A tryst with domestic abuse

Sometimes things happen so quickly that you are left wondering what hit you.

A few weeks ago I hurt myself near the eye while trying to remove cobwebs stuck in the curtain pelmet in my living room. I had accidentally pushed the rod and the pelmet came off the hook, falling on my face.

The sharp edge of the wooden pelmet had missed my left eye but left a cut on the brow. The bleeding did not stop and I realised I might need a few sutures.

My husband and I opted for a reliable facility that has been around for 60 years in our locality. I left him to park the vehicle and rushed to the casualty ward. I told the nurse guarding the entrance that I needed to see the doctor asap and showed her the bleeding injury. While she was taking her time to decide, a younger nurse asked me to come in.

As I followed her, an intense discussion began among the nurses outside, the tenor of which was hard to miss. One of the women said, "She says she hurt herself while cleaning..." the sentence hung in the air. I had to tell the nurse who was cleaning my wound that I really had injured myself.

The nurse ignored this and said, "There is an earlier injury here." I said, "Yes, I hurt myself when I was a child." She was not convinced. She told me the doctor would see me.

When the doctor checked me, I told him the same story. He avoided eye contact and said, "You need three sutures. Nurse prepare for the procedure," he said, and turned to focus on another patient.      

The nurse turned to me and said, "You said your husband accompanied you? You must get a patient card before we can proceed." She obviously didn't believe me. I said, "Yes, he must be waiting outside as he doesn't know where I am."

When I walked out I did not see him. I could see several pairs of eyes watching me as I made my way to the cash counter to get the health card. As I waited, my husband walked in.

He hadn't shaved for several days. His stubbles made him appear older than he was. The atmosphere in the hospital lounge lightened considerably after he took over from me. A nurse told me to sit down while the card was prepared.

After the doctor finished suturing, he asked for the details. In his report he wrote: "allegedly injured while cleaning between 7 am and 7.30 am..." I watched in horror. He obviously didn't believe me.

I wondered if he opted to go with the theory of domestic abuse. My husband was the prime suspect. The earlier scar didn't help matters.

If I traded place with doctor or the nurses, I wouldn't have behaved differently. As a reporter I have heard doctors and hospital staff tell me how often they see battered women. After assault, women would say the injury was an accident.

There are so many scenarios about how crime against women are perpetrated at home - It is the Deepavali month and I could have been beaten up for making 'unjust demands'. It could be that my husband grabbed me by my hair and rammed me into the wall, causing injury. It could be that I decided to inflict injury on myself as my demands were not met. Or it could be a case of dowy harassment. 

  

            A mug shot of the incriminating hospital record of my injury.

Contentment I see

It is amazing that a Brahmin can survive in the business of selling food. More so, in North Chennai for 83 years. Once a premium locality, something like today's Anna Salai, two Brahmin brothers from Palakkad in Kerala came to make a living in Chennai. After several moves, the brothers set up shop a few doors away from the famous Kalikambal Temple.

Maratha king Chatrapati Shivaji is believed to have sought Goddess Kali's blessings here. Incidentally I got married here. More about that in another blog. 

I have interviewed the owners of Sri Rama Bhavan twice. The first time I spoke to the youngest entrepreneur in the family,  a few weeks before his wedding. Balaji, an upper middle class Brahmin youth, was articulate.
  

At a time when restaurant chains are minting fortunes, 70-year-old R.G. Ananthanarayanan, a qualified chartered accountant, is not worried about his competitors. He has managed to run the hotel for a dedicated middle class. The hotel sets store by its rasam and filter coffee. 

He told me that he opted to enter the hotel business at the age of 25 after a loyal client, a violinist who was travelling with his troupe on a train to Thanjavur, told him that he respected his hotelier father. "The violinist's narrative changed my opinion of my family business," he said.   

The other person I interviewed, mostly over telephone, was Venkataramani, one of the two owners of Venkatramana Boli Stall in West Mambalam, a roadside kiosk around 15 to 20 km from the Thambu Chetti Street. This gentleman is a complete contrast to Ananathanarayanan. Venkataramani did not want to speak to me initially.

He changed his mind later in the day and over the phone told me about his family, which he said traced its background to the humble rural Kumbakonam. His mother made poli - pan cakes made using refined flour and stuffed with coconut and jaggery.

Poli is a delicacy made during Hindu festivals and is a wholesome dish in itself. Venkataramani said his mother was very good at making poli and his father decided to launch the delicacy as food for the poor.

It was an instant hit and remains so among food connoisseurs. When an upstart launched his business with a sound-alike name just across the road he wasn't perturbed. There is place for everyone in the business, he thought. He hadn't contended with the ruthlessness of the upstart, whose owner paid money (Rs. 30,000, he said) to get reviews in a women's monthly magazine called Mangaiar Malar.

Bitter, this sweet maker has since refused interviews. My persuasion helped, but only a little. The pleasure was that he displayed the news story on the walls of his shop the next day. A recognition that every writer longs for.