“Ranga?! Ranga!” Murthy looked irritated as he walked into the dingy kitchen. Ranga quickly stuffed the book she had been reading into the rice tin, & turned around. “Look what I bought for you,” said Murthy. 

Ranga dutifully opened the paper-wrapped package that he thrust at her. A beautiful sari in green, his favourite colour. Once, she would have petulantly asked him why he couldn’t get her the MS blue shade she liked. Now she only smiled, widening her lips to the right length. Pleased with himself, Murthy said “I knew you would like it. Look at the heavy gold borders! Never seen anything like this before in your mother’s house, I bet.”

Ranga barely registered his taunt. She had heard it a thousand times before. “Where did he get the money for this?” she wondered, as she put away the sari in the teak wood bureau, the only piece of good furniture they had.

Murthy was out of work. Again. People couldn’t understand his genius, he said. She listened quietly, as she had done so often before. After all, what did she know of such things? The kitchen was her strength. Ranga sold idlis (dumplings) and kept their bones together until Murthy found another job. She often wished that her father had let her study beyond high school. She had dreamt of working in a bank. Dressed in a crisp cotton sari, solemnly counting out fresh notes and shiny coins as the admiring crowd waited patiently in queue. The hand that is made for the ladle, what will it do with books, her father guffawed whenever she had broached the topic. Her husband thought it was a good joke.

After marriage, Ranga had quickly learned how to stretch every paisa, and squeeze out morsels of food from near-empty vessels. The previous year, Murthy had finally secured a good job with Mysore Lamps. He was in charge of the design department, and proudly told Ranga that his bulbs lit up even the Taj Mahal in Agra.

“Can we go and see?!” she had asked, not quite believing it when Murthy nodded a yes. Ranga had spent a blissful few weeks planning her first-ever holiday, asking neighbours for tips, and basking in their envy. Chinks appeared in her frugality; a few paise that escaped her expense notebook, a tin of the much-coveted Afghan Snow cream to hydrate her skin. When Murthy bought her a pair of heavy gold jimikis (earrings), she protested half-heartedly at his extravagance. Her ears dangled their new-found prosperity in everyone’s face for a whole month.

One evening, Murthy came home in a foul temper, raining abuses on his manager. “My designs are not good enough for the company, he says! That dog doesn’t have a brain large enough to understand my brilliance!” he screamed, throwing everything he could lay his hands on. They returned to Madras the following week. The jimikis disappeared. The pages turned backwards; the same seedy neighbourhood, the gruelling chores, the notebook that guarded every paisa, even the grovelling to Dilli Babu. He was the local ruffian, the only one who would lend them money every now and then.

Ranga withdrew into her kitchen, and into books. She saved, and sometimes starved, so that she could buy the colourful 50-paise thrillers and love stories from the nearby petty shop. The corners of her mind absorbed and stored lady detectives who drew guns from their hand bags, girls who travelled alone on buses…it was a fantastic world that she lived in, and watched at the same time. On a whim, she bought a book that was going at half-price. It wasn’t her kind of book, but something about the woman on the cover drew her eye. Perhaps it was the spear she held, or her fierce smile as men lay at her feet.  The more she read, the more restless Ranga became.

“What is this?!” Murthy shouted, bringing her back to the present.  He had discovered the hidden books.  “You bought these without my permission?! And where did you get the audacity to read such dirty things?!” He threw books, vessels, groceries, everything he could see. With his red face, and bulging belly, he looked like the asura (demon) in a Theru Koothu (street play), stamping about in an orgy of passion. Ranga stood like stone, watching, waiting.  Suddenly, Murthy stopped and locked eyes with her. He grabbed a book from the pile and slowly ripped it in two. Then he threw it all into the mess on the floor. The fierce woman on the cover looked at Ranga as she fluttered on the floor.

The doorbell rang impatiently, shattering the silence. It was Dilli Babu, come to collect his long-pending dues. Built like a wrestler, Dilli had few enemies (most were dead, his gang claimed) and even fewer scruples.  It was rumoured that he had taken over the area by killing his mentor. His thick, guttural voice listed out the agenda if the door did not immediately open. Dilli would punch that pannadai (useless person) Murthy, chop him into a thousand pieces, and finally grind him into chutney. Like he had done to Nagarajan, the school watchman, a few streets away. Had they heard of Mani, his erstwhile boss? They wouldn’t have. Dilli had ground his bones into the earth a long time ago. 

The doorbell punctuated Dilli’s rant with shrill insistence. Ranga picked up the pieces of her book from the floor, along with a small bundle of money that she had squirrelled away. She took the aruvaal (sickle) gleaming on the kitchen shelf, and opened the door. Dilli stopped mid-way through his plans for bone dessert. The street bulb threw its dim yellow light on a terrifying figure, with its long hair left loose, white teeth gleaming in a hideous grin, a sickle in one hand, and an offering in the other. He would never forget the eyes, fierce and dark, shining through the black smudges of kohl. He knew that look, the blood lust before the kill. He also knew better than to tempt fate. Dilli grabbed the bundle and fled.

Ranga looked at her husband, sweating profusely in his hiding spot behind the teak wood bureau. Murthy flinched. She laughed and put away the sickle. Then she turned on the radio. Abdul Hameed’s familiar voice from Isaiyum Kadhaiyum (Music and Stories) on Radio Ceylon crackled into being, “Coming up next is an inspiring poem by the revolutionary Tamil poet, Subramania Bharathi.”

Nimirntha nan nadai naer konda paarvaiyum

Nilathinil yaarukkum anjaatha nerigalum

Thimirntha gnana cherukkum iruppadhaal

Semmai maadhargal thirambuvathu illaiyaam

(With head held high, and a piercing gaze,

Unafraid of anyone in this world,

With the wisdom and humility that education bestows,

The modern woman falters not in her confidence!)

Murthy watched silently as Ranga carefully glued her book together. She sat on the only comfortable chair in the house and put up her legs on the tiny teapoy. Then she settled down to read the story of Sita, the warrior who saved her husband from the king with a thousand faces.

“Rama fainted on the battlefield. Sita laughed. After all, could a mere man defeat the thousand-faced asura, more powerful even than his brother Ravana? Sita dissolved into the terrifying Kali and danced in ecstasy as the dark goddess and her companions, the matrikas (divine mothers), decapitated the one thousand heads of Sahasravadhano Ravana.”

Ranganayaki smiled. The Adbhuta Ramayana was truly wonderful.

A thousand faces or one, hero or asura, Sita needed no one to save her.

- Anuradha Srinivasan  

---------------------x---------------x---------------------