Recollections from a Crawlway

By Kalpana M. Naghnoor

About the stories
Recollections From A Crawlway is a collection of the twenty-one short stories, which are the musings of the author and reflective of the Indian urban scenario. To trail A Wooden Wagon is a prize winner and published by Unisun under the aegis of The British Council. Some stories touch upon the issues of the urban woman, as she is in transition from being a mere wife to a self realized entity. In the others the characters come alive to a realism weve known. The stories are like a personal diary of a looking glass; the ponderings of people and the bizarre mind and its reflections on the inverse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 26, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465327055

Book preview

To Trail a Wooden Wagon

Dramatic rays filtered through the trellised window. The same eastern rays that had beamed in through the grill, year after year, like it was beseechingly asking to be free, free of its irksome daily, mundane routine. No! There was no possibility of change. The world may mutate, but the Shastry household lived an inherited-strict life. Only others did not see the austerity. They saw only the calm, luxurious life. The simmering pain stayed, the suppressed wants remained, and the rays peeked in every day.

Father sat in his rocking chair, just inside of the verandah, next to the window. The room led to the inner sun-soaked portion of the house—the courtyard. A corridor ran along all four sides connecting each of the six bedrooms, the hall, and the library. Then with a break, the kitchen and the dining room and the pujaroom were all situated at the rear end of the house. A typical village house in a busy, bustling city, but the sprawling garden alleviated the congestion. I have watched Father ever since I was a child as I trailed my wooden wagon around. The wagon he had bought for me all the way from London. It wasn’t really intended for me though, but it eventually came my way.

My father, Govind Shastry, crossed the seas to read at Oxford. He then went on to do his bar-at-law in London. He had left behind a wife who was carrying his child in the loving care of his parents and had hoped it would be a son. But Mother had given birth to a girl child. Father shrugged off his misfortune and studied, realizing that his responsibility had risen with the birth of a daughter. He had another six months before he finished his course when the news of his father’s death came via a telegram. His presence in India was required. He left for India. He came home to a sadness, which comes with the loss of a protector and a mentor. Suddenly, the mantle felt heavy on his shoulders. He felt bereft in the absence of his father and confused with the newness of his seven-year-old daughter. He returned to London once the obsequies were over to complete his bar. Three months after his return to London, he received a letter from his mother, informing him that his wife was again pregnant. This time, Govind Shastry was sure the child would be a boy. As he had walked one evening, he had chanced to see the wooden wagon, displayed in the window of a toyshop. He had bought it for his son.

Months passed, and the time had come to return to India. Govind Shastry, the barrister, boarded the plane and settled in his seat. Father felt safe in the knowledge that there would be enough work for him to maintain the standard of living he had so become used to. Truly enough just as Father had anticipated, the small city almost marooned him with want of his legal opinion. Father thus built a steady practice, presiding over the family and its needs yet far removed from familial entanglement. The only gloom in his life was that his second child too was a girl.

It was my seventh birthday, I remember. Father reluctantly gave me the wooden wagon that he had carefully stored in his almirah. He had probably just resigned himself to his fate of a no-male progeny. It was possibly the only gift I ever received from him. My older sister had none to boast of. But there was no animosity between us for it. A gap of eight separated us in years. And she always kind of smothered me with love. I pulled the cart around. It should have come to me years ago, but nevertheless, I pulled it around just so to honor the gift that had just so come my way. I was too young then to realize that it would set off a trail of events; likewise in life, things would just happen, happen eventually.

Father’s persona exuded the fact that riches and wealth had come to him rather easily. The calmness with which he rocked himself on his rocking chair every morning was proof of a life that had been kind. Kind to the point of an embryonic existence, viewed only from his vantage, his duties, his opinions, his perceptions, his expectations… the list could be endless. This, and coupled with a strong sense of duty. The will to protect, the will to provide… the list was again endless. Thus in this sense of endlessness, we existed, playing by the rules, safe and desolate, comfortable and lost, dialectically contrite and emotionally confused. But the vision seemed clear, definite, and chalked out. Under his refuge, overwhelmed by his stature as well as his disposition, we lived an obedient life.

Father rose from his chair; he would now bathe and ready himself for court. His routine never changed to the minute. We kept pace; the bathroom was always free for him at that time. The breakfast would await him steaming on the table; the brassware kept glowing with sheen. Why! Even the sun rose to illumine through the window while he read. I pulled around the wooden cart at seven years of age, which I should really have done at eighteen months. But things were the way Father wanted them to be. Father had very firm views; we were wont to follow them. Akka and I studied in a coeducational institution. Mother never covered her head like other women did, and paatti never shaved her head like other widows did. Four years after I was given the wooden cart, I was expected to wear a half sari. I battled with the garb until I became used to it.

It was rather a chilly afternoon; the smell of samosas wafted through to me. I followed the aromatic smell into the kitchen, which was bustling with activity. Akka sat on a stool, pensive. Her gaze traveled across the sooty kitchen window, over the stretch of coconut palms, over to the mongrels that fought over a stale chapathi, from there over to the unfamiliar future, which seemed to loom over her.

Relatives hung around, their excitement was palpable, and our anxiety went unnoticed. My sister shed her half sari for a full, complete six-yard sari. Mother chose a deep blue one with a pink temple border for akka to wear. Akka draped it around her; she looked rather too young and small for all the length of luxurious Kanchipuram silk. The pallav sat rather ostentatiously over her young shoulder, then came on the rest of the jewelry. The end result was akka looked really good, but unhappy, and ready for the bride-seeing ceremony.

The prospective groom arrived. He came dressed in a suit, which got Father’s approval. His parents were nice people. They seemed to hold Father and his ancestors in high esteem. The groom nodded his assent, and then suddenly, there was cacophony. Everybody had something to say. I watched mute. My sister withdrew to the kitchen, and Mother stood transfixed, just looking at her prospective son-in-law. Finally, the groom and his parents left, with them the many people who had been witness to the seeing, and then our relatives. We were finally left to ourselves, to ponder over what had transpired in our house.

I could tell akka was exhausted. She just needed to sleep. We settled into our huge room, into our respective cots. The room was indeed very large. Four single cots were for our use. Paatti, Mother, akka, and I slept there. The rosewood cots were simply lined one beside the other. Clean white bed linen were nicely spread over each of the cots; the mosquito nets would come down later. I lay there awake, a thousand thoughts flooding my mind. Wondering about akka and how much time she had in her own home. I watched akka; she was in much the same dilemma. Paatti seemed to have her own resigned perception of it, considering she had been there too. Mother appeared the least disturbed. She only seemed thus; I could feel the cascading effect of tremulous uncertainty wash over her contained stance. She was worried about akka, and she worried for her. And yet, a nagging thought mangled her heart that she had yet another daughter and yet another episode to overcome.

I pulled the mosquito net around me. The haze of white secluded me from the others as I watched them. It was a false kind of seclusion, others could see, while you felt safe in the white haze. I have thus spent all my life, each night, in thought before I slumbered down my dreams, my hopes, my ambitions, and my fears. It all depended on who was most tired; that person would fall asleep first. But lots of nights I have lain awake, alone with my thoughts. I have heard Father clear his throat and call for Mother, Radha. It was Mother’s cue to rise and sneak out from the white seclusion and go into Father’s room. Then a while later, I would hear the door open, and Mother would return. The clearing of the throat followed by Radha elicited the same reaction from all, except me. Paatti would turn around to the other side and so would akka. It was only years later that I understood, and I too turned away only to pretend, not to realize.

I watched Mother prepare herself and the rest of the household for the wedding. How ready was akka? I wondered. The goldsmith arrived; he was given a corner to work in, and paatti watched over him like a hawk. At first, twelve gold bangles he crafted for the bride. Mother liked the way the dozen gold bands glinted; she ordered a set for me as well. Thus other pieces were crafted, and a few were replicated for me, in readiness, with the future in mind. The trousseau shopping was fun. The colors from the neon boards were a glaring change for those from the somber Shastry household. For our cousins who accompanied us and who were less wealthy, less traditional, with the women in their families working as teachers, doctors, etc., it was not much different. Their houses were small, with distemper of various hues. The décor was simple with curtains of light, colorful material, unlike our walls, which were painted, bone white, with earthy heavy drapes and gleaming brassware. Our cousins were allowed to use the public transport system, which made them quite independent creatures, while we were chauffeured and chaperoned around.

Finally the day of the wedding dawned. I saw akka stare ahead at nothing. My tummy knotted watching her, lost to thoughts and confused deliberation. At one point, I thought she would weep and beg for the wedding to be called off. But akka went ahead. The guests began trickling in. Then they were pouring in. Mother smiled, presumably expecting the entire sea of humanity to flood us. Father seemed much the same. The music bellowed in the background, vying with the constant chatter. I slipped into the bride’s room. I was amazed to see how beautiful akka looked. She looked content in her bridal finery, shying away from lurid jokes on nuptials. She rose as a bride should and walked to the mantap; there she sat beside the groom, a virtual stranger, while the purohit chanted the mantras rather aggressively. Suddenly, things happened fast, the crescendo of the background score rose, the mangalsutra was tied, a shower of yellow rice poured over the couple. I could hardly see what was happening. People crowded the newlywed pair. I hardly got a glimpse of akka after that.

In that very moment, I realized something; I was going to be alone hereafter, with akka lost somewhere in the melee of life. I retraced my steps and found refuge in my room. It was noon yet, but I pulled the mosquito net around me and ignored the light that came in through the window. I shut my eyes tight; it was my way of shutting out a lonely life that stared at me. The thought that my sister will no more be a part of our life brought forth memories of the times we had spent together. My young, innocent mind wondered if I would ever see her again, if we would ever play seven stones together. Tears slipped between my lashes and sank into my pillow. I must have slept right through the afternoon. A soft kiss awakened me. But I pretended to sleep. I kept my eyes shut. Akka left wordlessly.

It was almost a year and a half later after her wedding that akka came home. As per custom, she came for the birthing of her baby. I expected us to fall back on our sibling companionship. But akka seemed like a whole new woman. When she had crossed Father’s threshold, although only nineteen then, she had left behind the girl. The woman that she was now, she related better with Mother and paatti. How easily she had toed line! It was then that I realized that our lives were interlaid and firmed into Father’s pegboard. The pegs fitted the shapes perfectly! I too would, one day, find myself like akka, happy in a life chosen by Father, only I wondered how? And akka had a baby girl.

Like I had discerned, years later, I found myself bending over with a tray full of coffee cups, with the hot liquid steaming my face. Karan and his parents took a cup, each eyeing me. Looking over my appearance. It was decided that after Karan and I were married, we would live in the adjoining house, another gift from Father. His parents were glad for it. It was also decided that Karan would practice under Father as a junior associate lawyer. Karan’s parents were overjoyed. Thus my future was decided upon, who was I to object? As Father and God had ordained, the wedding went off well; and I too returned home for the birthing of my first child, a girl child. Father now had three granddaughters, two from akka and one from me. I wondered how he kept his disappointment shielded from the world. But he did.

Tara, being my only child, it is possible that I may have spoilt her wee bit. Because the willful teenager that she was, she would refuse to wear anything but jeans and T-shirts. Her willfulness had then seemed to me like what Father would not approve of, or so I thought. But my objections did not bother her. Neither did her clothes bother Father. I’ve often seen them stroll in the garden after dinner. Their voices filter through to me until it is time to sleep, and Father will walk away through the wicket gate that connects our houses. Another realization dawns, I have never said anything to Father except, possibly, the answers to his perfunctory queries. Is it raining? Has Karan come home? Is dinner ready? Is Tara well prepared for her exams? And I’ve answered yes, no, I’ll serve it now, I don’t know. When had I ever had a meaningful conversation with him? I could not remember. Had I had it at all? Another query I pose and choose not to answer.

Father made another decision for me; he decided Tara would do her law studies in London. Even as I remained stupefied by the decision, I saw my daughter board the flight. She is only eighteen years old, I thought, but Father thought she was more than capable of looking after herself on foreign soil. Four years saw her through her degree. But Tara chose to remain in London; she had a job with a law firm. She needed the experience, she told Father. Father had concurred with her, and he was proud to have a granddaughter who was following him in his profession. Six months later, Tara informed us that she was in love with Peter, an Englishman, and that they needed our blessings to marry. For the first time, I saw a shadow of doubt cross Father’s expression. But he recovered quickly. I looked at Karan for a reaction, but I found him looking at Father. It wasn’t only I who had handed my life over on a platter. Days passed. We kept in constant touch with Tara. We viewed her baby via the computer. I saw Father gleam with joy. He had finally got the boy he had wanted. His great-grandchild was a boy!

A couple of years later, Tara called to say she was arriving the following day as planned. We all piled into the car to receive her and her family at the airport. My two-year-old grandson somehow divined who his great-grandfather was. He meekly went to him. It was the most joyous moment for all of us, and suddenly, the fact that Tara had married an Englishman did not matter at all. We settled into a routine, with the newest member of our family. He prattled his way into our hearts. Father was especially proud and happy with his Anglo-Indian great-grandson Tushar. I began to wonder at Father.

It was in the month of October, a fine drizzle hazed over the garden. Tushar would not come into the house as much as Tara urged him to. Father watched mother and son in a tug-of-war of wills. Tushar stuck his ground and played with his ball in the garden. Father rose from the rocking chair and went into his room and rummaged through his cupboard. Finally, he found what he had come for. He took it out to Tushar. I was surprised to see the wooden wagon, the one I had trailed around as a child. Father was now giving it to his great-grandson. Eventually! I smiled thinking the wooden wagon had found its way to its rightful owner. I looked at Father and his intent preoccupation with Tushar. It was then that another realization dawned on me. Perhaps it was I who had shied away from a meaningful conversation with Father. It was time, I reminded myself, to remedy that. I went up to Father and Tushar, a little uncertain though, with my eyes glued to the gravel on the garden path. You have changed, I said to Father, hoping