Children of A Better God

by usmita, Bagchi

  ‘In my car,’ she said. ‘But I sent it to the workshop this morning. The brakes had been giving me trouble for some time and there was some problem with the suspension. Now I’ll have to depend on auto-rickshaws for the next five days. I’ll get the car back only on Friday.’

  ‘If you can manage tomorrow and the day after, I’ll be able to give you a ride on Thursday,’ Anupurba said.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Ranjana said.

  ‘No bother at all. I have to get back home on Thursday, you know. All right, you can pay me the auto-rickshaw fare if that makes you feel better,’ Anupurba teased.

  ‘Thanks!’ Ranjana laughed.

  Ranjana was right. Her apartment wasn’t on Anupurba’s route. She could have had coffee with Shobha somewhere near the airport and then driven straight home to Koramangla after dropping Shobha at the terminal. But now she would have to take the Ring Road, driving in the opposite direction to drop Shobha off.

  Well, it didn’t really matter. Couldn’t she offer Ranjana just this little bit of help?

  Somashekhar drove reasonably fast on the wide Ring Road. After he had gone a little way he turned left on the Sarjapur Road.

  Anupurba stopped talking in order to survey the surroundings. This was a part of Bangalore she had not visited earlier. Many big companies had set up campuses here and apartments for their employees had sprung up on both sides of the road. The offices looked world class but the shops and apartments were a little ghetto-like. The road itself was beautifully laid out.

  ‘Stop at the next gate,’ Ranjana said. ‘This is the apartment complex where I live—mine is on the fourth floor.’

  ‘This is so nice!’ Anupurba exclaimed, looking up admiringly at the ten-storeyed apartment complex. The builder certainly had some sense of aesthetics.

  Shobha was silently admiring the greenery around the complex. The bougainvillea creepers were nicely raised on proud trellises. There was something elegant about the wrought-iron design that people used here, part Spanish, part Goan. Around the creepers, there was a well-kept lawn that had flower beds at the end. On the far side, there were silver oaks that separated this apartment complex from the next. There was a sense of space and openness. One did not feel boxed in as one entered.

  ‘Come, Anupurba! Shobha, come!’

  The two got down and followed her up a flight of stairs to a common arrival area and walked across to where the elevators were.

  ‘Who else lives here with you?’ Anupurba asked as they were going up in the lift.

  Shobha froze and in one quick warning glance told Anupurba that she had crossed the line. Why? What was so awkward about the question?

  But Ranjana was unflustered. ‘No one,’ she said. ‘I live alone.’ The elevator stopped to open its doors and the three of them quietly stepped out into the corridor leading towards Ranjana’s apartment.

  ~

  Shobha and Anupurba were quite charmed the moment they set foot inside the apartment. Ranjana had decorated it beautifully. Nothing seemed out of place; there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Green cushions of raw silk lay on the off-white sofa; the long curtains matched the overall colour scheme of the furniture. A large potted palm looked very healthy and happy in its corner. An original painting hung on the off-white wall, behind the three-piece sofa.

  ‘Why don’t the two of you sit,’ Ranjana said. ‘Let me go and get the tea.’ She went into the kitchen.

  Stretching out on the sofa, Anupurba asked in a low voice, ‘Shobha, did I ask something I shouldn’t have?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Shobha whispered. ‘Just remember one thing—don’t ask Ranjana too many personal questions.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Anupurba picked up a book from the side table. It was a book of photographs by Raghu Rai. As she turned the pages she became thoughtful. Ranjana’s apartment was certainly beautiful. Expensive too. But somehow an intimate touch was missing. There were no family photographs anywhere.

  Maybe Shobha knew the answer.

  She restrained herself. Why was she getting so involved in someone else’s personal affairs?

  ‘Tell me if the tea is all right,’ Ranjana said. She had tea and biscuits on a tray.

  ‘Lovely!’ replied Anupurba taking a sip. ‘Darjeeling?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ranjana said. ‘My neighbour’s brother works in a tea estate. She got me some from him.’

  They chatted for some time as they drank the tea. Finally Shobha said, ‘That was very refreshing, Ranjana.’

  ‘Have another cup,’ Ranjana said.

  ‘Not today, thanks. I must get to the airport. My sister is coming to Bangalore.’

  Ranjana came up to the elevator to see them off. As the door closed, Anupurba turned round to face Shobha and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ Shobha said. ‘I’d heard that Ranjana lives with a male friend. Someone at the school told me. I was feeling awkward about going to her apartment—what if he was to be at home at this time and so . . .’

  She seemed to become annoyed with herself suddenly. ‘My stupid middle-class mentality!’ she muttered, irritated with herself.

  The years she had spent in America had changed Anupurba. She wasn’t particularly disturbed if someone had a live-in relationship.

  ‘Even if it’s true, how does it matter? They’re not children any more, are they? But there was no sign of anyone else living there,’ Anupurba said.

  ‘Maybe Ranjana deliberately keeps her drawing room somewhat impersonal so that no one will become curious.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that she’s a divorcee. She walked out of her in-laws’ home after some problems. The divorce came later.’

  After a pause she went on, ‘No one knows better than I how difficult it is for a woman to live alone in our society. You are right: if two adults choose to live together, it’s their business. Who are we to judge?’

  ‘Right!’

  ‘One thing is true, though—it’s difficult to find another person like Ranjana. Mrs Mathur may have laid the foundation but it is Ranjana who carries the main responsibility of managing Asha Jyoti now. It is not like she gets any special recognition for all the extra work she has to put in—she does not get paid more than the others. But she’s totally indifferent to all that. She’s been taking on more and more responsibility and all of it voluntarily. No—it would be very wrong to point a finger at the personal life of such a person.’

  They had reached the airport.

  Painting by Soumya © Spastics Society of Karnataka

  Six

  Anupurba hardly noticed how time had suddenly grown wings all over again. Life was no longer as slow, as aimless as when she had first come to Bangalore. Even though she went only twice a week to the school—sometimes a third day—it had become the focal point of all her weekly plans. Everything seemed to somehow link itself to her going to and coming from Asha Jyoti. A week now consisted of days she went to school and days she did not, and all activities of the household arranged themselves around that.

  She had not forgotten her offer to give Ranjana a ride home on the following Thursday. On the previous day, while running through the next day’s plans, she reminded herself of the promise. Somehow, it was more than giving her a ride home. She actually wanted to get closer to her. So after school, as the two walked out together, they were immediately immersed in talking about a thousand things—just like long-time friends. When they reached Ranjana’s home, she invited Anupurba for tea again and Anupurba readily agreed.

  Ranjana unlocked the door and walked straight into the kitchen, inviting Anupurba to follow her. The kitchen was beautifully designed. Although it was not large, it looked spacious as everything was in its right place. What a difference order made! There was a small glass table in one corner, with two chairs on either side.

  ‘Sit here, Anupurba,’ Ranjana said, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Let me boil the water.’ The electric kettle was soon sin
ging, she took out a china pot, measured three spoons of tea leaves and then poured the boiling water in the pot. There was a pretty tea-cosy to cover the pot—which completed the ceremony.

  It was the same fragrant Darjeeling tea. Ranjana placed the cups of tea and some biscuits on the table and then sat down. After chatting for some more time about how the tea needed to steep for the exact time for the flavour to come out, Ranjana finally poured the brew into two red and blue china mugs, put a little sugar and a dash of milk in each. She stirred the liquid with slow deliberate movements of her pretty hands and offered a cup to Anupurba.

  ‘How long have you been in this apartment, Ranjana?’ Anupurba asked, sipping her tea.

  ‘Eight years this April,’ Ranjana said. ‘There were no other buildings here when these apartments came up. No shops, offices or homes. The road was in bad shape. But look at the place now!’

  ‘It still looks new after eight years!’

  ‘The credit should go to the Residents’ Association. They have been looking after things very well.’

  ‘You must have been working at Asha Jyoti already when you moved in.’ She paused. ‘How did you come to Asha Jyoti, Ranjana?’

  Though it was a simple question, it flustered Ranjana for a few moments. Anupurba did not know if she had crossed the line again. Slowly Ranjana gained composure. Without looking up from the cup she held clasped between both hands, she said in a soft, measured tone, ‘I came to Asha Jyoti because of my daughter.’

  Daughter? Anupurba’s eyes involuntarily looked around quickly.

  ‘No, there’s no one here now. Soumyaa left me five years ago.’ Ranjana’s large, dark eyes were moist.

  Anupurba was speechless. She looked at Ranjana’s face. On an impulse, she touched Ranjana’s hand and said, ‘I’m really sorry, Ranjana. I did not mean to . . .’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Ranjana’s voice was surprisingly calm. ‘Five years have passed. People say time heals all wounds, but this one hasn’t stopped bleeding.’

  Anupurba felt she ought to say something to console Ranjana, but no words came to her. She felt very guilty. Why did she have to ask this unnecessary question? Hadn’t Shobha warned her?

  ‘I keep telling myself it’s a good thing Soumyaa left. She would not have survived in this harsh world. It would only have added to her suffering. It was probably a matter of time. But the way . . .’

  Ranjana gazed out of the window; she was looking at the emptiness in the distance. ‘Soumyaa had cerebral palsy,’ she said. ‘Things could have been different if she had been born into some other family,’ she went on. ‘She might even have survived. But unfortunately, the family felt that she was something to be ashamed of. Her affliction was a disgrace to the family. They couldn’t show their faces to the outside world.’

  ‘But this is a natural disability,’ Anupurba said. ‘What was shameful about it?’

  A sad smile flitted across Ranjana’s lips. ‘You can’t understand it, can you? Neither could I. How was the child to blame? Did she want to be born a spastic? Had she asked for a deformed face, for arms and legs like matchsticks? But everyone in the highly cultured, educated family was disgusted. They were united in holding her responsible for her deformity; and I, as the mother, shared the blame. My husband, Lalit, joined them.’

  ‘Your husband?’ Anupurba was stunned.

  ‘Yes. It was one more accusation he could now pin on me. I do not know why he felt the way he did . . .’ Ranjana was speaking as if in a trance.

  After their marriage, Ranjana and Lalit had settled into a routine in their joint family. Small differences and disagreements did occur, but there was nothing that actually shook their relationship. The problems only arose after Soumyaa was born.

  Her birth was not welcomed, there were no celebrations—the usual rituals were skipped. But when the priest performed the puja after one month, she had expected the other members of the family to be present. They all stayed away. Her mother-in-law had to go to a tambola party and her father-in-law was busy playing bridge with friends. Her eldest sister-in-law went, with her husband and children, to a birthday party at her parents’ home. As for her younger brother-in-law, he was hardly ever to be seen at home. What hope could Ranjana have that he would attend? But what hurt her most was Lalit’s leaving for Mumbai, on the pretext of some urgent work.

  The rituals were concluded somehow. Ranjana named her baby ‘Soumyaa’—the serene one. This was the name Lalit and she had agreed on before the baby’s birth. If it was a son, he was to be called ‘Soumya’ and ‘Soumyaa’ if it was to be a daughter. She saw no reason to change the plans.

  Her mother-in-law and elder sister-in-law smirked, ‘Couldn’t you think of some other name?’

  Her younger brother-in-law said tauntingly, ‘Call a blind boy ‘Padmalochan’—the lotus-eyed one and a dark girl ‘Shweta’—the fair one. And now we have a “Soumyaa”!’

  Ranjana had hoped that Lalit, at least, would give her some support. But in the privacy of their bedroom he barked at her, eyes blazing, ‘Were these dramatics necessary? Why did you have to call a cripple Soumyaa? What respect will I have in society? If only we could have terminated the pregnancy in time!’

  She had said nothing. Turning away, she had busied herself in caring for the child. But slowly, the breach in their relationship widened, until divorce became the only way out.

  She returned to her father’s home. Her own kith and kin had showed some sympathy when the child was born. For a time, her anxious father had run from one doctor to another. Her mother procured ayurvedic oils for the child’s massage. Her younger sister, newly married, rushed from Cochin to console her. And so, in her acute distress, Ranjana clung to her family for support. She came back home with her eighteen-month-old daughter.

  Six months passed, and then a year. Gradually, sympathy changed into weariness. Ranjana noticed the same uncomfortable look in her mother’s eyes that she had seen on the faces of her in-laws when friends and relations visited them. There was embarrassment.

  She pretended to have seen nothing. There was no other way for her to cope.

  Successions of nurses were engaged to look after the child. Some left after three months; others lasted no more than a week. The search for a care-giver would start all over again, with the lure of a higher salary. They all came and went.

  The years passed slowly. Eventually, Soumyaa was eight. Ranjana heard about Asha Jyoti from a variety of sources and turned up there one day. She met Mrs Mathur. They talked. Soumyaa was admitted to the school and Ranjana was taken on as a teacher. Part-time, for the first two years, because she lacked the experience, and then one day, she was absorbed as a full-time teacher.

  ‘Things went on, until that one day . . .’ Ranjana’s eyes moistened and she looked away.

  That day Soumyaa was running a temperature since the morning. Ranjana decided not to send her to school and to stay at home herself. But there was a Teachers’ Meeting that afternoon. How could she not attend that? Finally, on her mother’s advice, she decided to go to the school for a couple of hours, leaving Soumyaa in the care of Ratan, who had been recently engaged to look after the child.

  ‘Those two hours became fatal,’ Ranjana said.

  ‘What happened? Did she choke or something?’ Anupurba asked in a trembling voice.

  When Ranjana returned home after the Teachers’ Meeting, Soumyaa clung to her, sobbing. Her crying simply would not stop. Her father was getting irritated and her mother seemed indifferent. Ratan was missing; he had told them he was going out to get something from the market. Finally, Ranjana picked up the child in her arms and carried her to the clinic nearby, where Dr Nair, an elderly physician, had set up her private practice after retirement. She wasn’t a specialist, but it was to her that Ranjana went whenever there was a problem. She was a good human being. The sight of Soumyaa did not make her cringe; on the contrary, she treated her with affection.

  Dr Nair first gave Soumyaa some medicine to calm he
r down. Then she conducted a thorough examination. Something seemed to arouse her suspicion. Asking Ranjana to wait outside, she carried Soumyaa to an inner room and examined her again. Her face was grave when she emerged.

  ‘This is shocking, Ranjana,’ she said. ‘But Soumyaa has been molested.’

  Ranjana was horrified. Sexually molested? Who could have done this to a ten-year-old crippled child? How did it happen?

  She returned home in a daze. There was no doubt who the culprit was. Ratan had not returned from the market and Ranjana knew he would never return.

  ‘Ma, you were at home, weren’t you? Then how could such a thing happen?’

  The reality was that Ranjana’s mother had left Soumyaa in Ratan’s care and gone to her own bedroom to watch a television serial and then she had fallen asleep while it was on. Who knew that such a thing could happen in so short a time?

  She flared up to hide her guilt. ‘I am too old now to take on these responsibilities. Why don’t you look after your child yourself? Oh my God! What a curse this child has brought to everyone!’ She left the room and bolted her bedroom door. After some time, she came out and asked her accusingly, ‘Now what do you plan to do?’

  Ranjana picked up the phone to call the police station. It was then that both her parents objected. ‘Are you in your senses, Ranju?’ her father shouted. ‘You want to call the police into my house because of a mentally deranged girl?’

  ‘Soumyaa is not deranged, Baba. She understands everything.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ her father exclaimed in exasperation. ‘The police today and a court case tomorrow! What respectability will we be left with? What has happened has happened. The child hasn’t been harmed, has she?’

  Hadn’t been harmed? What greater harm could she have suffered? Ranjana looked at her father in complete disbelief.

  Two days later, she walked out. Mother and daughter moved into a small rented house, not far from Asha Jyoti.

  ‘I bought this apartment a few months later,’ Ranjana said. ‘I was born into one wealthy family and married into another. Whatever I may have lacked, it was not money—not so far. Life sorted itself out. But then . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘Where’s my Soumyaa? Her body was hollowed out by sickness, one thing followed the other, and finally she died of bronchial pneumonia . . . It’s okay for her to go; children like her do not live long. But why was she violated . . . ? Maybe she would have lived longer had it not been for all that; perhaps she couldn’t take the pressure any more. She was my baby . . .’ Ranjana sobbed softly.