Rasna. That was her name. Just Rasna.
-x-x-x-
She was about 14 years old when her father threw her out of their house. There was nobody to stop Manas Jaisingh. Her mother, Sumitra, had passed away a year ago. It was not a difficult decision for Manas. From the time Rasna was born, he had known something was amiss. She didn't feel like his own flesh and blood. But, Sumitra and he had been blessed with a child after 7 years of marriage, and she was ecstatic! Their families couldn't stop rejoicing. For years they'd been a subject of endless gossip and their marriage under scrutiny. The child put a rest to all of this. But not for long.
Rasna was a beautiful child. A heart shaped face, brown eyes, long lashes, a dimple on her right cheek, and a perpetual pout. She had a head full of soft curls, a solitary lock of which would always be caressing her temples. Everybody said, "She looks like an angel. Just like her mother."
But her features started to change as she grew up. The brown of her eyes became rather muddy, unline her mother's hazel. Her curls straightened out, giving way to thick, wavy hair. She started to look lesser and lesser like Sumitra. Everybody hoped her father's blood would start to show. And, it did. Only it wasn't Manas' blood.
October 1993, Rasna's 9th Birthday. The party was a hit with her friends. They'd loved their 'return gifts' of Phantom cigarettes, fancy hairclips, and pencils that were 15 inches long. After seeing her best friend Sia off, she was skipping back to her room when she heard her father shouting. She knew there was noone at home apart from her mother, and was quite taken aback to see her father yelling at her. She'd never seen or heard them quarrel before. Infact, they weren't quarreling even now. Her mother was quiet, not saying a word.
Being the well-mannered child that she was, Rasna knew the correct thing for her to do was to go straight to bed. She passed her parents by, and was about to step inside her room when her father stopped her.
"Rasna!", his voice thundered down the hallway. Rasna froze. She had never seen Manas raise his voice at anyone. He was an indulgent father who pampered Rasna silly. He was her hero! Whenever her mother would scold her she'd say, "I love papa more! I hope you know that!". That same man now glared at her with bloodshot eyes.
"Yes papa?" Rasna obediently asked.
"You love papa?"
"Yes, papa. I love you very much."
"And, Ma? You should love Ma. You should love her more. Because you are her child, not mine", barked Manas.
Rasna was puzzled. She didn't understand what her father was saying.
"Manas, don't do this to her. She's a child. Our child, for God's sake!", wailed Sumitra, walking across the hall, closer to Rasna.
"She is not mine!"
He flung the glass he'd been drinking his whiskey from. The glass shattered against the wall, and pieces of it flew across the room. Some struck Rasna. She cried out in agony. Sumitra scooped her up, walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. The next morning they were on an plane, flying to Delhi where Sumitra's parents lived. Rasna's grandparents, Anil Bose and Mitalee Bose, lived in Delhi's Chittaranjan Park area. Mr. Bose was a retired bank officer and his wife in her last year as a teacher of the Bengali language at Raisina Bengali School. October is a bad time of the year for any school student. It's bang in the middle of the academic year, thus making it difficult for a student to seek admission. Rasna had to sit out the rest of the term. She spent all her time listening to Madonna and WHAM! on her Walkman, and reading Ruskin Bond and Roald Dahl. Sumitra had taken up a job with a News Magazine, as a copy editor. Everybody was busy. Nobody seemed to have time to sit down and talk to Rasna. She still didn't know what had made her father so angry. It was all very mysterious.
In April the following year, Rasna got accepted to Springdales, one of Delhi's best known public schools. Her mother and grandfather had driven her to school on her first day. The day had not been as eventful as anticipated. Rasna had already studied most of the syllabi that was to be taught over the year. The boys, quite hideous to look at, kept to themselves. And, the girls wanted to know if Rasna had met Aamir Khan.
Sumitra was supposed to pick Rasna up after school, but it was her grandfather who greeted her as she walked out of the school gate.
"Your daddy called, shona. He's not been keeping well. He needs her. She'll be back to get you soon. Very soon!"
Sumitra phoned every day. But, never spoke about coming to get her. Rasna never asked. She didn't mind living with ther grandparents. They let her do whatever she felt like. As long her grades at school were not slipping, she was free to do anything. But sometimes, on rare occasions like her Birthday, or a PTA meet at school, she missed her parents. She had told her friends and teachers that her parents lived abroad, and she lived here because they wanted her to grow up in India. There was nobody she could share the truth with. Nobody she liked enough, nobody she trusted enough.
Two years passed. Rasna was 12 now. She was living with ther grandparents still. It was a foggy December night. Rasna was snuggled up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate, when the phone rang. Her mother had been diagnosed with leukemia. Final stage. Rasna's bags were packed, and along with her grandparents she boarded the first available flight to Bombay.
Sumitra looked like she was dying. Sunken eyes, pale skin, she was skin and bones. Rasna wanted to run away. This face would haunt her for the rest of her life. She stayed in the room for exactly 10 minutes. A minute longer, and she'd have fainted. She silently walked out of the room, into the living room. From the corner of her eye she looked around to see if her father was present. And he was, sitting on the sofa, cigarette in hand, steely look in his eyes. She looked up, hoping to make eye contact. But Manas had no such intention. He kept staring at the wall, endlessly.
Everyday, for the next one year, was as silent as this one. Her father went to work early, came back late. Her mother kept being shuttled in and out of hospitals. When at home, she spent all her time in bed, eyes moist, watching the television muted.
Sumitra passed away on Diwali the following year. Rasma had turned 13 a month back. She wasn't going to school. A tutor would come home to teach her the sciences, math, and english literature. She spent all her time holed up in her room either writing, or reading. She didn't step out, unless her mother called for her. She didn't wish to cross paths with her father, and anger him.
Revellers had started bursting crackers with full gusto. Carter Road had people throng its length and breadth every Diwali and New Year's Eve. When she was younger and they'd been a happy family, they'd go down and burst phooljhadis and ladees with their neighbours. Diwali dinner would invariably be mutton biryani and gulab jamun. But that was long time back. Sumitra had got the maid to call for some sweets. Rasna sat in her room, nibbling at a barfi, when she heard a sharp yell. It was her mother.
It all ended very quickly. The ambulance, the crazy traffic, the ventilator, the nurse, her grandmother holding onto her.
Rasna was glad it got over fast. All she wanted was to get back to her room, and sleep. She wanted this nightmare to end so she could get back to her real dreams.
Her grandparents stayed on till their daughter's last rites were completed. And when it was time for them to go back to Delhi, they offered to take her along. She too wanted to go back. But her father's side of family felt she should stay back and look after him. So she stayed back.
Rasna continued to keep to herself, barely stepping out of her room. On the rare occasion when her father would not be in town, she'd borrow money from her maid, go out of the house, and treat herself to a plate of paanipuri. But, that was an exception. On most days, she could be found in her room. 24/7.
December. 2 days before Christmas. Rasna had finished reading ' A Christmas Carol', and gone to bed. A heavy sleeper, she didn't realise that somebody had opened her door and walked into her room. She woke up tasting something bitter and wet. Her father was standing near her bed, a glass in hand, the contents of which he had emptied on his daughter's face.
"You bastard! You killed my wife. You think you can murder, and then sleep peacefully?"
Realising her father was drunk and that he could do anything in this inebriated state, Rasna decided to raise an alarm. The maid and cook came running, and dragged Manas out of the room, even as he kept showering profanities on Rasna.
Silence again. A long period of silence.
Rasna was almost 14 now. 7 months had passed since her mother's death. And, 5 months since that December night when she thought her father might kill her. The month of May. Bombay was hot and humid. Humans, animals, plants- every living creature was thirsting for the rains. Rasna was sitting on her bed, drinking chilled Coke, and fascinatedly obesrving a couple making out behind a tree, when her father barged into her room. She didn't like being disturbed, but tried hard to not let her annoyance show.
"Please pack your bags, and leave. Tell me how much money you need. You'll get it."
"But why are you throwing me out again?"
"This is not a hotel. You do not belong to my family. Why should I keep you here? Get out!"
The tears flowed. Rasna hated this involuntary reaction. She didn't want to appear weak. And this time, she wanted answers to all her questions.
"Why didn't you let me go back do Delhi with dida?"
"I am not answerable to you. Don't throw questions at me, you tart!"
"But, what have I done to deserve this, papa?"
"Don't call me papa! I am not your papa!"
By now Rasna was sobbing incontrollably.
"How's that even possible? I don't understand!"
"Go ask the motherfucker whose blood runs in your veins!"
Rasna's head was spinning. She couldn't fully grasp the meaning, but she could now vaguely understand where this was going.
"Papa, I love you. I've always loved you. Don't do this. Please. I am your child. Your only daughter."
"Khursheed, gaadi nikaalo. Maya ko bolo isske kapde pack karke gaadi mein rakhde. Ise jidhar bhi jaana ho lekar jaao. Jaldi jaao!"
Khursheed did as he was told. Rasna could see his eyes were moist. Khursheed had been driving their car since before her birth. He had seen her grow up. But, she knew he would never go against his Sa'ab. Rasna stood silently as Maya packed her bags. She didn't complain when Khursheed led her out of the house that had been home for most part of her life and seated her in the car. He drove her to the airport, booked a ticket to Delhi with the money Manas had given him, put her luggage on a trolley, hugged her tight, and then ran back towards his car.
"Bechaari Rasna. Thank God for her grandparents."
He phoned them from an STD booth, and gave them the flight details. "They will come to the airport to pick Rasna up. Baby ji will be safe and happy with them." Feeling slightly relieved, he got behind the steering of Manas' Mercedes and drove himself out of the airport.
Rasna looked at the airplane ticket that Khursheed had thrusted in her hand. She thought of her grandparents. Old, getting older. A single child who was dead. Rasna tore up the ticket, picked up her suitcase and hailed a cab.
-x-x-x-
The tastefully done up washroom of the presidential suite at the Taj, Colaba. She could hear the television commentary. India was playing Sri Lanka at Kandy. Prakash Mohite had missed the tour, thanks to a ligament tear. One of India's brightest, youngest cricketers. Back-to-back hundreds in his debut Test match against England, he had amassed 500 runs in the 3-test series, at a strike rate of 88. He had been adjudged the Man of the Series, and he looked poised for a great career. But an awkward fall during a practice game resulted in a torn ligament, and Prashant having to sit out of India's tour of Sri Lanka.
"Rasna!"
He liked Rasna. She was gorgeous and extremely well read. A rare combination of breathtaking beauty and brains! Infact, he might even have loved her only if...
Rasna knew Prakash was smitten. She enjoyed every bit of attention he lavished on her. The Givenchy fragrance she was wearing now was a gift from him. So was the sparkling ruby pendant which hung from her neck, and rested peceafully over the shadowy valley. But, she didn't love him. Not one bit. She cared for noone apart from one man. One man for whom she was ready to give it all up.
"Rasna, are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute!"
Rasna picked up an ice cube from a tray full of them. Gently she rubbed it over her nipples in a circular motion. First the right one, then the other. She then held the ice steady till the nipple was hard and erect, just how Prakash liked it. She strapped her lacy bra back on. And, stepped out.
She was ready. It was business as usual.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Bombayitis
Bombay (to me, it shall always remain so), the city of a million (if not more) dreams. Bombay, the city of a million screams. Bombay, the city of a million promises. Bombay, the city of a million broken dreams.
I got my first taste of the city when I was about 16. An impressionable age, many would say. To me, it was a pain, of the worst kind. All my friends, in junior college, were cooler than I was. Actually, they were cool. I wasn’t. Anyway, I got through the nightmare, and was relieved when it ended with my father’s transfer to Delhi. I was back in school. No discrimination on the basis of clothes, hairstyles et al. Plus, Ma had allowed me to wax my legs. So, I was presentable now, if one could ignore the bushy eyebrows. Post high school, I went to Miranda House to study Economics. It was another story that while in school we would gossip about Miranda girls being sluts, and LSR women being classy. Once in M.H, LSR was a whore-house! After graduating (with a lot of difficulty), I moved to Pune to study Journalism. Where? Symbiosis University. Why? I don’t know still. But, I am bloody glad I did. Not because I spent “my best years in SIMC”, as most of my batch mates feel. But, because I got to know a Bombay that I’d never seen, heard of or, read about.
I met addicts for the first time. Some were addicted to the high life, some to their work, a lot of them were hooked onto marijuana, but, most of them were high on one common thing- chasing a dream. And, not one dream, mind you. Dreams. Lots of them. From the small-time DVD vendor who dreams of, one day, directing his own film, to a high brow, SoBo homemaker who dreams of being as slim as Queeny Dhody, and having a husband like Waluscha Robinson’s. I know a girl who’s a bartender. Svelte, charming little thing, she’s auditioned, and met with moderate success, for almost every single game show that’s ever been aired on Indian television. Is it the money? No. Her gigs earn her handsome dough. Is it the challenge? Hell no! What could possibly be more challenging than playing with fire and alcohol with drunken men around you? It is the lure of instant fame. Who doesn’t want some? From Rakhi Sawant and her Swayamvar, to Priyanka Chopra and her alleged liaison with Gerard Butler. Everybody worth his salt craves instant glory. I don’t blame them. It’s the city. Bombay is the culprit.
Bombay is a silent killer. It kills innocence, it smothers emotions, it flushes out romance, it murders mediocrity, and buries lakhs of dreams. To survive Bombay, one needs more than just a house and money. To combat a killer, one needs to be a killer. At least, be able to fight like one. Bombay is like a giant tidal wave. If you let it ride you over, you’ll drown. You must know, or learn how to ride it. Enough of literature has been devoted to Bombay and its charms. A lot has been written about what lies beneath that glamorous façade. Yet, we fall prey to it. And, once you’re here you cannot go back the same person. You either stand your ground, and battle it out or, you go back a battered, beaten soul. The choice is yours, though it isn’t an easy one. I once knew a Delhi boy. A fairly talented guy, he’d dropped out of college, and come to Bombay to pursue his dream of turning filmmaker. Last I saw him, he was wearing a torn t-shirt, surviving on 2 eggs and 4-5 joints a day, looking for shelter. He’d been thrown out of the house by his flat-mate. And, this was about 8 months back. I haven’t heard from him since.
Bombayitis, the killer flu, deadlier than any other (swine/ bird/ goat/ etc). And, there are no antibiotics or, vaccine to kill it. Just our minds and souls to tame it.
I got my first taste of the city when I was about 16. An impressionable age, many would say. To me, it was a pain, of the worst kind. All my friends, in junior college, were cooler than I was. Actually, they were cool. I wasn’t. Anyway, I got through the nightmare, and was relieved when it ended with my father’s transfer to Delhi. I was back in school. No discrimination on the basis of clothes, hairstyles et al. Plus, Ma had allowed me to wax my legs. So, I was presentable now, if one could ignore the bushy eyebrows. Post high school, I went to Miranda House to study Economics. It was another story that while in school we would gossip about Miranda girls being sluts, and LSR women being classy. Once in M.H, LSR was a whore-house! After graduating (with a lot of difficulty), I moved to Pune to study Journalism. Where? Symbiosis University. Why? I don’t know still. But, I am bloody glad I did. Not because I spent “my best years in SIMC”, as most of my batch mates feel. But, because I got to know a Bombay that I’d never seen, heard of or, read about.
I met addicts for the first time. Some were addicted to the high life, some to their work, a lot of them were hooked onto marijuana, but, most of them were high on one common thing- chasing a dream. And, not one dream, mind you. Dreams. Lots of them. From the small-time DVD vendor who dreams of, one day, directing his own film, to a high brow, SoBo homemaker who dreams of being as slim as Queeny Dhody, and having a husband like Waluscha Robinson’s. I know a girl who’s a bartender. Svelte, charming little thing, she’s auditioned, and met with moderate success, for almost every single game show that’s ever been aired on Indian television. Is it the money? No. Her gigs earn her handsome dough. Is it the challenge? Hell no! What could possibly be more challenging than playing with fire and alcohol with drunken men around you? It is the lure of instant fame. Who doesn’t want some? From Rakhi Sawant and her Swayamvar, to Priyanka Chopra and her alleged liaison with Gerard Butler. Everybody worth his salt craves instant glory. I don’t blame them. It’s the city. Bombay is the culprit.
Bombay is a silent killer. It kills innocence, it smothers emotions, it flushes out romance, it murders mediocrity, and buries lakhs of dreams. To survive Bombay, one needs more than just a house and money. To combat a killer, one needs to be a killer. At least, be able to fight like one. Bombay is like a giant tidal wave. If you let it ride you over, you’ll drown. You must know, or learn how to ride it. Enough of literature has been devoted to Bombay and its charms. A lot has been written about what lies beneath that glamorous façade. Yet, we fall prey to it. And, once you’re here you cannot go back the same person. You either stand your ground, and battle it out or, you go back a battered, beaten soul. The choice is yours, though it isn’t an easy one. I once knew a Delhi boy. A fairly talented guy, he’d dropped out of college, and come to Bombay to pursue his dream of turning filmmaker. Last I saw him, he was wearing a torn t-shirt, surviving on 2 eggs and 4-5 joints a day, looking for shelter. He’d been thrown out of the house by his flat-mate. And, this was about 8 months back. I haven’t heard from him since.
Bombayitis, the killer flu, deadlier than any other (swine/ bird/ goat/ etc). And, there are no antibiotics or, vaccine to kill it. Just our minds and souls to tame it.
The Rainbow Revolution
I had never before seen so many colors together. And, I wasn’t tripping on LSD.
2nd July, 2009: Homosexual intercourse between consenting adults was decriminalized by the Delhi High Court, and it judged Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code to be conflicting with the fundamental rights guaranteed by the Constitution of India.
I was working at a media organization then. I remember walking into our Andheri office in wet clothes, and with water dripping out of my hair. Bombay was in the middle of monsoon, and I had been feeling rather gloomy that particular day. But, I had no clue I’d get to hear something so very exciting that it would brighten me up, instantly! Inside the Newsroom, a hand-phone was thrust into my hands, and, in hushed tones, I was instructed to speak to an openly-gay fashion designer. Our channel wanted him to be part of a panel discussion that would be telecast live. After 10 minutes of “oohs”, “aahs”, “sunshines”, and “darlings”, I hung up. The job was done. I turned towards the washroom; I was shivering in my damp clothes. But, they weren’t going to let me go anywhere, just yet. They, my homophobic colleagues (mostly men). They wanted to know the designer’s part of the conversation- they wanted me to imitate his way of talking, so they could laugh their guts out. I was repulsed. Ignoring my obvious annoyance, they went on to narrate an utterly shocking incident. Some time last year, a transsexual actor had come to audition for a role in one of the soaps produced by our company. The role was that of a young girl- the female lead’s best friend’s. For kicks, she was asked to take her shirt off, so they could assess her physique. On complaining that a woman cannot be asked to strip in public, she was shown the door because she was a “mentally sick” confused man masquerading as a woman.
We preach about being tolerant. Is this an instance of tolerance? Is this what our culture has taught us? Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Zoroastrianism- no religion, to my knowledge, advocates discrimination. We say, Hindus must be tolerant of Muslims, and vice-versa. Then why can’t we be tolerant towards fellow humans? Homosexuals are NOT abnormal. They are just differently oriented. How difficult is it to understand? I have a different theory on this. The word tolerate is not relevant any more, I feel. It’s just another way of saying, “I don’t approve of your religion/way of living/ whatever it may be, but I don’t have the balls to admit it”. It’s become a ‘safe’ option to label oneself as TOLERANT. I guess, acceptance could be a better way to go about things. So, even if you don’t understand homosexuals, just accept them.
Getting back to the colors. The same day, 2nd July, “the gays are celebrating. Woh section 377 hata diya na, isliye,” my boss told me. I was tired of rectifying him. He did not seem to understand the difference between a court judgement and the scrapping of an IPC section. Anyway, I was assigned the job of gate-crashing (!) such a party, in a pub near Opera House, on Grant Road, and doing a story. It was pouring that night, and by the time I reached the venue, I was drenched (again), and shivering like a little, wet puppy. But, I had no clue what I was in for. I was met with so much warmth that I was high and dry (no pun intended) in no time! The organizer, a middle aged, pot-bellied, amiable man, handed me over to couple of young men. One of them fetched me towel to dry myself, and another was blow drying my damp hair. While I sat there, patting myself dry, I was amazed to see the colors around me. Red, blue, green, orange, yellow. Bright clothes, bright make-up, bright accessories, bright faces. Yes, the faces shone. Even in the dim lighting. I could feel life throbbing in every one of them. These people, who’d gathered together, knew how to celebrate life. They knew how to live it up. I was amazed to see such vibrant people. Their energy was electrifying. Their vibrations, positive. That night, for the first time, I danced without any inhibitions. No lech tried to grope, no enthu-cutlet tried to act fresh, nobody stared at my butt while I tried doing a Shakira. I could be ME. The wonderful people there let me be.
I was watching Taking Woodstock, when my fiancé, casually, asked if the director, Ang Lee, was gay. After telling the story of two wonderful lovers in Brokeback Mountain, he has again made references to homosexuality in this new venture of his. And, he’s done it beautifully, to say the least. Why does one have to be gay in order to support them? My fiancé is homophobic, like most Indian men. He thinks homosexuality is unnatural. I have tried, in vain, to explain that isn’t. It’s not his fault. It’s our mentality- how our minds have been conditioned over the years. If educated, urbane people like him are not ready to accept homosexuals as a part of society, how can we expect the rest of our country to?
At the recently held Lakme Fashion Week, I met a lot of ‘queers’. And, I struck a fine rapport with one of them. He’s a make-up artiste. The first time I met him, I didn’t sense anything amiss. He was like any other regular bloke, looking for flat-mates ‘cause the rent was too high, trying to fund a trip to Paris to train under some very famous make-up guru (whose name I couldn’t quite catch- blame my I-only-understand-Indian English trip). But, something was different about him. He hadn’t been able to find a room-mate even after 8 months of frantic searching. Reason- he is gay. No guy wants to stay with him. And, his housing society won’t allow him to share his flat with girls. He was stuck. After the damp squib of a Grand Finale, we were sipping on wine, when he held my hand and said, “thank you”. I didn’t quite understand why he’d said that. On prodding, he narrated a rather sorry tale. “Growing up in Delhi was not easy for me. I got expelled from my first school, in the 9th grade, for ‘improper conduct’. I had held another boy’s hand, and asked him out on a pizza date. He complained to the school authorities that I had molested him. In high school, I had a boyfriend. One night I slept over at his place. Next morning, news had spread that I was practicing sodomy. I was expelled again. I couldn’t write my HSC exams. My parents disassociated themselves from me. I was left to fend for myself. I came to Bombay, only to get kicked about the whole place like a piece of turd. I was ravaged by hungry souls, plundered by sick men, used and abused by frustrated but powerful women. But, all of this made me a stronger person. I am not ashamed of who I am. I don’t want a lot from life. But, acceptance would feel good. I’d like to complete my education, get back with my parents, do things that ‘normal’ people do. I request people to live and let live. Isn’t that like the greatest human principle? You are a reporter. You communicate with people. Put forward my request to them, will you? Please?” I hugged him, and ran out.
I am doing the same, here. Putting forward a simple request. I hope you all won’t let him down. After all, don’t we all love the rainbow?
2nd July, 2009: Homosexual intercourse between consenting adults was decriminalized by the Delhi High Court, and it judged Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code to be conflicting with the fundamental rights guaranteed by the Constitution of India.
I was working at a media organization then. I remember walking into our Andheri office in wet clothes, and with water dripping out of my hair. Bombay was in the middle of monsoon, and I had been feeling rather gloomy that particular day. But, I had no clue I’d get to hear something so very exciting that it would brighten me up, instantly! Inside the Newsroom, a hand-phone was thrust into my hands, and, in hushed tones, I was instructed to speak to an openly-gay fashion designer. Our channel wanted him to be part of a panel discussion that would be telecast live. After 10 minutes of “oohs”, “aahs”, “sunshines”, and “darlings”, I hung up. The job was done. I turned towards the washroom; I was shivering in my damp clothes. But, they weren’t going to let me go anywhere, just yet. They, my homophobic colleagues (mostly men). They wanted to know the designer’s part of the conversation- they wanted me to imitate his way of talking, so they could laugh their guts out. I was repulsed. Ignoring my obvious annoyance, they went on to narrate an utterly shocking incident. Some time last year, a transsexual actor had come to audition for a role in one of the soaps produced by our company. The role was that of a young girl- the female lead’s best friend’s. For kicks, she was asked to take her shirt off, so they could assess her physique. On complaining that a woman cannot be asked to strip in public, she was shown the door because she was a “mentally sick” confused man masquerading as a woman.
We preach about being tolerant. Is this an instance of tolerance? Is this what our culture has taught us? Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Zoroastrianism- no religion, to my knowledge, advocates discrimination. We say, Hindus must be tolerant of Muslims, and vice-versa. Then why can’t we be tolerant towards fellow humans? Homosexuals are NOT abnormal. They are just differently oriented. How difficult is it to understand? I have a different theory on this. The word tolerate is not relevant any more, I feel. It’s just another way of saying, “I don’t approve of your religion/way of living/ whatever it may be, but I don’t have the balls to admit it”. It’s become a ‘safe’ option to label oneself as TOLERANT. I guess, acceptance could be a better way to go about things. So, even if you don’t understand homosexuals, just accept them.
Getting back to the colors. The same day, 2nd July, “the gays are celebrating. Woh section 377 hata diya na, isliye,” my boss told me. I was tired of rectifying him. He did not seem to understand the difference between a court judgement and the scrapping of an IPC section. Anyway, I was assigned the job of gate-crashing (!) such a party, in a pub near Opera House, on Grant Road, and doing a story. It was pouring that night, and by the time I reached the venue, I was drenched (again), and shivering like a little, wet puppy. But, I had no clue what I was in for. I was met with so much warmth that I was high and dry (no pun intended) in no time! The organizer, a middle aged, pot-bellied, amiable man, handed me over to couple of young men. One of them fetched me towel to dry myself, and another was blow drying my damp hair. While I sat there, patting myself dry, I was amazed to see the colors around me. Red, blue, green, orange, yellow. Bright clothes, bright make-up, bright accessories, bright faces. Yes, the faces shone. Even in the dim lighting. I could feel life throbbing in every one of them. These people, who’d gathered together, knew how to celebrate life. They knew how to live it up. I was amazed to see such vibrant people. Their energy was electrifying. Their vibrations, positive. That night, for the first time, I danced without any inhibitions. No lech tried to grope, no enthu-cutlet tried to act fresh, nobody stared at my butt while I tried doing a Shakira. I could be ME. The wonderful people there let me be.
I was watching Taking Woodstock, when my fiancé, casually, asked if the director, Ang Lee, was gay. After telling the story of two wonderful lovers in Brokeback Mountain, he has again made references to homosexuality in this new venture of his. And, he’s done it beautifully, to say the least. Why does one have to be gay in order to support them? My fiancé is homophobic, like most Indian men. He thinks homosexuality is unnatural. I have tried, in vain, to explain that isn’t. It’s not his fault. It’s our mentality- how our minds have been conditioned over the years. If educated, urbane people like him are not ready to accept homosexuals as a part of society, how can we expect the rest of our country to?
At the recently held Lakme Fashion Week, I met a lot of ‘queers’. And, I struck a fine rapport with one of them. He’s a make-up artiste. The first time I met him, I didn’t sense anything amiss. He was like any other regular bloke, looking for flat-mates ‘cause the rent was too high, trying to fund a trip to Paris to train under some very famous make-up guru (whose name I couldn’t quite catch- blame my I-only-understand-Indian English trip). But, something was different about him. He hadn’t been able to find a room-mate even after 8 months of frantic searching. Reason- he is gay. No guy wants to stay with him. And, his housing society won’t allow him to share his flat with girls. He was stuck. After the damp squib of a Grand Finale, we were sipping on wine, when he held my hand and said, “thank you”. I didn’t quite understand why he’d said that. On prodding, he narrated a rather sorry tale. “Growing up in Delhi was not easy for me. I got expelled from my first school, in the 9th grade, for ‘improper conduct’. I had held another boy’s hand, and asked him out on a pizza date. He complained to the school authorities that I had molested him. In high school, I had a boyfriend. One night I slept over at his place. Next morning, news had spread that I was practicing sodomy. I was expelled again. I couldn’t write my HSC exams. My parents disassociated themselves from me. I was left to fend for myself. I came to Bombay, only to get kicked about the whole place like a piece of turd. I was ravaged by hungry souls, plundered by sick men, used and abused by frustrated but powerful women. But, all of this made me a stronger person. I am not ashamed of who I am. I don’t want a lot from life. But, acceptance would feel good. I’d like to complete my education, get back with my parents, do things that ‘normal’ people do. I request people to live and let live. Isn’t that like the greatest human principle? You are a reporter. You communicate with people. Put forward my request to them, will you? Please?” I hugged him, and ran out.
I am doing the same, here. Putting forward a simple request. I hope you all won’t let him down. After all, don’t we all love the rainbow?
Saturday, June 6, 2009
My conversations with Him
When I was little, I would lie in bed and have conversations with God. They were actually more like monologues because He never answered. I would cry out to Him because I wanted to know what I had done that made my parents fight all the time. I begged God to tell me what I had done to make my mommy hit me and tell me what a disappointment I was. I loved my mommy and she told me she loved me but I asked God, over and over, how someone who loved me, and who I loved so much back, could hurt me as much as she did. My cries went unanswered night after night but still I talked to God waiting for some kind of response.
Years went by. I participated in many extracurricular activities so as to spend as little time at home as possible. I became very active in my Durga Pujo committee youth group and the Students Federation of India. In fact, there even was a time when I got swayed by the Hindutva ideology and started tracking the Sangh Parivar and its activities quite religiously (pun not intended). Over college breaks we would get together to laugh, sing and study with each other at organized events. At these events we would hold prayer sessions which spoke about the virtues of all religions on Friday nights and Saturday mornings but they were different then the ones our parent bodies held ... the prayers were the same but we wrote our own special readings for in-between. There were no priests, no arati. We sang many of the traditional songs but with different melodies. On one such outing we read the Bhagwad Gita. I questioned the very existence of God and my religion -- was there in fact a God -- did He hear my prayers. What was this ancient language I was speaking and barely understood? Was I blindly following what my parents had put before me and accepted merely on their word. And then I became scared -- what if God did exist -- would He hate me -- would I be punished. I stopped talking to God for a long time.
By the end of my three years in college I found out after confiding in a rabbi (another one of my many fascinations, Judaism) that it was not a bad thing to question my faith -- that in fact Judaism says one should -- because when you question your faith it makes you stronger. It was after I graduated from college that my faith got what I thought would be its strongest test. My grandmother had been ill for many years. She had a living will and a health care proxy -- she wanted to preserve her quality of life -- no heroic measures. She did not care for others’ sympathies. Thakuma (grandmother) wanted to die at home, surrounded by her friends, her family, even Lebu cha(lemon tea), and my grandfather’s harmonium. My uncle was the main agent on the legal paperwork. It was his responsibility to take whatever action it took to make sure my grandmother lived and died as she wished when she could no longer speak for herself. I was his proxy; my cousin (his daughter) was settled in Kathmandu, away from our reality, our world. If he could not or would not act, it was my responsibility to carry out my thakuma’s wishes. When I signed it at 18 I didn't think that the day would ever come where I would have to carry out those responsibilities myself -- he would always be there. But once again the relationship with my uncle was strained. I didn't know about his tests until my sister called. First she said grandmother had been admitted - I told her I was on my way. She told me to wait and she would call back from the hospital in an hour. Sixty minutes later the phone rang - uncle had been admitted. He needed an emergency triple bypass -- they would open him up at 6:30 a.m. the next day.
I did a lot of talking with God then. I asked for my uncle to be safe. For the hands of the doctors who were working on his case and performing the surgery to have the strength and the knowledge to see him through. I begged -- I pleaded God to make my grandmother better -- to be the thakuma I remembered -- not the sick frail woman I saw pleading to us with her eyes to take her home to die when HMO committees told me they wouldn't pay for 24 hour care and the hospital could not release her without it. My uncle was released after a week to recover at home. My grandmother never made it back. Three hours after a call from the insurance company telling us that they were evaluating the case the next morning at an emergency meeting, she died -- alone in a hospital room on the Jewish holiday of Shavous. Soon after, my affair with Judaism ended. I was trying to become agnostic. It was cool to be one, those days.
Many other things have happened since. I left the SFI. I was looking for my destiny –some one to share my life with and had a series of bad Internet dates with men who have dirty fingernails and chew with their mouths open. I found a new occupation- a new love. He is Muslim, and Islam is a religion that had always fascinated me but I had consciously kept away from it. My father is on the verge of taking voluntary retirement and moving back to Kolkata to be with his siblings. My uncle eagerly awaits this re-union, of sorts. I have found a job; just waiting for PG to get over so I can start working. My sister lives two lanes away from my uncle (her father). Through these happenings I have come upon a few realizations.
When I called out to God as a little girl and he didn't answer it didn't mean He wasn't listening. When I questioned my faith in God it didn't mean he loved me any less. When my prayers to God to make my grandmother well were unanswered, it didn't mean he didn't care. And so my conversations with God still continue. Well, I talk a lot. He mostly listens.
Years went by. I participated in many extracurricular activities so as to spend as little time at home as possible. I became very active in my Durga Pujo committee youth group and the Students Federation of India. In fact, there even was a time when I got swayed by the Hindutva ideology and started tracking the Sangh Parivar and its activities quite religiously (pun not intended). Over college breaks we would get together to laugh, sing and study with each other at organized events. At these events we would hold prayer sessions which spoke about the virtues of all religions on Friday nights and Saturday mornings but they were different then the ones our parent bodies held ... the prayers were the same but we wrote our own special readings for in-between. There were no priests, no arati. We sang many of the traditional songs but with different melodies. On one such outing we read the Bhagwad Gita. I questioned the very existence of God and my religion -- was there in fact a God -- did He hear my prayers. What was this ancient language I was speaking and barely understood? Was I blindly following what my parents had put before me and accepted merely on their word. And then I became scared -- what if God did exist -- would He hate me -- would I be punished. I stopped talking to God for a long time.
By the end of my three years in college I found out after confiding in a rabbi (another one of my many fascinations, Judaism) that it was not a bad thing to question my faith -- that in fact Judaism says one should -- because when you question your faith it makes you stronger. It was after I graduated from college that my faith got what I thought would be its strongest test. My grandmother had been ill for many years. She had a living will and a health care proxy -- she wanted to preserve her quality of life -- no heroic measures. She did not care for others’ sympathies. Thakuma (grandmother) wanted to die at home, surrounded by her friends, her family, even Lebu cha(lemon tea), and my grandfather’s harmonium. My uncle was the main agent on the legal paperwork. It was his responsibility to take whatever action it took to make sure my grandmother lived and died as she wished when she could no longer speak for herself. I was his proxy; my cousin (his daughter) was settled in Kathmandu, away from our reality, our world. If he could not or would not act, it was my responsibility to carry out my thakuma’s wishes. When I signed it at 18 I didn't think that the day would ever come where I would have to carry out those responsibilities myself -- he would always be there. But once again the relationship with my uncle was strained. I didn't know about his tests until my sister called. First she said grandmother had been admitted - I told her I was on my way. She told me to wait and she would call back from the hospital in an hour. Sixty minutes later the phone rang - uncle had been admitted. He needed an emergency triple bypass -- they would open him up at 6:30 a.m. the next day.
I did a lot of talking with God then. I asked for my uncle to be safe. For the hands of the doctors who were working on his case and performing the surgery to have the strength and the knowledge to see him through. I begged -- I pleaded God to make my grandmother better -- to be the thakuma I remembered -- not the sick frail woman I saw pleading to us with her eyes to take her home to die when HMO committees told me they wouldn't pay for 24 hour care and the hospital could not release her without it. My uncle was released after a week to recover at home. My grandmother never made it back. Three hours after a call from the insurance company telling us that they were evaluating the case the next morning at an emergency meeting, she died -- alone in a hospital room on the Jewish holiday of Shavous. Soon after, my affair with Judaism ended. I was trying to become agnostic. It was cool to be one, those days.
Many other things have happened since. I left the SFI. I was looking for my destiny –some one to share my life with and had a series of bad Internet dates with men who have dirty fingernails and chew with their mouths open. I found a new occupation- a new love. He is Muslim, and Islam is a religion that had always fascinated me but I had consciously kept away from it. My father is on the verge of taking voluntary retirement and moving back to Kolkata to be with his siblings. My uncle eagerly awaits this re-union, of sorts. I have found a job; just waiting for PG to get over so I can start working. My sister lives two lanes away from my uncle (her father). Through these happenings I have come upon a few realizations.
When I called out to God as a little girl and he didn't answer it didn't mean He wasn't listening. When I questioned my faith in God it didn't mean he loved me any less. When my prayers to God to make my grandmother well were unanswered, it didn't mean he didn't care. And so my conversations with God still continue. Well, I talk a lot. He mostly listens.
And then, it rained
30th May, 1992
The tattered, old pair of Bata tennis shoes, that had been kept out to dry in the south-eastern corner of the terrace, wore a shriveled look. They'd been left there for more than a day now.
It had been pouring incessantly for over a week. The rain God had unfurled his fury on the quaint little town of Suri. Suri is an erstwhile zamindari estate, which was ruled by the Maharaja of Hetampur. It's located in the district of Birbhum, known for it's burnt, red earth, and Rabindranath Tagore.
Harinath Mukherjee was a former principal of the Suri Polytechnic College. An amiable man, he was extremely popular among his students and colleagues alike. Admired and revered by one and all, he had retired from work few years back; four years, to be precise. They say, behind every successful man is a woman. Mr. Mukherjee would agree to this adage, wholeheartedly. Malati devi, his wife of 30 years, had been the crucial anchor of his ship called life. Kind, soft spoken, most women looked up to her. She was a mother to their only son Arkoprobho, as she was to Dulal, their cook, Abedin, Harinath's peon, or Bidur, a rickshaw puller.
Arko was an exceptionally bright boy. Even as a child, he could memorise lines from Tagore's poetry after reading them just once. When he reached fifth grade, his parents decided that he must be sent to the Ramakrishna Mission in Narendrapur for further studies. And so, one June morning, when the sun was beating down on the parched earth, and every living creature was desperately seeking some respite from it, Arko's bags were packed and he was bundled off to Narendrapur, which was closer to Kolkata than to Suri.
Days turned in to months, and months in to years. Arko passed out of school with flying colours. After topping the state board, across all streams, Higher Secondary Examinations, Arko decided to go abroad to pursue a degree in engineering. His mother, Malati Devi, though distraught at the very thought of not having her son around, was proud of the fact that he had made it to the MIT. How many people from moffusil towns like Suri can even dream of such a thing? Arko, barely 18, was already a legend.
Almost the whole of West Lalkuthi Para congregated at the DumDum Airport to bid Arko farewell. Garlanded, and lugging a VIP suitcase which had been a wedding gift to his parents from his maternal grandparents, Arko looked back one last time at his lonely parents. His father, chest swollen with pride, couldn't wipe the smile off his face. His mother, on the other hand, was inconsolable.
As Arko boarded the aircraft, and found his way to his seat, he was glad it was all over. That he was away from it all. Poor things, his parents. They were already preparing for his arrival, back from the U.S!
Back in Suri, life continued as usual for the Mukherjee couple. Every year, they would wait eagerly for the winter. December heralded Arko's arrival. It marked the start of a flurry of activities in the Mukherjee household. The walls of Arko's room would be whitewashed, new bedspreads would be bought, his favourite fish, vegetables, and sweets would be brought home. And before they would know it, Arko would be home, and gone, in a whoosh.
After graduating, Arko decided to work in the US for some time. Malati devi resented this decision, but her husband thought it was the right thing to do. Never one to raise her voice against her husband, Malati devi suppressed her thoughts and emotions deep inside her bosom, till they were lost in the unknown and forgotten.
After retiring from his job, Mr Mukherjee took up the responsibility of imparting tuition to underprivileged children around his locality. It gave him a kind of pleasure that he had never felt before. But, as the years rolled on, he developed glaucoma, and was forced to discontinue his philanthropic work.
22nd May, 1992
"How I wish we had another child. A daughter, to be honest. Our only child seems to have forgotten us. Just dumped us off his mind, and heart", lamented Mr. Mukherjee. It was an unbearably humid summer morning, and he had just got back from the daily bazaar, fish, and vegetables held in both hands. His wife was busy in the kitchen, fixing them both a simple lunch that usually consisted of bhaat, shukto, daal, bhaja, maacher jhol, and doodh-bhaat, a customary dessert. "It was your idea to have him study at a boarding school. What's the use of complaining now? You got him used to being away from us", was her icy retort. In the same breath she added, "I no longer pine for him the way I used to. I'd rather spend the rest of my days tending my plants, and looking after Madhu".
Madhu was a honeybee. She had been lovingly named so by Harinath. One day, as he sipped on a cup of sweet, fragrant Darjeeling tea, a little bee hovered above the rim of the cup, her buzz livening up the dead, languorous afternoon. Out of curiosity, he poured out few drops of the tea on a saucer and offered it to her. And soon enough, all of it had been polished off! This became a ritual, of sorts. Every afternoon, Madhu would join the couple , and all three would quietly sip on tea. Unknowingly, and unwittingly, Madhu had become an integral part of the family. Slowly but, surely, she filled the void that had been created by the absence of Arko, who had got married to an American girl, moved to Canada, and become a Permanent Resident there. Letters from him were few and far in between, and calls were made only to make sure his parents were alive.
"It is intolerably hot today. I hope we get some rains soon", prayed Malati devi as her husband nodded his head in concurrence. Theirs, along with many others' prayers were answered as ominous looking grey clouds cast a gloomy look to the afternoon sky. As afternoon gave way to evening, the sky began to pour. A faint drizzle, initially, that soon turned in to a heavy downpour. The dry, cracked earth thirstily drank up the generous dollops of heavenly elixir. And rain it did, for the next seven days... so steady, it seemed unstoppable. Those seven days there was no sign of Madhu. It was assumed that like in the case of most people, she too had been rendered immobile by the onslaught of the rain God.
And then, it stopped. The sun was seen after days. It's bright, warm presence was welcomed by one and all. Schools, which had been shut on account of 'rainy day(s)' re-opened, the bazaar was brimming with people, hawkers on the streets did brisk business, rickshaws screeched, cars honked. The sleepy town had woken up from it's rain-induced slumber and was back to life.
29th May, 1992
Arko's wife, Mel, was in the final month of her pregnancy. The baby was due any time now. After spending a sleepless night with a cramping wife, Arko decided it was time to take her to the hospital.
The telephone rang. Malati answered. "Hello?". "Ma, I am at the hospital. You'll be a grandmother, soon. I'll call you with the good news". And, click. The line went dead. He had not bothered to ask about their well being. He never did. But Malati did not let that bother her. She was anxious now, like any grandmother-to-be. But unlike other grandparents, they won't be around to hold the newborn in their arms, or feed him/her rice on the Annaprasan. The very thought pained her.
"Buro called. Bouma is going to deliver soon", she informed her husband. Buro was Arko's nickname. His bhalonaam had been decided by Mr Mukherjee's father. Malati devi had wanted to name him Tridib, that literally means heaven. But, she did not wish to upset her father-in-law, and her son was duly named Arkoprobho, on the occasion of his rice-eating ceremony.
Mr. Mukherjee was listening to some old, K L Saigal classics that sunny afternoon when his wife announced that tea had been served.
"Your tea must be growing cold. It's kept on the dining table, by the window. Drink it, taratari", said Malati, and hurried out of the house to chase couple of stray dogs out of her kitchen garden.
But Mr Muhkerjee was traveling back in time, reminiscing about the days when he was young, ambitious, romantic, and had just brought home a lovely wife. Lost in those warm, comforting thoughts, he forgot about the tea. "O go, will you have your tea or not?", yelled Malati from the front courtyard. Rudely jolted out of his trance, he turned the gramophone off, and proceeded towards the hall where stood the dining table. And there, he was greeted by none other than Madhu, who was sitting gingerly on the rim of the cup, and buzzing with glee. Harinath knew the tea was still hot, though he couldn't see very clearly because of his failing eyesight, and the distance. Before he could chase Madhu away, the unthinkable happened. By the time he reached the table, Madhu's limp body was floating in the cup of fragrant tea.
And he cried. All the tears that he had held back till now came flooding out. He kept weeping bitterly, inconsolably, all evening.
That night, Suri saw a storm like never before. Strong winds bent even the strongest of trees, vicious rains lashed against the ground like a whip. Telephone lines were destroyed, hundreds of huts were reduced to bits of wood and hay, countless trees were uprooted. The Mayurakshi gurgled with all her might, almost threatening to overflow and wreak havoc.
The next morning, Suri woke up to a rude shock. The town had been brutally attacked, and left to bleed. But, the sun shone brightly, almost heralding a new beginning.
The Mukherjee household wore a desolate look. The kitchen garden, where Malati Devi grew chllies, coriander, lemon, pumpkin, and her favourite bottle gourd, had been butchered to death. Repeated rings of the doorbell went unanswered. Neighbours assumed, the elderly couple must be asleep.
On the floor of the bedroom lay the lifeless body of Harinath Mukherjee. He had suffered a massive cardiac arrest the previous night. Heaven had poured like never before. Tridib had cried. At his feet sat Malati devi, traces of dried tears on both cheeks, hair disheveled, face devoid of emotion. About his head, hovered a honey bee.
Mel went in to labour the same night. She gave birth to a baby girl. Arko named her Madhumita.
The tattered, old pair of Bata tennis shoes, that had been kept out to dry in the south-eastern corner of the terrace, wore a shriveled look. They'd been left there for more than a day now.
It had been pouring incessantly for over a week. The rain God had unfurled his fury on the quaint little town of Suri. Suri is an erstwhile zamindari estate, which was ruled by the Maharaja of Hetampur. It's located in the district of Birbhum, known for it's burnt, red earth, and Rabindranath Tagore.
Harinath Mukherjee was a former principal of the Suri Polytechnic College. An amiable man, he was extremely popular among his students and colleagues alike. Admired and revered by one and all, he had retired from work few years back; four years, to be precise. They say, behind every successful man is a woman. Mr. Mukherjee would agree to this adage, wholeheartedly. Malati devi, his wife of 30 years, had been the crucial anchor of his ship called life. Kind, soft spoken, most women looked up to her. She was a mother to their only son Arkoprobho, as she was to Dulal, their cook, Abedin, Harinath's peon, or Bidur, a rickshaw puller.
Arko was an exceptionally bright boy. Even as a child, he could memorise lines from Tagore's poetry after reading them just once. When he reached fifth grade, his parents decided that he must be sent to the Ramakrishna Mission in Narendrapur for further studies. And so, one June morning, when the sun was beating down on the parched earth, and every living creature was desperately seeking some respite from it, Arko's bags were packed and he was bundled off to Narendrapur, which was closer to Kolkata than to Suri.
Days turned in to months, and months in to years. Arko passed out of school with flying colours. After topping the state board, across all streams, Higher Secondary Examinations, Arko decided to go abroad to pursue a degree in engineering. His mother, Malati Devi, though distraught at the very thought of not having her son around, was proud of the fact that he had made it to the MIT. How many people from moffusil towns like Suri can even dream of such a thing? Arko, barely 18, was already a legend.
Almost the whole of West Lalkuthi Para congregated at the DumDum Airport to bid Arko farewell. Garlanded, and lugging a VIP suitcase which had been a wedding gift to his parents from his maternal grandparents, Arko looked back one last time at his lonely parents. His father, chest swollen with pride, couldn't wipe the smile off his face. His mother, on the other hand, was inconsolable.
As Arko boarded the aircraft, and found his way to his seat, he was glad it was all over. That he was away from it all. Poor things, his parents. They were already preparing for his arrival, back from the U.S!
Back in Suri, life continued as usual for the Mukherjee couple. Every year, they would wait eagerly for the winter. December heralded Arko's arrival. It marked the start of a flurry of activities in the Mukherjee household. The walls of Arko's room would be whitewashed, new bedspreads would be bought, his favourite fish, vegetables, and sweets would be brought home. And before they would know it, Arko would be home, and gone, in a whoosh.
After graduating, Arko decided to work in the US for some time. Malati devi resented this decision, but her husband thought it was the right thing to do. Never one to raise her voice against her husband, Malati devi suppressed her thoughts and emotions deep inside her bosom, till they were lost in the unknown and forgotten.
After retiring from his job, Mr Mukherjee took up the responsibility of imparting tuition to underprivileged children around his locality. It gave him a kind of pleasure that he had never felt before. But, as the years rolled on, he developed glaucoma, and was forced to discontinue his philanthropic work.
22nd May, 1992
"How I wish we had another child. A daughter, to be honest. Our only child seems to have forgotten us. Just dumped us off his mind, and heart", lamented Mr. Mukherjee. It was an unbearably humid summer morning, and he had just got back from the daily bazaar, fish, and vegetables held in both hands. His wife was busy in the kitchen, fixing them both a simple lunch that usually consisted of bhaat, shukto, daal, bhaja, maacher jhol, and doodh-bhaat, a customary dessert. "It was your idea to have him study at a boarding school. What's the use of complaining now? You got him used to being away from us", was her icy retort. In the same breath she added, "I no longer pine for him the way I used to. I'd rather spend the rest of my days tending my plants, and looking after Madhu".
Madhu was a honeybee. She had been lovingly named so by Harinath. One day, as he sipped on a cup of sweet, fragrant Darjeeling tea, a little bee hovered above the rim of the cup, her buzz livening up the dead, languorous afternoon. Out of curiosity, he poured out few drops of the tea on a saucer and offered it to her. And soon enough, all of it had been polished off! This became a ritual, of sorts. Every afternoon, Madhu would join the couple , and all three would quietly sip on tea. Unknowingly, and unwittingly, Madhu had become an integral part of the family. Slowly but, surely, she filled the void that had been created by the absence of Arko, who had got married to an American girl, moved to Canada, and become a Permanent Resident there. Letters from him were few and far in between, and calls were made only to make sure his parents were alive.
"It is intolerably hot today. I hope we get some rains soon", prayed Malati devi as her husband nodded his head in concurrence. Theirs, along with many others' prayers were answered as ominous looking grey clouds cast a gloomy look to the afternoon sky. As afternoon gave way to evening, the sky began to pour. A faint drizzle, initially, that soon turned in to a heavy downpour. The dry, cracked earth thirstily drank up the generous dollops of heavenly elixir. And rain it did, for the next seven days... so steady, it seemed unstoppable. Those seven days there was no sign of Madhu. It was assumed that like in the case of most people, she too had been rendered immobile by the onslaught of the rain God.
And then, it stopped. The sun was seen after days. It's bright, warm presence was welcomed by one and all. Schools, which had been shut on account of 'rainy day(s)' re-opened, the bazaar was brimming with people, hawkers on the streets did brisk business, rickshaws screeched, cars honked. The sleepy town had woken up from it's rain-induced slumber and was back to life.
29th May, 1992
Arko's wife, Mel, was in the final month of her pregnancy. The baby was due any time now. After spending a sleepless night with a cramping wife, Arko decided it was time to take her to the hospital.
The telephone rang. Malati answered. "Hello?". "Ma, I am at the hospital. You'll be a grandmother, soon. I'll call you with the good news". And, click. The line went dead. He had not bothered to ask about their well being. He never did. But Malati did not let that bother her. She was anxious now, like any grandmother-to-be. But unlike other grandparents, they won't be around to hold the newborn in their arms, or feed him/her rice on the Annaprasan. The very thought pained her.
"Buro called. Bouma is going to deliver soon", she informed her husband. Buro was Arko's nickname. His bhalonaam had been decided by Mr Mukherjee's father. Malati devi had wanted to name him Tridib, that literally means heaven. But, she did not wish to upset her father-in-law, and her son was duly named Arkoprobho, on the occasion of his rice-eating ceremony.
Mr. Mukherjee was listening to some old, K L Saigal classics that sunny afternoon when his wife announced that tea had been served.
"Your tea must be growing cold. It's kept on the dining table, by the window. Drink it, taratari", said Malati, and hurried out of the house to chase couple of stray dogs out of her kitchen garden.
But Mr Muhkerjee was traveling back in time, reminiscing about the days when he was young, ambitious, romantic, and had just brought home a lovely wife. Lost in those warm, comforting thoughts, he forgot about the tea. "O go, will you have your tea or not?", yelled Malati from the front courtyard. Rudely jolted out of his trance, he turned the gramophone off, and proceeded towards the hall where stood the dining table. And there, he was greeted by none other than Madhu, who was sitting gingerly on the rim of the cup, and buzzing with glee. Harinath knew the tea was still hot, though he couldn't see very clearly because of his failing eyesight, and the distance. Before he could chase Madhu away, the unthinkable happened. By the time he reached the table, Madhu's limp body was floating in the cup of fragrant tea.
And he cried. All the tears that he had held back till now came flooding out. He kept weeping bitterly, inconsolably, all evening.
That night, Suri saw a storm like never before. Strong winds bent even the strongest of trees, vicious rains lashed against the ground like a whip. Telephone lines were destroyed, hundreds of huts were reduced to bits of wood and hay, countless trees were uprooted. The Mayurakshi gurgled with all her might, almost threatening to overflow and wreak havoc.
The next morning, Suri woke up to a rude shock. The town had been brutally attacked, and left to bleed. But, the sun shone brightly, almost heralding a new beginning.
The Mukherjee household wore a desolate look. The kitchen garden, where Malati Devi grew chllies, coriander, lemon, pumpkin, and her favourite bottle gourd, had been butchered to death. Repeated rings of the doorbell went unanswered. Neighbours assumed, the elderly couple must be asleep.
On the floor of the bedroom lay the lifeless body of Harinath Mukherjee. He had suffered a massive cardiac arrest the previous night. Heaven had poured like never before. Tridib had cried. At his feet sat Malati devi, traces of dried tears on both cheeks, hair disheveled, face devoid of emotion. About his head, hovered a honey bee.
Mel went in to labour the same night. She gave birth to a baby girl. Arko named her Madhumita.
Friday, January 23, 2009
State of mind
I want to get away, loosen up, break free. I am not bound by any material ties, yet I feel some thing is holding me back. The day I can give it up, I know I'll be free- free of guilt, free of want, free of love, free of life.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The Road to El Dorado
I wish I knew what I am doing. I wish I knew where I am going. It's been a while since I started walking, aimlessly. At times when my limbs are tired, my throat parched, and eyes droopy, I feel I should give up. But, give what up? I don't have any baggage, any dreams. I have no roots, and no destination. Is this the life of a nomad? Perhaps. All that I have is self belief. But, there are times when I feel that I am running out of that as well. The day I realise I have run out of it, believe me, my friend, it will all be over.
I have walked across mighty oceans, vast lands, tricky rivers, woolly snow, and pricky thorns. I have spents days under the scorching sub-Saharan sun, and nights in the dense jungles of the Amazon. I was my only constant companion. Even my shadow would desert me just when I would be needing it the most. Those were the times when I felt lonely.
I had met him during one such journey. I don't remember when, how, or where. The memories are distant and blurred. All that remains with me is that wonderful feeling of being loved. Yes, it was love. He was my Soulmate. The first time I met him, I had noticed the shadows dancing in his eyes. They were mesmerising. Of course, then I did not understand the concept of a Soulmate. I met him again, and again, and then again. It was blissful. Then one night, under the watchful eyes of an unnaturally bright, full moon, I saw it. The light. It was almost fantastic! For some time, I thought, THIS was my destination. I thought I hadn't just been wandering. It felt good to know that my life hadn't been so aimless, after all. But, I was proven wrong. He saw no such light. The Forces hadn't shown him what they had led me to. It was heart breaking, but I knew I had to move on and hit the road, again.
It's spring. The mountain streams are gurgling with gusto. The paisleys are in full bloom. The rising sun peeps from behind the snow capped mountain peaks. I feel I am in heaven. It's peaceful and tranquil. The only sound is that of my beating heart. I say, THIS is Nirvana. THIS is my destination. And I didn't have to die a thousand deaths to get here. I just believed in myself.
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