The Mother I Never Knew Read online

  ‘So you are welcome to stay in our house next door. It’s independent and has a telephone. You can have your meals with us too, or we can arrange to get you breakfast and dinner from outside if you prefer. Please choose whatever you are comfortable with. We have no problems at all,’ Patil was direct and straightforward.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ replied Venkatesh.

  A few days later, he became Patil’s tenant.

  *

  A month went by and Venkatesh settled into a routine.

  Patil’s house was always crowded with friends and relatives. Venkatesh often wondered how the couple managed to entertain everybody.

  It was a typical patriarchal family and the women were busy cooking and making jowar rotis the whole day. They barely emerged from the kitchen. There was plenty of avalakki or puffed rice kept in tins for snack-time.

  Venkatesh couldn’t help thinking about Shanta. Had she been placed in such circumstances, she would have rebelled. Her mind was on things beyond the home—which property is for sale, which of the equities will be more profitable? Ever since her first successful stint in the stock market, she had not entered the kitchen, nor did anyone expect her to. Ravi would often tell his mother, ‘Amma, don’t waste your time with household chores. Hire somebody to take care of them. Your time is precious.’

  Venkatesh wondered, ‘Does anyone ever say that to Vijayabai?’

  Soon, Venkatesh became an intimate member of their family. Patil and he would sit in the courtyard every evening and chat.

  One Monday evening, Patil said, ‘Rao ji, I have a younger brother, Dinesh. When we sit and talk, we lose track of time. The tired women would leave tea and milk powder out for us and go to bed. We would make our own tea and continue chatting.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Patil took a deep breath, ‘He’s in Mumbai and I really miss him. I was raised in a joint family. We are the Patils of Kallapur. It is a village close to Hubli and our house always had at least twenty people living in it at any time. But that’s enough about me. What about your family, Sir?’

  ‘Ours is a very small family,’ Venkatesh said. ‘I am an only son. My father was transferred frequently and I really don’t remember meeting any relatives. My parents never talked about them either. Sometimes, I wish that I also had affectionate brothers like you. Where do all your other relatives stay?’

  ‘Our relatives are spread everywhere. That reminds me—the thread ceremony of my Aunt’s grandson is on Sunday, in Shiggaon. I want you to see the customs and traditions of our region. Let’s go together next weekend.’

  ‘But I don’t know them,’ said Venkatesh.

  ‘Rao ji, it’s different here. You don’t have to wait for a personal invitation. Simply come with me. Just like Bangalore has many neighbouring places that are worth visiting—such as Belur, Halebidu and Mysore—we also have nice places around Hubli. There’s Gadag, Koliwada, Savanur and Shishunal. We must go visit all of them. After all, you are only going to be here for six months.’

  Venkatesh nodded. That sounded nice. He had already been to Bangalore three times. Everyone was busy there. Ravi was back from America and the search for a suitable girl was duly in progress. Gauri was preoccupied with studying for her exams. Still, she called up her father often and told him repeatedly, ‘Anna, you must take a break from work and be here with me during my exams. If I get a few holidays for preparatory leave, I will also come to Hubli.’

  4

  A Case of Mistaken Identity

  The summer had ended and it was the month of Shravana. The rain had washed the muddy roads of Hubli when Venkatesh set out for Shiggaon with Anant Patil. It was an hour’s journey from Hubli. When they reached Shiggaon, the pond outside the village was filled with water and there was greenery all around. The thread ceremony was in Deshpande Galli, thus named because all the residents in the lane were Deshpandes.

  When Venkatesh stepped through the gates of the big ancestral house called wade, he noticed that the walls were at least eighteen inches thick and made of clay. There was a huge courtyard inside the house. The teakwood pillars and the ceilings had delicate carvings in the wood. ‘This is so different from our Jayanagar bungalow back home,’ he thought.

  In Bangalore, it was almost mandatory to hire a big hall for such celebrations. But here, the ceremony was in the family home.

  Finally, Venkatesh spotted the boy or vatu, whose thread ceremony was taking place. He was eight years old. His head was shaved except for a little pigtail in the centre of his head.

  Anant Patil said, ‘Since the ceremony was in the family house, we didn’t even print invitation cards, Rao ji. We went from home to home and personally invited people. Tell me, what do you think of my ancestral home?’

  ‘It’s really nice,’ replied Venkatesh, looking around. He noticed that Patil’s relatives were still coming in. It seemed like he knew everyone in north Karnataka.

  ‘There should be around two hundred people here today,’ Patil said modestly.

  ‘Please go ahead and meet your friends and relatives.’ Venkatesh felt like an outsider, despite the warmth of the people around. He added, ‘Meanwhile, I’ll take a look around and see the market.’

  Patil laughed, ‘Our whole Shiggaon is just about one round. Please eat some chakkali and drink some tea. I will accompany you too.’

  While they were talking, banana leaves had been spread in a line on the floor. People sat down and were served chakkali, avalakki and besan laddu. Sensing his opportunity, Venkatesh slipped out of the house and went into the streets. He had not had a chance to buy a gift for the boy. So he asked an old man on the road, ‘Sir, is there a jewellery store nearby?’

  ‘Yes, there is. It’s in the centre of Shiggaon and is located near the old hospital. Bannabhatta’s house is also close to it. The shop belongs to Krishnachari.’

  Venkatesh was confused. The landmarks didn’t make any sense to him at all. He walked further and that’s when he realized that all the shops were located on one long street—just like Brigade Road in Bangalore. Everything was available on this road.

  Within a few minutes, he found the shop. It was tiny and had a handwritten board displayed outside: ‘Shri Vishwakarma Namah, Sneha Jewellers, Proprietor Krishnachari’. He knocked at the door. An elderly man opened it and said, ‘Come in, Master, why are you standing outside?’

  ‘Why is he calling me Master?’ Venkatesh wondered. For a second, he thought that the man was talking to someone standing behind him. But when he turned around, there was nobody there.

  The man repeated, ‘Master, please come in and sit down. I’ll be back in two minutes.’

  Venkatesh entered the shop. There was an old desk in a corner, an old carpet on the floor and a weighing scale in a glass box standing on the counter. The words ‘Shubha Labha’ and a swastika mark were displayed on the wall and a framed cross-stitched picture of Balakrishna was hanging next to it. The whole place appeared ancient, especially compared to Krishniah Chetty’s stylish shop on Bangalore’s busy Commercial Street.

  Soon, the man came out of a room. He looked like he was around seventy years old. He took his time rearranging his dhoti and glasses. Then he looked at Venkatesh and said, ‘Master, have you fixed your daughter’s marriage?’

  ‘What? Whose daughter?’ asked Venkatesh.

  The man adjusted his glasses and peered at him, ‘Your daughter Mandakini. I don’t understand. Why are you looking at me like that? Haven’t you seen me before?’

  ‘I think you are mistaken. I am not Master and my daughter’s name is not Mandakini.’

  Immediately, Krishnachari corrected himself, ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I mistook you for Shankar Master. I haven’t seen him for a long time. So I think I got confused. But . . . is he related to you?’

  ‘I don’t have any relatives in this area,’ said Venkatesh firmly. He changed th