‘Who saw it first?’
‘The two labourers we had hired to clear away the bushes inside the compound saw the leopard first. What a commotion they raised! Some of our office staff came out to see what the excitement was all about, and even some people from nearby villages came running. Someone set fire to a pile of dry leaves and someone else started banging an old steel bucket with a dry branch. Luckily for us, the leopard did no harm and scampered back into the jungle.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we took the government’s permission to cut down some trees beyond the lantana bushes and push the jungle back a little. The wall was raised higher. The school compound was cleaned up.’
Shanta Mathur dedicated her heart and soul to the task of building up the school. More children came. The school’s needs grew. The city grew too. The jungle was cut down to make way for residential colonies.
‘Now this is no longer where the city ends. Bangalore has stretched out in all directions. Someone sent me a proposal—he would buy half of the land on which the school stands and the money would be used for the school building. The trustees were agreeable, but I resisted. Just as well! Could we have built this large school complex if we had sold the land? Could we have built our Health Centre?’
‘But you must have needed a lot of money for the school. How did you manage?’
‘My seventy-two years have taught me one thing, Anupurba. If you once make up your mind to do something, you can always find a way. Many roads will open up for you. That’s what happened here as well. At first I used some of the money from my personal gratuity fund to organize a few charity programmes. When that didn’t suffice, I roamed all over Bangalore with my begging bowl.’
‘Begging bowl?’
‘Exactly. I stretched my hand out for the school. There wasn’t an office in Bangalore which I didn’t visit, not a businessman I didn’t call on. Someone took pity and dropped ten or twenty rupees into my bag; others fobbed me off with sweet talk. Some filled my bowl before I had even asked. We were receiving some grants from the government—but that was a mere drop in the ocean. I spoke to various NGOs, appealed to several charitable organizations. Slowly, the grants increased—that’s how the school building came up. We made other arrangements. The number of students went up. More teachers were appointed. We needed more office staff—more helpers, ayahs to look after the children, gardeners. School buses to bring the children to school. Drivers had to be carefully picked for the buses. You cannot hire just anyone to drive these children. They need to be responsible and sensitive, not just while driving but in their dealings with our children. Then the Health Centre, the ambulances . . . So it has gone on, but so much remains to be done. We haven’t been able to provide proper vocational courses for the children. We don’t have an Art Room worth the name; we can’t afford an art teacher. I would like to start a bakery unit some day so that some of these children may become employable . . .’ She was talking to herself now.
Anupurba was spellbound at the thought that there were such people, too, on this earth. Mrs Mathur could have lived in comfortable retirement, looked after by doting daughters-in-law, playing with her grandchildren. But she had chosen the path of hard work in her old age. Anupurba told herself that it was probably people like Mrs Mathur who made the world a better place. Just then she was startled by the sound of a sudden anguished scream. As both of them went out to see what had happened, her legs turned to stone. Before Anupurba could understand what was happening, Shanta Mathur went forward, pushing her aside.
A child had fallen out of a wheelchair. It was Sumana, of the second standard. Several others had reached the child ahead of Mrs Mathur. One held Sumana’s head in her lap; the other was stroking her arms. The child was shaking with convulsions. Someone had inserted a rolled up piece of cloth into her mouth to prevent her teeth from biting into the tongue.
‘Epileptic seizure,’ Mrs Mathur explained in a muffled voice.
Anupurba trembled. Her cousin, Bunu, had been epileptic and she had often seen him, as a child, being knocked unconscious by sudden fits. The doctors had warned that he would have to be careful all his life, take medicines regularly. Bunu was twenty-eight now. He had completed his education and taken up a job, but he still had to depend on strong medicines.
This little girl was epileptic too! God!
Shanta Mathur sat gravely by Sumana’s side. After the girl stopped convulsing, Mrs Mathur called out to some people in a low voice, ‘Sumant, Lipika, Jagannath . . .’
They all knew what needed to be done in such a situation and were going about the routine calmly. Someone was ringing up the Health Centre, someone else was trying to inform Sumana’s parents; someone had fetched water and towels. The other children who had been eating lunch nearby had moved away at someone’s instruction. It was only Anupurba who did not know what to do, though she felt she had to do something. She found it embarrassing to remain a mere onlooker.
Sumana’s lunch box had fallen out of her hand and Anupurba went to pick it up. The chappatis and curried potatoes which the child had brought from home lay scattered on the ground. Anupurba’s hands faltered. How was she to clean all this up?
‘Move aside, Madam,’ the ayah who was standing nearby said to Anupurba. She held a broom in one hand and a pail in the other.
Anupurba gave her the child’s lunch box and moved aside. There was nothing she could do here. She had never felt so incompetent.
Slowly, she started walking back to the art class. The visit to the Health Centre could wait.
Painting by P. Shishira © Spastics Society of Karnataka
Four
It had been a busy time for Amrit and somehow—between her school, Jeet and Bobby—Anupurba and her husband had not caught up with each other for a while. Today, the two boys had gone off to see a new movie at the multiplex nearby with their friends. The boys were unable to comprehend what was so special about a multiplex that their friends were so excited about. Every small town in the US had one of those.
They would not be back until evening. Amrit and Anupurba were having tea together and she was telling him about the children at her school. Her school? It was a strange, fleeting question in her mind and she quickly brushed it aside.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Amrit asked her, somewhat unsure himself.
‘For now, yes. I told them that I would see it through to their art exhibition,’ she replied. He did not say anything. But it was clear to him that it had been an emotional roller-coaster for her.
‘Do not get too emotionally involved, though.’
‘How can you say that? Whatever I do, I do it with full engagement.’
‘Engagement and getting emotionally involved are two different things.’
‘Yes, like you are engaged with me but not involved.’
‘Purba, I am serious.’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘It can drain you out and I do not want your stress to spill over to the boys.’
She looked at him.
‘No, it won’t and probably you can help.’
‘How?’
‘Spend a little more time with me.’
He looked at her with a surge of affection and concern. They held hands in silence and he pulled her gently closer to him.
~
As the car inched through Bangalore’s snarling traffic, somehow it seemed like a longer drive than usual to the school. Somewhere along the way Anupurba must have dozed off.
‘Madam,’ Somashekhar said, breaking her reverie. They had reached the school.
Anupurba looked at her watch. She was a little late today. She hurried to her class.
The children were already seated. The drawing materials were there, neatly arranged on the table—
pencils, erasers, paint-boxes, brushes. Everyone was waiting for her.
‘Good morning, Aunty,’ they chorused in their usual mix of words, grunting noises and wheezing sounds. But they were all happy to s
ee her and after one look at the children, Anupurba actually felt very happy to be there.
‘Good morning,’ she replied, ‘Give me two minutes and we will all get started.’
She hurriedly took the half-finished drawings out of the cupboard and laid them on her table. The day she and Ranjana had packed them away she had not quite noticed them in any detail. As she kept the whole bunch on her table today, she realized how brilliantly colourful they were. There was something in these children; maybe it was the impairment, the frustration of being held as a permanent prisoner in an uncooperative body. When they painted, they used a profusion of colours, they used bright hues, and their flowers cheerfully dominated the entire area of whatever size paper you gave them. Their characters were always smiling and doing happy things. They were at play, they were cycling, they were dancing and in most paintings they were about the stuff normal children did every day, but would require a miracle of God for these children.
She looked at each unfinished work briefly, glanced at the child, read the name aloud, walked up to him or her and handed it back. The children could not wait to get started. This was clearly the high point of their day. To escape to another world in which their creation did not have to suffer as they did.
Soon, they were all deeply absorbed in their work. No chatter, no giggles. Only paper, pencils and colours. From time to time, there was a question for Anupurba. She went from child to child, sometimes to explain a drawing technique or show how to mix two colours to get a third. Surprisingly, she never had to repeat an instruction. The concentration and commitment of the children amazed her. They knew that even the most simple of movements—holding a pencil or keeping their bodies straight—would be a huge struggle. Yet they were completely immersed in what they were doing; the body and the mind in their harmonious best. At least for now.
Two hours just flew by. The class ended and the children left. As she put the drawings back into the cupboard, Anupurba gazed at them in wonder. What talent! She felt like going to Shanta Mathur and telling her, ‘Forget about the art exhibition! I want to buy all these paintings myself.’ But how could she do that? She may be able to buy up all the paintings this time, but what about the next? And the next?
No, the exhibition would have to be organized with great care. It would be something wonderful! The people of Bangalore would come to know what great talent there was at Asha Jyoti.
‘Class over, Purba?’ It was Shobha. She was standing at the door. Anupurba waved at her.
‘Shall we go to the Health Centre? Mrs Mathur told me to take you there to meet Noor.’
‘Oh yes, let’s go,’ she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
The Health Centre was at the far end, next to the school compound. From the outside, it looked tiny, but inside it was capacious. As it was for spastic children, everything was on the ground floor. There was provision for another floor but that seemed a distant possibility—only after they could afford an elevator. That too, a wide-body one, with additional safety features—so all that meant more money.
‘Anupurba!’ Mrs Mathur called out from her office. ‘Do come in!’ Ranjana was sitting next to her. They both wore reading glasses. A whole bunch of papers were piled up in front of them.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mathur. How is Sumana?’
‘She’s all right. She was given an injection—something to calm the brain down. She will probably go back home today.’
‘There are drugs to control epilepsy, I’m told. Is Sumana on medication of any kind?’
‘She is. She’s on daily medication—but the slightest thing can trigger off a seizure. All these medicines are only for seizure-control, not elimination. It’s not Sumana alone—there are many others. Some more serious than the rest. Well, that’s a part of our life here.’
Someone in a wheelchair, holding a file in her hand, entered the room before Mrs Mathur had finished speaking. She was dark; she wore a sky blue salwar kameez, her head veiled in a hijab. Thick glasses covered her eyes and her head was permanently bent to one side. She was probably four and a half feet in height. She spoke with a slight stammer.
‘Shanta Aunty, will you have a look at this file? It’s a new case. A middle-class couple has brought their daughter—in fact, it was their neighbour who forced them to come. A sad case. The couple had their first child after eleven years and the baby has cerebral palsy. The parents are in depression. I did some counselling today, but it’ll take a lot of time and effort. It would be nice if you could ring them up and speak to them. They’re not willing to send the girl to our school; they say she won’t survive if they let her out of their sight for even a minute. The father can only work for half the day and the mother doesn’t step out of the house.’
Mrs Mathur took the file out of her hand. ‘I’ll study the case and maybe call them up tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, Noor, I want you to meet Anupurba. She has volunteered to teach our art class. Anupurba, this is our Noor. She is the star I told you about.’
‘The things you say, Shanta Aunty!’ Noor said, sounding very embarrassed.
‘It’s only the truth,’ Mrs Mathur said. ‘Do you think I would be here if it wasn’t for you?’
‘Oh!’ Noor said as she was wheeling herself away. ‘I nearly forgot! Ranjana Aunty, I have another counselling session the day after tomorrow, with Abdul Alam.’
‘Which Abdul Alam?’
‘I told you. The man from Bangladesh whose son was admitted to the fourth standard this year?’
‘Oh, you mean the man who doesn’t step outside the school all day?’ Apparently the man would just not let the boy out of his sight. He had a premonition that something terrible would happen.
‘Yes. He doesn’t know a word of English and can hardly speak Hindi. I can’t understand what he’s saying and he can’t understand me. If you’re there you can speak to him in Bengali. Maybe he could open up a little if someone spoke to him in his own language.’
‘The day after tomorrow? Very well, I’ll come,’ Ranjana said.
Noor turned her wheelchair around and left.
Mrs Mathur watched her go and turned to Anupurba with a smile. ‘So now you’ve met our Noor,’ she said. ‘No more than a little girl, but she practically runs the Health Centre. If she isn’t here for a day, it comes to a halt. She is both the asha and its jyoti.’
Anupurba was unable to take her eyes off the receding image of the twisted head in a hijab as the wheelchair moved away.
‘Anupurba, you must be getting late. Shobha, take her round the Centre,’ Mrs Mathur said. Anupurba was so lost in thought that she hardly heard what Mrs Mathur had said.
Painting by Hasneen © Spastics Society of Karnataka
Five
It was well past four when Anupurba finally left the Health Centre. ‘Shobha, come home with me,’ she urged, tugging her friend by the arm. ‘We’ll chat and you can come back after dinner.’
‘Not tonight, Purba. My sister is coming from Delhi on the Jet flight for an interview. She’s never been to Bangalore before and her husband and mother-in-law are more worried than she is. They’ve been calling me repeatedly on my mobile. I must get to the airport on time.’
‘Well, in that case, let’s go and have a cup of coffee somewhere. Jeet and Bobby will be going for cricket coaching after school today and won’t be home until half past six. I can drop you off at the airport before I go home.’
‘Okay, all right.’
The two old friends had lots to catch up on. Slowly, they walked out of the gate to where the car was usually parked. There it was. Just as they were getting in, Anupurba saw Ranjana. She was desperately trying to hail an auto-rickshaw, but as usual, none were stopping at this hour.
Anupurba walked over to Ranjana.
‘Ranjana, can I give you a ride home?’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Ranjana said. ‘But you will be going to Koramangla by the Airport Road and my apartment is on Sarjapur Road. It’ll be quite a detour for you .
. .’
‘Oh come on, it doesn’t matter,’ Anupurba said. ‘Besides, I’m not going home now.’
‘Really? It won’t be inconvenient, will it? But you two friends were going somewhere together, and if you have to drop me home . . .’ There was a slight hesitation in Ranjana’s voice.
‘No, we weren’t going anywhere in particular,’ Anupurba said. ‘I just thought we could have coffee together somewhere and chat.’
‘Come home with me then,’ Ranjana said enthusiastically. ‘I do not make the best coffee, but I’ll make some fine tea for you.’
Shobha was perhaps about to decline but Anupurba did not notice her hesitation. ‘Sure!’ she said happily. ‘Shobha, let’s have tea at Ranjana’s.’
Shobha nodded.
They had so much to talk on the way—from the proposal to relocate the airport to the nightmarish Bangalore traffic. Bangalore was no longer the Garden City it had been, although the label still clung to it. The greenery was vanishing. It would be more appropriate to call it the ‘Silicon City’ now. Software companies jostled each other everywhere, from the arterial roads to the narrow by-lanes with their glass and steel façades. How could the gardens have remained?
This was the easiest conversation piece and everyone among the city’s inhabitants had an opinion. Ranjana said, ‘It used to take me fifteen minutes to get to Asha Jyoti from my home but now it never takes less than forty-five if I start even a few minutes late. God alone knows when the Marathalli Bridge will be widened! Luckily, the traffic isn’t so bad when I’m returning, or I would have gone mad by now.’
‘Marathalli, what a strange name for a place!’ Anupurba said.
‘Well not quite,’ Shobha replied. ‘It is Maratha halli or the Maratha village. Hundreds of years back, some soldiers from Shivaji’s army came and settled here. That is how the name stuck.’
‘Amazing.’ Trust Shobha to have such information! She always has a ready store of trivia. Then Anupurba asked Ranjana, ‘How do you go home every day?’
Children of A Better God Page 5