Notes from my Diary: Neelavathi and Terrace Aunty

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

granddaughter’s hair. The Terrace Aunty was my friend during a crucial year of my life. The night I wept over her, I didn’t lose my ‘innocence’, as my neighbours feared - I lost preconceived notions, I lost stereotypes and I gained the ability to see and love people for who they were.

2011. My daughter was four years old. I took her to a park near my home in Bangalore. Our routine was that I would jog while she played. The park was small enough that I could keep an eye on her wherever I was on the jogging track. Couples - old and young - were walking around the perimeter as usual. As I jogged past a bench, past others walking, I heard a voice saying, “Come here baby”. My hair stood on end. I turned around to see my daughter walking toward the bench I had just crossed. A man was seated on it - his fly open, masturbating. For less than a nanosecond I was speechless, rooted to the ground. Then a mad cry emerged from me - I picked up a stone and ran towards him - he got up hastily and ran out. Other walkers looked at me, smiling weakly, not wanting to acknowledge that they had seen him, and remaining silent - not wanting to do anything about him.

I thought about Neelavathi that night - the mad woman who taught me to stand up, use my voice and throw a stone if I had to.

66 Yours Truly