The city looks bright and beautiful with tiny shimmering lights on the other side of the river. It begins to rain slowly.I jump into the abysmal dark waters of the river. Sounds of a big splash.
It is so hazy, I can barely see anything. I am encapsulated by the thrillingly sweet and rotten blue green waters as they try to take over my body. I lay spread eagled, as they seem to comfort my pain and merge me as one of them; the exodus in the process of the reunion of the creator and the subject. As I am conquered, my mind races to those tiny thoughts dumped in the closet of my memories.
A nondescript house with a tiny beautiful garden on the front yard, guarded by worn down aluminium wires and a rust eaten gate; pink daisies and dahlias on the right and fully grown sunflowers to the left. A narrow concrete road bifurcate the garden into two equal parts. There is a Maruti 800 parked on the right side of the garden.
That place seems very familiar. I think I know that place.
It’s my home, where I was born, where I played till my ankles ached, where I caught those beautiful red- blue butterflies, where I grew those yellow roses and where I found Zik, my cat.
Yet, why is it so far?
Darkness surrounds me as my mind is clouded by memories of me, my existence and my being. My vision is blurred.
A plump looking woman dressed in a coffee colored flowery bordered saree.
Can it be mother? It’s as if, she is speaking to me. Faint sounds, quite inaudible, but I strain to gather it.
“.. You don’t have to be sorry Fanee, it was never your fault. You have always been our favorite. You were invariably the rebellious girl, independent, trying to break free from the shackles of the school of thought that bred in our family. Go ahead, fly your dream. But remember, always be the person who can look up to herself in the mirror everyday… ”
My mind gets foggy, incapacitated by the rushing water, as it enters my lungs and I fight convulsively for air. Indistinct shapes - squares, circles, rectangles and triangles.
A wizened old man wearing a pleated shirt and black chinos, poring into a book of Advanced Anthropology with a pair of reading glasses. He looks back at me. He has a stern posture, but kind eyes. His glance is deep and intellectual. I find it difficult to match his gaze and look down. He seems to have a sad gaze which is well concealed behind a straight expressionless face.
“…Child, you have never been the bright kid like your brothers, but you have that tendency to bounce and fight back and that is why I dote on you; because you never stopped believing in yourself. Never abandon your ideals; they will guide you in times of darkness…”
Two boys play wordathlon on the terrace. They seem engrossed, their face contorting with anxiety as they form words with those letters on the palette. They look at me, their eyes tearful and sad, and their expressions blank and serious. I want to bid them goodbye but I am neither able to talk or move. I am transfixed by an unnatural force. As I frisk out and sit on the taxi bound to Mumbai, one of them stands up and raises his hand.
I try to wave back but I am enveloped by a strange darkness. My eyes are wet, I want to reach out to my twin brothers and tell them that I will be back soon but I am numbed. I sit down behind the taxi driver, mechanically ask him to proceed. I wonder if I will ever see them again.
As the car moves forward, I begin to choke on my thoughts. They are just too fast to capture and take a note of. My childhood, school, college pass by momentarily, like a movie reel super fast forwarded. The job in the Mumbai local daily, the first assignment of coverage of the slum where Mr. Kumar, the editor made politically correct editing. Everything back then seemed so normal. Life was worth living.
I think I can barely breathe. My lungs seem to burst with the pressure as my ears begin to ring and my head starts thumping in pain. The water inside has blocked all possible routes of air.
Clouded by obscurity and the pain of deserting my house and my family, I look at the co passenger sitting beside me. He smiles. His face is strangely familiar but I turn aside and look outside the window.
“Hey Fannie, Come over and join us for coffee”, a straight face with soft wavy hair, jet black eyes wink at me. Sameer, the aspiring model cum actor who seemingly became my soul mate. Meeting up at the canteen after bunking the boring political science sessions, going for movies at the local theatre and evening time always wasted at the café joints, we found solace in each other. Much against the wishes of all, he asked me for marriage and I agreed. My life changed forever.
Why? …Was I wrong then? I believed in him, then, his way of life, his honesty and admired him for what he was. I believed the feelings were same towards me too. But that fateful night, when he abandoned me; accusing and abusing me physically, mentally and emotionally, I was broken. My beliefs had caved in on me; my ideal world had been shattered into pieces. And then, a month later when I had collected those few intact pieces of life in and around me, I tried to battle back. To get an entry in the apparently normal idealistic society, I tried to muscle my way in. My inspiration was my progeny, the umbilical craving of giving it a name, a societal shelter. I did find him, but he had already cheated on me. I could not believe myself; it was as if the sky had dropped on my head. Numbed and denuded, I was left there stranded, weak and unprotected. Unable to fend for myself, I became a nocturnal parasite. My world had been bludgeoned into a gory death. All that remained of me is a zombie.
I believe I had left my job for him. I believe I had eloped with him against the wishes of all near and dear. I believe we took each other to be husband and wife at the temple near the hilltop. I believe I believed in him. I believe I was believed to be pregnant. Did I believe myself when he left without a cause? Did I believe myself, when I caught him with another woman in that desolate house in Malabar Hill? Life then had diminished to events while I was busy, believing.
I have never stopped believing nor have I ever been an escapist. I found a job of an English teacher at a secondary government school in the suburb. However, the shrapnels of that unforgivable past have stayed with me. I was unable to give the shelter of legitimacy to my new born, the blanket of a family. My fate was sealed under those poring looks and hushed familiar talks behind my back. I am tired and exhausted, fatigued with thinking over answers that do not have questions. I wonder whether this life of any ordinary exploited member of an ostracized class is worth dying for. The seeming evanescence of an idealist betrayed by her own beliefs; I have failed myself.
Asphyxiated I look up as my vision begins to blur as the layers of water flow over me. I feel no pain; only remorse on my helplessness. Darkness soon overcomes me. I wonder whether it is the time to say farewell.
It’s my home, where I was born, where I played till my ankles ached, where I caught those beautiful red- blue butterflies, where I grew those yellow roses and where I found Zik, my cat.
Yet, why is it so far?
Darkness surrounds me as my mind is clouded by memories of me, my existence and my being. My vision is blurred.
A plump looking woman dressed in a coffee colored flowery bordered saree.
Can it be mother? It’s as if, she is speaking to me. Faint sounds, quite inaudible, but I strain to gather it.
“.. You don’t have to be sorry Fanee, it was never your fault. You have always been our favorite. You were invariably the rebellious girl, independent, trying to break free from the shackles of the school of thought that bred in our family. Go ahead, fly your dream. But remember, always be the person who can look up to herself in the mirror everyday… ”
My mind gets foggy, incapacitated by the rushing water, as it enters my lungs and I fight convulsively for air. Indistinct shapes - squares, circles, rectangles and triangles.
A wizened old man wearing a pleated shirt and black chinos, poring into a book of Advanced Anthropology with a pair of reading glasses. He looks back at me. He has a stern posture, but kind eyes. His glance is deep and intellectual. I find it difficult to match his gaze and look down. He seems to have a sad gaze which is well concealed behind a straight expressionless face.
“…Child, you have never been the bright kid like your brothers, but you have that tendency to bounce and fight back and that is why I dote on you; because you never stopped believing in yourself. Never abandon your ideals; they will guide you in times of darkness…”
Two boys play wordathlon on the terrace. They seem engrossed, their face contorting with anxiety as they form words with those letters on the palette. They look at me, their eyes tearful and sad, and their expressions blank and serious. I want to bid them goodbye but I am neither able to talk or move. I am transfixed by an unnatural force. As I frisk out and sit on the taxi bound to Mumbai, one of them stands up and raises his hand.
I try to wave back but I am enveloped by a strange darkness. My eyes are wet, I want to reach out to my twin brothers and tell them that I will be back soon but I am numbed. I sit down behind the taxi driver, mechanically ask him to proceed. I wonder if I will ever see them again.
As the car moves forward, I begin to choke on my thoughts. They are just too fast to capture and take a note of. My childhood, school, college pass by momentarily, like a movie reel super fast forwarded. The job in the Mumbai local daily, the first assignment of coverage of the slum where Mr. Kumar, the editor made politically correct editing. Everything back then seemed so normal. Life was worth living.
I think I can barely breathe. My lungs seem to burst with the pressure as my ears begin to ring and my head starts thumping in pain. The water inside has blocked all possible routes of air.
Clouded by obscurity and the pain of deserting my house and my family, I look at the co passenger sitting beside me. He smiles. His face is strangely familiar but I turn aside and look outside the window.
“Hey Fannie, Come over and join us for coffee”, a straight face with soft wavy hair, jet black eyes wink at me. Sameer, the aspiring model cum actor who seemingly became my soul mate. Meeting up at the canteen after bunking the boring political science sessions, going for movies at the local theatre and evening time always wasted at the café joints, we found solace in each other. Much against the wishes of all, he asked me for marriage and I agreed. My life changed forever.
Why? …Was I wrong then? I believed in him, then, his way of life, his honesty and admired him for what he was. I believed the feelings were same towards me too. But that fateful night, when he abandoned me; accusing and abusing me physically, mentally and emotionally, I was broken. My beliefs had caved in on me; my ideal world had been shattered into pieces. And then, a month later when I had collected those few intact pieces of life in and around me, I tried to battle back. To get an entry in the apparently normal idealistic society, I tried to muscle my way in. My inspiration was my progeny, the umbilical craving of giving it a name, a societal shelter. I did find him, but he had already cheated on me. I could not believe myself; it was as if the sky had dropped on my head. Numbed and denuded, I was left there stranded, weak and unprotected. Unable to fend for myself, I became a nocturnal parasite. My world had been bludgeoned into a gory death. All that remained of me is a zombie.
I believe I had left my job for him. I believe I had eloped with him against the wishes of all near and dear. I believe we took each other to be husband and wife at the temple near the hilltop. I believe I believed in him. I believe I was believed to be pregnant. Did I believe myself when he left without a cause? Did I believe myself, when I caught him with another woman in that desolate house in Malabar Hill? Life then had diminished to events while I was busy, believing.
I have never stopped believing nor have I ever been an escapist. I found a job of an English teacher at a secondary government school in the suburb. However, the shrapnels of that unforgivable past have stayed with me. I was unable to give the shelter of legitimacy to my new born, the blanket of a family. My fate was sealed under those poring looks and hushed familiar talks behind my back. I am tired and exhausted, fatigued with thinking over answers that do not have questions. I wonder whether this life of any ordinary exploited member of an ostracized class is worth dying for. The seeming evanescence of an idealist betrayed by her own beliefs; I have failed myself.
Asphyxiated I look up as my vision begins to blur as the layers of water flow over me. I feel no pain; only remorse on my helplessness. Darkness soon overcomes me. I wonder whether it is the time to say farewell.
A story that could have been and should have been...I love the idea behind the story.
ReplyDeleteThere are way too many like her, fighting everyday battles. For them, death is not running away or giving up but its just another journey towards the unexplored in quest of meeting the ideal someday.