Thursday, July 01, 2010

The Last Sari - A Story

By Smriti Krishnan
High School Junior, Birmingham, AL

Lakshmi drew the end of her sari around her shoulders and shivered slightly. The Hyderabad Express had barely left the station, and already she was cold. She remembered, with a wry smile, that her daughter emphasized the importance of staying cool at the height of summer, so she had reserved Lakshmi a seat in the AC compartment. In the seat across sat a young family of three. Lakshmi inspected them casually, and came to the conclusion that they were a family from the U.S. It was mid-June after all; the child looked old enough to go to at least first standard. It was summer vacation there; she knew, from her previous visits.

With a sudden lurch, the train started. Lakshmi settled back in her seat and began staring out the window at the slowly disappearing scenery of Hyderabad’s station. With a twist of the heart, she realized that it might be the last time she saw her Hyderabad. Years ago, she had moved there, as a young bride. After battling the throes of loneliness, she had adapted herself to the language and customs. And now, it seemed- suddenly- that she had left her home with no real farewell.

A voice asked “Are you all right, Ma?” from beside her.

She smiled up at her son, in his late thirties. “Yes, Krishna. I’m fine. Just a little nostalgic.”

Krishna, reassured, leaned back in his seat. Lakshmi noticed the first gray strands in his hair above his forehead. She sighed, and thought again how fast time flew.

It seemed that the day before yesterday, she had been a young, radiant bride; coming for the first time in her life- into a big city like Hyderabad. Her native tongue was Tamil, she had learned some Hindi and English, but had not any formal training or mastery of any other tongue. But Telugu had come somewhat easily to Lakshmi. Her eyes misted as her thoughts jumped to her husband. He had treated her like a queen, she told herself. On her birthdays, she would find small, surprising presents tucked away in a corner behind the salt, or the sugar. Flowers would find their way into the puja room, with her name, written on a card, perched above yards of jasmine. A new sari flapped on the clothesline one year. Her husband always vehemently denied that he left her these presents, instead giving the children the credit. But Lakshmi laughed to herself at how she had caught him one year, awake at dawn, looking for hiding places for the gold necklace he had bought. When he realized she was watching, he sheepishly hid the package behind the salt, and stole off to take his bath. Later, after coming from work, he had gruffly- yet shyly- told Lakshmi that maybe she had been right after all.

But she sighed once more. Their happy marriage of years had finally come to an end, when two years ago, her husband never woke up from his last night of sleep. Death had come to him gently. Lakshmi quickly diverted her mind, lest she dissolve into tears in broad daylight.

After year of wrangling, Lakshmi had finally agreed to come to a retirement home in Chennai. Her daughter, Vani, repeatedly vouched that her mother should not and could not live alone at her age. Krishna gallantly supported Vani. He flew airplanes in the military, but still was not used to going against his dominating elder sister. Vani was in the U.S., married, and had two darling children. Krishna chose to remain unmarried; he had devoted himself to his career. In fact, he had taken a week off to help Lakshmi shift from her flat to the new home.

The train screeched to a stop, halting her thoughts for the moment. Children got aboard and began calling out “Bommalu! Bommalu konali!” A young boy stopped at their compartment. The child across began wailing, the parents remonstrating. Although Lakshmi usually did not condone buying from these underage street vendors, she bought two plastic dolls. For some unfathomable reason, she gifted it to the family across. The child’s large brown eyes stopped watering, and focused on the dolls. The mother gently shook her head, pressed her lips firmly together, graciously declining. A final tilt of the head sealed her decision. The father meanwhile, looked desperate to stop his precious jewel’s crying, and eagerly took the dolls. With a thankful smile, he gave them to the girl. Immediately, the crying stopped.

The boy left, the train started- along with Lakshmi’s thoughts. With a heat behind her cheeks, Lakshmi remembered how ashamed she had been with the reactions that greeted her. Giving her belongings away was when she had received the brunt of the disapproving reactions. Each object had some sort of memory attached, whether unimportant or important. Krishna had coaxed her to give away the couch that had been there ever since Lakshmi herself had arrived. The large table with elephants carved into the legs. The enormous pots that she used to make food for her in-laws’ ever growing brood. All met the same fate: given away by Lakshmi to neighbors or better, the poor living in the slums behind the flat. The poor were glad to receive the pots and small furniture, for she had been quite well-off, but the neighbors were nosy. She thought about her last days at the flat, and that morning. Her head lolled on the seat as the train chugged along.

The elderly neighbors particularly fixated on the fact that Lakshmi’s family had nearly “abandoned her.” No longer was she welcome to the evening’s gossip sessions on the steps near the balcony; she was going to a home. She was ostracized. Lakshmi’s pride prevented her from going out during evening times, but snippets of the conversation could be heard. After the evening lamp was lit, the door was opened to let Mahalakshmi in, to bless the house with wealth, beauty, and happiness. Along with Mahalakshmi came tidbits of gossip. Lakshmi sat on the floor, curled up, on a pretense of reading a Kalki magazine. But she was listening.

“Did you hear?” Mrs. Rao began excitedly.

“What? What?”

“Aruna’s daughter ran away with an American!”

Gasps could be heard audibly.

“But why? They had selected such a good husband for her,” said a particularly old lady with dark eyes small as slits of almonds, and three warts. A bad odor always seemed to come from her. Her large size and booming voice made it clear that she was Mrs. Amin, a sort of unwelcome Muslim in the flat. But she was rich…

“Who knows? I knew that from the BEGINNING, that the girl was bad. Such tight frocks when she was young!” harrumphed a certain middle-aged Mrs. Rao, forgetting conveniently that she had often praised the girl on how well she studied.

“More than that, Kalyani’s son changed his major from business to medicine.”

“How can he do that?”

“He lives in the U.S. How else?”

“Enough of Kalyani,” said Mrs. Rao.

“The best news is that Mrs. Sumathi’s daughter is getting married at last!”

“How old is that girl?”

“You mean, woman. Where is she a girl?”

“She is in late twenties.”

“I know her real age- twenty seven years!” exclaimed Mrs. Varun.

“Hare ram…” moaned Mrs. Patel. “What is the world coming to?”

None of the nine assembled ladies had an answer. Lakshmi smiled to herself. Although they could predict the running-away of a million daughters, none could predict happenings in the world.

“Well, I have some news,” said Mrs. Varun audibly. “It’s about Lakshmi.”

None of them seemed conscious about her open door.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Rao breathlessly.

Mrs. Patel said wistfully, “Ms. Lakshmi is so good, and beautiful. Don’t you all agree?”

Ms. Rohini, whose husband had died five years ago, inserted herself into the conversation. “If we had had such a good husband, with so much wealth, we would always be so nice with rich food and pretty saris,” Ms. Rohini spewed spitefully, as if she was out starving on the streets, with tattered rags, and an abusive husband.

“She’s going to a home!” gleefully announced Mrs. Varun.

“How do you know?”

“Well, I overheard her talking on the phone to her daughter.”

“Hare ram…” moaned Mrs. Patel. “Why do you eavesdrop?”

“Enough about Rama, what can he do now?” snapped Ms. Rohini.

“She’s leaving this flat and going to a home in Chennai!”

“How?”

“On a train of course!”

“Do you think we’ll get any of her saris? I hope so. Anybody can look as pretty as Lakshmi when the sari is right.” Mrs. Rao.

Mrs. Patel went into a poetic description of Lakshmi “Her gray hair accentuates her dignity, and her large eyes are so pretty.”

“They’re blue, though. Cat’s eyes!”

“They suit her. Her dark skin makes her look beautiful!”

“She’s a blackie! She ought to try some Fair and Lovely.”

“And she remains so slender, and tall, even after having four babies.”

“Two died, though! Such bad luck.”

Mrs. Patel finished up firmly by saying “Ram has blessed her. I hope she is happy.”

“Ram indeed! She refused an invitation to the U.S.! She was invited by her daughter, but no, the mother was too proud, no? Why, if I ha-”

Lakshmi needed to hear no more. She stood, reached the door slowly, and gently shut it.

The next morning, she allotted belongings to each neighbor and visited them all. Mrs. Varun, Mrs. Rao, and Ms. Rohini lectured her on the folly of moving into a home, all the while Lakshmi stood and listened. She had smiled tentatively at the end, thrust the pot into their hands, and fled. In her safe haven of a home, she quietly wept in the kitchen. When she went to Mrs. Patel’s apartment, Mrs. Patel simply grasped Lakshmi’s hand, and said no more, wringing Lakshmi’s slender right hand. Her cherubic face began paling. Then, surprisingly, Mrs. Patel invited her in. Lakshmi walked in. In the dining room sat Mr. Patel, reading his morning paper. He nodded once curtly to Lakshmi. Mrs. Patel urged her to take a seat on the couch, new by the looks of it. She offered Lakshmi a cup of tea, the wrong color, Lakshmi noted, but she took a sip of it anyway. Mrs. Patel was not at all known for her cooking, she knew.

Mrs. Patel now wrung Lakshmi’s left hand in a gesture of apology. Lakshmi smiled “No need for words.”

“Hare ram… I’ve been so horrible to you!”

After the proclamation, the three, Mrs. Patel, Mr. Patel, and Lakshmi, the guest- sat in amicable silence. When the clock struck eleven, Lakshmi said that it was her lunchtime. She left reluctantly. Throughout her lunch, she thought about what her husband had wanted for her. She had made the right decision, she thought. After lunch, she looked into her packing a bit. Atop her suitcase lay her last wedding sari left. Years after, her others had torn, and crumbled into rags. But this sari was strongly woven, beautiful, and stories were interwoven into the sari’s borders. It was a brilliant emerald green, with a dark maroon border. The color brought out the tints in her eyes, the somehow peculiar shade of maroon hidden in her rich skin. She bit her lip. Lakshmi slowly zipped up her suitcases, and bags. She clicked the locks on all of them and kept them ready near the door. She went to take a nap on the cool, smooth floor. Her last nap in the flat.

Then, her last view of the slum from the flat. The last dinner in the flat. The last night’s sleep in the flat. The next morning, Krishna came strolling up around four in the morning. He banged on the door, though Lakshmi was already awake. She opened the lock and let Krishna come in. He took one look at her bags and boomed, “Ma! It’s a good thing I brought a big taxi-cab. It will cost five hundred rupees more, but I say we need it!”

“Sssh… Krishna! You’ll wake the neighbors!” The last thing Lakshmi needed now was for all the other, counting herself, old crows to wake up and come investigate in the early morning sunrise.

Krishnaloaded her bags while she took a bath. The last bath in the flat. When she came out, dressed in here traveling green sari and white widow’s blouse, Krishna was perplexed.

“Ma, what about this sari?” pointing to her wedding sari.

Lakshmi stood still. She wanted to take it with her, but there was no reason to. Each hair on her hand stayed still, every bone in her body froze, her eyes stopped blinking. She thought. She thought. Yes, now she knew. She came out of her haze, and squared her shoulders. She picked up the wedding sari, maneuvered to the door, and her shoulders drooped. Could she do it? Could she do it? Krishna now understood. “Ma, you don’t have to.”

Her voice, trembling, “I have to.” It wasn’t her voice really, was it?

But Lakshmi took a few steps. Could she really do it? She took a few more steps, and turned right, and went down the staircase. She gripped the railing in one hand, and the sari in the other. She heard footsteps behind her. She knew it was Krishna. Such a good, true son! I don’t deserve him, she thought miserably. I’m selfish.

She hurried across the ground floor to the last apartment, but slowed as she neared the door. She held the sari to her cheek a last time, and heard the door crack open- coincidentally. A pair of eyes looked at her. Lakshmi blinked once, shoved the sari through the crack of the door, and walked away.

She heard only once, “Hare ram…” from behind her.

Lakshmi walked. She walked back across the ground floor turned left. There was the gate. The last minute in the flat. Krishna was waiting at the cab. He had allowed her the privacy she had needed. As Lakshmi walked towards the cab, it began drizzling. Then faster. Then the light rain became a shower of rain. It didn’t faze Lakshmi. She lifted her face to the rain, and let the rain wash over her. She was free. She was free. She really was free.

With a jolt, the conductor yelled “Lights off! Lights off!”

Everybody hustled to their berths, and went to sleep. But Lakshmi stayed awake, looking out at the dark sky, the black midnight, gray early morning, and finally the sunrise. Whatever tomorrow brought, she was ready.

The Last Sari - A Story

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