Ponnammal Goes to London: Part 3

Continued from here

After more than two years of working for me in prickly hostility, Ponnammal permitted herself to relax, oh-so-imperceptibly.  But the real turnaround came when my daughter, Chitra, was born.  From the moment she set eyes on her, Ponnammal was completely bowled over. The complete change in her demeanor astonished me and it took me a while to reconcile the new Ponnammal with the old. But there was no going back – the new Ponnammal was here to stay. Ponnammal would rush through her cleaning work (and I did not have the heart to scold her about the unswept corners and the growing accumulation of dust on everything) and cooking (here, though, there was a marvelous transformation – an amazing variety of exotic dishes now started appearing out of the kitchen) and then settle down to what she considered the most important part of her day – playing with Chitra.  It was such a joy to watch the two of them together – Ponnammal, with not a trace of her former stiff, prickly self, rolling on the floor and abandoning all dignity in her efforts to make Chitra laugh, and Chitra, a look of pure adoration and joy in her eyes, chortling in her high baby voice, begging for more, not allowing Ponnammal a second’s respite.  I could only shake my head and smile.  

As the years went by, the relationship between Ponnammal and Chitra became an unbreakable bond. There is a word for it in Tamil, paasam, a complete, melting, unconditional, uncritical love and adoration, which is what the two felt for each other. I have never seen anything like it.  I was not allowed to raise my voice and reprimand my child when Ponnammal was around. The first time I did it, Chitra wobbled over at top speed into Ponnammal’s waiting arms, her eyes brimming with indignant tears and her lips quivering with disbelief at the monstrosity of it all. Ponnammal scooped her up and pressed her into her bony bosom, rocking and comforting the child, all the while scolding me, the mother, for daring to discipline my own child! But that kind of love is like sunshine to a plant, and Chitra bloomed, even though a nagging voice inside me told me that she was becoming a tad spoiled.

Life in our building continued with a few changes.  Mr. Srinivasan’s mother went to live with her other son, and peace reigned in their home.  Mrs. Srinivasan gave birth to a baby boy (who was, to Suji’s unspoken disappointment, quite the living image of his supposedly impotent father), a year older than my Chitra.  Mr. Chinniappan’s not-so-secret-anymore lover continued living the high life in Delhi where it was said she frequented the most expensive beauty parlors to maintain herself at the standard required by Mr. Chinniappan. Mr. and Mrs. Ranga moved out of Flat 2C, and a quiet and timid Bengali couple moved in there. 

For a while, it became Suji’s mission to find out all she could about this couple.  She tried every means to dredge up some information on them, but nothing worked.  She started on a peaceful note by going down one afternoon with a batch of freshly fried vadais,  hoping to be invited to share them over a cup of tea, but the Bengali wife (all Suji was able to find out was that she was a Mrs. Mukherji) merely thanked her shyly and closed the door behind her.  Another time, Suji arranged with the ironing man to deliver Mrs. Mukherji’s saris to her by “mistake”. When Suji went downstairs to give her the saris, a maidservant (she actually used someone other than Ponnammal, who, had she worked there, would have supplied Suji with all the information she wanted) came to the door to collect them. To Suji’s inquiry on where “amma” was, the servant answered something unintelligible in Bengali and closed the door. Suji then stepped up her efforts. She took a mildly confrontational path.  She knocked on Flat 2C’s door (oh, how she longed to go in and feast her eyes on whatever lay inside! How had she set up her living room? Had she really got an original MF Husain painting in her dining room, as was rumored?), to complain that the Bengali-speaking maidservant was throwing all the dirty washing water out of the balcony, where it fell on the cars and the watchman’s head.  Could Mrs. Mukherji ensure that she told the maidservant that this was simply not done in these parts, even though perhaps it was acceptable in Calcutta? (She did come from Calcutta, didn’t she?....).  All that happened was that Mrs. Mukherji closed the door firmly behind Suji after assuring her that it would not happen again (she mentioned nothing of the dirty-washing water throwing habits in Calcutta, or any other place).  The conversation took place at the threshold of the flat, and it lasted no more than a minute, during which Suji’s attempts to peer inside through the frustratingly small slit that was kept open, came to naught.  Suji’s final attempt was an attack at the essence of Bengaliness itself, when she marched down one evening to complain about the smell of frying fish.  Nobody answered the doorbell, and Suji had to give up after that.  The lives of Mr. and Mrs. Mukherji remained forever a mystery to us.

I now enjoyed the same easy relationship with Ponnammal which I so envied Suji in the early years.  I became completely dependent on her for the smooth running of my household. She knew exactly what was going on, and would let me know at exactly the right time when I had to replenish the rice or sugar. She ensured that the electrician or plumber showed up (she was their money manager, after all) when they needed to.  Her efforts at cleaning the flat improved markedly once Chitra started going to school, and was no longer around to distract Ponnammal. She was scrupulously honest, and I could leave money and jewels around without ever worrying about them.  She was always thrilled whenever my husband and I had to go out in the evening, because that meant that she could spend time with her beloved Chitra. Unlike so many children who cry and complain when their parents go out, Chitra was actually quite happy about it, because she and Ponnammal could sit down and gossip like two old ladies!

While Ponnammal was so much more relaxed and cheerful while working at my home, things were by no means any better in hers.  There were still days, which seemed to be occurring with distressing frequency, when she came in with a black eye or some other sign of abuse at the hands of her husband. The only difference was that now she told me what had happened.  She would relate the most appallingly horrific incidents in a deadpan voice, with not a trace of a quiver in her voice or a tear in her eye. She was very matter-of-fact.  She wanted no pity or sympathy; this was her lot in life, and she had to deal with it.  All I could do was listen to her.  Every so often I gave her some extra money, which she thanked me for and asked me to keep for her.  If she took any of it home her husband would sniff it out and use it to get drunk. So I set up a bank account for her, and it was with this money that she got both her daughters married off.

Ten years had passed since I had got married and moved into this flat.  Chitra was now eight, and as so often happens, she developed new interests and friends, and no longer was Ponnammal her most beloved friend. Ponnammal continued to adore Chitra with undimmed intensity. My life had settled into a steady, comfortable routine.

Then one afternoon, Suji came across to my flat in a state of great excitement.  Her son had been offered a fabulous job in London, and he was even going to be compensated for a live-in maid. So Suji told him that he could take Ponnammal with him. Ponnammal would be perfect – she was honest, she was reliable, she knew how to cook her son’s favorite foods, she could baby-sit their child, she would make life so much easier for her son and daughter-in-law, everyone knew how difficult it was to manage a home in London.  She had spoken to Ponnammal about it, and Ponnammal was willing to go.

To be continued