SODI

She was cooking, it was a large meal, but the work was effortless. They were at her parents’ home, at least it seemed to be, and yet it was unlike the way she remembered it. Somehow her own children were there. It was for them, the meal, the occasion. All three were about to be married, and though she had no idea who their spouses were to be, she knew each one was a good match. And then they were all on a bus together. It was night, but she could clearly see the landscape they were passing through. It was nowhere she recognized. Everyone was talking, but she didn’t know what they were saying. She was watching it all as in a film. Everyone but her knew the destination: she alone was lost.

And then what happened? Nivetha struggles to pull into consciousness the scraps of dream that are fast evaporating, but no, it’s useless. For a few moments, even as the details flee, she tries to warm herself with the embers of the dream but the darkness of the early morning hour presses in upon her. She knows she will have to give in to the day, but longs to hold the privacy of sleep to herself. No one else is awake. Beside her Bhavanan stirs, the rhythm of his snores only slightly interrupted by her own movement. From behind the wall there is no sound, the children will be asleep for half an hour yet.

Opening her eyes adds little to what she can yet make out, no appreciable light penetrates the single small window. Only the noise of the first birds confirms the faint easing of the night sky outside, the whooping shouts of the koels, always the earliest she hears. Soon they are joined by the rasping calls of crows, and then the soft insistence of spotted doves. Nivetha lies still just a moment more, savouring the final moments to herself. Then she lifts her side of the mosquito net, becoming less effective by the month for its worn holes, to slip her feet onto the rough concrete floor.

She needs no light for the short distance to the outhouse kitchen. There in the first faint glimmer of dawn she can make out two lighter shapes, though not yet the full images. Both are pages cut from old calendars. The larger, above, will soon bloom vividly as an image of Lakshmi, smiling, seated in a lotus blossom, dispensing bounty from a cornucopia, tumbling gold coins, but Nivetha prefers another incarnation of the goddess. The smaller image, below, retaining its dates now two years old, will reveal Shakti, her personal goddess. Bhavanan chose the larger page, with its focus on material things. Nivetha thinks more of the inward power Shakti represents, and it is to her she murmurs a prayer ‘By you this universe is born, by you this world is created, Oh Devi, Divine Mother, by you it is protected, protect us today’.

The two pictures are pinned to one of two wooden board walls built against the side of the house, leaving one end open. This wall runs parallel to the back of the house, and also holds the cooking space, with its hearth built of bricks.

It is a small house, with walls of light concrete block and cement. The roof is of tin sheeting, and this, with the small window area, makes the interior hot during the day, so the family spend much of their time outside. The tin has advantages. Their roof didn’t leak in last week’s heavy rain, as the thatch roofs of some neighbours did, or the tile roofs of the more affluent homes beyond. Instead the house flooded from the yard, mainly affecting the small room to one side, infrequently used until recently. The three children had always shared the other room, but Kesakan, now turned 9, recently moved into the third. The water soaked the coir mattress on the floor, and ruined his school books. She reminds herself to put the mattress out in the sun again later.

In the kitchen now, even in the early light, she is bothered by mosquitoes, whose numbers have soared after the rain. Another chore to remember. She must get Gowri to gather some margosa leaves to burn later as a deterrent. Bhavanan will be displeased if they are this bad at dinner time.

The house forms one of a small community, away from any main road. None of the fifteen or so householders here have title to their land, but they have been here for a number of years, and every house has an electricity supply, though not always reliable. There is no running water supply, of course; a few houses have their own wells, but not Nivetha’s, their land is too small. They, like most, rely on a standpipe at the end of the lane, another supply that cannot always be trusted.

Her prayer done, Nivetha’s day begins. She has set aside water for the morning, and now clears the ash in the hearth, scraping it into a bucket to be thrown on the little garden later. Next she arranges kindling for a new fire, before waking the family. All across the country at this time women would be doing the same, creating a new day. Nivetha feels a kinship.

Soon after 6:30 the children leave for school. Nivetha takes the two girls, Gowri, 7, and Maathangi, 6, to the house of a neighbour, from where they walk to school, together with two older girls. During the morning the house is Nivetha’s domain, and the work of it hers too, as Bhavanan goes out in the day whether he has work or not. For a time he had a job working on buses, collecting fares, but lost it for cheating, holding back small amounts of what he collected. Now he has only casual work; some days there is work at the market, loading and unloading, or he may find various other labouring jobs, gardening, construction, sorting scrap metal for a muslim trader in the Old Town, anything he can find, for which he will be paid daily. Nivetha doesn’t always know if he has work or what he earns; he gives her whatever he decides, and doesn’t discuss it with her. Today he claims, as usual, that he is going to work. She knows he sometimes goes to family, friends or others to ask for support.

Over recent weeks he has brought in very little money, and Nivetha has had to rely on other means. All the women of her small community help each other when they can, and she occasionally has some poorly paid work of her own, cooking, sewing, or light gardening. Bhavanan doesn’t know how she hides grain, and small sums of cash, but without it there would be many times the family would go without.

Twice daily, as a rule, she takes two large containers to fill at the pipe, or may send the girls if she is busy. The standpipe is a meeting place for the women, an important source of news and gossip, as they stand waiting for pots and buckets to fill. Today the news keeps them longer. A neighbour, Lakshana, was found that morning hanging from a beam at the back of her house. The tone of conversation is general and impersonal, but the concern is genuine.

‘Aiyo, paavam.’

‘I saw her yesterday, I gave her some eggs from our chickens. I didn’t know.’

‘A good woman. She always helps me.’

‘Who found her?’

Back home again, Nivetha’s next task is the family lunch. What can she give them? Each meal these days is a challenge. She reviews the few ingredients she has, rice, a little dhal, some leaves. She can make a curry from the centre stem of a freshly chopped banana plant, cutting away the thick outer curl of leaves that form the long stalk. But she is short of spices, and goes to the house of her neighbour Shiromi where she obtains a handful of mustard seed and two coconuts. Nivetha sits on a hard wooden chair while Shiromi scrapes a coconut, and they talk. The conversation inevitably turns to Lakshana. Nivetha thinks of the woman she knew, tall, serious, generous without being thoughtful, always slightly distracted, not so much preoccupied with other thoughts but rather as though a part of her had been lost somewhere. Shiromi is older, Lakshana’s age, and knew her well. Now in less public talk they are able to talk more openly.

‘Why do you think she did it?’

‘Paavam. It was very hard for her. The children are gone. Who knows where that son of theirs is. I heard he may be in Canada. The daughter, married in Colombo. They get no support from either of them. Her husband is a waster. Drinks. And they owe too much to a moneylender.’ At this she stops, and then, with a quizzical look at Nivetha, adds ‘Like your husband?’

Nivetha is halted momentarily by this, knowing Shiromi is no idle gossip, while she herself is unaware of any involvement with moneylenders. She can’t avoid a sudden glance at Shiromi’s face, but tries to cover her confusion, and quickly looks away. ‘Perhaps, but not the way they had.’

Back at home after lunch, she leaves the children together around the table in the kitchen area, engaged in their usual amiable squabbling. Kesakan is telling his sisters to do their homework, though he has no intention to, claiming he can’t because his books have been ruined, and they argue. Nivetha doesn’t intervene, she hardly listens, knowing there will be no ill feeling. If she thought it was necessary to calm them, she would encourage them all to study, but will not press them, nor does she have much interest in whatever it is they should be studying.

She is sweeping the yard in front of the house with an ekil broom, the stiff twigs scratching at the sandy ground with a satisfying firmness, as she gathers up fallen leaves and loose sand. The yard around the house is bare except along one side and a thin strip at the back, where she tends some chillies and edible greens, and a flowering red hibiscus bush. Nivetha thinks of the dead woman, wondering how she must have felt. Shiromi pinpointed their money problems. Why should Lakshana die, why the wife not the husband, when he was responsible for the debts? The fate of a woman, being a wife, so her amma always said. And she thinks of Bhavanan, of having married him when she was 19. She didn’t object to her parents’ choice of husband, it didn’t occur to her that she might. No dowry was given beyond her own jewellery. That jewellery: he has pressed her to sell it, but she flatly refused, the one firm line she has held against him, and he let it go. There are worse husbands, she thinks, probably including Lakshana’s, drinking, cheating on their wives, beating them. Bhavanan doesn’t often trouble her, and only sometimes hits them, mostly when he’s drunk, and he hasn’t hit either of the two girls yet.

Her thoughts keep coming back to what Shiromi said about Bhavanan’s debts. How much might they owe? Could she ask him? They have never talked about such things, and she does not challenge him. Could she be brought to the same despair as Lakshana? But the children, what would become of them?

She is distracted by a flurry of black and white as a magpie robin bobs into her sight, lands, cocks its tail twice, and takes off to the fence, where it remains for a time, pouring out its melodious song. Nivetha stands and listens. She is aware of flickering shadows across the yard, the pattern cast by the leaves of a neighbour’s murunga tree. She notices again the front wall of the house, painted at the time of their initial enthusiasm for this home, with geometric patterns in children’s watercolours, but now faded, stained by rain and scuffed. She hears, too, the sound of her children’s playful arguing, and there, Maathangi’s bubbling laugh. No, she wouldn’t want to end all this, she can’t imagine giving in, for all the hardship she faces.

Then the three children crowd excitedly around her to say they have been invited to a neighbour’s house to watch TV, there is a children’s talent show. This is a big treat: few here have a TV, it is a status symbol, and a privilege to be invited. She agrees, telling Kesakan that he is in charge, and must make sure they come straight back afterwards, telling the girls, as they know she will, to obey their brother.

Once again she is alone at home for a while, unusual at this time of day. She prepares their dinner. Taking some rice flour roasted lightly on the open hearth, she stirs it in a bowl with a little salt, then adds warm water, mixing thoroughly. While she is preparing the dough she puts a steamer on to boil. Once she is satisfied with the mix, she fills the hand held steel press, takes up the set of little circular mats of plaited palm, and squeezes out a small pile of threads of dough on to each, then stacks them in the steamer. While the string hoppers cook she prepares a sodi to accompany them. She has chillie, curry leaves, and some herbs, not all she would want, but she will make do, as she often does. While she works she thinks again about Lakshana. Maybe she would have been better off without her husband. Maybe, she thinks, I would be better without Bhavanan too. No,no, I can’t think like that, I am a bad wife, my amma would never have thought like that; but then, people were more self reliant in that generation, didn’t have such debts, these bills we have. And they had more support from their families, they weren’t scattered across the world. She knows women who do not do as much as she does for their husbands, but they are not respectable women. A wife must serve, her amma insisted, and must earn her rights.

Before she has finished cooking Bhavanan comes back, and she notices immediately that he is unsteady, slurred, but doing his best not to show it. She is annoyed, but holds back the emotion, and asks him ‘How was work today, husband?’ Both know she is not intending a conversation about how he enjoyed his day, that this is her diffident way of asking if he has money to give her. He grunts, says he has been with Bala, who couldn’t help today. This is enough explanation for Nivetha. So he has spent the afternoon with his cousin brother, a man she has never liked, a deceitful, scheming man, a regular drinker and a bad influence on Bhavanan; that only deepens her annoyance.

When the children return, chattering excitedly about the TV show, they all sit down to eat. Bhavanan complains about the sodi, saying it tastes like water. The resentment that has been building up within her bubbles over, she feels flushed, a pressure behind her eyes.

‘How do you expect me to buy spices when you don’t bring money? Do you know how much turmeric costs now, or garlic? No, of course you don’t.’

‘I give you enough money. You don’t talk to me like that. You should respect me, I’m your husband, the man here. And in front of your kids.’

She turns to look at him, both of them now on their feet, and the face that is so familiar, the angular jaw, the dark line of the eyebrows, takes on a new look, changed, as though she is seeing it for the first time, as though he has been replaced by an impostor. What is happening? Has he changed or has she? She has always been diligent, dutiful. Is that something to pride herself on? It’s what she learned as a child, the role sanctioned for her, but she is aware also of responsibilities beyond. She is the mother of his childen, her own children.

‘I will show respect when you show you deserve it. A husband’s role is to provide for his family. You don’t, you can’t.’

There is the sound of an approaching motorbike, and shouts from the lane outside, calling for Bhavanan. He is already standing, and at the first sound of his name his skinny body moves faster than she would have thought possible, out through the kitchen, across the strip of garden and over the palmyra fan fence with more agility than she has seen from him in years. They hear the bike scrape to a halt in front of the house, and before Nivetha can guess at what would cause Bhavanan’s reaction, a middle aged man storms around the side of the house into the open kitchen demanding money. She sees a bald head and a red, contorted face, a man with shoulders narrower than his pot belly, a stranger. He hurries back to his bike and returns brandishing a katti, held high.

‘Where is he? I’m going to cut him, where is that useless devil, that dog? I’ll cut all of you.’ Nivetha is standing in front of her kids, and shoos them out behind her, into the house. He waves the blade in Nivetha’s direction. ‘You, you hiding him, you pay me, he owes me, you shameless people.’

Nivetha’s mind is on the children. She does not feel brave, simply that whatever happens to her, Kesakan and the girls must be safe. Everything seems to have slowed down, to be happening at half speed. He is shouting, spittle flies from his mouth, but it is as though the sound is distant. She does not hear what he is saying as he looms over her. He swings his arm, up and then down, and Nivetha is sure she can hear the noise the katti makes as the blade slices through the air. She does not flinch as it misses her by a short distance and smashes down onto the table, with a sudden crack as it hits the earthenware pot containing what’s left of the sodi. Red shards of shattered pot fly, as the liquid splashes. She stands firm, and her voice is still calm as she asks if this is how a man conducts his business, would he behave like this with his own sister, how would he feel if his children were threatened and frightened like this, tells him firmly if he has a dispute with Bhavanan he must take it up with him later, man to man, not threaten a woman he has no business with. He quietens and leaves, but not without a final threat for Bhavanan, shouted loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

The children have listened closely, and come back as soon as they hear the motorbike leave. They all hug their mother, and she crouches down to hold them close, as Kesakan says ‘I’ll look after you, amma.’ In the emphasis on ‘I’ Nivetha hears a distinction the boy may not be aware of, excluding his father. The girls are quiet, but holding tightly to their mother. She is shaking, and her quick, shallow breathing reflects the rhythm of her heart. Despite the wall of the house a few feet in front of her, her gaze is focussed at a great distance. Bhavanan is out of sight, gone, somewhere behind her, and for the moment she neither knows nor cares where. What was it amma said? A woman must earn her right to be a mother. She never understood it before. Now she does, but she understands more: times change, there are responsibilities beyond being a dutiful wife. She will ensure her children learn this now.