Light, At The End Of The Tunnel (part 2)

also read Light, At The End Of The Tunnel (part 1):

The first few years were like a dream. Husband, wife, a two year old boy and a half a year old girl- happy family. And then the cement factory he worked for closed. Now that she thought of it, then was probably when things had started falling apart. He had to move to a shady place which was a good 8 hour travel from their house. And so Sunita had to stay alone, while her husband visited her every once a week. She worked as a maid servant in the houses nearby- all for her husband and the children. The work was too much for her frail body to take but she thought nothing of it. Her husband had given her a reason to live and she worshiped him. After all, if it wasn’t for him, she would’ve been working in some sleazy brothel.
Quite naturally, she didn’t see the signs when he took to drinking in her absence. Or when he started sleeping with another lady in the other town. She did not ask him where he stayed the whole week. Or why was it that every week, he seemed to give her lesser and lesser money for the family’s expenses. She did not once suspect him of dishonesty. Her love for him was beyond all such emotions.
Until, when one day he came home fully drunk, swaying from side to side and cursing people she had never heard of. That was the day he had first slapped her and only because she had asked him why he was drunk. He had hit her and kicked her and called her a dirty whore. He had shouted at her and repeated again and again that he should never have married her, that he should have let her rot at her aunt’s or maybe at the place where they had planned to take her. It had made no sense to her then. She still loved him. She said nothing. She could say nothing.
But then it became a routine affair. His visits reduced, so did the money. By the time the third child was born, Sunita had to work at three houses. And when on some weekends he did come home, she had to endure the insults and pain. But still she could not bring herself to defy him, to yell back at him. Her love did not stop her anymore, for it was now buried deep under a surfeit of emotions of fear and gratitude. Her duty was obligatory. Her moral self wouldn’t let her shout back at the man who had helped her at the most crucial juncture of her self. She was trapped under her own feelings of liability that forbid her to even bear thoughts against her husband. After all, if not for him, where would she be now? No, she could not say anything against this man who had saved her from peril, not even when she had heard he had not one but two other wives in the other city; not even when he hit her and robbed her off her money; not even when she suspected he had started hating her. She could not be disloyal to her once hero.
But now, sitting there at the brink of the dirty stream, she thought of everything she had had to endure. Her eldest son was 16 years old now. She had lived with a man turned monster for the past fourteen years. When he wasn’t around to torture her, she dreamt of him torturing her. Why was she living like that? She had suspected for long now that he was stealing from her and giving it to his other wives and other children. He did not love her anymore. As for her, she didn’t know. Even if there was any love left in her for him, it was too far beneath all the fear and hate she felt for him now. Yes, he had saved her once, but he had enslaved her for a long time now. And she could not bear to make it forever. She was working after all, in fact for the past so many years she had been single handedly managing the household, no help from him. She didn’t need him any longer to drain her money and well being. She remembered her mother had told her once that a woman was incomplete without her man. She had believed that and lived by it for so long. But she could not take it any longer. She had three children to look after, the eldest of whom was already helping her with a little income. She was not alone in the world after all, and she didn’t need him.
The sun was out now. It shone with a fierce brightness. She had made up her mind. She felt a small tear run down her cheek, her last minute of weakness she thought. And she felt strangely elated. There was a garbage heap clogged at one side of the stream. She found a long stick and prodded at the heap. She could see the water below, muddy but uncluttered, with an urge to gush ahead.
After all these years of self imprisonment within her own endless heap of complex emotions, she had never thought it possible that she would be happy at the thought of leaving him. But she was. Happy. Very happy.
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CELEBRATING WOMANHOOD
INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY 2009

photo courtesy: photobucket.com

Light, At The End Of The Tunnel (part 1)

It was the wee hours of the morning. The sun was just rising and it was still dark. That beautiful time at the start of the day when people woke up to look at the face of their loved one lying beside them, waking up to the chirping of early morning birds that sung sweet tunes of love into the light breeze that carried the mild fragrance of blooming flowers. It was that beautiful hour when any normal person, if awake, would feel blessed for everything that he had in life, especially for that special person. All but for one woman; she sat by the side of the dirty old stream under the bridge, all alone, with a dead look on her face. No, she had no special someone to thank God for. Sitting there, despite the foul smell of rotting garbage from the stream, Sunita felt strangely better than staying in that dingy hut of hers- The hut where she was held captive by her own inhibitions. But what other option did she have?
She looked at the dirty waters of the stream, stagnant, the floating rubbish making it move sluggishly. She closed her eyes and the events of the previous night came rushing back to her. She had had just a moment to look into those brown eyes of the man whom she had once loved; who, until a few years ago was her everything, her hero, her savior, the reason she was alive, her God. She could scarcely stand up, shivering and whimpering in front of her husband, seething, his eyes bloodshot, bellowing at her. She had hardly had time to move, when his hand had come hard upon her, sending her smashing down to the floor, face down. Her head hurt and her cheeks burned but he had not been satisfied. He was shouting like a mad man, dragging her by the hair as she tried hard not to scream and wake up her three kids. What if he did the same to them too? Her nose had started bleeding and she was slowly beginning to lose consciousness. Maybe it was the blood, or perhaps the copious amounts of liquor in him had taken its toll because he had left then and gone to sleep under the only creaking fan in the tattered hut. She had then huddled up in a corner and cried, not too loud, lest he should wake and beat her up again, lest she woke up the kids from their peaceful dreams. She cried the whole night until finally, at some point, she drifted off to sleep.
And now she sat there thinking of all the dreadful things he had done to her. She thought of all those times he had beat her, stamped her, snatched away her hard earned money only to return unstable and violent in the night, his head full of brutal and perverse thoughts that only alcohol could induce. When had it all started? For there was a time, she had loved him. There was a time she had seen love and kindness in those brown eyes. But now she was living with a fiend whom she did not love, who scared her, who had betrayed her, who had enslaved her forever.
Sunita was 14 years old when she had fled with her brown eyed hero who used to work in a tea shop next to where she stayed with her step aunt. He was around five years elder to her and was always full of stories that he heard from the workers who came to the tea shop. He used to tell her that he wanted to run away from there one day and go to the city that his worker friends so often spoke about. She was mesmerized by his descriptions of the magical place he called city. She was fascinated by his words, his voice and the way his brown eyes widened with excitement when he talked of his plans. She hadn’t been in love with him then, or perhaps she was; she didn’t know. It mattered little now.
She remembered the night that she had overheard her step-aunt talk to a big burly man who had come to the house. She had heard only snippets of the conversation ‘….yes grown enough… just the right amount… not bad looking… good money… pick her up in two days’. Sunita was old enough to understand what the conversation had meant. And she had known there was only one person who could help her right then.
And so she had fled, with her brown eyed boy in the middle of the night. He was tall and strong and she had a feeling of utmost safety when she was with him. She was in awe of her hero, who seemed to have it all planned out. It had been difficult, the first few weeks but she knew all was well. She was living with the man she loved and who loved her back. At least, it seemed so at first.
(to be contd...)

I, Woman Of Today

Forgive me mother, for I no longer stick to your ideals.

I have foregone the customary path.

Given in to the wildest of wrath,

Come out unscathed and

embraced all that you call fiend.

Forgive me father, for I’m no longer your little girl

or the delicate maiden you thought I’d become.

I am not afraid to walk out into the sun,

in the open to a world that was once scary.

None of those warnings intimidate me.

Forgive me my country of birth;

Forgive me if it is up to you.

For I do not believe endurance is my virtue.

I have endured enough, enough have I suffered;

Now I come of age, wary yet unruffled.

Forgive me world, for I have broken barriers.

I am no longer what you want me to be.

I am no longer the silent voice of mutiny.

For now I speak out in a voice loud and firm.

I fear not your stares or words of criticism.

Forgiveness I ask not of shame or defeat

Forgiveness I ask for I tread the forbidden path

I am no longer ‘the weak’ that you chose to disregard.

Long gone is the day when I wept in a corner.

No longer at your mercy, I am independent and stronger.

Making a Difference...And How!

Girl 1: Sadhana (6-7 years of age)

Father-carpenter. Mother- works as a household maid. Originally from UP. Settled in Chennai. Both brothers study in English medium schools. Father drinks up his earnings and a good share of the mother's money. The rest hardly suffices for brothers' education and two meals a day. Domestic violence is a daily affair.

Girl 2: Keerthana (5 to 6 years of age)

father-passed away. Mother- works as a household maid. 1 brother, 1 co-brother (born of the second wife of father- this fact Keerthana is unaware of), both brothers studying in English medium schools, financial status of the family is too poor to support Keerthna's education.

Girl 3: Kalaiselvi (10-11 years of age)

differently abled by birth. Father- works at a flower shop, mother-works as a household maid. 2 brothers. One working for daily wages. Much of the meager earnings are spent for Kalai's treatment. Not much is then left for her education.

Girl 4: Sridevi (11-12 years of age)

father-passed away. Mother-out of work. one sister-discontinued studies after the 8th std and works currently. Tsunami victim.

Girl 5: Jansi (10-11 years of age)

father-works at a cycle repair shop; chain smoker. Mother-works as a household maid. No steady income for the father. Domestic violence is a routine affair. Brother in the 6th standard. Meager wages for the mother.

And there are so many more similar cases. These girls were among the few who I met at the Olcott Memorial High School. This is a free school for the poor; free in every sense of the word-right from breakfast, lunch and pure drinking water to books, uniforms and bags to a free learning environment. So efficient and loved is the school that it was termed ‘a school for the poor that the rich may envy’ by goodnewsindia.com.

I had recently been to the school where I spent an afternoon with some of the girls. It was such a wonderful experience! They were all too enthusiastic to talk to me; to tell me how important the school had become for them, that if it were possible they would continue to study there for the rest of their lives. If it weren't for the school, these girls would've had to probably lead uneducated childhood lives doing household work or grow up, oblivious to the existence of alcohol/drug abuse treatments and get married off to a drunkard, who would then treat them like dirt. Thanks to this school however, now, Sadhana wants to be a doctor, Keerthana- a police woman, Sridevi- a collector and Kalaiselvi, a software engineer. Education, I believe, can turn the world around.

Apart from other things that the children thought were unique to their school, there was one person whom the children held in high esteem and who, they believe, and now, so do I, is the heart and soul of the place- the headmistress of the school, Mrs.Lakshmi Suryanarayanan. Truly speaking, there are very few people like her in this world. Let me tell you why I say this, for instance, take this one case. She gave up her job in a school in Mumbai to become headmistress of Olcott School, 10 years back. She was paid Rs.25000 then. Now she is paid Rs.5000.

I have never, in my entire life, ever, seen so much dedication and love for one’s job. She was a lovely woman, quite unlike the headmistresses I’ve seen in the past, who were either too stern or too busy to meet. A charming woman, her grey hair tied in a bun, she had an aura of sophistication with an unmistakable air of affability about her. Even while I was in her office, I saw a few children who came to her with problems such as no school bag or a bullying brother. I was amazed at how she tended to all of them with such love and patience in her voice, like a mother and her child. Mind you, I’m talking not of a class teacher; but the head of the entire school!

Excited that I had gone to the school to learn about the school and meet the children, she gave me a detailed account of all the schools’ accomplishments and how far the school has come since its start in 1894. She is also a chief trainer with the Asha Foundation. A woman who has truly laid down her life for the service of the poor and needy, this terrific woman doesn’t even consider her life a sacrifice. She modestly claims that her service is no sacrifice for she has been provided with a beautiful house within the campus of the school and above all, she believes that the love of her children and the staff means much more to her than money and material wealth. There was not even a glint of artificiality in her tone when she said so. After tea at her place, she showed me, with such childlike eagerness, all the educational artifacts like puzzles, story tags, etc that ex students of her school had made for use in the school. It was endearing to see her devotion to the cause. And needless to say, very inspirational too.

This post probably does not tell you much. Honestly, I can’t tell you how happy I was to spend time with those tiny tots who have probably gone through a lot more than most of us in life. We, the lucky ones, sitting in our air conditioned offices/homes, commuting by cars, owning cell phones and laptops are unaware of the hardships faced by these tender aged blossoms. I don’t know how to put to words, the zeal and commitment that flickered in the eyes of the headmistress. I really can’t find the right way to tell you how beautiful a feeling it was to be thanked by those girls for having visited them and shared with them an anecdote and toffee or two. Perhaps, if you got the chance to do so too, you’d know too!

photo courtesy : olcott-school-chennai.org, goodnewsindia.com

The Blessing

Devipradesham is a small village in the interiors of Kerala. Almost all of Devipradesham is green - vast carpets of paddy fields, fresh fruit smelling banana plantations and of course the coconut trees. There are only a few inhabitants; almost all of them farmers, who tend to their fields. The people are simple with simple needs, unaffected by the nuclear deal or the economic growth or fall. Devipradesham is and has always been a fertile land, and that keeps the people happy. They have always had their steady source of income… come rain or sun. For them, life is always normal. The rich people of Devipradesham have sons and daughters in Mumbai and London and America. They never stay in Devipradesham anyway, apart from occasionally sometimes when they like to come for vacations or when they have some property dispute. 

It is a small place; a happy place. The people attribute to the main deity of the region- The Devipradesham Bhagawathi (the goddess of Devipradesham) or simply Bhagawathi. It is said she is a powerful goddess. When happy, She blesses in generosity and when crossed She punishes severely. Evidently, the people of Devipradesham kept Her happy and She saw to that the people were blessed in abundance of prosperity and peace.

The priest of the Bhagawathi temple is the most respected man in Devipradesham. And then there is the oracle, the ‘Velichappadu’. With a red cloth tied around the waist, sword and anklet in hand, bells jingling as he enters a frenzied hysteria of movements in an almost mad man like dance, his long hair let loose, the Velichappadu is the messenger of Bhagawathi. He tells the people when She is angry. But things have been peaceful for a long time now.

Entertainment is maybe an old Prem Nazir or MGR movie that plays once in two weeks in the old run down ‘Nanuttan Talkies’. Everyone in Devipradesham knew and liked each other. One hardly heard of any fights or brawls except for maybe when there is a huge difference of opinion during the daily rendezvous of the males of Devipradesham at the ‘Kallu/Toddy’ hut. But they never carried grudges. They were all good people and everyone knew that.

 Well, this is the case now. And has always been the case except for one time. There was one woman who the people of Devipradesham didn’t like. She had stayed on in the old tattered hut on the outskirts, far behind the temple of Bhagawathi. Mothers told their children that Lakshmi would cut off their noses if they didn’t eat their food. Lakshmi was evil; not one to mingle with.

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Veena Warier was a budding psychologist. Her grandfather was from Devipradesham. Her dad had moved to the city after marriage for his job. She had only heard about Devipradesham from her grandfather but had never been to the place. She had heard of the fields and the people and the temple and its festivals. She had heard of the tales of miracles of the Goddess and the Velichappadu who slashes his forehead with the sword smearing it with his blood. A budding writer, she wanted to capture the beauty of Devipradesham in verses of her own. 

She wanted to tell the world about this peaceful simple village and its many tales. She wanted to narrate to her friends, the magnificence of the idol of the Bhagawathi. And so, one day she decided, she had to go to Devipradesham. And so she did.

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It was around 7 one morning at Devipradesham. Veena was at the tea stall or ‘chaaya kada’ after her morning walk. She was staying with Unni uncle, son of one of her grandfather’s old friend. The house she stayed in wasn’t a big one but Unni uncle and his wife Janaki aunty did their best to keep her comfortable. He had asked her not to go to the tea stall because girls of her age didn’t do so but a whiff of the early morning milky tea and parippu vada had drawn her  to the place one morning and she was addicted to the place since then. 

Kanaaran, the tea stall owner told her stories about the people of Devipradesham. He was a nice man, well into his late forties. But of course, no matter how sweet he was, free tea was never an option! One such morning when Veena was savouring her milky tea treat, a lady in rags crept next to her. Veena didn’t see her at first. A low, throaty voice had startled her, ‘could you please buy me some milk?’ Before she could say anything, Kanaaran shouted at the lady away from the stall.  ‘Chi, naasham! Go away, shoo! You aren’t supposed to be here. Get lost. 

Go on now.’ She wore a fading grey cotton saree, torn in places. Her hair was a tangled mess. She seemed to have a problem standing up straight. Her hands and legs trembled and she looked very frightened of something. She stood there, looking at Veena, her eyes pleading, ‘Please could you buy me some milk? It’s for my baby daughter.’ But Kanaaran shooed her away before Veena could do anything. ‘Real pain she is’, Kanaaran said after the lady had left. ‘Don’t you talk to her, she is bad omen. Brings bad luck to everyone.’

‘But she was only asking for milk for her daughter.’

‘Oh don’t believe that. She doesn’t have a daughter. I told you, she is mad. She keeps seeing things no one else can see and keeps hearing voices no one else can hear. She’ll try to meet you again. You are new here. But steer clear of her. Cha! She spoilt my morning.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Lakshmi. Now don’t ask me more questions. I have a lot of work.’

Veena left then. But something troubled her. She kept thinking about Lakshmi. Something about her eyes had deeply touched Veena. Her eyes had seemed so genuine. There was genuine despair; genuine love for a daughter; genuine concern. She seemed in real need for some milk. Veena found it hard to believe Kanaaran’s story. Somehow, to her, Lakshmi was not lying. Lost in her thoughts, Veena was walking slowly towards Unni uncle’s house when someone tapped on her shoulder. Shocked, Veena turned around to stare at Lakshmi’s face. She caught hold of Veena’s arm, her eyes wide, darting from left to right. ‘Please, do something… my daughter… she is crying… no food… crying…help…please’, Lakshmi blurted. Veena stumbled, frightened, she pushed Lakshmi and ran; Lakshmi’s voice still ringing in her ears.

Veena couldn’t sleep for a few days. Lakshmi’s distraught face kept giving her nightmares. She couldn’t write those beautiful descriptive poems she wanted to write about Devipradesham. She found it very strange, but something about Lakshmi struck her as odd. Maybe it was her degree in psychology urging her to look beyond what seemed apparent, to understand the person that Lakshmi was. Then again maybe, she was being overly obsessed with a lady who was indeed hallucinating.

At lunch the next day, Veena asked Janaki aunty about Lakshmi.

‘Lakshmi? Poor woman. The villagers banished her a long time back. Being an outcast can drive anyone mad.’

‘What about her daughter?’ asked Veena.

‘Daughter? She doesn’t have a daughter. Although she thinks she does. She had given birth to a dead baby. People say that drove her mad. Poor woman, she used to be such a beautiful girl, you know? Very pretty and a very nice lady too. Fate, what else can one say?’

‘What about her husband?’

‘She was never married. Nobody knows who did such a terrible thing to her.’

‘Didn’t anyone ask her? No one cared to find out?’

‘That’s all a long story Veena. There were many accusations made. It was all very messy. I remember the day she was banished. Bhagawathi had been so right! Few months after she was banished, she gave birth. And that too to a still born girl child! All bad signs. But Bhagawathi saw it all and warned us. We had to banish her, or else she would’ve ruined the entire village’s blessings.’

‘What?? Bhagawathi foresaw it? She told you?’ asked a baffled Veena.

‘Yes. Lakshmi was a devout Bhagawathi devotee. One could always see her at the temple in the morning and evening. You have seen the Velichappadu, haven’t you? One evening the Velichappadu of that time got very angry during his thullal. He predicted Bhagawathi was very angry. We were all very scared of course. That had never happened in a long time. All our wealth and happiness is Bhagawathi’s blessing after all. She sent the message through him that Lakshmi had sinned and that if she wasn’t removed from the village soon we all were to suffer. The priest immediately arranged for it all to be done. He was a very strict man. A lot of people were punished and ways set right during his time. And that Velichappadu was the best seer that Devipradesham has had. The priest and he were very close to Bhagawathi. We were all forewarned of the wrath to come because of them after all.’ ‘Amme… Devi… Mahamaaye’, Janaki aunty prayed.

Veena was amused by the superstitions of the people. She didn’t like what she heard of the priest and the Velichappadu. But the people believed so strongly in them and their Goddess! ‘Isn’t all this a bit too difficult to believe aunty?’ she risked the question.

‘You townsfolk will never understand. Devipradesham Bhagawathi is very powerful. She knows everything, sees everything. It is She who gives us in plenty so we all obey her. She talks to us through the Velichappadu so we obey him and the priest of course.’

‘And so you banished Lakshmi which is what drove her into madness.’

‘I’m not arguing with you. Lakshmi was banished because she was a sinner. Her punishment is her madness.’

But Veena had a strange intuition. She somehow wanted to prove her wrong. For some reason unknown to her, she wanted to see justice on Lakshmi’s side. What was wrong with her? Who was Lakshmi? Why did she feel so attached to her?

The next day morning she was at Kanaaran’s chaaya kada again, asking him about Lakshmi’s tale. He seemed a bit annoyed, as though he was reminded of a personal tragedy but obliged nevertheless. ‘The priest and Velichappadu then, were staunch believers. No one has known Bhagawathi the way they have.’

Veena couldn’t get much more out of him. She couldn’t believe him and neither could she completely believe in the Bhagawathi being such a visible power. Blind superstitions, she thought. She was about to leave when he said, ‘but it is queer how they died a very strange death. The priest tripped inside the temple and fell on Bhagawathi’s sword. Freak accident you might say. We found him at her feet, his head drenched in blood. And the Velichappadu died from the wounds on his forehead. That never happens. A Velichappadu always slashes his forehead with the sword in his hand. That’s the ritual.  Nothing ever happens to them but for a wound. No one knows how that could’ve happened to him. It’s as though, Bhagawathi had punished both of them for something… but that’s unlikely, they followed her every command and were very pious.’

Veena shuddered.

She got some milk from Kanaaran. She had to meet someone on her way home.

Lakshmi’s tattered hut was behind the Bhagawathi temple. Veena had an eerie feeling going to the place, crushing thick bushes and wild grass under her feet. The place looked every bit neglected. ‘Lakshmi?’ she called. ‘Lakshmi I have got milk’ and as an after thought added, ‘for your daughter’.

She heard something fall inside the hut and then Lakshmi appeared at the door, or what was once a door. She peeped outside first. Veena didn’t miss the mixed emotions on Lakshmi’s face. She looked confused first, then her eyes shot up in amazement, then there was fear in them and then tears.

‘Here, take it.’

Lakshmi hurried towards Veena, snatched the bottle from her hand and rushed back in. Veena followed.

There was nothing inside. Veena saw four or five old utensils, a few spoons and a jug. She saw a mud plate with a burnt wick and a form made of clay in front of it. What sort of mad woman worshipped God and lit lamps for idols? And then she saw a cradle. Hung from the ceiling with a pair of coir, the cradle was an old lungi tied at both ends. Lakshmi was standing in front of the cradle; Veena couldn’t see properly as she had just come in from the sun. As her sight adjusted to the dark room, Lakshmi returned the empty bottle to her and smiled. The smile looked out of place on her rugged appearance but Veena could see what Janaki aunty meant when she said Lakshmi was once a beautiful girl.

‘The baby stopped crying. Thank you’, she said.

Veena smiled. ‘Let her sleep then’. Veena didn’t know what else to say. She wondered why she came there. She felt stupid. What was she thinking? This is a mad woman! What if she just stabs her then? Or hurt her in some way? She was about to leave when Lakshmi spoke, ‘Bhagawathi Herself sent you to me’. No one has spoken to me in 23 years.’

Veena didn’t know what to say. Up close, Lakshmi hardly seemed mad. Tears welled up in her eyes.

‘You are the first one who stands so close to me. I am not mad you know. After the priest banished me, I have been called mad. But I am not. I have not sinned. He did. Why would Bhagawathi punish me for what he did? But she punished him! She took his life didn’t she?’ and she laughed; a strange mad woman like laughter. Veena was beginning to see why people avoided Lakshmi. If she wasn’t mentally deranged, solitary confinement had upset her for sure. She felt scared.

‘Are you scared child? Don’t be! You helped me. You are from Bhagawathi. I won’t hurt you! In fact, I won’t hurt anybody. I never could. But he banished me for fear that I would ruin his good name. And Bhagawathi punished him! People think I am mad because I tell them I have a daughter. But they pretend not to see my child. Wouldn’t I have gone mad if I didn’t have my baby? They told me my baby was dead when she was born. I cried so much that night! I had no one. They had banished me. My parents didn’t want me. He didn’t want me. And now my baby was dead! I cried all night. I asked Bhagawathi what I had done wrong. Did I not pray everyday? Did I not do everything to keep her happy? Did I not go to the temple everyday? I did! Did I not believe in her? I did! Was I not nice to everyone? I was! And yet she took everything away fro me… she took my baby away from me!’

Veena wanted to run away from there then. Lakshmi seemed to be talking to someone after a long time and she had a flurry of emotions coming out of her. Unable to contain her fury and her agony, her feelings that had been bottled up for over two decades came rushing out. Veena didn’t know why she came there, what strange feeling had brought her here? What queer sense of attachment had she felt for Lakshmi? Was it all just the qualms of the psychologist inside her? Or was there some power beyond her controlling her then? What rubbish! Devipradesham and its people have made me superstitious too, she thought. But then, she did feel a weird sense of belonging, didn’t she? What was it all? She tried to edge away from the place but Lakshmi caught hold of her arm.

‘No don’t leave yet! Don’t you want to see my baby?’

‘But you don’t have a baby!’ Veena shouted. ‘For god’s sake woman wake up! Your baby is dead. It always has been!’

Lakshmi stopped abruptly. Her lips quivered. Her eyes darted. Veena thought she was going to either break down or faint.

But suddenly her face hardened. She closed her eyes and spoke, ‘no. they told me it was dead. And they all left that night. I cried all night. I pleaded to Bhagawathi. What sin had I committed? And you know what happened? She told me my baby was not dead. She told me to sleep and I did. I woke up next morning to find my baby fast asleep in that cradle. They had lied to me. My baby was alive. She told me.’

Veena had had enough of this craziness. She was mad enough to come to the woman’s hut let alone listen to her tales of hallucination. She felt stupid to have come. The woman was evidently mad.

‘Ok I’m leaving’, she said.

But Lakshmi tugged at her arm, ‘please come and see my baby before you go. She had been crying for two days. You quietened her today. Please bless her before you go.’

And Veena decided to oblige. She could see herself smiling stupidly and blessing an empty cradle but she thought she might as well do this one last thing before she left Devipradesham the next morning. And as she walked towards the cradle she noticed the bulge in the cloth. She could see the dim silhouette of something inside. There was something heavy inside. The lady must’ve placed bricks in the cradle, Veena thought. And then, to her shock and horror, she saw it and she felt like she was hit by a bolt of thunder. The cradle was empty. There were no bricks; there was no baby- just an empty cradle that weighed down. She gaped, tried to speak but nothing came out. Lakshmi stood by her side, smiling, ‘isn’t she beautiful? She is Bhagawathi’s blessing; her miracle.’

Indeed thought Veena, as she stood there unable to comprehend the situation.   There was something in the cradle that apparently only Lakshmi could see. Was she turning superstitious? Was she hallucinating now? No, she knew she wasn’t. Then? What was the possible explanation?

‘If it weren’t for my baby, I would’ve gone mad, I would’ve died. So Bhagawathi sent her to me’, said Lakshmi.

Had She? Had She indeed punished the priest and the Velichappadu? Had She indeed blessed Lakshmi with the sole purpose of her being? Then why couldn’t anyone else see it?  And what was Veena to do with all this?

‘Wha… what's her name?’ asked Veena in a barely audible croak.

Lakshmi looked at her and smiled, 'Veena'.

photo courtesy: challiyan, jk10976,self

Salvation

The soul dissolves in despair.
The darkness becomes me.
Hiding away from the light of the world,
waiting demons to break my shackles free.

Solitude never felt sweeter
as the vapours of vengeance flow.
O spirits above, help thine sister,
deliver her soul free to let go.

If you thought you could just walk out;
crush past days beneath your feet.
I’ll do your beliefs wrong;
guide you to your defeat.

May your grief keep you company
whilst you try to undo the wrongs.
But the doom of past engulfs you;
as your cries drown with the night songs.

And then the night seems silent.
It whispers summons to early dawn.
I lie beneath the dousing stars;
my soul redeemed, my sores long gone.

Ente Sammaanam

‘I’m sorry’, she half whispered into the phone. Or at least that’s what he could make out of the barely audible words. He had spoken for about 20 minutes trying to explain how they could work things out. He told her it wasn’t as hard as she thought. He was desperately trying to convince her that she was being stupid with this decision. He repeated again and again that she did not have to end things so. At that point of time that was all he could think of doing and probably all he could do. She listened to all of it, not uttering a word. If it weren’t for her muffled sobs and her futile attempts to fight back the tears he would’ve thought she had hung up. She didn’t want him to know she was crying. She was always like that, always strong; or acting so, even at a moment like this. He didn’t know why she did that. He didn’t know why she was doing this. Well he partly did, but he couldn’t understand how she could do this to him, to herself. He tried his best to make her see sense, pleaded to her, praying that his words wouldn’t fail him. They never had, but now was the time when he needed them to work for him the most. It was now or never. And after listening to everything he had to say all she said was, “I’m sorry’ and after a small tear-swallowing pause added, ‘Sorry for everything’. Click. Beep. And the line went dead.
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She was born on a beautiful November morning. One look at his daughter and Keshavan knew exactly what to name her. She was bright like the sun rays on a November morning. He knew her warm smile would cut through the cold winter fog. He had thought of naming her ‘Sita’, after the greatest and most strong willed woman he had ever read of, but as he cradled this tiny new born miracle that glowed in his arms, he changed his mind and whispered into her ears, ‘Tejaswini’.
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Tejaswini didn’t know how long she had been standing there. For her, time had frozen. Everything had frozen around her. Her own thoughts were like the old broken gramophone in her grandfather’s house at Shoranur. She remembered how he would proudly show it off to anyone who would listen or not. ‘Major Sahib had gifted it to me. “A token of my undying gratitude for saving my life” he had said. Vallya manushyan. Great man. When I was in the Indian army years ago…’ and he would repeat for the umpteenth time, his favourite story of how he dodged bullets to save his superior’s life. The gramophone had only a single disc that played some foreign music she didn’t understand. And always the disc would play for two minutes and get stuck at a line that she comprehended as ‘mar-anam-te… mar-anam-te… mar-anam-te…’ Right now she thought not of the gramophone or of her grandfather who passed away years back. Right now she thought of nothing but how she could’ve messed up her life so. Right now she could only think of how stupid and reckless she had been. Right now, as she stared blankly at the vast Arabian Sea in front of her, she could only think of what a disgrace she has proven to be to her parents. And the thoughts kept coming back. Mar-anam-te … mar-anam-te… mar-anam-te…
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Tejaswini was probably what every parent’s dream daughter would be. She was what people easily labeled, ‘gifted’. Intelligent and smart, she had also acquired her father’s flair for writing. Born into a very prosperous and renowned family of a small village in Shoranur in Kerala, Tejaswini had a lot to live up to. Her grandfather had been an army man and had much more than his gramophone to be proud of. Her dad was a government employee, better known as Writer Keshavan Nair whose works of Malayalam literature had earned him many awards. But she did not have much trouble keeping up the family pride. She was after all, gifted. And no one was surprised when she aced all her exams. No one was surprised when she opted for engineering with top marks. No one was surprised when she wrote GRE and went to America. But then how long can life carry on as an expected flow of events?
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She was no stunning beauty but one couldn’t call her bad looking either. God made most of his creations to balance out the rest you’d think. Why bestow such a brilliant girl with added astounding looks and complicate her life further? She had been given what most people craved for- a loving family, high IQ, healthy life, and a little more than just about enough money. Who needed beauty? Just when you think God is a generous and benevolently calculative creator, he plays his little games.
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Like every perfect daughter, Tejaswini had perfect parents and a perfect life. When you’re a perfect daughter, your parents have nothing to complain about. And what’s more perfect than parents who don’t complain? She had always lived in Kochi. One could say she was used to city life. Of course, Kochi is no Bombay, Delhi or Bangalore, but it is as far as city has gone in Kerala. Amidst the general conservative crowd, the Kochi youth has gained its name as ‘modern’. And that is good enough for a city life. Tejaswini was the ‘modern pennu’, modern girl. Shoranur was her yearly vacationing destination. Greenery is no scarcity in Kerala. But only the ‘modern people’ from the cities know how it is slowly vanishing from God’s Own Country too. The villages however were still the green backyards. In fact, people at Tejaswini’s small village in Shoranur are so used to the lush surroundings that they find it very comical when tourists drop their mouths and gape, fascinated by the serene green beauty of a normal Malayalee neighbourhood. ‘Ayalentha, ithu vare thengu kandittille?? Komali!’ (Has he never seen a coconut tree before? Clown!). But Tejaswini understood the fascination, for she was fascinated too. There was something about her village that she never found anywhere else. Maybe it was because she was a small writer who loved nature or maybe it was because she was born here or maybe it was just one of those things you can’t explain. And there was her beloved muthassan, waiting for her, waiting with his endless stories from the army camp.
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It was grand celebrations the day she got enrolled into the American university. She had a high score after all. Getting into a good university for a course of her choice was no surprise event. Yet, she was thrilled to receive the confirmation. Calls and congratulations poured in. “Keshavan Nair’s daughter, what a gem!’ people had to say. She never stopped smiling that day. Neither did her parents. They were proud of daughter. She had achieved what she wanted. She always had. But Tejaswini knew that day her parents smiled only half heartedly. America sounded good. America sounded hip. America sounded rich prosperous and wealthy. But America sounded too far off and dangerous. And like every average Indian parent of those times, they worried a little for their daughter. But she had wanted this. She had worked hard for this. So they smiled for her. They trusted their daughter. She was wise and she was 21 now. And she smiled too. She was going to America. Two years later her smile was going to be wiped off her face. Maybe forever?
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America was what dreams were made of. It looked exactly like in the movies. It was exactly like she had dreamt of. All those days she had between her acceptance to college and actually leaving, she used to dream of her life to be. She was no country simpleton, but even the ‘modern pennu’ of Kochi had to drop her mouth and gape at the way things worked in America. She loved the place. She made a lot of friends. She soon forgot her lush green ‘Shoranur’ house and her Kochi. It was not intentional. But she had so much on her hands then. Work, friends, parties, music… America was no place for people who liked to sit idle. And she had so many friends. Never before had she dealt with such an assortment of nationalities. The writer in her was fascinated by the cultural harmony; the girl in her was enthralled in the excitement. She called her parents once a week. And so they knew she was fine. More than just fine actually, she was happy. Very happy.
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Tejaswini was bright and smart but she was a poor judge of character. She blindly trusted people. And that is why people say everything comes with a price. Tejaswini was ‘gifted’. But God forgot to remove the price tag from it.
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She had thought of it a hundred times before but she could not remember. She remembered the party. It was two years after she had first landed in America, the dreamland. She remembered her room mate’s friend, a strikingly attractive girl offering her a drink. She had had been to a lot of parties by then. It was one of the things she wasn’t used to back home. But she liked it. And she had had plenty of drinks before. So it was natural of her to just take it. And so she did. Next thing she remembered was getting up in the morning with a mild headache. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. One month later she learnt she was carrying.
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And now she was standing at the port. Staring at the water, wondering again what had happened. And she knew it was all futile. She had no memory. She wondered which was worse, that she was pregnant or that she had no idea how it happened at all. Her flowing river of thoughts was interrupted by new tributaries. What should she do now? She has scarred the family pride. How will she face amma and achan? Secretly, she felt relieved muthassan was no more. One person less whose shocked and disappointed face she did not have to endure, one person less to be pained at her cost. And almost instantly cursed herself for thinking so. Has she indeed become so ruthless? Has she changed altogether? Where was the little Malayalee girl who loved the country side of her grandfather’s house? Was she no more the loving little girl her parents had brought up with countless dreams and aspirations? And she knew she wasn’t. And that was when she decided she had to end it all. She no longer willed to live. She had disgraced her family. All these years her parents had been proud of her. And now she had smeared burnt ash on their faces. She could not face them. She couldn’t go back home. She looked at the water below, slapping against the rock pavement she was standing on now. It almost hissed a welcome. She could see the pointy rocks beneath the waters too. Tejaswini was ‘gifted’ but she didn’t know to swim. She wondered if the rocks beneath could take a life. She picked up her mobile phone and dialed her father’s number.
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She had left for India the moment she learnt of the dreadful news. She did not know whom to turn for help. And all she could think of was her parents then. She wanted to see them. Cry in their arms. Hug amma and ask her what she was to do now. She did not think of anything else. That’s how for the first time in two years she returned to Kochi.
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‘I have a small presentation and conference in Bangalore’, she explained to her parents. They weren’t fools of course and they weren’t to be convinced with one line. She had done her research before announcing this. She had to make a few ISD calls to her friends in wretched America to enquire about conference halls and universities. ‘My professor insisted on it. I’m like one of those student representatives from my university. I have to go day after’ Writer Keshavan Nair was not a fool. He said he wanted to talk to her professor the next day. Tejaswini nodded. He trusted his daughter. And the price tag gleamed.
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He could not believe what he was reading. His hands trembled and sweat was breaking on his brows despite the fan above. He could not finish the letter. He slumped onto the chair nearby as the letter fell from his hands and landed on the table next to muthassan’s framed photo.
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She did not have the courage to tell her parents. She saw their beaming faces, markedly happy to see her again but she did not miss the faint sign of anxiety at her sudden arrival. They did not make it obvious of course but she was smart and intelligent after all. Within ten minutes she knew she had made the wrong decision coming home. She could not bear smiling at her parents, putting up such a poor show when she held a truth that would shatter them. She reached home and wrote them a letter. She told them everything in it. And she put it in an envelope. By afternoon she was off to the Kochi port.
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Her father tried everything to save his daughter’s life. He didn’t know where she was. All she said was she was still in Kochi. He pleaded her not to end her life; that it was cowardice and solution to nothing. He said he loved her. He said her mother loved her. She said nothing. She loved him too. She loved her too. She loved them all. She loved her land. But she had betrayed them.
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She stood up. She was certain of what she had to do. She was leaning against the metal chains that claimed safety to the people on the safer side. There was a man reading a book 3 feet away from her. There were always so many people at this time. She closed her eyes. She thought of her lush green Shoranur for one last time. She thought of her childhood. She thought of muthassan and his stories. She thought of amma and achan. She saw them all in her eyes for the last time. Her eyes welled up with tears. And she was fighting back tears. She asked for forgiveness and leaned over.
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Well, almost leaned. That’s when the book caught her eye- her father’s book ‘Ente Sammaanam’ (my gift). The first book he had written after Tejaswini was born. The book was about a father who lived and died for his daughter. She saw the first few pages flutter in the wind. She knew what the lines on the first page read. And she couldn’t jump. She could not end her life. She owed it to the ones who loved her. She sat there, broke down and cried.
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The lines read, "For you, my gifted daughter; the light of my life. For my life’s tejjassu. For my Tejaswini, 'Ente Sammaanam’". Keshavan Nair's words had not failed him after all. Just when you think you can have it your way, God plays his little games...

she.... in white...

she had always looked beautiful in white. they all knew that.. white was her favourite colour. she looked happy... a very peaceful and content look on her face as she lay there covered in that white sheet, surrounded by white lilies. but somehow, they could not think of her as beautiful. not today...

white was Amie's favourite colour. she had worn a beautiful white frock on her fourth birthday. a big white bow had adorned her shoulder length blond hair. daddy had got the bow from Singapore specially with that frock in mind. daddy would get the whole world for her if she asked for it. his daughter was his life. his only daughter. his only beautiful baby daughter. he had so many dreams for her. year after year as she blew the candles on her birthday cake he dreamt another dream for her. every year she insisted on buying a white dress for her birthday. and daddy would dream of his little doll one day in a white flowing gown ready to leave her folks and start a new life. daddy would dream of his precious darling in a white suit ready to take on a new job and face the world. daddy dreamt so much... after all daddy had only one daughter, daddy had only one kid; daddy wanted only the best for her. she had his eyes, his nose, his hair; she was his flesh and blood. she was his everything.
and then the fifth birthday, sixth, seventh; years just passed by. and daddy just grew fonder and fonder of his little angel Amie.
But mummy was not the same. Amie couldn't remember the time when mummy had last kissed her; or hugged her. in fact Amie couldn't remember the last time she had even looked at her with love in her eyes. but Amie couldn't bring herself to think that mummy hated her. daddy told her mummy was ill; that she was in a lot of pain and thats why she behaved so. all her friends at school had kind and caring mothers. Sarah's mummy was a wonderful lady. Amie found her beautiful too. of course, Amie found her own mother beautiful..but only in photos. she found her to be angelic in those wedding photos of hers, wearing that beautiful off shoulder white bridal gown. Amie thought she looked happy and full of life in them. she had never seen mummy like that ever in real life. it seemed so impossible for mummy to have been normal and like all other mummies. Amie never understood what disease mummy had. but it made her look bad. she was always irritated and angry. she didn't even seem to be happy with daddy.
Amie's mother had had a wonderful marriage. she had fell in love with the most amazing man. she was the envy of all her friends. she had everything she could ask for. she was beautiful, had a loving and wonderful husband who gave her anything she wanted, lots of money, a big villa with a beautiful garden that had rows and rows of white lilies and roses... she had her room painted white.. white was after all her favourite colour. her husband never said no to anything. she was Cinderella living her fairy tale.. that was until the day they gave her the news. and then Amie came into her life...
she was shocked when they told her she would never be a mother. but her shock was nothing compared to her husband's. he had always wanted a baby.. 'a beautiful baby daughter' he used to say. he cried that whole night. he hated his wife for not giving him the only thing he wanted. he felt cheated and deceived. what had he not done for her.. he loved her, gave her everything she asked for. and she could not give him the only thing he wanted so badly. he hated her for that. he hit her and shut her up in her room. she cried and pleaded. she threatened him that she would die. and he knew it was beyond her, one sane moment was enough for the educated man to know his wife was not at fault.deep down he did love her. but he did not feel it anymore. sometimes he would go up to her to fall at her feet and ask for forgiveness. but sane moments are such a rare thing. what sanity can u ask of a man who has been denied his life's greatest desire? emotions are such an unfair means of the creator to take away the logical thinking of mankind... probably that is His way of keeping mankind in its place; that small slip of feet when he reaches too high up on the ladder. and he never did go up to her. he hated her. he had no explainable just reason but he hated her.
and then he brought Amie home. she was the most beautiful baby in the orphanage.. and he thought she looked just like him. no one would say she was adopted. no one. she was his flesh and blood. she was his own daughter. he loved her from the moment he took her in his arms. and she would be the only reason he lived for. no one else mattered. not even his wife. his wife who could not give him a baby. his wife who was just another being in his huge villa for all he cared. his wife who, he now hated more... and she hated Amie. she hated Amie for taking away everything from her. as years passed and daddy dreamt another dream for his little daughter, she hated Amie more. she hated Amie for taking her place. she hated Amie for sharing her favourite colour. she hated Amie for everything. She blamed Amie, that little kid no more than seven, for ruining her life. she hated her enough to kill her. maybe then her life would be different...maybe then her husband would love her.
Amie hoped her mummy would one day be like all the other mummies. her mummy beat her when daddy was not home. she refused to even look at her. mummy would not comb her hair or read her a story at night. mummy would never even come near her. mummy always screamed at her. she heard mummy screaming at daddy too. she heard her mummy cry at night. she heard her hitting daddy. she heard her yell and shout. she heard her screaming at daddy that she would kill herself. but daddy was the sweetest person Amie knew. everybody loved daddy. daddy would never harm mummy. daddy loved mummy so much and mummy would never care. but she knew mummy was ill and all this was not her fault. she hoped mummy would get alright soon and they would also be like Sarah's family who went out on picnics and movies together. she dreamt of that day. and she knew it would come soon. in fact she had a feeling it was coming too soon. maybe tomorrow would be the day. it was Amie's birthday and mummy seemed a lot better today. she did not cry today. she even thought mummy looked at her and smiled today. maybe she was getting alright. maybe all was going to be fine. Amie saw her mummy trying on that new white dress daddy had got her. Amie thought she looked beautiful in it and she rushed to try on her new white birthday dress too... all was going to be fine. her mummy was going to be alright. it was going to be her best birthday.

and they all came for the funeral the next day. daddy sat in a corner. he had no expression. he looked frozen. he spoke to no one. her white dress had been smeared with blood. he was the first one to see her. the sight had made him dizzy. everything had gone blank after that. he didn't know who had made the arrangements for the funeral. maybe his servants, maybe his neighbours, he didn't know. all he knew was that it was his fault. he knew he had made her do it..
but she looked happy... a very peaceful and content look on her face as she lay there covered in that white sheet, surrounded by white lilies. she had always looked beautiful in white.. but somehow, they could not think of her as beautiful. not today...

she.... in blue....

She rises again
as the moonlight glows blue.
Her cry is music,
played for a love that won't come back.
Beautiful her face; fragile her heart.
Broken, it lies in her grave.
Grieving for lost love,
but it wont come back...
Lost for ages in silent solitude.
Her tears frozen in the cold of the night.
Her soul plays the symphony of sorrow,
calling out to lost love but it wont come back...

she.... in yellow....

She couldn’t have been more than 19. A fairly good looking girl, not outright attractive but not ugly; presentable you could say if you took away all that smudged make-up from her face. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she passed me by; a sort of dazed dreamy look as though she was lost deep in thought and had no idea where she was heading. In fact she looked like she was just gliding through the sands, her yellow dupatta wound tightly around her neck, billowing behind her. I don’t know why, but I had a sudden vision of a girl wearing a yellow flowing evening gown to a funeral at that very instant. Maybe it was because of the cheery colour of her dress and the morose expression she was wearing, it somehow didn’t feel quite right.
I had gone for a stroll by the beach side. I like to go there all by myself sometimes in the evenings. It’s true what they say about solitude being the sole solution to certain non fixable worries. Yes I love being in the company of people. What’s life without friends and family; a lot of parties, hang outs together, sharing secrets, being together in times of joy and despair. What’s life without someone beside you? Yes I completely agree with all of that. Yet, at the end of the day, a moment of solitude feels so sweet…
It was one of those evenings when I was savouring the smell of a nearby fried fish and bajji stall, wondering if I should give in to temptation when she passed by me. It was the strange way her dupatta fluttered in the breeze that caught my attention, not to mention its bright screaming yellow colour. She didn’t go too far. She crossed me and sat on the sand. No, I generally am not the kinds who stare at women a lot (for obvious reasons) but there was something very strange about this girl. She kept staring straight ahead. I followed her gaze to see if she was counting the ships on the horizon like I usually did. I saw it was nothing so. She was looking at the sea with a sullen look on her face. Her expression didn’t change with the rhythm of the waves, her eyes never left the nothingness she was staring at; in fact the only thing that moved was her dupatta. But there was a gloomy feel about that too. It flapped behind her in a way that was depressing. It seemed like it was trying to break free from her and fly away. I’m aware that I sound insane, but it almost looked like it was alive, struggling to get away from her binds while she fiercely kept pulling it back to stay in place. She had nothing with her; not even a small bag. I wondered how she had got here and where she was from, probably someplace nearby. She had big eyes smeared with a lot of kaajal. Her eyes were red and much of her kaajal had spread. Her hair was however tightly tied up in a neat plait and she wore a strand of jasmine flowers on it. She wore a small red bindi and lipstick too. She wore no jewellery. Her churidar was also yellow with red streaks, tightly tailored to fit her just right. She didn’t look very rich but she couldn’t have been very poor either, there was a certain charm on her face, of course if it weren’t for that mournful look.
And then she looked down, groped around, took a handful of sand and slowly let it slip through her fingers. She kept doing that for a while and I think I saw a tear trickle down, I couldn’t see very clearly because it was dark already; more so because her expression never changed. She was like a wax statue forever wearing a dejected face. I was tempted to go up to her and talk to her but honestly I didn’t have the guts to. Or maybe I just didn’t care enough to.
I think I must have stared at her for too long a time because she suddenly looked up at me. She had a scary piercing stare. I looked away almost immediately and tried not to look back at her, fiddling with my cell phone. For a minute I thought she’d walk up to me and yell at me for staring at her, or maybe give me that murderous glance again. Nothing happened of course, and after two or three minutes I turned to look at her again. She had gone by then. There was no trace of her anywhere nearby. I got up and went where she had been. She had drawn a small ‘om’ in the sand and that was all.

And then I was back at the beach two days later. The girl with the yellow dupatta unforgotten, clearly etched in my memory. I knew I wouldn’t see her again. You never really meet the same stranger again at the beach, no matter how often you go there (that is apart from those sundal kids). I spent an hour walking around, sitting on the sand, looking at random couples, children playing, kites, balloons and those fancy lights and stars, the carousels and then the yellow dupatta… the same yellow dupatta stashed away with a pile of trash. It didn’t look life like anymore. It looked dead lying there. I didn’t want to think of what would have happened to its owner. It all seemed so spooky. And then I was reminded of that strange funeral vision again. I tried to shake it off. I didn’t want to feel guilty about anything now. I hoped she was fine, whoever she was, whatever had happened, wherever she was from. I hoped she was safe.
And I just walked away from the place.