Girl in a million

by Anitha Padanattil

  I had judged Shruthi to be of the quiet kind. Since we hardly knew each other, I stood next to her with our backs supported by a low parapet wall while we watched the sun’s rays play on the wall opposite us. She had turned her head and smiled at me. Shruthi had brown eyes, I noticed, and a kind smile. I remember her telling me, “You know…Gayathri is just a show-off. I have heard you hum and I know that you are way better than her. Don’t you ever think that you can NOT do this. Whatever you have been in the past, I have no idea but this, I know. She is no match for you. Just let the teacher hear you.” And that was how I fell for kind-hearted Shruthi. She had divined my dilemma and though she was not much of a talker, she could pack quite a punch when she did. Needless to say, I had had the harridan floored.

  A short while later, Gayathri upped for the land of the trumpet. She now resides in the land of the whites, safely ensconced alongside her pupils. Shruthi had been right all along and with Marge for company, we made a fabulous threesome.

  *

  April 2017

  [My thoughts suddenly flit back to the present. I seem to be alternating between my girly past and the more recent past. My apologies for the inconvenience but please do stay with me. You will get wind of the situation soon enough.]

  I wake up.

  And look at familiar surroundings.

  However…. there’s something different about today.

  Wait a minute.

  Is that the same clock on the wall?

  It’s what I asked for, I know. But it’s not the same as the one in my bedroom.

  Pause.

  Refocus.

  Think.

  This is a hospital. My hospital.

  I should know. I chose the wall colors. The shades and blinds in every room. Including the basic furniture.

  So, why am I here?

  My eyes turn to my right. I look at the IV tube connected to my arm.

  Drip, drip.

  On my left is my nephew Chandrashekhar, renowned Oncologist and, Director of the Sagarika Group of Charitable Hospitals. He has a concerned look on his face.

  I smile at him and raise my eyebrows.

  “It’s nothing, so far,” he responds. “You’ve had a minor fainting spell. We are running the tests.”

  Chandru gets up and walks over to the chart by the bed-side. The question and answer session will begin now. I know the routine well enough. This is what I would do too. I sigh.

  “Go on, Chandru,” I say.

  After we dispense with the initial queries, the probing begins.

  “Since when have you had these episodes aunty Sagu?”

  I chew thoughtfully on the insides of my cheek as the mind fumbled with a reply. Being evasive has never been my strongpoint. But Chandru is known for his dogged persistence and I blurt out, “Not sure, Chandru. Didn’t think of maintaining a record.”

  I have been quick on the uptake and Chandru suspects that for sure but mercifully enough, I am let off the hook.

  I know when they began though.

  They occurred a few days prior to Manu’s take off on the quest for the unknown. The recurrences have been fairly frequent since then.

  I have been terrified but maintaining the façade at home and work is a must. No point in letting people down. A thing I learnt from a friend called Marge ages ago. That’s aunty S for you.

  “Aunty, if you are not going to open up, I’ll have to run some more tests.”

  I shrug. Nothing I cannot handle.

  Chandru replaces the chart, gives an audible sigh and indicates that he has to leave. He motions at the clock, holds out three fingers, points at me and closes his eyes. I nod. This is how we communicate when we run out of words. He has been with me for quite some time now. My nephew and son—both rolled into one.

  I drift off to sleep.

  I dream of Assam. See it in my mind’s eye; the lovely, unspoilt land of the Assamese. Of late night weddings under the full moon and houses enclosed within bamboo fences, the thatched mud huts beside paddy fields, impromptu picnics held in the mangrove a few furlongs away from home, running bare feet through freshly turned clayey soil looking for crayfish, of hopscotch games as well as lock and key madness, the mad tumble through gentle mounds of grass engaged in fierce fights with Manu, trading fisticuffs with the local lads and returning home with torn chemise and bloody knees.

  My senses are on a high. I feel the warm tangy air. Memories of trips to school on the cycle rickshaw that is tipped on one side with heavy schoolbags and lunch boxes and crammed children on the other end with some of them awkwardly perched on a single buttock. Of the day that father came to pick us up on his Vespa scooter and realizing that the foul odor that pervaded my senses was actually my brother. He had done the potty in his shorts. Father’s reaction to my awkwardness was to ride on blithely.

  The memory makes me grin.

  And grin turns to chuckle.

  Ratna—short for Ratnalakshmi K. B.—looks at me and smirks. There’s a part of me that has locked her inside. Tight. So tight, that I can see her grimace, nostrils expanding with the effort.

  I was back within a setting that was familiar and close to my heart. The white walls with the blue bordered windows of our classroom offered scant comfort as I squirmed on receiving the ‘sure shot backward ankle kick’, a Ratna-special. My toes curled in response as exquisite pain flooded my being and my eyes watered mightily. I heaved a deep breath and summoned my resources. I knew that the action had been made to convey annoyance over our constant chatter. Sitting just ahead of me gave her the clean angle she needed. The effect of the kick was such that it took a few hours for the pain to subside. I was furious and vengeful. She needed to feel my S tackle—and soon. It was primarily a rules-free contest that depended on how fierce the participants were. As I fumed and waited for recess to begin, Malini rushed up to me and said, “Don’t try any stuff with her, S.”

  The champion in me rose ten feet higher. Scared was she?

  “Actually, quite the opposite. It’s just that she has an artificial right limb.”

  Marge, Shruthi and I, we were floored. Now where did that come from? Malini indicated that Ratna was walking over in our direction and hurriedly disappeared into the crowd.

  I watched her amble towards us. She wore the same but slightly crumpled uniform and a similar set of canvas Bata shoes like all of us. Nothing marred her complacent expression. Her gaze though, was locked on me—direct and unwavering.

  “Hello, S. You seem to be quite popular. I’m Ratnalakshmi K.B. Are we friends?”

  String of words recited without pause.

  She had planned it well and I had to hand it to her.

  Three solemn pair of eyes inspected the intruder. Ratna’s knowing chuckle triggered the first of our uproarious laughter sessions.

  That was our Ratna; unapologetic, yet sincere. Our rock. I wouldn’t want her to lose her composure for any nincompoop situation. Ever.

  She stayed in the student quarters the school had just built. It was reserved for children who were deemed special cases. Physically challenged was not a word we used then. She was a bit slow, gait wise. Plus the fact that she spent her holidays in each of our homes practically made her a family member. Not having a mother and having been raised in various hostels from a very early age, made her appreciate the love and concern of the mothers towards their progeny. Something that was so casually taken for granted by us strengthened her resolve to firmly point out facts reducing the guilty member to a squirming mess of tears and penitence. Not surprisingly, our mothers adored Ratna. And she, in turn, basked in the warmth.

  So here we were: Zenana’s core.

  With Marge – my soul twin,

  Shruthi – the Buddha with the punch,

  Ratnalakshmi K.B. – space within my heart,

  Malini – on-and-off entrant and lastly,

  Yours truly – most vulnerable goof!

  I do not know why I always likened core Z to the curry of South India, the ubiq
uitous Sambar. Its tangy aroma enticed me from any hole that I crawled into, books be damned. I could mop it up with any kind of bread, scoop it up with my palm and gulp it down. Any remaining rivulet would be licked all the way from my elbows to the tip of my fingers. Secretly licking the plate clean was another passion of mine. Wrathful looks and tight slaps I would deal with later.

  I transferred this liking to my BFF’s calling Marge, the dhal of my life. Shruthi was the roasted, ground coconut that could knock me senseless with her one-liners. Ratna, my spicy darling, spread her somberness through her flavors. Malini was the sour tamarind juice that might or might not be needed for the recipe on that particular day. And I was the seasoning, the grand dame that topped the delicacy and announced to everyone assembled that here was the flavorsome manna, ready to be served.

  Seasonal vegetables were added as per availability and these formed the next level of the Z. Thus, we had sambar with tomatoes, sambar with small onions, sambar with drumstick, sambar with white or, red pumpkin pieces, sambar with carrots and potatoes, sambar without tomatoes and so on… a seemingly endless concoction that could be recreated over and over again. Friends would pop in according to the occasion and stay in for a temporary period. Friendships ranged from a week to several months. There were no hard feelings. Every newcomer was welcomed and absorbed into the general melee. Leave takings went as per what the situation entailed. It was, therefore, a good series of uncomplicated summers.

  *

  Unseen hands grope

  Grapple and seek.

  They fight their way through the darkness.

  Terror engulfs me.

  Screams bubble in my throat.

  I try to shrink. Meld into the shadows.

  But the hoarse voice continues to whisper.

  Urges me to remain still.

  Helpless tears flow.

  No one hears me. No one knows.

  Therefore, I remain.

  Boxed up in a distant fragment within me, I shake uncontrollably at the memories and wake up gasping.

  The shivering continues. It is primal. Submerged deep within, but one that threatens to resurface from time to time.

  I clench my fist and close my eyes. Summon my maker.

  Chandru finds me in this trance-like state. He waits by the door, anxious. When my eyes open, I register his presence. He is immediately by my side.

  “What was it, Aunty Sagu?”

  “Just a nightmare, Chandru. The usual. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Do you want to talk about it? If not with me, Dr. Hema would be glad to help out.”

  “At this stage? Don’t think that would be necessary,” I reply smilingly. “They have a limited time span, same as everything else.”

  Chandru doesn’t enjoy this flippancy. He’s always been the sober one. After a grunt that conveys dissatisfaction, he leaves the room.

  I gesture towards my smartphone. It’s been a while since I checked in. A nurse admires the ink blue personalized cover and respectfully hands it to me. Within seconds, I’m engrossed.

  Block it, box it up and shift to an enjoyable pastime, Sagarika. This will pass. It always will.

  All those mountains that have been climbed… it’s time for succor. Gently herald in the shift - tiny voices chime on the sly.

  Heaven help me but I’m not done yet.

  So, crawl back to your corner. You, the harbinger of ill will. Just stay where you are.

  Stay!

  *

  [Meanwhile, getting back to the zenana…]

  We borrowed bicycles for the lunch hour trip, four Butterbee bicycles. Ratna was perched behind Marge. None of us could handle the extra weight. The handle wobbled but Marge managed to plod on.

  Exit slip requirement was a rarity those days. A casual request to the class teacher followed by her nod of acquiescence would suffice. Plans would be made beforehand and a trip to a friend’s house for lunch, stationary shop for greeting cards, the nearby library or even the ice cream shop for a refreshing summer treat would be made. Ogling at boys and getting ogled in return heightened the sense of achievement.

  Skin crimping in the merciless sun, sweat breaking out all over followed by damp patches under the arms and backs, bushy eyebrows and hairy upper lips nonetheless, our giggles and covert glances clothed in blue pinafores attracted furtive stares. Unwanted comments and leers were left for the kind attention of Deendayal, Marge’s brother. Watching him caress bruised knuckles with pride enmeshed us even more into the snug cocoon we were in. It seemed to us as if we were in our own secret little world.

  Tests and exams flew by. Two summer vacations were spent at Oothukudi and life seemed to be settling down. Malini seemed to be even more elusive. A covert bird whispered that she was ‘carrying on’ with a salesman from the swanky shop down the road. Marge and Shruthi tried to knock some sense into the girl. But it seemed to me that a different light had entered her eyes.

  Enamor was a word, an emotion I had read about. But hurting the family and us, resisting caution, being reckless and gay was a side of Malini we had never been exposed to. She seemed lethargic, gazing dully out of the windows on some days and on others, humming romantic Thamizh melodies. Malini and romance was an unusual combination that had us dumbstruck, flabbergasted.

  The covert bird once again informed us that Malini had upped to Tirupathi with her beau. This, she informed, was to exchange garlands in the presence of the Lord and enter the hallowed portals - blissful wedlock was our surmise.

  Our wrath knew no bounds and off we flew on the borrowed bicycles to Malini’s house. We felt our courage desert us as soon as we spied hordes of concerned people assembled in a large group outside the house and scrambled for a quick getaway but our bikes were confiscated and the questioning began soon after. After a while, we managed to convince them of our innocence in the matter and were allowed to leave by the troubled family members. Loud discussions were held as to whether the police should be informed. Lamentations against the same were heard from within the house. Those could have quite possibly come from Malini’s mother and the women of the house.

  Feeling sick at heart and saddened at the turn of events (Ratna in particular), we made our way back to school. There was up roar over our absence. Classes had already begun—informed our friend, the kind-hearted watchman. And so, we trooped wearily to the Principal’s office. Relating the events to the beady-eyed lady, we were dismissed with a curt warning and asked to hand in a written apology to the terrified class teacher who was being consoled by her colleagues in the staff-room.

  But our eyes were blank and our hearts, heavy. What was to happen to Malini? Would she come back to us? Was she really and truly married? She had not completed her schooling. Wasn’t that necessary? Why were we excluded from her private mooning sessions? Or did we just not notice or care? Ratna’s face turned pinched and drawn. We were called for and questioned by all the teachers. Some were kind. Some persistent, while most others remained unconvinced. We visited the store to ask about Malini but the manager kept shooing us out.

  Our Zenana had shrunk. We felt depleted, helpless. The school however, remained and Oothukudi stayed in place. So we tried to meld in. No matter what, the days pretty much flew past us.

  *

  [My thoughts now shift to another hospital room where I am confined. All the boxed up thoughts…the ones I had put a lid on, are running loose. My mind is in turmoil and I am heaving with suppressed emotions.]

  “She’s fine. Fit as a fiddle,” pronounced the Doctor to the grave faces assembled around him.

  “At this age, the healing is faster. Repair processes, quicker,” he mumbled. The elders squirm in their chairs.

  Fine. Fit. Healing well.

  Words.

  Words.

  Words!

  An inner fiddle plays inside – grim reminder,

  Of the ache that had burrowed deep within

  Of a hurt that will carry on.

  Loss of the tiny soul. That’s
on me.

  I remain impassive though my innards shriek. I cringe in shame and guilt.

  Soul. Tormenting. Grief.

  My penance remains complete to this day.

  To remain childless is not just an obligation…it is my dakshina6. To the lost one. For the one that I once had and did not, no, could not protect.

  My stature within the family is complete. No one questions me about anything anymore. None would dare suggest anything with an iota of condescension.

  What I do now, would be something that gifts me peace.

  Everyone, do let me be.

  The vile and the base have to give way to the fresh. Sagu is now S. My new cloak needs to be visited quite often and the familiarity woven through in dense layers.

  Malayapuram, I had abandoned without a thought. Abandoned my hearing-impaired grief-stricken Ammumma. I could not, would not, return to my beloved Oothukudi as well. My beloved Z would visit me from wherever they were stationed.

  My heart knew that. But for now, there was not a soul I yearned for. I did not need anyone…only, a fresh hole to crawl into. For as long as it took.

  Flashes of a train ride and a yellow board that displayed the name-Koottupuram popped up. The first tear dripped down. And they wouldn’t stop. I cried for two inescapable days. My sorrowful mother gave me company. I was inconsolable. My childhood, the Z, all the happiness, Oothukudi, were lost to me.

  Systematically destroyed. My motto for life had been ripped out as I caved in to the desolation. I wept until exhaustion took over. Having been sleep deprived for long, numbness washed over and acted as painkiller.

  For how long or how many days I slept, I do not remember.

  But when my eyes opened, I saw Marge, Ratna and, Shruthi.

  My eyes welled as they scrambled towards me. Hugs turned into tears. Tears turned into smiles.