by S L Bhyrappa
The professor let go of me. His expression was introspective. I said nothing.
‘Every problem has a solution. Give me Amir’s number.’
Five days later, Amir spoke to me on his own volition. It mildly surprised me because I could reasonably guess the real voice behind Amir’s volition. I never knew who called him or where he went or whom he met. Until he had pronounced talaq, we had always exchanged information about our plans and programmes every day. But we hadn’t spoken to each other since that night.
‘Look, I’ve thought about this whole thing these past few days. It’s impossible for my parents to mend or change their thinking and beliefs. They’re firmly set in tradition and they’re quite old. Let’s move out of the house and live separately, like you said. I’ll tell them that this house is very far from the studio, our timings are erratic, it’s also unsafe when we return home at night and that’s why we think that renting a flat near the studio is a good arrangement. We’ll visit them on holidays and Sundays and I’m sure they’ll agree—but you must promise me something. You will be a Muslim wife whenever we visit their house. I know they’ll never come to the flat.’
That was more than enough confirmation of the professor’s role behind this transformation. More importantly, Amir didn’t question me about why I had met the professor or what I had shared with him and neither did I volunteer to tell him. I was relieved that I had regained my independence. I wasn’t wrong in reposing my love in him. He was by nature a good human being, but had succumbed to the pressures of his religion. Our relationship was back to normal in a few days with none of the bitterness of the past lingering between us.
I fixed an appointment with the professor after he returned from his Peking trip. He told me that he was free after five, the day after tomorrow. His office at the university was deserted and I wondered if it was a good idea to have agreed to meet him alone there. But I was confident I could handle him. My experience of working with all sorts of people day in and day out in the film industry had adequately equipped me with the skills to deal with all kinds of men. Barely a minute after greeting me, he began a travelogue of his Peking trip. He said he was impressed by what he saw in China. Chinese socialism was far superior to the Russian model. A meaningful revolution is one that starts from the ranks of the lowliest peasant. From that perspective, Mao’s insights were aeons ahead, in terms of scope and depth, compared to Lenin and Stalin combined. He had my attention now—I was a student all over again and this was my professor delivering an inspired lecture on socialism. His oratory was compelling and his passion irresistible. After about an hour, I steered the conversation to my situation.
‘Sir, Amir has told his parents about our decision to move out of that house and we’ll vacate it the moment we finalize a new place. I realize that only you could put him back on the right track. I need to know exactly what you told him that transformed him overnight!’
The Professor waved his hand. ‘Oh that’s nothing! Amir is basically a good lad. He was here, sitting in the same chair’—he pointed to my chair—‘I told him that living with one’s parents after marriage is one of the distinguishing marks of a bourgeois lifestyle—he should’ve moved out with you much sooner because that was a symbol of responsibility. You see, responsibility is the key word in this case, whatever the society: capitalistic or socialist. I told him, “Look, Amir; if you had married an original Muslim lady working in the theatre and film world, I’m sure you would’ve had the same clashes in your family. What would you have done then? But look what you’ve done now! Do you have any idea what this will lead to? Word of your talaq will spread. You are an artist, an upcoming director with a brilliant future. The press and public organizations will interpret your talaq as a betrayal—they’ll proclaim that your marriage was a trick to lure an unsuspecting Hindu girl and get her converted only to ditch her. Mark me: not one progressive outfit will come to your rescue; on the contrary, they’ll boycott you! Producers won’t hire you. Your career will be ruined. Every step you take will be closely scrutinized. There’s always a public dimension and consequence to anything that a public figure does in his private life. Did you not think of what message your talaq sends out to the hundreds of young men and women who look up to you as the role model for inter-religious marriage? What’s wrong with you? I’m disappointed at your impulsiveness—it’s not a good quality in a man who claims he is socially responsible.” Lakshmi, he finally saw reason in what I told him…he softened. And remember, I’m always there for you—now and in future. Let me know if he creates trouble for you again,’ he finished with a triumphant smile.
‘Thanks…thank you, thank you…many, many, many thanks, sir!’ I leaned across and shook his hand vigorously.
‘There you go again! Now you’re calling me “sir”. You know how this upsets me? For the last time, you’re special to me! You’re my father’s close friend’s daughter. We have a special right over each other, don’t we?’ He looked at me. I didn’t reply.
‘Yes? Or no? You must answer!’ he insisted.
‘Do I really need to answer this?’
‘Well…okay…actually you’re right. Verbalizing feelings spoils the silent intimacy. Oh, and I completely forgot! I met Shive Gowda from Kalenahalli sometime ago. He told me that your father has almost stopped his social service. It seems he is locked up in his house, studying something all day.’
The mention of my father made me realize suddenly—and again—that the professor was the only link between me and my father, the only way I could get to know whatever little about him. But the professor’s situation was significantly different from mine. He had not converted out of his religion and despite his parents’ hostility towards him, he was still permitted to enter the village and speak to some folks there. Besides, he was a man. And then I thought of the reason why he was telling me this on his own, without me asking about it. Was this his way of retaining an illusion of intimacy with me? Possibly. I looked out the window and noticed that it was getting dark, and then I looked at my watch. He understood and rose.
‘You’ve to reach Shivajinagar… Hmm…let me drop you at Jayanagar. You can take a bus from there,’ he said as he walked over to me and gave me a tight hug. Then he lifted my face and kissed my lips passionately. I felt nothing. It was like I was kissing an actor in the rehearsals while explaining a scene. And then he whispered heavily in my ears, ‘Lakshmi…you…I…I feel an extraordinary affection for you… Let me…let me know if you are in trouble…any, any trouble. I’m here. Always.’ And he held my face again, his lips searching mine. I broke contact and told him softly, ‘I’m so grateful to you sir. Let’s leave, I’m getting late. I need to reach home soon.’
In the car, Professor Sastri switched to his characteristic academic tone, as if nothing had happened between us a while ago. ‘What’re you reading nowadays? I’ve often noticed that you art people stop serious reading the moment you begin to get busy in your creative work. It’s bad, no, dangerous for your personal growth.’
I played along.
‘You’re right, sir. It’s not enough to just study cinematic techniques. We should be in touch with literature and music and painting and sculpture.’
‘That’s my girl!’ He beamed. ‘You also need to always keep in mind the individual’s social responsibility and develop your critical faculties in that direction. Remember, in the end, all of us are answerable to history.’
I began to chew on the conversation I had had with the professor during the bus journey from Jayanagar to Shivajinagar. I could’ve said those very things to Amir, but would they have had the same impact? I was equally—if not more—popular. Amir’s talaq was a pretty scandalous thing. Plus, I was a woman and I’d have the full weight of the women’s liberation lobby. The media’s sympathetic ear would be far more receptive to my plight. But none of this had struck me. And the answer flashed the next moment. Professor Sastri was an expert negotiator.
The sound of the door opening jolted her r
everie and brought her back to the present. Then she heard Amir’s voice,‘Why are you sitting alone in the darkness?’
‘Nothing. I was looking at the river.’
‘You can’t possibly see anything in this darkness.’
‘Well, I wanted to be alone. Just like that. You go back to sleep.’
He left. Suddenly she felt the fatigue. The burden of the past. In a moment, she yawned and returned to the bedroom.
But the broken images of Narasimha and Vittala and other gods continued to haunt her. It was more than a week since she had returned from Hampi. Her childhood memories of similarly broken idols at Halebid and other places reminded her of the history of the Muslim invaders who had broken them. Hampi shared the same history. The biggest challenge was showing this history in the documentary.
2
A few days later, the professor called Lakshmi at 9.00 a.m. Amir was not at home.
‘Lakshmi, I have the most unpleasant task of delivering some sad news to you. Your father is no more. Kumaresh had come home all the way from Narasapura to convey this news personally to me and told me to tell you. It’s been fifteen days now. I called you about ten times yesterday, but I guess nobody was home.’
She suddenly felt dizzy and weak. She opened her mouth in an ‘O’ but no sound came out.
‘Are you listening to me, Lakshmi?’
She couldn’t reply. She felt a rush of suffocating smoke pervading her senses, the kind that doesn’t sear but slowly presses your insides with its dull, choking force, that blinds, deafens, mutes and finally overwhelms you.
‘Lakshmi…Lakshmi! I…I should’ve given you this shocking news in person but I must go to Delhi for an urgent meeting that I just can’t cancel. Trust me, I would’ve been by your side to comfort you in this grave moment. Try to get a hold on yourself. Please…how long has it been? Umm…twenty-eight years since he severed contact with you? But that doesn’t mean you don’t have any relationship with him. Give the phone to Amir.’
She was still silent. She couldn’t find the words to tell him that Amir was not home. A minute later, she thought she heard a dull click from some place far in time. He had disconnected. She was still clutching the receiver, paralysed, as if some evil spirit had struck her.
And then the tears broke in steady but furious waves, throttling her in succession. Her breath came in short bursts as she spoke to herself. ‘I never deserved to be your daughter. What have I done with my life…filled it with shallow pride and arrogance…I’ve let you down, Father… I am an ungrateful wretch! Ungrateful. A betrayer!’ With sudden violence she began to beat her forehead against the wall next to the divan she was sitting on. The dizziness soared and she could bear it no more. She let go of the receiver and fell on the divan, landing on her back. Her head began to ache. The vacuum inside her blocked all thought. She felt orphaned, alone in the world. He was all she had had and now he was gone forever, the creeper cut off from the root that had nourished it. No. The root had disowned its own flesh and blood. He didn’t care to call me just once, even in his last moments. And she broke down completely.
By mid-afternoon her mind had become a little clearer. She tried to piece things together. Fifteen days. All funeral rites were over. Even if they weren’t, there was little point in her going there. She wouldn’t be allowed to participate in any of them. Her ex-religion didn’t permit it. And her current faith viewed these rituals as kafir rites, which were not only condemnable but fit to be destroyed. And she thought, even if the villagers allowed me to pay some symbolic last respects to him by offering milk and ghee, it would still spell disaster—the Tablighi would learn of this eventually…well, not just the Tablighi, even ordinary Muslims would holler. The dead man belonged to a false faith and nothing but everlasting hell was reserved for him. And I, who had accepted the only true faith, had paid my last respects to such a man! But…I must know all that Kumaresh had told the professor.
Amir expressed his sympathy that evening when she told him the news. He had never seen her father. She suspected that his sympathy was directed more towards her because she was grieving than it was towards her deceased father. She told Amir that she wanted to go to her village the very next day to talk to Kumaresh. ‘If he came here all the way, I’m sure there’s something important.’
‘Okay, but I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’
He thought for a bit and agreed. The general atmosphere in the village would terribly discomfit him. She could take a bus till Kunigal and another bus from there to Narasapura. That posed a slight problem as bus services from Kunigal to her village were pretty unreliable. At least, twenty-eight years ago they were unreliable. She wasn’t sure now and she didn’t want to take a chance. She told Amir she’d drive down and return the same night,
‘Or I might stay back for a couple of days. You can use the scooter.’
Her thoughts turned to Narasapura as she drove. She had no idea who she had to meet. Her destination was her house. The highway was not unfamiliar—in these twenty-eight years, she had travelled on that road innumerable times on her outdoor shooting stints at Mangalore, Hassan and Chickmagalur. She had stopped several times at Kunigal for breakfast or lunch en route. Back then she had assuaged her guilt by blaming her father’s unreasonable stubbornness. When her car entered Narasapura, she noticed minor changes…time stood relatively still here. A high school greeted her at the entrance of the village with a board that read ‘Sri Lakshmi Narasimha High School’. An Ayurvedic hospital stood next to it. Opposite that was the temple of the village goddess—Gadde Kempamma. The sidikamba, the tall pole that stood in front of the temple, was intact even now, unmodified by time. It was on this sidikamba that the devotee fulfilled his vow. He would embed an iron hook in the sinews of his back and swing back and forth, suspended from the sidikamba. She turned right on the main road. The Lakshmi Narasimha temple—the god that gave her village its name—stood atop the thirty-foot-high rocky hillock. From the top of the hillock, one could see almost the entire village, as well as the large lake beyond its periphery and the paddy fields. She circled the temple and stopped the car in front of her house. It hadn’t changed. The large portico made of mortar, the Madras terrace on top of the front roof and the courtyard behind, roofed with Mangalore tiles.
The house was bolted from the inside. She knocked four or five times before shouting, ‘Who’s there?’
Her own voice surprised her: she hadn’t forgotten her rustic ways. A minute later, she heard the door open. A woman of around thirty stood before her. Razia looked at her sari, her bangles and her bindi and concluded that she was a farmer’s wife.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who lives here?’ Razia counter-questioned.
‘We do, but who are you?’
Suddenly Razia was speechless. She began to grope for a proper response. And then decided to tell the truth.
‘I’m Narasimhe Gowda’s daughter.’
‘Oh!’
And then, ‘P…please sit down, please, I’ll get a mat for you.’ The woman pointed to the portico and went in. She returned in a minute and as she began to spread out the mat, the painful realization hit Razia. This woman is asking me to sit in the portico. In the next moment, she understood the full meaning of this welcome. By then, she noticed that her car was surrounded by a bunch of village lads.
‘Please be seated. I’ll call my husband. He’s in the fields.’
She stood there looking at Razia, unable to continue the conversation. On her part, Razia didn’t know what to say to this village woman. She could ask who she was and for how long she’d been staying in the house. But that would be obvious bad manners. After several minutes, Razia spoke.
‘Who all are there in Sastri’s house now?’
‘He and his wife.’
‘I’ll go there and return soon. I think your husband will be back by then.’
She walked down the same road that she had come. After crossing about forty houses, she reac
hed Sastri’s house, located at the foot of the hill. Like her home, this had remained the same as when she had last seen it, twenty-eight years ago. Two platforms of mortar stood on either side of the three steps leading to the door. The main door frame was neatly smeared with vermilion and turmeric. A bunting of mango leaves that hung above the doorsill had withered. The steps were adorned with designs of rangoli. The door was open. Razia stood near the threshold and called out, ‘Is Ayya home?’
‘Who is that?’
She recognized the voice.
‘I’m Narasimhe Gowda’s daughter, Lakshmi.’
‘Oh! Lakshmi! Come, come, welcome! When did you come here?’
His voice was closer now. She suddenly realized that she had cut her hair short, but thankfully she was wearing a sari. However, she wasn’t wearing a bindi, she thought with a bit of regret. As he stood before her, she bent and touched the ground near his feet without letting her hand touch his feet.
‘I’m good… I came here about ten minutes ago.’
Sastri’s head was bald now and his cheeks and chin showed sprouts of white hair. His forehead was smeared with sacred ash and the perfect round dot of vermilion at the exact centre of his brows was almost shining. He was wearing a saffron-bordered dhoti and had a similar uttariya wrapped around the upper part of his body. For no reason he reminded her of her father. Her eyes blurred.
‘Aye! Did you hear that? Our Narasimhe Gowda’s daughter, Lakshmi, has come!’ he called out to his wife.
In a moment, the woman came out. She was over eighty now, slightly stooped at the waist. Her cheeks had a permanent tinge of yellow due to decades of applying turmeric. She sported all the emblems of marriage—a large bindi on her forehead, the mangalsutra around her neck and bangles on her withered wrinkled hands. Razia prostrated at her feet and heard the sound of the woman’s bangles as she blessed her before asking, ‘Where are you coming from?’