Under The Mango Tree

Under The Mango Tree

Bina Pillai

First published by Bigfoot06 Publications (OPC) PVT. LTD. 211, Muzaffra, Sherpur, Pataudi, Gurgaon, Haryana (122502) Website: www.bigfootpublications.com Email: [email protected] Under The Mango Tree Copyright © Bina Pillai, 2019 ISBN Print Book - 978-81-943024-2-1 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the copyright owner. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistencies herein. Any slights on people, places, or organizations are unintentional. This is a work of fiction, though I was inspired by certain incidents which took place in the handloom sector. All characters in the book bear no resemblance to people living or dead. Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro at 11pt by Satendra Singh for Bigfoot06 Publications

Dedicated to: My children and Grandchildren. All the men and women who are trapped in the whirlpool of life, and feel helpless.

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to my children, Bindiya, Pravin, and Devi, who gave me the space and support to complete this story, which took two years to write. My husband for teaching me to be tolerant. Thanks to Author Megha Bajaj for her guidance and enrolling me in ‘Wonder of Words,’ Aditya Mohanty, founder of Wordkrowd, and his team for their encouragement, Manthena Damodara Chary Sir, for the Administrator post and the awards in Panaroma of Poetry. The founder Manoj Krishnan of Asian Literary Society, for believing in me and honoring me, and all my team members for the cooperation, the CEO of Impish Lass, Meena Mishra for appreciating my contribution in all her Anthologies, and being my friend, Mr. Arindam Roy for believing in me and making me a columnist in ‘Different Truths,’ Roxy Arora for her faith in me, Mr. R.S. Nair and Rajni Nair for trusting me blindly, Mr. Yogesh Vaghani, for giving me the first opportunity. Devi, Rani, Jayan, Viji, Shashi, Jothi, Kannan, Ammu, Malu, and all my school friends, I’m blessed to have met all of you in my journey of life. I cannot forget my strong and ever green beautiful aunts, who inspire me. All my dear friends for their love and support. It’s because of them sharing their innermost feelings with me, I always have lots of experiences to relate. My grandchildren for making me feel special, and giving me the energy and vitality to write. My brother-in-law, Radhakrishnan chetta for being a wonderful brother. vii

The experiences which made me wiser, and gave me the strength to move forward. The literary agent Author Suhail Mathur, and The Book Bakers team. Without them this book would not have been possible. Author Dipak Yadav, my publisher, (Bigfoot publications,) for agreeing to publish the book at my chosen date. Author Jasmeet Walia, the commissioning editor, for her co-operation. Aditi Shah for the lovely cover. All my followers, writers and readers, without them I would not have been a writer. My editor, Dhivya Balaji, for being involved in my story, and editing it beautifully, at the same time giving me the freedom to retain the originality of the story. Author Abha Iyer for proofreading. My dear friend, Swasti Dhar, for the initial editing. My critics, for helping me to improve and write better. Thanks to Sherry Singer, (Deepak Singh Bisht) for the trust and support. My father, for teaching me to be strong, wise, and compassionate, and for all the love he showered on me. My mother, for keeping me grounded. My sister and cousins, for the beautiful childhood. My grandparents, for teaching me values. My sister-in-law’s, nieces, and nephews, for showering their love. The committee members of our Housing Society for their faith in me. My helpers for the love and care, without them life wouldn’t be easy. And most importantly, life, for making me write this story.

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Editor’s Note

Nostalgia, life in the era of landline phones and inland letters. That was my first impression when I took up this book for editing. But the first time I read it, I did not expect the ending. I went through the whole thing again, and the end impacted me the same way it did the first time. The more I read of Diya, the more I realised – she was a representation of the many strong women I had seen and admired in my life. She is a woman who should inspire other women, especially those who needed that courage from someone who had faced similar hurdles in life, who would understand, who would know. Diya was a bit of everyone I knew, her story was something I wished some people had known of before. There was a lingering thought that affected me. Maybe some of the women I had known and seen suffering in life would have made better decisions that led them elsewhere had they read of Diya before. Such is the impact the story had on me. I was not just the editor of the book, but someone deeply involved with the same. Everything about the story made me want to understand why it was written that way. A true millennial by mind-set, I had to travel back to the 70s & 80s, to feel the authenticity of the story. For those readers who wonder why Diya took the decisions she did – I wondered too, and then I removed the privilege that my generation offered me, and realised that in her place, I would have needed more courage than I now have to make the decisions she had been pushed to ‘choose’. When I think of Diya, I think of her approach to life, of how she fought the injustice meted out to her without bitterness, and instead surrounded herself with love and positivity. When I see the story of a long and full life, I see a woman who grew against all odds, and enriched the lives of those around her. ix

At the end of it all, I wished there was more – to read, imbibe and cherish. Some stories should never really end! ‘Under The Mango Tree’ becomes that one book I shall forever remember, for it was unique in its ways, and close to my heart. Dhivya Balaji November 2018.

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Contents

Acknowledgements............................................................................ vii Editor’s Note.......................................................................................ix 1. The Day That Changed Her Life...............................................1 2. The First Night and the Culture Shock.....................................7 3. Reminiscences.......................................................................... 20 4. The Dutiful Wife..................................................................... 34 5. There’s So Much Frustration.................................................... 48 6. Married Life and Motherhood................................................ 59 7. The Master Manipulator.......................................................... 69 8. Suffering in Silence.................................................................. 81 9. Stirrings of Rebellion............................................................... 90 10. A Game of Snakes and Ladders............................................. 101 11. The Last Straw....................................................................... 115 12. Life Is Magical....................................................................... 126 13. Separate and Together............................................................ 149 14. Twists and Turns in Life........................................................ 170 15. The Unpredictability of Life................................................... 186 16. Life Comes A Full Circle....................................................... 204 Glossary...........................................................................................222

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Chapter 1

The Day That Changed Her Life

I

t was the day of Diya’s marriage. She should have been happy, but the first thought that came to her mind when she woke up, was that she would never see Aditya again. Very soon she would be going far away from the patio, the quaint garden with pink roses and the green mango tree they had planted together, as well. It was the saddest feeling ever. She did not realise how deeply she loved Aditya until she lost him. The first orange-tinged rays of the sun kissed her eyes. She sat up in bed, feeling upset. She already missed her home in Delhi. Thunder rumbled outside. The weather was changing. Clouds loomed large on one side of the sky. It started raining. Her grandmother’s house, decorated with fragrant rajanigandha* and mogra* flowers, looked ethereal. Her aunt called out to her. “Diya, did they deliver the jasmine?” “Yes, Ammai*, they had delivered on time,” said Diya, pointing to the jasmine flowers on the table. She smiled at Rema Ammai, her mother’s sister, and said, “I think you didn’t see them because they are half-hidden by the white, wet cloth.” Diya looked at her face in the mirror. Last night, an insect had bitten her lip. The bite was painful, looked ugly and bloated, like a bubble. Her eyes had a glazed look. She wondered why she had cried then, just over an insect bite! It was unlike her to cry... she wasn’t someone who shed tears easily. She did not cry even as a child, everyone knew that. Diya had been ten years old when an iron ladder had fallen on her head, and she had bled profusely. The blood gushed out, and she had to be rushed to the hospital. She sat calmly in the car, covering the wound with a thick towel. The deep wound had required ten stitches, and the doctor was surprised when he didn’t hear even a whimper or sniffle from her. But last night, the same brave Diya had felt helpless when an insect bit her upper lip. She had locked herself in the bedroom, 1

Under T he Mang o Tree

shedding tears and had later greeted her friends and relatives with swollen eyes. The tears that had collected inside for another reason had spilt at the slightest provocation. She was startled out of her reminiscences when her aunt called out to her. “Rain on your wedding day symbolises good luck, Diya. Hope you remember we have to be in the wedding hall by 8 AM.” She looked once again at her lips in the mirror. The swelling on her upper lip was rapidly reducing, but her lovely almond eyes had lost their sparkle. She had a premonition that something was not right. Hurriedly gathering her trousseau, Diya joined her aunt in the car for the short drive to the wedding venue. The mandap* looked lovely, decorated with yellow and orange marigold flowers. The brightly lit traditional lamps added to the ambience. The Nirapara* glittered like gold. Rema ammai placed the coconut flowers in the centre of the Nirapara and looked at her niece. “Diya, this symbolises wealth, prosperity and happiness.” The hall reverberated with the sound of the traditional drums and nadaswaram*. Her cousins and relatives were all there. She tried hard to mask her pain with a smile, but the sadness and despair were difficult to hide. She was getting married, against her will, and there was nothing she could do about it. The bridegroom, Rajagopal, was Rajshekhar’s brother. Rajshekhar was her father’s acquaintance, and when he and his wife Leela had visited their family once, they had seen Diya. Her parents were happy when he brought the proposal, as Rajshekhar was a senior official in the government. Diya looked across at her sister Maya, who looked beautiful in her pink lehenga*, embellished with gold and silver zari* embroidery. Her cousins, decked in silk saris and skirts, held the rose water sprinkler and sandalwood paste, welcoming the guests. Rema Ammai* added the final touches to her bridal attire. In Kerala, brides wore a lot of jewellery, and the gold is her share of the wealth she brought as her security. She refused to adorn herself with too much gold, though her parents had given her enough jewels. She insisted on wearing just two gold necklaces, and a long chain. Diya’s mother, Lalitha, gave her a disapproving look. “Why don’t you wear one more necklace. Your neck looks bare.” “No, Amma, this is enough for me. I’m not going to look like other brides.” 2

T he D ay T hat Chang ed Her Life

“I think she is right. That’s more than enough. The necklaces are completely covering her neck,” said Chandrashekhar, Diya’s father, saving her from further argument. “Diya, you are looking beautiful,” said her cousin Sudha, leading her inside. Diya looked in the mirror and grimaced. The leaf-green Benares sari with large gold motifs was her mother’s favourite, not hers. Just like the marriage, which was her mother’s choice and not hers. The green sari and the pale pink lipstick were a mismatch. Jasmine flowers were piled on her head, braided into her long plait. The scent of jasmine was heady; it made her feel faint. Looking for some fresh air, she walked down the long corridor, lost in thought. She stopped by the windowsill, looking at the cloudy sky. Then she looked down. Tears fell from her eyes. The raindrops on the new tender leaves glistened brightly. The rose apple tree with the pink globular fruits swayed in the breeze. The wind blew hard. Some of its fruits lay scattered on the ground. Dully, Diya remembered the get-togethers and parties she had attended with her parents, where she and Aditya had got the opportunity to know each other well. Aditya had come home frequently, and they had sat on the porch, talking for hours. She pictured the garden where they had planted the mango sapling together. “Diya, one day we will be sitting under the shade of this tree, relishing its fruit, in love… you and I, forever,” Aditya had once said, making her blush. They had never exchanged any love notes, gifts or chocolates like usual lovers apparently did. But the half-grown mango tree was proof of their love. The sharp note of the nadaswaram brought her back to reality. She wiped her moist eyes and walked back to the dressing room. Maya and her cousins were standing in two rows, with the decorated brass trays on which the diyas* glowed brightly. The girls were ready to receive the bridegroom, Rajagopal. Diya saw her Ammuma* standing there, smiling, giving instructions, “All of you are looking so pretty and colourful. Light the lamps carefully, Rema, the oil should not spill on your sari. And don’t forget to cover the flame with the palm of your right hand.” She loved her Ammuma and was in awe of her intelligence, strength and positivity. She was quite unlike other grandmas. Diya’s grandma 3