Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  Aruna was always her mother’s daughter. Her mother showered extra love to this child born ten years after Diganth. She didn’t let her child out of her sight for a moment and the girl clung to her. For as long as she could remember, her mother had made Jesus all-pervasive in her life. Aruna uttered his name before beginning the most mundane task. She crossed herself at appropriate occasions. The chain around her neck with a pendant of Christ on the cross was a part of her body. She prayed with full faith to Jesus to save her from sin. As far as she could recall in these twenty-eight years, she had never missed her Sunday service. In high school, all her classmates wore a bindi on their forehead. One day, she borrowed a bindi from one of the girls and wore it. She never forgot the look her mother gave her when she returned home. And her tone when she said: ‘Darling, do you really need to wear this pagan symbol? If you like wearing something on your forehead, wear the symbol of the cross.’ Aruna decided to try that out but no shop sold a cross-shaped bindi. Even if she managed to get it made, she would look ridiculous wearing it. Females either wore the traditional bindi or they sported a plain forehead. She decided to leave her forehead unadorned. This incident sowed the first seed of confusion in her mind.

  Her name was Aruna Sastri but she was almost European in her appearance. She was a Catholic Christian. Something didn’t match and she didn’t know where to look for answers. It tormented her throughout her college days. Every year schools, colleges and factories declared a holiday to celebrate major festivals like Gowri and Ganesh. The Ganesh festival was especially grand. The whole city became a celebration in itself. Every house elaborately worshipped Lord Ganesh with flowers, fruits, sweets and delicacies, and there was a kind of zest that Aruna craved but didn’t get in her own home. Their home seemed empty and soulless. Her father was often invited for puja lunches by his friends but he never asked her mother to celebrate it in their own home. She knew her mother wouldn’t agree to do it even if he asked her. That reminded her of the day she had been invited to Dakshyini’s house for the evening arati. She didn’t tell her mother where she was going. When she arrived there, the story of Ganesh and his mother Gowri was being narrated. Nothing had prepared her for what she saw in the living room. The large pedestal at the centre of the living room was decorated on each side with tall plantain shoots and bunches of shining green mango leaves, multi-hued flowers and pomegranates, guavas, apples and sugar apples. An idol of Mother Goddess Gowri sat on the upper step of the pedestal and Ganesh on the lower step. The whole sight, especially, the picture of the intricately-decked mother-son duo caught her with a sense of profundity she hadn’t experienced before. Her attention turned to the story the priest was reciting: ‘Gowri has come to her mother’s home for her convalescence after giving birth to Ganesh. She has to stay here for five days during which time both she and her baby will be worshipped. An elaborate feast will be prepared every day in their honour. On the sixth day, the mother will return to her husband’s home with her son after a very emotional farewell.’

  The story struck a deep chord in Aruna. It was as if Gowri and Ganesh were her family. Aruna was taken to a separate room after the arati and fed with special sweet dishes, which were first offered to Gowri and Ganesh during the puja earlier in the day. She was suddenly angry. Why didn’t her mother do all this? Nothing of this sort was ever cooked at home…that brought memories of another occasion. In Padmalatha’s house she had been invited to celebrate Krishna Janmasthami. It was supposed to be a festival that celebrated Lord Krishna’s birthday every year. The sight of the baby Krishna dressed in tiny clothes sleeping in the festooned cradle endeared him to her instantly. The decoration was simple. Almost plain. But you could touch the love that emanated from this cosy atmosphere. It was as if the baby Krishna in the cradle was a real child of the house, upon whom they had poured all their love and shared it with their friends, relatives and neighbours by inviting them to the elaborate feast they had prepared on the occasion. She knew a little about Krishna. He was the crafty strategist who had helped the Pandavas win the great Mahabharata war. Hindus worshipped him as an avatar of God. That was one face of Krishna. The other face was what the padre at the church had told her about—he was a liar, a thief and a philanderer and a religion that worshipped such a person as God was…what kind of religion was it really…and what kind of people were these Hindus who worshipped such a god? This somehow didn’t tally with her experience. Padmalatha was a very nice girl. Her father was a renowned surgeon in the government hospital. He apparently didn’t take any bribes and returned home late every night after completing his duties at the hospital. He didn’t have a private practice on the side, something that’d fetch him at least `10 lakh every month, given his skill and experience. He was an FRCS and had practised in the United States for five years. He treated poor patients for free—an ideal he had followed throughout his life. He had earned the trust and respect of people around him. They stood up when he was around and saluted him—this man worshipped Krishna as God. Aruna decided that Hindus worshipped strange, weird gods. Besides, they had female gods…how could a female god exist? She wasn’t alone in this; her mother shared this question—God was male. And the padre was…well, he’d launch into a sermon about how Hindus indulged in shocking sacrilege by treating God like he was their child.

  In the end, none of this helped clear her confusion. And there was no way she could pose her confusion to her mother. She knew what awaited her: ‘Why are you having these questions, dear? Looks like your faith in Jesus has weakened. You know what that means don’t you? You will fall into eternal hell so ghastly that no words can describe it.’ And her intense blue eyes would show a glimpse of that hell.

  She wanted to ask her father. She knew he was regarded as an authority of sorts on these matters. She couldn’t recall a day when he hadn’t returned home without a garland or sweets or fruit or shawl. The papers and TV would unfailingly report his speeches. She was sure he had the answer but her mother had forbidden that very long ago: ‘Keep your Marxism outside this house. I don’t need you to break my or my daughter’s faith.’ His response to that: ‘Sure, darling. Whatever you say. May Jesus bless you both.’ That reaffirmed what she had always suspected—Dad was scared of Mum. Besides, he was pretty much aloof around the house. He had never spoken to her with any tinge of intimacy. His warmth was practised. And his life outside home was just too busy for him to meet his own daughter.

  There was another reason why her father feared her mother. She was well aware of his habit of indulging in unnecessary physical demonstrations of affection with his female students and fans and she was vocal about her displeasure. Aruna remembered a particularly ugly fight that had erupted when she was still quite young. Her mother’s ferocity and the general unpleasantness of the situation had made her retreat to her room in mild fear and embarrassment. In response to her mother’s verbal whiplash, her father had attempted a courageous but weak, ‘Why do make such a fuss of all this? Don’t be such a prude! You are from England! It isn’t like you’ve been embarrassed by a hug or a peck between friends.’

  ‘But this is India. And even out there nobody tolerates your kind of behaviour—out there no man hugs and puts his arms around a lady’s shoulder or unnecessarily touches others, especially women! I know what exactly you are up to with all that…touching…nauseating!’

  ‘Woman! Thy name is suspicion!’ he had managed to say with a broad smile and hug her.

  On another occasion—it was a Sunday—she overheard her mother telling the Anglo-Indian lady, Mrs Robson, ‘If this was England, I’d have left this man many years ago. I’m Catholic, so there’s no question of divorce. And now I’m fully cut off from England. I guess I’ll have to suffer here.’

  Aruna finally decided to put her confusion to rest by simply accepting what her mother prescribed to her in the matter of God, faith and religion. If her curiosity was strong enough, there were hundreds of places where she could find an answer—it just didn’t occur to her t
o look up books, to talk to her teachers or to visit a place like the Ramakrishna Mission.

  ~

  One day at 10.00 a.m. as Lakshmi stood waiting for an auto rickshaw outside Hotel Sharif Mahal in Shivajinagar, a car that passed by braked to a sudden halt a few metres from where she was standing, paused and then slowly backed up before stopping in front of her. The left front window rolled down and she heard the voice before she saw the face. Professor Sastri was in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Lakshmi? Look at you! I could barely recognize you. But how can’t I recognize my girl? Come on in. What’re you doing here outside…’ he looked out and then up, ‘Hotel Sharif?’ He raised the window once she got in and sat beside him. His car exuded luxury. The glasses were tinted.

  ‘I heard you’re anchored in the village. What do you do other than reading throughout the day? Why did you leave Bangalore?’

  ‘Can you drop me to the bus stand? I need to go to Kunigal.’

  ‘I know. I’ll drop you. But you can’t go just like that. We’ve met after four years! Let’s go somewhere first. There’s so much to talk and catch up on. This damn city has no place for people to spend time in private. Should we go to Cubbon Park?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good girl!’ he exclaimed and showed his pleasure by placing his left hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s unsafe to drive with one hand, sir, you know Bangalore traffic…’ Her tone didn’t mask her annoyance.

  ‘Ah! Tell me you’re scared of this headline: “Renowned artist Razia found dead with Professor Sastri in a car accident!”’ he chuckled and squeezed her shoulder, casting a glance sideways at her. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘But look at you, my dear. You haven’t dyed your hair; your face tells me it hasn’t seen any kind of care for ages. I know you’re staying in our village, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t groom yourself. Why don’t you at least use some cream? Nobody should lose the love of enjoying life. Look at me.’

  She had already seen him when she climbed into the car. He was the same. He had consciously cultivated the wise, middle-aged intellectual look. His hair was dyed fully black, barring a few wisps of grey side-locks that ended just above his ear. Sprinkles of grey-white hair strategically dotted his black socialist beard. Years of experience in theatre and films told her that he regularly made some beauty salon very rich. She suddenly felt pity for him.

  ‘What’re your children doing, sir? I know your son has his own computer company. I think he’s married? Any grandchildren? What does your daughter do?’

  Why was she asking these questions? Was that her way of hinting at his own age? Ah! But he wasn’t really that old. Besides, he didn’t really care. He mustered confidence and said in a tone that didn’t reveal his discomfort, ‘My son and his wife are busy building their company. They do almost nothing else. My grandson is four. My daughter-in-law doesn’t want a second child. She says it’s tough to raise a child properly amid work pressures. God knows if more women thought like her, there might come a day when the human race will disappear from this earth…’ Lakshmi cut him off abruptly with, ‘That means you want another grandchild!’

  ‘No no no! I’m not talking about myself—you know I never think about myself. Most of us think about ourselves but I’ve always believed that your thoughts hold value when they dwell upon universal truths.’ She noticed his eyes were now—even while driving—gleaming with the same prophetic tint she had observed on numerous occasions in the past. Both his hands were now on the steering.

  ‘What about your daughter?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m worried about her. She’s a lecturer. I’ve told her repeatedly that she’s free to select a husband for herself. It’s been four years. She’s still single. I think most people in this country aren’t capable of selecting their own life partners. Our society has a long struggle to change for the better. The boys these days are still stuck to traditional ways. I tried my hand at matchmaking but you know the problem…’ he let the words trail off as they reached the park.

  He sat next to her on a bench in the park. ‘Do you remember how there was a huge conspiracy by politicians to destroy this beautiful place? I launched the Save Cubbon Park movement…remember the overwhelming response to it? I finally managed to save it. Else we wouldn’t be sitting here now. You know, the government hates my guts but it’s also scared of me.’

  His words didn’t register. She was already distracted in some thought.

  ‘…I love spending time in such places. It’s amazing how your mind gets inspired! I guess that’s why they say parks are the inner minds of city dwellers… Hello! What’re you thinking?’

  ‘How old is your daughter? Name?’

  ‘I’m hurt now. You’ve forgotten. Aruna. Twenty-eight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Now I remember. She’s very fair, like a European. Right?’

  ‘She resembles her maternal grandmother. I’ve seen the woman. She was extremely pretty. Why? Do you know any match?’

  ‘I’m looking for a match for my son. He’s thirty-two. He has an MS in petrochemical engineering from Texas University. He works in Saudi now and earns a huge salary. He’s spending his vacation here now. I’m not in touch with Amir. I guess you know he’s married again. This is also hurting my son’s marriage prospects.’

  ‘Oh? So it’s true. I’m sorry. I heard the news but I didn’t know it was true. If I’d known this before, I wouldn’t have spared him! But why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I got to know of it quite late. Anyway, let’s not talk about it now. I just want Nazir to get married as soon as possible.’

  ‘I bet he’s a handsome young man. He’s your son.’

  She extracted a photo from her purse and handed it to the Professor. He instantly raised his eyebrows high, opened his eyes wide and exclaimed with pleasure, ‘He looks like a thoroughbred socialist intellectual!’

  ‘No. That’s an Islamic beard. Pure Saudi.’

  ‘But you know there’s no fundamental difference between Islam and socialism. Both are founded on the same principle of share what you eat.’

  And you’re parroting jaded old lies. The fundamental trait of an Islamic society is the marked difference between the master and the slave. You quote the Vedic ‘Ishavasyamidam sarvam yat kincha jagatyaam jagat; tena tyaktena bhunjeetha maa grudhah kasya sviddhanam’ (All that exists in this changing universe exists for the habituation of the Lord. Protect thyself therefore by renunciation. Lust not after any man’s wealth) in your speeches by putting this verse in unbelievable contexts. The last thing she wanted was a debate with this professor. So she said nothing.

  He continued, his brows still raised, ‘But why are you wearing this old sari? You said he makes a lot of money.’

  ‘I have enough money to buy dozens of new saris on my own. I’m just not interested.’

  ‘Good! You’re right. Never take money from your children. That’s my principle, too. What about Amir?’

  ‘I don’t know but knowing him, I don’t think he takes money from his son. He hasn’t told me directly but I know Nazir is staying at Hotel Sharif Mahal because he’s embarrassed to stay in the same house as his stepmother, who is younger to him.’ Suddenly she realized why he had asked this specific question. He was trying to find out if the responsibility of caring for his parents in their old age would fall upon Nazir. That responsibility would also include spending money.

  ‘I’m very liberal: you know I don’t believe in religion…my life is a living instance of my convictions. Forty years ago, I married a foreigner, a Christian. Aruna is free to marry anybody. The boy’s religion is the least of my concerns, but I think it’s good if she marries an Indian. At the least, they’ll have a shared sense of culture and tradition. Elizabeth insists on getting her married to a Catholic but I know she’ll say yes if…other factors are favourable. Let them see each other first.’

  The prospective bride and groom met each other at the professor’s home. And agreed to m
arry each other. Aruna said she expected nothing and surprisingly agreed to Nazir’s conditions: to convert to Islam before the wedding, marry according to Islamic wedding rituals and post-marriage, to live like a pure Muslim wife. Her mother, however, objected to this.