The Toss Of A Lemon Part 30

She has a snack and changes her clothes. She is about to start up the stairs to listen to Vani, who has already begun playing, when she hears shouting from the front. Her uncle has come home.

"I don't want anything from you, you peasant-lover!" Goli screams.

"That's a nice change, then," Vairum spits back as he mounts the stairs. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Sooner help a non-Brahmin than anyone from your own caste!"

Vairum doesn't turn. "Keep your epithets to yourself." He shucks his shoes in the vestibule and enters the main hall. "Hypocrite."

Goli runs in after Vairum and, picking up Vairum's shoes, throws them. One hits his back. Vairum turns and seems to watch the other hit his front, not even lifting a hand to bat away this insult, the erasure of caste.

"You love untouchables so much, now you can be one," Goli sneers. He backs out of the vestibule, through the crowd, and disappears.

Vairum walks slowly out to the veranda and faces the Brahmin-quarter denizens staring from his stoop, fair, flabby men, fingering their holy threads and shoulder towels.

"Here-I stand before you, uncasted," Vairum softly proclaims. "Has he acted on your behalf?" he asks, gesturing over them as though to clear a small cloud. "A low and unscrupulous scoundrel, who has left his children for me to raise. He has thrust me beneath caste?"

He looks at them and they look away; one man clears his throat. They are thinking, variously, that Vairum is the scoundrel; that Sivakami, and not he, is raising the children; that Vairum may be in the right but it is best not to get involved in a family fight. But none speaks, and Vairum closes the door on their faces.

"You see, Amma, why I care so little for what the neighbours hear." Vairum turns to face his mother, who comes out now from the pantry, where she stood and watched the exchange.

"Oh, my child." She holds her arms out toward him and he looks at her incredulously.

"You understand you are party to this, yes? The man hangs around my front stoop waiting to insult me, Amma. Why do you protect him?"

"I never wanted, I..." I would have done anything to save you from this. I would have done anything to save you from this. "For your sister." What can she say-is it not obvious that she would give her life for him? "For your sister." What can she say-is it not obvious that she would give her life for him?

She looks around at Thangam sitting in the corner where she has lain since her arrival, her body rigid, her neck stiffly bowed to hide her face. Kamalam and Janaki watch from the corner by the kitchen, and Sivakami sees Muchami watching Janaki from the garden door, all of her feelings mirrored in his face: how to keep children from harm? She has done all she can to protect all of them-hasn't she?

"You have never done what is best for my sister," Vairum thunders. "The Brahmins on this street have never accepted me, and now your son-in-law has uncasted me like those ruffians uncasted your Rama. There is no reason for me to live here. You can have your precious neighbours, and your reputation. Vani and I are moving to Madras."

"Don't do that, my son," Sivakami says, confused.

He calls Vani.

They need take nothing: they each have a full wardrobe in their house in the city, and Vani a better veena, though she has gone there only twice a year till now. They take leave of Sivakami, doing a prostration for her. Sivakami doesn't know if Vairum means to force his mother to give them her blessings, or if Vani insisted on their paying Sivakami their respects. When they rise, Sivakami hugs them, though only Vani returns her embrace. Vairum keeps his arms stiffly at his side. She is crying, though from her right eye only.

She calls Janaki to offer Vani a plate of turmeric, betel and vermilion.

Sivakami doesn't know what "hypocrite" means, and doesn't know why Goli was accusing her son of loving non-Brahmins, but she knows Vairum has not shown nearly the sort of allegiance with his own caste that the times seem to demand. She feels small and old, and frightened.

It has been years since Janaki has helped Muchami with the cows, and she feels awkward and guilty as she goes to the cowshed the next morning. She feels she is being babyish. She can't even wholly admit to herself her motivation: she wants desperately to talk about what she learned about Bharati. She presumes her mother and grandmother don't know, and she can't be the one to tell them. What if they do know? It would be horrible to talk about it, especially now that Goli is responsible for Vairum's leaving. Kamalam is too tender; her eldest sisters are too far away. Sita would call her a liar, and Janaki would never talk to her about anything important or painful anyway.

She thinks Goli has done something wrong, but has he, and what, exactly? The man Bharati thought was her father sounds honourable, and Bharati made it sound as though his second family might not even be a secret from his first. Sivakami must not know about it. But maybe the only thing Goli did wrong was not paying. Janaki feels as though she is banging weak fists against her own unyielding head. Who can help her to understand this?

Once she sees Muchami at work in the shed, however, she is unable to talk to him either. He is a servant, she tells herself, even as she feels an ancient urge to climb into his lap and put her arms around his neck. He is not part of the family. If he If he doesn't know, I can't be the one to tell him, doesn't know, I can't be the one to tell him, and and if he does know, it would be if he does know, it would be improper for improper for me to discuss it with him. She backs out of the shed without saying anything, and goes slowly toward the house. She doesn't feel like crying; she feels as though a black wind whirls dryly at her centre, obscuring something essential from her view. me to discuss it with him. She backs out of the shed without saying anything, and goes slowly toward the house. She doesn't feel like crying; she feels as though a black wind whirls dryly at her centre, obscuring something essential from her view.

Muchami had heard her come in. He turns and sees the hem of her paavaadai disappearing into the house. He guesses she wanted to talk. Perhaps it's about Goli, perhaps...

Of course: her school friend. She must have said something to Janaki about Goli owing her mother money. Nothing can be proven; he hopes neither girl has heard the rumours that the devadasi's daughter is his. It's not a subject he can raise with Janaki, though. Hopefully, she'll just let it go.

FIVE MONTHS LATER, Thangam gives birth to another baby boy. The child is l.u.s.ty and red, and when his sisters see him, they gasp at his beauty: he alone among them has inherited Thangam's golden eyes. Thangam, though, is exhausted, and lies with her eyes closed, until Sivakami says, "Thangam? Thangam, kanna, do you want anything?"

Thangam raises her head and Sivakami freezes: Thangam's eyes are now stone cold blue. She shakes her head, no, and lies back down to sleep.

Rainy Season 1940.

IT's THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Janaki and Bharati hold hands up to the schoolyard gate, then uncouple while their servants, Mari and Draupadi, wait to escort each of them, and their younger sisters, home. They are both nearly five feet, and wear uniforms of a half-sari-a long cotton paavaadai in navy blue, with white blouse and white davani, a cloth piece wrapped once about the hips, across the chest, and over the shoulder-indicating they are now more women than girls. They both came of age this year-Janaki is nearly fifteen, Bharati has commenced her sixteenth year-and will not continue in school, since all higher levels are coeducational.

"Well, see you later," Janaki says, at a loss. They know it's not likely they will cross paths again.

"Bye," Bharati rejoins, with a sweet smile. "Good luck, with marriage and all."

Janaki reciprocates, open and genuine. "And good luck to you-whatever comes next."

Bharati raises her eyebrows, amused and practical, but then Janaki is alarmed to see Bharati gulp as her eyes brim slightly and she blinks. "Yes, whatever comes next. G'bye, little sister."

It has become one of their private jokes, to call each other little sister and big sister, thangachi and akka, akka, though Bharati started the joke. Hearing the reference now returns to Janaki her guilty relief at this parting. Ever since she learned of their blood relations.h.i.+p, she has felt mildly cool toward Bharati, in spite of their greater closeness. She both dislikes this feeling and feels it is justified. She doesn't think it shows; Bharati, she thinks, might not even have picked up on it. though Bharati started the joke. Hearing the reference now returns to Janaki her guilty relief at this parting. Ever since she learned of their blood relations.h.i.+p, she has felt mildly cool toward Bharati, in spite of their greater closeness. She both dislikes this feeling and feels it is justified. She doesn't think it shows; Bharati, she thinks, might not even have picked up on it.

Back when Bharati was uncertain of who her father was, Janaki and she remarked innocently on the coincidence that they both lived with their maternal grandmothers. Now that they share a father, Janaki frequently tells herself that she and Bharati really have nothing in common, because otherwise she would have to admit she identifies more with Bharati now than before. They both feel ashamed of their father, though he disappoints them in different ways.

Their slight estrangement had been facilitated by Vani's absence, since Bharati no longer had a reason to come and sit behind their house. They continued to spend all their time together at school but no longer had an after-school relations.h.i.+p.

When they had outgrown their first veena teacher, Bharati's mother had engaged a music tutor who came, once a week, all the way from Thiruchi. Bharati invited Janaki to come and partic.i.p.ate in the lessons. It was tempting: Janaki had had to work hard to keep up with her music since Vani and Vairum moved to Madras. She practises at least an hour or two every day on the veena Vani left, which has, de facto, become hers. Once a week, there is an educational music program broadcast on the radio, and Janaki goes to Gayatri's to take it in; occasionally, she goes to weddings, where she makes a point of learning some new songs from whoever is the best musician in attendance. The few times Vani has come back to visit them in Cholapatti, Janaki, in her desperation to learn, has been persistent to the point of rudeness, but Vani is ever patient and indulgent with her: playing, listening to Janaki play, wordlessly making corrections and modelling improvements.

When Bharati asked again if Janaki would be coming over for veena lessons, Janaki shook her head. "My grandmother says I'm too old to be going to others' houses for lessons, that I should just practise at home."

Bharati tossed her head a little, lifting her chin as though something were flying past it, and said coolly, "Very conservative, your grandmother."

Janaki felt herself get hot: she had always understood "conservative" to be a compliment-why didn't it sound that way coming from Bharati? But then Bharati appeared to correct herself. "So's mine, in her own way," she told Janaki with a return of the intimate joviality that Janaki now shrank from. "Too bad. It would have been fun."

In fact, Janaki had never asked her grandmother. She wouldn't have wanted to admit to having a devadasi as a friend, though she knows that, were it not for their other connection, she would have found a way to attend the special lessons.

And now Bharati is turning toward the rest of her life and Janaki, toward hers. Janaki knows her own near future, but not the far. She will stay home, but will receive a tutor, young Kesavan, who will help her maintain her Sanskrit and other basic academic skills. Next year, her grandmother will start to solicit potential grooms. Beyond that, she cannot see.

Janaki, Radhai and Kamalam, all of whom have come home from school together, wash their hands, face and feet, and change into everyday clothes. Radhai goes to play with Krishnan next door at Rukmini's house, where he spends every day, the first of Thangam's pre-school children not to pa.s.s his afternoons with Muchami. Though Muchami missed having a child with him, he had no means or desire to override Rukmini's proffered affection for the little boy.

Kamalam and Janaki take their embroidery and go to sit on the veranda, where they will be met by Ecchemu, a Brahmin girl of about Janaki's age, with whom Janaki has become friendly. Ecchemu is a dull, silly girl, but, by virtue of caste and age, is an appropriate companion for Janaki. Where Bharati has always made Janaki feel frumpy, Ecchemu causes her to feel her own attributes keenly. She has always known she was smart, but now she may have become pretty She is of average build, unlike Kamalam, who, at five feet and five inches, is by far the tallest of the sisters. Janaki has inherited something of her father's square jaw and forehead, but her demure, perceptive gaze is hers alone, as are her creative talents, which always exceed available outlets.

Since Sita left for her husband's house, Janaki has taken over the drawing of the kolam every morning, the rice flour design that ornaments every threshold. Where their house used to display no more than a perfunctory few lines and dots of the required symmetry, it is now daily decorated with a kolam no less than three feet across, often embellished with birds and flowers. Janaki admires her latest-a cobra wriggled across the threshold in perfect diagonals-as she takes her seat on the veranda and smiles condescendingly at Ecchemu, who is just arriving.

As they work together, Ecchemu chatters vapidly about her sister's recent marriage. Janaki doesn't listen, but instead reflects on the academic career she has just ended. She performed well-better than any of her sisters did, and likely better than Kamalam or Radhai will. None of them have her desire for knowledge, her determination and application. She knew full well she would have no more than an elementary education, though, and it doesn't occur to her to be discontent at not going further. Rather, she is grateful to Sivakami for continuing to give her tutoring, more than most girls receive. Now she is looking forward to marriage and to raising a family, as much as she can look forward to events both inevitable and essentially unknown.

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, Navaratri approaches-festival of dolls. It's Janaki's favourite, not surprisingly, since it offers chances for imaginative play, and because it includes several days of tribute to Saraswati, G.o.ddess of music and education, the deity Janaki feels most personally inclined to wors.h.i.+p. Gayatri, when she comes for her morning coffee, tells Janaki stories, innocent and repet.i.tive, of how the holiday used to be Thangam's favourite, too.

It feels like a strange coincidence, then, when the day's mail contains a letter from Thangam, the first Janaki has seen. It is written in pencil, in Thangam's own hand. In places, the writing is so light that it disappears. In others, Thangam has pressed so hard that the thick, nubbly paper has torn, as though she were leaning on the pencil for strength.

"Amma," it begins, after the usual it begins, after the usual "Safe" "Safe" in the upper right corner, and the date, in the left. in the upper right corner, and the date, in the left.

He has been moved again. He has already gone and I must ready the things. I think my baby is due in some three months. Can one ofmy daughters come to help me? Baby Raghavan is very strong, red and chubby. Please send a girl if one of mine can come to help. I know all of my girls are very strong. Do not worry.

It finishes with her name, laboriously inscribed at the bottom.

Janaki is in the middle of her veena practice. Sivakami shows her the letter. "You'll go, Janaki? Muchami will take you."

"Yes, Amma," she responds rapidly. Why is Thangam asking Sivakami not to worry? What does her grandmother have to worry about?

Sivakami smiles, looking wan. "Good girl. Maybe you can be ready to leave day after tomorrow?"

It's a pleasant nine-hour journey northwest. Janaki has brought a slate, to pa.s.s the time, and gives Muchami a few Sanskrit lessons. He is too shy to work aloud in so public a setting, but she writes out lines for him to copy. He has continued to sit in on Janaki's Sanskrit tutorials, though young Kesavan practically ignores him. Once in a while, though, Janaki, in a didactic mood, will take it upon herself to quiz Muchami on the basics. He has grasped these, though his p.r.o.nunciation continues to be atrocious and Janaki doesn't try to hide her impatience as she corrects him.

When they are done with Sanskrit, they watch the landscape s.h.i.+ft outside the barred windows of the train. The greens and browns of the Kaveri delta give way to pinkish rocks and spa.r.s.er settlements as they climb into the hills. It's the monsoon season, and the air smells of rain. Twice, they ride through cloudbursts.

They chat, but not much. There is a distance between them now, which both feel it proper to observe. Janaki is glad for it, because it indicates the difference in their stations-she is growing up and happily antic.i.p.ating the small powers that will fall to her as a matron. Muchami, for his part, still feels the weight of the child she was on his hip. If she tends to boss him, if she is short with him over his Sanskrit, he indulges her. She is still his favourite and he is proud of her.

Once in the town, Muchami, carrying her bag, hurries ahead and drops behind, inquiring repeatedly. They find the house. Two-year-old Raghavan gallops out of the house. When they stoop to caress him, he whinnies and ducks and continues past them, into the neighbour's house. The neighbour emerges carrying him. She is a tall, thin woman with severe looks. Tics in either side of her face pull her mouth down in clownish grimaces. Raghavan seems to think she is making faces to amuse him, and to Janaki's mortification, imitates her and laughs, clapping his hands.

Thangam leans in the doorway and smiles at them, a smile below which stretch two cords in her neck, like the pillars of a suspension bridge. She is as grey as ash, and as incorporeal.

Muchami says, "Thangam? Are you well?" But Thangam just stands back silently to let Janaki enter the small dwelling. Janaki moves toward her mother to kiss her, but Thangam makes no similar move and her initiative fades. She puts her bag in a corner while Thangam makes coffee for Muchami, who squats at the front stoop.

They are living in a house with the well in the middle of the main hall, under an open skylight. Raghavan runs around the well, flings himself gaily against the walls, pulls saris and braids. Once he stops and walks delicately to a shrouded pile. He pats it gently, saying, "Amma. Ga'phone. Amma! Ga'phone." She smiles, goes to the mound and unveils the gramophone.

Raghavan sits and watches the turntable with the intensity of the little dog on the label waiting for his master's voice, while Thangam takes four records, one by one, from a high shelf. She fits the needle into the gramophone's arm and the key into the body and winds. Janaki and the neighbour sit, while Muchami moves into the front doorway. First they hear a loud scratchiness, then a single veena as though heard over a river's rush. It's "Sami Varnam," the same recording they heard when Goli first gave Thangam the machine.

Thangam plucks the disc from its bed, sheathes it and takes out another. The new record also rushes and shushes, riverine-but it is a vocalist this time, not a veena player. The singer is very young. Janaki has never heard Bharati sing, but she finds herself imagining her friend at home, in that pretty hut with no neighbours, plaiting her hair after her oil bath, kohling her eyes dreamily in a fragment of mirror, singing through barely parted lips.

They all know the song: "Balagopala Palaya Mam," a devotional song for Lord Krishna, composed by Diks.h.i.+tr, one of the immortals of south Indian cla.s.sical music. Janaki sings along, and even the severe-looking neighbour joins in. Thangam leans against a pillar with her eyes closed. Little Raghavan claps his chubby hands and occasionally cuffs one of them in delight.

But Thangam forgot to rewind the machine, and when the song is nearly at its end, the disc begins to slow. Seventy-eight rpm becomes sixty-five, fifty, thirty-five. Raghavan stops mid-clap to listen to this dying groan. Janaki giggles at the funny sound, at the expression on the little boy's face. Seeing her laugh, he begins laughing also.

Thangam opens her eyes, pulls out a third disc and slips it on the turntable, not forgetting to crank this time. She looks at her children and visitor with a sly expression, one that might almost be mischief. Janaki stops laughing in amazement, but many people are still laughing, more than are present: from the phonograph issues a river of giggling, chortling, guffawing and twittering, the laughter of a large number of people of all ages and s.e.xes that, in ensemble, creates the cadences of a familiar, elementary tune, "Vara Veena."

It is a novelty record, a fas.h.i.+on item: music of laughter. Minister probably has a copy; he rarely misses a fad.

Raghavan doubles over, laughing louder and harder. At this, at him, Janaki starts laughing again; the neighbour joins in, and even Muchami, at the door. Thangam smiles, her eyes closed again, looking almost peaceful.

Oh, thinks Janaki, as she lies that night with her baby brother sleeping in her arms and the first monsoon rains thrumming through the skylight, why could not every day of our lives have been like this?

Janaki sets to work the next day, getting them ready to move. Muchami, seeing that there are no servants here, is arranging to transport their belongings to the new home, while Janaki, Thangam and the baby will take the train.

Not much has been packed yet but there is not much to pack. Still, progress is very slow at first because each item Janaki puts in a bag or trunk, her little brother takes out again. So instead she sets the things down beside the luggage and tells him to leave them there. He mischievously packs them one by one. In this way, things get done.

Janaki is shocked at how few furnis.h.i.+ngs there are and asks if some items have not gone ahead with her father. Thangam shakes her head. Janaki shrugs and continues to make arrangements, knowing her mother must have had more copper pots than this-there are gaps in the usual size sequence. She's sure they had more in the Karnatak country. And only one silver plate-unheard of. She admits to herself what is clear: her father must have p.a.w.ned the pots and plates over the years.

The transfer of goods and persons to the village of Munnur is completed without incident. Munnur is to the east, a few hours closer to Cholapatti, back on the Kaveri. Muchami, after delivering them, takes his leave. When Janaki sees him off on the veranda of their new home, even more modest than the last, he inclines toward her and speaks in a low voice. "Janaki, your grandmother gave you a little money, yes?" Janaki confirms it.

"Keep that safe," he instructs, sounding rea.s.suring, no longer the servant, but Sivakami's representative. "It's for an emergency. You never know what might happen. And you know how to contact us, if you need to? To send a letter?"

"Yes, of course," Janaki says-she's fourteen, practically an adult!-but also scared at the degree of responsibility this conference implies.

"All right," Muchami says, his brow furrowed. He's reluctant to leave.

"It's okay, Muchami." Janaki looks brave. "We'll be fine."

He looks at the ground. "You're a good girl, Janaki, a strong girl, smart girl. I know you will take good care of little Thangam. Poor Thangam."

Janaki is slightly offended that Muchami sees her mother-and probably her father-just as she does. But she cannot sustain this feeling ; she is still too much the little girl she was.

"Don't worry, Muchami," she insists. "I will look after her."

He smiles slightly, bows and is gone.

Goli had appeared surprised to see his family, but he seems to be in a mood of regularity, going to the office every day and, better yet, coming home. He hasn't made friends yet, Janaki thinks sourly. She looks at her mother and thinks of all she has suffered, feeling self-righteous and wis.h.i.+ng she didn't.

Janaki unpacks by leaving the bags and trunks open and letting Raghavan keep himself busy. She hangs the cuckoo clock-another of Goli's caprices-and a calendar she brought from Cholapatti, showing an image of the G.o.ddess Saraswati, signified by her veena. A servant is arranged for cleaning; Thangam will cook. The rains are coming reliably now and the family, too, settles into a routine of sorts.

Navaratri is fast approaching and Janaki turns her thoughts happily, if uncertainly, to the festival: they are in a house entirely without dolls and with barely five or six deity portraits. Buying dolls the way Gayatri would is not an option: Janaki doesn't want to ask her parents to pay and doesn't think this qualifies as an emergency, so she can't use the money her grandmother gave her.

As she sits on the veranda one morning, watching the rain and thinking on the doll question, Raghavan runs out to give her a murrukku, then trips and drops his own in a puddle. He howls briefly, then continues dunking the chickpea flour snack into the puddle until it is reduced to a sodden mess.

Janaki recalls making her family's names in murrukku and smiles as an idea occurs to her. She fills a bowl with wheat flour, which they have in abundance and don't much need. She mixes in some rice flour and blends it with water to make a dough. As she works beside the well, the rain clears up, and a timid suns.h.i.+ne leaks through the clouds.

From the paste, Janaki begins fas.h.i.+oning figures the height of her hand: a yogi, a teacher, a judge, laundryman, betel vendor, widow, farmer, iron-press man, priest, barber, soldier, rail signal man, mother, father, G.o.ddesses Meenaks.h.i.+, Saraswati and Lalitha Parameshwari, a Sita, with Rama, Lakshmana and Hanuman, a Ganesha. As the homunculi dry, she paints details onto them with kohl, crushed leaves, tamarind, turmeric, lime and ink. She anoints them, where appropriate, with holy ash, sandal and vermilion, using a lightly frayed green neem stick as a brush.

Over a few days, a small village grows in their small hall, where Janaki has created a golu stand of seven shelves, made of bricks and boards left by some previous tenant. On the floor, she places pigs, crows, puppies, a policeman, a village idiot, a labourer, a vegetable vendor, a bulk goods vendor, a Muslim shopkeeper and four musicians. Two village women argue, two pound rice grains; two men nap in the street, and two fight over a goat. A baby gets a ma.s.sage; a little girl plays hide-and-seek; a couple get married. Set in a little garden of her own, one naughty little girl eats some dirt. A calf and a young Lord Krishna watch over her in att.i.tudes of adoration.

Raghavan plays with them all. Though he's told to play gently, he breaks or loses a number of the figures. Janaki refas.h.i.+ons them, not ungrateful for the extra demands on her time. The few neighbours who come nightly during the festival never fail to remark on the ingenious little village. The G.o.ddesses must certainly be pleased with Janaki, they tell her. Even more important for Janaki, Thangam is delighted. Janaki basks in her mother's pleasure as the small figures' industry, prosperity and cheer light the empty house.

The only gloom on their society of simple pleasures is cast by Goli. He goes out to work in the morning and returns in the evenings, giving them daytimes of freedom and evenings of trying to keep the baby quiet and out of his way. Goli does not remark on the doughy village within his residence, and Janaki thinks this is just as well. Thangam spends evenings sitting mute and inert in a corner. When neighbours come to pay visits, customary during this festival, Thangam greets them silently, while Janaki, trying to keep up appearances, offers refreshments on arrival, and a plate of turmeric, betel and vermilion as the ladies depart.

On the fifth day of the festival, a letter arrives from Sivakami. Janaki's hands shake as she steams it open, her eyes welling. It has not been easy, staying with her parents. Janaki loves Thangam in intense and complicated ways, but she loves Sivakami with a love light and clear.

The letter says Vani is playing in a special Navaratri concert series on All India Radio, to be broadcast from Madras. Vani has, since they moved, played a few concerts in Madras. She will play on the radio on the sixth night of the festival-tomorrow. Janaki's heart pounds and her mouth waters at the prospect of hearing her aunt. Sivakami says in the letter they must listen to the concert. Of course they must. Janaki will die if they don't.

When her father returns from work, Janaki hands him the letter and watches his face. She finds herself comparing him with his wedding portrait, on the wall behind him. He has the same wavy jet hair and sharp b.u.t.ton eyes, but looks less restless now, more intent, and lines have formed on his wide, square muzzle, like big apostrophes around everything that comes out of his mouth.

He snorts, bringing her to attention.

"Yes," he says, "we must, we must hear your talented aunty."

He has said what Janaki wanted to hear, even if the quote marks around it give it some irony she doesn't understand. She scurries to prepare.

The first complication is that Munnur, where they are now stationed, is not electrified. Goli volunteers that his good friends in Konam, the closest town, own a radio and would be pleased to have them come and visit. The second complication is that the concert will run later than the last bus back to Munnur. They will stay overnight and catch the first bus at 3:30 a.m. The third is that some rule of Goli's position forbids him to overnight anywhere outside of Munnur. Goli scoffs when Janaki timorously mentions this. Janaki, well trained in strategic deceit, emphasizes to those neighbours who visit that they will return by the last bus at night. No one from the village is ever out at night, anyhow. They hope that in the morning they will be able to sneak in without the more zealous housewives and busybodies seeing them.

Janaki is bustling happily and pauses to ask Thangam if they should bring a second extra set of clothes for Raghavan and whether Thangam needs a shawl for the early-morning trip back. Thangam doesn't reply but rather looks on listlessly until Janaki stops, pursing her lips, and asks, "Akka?"