This was an entirely self-imposed task, just as she also kept an eye on the home-tutor who came in the mornings and taught children arithmetic and English. The Ayah hovered about all the time the teacher was present, for she had a suspicion that he would torture the children. She viewed all teachers as her enemies and all schools as prison houses. She thought it was a cruel perversity that made people send children to school. She remembered how her two children (now grandfathers) used to come home and demand three pies for buying some herb, a paste of which was indispensable for preparing their skins for the next day’s pinching and caning. They said that the school inspector himself had ordered the purchase of the herb. It was a part of their education.
She had asked once or twice, ‘Why do you stand there and allow yourselves to be beaten?’
‘We have got to do it,’ the boys answered. ‘It is a part of our studies. It seems that our teachers won’t get their wages unless they cane us a certain number of times every day.’
The old woman had no occasion to know more about teachers. And so she kept a watch over the home-tutor. If he so much as raised his voice, she checked him with, ‘Don’t you try any of your tricks on these angels. These are no ordinary children. If you do anything, my master will lock you up in jail. Be careful.’ Her other self-imposed tasks were to see that the baker’s boy didn’t cycle on the lawn, that the newspaper man didn’t drop the paper into the nursery and that the servant didn’t doze off in the afternoon; she also attended on guests, took charge of their clothes and acted as an intermediary between them and washing boy; and above all, when everyone in the house was out, she shut and bolted all the doors, sat down on the front porch and acted as the watchman. These were all her secondary duties. Her main job, for which she received two meals a day, fifteen rupees a month and three saris a year, kept her active for over twelve hours in the day.
At six in the morning, Radha, the last child of the house, shouted from her bed upstairs, ‘Ayah!’ And the Ayah would run up the stairs as fast as her size permitted, because Radha would not give more than a quarter of an hour’s interval between shouts. And now when the Ayah stood near the cot and parted the mosquito net, Radha would ask, ‘Where were you, Ayah?’
‘Here all the time, my darling.’
‘Were you here all night?’
‘Of course I was.’
‘Were you sleeping or sitting up?’
‘Oh, would I lie down when my Radha was sleeping? I was sitting up with a knife in my hand. If any bad men had tried to come near you, I would have chopped off their heads.’
‘Where is the knife?’
‘I just went down and put it away.’
‘Won’t you let me have a look at the knife, Ayah?’
‘Oh, no. Children must never see it. When you grow up into a big girl, when you are tall enough to touch the lock of that almirah , I will show you the knife. Would you like to be very tall?’
‘Yes, I can then open the almirah and take the biscuits myself, isn’t it so, Ayah?’
‘Yes, yes. But you will never be tall if you stay in bed in the mornings. You must get up, wash and drink milk, and you will see how very fast you grow. Three days ago you were so high because you got up without giving me any trouble.’
After drinking her glass of milk Radha would run into the garden and suggest that they play trains. The Ayah now had to take out a tricycle and a doll. Radha sat on the tricycle clasping the doll to her bosom, and the Ayah bent nearly double and pushed the tricycle. The tricycle was the train, the flower pots were stations and the circular fernhouse was Bangalore. Ayah was the engine-driver, the doll was Radha and Radha was her mother sometimes and sometimes the man who commanded the train to stop or go. Now and then the Ayah stopped to take out her pouch and put a piece of tobacco into her mouth. ‘Why has the train stopped?’ demanded Radha.
‘The screw is loose, I am fitting it up.’
‘You are chewing?’
‘Yes, but it is not tobacco. It is a medicine for headache. I bought it from the medicine-seller at this station.’
‘Is there a medicine-seller here?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Ayah and pointed at the jasmine bush.
Radha looked at the bush and said, ‘Oh, Seller, give some good medicine for my poor Ayah. She has such a bad headache, Doctor.’
At Bangalore the train stopped for a long time. There the Ayah was asked to lie down and sleep on a patch of sand and Radha went round the town with the child . . . The game went on till Radha’s mother called her in for a bath, and after that the Ayah was free for an hour or more.
At midday she squatted amidst toys in the nursery, her immense figure contrasting grotesquely with the tiny elephants and horses, cooking vessels and dolls around her. She and Radha sat a yard apart, but each was in her own house. They cooked, performed puja and called on each other. It was easy for Radha to spring up and pay Ayah a visit, but it would be an extreme torture for the Ayah to return the call in the same manner, and so if the Ayah stooped forward it was accepted as a visit. After playing this game for an hour the Ayah felt drowsy and said, ‘Radha, night has come. Let us go to bed so that we may get up early in the morning.’
‘Is it already night?’
‘It is. I lit the lamp hours ago,’ replied the Ayah, indicating some knick-knack which stood for the lamp.
‘Good night, Ayah . . . You must also lie down.’ The Ayah cleared a space for herself and lay down.
‘Are you asleep, Ayah?’
‘Yes, just “play” sleep, not real . . .’ the Ayah said every five minutes, and very soon Radha fell asleep.
The Ayah’s duties commenced again at four o’clock. Radha kept her running continuously till eight, when she had to be carried off to her bed. In bed she had to have her stories. The Ayah squatted below the cot and narrated the story of the black monkey which rolled in a sack of chalk powder, became white and married a princess; at the wedding somebody sprinkled water on him and he came out in his true colour; he was chased out; presently a dhobi took pity on him and washed, bleached and ironed him, in which state he regained the affection of the princess. When the story was over, Radha said, ‘I don’t like to sleep. Let us play something.’ Ayah asked, ‘Do you want the Old Fellow in?’ The mention of the Old Fellow worked wonders, and child after child was kept in terror of him. He was supposed to be locked up in a disused dog kennel in the compound. He was always shouting for the Ayah. He was ever ready to break the door open and carry her away. The Ayah always referred to him in scathing language: ‘I have beaten that scoundrel into pulp. Very bad fellow, disgusting monkey. He won’t leave me in peace even for a moment. If you don’t sleep, how can I find the time to go and kick him back into his house?’
Once in three months the Ayah oiled and combed her hair, put on a bright sari, bade everyone in the house an elaborate goodbye and started for Saidapet. There she had her home. The only evidence others had of her far-off home was the presence of a couple of rowdy-looking men in the back yard of the bungalow at the beginning of every month. The Ayah spoke of them as ‘those Saidapet robbers’.
‘Why do you encourage them?’ asked her mistress sometimes.
‘What can I do? It is the price I pay for having borne them for nine months.’ And she received her month’s pay and divided most of it between them.
So old, clumsy and so very unwieldy, it was often a wonder to others how she was going to get in and out of buses, reach Saidapet and return. But she would be back by the evening, bringing a secret gift of peppermints for Radha, secret because she had often been warned not to give unclean sweets to the children.
Once she went to Saidapet and did not return in the evening. Radha stood on the porch gazing at the gate. Even the next day there was no sign of her. Radha wept. Her mother and others were furious. ‘She has perhaps been run over and killed,’ they said. ‘Such a blundering, blind fool. I am surprised it didn’t happen before. She must have taken it into her head to give herself a hol
iday suddenly. I will dismiss her for this. No one is indispensable. These old servants take too much for granted, they must be taught a lesson.’
Three days later the Ayah stood before the lady of the house and saluted her. The lady was half-glad to see her and half-angry. ‘You will never get leave again or you may go away once and for all. Why didn’t you return in time? . . .’ The Ayah laughed uncontrollably; even her dark face was flushed, and her eyes were bright.
‘Why do you laugh, you idiot? What is the matter?’ The Ayah covered her face with her sari and mumbled, ‘He has come . . .’ And she giggled.
‘Who?’
‘The Old Fellow . . .’ At the mention of the Old Fellow, Radha, who had all the time been tightly hugging the Ayah, freed herself, ran into the kitchen and shut the door.
‘Who is the Old Fellow?’ asked the lady.
‘I can’t tell his name,’ the Ayah said shyly.
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes,’ said Ayah and writhed awkwardly. ‘He wants me to cook for him and look after him . . . The man was there when I went home. He sat as if he had never gone out of the house. He gave me a fright, madam. He is out there in the garden. Please, won’t you look at him?’ The lady went out and saw a wizened old man standing in the drive.
‘Salute our lady, don’t stand there and blink,’ the Ayah said. The old man raised his arm stiffly and salaamed. He said, ‘I want Thayi.’ It seemed odd to hear the Ayah being called by her name. ‘I want Thayi. She is to cook for me. She must go with me,’ he said sullenly.
‘You want to go, Ayah?’
The Ayah averted her face and shook with laughter. ‘He went away years ago. He was in Ceylon tea gardens. How could anyone know he was coming? The circar sent him back. Who will take care of him now?’
Half an hour later she walked out of the house, led by a husband proud of his slave. She took leave, in a most touching and ceremonious manner, of everyone except Radha, who refused to come out of the kitchen. When the Ayah stood outside the kitchen door and begged her to come out, Radha asked, ‘Is the Old Fellow carrying you off?’
‘Yes, dear, bad fellow.’
‘Who left the door of the dog house open?’
‘No one. He broke it open.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He wants to carry me off,’ said the Ayah.
‘I won’t come out till he is gone. All right. Go, go before he comes here for you.’ The Ayah acted on this advice after waiting at the kitchen door for nearly half an hour.
LEELA’S FRIEND
Sidda was hanging about the gate at a moment when Mr Sivasanker was standing in the front veranda of his house, brooding over the servant problem.
‘Sir, do you want a servant?’ Sidda asked.
‘Come in,’ said Mr Sivasanker. As Sidda opened the gate and came in, Mr Sivasanker subjected him to a scrutiny and said to himself, ‘Doesn’t seem to be a bad sort . . . At any rate, the fellow looks tidy.’
‘Where were you before?’ he asked.
Sidda said, ‘In a bungalow there,’ and indicated a vague somewhere, ‘in the doctor’s house.’
‘What is his name?’
‘I don’t know, master,’ Sidda said. ‘He lives near the market.’
‘Why did they send you away?’
‘They left the town, master,’ Sidda said, giving the stock reply.
Mr Sivasanker was unable to make up his mind. He called his wife. She looked at Sidda and said, ‘He doesn’t seem to me worse than the others we have had.’ Leela, their five-year-old daughter, came out, looked at Sidda and gave a cry of joy. ‘Oh, Father!’ she said, ‘I like him. Don’t send him away. Let us keep him in our house.’ And that decided it.
Sidda was given two meals a day and four rupees a month, in return for which he washed clothes, tended the garden, ran errands, chopped wood and looked after Leela.
‘Sidda, come and play!’ Leela would cry, and Sidda had to drop any work he might be doing and run to her, as she stood in the front garden with a red ball in her hand. His company made her supremely happy. She flung the ball at him and he flung it back. And then she said, ‘Now throw the ball into the sky.’ Sidda clutched the ball, closed his eyes for a second and threw the ball up. When the ball came down again, he said, ‘Now this has touched the moon and come. You see here a little bit of the moon sticking.’ Leela keenly examined the ball for traces of the moon and said, ‘I don’t see it.’
‘You must be very quick about it,’ said Sidda, ‘because it will all evaporate and go back to the moon. Now hurry up . . .’ He covered the ball tightly with his fingers and allowed her to peep through a little gap.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Leela. ‘I see the moon, but is the moon very wet?’
‘Certainly, it is,’ Sidda said.
‘What is in the sky, Sidda?’
‘God,’ he said.
‘If we stand on the roof and stretch our arms, can we touch the sky?’
‘Not if we stand on the roof here,’ he said. ‘But if you stand on a coconut tree you can touch the sky.’
‘Have you done it?’ asked Leela.
‘Yes, many times’ said Sidda. ‘Whenever there is a big moon, I climb a coconut tree and touch it.’
‘Does the moon know you?’
‘Yes, very well. Now come with me. I will show you something nice.’ They were standing near the rose plant. He said, pointing, ‘You see the moon there, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now come with me,’ he said, and took her to the back yard. He stopped near the well and pointed up. The moon was there, too. Leela clapped her hands and screamed in wonder, ‘The moon here! It was there! How is it?’
‘I have asked it to follow us about.’
Leela ran in and told her mother, ‘Sidda knows the moon.’ At dusk he carried her in and she held a class for him. She had a box filled with catalogues, illustrated books and stumps of pencils. It gave her great joy to play the teacher to Sidda. She made him squat on the floor with a pencil between his fingers and a catalogue in front of him. She had another pencil and a catalogue and commanded, ‘Now write.’ And he had to try and copy whatever she wrote in the pages of her catalogue. She knew two or three letters of the alphabet and could draw a kind of cat and crow. But none of these could Sidda copy even remotely. She said, examining his effort, ‘Is this how I have drawn the crow? Is this how I have drawn the B?’ She pitied him and redoubled her efforts to teach him. But that good fellow, though an adept at controlling the moon, was utterly incapable of plying the pencil. Consequently, it looked as though Leela would keep him there pinned to his seat till his stiff, inflexible wrist cracked. He sought relief by saying, ‘I think your mother is calling you in to dinner.’ Leela would drop the pencil and run out of the room, and the school hour would end.
After dinner Leela ran to her bed. Sidda had to be ready with a story. He sat down on the floor near the bed and told incomparable stories: of animals in the jungle, of gods in heaven, of magicians who could conjure up golden castles and fill them with little princesses and their pets . . .
Day by day she clung closer to him. She insisted upon having his company all her waking hours. She was at his side when he was working in the garden or chopping wood, and accompanied him when he was sent on errands.
One evening he went out to buy sugar and Leela went with him. When they came home, Leela’s mother noticed that a gold chain Leela had been wearing was missing. ‘Where is your chain?’ Leela looked into her shirt, searched and said, ‘I don’t know.’ Her mother gave her a slap and said, ‘How many times have I told you to take it off and put it in the box?’
‘Sidda, Sidda!’ she shouted a moment later. As Sidda came in, Leela’s mother threw a glance at him and thought the fellow already looked queer. She asked him about the chain. His throat went dry. He blinked and answered that he did not know. She mentioned the police and shouted at him. She had to go back into the kitchen for a moment because she had left something
in the oven. Leela followed her, whining, ‘Give me some sugar, Mother, I am hungry.’ When they came out again and called, ‘Sidda, Sidda!’ there was no answer. Sidda had vanished into the night.
Mr Sivasanker came home an hour later, grew very excited over all this, went to the police station and lodged a complaint.
After her meal Leela refused to go to bed. ‘I won’t sleep unless Sidda comes and tells me stories . . . I don’t like you, Mother. You are always abusing and worrying Sidda. Why are you so rough?’
‘But he has taken away your chain . . .’
‘Let him. It doesn’t matter. Tell me a story.’
‘Sleep, sleep,’ said Mother, attempting to make her lie down on her lap.
‘Tell me a story, Mother,’ Leela said. It was utterly impossible for her mother to think of a story now. Her mind was disturbed. The thought of Sidda made her panicky. The fellow, with his knowledge of the household, might come in at night and loot. She shuddered to think what a villain she had been harbouring all these days. It was God’s mercy that he hadn’t killed the child for the chain . . . ‘Sleep, Leela, sleep,’ she cajoled.
‘Can’t you tell the story of the elephant?’ Leela asked.