Chinna or `small' Latchmama, or Latchi, as she was called by all, was left at the village
centre, rather than quite abandoned by her mother Pedda or `big' Narsamma, who had
been `set aside' for a younger woman by her husband, a drunkard and a wastrel, and yet
with some compelling attraction for women. The absence of her husband made no
difference economically to Narsamma, in fact much more of her daily wages now
remained in her hands, except when he came around occasionally in the dead of night to
snatch away her money for a drink. Though she had complained bitterly when she had
been his only wife, now she would gladly have given up all her earnings, if only he
would be by her side. Tired, depressed, and lonely to the pit of her stomach, she decided
to leave the village and go and look for work in some housing construction site in the
city. She could not take her daughter with her to a city slum, full of unknown drunken
men, so after a palaver with Sharmaji, she left Latchi in the safe compound of the
SERVICE rural center, where in return for some light work, the girl would get food, cast-
off clothes, and shelter at night.
Latchi herself seemed quite happy at this arrangement, and was always seen taking on
any work given to her without complaining, and in fact offering to do something or the
other, which seemed odd to the others. She would smile all day if one of the older women
gave her a sari they did not want any more, or a helper gave her a pair of discarded tennis
shoes, two sizes too large for her bony feet. She always waited till everyone else had
finished in the canteen before eating herself, and then at night when everyone else was
going off to bed would be seen cleaning the canteen all by herself. She slept on the office
verandah, covered by an old blanket, and using a rolled up skirt as her pillow.
Sharmaji didn't notice her at all, after the first few days, when he tried to judge if she was
a thief, or of bad repute in any way, and then satisfied that she would be content to
behave herself if fed and sheltered, he lost interest in the child. Early in the morning,
while he was still half awake, he would hear her sprinkle water on the dust in front of his
`unit,' before drawing a moggu design in front of the steps with rice flour. Idly one day as
he sipped coffee on his verandah, he noticed the perfect symmetry of form in her design,
and its perfect curves and straight lines, which formed really rather a unique pattern. He
wanted to ask her where she had learned that design, but forgot the matter later in the day.
Then, next day, he noticed she had changed the design, the new one was much simpler,
but equally elegant. In the days that followed he started to notice her moggu designs, each
one very different from the preceding one, each one seeming to reflect her feelings for the
day, somehow creating a motif which he carried in his mind, which started to influence
his thinking for the day.
He questioned her closely one day when he was up early enough to catch her, but she
only shyly hung her head, and said she didn't know how she drew the moggus, or why
she changed the designs, or why she drew them. Pedda Narsamma appeared one day,
looking more cheerful than when Sharmaji had seen her last, she had a new sari on, and
was chewing paan and had a string of jasmine in her hair. She ran laughing to her
daughter, who stood shyly by, and gave her a box of sweets she had brought from the city.
The girl would have one piece only after all the others round her, including Sharmaji, had
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taken a piece. Sharmaji complimented Pedda Narsamma on the way she had brought up a
good girl, and then asked who had taught the girl to draw such beautiful moggus.
" Saaru, who would teach a poor girl like her," laughed Pedda Narsamma. " She just
does whatever comes into her head. Hey! You answer Pedda Saar. He is being kind to
you! Did you learn by watching others?" The girl nodded uncomfortably.
Sharmaji forgot about the matter till he attended a gender conference in Delhi sponsored
by Christians Everywhere. In the lobby of the Sheraton, where the conference was held,
he saw huge panels with photographs of rangoli, the moggus of North India. Pramila
Choudhury, Chairperson of Women in Craft [India] entered the lobby in a richly brocaded
silk sari, with a large intricately carved antique silver and onyx pendant at her throat, and
shepherded by the American Ambassador. Young Kamal Chand, scion of a former
princely house, and Minister of State for Textiles, drew up a chair for her.
" Thank you, dear boy, I am glad so many people are interested in rangoli, the unique art
of the humble," she said, speaking with remote haughtiness in an Oxbridge accent. "Its
discovery, like Jawaharlal's discovery of India, is really self-discovery. We have not
found something new in the India all around us, we have found something new in
ourselves. Art as conceived by modernity is dead art, it was art yesterday, when shaped
by the living hands of the artist, it becomes a dead commodity today in a gallery, or a
museum. Money and art can never live in the same space-time," she added with
condescension, the light from the chandeliers flashing dazzling shafts of ice-cold blue
from the sapphire rings on her fingers. " The pictures of this uniquely feminine, and at the
same time empowering, art have been taken by three of the foremost young
photographers from New York, who agreed to work with me, thanks to a small grant of
two million dollars from the Adams Foundation." Three bearded men in black clothes
stood up to applause.
Well, thought Sharmaji, the rangolis were not all that superior to what little Latchi drew
everyday, in fact they were definitely not as good. And two million dollars for this, and
the American Ambassador dancing attendance to boot! Pugnaciously he determined he
would hold a show of Latchi's work, which he looked forward to seeing every morning
when he woke up. Whatever this heavily made-up lady might say, the moggus gained
respect and money not when they were seen in the dirt for any dog to walk over, but
when beautifully photographed, enlarged, and presented on panels in a five-star hotel. He
would bring Latchi's art to Delhi, and teach these Northerners that people from the South
knew more about art than would every enter the thick heads he saw around him.
The problem was getting the pictures right. He made Venkat, Rukmini and Abraham all
take photos of Latchi's moggus with the society's field camera, and he tried his own hand
in desperation, but all the photos came out drab, and the designs looked disproportionate.
Whatever it cost, he would have to get professional photographers to take the pictures. He
was good friends with Syed Hussain, the best known cinematographer in the region. The
first opportunity he got, he asked Syed bhai to shoot photos of Latchi's moggus. Syed
Hussain had just come back after a long shoot in some villages, and had had a fight with
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the cheeseparing producer of the budget film, and was already into his fourth patiala peg
of Scotch. But he was a good friend, and mellowing fast took to the idea by the sixth peg.
" Sharmaji, dead photographs are absolutely passé. Who wants to see them, when not
sponsored by some rich American, and followed by Scotch and a lavish dinner? Nobody!
Film is the medium everyone understands. It is quite sometime since I made a
documentary. We will make one on your little girl, and show it at Cannes!" As the night
progressed, both of them became completely convinced that they would make a
documentary out of Latchi's moggus.
Money was not to be a stumbling block. Syed bhai would organize someone to pay the
shot. He and his entourage turned up at the rural center after a couple of weeks, complete
with several movie cameras, a generator van, a small crane, for vertical shots at the
drawings, and a traveling film-editing kit. There was a lot of good natured excitement for
the next couple of days, with Sharmaji and Syed bhai happily partying round the campus,
and visiting interesting sites in the vicinity, for `background colour.'
When finally the cameras were all set up, and everyone was up early, despite the
grumbling of Syed bhai's assistants, and all focused round the spot in front of Sharmaji's
unit, Latchi was asked to make a moggu. A crowd had gathered by then, and Syed bhai
dressed in black, with a black cap on his head, shouted tensely for the cameras to `roll.'
Latchi was trembling, tears started in her eyes, and she did a very quick small moggu,
which really by any standards was only on par with the worst one could see. Abraham
shouted at her, Latchi cried, Rukmini went up and put an arm round her and told her to
try again. The girl tried several times, but none of the drawings were in the least
appealing. Tersely, Syed bhai ordered his group to `pack up,' and they all retired to the
canteen for lunch. No one noticed or cared that Latchi did not eat that day.
Next morning, when the cameras were set up again, she did not come running when
called. A search was conducted, and she was nowhere to be found. After shouting for her,
and scolding loudly that she was a disobedient, ungrateful girl, they packed up again, and
Syed bhai retired to Sharmaji's unit to steady his nerves in the morning with some more
Scotch. Two days later a driver caught the girl in a village some distance away, and
brought her back. With everyone clustered round her, Sharmaji spoke to her sternly;
asked her if she knew how much money had been wasted because of her, money that
could have been spent feeding hungry people, and then he softened his tone as he saw her
standing there weeping silently, and asked her whether she ever wondered what her
mother would say if she had run away for good? When there was nothing more to say,
she was dismissed, and the crowd dispersed, with Sharmaji mulishly telling Syed bhai
that they should try again the very next morning.
The next morning, they had very little trouble with the girl; she was already waiting in
front of Sharmaji's unit before anyone got up. When all the cameras were set up, and the
shouting abated a little, she did exactly as she was told. She drew when she was ordered;
swept the mess clear when asked to do so, and started again. They all gave her advice.
Rukmini brought out a book on Irish Lace and suggested that Latchi could copy some of
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those designs. The girl tried her best. Abraham then looked at the work, and suggested
alterations. Latchi made them. The cameras kept rolling. That afternoon while seeing
some rushes with the traveling editing kit, Syed bhai said that they were not to worry, and
while the designs they had captured were indeed mediocre, he had some superb shots of
her at work. They should have patience, and let her settle down. He had learnt patience
through wildlife photography.
But it was not to be. That very evening Syed Hussain got a frantic call from the producer
of the budget film, only it was no longer going to be one. The producer spoke for half-an-
hour; he said he had raised a great amount of money from interested angels, and sold the
distribution rights through five territories already; Syed bhai should rush back. When the
cinematographer's group were loading their vehicles next morning, Syed bhai embraced
Sharmaji, assured him that everything was working out just fine; he himself would have
more than enough money to do a even better documentary on Latchi; he was committed
to it, and Sharmaji should wait and see. However, within a few weeks, Syed bhai was
called away by an American company for location shooting in the Himalayas, which, as
he told Sharmaji over the phone, had a unique story-line, he would laugh when he told
him everything, but it was also radical, taking a dig at everyone. Syed bhai said he would
send a big box of Bombay halwa for Latchi.
Time passed and what with new worries created by new projects, canards spread by his
jealous enemies, Sharmaji got involved in many other things. If he did notice Latchi's
moggus, it was only casually, for he had lost interest in them and her, and sometimes he
would show deliberate irritation when he saw her early in the morning, for he was still
sore at her for thwarting his art project.
One morning he was woken early by Abraham knocking on his door. Abraham said in
low tones that they should send right away for the assistant civil surgeon from the district
hospital to look at Latchi. Sharmaji was going to burst out angrily, but seeing the look in
Abraham's face instructed for the jeep to be sent to the hospital. He dressed very slowly
and when at last he went over to the office building, he saw a small still group of women,
with their sari puloos drawn across their faces silently staring at Latchi stretched out on
her old blanket. The assistant civil surgeon was just getting up from his examination, and
Abraham was shouting orders.
" We cannot determine the cause of death by a cursory examination," said the doctor
unemotionally, " but maybe we can if you request an autopsy. Do you want one? I would
not advise it. The girl is gone. I shall give a death certificate stating death due to illness.
They say she was coughing a lot. Maybe TB, pneumonia, even in this weather, a little
chill can polish off a person of her class."
" She has not eaten for weeks," said the sweeper looking down on her ruminatingly,
which mildly seemed to surprise everyone.
Sharmaji looked down at that small still form, her ragged bodice drawn tight over her
bony ribs, and for no reason he could name, tears streamed down his face. Many times
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before when he showed emotion before his staff, or at a meeting, a part of him would
stand back to watch the effect he had created, but this time, he did not care, he felt
humble and he wept. " I am in charge here," he said to no one in particular, " and I shall
cremate her."
" She is a Christian," said Venkat, who had come up. " Pedda Narsamma is a Christian,
and so was her father, so she should get a Christian burial." Sharmaji was surprised he
had never known this. He ordered for the body to be prepared and then carried to the
Christian graveyard next to the Baptist Church. The padre would have to be sent for.
The padre, a large man with blood-shot eyes, arrived around noon at the graveyard. He
was displeased at having his routine upset and even the thousand rupees that Sharmaji
thrust into his hands did not mollify him. With a grunt he shoved the money into the side-
pocket of his white habit. It was a brief ceremony with the padre reading from a Telugu
Bible. Sharmaji said he would say a few words, since he was in the position of a father to
the girl. He praised her sweet nature, her simplicity, her dutiful behaviour, her skills. " I
am reminded of Grey's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," he said in English to the
padre. " Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness in the desert
air." With the padre making no response, Sharmaji looked around at the barren landscape,
the brown empty fields, the few sad trees, the shabby huts, and then taking up a clod of
earth he looked at her face for the last time, and tossed it into the grave. Tears came
again, but this time it was for himself, for what he had become, a fraud, an essentialist
fraud.
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