When Dakshayani Amma headed to the family shrine, the urgency in her stride was unlike anything anyone had seen before. Her face had a terse, unreadable expression, as though she was prepared to snap at the family deity. She walked barefoot on the narrow dirt path where no grass grew. Sharp pieces of wet, laterite gravel, jabbed her bare feet and she twitched, momentarily losing her balance and landing on the touch-me-nots fringing the path. At the compound of the sacred grove, she descended the rock-cut steps under an overcast sky. The forested region was part of the family legacy, where only descendants from a common female ancestor lit the lamps every day at dusk.
Bhanu, who had been following Dakshayani Amma, waited outside the compound, as was the norm. Dusk at the shrine had turned menacingly dark. Dakshayani Amma joined the other women in cleaning the patina on the brass lamps and poured virgin coconut oil into them. Thunder boomed at a distance as the women hurriedly lit the lamps and incense. They paid their obeisance and circumambulated, their hands folded in reverence and halting briefly at each side of the rectangular, pagoda-shaped edifice. Many rows of tiny flames along the external walls and antique stone lamps illuminated the sacred grove, the magnificence and piety of which floated to the surroundings.
As the rain poured, Dakshayani Amma took shelter under the mossy terracotta eaves of the shrine and watched rain plop into small pits from the inclines of the roof. When she was younger, she would extend her feet and palms to let the water run over them. It was difficult to resist, but now, she couldn’t entertain such childish impulses. The matriarch of Kalyedath had to fit into the mould of solemnity and responsibility. Bhanu held a black umbrella for them as they walked back.
Her eyes twinkled and a smile lit up her face as she said, “Edathiyey, don’t you always tell me to have foresight and plan for events in advance?”
“Hmm,” Dakshayani Amma nodded, preoccupied with her thoughts. “And when the hornbill looks at the sky and cries for rain, doesn’t God send down rains? Has it ever been refused?” Bhanu placed the umbrella in the portico and washed her feet as they reached back. Dakshayani Amma threw her a sharp look. “You prayed for something, and I think I got the answer,” Bhanu said. “I was thinking about Achuthan,” she said, referring to Dakshayani Amma’s eldest son.
“What are you getting at, Bhanu?” Dakshayani Amma asked, irritation tinting her voice. “I was thinking, Achuthan can find a boy for our Pavi. She has wealth, comes from a well-known noble tharavad and is beautiful. With all these, suitors can overlook her minor shortcomings. If Achuthan can get married to a girl who has an elder brother, our Pavizham can have a groom. And Kalyedath can have an heir.” For many moments, Dakshayani Amma’s expression was unintelligible. Bhanu scrutinized her face for some reaction, but there was absolutely none.
“If you don’t like it, forget it,” she said, sulking and heading to the outhouse. Dakshayani Amma sat by the step at the large central courtyard, in a contemplative stupor. Along the rectangular veranda, children scampered about. The Karnavar’s children mocked Sugadhan, her youngest son, imitating his weak, wobbly gait. Being a protective elder brother, Achuthan whacked and warned them. Cries ensued until the Karnavar’s eldest daughter, Srikala, who was three years younger to Achuthan, intervened with her calm manners and said, “You can do far better with your hands than beat them up. Can you please make me a bird with palm leaves? Please. . .and also a basket for my manjadikuru,” she implored, flashing him an affable smile and a palm full of shiny red lucky seeds. The others demanded, “cart for me”, “a nice green ball for me”, and “a wiggly snake for me. Please. . .”
When Achuthan set his nimble fingers on the palm leaves, they transformed into beautiful toys, which the children adored. But he only obliged Srikala, while the others looked on, their eyes bleeding envy. While the older siblings quietened in creative pursuits, the Karnavar’s younger sons and Achuthan’s younger brothers created a ruckus, with their piercing shrills, scoots and scattering in their groin clothes, the kumpalas and konakams. But all the commotion did nothing to Dakshayani Amma. She continued in her stupor, with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Ammè, is there something to eat? I’m hungry,” Achuthan walked up to her after he had acceded to Srikala’s requests. He fiddled with the antique iron door handle of the adjacent room, flipping it up and down. “There’s something happening, so our school has declared a holiday.” Dakshayani Amma snapped into the present. “Oh,” she said, turning to Achuthan. “It must be the Vimochana Samaram building against EMS’ Communist party. I heard it on the radio.”
“I don’t know. I’m hungry.” Achuthan, who was a lanky 13-year-old, stood at the small-framed door. In his pale white shirt and navy blue knickers sans footwear, his limbs stuck out like two brown, scarred twigs, making him look gangly. And it was well known that he was eternally hungry. But although he ate, no mass showed on his body, for he continued to be in a state of perpetual overdrive.
Excerpted with permission from The Grande Matriarch of Malabar, Sajita Nair, Readomania.
