But on the night of the seventeenth, another problem worried her. What was she going to wear to the party? She stared at her overflowing closet. What would be right for an occasion like this? And for a place like Asha Jyoti?
After a lot of consideration she finally pulled out an old Bengal handloom sari from the bottom of her closet. Dust coloured, with a black border. Her younger brother, Nilu, had sent it to her from Calcutta many years ago. It was a gift to celebrate his first job. He had no clue about saris; he had just picked up whatever the shopkeeper had probably recommended. She had worn it a couple of times to make Nilu happy. After that it had slid to the bottom where the unused piles of clothes slowly sank like buried memories. Now this would be just right for the party next day. It wasn’t expensive, nothing bright or glittery.
When Anupurba had worn it the first time, she had made it a point to wear beautiful silver jewellery to make up for its ordinariness. But none of this was required for tomorrow’s event. The thin gold chain she wore every day, the small ear-tops and two pairs of very ordinary bangles would be adequate—there was no need for an ensemble.
~
Jeet and Bobby left for school in the morning. It was agreed that Amrit and she would leave together; she would drop him off at the office and then take the car to Asha Jyoti. As she had planned the day before, she wore the Bengal handloom sari she had selected with a black blouse and tied her hair with a rubber band. No make-up, not even lipstick; only a tiny bindi on her forehead. That was all.
Amrit had never seen her looking so plain and as she came out he looked at her in surprise for a moment but said nothing. So, there was she was—dressed down for a happy event in a sad place.
From Amrit’s office, it wasn’t a long drive. Closer to Christmas the traffic thins out in Bangalore as migrants leave for their homes in faraway states. Bangalore quietens down just enough for the locals and for people who stay back to feel the holiday season for one more time. As her car moved past the store fronts with styrofoam snowflakes and pictures of Santa Claus on his sleigh, her mind went back to the real Christmas they had begun to celebrate in their adopted land, where the white Christmas had real snowflakes and the holiday season was visible everywhere from the malls to the offices and the schools and every home.
~
Somashekhar had no trouble finding his way to Asha Jyoti. There was an inconspicuous sign at the gate, a watchman without uniform stood next to it. He simply waved at the car, asking them to go in. But Anupurba somehow felt it would be inappropriate to drive up to the school in the rather expensive-looking car. She asked Somashekhar to stop the car at the gate and got out.
From where she got down, it was probably a couple of minutes walk to the main porch. Now that she had reached the school, she felt the old awkwardness return. With as much ease as she could gather, she went down the small walkway. Up a couple of low steps and a ramp for wheelchairs by the side, the place opened up to a big hall, from the ends of which she could see doors opening to various classrooms. The floor was ordinary, the place was completely functional and in the middle of that hall, she saw the reception desk. And then she was standing in front of the receptionist.
‘I want to meet Shobha Das . . .’ she heard herself mutter. Just as the young receptionist was about to respond to her, Shobha herself appeared.
‘Oh, you’re here!’ she exclaimed, half running out of the office that was right next to the reception desk. Then she stopped briefly, in surprise. How different Anupurba looked today! ‘You look nice, Purba,’ she said because she needed to conceal her surprise.
But Anupurba couldn’t take her eyes off Shobha.
Was this the same Shobha? The other day she had been wearing a simple cotton sari—which hadn’t even been starched properly—and her hair was in a sloppy bun. But look at her today! She looked tall and beautiful; the embroidered raw-silk sari flattered her. She had make-up on her face. The large, black eyes, that invited a second look, were highlighted with kohl today. There were gold bracelets on her slender wrists.
All this for the Christmas party? But wasn’t this a place for people with disabilities? How could Shobha have come so elegantly dressed with kohl in her eyes, to a place of sorrow, of disability?
Anupurba said nothing. The two friends held hands for a brief moment and then she followed Shobha into the building. Her eyes took in everything. Everything was on the floor and deliberately arranged with plenty of space, around ordinary, functional flooring; the white-washed walls with a notice board, a poster announcing something or the other. It was just like any other school, better than a government-run school but not like the exclusive one Jeet and Bobby went to. Then she saw what looked like a parking lot for wheelchairs and she realized why everything—the doors, the passages—were so wide in this place.
They walked past a few classrooms and finally came into an enormous veranda. This was the venue for the party. Anupurba was struck by the contrast between the reception area, which was like a sepia photograph, and this—a riot of colours. There were balloons and streamers and other decorations everywhere. It wasn’t sophisticated, but what a relief it was!
As she came closer, she registered the children. It was like a wide-angle quick view and she took it all in. The children were seated in plastic chairs of many different colours arranged in rows on all four sides of the veranda. And next to them were other children who sat in rows of wheelchairs. She looked around and felt very uncomfortable. Her apprehensions had come true. This place was just full of children like Kuni. Some were bigger. Each one had a deformity that disturbed her. Some children had heads that moved in sudden jerks down to the shoulders each time they tried to move or say something; sometimes their bodies seemed to struggle in sudden uncontrollable spasms. Some had very normal-looking faces but had deformities in their hands or legs. And there were some people who stood behind the wheelchairs, bending down to straighten the heads, cleaning an occasional drool or tightening the belts of the wheelchair. Who were they, she wondered. Parents, volunteers or professional care-givers? Then there was the excited conversation of the children. Some spoke quite normally, some had a lisp and some simply made strange noises.
After that one all-encompassing glance, Anupurba kept her eyes averted. Her insides churned. For some inexplicable reason she kept thinking of her own children, Jeet and Bobby. She wanted to see them.
‘Come, sit here, Purba,’ Shobha said, pointing towards a row of cushioned sofas which had been placed for the special guests.
With a forced smile on her lips, Anupurba sat down beside another guest.
‘Tum Shobha ki friend ho na? You are Shobha’s friend, aren’t you?’ The elderly woman sitting next to her asked her in Hindi.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You were an art teacher, weren’t you?’ The lady blurted out and then checked herself, just the way Shobha had done on the first day, as if she was about to say something more. Then, as though she realized that her uncalled-for familiarity could have been taken amiss by the guest she added, ‘I’m sorry I got carried away—I addressed you as ‘tum’ and not ‘aap’—I hope you didn’t mind. After all, I am so much older than you.’
‘Oh no,’ Anupurba said, ‘not at all. And you are . . .’
‘Shanta Mathur. I am the Principal of Asha Jyoti.’
Mrs Mathur seemed to be close to seventy and was dressed in a green Kanjeevaram silk sari with a rich gold border that draped her overweight body. The Kanjeevaram silk seemed a little out of place. But it was not just her, everyone—teachers, office staff, guests and parents—all seemed to have come to a wedding or something. That included the children. Some of the girls had flashy wide hair-bands across their heads; others wore colourful ribbons in their hair. Some of the boys wore silk kurta-pajamas even though their torsos seemed awkwardly connected to their limbs. Whatever it was, Anupurba realized she had made a mistake—this was not an occasion to dress down. But somehow, in the informality of the place, there was bonhomie and an ac
ceptance and she started to mentally settle down and feel calmer. It did not feel as strange as the moment she had alighted from the car to walk down the pathway to the reception.
~
Soon someone made an announcement. The Chief Guest had arrived.
‘Who is the Chief Guest?’ she leaned over to Mrs Mathur to ask.
‘Oh, our Chief Guest for today is the famous Ananda Roy.’
‘Ananda Roy, the pop-singer?’
‘Yes, yes, the same Ananda Roy,’ there was pride in her reply. ‘He’s going to sing for an hour. He has been here every year at our Christmas party for the past three years. He does not charge us a penny!’
Anupurba found it strange for a moment. What was the need to bring in a pop-singer to a place like Asha Jyoti? She was baffled. Wouldn’t something sober, something probably even spiritual, be more appropriate?
~
Ananda Roy arrived in black jeans and a loud red tee-shirt. Every bit Bangalore Times, page three. He was accompanied by his similarly attired guitarist. The wheelchairs moved, there were oohs and aaahs and even a catcall and all kinds of gurgling sounds that were between a joyful laugh and a grunt. Some held out their twisted, deformed hands but everyone’s eyes shone. Ananda Roy touched, patted and held the hands of the children as he came through the path to the centre of the big hall. A few teachers chided the children, asking them to settle down. There was a flurry of last-minute activity by the organizers to move this and bring that, before the guitarist started strumming. And then Ananda started singing. It was nothing sober and spiritual. It was a current favourite on the MTV channel, an old ‘remix’ of a Hindi song that made everyone go crazy.
Everyone was suddenly swaying to the music.
Then suddenly, Ananda stopped.
‘I say, folks, what’s wrong with you? Are we going to have a boring Christmas party this year? Come on—let’s dance! Come, Mrs Mathur, Saroja! Come on, boys and girls!’
Dance?
Was this person mad? Had he forgotten where he was, what kind of audience he was singing to? Anupurba seemed to be the only one who found it all such an out of place thing to do.
Mrs Mathur got up, a little unsteadily because of her weight, and walked slowly towards Ananda. She leaned over and said something in his ear. Did she tell him that these children cannot dance? Ananda laughed conspiratorially and then broke into another song—‘Just chill chill! Just chill!’
And Mrs Mathur began to dance, waving her arms in awkward exuberance. Everyone else seemed to have been waiting for that cue.
Suddenly, it was like water being whipped into a wave. The children rose and a frenzy followed! There was no tune, no rhythm. Some feet fell in straight steps, others were crooked. Some hands were waved in deliberate gestures; others seemed to have a will of their own! Those who were strapped to wheelchairs were unable to dance, but they moved forward, heads shaking rhythmically, and they screamed and shrieked.
It was then that Anupurba felt someone nudging her elbow. She turned around.
It was a girl. It was impossible to tell her age from her face. She had stunted legs but the rest of her body had grown differently. Her left hand extended no more than a few inches from her shoulder and then ended abruptly. She had dark, intelligent eyes and she was telling her something. Anupurba had seen her dancing with the others, swaying with her right hand placed on her head a little while ago. She had looked like an awkward midget and Anupurba had taken her eyes away quickly, guiltily.
Why was she now tugging at Anupurba’s hand?
‘Aunty, come and dance with us!’ Her voice was strangely sweet and clear. One just could not associate the voice with the body.
Anupurba felt a lump in her throat.
By then the other teachers had started dancing along with Mrs Mathur and the children. And even Shobha was there among them. Quite a few of the parents and guests were caught up in the wave.
‘Come, Aunty!’ the girl repeated.
Anupurba got up from her seat. She was not afraid to dance. Her friends always thought she danced well. But at this moment something snapped inside her. She just could not take it any more. She ran into a vacant classroom and broke down sobbing.
Painting by Manjunath and Hasneen © Spastics Society of Karnataka
Two
From the time the school holidays began, Anupurba had been telling Jeet and Bobby repeatedly that they should go outside to play. ‘Is the living room your playground?’
But of course they did not listen.
On the morning after Christmas, the boys started with a game of baseball inside the house. She was coming down the staircase, twisting a towel around her freshly washed hair. Seeing the two she admonished them, ‘The park is right next to the house—can’t you go and play there?’
But no, they wouldn’t go. The other children, they claimed, took one look at their baseball bat and joked ‘What’s that? Bheema’s war-club?’ The game of cricket was more than the two boys could handle. They were bowled out as soon as they came to the crease to bat. When they tried to bowl, they confused the bowler’s action with that of the pitcher in baseball. Everyone laughed at them. No, they weren’t going now; they might think about it in the afternoon.
Jeet, the older boy, never said much and Bobby, playing advocate for both, said, ‘We’re only practising catch, Mama, not playing ball. We’ll be careful not to break anything.’
That was what he said. But in the very next moment, the ball slipped out of his hand and struck the cupboard behind him. The glass pane splintered and fell to the floor with a crash.
Shouting at the two boys, she was about to twist their ears when the bell rang. Kamakshi, who had been sweeping the floor, opened the front door. It was Shobha.
‘Shobha, wait!’ Anupurba said anxiously. ‘Don’t come this way, there’s glass all over the floor.’
‘Will you move over to the other side, madam? I’ll pick up the splinters,’ Kamakshi said, broom in hand.
‘Be careful! Don’t cut your hand now! Come, Shobha, we’ll move over to the dining table.’
Avoiding their mother’s frown, the boys quickly went out to the park, mumbling something under their breath. That was a really lucky escape!
‘Sit down, Shobha. What a pleasant surprise!’
‘I was visiting someone nearby—Vineet Deshmukh, our accountant. And since I had come all this way, I thought I’d look you up. Your address was in my purse.’
‘Good thing you’ve come!’ Anupurba said. ‘You must stay on for lunch. We’ll have a long chat afterwards.’
‘I wish I could afford that luxury, Purba! I have a thousand things to do.’
‘But isn’t the school closed?’
‘It is, but there’s so much work piled up that I’ll be under tremendous pressure if I don’t finish it now.’
‘Oh!’
‘Purba, shall I tell you the truth? It’s you I came to meet. I have come with a purpose. I need your help.’
‘Help?’
‘Well, not exactly help—but I’ve come with a request. Please don’t say ‘no’ right away. The request isn’t just from me but from Mrs Mathur as well.’
Anupurba started feeling a little uncomfortable inside. It was probably a prelude to a request for money. A donation. Anyone who heard that they had lived in America held out a hand. What did they all think? That they had returned as the Rockefellers?
‘Tell me,’ she said, somewhat cautiously.
‘Purba, you know that some of the children in our school are good at drawing. But sometimes they feel frustrated when they try to capture forms on paper, although their ideas are brilliant.’
Oh, so it’s not about a donation. Anupurba relaxed. She could vaguely guess what Shobha was about to say.
‘Purba, if you could spend just a couple of hours with the children, two days a week—give them a little guidance . . . None of the staff are qualified, but they take turns with the art class. Just to keep the children engaged, not really to
teach them anything. You know how things are in schools like ours. We can’t afford an art teacher’s salary.’
Kamakshi came with water and tea on a tray. She had cleaned up the mess the boys had created.
Anupurba drank some water and said, ‘It’s not the salary, Shobha.’ How could she tell Shobha that she was uncomfortable and probably even afraid to spend time with spastic children? ‘But taking on a regular assignment . . . What if I’m unable to come, for some reason? Or have to stop midway?’
Taking Anupurba’s answer for a near-yes, Shobha said enthusiastically, ‘If such a situation does arise, we’ll see . . . Just give us three to four months of your time. There’ll be an exhibition of the children’s work in the last week of April. The Arts Council where we met the other day has agreed to provide the space. If someone is attracted by the work of our children, if we can find a sponsor, then we could think of engaging an art teacher next year. Please, won’t you help?’
Anupurba could have said that she would need to speak to Amrit first. And then, without having spoken to him, she could have met Shobha a couple of days later and told her apologetically, ‘Shobha, I spoke to him. Sorry, but I really cannot do it.’
But she couldn’t. Despite her hesitation, she consented. When she came back to the house after seeing Shobha off at the gate she said to herself, ‘It’s just a matter of three or four months. It’ll get over quickly.’
~
The New Year was already here. The parties had started to die down. But somehow it still felt new. Jeet and Bobby’s school reopened on the fourth of January. And it was also the day for Anupurba to start at Asha Jyoti. After sending the boys to school and Amrit to office, she was getting ready to leave home when the phone rang. It was Shobha.
‘Busy, Purba?’
‘Not really. I was just getting ready to leave. Why?’
‘I’ve got to go out just now, Purba. They’ve called a meeting at short notice. I’ve told Ranjana. She’ll explain everything to you. And since it’s your first day, she’ll keep you company in the classroom.’
Children of A Better God Page 2