My fingers rub across the paint peeling from the door. Twice I draw back sharply. On my second pass, I touch the number. Five. I run my fingers over it again. Ten more floors to climb.
The darkness is overwhelming. I cannot see my complimentary watch or the wedding band in front of my face. I can feel the space around me; the closeness of the walls and the steps protected by twisted metal rails climbing up. Darkness is closing in trying to choke me. Am I so full of myself that I am blind to everything else? Can one see darkness?
I am not blind. Emotions make me blind. I am learning to control it. Rarely do I let it slip. The more I watch others the more I see the weaknesses. Blindness in attitude, actions and thoughts. I sit down on the concrete steps and gather the sari under my knees.
Darkness was part of growing up, forty years ago. Despite heavy monsoons, power generation fell short of demand every year. Every evening, when the grandfather clock chimed for the eighth time the faint light bulbs flickered and died. Pouf! The power cut lasted for exactly two hours. Children assembled in the open nadumittam and chanted evening prayers. Valiyachan watched over us, both legs strung up on the long arms of his easy chair. A kerosene lamp hung in the far corner of the nadumittam overlooking the Chaliyar River.
My mouth moved mechanically. Eyes drew scary shapes out of the darkness. The wind-blown tall palm leaves gave shape to giant witches swaying to my prayers. I closed my eyes and chanted louder. When the wind stopped, I opened my eyes. They were still there. The prayer stuck in my dry mouth. They hid behind the mango tree. One fat witch and an army of smaller ones. I jumped into valiyachan's lap and closed my eyes.
A door bangs waking me up. Someone is opening the door to the stairwell from the garage. I can hear the heavy breathing and the muted sound of the ring on the metal handrail. Knuck. Knuck. The sound has an eerie effect. I touch the metal railing. I can feel the vibrations. The person stopped on the second landing. The silence is more uncomfortable. Is it a man? Do men wear wedding rings on the right hand? Probably a middle-aged woman. A South Indian man? My husband wore his wedding ring on the right. He also owned a gold watch. A Rolex. I wish for a luminous watch, even a blind man's watch.
In valiyachan's house, I kept time. Fifteen minutes before noon the big wooden radio on top of the mid-safe crackled to life. Valiyachan fine-tuned the big knobs to catch the Trivandrum radio station. One of the cousins climbed up the tall ladder to fiddle with the antenna strung at the top of the roof.
Precisely at noon, Ravindran read news in a characteristic way. On an average, the clock fell back five minutes in a 24-hour period. Valiyachan blamed the moisture in the air. Whatever. I stood in front of the open grandfather clock on a wooden stool; my hands adjusted the minute hand. I had the enviable task of changing time. No one else. Two more clocks needed adjustments. One wall clock on top of the landing and a table clock in valiyachan's study. Time stopped now and then in this sleepy town.
The man is coming up slowly, cursing in a language I have not heard before in this multi-ethnic city. I gather myself and grab hold of the rails. If I climb fast, I can make five floors without taking a breath. Will I collapse on the tenth floor? I hope the man does not come up that far. I make it to the tenth floor. The last step to the tenth floor landing is higher than the rest. I am sure of it. I step back and test it again. Definitely higher. I sit down and gather my sari. Where is he now? A door slammed. I have the stairwell to myself. I have never seen such dense darkness.
As children, once a year, we got up at three in the morning to celebrate Vishu, our new year. Ammamma woke us, cupped her palms to blindfold our eyes and took us one by one to the prayer room. In complete darkness. When she took off her hands we saw a spread of idols among lit lamps, rice grains, coconut, money, clothes, books, flowers and endless other things. Ancestors believed our eyes should first sight prosperity in the New Year.
Outside on the verandah, I sat on valiaychan's lap and waited for sunrise. When my brothers and cousins finished lighting all the sparklers, firecrackers and colorful rockets, darkness silently crept back. I slept soon after and valiyachan carried and put me to bed. I usually woke up to a delicious mix of aroma coming from the kitchen.
Vishusadya, the feast on the day of Vishu, was a glorious treat. The green plantain leaf, more than two feet long, with one side tapering to the left was a visual spread. Each accompaniment occupied its place directed by valiyachan.
Family members took turns and served course after course onto plantain leaves laid out before cross-legged members of the family. My uncle Kuttunni kept pace with his brother Kunjunni at every vishusadya. It was a delight to watch them enjoy food. Long bamboo baskets contained pure white rice. Kuttunni made a neat incision in the rice and palmed it further apart. Warm ghee glistened on the rice and yellow dal completed the first course. In unison, the brothers rotated their hands around the rice and swept in its path stray grains of rice to form a small mound. The hands then hovered over the mound and came down smashing everything. At the end of 10 seconds, three gleaming balls of rice squashed with ghee and dal stood ready for approval. One by one, the balls disappeared into their wide mouths!
The brothers moved the remaining mountain of rice to the centre of the leaf. The hands scooped a big crater, making way for three big spoons of sambaar. Kuttunni waited for a moment filling his bulbous nose with the steaming aroma. Most of the rice sloshed with sambaar disappeared. Olan waited next in line, followed by kalan, kuttukari, aviyal, puliyinchi, and inchithaiyiru. The brothers swooped, dived, rolled, swiped, squished, slurped and burped through the rest of the proceedings with an ease and passion that reflected on their faces. Kuttunni was more expressive due to his training in kathakali. Kunjunni burped more.
The burp from a vishusadya has a musical tone. "Eeeeeeeeemmmmmmmmmm." Deep from the pits of the stomach, with strong encouragement from the heart. Kunjunni's melodious burp reverberated longer and louder.
Rice with rasam and pappadam followed. The only items left on the leaves were bananas and pickles. They waited as valiyachan announced the prince of all desserts - paladapradhaman. Eating paladapradhaman from the flatness of the leaf required great practice. Kuttunni's palm hovered over it and spun the payasam clockwise. He trapped a big spoonful of payasam in the palm of his hand and tasted it. Kuttunni traced the paladapradhaman to the end of his elbow.
Hunger brings me back. Darkness dispels the momentary vision of light. I wish my husband were here. I can see him in the darkness. He is my source of strength.
Our marriage lasted five years and ended in a massive heart attack. He died on the way to the hospital. Our only child filled the void in my life. Till recently. Chitra moved to a university in the US. She does not want me living anywhere near her. I distract her from studies. My savings paid for the first two years of tuition. What about next year? Will they 'let me go' if I ask them to make me permanent? Four years in the company and I have given them so much. There should be rule against exploiting new immigrants. What will happen to my review next week? Like every year, I guess I will get a dollar raise. A loonie! Where do they find such names? What does one get when you add two loonies! I feel much better.
Giggling followed by voices enter my thoughts. The stairwell door opens. A flash of light shoots up and I draw back. When the torch changes direction, I look down. The stairwell is narrow. I can see the light jumping in all directions. Young voices echo from the walls and squeeze up the stairwell. The voices climb the first few flights easily.
"Do you think anyone is hearing us?" The female voice emits more giggles.
"No. There is no one here." The torch, I mean flashlight, shoots up again. I withdraw my head and gather my sari. This time the light stays for a longer time.
"Get down here." The female voice stops traveling.
"Come on up, lazybones."
He is on the fourth floor.
"Carry me, no."
The flashlight travels down again and slices the darkness into manageable pieces. He carries her piggyback. I guess! How else can you carry anyone? Over the shoulder? Possible. The stairwell is too narrow for any other method of travel.
They stop. The light goes off. Did they get off? I wait for the sound of slamming door. On my way up, I notice they have put a delay mechanism on the garage door. Has the management replaced all the doors in the stairwell? Impossible. They might as well increase the parking space. See! The management is blind.
I can hear sounds. Where is the light? "Shiva. Shiva." What are they doing in the darkness? These people, I tell you. I stand up and climb again. It is difficult to cup the ears and walk up in the darkness. After every step, I hold on to the rails to propel my tiring body. Progress is slow. I climb two floors with difficulty. The sounds from the depths of the stairwell stops.
"Let's get into the house."
I thank Lord Shiva for opening the boy's eyes.
The steps here are cooler. Is there a draft coming from the top? The door slams. Darkness falls. It enters the pores of my body. I must escape before it consumes me completely. What is Chitra doing now? I hope she has the sense to keep to her studies. Her university dorm is mixed. Boys and girls stood too close to each other talking, whispering and holding each other. Please do not mix with any boys. "Shiva. Shiva." Why am I thinking like this? Everything will be fine. Chitra is very sensible and has a firm head on her shoulders. She will not make me ashamed. Three years. I will move in with my daughter when she gets a job until I safely entrust her in the hands of a nice Menon boy. Then I can go back to India and spend time with my family.
At any given point of time, fifty or more members of the joint family lived in the 120-year-old nalukettu. Few members of the family stayed there now. The ancestral house needed repairs. Time, decay and the elements eroded parts of the house. The main wooden door, five inches thick, bore the marks of swords and gunpowder. I remember reading of at least two riots much before my time. Ammamma showed me the diamond necklace she gave to the family temple as a religious offering during the riots. She gave away most of her jewellery whenever there is a catastrophe in the family. Although my grandparents have long gone, I can close my eyes and see them in the darkness. Most of my siblings have taken their families to the far corners of the world.
They come back digging up roots once a year. In December, the temple festival flags off ten days of family reunion. The house fills with laughter and expensive perfumes. I am in charge. My brothers see to that. As the only daughter after seven boys, I had the status none of the daughters-in-law enjoyed in their own houses. One of the benefits of a matrilineal descent. Women held their head high. Even now.
The door opens again. Another couple is making their way. I do not wait anymore. I climb the remaining three flights. I check the metal numbers at every turn. Fifteen. I open the door and walk slowly, both hands tracing the wall. Half way down the corridor, I come across the fire hose box. Did it also house the fire alarm? Will it sound without electricity?
Fire. Water.
I smile. I need them both. In moderation, perhaps.
Today's darkness is temporary. I hear that Canada and most of the United States are in the dark. They are also in the dark about what really happened. I open my house. The big windows let in the cool breeze and the bright moonlight. On the floor, a lone white envelope stares up at me. The name is clear. Rajani Menon. I cannot make out the rest of the scrawl. The envelope is redirected once. I am home. It is a comforting feeling. Home for the next three years. Then I will go back home. Back to my roots. I have to deal with the darkness until then.
The darkness is overwhelming. I cannot see my complimentary watch or the wedding band in front of my face. I can feel the space around me; the closeness of the walls and the steps protected by twisted metal rails climbing up. Darkness is closing in trying to choke me. Am I so full of myself that I am blind to everything else? Can one see darkness?
I am not blind. Emotions make me blind. I am learning to control it. Rarely do I let it slip. The more I watch others the more I see the weaknesses. Blindness in attitude, actions and thoughts. I sit down on the concrete steps and gather the sari under my knees.
Darkness was part of growing up, forty years ago. Despite heavy monsoons, power generation fell short of demand every year. Every evening, when the grandfather clock chimed for the eighth time the faint light bulbs flickered and died. Pouf! The power cut lasted for exactly two hours. Children assembled in the open nadumittam and chanted evening prayers. Valiyachan watched over us, both legs strung up on the long arms of his easy chair. A kerosene lamp hung in the far corner of the nadumittam overlooking the Chaliyar River.
My mouth moved mechanically. Eyes drew scary shapes out of the darkness. The wind-blown tall palm leaves gave shape to giant witches swaying to my prayers. I closed my eyes and chanted louder. When the wind stopped, I opened my eyes. They were still there. The prayer stuck in my dry mouth. They hid behind the mango tree. One fat witch and an army of smaller ones. I jumped into valiyachan's lap and closed my eyes.
A door bangs waking me up. Someone is opening the door to the stairwell from the garage. I can hear the heavy breathing and the muted sound of the ring on the metal handrail. Knuck. Knuck. The sound has an eerie effect. I touch the metal railing. I can feel the vibrations. The person stopped on the second landing. The silence is more uncomfortable. Is it a man? Do men wear wedding rings on the right hand? Probably a middle-aged woman. A South Indian man? My husband wore his wedding ring on the right. He also owned a gold watch. A Rolex. I wish for a luminous watch, even a blind man's watch.
In valiyachan's house, I kept time. Fifteen minutes before noon the big wooden radio on top of the mid-safe crackled to life. Valiyachan fine-tuned the big knobs to catch the Trivandrum radio station. One of the cousins climbed up the tall ladder to fiddle with the antenna strung at the top of the roof.
Precisely at noon, Ravindran read news in a characteristic way. On an average, the clock fell back five minutes in a 24-hour period. Valiyachan blamed the moisture in the air. Whatever. I stood in front of the open grandfather clock on a wooden stool; my hands adjusted the minute hand. I had the enviable task of changing time. No one else. Two more clocks needed adjustments. One wall clock on top of the landing and a table clock in valiyachan's study. Time stopped now and then in this sleepy town.
The man is coming up slowly, cursing in a language I have not heard before in this multi-ethnic city. I gather myself and grab hold of the rails. If I climb fast, I can make five floors without taking a breath. Will I collapse on the tenth floor? I hope the man does not come up that far. I make it to the tenth floor. The last step to the tenth floor landing is higher than the rest. I am sure of it. I step back and test it again. Definitely higher. I sit down and gather my sari. Where is he now? A door slammed. I have the stairwell to myself. I have never seen such dense darkness.
As children, once a year, we got up at three in the morning to celebrate Vishu, our new year. Ammamma woke us, cupped her palms to blindfold our eyes and took us one by one to the prayer room. In complete darkness. When she took off her hands we saw a spread of idols among lit lamps, rice grains, coconut, money, clothes, books, flowers and endless other things. Ancestors believed our eyes should first sight prosperity in the New Year.
Outside on the verandah, I sat on valiaychan's lap and waited for sunrise. When my brothers and cousins finished lighting all the sparklers, firecrackers and colorful rockets, darkness silently crept back. I slept soon after and valiyachan carried and put me to bed. I usually woke up to a delicious mix of aroma coming from the kitchen.
Vishusadya, the feast on the day of Vishu, was a glorious treat. The green plantain leaf, more than two feet long, with one side tapering to the left was a visual spread. Each accompaniment occupied its place directed by valiyachan.
Family members took turns and served course after course onto plantain leaves laid out before cross-legged members of the family. My uncle Kuttunni kept pace with his brother Kunjunni at every vishusadya. It was a delight to watch them enjoy food. Long bamboo baskets contained pure white rice. Kuttunni made a neat incision in the rice and palmed it further apart. Warm ghee glistened on the rice and yellow dal completed the first course. In unison, the brothers rotated their hands around the rice and swept in its path stray grains of rice to form a small mound. The hands then hovered over the mound and came down smashing everything. At the end of 10 seconds, three gleaming balls of rice squashed with ghee and dal stood ready for approval. One by one, the balls disappeared into their wide mouths!
The brothers moved the remaining mountain of rice to the centre of the leaf. The hands scooped a big crater, making way for three big spoons of sambaar. Kuttunni waited for a moment filling his bulbous nose with the steaming aroma. Most of the rice sloshed with sambaar disappeared. Olan waited next in line, followed by kalan, kuttukari, aviyal, puliyinchi, and inchithaiyiru. The brothers swooped, dived, rolled, swiped, squished, slurped and burped through the rest of the proceedings with an ease and passion that reflected on their faces. Kuttunni was more expressive due to his training in kathakali. Kunjunni burped more.
The burp from a vishusadya has a musical tone. "Eeeeeeeeemmmmmmmmmm." Deep from the pits of the stomach, with strong encouragement from the heart. Kunjunni's melodious burp reverberated longer and louder.
Rice with rasam and pappadam followed. The only items left on the leaves were bananas and pickles. They waited as valiyachan announced the prince of all desserts - paladapradhaman. Eating paladapradhaman from the flatness of the leaf required great practice. Kuttunni's palm hovered over it and spun the payasam clockwise. He trapped a big spoonful of payasam in the palm of his hand and tasted it. Kuttunni traced the paladapradhaman to the end of his elbow.
Hunger brings me back. Darkness dispels the momentary vision of light. I wish my husband were here. I can see him in the darkness. He is my source of strength.
Our marriage lasted five years and ended in a massive heart attack. He died on the way to the hospital. Our only child filled the void in my life. Till recently. Chitra moved to a university in the US. She does not want me living anywhere near her. I distract her from studies. My savings paid for the first two years of tuition. What about next year? Will they 'let me go' if I ask them to make me permanent? Four years in the company and I have given them so much. There should be rule against exploiting new immigrants. What will happen to my review next week? Like every year, I guess I will get a dollar raise. A loonie! Where do they find such names? What does one get when you add two loonies! I feel much better.
Giggling followed by voices enter my thoughts. The stairwell door opens. A flash of light shoots up and I draw back. When the torch changes direction, I look down. The stairwell is narrow. I can see the light jumping in all directions. Young voices echo from the walls and squeeze up the stairwell. The voices climb the first few flights easily.
"Do you think anyone is hearing us?" The female voice emits more giggles.
"No. There is no one here." The torch, I mean flashlight, shoots up again. I withdraw my head and gather my sari. This time the light stays for a longer time.
"Get down here." The female voice stops traveling.
"Come on up, lazybones."
He is on the fourth floor.
"Carry me, no."
The flashlight travels down again and slices the darkness into manageable pieces. He carries her piggyback. I guess! How else can you carry anyone? Over the shoulder? Possible. The stairwell is too narrow for any other method of travel.
They stop. The light goes off. Did they get off? I wait for the sound of slamming door. On my way up, I notice they have put a delay mechanism on the garage door. Has the management replaced all the doors in the stairwell? Impossible. They might as well increase the parking space. See! The management is blind.
I can hear sounds. Where is the light? "Shiva. Shiva." What are they doing in the darkness? These people, I tell you. I stand up and climb again. It is difficult to cup the ears and walk up in the darkness. After every step, I hold on to the rails to propel my tiring body. Progress is slow. I climb two floors with difficulty. The sounds from the depths of the stairwell stops.
"Let's get into the house."
I thank Lord Shiva for opening the boy's eyes.
The steps here are cooler. Is there a draft coming from the top? The door slams. Darkness falls. It enters the pores of my body. I must escape before it consumes me completely. What is Chitra doing now? I hope she has the sense to keep to her studies. Her university dorm is mixed. Boys and girls stood too close to each other talking, whispering and holding each other. Please do not mix with any boys. "Shiva. Shiva." Why am I thinking like this? Everything will be fine. Chitra is very sensible and has a firm head on her shoulders. She will not make me ashamed. Three years. I will move in with my daughter when she gets a job until I safely entrust her in the hands of a nice Menon boy. Then I can go back to India and spend time with my family.
At any given point of time, fifty or more members of the joint family lived in the 120-year-old nalukettu. Few members of the family stayed there now. The ancestral house needed repairs. Time, decay and the elements eroded parts of the house. The main wooden door, five inches thick, bore the marks of swords and gunpowder. I remember reading of at least two riots much before my time. Ammamma showed me the diamond necklace she gave to the family temple as a religious offering during the riots. She gave away most of her jewellery whenever there is a catastrophe in the family. Although my grandparents have long gone, I can close my eyes and see them in the darkness. Most of my siblings have taken their families to the far corners of the world.
They come back digging up roots once a year. In December, the temple festival flags off ten days of family reunion. The house fills with laughter and expensive perfumes. I am in charge. My brothers see to that. As the only daughter after seven boys, I had the status none of the daughters-in-law enjoyed in their own houses. One of the benefits of a matrilineal descent. Women held their head high. Even now.
The door opens again. Another couple is making their way. I do not wait anymore. I climb the remaining three flights. I check the metal numbers at every turn. Fifteen. I open the door and walk slowly, both hands tracing the wall. Half way down the corridor, I come across the fire hose box. Did it also house the fire alarm? Will it sound without electricity?
Fire. Water.
I smile. I need them both. In moderation, perhaps.
Today's darkness is temporary. I hear that Canada and most of the United States are in the dark. They are also in the dark about what really happened. I open my house. The big windows let in the cool breeze and the bright moonlight. On the floor, a lone white envelope stares up at me. The name is clear. Rajani Menon. I cannot make out the rest of the scrawl. The envelope is redirected once. I am home. It is a comforting feeling. Home for the next three years. Then I will go back home. Back to my roots. I have to deal with the darkness until then.
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