Читать книгу The Ties That Bind - Praba Moodley - Страница 6

2003

I’m part of a trio who are the custodians of a secret.

Right now I am terrified that this albatross we have been carrying around for over a decade is about to be exposed and will alter our lives and those of our loved ones for ever. My eyes fill with tears and I allow them to fall as I think back on my life and how different it would have been if only we had not gone away that weekend to celebrate friendship and new beginnings.

I’ve dealt with love, courtship, marriage, childbirth and, you can guess, yes, divorce and death, like so many women. I’m not the first to have run the gauntlet of the emotions associated with these experiences and I most certainly won’t be the last. However, I have done something so awful that it sometimes feels like a dream, and yet I am haunted by the reality of my actions.

Before judgement is passed on any aspect of my life, and more especially on this albatross, get to know me, to understand me, and why I had to do what I did and then you can decide if you would have acted in a similar manner or if you are a better human being than I am.

I’m no knock-out beauty but I am genetically blessed with height, inherited from my long, lean and graceful father, and an oval face with classically high cheekbones from my mother’s side of the family. I’ve discovered that caring, open-hearted women are not afraid to mention that there is a certain sadness lurking in my almond-shaped eyes while men say that it is impossible to believe that I’m the mother of three potentially very hunky sons. When I gaze at my reflection in the mirror I see eyes that are like soft, dark chocolate. I’m thankful the hints of bitterness have gone now, although I cannot see the sadness that people mention. Maybe I don’t want to. What I sometimes recognise is a glimpse of fear – but I digress.

I have, dark well-shaped eyebrows which I maintain by regular threading, which is an ancient art of hair removal using a cotton thread. I have a fondness for the unknown inventor of false eyelashes. I’m sure that one of my envious siblings must have plucked out my eyelashes when I was an infant. I fear I will have none left by the time I die and will be a sight to behold in an open casket. I have therefore requested a private viewing, only for my nearest and dearest. However, I have forewarned my two best friends and told them where I have my secret stash of false eyelashes, should some bright spark of a sibling not pay heed to my request.

I’ve inherited my paternal grandmother’s Cupid’s bow-shaped full lips, which I have passed on to my boys. Fortunately, I am almost pimple-free now but I went through my teenage years with the dreaded monthly zits. I try my best to keep my olive complexion clear by using my mum’s home-made sandalwood and rosewater paste. I’m into low maintenance because of financial constraints, like most single mothers. I try to minimise costs wherever possible because I want to be able to do the best for my boys. The advice my maternal grandmother passed on was the art of mixing the expensive with the not so expensive and carrying it off like a lady. She ensured all her grandchildren received a weekly dose of simple coconut oil to keep our hair shiny, smooth and silky, and in my teens and twenties I proudly wore my tresses below my waist.

Then I grew up and found myself a man to take care of my hair. I have not changed my hairdresser since the D-word. He is just about the only man who has not been the target of my anger and bitterness. I feel safe with him. He is bald, portly and a magician with a pair of scissors. He worked his way into my heart by calling me his “supermodel” and he keeps a portfolio of my hairstyles for his clients to copy.

I try to wear the trendiest of clothes and accessories and compliments on my youthful looks no longer surprise me, although I slipped quietly into my fortieth decade three years ago. When women ask where I buy my clothes I don’t tell them my credit cards are maxed to the hilt or that I discovered a gem of a shop. If one follows a tiny lane with cobblestone paving at the upper end of Church Street (I have not yet got used to all the street name changes) one will arrive at a quaint and tiny antique shop behind a set of stunning stained glass windows and doors. There is a charming café that reminds me of Paris (not that I’ve been there) where lovers rendezvous for lunch. This store sells fashionable “hand me down” attire which I like to fantasise was once owned by royalty, then auctioned off to raise funds for charity and, when hard times hit, their socialite owners secretly sold them off. I am fortunate in that I have a genius of an older sibling who can turn a curtain into an outfit that would outshine even Scarlett O’Hara’s creation.

Although of Indian descent, I am now proudly South African. I was born in a town everyone fondly – or maybe not so fondly – refers to as Sleepy Hollow. I’m thrilled that Pietermaritzburg has finally found a place in our history. For this, credit must be given to Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi who as a young lawyer on his journey through the Midlands was, in Pietermaritzburg, thrown out of the train he was travelling on for refusing to give up his first-class seat and move to a third-class seat. Today, the city honours the revered Mahatma with a statue in the city centre in commemoration of his brave human rights stance.

As the mother of three gorgeous sons, I am told by the nubile young girls who breeze in and out of their lives that they envy my calmness, slenderness and suppleness.

“It’s the yoga, the meditation and the art of breathing correctly,” I tell them, but the fact is that I’ve also let go of the anger and bitterness that once polluted my mind, body and soul.

I don’t mention the nightmares, though.

Still, I am in no hurry to have a daughter-in-law or to be a grandmother, so I try not to develop an emotional bond with these teenage girls. They think that by sweet-talking me they might wangle an early marriage proposal from my boys when they reach their twenties. I’ve noticed those slender fingers and manicured nails being preened for the ring.

My boys love all the attention they receive from these young would-be glamour dolls but I am constantly reassured that they are not ready to tie the matrimonial knot any time in the near future because they have their studies and careers to concentrate on. I pray when they are ready the young ladies they eventually choose will be wholesome, loving and caring and will put my boys first in their lives, and not their nails and hair. Life is more than the glamour and the gloss. I want women of substance for my boys and my grandchildren.

I pray too that their father’s two failed marriages have not turned them off the prospect of marital bliss. I want them settled by the time I reach sixty, even if I have to choose a partner for each of them. I’m so proud of them. They are turning out to be perfect gentlemen, thanks to my strong support structure of family and friends. They are forever thanking me for what I do for them with little home-made gifts, like the heart they carved out of a piece of oak for my thirty-fifth birthday. My father has the patience to teach them the art of carving and the gifts have become a signature of their love for me. Thankfully, it has kept them out of mischief. They know how hard I am squirrelling money away to help them complete their tertiary education. I have explained the need for student loans, though, and they have promised they will pay these back once they have obtained their degrees and settled into well-paying jobs. But I will not hold them to this for, as a single mother, I willingly make sacrifices for them and I hope I never make them feel guilty. I’ve not insisted that they follow the traditional career routes of lawyer, educator, doctor or accountant. These careers are saturated and underappreciated and I want my boys to live their dreams and follow their passions. Suffice it to say I may produce a journalist, a wildlife photographer and an IT specialist with an inclination towards hacking – but I won’t go there yet.

In this day and age it is rare for one not to be able to drive, but I have never learnt. I am very nervous of errant taxi drivers who behave as though they own our roads. I miss the days of the seventies and eighties when those majestic green government buses carried us safely to our destinations. Sadly, they no longer exist and privatisation is the new buzzword from the government. I am lucky enough to be chauffeured around either by my family or my loving partner and so I avoid being squashed like a sardine in a can and having my ears abused by the latest rapper. Why taxi drivers have to compete with hi-tech equipment in a moving vehicle is beyond my comprehension. But then again I’m a female and before I know it I’ll be fifty, God willing, which translates to the young of today as “old school”.

My partner, who is a true gem, hinted at a proposal before he left for Zambia a week ago but I am not ready for a legal commitment while the albatross remains around my neck. His disguised sigh of relief eased my guilt when I told him I’d take a rain check on his proposal. After all, will I ever be ready? Perhaps marriage would bring an end to my fears for he makes me feel safe. I know, though, that my whole life could be turned upside down – and it all rests solely in his hands. If he discovered the truth would he still want me? I have lost count of the nights I’ve awakened from the nightmare which has taken control of my sleep once again. To avoid that dark place I always go to my safe zone – my family.

I know now why I chose to be part of a well-respected South Indian family. My parents, like many of their generation in the Fifties, did not have the option of birth control in the early days when passion rode high, morning, noon and night. Because of the number of offspring my parents produced I had to wait in line before I made my appearance in their home. I chose them for the opportunities they would afford me as I grew to adulthood and fulfilled my purpose. (I’m still not too sure what that is but I suspect it is being a loving, strong woman who is also able to live with a dark secret.)

A host of brothers and sisters meant I had to find my place in a huge, demanding and challenging household. I still marvel at how my mother, who has grown frail with age, carried all her babies to term in her tiny frame and did not lose a single one of us. She often gets lost among her children, numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren at our family reunions. The only way she keeps her identity is by wearing the brightest of sarees and a huge red round dot on her forehead, a proud testament to the fact that her beloved is alive and kicking. Her hair, once the pride of her youth, is still long but time – that thief – has stolen its lushness and darkness. Now it merely resembles a silvery tail. She wears it in a tiny round knot at the base of her neck but she never fails to adorn it with a flower on social occasions. My mother is the epitome of the traditional South Indian grandmother.

My father is a regal-looking man with a strong stride, broad shoulders and an incredible smile that I know still melts my mother’s heart. He has lost almost all his hair but that has not diminished her love for him. His physical strength comes from hauling carcasses around every day, except Sunday. That is the day he ushers his family to the local Divine Life ashram to feed our souls with spirituality. Thankfully, my father is not a religious fanatic and although we prayed to our gods and goddesses and sang our religious songs every Friday our lives were not ruled by rituals. What my father was particular about was incorporating the teachings of Swami Sivananda into our lives and this was my foundation as I grew up. Having created a large family, he had no qualms about owning a butchery to provide for them, despite the principles of the Swami.

As a family, we truly admire my father for the life he leads. It is filled with love, loyalty and fun. As a provider he did what was necessary to feed, clothe and educate his family and as a father he also incorporated discipline into our lives. I was always delighted when he made my siblings pay for the times they made fun of me. I used the ashram as a place where I could escape their taunts and teasing as a gawky and awkward child.

It was there that I was initiated into the art and benefits of yoga. I devoured the lessons I was taught, especially those about the Swami’s life and I will never forget them. He was a medical doctor, born under the star sign of Virgo on 8 September 1887 in the village of Pattamadai in South India and his parents christened him Kuppuswamy. When he practised as a medical doctor in Malaysia he was fondly referred to as the “Heart of Love” for he never distinguished between the rich and the poor. He treated everyone he met with kindness and sympathy while retaining his sense of humour. His need to renounce all things material, and a heart made pure by loving service, led to him giving up his lucrative practice in Malaysia and returning to India. It was at an ashram in Rishikesh in June 1924 that Dr Kuppuswamy met His Holiness Sri Swami Vishwãnanda Saraswati whom he saw as a guru, a teacher, from whom he could learn more and after his initiation he was named Swami Sivananda Saraswati.

We learnt that he lived in a humble abode, followed a life of simplicity and selfless service to the needy, and that he practised various yogas and the scriptures. The Swami’s austerity was a hard act to follow; as a teen I could not see myself giving up the sweet, edible delights of Deepavali or walking away from the aroma of my mother’s South Indian fish curry in a tangy tamarind sauce.

As a woman badly burnt by the D-word I found it hard not to want revenge for the insults and injuries thrown at me. However, the seeds of the Swami’s teaching, planted in my youthful innocence, sprouted in my adult pain and I eventually found peace and wisdom in his teachings.

In their youth my male siblings helped run the family business. They were extremely good looking and used their looks, charm and most certainly my father’s money to play the field. Over the years they opened various branches so the business grew and the name became well established in the city. What I never grew accustomed to was the permeating smell of raw meat so it was hardly surprising that I turned vegetarian in my teens. My six brothers used to quiz me about this desire to be a vegetarian and asked whether this meant I was also choosing a life of celibacy, since I seemed to be following the teachings of the Swami so diligently. I was not immune to their quizzing and innuendo, given I liked the opposite sex, and told them to find wives instead of needling me. That soon put them in their place.

My brothers and I take after my father in height and skin tone. Sometimes I think, when I have my bad short-hair days, that I may look androgynous for I am nothing like my female siblings. They were terribly cruel to me when I was growing up. When I was a gangly pre-teen they played a horrible trick on me. They borrowed my youngest brother’s pants and shirt and a pair of braces, hid my clothes from me and when I stepped out of the bath they grabbed me. They dressed me in my brother’s clothes, even going so far as to give me a fake moustache so I looked like one of the boys. Tears of humiliation rolled down my cheeks, and I remember trying to wipe away the snot before it hit my lips with my sister’s blouse as an act of revenge.

I have never forgiven them for that, even though my mother sorted them out by making them spread the cow dung throughout the back yard. I watched from our bedroom window as they wrinkled their noses in disgust and tried to turn their faces away as they spread the mixture on the ground. I could not help but smirk for their punishment was well deserved. They never tried the same trick again.

When my breasts started to develop my sisters’ looks of envy were my revenge because boys began to take an interest in me. However, by then my five pretty sisters were married and starting families of their own. They took after my mother’s side of the family and were petite, dusky in complexion, and popular. They developed genteel manners and marriage proposals flooded in.

As the last born I was given the name Gayatri, which means “Mother of the Vedas”. I don’t know what my parents were thinking of when they named me but I turned out to be a rather spiritual being. My two best friends have names which I think suit them for they must have been really beautiful babies and they have turned out to be attractive women. They bring so much into my life and were there when I really needed friends, female friends, who would show me what it was like to laugh, but most of all to love and find myself again.

Our friendship has survived for many years. As one matures one learns how to separate the fair weather friends from those who will hold your hand when your world has been devastated and is dark and depressing. My two best friends and I are so different and yet so similar. There is a bond that binds us together.

Throughout the years I found that I could not rely on my perfect sisters in their perfect marriages for any kind of love and support; they think my parents spoil me and that I am a tad too impulsive. So I am very thankful that the good Lord sent me these two perfectly imperfect women to be part of my life. I like to call them my “soul sisters”.

Rupa … her name does mean beautiful and she lives up to it. I sometimes call her Rups. (Coincidentally, Suhina also means beautiful but I’ll get to her next.) It seems that the “Mother of the Vedas” is to have beauty in her life, in all shapes and forms. I worry about Rupa and her weight gain. I suspect the eating has nothing to do with her fondness for the finer things in life. She’s also trying to forget that night so long ago.

“Decadence leads to softness of body, Rups,” I often remind her, declining the delicacies she tries to tempt me with. Fascinated, I watch as a look of ecstasy appears on the face of this matronly woman as she licks her way through another creamy burfee. Rupa reminds me of those soft and sensual belly dancers who mesmerised and seduced wealthy sheiks. I think she is slowly losing the goddess factor, though many of the opposite sex would beg to differ for my eyes never miss the lustful looks that come her way. Poor Rups is oblivious to these looks and often says her softness lends her a comfortable look, one that makes toddlers climb on to her lap and snuggle up against her plump bosom. These days her daughters look to me as their role model and to my boys as their buddies and bodyguards.

I met Rupa the year Nelson Mandela walked into the world a free man. A heavy drizzle was falling that September morning as I huddled under an umbrella waiting for the green government bus to take me to work. My gym bag was heavier than usual and kept sliding off my bony shoulder. My silky fringe fell into my eyes and as I blew it away I saw a woman, slightly above average height and almost as skinny as I am, gazing at me. I did not like the look in her eyes.

Pity was the last thing I needed.