Convent Junction: A Story of a Girl from a Seaside Town

By Krishna Priya

Convent Junction is a story of a girl who grew up in the city of Vizag (Visakhapatnam) in the state of Andhra Pradesh. She has a lovely and secure childhood in a close-knit family. Her parents and two elder sisters are the center of her existence. The family is totally at peace with their lives. The story narrates the simple pleasures, occupations, and trips that the family takes. It describes the way of life in the 1980s and 1990s in a middle-class Indian household.

The situation is quite different in the present time, when the young girl has become a bitter and negative housewife. The story picks up where she is facing the difficulties and challenges of middle age and the conflicting pressures of being an ideal homemaker and a professional, between following her heart and the norms of society.

Some of the themes that the story narrates are the values of rural and urban India, friendship and love, family and responsibilities, education and independent thinking, modern and tradition ways of life, harmony and belongingness to a place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: May 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482873818

Krishna Priya

I was born in Andhra, India, and educated in the city of Vizag, where I had spent most of my life. I have a doctorate in English and teach at the graduate level. I’m married, and I have a sixteen-year-old son. I aspire to become a voice for my generation of women who are caught between home and professions.

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Copyright © 2016 by Krishna Priya.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Contents

Chapter One: School Days

Chapter Two: Present Day

Chapter Three: Trip to the Native Place

Chapter Four: Life after Summer Holidays

Chapter Five: College Life

Chapter Six: Bad Times

Chapter Seven: Finding My Calling and Myself Again

Appendix A: Some Words and Meanings

Dedicated

To my Parents,

A.V. S. Murthy and A. S. Kameswari

Chapter One

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School Days

Amma! called Narasimhalu from the gate, the rickshaw is here. He rang the bell of the rickshaw loudly once more and waited. Parking his rickshaw in front of the gate, Narasimhalu dismounted and wiped his brow with the towel on his shoulder. He then walked about the rickshaw, dusting the seat with the edge of the same towel and polished its handle bar. Amma, come fast he cried again impatiently.

I peeped from the drawing room of our single storied house onto the street and knew he would start calling us again, ringing the bell noisily if we were not ready soon. Coming, Narasimhalu, please wait! I called back.

Kittu, get ready, said Amma, hurry, here, have your breakfast, did you drink your milk? Amma asked, as she bustled about from the kitchen to the dining room and to the hall, handing over the plate of upma to Paddu. Amma then stood behind Paddu, comb in hand and waited to plait her hair as Paddu tried to finish dressing, drink her milk and eat the upma, all at the same time.

I took care of my chores by myself without much help but getting things done was a problem with Paddu. Even though she was older to me by one and a half years, she was always running a few minutes late for everything; for getting up, brushing her teeth and taking her bath. We all would tease her that she always seemed to do things in slow motion. Paddu, you are a slow coach, slow coach, I would taunt her as I stuck my tongue at her when we fought. Little did we realize that it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy in her life.

Children, you must wake up 10-15 minutes earlier, to be on time, said Daddy, in his soft calm voice, turning the page of the Indian Express as he sat in the sofa in his ‘lungi’, shirtless as usual. Ok Daddy, I said cheerfully.

I was ready on time usually, but still got a scolding from my parents unnecessarily, I thought, when I was in a sulky mood. This was quite rare, for most of the time, I was a happy child. I loved my parents and sisters above everyone else in the world. I had no worries or complaints in my safe little world.

Paddu, short for Padma, had the last few spoonfuls of upma while Amma plaited her hair into two neat braids and tied the ends with the navy blue school ribbons. Amma always took a long time to make sure that the parting of the hair; the ‘papidi’ was straight on the head. Otherwise, she said, your lives will not be smooth, they will be crooked and difficult, you must have a straight parting, she would insist, combing their hair carefully, over and over, until it was flat, smooth and tightly braided. Paddu and I glanced at one another and smiled. Our mom had quaint old ideas indeed!

We put on our white socks and shoes, pinned on our House badges on our left shoulders, which we wore to show our house allegiance; mine was a Green House badge and Paddu’s was a Blue House one, picked up our bags and water bottles, and were ready to go.

Bye Amma, Bye Daddy, Bye Akka, we said our goodbyes to everyone in the family. It was a family tradition that we followed whenever we left for school or went out. We would say goodbye to each and everyone in the house. "Velliostam, we’ll see you again. Take care, Be Careful" replied Daddy and Amma. Daddy got up and came to the entrance while Amma stepped out into the garden to pluck a few flowers from the Balsam plant.

You always take too long, grumbled Narasimhalu, checking the tyres with a kick. He opened the gate, came in and requested Daddy’s permission to use the grease can to oil the cycle chain. Daddy gave his permission and Narasimhalu took the can. After replacing it, he asked Daddy for a few rupees loan for medicines. What can I do, my wife or children are always getting sick, he complained with a long-suffering expression. Alright, answered Daddy giving him a few rupees. Daddy could never refuse to help anyone when they asked for it.

I loved Mondays, when I wore my fresh, crisply starched indigo blue skirt and white blouse that were washed and ironed perfectly each week, by Ramana, our dhobhi. He was a huge, tall man with really, the biggest hands that I had ever seen. I could imagine him thrashing the clothes on a flat stone, somewhere near a canal or a pond maybe, I was not sure where he lived. By Wednesday, our uniforms would wilt; we could change our blouses every two days but had to wear the same skirt for three days, unless of course, they got dirty at the seat.

We got on to the rickshaw. Narasimhalu had been our rickshaw driver since our childhood. He was a drunkard but a reliable driver. Today, I observed he had a nervous tick on his face. Sometimes I could smell ‘Kallu’ or the local palm toddy drink, emanating from him when he came to pick us in the mornings. At those times, he was quiet and avoided looking at us directly. Thin and lean, he had a bald patch at the back of his head and frizzy reddish-brown hair. He usually wore Khaki shorts and a white vest, with a towel over his shoulder.

If the sun was too hot, he would wrap the towel around his head in a turban, to stop the sweat from trickling onto his eyes. I rarely saw him smile. His brow was a series of lines from the sun and perhaps the worries he went through. Sometimes, he would ask us for money and we would give him a ten-paisa or a twenty-five paisa coin if we had it. Narasimhalu thanked us once, you are a good luck charm, amma, he said with a rare grin, I got a lot of customers yesterday and earned forty rupees! Forty rupees was a big amount for him.

Narasimhalu pulled the rickshaw along, walking with a bent back, turned sideways, stretching his arms and legs, with one hand on the handle bar and the other holding the frame of the body, until we reached the end of the lane. When we reached the main road, he got on to the driver’s seat and began pedalling slowly, his legs and hips rising up and down, until the rickshaw gained enough momentum. The toes of his bare feet, which gripped the wooden pedals, were curved inwards slightly, after years of pedalling, taking all kinds of people to their destinations. When we reached the RTC centre, he sat down and caught his breath.

There was a traffic signal at the RTC centre. Three lights with a glowing man at the bottom, turned red, amber and green alternately. Daddy had explained how this worked to us one day, but I still thought it was mysterious! How did the lights change on their own? What if another vehicle crossed the road when they were still in the middle? Some people still did not understand how the lights worked and instead of waiting would go ahead as they pleased. The traffic was very sparse, mostly scooters and a few cars and the green painted city buses. This was still a big town, becoming a city. In their hearts, the people were a free and easy ‘spirited’ people, ready with a joke and a smile.

As our rickshaw turned right at the RTC centre and went past the new twin cinema theatres, I saw people queuing up for the morning show. The posters were of NTR, the cine God of the Andhra people. The cheeks of the heroine were a dark shade of pink and I wondered, really, how anyone could wear such gaudy colours and loud checked coats! The releasing dates of an upcoming Hindi movie were splashed in indigo blue ink on the posters, which were stuck on the compound walls, lampposts, shop doors and even the cement dustbins. ’Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Atha Hai’, Paddu and I read the title of the movie slowly and laughed. What a funny name! we said aloud in unison. I wonder what it’s about? we giggled. I recognized the actors of the new