‘It is an aberration of taste not unknown in certain medical conditions.’ I explained.
‘However, her cravings sought new viands;’ he said with a laugh, ‘she turned her attention to ice cubes, sucking and munching them like candy balls. She would exhaust the ice tray, leaving hardly any cubes for others. Much later, she began looking for clay. One wouldn’t mind chewing on rice, but eating clay seems bizarre. I fear it might be a symptom of some serious affliction. She has become lethargic; she gets easily tired, even irritable at times. She feels out of breath going up the stairs. And her complexion has grown sallow.’
‘She is anaemic, that is why. We call it pica in medical terminology. But I fail to understand why she insists on the clay from her village? What is wrong with the Jammu clay?’ I asked her.
‘I tried, but it is not the same. It is loaded with sand. My craving to eat clay has revived memories of my childhood when I used to eat the delectable ochre clay on the sly back home in Kashmir.’
I liked her description of clay as if it were a special dish that she was nostalgic about. ‘She is talking of gurit metch, sir. You know the clay that we used to wash our utensils with?’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I am quite familiar with gurit metch. It was supposed to be antiseptic and antibacterial. In the good old days when soap was scarce we sanitised our hands with it. It was mined from mounds and hills, transported to Srinagar on horseback and hawked in Pandit homes. Every household stocked sufficient quantities not only for hand washing but also to paint the walls with, and, often, to make an oven of gurit metch. So did the Muslims.’
‘Sir, you might as well know that gurit metch is ubiquitous in Kashmir, but I can’t understand why she wants it from her own village. That seems like another aberration, as you call it,’ he complained.
‘Which place is that?’ I asked.
‘Wadipora.’
‘Sushma, why do you insist on the clay from Wadipora?’
‘Sir, the clay of my village is special. It is soft, sweet and sanctified. It has the blessings of Badrakali. We had large land holdings along the wuder where we grew apples, apricots and walnuts. We also had aabi zameen for rice cultivation. When I was a kid, I remember eating clay. My mother would reprimand me, but I couldn’t stop eating. Now, after all these years, when the urge was back, that nostalgic flavour started haunting me. It is like walking back in the fields of my village, climbing the hills and scooping out the brown clay. For months now, I have been waking up with the first thought of that clay.’
I visualised what she was describing for I know the topography of the region quite well, having driven to Wadipora several times during the annual festival of Ram Navami and walked from there to the temple of Badrakali. That used to be the most auspicious time to pay obeisance to the reigning deity, believed to be the incarnation of Durga.
‘How do you manage to get clay from there?’ I asked. ‘As far as I know, hardly any Pandit family lives in Wadipora now; they all left in the 1990s during the high tide of terrorism.’
‘My brother was posted as a police constable at Badrakali. He would get me a large packet each time he visited Jammu to see his family. I ate it in small quantities. It lasted me a couple of months. Last year he was transferred back to Jammu. We had to request friends and relatives visiting Kashmir for their personal errands to fetch me some clay, but most of them would not risk travelling all the way to Wadipora just to scoop out some clay. The villagers might grow suspicious that they were spies, out for some mischief.’
‘Why didn’t you go yourself and fetch a bagful of the clay that would last her a life time?’ I asked jokingly.
‘In fact, I have decided to go one of these days,’ he replied in all seriousness. ‘All along, she was shy of seeking medical advice in spite of my pleas. Now that I succeeded in persuading her to consult you, I hope you cure her of this malady. How long can we go on bringing clay from Kashmir?’
Sushma was grossly anaemic. Her menstrual periods had been erratic and heavy for three years. Pica had blunted her appetite for regular food, depriving her further of essential nutrients. I ordered tests. As expected, she turned out to be iron-deficient, which explained her pica. Intravenous iron infusions followed by oral iron and other trace metals over the next six weeks resulted in rapid improvement in her symptoms and the resolution of anaemia. Her cravings became less intense and her appetite returned.
Meanwhile, her husband had travelled to Wadipora and returned with an armful of the gurit metch.
I taunted him, ‘You got the clay rather late in the day. Soon, she will have no use for it.’
He grinned and looked with empathy at his wife. ‘Sir, she is still munching it away in small portions, enjoying every bit of it, like a delicacy.’
I couldn’t stop laughing for a long while.
She blushed. ‘There is no doubt my cravings are all but gone, but I still love to lick the clay from my village.’
‘I am sure you will get over it soon. You made him run to your village for the soil; you don’t want to accept that it was a wasteful exercise.’
‘I am glad he went. He had never been to my village. I was just 20 when our families had to run for our lives from terrorism-plagued Kashmir. Within a year in Jammu, my parents were keen to see me married, as all parents were in those terrible times. So they tied me to the next eligible bachelor,’ she said, looking at him admiringly. ‘Ashok has always been gentle and caring. Whenever I spoke to him of the large landholdings we had and the big house we lived in, his eyes would go wide with disbelief and we would shed tears together because it was a huge contrast from the tents and one-room tenements that we have been forced to live in. Then, he would reiterate his resolve to see it for himself whenever he got a chance. It seems that is why I was destined to get the crazy cravings for the clay of my village.’
‘Yes, there is a reason behind every occurrence in the world,’ I said and turned to her husband in jest, ‘Well, Ashok, besides the clay what else did you get for Sushma from her old home?’
‘We didn’t expect to find anything special. We knew of the large-scale arson, loot and plunder of the properties that we had left behind. But Sushma still wanted me to find out if her orchard, agricultural land and home were intact or had disappeared altogether. Besides, I had a deep urge of a different kind—to see for myself the place where she was born, and to discover the reason for her deep nostalgia for the place, which might also explain her cravings for the clay.’ He shot her a tender look.
‘Did you discover anything special?’
‘I think I did. On reaching Wadipora, the villagers looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. After all, I was a stranger going there for the first time in my life, 22 years after our exodus from Kashmir. But when they learnt that I was Sushma’s husband, they warmed up and agreed to accompany me to her property. We walked to what used to be the Batta mohalla, now a sprawling ruin of half-burnt houses in various stages of dilapidation and dismemberment. They pointed to Sushma’s three-storey house in a grotesque state with the doors and windows burnt down, the tin roof caved in, the wobbly brick walls falling apart. I was horrified.
‘An elderly man explained, “After the Battas left, some unknown vandals—none from here, I swear—torched their houses. We tried in vain to stop them, even at the risk of being killed.”
‘I was shown an orchard on the wuder. It had turned into a wasteland—no trees except a few stumps here and there. The farmland was a vast swamp with weeds as tall as my height. It was heartbreaking. I asked for a shovel, scooped out the clay and put it in a bag. They were stunned. “What are you going to do with the clay?” the elderly man asked. “Carry it back with me to Jammu,” I replied. “To what purpose?” he wondered. “So, my wife can lick a bit of it to feel the taste of the soil from which she has sprung.” He furrowed his old brow and narrowed his eyes in trying to grasp the meaning of my words, but everyone else roared with laughter. I think they thought I had gone out o
f my mind on seeing the devastation of the property. I returned the same day. When I recounted what I had seen, Sushma cried like a child. She clutched at the bag of clay and pressed it to her breast.’
‘At least you found the clay. And that is what she desired above everything else,’ I said encouragingly, looking from one to the other.
‘That is true. They might bomb the place but the gurit metch will always remain.’
‘Unless you decide to sell off the land,’ I interjected.
His eyes lit up in protest. ‘Sir, I can’t imagine doing that. It will be sacrilege. I know now what soil Sushma is made of, and can understand her better. Since I returned, she has a strange sense of fulfilment, of almost being there as she used to when she was a child. And she has been dreaming of the place.’
‘They might have snatched everything, but no one can snatch your dreams.’
I still remember the look of contentment as they smiled, nodded their heads in unison and took my leave.
NOTES
gurit metch – ochre or brown clay
wuder – plateau
aabi zameen – agricultural land
PRECIOUS SON
Ramu is a bharbhunja, a grain parcher. Whenever I drive by his shop, I always find him in the same position—sitting beside the large canisters of roasted grains, peanuts, popcorn and rice flakes that he sells. His eyes light up as he greets me with a namaste that I return with the wave of my hand. I hardly ever stop except when I want to buy peanuts. He knows I like them large in size and roasted optimally so they can be easily shelled and the skin peeled off with ease to deliver the wholesome blanched crunchy kernel into your hand. It is only then that I ask him about his condition and almost invariably hear the same litany of symptoms for which he consulted me the first time six years back and still does, occasionally, when some new complication surfaces. I have explained to him the prognosis of his condition, yet he hopes something new might have come up, some ground-breaking therapy. He has heard about stem cell treatment that enabled paralysed people to walk again after years of immobility. He wonders if he might be a candidate.
Ramu is one of the countless unfortunate Indians who get maimed and mutilated in road accidents every year. Ten years back, he was hit by a speeding car while he was crossing the road to his shop. A burst fracture of his lumbar spine left his legs paralysed. He also lost control over his bladder and bowels. He was in spinal shock for several weeks after which he started regaining some power in his legs. He trained hard and worked with each muscle and joint to begin the slow process of recovery. In a couple of years, he had regained sufficient power to enable him to walk, albeit with much difficulty because of persistent foot drop. The bowels, too, regained control. But his bladder failed him miserably; he didn’t know how to tame it. Like an errant member of a tribe who refuses to abide by the rules, his bladder behaved autonomously, now retaining urine, now leaking awkwardly and soiling his underclothes. He would visit the bathroom every hour in a bid to empty his bladder and avoid getting wet. It tired him no end but helped him stay dry most days. However, nights were incontinent and smelly. He had not heard of diapers and instead placed a folded piece of cloth in his underwear to spare the bed sheets and mattress. Although he felt depressed at the striking contrast between his strong muscular arms and his weak, wasting legs, it was the incontinence that made him miserable. And…
And impotence. Yes, this tall, well-built, virile man was rendered impotent by the spinal injury.
Ramu is the only son of his parents. After his father’s untimely demise, he had to give up his school education and take charge of the shop when still in his teens. When he turned 20, his mother arranged a bride for him. Barley a year and a half later, he met with the accident. It took him a whole year convalescing from the trauma and it was impossible to share the bed with his wife. She waited until he had recovered sufficiently to resume walking and attending to his shop. She was shy to make any advances while he palpitated and perspired at the very thought of lovemaking. He did not lack the desire, but he was numb and senseless in the perineum. Much as he tried, his penis remained limp. He willed to move it and strained and strove hard, but it was easier to bring a dead frog to life than arouse his sleeping penis. He tried masturbation as he used to in his younger days, but it was like milking a cow’s dry udders.
With the passage of time, he started getting reflex movements of legs—the reflex spasms that sometimes occur in spinal injuries. Strangely, he also started getting reflex erections without any sexual excitement or provocation. He thought they were signs of recovery. In one of these episodes he made advances to his wife who tried gratefully to reciprocate. She roused herself to passion but he failed miserably and gave up in frustration. Dejected, she ran out of the room. He realised that his reflex erections were a waste; they were non-conforming and non-performing, even degrading. He could not look his wife in the eye out of an overpowering sense of guilt and shame. He felt wretched every night when it was time to go to bed as she threw herself on the mattress by his side. But not a word passed between them. Soon, she decided to sleep in a distant corner of the room. Over the years, side by side with the physical distance the emotional gap grew into an unbridgeable gulf. She was given easily to outpourings of anger on flimsy excuses. At times she was rude to his mother. That made him most miserable.
It dawned on both of them that they would possibly never become parents. The more they realised it, the stronger the yearning for a child. They did not share their secret frustrations with anyone, not even with each other. The neighbours taunted her for being sterile, while he had to put up with jokes from the fellow shopkeepers about his wasted virility. Some of them joked about helping him out. That made him fume with anger and he felt like jumping into the Tawi to end his life, but the thought of his ailing mother held him back. There was not a more miserable man alive.
Ramu preferred to spend most of the day at his shop to escape the sepulchral ambience of his home and the sullen looks of his wife. When he returned home after a tiring day to sit near her, she held her handkerchief in front of her nose. She spoke of going back to her parents. The thought of his wife running away made him more miserable. And the horror of never being able to father a child, and an heir to his shop that he was attached to more than his home.
When Ramu consulted me the first time, it was mainly to get some relief for his incontinence. I had migrated to Jammu in the wake of militancy in Kashmir, and moved into his neighbourhood. His story evoked great empathy. He had been to doctors and quacks, sadhus and saints, and had performed rituals and pilgrimages in spite of his multiple handicaps. I suggested diapers for the night, ankle straps to hold his dropped feet in position, and muscle exercises for bladder control— simple measures that provided him symptomatic relief and gave him newfound confidence.
Gradually, he opened up and shared his deepest anguish with me.
One day, he said, ‘Sir, I want to father a child. I can’t blame my wife if she deserts me one of these days. She is consumed with unfulfilled desires and passions even more than the chores she has to do. Since my accident, she has also had to bear the additional burden of the shop. She has to fire the oven to roast the grains, beans and peanuts. Since it takes me an age to walk the small distance from home to shop and back, she has to show up with my lunch and help me in the shop to clean up, to move the sacks of roasted material around and refill the vats, besides running errands and ordering material from the wholesalers in Kanak Mandi.
‘How is your business?’ I asked.
‘It has never been better in spite of my accident. But it is exhausting for both of us. I wish I had a son to help me.’
‘Why don’t you hire help? I hear there are lots of unemployed youth in the neighbouring villages. It should not be difficult to find one who will assist you at the shop and help with the oven at home. It will relieve you as well as your wife of the pressure of work and bring peace into your turbulent household.’
‘I don
’t know why it did not occur to me,’ he said gratefully. ‘Possibly because I am so devastated that I have lost the power to think.’
After a couple of months, I stopped by Ramu’s shop to buy peanuts. A young lad hardly past his teens was sitting in his seat. He was short but strong-looking, with attractive curly hair, shiny eyes and a sprouting moustache.
‘I presume you are the new help here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Where is Ramu?’
‘Gone home for lunch.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Katra.’
‘Do you stay with the family?’
‘Yes.’
‘You happy here?’
He nodded yes. Meanwhile, Ramu shuffled across the street and was helped inside the shop by the boy.
‘Namaskar, sir,’ he greeted me.
‘I see you have help.’
‘Don’t have words to thank you enough. I was fortunate to find Raju. He is a great help.’
‘I am glad. Now you must concentrate more on your legs. Start physiotherapy in right earnest and practise the exercises I taught you.’
‘Yes, sir. Now that I have some spare time, I will again seek your guidance one of these days in your clinic.’
‘You are welcome.’
Several months later, Ramu materialised in my clinic. ‘Sorry it took me so long to come here but I didn’t ignore your advice. I have been exercising regularly, my legs are getting stronger and I walk better. All I am concerned about now is my bladder and, of course, my failure to…’ he looked at me with pathetic eyes. ‘I am dying to father a child. Please help me. I will remain beholden to you for my whole life.’
‘What is the attitude of your wife? Does she still shy away from you? Does she talk of going back to her parents?’ ‘Not since Raju joined me. He has injected optimism in our otherwise dull and dismal existence. He jokes, he sings and even dances sometimes. He is a lad of all seasons and all jobs. He looks after my mother, runs errands for my wife and is obedient to me. We have all come to like him. In a way, he has become a strong link in the family.’
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 5