HERE I AM and other stories-16. Stop Pretending

HERE I AM and other stories

16. Stop Pretending

Telugu Original: P.Sathyavathi

English Translation: D. Kesava Rao

          The monsoon afternoon was so hot that it was redolent of the month of Vaisakha. Gita covered her mouth with the pallu of her sari to avoid breathing the polluted air. She was on her way home, in an auto, after visiting an ailing friend. She did not realize when the vehicle had come to a sudden stop. She was surprised to see a sea of people, police uniforms and black badges.

          ‘It’s a rasta roko,’ the auto driver said. ‘They are waiting for the minister, who is passing this way. It may take a long time. I don’t know what turn this agitation may take. If you want to go back, I will reverse the auto. Otherwise, please get off and try to go ahead on foot. I can’t afford any damage to my new auto.’

          Gita stepped off the auto. She could get another auto only if she crossed over and reached the other end of the surging crowd.

          Frenzied slogan-shouting, like the roar of the sea in tide. Intolerance manifesting itself in a lathi charge, resulting in a stampede. Never had she been in such a fix before.

          ‘Clear the way. The minister is coming.’ The lathis swayed into action. No sooner had the minister’s convoy come into the midst of the crowd, than the protesters surrounded it. The police were quick to throw a cordon around the minister. The crowd was moving on its own, without a direction.

          ‘They are protesting against a death that occurred in a police lock-up yesterday,’ said someone.

          ‘What are these protests for, except to cause inconvenience to fellow humans?’ said another.

          ‘Are we really human?’ asked a boy carrying a black flag. ‘If we are really human, we should question the minister about the death in the lock-up. Are we human, really?’ he said with contempt.

          ‘We don’t care who dies. We do not like to be bothered even for a moment. Nothing should mar our comfort at all,’ said a bespectacled girl. Gita felt giddy and was about to fall. The girl noticed her, held her by the shoulder, dragged her aside and planted her at a spot where she could stand. Again, there was a violent roar from the sea of people and the lathis swung into action. A lathi fell on Gita’s shoulder too.
‘It won’t hurt . . . Take it easy. The police officer might have taken you to be one of us. That is why she has rewarded you too. Stand aside until the crisis abates. I must join my people now,’ said the girl and squeezed herself into the crowd, shouting slogans. As the shoving and pushing continued, Gita’s glasses were knocked off her nose. A man standing next to her picked them up for her, but they were battered out of shape. Then someone pushed her with such force that she was swept along to the centre of the crowd. She found her feet with much difficulty. She could see the minister’s convoy.

          What a surprise! Getting off the minister’s car was her pinni (aunt), clad in a blue sari, her face radiant with a smile; she was like the clouds in the month of Sravana, pregnant with the nectar of mercy.

          ‘Pinni!’ a thrilled Gita cried in joy.

          ‘What are you doing? Why are you shouting for your aunt in the presence of the minister?’ admonished a woman police officer.

          ‘You know, she is my aunt. That is why I shouted with joy,’ said Gita apologetically.

          ‘You seem to be educated, but crazy. Now behave properly, else you have to get into the van.’ The officer rapped her with her lathi . . . Not accustomed to such treatment, Gita fell face down, crying ‘Amma’ in pain.

          One of the girls in the crowd lifted her up, exclaiming, ‘Oh! Gita madam! Why are you here?’

          ‘I didn’t come here on purpose; I was caught in the melee.’ Gita was embarrassed.

          ‘Come on, I will take you out of this.’ Holding her hand and leading her, the girl said, ‘I am sure you are not familiar with such things.’

          The girl may have been a former student. Her concern moved Gita. Wiping her broken glasses, she looked around and found the minister. Not her aunt. What an illusion! The sympathy of the girl helped her pass through the crowd and reach the other end, where she could get another auto. She reached home at half-past two in the afternoon.

          ‘Open the door for madam,’ her husband, Sundar Rao, barked.

          The helper opened the door and let her in.

          No sooner had she opened her mouth to explain what had happened, than Sundar Rao started passing snide remarks about how so-called enlightened people got into tight spots, causing a sudden spurt in the blood pressure of the people at home. Then, a comparative analysis of the prestige and glory of the families each of the two belonged to. Sundry comments were thrown in, as usual. This was followed by an elaborate lunch and a vitamin tablet.

          ‘Are you ready with the speech you have to make tomorrow on your retirement? You have wasted a lot of time,’ said Sundar Rao. ‘All right! Prepare yourself for it at least now.’ His tone was domineering, casual.

          Prepare! Prepare for everything! Was it necessary? Couldn’t she respond spontaneously? Was there no place for spontaneity in life at all? Gita went into her room. After changing into casual clothes, she held the mirror in her hand to look at herself. But the mirror fell down and broke into three pieces. She glued them together with the adhesive that fixes everything except ‘broken hearts’. When she looked into the mirror, there were three of her images.

          To have two faces, of course, was common, but what to do with the third one?
‘Look, Gita, how many faces do you have!’ She told herself dramatically and peered again into the mirror that showed three faces . . . lustreless face and eyes, pale lips and to top it all, silver-streaked hair . . . Had it been a long time since she had used dyes and brushes? She had no patience for them. How long could anyone paint oneself? It was really an addiction. Once you started it, it would override you and even blackmail you.

          ‘Oh! Gita, take your brushes and paint your face,’ said a face in the mirror.
As she closed her eyes in fatigue for a moment, the girl with brilliant looks and sparkling eyes who had helped her in the rasta roko stood before her mind’s eye. An innocent face without make-up. Gita suddenly thought of her own daughter, who had called her up that morning to wish her on her retirement. Yes, she too painted her face. Maybe she took her mother as her role model.

          Gita had never known about girls who stood fearlessly among crowds, braving lathi charges and spending time and mercy on others . . . That girl with eyes as sparkling and clear as crystals, had led Gita safely across the troubled spot all because she had taught her, god knows when . . . Gita had neither thought about such girls, nor did she look into their eyes. She had no time for such things . . . What could she do? Her life was like exercising on a stationary bicycle. Pedal for hours; it does not move an inch. Life was like Sisyphus rolling the stone up, or rather, like the beast going in circles in an oil press. Was there any time to look around? Was there any time to look into people’s eyes?

          Feeling a weight on her chest, Gita opened her eyes and saw the mirror in her hand.

          ‘What, then, were you sweating it out for? Who did you help?’ asked the three faces.

          Gita looked for an answer.

          ‘You say you have been painting your face all the while. Who did you do that for?’ the mirror shot another question at her. The mirror was becoming heavier and meddlesome.

          Placing the mirror on the table, Gita said wistfully, ‘Please leave me alone; this is the time for my siesta.’

          She closed her eyes. But there were colours before her. Colours, colours and colours, in different shades and hues.

          The fountain of colours reminded her of her pinni, who had a great sense of colour. The beautiful aunt who was always full of grace, with an ever-ready smile on her lips . . . It was as if she had a bag full of smiles tied to her pallu, to dole them out to anyone whom she came across. She used to say that we should be nice even to people we detest.

          Gita still remembered pinni sitting on a stool in the backyard of the ancestral house, daintily breaking soapnuts. She had a special way of doing things. Her manner was always pleasant, without even a trace of anger on her face. She used to smile away even the bitterest criticism. She had a knack for getting things done. When she could not contain her anger, she would use only one expression: ‘I will break your head.’ Gita admired her then. Pinni had a special skill when it came to breaking soapnuts too. ‘Put them in the sun for a couple of days to make it easier to separate the seed from the rind. If you hit the nut hard, the seed gets broken and the pieces get entangled in your hair when you shampoo. You should hit the nut gently, so that the seed gets separated and can be thrown out. Then you can extract the essence from the rind without the broken pieces of the seed,’ she would advise her. Gita would ask her pinni, ‘If you break someone’s head, do you separate his brain like the soapnut and throw it away without breaking it?’

          ‘Some people are better without brains because we need only their bodies to work for us,’ replied pinni.

          After the soapnut-breaking ritual, she used to put the rinds into two baskets – the bigger basket exclusively for herself and the smaller one for all the other members of the family. By the time the property was divided, her basket was heavier. Today, she was looking for ways to evade income tax. It was inexplicable why the minister looked like pinni.

          Gita had also been proud of her sense of colour until now. After getting caught in the traffic today, after meeting the girl with sparkling eyes, she wondered whether she had any sense at all.

          The mirror shot another question at her: ‘What did you tell your daughter this morning?’

          ‘Oh! That selfish daughter of mine! She asked me to look after her child so that she can study. I have done a lot for her.

          It is enough,’ Gita was annoyed.

          ‘Like mother, like daughter . . .’ the mirror taunted.

          ‘How am I selfish? I was a virtual slave to the family all these days. I worked for twenty-five years, raised the children, cooked, shopped and attended to everything. Now I am exhausted. I did my doctorate too, with all these things keeping me busy. Look at Sundar Rao, my husband! He has everything on a platter. Morning walk, special breakfast, food without sugar and oil, tennis in the evening . . . I really envy him. Don’t I deserve some peace and space of my own, at least now? I have my own ambitions – I would like to learn to play the veena, do my master’s in Telugu literature, go on a trip to Kashmir . . .’

          ‘Wonderful! You sound as if serving your family is serving society. Is that a sacrifice? It is nothing but wallowing in selfpity. Why do you compare yourself with Sundar Rao? He made you slog all these days and throws his weight around even today, sitting in the armchair, cigarette in hand. Is that man your ideal?’ all three faces in the broken but glued mirror said in chorus.

          ‘You said you have a doctorate. Your research was for your promotion to a higher post and increments in your salary. Your degree is merely ornamental, not of any worth. Has it any bearing on society? Did you seek and find any reason for the prevalent homicidal culture or for the suicidal tendency spreading in society? Or for woman being made a commodity, or for the deaths in a lock-up? Now you want to learn to play the veena, like Nero’s sister . . . Do it . . .’ An enraged Gita hurled the mirror through the window.

          It smashed to smithereens, reflecting thousands of her faces, with two teardrops on each face. Impulsively she threw away the paints and brushes too and lay back wearily. Suddenly, a dark cloud covered the sky. From its gloom emerged thousands of boys and girls with sparkling eyes. Then started a drizzle, turning into a shower and later, into a cloudburst and a downpour, resulting in a flood, washing away the colours, making the faces plain and pure, shining like crystals. The girl of that morning, with the sparkling eyes, started playing the flute. The seeds of the soapnuts, thrown on the dust heap and washed clean by the flash flood, came rolling into the offices, factories, hospitals, law courts, play fields, podiums and legislatures.
And Gita was trying to hold the dream between her eyelids, afraid that it would vanish with even the slightest disturbance.

*****

(to be continued..)