The Bath

I wrote this as part of a writing exercise with a limit of 500 words, and the theme being 'Silk'.

As the orange glow of an errant sun hung lazily over the mist-clad temple on a wintry morning, Shyamala poured another pot full of water.

“This is the last one,” she assured the shivering Kanika.

It was to be a long day, and Shyamala knew it well. Though she had little memory of her own time, she had seen the ritual being performed several times every year. She was only thirteen when she herself became a Devdasi, and at that time she knew little more than what her mother had told her the night before – Tomorrow, you shall be God’s bride. Then on, my daughter, you shall dance only for the God. It didn’t matter much to her, for dancing was all she cared about; for whom, was the least of her concerns. Later, of course, she realized that the God could change form, and sometimes appear in flesh and blood on sultry nights when obscene whispers filled the women’s quarters. But then, as the other Devdasis said – At least we get to choose our men.

Presently, however, Shyamala thought of none of that. Her mind focused on the task at hand – The ritual bathing is done. Apply the sandalwood powder after this, and then the vermillion and the flowers. And, looking at the saree, she smiled – Ah, and the white silk saree – vibrant and lustrous like the bride herself.

Kanika too looked at the saree. It reminded her of its weaver; the same lowly silk weaver to whom she had whispered, in between her sobs, the previous night, “Shanmugham, you can be my patron, my lover. But, I can never belong to you.” She thought he would understand. After all, she thought, would he, who himself sacrificed so many tiny lives at this altar of this vain world, not understand the insignificance of their own little lives, their own little love. Shanmugham did not understand. Only a word escaped his choking throat as he walked into the darkness. The memory of that word brought a fresh swell of tears that perished in a stream of cold water that her mother poured over her.

“Whore,” remembered Kanika. “And that’s all I will ever be.”

She arose as the last trace of water, and along with it the tears, drained itself. Inside the temple, hurried activity spurted with a festive rhythm of cymbals and drums. Shyamala dressed up her daughter, applied the sandalwood powder, the vermillion, the flowers.

Draped in the white saree, emerged the embellished bride – vibrant and lustrous like the silk.

Remember the thread

His heart leaped as his kite soared. Raag loved to see his kite fly high. And, he wondered what it must feel to dance in the winds.

"Oh, if only I were a kite," he sighed.

"But, kite you are," whispered the voice. "And fly like the kite, you must. Powered by the winds of your passion and desire."

Raag felt a rush of wind caress his cheeks. He closed his eyes and smelled the madness that the winds brought with them.

The voice continued.

"But remember too this thread, that ties you to the earth. For the moment this thread breaks, you shall be free and yet a slave. A slave of the winds you shall float for a while, till perhaps a lonesome tree shall catch the falling you. Stuck on that tree, you shall watch the winds go by. You shall dread the rains, yet want them too. For you shall know that when rains arrive, they purge the world. And, rains, they shall surely arrive."

Fly on Raag, but remember the thread.

The White Sheet - 2

We discussed this several times during the week before Sanchari arrived. Anuradha had the same last words on our way to the airport – “Not such a big hassle as you make it out to be, Raag. Even I will have some company. Otherwise, in this god forsaken country, I hardly get to even talk to any other soul.”

I knew it was a lost cause and changed the track - “God forsaken country, indeed! Does someone remember saying – Jaanu, this is such a lovely place… just like Kerala – God’s own country?”

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Ok, I said that, but not the way you say it with a drool,” replied Anuradha, staring me from the corner of her eyes. “And three years is a long time to spend in the back waters, don’t you think?”

“Ammu, you will forever remain Ammu Tammu, huh! Do you realize that you live in one of the most beautiful cities on this continent, and not in some obscure jungle of Africa?”

“Mr. Raag Sanyal, will you stop calling me Ammu Tammu, please? How about Anu, or better still, Anuradha, for a change?” said Anuradha. “By the way, I am warning you, at least in front of that girl, you better treat me respectfully.”

“Ok, baba, it will be Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal. Promise. Happy now?”

A smile wanted to flicker on her face, but Anuradha was determined not to give in. She continued to put up a mock appearance of her anger.

Sanchari’s assessment of Ivory Coast wasn’t very different from our own when we had first arrived. It was easy for any visitor to be seduced by this country. More so, if the visitor came in a packed Ethiopian Airlines flight from Bombay, sitting next to a fellow Indian, Keralite to be precise, who narrated to her the horrors of living in Africa – Never venture out in the city after dark. Never keep your car windows open at a crossing. Ask your company not to send you out of city on work without proper security. We use helicopters to travel between towns because carjacking are so common here.

“He did tell me, though, that Ivory Coast is a lot like Kerala – full of back waters,” said Sanchari.

“And beaches too,” added Anuradha.

“I see, Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal, then, that you don’t quite dislike this god forsaken place as must as you tell me you do,” I said with a chuckle.

“Ah, Raag, stop teasing me now. So, Sanchari, you didn’t expect to step out of the airport and find such a beautiful city, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I thought it would probably be like going to one of those obscure towns in India. And I step out of the airport, and what’s the first thing I see – big cars, well lit roads, and automated car parking. Come to think of it, I took our good old Ambassador on my way to the Bombay airport.”

“Indeed, what misconceptions people back home have about this place. Take this flyover – I wonder if they have constructed any such in India yet,” I responded.

We were driving down to the other side of the bay, passing by the Novotel Abidjan. We were flowing through in a smooth Saturday evening traffic. If it was the sight of the orange glow of street lights that glimmered in the lagoon in front, or just the summer breeze, I do not know; but we all remained quiet for sometime.

Finally, Anuradha muttered, “Reminds me of the Marine Drive in Bombay.”

I knew she missed India; perhaps even more than I did.

The White Sheet - 1

The sheet, incidentally, is stained too, with three drops of old, faded redness. - Salman Rushdie

The sky tonight is a dull black. A dithering wind did not blow away the clouds. It will be a gloomy Wednesday morning tomorrow - I will wake up, read a book sitting on the toilet seat for ten minutes, then look at the watch and rush up to take a shower, enclosed in the glass cabin that gets covered with steam and makes me look more attractive than I am in the luminous yellow light that floods a wide mirror on the front. And then, Ammu will knock on the door; remind me that I will be late to work. I will quickly step out of the shower cabin, carefully place my feet on the blue mat, careful not to spill too much water on the floor. Then I will spread a palmful of cream, and apply it on all parts of the body accessible to my two hands. The clock would have ticked another five minutes, and now, I will know I will be late to work.

But that will be tomorrow.

Tonight, it is a dull black sky. Not that I can see the sky - what with the white window blinds that shield the view from me. But the blinds are not always closed. Sometimes, Ammu rolls them up. Sometimes, I also roll them up. Earlier, when we only knew how to roll up the blinds and not bring them down again, for days and nights light and darkness, and prying eyes, had free access to our inside. Then, I learnt from a stranger how this system works - how to play hide and seek with the world, how the black dull sky can be hidden from the view one moment, and then, the next moment, how the swaying green leaves or the brazenly oversized flowers can be brought back to sight.

Oh, and that is not all that I have learn so far. The White Sheet, after all, is getting filled. The lines have been drawn out, and the ink has started to spill. Sometimes I wonder why I must bother; why not just fill my palm with mud and leave a stamp on the sheet, and then let it float away in the wind.

But I trust not the wind for it dithers a lot. And this sheet is all I have. For now I will keep it with me.

Panchhi's Flight (Revised)

I run over the plains, rising above the scorched land--broken, burnt, tamed and dry. Sun pulls me close, high in the sky, till I can see a canopy of trees. Whooshing, I plunge into the trees, stirring the branches, kissing the leaves, whispering to the chattering monkeys, rippling even the calm, quiet lake.

This jungle is my deep within. It is my special place; the place where I seek refuge, I seek relief.

I love my lake here--blue like the sky, still and calm; dreamy till I stir it awake. I love the bits of the red mud soil that I can see through a thick undergrowth of plants. I love the smell of the morning dew that shines in the redness of a rising sun.

Some nights here are starry nights. Others are nights of hard rain that washes me and purges me. When the morning mist clears after such rain, new life springs again.

On one such rain, I danced all night. I shook the trees and kept the monkeys awake.

When morning arrived, I was tired. A slow sun was rising far away. The clattering of falling drops was making rhythmic sounds. I perched myself silently on the top of a tree. Here, I met the little Panchhi. I had not seen him in a while. He looked so young, so fresh, and so energetic today.

He called out aloud, "Pavan, I hear you in the murmur of leaves. Tell me you're around."

"Yes dear Panchhi, here I am," I said as I swirled around once more in the leaves.

"It's a beautiful morning. Look at those black tailed monkeys--they jump so chirpily today."

"It's a beautiful morning indeed. But the monkeys jump just as chirpily everyday. Tell me what's in your heart. What makes you so happy, so full of joy?"

"Ah Pavan you read me so well," said Panchhi as he stretched his wings lazily.

"It is for me to know it all, for I was around when none of your forefathers were even born. I was here when the Pandavas drank the water of this lake. I was around when Buddha sat underneath this tree. And Panchhi, Oh Panchhi, I was around too, when your father took his first flight. He looked so much like you."

"Aye, then you already know," said Panchhi in a dejected tone. He had thought he would surprise me. "Today, I shall take my first flight in the sky, my leap into a world so beautiful."

"Wrrrr, don't I see that you're excited."

"Yes Pavan, excited, I am. For this day I have waited all my life; to fly afar and to fly high. I practiced every morning flying from one branch to another, testing my wings in the shallow heights. And now you see how strong my wings have become."

This time Panchhi spread his wings with all his might.

"But I feel apprehensive too. I shall leave my friends, my family, and the nest behind. I shall go into the skies. I have loved them from my nest, but I have never ventured there. And, I know not how you shall behave, I know not if the clouds will pour, I know not if it will be too cold. I know not if it is a good day to fly."

"Fear you not oh, dear Panchhi, for no day is good and no day is bad. The day you are prepared is the day for you."

Cheered again, Panchhi saw his nest one last time and then roared into the sky. I rushed with him for I loved the sky too.

At first we saw the world he knew--a clutter of leaves, the black tailed monkeys, and the blue lake in the middle of the trees. And then, as we rose higher, Panchhi saw the whole forest for the first time in his life.

"Oh Pavan, I never knew there existed so many lakes, so many trees."

"Keep going higher my little one and you shall see so much more."

Higher still, it was so cold. Even I could not rise beyond a point, but Panchhi's heart was longing still.

"Pavan, Pavan it's so refreshing here. So cold. So nice. So beautiful. But what do I see down below? Is that a huge lake?"

The color of the land was no longer green. Blue of the ocean was beginning to mix in too. A riot of color filled the sky and the earth.

"Yes my Panchhi, that's a huge lake. Lovely are its colors, aren't they? Hey, but I see that your wings still strive to reach higher skies, and I am too tired. I cannot climb any further. If you want now, you must go alone."

Panchhi continued to fly higher still. I watched from below as he floated by. The sun had circled the sky by now and was beginning to dip in the horizon. Clouds below were turning grey. Suddenly, when I thought Panchhi's wings had to make no effort to fly any more, when the view was most beautiful and colors most intense, Panchhi began to descend.

When he passed me by, the excited look of his face was gone.

"Why do you descend now, Oh Panchhi? I thought you would fly all day and night."

"No Pavan, not any more. I just want to get back to my nest."

Gradually, we descended back into a forest. But this was a different forest.

Sitting on a branch, Panchhi wailed, "This is not my forest Pavan. Look at the leaves, they are so small. And look at those monkeys, they have no black tails. Oh Pavan, the knower of all, please take me back to my forest, my nest, where I belong."

I sat quietly on another branch and whispered into Panchhi's ears, "Worry you not, Oh dear. Look at those leaves, they are green too. And see those monkeys, don't they jump as well?"

Panchhi kept quiet. He looked at the distant stars and the dark night. In his heart, he felt depressed.

"Pavan, all my life I wanted to fly. For that dream, I lived till now. I had always known that flying in high skies was my destiny, and now I sit here on a branch, not knowing what I shall do."

Gradually, in the darkness of that night, Panchhi tried to imagine all the colors he had seen while he flew. And he began to realize that the colors that filled the skies filled the forest too; that the same brush painted the skies and the earth.

His heart filled with joy again. He knew that he would build a nest next morning, and that he would fly again to the highest skies if ever he felt like it. That this tree he was on was the same as any tree he had ever been on. That flying in the highest skies was the same as sitting on this perched branch.

Silently, I whooshed into another forest.