2008 April 22 « english thulika

Anger

ANGER

©Malathi Nidadavolu

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Kantham screamed and slammed the phone.

She could barely contain herself; she was like an overripe tomato ready to burst. Normally Kantham was a gentle person. That is what everybody said about her. “You’re always smiling; don’t you ever get upset about anything?” they would say. The only time Kantham would flare up would be when she heard the voice of a telemarketer. She would snap and take the narasimha[i]avatar in a split second.

She tried to tell them in so many ways and in so many languages, yet they would not stop. They reminded her of Bhatti Vikramarka[ii] for all their determination to get a sale out of her. Therefore, she had gotten used to yelling at them; she was not embarrassed about her tone. She even had blurted out one or two expletives in English, Telugu, and Sanskrit, in a desperate attempt to stop them. After such explosion, she could not think straight, could not revert to whatever she was doing. That hurt her worse.

Kantham, with a low-paid job in a small Midwestern town, was a loner by choice. She preferred her own company to that of her colleagues at work and neighbors at home. That being the case, those phone calls were not appreciated.

During one of these exasperating days, she received a phone call from India. Her younger brother called to tell her that his daughter’s wedding was fixed and Kantham was invited to the ceremony. Kantham was elated. She had not been home for over fifteen years. Now was a good time or so it seemed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could not help thinking that she would be free of those annoying phone calls.

Thus the decision was made to go to India. She told her brother of the date of her arrival in Hyderabad. Her brother replied that he would not be able to receive her at the airport but he would send Mr. Jogibabu. Kantham wondered who this Jogibabu could be. As far as she could recall, there was no Jogibabu among her relatives. But then, it did not matter. All she cared was somebody would be there to receive her at the airport in Hyderabad.

Kantham landed in Hyderabad. She collected her luggage and rushed to the custom’s desk. The middle-aged clerk at customs desk took his own sweet time to clear her passport and let her go. It was one o’clock by the time she had gone through the ritual and walked out of the airport. She identified Jogibabu easily. He had an imposing personality. He was wearing a white dhoti,[iii] a zari kanduvaa [iv]neatly folded and sitting cozily on his shoulder; and a dot on his forehead, which seemed to speak of his erudition. He stood out among all the others who wore ordinary shirts, pants, lungis.[v] Jogibabu also recognized Kantham with equal ease. She might be a Telugu girl yet the signs of having lived in America for fifteen years were strikingly obvious. After identifying each other thus, they walked into the street.

Jogibabu was not much of a small talker. He seemed to be living in his own world. He gestured to Kantham to hand over the wheeled suitcase. Kantham said she could handle it but he ignored her meek protest and grabbed the handle.

In the next half hour, she noticed Jogibabu’s demeanor to be somewhat foreign to her; probably, strange should be the word to describe him. He kept arguing with the driver about the route, the reason why he would not go one way or the other, and whether he understood the instructions. Kantham was not sure whether the driver cared for such interference with his job. After forty-five minutes, the auto-rickshaw stopped in front of a big building.

They entered the flat number 47 on the fourth floor. Kantham stood at the door and looked around. She noticed that the room was resonating with bits and pieces from America. Several questions beset Kantham: Who are these people? Why did Jogibabu bring her here? And when would she go to her brother’s home in Guntur? However, she could not ask him, she was cowed down into silence.

Jogibabu put her suitcase in the small room on the right, and returned to the living room after fifteen minutes or so. Kantham perched on the sofa apprehensively. Jogibabu told her about the family briefly. Vishnu vardhana Murthy, or” Bisu”, went to America a decade ago for six-month training in sales. Six years back he married Sarojini. She had not been to America but Bisu gave her a series of lectures on the American lifestyle. At his suggestion, she shortened her name to Ginni. The net result was they both mastered the “proper way of living”. They filled their house with modern paraphernalia–from plastic forks to pop CDs, from Corning Ware to bed sheets from Target. Jogibabu finished his speech as he said, “I thought this would be comfortable for you. Bisu and Ginni are like my family.” Kantham did not expect this. For some reason, it was a bit awkward for her.

At the end, he said, “Go, lie down,” and nodded toward the small room where he put her suitcase. Kantham went in, tiptoeing as if she was sleepwalking. She lay down but could not sleep. It was four. She kept rolling in the bed. At about six, she heard noises in the living room. Kantham got up and went into the living room.

Jogibabu poured hot water in the coffeemaker, turned to Kantham and showed her the bathroom. “I’ll get a towel,” he said. Kantham said she had brought her own towels.

Ginni woke up and called out for her son, “Hey, Bantu, come on, up, up … getting late.”

Kantham was startled by Ginni’s tone. She did not understand why Ginni had to shout? Ginni went two more rounds before Bantu answered and he did it at the same pitch. In the next forty-five minutes, Jogibabu did the same. He was telling the boy pretty much in the same tone “Take a bath,” “eat breakfast,” “where is your bag?” and so on. Kantham thought the same instructions could work for the boy next door as well. She flinched at first and then told herself, she might as well get used to it. Amidst all that commotion, she had not gotten a chance to say hello to Ginni in that commotion.

Jogibabu did not tell her why they had not gone straight to the train station, nor when they would go. Kantham was too scared to ask the question herself. Jogibabu went out after Ginni, Bantu and Bisu had left for their respective destinations and returned home a little before six. He started shouting again at somebody or other for some reason or other. Kantham had not heard one person in that house speak in normal tone; not one voice under 80 decibels.

Ginni returned home at six, went straight into the kitchen, made tea and served to Bisu and Kantham, and disappeared into her bedroom with her cup of tea. After twenty minutes or so, she shouted “Bantu” from the bedroom, came out and said in English, “This is the only time I can spend with my son.” She could be talking to a wall for all Kantham saw.

“Go with them,” Jogibabu said.

“To where?”

“To the park.”

Kantham was puzzled. Did he hear what Ginni had just said? Didn’t he understand? Or, did he choose not to understand? Besides, Ginni did not say, “you come,” not even for the sake of propriety. Kantham did not want to explain all this to Jogibabu. She was quiet, made no effort to leave her chair.

“Didn’t you hear me, go with them,” he said again.

Kantham said she had a headache and went away into her room.

In the next twenty-four hours, Kantham understood a few things about Jogibabu. He did not have a family of his own but Bisu and several families in the neighborhood were treating him as part of their families. He had developed a peculiar relationship with them. They all addressed him with garu followed by his name showing their respect for him, were seeking his advice in personal matters and listening to him when he spoke. He commanded respect around there, no doubt. Nevertheless, something bothered Kantham.

She couldn’t figure out when they’d be leaving for Guntur; even wondered if she would be in time for the wedding at all. After mulling over it in her head for a while, she decided to ask him.

“At time our train to Guntur leaves?”

“Trains … um … there are several,” he said, scrutinizing for something in his notebook.

“We are taking which one?”

Suddenly there came another snap. “What’s your problem? You can leave right now if you want. Come on, I will take you to the station this minute,” he screamed.

Kantham felt mortified. “That’s not what I meant …?” she mumbled. To her, it was clear that Ginni did not enjoy having Kantham stay there. What is not clear is whether Jogibabu understood it or not, or, maybe, he had understood but was pretending not to.

Kantham was getting frustrated by the minute. She remembered that her childhood friend Radha was living in Hyderabad. Her heart yearned to visit the friend and reminisce those days. What would be the best way to broach the subject with Jogibabu? At this point, even saying hello to him seemed to be a nerve-racking ritual. Finally she picked up the nerve to say, “My friend Radha is here.”

Jogibabu nodded. Kantham’s hopes to continue ended right there.

After an hour or so, “Where does she live?” he asked.

Kantham knew that Radha was in Banjara Hills but not the exact address. “I have their phone number,” she said meekly. Jogibabu dialed the number. It was no longer in service.

“What’s her husband’s name?”

“Subbarayudu.”

Jogibabu left without saying a word and returned after three hours. He said, “I tried to find their current phone number. There are twenty-five Subba Raos in the phonebook.”

“It is Subbarayudu, not Subba Rao.”

“How would I know unless you speak clearly?”

“I said Subbarayudu,” Kantham said softly.

“I am slow. You have to speak loud and clear. You do know Telugu, don’t you?”

Kantham was flabbergasted; she was lost for words. Where is this coming from? Who said anything about his intellectual faculties? … Why did she bother talking to him?

Jogibabu did not leave it at that though. He found out the correct address and phone number of Radha and her husband Subbarayudu the next day. But within the past twenty-four hours, he questioned Kantham’s Telugu language skills eight times at least. She began to wonder about his language skills. He is the one, who was not listening to her or to anybody else for that matter.

Jogibabu dialed Subbarayudu’s number. Radha answered the phone on the sixth ring. She was elated to hear that Kantham was in town. She invited them, Kantham and Jogibabu, for meals the next day. “Come early, about ten o’clock. We can chat and eat at leisure,” she said. Then she added, “My husband has to go to Malakpet, needs to leave at 1:30.”

The next morning, Kantham woke up early and got ready by 7:30. Jogibabu changed leisurely; it was getting close to ten. Earlier in the morning, on her way to work, Ginni had given him some CDs and asked him to return them to her cousin, Chandram. “His house is on the way,” she said.

“Why didn’t you return them before,” he said in her usual tone, throwing the CDs into his bag.

Finally, they left home at about half past ten. Jogibabu found an auto rickshaw and told the driver to go to Malakpet first and then to Banjara Hills.

“Malakpet this way and Banjara Hills that side,” the auto driver said. He wanted twenty rupees over the meter charge. Jogibabu offered five.

For Kantham the entire haggling was ridiculous. She stood there, watching them like a foreign film. At the end, Jogibabu told her to get in. It was already 10:45 and they were still just outside their own house. Radha asked them to come at ten, and they had places to go … Forget ten; can we be there by noon at least? What if Radha and her husband had left for their friend’s house by the time she arrived there?

Chandram was very happy to see Jogibabu. “Haven’t seen you in such a long time, ohh, aahh, …” He was even more excited to meet Kantham from United States of America. He insisted that they should eat there.

“That is trouble for you,” Jogibabu said politely. Kantham was surprised to hear him speak softly.

“Besides, we are on our way to my friend’s house. She invited us for lunch,” Kantham said, encouraged by Jogibabu’s new gentle side.

“Oh no, no trouble at all. Actually, my wife had finished cooking. Eat a little and go, for my sake. I haven’t seen you in such a long time, it hurts me if you don’t eat,” Chandram said.

Kantham was about to say something but Jogibabu shut her up with his usual remark. “Didn’t you hear his words? He says the food is ready. Don’t you understand Telugu?”

Kantham wanted to shout that she could understand the language but not his attitude.

Chandram told them the food was ready but that was not the case really. His wife started rice and dal in the pressure cooker, and sat down to cut eggplants. Jogibabu started narrating his autobiography to Kantham. She sat there pretending to be listening. She was not all that anxious for his story; she understood some parts and skipped others. In her heart of hearts, she was longing for the peaceful moment she would have with Radha.

While they were eating, Radha’s name came up. “You are heading toward Banjara Hills? My pinni —you remember my mother’s youngest sister—is living in the same area. I haven’t seen her in years, poor woman. Uncle died three months back. I haven’t seen her yet to offer my condolences.”

“Come, we are going that way,” Jogibabu said, invitingly.

Kantham’s spirits slipped two more notches down. She was not able to speak one word without Jogibabu crackling like fireworks. At their house, Chandram’s pinni invited them all into the house. After a while, Kantham and Jogibabu got up to leave. Chandram also got up. Kantham was confused but there was no use asking for details.

It was almost two by the time they arrived at Radha’s house. Radha was elated to see her childhood friend. Kantham was apologetic for their inordinate delay, “I am sorry. We messed up your plans for the day, I suppose.”

Radha dismissed it with a cluck. “No mention. I am so glad to see you after so many years … what it is twenty-five years? Right?”

“But you said Subbarayudu garu has to meet somebody.”

“Don’t worry. We always have plans and always break them,” Radha said reassuringly.

Subbarayudu, Chandram and Jogibabu sat in the living room and started discussing world politics. Kantham was dying to talk to Radha alone—their childhood days, the teachers, the mango grove behind the school building, their escapades during lunchtime … but not amidst that kind of din. She was choked with the memories of old times. After an hour or so, Jogibabu stood up, saying, “Let’s go.” Kantham did not feel like she had spent time with her best friend at all.

Radha also felt the same way. “You just got here, leaving already? We were expecting you at noon. Stay for dinner. You can leave after eating supper,” she said. Kantham looked at Jogibabu, expecting another little flare-up.

Jogibabu cleared his throat, took a sip of water and continued his chat as if nothing happened. That was a big relief for Kantham. She heaved a sigh and followed Radha into the kitchen.

Radha set the table for four. she served food for the guests and her husband; she would eat after they had finished per custom. But Jogibabu suggested that she should sit down with them to eat. She pulled up a chair and sat between Subbarayudu and Kantham.

At the dinner table, Jogibabu made no exception; he had to have his own ways. While he was trying to scoop rice from the bowl, the ladle stuck to the rice and the bowl swirled. Subbarayudu grabbed the bowl to keep it steady.

“Leave it,” Jogibabu said abruptly. Kantham was surprised.

Subbarayudu tried to explain, “It is easy if the rice is hot. But when it is cold, it gets stuck.”

“Just leave it.”

Subbarayudu left the dish quickly; only Kantham noticed the expression on his face and felt bad for him. She was annoyed with Jogibabu. What is wrong if Subbarayudu held the dish? Why can’t he understand that there’s nothing wrong if somebody offers a hand? She wanted to ask but decided not to worry about it.

After they had finished eating, she helped Radha to put away the dishes. In the kitchen, she could not help mentioning, “Jogibabu is short-tempered. I hope Subbarayudu garu did not take it to heart.”

Radha dismissed it with a chuckle.

“What? Didn’t you see the way Jogibabu garu talked to your husband? Or, you didn’t think it is odd?” Kantham asked again.

“You are thinking too much, maybe, because the American waters had gotten into your bloodstream. Obviously, you’ve forgotten our ways. We don’t take these little annoyances seriously. His temper is his and our tempers are ours—we all have them and learn to live with them.”

Kantham was confused. “You know him?” she asked.

“I don’t have to know him specifically. Take my maava garu [father-in-law] for instance. He came to live with us after he had retired, that is ten years back. He worked as headmaster and even now, we all look like ninth graders in his eyes. He is the teacher and we are the students. What can we do? That is the way some people are. He keeps telling us whatever he feels like, and we keep doing whatever we feel like. Holding the rice bowl is a very small matter. Whether my husband holds it tight or leaves it—it is all the same, not a big issue. You are worrying as if it is an international problem,” Radha said with a little laugh.

“You barely managed to get through each class in school. When did you get this smart,” Kantham said and then bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have said it.

Radha burst into a big laugh and said, “You can say it, I don’t mind it. I’m not going to fuss about it. I’ve told you already. Here we don’t take anything seriously—big or small. We just say, so be it, and leave it. There, in your country, you say ‘take it easy’ yet worry about every little word and thing.” She squeezed her eyes mischievously.

Kantham’s eyes glowed like two magnolias. The early days of her youth sent sparks into her head; this friend Radha is from that time. A splash of jubilation erupted in their hearts.

About ten, Jogibabu got up to leave. They dropped Chandram at his place and reached home. It was eleven-thirty.

Ginni came into the living room with sleepy eyes and said, “I cooked for you two. I thought you would be back for dinner.”

Kantham vanished into her room. She did not want to hear what Jogibabu would have to say. “I can never understand how they communicate and I don’t care”, she told herself.

Eventually, Kantham went to Guntur, and attended the wedding. She had a wonderful time with her brother and the family. On her way back to the States, she had plenty of time on the plane to ponder over. Radha’s words kept ringing in her head. She knew it had been like that in her early days. When did the things change, and when did she change? When did she come to take every little thing as an earth-shaking issue? What happened to her?

One thing about herself became very clear to her. She never raised her voice again, not even to the telemarketers. The one line that kept coming to her mind, when somebody upset her, had been maybe I am reading too much into it. Or, maybe, they do what they do because that is what they need to do. They are going to do so, no matter what I say to them …

(The End).

(April 2008)

[i] One of the ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu. In Narasimha avatar, he assumes the form of a half-lion and -half-human form to kill the demon king Hiranyakasipu.

[ii] A Children’s story in which Bhatti Vikramarka relentlessly answers the whimsical questions of a vampire relentlessly in order to accomplish his goal, which was to bring him the vampire to a yogi at his request. Vikramarka is a symbol of relentless pursuit and the vampire a symbol of asking enigmatic questions.