Dear Ichaya,
I made your favourite puttu and kadala for breakfast today. The kadala curry was a little bland. Yes, I forgot to add chilli powder. If you were around, you would have tasted it during the preparation and helped me correct it. I kept the puttu in the steamer and was busy sautéing onions in the kadai when Simi’s call came. And you know how it is. She had to narrate all the Sharjah stories without omitting a word. I ended up doing the rest of the cooking with the mobile attached to my ear. Ayyo! My left ear is burning even now. She wants me to go there and spend a few weeks with her. I told her I could not travel to foreign lands in this old age, that too with this ailing leg. First of all, who will take me there?
Sheila and the kids are coming home next week. The kids’ school is closing for the summer holidays. I have to call Biju and ask him to pick them up from the junction. You know, Biju is very busy these days as all our neighbours want him at their service. No one wants to drive. We can’t blame them. The traffic in Estate Mukku has become worse. The other day, when Sumathi went to buy some mathi from the fish market, she witnessed a huge commotion at the end of our street. A lorry had jammed into the compound wall of Mathias’ house. Can you imagine? Yes, that pretty house in the corner which was being constructed last year. It was completed a few weeks after your funeral. Mathias’ wife had come home and invited me for the housewarming. But how could I go, Ichaya?
Ah, pinne, your insurance money came, finally. I got a call from the agent. Entammo, don’t you remember all the fiascos around my name that I told you about last month? How am I to know that Cicily Mary Verghese and Cicily George can mean two different people? I always wanted your name attached to mine. All the communication after marriage has been in the name of Cicily George. Why does the insurance company fuss about it, even after producing relevant documents? I should thank our advocate, Kuriakose, for standing by me through all these gruelling proceedings. I had almost given up. It was Kuriakose who came up to me at the court entrance and said, “Ammachi, you don’t worry about anything; I have taken care of it all.” A kid with a golden heart! We should help him find a girl soon.
Once Sheila is here, we will deposit the cheque in the bank. I hope that husband of hers lets her spend some time with me, at least this time. Last Sunday, during the mass, Shoshaama Chedathi told me that she saw that other woman with Paul at the bus stop. What a disgrace! I haven’t told Sheila. We have erred, Ichaya. We should have let Sheila Mol marry that Hindu boy only. At least we wouldn’t have to see her in this state. Hmm… but you don’t have to see all this. You can stretch your legs and relax in heaven. I am the one who has to find a solution to all these problems at this ripe age. Even when you were around, you only wanted to help Sunny. You felt a girl, once married, is not the parents’ responsibility. Now, look at her condition. My poor child!
She has stopped wearing sarees these days. Those scars on her back – you can’t bear to see them! Her hair… that lovely hair that she had till her knees; now it’s all gone. That Satan! How much he beats my child every day! He should never be pardoned. He should have the worst death! He should rot in hell! Let our daughter come and stay here. We will take care of her dearly.
Ayyo! Karthave! How can I curse my own daughter’s life? Whatever the case, the girls need their father. And my Sheila… what will become of her? A widow has no respect in this society. She will be ridiculed and shunned. I hope the all-knowing God makes him human and gives her some peace. Ente Velankanni maathave! I will light candles at your feet if my child’s suffering ends. Please listen to this old woman’s prayers!
I want to buy Sheila a bangle for her fortieth birthday. Or is it thirty-nine? She was born before the flood of ’83, right? I think she will be thirty-nine only. Ah, Ichaya, how time flies! It feels like yesterday that you were holding little Sheila Mol in your hands, singing lullabies, and putting her to sleep. Now, she is forty! Or thirty-nine… and she has kids! As big as the jackfruit tree in our backyard. And you have not stopped humming melodies, even from heaven! I do hear it some days… when everyone is asleep. How soulful! Ichaya, your voice still sounds like Yesudas’.
That reminds me, I have to call that fellow Dasan. The coconuts are pretty ripe, with a good yield this season. I don’t want them to fall on Sumathi’s head while cleaning the yard. Or worse, on the kids. If I give something extra, Dasan will clean that car porch also. It has been fully covered with moss since the recent monsoon. Sumathi Kunju slipped and fell there last week. She had hurt her ankle. That night, we both applied kuzhambu on our legs and sat on the veranda, talking about our lives and all the old memories.
She is saying that our house is more than a hundred years old. What nonsense! Ichaya, didn’t we move in here only after Sunny’s baptism? Sheila Mol and Simi Mol were all born in this house! That makes it only forty-five, fifty years, right? I think it is the wine. It gets on to her head most of the time. Sumathi is such a sweet girl, though she is not a Nasrani. I sincerely pray every day that her uncle doesn’t come and take her back to her village. She is absolutely fine here.
Chedathi also mentioned some problems with someone called Thomas. Mm… we don’t have any Thomas in our immediate family, right? Who is this, Thomas, then?
Ah, that contractor, Thomachan! He is the one. You know him, right? His house got robbed, it seems. He and his wife had been away for a wedding in Kozhikode. Just imagine the house had remained locked for a whole week without any security person. Their neighbours are also settled in Dubai. An irresistible opportunity for any self-respecting thief, right? How many times have I told Thomachan to get a dog? He wouldn’t listen. Miser! Now, he has lost all the gold and money he had kept stashed in the cellar. All of us donated funds for the church, but Thomachan wouldn’t part with a single paisa. How can he call himself a true Christian? Now, see, the all-knowing Karthavu has given him what he deserves! People and their madness…
Oh, I have to tell you this! A funny incident happened on Sunday! After the mass, when I stepped out of the church, I heard someone calling, “Cicily Kutty!” It sounded so much like you. I looked around everywhere. There was none in sight. In that confusion, I wore someone else’s slippers and left. Sunny was livid when I got home. I got an earful. He said he waited for me at the church all afternoon and was about to go to the police station. Why is he overreacting? Am I a kid to get lost? Biju dropped me home in his moped that day. I don’t know why I went with Biju or how I met him. My saree was full of mud because of those clumsy chappals. But Sunny doesn’t want to know any of this. He told Biju that he would teach him a lesson. His temper is becoming more and more like yours and your Ammachi’s. Hmm… How can I forget all the drama you both did when you were young and able? Sunny is your Xerox copy only.
He and his wife took me to the hospital a few days ago. I don’t understand why we have to go all the way to the town when Doctor Verghese stays in the same lane. He knows us and all our ailments so well. This town doctor doesn’t give any injections. He just keeps asking me the same questions every time. It is ridiculous! He wants to know my age, when I got married, when you passed away, and all that. Why can’t he just give medicines without poking his nose into all of these? And this Sunny’s wife dares to correct me when I said you left us in May last year. That shrew wants to play the teacher role everywhere. In her typical superior tone, she said, “Appachan left us three years ago, and Ammachi has been like this since then.” What does she mean? Are you my husband or hers? Don’t I know better? And what is this “Ammachi has been like this”? Like what? What is wrong with me? That bloody useless doctor also listens to her all the time. And Sunny, you know, doesn’t even enter the hospital premises. He just wants to be my driver, takes me to places I don’t want to go to, and stays aloof as if he has no connection with me. He has become a puppet in her hands.
At least Simi Mol has some affection. She calls me daily and asks, “Ammachi, how is your knee pain? What did you eat for lunch? Did you have medicine?” This Sunny, who stays in the same house, doesn’t care whether I am dead or alive. His wife told me the other day that the car belonged to them as Sunny had given you the money to buy it. How is this fair, Ichaya? You broke the FD you had been saving for so long to buy this fancy car. And now, she doesn’t even let me sit in the front. I have to sit like a servant at the back when she takes the front seat like a Maharani!
How many nights have we stayed awake to take care of our three little ones? Now, they have built their own universes. Universes that we are not part of. And you have gone to another world, letting me suffer here. Simi is calling me to Sharjah. How will I go there, Ichaya? Who will take me? Definitely not Sunny! And Sheila’s life is also like this. Poor girl! I don’t want any special care. Not at all. Let my kids always have peace and happiness, Karthave! Please bless them.
I am waiting for the day I can come to you, Ichaya, to your heavenly abode, where there is no knee pain, no medicines, no sleepless nights—only bliss and love! Sumathi will be left here, all alone without me. But she has to learn to cope and face life—just as I am.
Ah, Ichaya, it is noon. Sumathi is calling. It is time for your lunch! Please come. I had asked her to make kappa puzhukku and beef. There is some leftover fish curry from yesterday’s lunch in the fridge. That’s enough for the two of us, right? Sunny’s wife wanted fried rice and chicken curry. Modern lady! This poor Sumathi girl always caters to her whims and fancies. After making all these elaborate arrangements, she has to keep waiting. They all eat only after two, once Sunny comes home, after roaming the entire neighbourhood. I can’t wait that long. I eat at twelve. My clock is always tuned to yours! Annum, innum, ennum (then, now, forever).
Yours,
Cicily Kutty