The story continues from:
.
part IV: HOME
“I was born very far from where I’m supposed to be, and so, I’m on my way home.” - Bob Dylan
* * *
Mai’s song returned today.
The lyrics did not warble with gladness like they used to -
“Little star, shine bright; little star, you are my light… mmhmm… little star, in my eyes, little… mhmm… little star, may you rise, above mountains, light up our sky, little star.” (A wet breath.)
"Mhmmh… little star, don’t be afraid; Mai is with you all the way… With… you…” (Whisper.)
“Little star, you are my light; blessed be you, blessed be you, mhmm… blessed… My darling little sta… ”
- these were gentle foreboding whispers. Mai’s tender love was speaking to her daughter today.
*
The house chores seemed heavier that day. Padma scrubbed and cleaned earnestly, hoping the house will not need its routine keeping for the next few days, at least. She found an unusual calm in her deliberate efforts, as though she were scrubbing off her anxiety of what had passed, and what was to come.
“Little star, don’t be afraid… Mai is…”
Mai says ‘don’t be afraid’.
Seven thirty p.m.
Padma arranged the steel dinner-ware for two: plates, spoons, bowls, and copper drinking glasses, on the kitchen floor.
She filled a tumbler with salted buttermilk spiced with cumin and chillies. This was her recipe, and she prepared it when things were good - when Baba was in blessed spirits, and when business guests were invited to a meal. Padma had cooked spinach with potatoes the way Hari liked them - dressed with shredded coconut, and a little wet. He had never verbally expressed his preference, but it was naturally apparent to the daughter who had been preparing meals for themselves for eleven years. She placed a pot of their standard yellow lentil curry, a box of chapatis (Indian flatbread), and a vessel of plain, steamed white rice.
The dinner spread was more thought-out than their everyday meals, but not indulgent. Padma was cautious about overplaying the part, although she wished she could’ve poured all of her love and apology into it without provoking Baba’s suspicion.
Dinner was quiet.
Dinner was always quiet, but the quiet never hung heavy. Conversations over meals were scarce - just sporadic questions with monosyllabic answers or head movements.
The quiet today had many words to say.
Hari felt the weight; it was thick with a sort of sadness of final days, and apprehension of what lay beyond.
His palette could not fathom the flavors of the prettied-up meal.
His daughter had unusually fussed over the house chores today, annoying him, pulling him away from scripting the new play in his study. He had watched her sweep the threadbare mat in his room, focussed on a spot as though she were sweeping away a feeling underneath it that should not have been there, her eyes distracted, looking at some distant reality. She was clanging utensils against the stone kitchen platform for close to an hour, possibly scrubbing a shine into them. The girl had flitted about with his clothes and shoes ticking off boxes in the air.
All the while, her eyes had kept low. (She was trying to stem her bleeding heart.)
The father knew it was time.
Padma’s Mai, we have to let her… fly.
Six months was all it took for his daughter to mature into a woman. Six months was all it took for his daughter to be her own person. Six months was all it took for her to undermine her training, her upbringing. Six months was all it took for that village lad to… pursue his daughter to stifle herself. Six months.
Just six months…
We have to let her go, Padma’s Mai, let her… let her rise above mountains, light up our sky, our little star…
*
Earlier in the week, at the same deserted hour and parkside stone bench, the new-born lovers had met one last time before their elopement.
Clever Ramesh had done all of the talking as he sketched out the route for his soon-to-be partner “of many lifetimes”. So enthusiastic was he, that he had barely noticed Padma slide down her veil a few inches, discreetly revealing the unpainted, naked face of his sweetheart.
“We will leave after the midnight of Thursday. People sleep early when it is not a holiday.”
How perceptive he is!
“I will meet you at the street corner near Govind Kaka’s (uncle Govind’s) shop at 2 a.m. You know where it is, don't you? The halwai (sweet) shop near the school?”
“Uhunh.”
“We will walk to the train station from there, so don’t bring much. Pack just enough essentials. We must be careful to walk in the shadows."
“Uhmm.”
“The train to the Big City leaves in the morning. We will be early enough to rest at the train station, and freshen up with a cup of special masala chai (spiced tea) from Bhola’s stall. You have tried his chai before, haven’t you? No? It’s the best! You don’t get chai like this even in the Big City!”
Ramesh knows so much!
Padma had handed over the plan to her memory. Everything and everyplace Ramesh mentioned was new to her. Adrenaline dimmed her faculties.
For the first time in all (late) evening, Ramesh had looked up to see what his lover’s face had to say.
It was a cold, foggy night, and the lampless street was lit by the greying glow of rain clouds - just enough light to reveal worry lines on Padma's forehead and conflict in her small eyes, and a black scar, possibly a shadow, across her right cheek.
Ramesh had cupped her palms in his, lightly kissed them in reassurance, and stared lovingly, scanning her face for many minutes till her anxiety had dissipated into an embarrassed smile.
She had surrendered herself to his shoulder; lovers’ hands still clasped together, their hearts assimilated all that the evening had brought with it.
“Who are you today, my love?”
“Padma…”
*
One a.m.
Padma peered into her dresser mirror one last time. It showed her a collage of faces. She scanned their glossy surface with her fingers, then touched her own.
She sat on the short wooden stool for as long as it took for her to bid them goodbye.
One twenty a.m.
Padma closed her eyes and rechecked her travel list for the last of her hundredth time.
Four sets of everyday clothes, Mai’s sunflower tunic, intimates, and a towel, were bundled in her favorite floral bedsheet. Cushioned in the towel was a two-inch-high brass idol of Radha and Krishna, a remnant of Padma’s early life in Devgaon - it had stood on her dresser, watching over her, blessing and protecting her for twenty-three years.
A large plastic bag carried other paraphernalia. Make-up kit? Checked. Black and gold slippers? Checked. Baba’s gift of red bangles? Checked. Soap, comb, toothbrush? Checked, checked, and checked.
Good!
Ramesh hadn’t mentioned anything about carrying money, so it was not listed in her head. Besides, Baba would need all the money. Baba was getting old.
Baba!
One forty a.m.
Padma had left the most challenging task to the absolute end, even though it had preceded the others on her mental list.
The daughter watched her baba from the doorway to his room.
The asleep figure rose and dipped in rhythm to its gentle breath, oblivious to the empty days it would awaken to. Let him sleep, Padma, let him sleep in the comforting belief that all is just as it was when he laid his head on the pillow. The daughter withdrew her hand that was going to stroke her baba’s head. The bright moonshine exaggerated the creases on his face.
She tucked a letter under Baba’s bedside lamp.
It had taken the daughter more than five hours and many discarded attempts to write that letter. It was very short, and she hoped Baba would read her unwritten words. The three lines mentioned her devoted love for Ramesh, her desire to live in a bigger world, and her promise to return. Soon.
"I am sorry Baba!”
Softly, she touched her father and guru’s feet with the reverence of a disciple, and turned around, steeling herself against the impulse to look at Baba one more time. She let the tears come, let them dilute her guilt.
Five minutes to 2 a.m.
Padma shouldered her bundle, grabbed her big blue plastic bag by its short handles, and stealthily crossed the little foyer and the threshold to their house. She was consciously aware of the surroundings and the security of belonging that she was leaving behind with every step she took to the green wooden door.
The hinges creaked through the black silence of the village.
*
A lithe silhouette, dressed in maroon - the only dark shade in her wardrobe, melted into the darkness.
She had discarded her bangles and anklets for fear their jangle-jangle and cham-cham would awaken the sleeping world of people, birds and dogs, but the plastic bag rustled and its contents rattled, as it brushed against her stride. Padma pulled her veil lower and vanished into the long stretch of shadow belonging to the school’s perimeter wall, emerging a few feet away from the sweet shop.
She dropped her weight on the pavement, and rested her racing breath. She did not have the exact time on her, but she did know she reached a little over the hour she was supposed to. Ramesh seemed to be late too.
She sat down on the cold pavement stone, pulled out the last scribbled note from her lover and leaned against the lamppost.
“O doe-eyes, what do I bring thee?
A hundred roses cannot serenade thy beauty,
And lotuses don’t blush pink like thy cheeks.
O doe-eyes, what do I bring thee?“
Ramesh was still not here.
She touched her forehead to the cold pole; it soothed her. She felt her anxious excitement sober down. The fatigue was leaving her body and she let herself drop, drown into nothingness. She resurfaced a few times, catching a glimpse of the letter in her hand.
A hundred roses… and lotuses… my eyes…
She sank into the refreshing depth of surrender.
*
Clank, clank!
A hundred roses were falling…
Clank, clank!
Clank, clank!
Padma jerked awake.
The night sky was paler. The lonely street corner showed its first stirrings: incessant chirpings, wayside strays stretching, and milk cans clanking on Ramu's bicycle.
"Kaka (uncle)! What time is it?" Padma's voice shot across the street. She adjusted her head drape, throwing an end over her shoulder.
"Five!" Clank, clank! Trinnn! Ramu Kaka didn’t turn around to see who had hollered.
Five? How is that possible? Ramesh didn’t come?
She smacked her head, startling a mongrel behind her. “Of course! How stupid, stupid of me!”
No shadows now, she tore to the railway station as fast as her exploding lungs could carry her. Lucky, she had brought the map Ramesh had sketched out for her! O he is so clever! He knew I would do something foolish like this!
“I wasn’t here at two,” pant, pant, “so he must’ve thought I was at the railway station!”
Pant.
“Why didn’t he wait for me,” pant, pant, “at the ssswuh, sweet shop!”
“Huhnf… huhnf… almost there! O I hope I didn’t miss the train! Ramesh must be so upset!”
The railway station was still asleep except for a big Victorian clock that pointed one of its fingers to a number four and a shorter one to a five, a tea vendor, probably Bhola, a middle-aged man in a uniform, and a group of would-be passengers huddled together at the end of the platform.
No Ramesh.
Padma jogged up to the man in the uniform, her possessions whacking her aching muscles.
"Kaka, was Ramesh here?”
The man’s eyes were kind and outlined with wire-rimmed frames. They looked clueless.
“Oh, I thought you must know him; Ramesh travels so often.”
The man in the neat navy and white uniform that carried the official railway department emblem on its blazer, shook his head.
“He is this tall,” she raised her hands six inches above her head, “dark brown eyes, short hair parted to the side like, like that man on the bench.”
The station manager’s eyes kept questioning her.
“We were supposed to travel to the Big City together and I must have missed the train or Ramesh would have been here. When did the train leave?”
The railway station manager had never seen this distraught woman before.
"Which Big City do you want to go to? The main-line trains up to Jhamar, Hogara and Murabi have many cities en route."
Her wide eyes said she did not know.
"I do not know,” she confirmed. “I, I will just wait here,” she whispered.
“You can sit in the waiting room, if you like.”
“No, no, I cannot. Ramesh will not know where I am.”
The railway official sighed. He was familiar with stories like hers - young women pursued by “useless fellows”. He let her be; her family would collect her in a few days.
Nine a.m.
Padma sat on her bundle with nothing to do and no one to speak to. She drank some water from a water cooler and walked the length of the platform a few times.
“Here, have some chai. Our Bhola’s masala chai is famous.” The station manager held out a small steaming paper cup.
“Yes, I know. Ramesh had mentioned nobody makes chai like Bhola. Thank you Kaka.” She smiled.
Manager Kaka was about as tall as Baba, and his hair had greyed, just like Baba’s. Padma’s heart twisted.
“Do you have any money?”
“No, Ramesh does.”
The woman’s foolish naivety reached out to the man in uniform. This was not the reckless immaturity of a star-smitten young woman. Her innocence seemed to penetrate many layers. There was a refined culture in her childlike bearing, probably inherited from someone in her family.
He wished her family would rescue her before she rotted herself away.
He bought a packet of biscuits for the child.
Four p.m.
Padma looked for Ramesh in every trickle of passengers at the station entrance and ticketing booth. Not many train routes passed through Cheyla town and all the trains scheduled for that day had checked in on-time or at a delayed hour.
With no chores to do, or lines to rehearse, and nothing to look at really, Padma tried to sleep out her anxiety during the day. The effort was pointless. She awoke intermittently with the sounds of new footsteps, hoping eagerly that one of them belonged to Ramesh.
Eight p.m.
Padma unwrapped the little Radha-Krishna idol and laid it in her palm.
“Where are you?”
She held the brass piece to her heartbeat and hummed the notes of raaga Khamaj, timidly.
The station had emptied itself of passengers, vendors, and trains. No more footsteps. No more hope of any frantic ones searching for a young woman.
Perhaps tomorrow; there will be new footsteps and new trains tomorrow.
Padma pillowed her bundle, hugged her big blue plastic bag, and allowed herself to sleep a dreamless sleep.
The brass idol stayed nestled in her palm.
*
“Thank you, Kaka!”
Manager Kaka had brought breakfast for Padma: a larger paper cup of masala chai (it was 2 rupees pricier than regular), and one packet of common biscuits.
He was worried about this young woman who had arrived excited, determined, and nervous, at his railway station two dawns ago, and who now sat in a stupor on the platform, her belongings always beside her, anticipating her future will take her by her hand.
So far, nobody had come for her.
None of the travelers on the platform recognized her. Nobody had seen her before. Nobody knew who she was.
"What is your name, child?"
“Mira.”
“Mira, why don’t you go home? I will send Ramesh to you when he arrives.”
She giggled. “You speak silly, Kaka! Home is where I want to go! I just don’t know which Big City it is in. My Ramesh, my god Krishna, will be here soon… We will be in our Big City home… Soon...”
The woman gently hummed a devotional hymn sung by the saint, Mirabai.
Ah! She is religiously devoted! Manager Kaka is not so worried now.
*
The young woman was less agitated today.
She didn’t scramble to the ticket vending window or run alongside incoming trains to look for the one who was supposed to arrive. She stationed herself at the same spot as when she had arrived - somewhere in the centre of the long platform, and searched for a familiar sound among the footsteps around her.
Around noon, the manager stepped out of his office for his routine rounds of the station. The usual scatter of awaiting passengers was now a huddle in the middle of the platform. Mira was throating a devotional tune, swaying softly, plucking imaginary strings of a dotara (string instrument).
Her devotional yearning for her god Krishna, her Ramesh, gradually overwhelmed her search for even his footsteps.
Manager Kaka was concerned.
*
“Where would Ramesh be? It seems unlikely he wants to (he refrained from saying ‘fetch you’), unn, unlikely he will be at this station.”
It was breakfast again at Cheyla railway station for the station manager and the young woman.
“He can’t come, Manager Kaka, my poor Ramesh can’t come! They took him away from me!” The young woman’s eyes showed desperation. “He is clever, my Ramesh, he will break their shackles one day; one day he will be here, for me. You will see.”
“Of course, my child, I want to meet him too.”
“I can wait, Kaka. Anarkali is not afraid. What is to fear when even my soul is not mine anymore? Time is inconsequential when love is a surrender.”
The young woman got up to her feet and moved gracefully to a song nobody could hear.
Manager Kaka was baffled, and very disturbed.
*
Some breakfasts later, "Radha" lay by the giggling silver stream. Her fingers played catch with Ramesh's flute song that floated over the ripples, flirting with her. She laughed the lilting laugh of a child when the waters teased her and tempted her to join them in their merriment. They pulled her in…
Several hands grabbed her out of it. Others expressed horror.
The young woman had laid herself precariously at the edge of the platform - one hand outstretched far enough to tip her balance over, the other clutching on to a miniature brass idol.
Many voices tsked. Many voices criticised her gullibility. Many voices disapproved of her upbringing. A few spoke of strength, and of “letting go”.
They unanimously voted that nobody could help her.
One voice suggested institutional care.
It was a male voice, thirtyish, and belonged to someone who looked like a sales representative.
“Nagda city has a hospital for patients like her. It is clean and small, with a garden, and the Doctor Sahebs (sirs) and Bais (madams) are good people."
“I print stationery for them, you know, letterheads and envelopes, and stuff like that. In fact, I'm taking the train to Nagda today. I can speak to them.”
The station manager felt this to be god’s way.
“I'm sure they will take care of her for no money when they know her story. Leave that up to me, sir,” the well-dressed stationery printer confirmed, looking at the frown scrunched up on the manager’s forehead.
“Thank you.”
“You can call the hospital after I meet them today.”
The station manager took the business card he was offered. “Beautiful Minds”, scripted in a scroll and a smaller, “Care Institute” was printed in white on a soft yellow background. There was an embossed insignia of two jasmine flowers with curly tendrils above the lettering. The reverse carried details: “Address: 74, Shivapeth road; Bel; Nagda 456335. Phone: 076225 83590/ 91/ 92”
Breakfast, five sunrises later, was a feast: two large paper cups of Bhola’s masala chai (with added lemongrass and sugar today, and Bhola did not charge the station manager for them), a double pack of the common biscuits, and homemade parathas (Indian flat bread) which Manager Kaka’s wife had lovingly sent for the young girl.
“Child, would you like to go to the Big City and look for Ramesh there? Maybe, maybe… maybe he is already building a house for you there.” (Sniff.)
The young woman’s eyes brightened; they dazzled the sun.
“O Kaka! Yes! Will you take me?”
Manager Kaka’s honest face crumpled with emotion. He placed his hand on her head to bless her.
“I cannot leave my post here, my child. A group of sisters traveling to the Big City say they can take you. They are very nice people. They say you can live with them in their home for as long as it takes to find Ramesh. Aren’t they kind?”
“Unhunh…”
“You have my blessings… always, my child! May you find what your soul is looking for.”
“I will come visit you. You are only five hours away. This is my phone number.”
“O Kaka! Thank you!”
She hugged him with an embrace that brought memories of a little girl loved by her mai and baba. Words of a lullaby drifted by, "Little star, you are my light… "
“Now, freshen-up, child, they will be here by noon.”
*
A yellow minivan halted at the railway station at half past noon.
Three women in snowy white saris, hair pinned to a bun, wearing compassionate eyes and the gentlest smiles, met a young woman in the station manager’s office.
She was dressed in a pink tunic with big, garish sunflowers, and yellow trousers. Her red metal bangles clinked as she adjusted the drape over her head. Her face was sweet like a child to bloom, and carried a blackish scar on one of her cheeks. She had lined her eyes with kohl and pinked her lips. A dirty cloth bundle and a large packet lay near her feet.
“Hello, I am Komal. This is Rita, and she is Neeti. You are travelling with us to Nagda?”
The young woman stayed behind Manager Kaka’s chair and nodded her head.
“Namaste,” she whispered with folded hands.
“Namaste! We are so happy you are! Are you ready to leave, er… What is your name?”
“Savitri.”
The yellow van left after fifteen minutes of conversations with the station manager, and the railway station wept a final goodbye for its temporary resident.
*
Savitri was happy in this white and yellow house.
She thought she knew what “happy” was, many years ago.
That was, many, many years ago.
Her “happy” now was the breath she took in the naked sunshine. Every flower in the manicured garden talked to her, whispering, Savitri, Savitri, when she strolled past the bushes. The morning grass refreshed her soles when she walked to the patio swing, watching the people in the house till the sun traveled higher.
The face in the mirror brought her joy. Often, she traced its outline, stared into its eyes, and ran her fingers along its greying hairline to the strands that escaped the neat braid. Her tracings always caressed the right cheek.
The Doctor Sahebs and Bais in the house had combed through their resources to locate Savitri’s lover, but had found no artist or billboard signed by a “Ramesh”.
They wouldn't have been able to; the good people had looked in the wrong places.
Savitri’s Ramesh was snatched away by the god of death.
She had called out to the god like she had, more than the many-years-ago. She had followed the god like she had, more than those many-years-ago. She had starved (and upset everyone in the white house), appealed, and prostrated herself before the god of death.
The god had not conceded. Ramesh was not returned to her.
Savitri had burnt her mind and body out, and she abandoned her desperation to rescue her Ramesh.
Her heart still read Ramesh’s last letter; now and then, it would clutch that paper close. Some day, Ramesh will be back.
That day was not now.
Now, she played grandmother to a troop of five cackling children from neighbouring homes. They visited her every weekend, and "taught her to live”.
Today was such a day.
“Savitri Ajji (grandmumma)!”
Savitri grinned all-knowingly.
“Tell us a story, Ajji!”
The littlest one piped, “The story of the shapeshifter!”
Savitri smiled. A hazy memory of a brilliant evening sun flickered in her eyes. She wondered, who was telling the story, and whose story was it anyway?
The recollection fluttered and flew in the breeze.
Savitri did not belong anywhere, but she was home.
* * *
The Last Act
Some stage finalés cannot drop the curtain; their actors do not take the final bow.
.
* * *
Disclaimer: This written work is imaginary. It is not intended to bear resemblance to a specific individual(s), place, or incident. If it does, it is purely coincidental.
* * *
