Rajamadam Agraharam

Ending this week with what I think is an anecdote.  The story of Savithri as an adult is partially written but I will not be posting it until the story has advanced a bit more. So a break over the next week or so.

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The street in which I lived was called Rajamadam Agraharam. Most of the residents were Telegu Brahmins eking out a living. Among them three or four were family priests for non-brahmins, two cooks, a marriage broker, a cattle broker and a primary school teacher. There was one professional 'corpse carrier'. Among the Tamils, each house had an educated, unemployed boy. Each house had a man or woman with an elephantoid leg. My uncle who bought a house was also unemployed though he had a B.A. in history. All these are a prelude to my account of an incident.

 My neighbour was a Telegu man in his forties He was a bachelor. He had lost his parents and was living alone. He lived on the income from letting out two portions of the house. When I was there, his younger sister and her daughter came to live with him.  The sister, who was aged about 35, had lost her husband and her in-laws refused to keep her.  The daughter was sixteen, well past the marriageable age. With little means at her disposal, the lady had no choice  but to get her daughter married to her brother, such marriages being permissible in the community. Youth's call could not be ignored and the girl  developed friendship with one of the unemployed boys. This boy had a vacant house in his charge and this house was convenient for their meetings. One day a man climbed a coconut tree to pluck coconuts in the adjoining house and was able to see them together in the house. Instead of leaving them alone, he made a hue and cry.

Nothing came of it. The boy continued living there, so did the girl. The only casualty was their romance. Everyone had something to hide, yet the taboos continued till the late forties.

Flight and Return

Last post for this week re the Savithri story. In today's post, Savithri leaves behind her childhood.

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Savithri’s school years were uneventful. Though her high spirits found acceptance with the students, it did not always please her teachers. In her studies she remained above average, whatever that may mean. But she excelled in sports and brought the school many trophies from the annual inter-school sports meets. If nothing else, this met with her teachers’ approval. When she reached her final year, thoughts of her future entered her mind and she fixed on continuing her studies in a college. But there was no college in Mannargudi and the nearest college was in a town 25 miles away. Her mother was against it, Manu was indifferent. Savithri of course had her way. She joined the college. As there were only half a dozen girls in the college, there was no separate women's hostel. She and three girls rented a house.

Savithri had a chance to establish her reputation during the first week of the college itself. Four boys used to sit at a particular spot through which the girls had to pass on their way to the college and tease the girls. When Savithri noticed this, she decided to put an end to it. One day when the girls passed by, the boys cat-called as usual. Out flung cowdung balls from the hands of the girls. The boys were thrown into confusion and so precoccupied with removing the dung from their person, they forgot to retaliate. In addition, they became a subject for jest on the part of the other students. The matter was thus satisfactorily resolved.

Four years of Savithri’s life passed with the usual round of studies and adventures. One incident stood out for her boldness. One day a girl complained that a middle aged lecturer passed lewd remarks whenever he saw her. Savithri felt this needed immediate action. Savithri went to the lecturer and coquettishly said that the girls liked him and his lectures and they would like to invite him for tea at their house. The lecturer was delighted and arrived in his best dress at the girls' house. Savithri cordially received him and seated him in the hall. She offered him tea and eatables. Just when he was eating, the rest of the girls entered the room, poured a few pails of rubbish on his head and sang, “Venkiah has become young and needs a bride! Any takers, Any takers?!” Venkiah became a laughing stock even for the faculty.

Savithri’s last university examinations were approaching and she was deep in preparation. One morning she got a telegram. Manu had died in his sleep the previous night. Manu was in his late forties and did not have any known health problems, the news was therefore more shocking. Savithri was a lark since her birth, always flying and singing. She had no knowledge of the harder and darker side of life . She felt that she should be near her mother immediately and hastened to Mannargudi.

Savithri

Today we leave behind Manu and read about his daughter Savithri who is the central protagonist of the Grandad's unfinished novel/novella.

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Manu’s short stint in jail had removed any desire to contribute to social upliftment. Money had never been a problem. He took to a new life of travel to holy places and meditation.

Manu had three daughters, the last of whom was named Savithri. There was a belief that when a baby girl was named Savithri, the subsequent offspring would be a boy.

The Savithri of legend who lent her name to Manu’s daughter had been a princess, the only child of a king who longed for a son. Out in the forest one day, having left her bodyguards behind, she chanced upon Sathyavan, a prince in exile. Savithri, never shy, suggested marriage. Sathyavan then revealed the curse that would make him die young. This did not deter Savithri and soon the two were married. The appointed hour of death arrived. The story of how Savithri obtained three boons from Yama, thus restoring her husband’s kingdom and life are well known. The little known second boon granted many sons to her father. This boon had been the source of the belief that a son would follow a daughter named Savithri.

There were no further additions to Manu’s brood.

Savithri was all of two when Manu went to prison and she had vague memories of Manu getting into a van and her mother crying. When Manu returned from the prison, his spiritual life dictated a certain detachment from the family. Her two sisters had married early, this left her the only child in a very large house. She was lively, full of pranks, a carefree bird. In the family orchard, she spurned the mangoes plucked by the caretaker. Instead she climbed the trees, ate the mangoes off them, while a worried caretaker hovered beneath. This then was Savithri.

Savithri had another advantage, the education denied to her sisters. A Scottish Mission had started a girls' high school in the town. Brahmin parents, pressured to marry their girls before puberty, would rarely send their girls to school. Few spared a thought for a girl’s education, inheritance or even polygamy. Many a girl paid a heavy price for this dharma, though it was commonly attributed to fate and little changed.

The first Brahmin girl who went to this school was the daughter of a vaccinator who had come to Mannargudi on transfer. Slowly but steadily other girls joined. Perhaps a newly introduced law also helped. In 1933, the Indian Legislative Assembly enacted a law popularly known as Sarda Act which laid down the miniumum age of marriage at thirteen for girls. This law was effective in states directly under the British crown. The beneficiary was Savithri and she joined the school.

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Picture source here.

A Grain of Salt

Today's post touches on a turning point in Indian history. And Manu has another change of heart.

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In 1930, Gandhi waged the first sathyagraha on the issue of salt. The British government had levied a small tax on common salt. Gandhiji argued that salt was a gift from the sea involving little capital or manpower for production. Besides it was a necessity for poor and rich. Gandhi found it immoral to levy a tax on salt and demanded its abolition. The Government did not agree. Therefore the sathyagraha.

The methodology was like this: Gandhi appointed Sardars in various regions. It was their duty to select a sathyagrahi for each venue. The sathyagrahi selected would send a notice to the District Magistrate indicating the exact date, time and location when the law would be broken. On that day the sathyagrahi should carry with him a small earthenware pot, one gallon of sea water and a few sticks of firewood. He had to boil the water till a residue of black salt appeared. As the sathyagrahi had given notice, an Indian police sub-inspector would be present and wait till the residue was formed. Then he would smash the pot and arrest the sathyagrahi for manufacturing salt illegally. The Indian Magistrates usually sentenced the sathyagrahis to six months simple imprisonment. In keeping with our culture, this too would turn into a festive occasion. On the appointed day the sathyagrahi would be taken in a procession from his house to the venue. He would be heavily garlanded on the way and the air would resound with cries of Jais! from the processions. A large crowd would therefore always be present when a sathyagrahi broke the salt law.

The local Sardar selected Manu as the sathyagrahi for Mannargudi. Expectedly he was arrested. In prison the mercurial Manu had another transformation. The authorities exercised great caution in selecting books for the prison library. The result was a library largely stocked with philosophical material. Manu read many books, the monthlies of the Ramakrishna Mission, Divine Life Society and the like. He felt that he had for long been on the wrong course. The purpose of his life shifted from social service to “moksha”.

During his prison time, several events took place. Gandhi as a sathyagrahi selected the seaside village of Dandi for breaking the salt law. This village had extensive salt pans owned by the government. There was a salt inspector to collect tax from traders who took salt from there. Gandhi decided to march on foot from his ashram at Ahmedabad to the venue, a distance of 100 miles. When Gandhi marched, thousands followed him - men, women, children, the old, the severely disabled. When he reached Dandi, a mass of humanity was with him. As they entered the salt pans, a lathi charge by the police resulted. Yet the people pressed on. Many arrests were made. But Dandi was the culmination of a sathyagraha which ended with the abolition of the salt tax.

When Manu was released, even the embers of this sathyagraha war did not remain. Nobody met him at the gate. He, along with many others like him, were lost in the multitude of India's population.

Manu

This week's story is a work in progress. It’s less a story and more an outline of a novel, each post can perhaps be developed into a larger chapter. It may well reach completion or stand as a work abandoned. Whatever be the outcome, we commence the journey today.

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Manu Sharma, in passing I note an uncommon name for a Tamil Brahmin, was a native of Mannargudi. This town was a taluk headquarter in Thanjavur district and like many men of his class he was a gentleman of leisure. His forefathers had left him a house, a few acres of wet land and a big mango orchard. These provided him enough income to have a comfortable life. Gentlemen like him spent their days in such useful pursuits like playing cards in the afternoons, often with stakes, and attending drama and music performances in the night. Revelries often went on till the early morning but we shall not dwell on the nature of these. Manu on the other hand found no joy in this life. He was an idealist and itched to do something for the society he lived in. The problem was he did not know the what and how of such an activity.

It was the early twenties. Around this time, a British missionary of a new religion -communism - came to India. He preached the gospel of Marx and some sensitive, educated youngsters got converted. One such youngster was Ramamurthy from Mannargudi. On his return from baptism, he ordained himself a priest and started preaching. When Manu heard him, he felt an immediate opportunity to address his disaffection and decided to take the communist path. The immediate effect was that Manu removed his sacred thread and gave up religious rites. But Ramamurthy was a mere preacher and none of his beliefs were put into practice. The result was that Manu remained disaffected and frustrated.

Much at the same time an Indian barrister named M.K. Gandhi returned to India. Even before his arrival his fame had reached the country. This fame rested on his experimentation with a new form of warfare he called “sathyagraha” which had met with partial success. This war was unique as it dispensed with arms. Indians are notorious for conferring honorary titles on all and sundry. They duly conferred the title of “Mahatma” on Mr. Gandhi. On his arrival in India, Gandhi began his war against the injustices he perceived in the Hindu religion. This included service to the depressed, exploited sections of society he called Harijans. Influenced by Gandhi, a few middle aged followers started the Harijan Sewa Sangh. The Sangh's work in Tamil Nadu was entrusted to a lawyer from Madurai. This gentleman immediately started a program to allow Harijans into Hindu temples. Disillusioned by communism, Manu felt a renewed opportunity to do good and joined this group. To prove his commitment to the cause, he got his eldest daughter married to a Harijan boy of his acquaintance. The family was unhappy with his decision; the daughter herself resented the marriage and her new life in a Harijan “cheri”. The Harijan boy too was uneasy in the presence of his Brahmin relatives. But the marriage born of Manu’s idealism could not be undone.

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PS: I wanted to reconfirm a few facts in this story and one of the first documents of my google search was “Satyagraha in South Africa” by Gandhi. I have just begun reading it and it promises to be a lucid, interesting read.  Also, picture source here.

The Headmaster

The last piece of this week is a one-off light hearted anecdote and quite humorous. It's a peek into a 1930s school room (even a retro revival would not cause a girl to be named Mangaiyarkarasi these days!) and yet  captures the timeless nature of the school experience.  Next week I will post a new story.

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When I was in the last year of my high school, the headmaster of my school was one Mr. Pakoda Iyengar. His real name was Sreenivasa Iyengar. The latter name went out of circulation and the new name crept in. What happened was that one day he was eating pakodas in his room. Absentmindedly he put a piece of pakoda in his coat pocket. When he came to the classroom and put his hand in the coat pocket to fetch a chalk piece, out came the pakoda. He was renamed on that very day and the name stuck. The townspeople would blink if anybody asked for Sreenivasa Iyengar but Pakoda was universally recognised.

Pakoda was a very dark man with a big head topped by an oversized turban. He habitually sported a naamam on his forehead with a yellow streak in the centre. He wore a black closed coat, which I think was never sent to the washers ever since it was stitched. He was supposed to be a strict headmaster but I found his strictness was restricted to meek students like me, who were in a majority. The troublemakers he left alone.

He had a novel way of exemplary punishment. He had put a long bench in the central hall and erring students were made to stand on the bench for at least an hour so that all the students and teachers could see them. His style however was to send any boy who he considered as erring to stand on the bench without an enquiry. The result was that a majority of the students had stood on the bench at one time or another. In due course it became more of a joke than a punishment. I myself had stood on this bench. One day two students created a ruckus in the class when the teacher was away. Krishnamoorthy Rao and I, who were conscientious students, went to the headmaster to report this. On seeing us, Pakoda immediately sent both of us to stand on the bench. Poor Krishna cried like a baby. Another incident I recall is of a student who was asked by the teacher to fetch something from the teacher's room. He met Pakoda on the staircase and the next minute the boy was standing on the bench.

At the fag end of the year, an amusing incident happened. There was only one girl in my class and she had a long name, Mangaiyarkarasi. She was given a separate desk near the entrance. She used to come in a bullock cart with screens on both sides, obviously to keep her away from other's view but really it was other way around. In my class there was a boy Janakiram, a handsome Naidu boy, jovial, lively and very popular. Janaki “pataoed” Mangai and they met secretly. Somehow the matter reached the ears of Pakoda. We students were agog to see the sight of both of them standing on the bench. Pakoda was clever enough to know that Janaki was capable of turning the occasion festive. So for the first time he decided to call both of them to his room for an enquiry. The rest of us students were all worried that they would be expelled. What transpired was as follows. Pakoda asked Mangai whether she knew Janaki. She hung her head and said in a feeble voice, “Yes”. Then Janaki was asked whether he knew Mangai. He said no. Pakoda asked Janaki, “how come she knows you and you don't know her?” Janaki coolly replied, “Sir, it is very simple. I am a popular boy and every student knows me. Therefore there is nothing strange in Mangai knowing my name. But that does not mean I know each student who knows me. I swear I don’t know this girl.” Pakoda, defeated, had to send them back with a mild warning.

Thankfully at the end of the term Pakoda retired from service!

Inscrutable Heart

The Kokila & Raghu story ends today. I get the feeling that our man Raghu, so shy at 16 has developed into a bit of a sly flirt! And I came away with the thought - are the hearts of men inscrutable or simply prone to self-deception?

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A girl called Kokila had once loved me. Fate had led us to each other twice but we had parted on each occasion and life had continued. In the years that followed, the ups and downs of life kept me occupied and though I did think of her now and then, I paid little thought to the idea of meeting Koki again.

By the eighties, life had settled down to an even routine of sorts. My children were grown, the vagaries of my career had led me to be an educator, a job which gave me satisfaction. Around 1985 I took a course and one of the students was from Chidabaram. I casually asked him whether he knew Kokila Teacher. His enthusiasm was immediate. Everyone in Chidambaram knows Kokila Teacher, he exclaimed! From him I gathered that Koki had retired on a handsome pension on account of her service to the school since its inception. She had been much awarded and she was in committees connected with primary education. And she had an adopted son. This piqued my curiosity but our state of non-communication remained.

Then in 1990, I went to Pondicherry. Suddenly a thought crossed my mind, why not go and meet Koki?

Koki was in the same rooms I had previously visited. To me she retained the freshness and grace of my memories. Even the few white hairs added to her charm. She was pleased that I had come to see her.

“Koki! You are still the same old Koki I met when we were in our teens”.

(with her bewitching smile) “Raghu, what change did you expect?”

(blushing a little) “I expected you to be unchanged. I heard you had retired. How is retirement?”

“I am still busy but have the freedom to work on text books as I had always wanted. What about you? I hope there are enough grand children to fill your retired life!"

“There are but I am still busy with my work. It's a coincidence that I started teaching when you left off, only I teach adults.”

(an odd smile on her face) “At least we are one in our old age!”

Curiously this time she enquired about my family. In turn I asked her about her adopted son. She told me the boy’s father was a cook in a village temple. When the boy finished his primary education, his father had refused to educate him further as he could not afford it. The boy took the only course left to him and ran away from home. Koki met him near her school, begging for food. She then adopted him, a small repayment of the debt she herself owed to the couple who took her in as a runaway.

Koki then called the boy. Once introduced, he did the requisite prostration. I asked him his name. Raghu, he replied. Then added, that is what Amma calls me but my real name is Tiruvengadam. I looked at Koki but she didn't betray any emotion. She briefly explained that she felt his name was too long and she had picked a short name at random, really any name would have done. Her explanation did not convince me but I left it at that.

A strange relationship exists between us. I had never thought of Koki as my love. Her own passions appeared to have cooled with the years. And yet she had a son called Raghu. I could not help feeling that I was still in her heart. But this I would never know for sure.

For a woman's heart is inscrutable.

Kokila Teacher

In keeping with the Three Times themes, I had intially reworked this post so it was "stand alone" but it took away from the spirit of it. So my night's labours unrewarded, back to the linear and the tale as it was.  Also the tale is perhaps more "Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter" with today's post being Autumn. I also feel a deconstruction of Kokila as a representation of Indian womanhood coming on, but I shall desist!

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I had once known a girl called Kokila but it appeared that fate had so arranged that I would never meet her again.

In 1952, my sister was living in Chidambaram. I had gone there on a casual visit and one evening we went to the temple. It took me a few minutes to recognise her but there was Koki, unchanged and as pretty as before. My sister, who too hadn’t met her in many years, hugged her and as is wont with old friends they fell in step and exchanged the details of their life over their years. Then she turned to me and spoke in an unchanged manner. I coloured and stammered, all too conscious of our past.

It so happened that she was working as a primary school teacher and she invited us to her rooms which were close by. Coffee was served and after some chit-chat, my sister ever the diplomat, quietly slipped out to talk to the other tenants. Koki and I were alone in the room.

"When I heard you had run away from home, I was devastated. I felt I was responsible for it. Why did you do it?"

"Raghu you were not responsible. When I met you....that meeting brought a change in me. I wanted to be with you, I had imaginary conversations with you, I felt you were mine for ever. My husband on the other hand rarely visited, he was a stranger. I thought of my future with him as an indifferent wife. Thousands of such indifferent wives exist, they rear children and grand children, some have affairs. But the idea revolted me and perhaps my nascent education emboldened me. My parents, loving though they were, were too bound by social mores and injunctions; they could not accept my refusal of my husband. I was in great turmoil and very lonely. Yet strangely you never came in my thoughts. It was your sister and the solace offered by her friendship that I deeply missed. Events then overtook me and I had no choice but to leave home”.

"Did you not think of the scandal and the pain to your parents?"

It turned out that Kokila - though regretful of the pain to her parents - was unbothered by the scandal. Initially she had lost contact with her parents but relations had been re-established. Her father was now retired and her parents lived at Srirangam. Their relatives and friends lived close by, she visited when she could. In spite of the attendant scandal, her fleeing home had eventually been uneventful. Ruefully she added, "Perhaps Lord Balaji alone was on my side." She had caught the bazaar (passenger) train in the early hours of the morning for Mayavaram. At Mayavaram she went immediately to the Perumal temple to take the lord's blessings for her new life. After a dip in the temple's tank, she had entered the temple. There she met an elderly Ayyangar couple. She herself being an Ayyangar, they had taken her into their care. There had of course been trouble when she told them the real cause of her fleeing but the Mami had finally placated her husband and so she had stayed. The Ayyangar was a retired headmaster and it was through him that her career as a school teacher had started.

"So Raghu, I stand before you as an honourable woman with my head high. I am now Kokila teacher to many parents and children. My life is peaceful."

I was amazed at her achievements and her life. I then asked about her husband. He it appeared had faded from her life; it was as if he had never existed.

As before, we parted. Mischievously I asked, “Do you still love me?” She smiled as if to say, “Don’t be silly”. It was her turn to say no and her refusal had the great elegance mine never had. My sister then returned and we made our farewells and in parting, I slipped my address in her hand.

I did not receive a single letter from her.

Pic source here.

Raghu

Next instalment. My grandfather’ story was written in a linear, episodic manner. The reason I shifted the chronology was because I wanted to imply that the two characters central to the entire tale may or may not be connected. Yesterday’s post for example ended with a hint that something had happened in the narrator’s past. Today’s post, set in the late 30s/early 40s may shed some light on it or may refer to two completely different people. By breaking up the time cycle, I wanted to leave it open to interpretation as to whether the posts are related or are merely disconnected fragmentary episodes.

In today’s “episode”, we learn that boldness is a state of mind most at home in adolescent girls and that  Ramakrishna and Vivekanand may have ruined many an Indian romance :-)

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My sister had a mischievous smile. “Raghu, don't think Koki comes thrice everyday to see me. She comes to see you.” I was shocked. Blasphemous for a married girl to have romantic dreams. A tinge of self-pity crept in that I was the victim of these dreams.

I was sixteen. My father regularly taunted me on my rapid maturation and that I looked like a man of twenty. I knew it was not a compliment and it left a feeling of abnormality in me. My father was stationed at a taluka headquarters, which was more a village than a town. After passing my SSC, I was whiling away my time. Meanwhile I had secured admission in a college at a town 50 miles away. But on the day when father and I were getting ready to go the station, he suddenly hesitated. I reacted by saying that I did not want my parents to make sacrifices for me and left the house and returned late in the evening. Thus ended my dream of studying law and become a criminal lawyer. Yet the bitterness was there. My father, who had a decent government job, was always in need and our neighbours looked down on us. I was suffering from an anxious inertia at the time, as I could not do anything to improve our lot. I read a lot of Ramakrishna's gospels and Vivekananda's writings. Ramakrishna repeatedly said desire for land, women and money were the root causes for evil; at the same time he kept womanhood on a pedestal and called them devis. Looking back, I was a confused person and a drifter.

My sister was with us at that time for an extended stay. A pregnancy alarm had got her home, though this turned out to be a false alarm she stayed on for nine months. During her stay the new postmaster, an Ayyangar Brahmin, arrived. So did his daughter Kokila, all of 15 and enrolled in VI form. The boys were enthusiastic when she arrived but the enthusiasm waned when it was known she was married. My friend Seenu, who nicknamed all the girls in our area, refused to nickname her on the grounds of her good looks.

The post office was three houses away from my house and the rear portion was used as the residence of the postmaster. On the very day when the postmaster and his family arrived, Kokila made friends with my sister whom she called Akka. She started visiting us frequently. She was like a lark, she was a mimic, she poked fun at everybody. Even my father was not spared. My parents liked her, whenever she came there was laughter in the house.

I asked my sister, “How do you know?”

“She talks about you and whenever we go out, she finds a way to meet us.”

Then she brushed me aside and said - it is a woman's intuition and you will not understand.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Be careful, do not get entangled.”

And added, we need not worry on that score as you are neither adventurous nor romantic.

Two months later my sister left for her husband's village and Koki's visits became less frequent. One day I was alone at home reading a book by Vivekananda. Koki dropped in. Without raising my head I said nobody was at home.

“I know. I've come to talk to you.”

“What is there to talk about?”

(smilingly) “A young girl like me has only one subject to talk about with a young man like you.”

(furiously) “Aren't you married? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

(calmly) “Yes, but I still want you.”

In this vein we continued, I shouting accusations of sin, requesting her to find some other man for this sin, she professing her undying love. All the time I was filled with fear and sweating. Then she said, “I know my future is with a man I do not love but why lose this moment with you, my first love?” At this I stood up. My legs were trembling, I cried, “This is impossible. Leave now”.

She was silent for a few minutes, then quietly called me a coward and left.

After this incident she stopped coming to our house and looked the other way whenever we crossed each other on the street.

Kokila

My grandfather has been writing up material relating to the 1930s/1940s after a previous post expressing my interest in the period. This is the first part of a story that he wrote over four emails.  Bar the fact that my four part update over this week will not be chronological (in a nod to Three Times) and therefore some of material has been moved around, it remains unchanged.

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Around 1940 my father was transferred from the taluka headquarters, where he was stationed, to the district headquarters, Thanjavur. This set in motion a series of events for his young and growing family. I myself, then little more than sixteen, got a temporary job and left for Chennai. Returning home after several months I found my mother and sister pregnant, my mother in an advanced state. My brother, a beautiful child at birth, lived little more than eighteen months and died in my lap. My sister too later gave birth to a boy, who survived for barely a day. In the interim, my father had also purchased a cow and my infant brother and the cow occupied a great deal of my time. Eventually I looked for a job in earnest and my efforts resulted in a job in the revenue department. As was the custom, my own marriage was fixed with a girl whom I met only on our wedding day. In April 1944, I landed in Mumbai with a wife and an infant daughter and without a place to call my own began a new phase of life.

In 1945, my father wrote to me regarding a minor operation. As a dutiful son I went to Thanjavur where the family still resided. As ill luck would have it, the hernia got strangulated on the day of my arrival and my father had to undergo an emergency operation the same night. My entire leave was thus spent in the hospital. Here I met my old friend Seenu, who was attending to his tubercular brother-in-law. By now I was completely out of touch with my old friends. We talked at length about our old days, Seenu had stayed in touch with many of our friends and was thus able to update me. Seenu himself had managed to get a licence for a Burmah Shell petrol pump and he was prospering. With a broad grin, he said he was happily married with a loving wife and a bonny son. Then he asked me whether I remembered Kokila, the post-master's daughter at my father’s previous taluka posting. I hastily nodded assent. Seenu then said she had run away from home as her father was pressing her to join her husband. This marriage I recalled had been arranged overnight when Kokila at age twelve attained puberty. Her father, panicking, had got her quickly married to a boy who was staying in a nearby hostel and studying for his degree and had passed it off as a pre-puberty wedding. The outcome was that consummation was postponed for years. Even this I knew would be on an auspicious day with many rituals ending with the priest entering the bedroom along with the couple and chanting mantras to assure the couple's sexual compatibility and virtuous progeny! Kokila was no exception. She had seen her husband during his visits for festivals but the elders saw to it that they did not speak much with each other. Once when my sister asked her about her husband, Kokila laughed with amusement at his big tuft of hair, the ruby embedded ear-rings and the broad naamam on his forehead. It was apparent Kokila did not have any feelings for him, she remained a school-going girl living with her parents. So her refusal to join her husband was not surprising. But this refusal had cost her dear and resulted in a thrashing and confinement to her room. Yet she had remained adamant. Finally her father fixed a date to take her to her husband’s house but she had run away the previous night. Expectedly, this had proved scandalous for the small town and the postmaster had hurriedly asked for a transfer. To Seenu it was news but for me it was a shock. Had I had a hand in this domestic tragedy? However with a demanding father as a patient and other worries, Kokila was momentarily forgotten.