She walked up to him and said, ‘Hello!’
No answer.
‘What’s your name?’
Silence again.
‘I think you have come here by mistake. Which class are you in?’
The child went on scrawling across the sheet of paper with a pencil stub. It was neither drawing nor writing. There was no expression on his face. He didn’t seem to have heard what she was saying.
‘Anupurba Madam!’ Arundhati called out, busy tying a scarf around Shweta’s head. ‘Yes, Arundhati?’ Arundhati lowered her voice. ‘Say nothing to the child.
Let him do what he is doing.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Ronnie. I’ll tell you about him later.’ Arundhati walked over to the other side of the room to pick up the brush that had dropped from Uma’s hand.
Half an hour later, Ronnie walked out of the classroom, just as abruptly as he had walked in.
Now Arundhati walked up to Anupurba. ‘Ronnie is our student,’ she said.
‘But he doesn’t seem to have cerebral palsy,’ Anupurba said.
‘No. He is autistic.’
The word was new to Anupurba. ‘What does “autistic” mean?’ she asked.
‘It means he does not know how to deal with people, they almost do not exist for him—it means he has no friends. Such children like to be left alone.’
‘But aren’t many kids like that?’
‘No. There is a difference between being alone and being completely immersed within oneself, the way Ronnie is.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Arundhati thought of a reply. But there was nothing more she knew. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I told you what I had heard.’
‘Very well, I’ll ask Ranjana or Shobha to explain.’
‘You can ask Bani Madam too,’ Arundhati said. ‘Ronnie is one her pupils. He’s in the sixth standard.’
‘But he never attends class. How does he get promoted from one class to the next?’
‘I don’t quite know, Anupurba Madam.’
~
Bani gave Anupurba all the answers she wanted.
‘You want to know how autistic children are different from children who like to be left alone? If an ordinary child wants to be left alone, it’s only a passing feeling. Or, sometimes it may be because the child has had some experience which makes her want to build a wall around herself. But an autistic child cannot set up normal relationships with others even if she wants to. Not even with her parents or siblings.’
‘Why does this happen?’
‘No one knows. It’s not as though this question hasn’t been researched. A lot of research is still going on. From what is known, infection could be a major cause. If the mother picks up a viral infection during her pregnancy, this can sometimes lead to autism for the baby.’
‘Is it curable?’
‘It may or may not be. Some people believe therapy or special schools can help autistic children to pick up social skills. It has been found that in some cases they don’t need to continue going to special schools.’
‘So Ronnie could become normal some day?’
‘That’s what is being attempted here. That is the hope.’
‘How is his promotion to the next class decided? Does he learn anything in school? I see him on the swing always.’
Bani laughed. ‘You will never guess how intelligent he is! He may not come to class regularly, but when he wants to, he can go through his textbooks effortlessly and answer all questions. He is a genius.’
‘Really?’
‘Not just that. Ronnie writes beautiful poetry.’
‘Poetry? Ronnie?’
‘Yes. In fact, Mrs Mathur is trying to get them published as an anthology some day.’
Anupurba said a small prayer to herself as she left Bani. ‘Heal the child, dear God! Whoever you are, wherever you may be—make him all right. Do not keep him alone like this. Don’t you feel what he feels, God? Don’t you see him on the swing?’
She felt desperate to do something, anything for Ronnie. But in the next moment, she felt helpless. She walked away slowly, wanting only to be left alone with her thoughts.
~
The very next day that she came to Asha Jyoti, Anupurba’s eyes strayed to the playground. As on most other days, Ronnie was there on the swing. The lady she had seen before stood near him.
On a sudden impulse, Anupurba walked up to them.
‘Hello!’ she said.
‘Hello!’
‘I’m Anupurba, I volunteer here. And you are Ronnie’s . . .’
‘Mother.’
‘I’ve seen you here often. Do you spend the whole day with him in the school?’
‘Yes, there is no other way. If Ronnie could sit still in class, it would have been different. But he is quite likely to walk out of the class whenever he feels like—it is an impulse. When he gets on the swing he simply refuses to get off. One has to keep an eye on him. He has involuntary movements sometimes; he can get hurt very badly.’
‘Ronnie walked into my class quite unexpectedly the other day.’
‘Which class do you teach?’
‘The art class.’
‘Ronnie can’t draw at all,’ his mother said, laughing. ‘But he writes beautiful poetry. Would you like to have a look?’
She pulled a diary out of her purse. It contained a few poems. The lines were crooked, the letters uneven in size; capital letters mingled with small case letters. She read the first poem:
Morpheus, can you tell me
How to grapple with the pain of growing up
With the anguish of knowing that razor passion is lost
And the mind is numbed.
To know that you will not jump off the cliff ever again,
Kiss your borders with holy lips,
Embrace your friend so hard that it hurts.
Not to feel the burning glory of youth,
The ever tapping feet,
The thrust to squeeze life, drop by drop
The crusade of stealing fire to turn it into fiery blossoms!
Anupurba was stunned. How could this small boy write such beautiful lines?
‘I haven’t given up hope. People say writing can help autistic children to connect with others. Through it, they are more likely to become normal some day. Let us see what the future holds for us!’
It was time for her class to begin. Anupurba walked towards the Art Room. But she was unable to forget the lines held together in Ronnie’s crooked handwriting. Stealing fire, she repeated in her head, to turn it into fiery blossoms. . . .
~
The next day, as Anupurba was walking towards her classroom, Ronnie’s mother rushed up to her like a storm, with a pile of newspapers in her hand.
‘Excuse me, Anupurba!’ She was out of breath.
‘Hello! How come you are here?’ Anupurba’s looked around, Ronnie was not in sight.
‘I had to show you something,’ Ronnie’s mother said, waving a newspaper at her.
‘What is in it?’
Her eyes shone. ‘Open it and see,’ she said.
Curious, Anupurba spread out the pages. It was The Hindu.
Ronnie’s mother could not wait. ‘Turn to the Art and Literature Supplement,’ she said.
She turned the pages.
Then she saw it—across the top of the page was a large photograph of Ronnie and several of his poems had been published below it.
‘I had never dreamt that Ronnie’s poems would be published some day,’ his mother said. ‘It’s all due to Mrs Mathur. Some journalists had come to interview her. Later, she took them round the school and the Health Centre and also told them about Ronnie. She sent for me and asked me to show them Ronnie’s diary. After that, two of them descended on our house, asking to see all his writings. And now this! I bought out all the copies the newspaper hawker had. I want you to have this one. You needn’t return it. So long!’
She ran back. She seemed to h
ave grown wings.
Mother of a son who had not called her ‘Mother’ even once.
Anupurba sighed. Then she entered the classroom.
Painting by Vivethitha © Spastics Society of Karnataka
Sixteen
Lunch break wasn’t over yet. The children had not returned but Arundhati had already arranged everything. Anupurba experienced a surge of affection for this woman who would have to spend her entire life atoning for that one single lapse.
Life was bound to have become difficult for her after banishing Samuel—at least financially. But she did not see any trace of the struggle on her face, the bitterness that had become her constant companion was completely gone in a few weeks. Her future was as uncertain as ever; she didn’t know how she was going to survive if her temporary job was to go away. But peace seemed to have returned to her.
‘Ah, here’s Anupurba Madam! I have arranged all the paintings on this table. Today we should decide the sequence in which you want them displayed at the exhibition.’
Anupurba took another look at the children’s paintings. She rearranged some. As she was rearranging the sequence one more time, she said, ‘We should show them once to Mrs Mathur and Ranjana.’
‘Shall I ask them to come and have a look after school is over today?’
‘Yes, go tell them.’
Arundhati left.
The children began to arrive. Their excitement knew no bounds. They had a thousand questions for her, especially about the exhibition. Who all were expected to come? Would anyone actually buy their paintings? What would happen if they remained unsold? Would there be no more art classes next year? If they continued, would Anupurba Aunty stay on? Or would they have a new Aunty? Anupurba could never have managed them without Arundhati’s help.
‘Yes, they say they will come!’ said Arundhati, coming back into the class.
Arundhati returned to what she was doing—adjusting someone’s wheelchair, stroking someone else to calm her down, putting a paint-brush in another child’s hand. You needed to have ten hands to function in this place!
‘Oh no!’ Lata shouted out suddenly.
Both Anupurba and Arundhati rushed to her side. ‘What’s the matter, Lata?’
‘I can’t get it right! It’s not happening!’ She was screaming now.
Not just today, but from the very day that the art classes had begun, Anupurba had noticed that Lata wasn’t ever satisfied with her own drawing. Perhaps her crippled and helpless fingers were unable to capture the images that crowded her mind. Anupurba had spent a great deal of time trying to explain things to her. ‘It’s okay,’ she would say. But Lata silently dismissed her. She knew nothing was okay.
‘Who said it is not happening?’ Anupurba said enthusiastically. ‘Your work is so wonderful!’
‘No, it isn’t! No one will even look at my painting!’
Anupurba’s enthusiasm failed to convince Lata.
All of a sudden, Anupurba felt apprehensive. Were the children becoming too tense? Had she over-pitched the whole exhibition thing? With the event next week, who knew how pressured they felt inside?
Arundhati put down a bottle of green paint, which she had made by mixing blue and yellow colours, in front of Lata.
‘Now colour those plants green!’ she said.
‘No, I won’t!’ Lata shouted. ‘It’s no use! Take it a-w-a-y-.’ She picked up the bottle of paint in her crippled hands and threw it to her right, where Arundhati had arranged all the paintings on a small table. Then she pushed her chair aside and walked out of the classroom sobbing loudly and uncontrollably.
The other children in the class seemed to have turned into statues. So did Anupurba and Arundhati.
But it was Arundhati who recovered first. She ran to the table with a box of tissues and dabbed away at the green paint splattered across the children’s paintings.
Anupurba was silent. In a helpless stupor she watched months of hard work destroyed in a single moment!
Neither Anupurba nor Arundhati knew when the bell rang and the class ended. Luckily, Lata’s deformed hand lacked strength and so the paintings on the far side had not been affected. But the paintings on one side were ruined.
Anupurba held up a painting in her hand. It was one of Raja’s. Although Anupurba had not spoken to anyone about it, she knew this was the pick of all the paintings. It was also the one that had suffered the most damage. There were large green splashes on the delicate water-colours. There was no way one could repair them.
‘What happened?’ Mrs Mathur asked as she entered the classroom with Ranjana.
Anupurba did not reply but moved slightly to one side. She still could not speak. There was something stuck in her throat. She covered her lips tightly with the fingers of her right hand; she did not trust herself.
‘Who did this?’ Ranjana asked. She realized that the pictures had been vandalized.
Arundhati said haltingly, ‘Lata got angry and flung a bottle of paint.’
‘Lata!’ Both Mrs Mathur and Ranjana were surprised.
Whatever else she was, Lata wasn’t known to be given to fits of ill temper. What could have made her do such a thing?
There was no time to discuss what had happened or even to worry about it. They all got busy trying to remove the splashes of green paint on pictures that still had some hope. It took them a long time.
Anupurba rearranged the paintings on the table.
‘What shall we do now? The exhibition can’t begin on schedule.’ She was speaking to no one in particular.
‘Why not?’ It was Mrs Mathur.
‘How can we show these splattered paintings? Just a handful has been saved . . .’
‘Anupurba, this is Asha Jyoti’s exhibition, not an exhibition by a famous art gallery,’ Ranjana said. ‘No one will come here to see a Husain or a Gujral. Those who come will know the background; they will come because they have sympathy for us. For such people, even the flaws will be strengths. We will go ahead; we will have our exhibition on schedule. Believe me, we have enough in here. Don’t worry at all.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Mathur dramatically. ‘Let’s roll.’
Painting by Farooq © Spastics Society of Karnataka
Seventeen
Shobha was so busy—almost as though she was a wedding coordinator or something. She was running around, printing the invitations, mailing them, going to several places to deliver them in person, speaking to press people, informing all the parents, getting the event schedule rehearsed. She was everywhere. Over the weekend, Anupurba finally caught up with her on the phone to see how things were.
‘You will be thrilled with the turnout,’ Shobha said.
Anupurba did not want to think about it. She was not swayed easily and would believe it when she saw it. After the Lata fiasco, she simply kept her fingers crossed.
‘Shobha, did you invite Shubhendu?’ she asked.
‘No, they will not come.’
‘Why not? Wouldn’t this be a good way to soften Reena?’
‘No, Purba. They are leaving town. Forever,’ Shobha replied. There was no emotion in her voice. ‘They will be gone soon. They decided to pack up and leave.’ Anupurba did not say anything.
~
While they were all waiting outside to receive the Chief Guest on the first day of the exhibition, Ranjana came and quietly stood beside Anupurba.
‘There is something I want to tell you,’ she whispered.
‘Tell me,’ Anupurba said.
‘Prashant has got a transfer to Bangalore.’
‘Who? Oh, my God! Prashant!’ Anupurba realized in an instant who she was referring to.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’ Ranjana was in bliss.
‘Oh Ranjana, I can’t tell you how happy I am. Congratulations.’ She hugged her and as she suddenly remembered something, she said, ‘So, now you won’t have to leave Asha Jyoti. It’s wonderful. This school needs you so much.’
Ranjana smiled. ‘No, the question o
f my leaving Asha Jyoti doesn’t arise any more. It’s such a load off my mind! I was only trying to be brave when I told you that I would go away after my marriage, but I wasn’t at peace with myself . . . But you’ll be gone soon, won’t you? It was so nice to have you here . . .’
Anupurba felt sad. The friendship between them would have taken years to blossom in some other setting. Now she would have to leave all this behind!
‘How wonderful it would be if you . . .’ Ranjana started to say something but the sentence remained unfinished. The Chief Guest’s car had arrived.
The Chief Guest was Bangalore’s celebrated artist, Madhuri Basappa. Her paintings were routinely exhibited in Paris and Manhattan. That year she had received the Padma Bhushan. The camera crew surged forward.
Mrs Mathur escorted her into the exhibition hall. Anupurba deliberately kept herself in the background. How would Madhuri Basappa react to the paintings, she wondered. She might applaud, just to please her hosts—or she might not deign to do even that. A plain-speaking artist, she might say bluntly, ‘These children have to work much harder. The paintings are not bad, but they could be far better.’ If she said such a thing, the children would feel so discouraged.
‘Excuse me!’
Anupurba turned around. The man talking to her was fair-complexioned and tall. His hair was prematurely grey, but he did not look a day over forty. There was a cultured air about him. Where had she seen the gentleman before? At Asha Jyoti? Or was it at some party? The face looked so familiar.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you a teacher here?’ he asked, glancing at the badge round her neck.
‘No, just a volunteer,’ she replied.
‘I had a few questions to ask about this exhibition,’ the man said. ‘I don’t know who to ask. Could you . . .’
Children of A Better God Page 14