Uma - houses a Great God in her Garage

Uma has been fretting a lot these days.

She stands third in class, her mother paints nude pictures and her sister is getting all the attention. All right, let us rewind. Uma is a spoilt child. Rewind some more? Uma is a much pampered grandchild who was adorable and obedient as a baby but now has acquired some traits that might not be so cuddle-worthy anymore. Still some? Uma is now growing up with a mind of her own and it is not very pleasant. She should know. She lives with it doesn’t she?

Uma is eight years old. We established that a while ago. She drifts back and forth, between Silchar and Siliguri, Siliguri and Shillong, Shillong and Hyderabad, Hyderabad and Thimpu, Thimpu and Phuntsholing, her days in the East are a blurr. She is young or so thinks the world and she is yet her parents’ daughter or so they assume. She is bound and fettered and tagged with her antecedents carved on her every pore and she longs to break free. She knows too that the time is not ripe. Is it ever, to cause pain and to cut the umbilical cord!

Oh! well, such as this life is, Uma has prodded along the societal norms for all of eight years and it is wearing her down. She has never back-answered her parents, she has always covered and labeled her books before school starts, polished her shoes, ironed her uniform, done her homework; every day! She has been a good daughter, a good niece, a good sister and a good student. There is no one who does not like her….wait! None of the other camp kids like her! Oh! no!

Children are hard to please. Some make friends instantly, others find close confidants with a bit of a struggle and still others are popular for various reasons which have nothing to do with their ethical or moral standards which her mother insists that Uma ought to possess. Why, Anagha is as arrogant as they come and had once refused to offer Uma the Cucumber Sandwich which she was eating, a cardinal offence in Amma’s rule book surely? Surprisingly Anagha had many many admirers and she was never reprimanded for her faux pas by anyone. Then there was Anjali who stole Uma’s Moral–of-the-Story idea in the Annual Story Writing competition and won the first prize, how come Anjali had so many friends who vied to get invited to her birthday parties? In all this Uma stood alone. Either she did not like them or they did not like her, if you see it as it is – Uma, you could safely say was an Unpopular child – among children mind.

Aunties on the other hand adored her, Uncles took her views very seriously, Bachelors took her on long motorbike rides, Bhaiyyas told her ghost stories and Didis trusted her with their love notes, while Servants treated her as though she was one of them. It was only with her classmates, peers should we say, that she hit a no show. Coming to think of it, Uma in all of her childhood cannot boast of a single friend. Uma is a loner but she finds solace in Pranathi of course, who has been hired to look after her baby sister, in Gopalaswamy Uncle and Aunty (to whom she has complained that her parents are neglecting her and that she thinks she might have been adopted) and off and on in Nidhi.

Nidhi, you must understand, is not really a friend friend. She is a friend. A competitor. A person she must befriend because Nidhi stood first in class this year in the half-yearlies. And Nidhi does not feel the least bit guilty about it. Uma, if you haven’t noticed is guilty about everything that puts her in a better light. She is guilty if she knows more than others, thinks more than others, if she is better turned out, more obedient and sincere and talented and if she is found to possess and is praised for all those qualities that parents want in their children. Uma is guilty to be so blessed.

Uma, let it be repeatedly said, feels guilty for making others seem less perfect than she is. So she goes out of the way to make people feel extra comfortable, saying they are as good as her, which the intelligent children of Hashimara Officer’s Camp do not appreciate and rightly so, thinking of her as mighty condescending. Uma, poor lonely child, would have been better off preening but who would tell her that.

So it is good that a person like Nidhi exists, because this makes Uma extremely comfortable, for once she is not the best. She can feel light and free and un-tethered to the ideal of the ‘perfect child’. Such characters though cannot be counted among friends, because as Uma quickly discovers not everyone, in fact nobody she knows, is as humble as she herself is in Victory.

It amuses her no end that twits such as Nidhi (who was second to her first last year) who followed her around like Mary’s lamb, are suddenly acting like they are Lady Diana’s bridesmaids. This Nidhi who was constantly at her beck and call that it annoyed her no end and only politeness stopped her from brushing her off was now giving Uma the blues. Blowing hot and blowing cold, ordering her about and ignoring her, criticizing her and reprimanding her. There was no respite! Even if it was only to get back at Nidhi, Uma wanted to reclaim her class first position at any cost.

Given all this, Uma was not really in a great mood when Nanna announced at dinner that she would have to give up her room to a guest. Such torture she has had to endure who will ever understand! Negligent parents having a second child (wasn’t Uma enough?), Domineering friend (didn’t Nidhi remember last year?), Dismissive peers (didn’t they know Uma was the best?) and now losing her only private space to some ….Sthapati.

“Sthapati aa…” she repeats after her father, as though she knows. Her father knows everything. Including each and every train station from Jalpaiguri to Guntakal.

“They are taught the Shilpashastras kada so we have requested for a Vekateswara statue for Hashimara, Tirumala Devasthanam will make one for us, they will send it next month along with our own Sthapati gaaru and he will need a place to stay so…” Nanna was patient but never talked down to her. Although what he just said made everything sound more complicated.

Uma did not know who or what Venkateshwara was or who or what Tirumala Devasthanam was or who or what Shilpashastras were but her Nanna did. Nanna, she realized, like her, was never quite comfortable knowing more than others or having more than others. He wanted to share as much and as quickly as possible. Keep everything, everybody equal. Always. Play it down. Brush off greatness. Flick it, Fame. Fickle as it is. The trouble was that he was the best looking, the smartest, the most honest, the most generous man in Camp. Sometimes you cannot escape your genes.

“Like a Poojari aa?” Uma is curious to find out more but will not ask outright. Genetically she is loath to admit ignorance.

“Anachchu. Poojari laaga kaani…they have to know not just the Agama Shastras but also Vaasthu” Nanna’s knowledge bank was threatening to flood her system. Where was that one clue that could tell her what a Sthapati meant? The Oxford English Dictionary was useless. From experience she knew that she had once looked up Madhuparkam and found Mad instead. She needed a Telugu one.

Someone who knew the Shilpashastras, the Agama Shastras, Vaasthu and was connected to the Tirumala Devasthanam was coming over with a Venkateswara Statue. Given this information she would have to deduce the vocation of this Sthapati. Was it a name or a rank?

Uma spent the next few days gathering fresh Blue Jay feathers and Bhutan bidis while pondering over the size of the statue. What did it look like? She had heard of Tirupati, they said it was on seven hills shaped like Adi Sesha. The Vishnu avatara there was called Venkateswaraswamy. The pooja gadi in their house was a strange collection of Amma’s interest in various Gods and Goddesses and Saints and Peers and Christ and the Virgin and Nanak, everyone but Balaji seemed to have fascinated her. One lone faded photo hiding away in the crowd of divine despots showed signs of being the God in question but Uma was not sure.

This was exciting, this exploring, seeking, extracting the Truth from a simple clue. Without asking directly, that was the key. Keeping silent and being observant can lead to so much knowledge she surmised in her head. Although at times one has to talk a lot to couch the silence, to couch the reason behind the silence. Surprises made life so thrilling. The concept of a Secret was delicious to Uma. You discover something, uncover your reality. Hold it tight. Keep it safe. The warmth and fuzziness of that exclusive feeling, Uma learnt to enjoy it quite young! Scoop! Is what it will be termed in the future.

Not only was a Sthapati coming to her house but also a Statue. Uma decided she did not need Nidhi anymore. So while she waited patiently for ‘next month’, Nidhi made many chakkars to her house ‘Aunty, Uma hai?’, ‘Aunty, Uma ko mere ghar bhejiye please’, ‘Aunty Uma park mein nahin hai’. Amma was not very happy at this turn of events.

‘Uma, what is wrong with you? Why are you avoiding Nidhi, such a nice girl…she comes first in your class…such polite manners …’ Amma did not know how to keep a secret Uma noticed gleefully albeit with disdain. It was clear why Amma wanted Uma to befriend Nidhi, the nerd. Shouldn’t adults be more circumspect? Couch your real reasons so children will not rebel? If Amma had pushed her towards Zain (which she would not alas! Zain was always getting into fights and he could not spell) Uma might have gravitated towards Nidhi but mothers are so transparent in their blatant selfish desires.

Anyway, now that she was free of that pest called Nidhi, Uma cycled off to the farmlands behind the camp all by herself, even though she had been warned many a time by Amma and Pranathi to ‘don’t go there alone, if you want to collect feathers, we’ll come with you’. Uma felt great pleasure in breaking rules. Not just any rules but rules that made no sense to her.

School timings, uniforms, books, teachers, students, all these she allowed, it was perfectly fine to be humiliated thus, since discipline would ultimately lead to a scholastic life (the correct Way) but this ban on farm visits, with its abundance of birds, grass, trees, creepers, butterflies, dragonflies, fallen fruits and flowering buds, to be prevented from enjoying this magical energy vortex , something she considered her birth right! No, it would not do. They worry for nothing. Also there was this delicate matter of bicycling. She did not yet possess a BSA-SLR like others in the camp and she did not want the boys to be laughing at her, which they did, seeing her baby bicycle with side wheels (to prevent her from falling).

‘I will have a Sthapati and a Statue in my room’ she thought. ‘Such girls don’t get scared to cycle off to far away farmlands’ she repeated in her head while pedaling furiously and imagining herself to be a great explorer discovering unknown lands.

‘Where were you? Nanna and I have to go for a party, stay with your sister and finish your homework and don’t run off again saray na? It is dark already, NO going out after dark. God Promise? Pranathi has to go to her village. That dimwallah is not to be trusted, maybe he is marrying his daughter off, God knows! Don’t leave your sister alone, Uma, are you listening to me? Lock the doors and stay indoors. Don’t open the door for anyone, anyone means anyone, saray na? Dinner is on the table. If you don’t eat anything today also no food from tomorrow for you....people are starving and this girl does so much nakhra’ so saying Amma ran down the stairs to climb pillion on Nanna’s yellow Vespa. It was Ladies Night today, when all the officers would entertain the women with great food, party games, prizes and also vote for the best dressed Lady.

Amma was looking lovely in her silk pattu and gold jewels. Amma did not have many saris or jewelry sets like other aunties, she often repeated her clothes but she wore her saris in a way that made everyone else look shabby. Uma could see the bafflement in Basra aunty’s eyes, each time she caught Amma in her party attire.

‘Mrs Sastry aaj aapko bataana hee hoga, yeh kya trick hai, aap pin bhee nahin lagaati aur aapka pallu girta bhee nahin hai!’ Basra aunty half complained and half screamed. They lived downstairs, did not think Uma and her family were good enough for them – they who had been posted here in the hinterlands from the heavens of Iraq, they who often boasted of their ‘foreign’ days with someone called Saddam. Basra aunty decked up her house in foreign white lace curtains and foreign velvet cushion covers. Her dinners – to which the upstairs neighbours were never invited – apparently tabled foreign food, whatever that was. Her children, both boys, owned stilts which they never lent to Uma and uncle let down his hair every Sunday to show off, to all the ladies of the block, how thick and long it was!

Standing atop the balcony Uma saw this sight every party night, of Basra aunty pursing her lips at this short dark poor young officer’s traditional wife who outdid everyone without having ever gone to Iraq. Uma chuckled at Nanna’s private jokes about uncle being a Goat, ‘Mac’ Basra he was. And of Saddam making a kebab of him. Uma did not know who or what a kebab was either.

Just for good measure, to annoy Basra aunty she called out:
‘Don’t worry Ma, I will take care of the house and everything, I will finish my homework and eat dinner. I will make sure the baby is safe. Good night!’ Uma wanted Basra aunty to purse her lips further.

Her boys were brats. They did not let her attend any parties, she had to be at home to take care of them. Normally all the children of a block got together in one house on party nights and one servant was assigned to take care of all of them but since her highness was Iraq returned she did not trust the locals and Amma did not like aunty’s snooty attitude, so that was that. No parties for the Iraqis. As for the baby in question, Uma was removed from the notion that this bundle of cuteness was indeed her flesh and blood. How could that be? She alone was her parents’ daughter, who was this usurper? Uma did not like all the attention that ‘the baby’ got. In fact she was extremely jealous and hated having been cornered into sharing affections. Although seeing the practicality of the situation she had to accept her sorry lot. Her cool demeanour belied her pent up disappointment. Who would notice all that? Parents had parties and peers thought she had it all perfect.

Uma, all alone in the house, is a volcano waiting to erupt. She languorously strides from one room to another inspecting the house from a stranger’s eyes. Will the Sthapati like being here? He was coming all the way from Tirupati! Nanna had said “Let’s go there next year, shall we? On foot?” Oh! So exciting life was! Climbing a mountain on foot, what an adventure it would be! Better than being on those silly stilts. Amma though had reprimanded her gung-ho father brusquely “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, she is a child, not your wife who is used to disappointments”. Uma did not doubt anyone. She always assumed that people said what they meant and did what they said, wasn’t that the Way? Unfortunately for her, her Nanna’s enthusiasm far outweighed their financial freedom. Her parents were always worried how the month would get through before the next pay cheque. They lived day-to-day since Nanna had many responsibilities and once those were fulfilled he found new causes and charities to generously offer what was rightfully his family’s share, with no care in his head for bills and fees.

This was not new to Uma and in fact it was an adventure too, ‘Let us see how we can get by on nothing this month shall we!’

If there was a birthday party or an anniversary it would create a huge dent in the monthly salary. How could one not take gifts? Sacrilege! What would people say? So Amma saved every bit of wrapper, string and label that Uma received on her birthday and recycled them very ingenuously. Amma also made a lot of bargain purchases wherever they visited and had a trunkful of exclusive but inexpensive ‘gifts’ ready if and when they needed them. Amma bought her saris on installment and her daughters’ clothes she made by hand. Uma and her sister always wore matching new dresses for every birthday party in the camp. Amma’s sewing machine was her one proud possession that her maika had given which was allowed into this household. Since her ever-righteous Nanna had refused to take any dowry.

In her childhood, her mother, who had four sisters, had learnt to design, cut and stitch from scratch without fancy classes or mentors. She was now so proficient that she could look at any dress and replicate it, in fact, she could come up with world class ideas which took shape under her Singer. Her contentment stemmed from the fact that she was one among the best. She found proof of this in the foreign magazines she bought second-hand from the footpaths of Abids in Hyderabad. Some of the designs looked like her own! So what if she was only in Hashimara and not in some big foreign city making much money, she knew her worth.

Alone with her thoughts, Uma saw that her house was somehow lacking the sheen of Basra aunty’s. Here everything from the sofa covers to wall-pieces to snacks were hand-made! Lace and velvet did add a certain veneer of sophistication to the house beneath her feet. They also possessed some complicated kitchen gadgets unlike Amma, who still ground Dosa batter in a Rubbu Rolu. More than all that, it was their demeanor, something about them screamed ‘We are better, look a us, but from a distance!’ While in Uma’s household, anyone who entered it, felt they were a part of the family instantly. So much so that at the parties in their house no one really bothered to gift them with anything much. Amma would take the trouble to cook fabulous delicacies from Andhra but on the actual day all you saw – mostly - were empty handed guests!

“Nanna would hate it if his children were used as a way to bribe him” was her reasoning. In a camp such as where she lived in, everyone was trying to wriggle their way up the ladder to be in some senior officer’s good books, through his wife or through his children. Who knows when someone might come useful! Both her parents abhorred such a crude attitude. They bashed on regardless, trusting their goodwill and good hearts. To feed someone with an ulterior motive! How terrible the very thought. To expect gifts was worse. But Uma saw and she noticed and she felt hurt. She was young as any other child, it was so petty of that Uncle to take Amar Chitra Kathas to Anjali’s house – since her father was a Doctor - to be cleared for flying during annual medical check-up – while the same Uncle would come to Uma’s empty-handed. Although he made sure he filled up his plate with everything that Amma made plus seconds too!

Giving ought to be spontaneous and can only stem from a generous heart said her parents, it showed what a narrow constricted heart others’ possessed they explained. Don’t look at them, don’t compare, don’t get swayed into pettiness because of another, look at yourself. Always.

Uma knew she should be a better person by not thinking like this about that Selfish Uncle, her Pedamma who was always spouting philosophy like ‘Make sure you forget your own generosity towards others and the hurt others cause you, quickly’ would have been so disappointed in her niece. What to do but? People are like that only no? After seeing her parents and her relatives at close quarters and how they all lived with such wonderful ideals, Uma was constantly searching for a stranger, an outsider who could come close to these values. So far she had had no luck. Maybe the Sthapati? Hence her unbound excitement. Hence her survey of her house.

Finally, what Uma had been dreading all evening transpired, her eyes fall on a woman reclining on her back, her breasts, twin peaks as they were, reaching out towards a boundless purple sky, her delicate hands arched under her head. Her legs long and listless, stretching into the saffron setting sun. The muse looked more a mountain than a woman, very inviting, you could say. Uma's eyes fall upon the artiste's name in Indian ink. How could her mother have been so shameless? Didn’t she think of her daughter at all? Of what her daughter’s friends would say? As it is Uma was struggling to make friends! “I am doomed” Uma wailed silently. No wonder she was a pariah….her family was making it so difficult for her. How many young girls of eight are exposed to nude women? Uma was livid at her own mother. Irresponsible behaviour with children in the house! Thank God her sister was too young (who was still breast-feeding) to get disgusted by nudity. ‘Thank God that I, Uma, am mature enough to accept this extremely untoward incident with equanimity’! she surmised silently.

It was only yesterday afternoon that this painting was brought to her notice by a Nidhi who was trying to coax Uma to come out and play.

“Chee……cheee” Nidhi had squealed loudly, trying to close both her eyes and her mouth with one hand, while the other was left pointing accusingly at the exposed feminine body. “Who made that?” she had questioned Uma dangerously. Surprised to find this alien object in her own house Uma was dumbfounded for a minute. Ever the story-teller, Uma had woven a yarn on the spur, of how this was a gift from Amma’s Tamilian friend and her mother was duty bound to display her friend’s art, at least for a few days. It did not bode well for Amma’s choice of friends though in Nidhi’s eyes. “My mother would never accept such a present” she reiterated shaking her head disapprovingly. Nidhi then did the un-thinkable, she leaned up to see who the artiste was. There was a name and that was Uma' mother’s. This was it. This was the end. A few minutes passed by while Uma said goodbye to everyone in the camp mentally. But, but… nothing seemed to have happened. Nothing earthshaking like another scream or a Chee. Nor the expected disowning.

“Cannot make out, some South Indian name no? So long it is!” she nodded grudgingly and walked off while Uma vowed then and there to wipe out her mother’s name from the face of that painting within twenty four hours.

Running now to her room, with her parents at the party, to get her paint box, in a jiffy covering the artiste’s confident signature with a thick blob of black, she did not rest till the deed was successfully accomplished. Oof! The ignominy! Think, if the Sthapati had found it! Wouldn’t all of Tirupati be resounding with the dark deeds of her naked-woman painting mother? Hah! She had once again come to the rescue of her family. She could not tell them of course! This was her own delicious secret.

That was that. Now for Pranathi’s room. In this manner Uma trotted from room to room, making sure that the aesthetics and energies of her house were nothing short of the best when the Sthapati arrived. She could hear her sister giggling in her sleep – that ignorant kid was being happy about what? While here Uma was saving the family’s honour! and she could hear the Basra Boys making aunty’s life miserable by refusing to listen to her. Today they seemed to have climbed the water tank behind the house and had gotten on their beloved stilts on top of the tank, to aunty’s dismay. One false move and they would become like pachchadi. She could hear her cry out in Punjabi, in desperation. Poor aunty. If only she were a little nicer, Uma would have gone down to help, she knew how to talk those ruffians into coming down. The over-eating fatsoes were terrified of snakes. All Uma had to do was mention that she had seen a cobra hiding there. They knew of her proclivity for all things natural, animal. They would slide down their silly stilts in a beat. Uma did none of this but enjoyed aunty’s discomfiture immensely. No one who slighted her good mother deserved pity.

That day the train was delayed. So Nanna had to drive back again through the thick Jaldapara forest on NH 31 all by himself on his scooter at mid-night to pick up Sthapati gaaru. There were wild elephants, tigers and leopards in these parts and many a highway robber who obstructed the road by putting logs across. Nanna was not worried about such trifles other than ‘Hope he gets off at the correct station!” Hashimara would arrive much after mid-night and if the holy man missed the station, where the train stopped for under two minutes, well, there was nothing much either of them could do. Not knowing Bengali would add to their woes. The idol was coming tomorrow in a lorry. All the way from Tirupati.

Nanna was of course not very happy with how things had turned out.

When he had visited the Devasthanam in the Tirumala Hills, Nanna had requisitioned for a Balaji idol with exact specifications. Height, Width, Look, Graments. Many months had passed and there had been no news from the holy land. Finally when Nanna managed to make a Trunk Call and get in touch with the in-charge, he was told that the idol that Nanna had ordered has just been shipped to Pittsburgh! To America! So far away, who wants to pray to our gods there?

It seems that there are many Indians in America. They too were building a temple. They were mostly doctors. They obviously had more money than defence officers in India. Hence the selected idol though free was deemed fit for a richer abode abroad than to remain in India, especially when the officers had failed to pay for the shipping for the past three months. The idol was ready and waiting! Send it off to Pittsburgh, let it acquire life and meaning. Give it prayers and attention! It took another three and half months before Hashimara collected enough donations to pay for the truck service that would safely bring the Great God to their Garage.

To the Garage, no! Uma would not believe this when first told of the plan, why could He not stay in her room with the Sthapati? Apparently He was six feet tall! And very very wide. Plus He needed to lie down on hay, so that no part of Him was touching the ground. Then he needed to be shifted to the Garbha Griha of the temple just before the actual ceremonies, before the Vedic yagnas took place. So much hadavidi was happening all around her. Students at her schools were asking her so many questions…she was suddenly so popular…a Great God in her Garage! How exciting!!

Before that could be done another delicate issue had to be sorted out. Temple building was not child’s play. The Garage where the Great God would have to be housed was filled with all their boxes from various postings along with her bicycle (and the supporting wheels) and Nanna’s scooter. A few Tea bushes that Amma was hoping she could convert into pet-tables were also holding fort till they would be varnished and transferred upstairs to the drawing room. Her baby sister’s pram was always coming in the way if one had to remove something from those old boxes. Where would all this go? How could the God be accommodated? The next door garage belonged to the Basras. They would have to be approached. With a request. Such a delicate matter. Who would do this?

Amma came to the rescue, she would go and talk to aunty. Surely people are always willing to help she exclaimed innocently. Also it was all right to playact niceness for God’s sake. She loathed it otherwise but this was an otherworldly matter. The next morning she was off with a jar of homemade pickle, a bowl full of her delicious Pappu and a handloom sari from Guntur. She came back beaming. “I taught her how to drape the sari” is all she would reveal, of course she came back empty-handed. By evening the mischievous Basra boys and Uma had helped the orderlies shift the boxes and after four hours of back-breaking work, fell down on the dusty empty garage floor exhausted, exhilarated. To be working for something so enigmatic! The Basra boys had been unusually quiet all afternoon.

“You can try them if you want” says Bunty after a brief sip of Roohafsa that aunty has offered to them in a fancy silver tray, handing Uma his beloved stilts. He pauses before he continues “Will you let me come and see the Great God?” he asks off-handedly.

Thereafter the days just zoom past as though God is driving a motorcycle.

Sthapati gaaru had arrived while Uma was asleep and his door (her room) was shut when she went off to school the next morning so she had to contain her excitement and suppress the butterflies in her stomach till she got home. They created a huge racket all through the day and she could barely concentrate on Fractions. Her Butterflies seemed to agree with her on Math. It was a subject that needed some lightening up. Some loose ends were a must, yes. It was all so exact and correct. So prim and proper. She ran back all the way home without a pause nor did she meander to collect her precious Blue Jay feathers or to listen to Zain who was calling out saying he wanted to trade his Jamaican stamps for some of her Bhutan bidis. This fellow has no sense of timing thought Uma! Last year she had been all agog for him and he had hardly paid attention, now it was her turn to dismiss him.

Sthapati gaaru was sitting at the dining table very uncomfortable till Amma pushed the table to the wall and arranged the food on the floor, traditionally. Uma stood by the threshold, breathless, collecting her wits, watching, watching. She loved to eat off of Banana leaves, it was always fun trying to collect the Pulusu from running off! Amma had gone overboard. There was a huge spread, a Vivaha Bhojanam almost! How should she address him? Horror! She had forgotten to ask her parents this most important matter, now what? So when Sthapati gaaru called out to her ‘Nuvvu Uma kada?’ she was tongue-tied. No amount of persuasion by her mother would make Uma open her mouth and when an exasperated Amma said, ‘What happened to your tongue? Where are your manners? Okay now go wash up quickly and come sit with Ganapati and eat, the rice is getting cold’, Uma skirted off to the bathroom in mortification. ‘Don’t scold her Vadina, she seems so sensitive’ Sthapati gaaru’s gentle voice reached her ears via the slightly open bathroom door. Uma was slightly mollified.

Hmm so if he was calling her Amma, ‘Vadina’, then he would be what to Uma? Baabai? Yes, of course! He was younger than Nanna, so he was like his younger brother, which made Amma his sister-in-law and him an Uncle! This was better, now she could face the world with a little more confidence. She comes out, wipes herself dry and changes into her traditional langa-jacket. Her hair is not oiled like good Telugu girls but she will pull it back and tie a pony-tail. Oh! where is my bottu? She wants to be as acceptable as possible.

“Umagaaru…vasthaaraandi?..entha saypu?” Amma’s voice is acquiring a dangerous lilt. Whenever she starts using the Second Person Formal, Uma knows it is time to act obedient.

At lunch that day Uma has the first adult conversation of her life. This was what she had been dreaming of for so long. Ganapati Baabai was affectionate, caring, sensitive and took her views very seriously. He asked her what she thought of Temples, Gods, School, Boys, Birds and Books. He listened to her patiently, answered all her queries with interest and paid attention to what she was saying without the slightest sign of distraction or boredom. Little did she know that this conversation might be one of its kind, once in a lifetime, a very tough act to follow, that her childhood had been blessed but what of the morrow? ‘Cause it is only the rare man who offers such a gift to any woman. But, alas! the bar has now been set very high. Ganapati Baabai is the unlikely, unwitting culprit.

Her schoolmates who have never visited her before start dropping by at her house to meet this magical mad-cap of a man with frizzy hair and intense black eyes, who wears no shawl or shirt in the winter cold (they live in the Dooars, foothills of the Himalayas, there! that is the Kanchenjunga, which Uma can see from her bedroom window), he teaches them how to draw and paint, how to carve and cut. He brings life to the lifeless, colour to the ordinary and extraordinary shape to the misshapen. He also prays everyday at dawn, noon and dusk by chanting mantras loudly but exquisitely, so much so that Basra uncle has often shouted from below ‘Oyi that was too good yaara’. He does not deem any question unfit to be pondered over. He gives it all his being. His otherness draws people, his sincerity keeps them glued to him.

Uma is basking in reflected glory. Yes, her Nanna knows him, that is why Baabai is staying with them isn’t it? Oh, how? We are related I think, far-off relations. He calls Amma, Vadina. That means sister-in-law in Telugu. Of course, that makes him my chaacha. You can call him chaachaji too if you like and I can also tell him how nice you are, that you gave me your new Amar Chitra Katha to read. Uma was making sure this new found bounty was being encashed well. She did not realize in her feverish excitement at being sought after, that this was akin to bribing, to having an ulterior motive, similar to selfishness that her mother (and Pedamma and Thaathayya) had warned her about.

She also requested her new found friend to complete her pending school projects. Having never ventured towards drawing she passed on the responsibility of making the science model of the WATER CYCLE into Baabai’s hands. Usually it was Amma who helped her, in a manner that Uma did all the work, her mother just suggested or provided her with the materials but here! Here the talented traditional temple architect and shilpi, which is who a Sthapati is, (he would soon be known as one of the famous Sthapatis of India) constructed for her a heavenly WATER CYCLE that even Vishwakarma would not have been able to fault! It was as though Indira the god of thunder and lightening had shared with Baabai the Devaloka Blue-prints. The effect it had on all and sundry was stupendous. Especially on her science teacher who had recently reprimanded Uma for saying Ganga instead of the anglicized Ganges during morning assembly. Nidhi had better buck up, there was no way she could be first in class now!

Then the Great God too arrived. Uma’s stars were shining bright and outdoing one another. Their Garage became a holy place now, with visitors streaming in every evening, to have a dekko. Even though he was a 'black' southern god made of granite unlike the common-place 'white' marble gods of the north. Some brought fruits, some flowers, that stingy Uncle, he too brought camphor and oil wicks. Basra uncle and aunty proudly managed the drinks for all the pilgrims daily. They even donated some middle-eastern incense that Amma hid away saying it smelt different.

Apparently all religions have their own smells. A Hindu temple smells of marigold and sandalwood, a Dargah smells of rose and jasmine, a Church smells of wax and wood. Even the fragrance that each religion favours is distinct which is then co-opted by the followers so much so that certain smells are associated with certain practices only. Amma did not want to offend Baabai’s (or the Great God’s) nasal sensibilities hence the Bakhoor was relegated to the pantry with gracious thank yous. ‘Sardars are half-musalmaan no anyway, what do they know of real customs’ said Gopalaswamy aunty witnessing this audacious act. ‘but for us South Indians, if we don’t do it correctly all Hindu culture will be lost I tell you’ she continued her lament, loudly, for all to hear.

In all these daily comings and goings Uma had a great role to play, she would stand next to Baabai and explain what he was saying (in Telugu) to whoever was visiting that evening, both in English and Hindi. Her science teacher who came by to visit the famous architect of the fabulous WATER CYCLE model project was so mesmerized by the idol that the next day in class she even managed to compliment Uma (the eighth world wonder, since she favoured Nidhi over her anyday) “You were like an official interpreter Uma, very nice, translating back and forth from so many languages to all those people” ma'am gushed effusively, unhidden from Uma was the fact that this science teacher of hers was extremely religious and had extracted a promise from Nanna to be invited to the very early morning, private and prestigious Praana Pratishta ceremony of the idol, wherein the statue attains the status of a God by being given ‘eyes’ to watch over its devotees, the transition from stone to life, that permits Gods to give darshan. Here humans would give life to Gods!

Uma felt guilty as soon as she heard that she had stood first in class in the annuals. She moped the whole day. She felt false. She should apologize to Nidhi no? What should she do! Inside her, her Voice was clear - Liar! Not that she had directly cheated. No, never! That would never happen. What had taken place was a subtle mix of self-interest on everyone's part. Added to this mix was the talent of another. All this was being passed off as Uma's worth. How wrong this was!

This time the guilt was justified. Was it not the model of the WATER CYCLE that had brought her these accolades? Was it not the presence of the Sthapati in her house that had gained her so much popularity? Was it not him whom she used, to wriggle into the affections of her classmates by extracting bribes? Was it not the Great God in her Garage who had brought upon this showers of blessing on her so much so that the Basra stilts were always at her house, the science teacher praising her sky high…

Uma felt like a thief. She was living on borrowed love. The reality of the matter was that it was not she, Uma, whom people liked, it was what she was representing for them. Their fears, their beliefs, their desires, their competitive spirit. She was embodying all these qualities that the others possessed and saw these reflected in her. At this moment they also associated goodness and holiness with her and Uma of all people knew how untrue this relationship was. She had been particularly selfish and cunning this past few weeks and her conscience spoke loud and clear to her. She could not silence what was inside.
Uma slid into the half-closed Garage all alone. It was pitch dark and she could barely see. She felt her way to the feet of the Great God and sat down on the hay beside him.

“Kshaminchandi! I am a bad girl. I don’t like everyone paying so much attention to my baby sister. I also don’t like Nidhi because she is more intelligent. I am jealous of Bunty and Chintu because they lived in Iraq. I was angry at science ma’am when she corrected me in front of everyone so I did not give her Nanna’s invitation for the Praana Pratishta tomorrow, now it is too late. I don’t deserve to come first in class......” So saying Uma started sobbing.

“It is only human my child” said the Great God in a booming echoing voice. “It is good that you can see your faults. It is even better that you admit to them. Go now. Free yourself of this burden. Nidhi is definitely more intelligent but you are a better person for accepting it” so saying the Great God started snoring!

Uma was too terrified to react.

The next morning a frantic Amma was looking for Uma when Ganesha Baabai came in carrying Uma from the garage, he said he had found her sleeping next to the idol.

“Who knew she would get so attached to the idol, poor thing” said Basra aunty offering her condolences. She was happy that Uma was turning out as difficult as her sons.