Authors: Uma Krishnaswami
Naming Maya (5 page)
He shows us a panel with an image of the goddess Ganga descending to earth, tumbling down into the great god Shiva's matted locks of hair because if she fell directly the earth couldn't bear the force of her rushing water. Enormous slabs of rock bearing images like this stand scattered among the groups of temples. Unlike the old temples in the city that are still used for worship, these lie deserted. It feels as if something's missingâincense, chants, and people circling the shrines. Ashwin wanders in awe around the massive feet of a carved stone elephant. Next to it he looks tiny.
And then I come face-to-face with a panel that takes my breath away.
“Mahishasuramardhini,”
says our guide proudly. “Goddess Durga defeats evil.” The pinkish stone of the giant carved wall gleams in the sunlight. Was it once the wall of yet another temple now in ruins? No one knows. The goddess is slender, almost a girl. One of her many arms pulls back the
string of a bow, training the arrow upon her victim. She rides a curly-maned lion. Each of her hands holds part of an armoryâknives, clubs, spears, a trident, a whirling discus. A massive demon rises to confront her. His heavy club is raised in readiness. Horns spring from his water-buffalo head.
“Mahishasuramardhini,”
says our guide proudly. “Goddess Durga defeats evil.” The pinkish stone of the giant carved wall gleams in the sunlight. Was it once the wall of yet another temple now in ruins? No one knows. The goddess is slender, almost a girl. One of her many arms pulls back the
string of a bow, training the arrow upon her victim. She rides a curly-maned lion. Each of her hands holds part of an armoryâknives, clubs, spears, a trident, a whirling discus. A massive demon rises to confront her. His heavy club is raised in readiness. Horns spring from his water-buffalo head.
“Fifty paise for your thoughts,” says Sumati.
I shake my head. “That's powerful stuff.”
She nods. “Take a picture of it.”
I do. The slight stone figure holds me spellbound. Every fold of her robe is delicately sculpted. A tassel dangles from a necklace, swinging away from her graceful body as she aims her arrow. Other figures in the panel shrink back from the two in the middle, making way for the final scene. You know the demon doesn't stand a chance.
“Mami told me this story,” I say.
“You're named for a goddess too,” says Sumati.
“Me? No, I'm named for Buddha's mother. Can't imagine why.”
“Silly,” says Sumati patiently, “who do you think Buddha's mother was named for?” Oh. That's a new one. She explains it to slow American me. “One of Devi's names is Mahamaya.
Maha
means great, yeah? Well, she's supposed to have come down to earth and put the army of this wicked king, Kamsa, to sleep.
Then she takes the form of a baby girl, because he's looking for another babyâthe infant Krishna. So Kamsa finds her, and then the goddess goes back to her true form.” Sumati slams a fist dramatically into the palm of her other hand. “Just like that,” she says. “No more Kamsa.”
Maha
means great, yeah? Well, she's supposed to have come down to earth and put the army of this wicked king, Kamsa, to sleep.
Then she takes the form of a baby girl, because he's looking for another babyâthe infant Krishna. So Kamsa finds her, and then the goddess goes back to her true form.” Sumati slams a fist dramatically into the palm of her other hand. “Just like that,” she says. “No more Kamsa.”
I know about Krishna, of course, from Culture Campâblueâskinned, naughty Krishna, who was really the god Vishnu, who stole butter from the milkmaids. I'd heard of the wicked king. But I didn't know the goddess played a part. And no one's given me this quick-time version before.
“See?” Sumati smiles. “Maya is not just any old name.” She likes it better than her own name. “Sumati is so ordinary,” she says.
I tell her about the Great Name War when I was born. How Thatha called me Maya and Dad's parents called me Preeta. “They came to visit us once a year,” I say. “Well, until my parents split up. And every single time Dad shouted and Mom cried. But they brought me lots of presents, and we always went out to dinner and the zoo and movies when they came.”
“And they called you Preeta? What did you want to be called?”
“I don't know,” I say. “Sometimes I liked Preeta. Sometimes I didn't.”
“Maybe the name thing wasn't about you at all,” Sumati points out. “Maybe it was your mom they didn't like? You know what I mean? So whatever she liked, they'd make sure they liked something else.”
I have never thought about it that way before. Sumati goes on, “But that's their problem, right? Not yours. Maybe it's not so bad having two names. That way you get to choose.”
What would the goddess say? She has thousands of names, and thousands of formsâsome to protect, some to destroy evil, some to change the course of the universe. It strikes me that nothing in India is what it seems to be. Everything has many names, many forms, many meanings. Maybe that's why so much of what I see here is both strangely familiar and just plain strange, all at the same time. Maybe these meanings just show up when you need them. I glance at the goddess. It is surely my imagination, or maybe the shadow of the setting sun, because of course she couldn't possibly have moved her stone lips in a flicker of a smile.
Too soon, it's time to leave. “Madam, come back this evening, please,” the tour guide begs Lakshmi Auntie. “Shore temple floodlights will be on. All maintained by Mamallapuram Town Panchayat.” Lakshmi Auntie gives him a handful of rupee notes, and he leaves, urging us to return.
A vendor comes by selling hot roasted peanuts in paper cones. Lakshmi Auntie turns up her nose at first, but when Ashwin begs, “Please, Mummy, please, I'm so hungry!” she gives in and buys us one each. They are salted, and there is spice in them that creeps up on me, so I eat them without realizing how they will make my eyes water. But maybe it's my own mixed-up feelings that are making that happen. It's hard to tell.
When we get back to town I find Mami has cleaned the house till every last doorknob gleams.She sprinkles water over the front step and the gravel at its foot. Then she pinches some rice flour between her thumb and index finger. Every morning she trickles it out onto the step in fine lines, and then onto the gravel in circles and stars and swirly designs until magical patterns decorate our threshold. By the end of the day they get blown off, swept away, walked over, and then the next day she does it all over again. When I look up and down the road, there are the same kind of kolam patterns on every doorstep, every threshold. But ours are bigger and better because Mami has double the energy that any of those other women have.
“Teach me,” I ask her one day after I've taken some pictures. She tries. I am clumsy. She is patient. But as I pour the fine flour into delicate circles and connect-the-dots like hers, my fingers slip and I end up instead with a scattering of flour all over the steps, all over my feet.
And Mami begins to laugh. At first I join her. We laugh together. Then I stop. And she carries on laughing. It is only then that I realize her laughter is too shrill.
She laughs until she has to clutch her stomach and sit down. She laughs and it seems she cannot stop. I am alarmed by the small trickle of saliva that escapes from her mouth, and at the harshness of the laugh as it forces itself out of her throat. Can you die from laughing too hard? Can you be choked by laughter?
She stops suddenly and frowns, as if taken by surprise. She dashes the moistness from the corner of her mouth with the end of her sari, and says to me, unsmiling, “That's enough. I have work to do,” as if it is somehow my fault she has nearly died laughing.
I try to decide if there is something here for me to worry about. If Mom were here I could ask her. But she has gone out to get some papers stamped by the notary who sits in a cool dark office under a thatched roof three blocks away. And I decide it is just as well,
because what would I ask? Is Mami okay? What reason do I have for thinking she might not be? Laughter is not cause for concern in the world. Is it?
because what would I ask? Is Mami okay? What reason do I have for thinking she might not be? Laughter is not cause for concern in the world. Is it?
While I am spending time being undecided, Sumati shows up. “Want to go see a movie?” she asks.
“I don't know,” I tell her. “Mom's not here.”
“Oh, come on. She won't mind, will she?”
“I don't know. She might if she comes home and I'm not here.”
“Leave her a note,” Sumati suggests. She's so sensible. “No, better. Tell Kamala Mami. She'll tell your mother, no?”
“Hang on,” I tell her, and I take a peek at Mami in the kitchen. She is singing to herself as usual. She does not seem as if she's in danger of exploding with laughter. Sumati is behind me, peering over my shoulder.
“Well?” She obviously sees nothing unusual.
“Okay.” I'm talked into it.
I tell Mami, “Sumati and I are going to see a movie.”
Mami demands at once, “Movie? What movie? Where movie?”
Sumati explains patiently. It's a Tamil movie. Yes, it's okay for kids to seeâMami tells us quite clearly what she thinks of the kind of movie in which the women aren't wearing nearly enough clothes and aren't nearly
as good as they ought to be. No, no, it's not one of those. It's close by. We can walk, so we won't have to take the bus. Sumati has enough money for both of us. Yes, she's sure about that. We'll go straight there and back. We won't stop for anything,
sathyam
, Mami. We'll be careful, honest.
as good as they ought to be. No, no, it's not one of those. It's close by. We can walk, so we won't have to take the bus. Sumati has enough money for both of us. Yes, she's sure about that. We'll go straight there and back. We won't stop for anything,
sathyam
, Mami. We'll be careful, honest.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me go get my camera.”
“Why? You're going to see a movie or make one? Oh, all right.” Sumati taps her feet impatiently.
I go upstairs and hurry back down with the camera.
“I haven't seen a Tamil movie in years,” I say. “We used to rent them from the Indian store in New Jersey, back when.”
“They're all the same.” She grins and tugs at a coral bead hanging off-center on a chain around her neck. “Long. With songs. Dances. Tears. Ladies with bosoms like a fleet of battleships.” She pronounces it “boozums,” dragging the word out for drama. We giggle, because of course between the two of us we don't have enough boozum for even one battleship.
Mami fusses and carries on. She's worse than Mom. “Just tell my mother,” I say to her, “that we'll be back by seven.”
She throws us a few more warnings. “Be careful crossing the road.” “Count the change they give you.” “Come straight back.” “Hurry.” We are at the gate.
“Don't talk to strangers!” Mami calls out from the front door as we close the gate behind us.
“Tchah!”
Mr. Balaji Rama Rao flaps his newspaper at us. “Still no rain. And water rationing they are going to implement. Go, go in.” This command is not for us. It's aimed at the betel-leaf-chewing woman I've seen at their door before. Last time she was complaining they'd fired her, and now they appear to have hired her back. Mr. Rama Rao seems willing to hold two conversations at once. “Terrible, terrible!” he says to us. “Push the door, I say, it's open,” he says to the woman.
Mr. Balaji Rama Rao flaps his newspaper at us. “Still no rain. And water rationing they are going to implement. Go, go in.” This command is not for us. It's aimed at the betel-leaf-chewing woman I've seen at their door before. Last time she was complaining they'd fired her, and now they appear to have hired her back. Mr. Rama Rao seems willing to hold two conversations at once. “Terrible, terrible!” he says to us. “Push the door, I say, it's open,” he says to the woman.
We giggle our goodbyes at him. We giggle all the way to the theater. It's a comfortable thing, being silly together. It's the way I am at home with Joanie.
The movie is so stupid it's splendid. It is about four brothers who are identical quadruplets and grow up not knowing anything about one another. “Of course they're identical,” Sumati tells me when I finally figure this out. “Quadruplets are always identical.” I admire her for being so sure, even though I think she's wrong. There are few things I am that sure about.
There are so many characters in the movie I can't keep them all straight. A karate-kicking grandmother has us in stitches. We love it. We laugh ourselves silly when the entire family is stuck in a house teetering on the hillside with the bad guy coming up to get them.
We laugh so hard and so loud the rest of the audience begins laughing at us, and we don't care a bit. We have such a good time that when the three hours of the movie end and the lights come back on, we sit in our seats blinking, our eyes needing to adjust.
We laugh so hard and so loud the rest of the audience begins laughing at us, and we don't care a bit. We have such a good time that when the three hours of the movie end and the lights come back on, we sit in our seats blinking, our eyes needing to adjust.
“Oh, that was funny,” gasps Sumati.
“That was horrible,” I point out to her.
“Horribly funny.” We giggle together.
That gets us laughing all over again as we finally emerge from the theater into the still bright and hot evening.
“That grandmother was amazing,” I say. “She doesn't get mad. She goes to war!”
“It's an effective strategy,” says Sumati. She has such a grand way of talking. Effective. Strategy.
Walking home, we burst out laughing about the movie, again and again. A little boy hawking key rings clowns for us. The tea-stall man shoos a yellow dog away. The mango seller calls out her wares. I take all their pictures so I can cement the day into my memory, seal it in a bubble, and go back to it when I need to smile. It's what pictures do for me.
It's a little past seven by the time I say goodbye to Sumati. I watch her take off toward the corner she will turn to get home. I swing the gate open at the yellow house on St. Mary's Road.
I am completely unprepared for the reception I get when I enter the house.
“Where have you
been?
” Mom's face is as tight as her words. “I've been worried sick about you.”
been?
” Mom's face is as tight as her words. “I've been worried sick about you.”
“Whatâ?” It takes a moment before it all registers. “I don't know what you mean. I went to see a movie. With Sumati.”
My mother takes a deep breath like she will need it because she has so much to say. “All you needed to do was tell Mami where you were going, and she'd have told me. Honestly, Maya, you're old enough to think of someone other than yourself once in a while. Don't youâ”
I say, “But, Momâ”
“I don't want to hear any excuses,” she says. “I had a tiring afternoon, and I didn't need to be sitting here since four o'clock, wondering if I should call the police.”
Excuses? Fine. If she didn't want my explanation, she wasn't going to hear it. I think of Mami's laughter that won't stop, and I feel a little worry quivering inside me. I am scared this is all part of something I do not understand. A part of me urges,
Tell her, Maya. Speak up. She needs to know
. But another part insists,
You tried to tell her, didn't you? She didn't want to hear a word of it.
The Dad voice says,
Remember,
there were other things you didn't tell her. Phone calls ⦠an overnight letter ⦠Yes, better if you don't tell Mom.
Tell her, Maya. Speak up. She needs to know
. But another part insists,
You tried to tell her, didn't you? She didn't want to hear a word of it.
The Dad voice says,
Remember,
there were other things you didn't tell her. Phone calls ⦠an overnight letter ⦠Yes, better if you don't tell Mom.
Until I get it all sorted out, I have to let my mother's disappointment hang in the air like rain clouds.
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