Girl in a million

by Anitha Padanattil

  Student quarters, she chose over family.

  Until, we came along.

  Until, Sagu lent her her heart.

  *

  He came that night. The door was unlatched and we slept on. The door was locked once again. But it was not Sagu’s hand that did it.

  A hand clamped over a mouth, cutting off screams. Reason struggled to rise. It was dark and groping hands flailed. There was a dull thump… of the foot falling onto its side. A wild struggle ensued, accompanied by the rustle of clothes and hot breathing.

  “Ratna?” Sagu’s tentative call rang out. Silence. Stillness. A hand reached out for the foot. Palm clutched cold air. So she reached down, grabbed the foot and swung it in the direction of the shirtless body. There was a stifled groan and a dull thump. Ratna had managed to slide off from below Velan onto the floor and crawl towards the door. Sagu hefted the foot once again as Velan prepared to grab Ratna.

  In the darkness, Sagu noticed the dishevelment. “No,” she whispered. “Not her.” The murderous glint in Velan’s eyes dimmed and he paused for a second.

  “Please don’t,” went the painful entreaty.

  As his hand inched forward, the foot came down once again. But this time, he was ready. Avoiding the move, he lunged towards Sagu and the foot rolled towards the wall.

  The sound of a hard slap resounded within the small room. The air remained motionless. Sagu’s head rolled and pounded. Throbbing lips that were split wide open struggled to form words.

  Steel bands imprisoned her, prompting the whimper. “Go Ratna, just go.”

  *

  And the terrified Ratna fled. Releasing the bolt, she hopped towards the wooden stairwell. Stomach heaving. Hopping. Gasping. Reaching out for the handhold. Gripping with slippery fingers. Pausing to listen to the wild struggle behind her.

  She barely felt the steps, the eight wooden ones she had rolled over. It was quick, guaranteed to break her neck or, her one good leg. But Ratna was safe.

  For a second, she felt herself meander and her eyes closed. Ears ringing, head throbbing, she forced herself to stir.

  There was a flurry of movement. Lights were switched on.

  And that was how the elders found her, crumpled and bent. Limbs askew, nightdress in tatters, keening softly on the landing. As they struggled to comprehend the fright in her eyes, their looks involuntarily turned, to seek out her beloved companion. For the explanation that was required.

  As the pitiful shrieks and rhythmic whumps filtered through the still night, Sagu’s parents remained rooted to the spot unable to understand.

  It was simultaneous. The realization and fading away of the intrusive sounds into the sensation of dread, that slowly crept in. Sagu, beautiful child, how could this happen? Light of our lives, how could the blight wipe away the glare?

  *

  From the Bend to the Turning Point –

  Kurinji

  Sitting under the shade of a tall coconut palm, watching the green waters flowing past, inner thoughts quite often spoken aloud, my queer behavior became my cloak. It helped reduce visibility. Passers-by avoided looking at me. Out of deference for my poor mother I suppose. To them, I was like Kurinji. Another hapless soul. Another lost one. I couldn’t care less though. My fears, angst, gender were all proving to be an impediment. What more could bash me up?

  I wondered about Kurinji though. From my mother, I gathered that she was a drifter. Perhaps she had a sad story to tell. But no one listened. She was thought of as mute. And so she set up base, by the communal well. Beneath the large frangipani tree that covered the place with its fragrant blossoms. The women obsessed over her. Speculation was rife that she was not quite alright. And so she was christened Kurinji - after the blooms that were rarely seen but noted for their beauty. And the name seemed to please her given her love for the champakam flower. When she was called, her response would often be a pre-occupied half-smile.

  Once, I had peeked at her from a distance and found her gazing at me. Was she as curious about me as I was of her? Abashed, I had run away and taken my place here. Everything about the beckoning had been gentle. The half shade, the salty warm air that flowed over my body, everything had offered comfort. Perhaps Kurinji had listened to the snide remarks being passed about me and smiled that familiar half-smile of hers. We were both lost souls I think. Similar in nature. Silent, absorbed, and withdrawn from the prying eyes and lips.

  I had never sought to intrude and neither did she make any attempt to invade my space. It was as if our borders were pre-defined. I could soon be christened with a name that the community thought fit and the thought displeased me. Suddenly, just suddenly, I wanted to move on. Continue with my search elsewhere. My mother would accompany me in meek suppliance I suppose.

  Were my days of solitude reaching an inevitable end? Perhaps nature was forcing her hand. Destiny and Nature - two words that could be compared, yet, seemed radically different. I have always felt that both entities are the same. We are all part of the same rat race. A cycle that is unending. Individual differences and experiences are what make us unique.

  Ratna was an unnecessary spoke in the wheel that terrible day. The one that was not meant to be. When a cat stalks its prey, its silent watch initially serves to deflect the opponent. The watch though, never wavers. The deception doesn’t lessen. The initial slip from the pursuit creates a lull but the patient wait of the tail with the twitch never falters.

  The bashing that Velan received from the three youths only served to enrage him further. What seemed to be an untouchable commodity served to entice even further… a fact that was highlighted by the undue aches and pains on account of the ferocious assault. Just as a bully targets the weak, Ratna seemed easily accessible. Availability of yet another prey accentuated the sense of arousal. Lust, anger and patience coupled with carelessness gave the opportunity Velan required that fateful night.

  My reverie was interrupted by shouts and loud talk. People were seen moving hurriedly towards the direction of the frangipani tree. What could be the matter, I wondered. Joining the melee as I got caught between bodies swaying and crushed together, I caught the general drift of the conversation. Someone by then had noticed the odd girl (me) in their midst. Hands turned me back. Prodded me on towards my temporary place of stay.

  I tried to resist. An inherent dread had turned my insides to jelly. My legs turned to stone and I refused to budge from where I stood. People exclaimed at my odd behavior. In the end, a neighbor was asked to take me home. In their eyes, I was young and shouldn’t be privy to the scene that lay just a few yards away.

  The neighbor related the unfortunate incident to my mother in great detail. It was Kurinji. She had been violently violated. Her remains were being taken to the electric crematorium. How could anyone be callous enough to disturb the peace of a helpless, harmless being was beyond comprehension. The neighbor tut-tutted her sympathy for the poor soul. Kurinji was vague, kept to herself and was known to be ‘not right in the head.’ If there were no hope for an abstract being, how safe would normal women in the general vicinity be?

  My mother was advised to refrain from letting her child wander outdoors, all by herself. After all, if Kurinji was harmed, then perhaps I could possibly be the next target.

  *

  So, we bundled up all over again. Gathered together our meager possessions. It was time to escape yet another hellhole.

  And I agreed with that. For a heart-stopping moment, mother and child bonded over a gaze.

  Rustle. Pack. Time to join the family. Memories were not to resurface. They were to be stored away, far from all necessities that conform to the normal.

  Mother’s mumblings helped me box them up. Block their vitality thus help them lose their relevance. I watched her carry forth. Rush to the neighbor to request for two train tickets to be booked for the night and hurry away from the non-essentials. Only that mattered now.

  The room seemed to have a sense of the oppressed.

  Refuge turn
ed oppressor.

  The preference was hence, to wait for several hours on the railway platform hoping that the train arrived on time. The waiting seemed interminable.

  Our inspection of the tea stall, book shop, mobile snack sellers, people and packed vehicles waiting to get to their destination calmed our burning hearts.

  “It was meant to be her. That was part of the plan.” My hesitant statement brought about a curious stillness to mother’s body.

  “I couldn’t let that happen, amma. She had gone through enough.” Gulps turned to sobs.

  “I needed to protect her. I tried my best. It just didn’t turn out well,” I began to sob in earnest. I felt gutted, raw. Aching interminably from the loss. Loss of girlish innocence. The loss of something far, far precious. My grief knew no bounds. I tried to curl up on my mother’s lap. Her tears fell on my hands as she drew me closer, to her bosom.

  “I’m sorry for not confiding in you. I just thought it would fly away, disappear like in the stories,” I said through pain-laced hiccups.

  “Shh, my child. You were never at fault. It was us, never you. We failed you, child. Failed miserably.”

  And just after that, came the clamor of the train accompanied by the assorted hustle. The journey back home seemed calm, almost placid. We were spent, drained. Our eyes and hearts were blank and tearless.

  It was then that I knew that a choice had to be made.

  Kurinji - my motivator, it was decision time.

  Goal #1: complete High school.

  Goal #2: Med school.

  I now understood where I would be needed the most.

  *

  A Constant Refrain

  I was all at sea, Kurinji, my apologies.

  While I wallowed in misery, you turned nemesis.

  Jolted me from the apathy.

  Apologies, for I did not try acquaint

  Self-absorbed, a poor excuse

  The hand that forced was yours, I know.

  A wake up call from despondent slumber,

  To negate the rush of anger at the feel of helplessness,

  Incoherent rage at a move so foul.

  Undecided has turned decisive.

  To achieve, despite failings

  There are more,

  More who require the gentle hand.

  The rise after the burning, that is to be contended with.

  It is time to gather, quell the fever

  Make the plunge with the tide.

  And, move in with the swell.

  *

  MAY 1999

  ‘Raise a brow; look at me from top to toe.

  First the appraisal then of course, the ‘no’ show.’

  The routine went this way every time. My sing-a-long helped relieve the boredom. What could a bank or any conglomerate offer a fresh grad cum inexperienced bumpkin without a shard of experience and a dime to her name? Nothing.

  Only a nothing, colored with the whiff of sarcasm.

  The nothing, that is delivered without a tinge of regret.

  Nothing as always - except for the shallow curl of that upper lip.

  Bah!

  Block it. Box it. Sagu, this too shall pass.

  In the end, Sagu’s father gave away a parcel of ancestral land that was bequeathed to him to purchase a plot of land in the town. The seeds were sown.

  The building blocks for the Sagarika Charitable Hospital were laid. Back then (year 2000), it was known as the Sagarika General clinic. The trust was formed after the expansions. That was Manu’s suggestion. Chandrashekhar would take care of the daily operations. The boy, my brother’s son, grew up in our household and was quite attached to me as I was to him.

  My child. In place of the one I’ll never have. A decision I have never regretted. And one that Manu supported. Manu breezed into my life just when I needed the balance. He chose to be my respite.

  Admin Head, essence of my world.

  I was secure. And so was he.

  *

  Before the Wave

  The time spent in the consultation room waiting for patients during the first few months certainly gave us several anxious moments. Never had time stretched out so fine, so evenly distanced out that it felt like being on a watch for a debilitative disease that made its gradual progression in stop-motion time lag sequence.

  Father took up the post of the receptionist-cum-cashier. His natural exuberance was quickly staunched chiefly due to the fact that there were no calls and neither was the cash flowing in. For the most part, listlessness and the heat had induced a dull stupor in all of us. Murugan hobbled outside digging and watering the straggly assortment of plants he was trying to coax life into.

  I developed a penchant for swatting flies using a rolled up newspaper. The accuracy improved when the angle of delivery was sufficiently tilted, I discovered. My mother gifted me a plastic fly swatter after watching my concerted efforts. I could sense her exasperation. In those days, marketing one’s capabilities meant having a travelling artist proclaim all of your valiant and heroic contributions in the field of medicine through a loudspeaker perched on a tricycle. Such a practice was abhorrent to my family. We had ‘middle class’ scruples. That did not include extreme measures such as these in the pursuit of recognition. You were in a saintly profession. Your status was soon to be elevated to the haloed position that almighty mortals existed in. The torturous wait was hence, to continue.

  We spent hours chatting. My parents and I. Tried to make up for the time that was lost. I spoke to them about the Zenana. About Shruthi and Marge. The happy times that were contrived and paced through with reckless abandon. Of Marge’s constant fights with her brother to attempt master their father’s Bullet. Deenanna was the original MCP. He believed in the adage that girls ought to live and die in the kitchen, apart from conducting the necessary reproductory and household-based tasks. It made our blood boil to hear her talk about anna’s restrictions when her parents seemed to be relatively easy-going. However, when we needed a knight-in-shining-armor or, a shield as cover, he would readily come over, eager to prove his might.

  Shruthi was already proving her worth, with her culinary skills being honed in part by her paatti—veritable grandmother, who was a treasure trove of recipes that were a family heirloom. The girl didn’t require a degree in home science for heaven’s sake! Her lemon and tamarind rice, tiny round dosas with coconut chutney and, fried lentil cakes made us double over in delight. She would always bring along an additional box as takeaway since we were extremely receptive to her burgeoning talent. The student quarters served up awful dishes anyway and Ratna required the extra nourishment as well. By the time she was out of school, Shruthi would be able to man several households effortlessly I opined, to my parent’s mirth.

  As for Ratna, the girl was thinner than a drumstick who pecked through her food like a sparrow. She had her reasons to continue her focus on education, we knew. But was a total patch-out when compared to Shruthi. Show her a knife and a peeler, and you would know. We did not want to end up with a missing arm or leg so we let her be for the most part.

  As for the heaven that was her point of origin, ah, that was another matter altogether. Ootacamund comes uppermost to my mind these days. Those rivulets, the terraced farms on which ‘English’ vegetables were grown; carrots, potatoes, cauliflowers and long beans, grown by the Badagas, the native tribe and original farmers of the land. Onward and deep into the recesses of the terraced steps we would walk through, watching the elderly Todas in their miniscule mud huts. The name, Ootacamund was shortened to Ooty by the Englishmen who found the cool weather of the hills amenable during the hot months between May-July in Madras only to gradually embrace it as their summer retreat.

  Ratna’s uncle took us on a jeep ride to their ancestral home deep down the hills. The road wound through making me sick and I was good naturedly mocked at for my weak stomach. Her family was a respectable one I gathered as there were many who stopped and waved at us as we passed them by. The house was crumbly but g
rand, fashioned out of wood, mud, and thatch. There were tiny windows that were boarded from the inside. This was where the ancestors lived, I was informed. The house was not being razed to preserve what was left of the olden ways. The interior was gloomy and I wondered at the presence of humans within this framework that had an absolute lack of daylight. Coming out of the dingy interior to face the weak sunshine made me feel dizzy once again and I remember being offered a glass of water by a kind lady. The smell of the eucalyptus in the air revived me and we were soon on our way back. Uncle had done some basic checks and seemed to be satisfied that the house was still holding itself together.

  I suddenly wished to be back at Sujata akka’s home, walk around to the backyard and stop at the fence overlooking the slope that was slightly steep and covered with ferns, grasses and wildflowers. The slope bottom was strewn with small rocks and fallen eucalyptus leaves. We would slide down the slope laughing and tumbling, our kurtis7 bunched around our waists with bits of leaves and mud sticking to us as we reached the fragrant but spiky bottom. Our bodies had the pleasant scent of the eucalyptus and crushed fern leaves as we scrambled our way back to the top to start the slide all over again. Ratna turned out to be a mad hatter. It was as though, with me around, she threw caution to the winds. Her air of severity disappeared and she learned to undo the shackles that had been readily adorned. We became careless, lazy and habitually happy. Free of encumbrances, we learned to be wholesome again. The trip had given me a temporary lease of life and I felt invigorated. Ooty was a magical place and I hoped that the charm still lingered.

  *

  Since the clinic and the land belonged to my father, the issue of rent payment was one worry off our list. The home fires were feeble though reduced to the kindling stage. We had not reached desperate levels as yet.