The Obvious
Photo: Karan Madhok
Short Story: ‘He saw the black hairy tops of their heads, less like decked on top of each other, and more like the Siamese version of foreheads stuck together, threatening to break skin and bleed to death, if one were to try pulling them apart.’
It was 1995 when my elder brother Raghu, nine-years-old at the time, walked into my parents’ room in the middle of the night and saw them doing The Obvious.
That was what he called it: The Obvious. And he called it The Obvious because he had unfortunately learnt to be awkward about it the hard way—much like he had learnt to be awkward about expressing the nature of his bowel movements and of his occasional incontinence.
Later that night, our elder sister Premila and I came to know why Raghu was stupid enough to barge into their room at such an inopportune moment. He had had a dream that he wanted to share with our mother, a dream in which he had done seventeen somersaults before kicking Mark Antony in the gut saving Baasha from the clutches of evil. I assume Raghu had many dreams about superstar Rajinikanth from the film Baasha at the time, about an auto-rickshaw driver named Manickam, living a humble life in 90’s Madras, with a dark past where he had been the most righteous Robin Hood kind of don of Mumbai city.
In retrospect, I am now impressed how Raghu’s filial instincts kicked in and directed him to sneak silently out of the room, saving embarrassment to our parents and making sure they weren’t scarred for life.
When he blurted out the many details of our parents’ Obvious to Premila and I the next morning, only one thing stuck with me.
The thing about the top of their heads.
That was all he had to say.
That he saw the black hairy tops of their heads, less like decked on top of each other, and more like the Siamese version of foreheads stuck together, threatening to break skin and bleed to death, if one were to try pulling them apart.
He also added that he couldn’t make out their faces or their expressions. Premila said it was a blessing in disguise that he didn’t.
While I was curious for more details from him, Premila acted as if she wasn’t surprised at all, as if running into our parents’ doing The Obvious was the most natural thing for their children to encounter.
Then, she admitted that her incident happened when she was thirteen. Raghu wanted Premila to spill her guts about it, but then, immediately regretted his excitement. “No, no, don’t tell me,” he said. “I don’t want to know.” He was ready to act as if this revelation would make him nauseous.
“I wanna know,” I said. None of the information about our parents’ Obvious was titillating to me at that young age, and yet, hearing things about my parents having so much fun without me made me feel sad.
A few days after Raghu’s faux-pas, I almost came close to admitting to my Mom about how I had felt left out, when I heard all about The Obvious. Luckily Premila was hanging around nearby. She slapped me hard on the back of my thigh, dragged me out of the room, and cupped my mouth with her hands before I could finish my thought.
On the day after The Obvious, Premila ignored my request for more details. Instead, she said to Raghu, “It’s not what you think. It’s—”
“Muruga!” Raghu said, plugging his ears and evoking our Tamil god. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Relax, idiot! It’s not what you think,” she slapped him on the back. Premila slapped everyone with such conviction that you would feel that you actually deserved it. She was so great at it that, one day, the school she worked at even made her the principal.
“They weren’t doing it.”
“They weren’t?” Raghu unplugged his ears.
It was 1995 when my elder brother Raghu, nine-years-old at the time, walked into my parents’ room in the middle of the night and saw them doing The Obvious.
“A few days ago, I had to borrow some coconut oil from Mom and I walked into their room without knocking and saw Daddy treating Mom’s hair with sambrani.”
“What!” Raghu sounded very disappointed. “That’s it? That’s nothing compared to what I saw!” And for a second, the image of the top of their heads should have visited Raghu, the horror of it creeping up on him.
Premila seemed as if she had had enough of it. “Alright! You saw them doing it. Drop the subject.”
“And heard. I also heard them doing it.”
“Muruga! Gnanapanditha! Shut up!”
“But... but…” Raghu indulged relentlessly. “Dad treating Mom’s hair with sambrani smoke is nothing when compared to what I saw.”
“Oh really?” Premila snapped defiantly. “Have you ever seen Daddy help Mom with that?”
“No. But how does it matter?”
“Have you or have you not?”
It took some deep and solemn contemplation for Raghu to answer in the negative.
“That explains it, right?” Premila sounded like she was insinuating something only for Raghu to understand.
I had no idea what Premila was talking about, so I could only respond by starting to cry.
“Stop crying? Hmm? What? Sambrani is something you find in our poojai room. No, no, I am sure you’ve seen it. Mom always burns charcoal, adding pinches of sambrani to it, and smoke comes out of it, she does it everytime she takes her oil-bath. Remember that long-handled ladle-like thing Mom carries around the whole house? Yes, what? Illa da kutti, you don’t burn the ladle, you burn the sambrani, it’s a kind of scented powder you burn on charcoal and so much smoke comes out of it that it fills the whole house. Yes, you remember now, don’t you? See, didn’t I tell you that you’ve seen it? Hmm, hmm… yes… wow, you remember so much, why don’t you tell me what she does with it? First, she dries her hair? Doesn’t she have to take an oil head-bath first to wet her hair? Yes, first she takes a bath and washes her hair, then she dries it with a towel… then, then, then what? What comes next? Yes! She sits down on the floor, places the ladle by her side, she spreads her hair with one hand over the ladle, as the smoke rises up, letting it creep up into her scalp. Yes. See, I told you that you know what sambrani is. What? Why do we have to treat our hair with it—because it makes your hair smell good, that’s why. No, not your hair, not men’s hair, women’s hair. Men don’t treat their work with sambrani, doofus! What? Why? You are asking why men don’t? That’s a stupid question! It’s self-explanatory. If I say it’s only for women, it’s only for women.”
Although she wasn’t too keen on teaching me the basics of 20th century conventional Tamil gender norms, Premila reluctantly dragged me to our poojai room, to show me the powdered benzoin resin. I felt the powdered resin in my hand, and I smiled when I smelled it. Premila laughed with asinine satisfaction. She then led me back to the spot where Raghu was sitting. “So that’s settled then. There will be no more discussion about this.”
But the dimwit that he was, with his finger preoccupied with the snot in his nose, Raghu said, “I still don’t get it.”
Premila went a little red in her cheeks. “You idiot. It’s what Daddy does for Mom.” And she blushed and added. “It’s what he does… after.”
“What?”
I felt the powdered resin in my hand, and I smiled when I smelled it. Premila laughed with asinine satisfaction. She then led me back to the spot where Raghu was sitting. “So that’s settled then. There will be no more discussion about this.”
“‘Daddy holds and spreads Mom’s hair and treats it with sambrani smoke,” Premila said.
“So what?” said Raghu. “Dad is Mom’s husband. He can touch her hair. And like you said, Mom always treats her hair with sambrani. I have seen her sitting outside the poojai room and doing it a thousand times, after she has taken a bath.”
“And,” Premila retorted, “how many times have you seen Daddy help her with it?”
Raghu gave it some thought. “I haven’t seen him do it, no.”
“Exactly. There is not a chance in his lifetime that he would do it when we are around.”
“Why not?”
“Because, idiot, it’s their intimate thing!” Here Premila faltered midsentence, darting a cautious glance at me. She couldn’t articulate her words and felt that her hands were tied up by embarrassment. “Something which they do together after…”
“Together? After?”
“After…” Premila said through gnashed teeth.
“Muruga, just say it,” Raghu said, exasperated.
“After. After.” She slapped herself on the forehead in disappointment and said, “He holds up her hair and treats it with sambrani smoke after they have… now do you get it?”
Suddenly Raghu raised his eyebrows and said, “Ohhh! Afterrrrr!” He laughed like a two-year old. “After they have.” He then took a few more seconds to appreciate the impish nature of this information.
I was four when this happened, and I had no idea what After or After They Have signified back then. But I had my revelation six years later, when I came home early one evening after my evening maths tuition class got cancelled for the day. It was just me and our parents at home; Raghu was on a school trip, and Premila, studying for her college semester exams, was staying over at her friend’s place. From the doorway of the front door, before my mother materialized in front of me, holding the door wide open with her outstretched hands, I heard the dull creak of the open door to my parents’ room. I heard the panicked song of my mother’s silver anklet jangling with her awkward gait, and the sound of my father clearing his throat, before switching on the TV.
My mother looked a little startled to find me on our doorstep. Maybe that was when I realized that all those things I heard my siblings talk about it were true. That it was done behind closed doors, that it got very awkward if people were caught doing it because for some inexplicable reason, the ones involved were too ashamed to act normal.
“What are you doing here?” Mother asked. “Your tuition timings are from four to six.”
“It was cancelled,” I said. “Someone related to my tuition teacher died.”
“Someone died?” Mother asked. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can call Harini Ma’am if you want,” I said. I pushed her a little aside in the doorway to get inside.
“I’ll definitely call her!” Mother was unusually livid. “Tell me exactly what happened?”
“If he says someone died, it must be true,” my father said, the TV remote in his hand. He settled on ESPN. “Stop grilling him.”
I appreciated my father’s gesture to take my side, standing up for what was right, even if I could tell that he wasn’t happy I was home early.
I went up my room, freshened up, came down and took a seat on the sofa beside my father. “That’s for you,” he said, pointing at the coffee-cup on the table before us.
I raised the cup to my mouth. “Who’s playing?” I asked before taking my first sip of coffee.
The cricket match that day was between India and Sri Lanka. Venkatapathy Raju was batting. While drinking my coffee, I couldn’t help but catch a glance at my father from time to time. He was engrossed in the game, throwing up his hands hopelessly everytime Raju ran a single.
When the Sri Lankan innings came to its 32nd over, I heard my mother working on the locks on the door and walking out of her room, all freshened up after a nice head-bath, drying her hair with her favorite white-and-yellow Palani Murugan printed towel. Again, I shot a quick glance at my father to see if his eyes turned instinctively to my mother, away from the TV screen. But no: he was still glued towards Raju dominating on the screen.
My mother sat at the dining table and continued to dry her hair. I finished my coffee and placed the empty cup on the table before me.
“Put the cup in the sink, my lord,” my mother said. Her voice was testy, and she looked down at me, like I was an army ant that needed some urgent squishing between her tiny fingers. “What am I, your servant?”
I got up peevishly with the cup in my hand. I dropped the cup in the sink, almost breaking it, and I came out of the kitchen. I heard the crowd cheer in our TV. My father was jumping on his seat. “We won! We won!” he shouted.
My mother looked at the TV screen absently and continued to work on her wet hair with her wet towel. She then saw me walk past her. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Dosai is fine,” I said, taking my seat on the sofa.
“There is upma. You’ll have upma.”
“Then why bother asking?” I muttered under my breath.
“Hey!” My mother roared. “I don’t like that attitude.”
“Stop giving him a hard time, will you!” My father snapped at her. He switched the TV off. “Even I’d get bored if I eat upma every day.”
“If you are so bored,” my mother said, throwing the towel across the room, at the sofa, “eat outside today. I don’t care.”
“What did I say?” My father said.
“Of course, you’d have no idea what you said or did,” my mother stormed out. She decided to take sanctuary in the poojai room.
Father looked at the poojai room, like a forlorn lover gazes at the horizon. Although it was only for a second, the image was permanently etched in my mind. That moment, I saw my father’s verve and virility put to test by that look of disappointment on his face.
I turned to my father. He shrugged his shoulders at me. “Pav bhaji okay for you?”
“No, no, Dad,” I said. “Let’s have some pizza.”
“Pizza? Why? From that new place?”
“Pizza Corner, yeah. My friend Ranjith said that his friend and his whole family went there last week and they served unlimited pizzas.”
“Unlimited? Really?” My father was intrigued. “Alright. Let’s go there.”
“Yeah. Said it’s only on Thursdays.”
Now here is when we, the men in the living room, sensed it. The aroma, the dense foggy miasma, the discrete crackling of the resin powder on burning scented coal.
This time, I didn’t have to steal a glance at the accused. Father looked at the poojai room, like a forlorn lover gazes at the horizon. Although it was only for a second, the image was permanently etched in my mind. That moment, I saw my father’s verve and virility put to test by that look of disappointment on his face.
Soon, the moment passed.
He got up with a steely resolution of an adult who had better things to do than to mull over lost opportunities. “Ask your mother if she is okay with pizza. I’ll go get ready.” He walked into his room and closed the door.
I walked up to my mother in the poojai room. She was treating her hair with the smoking resin powder with care and delicate femininity.
“Mom,” I called her. She didn’t turn around. “Dad’s taking us to Pizza Corner. You okay with it, right?”
“That crap is so bad for your health.” When my mother turned around and met my eye, I somehow knew she was mad at him, more than she was mad at our choice of cuisine for dinner, although I couldn’t tell why.
“Mom, Dad said okay. Please Mom. Please.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “Do whatever you want. Where is your father?”
“In the room.”
“Okay. Go and change.”
As I was about to leave, she yelped. “And listen!” Before I could turn around, she caught hold of the collar of my shirt and yanked me back. “Wear something new. Don’t make me mad by wearing that yellow baggy pants again. That’s an abomination. You hear me!”
“Okay,” I said, trying to slip away from my mother’s grip. “Okay.”
It took me a few decades, a mediocre marriage, and a clumsy affair to realize that this defeat is the concept of parenthood. It is the kind of defeat that didn’t hurt them, but elevated them to the point of martyrdom.
“I swear I’ll rip those pants to shreds if I see you wearing it again. You hear me!”
“Mom, let me go. I won’t wear it.” I was on the verge of crying now.
Seeing my teary eyes, she finally let go of my collar.
“Don’t cry.” She tried to put on a straight face and smile. “Don’t cry. Go. Get changed. Go.”
Exiting the poojai room, I heard the door of my parents’ room open, and my father stepped out. He looked fine and dandy, in his oversized Lacoste polo tee-shirt and plain blue jeans. “Is your mother still in the poojai room?” he said when he spotted me. The smell of his Charlie perfume hit my nostrils, making me a little dizzy with clumsy male pride.
“Yes,” I said, holding the handle of the door of my room with one hand. “She said okay.”
“Hmm hmm,” my father mumbled. He eyed the poojai room warily. “She said okay?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t sound mad, did she?”
“No.”
“Because she doesn’t like pizza or burger or the bread crap you children crave these days.”
“No, no. She said okay.”
Here, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. “Okay. Get dressed and ready.”
And right there: this inaudible sigh, this memory of my father’s closed-mouthed blatant, indiscreet, and hopeless release of spent desire in the form of familiar windy disappointment, this is image that always came to my mind, whenever I got turned down by my own wife, in the earlier years of our marriage. Now that I think about it, it makes no sense whatsoever: not the subject matter of The Obvious, or the act in itself, but the place it occupies in our psyche as we grow up; and, simply put, as we try to shed its mesmerizing skin: as to how a life-less normal physiological function in our body could accrue so much fuzz and self-importance in our teen years—which in time gets transformed into a misshapen life skill in our adult consciousness, only to turn into, as we get older, this gaping void of unending desire, holding in its chasm the treasure of pure and inviolate, yet to be experienced and endured, but most unlikely to be untapped human sensations.
But back then, when I was just ten years old, I was too young to understand how any of it worked, but old enough to perceive if I was in the middle of it. I guess I could only say for sure that I pitied my father for what he had to go through—at my expense.
Not that my mother was undeserving of sympathy that evening: I still haven’t figured out the reason for her vehement and almost violent disapproval of my eternal love for those yellow baggy pants. It has been my understanding that women don’t feel the same way as men do. They see disappointments differently, but that is all I have gathered till now about women in general.
Maybe that’s why my own marriage didn’t last.
But I should admit that the fact that Mother was mad over my favourite yellow baggy pants didn’t scare me as much as how it absolutely terrified me to watch her gain back her composure, trying to put on a smile and asking me not to cry at the end of that conversation: it called attention to my mom’s unimaginable capacity to repress the disappointment over her spoilt evening. She turned on her maternal side when she realized that she was hurting her child.
So frivolous is a moment’s attraction towards something you thought you could possess and objectify and abuse with consent, even if it is a handful of slipping moments. So much so that people become so caught up in that moment like their lives depended on it. To my parents, the ritual of The Obvious, however passionate it might have been, was just a charade. Because that evening didn’t end with my father sighing in disappointment, or my mother getting wound up on account of her son’s crappy fashion sense. Instead, it turned out to be a great night-out when the three of us got on my father’s Yamaha RX 100, and made our way through peak-hour traffic to the pizza place in Roundtana. We got the best seats in the pizza place, right next to the gong that people struck if they were satisfied with their service. My mother ordered the pizzas to my taste, and my parents teamed up to make a list of reasons of why they hated American food. I walked out of the pizza place with a full stomach and a satiated soul, and they walked out with frowns on their faces. My father cheered my mother up by stopping at an Arun outlet to get her favorite butterscotch ice-cream. Eventually, my mother’s hand slipped around my father’s waist when she hopped on the back seat. The three of us went back home, and watched TV till late into the night.
I woke up on my bed the next morning, not having the slightest memory of walking back to my room and getting into bed.
My parents honourably failed the ritual of The Obvious, accepting defeat readily and without regrets. It took me a few decades, a mediocre marriage, and a clumsy affair to realize that this defeat is the concept of parenthood. It is the kind of defeat that didn’t hurt them, but elevated them to the point of martyrdom. A kind of sacrifice tantamount to killing oneself in the name of hard work and unconditional love, just for the sake of posterity.
But my parents knew how to find love, to seek love, to find reasons to keep it together. I guess that was what made them forgive me that day.
***
Ananda Kumar practices dentistry in his hometown, Chennai. His stories draw breath from the lives of the people he wishes to be a part of. His first book, Vanakkam Cosmos, an anthology of novellas came out in 2017. He is on Instagram: @readerlesswriter.
