“Sir, Sir”, sang a dulcet voice. Kumari wiped her hands in her sari and hurried to the front door. A doe-eyed, tall, lissome girl was waiting on the threshold. “Yes, what do you need?”, Kumari asked the radiant vision in a neatly pressed Salwar suit. The girl superbly ignored her, her restless eyes darting hither and thither. “Sir, Muthu Sir”, tittered the girl again.

Kumari felt gauche. Good-looking young women always made her feel inadequate. This one even had perfectly manicured hands. While she had a crumpled cotton sari on and a dosa batter streaked face. Perhaps she thinks I’m the domestic help, thought Kumari and winced. Hell, I look like one.

“If you are looking for Muthu, he just stepped outside”, she explained. As if not believing her, the girl’s eyes bored through the walls, attempting to look through the concrete.

Just then, Muthu entered and did a double take. “Oh, Nalini! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, Come in”, he breezed expansively. “Sir, I just wanted to tell you that the rice sacks have arrived”, said Nalini. “That’s good, that’s good”, beamed Muthu. “You must have a cup of coffee with me before leaving!”. The girl looked a little surprised. “Because, er, you’ve done a superb job”, he added lamely.

Benevolence is always on tap when pretty girls are involved, thought Kumari wryly. She wondered if Nalini was batting her voluminous eyelashes excessively, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe I’m imagining it, she thought. I’m becoming insecure and that makes me feel so – helpless. “One or two cubes of sugar?”, she asked the girl in a squeaky voice. Damn, I should try to be more natural, poised, at ease. The girl looked at her askance and signaled 2.

Muthu was in high spirits for the rest of the day. “Isn’t the world beautiful today, Kumari?” he asked. Kumari wondered if the day’s beauty had anything to do with Nalini. “About the girl”, she said. “Nalini? What about her?” stammered Muthu. “ I saw you giving her the eye”. Muthu blushed a deep red. “Don’t talk nonsense, Kumari”, he said.

Kumari looked at him with interest. So, it was that bad. She exhaled deeply. Nalini was almost half her age. I could be her mother, thought Kumari. Its only natural that he’s attracted to her, she told herself. After all, he’s only 20. And I’m 32.

* * * * *

“What is this, Kumari?” yelled Muthu. “This fish curry is inedible!” – he threw the plate towards her. Kumari shivered and picked up the plate. All these months with Muthu and she was still getting used to his temper tantrums. She tasted the curry – it was bland, tasteless. “I forgot to add salt”, she mumbled.

“Pay some attention to what you do, will you?”, he said in a low voice, seething. His face looked transformed, ugly. Kumari closed her eyes. “Will you please stop shouting?” she said. “Chettiar never threw things at me”, the words slipped out of her. “Oh!” said Muthu. “I had forgotten that you have a point of reference! In what other ways was he better than me?”

Kumari’s face burned in shame. A lone tear streaked down her cheeks. Immediately, Muthu was contrite. “I’m so sorry darling, I shouldn’t have said that,” he moaned. “You’re my one true love”. There’s no true love, thought Kumari. You just pick the best from what’s available. Its funny he doesn’t know that, she thought. After all, he’s only 20 and I’m 32.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she said aloud, managing a smile. “I’ll make you some dosas quickly”. “No, I’m taking my queen today to a restaurant. I won’t let her slave away in the kitchen” said Muthu, hugging her tight. “Aren’t you my pootie-pie, my snoogie-woogie?”, he crooned in baby-talk. For some inexplicable reason, Kumari felt like gagging. Feeling straitjacketed, she slowly released herself from his grip.

* * * * *

Muthu had taken to drink. After a drink, he was a beast, not himself. Kumari didn’t mind the drinking binges. Men need their entertainment, she thought vaguely. But the physical abuse was humiliating and de-basing. Vaguely, she wondered if Chettiar drank. If he did, she certainly did not know. His comportment was always perfect.

How did I fall for Muthu, wondered Kumari. Was it the music? Kumari used to sing in concerts. Used to. Nobody in the Chettiar household had an ear for music. Almost tone-deaf, thought Kumari. If she started singing, Chettiar would yell from his room after 5 minutes – “Can you stop that caterwauling?” he would say. “Man, I work like a dog in the store and you can’t even give me peace and quiet”.

But, Muthu was different. He urged her to sing songs, whenever they snatched a few moments of privacy. Muthu doesn’t ask me to sing anymore – thought Kumari, feeling a little surreal. She shook her head, as if to dispel the thought.

“Its hard to say why people fall in love” she told granny.  “To Chettiar, I was the ideal housekeeper, a mom for his children. I was – a non-entity, I had no intrinsic value”. But Muthu had talked to her, as if she really mattered.

“Muthu came home often, we met regularly,” she said. We had to, she thought defensively – because of Chettiar’s business. “And when people are thrown together often – things happen”.

* * * * *

“I’m sorry I slapped you”, stammered Muthu. “I’m a beast, I shouldn’t have done that!”. Kumari covered her cheek with her palm. She wondered if her face was swollen. “Sorry, sorry, sorry” bleated Muthu. “I should have controlled my temper!”

“Could you please leave me alone?” asked Kumari shakily. “Of course, of course. Anything for you” he said hastily, trying to placate her.

Left alone, Kumari struggled with the pieces of the jigsaw that were her life. Marrying Chettiar was not her choice – it had been arranged by her father. Many a sleepless night she had wondered, how life would have turned out if she had made a choice. And, then she had chosen Muthu. What did she have to say about their partnership, she wondered.

And then it hit her. She moved to their bedroom resolutely and started packing her belongings in a trunk. It took her 5 minutes.

I’m tired of leaning on men, using them as a walking stick – she thought. First, it was Chettiar and then it was Muthu – Neither man let me be. Not all women bloom in the company of men. I don’t need a husband to make me feel whole.

“Where are you going?” stammered Muthu. Kumari took a deep breath. “I’m leaving”, she said in an even tone. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you”, he pleaded, white-faced. “And I’ll stop drinking, I promise”. Then he started crying with intense self-pity. “I don’t have anyone else, please don’t leave me”.

She looked at him with sympathy, tinged with faint disgust. Muthu doesn’t look handsome when he’s crying, she thought critically. His features were contorted and his jaw was quivering like a girl’s.

Something tugged at her heart, but she knew what she had to do. “Its not because of you”, she said. “Is it about Nalini?” quavered Muthu. “She means nothing to me. You’re my everything!”

“No, its about me”, said Kumari and she started walking away. “After all, you’re 20 and I’m 32”.

The train was slowly pulling out of the station, shrieking with gusto. Two figures were trotting along the train – a young man in an easy sprint and a not-so young woman in a slow jog. “This is our compartment, get in”, shouted Muthu jumping into the train with the ease of young, supple limbs.  He laughed at the huffing and puffing woman who was falling by the wayside.  “At this rate, Kumari – you’ll be stranded at the station”. So saying he grabbed the woman by her waist and hoisted her into the train.

A jolt of electricity surged through Kumari, embarrassing her with its intensity. “Come on”, said Muthu and dragged her to their 2^nd class compartment. 6 pairs of eyes fastened on them, devouring them with curiosity. Realizing too late that they still had their garlands on, Kumari tried to disappear into her seat. I can really use some privacy, she thought.

The train was chugging along. The woman in the opposite seat moved closer to Kumari and asked her sotto voce, “Is that your younger brother?” – her eyes were burning with curiosity. Yes, I have my best silk sari on and we’re both garlanded. This is how sisters travel with their brothers, thought Kumari dryly. I can’t blame the woman, thought Kumari. After all, Muthu is only 20 and I’m 32. From now on, she should get accustomed to such questions. She suddenly felt very tired.

The train stopped at a station. Some station. “Let me get you some tea”, said Muthu, jumping out of the train with alacrity. Kumari leaned against her seat, thinking back to the time she first met Muthu.

* * * * *

It had been another soul-less morning – toiling in the kitchen, making forgettable food. Washing a mountain of dirty dishes, since the maid was AWOL. Even the maid gets a day off to do what she wanted to do. What do I want to do, wondered Kumari. Her mother-in-law’s acerbic voice punctured her reverie. “You’ve managed to waste the milk yet again, Kumari?” The burning smell of milk pervaded the kitchen, as Kumari looked around helplessly, feeling inadequate.

“Chithi (Step mom), sew this button on my shirt, its getting late for me!” – Babu was yelling from the hall. “Chithi, where is my uniform? Have you ironed it?” – screamed Lalitha from her room. The Pressure Cooker was adding to the din, whistling its way to glory. Kumari plugged her eats, vainly trying to shut out the myriad noises.

“Sir, Sir!” called a voice from the verandah. “Can somebody get the door?” begged Kumari. “Sir, Sir!” called the voice again. Something snapped inside Kumari. She stormed onto the verandah. A young man of about 20 was tapping the door. “Is there no end to tormenting me? How many hands do you think I have?” she roared. The young man was taken aback. “My! I thought I had come to my boss’s house. Evidently, I’ve come to the lion’s lair”, he said with mocking eyes, grinning mischievously.

“What’s all the commotion, Kumari?” asked Chettiar, coming to the verandah. “Oh, Muthu. Its you. Any updates?” he asked the young man. “Yes, Sir. The rice bags have arrived. I’m unloading them in the warehouse. I was about to tell Madam, but Madam is – a little tired”. Abashed, Kumari looked down, unable to face Muthu.

“Go back to the kitchen, Kumari” said Chettiar. “Don’t you have work to do? Can’t you hear Babu and Lalitha calling for you?”

* * * * *

Chettiar, her husband. “I could only find coffee in the railway canteen”, said Muthu, handing her a plastic cup. No, no. Kumari shook her head vigorously. Chettiar is no longer my husband.  Muthu is my husband from now onwards.

“We’re going directly to my friend’s house in Chennai,” said Muthu. “He’ll help me find a job and a house to stay”. He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “I’m tired of eating out. But from now on, I have you. You can make me all the dishes I love”, he said, caressing her cheek.

The bottom fell out of Kumari’s stomach. She hated cooking. She detested the kitchen. If given a chance, she’ll live on bread, fresh milk and water. “Of course, I’ll make your favorite dishes” she said, managing a smile. “Take your hands off my face Muthu, everyone’s looking at us goggle-eyed. That fat woman in the corner seat is so shocked she might die of a cardiac arrest”.

“I’m touching my wife,” said Muthu loudly so everyone could hear. “If someone thinks that’s wrong, it’s none of their business, that’s all”. Kumari reddened in spite of herself. “I can’t understand his ardor now, can I”, she thought. He’s only 20 and I’m 32.

* * * * *

In the movie, the heroine hugged the hero and asked him the question “Darling, do you like this song?” It was all so romantic. Eons ago, when they were newlyweds –a lifetime ago, it seemed to her – Kumari tried it on Chettiar, in the breathless whisper used by the heroine. Chettiar looked up from his ledger distastefully. “Songs don’t put food on the table”, he said grumpily. “And for god’s sake, don’t touch me or use terms of endearment at home. The children might see that”.

Gradually, Kumari learned to swallow her questions. How do I look in this sari? Whom do you think we should vote for? By the way, I read an interesting book – can I discuss that with you? Did you like what I made for dinner?

Chettiar ran a grocery store in our town. Rice, pulses, tamarind, chilly, oil – these were his world. His universe was small. He got up at 5 AM thinking about his grocery store. He went to bed at 11 PM, mentally figuring out the profits he made that day. His dreams were filled with Tea bags, Sugar sacks and Soap cartons that he could sell the next day.

In between, he made some time for his 2 children from a previous marriage. Sometimes when Chettiar caught sight of Kumari, there was a note of surprise in this face, as if wondering whom this entity was, and how it came into being.

* * * * *

They found a house in Triplicane. Muthu found a job in a local super-market. Kumari started doing what she had always been doing – cook, clean and wash. Life hit the “routine” button, as it has a way of doing.

Kumari sometimes wondered if she felt guilty about leaving Chettiar. Sometimes she did, other times she just felt relief. It was all so confusing. Life isn’t simple like a moral science lesson, she thought.

“I heard you have 2 step-children,” asked the granny next door. Babu and Lalitha. Kumari wondered who ironed their clothes now.

“I don’t mean to pry” began granny. “What made you leave your first husband?” Granny had become a friend, purely due to her proximity. Kumari sighed.

She looked around her 1 bedroom flat. If someone had told her that she’d elope with Muthu 6 months back, she would have laughed aloud. “Muthu looked like a savior to me”, she said slowly. Yes, a savior. To rescue her from her drudgery, from a life that had become soulless.

I have been saved, Kumari reiterated to herself. And I’ll be happy this time. “Have you met Nalini, Muthu’s young deputy?”, asked granny. “No”, said Kumari. “Why do you ask?”

When I started working in Chennai, I rented a small flat in West Mambalam.  I didn’t have any roommates for a while, and Valliyamma, a retired sweeper (janitor) kept me company.  She used to work in the college where my mother was the Principal (Dean). I couldn’t afford to buy a TV for a month, since I had spent all my savings in paying an advance for the flat. Valliyamma used to regale me with stories in my spare-time.  This is one of her stories.

“A long time back, a young girl rent my heart and the wound hasn’t healed yet”, began Valliyamma. I settled myself as comfortably as possible in the sole plastic chair in the room to listen to her story.

Everyone in Tirupur knew the famous lawyer Ramani. Even little children knew his name, as he was one of the wealthiest men in town. Hailing from the orthodox Brahmin community, Ramani had worked his way up from hardscrabble beginnings.  His only daughter Hema was the apple of his eye.

I wouldn’t call Hema a great beauty. She was young, healthy and had a cheerful disposition that looking at life through rose-tinted glasses gives. She enrolled in the local university – where I worked – for a degree.

“What was her major?” I asked Valliyamma. “I’m semi-literate. What do I know about major and minor? Let me continue the story. I’m sure her subject has no bearing on what happened next”.

Ramani was very protective about his daughter. Make that over-protective. She was seldom permitted to travel alone – someone always chaperoned her. She couldn’t visit a friend on her own – her mother or her widowed aunt accompanied her. If she wanted to pray in the temple, a retinue followed her. Even attending the college – but the problem started there, I’ll come to that later.

Ramani enforced a strict dress code – she had to wear a half sari. Always. Her conservative father frowned upon new fangled costumes such as Jeans and Salwar Kameez. And My God, the skirts she wore! Made of silk and embroidered in silver or gold thread, every single one of them. She always looked like a Million Dollars. And the jewelry she had on – the stones always matched the color of the skirt.

And the opposite sex – Hema was prevented from mingling with them. “All this mixing between the sexes – its just makes women perverted” Ramani proclaimed belligerently. Once a young man asked Hema the time of the day. She made the mistake of replying “8:30 AM”. She was grounded for a whole day for talking to strange men.

“Traveling by buses breeds immorality in young girls”, Ramani used to say. So, Hema was ferried on an Auto Rickshaw to college and back – Lest she succumb to the temptations of rakish young men.

But the generally cautious Ramani slipped one day. And on that day, Hema went missing.

“What?? Missing?!” I asked, amidst quickening interest.

You should have seen Ramani then – he was desolated with grief. For a whole month, he and his wife scoured the earth for Hema. The whole town was agog with rumors that Hema had been kidnapped for a ransom.

Initially, Ramani didn’t lodge a complaint with the police, for fear of tarnishing his girl’s name. In the end, he bit the bullet and ushered in the police. It was the cops that found her, ultimately.

One not so fine day, Ramani and his wife made the fateful journey that took them to Hema. The minute he saw his daughter, Ramani suffered a massive stroke. He fell in a heap at his wife’s feet, like a felled tree. He remained bed-ridden for the rest of his life.

Ramani paid dearly for his carelessness, that’s all I can say.

“Carelessness? If his daughter got kidnapped, how is he responsible?”  I asked testily.

Ramani should have paid attention to the auto driver. He was young, but decidedly not handsome, not even in a cheap and flashy sort of way. His face was filled with pockmarks. Perhaps that’s why Ramani never took him seriously – as a threat.

It took 30 minutes to travel to and from the college. People who are cooped up together in a small space – such as an auto – start talking. Talking leads to familiarity – and sometimes, much more than that.

“You mean…”

That Hema eloped with the auto driver, of course.

“How did Ramani meet his fate?”  I asked. “I’m coming to that part now” said Valliyamma irritably.

When the police found Hema’s whereabouts, they took Ramani and his wife with them. Their car couldn’t enter the narrow street in that shanty town full of huts, so they had to walk. And then suddenly, their daughter emerged from a hovel, wearing a tattered sari, bereft of any jewelry. She looked emaciated, as if she had not eaten for 3 days. There was a bruise on her lip and dark circles under her eyes, as though sleep eluded her.

The plight of his daughter shocked Ramani so much that a major blood vessel in his brain burst.

“What about Hema?”

As for Hema – I wish I could stop the story here, but the truth must be told. She found a lowly job in a Cinema Theater – enough to keep her fed and clothed. She didn’t complete her degree, so good jobs were out of her reach.

I sometimes see her there and lend her a few rupees, knowing fully well she can’t return it. Some of my friends buy her a meal or get her the necessities that she can’t afford.

“What happened to her husband, the auto driver?”

Oh, Marimuthu. He turned out to be a drunkard. He sold Hema’s jewelry within the 1^st week, under the pretext of buying an auto. He became progressively drunk and disorderly and started abusing her.

Hema soon found out that she had little in common with the semi-educated man from the slums. What can one say? Disillusionment is more heart-breaking than abuse.

I wish her problems had ended there. Under enormous pressure from his parents, Marimuthu soon tied the knot with another girl – an uneducated girl from his caste. Hema was left all alone in the world. She had burnt all her bridges.

Valliyamma wiped her eyes. “Aghast at what she had done to her father, Hema steadfastly refused to take any help from her parents”. I was looking at her intently.

“I’m a simple woman”, she said. “I haven’t read big books. But it seems to me that the biggest gift parents can give their children – is trusting them. For trust roots children, while giving them wings to soar”.

The minute I entered the classroom, I knew something was amiss. The girls were huddled together in groups, their faces bent forward, discussing something in whispers. This was not new, but strangely enough, even my group – the “Grand Band of Geeks” – was discussing something animatedly. I wondered what common topic had united my group with the rest of the class. The last time my group was this excited, we were debating if Pluto was a planet. It nearly came to blows.

I looked at my friends questioningly. “Sankari is missing,” said Arul. I shrugged my shoulders. Sankari had been absent for the past 2 days. “What’s so strange about that? She probably has a touch of flu.” I scoffed. “Why are you so excited? Is it a new strain of a virus?” I hazarded a guess. “No, you Dodo” hissed Latha. “She is MIA. Missing”.  I must have still looked clueless, for she added in an exasperated tone “She. Has. Run. Away”.

“What’s this?” I thought. We were in the 7^th grade, a little too early for boys, desperate love affairs and elopement. “We should ask Fatima,” I suggested. Fatima was our Class Leader. “Did you think of that on your own?” said Arul in mock amazement. For a group of girls had already gathered around a frazzled Fatima. When did Sankari run away? Who informed the school? Have the police been notified? “Girls, girls!” said Fatima, parting the crowds as Moses parted the Red Sea. “Sankari’s father gave a leave letter 2 days ago, stating she had a flu. But today, the Headmistress was notified that she has indeed run away from home. And yes, the cops are on it!”

“Golly! Do you know where she ran away?” asked Geetha. She was a tad slow on the uptake.  We rolled our eyes.

* * * * *

Our visibly upset class teacher, Miss Jacinta entered the classroom with our Headmistress Sister Maria in tow. We immediately simmered down and took our seats. Our Headmistress always had that effect on us.

“As you all know very well by now” said Miss Jacinta dryly “Sankari is missing”. “We heard she has run away from home, Miss” Geetha blurted out. Miss Jacinta flinched as if she had been slapped. “Girls, we don’t know if she ran away or if she has been kidnapped” she said. A hush fell over the class. “Don’t mince words, Jessie” snapped Sister Maria. “They’re old enough to know the truth”. She turned to us and said “Your class-mate Sankari left home in the dead of night 2 days back. She packed 2 sets of clothes and her teddy bear. She also helped herself to Rs 100 from her mother’s purse”.

“But sister, why did she run away?” asked Anne in a tinny voice from the backbench. “That’s what we don’t know,” said Sister Maria, with beads of perspiration on her forehead. “But the priority is to find her and get her back home safe”.

Wagging her finger, Miss Jacinta said, “This is not a hot bit of gossip. Please don’t spread unsavory rumors about Sankari. Gossip can destroy a girl’s life. Above all, don’t talk about this to anyone except your parents”.

Thus admonished, we settled back to thinking about Sankari and what we knew about her.

* * * * *

I knew very little about Sankari. My 1^st interaction with her was on a school play. I played a Noble Man (ours was an “All Girls” school) and Sankari played my valet. She would say “I pray thee for leave, My Lord” and I had to say “Of course, Jack. Here’s a purse full of gold coins for your service”. Jack was the hero of the play, so all of us wanted to play Jack. Sankari got that role because she had short hair. The rest of us were sore for a week, eyeing our long tresses with disdain.

Apart from that, our worlds seldom crossed. Well, they crossed occasionally. I tutored her in algebra, her weak subject. We lived in the same neighborhood and we sometimes took the same bus to school. We exchanged pleasantries, talked about cricket and music. She seemed like a cheerful, ordinary, if not an excessively bright girl. What could have caused her to run away?

“Have you seen her family?” asked Fatima. I nodded. They lived in a small, nondescript house 2 blocks away. Their fence badly needed repainting. Her father worked somewhere in an “office”, which is euphemism for “I don’t know what he did for a living.” Her mother was a homemaker. Sankari had a younger sister. Her photocopy.

They went out for a walk on Sundays – Sankari clinging tightly to her father’s hands. Once a month, they ate out in a restaurant – The same restaurant, every month. Sankari sat next to her father. He would feed her morsels sometimes. A normal family, one would say. And boring.

* * * * *

A few days later, Sankari was found, sleeping in an abandoned shed in a nearby village. She had not fought with the police when they found her. She obediently seated herself in the squad car.

We were warned not to probe Sankari – At all. “Don’t ask her why she ran away or where she went”, we were instructed. “Make no mention of the fact that she has been missing for the past 1 week”. Miss Jacinta turned a baleful eye towards us. “And if anyone makes even a causal mention of her disappearance or cuts a cruel joke – They have to contend with me”.

And so Sankari returned to school, 2 days later. She looked cheerful, as always – As if nothing had happened. We struggled, but maintained a normal relationship with her – we kept up the usual banter.

Miss Jacinta took me aside. “I need a favor from you, as you are the hall monitor”. “Yes, Miss?” I added helpfully. “Er, just keep an eye on Sankari without making her nervous. We don’t want her to, ah, do anything dangerous to herself”.  I goggled at Miss Jacinta stupidly, willing her to say more. But she dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

During lunch, our classroom was locked. The Hall Monitor barred everyone from entering the classroom. As you know, I was the hall monitor and here was Sankari trying to sneak into the room. “I just need my medicine,” she explained placidly to me. “I, uh, need to see the medicine” I insisted, following her into the classroom. “I’m the hall monitor”. “Sure” she said and handed me the medicine from her pencil box. It said “Paracetamol”. I wordlessly handed the medicine back to Sankari. Unknown to me, I had her on a suicide watch.

* * * * *

Where did Sankari go? What did she eat? Where did she sleep? Above all – Why did she run away? I never got any germane answers to these questions. Neither did my peer group.

Years later, I was having coffee with a client, who had become a close friend of mine. I was always puzzled by my client’s intense love-hate relationship with her father, though the details eluded me. On that day, she was talking about her sister – Millie. “Do you know, once Millie ran away from home? We found her 10 days later”. I nodded my head sympathetically. “My father – She couldn’t handle what he did”, she said tears welling up. “If only the cops knew, they would have thrown him in jail and lost the keys”.

I was slowly beginning to understand why Sankari ran away.