The Elephant Chaser's Daughter Read online

  Some said that Grandfather Joseph might have beaten his daughter to death in one of his drunken rages and, fearing that others would find out, had thrown the body into the well to make it look like suicide. Others argued that Sagaya had unexpectedly encountered her mother in a close embrace with the shepherd who lived across the street. Afraid that Thatha would kill her if Sagaya revealed to him what she had seen, Arpuda Ajji had her equally frightened lover push Sagaya into the well.

  Appa dismissed these stories as ugly tales and putrid gossip, but the memory of his sister was deeply within him. Once he caught sight of me struggling to balance a plastic water vessel on the faint curve of my hip. He burst out laughing and remarked that I was walking just like Aunt Sagaya did when she was my age. ‘I used to tell her that even a cow could walk better on two legs,’ he said chuckling, his eyes sharp with remembrance. I could see that her death still haunted him, even after all those years. Each time I think about my aunt, I am frightened by my family’s past.

  ‘Say good-bye to Ajji,’ Appa whispered in my ear as he put me down and gave me a gentle push towards her. I walked forward gingerly, and knelt before her. Ajji wanted to know how often I would return home from school; Appa didn’t have an answer for her.

  After my short visit with Ajji, Appa instructed Amma to take me to nearby elderly neighbors and relatives to seek their blessings. Whenever we talked about the day I left for school, Amma would tell me that the blessings I received from the elders had helped me on my journey and would follow me for the rest of my life.

  My departure was almost as elaborate as a wedding ritual, with just as many onlookers. Curious neighbors gathered outside our hut to ask questions or warn my parents about taking such a dangerous path. Before long, they joined our family in a solemn procession to the convent where the blue jeep was parked. My mother’s parents and siblings stayed beside me every step. Uncle Naresh, Amma’s youngest brother, then only eleven, sulked along quietly. For Grandmother, this parting was only temporary. She was hoping I would marry Uncle Naresh after some years in school and return to live with the family for the rest of my life. Aunt Maria, Amma’s eldest sister, was particularly upset that I was leaving home. She’d grown very much attached to me ever since she fed me her breast-milk when my mother found she did not have enough of her own.

  My grandparents would tell me years later that they walked with their heads bent to avoid the sneering voices and mocking eyes of neighbors who were certain that the first granddaughter in our family was being sent to her death. They couldn’t understand why I had to go to a distant place in the care of people unknown to anyone in the village. There was no rejoicing at my joining a good school, and there was no talk of what an education would mean for me.

  ‘Who knows what that man wants?’ one suspicious neighbor said, referring to the foreigner who had started the school. ‘Why should he do anything for us for free?’ No one could give an explanation. Poor villagers were not used to being offered life-changing opportunities for their children at no cost to them. In a land where bonded labor is the norm for those who fail to repay loans on time, it was hard to trust generosity and kindness from anyone.

  ‘Anthony doesn’t love Shilpa,’ Amma moaned to Grandmother. ‘Remember, he ordered me to throw her into the thipai when she was born.’

  The thipai was the landfill next to our house where people went to defecate and discard garbage. This was also where Amma and Grandmother buried the sarayam in a jar to be stored until it was sold. And this was where Appa had wanted to dump me soon after I was born, disappointed that his firstborn wasn’t a son.

  The sight of the jeep parked outside the convent brought a fresh smile to Appa’s face. Upon seeing Mrs. Law, he instantly joined his hands in the traditional greeting of Namaste. Appa couldn’t understand what Mrs. Law was saying to Sister Stella, but the pleasant look on her face reassured him that everything was all right.

  The crowd that had followed us flocked around the vehicle. Appa stepped into the jeep first, and then Amma handed me over to him. She lifted her sari slightly and entered too. It was exciting for the villagers to see the jeep up close and watch my family seated inside. I noticed that my parents weren’t looking at each other.

  After we got in, Mrs. Law helped a tall, fair-skinned, five-year-old girl with curly hair into the vehicle. ‘This is Shoba,’ Mrs. Law said. Shoba was gentle and docile, but frightened to be alone without any familiar adult to accompany her. No one was concerned about her, but I was happy that she was going to travel with me.

  Appa, like everyone else in the village, immediately recognized the little girl. Her mother had been pregnant with her at a young age but the father denied his role in it. Unable to face the disgrace of bearing a child before marriage, Shoba’s mother left the newborn girl with her older brother and fled to Mumbai, leaving Shoba to bear the brunt of her mother’s mistake. But neither Shoba’s uncle nor his family showed Shoba much affection, and so she retreated into loneliness. In the years to come, Shoba’s life would be transformed in ways none of us could fathom then. But on that day, in the blue jeep, the five-year-old looked lost.

  The jeep rolled slowly out of the village, its gears whining loudly. I was travelling for the first time through remote villages, thickly populated slums, lush ragi fields, and barren stretches of land. It was a world I never knew existed. The sight of women balancing bundles of dry twigs upon their heads, men digging trenches alongside roads, schoolchildren dressed in uniforms, monkeys sneering at worshippers from temple gates, and many other grand visions excited me beyond words. Cows grazed along the roadside and goats were shepherded by old men over rocky terrain. Occasionally, I stuck my head out the window, pointing to unusual sights along the way: decorated shops, multi-storey buildings, cars, bright yellow buses, and more.

  Finally, after long hours navigating muddy roads and around giant potholes, the jeep rolled to a stop. The driver got out and opened the rear door. Appa stepped out first, then Amma who reached for me. Shoba quietly followed. We stood in silence, staring at our new world.

  The place looked more like a construction site than a school for children. Piles of concrete blocks and heaps of mud punctuated the barren land around us. The rich red color of the soil showed that it was clay, best suited for making bricks and tiles. We stood upon a gentle hill that I would learn later was part of the Deccan Plateau. The new surroundings appeared stranger than any I could ever have imagined.

  A young man appeared from nowhere and asked us to pose for a photograph. The four of us stood in front of the jeep, everyone holding hands, even Shoba. The jeep looked like a paddy wagon, and we probably gave the appearance of fresh prisoners, newly transported to jail. Or did we look instead like immigrants coming to a new world? In my early days at school, I spent innumerable hours staring at that photo of this memorable point in time. I can clearly make out Amma’s bulging belly, protruding from beneath the faded blue sari draped untidily around her waist. Appa was dressed in an oversized red shirt, towering over me with his intimidating presence. I realize that I appear frightened. And certainly I must have been, in spite of my excitement. Every time I missed Amma, I would stare at that photograph and cry, holding onto the bittersweet memories of the day that changed my life forever.

  We were directed to a table for breakfast. It was the first time any of us had eaten at a table; at home, we ate sitting on the floor. Appa looked uncomfortable at the height. I sat on Amma’s lap as she plucked at pieces of dosa, a South Indian pancake. No words were exchanged between them, and no signs of surprise were displayed. Both my parents appeared lost in thought.

  A tall, elderly woman with a warm smile entered the dining hall. Her black hair streaked with grey was bundled neatly at the nape of her neck. Appa raised himself from his chair.

  ‘No, please sit down; don’t get up,’ the woman said politely in clear Kannada.

  Appa seemed relieved that somebody spoke his language at last. Amma greeted the stranger with a smile an
d a respectful Namaste. The woman returned the greeting and introduced herself as Ms. Ruth, the dormitory caretaker.

  Ms. Ruth led the four of us outside. The grinding sound of a cement mixer followed us wherever we went. Shoba and I were not wearing sandals, and the gravel bit into our bare feet. After a while, Amma picked me up and carried me.

  Ms. Ruth escorted us to a nearby building that she explained was a newly constructed dorm for the children who were being admitted to the school. Appa removed his slippers at the doorstep and stepped into the unfinished space, staring curiously at everything around him. The two sections of the dorm were separated by an open courtyard where grass and a few flowering plants were sprouting. Beyond a red-tiled veranda were two large rooms with smooth white and maroon tiles.

  Ms. Ruth excused herself for a moment. Alone at last, Amma turned to Appa and whispered, ‘Anthu, there is nothing here.’

  ‘This is a new school, Sarophi. It will take time to complete the buildings. What are you grumbling about?’ He had made up his mind to let me go, and there was no turning back.

  Amma looked away, trying her best to hold back tears. She ran her hand through my hair and held me close. Meanwhile, Shoba stood with her back pressed against the wall, looking frightened and silent save for the sound of her breathing. I was busy looking at everything around me—the colorful curtains, the slippery floor, the empty shoe rack, and the neatly arranged beds. I thought I was in a fairyland, and for a moment I forgot that my parents were even there.

  ‘Amma, come here,’ I called out happily.

  Wiping her tears with her pallu, Amma rose from the chair and walked towards the large room. She peeped inside the dorm to see two rows of cots lined up neatly. At the end of the dorm was another door that led to a bathroom. Amma stood looking around as though she, too, had discovered something new and exciting. She confessed years later that she was amazed at everything, especially the high ceiling with strong beams—so unlike the low, thatched roof of our hut. Likewise, the smooth tiled floors and colorfully painted walls of the dorm were in sharp contrast to our cow-dung-coated, two-room hut.

  Appa eventually joined us. ‘This is where my daughter is going to sleep. She will no longer be on the cold floor,’ he said, turning towards Amma, hoping for her approval. Instead, her eyes welled with tears as she took in what would become her daughter’s second home far away from her.

  Appa later related that he had felt left out as I improvised a tour for Amma. However, it only seemed natural to me to share my excitement with my mother who cared for me every day, and not my father who left for the woods before I woke up and returned at night only after I was fast asleep.

  Shoba and I were busy investigating the dolls when my parents slipped away. Amma later told me that Ms. Ruth came up to them and said, ‘It is time for you to go. We don’t let the children know their parents are leaving because it makes it more difficult for them. Don’t worry. Shilpa will be happy here.’ By then, Amma was somewhat reassured by Ms. Ruth’s concern for the children.

  My parents were asked to put their signatures in a book that was placed before them. Unable to read or write, Appa pressed his finger into an inkpad and stamped his thumbprint. Neither of them could read what was written in the book as it was in English, but Ms. Ruth explained that they had just acknowledged that they were my parents and were willingly letting their daughter live and study at the school.

  Appa joined his hands in Namaste and left the room. Ms. Ruth reciprocated the gesture. Amma couldn’t control her tears any longer. She didn’t want to even look at Appa’s face; she couldn’t have hated him more. As they stepped outside, they could hear the excited chattering of children lost in play.

  ‘Please, I want to see Shilpa one last time,’ Amma begged, but Appa was resolute.

  ‘Didn’t madam tell us that it would be easier for her if we leave like this?’ he said, barely controlling his temper.

  Ms. Ruth followed my parents as they made their way back to the jeep. They heard a child’s loud cry from the dorm, and Amma was certain it was me. For a moment Appa felt unsure whether he had made the right decision. He tried to deafen the sound of his daughter’s cries ringing in his head.

  Amma composed herself and thanked Ms. Ruth before stepping into the jeep behind her husband. Despite her apprehensions, Amma didn’t want to displease Ms. Ruth. She knew this was the person who would care for her daughter in the days to come. Once inside the vehicle, Appa avoided the accusing eyes of his wife.

  The jeep made its way out of the gates, bouncing along the bumpy road. Appa distracted himself by staring at the lake near the entrance to the school that reminded him of the one in his village he would pass on the way to sell liquor.

  ‘This is so far away,’ Appa said to himself, knowing he would remember this journey for a long time. For my heart-broken mother, it was the beginning of a realization that all that happened that day might have been for the good, as fate would have it.

  I don’t even know when my parents left me. It might have been while I was busy examining the colorful stuffed toys and sweet dolls I had found in the girls’ dorm. Everything was so different and new to me in Shanti Bhavan.

  Later that day a young woman dressed in a churidar struggled to get me to sit still as she cut my unkempt hair down to a neat bob. I looked strange in the mirror, strange enough to be upset by my new appearance. The woman then took me for a bath into a clean, white bathroom with smooth tiles. It was delightful to feel the gushing water from a tap falling on me, unlike the infrequent baths I had at home with one tiny bucket of water. The woman rubbed me with soap, covered my face with its delightful bubbles, and put shampoo into my hair. It was shampoo from America, I was told, which meant nothing to me since I didn’t know what America was. After the bath, I stepped into fresh clothes with beautiful floral patterns. For the first time in my life, I felt clean and pretty.

  Until I came to Shanti Bhavan, I had never thought about looking pretty. Most of the time I was dirty and wore simple clothes sewed from my grandmother’s worn-out saris. Occasionally Amma cut my hair, crookedly, with blunt scissors when she thought it was too long for me to manage. No one talked about hairstyles. I had never washed my hair with shampoo, worn shoes, or put on face lotion. But the absence of those luxuries didn’t matter then as I didn’t know they existed.

  My new surroundings held many unfamiliar things. In my old world, I cleaned my teeth with a line of charcoal spread on my tiny finger. Now I had a toothbrush and some sort of flavorful paste to brush with. I owned four kinds of footwear: sneakers for play, slippers for the dorm, soft black shoes for daily school, and leather shoes with laces for special occasions. In the beginning, they were a drag on my feet, but soon I began to like their feel. Given that I had arrived barefoot, these were riches beyond my wildest imaginings.

  Despite these exciting comforts, my new school lacked the one thing I needed most in those first few weeks. I missed my grandmother’s loving gestures and Amma’s warm embrace at night as she sang to me, ‘Mother of sleep come to my child / Dance beside her like a peacock / Give her peaceful slumber.’ Now, all I had were dolls to hug and a bed that, at first, was terribly frightening because it seemed so high off the ground.

  I remember the fear of that first night very clearly. Ms. Ruth gently showed me how to lie on the bed and cover myself with a neat white sheet, but I couldn’t muster the courage to sleep elevated. I staged an instant protest, throwing myself on the floor, thrashing about and screaming while the other girls watched. Unable to bring me under control, Ms. Ruth was left with no choice but to separate me from the others. Perhaps she didn’t want my defiance to become contagious. She clasped my hand in hers and led me to a small room with a bed, switched on the lights, and left me alone, closing the door behind her.

  I was frightened to be alone, and longed for the security of my mother. I would have given up all the dolls in the world to be with Amma again. I banged my fists against the wooden door and yelled at t
he top of my lungs, ‘Amma! Appa! Get me out. Take me home!’ There was only silence from the other side. No one came to open the door.

  I kicked the door until my feet hurt and ran to the window and tried to bite into its iron bars. Tears of frustration flowed down my face as I cried out with all my strength. Out the window in the moonlight I could see dark rows of trees and rough, rolling grounds in the distance. No one was out there to save me.

  I was exhausted from the day’s journey and all the crying, so finally decided to climb onto the bed and give it a try. The feeling was totally different; instead of the hard floor, underneath me was softness and comfort. Instantly, I fell asleep.

  My routine in those early days at school was so different from everything I was used to at home. At my new school, I woke up to sparrows chirping outside my window, classical music buzzing from the radio, and the housemother who looked after us in the dorm—we called her ‘Aunty’—telling us to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. ‘Girls, please get up,’ she would say in Kannada and Tamil, walking to each bed, calling our names, and patting us gently.

  Until I went to Shanti Bhavan, my childhood was quite similar to that of most girls in Thattaguppe. Each day was the same as the one before. Amma would take me outside the hut as soon as I woke up to clean my face with water from a bucket kept mainly for washing hands after meals. I would watch our neighbor milking her cow and the young women sweeping around their huts and sprinkling water over the ground to settle the dust. My mornings continued with me watching Amma sweep the floor and warm up the previous night’s leftovers for breakfast. Then, like the other children in my village, I ran around half-naked, wearing only thin cotton shorts. I bathed in the lake occasionally, and looked forward to the annual village fair where I got to pick a magical number out of an old steel box to win prizes like earrings and rag dolls. When bored and restless, I would sit by the muddy road that ran past our hut and curse passers-by in Kannada, mimicking the foul words Amma and Appa used when they quarreled. Old women warned my mother, ‘You look out for that one. Her tongue is too long.’ But Amma would laugh and ignore them, masking whatever worries she might have had.