Girl in a million

by Anitha Padanattil

  They were anxious.

  I was relieved.

  *

  [Memories wash over me unceasingly and I surrender to the flow. I find that I have no control over my emotions that are in a state of tangled disarray. My thoughts sway from the past to the new perhaps, as a measure of solace. The pattern will be discerned through the randomness—it is what I can hope for. That, along with bytes interjected by members of the erstwhile zenana…. things should make sense soon enough!]

  It was the season of the thunderstorms. I loved the gusts of wind followed by pouring rains. Blue… deep-blue mountains out yonder topped by misty wraiths. One could look out the window and revel in the beauty of nature all day. In the evenings when calm prevailed, long winding walks with Ratna along half-paved roads and quick visits to the homes of numerous aunts and uncles where we were welcomed with steaming cups of tea and assorted snacks. Stuffed and fried dumplings were what we preferred but we gratefully accepted whatever was on offer.

  Those heavenly days at Sujata akka’s home that were spent listening to music, reading, watching Doordarshan channel on TV and of course, gorging on rice and red bean curry accompanied by bite sized chicken coated with akka’s special sauce. Her lentil soups and flavored mutton curries were lip-smackingly delicious.

  Salvation comes in small doses.

  Measured, but just right.

  It takes funny twists and turns yet,

  It is always there for you

  When you need it the most.

  Nilgiris. The Blue Mountain—my summer salvation for when I needed it the most.

  With Ratna and Sujata akka in the lap of Ma Prakriti (Sanskrit for Mother Nature), I was in the charming city of Ootacamund lovingly called Ooty by the natives.

  Sometimes, I wonder at the coincidence. Oothukudi, Koottupuram, Ootacamund. Could that be measured salvation? Chips of happiness cunningly dropped here and there to add to the charm?

  Relief washed over me and Ratna sensed it. She was far too astute but refrains from questioning. We did not discuss the abstinence from the annual Malayapuram visit. My insistence on accompanying Ratna to her sister’s home had a deeper reason but she knew better than to probe. We clung on to our childish prattle. Money was scarce but happiness was not. Seeking solace in the comfort of their understanding, I stored the secret box deep within the recess I had carved out.

  Learning is a continual process. Of times spent in Assam, the music, Oothukudi and the zenanaiites, and now, Ootacamund. I learnt to accept the slow with the dull, tinged with a pinch of gaiety.

  Happiness came and went. Everything was transient. Except for Malayapuram. The dull throb inside of me turned to pounding. Sweat broke out, drenching me, leading to sleepless nights.

  I had to talk. How, was the question and, to whom. The when and the where mattered as well. This was my gallivanting dilemma that nibbled away at the innards.

  Block it. Box it up, Sagarika. Another year bestowed. Salvation will

  provide. Keep the faith.

  Ratna seems to be calling me. I have to pack up. Time to face the upcoming academic year.

  Our ride back on a jolting state transport bus was uneventful except for the vehicle swerving around a hairpin bend. The feel of someone leaning on me set my teeth on edge. I crept closer and gripped Ratna’s hand.

  “You are seriously messed up, aren’t you?”

  For a fraction of a second, our glances coincide after which we hastily look away.

  “Just come back to us…wherever you go.” There was a catch in her voice.

  I felt a tremor in me, felt the tears gathering. It took more than a superhuman effort to act normal after that. Our thoughts kept us silent for the remainder of the trip. Getting down at the bus depot, bags retrieved, we faced each other awkwardly. Ratna had done me a huge favor and she understood that. I hugged her tight. She was gracious. That girl. She squeezed me briefly and turned to board the bus to school. Mine was in the far corner…gears churning, and I hurried to get in.

  We would meet again tomorrow.

  That would be another bridge to cross.

  I was safe until the next summer—dearest salvation, gracious bestower.

  So I smiled, and waved at Ratna.

  *

  Rivulets of rain splatter on windowpanes. They are everywhere. In school, our homes, dribbling over the Pallavan Transport buses, the glass facade of the latest motorcycle showroom in Koottupuram, the trees and roads. The incessant downpour has filled up all the potholes and ditches and extinguished the fires at a nearby cemetery. We watch the spires of smoke funneling upwards through the wet glass panes of the bus and connect the moisture droplets with our fingers to form figures or names, anything that made sense. On occasions, blowing a hot breath of air and penning short notes on the patch thus formed, kept us amused until it was time to disembark.

  Rushing to the main bus depot to collect our monthly bus tickets, jostling in the queue and scrambling to book seats next to the open windows was another after school once-a-month routine. Letting the wet spray wash over our faces and uniforms, hair dripping, shoes squelching and wet feet in socks nonetheless, our happiness remained firmly ensconced in the myriad pleasures of life.

  Bad grades? No worries. The trick was to aim towards the finish line and not shed tears over minor obstacles. Marge wanted to dabble in stocks. Ratna wanted to be a professor. Shruthi aimed to be an ophthalmologist. As for me, I had not decided as yet. Give me a book, some music and good food and, I was done. I would prefer to get married to a chef who had a huge library. That would be my idea of the perfect haven – provided I got married!

  Those were the childish dreams and aspirations dreamt by uncluttered, free minds. While some were achieved, others changed over the course of time to form new associations and newer ventures. Many died out or were abandoned. Intersecting unforeseen situations that created random patterns thus overlapping the old and the new. Whether destiny or fate, eventually the essence of salvation seems to be interspersed and woven into events forming a tapestry that becomes part of the whole. What seemed to be the end, turned out to be the beginning. Perspective over what is right and wrong seemed to border a thin divide. Nothing seemed good or bad anymore.

  ‘The trick was to aim towards the finishing line and not shed tears over minor obstacles.’

  I remembered that line. How relevant it seems even today.

  Glow in the dark, glowworm. Your light might be snuffed out tomorrow. But today, it exists.

  *

  Vivid memories of the science laboratory disaster stood out. A harrowing time it had been for all of us. In a space packed with sixty odd students, equipment and reagents were never enough. Sharing was the common practice. Oftentimes, the ratio was three students or more to one equipment. We were seen huddled around the Bunsen burners, tuning forks, distilling and measuring apparatus, reagents both colored and noxious. There was a single point of exit should a calamity occur. Our teacher doubled up as the lab guide and assistants were scarce. Being organized solely rested on the principle of chaotic management. How we managed then, was and still is, a mystery.

  A shriek drew us to the center of the room. Students had hurriedly moved over to the sides and Rani became the sole focus of our attention. The back of her pinafore was charred and dotted with holes. Her long plait was lying on the ground where the acid from the test tube had splashed through. The girl was whimpering and shivering in fear. Our poor teacher had run out for help. It was sheer luck that the acid content was miniscule and had spattered over Rani’s back. The severity of the burns was hence, quite minimal. The horror of the situation and the gravity of what-could-have-been stared at us right in the face.

  Rani was sent home and she rejoined school after a week, hair styled in a short bob. We surrounded her and she was overwhelmed by the attention. Our Principal conducted a special assembly and called her onto the stage. Her bravery in the face of adversity was commended. The hoopla over the incident soon faded away and sch
ool routines took precedence once again.

  Splashes of the acid on the sides of the scarred desk attracted my attention. It reminded me of the termite-ridden channels made in the wooden columns and door ends of our Malayapuram house. The red mud would be meticulously scraped away, the wood sand papered and varnished but the eruptions would be spotted yet again, in another part of the stately home. The problem, it was said, rested in the foundation. Whatever had to be done, required ministration at core levels to contain the infestation. How would an outer cleansing ensure closure of the rot that had already begun from deep within?

  I colored the damage on the desk with the blue ink of my pen. Delicacy in artistic endeavor calls for dedication and patience. It took me minutes stolen from several sessions to complete the layout. I named it, ‘Root beard’ with Rani’s name and year etched out next to it. It was a minor sensation and offered a few more days of relevance to her. Petite Acid-Rani, who had had a miraculous escape.

  *

  My reveries are cut short. Duty calls. An array of ledgers, receipts and other items are brought to my attention. Thirumalai, our chief accountant waits by the door hesitantly. I motion for him to enter. We discuss necessities.

  Time flies. I suddenly feel dizzy. The nurse, being quick to comprehend ushers everyone out of the room and Dr. Chandrashekhar is called for.

  I lie down and my vital signs are being monitored. Chandru hurries in. I feel weak and irritated. This won’t end. I need to be home. Look at my plants. Talk to the trees. Let them comfort me. I’m sure they miss me. It’s been awhile.

  I breathe in the scent of the jasmine flowers. The mild pungent neem2. Crush a leaf of the guava and lime plant between my fingers and inhale the aroma. Feel the rough bark of the mangifera indica3, bestower of the sweet Neelam4. I look up to see the tall heads of the coconut palm sway in the breeze. My throat thirsts for the sweet water of the tender coconut. I want to walk barefoot on the grass, feel the rough sand and the gravel dig into my feet.

  My train of thought shifts to the sounds of laughter. I hear the sounds of splashing water and the delighted gurgles. Of ice-cold water meeting skin and the resultant squeals. We had cowered beneath the thatched shed overhanging the pond. While Ratna watched, the three of us clad in our white singlets took turns, paddling dog-like, making short forays towards the center of the pond and back towards where she sat. There was a single bar of soap for our use. We rubbed it all over, paddled again and dried ourselves. Our dresses were randomly pushed through the narrow slats of the sloping thatched roof. With our backs turned towards each other and Ratna’s eyes discreetly covered with the help of her palms, we changed into dry clothes in a rush. Afterwards, we scrambled up the loose sand and made a mad dash for the back entrance holding our dripping clothes in one hand. Washing the sand off our feet at the tap placed next to the steps leading to the house, we avoided the nips of the friendly stray tied to the pillar and ran in. Ratna ambled in after us, gently swaying with a smile.

  Warmth, smiles, bonding. It feels strange to remember the heady days. The rush of relief that is associated with the beginning of the end.

  The Zenana had tried. Made a brave effort. But we were naïve and naivety is a tangible thread that is as fragile as the hands that try to hold on.

  *

  Recollections of Marge

  I vividly remember Sagu. I noticed her in her shorts skipping behind her father on the first day as we waited patiently to collect the application form for admission to the new school. I figured that she was an odd one. She hummed to herself and was oblivious to all the curious stares. An eighth grader was obliged to ‘behave’; especially, a South Indian eighth grader. We were not kids anymore. But Sagu, she was different.

  While we wrestled over tricky words and managed to complete our initial test paper put together by the new schoolteacher, Sagu had already rushed through the same in half the time and left for home with her parent. Since I kept a watch on her goings-on, I realized that she was quick. I wished to know her better. Her help during times like these would be extremely beneficial and a veritable time-saver for someone as non-studious as I was.

  My resolve to get to know her strengthened especially from the time we were grouped together. I chose a seat diagonally ahead of her and was thus able to watch what she did in class. She was quite amusing. Most times whilst the teacher spoke, she would be engrossed in a book that was placed on her lap. Her rough book was the subject of several scribbles—weird patterns of blue and gray; ink blue and pencil-lead-tipped shades of gray filled the pages. Her textbooks were not spared either. On and on she sketched with smudged fingers that had nails bitten through and along the sides.

  At times, I got the feeling that she disliked everything around her… us, the school, Oothukudi. It seemed to me that she had flown in from a different world. Like Tarzan and his son Korak. They felt out of place in the city too, didn’t they? The original misfits. Same as her.

  Aliens cast into different spaces.

  *

  She did not know the local language and that proved to be irksome. We didn’t know hers either and our usage of English was just basic anyway. However, I waited. I am known to be patient. This queer creature would be my friend. I wanted that badly as I felt deep down that she was special.

  Opportunity presented itself one sunny day. Her habit of sketching in books shifted to a different medium. This time, the wooden desk she was using caught her fancy. I knew that she caught my gaze but chose to ignore it. As she scratched and worked on the upper corner of her desk, I secretly became her look eye. It was as she began coloring her creation that trouble loomed. Espying the teacher making her way through the nest of tables, I grabbed my lunch box and let it fall.

  Gooey contents splattered all over the floor and pandemonium ensued. The teacher hesitated and hurried to my side. Girls scrambled towards the front of the class cooing in disgust. I had my ear mercilessly boxed and the ayah was called in to clear up the mess. I rubbed my sore ear and stole a look at Sagu. She had hastily cleared her act and caught my gaze. Our suppressed smiles confirmed what I had set out to do. Sagu was my first best friend from that day.

  In many ways, Sagu seemed like a misfit. The girl hummed in Hindi. But, she was South Indian.

  I had a half Telugu–half Tamil origin. So, Hindi was a no-no.

  She had a ‘Diana’ cut. My curly hair was always braided.

  She had inquisitive eyes. Mine were short sighted.

  She read a lot but never seemed to read schoolbooks. I pored over the latter and never seemed to make much headway.

  For her, exams were a breeze. She had decent grades, well enough for me anyway. I don’t think she cared much about them. I was relieved to have an easy time with her around though.

  There was some kind of trouble, the financial kind I gathered as her fee payment kept getting delayed during the first year. Things settled down apparently once her parents started regular work. Intimate matters concerning one’s home were seldom discussed. Our activities and conversations almost always revolved around matters related to the school.

  Ratna and Shruthi joined us and I was delighted to show them around Oothukudi. We visited all the stationary shops in and around school. Our bicycle rides took us to each other’s homes. The ride to Sagu’s was the longest and the house was always locked up. Her neighbor, an elderly pensioner, would hand over the keys to us and we would sit and drink something cool, lock up and be on our way.

  A visit to my home was an event by itself. All my friends would be awed at the spread that awaited them. We would gorge on different kinds of rice and curries, savory snacks, cool juices and end up listening to Ilayaraja and Michael Jackson’s songs on tape. Mom being an asthmatic would relax in her room under the fan and my brother Deendayal would keep an eye on us from the other room. He was elder to me by eight years and seemed stern and rigid to my mates. That was just a cover. In reality, Deenanna was a large hearted softie. He was our umbrella. The one who looked out fo
r us. Gentle giant with the bony knuckles. Those punches connected quite well.

  It was only once that the knuckle routine backfired. And how! Gross miscalculation cloaked in the garb of childishness. The regret has remained in us until today. A fistula of deep guilt lying in our gut that refuses to let go.

  The umbrella that failed to offer respite…. wilting in the face of nature’s fury. Our Sagu. Beloved zenaniite. How mightily we failed you.

  *

  (Sagu’s Recount) 1990 –

  The Year of Aimlessness

  When you are seared, physical pain precedes the emotional. Slowly, as the numbness begin, the sense of ‘being’ in the real fades. The world around you narrows down so much so that the stark reminder, of having to cross an insurmountable obstacle - the one that looms ahead, remains. Save for the reservoir that builds and gathers, no other being can help tide over the mountain that only YOU are required to cross. It is either crossed or, the purpose remains defeated. It is as simple as that.

  After the incident, we moved to the city. Relocation was painful. Everything was. What was not? A degree of pain is associated with any experience. Every experience would have that bittersweet flavor. Father’s new job and my mother’s lack of it, my brother’s new school, the skipping of my board exams and of course, being far…far away from familiar surroundings. We were all in our holes. Digging deep. Trying to crawl through and cover ourselves from the eyes of the world.

  No one suspected. None knew. But to us, we were the accused. The ones who carried the burden of guilt. Of shame. Each immersed in their private grief. Living listlessly. Trapped in limbo.

  Books were forgotten. So was music. Home was not home anymore. There was a heavy cloud of suppression that gathered and darkened but did not burst open.