The baby in her arms gurgled happily. Rammaiya peered down from her cataract blinded eyes and her wrinkled brown face split into a wide smile, showing crooked teeth behind cracked lips stained a dark red from years of chewing betel nuts and tobacco. The child had been placed in her arms by her daughter-in-law, Lalitha, who had already forgotten about the baby, and was busy with her household chores. This was the third daughter in the family, and except for Rammaiya, no one bothered about her.

Lalitha had not even cried with grief the way she had when the second daughter had been born, all her tears had dried up. She refused to curse her fate and now suffered it in stoical silence. Rammaiya's son, Thangvelu, who had till now looked forward to the life growing in Lalitha's stomach, had gone out to drown his sorrows at the local hooch joint when he learnt that another "Lakshmi" had been born this Diwali to him. He did not light the lamp of welcoming joy, but had disappeared from the house in a cloud of gloom.

"What news, Thangvelu?" his friends would ask him.
"Another girl," he'd answer, dejectedly.
They would sigh in sympathy and fill his glass with drink, helping him forget his pain. Being the father of three girls was being in debt for life.

The little one had started crying now, but Lalitha was out in the fields, doing the backbreaking work instead of her husband. The man of the house could not be expected to work after such news. It was the woman's lot that even after delivering a child, she continues as before. Actually, Thangvelu needed any excuse not to work. He was her son, but Rammaiya was not blind to his failings. She had come across many men in her life, and she had learnt that for most of them, life was a burden to be put on the shoulders of their wives.

Rammaiya shook her head and absent-mindedly gave the crying child her gnarled finger. The child sucked at it hungrily. She had already begun to understand the art of making do with whatever you get. Women learnt this early in life.

Dusk was falling, and Thangvelu returned home, drunk and hungry. Lalitha quietly served him some rice and home made curds with a pinch of salt. He was in a foul mood. Raving and ranting, he struck the plate away, and moved towards Lalitha to hit her.

"What have you served me, woman? Don't I deserve something better than this? Are you keeping all the food for your third daughter to eat?"

Lalitha listened quietly. She had been reduced to a beast of burden, mute in its silent suffering. All sensation of pain, anger or disgust had been pushed into deep, dusty recesses of her mind and joy was a meaningless word.

Rammaiya heard the noises as she sat outside the hut, the children asleep at her feet, the babe still in her arms. The two elder girls were slim and sturdy, and she did her best to let them enjoy their youth, shielding them from their father's wrath and their mother's helpless jibes. She told them tales of her times, when life was simpler, and the world not so harsh. She did not tell them how she had suffered as a girl child; they knew such things first hand.

She told them stories of flowers and butterflies, of sweet smelling grass and tinkling blue rivers, of mangoes that fell lush and ripe from trees, and of silver anklets and gold bangles with made soft music as young girls walked.

The times had changed since she was a child, but they had not changed in the right way. She hugged the third born to her sagging breast. What a beautiful gift the Gods had given her son, but he did not want a loving, hard working daughter. He wanted a son, even a spiteful, vagrant one would do.

Rammaiya closed her eyes and dozed. Her days were done, but as long as she lived, the young flowers would bloom under her care. She was blind of eye, but clear of mind. Girls were true "Lakshmis" who brought untold wealth to their parents. Those who did not worship their arrival were the real losers.

Abha Iyengar

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