the reason they have to come back to the tax office again and again. And as if that weren’t enough, since he knows that I won’t accept any bribes, he has instructed the peon to route the bribes through that Jain fellow who has no scruples about accepting them, for himself or anyone else.’
The unscrupulous Jain, Babu the peon, Dorai the clerk who sat next to him, these names were part of their lives but it was Koshy that Akhila and her family had learned to hate. They didn’t know what Koshy looked like but in their minds, he was a demon. A Narakasura, a Hiranyakashypu, a Ravana, all rolled into one vile monster with poison for blood and sharpened quills for words. Koshy who tormented Appa and tested his goodness. Koshy who hated Appa and every year ensured that Appa’s confidential files bore no relation to what Appa actually did in that office.
Every year, Akhila and her mother would wait for Appa to be promoted, for his increment plus benefits to grow so that Appa’s face would finally be wreathed in a smile and Amma would have more spending money. But every year Appa knew only disappointment. ‘As long as that Koshy is my superior officer, I am destined to work like a mule without any rewards,’ Appa would say, anger cresting his voice. And they would turn away, knowing that nothing would change in the way they lived their lives as long as Koshy reigned.
On a Sunday, the first act of pleasure for Appa was the walk to the corner shop to buy the Hindu. At the income-tax office, by the time the newspaper reached him, it was stained with tea spills and ink blots, and tattered at the edges. A sheet or two was always missing. On a Sunday, Appa read the newspaper end to end, beginning with the Art Buchwald column on the back page and working his way to the front page, wading through miles of classified advertisements. Sometimes Akhila thought he read every word of those as well. Only when he had finished with it was anyone else allowed to even touch it.
At quarter past ten, Amma would stand at the kitchen door wiping her hands on a rag. He would glance up from the newspaper and stare at her appraisingly. When her lips parted, it was with an invitation that excluded everyone else. ‘Aren’t you hungry? You must be. You have had nothing to eat since you woke up.’
Akhila and the other children knew that they had to wait for their mid-morning meal till Amma had finished attending to their father. If their stomachs rumbled, they were expected to stay out of hearing distance so that he didn’t hurry through his meal. Sometimes Akhila wondered if Appa would have preferred for all of them to dine together but she never found out. Amma liked it this way.
He would sit on a little wooden platform and Amma would lay the green plantain leaf before him. The mound of white rice glistened whiter than ever. On Sundays, Amma
cooked Appa’s favourite dishes. Piping hot, fragrant with the alchemy of steam, spices and Amma’s devotion to this man who for her sake and the children’s sake lunched on rice and curd and a slice of lime pickle six days a week and never complained.
When Appa had belched to signal that he was replete, he would walk to the broad wooden plank that hung from thick iron chains fastened to the ceiling. He would lie on it with his legs crossed at the knees and allow the swing to lull him into a stupor where all his worries and fears had no place to roam.
The rest of them – Amma, the boys Narayan and Narsimhan, the baby of the family Padma, and Akhila would lie on the grass mats. Outside the sun scaled the skies but the cold stone floors kept them cool. They would lie there, with full bellies, with sleep weighing down their eyelids, languishing in individual pools of want.
What did her brothers seek to complete the circle of their lives? A toy? A book? Some money to buy a ticket for a matinee show at the cinema theatre?
What did her mother need? A house of her own? A piece of jewellery? Akhila knew
The unscrupulous Jain, Babu the peon, Dorai the clerk who sat next to him, these names were part of their lives but it was Koshy that Akhila and her family had learned to hate. They didn’t know what Koshy looked like but in their minds, he was a demon. A Narakasura, a Hiranyakashypu, a Ravana, all rolled into one vile monster with poison for blood and sharpened quills for words. Koshy who tormented Appa and tested his goodness. Koshy who hated Appa and every year ensured that Appa’s confidential files bore no relation to what Appa actually did in that office.
Every year, Akhila and her mother would wait for Appa to be promoted, for his increment plus benefits to grow so that Appa’s face would finally be wreathed in a smile and Amma would have more spending money. But every year Appa knew only disappointment. ‘As long as that Koshy is my superior officer, I am destined to work like a mule without any rewards,’ Appa would say, anger cresting his voice. And they would turn away, knowing that nothing would change in the way they lived their lives as long as Koshy reigned.
On a Sunday, the first act of pleasure for Appa was the walk to the corner shop to buy the Hindu. At the income-tax office, by the time the newspaper reached him, it was stained with tea spills and ink blots, and tattered at the edges. A sheet or two was always missing. On a Sunday, Appa read the newspaper end to end, beginning with the Art Buchwald column on the back page and working his way to the front page, wading through miles of classified advertisements. Sometimes Akhila thought he read every word of those as well. Only when he had finished with it was anyone else allowed to even touch it.
At quarter past ten, Amma would stand at the kitchen door wiping her hands on a rag. He would glance up from the newspaper and stare at her appraisingly. When her lips parted, it was with an invitation that excluded everyone else. ‘Aren’t you hungry? You must be. You have had nothing to eat since you woke up.’
Akhila and the other children knew that they had to wait for their mid-morning meal till Amma had finished attending to their father. If their stomachs rumbled, they were expected to stay out of hearing distance so that he didn’t hurry through his meal. Sometimes Akhila wondered if Appa would have preferred for all of them to dine together but she never found out. Amma liked it this way.
He would sit on a little wooden platform and Amma would lay the green plantain leaf before him. The mound of white rice glistened whiter than ever. On Sundays, Amma
cooked Appa’s favourite dishes. Piping hot, fragrant with the alchemy of steam, spices and Amma’s devotion to this man who for her sake and the children’s sake lunched on rice and curd and a slice of lime pickle six days a week and never complained.
When Appa had belched to signal that he was replete, he would walk to the broad wooden plank that hung from thick iron chains fastened to the ceiling. He would lie on it with his legs crossed at the knees and allow the swing to lull him into a stupor where all his worries and fears had no place to roam.
The rest of them – Amma, the boys Narayan and Narsimhan, the baby of the family Padma, and Akhila would lie on the grass mats. Outside the sun scaled the skies but the cold stone floors kept them cool. They would lie there, with full bellies, with sleep weighing down their eyelids, languishing in individual pools of want.
What did her brothers seek to complete the circle of their lives? A toy? A book? Some money to buy a ticket for a matinee show at the cinema theatre?
What did her mother need? A house of her own? A piece of jewellery? Akhila knew
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