‘But how will we know about the course of the disease? It may get worse while you are away,’ asked his son. This was not the first time I was up against this formidable father-son team.
‘As I see it, your father is already over the hump—he is stable in all respects, his appetite has returned and he has no symptoms other than the yellowness of the eyes. From there, he can only get better and better. In any case, the liver function parameters will take time to return to normal levels. Give the liver enough time to cool down, please.’
I turned to Shaad, ‘Stay calm for now, turn this adversity around and make good use of the time while you are resting. Write poems.’
‘I will; in fact a poem is already forming in my head,’ he exclaimed.
‘Not a doleful one, I hope?’
He nodded his head uncertainly. ‘Would you want us to boil the water we drink?’ He wouldn’t leave any lacuna in the safety measures.
I felt this was the most sensible question during the long interview. ‘Yes, I would advise that to everyone in this town.’
Shaad took my leave, not before reminding me that he would bother me on the phone.
He stuck to that statement. He phoned twice during my leave from work; both times wanting to know if he should conduct the liver function tests and what diet he could consume, and whether he could use a little oil in cooking now that he had vastly improved. His insolence was irritating and I was curt in reminding him that my instructions about diet stood, and that I expected a poet of his stature not to be fixated on his illness, nor remain trapped in myths about the dietary restrictions in jaundice.
Shaad was a sparsely built person, but when he returned to see me again after my vacation, his cheeks had caved in and the short clipped moustache looked rather big for his withered lips. He looked famished and seemed to have lost weight. However, his eyes were clear; there was not a tinge of yellow, and his skin had assumed his natural wheatish complexion.
‘Seems you have been starved,’ I remarked.
‘You are right; I was not allowed to consume anything except boiled vegetarian food. No oil, no condiments, no dairy products, no…,’ he complained like someone grossly wronged. ‘Now that you are back, I am waiting for you to declare me fit. And please let me know when can I resume my normal diet? When should I go for the tests?’
I was peeved at his obsession about diet and tests, and resisted the temptation to tell him off. ‘You can eat whatever you like. I already said that the first day you saw me; I say it again. For your satisfaction, I am ordering your liver function tests right away.’
He returned the next day, smiling as wide as his mouth would permit. The test results were almost within normal ranges.
‘You have the certificate now. Go make it public; paste the test result onto your door; show it to all your family and friends. And please do not ask me again about diet.’ I shook his hands to signal that there was no scope for any further queries.
Gingerly, he produced another file from his bag. It was an abdominal ultrasound. I looked at it amusedly and grinned.
‘I am sorry, I got it done on my own,’ he said apologetically.
I winked at him, ‘You must have read the report.’
He looked away, nodding his head like a child caught in a mischievous act.
‘Well, it is normal.’ I congratulated him.
‘So I can use oil for cooking and add turmeric to my diet now?’ The unusual mirth in his voice and his childlike naughty looks at once disarmed me. The query about diet was like the refrain at the end of each stanza in a Kashmiri devotional poem. I took his poetic predilection in my stride.
‘Yes, you can use oil in your cooking, and turmeric, and chillies, and any other condiments you desire.’
‘I was not allowed even a pinch of any condiments and, certainly, no turmeric,’ he said, looking rather accusingly at his son.
Poor Shaad was a helpless pawn on the social checkerboard where the movements of pieces are controlled by deep-seated myths that have survived for centuries. No amount of scientific evidence is able to ease the stronghold that folklore and entrenched tradition have on the psyche of people. In the case of jaundice, even doctors tend to perpetuate the dietary myths. How then could I blame Shaad or his family for what looked like stupidity?
‘In fact, turmeric is one of the best condiments that we know of. Besides it’s well known for its anti-cancer and antibacterial properties; it is anti-inflammatory as well. Turmeric should help rather than cause harm in hepatitis,’ I explained.
‘But turmeric is deep yellow; won’t it make the jaundice worse?’ he asked.
How ludicrous! Shaad’s blunt logic made me laugh. Was that the reason why turmeric was forbidden to jaundiced patients in common lore?
I eyed him with sympathy.
He hesitated for a while before he continued, ‘This may really look bizarre, but I have not been allowed to wear anything yellow all these days. We had drapes with yellow stripes removed from the windows. I hope that is no longer necessary.’ I thought that was the extreme one could go to cast off yellow. Poor yellow, the colour that symbolises sacrifice, had become a pariah, a monster. It was being sacrificed at the altar of superstition. When I jokingly asked about it, he confessed that he was forbidden even to look at yellow flowers. He was not allowed to offer the traditional marigolds during his worship of the deities. Since there were more skeletons tumbling out, I asked, ‘Shaad, what alternative treatments did you receive during the last four weeks besides what I prescribed? Be forthright with me; I am not going to chastise you.’ I was almost certain now that he could not have resisted the indulgence of his advisors amongst family and friends.
‘Frankly speaking, I was under great pressure to go for phanda, a type of voodoo practised in Jammu, but I did not yield. I stuck to your medicine and to the diet that my family offered—bland, colourless and flavourless. But a priest was called in all the same, to offer a special puja to drive away the evil spirits. I am sure all these measures do their bit in the resolution of jaundice.’
‘If you like to think so,’ I responded, not able to conceal my impatience. ‘You were seized with a virus, not any evil spirits or demons. Now you are exorcised of the bug, I hope.’
He smiled and said, ‘I will use that metaphor in my new poem.’
‘You are welcome.’
‘Finally, before I take your leave, I want to make absolutely sure about turmeric.’
That was the last straw. Had jaundice deprived Shaad of his sense and sensibility? I do not know how I resisted the temptation of landing a hard one on him. Instead, I ordered a bouquet of yellow roses to be delivered to him the next day.
THE BIRD FLEW AWAY
Dulari Raina was incarcerated in the nursing home for more than a month. She spoke little and moved even less, alternating between states of delirium, drowsiness and coma, a catheter in her bladder, and a feeding tube in her stomach. Morbidly obese, her skin was surprisingly diaphanous and bruised with a hint of pressure. Sores were sprouting on her sacrum, buttocks and heels. Omkar, her brother, and Nancy, his wife—the only care givers—were worn out from looking after her and had deposited her in the home. There, she would wait for final deliverance.
Dulari had no visitors from amongst her five siblings and their families, except Omkar who visited her every Monday morning to pay the bills and say hello to the hospital staff. But a stranger had of late become a regular visitor. He spent time with her every evening, holding her hands, trying to communicate. No one knows what transpired between this greying man in his mid-50s and the dying woman. When the nurses asked how he was related to her, he said he was a kinsman.
A week later, 75 years after she was born, Dulari bid adieu to this world and to the long saga of pain and suffering. Her last birthday, like her birthdays over the past four decades, went unnoticed at the nursing home where she finally gave up her fight.
Dulari’s tragic tale needs to be told to remind us of destiny’s unseen ha
nds twisting and turning our lives at its will, leaving us with little control over ourselves. This is not just about the bizarre ritual prescribed by a pir whose services were sought to pull Dulari out of the tragic predicament after she was deserted by her husband, Pran Nath. That was after he had been brought handcuffed all the way from Bombay through a court order and lodged in the Central Jail of Srinagar. After a few days in jail, Dulari’s mother, Dhanvati, had directed her sons to visit the groom to inquire about his welfare. This was without the knowledge of the lawyer, Gwash Lal, who had toiled hard for the arrest warrant. She believed that Pran Nath was just an errant husband, too naive to understand the responsibilities of marriage; it was unacceptable to imagine him in jail, supping and sleeping with thieves and thugs, when he should have been enjoying the hospitality that he deserved at his in-laws.
Soon Dhanvati started sending dishes, which she cooked specially for her son-in-law, to supplement what was provided at the jail. She ordered a pair of new shirts and stockings, and asked Dulari to knit a pullover for him. She had his clothes washed and ironed.
Soon, Pran Nath ingratiated himself with the family, apologised for his mistakes and made fervent appeals for pardon. He promised that he would make up for all his lapses and prove himself a model husband. Dulari met him twice in the jail and felt convinced that he was a changed man. That enthused Dhanvati to rush to Gwash Lal and request him to drop the case and get Pran Nath released. He warned her that this sudden transformation seemed a mere charade, but he could not prevail over an impassioned mother-in-law craving to indulge her daughter’s husband regardless of his faults and failings. It was head against heart, reason against faith.
Pran Nath was honourably discharged from jail and formally welcomed as an honoured son-in-law, soon to endear himself to the Raina clan. Dulari’s uncle vacated his spacious room for the couple to consummate the marriage two years after the wedding. Dulari had confessed to cousin Gouri that her wedding night had been a total disaster. She was too raw, too nervous and too unprepared for his urgency, and his consuming drive focused on the penetration that was hard to achieve with her thighs held tight together as the hot fluid pouring between her thighs gave her an uneasy feeling, and the strange odour caused her alarm. Her unresponsiveness had grown worse with each renewed attempt till he had given up in frustration. Later, she had cursed herself for her naiveté and believed it might have been the reason he abandoned her.
Being the first born, Dulari’s wedding was a cherished family event. Her doting mother had bid for a well-qualified and well-placed groom. Middlemen came up with several proposals. Horoscopes of eligible candidates were sifted and studied, but none impressed her until Pran Nath’s strong credentials came under review. Employed in far off Bombay, he had a postgraduate degree, his family seemed fine, his tekni matched with Dulari’s, and the wedding was on.
The wedding was performed in style. The tall and handsome groom made quite an impression, but his stay was short, just five days. He told Dulari that he was in the thick of an important assignment at his office. He would call her to Bombay as soon as he set up a decent apartment.
Dulari was still in the euphoria of her wedded state. She spent time with her in-laws, basking in the special treatment traditionally showered on new brides. But Pran Nath was not heard from much. He wrote to her, but sparingly. The letters were brief, drab and unemotional, not the romantic stuff that she was waiting for. She took the help of her cousin and wrote long, loving replies but the response was tepid. He was still looking for an apartment, he wrote.
Weeks went by. Dulari’s parents grew anxious. They met Pran Nath’s parents who set their mind at ease. What was the hurry, they asked. Were they not entitled to the privilege of having their daughter-in-law with them for some more time? Was she unhappy in the new household or in any sort of distress on their account? These were beguiling words that forced the Rainas into silence. But not for long. Why was Pran Nath incommunicado, they wondered. Omkar, Dulari’s brother, dashed an express letter to Pran Nath asking him when he would come and take his wife. In his reply, Pran Nath reflected on the difficult living conditions in the metropolis, adding that he was going through a crucial phase in his career, which demanded long working hours that left him little time to look for a decent accommodation. He would call her soon, he reassured him, and made a plea on behalf of his parents who had taken a great liking for their daughter-in-law and would like to have her in the house for some more time.
More letters were exchanged and new excuses offered every time until Pran Nath stopped answering. By then, nine months had passed and the family was in despair. They decided to send Dulari to Bombay to join her husband, without informing him about it.
Gwash Lal established contact with a distant relative, Dwarika Nath, who lived in Bombay. He received Dulari at the railway station and accompanied her to Pran Nath’s address. It was a small place, a single room and a kitchen. Pran Nath was away but there was a woman with two kids. When informed that Dulari was Pran Nath’s legal wife, the woman was enraged. Who is the real wife, she screamed; she, who had been living with Pran Nath for six years and bore him two kids, or Dulari who nobody had ever seen or heard about?
The intensity of the woman’s anger left Dulari stunned and her fulminations sent her cowering into a corner where she fainted with fear. Dwarika Nath was at a loss. He got hold of some water and sprayed it on Dulari’s face to revive her. When she came to, she started crying. The other woman just stood there, unmoved. She asked them to leave at once before she called for help. Dwarika Nath realised that there was no point in confronting this woman, and led Dulari out. As they left, she banged the door shut behind them and bawled, ‘Don’t ever make the mistake of coming here again; I won’t even let your shadow fall on my portals.’
Nevertheless, early next morning, Dwarika Nath went to the place alone and knocked. As soon as the woman opened the door he shoved his way in and saw the man face to face. The woman hollered, ‘How dare you come here again?’ but he addressed the man, ‘I believe you are Pran Nath? Your wife has arrived from Kashmir. She is staying with me. This woman here claims that you married her six years ago and that you have two children by her.’
Pran Nath was cornered. He had no argument except a wild excuse that his parents had forced him into marriage with Dulari much against his will.
‘And yet you agreed to marry a second woman and, throwing your conscience to the wind, deserted her only after a week. This is bigamy as well as desertion, and the consequences can be grave,’ Dwarika Nath warned him.
The woman went on muttering profanities, looking menacingly at Pran Nath as he barely managed to find speech, ‘I am ready to take full responsibility. Dulari will live with us. I will put her up temporarily in a hotel until I find a larger apartment for all of us.’
This provoked a wild altercation with his wife who poured more abuse on Pran Nath, pushed him out of the apartment, commanded Dwarika Nath to clear out and shut the door behind them, not before warning them that she was Pran Nath’s only lawful wife and that she would never share her husband with any other woman.
‘How do you propose to reconcile this impossible situation?’ Dwarika Nath asked as the two men stood face to face out on the street.
‘You will have to bear with me for a while till I sort it out with Malini. She is not as bad as she seems.’
Dwarika Nath did not like the idea of Dulari being put up in a hotel in a city alien to her. He left his address with Pran Nath and gave him two days to sort things out with Malini.
They waited a full week but Pran Nath never turned up. Dwarika Nath went to seek him again, but the apartment was locked. The horse had bolted.
Dulari was too naive and too shocked to think for herself. She was terribly disillusioned with this city called Bombay, which had assumed a mystique in her imagination during the past year. She had passed the past seven days crying her eyes out and the nights in extreme agitation and fright. Now she knew it was all over
and begged to be sent back home, to her parents.
Legal proceedings started soon after her failed visit to Bombay. It took several months before Pran Nath was brought to Srinagar in handcuffs and jailed.
Now, nearly two years after her wedding, when a shy, diffident Dulari, dressed up as a bride again, was ushered a second time into the nuptial chamber where her husband waited, it was with clear instructions not to repeat her earlier follies. Dhanvati, the irrepressible mother, pressed her ears to the door for a long time until she thought she heard everything that she wanted to. There was not a more satisfied mother that went to bed that night.
Even as the daughter reported a successful consummation, Dhanvati would take no chances. She had already sought other means to ensure a firm hold on the groom. Caught in the web of tragic tangles, people in the Piriveir and Rishiveir, as the valley of Kashmir is proudly called, often seek access to spiritual, mystical and magical aids to solve their manifold problems. That is how the pir, referred to earlier, came into the picture.
The pirs of Kashmir have a reputation for getting truant and cheating husbands back into the fold of their spouses. Thus it was that mother Dhanvati sought the services of the celebrated Pir Barkat Ali. He lived behind the public burial ground at Zadibal, in a mysterious looking house from which chimney smoke rose in curls and took myriad forms. Inside, the pir sat in one corner, in a low-ceilinged, poorly-lit sombre room, on a raised cushion of mattresses with a big bolster behind his back, a low table in front and a cabinet by his right side against the wall. He wore a long white pheran with wide cuffs, a green turban over a white cotton skullcap, sported a long white beard, and had bushy eyebrows that met in the middle and flowed over the base of his angular nose. There were three ancient-looking books on the desk, two dog-eared ledgers, a pen and an inkpot, and small square slips of paper on which he scribbled some spells in Arabic, folded them twice and handed them over to the supplicants seated on the floor in front of him. For others, he wrote the spells on the inner surfaces of ceramic cups and instructed them variously, according to their problems, to go home and drink tea, milk or herbal potions from the cup. From the cabinet he fished out amulets of different designs for different clients.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 21