Desperate Measures

by Maheswary Ponnusamy

(The author taught English in government schools in Malaysia for almost 30 years before
taking early retirement. She has published fiction for children for the Malaysian market, and
now resides in the Philippines.)

‘Apa tunggu lagi, nanti karat!’ This was exactly what that old decaying non-performing
Cikgu Hashim said to me over lunch break at the school’s canteen. Newly joined members
of the profession may not have understood. Mr Lim seemed amused. Miss Lau looked
aghast. Cikgu Hashim’s comment could well be applied to her. She was like me, in her
thirties and unmarried.

Later in the wash-room, Miss Lau probed. ‘You think he was talking about menopause?
Could be. By now his wife would be dry. He speaks from experience.’ Then both of us
giggled, our faces flushed and the midday heat caused beads of sweat on our foreheads. ‘I’ll
see you tomorrow. I've got a class with Form Five Alamanda.’ I hurried to the class while
Miss Lau sauntered to the teachers’ room.

The comment bothered me. I was the head of the English department. I have a Master
degree in applied linguistics. I helped the school to manage a department of twelve English
teachers. I am the chief invigilator during the SPM examination every year. And yet to
some, respect seems to stem only if one possesses a ‘Mrs’ degree.

Tea time at home was always something to look forward to. Today, Mother had prepared
chapattis with spicy mashed potatoes. She noticed my lacklustre appreciation for her efforts
as I sipped the hot milk tea thoughtfully. ‘Was there a lot of HOD work at school?’ she
inquired. I just nodded. Mother knew that it was the HOD jobs that took up most of my free
time. I too have realized lately that being the head of the English department kept me at
school till late evenings. Saturdays were set aside for meeting up with other heads of
department. Sundays were solely for attending to mother’s needs, such as driving her to the
market. ‘By the way, I met that lady again at the temple this morning,’ Mother interrupted
my thoughts. She told me once more about the temple in Kapar where a priest performed
miracles. It seemed he was able to break obstacles that prevented marriages. ‘Shall we go
to this temple tomorrow?’

Mother walked to the temple near our home in Subang Jaya every morning. I suspected a
big part of her quiet monologue with God was to request for help in finding a suitable groom
for me. Lately, mother had been bothered by remarks from relatives who had begun to
inquire about my single status. She had even begun to avoid a few social functions just to
keep away from ‘concerned’ relatives who had already got their daughters of ‘marriageable’
age married.

I agreed this time without creating the usual fuss. I had never been to Kapar and the drive
would take my mind from the nasty ‘karat’ comment by my colleague. I wondered who was
‘rusty’. Lately, Cikgu Hashim has become really ‘karat’. Several teachers saw him nodding
to sleep during the last weekly meeting. That was Monday, the beginning of the week, and I
wondered how he had kept himself awake till today. On the other hand, I have always kept
myself updated with the latest theories on second language teaching and learning.

Anyway, it was a Saturday free of meetings, and Mother and I could do with some outing
after going to the market.

‘Do you know the way to this temple?’ I asked. ‘The lady at the temple told us to drive to
Kapar town and ask for Periasamy kovil, which she said any adult will be able to give
directions to. By the way, he is only free after 6pm. We are also required to bring a live
chicken, a bottle of wine, some turmeric powder, jasmine flowers, three types of fruit and
cigars.’ I was tempted to tell Mother that these purchases seemed like preparations for a
sumptuous dinner rather than tools for removing the obstacles that blocked my prospects
for a speedy marriage.

We drove to Kapar town with our purchases around four in the evening. Mother made sure
that the feet of the chicken were properly secured and the other offerings properly packed
in a box.

It was not difficult to find the temple. Everyone in Kapar town seemed to know where the
temple was. Some even inquired if we had bought the right offerings. After driving through
a dusty side road we came to a rubber plantation. There were some wooden houses just
before the temple. The entrance to the wooden temple that had a zinc roof was guarded by
the fearsome goddess Kali. When we reached the inner sanctum we were greeted by a
young man who introduced himself as the assistant to the chief priest. The chief priest
apparently was busy with a devotee in one of the consultation rooms. It became apparent
that this assistant priest was to attend to my problem.

Mother explained in detail that several match-made marriage ‘proposals’ for me had not
worked out. It was I who had turned down some good marriage proposals. The assistant
priest gave me a questioning look. After mother’s narration, we were asked to step out of
the temple. The assistant priest told me and Mother to sit on a mat. Mother inquired if the
purchases should be brought out for the obstacle removing ritual. The reply was only one
word: later.

After murmuring a few prayers, the young priest sat beside me. He closed his eyes and
chanted very loud prayers and shouted the word ‘waa’ several times. It sounded like a
command to come at once in Tamil. Finally he opened his eyes, and they looked rather red
and tired after his strained squinting and shouting. He had even begun to froth at his
mouth. To our surprise, he reached for a short hand-held hoe and dug up a pot. It looked
old and muddy. He opened it and presented from it a piece of red coloured cloth. He
instructed us to examine it. While we had no idea what it was, he told us that the cloth had
been stolen from our clothes line from our backyard and used by our enemies to cast a spell
on me. Now that it had been retrieved, I should be married off in no time.

Mother and I burst out laughing, much to the dismay of the young priest. I explained to him
that we lived on the fifteenth floor in a condominium and that our clothes are sent to the
laundry. Mother supported me by saying that the red colour was simply awful and that we
would never have owned such a piece of cloth. The desperate young man found it hard to
find a rebuttal. Mother and I got up to walk to our car. The young man insisted on his fee.
Mother gave him the bottle of wine and the cigars. It was thoughtful of her as he was much
in need of smoke and drink to cope with our reaction.

The chicken was set free after we had driven far away from the temple. The fruit and
flowers, we took home for us. I was amused, but at the same time acknowledged that I had
allowed myself to get into such a desperate situation. Perhaps, it is time to go on more
social dates, instead of burying myself in books on language theories.