"I can't stand to be a Brahmin sometimes. If you weren't a Brahmin, you wouldn't be in white, with your head shaved, hiding in the house, living constantly in a state of victimhood while thinking yourself better than everyone else."

"We are better," Sivakami says simply, bewildered. "Why are you not proud?"

"I just can't stand it!" he roars at her, turning backward along the path to face her, and the others, arrayed behind. "That there is no escape. Can't you... I want to see things differently sometimes!"

He stalks ahead, and they follow him home.

The next morning, he feels moody and stays in the house. As the older children leave for school, he puts a mat to one side of the main hall, where he can listen to Vani play. He lies, his elbow on a bolster, letting the music ebb around him as though he is lying in a few inches of warm ocean at the beach.

One little grandchild is creeping around the house still: Sita. She comes in from the garden but stops when she sees him, and backs away again. Unpleasant-looking child, he thinks, and then is overcome by throbbing, choking, desirous sadness. He turns back to watch his wife. Why haven't we had a a child, my love? child, my love?

I killed my father, he killed his father. He doesn't remember when he first heard the chorus in his brain, sounding as though it has murmured there since he was born. Vani, without ceasing her music, looks at him suddenly, and he, feeling her glance, looks back. Even to him she speaks little, but she can still, as she did from that first day, drown out the deathly chatter with her music and her eyes.

She completes me, he thinks, breathing shallowly with grat.i.tude, grasping at this as though at a branch overhanging a now-swollen river, but marriage is not marriage without children.

To escape his origins; to embrace them.

I just want a baby to raise. It may be possible that I am worthy of this.

PART FIVE.

Janaki Starts School 1931.

MUCHAMI HAS CARED FOR ALL of Thangam's children with as much tenderness as their personalities and his station permitted, but he has never grown so attached to one as he has to Janaki in the months since she arrived. He tried with all of the children to distract them from their grief at losing their mother, tried to compensate with games and amus.e.m.e.nt for the affection Sivakami was unable to give them during the day. Only with Janaki, though, has he formed such a bond. She shines with a brighter light than her siblings, he often thinks, as she trots along beside him, helping with his ch.o.r.es and chattering.

Janaki considers the calves to be her special responsibility and helps especially by coaching the calves in comportment, telling them to stop licking the wall, for instance, where their craving for lime has worn a smudgy brick border into the whitewash. Muchami does the tending and milking. It's a very particular procedure. A calf is unroped and led to his mother. He roughly b.u.t.ts and nudges her udders before he clamps on. After a few moments, he's pulled off her belly and tied so that she can reach him but he can no longer reach the udders, and then she is milked while she licks her calf's back and shoulders. The very young calves stay close by their mothers even after they are untied. They're allowed more milk. But a slightly older calf, once untied, will dash straight to the water trough. The mother cow will look on for a few moments, then turn her face toward her feed. This calf is not really hers to mother, anyhow. He was born on someone else's account.

When the milk is handed to Sivakami, that is Janaki's cue to rouse her sleepy-faced siblings. She gleefully taps heads and shakes shoulders, saying officiously, "Hoi! Hoi, lazybones, what do you think this is, a hospital?" She has heard hospitals are places with cots where everyone stays in bed all day. "Get up!"

Each child sips a cup of boiled milk flavoured with sugar and the scents of cow and woodsmoke. Ch.o.r.es and baths follow and last urgent sums of homework. Janaki usually gets a piece of chalk and makes marks on the floor as her siblings do on their slates, her markings as incomprehensible to them as theirs are to her.

More important than any of these activities, though, is listening to Vani play. After Laddu and Sita have departed for school, Janaki creeps close to listen to her aunt. She's not sure if Vani sees her; sometimes Vani smiles, but it's a mysterious smile and could as easily be a response to a moment in the music or some fleeting sensation as to Janaki. From all around, from street and kitchen come the sounds of people working, talking, solving problems and creating new ones, but Vani responds to none of it. She is not startled by loud noises, not disturbed by shouting.

As Janaki listens, she pretends to tap out the beat structure, the taalam, taalam, of the song on her lap. She has seen knowledgeable listeners do this, tapping the front and back of their hands, and each of their fingers, in arcane and particular orders. of the song on her lap. She has seen knowledgeable listeners do this, tapping the front and back of their hands, and each of their fingers, in arcane and particular orders.

When Vani has finished playing in the morning, she eats her meal. Janaki eats hers at the same time, not least because Vani talks while she eats. She never talks at any other time, and even at this time, no one-except, now, Janaki-really listens. Sivakami comes in and out with food, but not appearing to pay attention to the daily discourse.

Vani's method is to tell, on average, a different story each week, repeating it daily with small variations. She often draws from her childhood, telling tales of grandeur and aristocracy. Her uncles are lawyers and ministers; her father is rich. Their house in Pandiyoor is full of music, culture, the latest fashions in clothes, slang, comportment. Most of the time, since Vani doesn't speak, it's difficult to tell that she is the product of such a home, but when she does, the influences are obvious.

After a week or so, however, Vani will change the story-fundamentally, but not superficially: most of the details will remain the same, but the moral import or the conclusion will be entirely different, all the pleasant people might become rude and the mean ones heroic. Once, for instance, it was a story of how a wedding was almost stopped by a death; in the variant, the death was almost stopped by the wedding. After delivering this reversal, she stops telling that story, and goes on to another one.

Janaki is as often confused by Vani's stories as by her music, but she never asks questions. She knows that questioning will get her nowhere with her aunt. She must find other ways.

As Janaki is currently the pre-school-age child in Sivakami's house, she is looked after by Muchami for much of the day. After his morning ch.o.r.es and mid-morning meal, he goes to his own small house and neighbourhood. Janaki goes with him, as the youngest child in Sivakami's care always has, and runs through dust and groves while he naps, gossips and has a cup of ragi ragi porridge with his mother. porridge with his mother.

Sivakami's grandchildren will each have a very different memory of his or her pre-school months in Muchami's care. Saradha will remember organizing Muchami's nieces and nephews into games whose rules they continually broke or forgot-deliberately, she felt. Visalam will remember the whole time as a series of unbelievably funny mishaps. Laddu will forget most things about this epoch, though he will retain the rudiments of gambling, acquired while practically losing his shirt to Muchami's young nephews day after day. (Muchami made them return to him whatever they won.) Laddu will also never forget the most effective ways of tormenting chickens, though he will not remember having learned them. Sita will recall Muchami's small relatives as snotty-nosed, insipid, illmannered, repulsive, his neighbourhood as offensive.

Janaki will forever regard this epoch as the happiest of her childhood. In the late morning, each day, Muchami finds her squatting in one of the garden doorways, listening to or thinking about Vani's story. If the story is not finished, he waits; if it is, he whistles from the courtyard and Janaki comes trotting out to meet him. As they walk, they ask each other questions about things they see or have been thinking about.

"Janaki-baby, why is it that the dust of our Cholapatti roads is so red?" he might ask as they exit the Brahmin quarter, the big houses falling away, replaced by mud huts with thatched roofs.

"I don't know," Janaki might reply, trotting to keep up. "Do you think it's because the sun stains it when it comes up in the morning?"

"Never thought of that." Muchami squints penetratingly at a field-one of Sivakami's tenants.

"Yeah, and the night stains it black, did you ever look?" Janaki is starting to pant.

"Ah, yes." Muchami crouches so that she can put her arms around his neck and he can piggyback her the rest of the way.

"And, Muchami, what happens to notes of music when they disappear ? ?" she asks from his back.

"I can't say I ever thought about it," he admits. "Did you ever try following one?"

"I ... don't think so." She wishes she could see his face-is he serious?

So they agreeably pa.s.s the journey, stopping if he has work he must do en route from her home to his, whereupon she is released to her recreation, and he to his rest. After an hour or so, she creeps into his hut and lies down beside him to take a nap herself. At the afternoon's end, they make a return journey.

By then, Janaki's siblings are returning from school, ravenous. They pluck tiny bananas from the stalk that always leans, drooling sap, in the pantry corner, the ripening bananas winding up it like stairs. Sivakami gives each child a cup of milk and a globe of thaingai maavu, thaingai maavu, coconut ground with palm sugar and lentil flour and formed into a ball with the adhesive of a little milk. Fortified, the children go about their business until nightfall. coconut ground with palm sugar and lentil flour and formed into a ball with the adhesive of a little milk. Fortified, the children go about their business until nightfall.

Vani, who rests upstairs for some time after her morning meal, comes down to wash her face and comb her hair about the same time the children and Janaki return. She then has Muchami carry her veena up onto the roof, where Vairum has erected an awning for her, and there plays hot and vigorous afternoon ragas until the sun goes down.

While Vani conducts her afternoon session, Janaki sits in the chalky-smelling cool at the top of the stairwell. Sometimes she's permitted to remain there, sometimes lured or forced away by other happenings in the house. This is the hour when Laddu has his tutorials, for example. If Vairum is tutoring him, Janaki stays away. She tried, once, to take part, but it didn't go well.

Vairum and Laddu had been sitting down to work in the main hall, Vairum glaring dismissively at Laddu, who fidgeted nervously with his books and slate.

Vairum lobbed an opening, his mind clearly already on his tennis. "What's news, Laddu? Fail any tests today?"

Janaki had already figured out that whatever school is, Laddu is not very good at it. The boy made no attempt to return the volley. Vairum served a few more, underhanded. "What if your parents never have another boy? You'll have to support them all alone. You must feel very ashamed and frightened, being the first boy and not having a future. Well, there is always your grandmother's money, and my help, of course."

Janaki, listening to this from one of the doorways to the garden, felt a response was merited and looked to her older brother to see what he would say. Laddu scratched at a peeling patch on his slate. He didn't even look worried, just dull and patient.

Janaki piped up. "Actually, Laddu Anna's going to do a big job and be very rich."

Vairum had started to laugh and Janaki felt encouraged.

"Laddu Anna's pockets will be so full of gold," she improvised, "that his shorts will always be falling down and his b.u.m will show, but no one will laugh because they'll all be sad because he's so much richer than they are. Yep. That's what's going to happen."

Vairum had laughed harder, then stopped on a single snort and fixed her with a look. "Oh, ho, is that how it will be? Good. Very glad to hear that."

Janaki looked to her brother for approval.

"What nonsense is this?" Laddu snarled. "Get out of here before I beat you!"

He shoved her toward the garden while Vairum said to him in much the same tone, "And I want to see some sums before I beat them out of you, get it?"

The episode left a bad taste in Janaki's mouth, and she treated herself to a mouthful of dirt from the garden. She pa.s.sed Muchami, wrestling with a rogue plaintain tree. Pretending to examine the rose-bush, she scooped a rich, moist handful from among the roots and swallowed quickly, barely bothering to chew. Licking morsels of earth from her baby molars, she went from there to visit with the calves.

Janaki never tried to get near one of Vairum's tutorial sessions again.

During Sanskrit lessons, however, Janaki sits with Muchami, in one of the garden doorways. The teacher sings out the slokas and she sings out her version of them-Laddu has told her she's yelling gibberish, but she thinks she sounds pleasing and accurate. Muchami is far less a.s.sertive in his responses, and one would suppose Janaki's high-volume partic.i.p.ation wouldn't help him, but he never objects to her presence and always compliments her afterward on the subtlety of her p.r.o.nunciation. Sometimes Sanskrit even enters their midday to and fro.

"That last sloka, Janaki: how does it affect the meaning that it's on an upward instead of a downward tilt, at the end?" he puzzles one day. "I keep wanting to do it downward."

"I was thinking about the very same thing." Janaki purses her lips. "It sounds more like birdsong the way it is."

"Quite right and well put, but is that the point?" Muchami challenges, smiling.

"Oh, I don't know." Janaki's brow is furrowed. "We'll have to ask Kesavan Master tomorrow."

A few times, she really did try to ask Kesavan. That was another mistake. Kesavan is willing to put up with Janaki's partic.i.p.ation because her presence has injected Muchami with some greater degree of commitment, if no greater competence. But he'll not stoop to ridiculing the ancient tongue because the granddaughter of the house sees it as a lark. After a couple of barked responses, Janaki learns quickly to confine her questioning-on Sanskrit, on nature, on anything, really-to Muchami, the only person in the household who sees her questions as worthwhile.

She has also learned to confine her questions to times and places when her elder sister Sita will not overhear her. It had happened once, that, in a good mood, Janaki had called out to Muchami as he ate his tiffin, "Muchami, when a bunch of stick insects get together, do they make a tree?"

Before Muchami could answer, Sita, walking past, had supplied a response. "Sure, the same tree your wooden head fell off of."

Seeing Janaki absorbed in Vani's music, Sita chitters from the bottom of the stairs or the pantry until Janaki can't help but look.

"Janaki, this is you," Sita says, and makes an expression like a monkey sunk, drunk, in a pile of rotting fruit, batting her hand idiotically against her knee.

While Janaki earnestly sits by Muchami's side, singing out her phrases of "Sanskrit," Sita parades past in the garden and yodels perfect imitations.

So now, when Sivakami tells Janaki she must come back early from Muchami's because the tailor is coming to measure her for a school uniform, Sita clarifies, "Amma wants to make sure you have a uniform because then you'll blend in even though you don't know anything."

"Blend in to what?" Janaki frowns.

"The rest of the know-nothing babies, what do you think?" Sita smiles her perverse smile and leaves for school.

"What happens at school, Muchami?" she asks that afternoon.

"Well, you know I've never got past the door, Janaki-baby," he explains, "but I imagine it's all the things you like, writing and reading and learning, only more and you can do it all day and all the other children are doing the same."

That sounds all right. Janaki likes the idea of the uniform, also. And Muchami is making her a new slate.

She goes to tell the calves her news. From the cowshed, Janaki hears Sivakami talking to Vairum in the courtyard. Vairum is washing his hands at the well following his own morning meal.

"Have you given it any more thought, kanna?" asks Sivakami. "I think we must pledge another-"

"I never said we shouldn't," he cuts her off efficiently.

"I ... okay, I'll look up which is a good day." Sivakami goes to take the almanac down from the ledge in the hall where it is kept, about six feet off the ground, so she must stand on a small stool to reach it. Janaki watches from the kitchen doorway.

"I want to do the puja at home, for our Ramar," Vairum says, slowly now.

"Good, kanna." Sivakami squints through the thick, wavy-paged book. "Next Friday is auspicious." She spots Janaki. "That would also be a good day for Janaki to start school. Janaki-baby, we'll do a puja for you to start school, next Friday."

The tailor comes to take Janaki's measurements. She starts to feel important.

Preparations begin for the puja. Supplies are bought for sweets, for example, and their manufacture begun.

The tailor returns to fit the uniform.

"Will I wear the uniform for my puja?" Janaki asks her grandmother.

"No, kanna, we do the puja for your uniform, your slate, your books, put it all in front of G.o.ddess Saraswati, right? Ask for her blessings so you will study well. You can wear your usual paavaadai, and then put on your uniform afterward."

"Can I wear a silk paavaadai?"

"If you like, yes. You feel like wearing something special?"

"Yeah."

Janaki was pretty sure she had heard her uncle and grandmother discussing a puja for the Ramar, not Saraswati. Things sometimes, often, change out of her hearing, hard as she tries to keep on top of all household developments. They must have decided it's more appropriate to do the puja for Saraswati, the G.o.ddess of learning, all things considered. Yes, that must be it.

Friday morning arrives. As her grandmother returns from the Kaveri, Janaki awakens and informs Muchami she didn't sleep a wink all night for excitement. She bathes and puts on a paavaadai, teal silk bordered in yellow. She hears her grandmother instructing Sita to bathe and dress, and reminding Vani, also, that today is the day of the puja. Vairum has gone to bathe at the river, something he does only on big occasions. This school matter is even bigger than she had realized, thinks Janaki. The uniform had been delivered the day before and is ready to be blessed, together with her slate, ink powder, writing stick and nib, paper, books and a new tiffin box engraved with her name, G. Janaki.

Sivakami sees her come in from her bath and asks, "All ready, Janaki? Come, the raahu raahu kaalam, the inauspicious hour, has just ended and the good hours begun. Let us do your puja now, before the priest arrives." kaalam, the inauspicious hour, has just ended and the good hours begun. Let us do your puja now, before the priest arrives."

Janaki follows but doesn't understand. "How can we do the puja before the priest comes and everyone is ready, Amma?"

"No, kanna." Sivakami moves briskly into the hall. "Your puja, for school."

Vairum is already before the G.o.ds, doing his regular morning prostrations and prayers, clothes and hair still wet from his bath.

Sivakami takes the bra.s.s plate on which Janaki's small pile awaits, and dots a little vermilion powder on each item. Janaki shifts foot to foot, chewing on her lip, looking anxiously at the door where Sita has emerged from her bath. "Hurry up, Sita, my puja is starting."

Sita slows down to a insolent saunter. "So?"

A look from Sivakami speeds her along.

Sivakami is lighting camphor and offering Janaki's things along with flowers, sugar rock-candy, a coconut and a piece of turmeric. She prays to G.o.ddess Saraswati that Janaki will work hard, appreciate this great privilege and succeed. When they think the G.o.ddess has had enough time to grant them the blessing, the plate is set down and Janaki prostrates for the G.o.ds, her grandmother and uncle, and Sita, because she's older than Janaki and happens to be present. From the G.o.ds, Janaki believes she receives benevolent approval. From her grandmother, she receives solid encouragement. Her uncle looks uninterested and skeptical but tells her to make the best of this and sounds like he expects to be obeyed. Sita lets Janaki get close before she whispers, "You'll be a disaster." She beams at her little sister, saccharine and malign.

Then Vani arrives to do her morning prayers, after which she sits and begins playing.

Laddu comes and sits to one side, morning-befuddled, but clean and dressed for a special occasion, and everyone else is clearly waiting for something more. Janaki sees Muchami in the garden and goes to the door. "My puja is over," she tells him. "What is everyone waiting for?"

She spoke her question a little too loud. Everyone turns a puzzled look on her, except Sita, who hoots and cackles, "She thought everyone was dressing up because they were so excited that the little dimwit's off to learn some learning!"

"Sita, stop that." Sivakami turns toward the little girl. "We're doing a puja for the Ramar, today, Kanna. Vairum Mama and Vani Mami are asking to be blessed with children. You forgot?"

Had Janaki known, she surely would not have forgotten. She has partic.i.p.ated in many rituals already to this end and was especially enthusiastic about the one where Vani poured milk down snake holes.

A priest arrives as Janaki sulks in the garden door. The priest begins to set up the fire. He needs to start the puja within this hour and a quarter: one of the auspicious times that checkerboard the day. Sivakami bustles back and forth from the kitchen with things the priest needs as Vani plays on, more intensely and virtuosically than usual, though all Janaki can tell for sure is that it seems louder.