the lucky ones

People said they were the lucky ones.

Beams of warm sunlight reflected off their shiny brown skin, self-moisturized by the humidity. Their lungs were strong and clean from decades of living by the sea, breathing in air that was rid of the pollutants weighing down the rest of the world. Their arms were gently toned from a lifetime of repetitive but moderate labor, their nutritional intake fueled by the fish and vegetables that nature so kindly offered them. They basked in the beauty of life, seemingly unburdened by the ruined world outside their borders.

People said they were the lucky ones, but I knew better. I knew of the ruling panchayat and their cruel ways. Of the nine-year-old girl who had died during childbirth and the sixteen-year-old boy who was stoned for dressing like a girl. Of the old woman who had spent a lifetime waiting for a husband who had abandoned her when she was twelve. Of the middle-aged man who was so very curious about the world outside their so-called haven, but was forbidden from crossing the boundaries.

People said they were the lucky ones, but the glossy exterior was a farce. Their world was as battered as the one surrounding them. 

what we saw vs. what she told me (at the beach)

raw mangoes sprinkled with chili powder, the sharp, spicy seasoning amalgamating with the sweet saliva in our mouths; for when she confessed to me that she sometimes felt relief in distress, comfort in unease, solace in trouble.

balloons going pop, tiny toy bullets colliding with multicolored plastic; for when she told me about her hopes and dreams that would float around, only to be burst by the ones she loved (and the ones she did not).

little green parrots hopping about, picking tarot cards with their tiny beaks and predicting the future; for when she wondered about her own, things that could be and should be but things that weren’t, yet.

sandcastles being built and torn down; for when she reminded me that what goes up must come down, what is created must be destroyed, and what we get attached to, we must dissociate with.

and finally, corn on the cob, charred nearly black over a coal-fueled stove, golden sparks flying around against the dimming horizon; for the darkness within her that came before blinding glimmers of hope.

Guava

The summer Naiynayya died, the guavas were the sweetest they had ever been. She was pregnant with her first child, a girl, although the world around her was hoping for a boy. "Goh-uh," she would say, while purchasing the fruit from the street vendor, and it would only be years later that she would learn the correct pronunciation from her daughter - "gwaa-vuh." She much preferred the Telugu word, jaamapandu, but it was a time when English words were thrown into most sentences, a consequence of colonialism.

She started each morning with three slices of the bright green fruit, the white, seeded inner flesh always so alluring. The sticky insides created a gum-like texture between her fingertips as she rubbed them with the tiniest pinch of salt, exactly how she loved eating them as a child. The stubborn seeds would get stuck in every little crevice of her mouth, and some even managed to find a home down her throat.

There was something so pleasurable about this unique culinary experience that no other fruit seemed to offer. A seed or two would remain in her teeth for hours after, and her tongue would brush past one, a sudden surprise, when she was in the middle of making a cup of masala tea or frying an appadam for lunch.

 

Three days before she gave birth to her baby girl, they got the news. A heart attack had taken him in his sleep. They burned his body in Thalluru, behind the guava tree that they had spent many summers chasing him around.

It seemed only fitting.

The Breech Birth

Lakshmamma’s water had broken nine days ago. Nine. The midwife, the mantrasani, had come to her aid to assist with the birth, but the baby inside of her refused to turn his little frame around. ­­­Feet first was his preferred path out, and the mantrasani was left helpless.

There were prayers and incantations. The local village women invoked the name of Durga, the Hindu goddess of protection, strength and motherhood. They pleaded with her to bring the baby out quickly, less painfully, and most importantly, alive. Perhaps the stars, the nakshatra, were misaligned, causing this traumatic turn of events. There were many moments when the midwife considered cutting the baby out and sacrificing his life to save the mother.

 

On the 4th night the midwife said that the baby was doomed. But Lakshmamma refused to give up. So, the prayers continued. Tiny clay lamps were lit, and little fires were ignited around the hut. Smoke seeped through the square windows. Bunches of agarbathi were burned, the flickering flames slowly eating through the bamboo incense sticks. The ash formed heaps on the fading earthen floor, as though attempting to mark time with the increasing pile of grey residue. The woody fragrance that filled the room provided small comfort and calm.

 

Lakshmamma's red cotton sari was drenched in sweat.  The midwife poured water into her mouth from a clay pot, trying to cool her body from the relentless heat. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the sweet drops of water, her mind fogged with the pain that was overtaking her. A wet white cotton handkerchief was placed on her forehead, an attempt at absorbing the heat from her burning skin. She had been tilted and turned and inverted into so many strange positions over the past few days, with the hope that gravity would rotate the baby to come out headfirst. She was exhausted. She felt like she was in a fever dream.

 

It was 6.30am on January 1st, 1932, in Ramabadhrapuram, Andhra Pradesh, when Koti Reddy Idamakanti defied the odds and finally embraced the world outside. The sun was peeping through the thatched roof of the hut, gentle rays glimmering on his brown and bloody wrinkled baby skin. The chaos of the past nine days had settled into a silent calm. It was the first day of a new year, 15 years pre-independence, and so much was yet to happen.

 

Lakshmamma stared into her baby's eyes, relieved and amazed. Moments before the birth, she had really believed that she was at her very last breath, her aakiri oopiri. She was soon shaken out of her serene moment. "Ayipondhi!" the midwife exclaimed loudly in Telugu, the word rolling out with relief as she knelt on the mud floor, trembling more than the mother who had just experienced nine days of labor. It's done.