mind is never in the present,’ Aunty Shalini would say and about this she was right.

  Adrift in the rough waters of grief, I found myself reliving in my mind every moment from the past—the painful ones and the fleeting moments of tenderness with my mother. Carried away by this sense of utter rejection, I was travelling a self-destructive path that alienated me from my friends, wrecked my relationships, and sealed me in loneliness. I was saved from expulsion only because DG attributed my bad behavior to the absence of my mother. He still seemed to remember the bright, curious girl I once was.

  One afternoon when I was in the eighth grade, Aunty Catherine, one of the senior housemothers, came to my classroom and asked the teacher for a word with me. Nervous, I followed Aunty Catherine to a secluded corner of the assembly hall where we took a seat on the cement steps. She opened a brown envelope with a foreign stamp and pulled out a letter written in Kannada.

  ‘Your mother sent you a letter,’ Aunty Catherine said. Unable to read Kannada, I waited anxiously for her to share its contents with me. I stared passively at the words scrawled in my mother’s disjointed handwriting. Aunty Catherine strained forward, studying the paper, to make sense of what she read. The words she had scribbled resembled what a five-year-old might write.

  Amma wrote that she thought of me every day, missed me, and prayed to God to keep me in good health. She also asked me to be a good girl and not give anyone trouble. The letter brought back memories of the last time I had seen her when she had shouted at me and walked away without a kiss.

  Much of Amma’s letter was about her problems with Appa. She wrote that when she was at home he would come home drunk every other night and beat her. But her biggest complaint against Appa was about his flirtations with other women. Her letters were the beginning of her efforts to create distance between Appa and me. The letters I was to receive from Amma in the years to follow shed light on their turbulent years together. Maybe her marriage was doomed from the start, but I couldn’t understand why she wanted me to reject him. I could sense her struggle to reach me through those letters, and yet she made me feel more alone. Her letters brought me more sadness than anything else and I felt humiliated that the aunties discovered through them my family’s ugly secrets.

  Over time, I saw in Amma’s letters some words and sentences written in English. She told me her employer had taught her to write a few English words. I sometimes boasted to my classmates that now my mother not only knew how to speak English but also how to write it. As most of the parents were uneducated, my mother’s achievement was something special.

  My feelings towards my father were complicated by my knowledge of the many painful incidents between my parents and his flirtations with other women. I couldn’t understand how a father could be so indifferent towards his wife and children. I saw him as a cruel man who made my mother abandon me and now he too didn’t care about me.

  In seventh grade, I stopped hugging Appa. I told myself we were now strangers to each other.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: A WALK IN THE WOODS

  Appa pulled aside the thorny bushes with his rough hands, waiting for me to pass through the narrow track leading into the woods. I was on vacation from school after eighth grade when he had agreed to answer my questions about his life, but preferred the familiar tranquility of the forest where he felt most at home. It was where he could smile freely and laugh at my questions, and open his heart to share his story.

  After hearing sometimes more than I cared to know about my father from my mother’s letters and Grandmother’s stories, I found myself gradually wanting to stop finding fault with Appa. The slightest show of his fondness for me—a visit to my Grandmother’s hut when I was there for the school vacation, a gift of fruits or sweets—melted my anger and turned me curious about him. I made up my mind to discover for myself what kind of man he was.

  I started with his father. ‘Appa, why doesn’t Joseph Thatha talk to me?’ I asked, unsure why my grandfather stared blankly at me whenever I visited him, with no sign of recognition or warmth.

  ‘He lives in a world that exists only in his head,’ Appa replied with some bitterness. ‘For him, all that matters is his drink.’

  Appa said that as a young boy he once begged his father not to drink. Slapping him hard, his father responded, ‘I can leave your mother, but not my drinking. Remember that, boy.’

  It was the last time Appa ever questioned his father.

  Every man I knew in the village drank regularly. I had seen my father and Joseph Thatha getting together with their friends to talk about liquor—who had the best quality, what was wrong with this one’s supply, who had been caught by the police recently, and when they would meet again to drink. I thought drinking was simply part of being a man, until Mrs. Law taught us that drinking in excess is an illness.

  The shriek of a jackal broke the quiet. I looked around, startled, unsure whether it was safe to go further. Unconcerne
d, Appa walked a few yards ahead of me. The forest floor was covered in a blanket of leaves and moss, making it slippery even for the most sure-footed. Anyone else would have tripped over the sharp-edged stones that rose up through the ground cover, but Appa’s tread was as practiced and sure as that of a crystal-eyed fox. He took long, impatient strides, hands swinging stiffly by his sides, as though someone were chasing him.

  ‘Why are you walking so fast, Appa? Slow down,’ I called out, stopping to catch my breath.

  ‘When an elephant is chasing you, you can’t afford to walk. You have to sprint,’ he shouted back with laughter in his voice.

  I was unsteady in my fancy leather sandals, occasionally tripping on the uneven ground as I struggled to keep up with him. Stopping to write in the small notebook I carried, I reflected on what was around me and stared at the vast stretch of rocky hills that loomed over the trees like an eternal protective wall around the village, I asked, ‘Appa, when was the first time you drank?’

  ‘When I was five,’ he replied instantly.

  ‘Five?!’ I bent over my notebook.

  ‘Yes. My uncle wanted to see me drunk. He promised to give me a piece of jaggery if I gulped down a whole glass,’ he said, laughing. ‘Your grandmother was shocked to see me lying unconscious on the floor. She tried to hit him with a broom.’

  We reached a silent creek that broke across a stony track. Appa simply walked straight into the water. On rainy days he would wade through it, welcoming the soft slush between his toes. I preferred to stay dry, carefully balancing myself on small boulders jutting up from the water and jumping off them to reach the other side.

  ‘Why did you brew liquor?’ I asked. He had stopped doing that work recently, choosing to make a living chasing elephants instead.

  ‘That was one of the few occupations in the village. Everyone was either buying or supplying it.’ He turned to make sure I was not too far behind.