thing by Vani, she knows, but she understands also that they are relieved to be rid of the terrible burden and responsibility of looking after her. By listing all the points in favour of this opportunity, they are convincing themselves as much as they are Vani.
‘These people are millionaires, the elite of Bangalore. You are very distantly related to them.’ Nagappa clears his throat; he is obviously saving the best for last. ‘And you know the Fair and Lovely model?’
She doesn’t know and doesn’t much care but she nods by rote and her head feels heavy as it moves up and down, up and down.
‘She is their child! Your second cousin twice removed.’ Enthusiasm colours his voice. He pauses, looking askance at her and Vani realises he is waiting for her to say something.
‘Great,’ she says and her voice is as dry as the river during the drought. At the thought of the river, a wall of pain assaults her. She shuts her eyes, rocks on her feet, a desolate involuntary keen escaping her mouth as she waits for the wave of hurt to pass. Waves, rivers, she is battered on all sides. Not for the first time, she wishes she had drowned with them. She has wished for this ever since she heard. As it is, she is drowning, drowning in the hurt that wells up within her, that cannot be assuaged except by the tangible feeling of being enveloped in her parents’ arms.
Nagappa is looking desperately to his band of followers for help. One of the women comes forward, puts her arms around Vani. Padded shoulders, the smell of fried onions, and, she is sinking, like her parents did that fateful morning. Unlike her parents, however, for her there is no oblivion as she suffocates in the press of unfamiliar arms.
Nagappa clears his throat again as his cue to continue. ‘You are to leave the day after tomorrow. I will take you there. They will look after you well. There are a lot of servants, so what is required of you will be minimal. In return, they will feed you, clothe you, give you a place to stay. They are very kind; the lodging servants stay inside the house, with them and not in a separate outhouse. And, I am told, their house is so huge that each of the servants gets a room to themselves – talk about generosity! But you will never want for company – as I said, there are plenty of servants. And when you come of age, they have promised me that they will find you someone suitable to marry. Don’t you worry about that.’ He says all of this in a rush as if to forestall another keening, rocking session from Vani.
She listens through the whooshing in her ears. She is conscious of a feeling of relief when she hears that she will have a job to do where she is going. This way, she can keep busy as a means of keeping the sorrow at bay, and at the same time she will not feel too beholden to her benefactors – the only ones amongst her hordes of relatives who have agreed to take her on, albeit as a servant.
‘Their daughter, the model, is not much older than you in fact.’ Vani watches Nagappa’s mouth form the words, the little drops of spittle that collect at the edge of his lips, tinged red with the remnants of paan he must have chewed before coming here. He stops, gathers his breath, lowers his voice an octave. ‘Her name is Aarti Kumar.’ His voice full of awe. His eyes gleaming as if he expects the entire world to have heard of her.
The name means nothing to Vani except, now, an escape route.
Aarti Kumar, Vani thinks, here I come.
Weighty Procession
Aarti, Childhood - Bangalore, India
A arti has just completed her first ever photo shoot and it has been a huge success. She has been pampered and praised, her every whim indulged. Her bone structure has been declared exquisite, her eyes divine. She has drunk fizzy Coca-Cola until she cannot take a breath without a bubble escaping her mouth, and she has been very good and not eaten even a bite of the feast of sweetmeats and chocolates brought in just for her. She is so
‘These people are millionaires, the elite of Bangalore. You are very distantly related to them.’ Nagappa clears his throat; he is obviously saving the best for last. ‘And you know the Fair and Lovely model?’
She doesn’t know and doesn’t much care but she nods by rote and her head feels heavy as it moves up and down, up and down.
‘She is their child! Your second cousin twice removed.’ Enthusiasm colours his voice. He pauses, looking askance at her and Vani realises he is waiting for her to say something.
‘Great,’ she says and her voice is as dry as the river during the drought. At the thought of the river, a wall of pain assaults her. She shuts her eyes, rocks on her feet, a desolate involuntary keen escaping her mouth as she waits for the wave of hurt to pass. Waves, rivers, she is battered on all sides. Not for the first time, she wishes she had drowned with them. She has wished for this ever since she heard. As it is, she is drowning, drowning in the hurt that wells up within her, that cannot be assuaged except by the tangible feeling of being enveloped in her parents’ arms.
Nagappa is looking desperately to his band of followers for help. One of the women comes forward, puts her arms around Vani. Padded shoulders, the smell of fried onions, and, she is sinking, like her parents did that fateful morning. Unlike her parents, however, for her there is no oblivion as she suffocates in the press of unfamiliar arms.
Nagappa clears his throat again as his cue to continue. ‘You are to leave the day after tomorrow. I will take you there. They will look after you well. There are a lot of servants, so what is required of you will be minimal. In return, they will feed you, clothe you, give you a place to stay. They are very kind; the lodging servants stay inside the house, with them and not in a separate outhouse. And, I am told, their house is so huge that each of the servants gets a room to themselves – talk about generosity! But you will never want for company – as I said, there are plenty of servants. And when you come of age, they have promised me that they will find you someone suitable to marry. Don’t you worry about that.’ He says all of this in a rush as if to forestall another keening, rocking session from Vani.
She listens through the whooshing in her ears. She is conscious of a feeling of relief when she hears that she will have a job to do where she is going. This way, she can keep busy as a means of keeping the sorrow at bay, and at the same time she will not feel too beholden to her benefactors – the only ones amongst her hordes of relatives who have agreed to take her on, albeit as a servant.
‘Their daughter, the model, is not much older than you in fact.’ Vani watches Nagappa’s mouth form the words, the little drops of spittle that collect at the edge of his lips, tinged red with the remnants of paan he must have chewed before coming here. He stops, gathers his breath, lowers his voice an octave. ‘Her name is Aarti Kumar.’ His voice full of awe. His eyes gleaming as if he expects the entire world to have heard of her.
The name means nothing to Vani except, now, an escape route.
Aarti Kumar, Vani thinks, here I come.
Weighty Procession
Aarti, Childhood - Bangalore, India
A arti has just completed her first ever photo shoot and it has been a huge success. She has been pampered and praised, her every whim indulged. Her bone structure has been declared exquisite, her eyes divine. She has drunk fizzy Coca-Cola until she cannot take a breath without a bubble escaping her mouth, and she has been very good and not eaten even a bite of the feast of sweetmeats and chocolates brought in just for her. She is so
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