Exile

by Akhilesh

  Balwant Kaur was not a historical character, but lived in the Majorganj area of Sultanpur, studying in class twelve of Keshkumari Kanya Vidyalaya. Chacha was besotted with her. One of the symptoms of his lovesickness was that she never stuck a bindi on her forehead, but Chacha always felt she was using one. At nights, he used to visualize a red, round tika on her glowing face. She never wore earrings, but Chacha thought she did. She wore some cheap bracelets from the bracelet-seller’s shop, but Chacha felt her wrists were filled with jangling glass bangles. Although she always decked herself after the current fashions, Chacha beheld only an image of utter simplicity in her. She was all the contemporary legendary heroines rolled into one for Chacha – Mumtaz, Hema Malini and Jaya Bhaduri.

  Chacha would wait with his bicycle on the road to her school. He combed his hair and removed the creases from his shirt just before she appeared. It was not only Chacha, but all the roads of the town bustled with young men engaged in similar activities when the school opened or closed. Many of them were loafers, some, psychopaths, but a few were true lovers. Chacha thought that he was a true lover. He dragged his bicycle, walking behind Balwant Kaur silently. If Balwant Kaur slowed down, he did too. If she increased her pace, Chacha walked briskly too. He stopped when she stopped. The bicycle was always there between Balwant Kaur’s and Chacha’s walking and pausing.

  Chacha was unable to see Balwant Kaur on holidays. At those times, he would hum some tragic song to himself. He was humming a tragic song one Sunday, lying alone in his room, when the nephew brought him tea in a steel cup. Suryakant put the tea on the table and asked, ‘Chacha, tell me, may I ride the bicycle to school?’

  ‘Why? I have to travel two and a half kos to college!’

  ‘But do you ever mount it, Chacha? I have always seen you lug it.’

  ‘When have you seen me?’

  ‘Every single day. At first, I thought maybe the cycle had a flat tyre, but there can’t be a flat every day.’

  Chacha gave in. He looked at Suryakant appraisingly and then asked, ‘Do you know what love is?’

  ‘Chacha, I am not a young boy any more. I know the meaning of difficult words. I can even recite Urdu couplets and poems on love.’

  Chacha did not ask the nephew to recite any couplets. He was confident of the nephew’s perception by now. He replied, ‘I am in love with a girl named Balwant Kaur.’

  ‘What’s the problem then?’

  ‘Believe me, Suryakant, my love is holy. It is not sullied by physical passion.’

  Suryakant replied, ‘Chacha, you are saying two different things. First, you said that you were in love with Balwant Kaur, and now you say you are smitten with her. Tell me, which one is true?’

  Chacha boxed Suryakant’s ears, ‘When will you catch the real meaning of words? Idiot, being in love and being smitten are one and the same!’

  Chacha let go of his nephew’s ears and picked up the cup of tea, as if trying to smother his anger. The cup emptied in a couple of sips because although it looked quite large, its bottom was high and it held little tea. Now the cup lay empty. Chacha breathed deeply to compose himself. Suryakant implored Chacha with doleful eyes. Chacha beheld his beseeching eyes and melted, and then made an effort to gratify him. ‘Come, I’ll take you to the movies, for a new film.’

  ‘Which film, Chacha?’ The nephew was pleased.

  ‘Gopi.’

  Gopi was not a new film but it was new for Sultanpur. Films usually arrived in Sultanpur in a worn-out, dog-eared shape after being screened in Mumbai, Delhi, Lucknow, Faizabad, etc. for months. Gopi had not taken very long to arrive and so, it could be considered a new film. Dulare would park himself in the publicity rickshaw and drawl on the loudspeaker, ‘On the popular demand, watch a brand new fillum, full of love, action and drama – daily in four shows at the National Talkies. Starring your favourite actors Dilip Kumar, Saira Banu, the charming film, Gopi.’ And then, a song would burst through the loudspeaker, ‘Gentleman, gentleman, main to aya London se ban than ke.’

  A triangular structure on small wheels was pushed in front of Dulare’s rickshaw. Two large posters were stuck on the two sides of the triangle, declaring in blue ink: ‘Watch four shows in National Talkies from September 10.’ The triangular contraption was pushed by a small child. As soon as Dulare stopped making an announcement, and the record on the gramophone started playing, the boy began pushing the contraption and the rickshaw puller, the rickshaw. This procession moved around town to advertise the film playing in the hall. They stayed for a considerable time in crowded places like the court, the hospital or by the station.

  They also stopped at the spots where film posters were put up. The posters were not large and were not glued on walls. A poster was put in a 2x3-foot wooden frame and hung from a tree. Passers-by stopped there to look at the posters and it also happened that people started stopping below these trees for long periods because a famous film actress was shown standing on the branch of a tree wearing a lehanga. So the walkers would halt under it to peer above in the lehanga. It was something like the occurrence in which film spectators watched a film repeatedly because in one of the scenes, the heroine, who was dancing in only a towel, has the towel being untied for a fraction of a second. People watched the film over and over again in the hope that if they had missed something the last time, they were determined to not miss it this time. But they always did.

  But Chacha and the nephew never saw any film twice. After the show, Chacha and the nephew enjoyed samosas and tea at a shop called Gupta Jalpan Grih, adjacent to the cinema hall. Suryakant, while sipping tea, said to Chacha, ‘Chacha, now I get it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That being in love and being smitten are one and the same thing. And that there is no room for physical passion in your love.’

  Chacha did not press the matter. He was not at all keen to discover his nephew’s opinions on the issue any more. The nephew took his disinterestedness as his resentment. He tried to please him, ‘Chacha, I know you smoke cigarettes secretly. You can smoke in front of me. I shall not tell anyone.’

  Later, Chacha and Suryakant smoked together. The fact was that Suryakant used to borrow Chacha’s cigarette to smoke now and then. It was like his reading some of Chacha’s books now and then. Or listening to the news after borrowing the radio from Chacha. Or jotting a sher in the love letters Chacha wrote to Balwant Kaur. Chacha was always cautious that the nephew should not inscribe one that would spoil everything.

  Chacha wrote a total of eighty-two letters to Balwant Kaur that were never handed to her. They were either shredded into pieces or read again and again by Chacha. The eighty-third letter in the series had, of course, reached Balwant Kaur.

  She was going to school one day in an azure kurta and white salwar. It was the same old scene: Chacha dragging his bicycle, following her. Everything happened in a rush. At an isolated spot, Chacha put his bicycle on the stand, handed the letter to Balwant in a flash and ran off on his bicycle as quickly as he could.

  Balwant Kaur was at first startled, holding the letter in her fist. She glanced around – there was nobody there – and she tucked the letter in her bosom. She smiled a little and then chuckled.

  The author’s description is incorrect – I neither smiled nor laughed. How could I? Because darkness spread before me as soon as I touched the letter. Perhaps this also is an erroneous account because a blinding brightness had filled my eyes. I can’t describe exactly what it was. A bubbling laughter and a loud wail rose inside me. I first felt like my feet had frozen, and in the next instant I felt as if I was flying.

  I wasn’t on foot – I was going to school on a rickshaw. It is true that I often went to school on foot and saved some money. With the money I would buy samosas at recess. I was really fond of samosas. I also bought tamarind and slurped it sometimes with salt and sometimes with kaitha. Peanuts too. I was addicted to different flavours. On this particular day, Bebe got late while packing my tiffin and the first class was taken
by Khatri Behenji, who used to hit latecomers on their palms with the edge of the ruler and punish them by making them stand on the bench. So, I took a rickshaw that day to reach in time. I preferred not eating the samosa to getting belted. The rickshaw had covered hardly half the distance when he started riding his bicycle close to my rickshaw and fled after throwing the letter on my lap. I was at my wit’s end – where should I put the letter for safekeeping? I put it under my kurta and spread the dupatta across my bosom.

  He was really lovable, and he had only one bad habit – he smoked. When I asked him to swear on my head, he quit. However, it was quite possible that he might have been smoking behind my back. He was lovable not only because he loved me or because he had quit smoking for me or because he had given me a nail polish and a charming handkerchief. He was lovable because he had been blessed by Wahe Guru.

  10

  A UNIQUE SCRIPT

  Gauri’s eyes wandered frequently to the brown wardrobe. When Gauri came to the house after her marriage, the wardrobe was already there. In Suryakant’s household, it had arrived before Gauri. She had been shocked when she had opened the beautiful wardrobe because it was a horrible junkyard. Hideous junk co-existed with Suryakant’s clean and soiled clothes, jam-packed into the space. A blanket and a quilt also had been waylaid in the wardrobe with the clothes. It appeared that the wardrobe was a shelter for all Suryakant’s stuff. It was a sanctuary for different sorts of elements like wine bottles, match boxes, cigarettes, a couple of books, a screwdriver, ants, a bottle of colonge, a watch, money and cockroaches. This upset Gauri so much that she wound a dupatta tightly around her waist and occupied herself in transforming it with a broom and a dusting cloth despite her new bride status.

  When Gauri opened the wardrobe this day after a gap of years, she found it had changed. It held clean clothes now. The soiled clothes, the blanket, the quilt, cockroaches and ants were missing. After the trouble in Suryakant’s gill, the cigarette and the matchbox had also been shunned. Of course, the wine bottles still adorned it. Several of the old things had left, and several new objects had arrived. Gauri had never examined it so minutely before. She switched on all the lights in the room. Despite the bright lights, she threw the beam of the flashlight to examine every nook and corner of the wardrobe.

  It began like this – Gaurav finished homework, had dinner and fell asleep watching TV as usual. Gauri switched it off. A hush spread in the house. Gauri was haunted at first by the feeling of being alone, and then she was haunted by Suryakant’s memories. She started dialling his number, but stopped. She thought, what if someone else picks up the phone in that house? She also wondered why she should be the one to call – he too could call! Then she grew afraid that Suryakant might call and hand the phone to his father. She switched off her mobile, lowered herself in a chair and tried to read a magazine but found it difficult to concentrate.

  Her eyes wandered time and again to the wardrobe opposite her. At first, she saw the wardrobe distantly – without any emotion – but it mesmerized her swiftly. A tremor passed through Gauri as she thought that there may be something inside which Suryakant had kept concealed from her. But she did not think exactly this thought. It was possible that she suddenly had started missing Suryakant so strongly that she wanted to reminisce about him through the stuff in the wardrobe. What mystery could possibly hide in the wardrobe? It was never locked.

  She got on a stool. On the top shelf, there were wine bottles and unopened gifts like a deodorant, a pen set, a shaving kit, a new ashtray and a tie. There also were paperweights and staplers. There was a locker on the right below this slab. Gauri held its handles but it was locked. Gauri wondered, what’s inside? Can’t I find out? However intimate we are with someone – even your closest ones – do we really know them fully? There is always something locked away. She sighed – a relationship does not survive through absolute revelation, it survives through the bits that are hidden.

  What’s in the locker? she wondered again. Where’s the key? Has Suryakant taken it with him? She rummaged through the wardrobe but there was nothing there. She shifted the objects near the locker on the slab and then put her hand behind them to search for the key. Her fingers hit something but it was not the key.

  It was a framed picture of a middle-aged couple. She started – Suryakant’s parents. She was suddenly filled with a deep exhaustion. The picture was clearly visible in the light, and still she focused the beam on it. She felt like crying. The sentiments of defeat, deceit, helplessness surged through her but she calmed herself. She touched the glass on the picture – it was not really dirty. Suryakant cleaned it regularly. She touched the plywood at the back of the frame – it felt neither new nor old. She grew restless – how long had Surya had it? This meant that Surya was not penalizing his father for snapping relations, he was punishing himself. He has been waiting all these years for me to tell him to go home. I said the word and he left.

  What’s there in the locker? The thought flashed in her mind again. She felt like calling Suryakant and asking him point blank to tell her what treasures it contained. What was the mystery? Where was its key? But she did not do it because such frivolousness was not part of her nature, and the apprehension still nagged her – what if Suryakant’s father was at the other end of the line?

  ‘I shall not call!’ she resolved. But the idea flickered again: What if they call? Ramji has returned to Ayodhya after his exile in the forest. What if the denizens of Ayodhya turn emotional and telephone me? What if Ramji himself offers the phone to his father like Maryada Purushottam? She walked to the landline and took the receiver off the cradle. Her mobile was already switched off. She went back to the wardrobe. The fever to open the locker had abated. Moreover, there were other shelves in the wardrobe to be explored. The flashlight was in her hand, her eyes were alert and her body was taut as a spring. Had somebody seen her then, they would have believed she was a sleuth from the CBI or some major detective agency, searching the house for a clue or evidence. Suddenly, she saw her own reflection in the glass on the wardrobe panel. I look like a real spy! she thought momentarily and shifted the torch beam to another corner.

  She had a rare superpower of transforming into any character she wanted. When she repaired or changed the bulbs, tube lights and switches in the house, she looked exactly like a professional electrician. While ironing clothes, she became a washerwoman; while helping Gaurav with his studies, the traits of a school mistress manifested in her. Her transformation was so intense that even Gaurav started calling her ‘ma’am’. During several bouts of his illness, Suryakant had once called her ‘sister’. When Gauri wore make-up and entered a restaurant or a high-end shop well dressed, people were convinced it was someone very important.

  Gauri herself felt that she could turn into whatever she wanted. She tried to determine how she had received this power on several occasions. At first, she thought she was deluding herself and that there may not be anything special about her. But to determine the truth, while she was in university, she decided to don the guise of a beggar. She muttered to herself, ‘I’m a beggar, I’m a beggar!’ When she came home, she walked with an odd gait, leaning to one side as if she was carrying a child on the other side of her waist. Her face was ashen and withered. Although it was not true, it seemed that her clothes were old and tattered, her lips were dry and flaked, her skin bore layers of filth.

  She said to her mother, ‘Give me some food.’ Her voice was trembling and slightly hoarse. Her mother laid her meal and said, ‘Gauri, you are looking like a beggar today.’ When she heard Ma, she mumbled happily, ‘All right, Ma, I shall be a drunk in the evening.’

  Ma did not hear her and asked, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gauri fell quiet. She had said drunkard simply because, in Hindi, the word rhymed with beggar – bhikharin-sharabin. But she enjoyed the idea of being a drunkard. She returned home after her evening walk, and kept her finger pressed on the doorbell. When the door was opened, she stumbled
and staggered. Her eyes were bloodshot. The way she behaved, it appeared there was no coordination between her lips, jaw, tongue and brain. Sometimes, one of these organs started functioning by itself while the others remained quiet.

  Ma stared at her, afraid. She tumbled into Ma’s arms and said, ‘Ma, you are not my mother but a goddess! Goddess mother, would you drink wine?’ Although it was all play-acting, yet Ma caught a whiff of alcohol.

  She pushed her daughter away and got up and said, ‘It had to come to this!’

  ‘Ma, why do you make such clichéd statements? If you want to say something, use the latest film dialogues.’ Gauri switched to her normal voice.

  Ma laughed, ‘But why is your mouth stinking?’

  ‘The smell existed not in my mouth but in your nose.’

  And in the same manner she had once become a girl possessed by a spirit, jumping over bamboo bushes and speaking in a voice raucous like a male’s. She was saying to her father, ‘I’ll accept some mutton and two bottles of wine and only then spare this girl.’

  These incidents proved to Gauri that she really had the power to transform into any character she wanted. How did this happen? At first, she believed that it was God’s gift. She had heard that God endows every creature in this world with some extraordinary power and at the same time, He curses them with a singular evil. It bestows infinite strength to a being and then fates it to act like a sloth. If He offers rare intelligence to someone, He also makes him timid and submissive. If a woman receives eternal beauty, He also casts her as a dimwit. And thus He sustains balance in the world and saves it from destruction. All human beings have obtained some gift from God but not everyone realizes their power, and people often depart from the world unnoticed. However, there are a few who do draw on their potential. Perhaps, this was God’s special gift to her.

  Doubt gripped her. Was it really unique if she could turn into a beggar or a drunkard at will? At the most, it was superb acting, a quality possessed by countless others in the world. Had she not been so diffident, she might have been one of the best actresses in the country. But from her childhood, when the teacher would ask, ‘Who wants to act in a play?’, she never raised her hand. She missed the chance of becoming a celebrated thespian, and the stage and the celluloid world missed the fortune of welcoming an exceptional talent. Gauri was about to arrive at this particular conclusion when an incident occurred that proved once for all that she did possess an exclusive divine power.