‘You can ask me,’ she said. ‘I might be able to answer your questions. Why don’t I show you the paintings?’
He pulled a pencil and a sheet of paper out of his pocket as he followed her. Was he a journalist? But the press conference had taken place a day earlier. Most newspapers had carried the reports.
The gentleman studied each painting in the exhibition carefully, from the first to the last, asking very specific questions. Who was the artist? How old was he or she? What disability did the artist have?
‘May I ask you one question? What organization do you represent?’ Anupurba finally asked, unable to restrain her curiosity.
‘Oh, I am from a software company . . .’
Someone from a software company taking so much interest in paintings by the children of Asha Jyoti?
He folded the sheet of paper and put it back in his pocket. Then, in an admiring tone, he said, ‘I see you are very knowledgeable about these paintings.’
Anupurba did not want to explain her role in the exhibition; she only said, ‘Thank you!’
‘One last question. How does one buy these paintings?’
‘You would have to see our Public Relations Officer, Shobha, for that. Would you like to speak to her now? I can call her.’
‘Please.’
‘Shobha, can you come here for a minute?’ Anupurba called out and as soon as Shobha saw the man with her, she came with long strides from across the hall.
‘Mr Rathore! What a pleasant surprise! I never thought you would find the time to come here! Thank you so much for coming! Let me introduce you to our Principal.’
Shobha led Mr Rathore away to the spot where Mrs Mathur was talking to Madhuri Basappa. After a few moments, she returned quickly to Anupurba.
‘Purba, what was Mr Rathore asking you?’ She was as excited as a schoolgirl.
‘Who is this Mr Rathore?’ Anupurba asked.
‘You haven’t heard of Ranbir Rathore?’
‘Which Ranbir Rathore?’ Anupurba asked. Then she remembered. ‘You mean the person who has set up that huge software company in Bangalore? He’s in the papers almost every day!’ No wonder the face looked familiar.
‘How come he was here? Did you invite him?’
‘Yes, I did. I’ve been going around handing out invitations to all and sundry. Who knows—someone may turn out to be a Good Samaritan. But you tell me now—what was he asking you?’
‘He went around the exhibition and looked at everything closely. Asked me dozens of questions about the children whose paintings are exhibited here. Finally, he asked how he could buy some of these paintings. That was why I called you.’
Shobha’s face lit up.
‘It would be wonderful for us if Ranbir Rathore bought some of the paintings. It would give us a lot of publicity and that would attract other buyers.’
Madhuri Basappa spent some time at the exhibition and then left. But Ranbir Rathore stayed on, chatting away with the children, occasionally holding a child’s hand or stroking a child’s head. He was in no hurry.
Finally, just as he was leaving, he said something to Mrs Mathur and Ranjana in a low voice and got into his car. Anupurba was observing them from a distance. She could not catch the words, but she did see Mrs Mathur look astounded. What could he have said, she wondered.
As soon as the car drove away, an excited Mrs Mathur waved to Shobha and Anupurba. She obviously wanted to tell them something of great importance.
‘What happened, Mrs Mathur?’ Anupurba asked eagerly.
‘Thank you, Anupurba! You are an angel!’
Anupurba could only stare at her.
‘Ranbir Rathore says he will buy up all the paintings that have remained unsold at the exhibition. But not at the price we want. “You ladies are not cut out for business,” he told me, “these paintings are priceless.”’
‘Anupurba, he was completely charmed by the way you described the paintings to him and explained the feelings of each child behind every painting,’ said Ranjana and hugged her.
‘I haven’t given you the all-important news yet, Anupurba.’ It was Mrs Mathur. ‘Mr Rathore’s company will sponsor the school’s art department!’
‘What do you mean art department?’
‘They will get a new building constructed. Only for art! And they will pay the salaries! They will provide everything we need—furniture, art materials, everything!’
So much! Now it was Anupurba’s turn to be overwhelmed.
‘That’s not all, Anupurba! His company will buy up everything that our children paint! Their paintings will be hung in all the company’s offices, in every part of the world! He has asked me to send Shobha to his office soon; he wants everything finalized on paper, copyright ownership and all that stuff.’
~
It was the last day of the exhibition. Anupurba would soon be free now. No need to rush to Asha Jyoti on Mondays and Thursdays. Her work was over.
She should be glad. But somehow, she was feeling weighed down. As though she was going to part with something precious. She searched her mind for the reason.
Mrs Mathur came and flopped down in a chair next to hers after she had escorted an important guest to his car.
‘Thank you so much, Anupurba!’ she said. ‘The exhibition wouldn’t have gone off so well but for you.’
‘What are you saying, Mrs Mathur?’ Anupurba said, embarrassed. ‘What did I do? It was the children who did everything! And it was you, Ranjana and Shobha who made all the arrangements.’
‘That isn’t true, Anupurba,’ Mrs Mathur said. She was silent for a moment; she was thinking what words to use. Then she said haltingly, ‘There is something I wanted to ask of you.’
‘Please ask, Mrs Mathur.’
‘You’ve heard about Mr Rathore’s offer. This summer we can get the Art Wing ready. When the school reopens in June, we can hold proper art classes in a spacious hall, not in that tiny room. Can’t you take charge of the new wing, Anupurba?’
‘Me?’
Thinking that the expression on her face indicated hesitation, Mrs Mathur said, ‘And not as a volunteer. I would like you to join the school as a regular teacher.’
‘Mrs Mathur, how can I carry such a big responsibility all by myself?’
Mrs Mathur thought for a moment. ‘You’re quite right,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to find someone who can help you. Full time. The art department won’t be short of funds now. After you’ve agreed, I’ll have to advertise. Then you can select someone yourself.’
‘There’s no need to advertise, Mrs Mathur.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Mrs Mathur waited to hear what she would say.
‘I’m ready to join Asha Jyoti whenever you want, Mrs Mathur. And as for the assistant, I already have one. She merely has to be given a permanent appointment.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ Mrs Mathur could probably already guess, though.
‘Why, Arundhati, of course! Can I find anyone better?’
The two looked at each other without a word. It was Shobha who broke the silence. ‘This calls for a celebration, Mrs Mathur.’
‘Of course. My place, tonight,’ Shanta Mathur replied with the enthusiasm of someone half her age.
‘No, Mrs Mathur, my place!’ It was Anupurba. She smiled. ‘This time it is my turn.’
Author’s Note
It was a December day, just before Christmas. At the school for children with cerebral palsy run by the Spastics Society of Karnataka, there was a Christmas party for the students. With some hesitation and considerable misgiving, I had come with my husband, Subroto. It was here at this party that I first observed, at close quarters, children crippled by cerebral palsy.
After an hour of merry-making, the party ended with a dance. The children danced to the tune of a popular Hindi film song, although the rhythm was somewhat ragged; and with them danced the staff and some of the parents and the invited guests. I was unable to join in. My legs ha
d turned to stone. Just then, a little girl tugged at my hand, ‘Come, Aunty, let’s dance!’
I cannot describe what happened to me as I swung across the floor holding on to that little crippled hand. I started sobbing uncontrollably, tears streamed from my eyes, unchecked.
Just the way it happens to Anupurba.
I returned to the school a few days later to buy handmade greeting cards which the children had created. There I met the Principal, Mrs Rukmini Krishnaswami. As we were talking, she said, ‘I am told that you are a writer. Why don’t you write about our children? No one understands them or really knows anything about them. Some, out of ignorance, even call them mad. I want them to know that most of our children are perfectly normal mentally, though they may be physically disabled.’
‘But I write only in Oriya,’ I replied. ‘It’s a regional language with very limited readership. Things may not turn out as you expect.’
‘So?’ she countered. ‘At least some people will get to know. Later, someone may even translate the work into another language. And who knows, perhaps an English translation . . .’
I was surprised at her optimism.
For some time, I thought over what she had said. Then one day, I decided to write a novel on the children with cerebral palsy, their families and their care-givers. I told myself that I would fictionalize the characters and some events but be faithful to the issues, the struggle, the disappointments and the dreams of the children and those who took care of them. There would be nothing fictional about that.
I spent the next few months mostly at the Spastics Society of Karnataka. My companion during those days was Latika, who was a teacher at the school. With her help, I got to know many teachers, parents, doctors, counsellors and voluntary workers. The experience touched me deeply.
That was about seven years ago.
One thing followed another, but I could not get on with the writing of the novel. My experiences at the school lay buried deep in my mind, perhaps waiting for the right moment to be strung together in a single narrative.
Then suddenly it happened. As I sat down to write, it was as if it wasn’t I but someone else that was writing; I was being driven by some powerful emotion.
A few days after the novel was completed, Subroto and I were invited to the wedding of Latika’s eldest son. There I ran into Mrs Krishnaswami. She had aged some, she looked a little older and now held a stick for support, but her eyes had the same glow that I had seen seven years back.
‘Have you written the book yet?’ she asked me.
I was amazed that after all these years she still remembered.
‘I have just finished writing it,’ I replied. ‘And God willing, it will soon be published.’
Her face shone. ‘I’m sure He has willed it,’ she said. ‘Do you know something?’ she added. ‘The Spastics Society of Karnataka will celebrate its Silver Jubilee this year! I have a feeling your book is timed for that.’
I could say nothing at the time. But today Mrs Rukmini Krishnaswami’s words are about to come true. Deba Shishu is getting ready, in time for the Silver Jubilee year of the Spastics Society of Karnataka. How I wish my pen could capture even a fragment of the joy that my heart feels!
Susmita Bagchi
December 2006
Acknowledgements
Deba Shishu, from which Children of a Better God is translated, appeared in Oriya in time for the release at the silver jubilee celebrations of the Spastics Society of Karnataka. People who read the original were deeply moved by it. Then I felt that the message it carried deserved an English translation. With some trepidation, I approached Dr Bikram Das who had translated a few works of the Jnanpith Award-winning writer Gopinath Mohanty. Dr Das kindly agreed to review the original and after a few days told me that he would translate it into English.
At that stage, I reached out to Sudeshna Shome Ghosh at Penguin who agreed to a book reading in the original. Being a Bengali, it was not difficult for her to follow the narrative and sense the emotions, and she agreed to publish the translation.
I am indebted to everyone at the Spastics Society of Karnataka for taking me into their world as one of them. My deep gratitude to Dr Das for translating the original into English. Without Sudeshna and my editor at Penguin, Paromita Mohanchandra, this book would not be in your hands. Thank you so much, Sudeshna and Paromita.
I must gratefully acknowledge the kindness of Shamarukh Alam Mehra, the lines from whose poem appear as those of my character, Ronnie’s.
I also want to thank my husband Subroto, and my daughters Neha and Niti, for their continuous interest and involvement in the my work.
The beautiful paintings included in this book were affectionately provided by the children of the Spastics Society of Karnataka.
All proceeds from the book will go to support the cause of all these special children for whom we pray to a better God.
Susmita Bagchi
Bangalore
Painting by Namratha © Spastics Society of Karnataka
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published by Penguin Books India 2010
www.penguinbooksindia.com
Copyright © Susmita Bagchi 2010
This translation © Penguin Books India 2010
All rights reserved
Cover painting by Sandeep of Spastics Society of Karnataka
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-143-06642-2
This digital edition published in 2015.
e-ISBN: 978-9-352-14136-4
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book.
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