Fiction: Win Win

Shobha Ramani

Shobha Ramani

“Your beans curry is OK, but not as good as Chellam's used to be,” my mother declared during lunch.

I looked up guiltily from sneaking quick peeks on my phone, “Now, who is Chellam? Is she some distant cousin of ours?”

Amma was spending a few months with us after giving way to my husband’s urging. She usually scurried back to Bangalore after brief visits. But as we had relocated to Mumbai from Delhi this year, she couldn't use smog and air pollution as a reason to cut short her stay.

An added incentive to stay was that I was working from home and hence, just a shout away. On previous visits, she often told me, “If all I have to do is gaze at my screen and have lunch alone, I can do it in my flat in Bangalore.”

Amma looked up from her plate and smirked. “Chellam was our neighbour who married her sister’s fiancé.”

“What! Chellam ran away with her sister’s groom?” Chellam was a bad girl, I concluded, even if she was better at beans than I was.

“Not like that. Saroja, the original bride and sister, had choreographed the whole thing herself. Everybody talked about it for weeks,” Amma pushed food around on her plate.

Lunch nowadays was a properly planned meal, instead of my approach of scrounging and grazing on junk whenever hunger pangs struck. The menu was traditional South Indian dishes, with occasional forays into North Indian or Italian cuisine when I got bored with rice-vegetable-dal variations. I placed the phone face down on the table and said, “What brought Chellam’s beans to your mind, Ma? We didn’t see her on our trip to Tiruchi last year.”

“I received a WhatsApp from Usha, my college friend, this morning. She mentioned that Janaki, her cousin, had bumped into Saroja at the Teppotsavam, the annual temple festival in Tiruchi. Janaki was a classmate of Saroja.”

One might pontificate about the evils of social media, but ever since WhatsApp entered our lives, long-forgotten human connections have surfaced. People you had lost touch with found ways to remind you of their existence. Unless you took active actions to avoid them, most of us were part of school, college, first job, second job, or alumni groups. Much to her bemusement, Amma suddenly began receiving updates about people she had lost touch with decades ago. And in turn, my sister and I now got trivia about people we had never heard of, let alone met.

The names were typical of post-independence South India. Shorter than the previous generation gems like Mangalammal, Pushpavalli, or Ranganayaki, but still rooted in Indian mythology. Some names had been very popular—Amma had four Janakis and three Saradas in her immediate family.

I chewed the sautéed beans slowly and said, “Well Ma, I have heard a lot about Nattu Mama. Were these his sisters?”

Nattu Mama was a familiar name, as he was the closest my mother had to a brother. Nattu had been the son of my lawyer grandfather’s court associate. He had been a year or so older, Amma’s protector and partner in mischief while growing up. He had died young, barely in his 40s. My grieving mother used to relate her childhood memories of Nattu. Surely, from what I remember of those long-ago tales, he had no sisters.

“Oh no, Saroja and Chellam were the younger children of teacher Ramayya’s family. Savitri, Ramayya’s widow, rented the side portion of Subbu lecturer’s house across the street. The Saroja-Chellam swap was the scandal of that year.”

I served myself more rice and contemplated the beans that had triggered this conversation. I ought to have added more ghee while sautéing. All shortcomings could be masked with lashings of clarified butter and coconut shavings.

Faint memories of a black-and-white tearjerker movie came to mind. “Ma, you are kidding me,” I exclaimed, “That’s the plot of an old Tamil movie.”

.

Ma sipped her buttermilk and remarked, “Oh, that movie also played a part. You know Gemini Ganesan was the hero; he was romancing both the heroines in real life too.”

“What did the movie have to do with Saroja's decision?" I interrupted the tangential segue into yesteryear Tamil movie star Gemini Ganesan and his many romantic escapades. I was more interested in the bride swap that had scandalised the conservative neighbourhood where my mother had grown up . Sue me; I enjoy gossip, however ancient, just like any other person.

“Saroja told me that the Gemini Ganesan movie where one sister gives up her fiancé for her sister’s happiness inspired her actions.”

I stared at my mother, eyebrows raised. I had heard of the bizarre impact of Tamil movies on real life, but this was in the realm of the ridiculous. “Really! Tell me what happened.”

“Poor Saroja had to discontinue her college studies when her father fell ill. Saroja was intelligent like her father, unlike her elder brother Krishnan. Eventually, her brother got a low-paying job in the railways and was posted at a small station. After their father died, he offered to take in his sisters and mother, but money was needed to marry the girls off,” Ma explained.

I abandoned my plan of hastily gulping my lunch to rush back to my laptop and the document I had to review. Amma was in a reminiscing mood, rare since my father passed away. My sister sternly counselled me to allow my mother to ramble on the few occasions she opened up. The document was due on Friday, three days from now. I had time.

Amma continued, “Savitri Maami started cooking at weddings and family functions. She specialised in wedding sweets and savouries, but the income was erratic and seasonal. Saroja was learning shorthand to pass the government exams to qualify as a stenographer. She had to take temporary typist jobs to support the family.”

I was fascinated with this glimpse of India 50 years ago—when AI was merely a concept in science fiction and women learnt typewriting to find employment. For a desperate, semi-educated woman, becoming a secretary was the highest aspiration. Nothing much had changed today, just the job skills had shifted from typewriting to call centre. The uneducated still resorted to domestic chores for a living.

“So was Chellam also clever?” I moved on to the next course—a bowl of yoghurt.

Amma shook her head. “Chellam was dumb. She could barely get the exact change from the grocery store when my mother sent her on errands.”

“Most likely she bought some toffees or biscuits with the change and ‘forgot’ to share,” I speculated.

“No,” my mother snorted, “She couldn’t lie well. Chellam passed her high school exams on her third attempt because the principal awarded grace marks in Ramayya’s memory. She left school and used to run errands for your Patti all the time.”

My grandmother’s courtyard was the informal ladies' community centre for the neighbourhood. Patti was a soft-spoken, devout woman who always had a kind word and smile for women across social strata. She rarely stepped out of the house, for she was never in robust health.

On most weekday afternoons, when both the men and children were away, neighbourhood women would drop by. They would share their troubles with sympathetic ears and then leave soothed with gently worded advice. If the family needed help, they knew that ‘Vakil Maami,’ as my Patti was called, would drop a hint to my grandfather, who used his decades of experience as a lawyer to offer solutions. So no surprise that Saroja’s mother had requested Patti to watch over Chellam.

“Aha! She was pretty; that’s how she caught the fellow’s eye,” I stated.

“No, plain and rather naive, ready to believe any far-fetched story. That’s why my Amma kept her close when Savitri Maami was away cooking. Chellam also helped in the kitchen; that’s where she learnt to cook,” shared Amma.

“That’s why you said she cooked beans well, ‘cause she was taught by Patti. But how did the bride swap happen?”

Amma continued, “Remember their brother Krishnan? Now Krishnan’s wife was a good sort and frequently invited the girls for holidays and festivals. In one such visit, Krishnan’s senior colleague had noticed Saroja, who was a pretty girl with fine features. The families agreed it was a good match.

Everything was settled, Savitri Maami related. Saroja had requested a postponement of the wedding to the following year, as she wanted to study and try to qualify for a government post. The groom's side agreed as his sister was expecting her first baby in a few months. This gap gave everybody breathing space.

Savitri Maami was seen smiling after several years. Chellam was very excited about the wedding, constantly chattering about it. But none of us noticed what Saroja was feeling.”

“She was in love with someone else,” I guessed.

My mother shook her head, stating, “No, no such thing. She was too busy. She grew quieter as the months passed by. Savitri Maami was busy taking on extra assignments to earn more for the wedding expenses. Saroja’s fiancé would come by every 2-3 months with gifts and messages from Krishnan. Obviously a ruse to ensure everybody became comfortable with one another.”

“So he fell in love with Chellam during these visits?”

“Nothing so clichéd. During one such visit, Saroja persuaded her fiancé to transfer his loyalties to her sister. From all accounts, he agreed easily. His family had no objections once the priests matched the horoscopes. It was the family connection they valued.”

“What was Saroja’s reasoning, then?”

Ma sighed, “Saroja was a few years older, so I couldn’t yell at her. But I did have a long, heartfelt chat with her. I asked Saroja why did she gift away a chance for marriage and happiness. Saroja replied, Look at me; I am intelligent. I have managed to earn a living to keep us afloat. Once I marry and leave, who will take care of Chellam and my mother? Oh, I know you'll say Krishnan will do it. But he has a growing family, and his pitiful salary is already stretched. Chellam is gullible; what if she falls for a predator who preys on innocent girls? My mother is ageing. So who will run around to get her married off? Trust me, I spent months thinking about it. I prayed to Lord Ganesha for guidance, and he guided me to this solution.”

“And Vigneshwara revealed the solution in the movie!” I attempted to connect the dots, wildly stretching my imagination.

“That’s what she told me. The wedding dates were finalised, and Chellam’s marriage took place from the brother’s house, as was customary.”

“Did Chellam know about this?” I enquired, puzzled by how everybody had fallen easily into Saroja’s plans.

Ma nodded and replied, “Yes, I overheard her conversation with your Patti. Chellam said, “Everybody kept worrying about my future after Saroja gets married. Maami, I didn’t know what to do. I have no education; who will give me a job? I asked him, you know, if he didn’t mind the bride swap, as I'm not as pretty or smart as my sister. He said Saroja was very wise, and he was agreeable. Saroja has always taken care of me. She told me this would bring her peace of mind. So I trust her decision that this is the best for me.”

“So, where are Saroja and Chellam now, fifty years later? You said that Usha gave you an update.”

“Chellam lives in Chennai. Saroja resides in Tindivanam, last I heard.”

“The marriage was a success, then.”

“Oh yes," my mother sniffed, "She had her first child before her first wedding anniversary. I think she had four—maybe five—children. Chellam was quite fond of me; she regarded me as an extension of my mother. So she came to visit me when your father and I lived in Chennai.”

Hmmmm, I encouraged Amma.

“She began cooking for weddings, just like her mother. She proudly told me she was in high demand as she cooked well with no fuss. She had also learnt to negotiate and ask for what she deserved. Chellam must be a grandmother many times over by now.”

“Did Saroja ever marry?”

“Never.”

“Oh! Do you think she regretted her decision?”

“Nooo," my mother said, drawing out the syllables. "I think she didn’t see it as a sacrifice; it was an escape from an impossible situation.”

“Surprising view, na, Ma, in those times when women were defined by marriage and motherhood.” I started clearing the table, stacking the used dishes and spoons.

“When I met Nattu’s wife, Sarada, a few years back in Tiruchi, we both agreed that what Saroja had seen of married life had frightened her. Plus, this suited everyone.”

“How so, Ma?”

“Teacher Ramayya was a selfish man, even though everyone called him pious and good. He squandered his savings on donations and religious ceremonies, with no thought of his children’s future. The mother and brother were nominally heads of the family. But whose future got sacrificed when the family faced hardship? Saroja’s. Krishnan could barely feed his own family. So Saroja had to shoulder the family’s responsibilities.”

“But she didn’t desire love, a life partner for herself?”

“Really, such fancy notions you have for a middle-aged woman,” was Amma’s sharp retort. “You think a poor girl dreams of a Mills & Boon, cinema-type love when agreeing to a marriage? For most women in India, marriage is largely a compulsion or compromise, then and now. Saroja had also supported her malnourished mother through multiple miscarriages and had realised how much they can ravage a woman’s health. She had practically raised Chellam. I believe she had enough of family life and its joys.

“She finally found a permanent position at a school. The school later transferred her to Tindivanam, where they had opened a girl's college. She lived her life as best as she could, bought a house, and retired as a warden. Savitri Maami lived with her till her last days. Saroja now leads a typical retired life, Janaki mentioned, going on pilgrimage cum holidays with friends, visiting relatives, the usual.”

Amma pushed her chair back to stand up.

“Wait. How did it suit the others?”

“Well, Krishnan and his colleague became family. Chellam was the better bride for that groom because, unlike Saroja, she didn’t carry additional responsibilities. Chellam got a secure future nobody had dreamt of. Savitri Maami managed to marry off one of her daughters. Saroja was anointed as the epitome of sacrifice in society.”

I was speechless, struck by how even family relationships are built on self-centredness, laid bare in a few words.

Amma stood up and said, “It was what you management types would call, a win-win all around.”.

Glossary of Tamil origin words used

Amma/Ma - Mother

Patti - Grandmother

Maami - Mother’s brother’s wife or respectful way to call any older lady

Mama - Mother’s brother or respectful way to call any older man.

Lord Ganesha/Vigneshwara - Hindu Elephant-faced god who removes obstacles for his devotees.

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Bio: I am Shobha Ramani. I love stories and storytellers; I have always told stories to myself. It took me decades to type some of these out, this is among my initial submissions. To pay the bills, I work in strategy and marketing. I enjoy traveling as it allows me to uncover new stories.

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Setu, March 2025