Girl in a million

by Anitha Padanattil

  *

  The Shree Mata Lodging Establishment, Katra

  A hot breeze wafted in from the open window. The pungent tang and the moist warmth of it fanned the gauzy pink curtains that hung from aluminum rods cut to the width of the window. Lizard droppings dotted the narrow strip of wall above the window that met the ceiling. Tiny, dry, mostly black and white crescents formed a strange pattern when closely observed. The yellow light of the incandescent bulb gave them shadows. Shadows that turned small crescents into elongated half-moons. The lizards were fearless. They crawled along the upper half of the wall and hung about on the ceilings. The open loft that was a mere ledge on the opposite end was stacked high with a stained, folded mattress, paper cartons, battered suitcases and old newspapers that were frayed and yellowed. Bits of them floated down as soon as the ceiling fan was switched on giving a surreal edge to the room. The play of dust motes, bits of paper and golden light that danced through them, seemed mesmerizing. Manu watched them lazily through half closed eyes; while he sipped from a glass that was half filled with scotch and water. The lizards formed part of the strange tableau as they gazed in silence from within the inner recesses of the loft.

  Come mornings though, and the room’s haphazard condition invited a barrage of abuse from the aged cleaning woman named Lakshmi. Her harried expression belied the eagerness of an escape from this stink hole. Within moments, the curtains would be pulled open, the pile of clothes on the floor scooped away, soiled bedspread whipped off the single bed, and layers of dust wiped off the table that was piled with books, notes and assorted stationary items accompanied by a single, broken chair. An old rag was rinsed in grimy water that was the accumulation of the just-completed-cleaning of the neighboring rooms. Aiming a well-placed kick at the bundled clothes heaped near the door, Lakshmi would proceed to sit on her haunches and wipe the floor in a series of arcs.

  Wet arcs when dry, left arcs of grey on the floor.

  The direction of the pattern changed every day depending on the point of origin. If Lakshmi had cleared the droppings from the wall using her ragged broom and then proceeded to mop, the arcs would swing from inside out much like a pattern that disappeared from view as soon as they were made on the terracotta tiled floor. This pattern suffered marked displacement especially after Manav’s visit to the bathroom for completion of his morning rituals.

  Wet feet left gaps in the arcs. Yawning irregular spaces that broke the symmetry.

  On days that were rushed, he hardly ever noticed. Thoughtful days inclined to bouts of appreciation of Lakshmi’s handiwork, made hopping between the lines a mandatory evil. Gingerly tiptoeing through with bare feet and making the last hop over the doorsill was a hard to beat feat. Crowing in victory, he would make his way to the booking office. It had been a week since he arrived. Waiting to get a place among the long list of devotees that thronged the site, his days and nights were spent in isolation and silent contemplation.

  Manav had reached Katra in the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir where the temple of Vaishno Devi17 was located. While filling up the form, he had rejected the use of ponies or other modes of transportation preferring to walk all the way to the temple precinct. He wished to witness the ‘aarti’ ceremony that offered worship to the Goddess once before sunrise and the other, after sunset. He promised to stop consuming alcohol as soon as his booking was confirmed. Getting through the day was difficult otherwise. The office staff noting his desperation sympathized with him and advised patience. When her call would come, the timing would be just right. He missed his work, the people, his family and most of all, his Sagarika. But the pain had to be dulled. He would not return unless he was granted his wish.

  The room at the lodge he was in was far from mediocre, situated inside a seedy locality. It was purely by accident that he stumbled into the cramped reception that was manned by a despondent young boy, after his unplanned exit from the railway station. How or what had brought him here, he had no idea. But it bought a semblance of order albeit gratingly into the mind-numbing pathos he was mired in. Lakshmi and her screeching routine, he welcomed. The walk around the locality filled up the mundane spaces. He had not let anyone know where he was. When and if he decided to return, he would make the call. She would wait for him. It would not be easy for her to let go. Of that he was sure.

  “Come with me,” he had entreated but she had refused. “This is my temple. I have known no other.”

  And he had sobbed. Sobbed hard. Smashed the book in hand against the glass case. Thrown a chair into a corner where it crashed into the wall, splintering into several pieces. She looked troubled but let him be, exiting the room quietly.

  The next morning found him ready by the door, small bag in hand. “I have to try. Try and find my Maariyamman. She must know that I need her now.” Sagu seemed small, fragile, resigned. He continued, “Unless I’m sure, I shall not return. Promise me that you will wait.” She had nodded her acquiescence to that, silent and unsmiling.

  And that was how he had landed in Katra, at the base of the Trikuta hills waiting to meet the Goddess who was known to have legendary healing powers.

  The tenth day visit to the office proved to be lucky. He was allowed access to the walk for the next day but a few obligatory steps had to be accomplished at first. Online checking could be completed at a nearby Internet café he was advised but before that, the purchase of the ticket from the Yatra registration center was to be effectuated. Next step, checkout from the Shree Mata Lodging Establishment, book a locker to safely place his travel bag and phone. Armed with his wallet, Manu proceeded to register his details on the Mata Vaishno Devi Shrine Board’s official website and uncheck both boxes for the VIP pass that allowed special access into the temple as well as a room at the Bhawan close to the shrine. Another check of the site in the evening showed that his waiting status was now confirmed and that he had to be present at the Banganga check post situated at the foothills of the Trikuta Mountains. He wanted to walk barefoot all the way and back though it was frowned upon but not a rarity. Devotee mindsets varied and there were all kinds visiting the Mata to avail of her generous nature.

  Having been assured that food and water were available along the way, Manu travelled light. The climb upwards was smooth although he could have taken the steps that were steep and allowed for quicker reach at the mid-point called ‘Ardhkuari’. However, he doubted that his feet could withstand the unaccustomed terrain and preferred the gentle slant of the upward climb instead. Taking note of the mountains dotted with light snow and the chatter of the pilgrims along with devotional music and ponies trekking by his side, Manu was distracted by thoughts of a strange man he had met by the tea stall the previous morning. As he downed the hot, sweet tea, he sensed a penetrating stare by his side. Turning to find a middle-aged man with an overgrown moustache and slightly unkempt appearance on his right, Manu offered him a cup of tea. Accepting the offer, the two men sat on the bench in front of the tea stall comfortably sipping from their matkas (clay pots) and watching the busy street ahead of them. The man remarked casually that he was a holistic practitioner. Manu, though uninterested, let the man talk. He genuinely wanted a diversion. The gist of his long discourse was this:

  Holistic practitioners are of the perception that the human body has the capacity to heal itself. One has to remain patient and stay attuned to nature and her synergies whereby the body’s intimate messages could be perceived thereby spearheading the process of reversal. It is essential to forget what has been learnt so far. If the transition is meant to happen, it will. Whatever the outcome, one is required to stay calm, tuned in and breathe!

  What sprung into Manu’s mind as he lay on his bed was amazement at the sudden appearance of the man that morning. Perhaps he was a regular perhaps not. Whatever it was, the essence of his talk offered fresh perspective into dimensions that constituted the human body. This was an aspect of science that required deeper observation. Perhaps the man had noticed the look of utter desolation on Manu
’s face and pitied him enough to offer some semblance of hope? The thought however, offered him no consolation at all.

  *

  The short stop at Sanji Chhat near Ardhkuari offered a well-deserved rest. From here emerged two routes one of which continued as the pony trail. Breathing in air that smelled fresh as opposed to the earlier smellier route what with the animals freely littering the path with their dung, urine and snorts, Manav continued his walk at the unhurried pace he had set for himself. Another two and-a-half kilometer to go before the collective group of buildings called as ‘the Bhawan’ besides the temple was reached.

  ‘March along, Mr. Fancy pants sans the footwear. You rock the look!’ Whispery laughter rose and ebbed, accompanied by the gentle chants of pilgrims that passed him by.

  He had heard about the holy shrine and its three-faced rock formation of the Mother Goddess that remained submerged at times within the holy cave. There were no idols or pictures of deities and Manav was prepared to wait in the queue for as long as it took just to have a glimpse of the one who had called. He knew that his request had been heard. All he wanted was for it to be granted. He would neither chant nor fold his hands in supplication. He had travelled a long way to meet the Mata. Prostrating before her for the sake of doing so seemed abhorrent to him. Baring one’s heart and soul to the divine was what he believed in. She knew his inherent traits and he felt exposed. Bleeding and raw he was and he would not move from the vicinity until he was sure. She had brought him here all the way from the south and he would shift only when he was asked to make the call. There was no reason for him to continue. Why should he, when his existence depended on the one reason that had sustained him for this long? Manav was adamant. He would sleep outdoors, give up all amenities but he needed to hear the reply that he had come here for. His Maariyamman had to answer to him. After all, the Wise one had seen her for what she really was.

  The Koteeswari in their midst was, in fact, a reflection of the love that had been acquired in exchange for pure, selfless service. Granted, his Sagu was financially stable. The stability was of the unbridled kind, endless like the waves in the ocean. But it was what she gave away that created multifold happiness.

  One word, several dimensions. The Wise One had been far sighted.

  Therefore, he – Manavlal Yadav would witness the rise of the Koteeswari this time around. There was no doubt on that. The beacon would rise, just as it should and train its light on all.

  *

  A Roundup of the Years

  [Gleaned through periodic online chats]

  Thanks to advances in technology and the milestones achieved in the field of communication by leaps and bounds, Core Z was able to recreate the missing aspects of each other’s lives through intermittent chatting. Their group was named the same – Zenana. That would remain unchanged and password protected so that the kids, especially the curious ones, would not have access to information that was private and extremely confidential. The language was crude, downright vulgar at times, but that was a given considering the nature of relationship that the friends had. It helped them alleviate their stress and revive the old camaraderie. Precious memories that had dropped root in Oothukudi and branched out to lives recreated and enlivened by embracing new extensions. It felt as though each had grown feelers that gently extended, enquired and processed the wholesome change. Assimilating the newness seemed raw and open, allowing the senses to ascertain the depth of the extended phase. Every stage was explored and dissected in its minuteness and whatever the emotion felt, a limb was always there in more ways than one, to gather and garner support. The group thus formed a systemic interphase of thoughts, emotions, bonding and malleability that developed into a safety net of sorts. Sagu however, retained a meager part of her essence in comparison to the others. The realization dawned on the others at a rather delayed stage to effectively consider a rescue.

  The chronicles below are a personalized version of the lives of the three friends during the interphase of the Zenana’s separation, in an encapsulated form. This time again, the narration provides an insightful description about the highs and lows that abounded over the course of twenty-seven years for each of the Core Z member.

  RATNA

  Ratnalakshmi had offered to break the ice. The initial hesitation was obvious and the struggle to begin was evident to the others. However, once the reticence had been crossed, the words flowed unabated. The others read on without interruption.

  ‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge. I have changed and so have all of you. We are all the same age, four decades and more... That is the only similarity we share today. That, and an uncommon heritage in the form of Oothukudi and some wonderful school years spent at the Silver Flower HSS. The salve to my wounds had appeared and reappeared in many forms and that made me a wholesome person ably managing life and its vagaries without any form of blinkers being worn.

  I was a reluctant bride. Sagu’s wedding and the meeting with all of you along with your families made me understand that I was ready. Ready for discussions and exchange of personal experiences. The time for sharing has come. A solemn occasion such as this does not warrant for expressions of puzzlement, consternation and, riotous laughter. That would happen for sure once my story is unraveled. As for the real me, I am what I am now solely because of Raj.

  He completed me. Made me whole.

  Helped me see and feel the light.

  Gave me Sanchita. Her coming transformed me, blossomed into my being, beyond my wildest dreams. I am now aware- aware of the depth and beauty of life. There had been instances in my childhood- that you know, which had terrorized me and taken me through periods of darkness. But the advent of Raj changed all of that. Raj was different.

  I first met him at a typing center in my second year of college. I was working as an intern at a nearby pharmacy for a month and compilation of the weekly notes meant delivering them in a typed format to our lecturer. In those days, typing on our own via the desktop was not the norm. After instructing the typist on how the sheaf of handwritten notes were to be transcribed and the format to be followed, I walked up to the counter to pay the required fee and there he was; an unassuming slight young man with nut brown skin and a serious manner. Taken aback, I enquired about the regular guy who owned-cum-manned the center, and he answered that he was helping his friend (the regular guy), since he had to be someplace that day. We exchanged pleasantries and I discovered that he was a mechanical engineer who had just started working but had taken off on that particular day., as he seemed to have developed a bad cough and symptoms of malaria. This caught me off-guard. Malaria and cough?? That didn’t match. I was a student of microbiology and reasoning suggested that this was total fabrication. Apparently, our pal wanted some time off or was toying with me! I pretended nonchalance, nodded and ambled away.

  Mr. Malaria was present the next day when I went to collect my papers and he smiled sheepishly at me. His friend at the counter remarked that I was quite sharp and that he should have thought twice before fabricating such outlandish statements. The three of us laughed heartily at that and Raj mentioned that he had quit his present job and was travelling to Hyderabad the same week to join a bigger organization. His family was against his decision and wanted him to stay and manage one of their convenience stores. They had a few stores scattered around town but the only son and heir wanted a life that was disconnected from his roots. No sitting and counting out coins for provisions sold to households for him. He would carve out a different path for himself and make his family proud. Wishing him luck, I walked back to the college campus. I hoped that his dreams were realized. I knew that dreams were important especially for someone who was single, and struggling to stay afloat. I wondered how it would feel… having to rebel against a family who cared for you and always ensured that your wallet was always full of cash. Apparently, he was doted upon and his two elder sisters treated him with devotion akin to piety. It seemed pretty revolting to me and perhaps that was why he was do
ing a turnaround. The claustrophobia tends to hit on you one way or another.

  My postgraduate studies took back me to Ooty after a year. This time I chose to stay with my second sister and needless to say, she was ecstatic. My life revolved around college, the postgraduate course in Biotechnology and my sisters of course. I felt relief wash over me at not having to pick at foods that were tasteless and most often, way past the expiry date. I enjoyed being pampered by my siblings who visited me once too often. It was an enjoyable time for us altogether. In deference to my wishes, not a word was mentioned with regard to the man who had fathered us. To me, he was all but dead and anyone who wished to renew the relationship with the man, was off-limits too. My brother-in-law indulged me as well. Of course, owing to my monthly allowance my financial needs were adequately taken care of and did not put a strain on their resources. The cynical self within me however, constantly echoed that this was the cause of my being tolerated at home. Whatever the reason, everyone seemed to be happy. Perhaps my brother-in-law was genuinely good at heart; I did not know and did not wish to conjecture on that. After my school days, the next best time I had experienced, was at my sister’s home in Ooty.

  It was on one particularly wintry day as I approached the gates of the college that I noticed a shivering figure huddled beneath an inadequate shawl besides the amused gatekeeper.

  One might wonder how I had zeroed in upon this figure when there were several others loitering around aimlessly, with some sipping piping hot tea from plastic cups or, the purposeful ones aiming to target their beau.