RR
6th September 2005, 02:33 PM
TALES of DESPERATE PLANTATION WIVES
By Nirosha Sen
I am a desperate housewife!! Just like the characters of that popular TV programme, that has struck a resonant cord in so many American housewives. Who would have ever thought that a mundane subject like a housewife’s life could ever be worthy enough to have adulated heroes of a popular series??? In the serial, there are five – two of whom are divorcees.
Of course, mine is no where as glamourous as those celluloid wives with their well trimmed lawns and verdant gardens, landscaped drive-way called Wisteria Lane and to my mind, an almost idyllic life, if one discounts, the odd adulterous goings on, as a crisis! None of those women, have a hair out of place, cellulose is obviously unheard of as they all have perfectly sculpted bodies, augmented boobs and botox injected faces and all. But me????? I’m the real thing! The one with an endless tale to tell where the Director doesn’t shout, “cut” to put an end to my misery of the day!! No siree, I cannot afford that luxury. But while I wail about my lot in life, I do look around me for that odd tug of relief, when someone else has it has worse than me, if not better.
While, Wisteria Lane is an affluent American suburb, I on the other hand live my live in rural Malaysia, where minus the glamour and beautiful people, one has almost the front seat in the goings on!! To a lot of people, my neighbourhood is a far cry from the paved and glamourised urban life, that colours their horizon. Mine is mundanely green, with sometimes, just a single macadamized road, that snakes its way into the blue yonder! A landscape so boringly familiar, that unless one is inquisitive, you do not see what lies beneath the surface of all those nameless, faceless people, you see as you drive by!!
My presentation today, is Jagathambal!! She used to be a tapper in the old days when the rubber trees were the staple of the plantation economy. But she’s now a weeder; single mother of four and local loony-bin!! She wasn’t always that way of course. When she had her husband around, she was no different from the rest of humanity that throngs the estate lines. Her life was no less mundane or more exciting than the rest of the labourers who were her neighbours. Nope, the only thing that sets Jagathambal apart, is the fact that she’s a murderer!! But like most crimes that take place in the fringes of the country, that rarely see the light of day, people don’t normally like to talk about what she had done. But it’s an open secret, nevertheless!
When I first moved into this new estate, Jagathambal was only another face in the crowd of weeders who used to pass by our bungalow, head dutifully hung, carefully averting her gaze, as she made her way to and from work. She was no more conspicuous to me than any of the others were. A couple of weeks later, news began to filter to our ears that the line-site residents were spending sleepless nights, listening to the tirades and almost nightly rituals of her excessive abusive language directed at some imaginary foe. First, she was given a verbal warning which gave respite for some peace and quiet, but that was soon a short-lived prayer, before she acted up again.
It was then, that I made enquiries as to what had triggered her strange behaviour, before the flood-gates opened up on her history!! Poor, thin, barely held together Jagathambal, was a victim of sexual abuse by her husband! Rape by one’s own spouse is unheard of or rarely discussed because of the three knots that held together the union of marriage. She had suffered numerous miscarriages, before and after the birth of each of her children. She tolerated as much of the early years of her abuse as possible, but the slumbering stoicism in her was stretched to its limits, when she decided one fine day, that she had, had enough!!
The opportunity presented itself, when yet again in his drunken stupour, her husband had come knocking on the door of her tired, abused body, to partake of his conjugal rights. Her rage, uncoiled itself from the depths of its bowel, snapping her sanity, as she flung open her back door, running towards the fringe of the line-site where she kept fire-wood.
Neatly chopped and stacked, in tiered rows, she took hold of one that was split into a jagged edged, long wedge, that fitted into her palm like a glove. As he neared her, grabbing a handful of her hair, in the hope of dragging her home, he missed what she had held in her hand. Whirling around in her new found insanity, Jagathambal lashed out and landed him a powerful blow to the head, that cracked his skull open!! He was killed instantly, but Jagathambal, who sought refuge in her new found freedom, had merely stood there contemplating her next move. Unsure if she might have been alone or being spied on by snoopy neighbours, she took a handful of firewood, including the incriminating murder weapon and calmly went home; to light her stove with them!!
If there had been witnesses, of what took place, none had come forward to report it! The next day, the country policemen who were only too eager to close the book on a drunken brawl that ended tragically, made cursory notes, before making their way back to the station. With neither murder weapon in sight nor witnesses to spill the beans, they had closed the case as unsolved with a verdict of sudden death! Meanwhile, Jagathambal played up to her audience, as the dutiful, grieving widow, who was only too keen to move on with her life, but not before conveniently acting up as having lost her mind in her grief..
[tscii:da0df39dc8][/tscii:da0df39dc8]
By Nirosha Sen
I am a desperate housewife!! Just like the characters of that popular TV programme, that has struck a resonant cord in so many American housewives. Who would have ever thought that a mundane subject like a housewife’s life could ever be worthy enough to have adulated heroes of a popular series??? In the serial, there are five – two of whom are divorcees.
Of course, mine is no where as glamourous as those celluloid wives with their well trimmed lawns and verdant gardens, landscaped drive-way called Wisteria Lane and to my mind, an almost idyllic life, if one discounts, the odd adulterous goings on, as a crisis! None of those women, have a hair out of place, cellulose is obviously unheard of as they all have perfectly sculpted bodies, augmented boobs and botox injected faces and all. But me????? I’m the real thing! The one with an endless tale to tell where the Director doesn’t shout, “cut” to put an end to my misery of the day!! No siree, I cannot afford that luxury. But while I wail about my lot in life, I do look around me for that odd tug of relief, when someone else has it has worse than me, if not better.
While, Wisteria Lane is an affluent American suburb, I on the other hand live my live in rural Malaysia, where minus the glamour and beautiful people, one has almost the front seat in the goings on!! To a lot of people, my neighbourhood is a far cry from the paved and glamourised urban life, that colours their horizon. Mine is mundanely green, with sometimes, just a single macadamized road, that snakes its way into the blue yonder! A landscape so boringly familiar, that unless one is inquisitive, you do not see what lies beneath the surface of all those nameless, faceless people, you see as you drive by!!
My presentation today, is Jagathambal!! She used to be a tapper in the old days when the rubber trees were the staple of the plantation economy. But she’s now a weeder; single mother of four and local loony-bin!! She wasn’t always that way of course. When she had her husband around, she was no different from the rest of humanity that throngs the estate lines. Her life was no less mundane or more exciting than the rest of the labourers who were her neighbours. Nope, the only thing that sets Jagathambal apart, is the fact that she’s a murderer!! But like most crimes that take place in the fringes of the country, that rarely see the light of day, people don’t normally like to talk about what she had done. But it’s an open secret, nevertheless!
When I first moved into this new estate, Jagathambal was only another face in the crowd of weeders who used to pass by our bungalow, head dutifully hung, carefully averting her gaze, as she made her way to and from work. She was no more conspicuous to me than any of the others were. A couple of weeks later, news began to filter to our ears that the line-site residents were spending sleepless nights, listening to the tirades and almost nightly rituals of her excessive abusive language directed at some imaginary foe. First, she was given a verbal warning which gave respite for some peace and quiet, but that was soon a short-lived prayer, before she acted up again.
It was then, that I made enquiries as to what had triggered her strange behaviour, before the flood-gates opened up on her history!! Poor, thin, barely held together Jagathambal, was a victim of sexual abuse by her husband! Rape by one’s own spouse is unheard of or rarely discussed because of the three knots that held together the union of marriage. She had suffered numerous miscarriages, before and after the birth of each of her children. She tolerated as much of the early years of her abuse as possible, but the slumbering stoicism in her was stretched to its limits, when she decided one fine day, that she had, had enough!!
The opportunity presented itself, when yet again in his drunken stupour, her husband had come knocking on the door of her tired, abused body, to partake of his conjugal rights. Her rage, uncoiled itself from the depths of its bowel, snapping her sanity, as she flung open her back door, running towards the fringe of the line-site where she kept fire-wood.
Neatly chopped and stacked, in tiered rows, she took hold of one that was split into a jagged edged, long wedge, that fitted into her palm like a glove. As he neared her, grabbing a handful of her hair, in the hope of dragging her home, he missed what she had held in her hand. Whirling around in her new found insanity, Jagathambal lashed out and landed him a powerful blow to the head, that cracked his skull open!! He was killed instantly, but Jagathambal, who sought refuge in her new found freedom, had merely stood there contemplating her next move. Unsure if she might have been alone or being spied on by snoopy neighbours, she took a handful of firewood, including the incriminating murder weapon and calmly went home; to light her stove with them!!
If there had been witnesses, of what took place, none had come forward to report it! The next day, the country policemen who were only too eager to close the book on a drunken brawl that ended tragically, made cursory notes, before making their way back to the station. With neither murder weapon in sight nor witnesses to spill the beans, they had closed the case as unsolved with a verdict of sudden death! Meanwhile, Jagathambal played up to her audience, as the dutiful, grieving widow, who was only too keen to move on with her life, but not before conveniently acting up as having lost her mind in her grief..
[tscii:da0df39dc8][/tscii:da0df39dc8]