Saru 1

Name of the Story- Saru

Number of words- 3482

“Akka, the smell hit me, so strong, the stench unbearable!” announced Vijaya

walking in through the door. An invigorating all-encompassing voice, carrying the

nuances of her living. Her face- a palette of elation, the most striking feature of which

was the round bindi in dark red. One never saw her without the bindi. It proclaimed

her, indicated a large part of who she was. Her eyes shone with excitement, bubbling

with the details that needed to be spilled out.

“You are late, I already cleaned the kitchen.” A belligerent yet sympathetic note.

“Did you bathe?” Bharathi looked at her and walked into the kitchen.

“Twice, Akka. Couldn’t bear the stench. It is inside me, not leaving me, smells just

like a burnt chicken when defeathering it.” Vijaya went into the bathroom to wash her

hands and feet.

“What! How can you think like that?” Bharathi’s voice was irate.

Death: exciting, invigorating and patronizing. A distance separates from the

noticed- a distance of not belonging to us and ours. Rest in peace, she is in a better

place, it is all for her own good, she never had a moment of peace, life is so short, live

in the present- philosophies abound. Bharathi couldn’t understand how death can

become a topic of discussion. She was always fascinated at funerals- watching people

talking of living life to the fullest, not wasting time, living in the moment. Her reverie did

not stop her from asking more questions.

“How is she your niece?’

Plonking herself Vijaya settled into a more comfortable position on the floor. Her

vibrant chatter and sturdy personality could not be ignored. Many took to her, because

she has a way of including everybody in her world. Almost every other day she is at a

funeral, a saree function or a cradle ceremony- her celebrations, mourning and

festivities chameleon like.

Bharathi pushed aside the book- The Golden Notebook. Must get to it today. The

book club is in two weeks’ time… her thoughts went on to what she would say. But

now she sat on a small diwaan fit into the tiny alcove. Many a time conversation flowed

between them, Bharathi on the diwaan and Vijaya on the floor. No amount of reading

and broadening could sweep away the demarcation of caste and status.

“Akka, haven’t I told you before? You must have forgotten. You do know that my

husband has an older brother. His daughter, Akka. We called her Saru. Her father

wanted her to be a doctor, so he named her Saraswathi, after the Goddess of learning.

Saru failed class fifth and did not want to go to school after that. We tried Akka, her

father even beat her up with a belt, but she wouldn’t go. Too dumb for books and

studies, her life was in the kitchen. She picked up so fast, Akka. If only she used all

that hard work to study. You know, now she can cook a meal for 30 people in an hour.

For her brother’s housewarming, the entire cooking was handled by her with just two

helpers. Also, so beautiful like a Devi. Meant to live like a queen. God is unfair, Akka!

He took away a good human being and left that good for nothing husband of hers. But

one thing is true, Akka, she died before her husband, went to heaven as a Sumangali,

most woman could only wish for that…” Vijaya rambled as is her usual way.

Bharathi got up to make tea. Wishing to be an activist, but lacking the initiative, she

moonlighted sometimes as a passive-activist and now she felt helpless. All that

nonsense about women empowerment, but what is happening in families like Vijaya’s.

Where is the education there, or a woman’s voice? Walking back to the living room,

she questioned her again.

“How can you people marry your daughters without finding out about the boy?”

“We felt it was a good alliance- a boy from a good family, no sisters to marry off,

only son. But now, Akka, we know what to do, when we look for a boy. Never go for
 Saru 4

an only son. They are forever in their mother’s clutches, connected with an unseen

umbilical cord.” Rubbing her heel, she went into a contemplative mode.

Bharathi was ambivalent; should she ask what happened, but she didn’t want to

listen to another incident and not do anything about it. What’s the use, the girl is no

more, why should she waste her time, why take vicarious pleasure from unfortunate

incidents. She observed that about people, including herself. Death is an interesting

topic, as long as it is someone else’s.

“So, what actually happened?” she blurted.

“The husband is an insult to manhood, Akka. No work, no income! Puppet in his

mother’s hands.” She moved closer to Bharathi and whispered, even though they were

the only two people in the house. “I believe he has a second setup. That scum is so

lazy, would let his mother wipe his ass, but will go and do two women.” Her flow of

words took on a ribaldry as she rolled her eyes.

“That rascal gobbled up my beautiful niece. You know, Akka, she took after me.

Everyone said that. She was very clever, even without going to school. She took a

loan and started a small shop which sold knick-knacks and also did tailoring work. She

ran the house with her money. And always had a smile on her face, mind you. Never

came crying to us or her brother for anything. A gem, Akka, a pearl…,” she sniffled

and started wailing, “Saru, my poor Saru…”

Death: personification, identification, commodification. Bharathi sat quietly, sipping

her tea. She was thinking about how to use this incident to get into active social work.

It was not that she was a self-centered person with no empathy. She had empathy.

What kind though?

Vijaya blew her nose on her saree. “I went to see her in the hospital, Akka.

Government hospital, the private ones wouldn’t take her. My poor Saru. Akka, the
 Saru 5

screaming and shouting from some of the other patients. I couldn’t bear to be there,

her mother is a diabetic, so it was me who had to go.”

Bharathi was sure Vijaya had volunteered and went willingly. A drama that involved

so much- she had to be there.

Vijaya’s face took an eerie glow as her eyes grew round and wide. “The doctor said

she had ninety percent burns. He was a kind man- held my hands, looked at me and

didn’t say anything. The stench was horrible. She was in a corner, in a big ward. Most

of the beds had people with burns, but no one as bad as my Saru. Couldn’t stand the

stench, Akka, but I went close to her. Bits of her orange saree were stuck to her. But

her bindi was intact Akka. What grace, Akka, what grace! Goddess Sita, emerging

from the fire. Fire Goddess must have embraced her. At that moment I knew she was

the incarnation of Goddess Sita.”

Death: neutralizing and rationalizing. Bharathi looked at her stupefied.

“What? How is she like the Goddess? Do you even know what you are talking

about?

“What to do, Akka? My poor Saru. She grew up in these hands,” her bangles jingled

as she put out her hands. “I could hear her whispering…children, my children. I didn’t

know what to do. I could not even hold her hand. It was gone. I could see the flesh

and the liquid oozing out. Saru, my poor Saru.”

Bharathi looked at her. Somehow, she felt devoid of empathy for the ones who are

spared, who can talk, who can listen…

Death. Others. Stories. Fascination. Validation. Philosophy. Life.

Bharathi felt that she shouldn’t let this opportunity go by. At that moment she was

angry enough to think that she could die to save women like Saru. Ablaze with anger,

fancy and imagination, she felt that this could be her life’s calling. Working for the
 Saru 6

empowerment of women. Just the right kind of thing to take up as a cause. Death of a

young woman. Burnt to death. Burnt not to live beyond her years.

“I went to the nurse and asked her what we can do to ease her pain. Akka, these

nurses in the wards are heartless. They are vultures, waiting for people to die. These

people will get it back from God, they will…mind you, nurses who are so heartless and

blind to the suffering of the patients. You know what she said, Akka…she said why do

anything, she will die in a few hours. I got so angry, Akka. I gave her five hundred

rupees but there was nothing that she could do. She gave it back and left.”

Bharathi didn’t say anything. Her heart welled up. Vijaya had told her that the day

she was burned, she packed Upma for her children’s school lunch. She had made it

with lot of nuts and ghee. Now a mother is no more. A husband has made it his duty

to see that his children grew up without their mother. Bharathi thought about her own

girls and shuddered.

“But Akka, I don’t think even God could have helped. She was just bones. Her skin,

her flesh gone. I would have killed that rogue husband with my bare hands at that

moment. Akka, to see her like that, my poor Saru. She always wore a starched saree

with matching blouse, had a big bindi and a dozen bangles on each arm. Never without

flowers in her hair; if she didn’t have them, she would put a small Tulsi. It broke my

heart, to see her like that, nothing on her body.” She started wailing and beating her

chest again.

“Saru, my poor Thalli

Where did you go, Thalli

Leaving your kids, Thalli

Making them orphans, Thalli

We never knew, Thalli

We would have taken you in, Thalli

Where did you go, Thalli

Never left your children, Thalli

Why did you leave now, Thalli…”

Vijaya wiped her eyes and blew her nose with her saree. Bharathi knew her very

well. She was sad, no doubt. But her theatrics needed no empathy. She was just

consolidating her role in the entire incident. Bharathi thought about Saru. She pictured

a young lady, going about her business, not interfering with anyone, looking after her

family. How then did this happen? She felt a wave of emotion. She thought about her

own life, how it could have been different- all the atrocities that are committed on

women. She was angry.

“Now, stop crying. You people call yourself family. For you, families mean coming

together for celebrations and carrying on with all kinds of incestuous relationships. You

are just like families everywhere, no help given when one needs it. You go for

weddings, ceremonies, eat, get drunk, gossip, talk about whose family has more

money.”

“But Akka…,” Vijaya tried to intervene.

“What…don’t you have any sense? When you knew that the husband was a good

for nothing scoundrel, why didn’t you do something? You always gloat about how big

your family is and how close you all are. What made you remain quiet? It is your fault

also, you know. It is the society. A big sham, all these family values, love, relationships,

brothers, sisters…all of it, doesn’t mean a thing. Why, when one actually needs a

family, they are like wedding decorations, of no use to anyone, least of all the couple

getting married.” Bharathi couldn’t stop herself.

Vijaya shifted uneasily.

“Akka, you don’t know. We tried to help. But she asked us to leave her alone. She

said, even if he is a rogue, he is her husband, and that is her destiny. What can we

say? We never suspected anything, even on that fateful day…he was chatting and

joking with all the relatives. You know, it was the housewarming ceremony of Saru’s

brother. He had built a big three-storey building and invited all the relatives for a grand

ceremony. He gave his sister, Saru, fifty thousand rupees and even promised to build

a house for her. He loved his only sister, Akka. I spoke to her that night, she looked

radiant in a flaming orange saree. She was talking about her saree business, about

how she was getting a big new order the next day. I thought I will order one for myself

too. Not that I don’t have enough sarees, but just to help her Akka.” Sniffling again.

“But the husband couldn’t take all that grandeur, the house, the lavishness of the

party. You know, he was living off his wife. He was kicked out of his job on being

found in a drunken stupor. He was a leech, a kind of man who was brought up to

believe that the wife comes with a big dowry and a constant source of income. She,

being an only child and the sister of a resourceful brother, was the reason why his

family chose the girl for him.”

Bharathi interrupted, “You said he never worked.”

“Oh, he did work, Akka, but you know with drunkards, how it is with the money.

Never gave a paisa at home. My poor Saru went through hell with that rogue. He was

low on his manhood and felt castrated looking at the big home and how relatives were

praising the brother. The brother had started his business with just a bicycle and a few

hundred rupees borrowed from friends. Now he owns three cars, a beautiful wife and

fawning relatives. That rogue husband became a cauldron of negative emotions. He

pretended to be happy and praised his brother-in-law. He fooled all his relatives.”
 Saru 9

(But, Saru knew. She could feel his antagonism from across the hall. She was

scared to go home that night. A home where she was burnt to death after the lavish

party at her brother’s place.)

***

Does the new house and its warmers know what feelings it kindled? The house

that stood in its isolation from all human complexities and emotions. A smug erection

with no feelings. Proud and erect, yet if it could, what stories would it tell you? Of Saru,

who bore the brunt of its magnificence. Of the brother who swelled with the pride of

bestowment of a self-made man. Of the parents who took credit for it in little groups of

chatter. Of the brother in law who was a mess of feelings ignited further by his own

relatives. Of Saru, the sister decked and lightened up to celebrate her brother’s hard

work. She who was smiling and walking, a namaste here, a prostration there, knowing

which relative wanted what, looking at her children- a soft gaze flowing to them like a

wisp of smoke, then furtively looking at her husband, her gaze hoping to see, hoping

to open up what was behind that banter of his.

His lips splayed in a permanent smile like the dissected legs of a frog, he was

flattering her brother. A familiar constriction, clenched fingers and a nervous laughter-

she turned back to her aunt who was telling her how she reversed her diabetes with

bitter guard juice every day. Her gaze went back, the nervous gaze of the prey, wishing

the predator’s nonexistence. His eyes bore into her. She could feel his accusing eyes

following her. Sitting still, she wished she could be free, free just for a moment from

his burning gaze. He was nowhere to be seen. Then she saw him in the corner where

there was a ruckus and ribaldry. The men’s drinks were served there away from the
 Saru 10

party. The women did not drink. One or two had a bottle stashed away in the kitchen

and silently went there and had a swig.

She saw her mother at a distance. Now is the time to talk to her before the men

became too noisy. She had to talk about the thirty thousand rupees. Never borrowed

money from her parents or brother, too proud some said, but Saru never felt the need.

Tomorrow she needed money - for a new beginning, new orders, new designs. Her

peacock embroidery with shades of blue and green with a shimmer of silver and gold

had caught on. She had done it on her daughter’s lehnga. A rich cousin wanted it on

her saree, which meant at least six thousand rupees. The very thought of adding

designs with the new double coloured thread made her constricted heart burn with

elation.

She came home that night. A home where she cooked and fed, cleaned and

washed, dreamed and prayed, sowed and sold, watched and slept, feared and burned.

Saru laid down- new plans hijacked her mind, her husband’s belligerent look and

malevolent stares submerged somewhere. The dips and the digs on the mattress-

years and years of penetration, bed wettings, a life lived on dictated terms. She

reminded herself to put the mattress outside, her son still wets the bed. She looked at

her daughter sleeping next to her. Her nightie had ridden up revealing thin legs

covered with faint hair. Why wouldn’t she menstruate? She would be thirteen soon, by

then she was already engaged. But her daughter would not be married till she was

twenty-one, she vowed. Although she did want to have a grand saree ceremony when

she menstruated.

Next morning, she woke up and took the broom from the corner. One after the

other- cleaning, bathing, praying and cooking followed. Her son would eat Upma

everyday if permitted. Last night her mother had packed a bottle of ghee and some
 Saru 11

cashews. She doused the Upma with more ghee than required. It settled in their steel

tiffin boxes and had a sheen from the extra ghee, and the cashews gleamed with the

butter and mothers love.

The house stood bereft, moronic as though it couldn’t have stopped even if it

wanted to. The house that took on a warm glow in the twilight of dawn and dusk, the

glow that sometimes warmed its way into Saru’s heart. The glow that looked

beseechingly into her future. Dawn and dusk were when she lighted the incense. The

smell as strong as it was invisible. The smell that seeped into the walls, the curtains,

the furniture, into one’s very soul. For Saru, it always filled with a deep sense of

serenity, but for the some it is death. Dead bodies shrouded with incense at funerals,

where even before you enter the room, the sweet cloying smell of death hits you. A

kind of funeral, infused with incense, that Saru did not get. Hers was the chilling smell

of kerosene and horror.

***

“Akka, that swine just couldn’t take the brother’s prosperity and wealth. That day,

after coming back home, he beat her up. My poor Saru. She never uttered a word

about her husband’s constant beatings, but we all knew. That impotent rogue, not

capable of anything, but hitting his poor wife who ran the family. That night, he planned

everything. He brought a bottle of kerosene and left it in the cupboard.”

“How do you know about this?” Bharathi was puzzled.

“He can’t stop wailing and howling in the house. He says he lost his mind and didn’t

know what he was doing.” Vijaya explained.

Bharathi was aghast.

“The next day after the ceremony, Saru sent her children to school and was in the

kitchen packing her lunch. He came from behind, emptied the bottle of kerosene on

her, stuffed her mouth with cloth, and lit a match. He ran out and locked the kitchen

and the main door.” Vijaya was animated again.

Bharathi felt helpless- now no thoughts about her work, women or empowerment.

Although numb, there was no escape from her thoughts which recreated the scene

again and again- Oh, the poor girl. Why didn’t somebody help her, why didn’t I help

her? I could have done something. Why wasn’t I there, that day? Somehow, I could

have been there and saved her, Oh God, the helplessness of that woman. A rage built

up in her. She wanted to kill the man.

“The neighbors who saw and heard her from the kitchen window, rushed. But

what’s the use, she was completely burnt.” Vijaya started crying again.

“Where is the man? You said he is crying for his wife now. Why is he not in jail?”

Bharathi was suspicious.

Vijaya looked at her. She didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you answer? I said why is he not in jail?”

“Oh, Akka, how to tell you? He ran away and came back after a few days. The

children pleaded with us to let them have at least one parent. So, we couldn’t do

anything. We cremated her before the police could come and said that it was a gas

leak in the kitchen.”