Depth

By Mahalakshmi Iyer

Saami - equivalent to “lord”/”my lord”

Namaskaram – Tamil for “Namaste”

Paati – grandma

Chellam – an endearment

Kanamma – an endearment used for a female

*

The old well behind the house was a whole entity by itself.

Back when it was first built, it used to be whitewashed once a year, a tradition that was eventually discontinued after the instalment of pipes and taps. During the monsoons, the well would grow a thick layer of moss, a fuzzy, dull green skin that would then be scraped off the bricks and washed away by one of the servants. One couldn’t actually see the surface of the water. The well was deep enough that when one yelled down into the blackness it yelled right back. The old aluminium pail tied to the thick rope took a couple of seconds to reach the surface of the water and it took a solid minute, and an untiring use of upper-body muscle, to haul up the heavily swaying pail back up. The water always emerged clear.

*

When Meena was eight, she would hold her father’s hand as they walked to the orchard. She sat under the shade of the rickety, lopsided tin shed and drank from a just-plucked green coconut, watching as her father inspected the baskets of fresh mangoes, jackfruit, bananas, and coconuts with the critical eye of a military officer examining new recruits. Only the best of the produce was transported to the city for sale; the rest was sold at the village market and it was universally acknowledged that Muthu saami’s orchard produced the best fruit.

Meena walked out to where her father stood under the umbrella held over his head by his right-hand man. “What do you think, Meenu?” asked her father, presenting her with two ripe mangoes.

Carefully, Meena pressed her thumbs over the mangoes, testing their ripeness. She held them up to her nose and breathed in the thick, heavenly sweetness of the reddish yellow fruit.

“They are ready,” she said.

Her father’s thick moustache, curled at the tips, bristled on a smile. “What say? A hundred rupees a kilo?”

She tossed her thick black braid over her shoulder. “Two hundred.”

“The little lady knows the value of a good mango,” said her father’s man, his black eyes shining under bushy eyebrows.

“Don’t you agree with me, Velu?” Meena asked him.

“Have I ever disagreed with you, my lady?”

Velumani was her father’s most faithful, most trusted man. Did you hear? Muthu saami bought Velu another motorcycle. But, of course, that’s not even surprising. Velu would stop breathing if Muthu saami asked him to.

Another basket of coconuts was thumped down next to the others.

“Every time I see him, he’s grown taller,” said her father, addressing the boy who had carried the basket. “Any taller and my neck will hurt to look up at you.”

The boy folded his arms respectfully and stood without smiling. He wore no shirt just like all the other workers and had a long knife with a broad, curved blade tucked against his hip. Meena brought her braid back over her shoulder so she had something to fiddle with. The boy glanced at her, gaze dropping down to her sandal clad feet, and then looked away with an air of derision. His own feet were bare, the dust on them pale grey against the dark brown of his skin.

“How old are you now?” asked Muthu saami.

“Twelve,” said the boy.

“He’s tall for his age,” said Velu. “Perhaps saami would ask him to do his lessons?”

“Do you like school?” asked Muthu saami.

“No.”

Velu glared at his son but Muthu saami only laughed. “But your father tells me you want to be a poet.”

Meena looked at the boy in silent awe. He had a very serious face, his father’s thick eyebrows and black eyes and round ears that stuck out a bit. She thought he looked too angry to be a poet.

When her father moved away to inspect the bulbous, prickly jackfruits the boy plucked the knife out of his belt and squatted on his haunches, idly thumbing the blade.

“What’s your name?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. “I asked you something.”

He looked sideways at the gold embroidery on her silk skirt and looked away. “I don’t answer to you.”

“I’ll tell my father.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” The boy rested his elbows on his knees and swung the knife through the air. “They call me Sri.”

“Is that your full name?”

“That would be Sridhar, but why do you care?”

“I’m Meena.”

The boy smirked but still didn’t look at up her. “You’re Meenalochani.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“It means ‘fish-eyed one’.”

“I know what my name means.”

He finally looked at her, his gaze crafty and challenging. “I don’t think you have particularly remarkable eyes.”

Meena could feel tears gathering behind her eyes as she glared at him. “I don’t think you’ll make a very good poet,” she said, turning and walking away with her chin held high, her braid lashing through the air as she flung it back over her shoulder.

Behind her, the boy laughed.

*

It was a forty minute drive to the closest school that had a curriculum which was completely in English. Meena was the only one in their village who went to this school; the other kids all went to the local school where they were taught their lessons in Tamil.

Velu’s wife Susheela ironed Meena’s uniform, packed her bag, and served her breakfast every morning. While Meena ate soft, steaming hot idlis dipped in fresh, spicy coconut chutney, Susheela ran oiled fingers through Meena’s hair and neatly divided the thick, glossy mane into two tight braids laced through with crisp white ribbons. As Meena said goodbye to her mother and grandmother, Susheela guided Meena’s socked feet into polished black shoes and buckled them up. Velu stood waiting outside, arms folded, and when his wife came out with Meena’s bag he placed it in the backseat of the highly shined Premier Padmini parked in the driveway and held the door open for Meena.

Muthu saami sat on the wooden swing on the porch, sipping filter coffee and calling instructions to someone on the tallest coconut tree in their front yard. Meena waved to her father, and as the car rolled out she looked up to watch Sri expertly haul himself up the tree, his knees hugging the slim trunk, his knife swinging from his belt. Did she imagine the look of disdain he gave her from all the way up there?

Velu dropped her off at five minutes to nine and came back for her at three. On their drive home, Meena taught him the order of the nine planets.

“The sun is actually a star.” She watched the sugarcane and paddy fields, nearly all of them her father’s, glide by outside. “Like the other small stars we see at night, but bigger.”

Velu smiled at her in the rear view mirror. “You are the smartest kid in the whole school, aren’t you?” A loud, revving sounded just behind the car and a motorbike slid onto the narrow strip of road beside the car. Meena had seen Velu on this old bike for years. Now his son rode it. “The overconfident brat,” Velu said under his breath as Sri overtook them with a grim smirk and tore out of sight, the engine squealing and farting loudly.

The bike and Its rider were both in the front yard when they got home a few minutes later. The boy stood with his arms folded while Muthu saami stood on the porch, counting through a thick sheaf of money. Sri turned as Meena walked up to the house, his dark eyes glinting. His trousers were rolled up to his knees and his bare legs and feet were scratched and covered in grime.

“Ah, Velu,” said Muthu saami. “Come count this and pay your son his share.”

“He is already spoiled, saami.”

“He is a hard worker, just like his father.” Muthu saami patted Meena on the head as she made her way inside.

“Take her school bag out of the car and bring it inside,” said Velu and Meena turned at the doorway.

The boy stood there and returned her gaze for a moment before slowly obeying his father. Meena scurried away inside and was safely tucked under the long end of her grandmother’s sari when the boy appeared with her bag. Meena half expected him to fling it across the room at her.

Instead: “Namaskaram, Paati,” he said softly, neatly placing the bag on the floor against the wall where it wouldn’t be in the way.

“Could that be Velu’s boy?”

“It is.”

“Already that tall! How old are you now?”

“Fourteen.”

“I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. Go wash up outside and I’ll tell the cook to make you some coffee.”

When Meena crossed the kitchen, went through the scullery out into the backyard, the boy didn’t look at all surprised to see her there, still in her uniform, her socked feet soundless on soft earth. He didn’t spare more than a single glance her way as he hoisted up a pail of water from the well.

“We have a tap right there, you know,” said Meena, pointing to the neon green plastic tap jutting out of the pipe that ran along the backyard wall.

He Ignored her, grunting in his throat as he lifted the pail out, water sloshing over the sides, and placed it on the ground. Meena watched as he rolled his sleeves up and proceeded to wash his hands, feet, and face with neat efficiency and a total lack of regard for his audience.

“Appa says motorbikes are dangerous,” said Meena. “You rode too fast today.”

The boy snorted and swiped his sleeve across his wet face. “A child,” he said scornfully.

“I’m almost eleven.” Meena’s voice shook a little but mostly because she was angry. “I don’t even need help with my homework anymore.” The boy simply snorted again. “I bet you don’t even go to school.”

“Who still needs school?” he said, looking and sounding bored. “I can read and write; that’s all that matters.” Then he slanted her a sly look. “What do they teach you in that flashy school of yours?”

“Loads.”

“Do you learn poetry?”

“Yes.”

He snorted yet again. “English poetry, I’m sure.”

“I like Robert Frost.”

“Do you like Bharathiyar? Wait.” The boy was smirking again. “Have you even heard of him?”

Meena scuffed her big toe into the mud, chewing on her lip. Before she could ask him if he’d ever heard of Robert Frost the cook emerged, holding a steel tumbler of coffee. The tumbler, Meena knew, was one of the old glasses only the servants used.

“What are you doing out here?” the cook asked Meena. “Come, I’ve made banana fritters.”

The boy grinned at her as the cook went back in. “Yes, go put on your finery and eat your fritters.”

Meena watched him blow on the frothy, hot coffee and wondered how she could tell him about her most recent test scores – very impressive – without him bringing it up first.

She couldn’t decide quickly enough and so she simply sneered and said, “You climb trees like an ape. No wonder you don’t go to school,” and hurried away as he laughed at her less than impressive retort.

*

Every year on Pongal, Muthu saami fed the entire village a wonderfully elaborate, traditional three course meal. The only place large enough to accommodate batch after batch of people was the temple complex. The cooks would set up station there the evening before to start prepping and even before the sun rose on Pongal, there would be cauldrons big enough to accommodate a grown man filled to the brim with creamy payasam, spicy sambar, and delicately flavoured tomato rasam; gigantic vats filled with vegetable side dishes, woks sizzling with oil from which emerged crisp vadais and appalams. Rice was boiled and strained in fluffy, steaming piles, and thick stacks of fresh green banana leaves upon which to serve the meal were carefully sorted out. The cooks’ assistants served the food with untiring swiftness and with a generosity that people associated with Muthu saami.

Afterwards, Muthu saami would host every last person in his employ under an open tent constructed in his front yard, and would beam at them all as he handed out envelopes of cash, brightly coloured saris for the women, and a starched, spotless white new veshti each for the men. Boxes of sweets for the children milling around the legs of their parents towered over Muthu saami as he stood there, garbed in a new white veshti of his own tied under a neat button-down, his wife handing out the saris with her kind, trusting smile, Meena handing out the boxes of sweets.

She was fifteen and dressed in a new half-sari with gleaming golden embroidery. The children stared at the gold earrings dangling from her ears, at the new bangles gleaming against the sandalwood of her skin. When the crowd had thinned out, her father spotted Velu modestly standing aside with his family.

“Why do you hide every year?” said Muthu saami with a laugh, beckoning him over.

“Saami is as kind and innocent as a child,” Velu said, bending at the waist as he accepted his envelope of cash and the new veshti. Susheela blushed as she was handed her new sari and their young daughter stared meekly at Meena.

The son, however, stood a few feet away, his dark gaze burning holes through Meena. She met his gaze once, twice, and then again, thinking he’d look away, abashed, if she stared back at him. But he’d stood there, tall and proud, watching as she had laughed and talked with the children all evening.

Now, as Muthu saami called him over to hand him a new veshti with a generously added envelope of cash, he managed a respectful bow and a mumbled thank you. After the yard had emptied and the family went back inside, he stayed back to take down the awning. Meena waited until she had changed out of her festive wear before slipping out the back door and looping around the house to the front yard.

She stood and watched as he stacked the thick bamboo sticks and folded the heavy awning before finally deigning to acknowledge her presence.

“Almost didn’t recognise you without all your gold.”

“Oh, of course, because I make it a point to have all my jewellery on before I step outdoors.”

He grinned. “I wonder if you rich folk feel naked without a few kilos of gold on.”

“Yes, it’s profoundly uncomfortable not being weighed down.”

He finally looked at her from where he was kneeling on the ground, still smiling.

“Do you talk back to everyone, Meenalochani?” he asked, “Or just to your servants?”

“Just the ones asking for it,” she replied and went back in; she had to work very hard at not grinning back at him.

A month later, Velu took a fall and injured his shoulder. Meena’s final exams were underway and when the son came bearing the news of his father’s unavailability to drive her to school, there was a flurry of panic in the house.

“You must go see Velu at once, Appa,” she said, failing to hide her tears of sheer terror at the prospect of missing a major exam.

“But how will we get you to school, chellam?” said Muthu saami, stroking his moustache worriedly. “I haven’t driven in years.”

“I can drive her, saami,” said Sri quietly.

No rash driving, he was instructed. No speeding. He was to wait two hours and bring her back safely.

He drove with impeccable care. Meena sat in the backseat and tried to revise. Every time she looked up into the rear view mirror, she’d see his eyes locked straight ahead on the road. Afterwards, when she was dizzy with the relief of yet another successful exam out of the way, she found him parked and waiting for her under the shade of the gigantic banyan tree outside the school gates. When he looked around and their eyes met, she automatically smiled at him. To her surprise, he smiled back.

Three days later he drove her to her next exam. She sat in the back, queasy with nerves, her empty stomach churning. She hated math. It wasn’t a subject you could revise at the last minute but she stared blankly into her textbook anyway. This time when she looked, he was watching her in turn in the narrow strip of the rear view mirror.

“You’re smarter than you think you are, Meenalochani,” he said. He spoke in the usual flat, emotionless voice that was his wont. But after her exam she found him standing right outside the gates, restlessly peering inside with his arms folded tightly against his chest.

She walked up to him and he raised his eyebrows in a silent, ‘Well?’

“You were right,” she said. “I am smarter than I thought.”

He grinned, and when they got into the car he handed her a large banana. Peeling it open, she handed him half. It was the most delicious banana she’d ever eaten.

“No revision today?” he asked her as he drove her to her next exam the following Friday.

“It’s only English grammar, I’ll be fine,” she said, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the breeze in her hair and his gaze on her face.

Afterwards, she found him sitting in the passenger’s seat, reading something out of a small, square book with his bare feet propped up on the dashboard. He didn’t move when he looked up and saw her.

“Good exam, I’m guessing?”

“The best one so far,” she said. “Budge over.”

He closed his book and narrowed his eyes in consideration. Then he climbed over the gear stick and into the driver’s seat. Seated beside him, she noticed for the first time that he smelled sweetly of talcum powder.

He handed her a fluffy pink mass enclosed in transparent plastic.

“Cotton candy?”

“Surprised you know what it is.”

“I’ve eaten it once on the beach in the city.”

“Fancy.”

“What are you reading?” She picked up and inspected his book; it was in Tamil and she was a bit rusty. “Poetry?” She flipped through it.

“The very best. By Bharathiyar.”

“Read me one.”

“I know them by heart.”

“Prove it.”

He drove in silence and she ate her cotton candy. Before the final turning that would lead them into the village, he swerved off the road and onto a soft dirt track between two small fields, a large mango tree embellishing the otherwise flat stretch of land. With the engine turned off, the birds chirped louder and a warm breeze rustled through their hair.

Quietly murmured:

Permeating wind, O’ Kanamma –

Musing over your love makes me ecstatic

Elixir fount your lips,

Moon soaked brimming eyes,

Smelted to purest gold – your body;

In this world, for as long as I live –

You satiate my mind, precluding distractions

Transforming me into a celestial being.

You are my jubilant life, O’ Kanamma –

All of my time, is in your devotion,

Sorrow trails sorrow – ever since

You became my treasure;

Well-spring of ambrosia is my mouth

Every time I utter the name ‘Kanamma’,

O’ light that swells from the flame of life

My ponderings, my soul, O’ Kanamma.

The sky was dreamy blue and the sun winked at her from behind a wispy white cloud.

“Thank you,” she said, “for driving me.”

“You should get into the backseat. We’re almost home.”

She obeyed. “My last exam is on Monday.”

“Then I’ll drive you again on Monday.”

*

In the following weeks, Meena always found him by those two little fields with the lone mango tree. His voice seemed deeper when he recited poems to her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the rough bark of the mango tree, and when she concentrated, she could almost feel his hand in hers.

“Does nobody ask you where you’re going all alone, Meenalochani?” he asked one day.

“The temple,” she said carelessly.

He laughed. Their shoulders touched where they sat under the mango tree.

“I’m going to buy these two fields from your father,” he said, “and then I will ask him for your hand.”

“Do you have enough money?”

“I’ve been saving since I was twelve.”

“We could always run away together.”

“Cowardly and foolish. Do you think I’m a coward?”

“No.”

“A fool, then?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

She thought about his quiet laughter later, as she sat before the mirror and combed her hair. Her hair was still loose and trailing down her back when her father called her outside. A man from the village stood by the door. Her father’s eyes never left her as he spoke from the cane settee.

She had been seen sitting beside a young man. Who was he?

But Meena wouldn’t say.

The villager had only seen the man’s back but he knew her at once. Why wouldn’t Meena say who he was? Why the tears? How long have you known this man? Look up when you’re spoken to, Meenu. Have you done anything to bring shame upon us all?

Meena’s denial was honest. Her mother’s hand was sharp against her moist cheek. Muthu saami’s dinner went untouched that night.

Morning came. Her things were packed up. Her grandmother would accompany her to her aunt’s house in the city. Sri was sent to book their tickets. They would catch their train to Madras the next day.

He looked In through her window that evening.

“Wipe your tears,” he said.

“Will you come visit me?” she asked.

“No. I’m going to wait for you right here.”

“What if I don’t come back?”

“There is nothing for you in Madras.”

“Don’t forget me.”

He laughed. “Love runs deep, Kanamma.”

*

It was as if time stopped running in the little village. Lush and green, the fields looked unchanged as they whizzed by outside. She was twenty-three. Velu said he couldn’t believe his eyes; he couldn’t believe it was really her; she looked like a movie star. Did she really write for the newspaper now? She must know a lot of important people.

The house had been strung up with flowers. Muthu saami stood beaming. Her mother laughed through her tears because Meena was now taller than her. Why did Meena cut her hair so short? Did all the women in Madras wear trousers? Look at those shoes! How did one walk on those heels?

Meena sat with her father on the sturdy swing outside and sipped filter coffee as her suitcases were carried inside from the car.

“Tell me all about him,” said Muthu saami.

Meena’s smiled, enigmatic and grown up. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“You have teased us for too long, little rascal.”

Meena stood and took him by the arm. “Come look at the clothes I bought you.”

The household slept. She was sat reading on her bed. The moonlight slanted into her room through the slats on her window. A shadow flickered and Meena looked up.

“The whole village seems to think you’re getting married, Meenalochani.”

“Who’s there?” She got up and looked outside.

It was the same man who had carried her luggage inside. Dark eyes glinted at her, appraising and quietly amused. Déjà vu, she thought as she tried to place him.

“I bought those fields,” he said. “The rice is sold alongside saami’s at the city markets.”

She tasted quickly dissolving cotton candy. “Sridhar?”

“You never did call me that before.”

She laughed. “Oh, I barely recognised you!”

“Why? Do you think I have changed?”

“I should hope not,” she said. “You were always quite the character.”

“Are you getting married, Meenalochani?”

“Yes. Next week. How are you, Sri?”

But he left without answer.

Meena had eyes for none but Vikram. Vikram was her superior at Madras Chronicles. He wore glasses and he spoke to Meena in English. He sat across from her father with his knees crossed and spoke to him like an equal. He walked around with a camera and took pictures of everything. He seemed used to having servants around the house. He tipped Sri twenty rupees for retrieving his lost sunglasses.

On the evening before the wedding, Meena inspected the fresh flowers that had been strung up outside – strings of marigold and mango leaves, red roses intertwined with bunches of snow white jasmine, clusters of tube roses. Behind the house, the well had been whitewashed along with the backyard walls. An awning had been set up for the cooks to work under. She turned and came face to face with Sri.

“Do you think me a coward, Meenalochani? A fool?”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” she said, startled.

He stared at his feet. His grey and blue slippers looked new. “Are you really going to marry him?”

“Oh, but of course. Why do you ask?” When he simply looked at her in silence, something clicked into place. “Oh, Sri. Surely, you didn’t think…? We were children.”

At this, he smiled. “Speak for yourself.” He held something out to her.

She was still examining the twenty rupee note in confusion as she went back inside where her mother carefully placed dots of freshly ground henna leaves on Meena’s hands and feet. The scent of it was just like Meena remembered.

The next morning, Meena woke up as a new bride.

*

For weeks there remained a stench around the back of the house. The whole backyard was cleaned out, rats emerging and hurrying away as weeds and old roots were pulled up. A makeshift shed was put up to park the two old cars under when Muthu saami purchased a third.

But the stench remained.

Men were hired to clean out the well. Pails of water were pulled up as they prepared to climb down inside. The pail creaked and clanged against the bricks each time it was emptied and flung back in, disappearing into black.

The pail rose again, water sloshing over the sides, a grey and blue rubber slipper floating in it.

By Mahalakshmi Iyer