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part III: LOVE
"The role of the artist is exactly the same role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of things you don’t see." - James Baldwin
* * *
Strange. Padma’s heart did not beat to her mai’s song today.
Every waking day of her routine existence, from a time she did not remember, her throat crooned the lilting notes of mother’s adoration for her baby girl.
Not today.
An unsettling thump in her heart muffled their sound.
She felt the unease reverberate in her vocal flaps. This was not the familiar pre-performance dance of her insides - she was unnervingly unfocussed and her mouth kept running dry. Now and again, she sipped on jaggery-sweetened water to wet her lips and palette, and her nerves.
Tcha! Get over it! The unwarranted anxiety was confusing, very annoying, and should not be hanging around today; definitely not today!
Padma drew another long sip of the soothing mixture from the metal flask beside her, and focussed back on her eyes.
She was painting them wider, winging them like lotus petals, so they could emote like the innocent limpid ones of “Radha”, the young god Krishna’s eternal lover. She curled her lashes longer and flirtatious, and outlined her brow with tiny leafy tendrils in white and red paint, extending the swirls up to her cheekbones.
Her costume was a discounted garish attire from the local Kingz & Queenz boutique, “the only bridalware luxri butiq (sic)”, located in the town’s Central market square. It hung by her dresser, creases decently ironed out, the volume of the full bodied fuchsia skirt rippling under the rotating fan. The shimmer of its large printed silver roses twinkled in her pupils, distracting her for just a moment, and she chose a brighter pink for her lips than what she had set on her table earlier in the day.
Padma slipped into the meters of brilliant fuchsia, securing its weight at her waist with a drawstring.
The metal flask sat still, half-full.
She retouched the alta (red dye, like henna) on her feet, adding more polka dotted tendrils to the previous floral pattern. The bright crimson contrasted with the strings of plastic white jasmines she tied around her ankles. More fake flowers ornamented her neck and arms, and cocooned her thick long braid.
The metal flask remained half-full.
The last bit was a fiery orange drape spangled with silver stars, and mirrors, and all the glitter she could possibly sew on it. She tucked its corner into her skirt waist and draped the rest over her head. The chiffon fell gracefully.
Ready?
Padma tilted the mirror and scrutinized the figure in it with squinted eyes. Radha blushed through the paint job.
Yes, she was ready.
Emotionally too.
She heard the faint dhum-dhum in her throat pit again. It hadn’t really left her since morning.
*
The moon was in full bloom this evening, and tinted with gold, and the stars burned an iridescent halo around themselves. The gods must be attending!
An ecstatic Hari pored over prep details one more time, ticking them off, of a trembling list.
One of the speakers was angled too far out, and he softened two spotlights to let the heavenly ones in. He perfumed the air with sandalwood and rose incense, pinning the sticks around the makeshift auditorium, and sprinkled petals of leftover marigold blossoms all over the stage floor. The orange played with the lights - man, and nature-made; the wooden platform glowed holy.
Thirty minutes to eight.
Hari checked in on Padma. She was sipping on water.
*
Almost all of Cheyla town was assembled in the sprawling open square to watch the Dance Of The Divine by the Hari-Padma Theatre Co. Thirty rows of plastic chairs, and some more rows of straw mats, barely accommodated the streaming audience (a decent number poured in from neighboring villages); the last stragglers jostled one another for foot space.
Hari’s pride swelled at the overwhelming flow of spectators as he peeked from the backstage darkness, calculating his (and his daughter’s) worth.
He let the audience (and the gods) get fidgety just enough, then lured them to the unfolding narrative, playing notes of raaga Khamaj, an Indian classical music piece of love and separation, on his harmonium (wind instrument).
Radha entered.
*
Radha awaited her Krishna by the crystal stream, lost in its silver waters (Hari had twisted and wrinkled a bright blue bedspread across the stage, and scattered fistfuls of glittery powder over it).
The ripples tinkled Krishna's intoxicating laugh, and His flute sang over the flowing waters. Her fingers moved gracefully to touch the floating tune.
She let her senses lead her.
Radha rocked gently in rhythm. Is He here?
All was quiet. Strings of raaga Khamaj wafted around her.
She dipped her feet in the lyrical stream; the waters rushed to infuse her soul with Krishna’s melody. She started to sway, her hands enacting the delicate movements of giggling ripples, then swayed furiously as the song consumed her whole. Her hand gestures twisted wildly and pulled her out of the water.
Radha didn’t need the water, Krishna was within her.
She was dancing now, dancing in uninhibited ecstasy. Her pores sweat raw, fanatical devotion. She whirled, spinning a bright pink and silver tornado that swallowed all who watched her - wide circles at first, spanning the stage, then tighter whirls; she accelerated the momentum, invoking, “Krishna, Krishna, Krishna,” a euphoric longing that intensified with her escalated breath, spinning, Krishna, Krishna, faster, tighter, Krishna, Krishna, Krishna; then with madness in her whirls, Krishna, Krishna, Krish…
With half open eyes, barely there, she connected with a pair of dark brown pools in the crowd of onlookers.
The actor faltered.
Krishna left.
No, no, no!
Radha! I am Radha, not Padma! I am Radha! I am Radha!
She forced Radha back into her skin, but in that milli-fraction of a heartbeat, Padma had snuffed out Radha’s hysteria. Without Krishna, the lover had no desire to return.
Padma kept whirling, pretending her love was with her. She sat under a tree, mesmerized by silent melodies of Krishna’s flute. She grinned mischievously and hid behind champa trees, but nobody played with her. The bright blue waters were ice cold when she wet her feet in them.
Enacting the deception was strenuous. She was two people now.
The sanctity of the act was sullied.
Hari had seen the stumble.
The audience, they saw nothing.
*
A half hour later, Padma sat by the stream again, its waters trying in vain to lick her toes. Arms wrapped around her knees, she rocked gently; the movement was painful and the embrace did not comfort her.
Hari’s harmonium faded the background song. The ballet had ended.
The actor bowed her leave with a sincere Namaste, gesturing gratitude to all (human and celestial) who had gathered at the square.
The audience didn’t move. A few claps that tore the sacred stillness felt inappropriate, and stopped abruptly.
The lights died. The gathered just couldn’t move.
When the trance lifted, the crowd ran to the wooden platform; devotion streaming down their faces and hearts sobbing with surrender, they paid obeisance to their “Goddess Radha”. Some collected the marigold petals her feet had danced on.
The devotees left flower offerings for her on the stage.
A crumpled ball of white, the size of a large pebble, stuck out disrespectfully in that heap of jasmines and rose petals.
*
Padma ached with exhaustion as she discarded her character and wore her natural self.
She was wiping the paint off her face when Hari looked in. His eyes were steely, but the berating did not come.
Hari was disappointed with his actor’s imperfect work on the stage today, but he approved of her determination to keep the show on after her sloppy slip. He had witnessed Padma struggle with her disguise that did not want to belong to her anymore, and yet, she had pulled the act impeccably till the end. His student’s talent had matured flawlessly.
Padma thought she caught a glimmer of pride in Hari’s eyes. Perhaps the sharp light over her dresser deceived her. Perhaps it didn’t.
Hari had retired to his study.
*
Padma waited, as she did after every show, for the last dawdler to empty the “theater”.
It was close to 1 a.m. when, in a lowly sari - its end veiling her face, Padma swept the remnants of the night's performance. The scents of sandalwood and rose, and adrenaline, still lingered, but faintly.
Fatigued to the point of passing out, she sat beside the pile of flowers offered by her worshippers, and stroked them, feeling the petals fall through her fingers, releasing the evening’s conflicting emotions.
A notebook paper fisted into a ball was buried in the heap. Intrigued, she tucked it into the folds of her sari.
In the quietude of her room, Padma smoothed the paper out.
It was the actor’s first fan mail. If she had received any earlier, she did not know.
It was an ordinary paper, pulled roughly out of a notebook. The handwriting was hurried but legible.
Ramesh wrote he was “in absolute awe of her art.” One line, with a “Your fan, Ramesh” sign-off. That was all.
The unease that had thumped her heart that morning, got louder. It was sweet, like honey drizzled over a warm day in a flower meadow.
Padma clutched the paper to her chest.
*
Two weeks later, under a moonless, star-speckled sky, the humble wooden platform erected outside house no. 64 staged the legend of “Savitri”.
A sea of expectant spectators watched a fearless woman’s soul-stirring dedication and devotion to her husband. They wept with the virtuous Savitri when her husband passed. When she followed the god of death, they walked beside her to reclaim the companion she was “bonded with for seven births”, and when he was returned, their hearts whooped and rejoiced the glorious happily-ever-after.
When Padma took her customary bow, she let the sweet thump play with her mind. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, painted long, fish-like, skimmed over the audience and caught a pair of familiar dark browns, two rows down the stage, looking into hers. Is that him?
Her cheeks burned.
It was after 2 a.m., Padma was in her room with another notepaper scrawl that fawned over her talent.
*
Padma now had eight crumpled pieces of Ramesh's fan crush treasured in her bangle box. The newest one trembled in her hand, "If you approve, can I meet the enchantress of many faces? I would like to know you.”
Her room got uncomfortably humid and very hot, too soon.
*
“Madhu” met Ramesh a few days later at the hour when stars shone their brightest. Not as bright as his eyes! Her heart missed many beats - she had dared the audacity to overstep the invisible protocols laid out by her baba, to meet a stranger who venerated her.
She recognized the dark muddy browns that had revered every face she had worn, every gesture she had made, and every pirouette she took on stage.
Baba was asleep, but a wise Padma did not want to challenge her fate. It was too early to.
Madhu left after some moments of introduction.
*
At the same hour and place, not long before the crescent moon had vanished again, “Rekha” and Ramesh exchanged delightful stories, sitting more securely in each other’s space, on a stone bench in the deserted park street.
He was a signboard painter and worked in the City of Golden Opportunities.
She? She was a mystery.
They laughed, indulging in light-hearted banter, inching closer till their fingers and feelings came to touch.
*
Padma was happy. In her language, she felt an exuberance that kept her buoyant. If this was happy, then “happy” she was. She let the gentle tingles subdue her mai's song.
Hari recognized the transformation - glossy eyes, ludicrous smiles, an impromptu skip in her walk, dance gestures in her daily scrubbings and cleanings, but his actor’s performances continued to be impeccable. There was in fact, a newborn fervor in her that enacted itself on the stage - it intensified the passion she emoted.
Not good.
*
Hari had crushed a piece of notebook paper in his fist, using it to rein in his maniacal rage.
Foolish, foolish girl! She is throwing every damn thing away!
His knuckles whitened, as he wrung every breath of emotion in the note. “I must get this insanity out of her!”
Hari had over-shielded Padma, cocooning her from any and everything that could even remotely echo his ostracised past existence. He had pushed her so high up on a gilded cloud, she could literally “look down upon” the mediocre lives that worshipped her.
This was her power and she wanted to...
Hari had polished his daughter into an untouchable diva, too fragile and naive to the ways of the world… naive, he had molded her too naive; she was too naive to realize that Ramesh did not love her, he was entranced by the aura she spun around herself.
Tears pooled. Hari was unfamiliar with the wetness on his face, and the vulnerability in his chest. I have to stop this! Padma’s Mai, why aren’t you here? “Why aren’t you… why?”
Fatherhood took control, but Hari had forgotten what that meant.
He rummaged through his memories of their life in Devgaon for any rules on parenthood. The visit was extremely painful.
Perhaps that was one of the things fatherhood was about.
*
“Ramesh will destroy you, my child.”
Hari’s compassionate overture perplexed Padma.
Her gaze was locked on her baba’s fist that was smothering her lover’s letter - her eyes remained determined, unfazed by the outpour of this strange parental love.
“Ramesh is not worth two paise.”
“Look at me, child!”
The father paused for an acquiescing response that did not come. Padma’s show of passive rebellion irked him.
“That crass, good-for-nothing village uncouth will destroy you! You are daydreaming, foolish girl; this will crumble. You will crumble. Open your damn eyes!”
The autocratic father had returned, disgusted, loathing everything about that stupid girl who stood in front of him.
Padma looked down at her feet. This was neither shame, nor respect (although she would never forgo her reverence for Baba; it was sown in her childhood). Padma could not look her father in his eyes this time, she was too weak to contain the tidal flood of hurt and anger. They spilt over, burning streaks down her cheeks.
She wished Baba hadn't seen them. Baba’s Padma was not perfect anymore. Baba’s Padma was weak.
If this was her price to pay, so be it.
You are wrong about Ramesh, Baba; this time, you are wrong!
*
Ramesh was a painter.
He painted lotuses and swans on trucks, and display stalls and backdrops for town festivals, but “if anyone really wants to see his work, they should visit the City of Golden Opportunities” where his larger-than-life canvases of Indian cinema made up a tiny fraction of the hundreds of movie posters that decorated the city's skyline.
His brushstrokes were amateurish and he was not keen on getting them to be better - there were always some “film people” looking for cheaper work, so, why bother? The one achievement Ramesh wore proudly, and made sure to somehow slip it in between conversations, was that he had “made it” to that magical city.
“If anyone really wants to see my work, they should visit the City of Golden Opportunities.”
No one from his Cheyla town could claim that title.
*
"Why don't you come to The City with me? I could introduce you to some Sahebs from the movies.” Ramesh tried selling the idea (and his worth) to his "celeb girlfriend” a few times.
Ah! The City of Golden Opportunities! Baba had forbidden dreamings, let alone conversations about the promised land. He had made sure his daughter understood the reason, and the moral implications of revisiting a dream that was cremated with her mai.
The girlfriend was silent.
“By the Lord Krishna, why do you hide your talent? The Big City people need to see your performance. Do you know how famous you can be? A star, a superstar! There will be posters of you everywhere! I will paint your picture!” Ramesh spread his arms up wide in the air, hypnotizing the small-town girl.
“You must bring your Baba along too."
No. It was unwise to ask Baba.
*
They met six times over ten weeks, and Padma's soul is not hers anymore. She is wholly submitted to a feeling that baffles her - she feels flighty, unbalanced even, and it pleases her terribly to be that way.
"Come away with me,” Ramesh proposed one cloudy night. ”I will take care of you.”
Her bashful eyes shied away.
Optimistic, he painted their future to his love with imaginary brush movements. ”We will go to the City of Golden Opportunities,” he paused for effect, “we can make it work! What can small towns do for talent like ours?”
He took a deeper, empathetic breath, and cautiously took the actor’s delicate hands in his, “I know Baba will hurt badly, but he will be fine. I know he will.”
She was visibly upset and withdrew her hands from her lover’s enchantment.
“We will visit Baba after a while - you know time calms the storms, don’t you?” Pause. “He will live with us in our Big City home.”
His brows knit as he scanned the distress on her face. “You think I want you to abandon Baba? I don’t! By Krishna, I would never imagine so!” Ramesh pleaded his intention with absolute integrity.
“I need time,” she whispered and retreated, promising to leave her reply under the speckled rock. When? She does not know.
Mind and heart a tangled mess, skull pounding, Padma stepped into the dark foyer of house no. 64 as noiselessly as she could.
Baba flicked on the light, and his tirade.
*
Padma left a note for Ramesh five nights after - she had committed herself to their future together.
She was bolder now, or perhaps Baba had simply given up.
Padma was to meet her love one last time tonight before they ran away to build their fantasized destiny. Ramesh had worked out their escape to precision - the how, the where, the when… Ramesh is very clever!
*
Padma stared at the face in the mirror for a very long while.
Tonight, she will discard her disguises; they served her no more.
Tonight, she will wear her own mask.
This was the only way Padma could inhale her own breath, feel the wind brush against her skin, hear her own heart beat, love Ramesh with her eyes… Ramesh! Ramesh will finally behold his Padma.
The face in the mirror had a youthful rounded jawline. Its starry-eyes were brown, set deep, and rimmed with thin lash lines. The button nose was a little snubby and dotted with a few freckles, and the mouth, small and straight, could smile right up to her eyes. There was a hint of a cleft that showed up when the light was angled right.
The face was gentle and angelic, and plain enough to lose itself in a crowd.
The face in the mirror was hers, known only to three: Padma herself, Baba, and her mute mirror... and now, Ramesh.
Her fingers stroked the face in the mirror, studying the depth of the portrait.
It had mistrust written all over it.
It also had a dark disfigurement on its right cheek.
.
* * *
Disclaimer: This written work is imaginary. It is not intended to bear resemblance to a specific individual(s) or place(s). If it does, it is purely coincidental.
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Next:
Part IV: Home
