Why I became Krishna.

The idea came to me just like that. I had spent a week skimming through literary magazines and e-zines on Google and was still drawing a blank on themes that I could write on, about "Women for Women". I didn’t think much of the magazine when I first sent them one of my manuscripts, "Woman Power – a magazine for women, by women". I mean, that was pretty lame, even by my feeble standards. But, after getting exactly fourteen rejects from various other literary magazines and no replies at all to the five emails that I sent to the Hindu Editor, I decided to lower my lofty standards and give Woman Power a shot. And that’s how this whole thing began. Theoretically, I had all day to think of what to write about, after all, it was summer vacation, but after a week of no results, when I began to wonder if I should watch "Penn" and "Manaivi" on Sun TV for ideas, it came to me just like that, my story. And my story begins like this...

On August 15th, 1980, as the whole country celebrated outside, as festoons and flowers flew up in the air, Shankar Narayanan walked head down to his bride of a few hours, Nalini, to tell her that they were no longer welcome at his house. She sat huddled in a corner of the taxi, the jasmine in her garland and hair still fresh, her hands nervously twirling the ends of her silk saree, her mother’s wedding gift. She looked out the window of the car, her eyes squinting on something that only she could see at a distance – a hope against hope for a happy future. He studied her for a few moments, trying to come up with the right words to tell her…the sight of her profile filled him with conflicting emotions, even without the diamond earrings that she should have worn, even without the traditional bridal jewelry that should have adorned her face, she still looked so delicate, so vulnerable, he knew he would not forget the scene that greeted him now, the way her silhouette stood out and everything around her merged into nothingness. He got into the taxi and quietly told the driver, “No 26, Parthasarathy street”. She looked at him questioningly even as her child’s eyes filled with tears, he held her hand and shook his head.

I knew the beginning for as long as I can remember, I don’t recall whether it was my dad or my mom that described their wedding day to me. All I knew was that they had married against my dad’s parent’s wishes and had reasoned, argued, cried, threatened but my grandparents had stood firm in their refusal. My mom’s dad had passed away earlier and her own mom was too weak to protest or support her daughter’s marriage, she merely attended the marriage and gave her blessings when asked to. What happened between then and now was a different story altogether, only parts of which I had gathered from conversations here and there. My parents were on cordial terms with my grandparents now, we visited them once in a few months and the women cooked together without speaking, while the men talked about cricket. It was always the same, my thatha, paatti loved me though, my paatti especially was very fond of me and often took me on long walks or just took me to her room – no one else was allowed entry, not even my mom and dad – and showed me old photos, told me stories from her past and at other times just let me talk about my school and friends. My mom and paatti never seemed to cross the border between cordial and friendly though.

So, I decided to write a story about the women in our family – my paatti, my mom and I. I decided “I” would play a small role and it would be a story between a strong-willed, toothless but still strikingly beautiful old woman and her soft-spoken, self-effacing though not weak daughter-in-law. The life of the two women that I adored most in my life. I just had to catch the right people and fill in the gaps in my story, or rather construct the rest of my story.

***
I started with the easiest target, my dad. He was a well-built, well-aging man, a professor of Arts at Madras Christian College, well-read, outspoken and easily provoked. His favorite topics were sports, the sad state of Arts and Sciences in our country and of course the cynosure of his eye, his only daughter, Krishna. That would be me. So, I picked a time when I knew he would be well-fed and relaxed, right after dinner and sat on the floor next to the easy cane chair on which he sat rocking and revising the sports section of the Hindu one last time before calling it a day.

“Appa…”

“Uh Uh”, he gave his standard response, his nose buried in the sports page, my mom threw him a withering look, which was of course lost on him, as she placed his last coffee-cup of the day on the table beside him.

“Appa, I want to write for a woman’s magazine…”

He finally broke away from the newspaper and corrected his old-fashioned brown-rimmed spectacles perched so far down on his nose that it looked like it might take a dip into the coffee tumbler anytime.

“Very good. Very good. Will you be writing a book review? Critical analysis of some literary piece? I can help you with that…”

“Illa appa, they are looking for works of fiction about women…”

“Oh, stories…”, he seemed to lose interest immediately and I interrupted lest he should get back to his newspaper,

“Yes appa, but this might be a break for me to get more articles and stories published in more recognized magazines and newspapers…this is my chance!”

He looked unconvinced but decided to indulge me anyway, “Ok, do you want me to talk to the editor and make sure he doesn’t give you a hard time?”

What is it with dads and shaking up people? I just couldn’t understand that.

“No appa. Ok, let me start from the beginning. I am writing a semi-autobiographical story and I need you to fill in the gaps…I want to know about paatti-thatha and you and mom and how you all finally made up, was it when I was born?”

“Krishna, I don’t approve of you shouting out aloud, stories of our family. Nalini, come here.”

My mom who had been over-hearing most of the conversation under the pretext of cleaning the table, came right in.

“Krishna, I agree with your dad. Why can’t you make up a story? Why should it be our story? And anyway, there is not much of a story to write…ask your friend, Shalini for her help, she scored 96 in English in the half-yearly exam, didn’t she?”

And that was the problem with having both your parents in the Teaching profession; mom was a Physics teacher who taught 10th and 12th classes at Padma Sheshadri and kept a hawk-eye on my marks.

I looked pleadingly at dad and he finally let out a long sigh that meant that I had gotten my way. I gleefully got out my notepad and my mom opened her mouth to object but finally just shook her head and walked back to the kitchen murmuring, “Father and daughter can figure this out, I am not getting into this”.

“Ok, so what happened after thatha-paatti sent you away after your marriage?”

“Krishna, I am not sure if this is the right age for you to know all these details…”, it looked like he will back out but he removed his spectacles and wiped them on his veshti which meant he had acquiesced to my wishes.

“From the beginning, your paatti took it much harder and blamed me for finding my own wife, that too of a different sub-caste. In those days – it might be hard for you to imagine – but these things were just taboo, even though my parents knew Nalini well, they came up with a hundred objections when I first told them that I was interested in her. I don’t think your paatti has forgiven me completely even now, but I guess you made helped her accept your mother more than you can imagine…”

My dad talked for almost an hour and my notepad and pen remained untouched. I listened to his words, as scenes from his past played through my head; that night I willed my mind to replay what my dad had said and I started writing the first part of my story…

The young couple slowly built their home, bit by bit. Since Shankar had to take an office loan for his marriage expenses, he couldn’ t buy everything that he wanted to buy for his wife, but still he tried. Some days they would go to the beach and he would buy kulfis for them and listen to his wife talk about her day – Mrs.Neela Balachandran next door is a nice woman, she allowed her maid servant, Malliga to work at their place, the milk man still mixes water with their milk but he has reduced it after she had complained once, she wants one of those strong nylon ropes that all the neighbours have for hanging the clothes, can he come back early the next day, she wants to go to the temple early in the evening with him? - and he would relax, watching his wife, half-listening to her chatter but enjoying the sound of her voice and humming of the waves and he thought life was almost perfect. The next week, when he came home earlier than usual, he found his wife staring at the blank television screen, her eyes red and still watery. What happened? Did she get hurt? Did he do something wrong? He had enquired worriedly. She wanted to have a family like everyone else, she did not want to be the reason why he didn’t talk to his parents. Will he take her again to his parent’s house? If they saw her one more time, especially his mother – only a woman knew another woman’s heart – she would definitely take them back into the family? Shankar did not sleep that night. He knew his mother, the strong-willed, almost childishly obstinate Lakshmi Narayanan well and he knew she would never give in so easily, but he also didn’t want Nalini to cry alone when he was at work and so he decided to take her to his house the next Saturday.

I wondered how to continue the story…should I write it down as a conversation between my grandparents and my parents or just write it in indirect speech? Should I alter the story that my dad had told me, make it more dramatic, make the women have characteristics that are more distinct or should I just write the story as it had happened, real and realistic?

For the next few days, I didn’t need to convince dad to tell me his version of the story. After dinner, while mom murmured something inaudible, he continued to tell me his story and I struggled to imagine a young Shankar Narayanan and Nalini Shankar and not let my current image of them taint the scenes that he painted for me. The next night, I wrote,

She dressed with care, not too gaudy, not too casual. He waited impatiently as she got ready. He had called a week earlier and Murugan, their driver had picked up the phone, he had asked for his parents and Murugan had told him that they had gone out. They hadn’t return his call, so what would greet him at his parent’s house was anybody’s guess. They arrived after a bumpy auto ride, they got off at the street corner and walked towards the house. The door was open and Mr.Narayanan was fiddling with his favourite transistor and talking to his wife at the same time, “Lakshmi, can you get out my fan, it is so hot here and the blasted electricity board people have cut our power again…also, bring me a glass of water.” Even after they crossed the verandah and entered his house, Mr.Narayanan didn’t raise his head from the transistor.

“Appa…”

He paused just for a second and looked up at his son. An heart-achingly sincere smile spread across his face and he said, “Shankar…” and choked on his words. Nalini immediately touched his feet and held her palms together in greeting. Just then Lakhmi walked out and froze immediately, she looked at her husband and said in a clear ringing voice, “Here is your water” and walked back inside without a second glance at her son and daughter-in-law.

Her husband took the tumbler with shaking hands and looked down, unable to say anything more to erase the invisible boundary that his wife had drawn around them. They stood like that, husband and wife, for what seemed like an eternity, facing the old man and then they silently walked out.

***
My dad’s version of the story had other details that I omitted from my story – how he returned home tired after work only to find his wife crying over what happened or requesting him to try to talk to his parents one more time. Without telling my mom, he did try to call back home but whenever he spoke, they (usually his mother since his father came back late from the LIC office) hung up after a pause. I tried to keep the story focused on my mother and my paatti and till now had not succeeded much. I was determined to make the next part of the story just about them and fortunately, that’s when my dad finished his version of the story and I got to bug my mom about a woman’s view (finally!) of the happenings. It didn’t take her long to agree, she had sulked just because I hadn’t come to her first to get help for my story. Now that she started her story, there was no stopping her.

That night, I wrote a woman’s view of the story.

Every night as Shankar slept after a hard day at work, a release from all the guilt and troubles of his mind, Nalini would sit next to the rusting bureau and look through the dozen or so photos that had been taken during their marriage. It had been a simple affair, a few close friends, her mother, some of his relatives, some of hers who were more curious than supportive, his sister, Jayasree in one of the photos (she had come to tell him that he had cheated his parents and he should go back and apologize) and she would cry all over again. Nalini’s mother was now with her uncle and his family in Delhi and would only return after a few months. She had no one to confide in, Shankar, though understanding and kind was often too tired after work to listen to her silly concerns.

After a year and a half, when the scorching rays of the sun gave way to rain and trees and flowers looked happier and greener everywhere, Nalini thought maybe that her life would take a turn towards the good. And as she had predicted and prayed everyday, their family doctor confirmed that she was pregnant. She was thrilled. Strangely, she had no nausea even in the dreaded first trimester and she cooked a storm for her husband everyday. That was the happiest time for both of them. One evening as he was buying her jasmine outside the Parthasarathy temple, she wondered if she should ask him one more time. She heard the temple bells declare their blessings and asked her husband, “Should we see your parents one more time? Now that we have some good news to give them, maybe they will change their minds if not for us at least for Krishna?” She had taken it in her head that it would be a boy and had already started calling her baby, Krishna. He frowned not wanting to do anything to upset the delicate balance in this happy phase of their lives…but the past few months, he had wondered more than once if he should ask his parents to help Nalini. His own mother-in-law although was eager to see her daughter, could not travel such a long distance due to health reasons, her concerned brother would not let her – “How can I send Pankajam, Shankar? She can hardly see and is often confused about the time of the day…let us do this, I will take a vacation in a few months time and drop Pankajam myself…ask Nalini to take care of her health.”

And so once again, they set out to his parent’s house. This time, when they walked towards the house, they saw his parents sitting on the verandah and playing with Jayasree’s seven year old son, Anand. She had come home with her son for his summer vacation, her husband would join after a month, spend some time there and then take mother and son back home. As soon as Anand saw his uncle, he came running towards him and hugged him. Lakshmi got up suddenly and was just about to go back in when Nalini took a bold decision to stop her mother-in-law, “Amma, please don’t go in. We have come to share some good news with you.” The silence was so overpowering, it seemed to Nalini that even everyone had forgotten to even breathe, Lakshmi stopped in her tracks immediately and turned around to face her daughter-in-law. She studied her carefully from head to toe and her eyes stopped at the visible bulge in her stomach. She waited. Mr.Narayanan immediately grabbed this moment of silence gratefully and ushered everyone inside. Father, son and daughter had a lot to catch up on as Anand went round them gleefully, happy that he had his freedom while the adults talked. Nalini assumed that she would be required in the kitchen and nervously joined her mother-in-law.

She stood silently as Lakshmi expertly poured filter coffee for the guests. When she had finished pouring, Nalini gathered all her courage and asked, “Amma, shall I take the tray outside?” Lakshmi was silent for a long time, then she gave Nalini one of her trademark looks and asked, “How many months?”

Nalini almost laughed in relief. “Four months. The doctor says the baby is healthy and is growing normally…I…”

“Is it a boy?”

“Amma, we don’t know. I think it is a boy, do you like the name Krishna? I …”

“It should be a boy.”

And with that, Lakshmi walked out with the tray of coffee tumblers.

It was like a drama unfolding in front of my eyes. So many people I thought I knew well had assumed so many different traits that I now looked at them again to make sure they were the same people. I could have asked my paatti to tell me the story but something told me that I shouldn’t mess with my family’s delicate balance and I resisted the impulse to ask her. As soon as my mom completed her version of the story, I almost began to pen it down and then wondered if I should also get a neutral person’s view of the story, someone who had seen enough of life and my parents’ lives to give me an objective narration of past events. Enter Periamma. Everyone called her that and I didn’t know what her real name was. She had worked for paatti ever since she was a little girl, she was almost my paatti’s age now but no longer worked with her. She stayed with us. After I was born, periamma came to live with my parents. She said it was because she had come to see my dad as her own son and she missed him terribly (she had no children and her husband had died when she was still a young woman), my dad however suspected that his mother had sent her over to help her son and his wife but was too proud to let them know that. My parents were glad to have her home. Periamma had become a surrogate mother to my mom after her own mother passed away a few years back. I wondered why I didn’t think of asking periamma before. My dad had mentioned that my paatti and periamma had been very close friends but I didn’t know anything more. That evening when my mom and periamma returned from the temple and mom started experimenting with yet another new recipe from her shining new cookbook, I cornered periamma.

***
“Periamma, do you remember the time when you stayed at paatti’s place?”

She looked up from her work, she had been cleaning the silver lamp in front of the God’s photos. She continued cleaning and said, “Those were different days and anyway there is no point talking about the past, tell me Krishna, do you want me to help you with your assignments?” Periamma loved to string the English alphabets together and ask me questions from my English non-detailed lessons, it took her quite sometime to ask the questions but I know she enjoyed it and so spent several evenings “preparing” for assignments with her. She prided herself on her English knowledge.

“Illa periamma. School doesn’t open for another month. You used to tell me you and paatti studied English together. Was paatti a good student?”

“Your paatti was a roudy at school. I used to study and she used to always run out with the village boys to pick mangoes from the neighbour’s tree with stones. Your paatti’s father received so many complaints about her but she was his favourite and youngest child, he never spoke a harsh word to her.”

She placed the lamp carefully in the cupboard, “And I was always better at English than your paatti. Now run along and let me do my work.”

But, I knew I could get my way, I pestered periamma for some more time and she gave in and continued her story, “But anyway, after 5th standard, your paatti got married and I was sent along with her to her in-laws’ house so she wouldn’t get homesick – she cried for two days when her father initially refused.”

For a second, I wondered how that life would have been, to be sent along to a new house just like that, your life dictated by the people who employed you but I had never seen periamma complain and we always treated her with respect, still…I listened as periamma continued, “Your paatti learnt very quickly. She was efficient and smart and earned a good name for herself at her in-laws’ place. Somehow, she still remained stubborn. She decided the financial handlings of the house, from the kitchen stove to the TV set, she was the home-maker. Your thatha,” and here she giggled, “ was always a bit scared of Lakshmi. I think he is, even now, otherwise, your parents wouldn’t have stayed away for so long…”, she had reverted back to calling my paatti Lakshmi and that was a good sign.
Slowly, the climax of my story unfolded in front of me and I listened mesmerized, the way a woman stands open-mouthed when the salesman finally reveals the pallu – layers and layers of intricate designs, the shimmer of silk and gossamer, the most intricate patterns embedded on vibrant colors…and finally they all fall back to form the saree as a whole, together.

Periamma continued, a glazed look in her eyes, “Lakshmi although angry with your father could not hold her anger against her own grandson.”

“Grandson?”

Periamma laughed and asked me, “Why do you think you are named Krishna?”

She ruffled my head and told me what paatti had told her many years back and Periamma's words found their way into my story.

”Krishna, that girl had said. She is not dark-complexioned you know, who can tell with these modern girls and their make-up, anyway my Shankar is quite a handsome young man, the child will be like Lord Krishna himself, you wait and see Charu!” And the two women, my paatti and her child-hood friend Charu, aka periamma, had discussed at length about arrangements for the new baby, the Seemantham (7th month function) and so on. Periamma was paatti’s childhood friend who had been with paatti since they were five years old.

“So Lakshmi, do you know if they have decided on a name if the child were a girl?”, Periamma asked.

“It will be a boy. I am not interested in a girl child.”

Periamma didn’t say anything for fear of sparking Lakshmi’s anger once again. The next few weeks, the milkman, the maid servant, the grocery delivery boy and almost everyone who happened to step near the Narayanan household got their hands stuffed with sweets. Lakshmi proudly declared to them that her heir was on his way home, Lord Krishna himself. Periamma worried sometimes about Lakshmi’s strong belief that her grandchild will be a boy but not wanting to dampen her spirits, convinced herself that that her friend would have a grandson indeed.

A few months later, Nalini gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at Ponnamaal nursing home. Nalini and Shankar cried for joy with the baby. The happy news was conveyed to the family that mother and baby were in good health. Lakshmi, Narayanan, Jayashree, Anand and Periamma rushed to the hospital.

“See, I told you, Charu? See, my Krishna has come!”, Lakshmi couldn’t stop smiling.

When they entered the hospital, Nalini was asleep and Shankar rocked a tiny bundle in his arms. Lakshmi led the crowd to her son and held her hands out. Shankar handed the the baby to his mother proudly.

Lakshmi looked at the baby for a few moments, she checked it’s hands, legs, toes, ears and finally moved the cloth aside to confirm that it was indeed a “he”. Everyone watched breathlessly. She drew in a sharp breath and stood still for a few moments, then, to everyone’s astonishment, she held the baby’s cheek to her’s and murmered happily, “My Krishna is here!”

Nalini seemed to smile in her sleep.

From that day on, my name became special to me. I knew why I was Krishna. I was meant to be Krishna, the one link between my mom and paatti, the one name that they had both agreed on.

“Was paatti angry that I was a girl?”, I asked periamma.

“No, she loved you more than her life. Why do you think she sent me over here to your father’s house? I had strict instructions to keep an eye out on you, her Krishna. She declared to everyone proudly that her heir had arrived, her Krishna had come home. Her ego wouldn’t let her take back her words, of course.”

I looked at periamma and saw traces of the Charu that my paatti had trusted all her life, Charu who could tolerate my paatti’s fearful temper and need to have things her way and yet remain who she was – a patient, faithful woman who would do anything for her friend. I hugged periamma impulsively. Later that night, I started furiously typing my final manuscript.

***
It didn’t matter that I got a letter from Woman Power a couple of weeks later regretting that they couldn’t publish the story because it wasn’t sufficiently woman-oriented. Whatever. I thought it was the best story I had heard in my life.

***