Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

by K L Chowdhury

  Dusk had fallen by the time Surinder joined the party. Dinner was served early. Om Ji invited everyone to sit facing the deities in the sanctified corner. Shyama placed a jug of fruit juice and the prasadam nearby. Om Ji asked Ashok to light the oil lamps. He put a large sindoor tilak on everyone’s forehead that gave them a uniquely serene look. He placed some prasadam in a plate as an offering to Razaseb and asked Tabbasum to distribute portions to everyone. The puja began with the chanting of the Gayatri Mantra followed by the recitation of shlokas from scriptures.

  The kirtan started soon after—Om Ji singing bhajans, clapping his hands in harmony; Surinder’s nimble fingers on the harmonium; Ashok tapping the tabla; Shyama playing the chumta. Before long, Tabbasum and Gaffar started swaying gently with the music, clapping hands. Jana sat motionless, staring blankly in front of her as Om Ji’s voice rose high, tearing the silence of the night.

  The singing went on and reached a crescendo by midnight. Somewhere along, Jana, too, started tapping her hands on her knees in unison with the musical beats. Soon, as if unshackled from her seat, she rose and started dancing, moving her heavy frame, the hem of her pheran fanning out like a parasol. They were astonished, but no one stopped her. On the contrary, her dancing seemed to spur them on. The harmonium played faster, the clapping grew louder and the dancing got wilder. It was a surreal scene, a dizzying atmosphere, one of ecstasy, even frenzy.

  And then, as suddenly as she had stood up, Jana slumped down on the floor, motionless, breathing fast, sweating profusely. Everyone stopped, their attention focused on the woman who was trying to speak, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Tabbasum and Gaffar were alarmed although this did not look like the usual fit. She had never danced like this except in her childhood.

  Om Ji motioned them to stay still and addressed her gently, ‘Jana, would you like to drink some water?’

  ‘I am not Jana,’ she said in a strangely masculine voice, her eyes still on the ceiling.

  ‘Pray who are you?’

  ‘I am Razaseb.’

  Om Ji joined his palms reverentially. ‘Welcome, Razaseb. We are blessed to have you here.’

  ‘I have heard these leelas after ages. My ears are sanctified.’

  ‘We are honoured, my Lord.’

  ‘But I am angry.’

  ‘Why so, my Lord?’

  ‘You deserted me.’

  ‘We were in mortal danger.’

  ‘You left your neighbours in the lurch.’

  ‘They engineered our departure.’

  ‘I am disgusted with them. I know they looted Batta property that they should have guarded with their lives.’

  ‘Please forgive them; we have put it all behind us.’

  ‘How can I forgive them? They desecrated the spring. They killed the guardian snakes. They robbed homes and temples. They stole sacred idols.’

  ‘How do we undo the wrongs, holy spirit?’

  ‘The villagers will have to atone for it. The Battas will have to return home.’

  ‘Where will we return to? Is there any room left for us in Manzhara?’

  ‘There is room,’ continued the gruff voice that emerged incongruously from Jana’s mouth; ‘There’s room in our hearts.’

  ‘We assure you, we will call them back,’ Gaffar spoke to the prostrate figure of his sister for the first time.

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I swear by the Prophet, peace be upon him,’ Gaffar replied.

  Strangely, his intervention caused an abrupt end to the dialogue. Jana opened her eyes. She gazed around in wonderment as if she had woken into a strange place. ‘Who are these people? Where are we? Why are all of you looking curiously at me?’ she addressed her daughter in her normal voice.

  ‘We are in Jammu, mother. This is uncle Om Ji. We are in his home,’ Tabbasum spoke excitedly.

  Jana looked at Om Ji and passed her glance around at the whole gathering.

  ‘Don’t you recognise Om Ji and Shyama?’ Gaffar asked eagerly. ‘They are our old neighbours from Manzhara.’

  She nodded her head, too exhausted to speak. ‘I feel thirsty,’ she mumbled after a while.

  Om Ji promptly offered her a glass of fruit juice. ‘It is very hot; you must feel the heat even more than us. Come, drink this; you have not eaten since you arrived.’

  She gulped the fluid down hastily. ‘I am sleepy; can I lie down here?’ she addressed Shyama for the first time.

  It was past midnight. Everyone was tired. Om Ji and Ashok moved the deities back into the puja room and cleared the floor of the other articles of worship. They retired for the night, not yet fully believing Jana’s miraculous transformation.

  Om Ji and Shyama were already engaged in household chores when Jana woke up. She looked out the window. Bright light dazzled her eyes. A gush of hot air slapped her face. She felt thirsty and strolled into the kitchen. Greeting her with a radiant smile, Shyama offered her a glass of fruit juice. Jana gave her an affectionate hug and offered to serve breakfast to everyone. Soon they were engaged in conversation like old times, as if the intervening years had vanished altogether.

  Breakfast over; Jana surprised everyone, ‘We are returning home.’

  ‘You have been here just three days. Why can’t you stay longer?’ Shyama asked.

  ‘We have caused you great inconvenience. I feel overwhelmed by your kindness.’

  ‘You don’t have to; it has been a pleasure to have you here’.

  ‘Yes, you must stay. This is the first time you are visiting Jammu. Don’t you want to meet other Battas of Manzhara,’ Om Ji pleaded.

  But Jana had made up her mind. The living conditions of her hosts were already difficult with a single bathroom, a tiny kitchen, limited water supply and frequent power outages. She wouldn’t want to make it impossible by exploiting their hospitality any further.

  Breakfast was served. Soon after, the visitors started taking leave, hugging their hosts, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. It was an emotion-packed scene. There were tears in every eye.

  Tabbasum looked at her mother and said, ‘We want them to come with us to Kashmir, don’t we, mother?’

  ‘That is why we were here,’ Jana beamed and turned to Shyama; ‘we have come to invite you back to Manzhara. You are returning home, aren’t you?’

  ‘We will certainly consider it,’ Om Ji interposed.

  ‘Sister, let’s give them time to plan their return,’ said Gaffar; ‘We will welcome them with open arms.’

  ‘Inshallah!’ Jana made an invocation with her cupped palms turned to the sky.

  ‘Until their house is repaired and ready for them, they will stay with us. There is plenty of room in our home,’ said Gaffar.

  ‘And, in our hearts,’ Jana echoed.

  Then, in parting, she took Shyama aside and carefully delivered a small package wrapped in golden silk from the breast pocket of her shirt and thrust it into her hands. ‘Sister, it is time to return what I held in trust ever since I found it in my son’s belongings.’

  NOTES

  Taweez – amulet

  phanda – voodoo

  shlokas – verses

  leelas – devotional songs

  DUMBSTRUCK

  (I believe that diseases are keys which can open certain gates for us. I believe there exist certain gates which only disease can open – André Gide)

  Ican’t forget the innocent expression on his shining face, the faint smile on his lips, and his small sharp eyes looking directly at me as if trying to fathom my mind. The expression changed but little during the course of subsequent interviews with him, as if it were sculpted permanently there.

  When I saw Moti Lal for the first time, he was accompanied by Sanjay, his distraught son. A week earlier, his voice had suddenly failed him midway during dinner and he had put his hand on his throat in a helpless gesture. Surprised, his wife asked him if he wanted anything in particular. He answered in a whisper but could not complete the sentence. She thought he had choked and offered him a g
lass of water. He drank a little and tried to answer the volley of her questions, but short of a barely audible whisper that tired him quickly he couldn’t go far. She was puzzled, for he didn’t cough as one does when choking, and his breathing was unusually quiet. She made him gargle with a glass of warm saline, believing that some infection in his lungs might have travelled to his throat, but it made no difference to his voice.

  ‘It must be the cigarettes that you still manage to smoke in spite of the doctor’s repeated warnings. Now get some rest; you will be fine by morning,’ she said reassuringly.

  Next morning she found him unable to speak. He answered in gestures. She got him to gargle again, gave him a pinch of black pepper to grind under the teeth, rubbed his throat with turmeric poultice, and made him sip cinnamon tea—all to no avail. His signature smile and his sharp shining eyes made it all the more poignant for her. Unlike her, he didn’t look frantic, not even overly concerned. That is when she phoned her son.

  Moti Lal was a chronic respiratory invalid. Seventy-three, short and slightly built, he had a history of 60 pack-years of smoking that had changed the elasticity and architecture of his lungs and chest cage to produce the characteristic barrel chest of emphysema and chronic bronchitis. His face was pink and suffused though he did not look the typical pink puffer. He was in no visible distress either because of his respiratory affliction or the loss of speech. His eyes looked at you innocently as you asked probing questions that he answered fairly well by sign language. It was a problem not in the understanding of speech or its formulation but in the delivery. However, he could eat, swallow, wiggle his tongue, purse his lips and blow his cheeks normally.

  I studied his file. Several doctors, including a chest physician, an otolaryngologist and a neurologist, had already been consulted. Each of them had ordered investigations relevant to their specialities, including blood counts, biochemical profiles, respiratory functions, CT scans of chest and neck, and MRI scans of head, yet remained clueless about his loss of speech. Laryngoscopic examination had revealed normal vocal cords. He was taking his customary medication of bronchodilators and steroid inhalers, and had been additionally prescribed a course of antibiotics. The chest physician had recommended intermittent oxygen inhalations. An anti-depressor had been added to the medical regimen but it had made no difference to the speech outcome.

  I addressed the son: ‘His tests are all normal except for the respiratory function which is compromised by long years of smoking. Nevertheless, I feel he is doing reasonably well on that front. He doesn’t seem to have suffered a stroke that could have affected the speech mechanism. I tend to agree with the laryngoscopic findings of healthy and well-functioning vocal cords. As such, I don’t see any organic reason for the loss of speech. I am sure it will return sooner than you realise.’ I spoke candidly, encouragingly.

  ‘But it has been more than a week that our ears are thirsting to hear him speak,’ lamented Sanjay.

  I turned to the patient again and asked him to say ‘Aaa.’ He opened his mouth and seemed to make all the effort without producing any sound.

  ‘Moti Lal, try to grunt, as if clearing your throat,’ I asked him gently.

  He looked at me in amusement.

  I repeated my command firmly, ‘I want you to clear your throat. Come on, cough up; you should know how to do it better than anyone else.’

  Before he realised it, he produced a light barking cough. I hastened to offer it as proof that his vocal cords functioned well because that is where the sound is produced, be it cough or speech. However, my explanation had no impact on the duo. They looked at me uncomprehendingly.

  ‘But he is not able to speak even a word,’ Sanjay moaned.

  I again asked Moti Lal to say ‘Aaa.’ He gestured in the negative.

  ‘All right, try to cough again,’ I coaxed him. But he couldn’t make the sound he had just produced. All efforts went in vain as he strained and contracted the neck and abdominal muscles in trying to cough.

  It was embarrassing.

  ‘His speech will return as suddenly as it stopped; it is only a matter of time,’ I said in a tone of finality. ‘Meanwhile, let him not strain his vocal cords; it seems they need some rest. Long years of smoking and talking can put the cords in a defiant mode. And who knows, Moti Lal may want to observe maun for a few more days like the yogis,’ I joked, winking at Moti Lal meaningfully, trying to make light of what seemed a grim situation to them.

  While he continued to maintain his stoic stance, smiling his mysterious smile, his son eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism.

  ‘Let me see him next week again,’ I suggested and, as an afterthought, ‘why don’t you also get your mother along?’

  They were back in five days, Moti Lal with his signature expression, his wife and son distraught.

  ‘There has been no progress in his speech; he has not even produced a whisper,’ the son complained, his mother nodding in unison. ‘Our home is in utter despair. There is a daily stream of visitors inquiring about his ailment, offering suggestions, recommending this doctor and that, compounding our confusion’.

  I was not surprised. It is in the nature of Kashmiri Pandits to go public even with a common cold, inviting sympathy and unsolicited advice in the bargain. Soon the news spreads and people start flocking to their home, expressing profound concern, looking into the prescriptions of doctors, searching the test reports minutely for any deviations from normal, staring at the X-rays and scans, making sweeping statements, citing anecdotes, suggesting alternative remedies and recipes.

  ‘It is your own mistake to make his maun a national issue,’ I reprimanded them.

  Moti Lal sat in front of me with his enigmatic smile, mute as ever. I repeated my commands to say ‘Aaa’, to cough, to grunt, to hum, to mumble, to chant. He responded to each of my commands with frantic efforts, contracting his neck and abdominal muscles, bending his torso forward in the process, but not a sound could he produce. He was visibly breathless from the effort but mute like a stone.

  His wife and son watched with disappointment.

  ‘Does he snore?’ I asked his wife.

  ‘Occasionally,’ she replied.

  ‘Did he by any chance speak in sleep?’

  Sanjay’s face lit up suddenly as if he had retrieved a lost link, ‘Yes, sir, now that you ask. My sister, who has come over to help, watches over him at night. The night before, father had woken up in the middle of sleep and asked her to switch off the AC, for he felt cold. She suddenly realised that he had spoken in a normal voice. “Papa, you spoke. You spoke just now. You asked me to switch off the AC. I will go tell mother,” she had said excitedly. He looked at her in surprise. “Try speaking again, Papa; try calling my name,” she begged him. He tried but couldn’t utter a word. Next morning, she reminded him about it but he maintained total ignorance. We believed she might have just dreamt the whole thing because of her desperation to see his speech restored.’

  Sanjay certainly provided a sound explanation of the incident but I believed his sister, and if I had even an iota of doubt about the nature of aphonia in the patient it evaporated altogether.

  ‘It convinces me about the non-organic nature of his speech loss. We call it psychogenic aphonia. It may occur after a sudden shock, or as a manifestation of hysteria, or severe depression,’ I spelled out my diagnosis for the first time to them.

  But they were not interested in my arcane theories. They wanted results. They were dying to hear him speak again, while I was trying to probe the depths of his mind. Until I got some idea about the nature of his internal conflict, treatment would not be effective and cure elusive.

  Suddenly, I realised that I had forgotten the basic question we ask every patient—history of a similar episode.

  ‘Has it happened before, I mean loss of speech?’ I asked. His wife looked at him, as if seeking his permission. If she read anything from his face, I couldn’t fathom it, for I did not see him even batting his eyelids.

>   ‘Yes, doctor,’ she replied, ‘he would go into phases of total withdrawal, not eating or speaking for several days.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘It is a long story. His life has been full of vicissitudes; so many highs and lows,’ she sighed while Moti Lal maintained his expression of stoic resignation. His demeanour had not given me any reason to believe that he was concerned about his problem.

  I decided not to pursue the line of inquiry in his presence but to experiment with a strategy I sometimes employ with such patients—autosuggestion.

  I turned to him. ‘Moti Lal, your voice box is in a state of fatigue. I am sure it will recover soon with medication and some more rest. I am prescribing a tonic that will help your cords regain strength to speak again. It should work in a few days. Watch out, my good friend,’ I said, looking him in the eye, patting his back lightly, nodding my head encouragingly. I asked Sanjay to report his progress in a week.

  The son reported back, animated. ‘Sir, it happened exactly as you said. Yesterday, we looked expectantly at father asking him if the tonic was working. To our amazement, he touched his throat and strained to produce a grunt successfully. We watched with bated breath and encouraged him to speak. He did; in a faintly audible whisper, he asked for some watermelon. It was music to our ears. But our rejoicing was short-lived; he relapsed into silence again.

  ‘I am happy about the development. I hope your mother is relieved to some extent. Last time she spoke of the vicissitudes in his life. Can you please elaborate?’

  Putting on an air of importance, Sanjay recalled, ‘There was a time father was flying high. He was the king and the kingmaker in his business. I have heard his friends boast that he would light his cigarette with a hundred rupee note.’

  It was not the first time that such queer exhibition of riches going to the head had become part of the folklore in Kashmir.

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘You might have heard of KMD?’