It's Hard To Run In A Sari

CHAPTER 1

The year was 1950. Lakshmi was born in the inner room of her maternal grandparents’ home in the little village of Karukutty, India. Her grandfather, a man in his fifties, paced outside on the ummeram (veranda), his hands clasped behind him in a state of nervous anxiety. The painful cries of Nalini, the young Hindu mother going through the birthing ritual, the most primordial of all human functions, echoed throughout the house. She was attended by her mother, Janakiamma, grandmother, Narayaniamma, and the village midwife. You could hear the grandmother instructing her younger counterparts: Kuttikkithiri vellam kodukku chundu nanakkaan. (Give the girl a little water to wet her lips.)

Nalini had been ceremonially brought to her parents’ home for the three-month period of the confinement. In the days when maternal and infant mortality rates were high, it was believed that the expectant mother would feel most at ease in her childhood home, attended to by her mother—as opposed to her in-laws. It was perhaps also an attempt to keep the woman away from the sexual advances of an overly zealous husband, which, it was believed, might harm the baby.

For Nalini’s Seemantham ceremony (a ritual similar to a Western baby shower, carried out during the sixth to eighth month of pregnancy), the ladies rubbed herbal oil on Nalini and gave her a ritual bath. They put flowers in her hair and adorned her like a new bride, with bangles glinting and jingling on her hands. Then, for good luck, they placed unniyappams (rice cakes made of pounded rice and jaggery, or coarse brown sugar) and rice grains in her lap.

The village Ayurvedic (native herbal doctor) was consulted. He prescribed a bevy of kozhambus (herbal oils) and kashaayams (bitter herbal medicines thought to cure blood impurities), and explained the order in which these were to be taken to ensure a safe delivery for mother and child. He also prescribed a mainly vegetarian diet so that the patient’s gastric systems were not overly taxed.

The older female relatives who came to visit or to attend the Seemantham enjoyed making sage-like pronouncements: Kutteede mughathe eishwaryam kanditte, penkuttiyaavumennaa thonnane. (Seeing how beautiful the mother has become, I feel it is going to be a girl.) Another proclaimed that since Nalini’s stomach had a pointed look, this was a sure indication of a boy. Nalini’s mother and grandmother had beamed at this suggestion.

This was a world of women. They were seeing yet another woman through one of life’s greatest, yet most treacherous, moments. This was a sanctuary where men were not welcome, and their services were required only if, heaven forbid, a dire emergency occurred. Given that this was a home delivery, should complications arise, the family would have to call a taxi, wait for it to arrive and take Nalini and her mother to the nearest hospital, and hope it was not too late!

Most men were notified when their wives gave birth, and they would arrive formally to see the baby within the next couple of days. It was the rare father who would even attempt to hold his own child.

The woman would stay at her maternal home for three months after the delivery to recuperate. She would then be ceremonially escorted back to her married home by her husband and his family.

The moaning from the room intensified, and at last was mixed with the shrill cry of a little person making her way into the vast universe. The midwife officially carried the baby to its mother. As she placed the baby in Nalini’s arms, you could hear the apologetic note in her voice as she said, Penkuttiaa, pakshe magam perannathaane. (It’s a girl . . . but she is born in the month of Magam, which is auspicious for girls.)

Lakshmikutty (Baby Lakshmi) her mother called her—and that was the name! While the midwife cleaned up the new mother, the grandmother went outside to inform the grandfather. Vegam oru telegram adikkanam, Shankarane ariyikkande. (We need to send a telegram immediately to inform Shankaran.)

A messenger was dispatched to the local post office to send a telegram to Lakshmi’s father, who was working in another town, informing him of his daughter’s birth, but with as few words as possible to save money. It read: Girl born 11.10 a.m. The timing to the exact minute was crucial—this was the information the Panikkar (astrologer) would use to mark the twists and turns Lakshmi’s young life would take from now until the end of her days.

After an hour, when every vestige of the human struggle that had just taken place had been erased and the room was set to order, Lakshmi’s grandfather visited for the first time.

He took one look at the exhausted but smiling mother and picked up the baby from its little Attuthottil (rocking baby cradle). It had been in the family for generations; its sturdy wooden construction had soothed many a baby to a gentle sleep. Lakshanamulla mughaane, her grandfather opined. (She has a good face.)

Athine nammada kutteede mughalle, the grandmother, standing behind him, chimed in. (But then, it is our granddaughter’s face.) She was more than a little proud that her female progeny had inherited her good looks.

She then helped the midwife fold lengths of fabric into a thick girdle to tie around the new mother’s stomach so the muscles that had been expanded in childbirth would slowly contract.

Karthiyani, who worked in the kitchen, was hurriedly called to take out the chaavupilla (placenta) and bury it outside in a deep ditch so that no animal could get at it. That would be most inauspicious.

Little Lakshmi suckled heartily at her mother’s breasts, the only universe she was cognizant of at this point. She ate and slept, unaware of the wheels that had been set in motion the minute she was born.

The old lady who specialized in giving baths to new mothers, as well as their babies, was called into service. Her frame was bent from picking up many a newborn to give them their first luxurious bath. She first rubbed the mother down with coconut oil infused with tulsi leaves and peppercorns (which were supposed to ward off colds and flus), and then massaged her hair with more of the same oil.

In her gnarled hands, she gathered a bunch of reeds, bruised them, and made a herbal broom called thaali, to produce a soap-like substance used to cleanse the hair. On the body she used shikkakkai (soapnut) powder and meticulously checked the water temperature. (Everything had to be perfect for the complete recovery of the mother after childbirth—and the bath woman was a thorough professional, after all.)

She bathed Nalini, taking care to massage her breasts to produce more milk, and also massaged her stomach muscles to help them return to their original youthful shape. Once Nalini was safely ensconced on her birthing bed, it was the baby’s turn.

A rectangular piece of raised wood a bit bigger than the baby was used. It had a patina borne from years of use in the family to bathe infants, where oil and water had mingled to give the wood a natural soothing softness. Lakshmi was ceremoniously laid out on this piece of wood.

While taking off the baby’s loincloth, held together by a black thick thread around her tiny waist, the old woman crooned, Ende kuttikke kulikkande, sundarikutty aavande. (Don’t you want a bath? Don’t you want to look all pretty?)

The baby gurgled and kicked. The squatting woman rubbed her with the special oil. She took care to manipulate the features of the child into the best they could be. She massaged the nose to make it more aquiline and tried to shape the head into a rounder, more desirable shape, rather than a newborn’s elongated shape. She even manipulated the ears to open them up. The newborn’s legs and hands were stretched so that she would not be cursed with bowlegs.

When these tasks were complete, she gently bathed the baby in lukewarm water and turned her over in the palm of her hand to bathe the little one’s profuse hair. At this point, little Lakshmi had had enough, and she let out a wail.

The old lady soothed Lakshmi: Saarallya kutty, the’ kazhinju, kuttikkini poyi mamam unnaalo. (It is all finished, now baby can eat her food.)

Lakshmi gorged herself at her mother’s breasts then lay contented on the bed surrounded by round pillows. Her eyes were lined with kohl and her mother strategically placed a big dark spot of kohl on her chin to ward off any evil eye. Her toothless gummy mouth occasionally smiled involuntarily; she was oblivious to the big decisions affecting her life being made by the adults outside on the veranda.

The Panikkar was hastily summoned. He squatted on the floor of the veranda and spread out the tools of his trade: some dried palm leaves, a nail to etch the horoscope on them, and chalk to draw checkerboard patterns on the floor and arrange the planetary positions on it. The rest was in his head, in the form of verses memorized from childhood as to the possible outcomes when the planets were in certain positions. It was and is a trade passed on from generation to generation in an unbroken chain.

He assigned the planets their positions inside the neat little squares. With the exact time of birth, he predicted little Lakshmi’s future, scraped in the small confines of a palm leaf with a nail. The astrologer scratched his head and hesitated. The others on the veranda waited anxiously.

Kuttikke korache chowwadosham kaninde. (I see a little problem with a predominant presence of Mars), began the astrologer apologetically. He worried that his remuneration would take a hit if the outcome was unfavorable. But the integrity of his profession would not allow him to let this major flaw in the reading go unmentioned. There was a collective exhaling of breath, as if the air in a balloon had been set free.

The grandmother pleaded with the astrologer: Onnu koodi nokku Pannikare, valla thettum patteettudonne,kalyaana samayaavumba velia budhimuttaaville. (Please look once more, astrologer, because otherwise it will cause a lot of difficulty during the time of marriage.)

A child with the Chowwadosham configuration in their astrological chart was not likely to make a good marriage. One could argue that a predominance of the planet Mars would give one a cantankerous nature—definitely not conducive to a marriage. This problem was usually solved by arranging a marriage where the bride and the groom both have Chowwadosham in their respective horoscopes, thus cancelling out the curse.

But it was always a problem that created headaches for parents and grandparents. The Panikkar braved the irritations of the elders and stuck to his guns. The girl definitely had Cowwadosham in her jaathakam (astrology).

The grandfather reluctantly took out a ₹50 note, which the astrologer accepted in both hands, touching it to his forehead. Apologetically, he collected his paraphernalia and prepared to leave, murmuring, Njanendaa cheyya? Ollathalle parayaan pattoo? (What am I supposed to do? I can only say what is written in the stars.) He made a hasty exit.

The Panikker’s words weighed heavily on everyone. After supper that evening, the grandfather lounged in his easy chair while the grandmother sat beside him on a stool. She took out an ancient brass box containing betel leaves, chunnaambe (lime), and arecnuts. She carefully removed each leaf, making sure to pinch off the stem. Then she liberally applied the lime paste and placed a small piece of arecnut in the center of each leaf, which she folded several times to make it look like a little purse. She handed it to the grandfather, who placed it in his mouth. After more than fifty years of marriage, this was about the only act of intimacy they had between them. He chewed on the leaves with satisfaction, expressed with a loud clearing of his throat.

The grandmother leaned over. She whispered, Mattennaale, Sankaranum avande achanum ammemm kuttiye kaanaan varille! Kuttikke kazhuthilekkum, kayyilekkum vallathum vende? (Day after tomorrow, Shankaran and his parents will come to see the baby. Don’t you think we need to adorn little Lakshmi’s hands and neck with some ornaments?)

In the well-to-do families, it was and is customary for the maternal grandparents to provide the child, even a boy child, with a couple of gold bangles, a gold chain, a gold waist chain (to hang the cloth diaper from), and gold anklets.

It is also a tradition to send basket loads of goodies like sharkaravaratti (fried plantain nuggets coated with jaggery), banana chips, kalkals (fried pastry) and other sweet and savory items to the in-laws, where the mother-in-law has the privilege of distributing it to their relatives, thus announcing the birth of the grandchild.

The grandfather leaned back heavily in his easy chair. As a retired government clerk, he was the recipient of a ₹2000-a-month pension. Most of his savings had gone to marry off Nalini and educate her brother, who had finished his bachelor’s in commerce and was working in a bank. The price of gold was ₹800 for a sovereign. He had only to do some mental math to figure out the dent this customary visit from the in-laws would cost him.

But he was not one to shy away from his responsibilities. The next day the grandparents visited the local jewellry store. The grandmother brought along a couple of her bangles and an old necklace given to her by her parents. She exchanged all this, along with some money, for two tiny little bangles, a small chain, an aranjaanam (waist chain) and anklets for the tiny feet.

When the in-laws visited, little Lakshmi was laid out in all her finery. Her father stood near the bed, beaming at his new daughter, a little embarrassed to pick her up.

His mother had no such problems. She scooped up the baby and cooed, Ithaaraa, Lakshmikuttikke ammoomme manassilaayo? (Who is this little girl, do you recognize your grandmother, little Lakshmi?) She wasted no time voicing her opinion about the newborn’s appearance either. Mugham tharakkedilla, pakshe ente Shankarante neram onnum kitteettillatto. (Her face is all right, but she certainly did not get my son Shankaran’s fair complexion.)

Nalini and her mother, Janakiamma, cringed. The visitors sit down to a good spread prepared by the grandmother and the great-grandmother, who stood by ingratiatingly, making sure that the guests were served first and later, plying them with even more food.

The guests had said their goodbyes and left when Lakshmi decided to throw the first temper tantrum of her young life. Weeeh, weeeh, weeh!—she let herself be known, much to the consternation of Nalini and her mother. They were in a state trying to figure out if the child had colic or whether she was just plain hungry! Such was the fanfare that heralded the birth of little Lakshmi into this world.

Her grandmother made a mixture of honey, vayambe (native herb) and gold (usually a piece of gold rubbed on a coarse stone; a bit of the fine dust is gathered for this purpose), and put a few drops on little Lakshmi’s tongue, so the child would acquire a great complexion. The baby did not like it. She made a distasteful face.

Lakshmi’s mother, Nalini, grew up in a joint family where her parents were also taking care of her aging grandparents. So Lakshmi’s birth was witnessed by three generations. On the twenty-eighth day, she was placed in her great-grandfather’s lap, and he formally named her. Lakshmikutty, he repeated three times in her ear, and the child looked up, startled.

CHAPTER 2

"Ayyo, njaan veene ponu, patheke! (Oh no, I am falling off, go slowly!")

Lakshmi shrieked as her brother pulled her around the sharp bend near the ditch of the coconut tree. She was sitting cross-legged in a makeshift sleigh made of a palm frond with the leaves attached. She hung on for dear life to the neck of the frond that connected it to the long leaves. Her brother grasped the tip of the leaves as he ran, taking her for a bumpy ride over sand dunes, tree branches, and sharp stones. It was a game they never tired of.

Did I forget to mention that Lakshmi’s mother, Nalini, had once more gone through the rigors of childbirth? This time it was a boy! Balan’s birth, three years after Lakshmi’s, was accompanied by even more fanfare than his