Uma - meets her conscience in the Bathtub

Uma stared at the bathtub for a few minutes unsure and apprehensive. In all her nine years she had never encountered a contraption such as this. A bucket and mug mostly and when it rained, directly under the blessed showers, which she preferred. This, graying, cracking, threatening pit of rectangle had never crossed her naïve path. If it had she might have walked regally past. Who would want to ‘soak’ in water when one could gambol, romp, stomp, frolic with each drop and its trailing siblings. Soak is what Mrs Nanjappa had said, pointing to the aforementioned fancy of the Tea Gardens. The other words she had carefully collected from hither and thither, jotting down into her notebook whatever sounded good, tasted nice.

Words come in various tastes, didn’t you know? Eat a word and see for yourself! A romp is a gulp while a gambol is a gallop, the running away of the tongue with the taste. Uma was mouthing these in the mirror of her mind when Aunty, as Mrs Nanjappa was respectfully addressed despite being a divorcee, lovingly directed her towards the bathroom with a single word : SOAK. Soak - she commanded. That a command was couched in this sweet lipsticked pout was clear to even a nine year old. Ladies such as this, draped in chiffon and puffing away, borrowing a friend’s daughter for a Sunday while one’s own languishes in a boarding school can only know of a command. Of gentleness and motherliness they are bereft.

Not that Uma’s own mother was gentle! Not by any motherly standard! Oh no! she was a terror. It was all rules and regulations for Uma. What she could do when and how with whom for how long were precisely laid out. In all this Uma never sensed any command, any assumption of power in her mother. Her mother was a duty-bound humble woman of normal means and this came through in all dealings. Money and its encumbrances speak loudly despite the silence of its victims. This then was Aunty’s despair. Try as she might she could never make her daughter ‘like Uma’. And poor lady did not realize that the fault lay not in Munmun but in herself. A mother-in-absentia does not know how to raise children.

No doubt all the elders in the camp liked Uma since she was always polite, wished everyone, studied well and all that, which was very important for the adults but that was not it. ‘There is something more that I am unable to see’ and this is the mystery that detective Uma wanted to crack. Entering people’s minds and reading signs by examining conversations and analyzing responses was her new hobby and it was yielding good results. Except that there was no Watson to applaud and no fee that came her way. Also what surety did she have that her deductions were spot on?

Angushtamaatraha, the size of a thumb. Enough to glow in the dark, provide light in the tunnel and show her the way. This antaryaami proved to be a boon for the reticent Uma. Although she had never indulged in a direct one-to-one conversation with her formless twin she was happy to have discovered her soul mate so early in life. Henceforth it became difficult for Uma to make true friends. Everyone she met glazed over the surface, flitting on the waves of life as though a dolphin on show. Her style was more deep sea diving. With a flick of her eye she could capture the truth that lay in another’s heart without ever exchanging a word. ‘SOAK’ then was more than enough, four letters said with great emotion dripping with heavy meaning. Aunty had in fact meant that a middle class child like Uma ought to be pleased at this opportunity to immerse herself in the clean bath waters surrounded by fragrant bottles and white lace curtains shielding the harsh summer heat and that such a generous gesture ought to be thanked and indulged in appropriately. Aunty probably did not realize how transparent her needs were. She had expected Uma to squeal with delight, which Uma, despite her excessive politeness couldn’t force herself to.

Uma had grown up being bathed by her pinnis and baabais, they had all doted on her. In fact they gave her an oil massage every Sunday, whole body, mind. They would even pour the oil down her nose and ears ‘for lubrication’. Then one of them would apply a paste of turmeric mixed with Kasturi on her skin and let it dry. Then another would scrub it off for her, telling her stories set in Kishkinda or Dandakaranya. Some would be busy breaking kunkuDikaayas, soap nuts, for shampooing her hair. These would soak in water while she soaked the sun. Others would be plucking the mandara leaves and would be grinding them in the stone mortar and pestle, so her hair could shine. Then they left her to day dream, naked except for her oily towel, which she would wrap about self consciously. In an hour or so the women returned remembering their ward and spent the whole afternoon washing her hair, her body, singing to her, making her laugh, hugging her and pampering her. A heavenly experience which came weekly in the name of tallanTi. Uma’s quiet assuredness had stemmed from such spontaneous love and it was not going to be intimidated by a patronizing ‘SOAK’!

How was poor Aunty to know that Uma did not think that the cast iron construction that demanded that you lay in it, in your own yuck, was very hygienic. In fact for a girl who thought swimming pools were dirty, this was a step better that is all. You did not splash about in other people’s muck. How was poor Aunty to also know that Uma in fact pitied her loneliness, her lack of friends and her inability to stick to a marriage however difficult that might have been. Aunty was the first divorcee she had met and Uma was filled with scorn. She had seen her mother and her resilience and then she saw this! Did one go about as one pleased or did one fulfill one’s duty despite all odds? An adult at that! Did one’s duty consist of happiness of oneself or of the others too? Pondering day in and day out about this Uma had reached a sure shot conclusion that was much applauded by her twin. One ought to give, oneself of oneself and more. Thus decided smug Uma’s body language conveyed scornful vibes.

Mrs Nanjappa frequented her house whenever she had a breakdown. Amma was a perfect antidote to any trouble. She never gossiped, she did not intimidate, she listened and she cooked. She fed and she calmed. No one who came to her went away sad. She was simplicity personified. Sincerity oozed from her. Who could withstand such transparency without being transformed somehow for the good? Uma had Aunty’s story in bits and pieces: overheard her actually, she loved to eavesdrop, fancied herself a detective, didn’t she?

Born to a Punjabi General, married to a rich Coorgi planter, becoming a mother despite not wanting to, divorcing him after falling in love with another, that another who has a daughter of his own, having a second daughter Mahima who is sent away to a Boarding school because ‘how can we let her study in these small town schools’ and so on it went, confusing the very stable and simple world of Uma’s with unwarranted husbands and excessive children.

Hearing Aunty’s story and knowing where her own mother came from, to Uma it was as clear as the water in that chipped porcelain bathtub that these gestures that Mrs Nanjappa meted out were to fulfill her own needs. Hadn’t she often stepped out of their tiny bathroom with a wrinkled nose. She must have noticed the cracked walls and dying commode. The spluttering flush. The old plastic bucket next to the distorted mug. The lack of accoutrements in a room that was overcrowded with unwashed clothes. Aunty had even wondered aloud at Amma’s ability to live happily in two rooms - the only accommodation that was provided to them for these two years of their lives. Mrs Chiffon Nanjappa with her Happy Valley Tea Gardens’ Manager’s bungalow, servant’s quarters, cook house, outhouse, driveway, birdbaths, orchards, gardens, a pond, a badminton court and a swimming pool was confounded by Amma and her well behaved, well read children, who did not complain nor cry.

She wants to study me thought Uma. Wants to get to the bottom of the mystery of my being. How can I turn out this way while her own daughter….well how was her daughter? Uma had not yet gotten a chance to meet her. Each time she was coerced by Aunty to ‘come spend the night with me, Uncle is away and I am all alone in such a big house’, Ma would take pity and send Uma packing with hurriedly packed clothes and the homework that was to be completed. No one seemed to want to know what Uma thought of this arrangement. Children were not consulted on such trivial matters when Uma was nine. They got along with life the best they could. The next day Uma would arrive in a chauffer driven car at her school to the astonishment of all her classmates who had seen Uma jumping up into an Army vehicle, an hour after school, jostling among the potato and onion gunny sacks in an open three-tonner to be taken home, another hour away. She also got a few comics as presents and an ‘English’ lunch in her tiffin box (which she exchanged for being so bland) and Trifle Pudding as extra treat.

Nanjappa Aunty made sure that she had bribed Uma enough for next time. Little did she know that Uma was not asked about her stay either by her mother or her father and that such events did not ruffle the routine of her chaotic household. They pitied Aunty as much as Uma did or maybe Uma caught the scent from them…or else how was a young girl to know that divorce was bad or that making a choice as an adult woman was considered immoral. That her mother was so friendly towards Mrs Nanjappa in itself was shocking considering how pious and conservative she was but that Aunty N should like her Amma, this was the strangest thing. A sophisticated lady like her, rich and glamorous and vocal while Amma a simple housewife, unpretentious and almost unformed. But for the need. There is always the need.

Uma was a symbol. She projected all that was right with the future generation, a beacon, a shining example, look, they all said, be like her, children! And that made sure that she never had any more friends after that. Hence our nine year old lil miss perfect spent many a lonely night reading books belonging to another, sleeping in another’s bed and waiting to bathe in another’s bathtub. Nay, Soak. Aunty’s pet but did she have any one her age to play with? To saunter about? To stroll along the stream?

The first time Uma went to the Bungalow, so many men came out to assist with her puny night-bag that she was ashamed of how little she possessed. She felt she needed to be worthy of this treatment, of being their guest, not Aunty’s mind. Aunty knew. Uma wanted to be thought of as someone important by the servants. So the rest of her stay was spent not in free abandon but in constant watching of herself. Did she sit right? Was her dress too high? Had she crossed her legs at dinner? Had she thanked them adequately for the second helpings? Was the toilet seat wet? Had she wiped it? Did she fold her clothes, put away her books, rinse her glass and so it went for two days. This constant burden weighed on our poor girl so much that the visits were turning into a test instead of providing respite.

She wanted to ask so many questions. How was one to use that bath-tub. This was the first time she was seeing one. It was only now that she had sort of gotten used to a commode. That she could manage. Could she ask for pickle because the food was so inedible or was Aunty testing her? Was that a bird-bath she had read about in books! How wonderful, what types of birds came to drink from this fountain….and that surely is an Orchid! Weren’t orchids rarest of rare…..

Unfortunately Uma did not put her curiosity to tongue. She was told not to pester Aunty and she knew how irritating some children got. So very impolite, asking this and demanding that. She disliked such childish behaviour. She would indulge in none of that. The Answers would present themselves to her in their own time and meanwhile she will make do by gliding past them, the queen of these surroundings who deigns to walk amongst such common happenings. There was not a child’s bone in her frail and ungainly body. If you mistook her for a princess she would have reprimanded you for slighting a queen.

Though, unfortunately for her, no one thought Uma was royalty. To start with, Baby Chiffon who had just landed from a boarding in Bokaro was upset that her mother would choose to invite a strange unglamorous girl home the very day that her own friend whom she desperately wanted to impress was finally coming to visit her. Not to speak of whose daughter she was. Tina’s father was Manager of the Barak Valley Tea Gardens AND the Polo Club. It was so mortifying to find a silly South Indian who looked like a lizard in an overgrown gown sitting at the dining table with a glum face while she had wanted to project a Happy picture, after all they were the Managers of the Happy Valley Tea Gardens, no? Baby Chiffon aka Munmun aka Mahima did not let you forget that she by virtue of being her father’s daughter was in some way a Manager too. The least you could do was to treat her right. Since Uma has not yet behaved like a sycophant or at least like a normal girl, which meant a few giggles and a headshake to show off your curls, Uma has been relegated to the doghouse.

Thus mornings, afternoons and evenings were spent in Uma being chased by Mrs Chiffon to “go find the girls Uma, it’ll do them good to play with you” forcing Uma to leave the Famous Five in the middle of their adventure to chase the case of the disappearing girls! Tina and Munmun, names that Uma instantly abhorred, were like two Bulbuls set free on a Jamun tree, black in heart and black in tongue. Never a moment that did not include high pitched prattle, their discussing the misdeed of another, a misdemeanor that they chose to analyze in excruciating detail, never a time when Tina by word, deed and gesture let Munmun forget whose Daddy was bigger and never an instance when they looked back at the trailing Uma. Uma who was by now thirsty and tired but too proud to say so could only guffaw in her silent heart at the scene playing out before her not having the wherewithal to confront such ridiculous behaviour. If only her mother could see her now! Uma suddenly understood her own worth all too well in the company of these girls.

This was what was bothering Aunty then, how was it that Uma should be so sophisticated, at nine mind, given where she came from while her own daughter, all that money spent on that Catholic boarding had come to a naught. How was it that one kid knew what to do and how, what to say and when, without ever being taught while her own flesh and blood, her child born of love and choice, should come across so ill-mannered and uncouth.

It was easy to see that Munmun missed her mother, she had no one to guide her and boarding schools don’t give a child the love an extended family can. It was also clear to Uma that had Mrs Nanjappa not flitted from one man to another, her disgusting daughter might have learnt by example on how to put up with people who are different, difficult and dull. Right now all that Munmun craved was for drama. High Drama. After all she was her mother’s daughter. If one did not like a situation, move on was the clear message. While in her own house what Uma saw was the exact opposite. Stick to your word, your promise, your commitment, come what may. This is what she saw day in and day out. It makes for mettle of steel, maybe that is why Amma always shone. And she Uma had reflected her mother’s shine? Never to have talked for the heck of it, never to have let a vow be broken. What power such speech had. What power such people had. How was she to convey all this to a lady who dressed so perfectly, who spoke so effectively and carried herself with such care?

Tina wants to play Badminton but Munmun does not. Even so Munmun will play Badminton because Tina wants it. Tina also wants to win but Munmun’s competitive spirit is bigger than her social skill so she unfortunately defeats Tina which cannot be the way Universe functions in this part of the world, so Replay after temper tantrums and a few “My Daddy is better than your Daddy” dialogues! Tina wins Munmun loses, all is well. Munmun learns an important lesson. Barak Valley Manager is bigger than Happy Valley Manager whatever your talent levels with racquet and shuttlecock.

What was she to tell Aunty after she got back to the house? That her lack of love and caring had made her daughter a spiteful little girl who would grow up to be a disgrace to society, that Munmun should be brought home to study with the tea pickers’ children to learn some compassion and humility, that she ought to be spanked out of her arrogance. Despite Amma telling her many times to always speak the Truth and behave Dutifully with dignity: Satyam Vada Dharmam Chara, Uma was not really convinced about the greatness invested in Truth per se. Who knew what that was? Everyone had their own truth. As for telling IT! Ha! Only fools told the Truth, the wise told Stories.

Her aunts, uncles, grand-parents everyone around her told her stories. Those stories conveyed more truth than anyone expected them to. Over time she learnt to distinguish between a true voice and an insincere one. It was not too tough to do. Listening to mythologies of yore with their tangled and twisted flow, disparate characters all coming together in the end, reading about them in books, letting one’s imagination accompany her favourite characters, all this had helped her define her own Truth.

What she had inferred from this disastrous visit was that her Truth was radically different from Tinmun’s (her petname for the twin devils) but they had entertained her all the same. They were enacting scene after scene for her, she had learnt about inter-tea-garden rivalries, about boarding school politics and about this fascinating city called Bokaro where everything was better than this silly Silchar, so they said. She had learnt that South Indians were dark and ugly and also that they had never heard of her hometown Hyderabad. “You are from where Hy, Hi, Hai der BAD?” and they had laughed and laughed, orange marmalade sticking to their teeth while they opened and closed their mouths with each H.

Uma could have taken great offence but all she felt was pity.

She remembered her own encounter with the soul in the Bathtub.

After Aunty had commanded her to “Soak!” Uma , who could not disobey the one woman who was a source for all her Enid Blytons, went in with trepidation. This bathroom was ten times bigger than the two room accommodation that was her house for the past year.

It had to happen one day so it happened today, now. Uma finally came face to face with her conscience. For the first time she sensed that there was someone else besides herself who existed in her, resided in her. This happened on the very day that she stood facing the porcelain pot. Having gotten away without asking questions for the most part, here she was confounded with her nemesis! Where did the water come from, where did it go? Should the tub be left wet or was there some knob to dry it? Was she supposed to lie down or sit or stand? Uma found in front of her five different taps, gilded. To prevent anyone from spying on her foolishness, she first made sure that the white lace curtains opening into the garden were drawn close. Then she locked herself inside despite warnings from Aunty ‘don’t lock yourself in now! That bolt is rusty’. Though Aunty had provided her with a wonderful white Turkish towel and a fresh Lavender soap,making her feel very rich, in that instant standing naked in the streaming morning sunlight Amma’s warning about misusing hospitality pricked her conscience. In her not-so-big overnite bag was a thin white and green striped cotton Bapatla made tunDuguDa , she took it out hurriedly and placed it quietly on the hook, behind the door. Afraid that someone would laugh at her belongings she hid everything from public view by carrying her bag with her. Even into the bathroom. Her soap was a moth-eaten blob of pink, streaked with dirt lines and mishapen. This her mother had wrapped carefully in newspaper since there was only one soap box in her house and that was definitely not assigned for overnite visits. She then placed the soap carefully on the washbasin, reaching out with the her hand and measuring the distance from the bath tub to the basin, to ensure that she could soap herself and wash herself without wetting and dirtying the whole bathroom floor. It was practically impossible to achieve this simple act of washing. Mainly because the bathroom was a house in itself! On the tub or around it she found no place where she could place the soap without fear of it slipping or her slipping or….this bathroom was proving very inconvenient for Uma. More like a drawing room, she thought. With all its paraphernalia. It was not functional just aesthetically appealing that’s all. Already she could hear Aunty whispering “everything okay in there dear?” and she responded before further investigation in a hurried YES! Much too loud a response, if only Aunty could sense nuance! Minutes ticked by, Uma was feeling dirty. She could not eat or drink before she bathed, a habit that her traditional relatives had imbibed in her, what to do now?

Soon enough using her thin ragtag of a towel she was wiping the tub just enough with water to make it seem that she had bathed, wetting her soap, her face, just right. A swob here, a splash there. Quickly but dexterously she recreates a scene for those who might come in to check on the post-bath state of the bathroom. If that is how things are done in such houses, else what did all these numerous servants actually do?

Afraid to flood the bathroom, Uma had taken an alternate way out, to prevent embarrassment, to prevent revealing her ignorance, what pride for one so young! This then was her meeting with her conscience. She saw how vain she was, how incapable of taking advice or help. How full of her own importance and wanting desperately to be treated right. Her show of strength was all a façade, her regal bearing just a mask to hide her weak desperation. A young girl with delusions too grand for her age. For any age. This struck her in bits and pieces. In a language she understood. That she was no better than Munmun or Aunty or anyone else, that everyone was just acting out what they thought was their true self. It was only when we removed all the layers, these garments of vanity, these clothes and garbs of wordly honours that one can truly see. Now she could, shivering with the wet towel in her hand trying to prove to an unseen audience that she knew what a bathtub was and how one bathed in it.

The Uma that came out that day was not the Uma that went in. She saw everyone in a different light. She superimposed her deficiencies on them and realized how human everyone was. These were no longer people to be despised but people to be accepted, as they were. No wonder Amma always treated Aunty with such respect and love. Or anyone else. What else can one do? When one sees oneself in others?

When Aunty saw that Uma could not be provoked into a confession against the giggly girls, she ordered all three of them to ‘go clean your rooms for the evening party’.

Parties at this plantation were sought after by everyone in the Cachar District. She was a wonderful hostess Aunty was. She knew the art of keeping everyone entertained and well fed. She could make anyone feel wanted even for that one evening. Men of every age hung on to her gentle orders, fulfilling her instructions with a chivalry that was rare to see even in her father's Air Force camp. Women vied to chat with her, to tell her their sob stories or to impress her with their garments, hairstyles, handbags. Children never cried in her presence, they dare not! They gaped at her in wonder, mesmerized. What magic she wove on those nights, she seemed to be everywhere, talking to everyone, dancing away the hidden pain in her heart, while the stars shone on a clear Summer sky in far away Assam, where no ill, evil or sin intruded this grand spectacle. Uma waited breathlessly for such evenings. She was sure that when she grew up, she would be like Aunty. The centre of it all.

Her distaste for divorced women was decreasing day by day and she slowly came to see no harm in it. She saw how good Aunty was despite her man-hopping. If a woman could carry off a party with three hundred hard-to-please hard-nosed planters, bureaucrats and defence officers successfully, she must possess some inherent merit after all. It was now Uma’s turn to look at Mrs Chiffon intently, without her sari. It was now Uma’s turn to look at Mrs Chiffon intently. Without her trademark sari, always Chiffon and see through, which was never in place and kept dropping into her cigaretted elbow, Aunty became just another normal woman. In fact she took the form of a human with human wants and emotions. Human failings and successes. Human like you me and Amma thought Uma. After all it was Aunty who saw to it that all the children got to eat what they liked while the parents were busy drinking and hobnobbing, too distracted to bother about such trivialities. Aunty seemed to be always hovering around them. ‘Beta this Beta that’ she would perpetually cluck like Mother Goose.

Before you knew it you could hear her discussing politics animatedly and heatedly with some young ‘un who was recently posted in these badlands and was too drunk to know when to stop arguing with his gracious hostess. This part always got the maximum claps, there was no one yet including her father who had defeated her in debate. She knew, Mrs Nanjappa did. Then suddenly her lilting voice could be heard crooning to the piano or to the strum of a guitar. Soon she would sway to a melodious rhythm and all the children would race to the top floor balcony to hide and watch the adults living it up through the wrought iron balustrades. Mrs Nanjappa was like Krishna. Dancing with the Gopis in the moonlight. Each Gopi thought she was his favourite! How does one achieve that? To make people feel so treasured.

Oh! how I wish to be like her when I grow up thought Uma wistfully letting admiration replace disdain. Even though she is a divorcee. Even though she does not know her own daughter.......