Kali’s eyes pierced the fabric. ‘Look where your eyes stray in the middle of the day!’ she remarked, quickly tugging it back in place. ‘If I can’t see them, then what are they for?’ he responded, mockingly. ‘Hey, Ponna! Come here now and take care of the lentils,’ her mother yelled. ‘How many things can I juggle at the same time?’ Ponna stood up and stated, ‘The old hag is incapable of doing anything on her own.’ She chuckled as she noticed the radiance in his eyes and reached for the knot in his hair, unfastened it, and dashed into the home. He had a small knot of hair on his head that she adored. She frequently unfastened it and messed with his hair, braiding it frequently. She’d remark things like, ‘Your hair is thicker than mine, maama.’ ‘However, there is no tiny petal of a hand capable of holding this and climbing up your shoulders.’ She was able to make any connection to the subject of children. She couldn’t keep the anxiety to herself any longer. Even if she did, the public would find out. She couldn’t think of anything else than attempting to anticipate other people’s queries about it. Kali accompanied Ponna to witness the chariot festival last year to skip the fast. It was the day when the large chariot was paraded. The streets were teeming with people from the villages surrounding Tiruchengode. When you’re in a group, your spirits are elevated in some way. ‘Hey, Kali, are you doing well?’ someone asked as they walked around the shops. Bommidi From the other side of the crowd, Mani smiled. He hadn’t been back to the village in a long time. He’d made his home in Bommidi on his own land. ‘Do you have children?’ he exclaimed from his vantage point. Kali’s face flushed. Despite the fact that the crowd went on as usual, he felt as if everyone had turned to stare at him. Ponna, fortunately, was inside the bangle shop. He gestured a no, embarrassed. ‘Get married again,’ Mani urged as he whacked himself on the head in compassion for Kali’s destiny. Kali had no choice but to smile and go into the mob. It irritated Kali that, while having a million problems in their own life, individuals took great delight in poking and prodding other people’s woes. They couldn’t recall they were in a public location, could they? What type of pride does it give you to know that the other person lacks what you have? Is it true that everyone has everything? Isn’t it always the case that something is missing? It seemed like someone or something was continuously reminding him of it. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll have kids or not.’ What does it mean to you? ‘Shut up and leave!’ he wanted to scream. But he was never able to do so. What kept him from retaliating for their rudeness? Ponna was capable of delivering witty retorts. He couldn’t do it. His mother thought that travelling to Kallipalayam Nadar would solve all of his problems. The man would only make his forecasts once a week, when he arrived at a small shrine under a tree in the forest after doing his regular work of climbing palm trees. It would be around ten o’clock in the morning. The rite was straightforward. Cutting a lemon open was significant because it represented a sacrifice. He’d then split a cluster of beads into two sets, holding the right-hand bunch in both hands and shaking it. After that, he’d put them in pairs. Things would be in one’s favour if only one bead remained. If they all paired up, though, it was cause for concern. Kali and Ponna had always drawn a single, unpaired bead whenever they had visited him so far. As a result, Nadar was confident that they would be blessed with a child. ‘You have inherited some sort of curse. Everything will be fine if we figure out what it is and make appeasement offerings,’ he once declared. Kali’s mother had no idea what the curse was. ‘Why should you suffer because of what this dog did?’ she wailed. But after a few days of contemplation, something occurred to her. She recalled a specific incident. It dated back to Nachimuthu Gounder, Kali’s great grandfather.
One year, his castor seed harvest was particularly high, and he would bring a sack or two to the market every week. He carried two sacks and emptied them beneath a tamarind tree one week. The Chettiyar merchant, who usually purchased the castor seeds, was present, as usual, with his men and measuring jugs. One padi of castor seeds was only worth an anna back then. If a sack brought you five rupees, you were in luck. A vehicle loaded with sacks arrived from Pazhayapalayam as Nachimuthu Gounder unloaded his sacks of castor seeds. The sacks were definitely from a larger farm, but there was no one to unpack them. ‘Gounder, please assist with unloading these,’ Chettiyar said. ‘I’ll make sure you get compensated for it.’ Nachimuthu Gounder obediently completed the duty. However, the figures did not add up in the end. The cart’s driver stated, ‘There were fourteen sacks.’ On the ground, there were just thirteen people. And, oddly enough, Nachimuthu Gounder’s two bags had now expanded to three. ‘I thought you only had two,’ Chettiyar said, noticing this.