It is one of life’s little certainties, like Chennai’s humidity - ever present, soul-crushing, skin burning, and impossible to escape - that when Ranganayaki Krishnaswamy appears on the scene, doom is afoot. We all call her Chithi (meaning mom’s younger sister). Remember to pronounce it correctly. It is CHITHI. Not Cheenti (ant), not Chitthi (letter), not Cheatee… Do I need to explain that? You always ALWAYS, refer to her right! Unless you want to get wrangled in a conversational ambush that will make you feel like the British leaving Kabul – cold, battered, and questioning all your life choices. Let me tell you why!!!
There are aunts, and then there are Aunts—and my dear old Chithi belonged firmly in the latter category, the sort that makes her older siblings cringe, nephews and nieces shudder, and priests and well-known artists slink away under the sofa. In her head, she is one of the elite who has read and understood the scriptures, studied the art and craft of painting (most often painting the city red), and has the absolute understanding and solutions to all that is within the boundaries of what we terms as World Politics. The woman has a presence that can command armies, bend wills, and strike terror into the hearts of specialist doctors.
For twenty years now, my sister and I have been financially supporting Chithi, a state of affairs that was, as these things often are, very unnecessary BUT entirely inevitable and wholly inescapable.
Not that she is ungrateful, mind you. No, Chithi had long made it clear that her dependence on us was the greatest humiliation since the defeat of the Marathas at the third battle of Panipat, and yet any mild hint that she should live within her means is always treated as a direct assault on her dignity.
I have, through bitter experience, learned to maintain a healthy distance between myself and the catastrophe’s that hit her. But fate, as ever, had other plans.
Let me tell you about the whole bizarre business that began a month back on a bright Wednesday morning, which, in my opinion, is too early in the week for any kind of life-altering crises. It’s too early in the day to reach for your brandy and too early in the week to consider falling ill.
“Vijaya,” she announced over the telephone, in the sort of grim tone usually reserved for announcing the start of an Indo-Pak cricket match, “I am being evicted.”
“Evicted?” I said, nearly dropping my toast. “Since when?”
“I was informed three months ago.”
Three. Months.
“And you are telling us now?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said in the lofty manner of someone who has been waiting specifically for the most inconvenient moment to bring it up.
“And yet, here we are, bothered.”
“It’s terrible, Vijaya,” she continued. “A woman of my standing, fair and courteous always thrown out like—like—”
“Really?”
She ignored me. “We must act swiftly. I refuse to live in a shoebox.” (A shoebox that she had been living in for close to a decade!!)
What followed was a frantic two-week sprint, in which my sister Vidya and I were dispatched like errand girls to secure a house suitable to her precise requirements—a task so Herculean that I felt that some sort of civic medal was definitely in order.
The final selection was met with a series of long inhalations and even longer exhalations clearly indicating her supreme disapproval and a reluctant, “I suppose this will do. I don’t have much of a choice, do I”
Victory, or so I foolishly thought.
And then came the sigh.
“But why, Vijaya,” she lamented, “why am I still alive to suffer this indignity? No one also tries to understand me”
Defeat!
I also wonder why we were ever named Vijaya and Vidya. Neither us have in any and all of our altercations with Chithi emerged victorious or dealt with it intelligently. Defeat again!
The Surgeon Gets Interviewed for His Own Job
Chithi had been in and out of hospitals, battling the sort of ailments that would have had the decency to finish off lesser mortals. Twice, she had defied medical statistics, much to the astonishment of her doctors and, I suspect, to the mild irritation of the Yamagupta himself.
It was during one such stay that she found herself in the hands of a top-notch specialist, a doctor whose name was prefixed by an alarming number of letters and titles. She looked at him with her most intimidating gaze. (The gaze was not intended, that is who Chithi is!)
“I will need you to walk me through the procedure, step by step.”
“Certainly, madam. The operation is a straightforward—”
“No, no,” she interrupted. “I need every detail. If I don’t approve of it, I shall not clear you for the surgery.”
Let us be clear. Chithi is a woman with no medical background. She definitely had occasionally dabbled with diagnosing herself on WebMD. With that dabbled experience, she wanted to clear the surgeon for a life-saving operation.
The man, to his credit, attempted reason.
“Madam, I assure you, I have performed this procedure hundreds of times.”
“Hundreds?” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “And how many of them have perished under your knife?”
At this point, I was fairly certain the doctor was considering walking into traffic.
The Funeral That Must Meet Her Standards
One might assume that a woman who regularly declares, “Why am I still alive?” would have no particular opinions about her eventual demise. One would be wrong.
“Vijaya,” she said one evening, her tone suggesting that a matter of national importance was about to be discussed.
“Yes, Chithi?”
“I have decided that my funeral must be conducted with a certain standard.”
My stumbled leg and stuttered tongue with difficulty found words, “You mean… your funeral that you constantly claim will never come soon enough?”
“Yes. There is nothing worse than a terrible send-off.”
She then proceeded to outline her vision: No cheap flowers, no wailing women and most importantly, a priest with proper diction. “Some of them rush through the prayers, Vijaya. I shall need to test him first.”
“You want to interview the priest?” I asked faintly.
“Well, if I don’t, who else will get it right?”
Truly, death would be her final inconvenience.
That was the last straw for me. I just had to get back home, and take the support of my dear friend – the Brandy and my very trustworthy Governess of Domestic Affairs of many years, Jeevika. I slumped into my armchair and muttered, “Jeevika, tell me honestly. Is there any way to make Chithi see reason?”
Jeevika poured my evening spirit with her usual air of ‘I know it all’.
“Well, she said, “one does not make Chithi see reason. One merely survives Chithi.”
I sighed. “Jeevika, you are a wonder.”
“I agree, akka”!
Chithi, having somehow acquired intelligence on my conversations, summoned Jeevika for a meeting.
“You are a thinking woman, Jeevika,” she said. “Tell me, do you believe I am unreasonable?”
Jeevika with folded hands said. “I don’t think so Chithi.”
“Hmm. And yet, you have been advising Vijaya on how to handle me.”
“Merely offering perspective, Chithi.”
“Perspective.” She sniffed. “And what is your perspective, Jeevika?”
Jeevika bent her head and with manners that would put politeness to shame said, “I think Chithi, that your standards are of the highest order. It is, of course, only natural that others may—on occasion—struggle to meet them.”
Chithi positively glowed.
“Vijaya could learn a thing or two from you,” she said.
I realized, with awe and terror, that Jeevika had let her win.
As we left, I turned to Jeevika.
“Jeevika,” I murmured, “one has to marvel at the sheer indestructibility of Chithi. At this point, she may be immortal.”
“Yes, I have often thought about it too”
I sighed. “Jeevika, get me my brandy will you?.”
And so, I accepted my fate. Some women inherit wealth. Some inherit power. I have inherited Chithi.
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