that a postman would ask a peon, when he had not begged even of the secretaries and typists. For this Nathan was made to wait, postcard in hand, the blueink smudged with tan fingerprints, some of the words blotted with drops of ink. He could not ask the secretaries or the typists, they did not come from his village, would not understand the scribe’s handwriting, and spoke only English when they could. He followed the postman on his rounds of the college grounds, the principal’s office, the various engineering departments, the mess halls, the hostels named for peaks in the Himalayas—Kanchenjunga, Everest, Godwin-Austen, Kailash—and the professors’ houses on campus. Finally, in the evening, as the postcard crumpled and smeared with sweat, taking pity on Nathan’s pleading look, the postman hammered out the edges and read the writing in the village scribe’s unformed hand. We have a girl child, my respected husband. Only another girl child, but she is beautiful. If I may, I would like to call her Parvati.
Nathan stood there, crushed of feeling. For this he had lowered his dignity all day long? The postman bared his teeth with a smile, still holding the postcard. He knew Nathan’s two older children were also daughters. So he smiled as if to say that if he had got his baksheesh at Diwali as was only right, the seed Nathan sowed within his wife would have grown into a boy child.
“Come and eat,” a voice says. His wife stands close by his shoulder, close enough that the pleats of her sari stray by his skin. It is the way she touches him when they are in public. Not for them the blatant holding of hands, or mingling offingers, or even, God forbid, the meeting of lips in full sight of everyone on the streets as Nathan has seen in two of the English films screened on campus in the open-air auditorium. He suddenly remembers the films and wonders if Parvati, sheltered and cloistered by him and his wife, had seen them. Was that why she had been … so … ?
His voice is harsh. “Has she eaten?”
“Of course not,” his wife says softly. “You know she will not eat before you. But your grandchild is fed. His little tummy is full; he is on his way to sleep.” She speaks in a low voice, so that, close as they are to Swamy and his wife, they will not hear this conversation.
“How are you?” Swamy’s wife yells as they pass by her, deliberately overloud. Nathan’s wife ignores her.
They sit as usual on the front verandah, where everyone else can see them. Nathan’s wife has spread a knitted jute pai on the concrete floor, and set out just one stainless steel plate and a steel tumbler with boiled water. This is because Nathan will eat alone—the women of his family have never joined him in the meal; they are there to serve him and then to eat after he has had his fill. Until the child Krishna came into his quarters, no one has eaten before Nathan in the house. Nathan’s wife first dots the outer rim of his plate with a jaggery payasam , so that he does not start his meal without a sweetened tongue. Then she heaps a mound of steaming rice in the center, ladles rasam over it, asks him how much of the potato curry he wants. She settles against the wall, watching him as he eats, anticipating second helpings of this, less of that.
Nathan eats like a king, for in his house, he is a king. Even if he is only a peon at work. Even he is the father of only daughters.
After Parvati there were no more children, and over the years Nathan grew accepting of the girls. They were a burden to be sure, all together, without the relief of a son. If Nathan had had a son, that son’s earned dowry would pay for his daughters’ given dowry. To earn this large dowry, the son would have to be educated somewhat, and have a good job, perhaps a peon at a large bank with air-conditioning, or personal peon to the managing director of some big company. For many years Nathan would conjure these ghost visions of the successful son he never had.
Nathan stood there, crushed of feeling. For this he had lowered his dignity all day long? The postman bared his teeth with a smile, still holding the postcard. He knew Nathan’s two older children were also daughters. So he smiled as if to say that if he had got his baksheesh at Diwali as was only right, the seed Nathan sowed within his wife would have grown into a boy child.
“Come and eat,” a voice says. His wife stands close by his shoulder, close enough that the pleats of her sari stray by his skin. It is the way she touches him when they are in public. Not for them the blatant holding of hands, or mingling offingers, or even, God forbid, the meeting of lips in full sight of everyone on the streets as Nathan has seen in two of the English films screened on campus in the open-air auditorium. He suddenly remembers the films and wonders if Parvati, sheltered and cloistered by him and his wife, had seen them. Was that why she had been … so … ?
His voice is harsh. “Has she eaten?”
“Of course not,” his wife says softly. “You know she will not eat before you. But your grandchild is fed. His little tummy is full; he is on his way to sleep.” She speaks in a low voice, so that, close as they are to Swamy and his wife, they will not hear this conversation.
“How are you?” Swamy’s wife yells as they pass by her, deliberately overloud. Nathan’s wife ignores her.
They sit as usual on the front verandah, where everyone else can see them. Nathan’s wife has spread a knitted jute pai on the concrete floor, and set out just one stainless steel plate and a steel tumbler with boiled water. This is because Nathan will eat alone—the women of his family have never joined him in the meal; they are there to serve him and then to eat after he has had his fill. Until the child Krishna came into his quarters, no one has eaten before Nathan in the house. Nathan’s wife first dots the outer rim of his plate with a jaggery payasam , so that he does not start his meal without a sweetened tongue. Then she heaps a mound of steaming rice in the center, ladles rasam over it, asks him how much of the potato curry he wants. She settles against the wall, watching him as he eats, anticipating second helpings of this, less of that.
Nathan eats like a king, for in his house, he is a king. Even if he is only a peon at work. Even he is the father of only daughters.
After Parvati there were no more children, and over the years Nathan grew accepting of the girls. They were a burden to be sure, all together, without the relief of a son. If Nathan had had a son, that son’s earned dowry would pay for his daughters’ given dowry. To earn this large dowry, the son would have to be educated somewhat, and have a good job, perhaps a peon at a large bank with air-conditioning, or personal peon to the managing director of some big company. For many years Nathan would conjure these ghost visions of the successful son he never had.
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