Notes from my Diary: Neelavathi and Terrace Aunty Nina Subramani
This is a story about two unconnected women, neither of whom I could ever forget. Neelavathi was a mad woman who lived on the street where I lived between the ages of ten and thirteen. In those days mad women were a feature of most localities. With a long, matted braid, Neelavathi either wore all her clothes at once or sat stark naked with her clothes in a bundle next to her. Her favourite resting spot was the footpath just beside our gate. Each time a meal was prepared my mother would go out with a plate and give her something to eat. If she wasn’t around, my mother would call out “Neelavathi!” in a loud, stern voice (exactly the way she called us to signal that play time was over and a meal was being served), and soon enough she would appear, scratching her head. She never thanked my mother - sometimes she sat staring at the plate as if willing the food to go into her mouth and sometimes she would curse my mother. My mother would stand there, waiting, commanding Neelavathi with monosyllables - “Eat. Fast. Eat”. I always spent a few moments looking at her on my way back from school. I was forbidden to get too close to her - not because my mom thought she was violent but because it was (rightly) assumed that her head was filled with lice. In any case, I was petrified of her. She would nod to me, mumbling in Tamil - difficult to decipher. Sometimes she would throw her head back and laugh - an open, full-throated laugh, joyful, yet menacing - and suddenly the laughs would turn into gut wrenching cries - her body would be racked by sobs and I would stand helplessly before her. My mother or the neighbouring “aunty” would stand at the gate murmuring “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter…” That little chant seemed to calm her. I noticed that the women of our neighbourhood were more 61 Chaicopy | Vol. III | Issue I
