Mahashweta (19 page)

Anupama woke up later than usual the day after the play. She was looking forward to spending the entire day in search of her next play. The play she had directed had been a resounding success, and she was very happy about it. Satya and Vasant had congratulated her warmly. The media too had sought her out, but she had persuaded her students to speak to the reporters while she herself remained in the background. She told Vasant, ‘This is not
my
success. It is the result of my students’ hard work, the dramatic prowess of Bhasa, and the appreciation of the audience. I am so grateful to you for introducing me to Mr Mojwani, Vasant.’ Her limpid brown eyes were full of sincerity.

Anupama knew that choosing a play for college students would not be an easy task. It would require a sound knowledge of the history, the attire and customs of the period in which the play was set. She was immersed in her search when there was a knock on the door.

Sakkubai had taken the day off. Assuming that some of her students had come to see her, Anupama called out, ‘Please come in.’

Anand walked in.

Anupama was sitting on the floor holding some books in her hand. When she saw her visitor, her smile faded and she got up hurriedly. The shock of seeing Anand after so many years left her speechless. She forgot the basic rules of etiquette and did not even welcome her guest.

‘Please sit down,’ she said, indicating the sofa.

Once, Anupama had waited eagerly for even a brief reply to her letters and cried, day and night, for a single word of consolation from him. ‘Anand, please come and take me away from this hell. . .’ had been her constant prayer. But no one had come to her rescue. Now that he was sitting in front of her, she did not know what to say. She found that she had no expectations from him.

Anupama smiled sadly. There were so many things that she had once wanted to tell Anand. She had devoted her mind, body and soul to him, loved him without reservation, and in return he had hurt her deeply.

Every second dragged heavily and old wounds became raw again. Anupama remembered Radhakka and Girija’s indifference to her; the helplessness she had felt as an abandoned wife who had been sent back to her father’s house. She remembered, in minute detail, the moments when she had contemplated suicide. It was as if all those things had happened just yesterday.

Anupama’s silence made Anand deeply uncomfortable. White patches had appeared on her beautiful arms, which had once been adorned by green and red bangles. Her eyes sparkled with confidence; there was not a trace of self-pity in her demeanour. Anupama seemed to have grown in stature.

Anand spoke first, breaking the awkward silence, ‘How are you, Anu?’

Anupama turned to Anand. He was still handsome but she thought he looked somewhat jaded. There was a distance between them now, and he seemed a stranger to her.

Since he did not receive a response from her, he tried again, ‘Anupama, I saw your play yesterday. It was fantastic.’

Hadn’t he said similar words to her, which had charmed her and won her innocent heart, several years ago?

‘Thank you, doctor.’

Anand was disheartened by her response, but he made yet another effort to draw her out. ‘It was very hard to trace your address. No one was able to help me. . .I tried my level best. . .’

‘When did you come back from England?’ she cut in.

‘Two years back. Anupama, please forgive me. Everyone makes mistakes.’ Anand stood up.

‘Please sit down. Which mistake are you seeking forgiveness for? Please remember that saying the right thing at the right time is what makes a conversation meaningful. Language is a tool we use to express ourselves. It is what differentiates us from animals. Did you speak when you first got to know about my condition? Was it my fault that I got this white patch? Is it my fault that I am a poor man’s daughter? Now that you are here, answer me.’

Anand did not know what to say.

‘You knew that I did not have this disease before our marriage. You could have told your mother. . .but you didn’t. You were scared that I would be disfigured because of this disease. Your mother and sister disliked me because I was from a poor family. They wanted an excuse to get rid of me and your silence provided them with the perfect cover. I ended up a victim because you chose to dishonour the vows you took.’

‘Anupama, I cannot answer any of your questions. I can only beg your pardon.’

‘Why? Even household pets are treated with love and cared for when they are unwell. I was your wife, lonely, scared and totally dependent on you. All I wanted was to hear a few kind words from you. They would have been my strength, but you never bothered to console me even once.’

Anand found the courage to say, ‘Anupama, avva is old-fashioned. She was worried that if we had daughters their future would be difficult.’

‘Being a doctor, how can you even say that, let alone use it as an excuse? Nobody in my family had this disease. Then why did I get it?’

Anand was quiet.

‘You were worried about your unborn daughters’ future,’ Anupama continued. I am also somebody’s daughter; did you worry about my future? You never treated me as a human being. I was only a beautiful object that you wished to possess and flaunt. Had I known your attitude towards life, I would have told you to marry somebody else. Suppose you had got leukoderma, do you think I would have left you for some other man? A marriage is a lifelong commitment;
for
better
or
for
worse,
till
death
do
us
part.
Wasn’t that what you’d said to me before you left for England? Even though you are a doctor, you only know how to treat a disease, not tend to a patient’s emotional needs.’

Her words weighed Anand down.

‘Do you know why your mother sent me back? Because she knew that you would never question her about it. I was an unwanted toy she had brought home because her son had set his heart on it. Once it was damaged, she threw it away knowing that her son would not want it any more. I want to ask you a simple question. What guarantee is there that tomorrow your children will not get this disease?’

‘I have not married again, Anupama.’

‘But I heard that you had consented. . .’

‘Avva tried her best to get me married again, but I refused. Everything you said is true. I’m begging you to forget the past. If you do not want to stay with avva, we will go back to England where nobody will bother us. Let us face life together.’

‘How can you possibly expect a burnt seed to grow into a tree? Husband, children, affection, love. . .they are all irrelevant to me now. It is too late for us. I am no longer the naive Anupama whose world revolved around you. I know what my goals are and where I am heading, and I don’t need anyone’s help to reach my destination. God has been very kind to me. I have been fortunate enough to live in a place like Bombay where even this mad rush has a humane side to it. I have excellent friends who trust me and will not hesitate to help me if I am in trouble. All my students are as dear to me as my own children would have been. Their unconditional love has never made me think of myself as blemished. I cannot help feeling sad for those women who are still at the mercy of their husbands and in-laws, and are emotionally and economically dependent on them. What will their fate be if they are unfortunate enough to get this kind of a disease? I am not dependent on anyone for emotional or finanacial support and that has given me enormous strength. I thank God for having been so fortunate.’

Anand heard her out quietly, still hopeful that she would go back with him.

Anupama realized the time had come to make her decision clear to him. ‘It would be better for us to part now and never communicate with each other again. We met accidentally, but we were not made for each other. Let us part with a good grace.’

Anand understood then that this would be his last meeting with Anupama. He gave it one desperate try. ‘Anupama, think one more time about what I’ve said. Please come back with me.’

Anupama picked up her books, ‘You are a well-educated man from a good family. But there is one thing you have not learnt.’ She looked at him steadily.

‘What is that?’

‘You should never call a woman whom you do not know by her given name.’

Anand watched Anupama walk away.

Vasant was supposed to leave for his village in three weeks’ time, so he went to Anupama’s house to find out whether she had decided to accept his proposal. He was usually a calm and collected person, but that morning, his anxiety got the better of him. When he looked at Anupama, he was unable to fathom what was going on in her mind. The same smile, the same simple cotton sari, the same clear brown eyes. . .

‘Would you like some tea, Vasant?’

‘No Anupama, I want to hear your decision.’

‘I am sorry, Vasant, but please forget your idea. I don’t want to get entangled again in the same circle of husband and family. My past has taught me a very valuable lesson. I don’t want a family of my own. Please go back to your village and carry on with your work there. That is your aim in life. My life must follow a different path. I know only too well the prejudices that people like me will have to face in a small village. Bombay has become very dear to my heart; nobody reminds me that I am a leukoderma patient. I don’t have any complaints about my life here. This is my world and I am very happy in it.’

‘Anupama, you won’t be young forever. Who will look after you in your old age?’

‘Do you really think we should marry and have children so that we have someone to look after us in our old age? That is not right. Others have their own lives to lead, too.’

‘Anu, is there nothing I can say to persuade you to change your decision?’

‘Vasant, I will never forget your friendship or your affection. That you would want to marry me after knowing about my disease and background shows your kind-heartedness. But I don’t want that sort of a life. You should marry someone like you, with a simple and compassionate heart, preferably a doctor, who can also help you in your work. Please remember that whenever you come to Bombay, this Mahashweta will always welcome you as a friend and her house will be open to you. We have become good friends. Let us remain so, and not complicate our relationship by getting married.’

Tears welled up in Anupama’s eyes. She went inside and fetched a small packet which she gave to Vasant.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘It is a sweater that I have knitted for you. Please wear it during the cold weather. Don’t worry about me. Satya will be here and he will take care of me. I wish you all the best in your work.’

Anupama smiled and Vasant tried hard to hide his unhappiness.
Oh
God!
If
only
I
had
known
her
before
her
husband
ruined
her
life,
I
would
not
have
lost
this
priceless
jewel!

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Anupama’s student Vinuta stood at the threshold. She said, ‘Can I come in, Ma’am?’

‘Of course, Vinita.’

‘Ma’am, we have chosen a play for our college day.’

‘Which one?’

‘Ma’am, it seems you were the heroine of that play in your college days and everyone would love to see you in that role once again. Do you remember?’

‘How can I forget
Mahashweta
?’

Anupama started reciting the lines which had been engraved in her mind. . .

‘Like Rohini to Chandra, like Lakshmi to Narayana, am I to him. Just as the creeper depends on a tree, I depend on him. I cannot live without him, and for his sake, I am ready to renounce everything. Let society say anything it wishes. I do not care. . .’

This time Vinuta would play the lead role, and she would be directed by the real Mahashweta. Vasant, like Pundarika, would be separated from Mahashweta. . .but in this case, it would be forever.

As they say, life imitates art.

Anupama smiled. Only Vasant could understand the meaning of that smile.

A
s a trustee of the Infosys Foundation I receive many letters seeking financial help. The most difficult part is to distinguish between genuine pleas and dubious ones.

One morning, as I was going through the letters,my secretary told me, ‘Ma’am, there is a wedding invitation card with a personal note attached to it. Will you be attending?’

At first I thought it was an invitation from one of my students, but when I read the card, I was unable to remember either of the persons getting married. The note attached to the card said,
Madam,
if
you
do
not
attend
our
marriage,
we
will
consider
it
unfortunate.

I had not been able to place either the girl or boy by the date of the wedding, but decided to attend out of curiosity. As I made my way to the other end of the city through heavy rains, I felt, ‘Is it worth attending some unknown person’s wedding?’

It was a typical middle-class wedding with a stage decorated liberally with flowers. Film music, which nobody was listening to, was blaring over the speakers, while the children played hide-and-seek in the hall. Women bustled about wearing Bangalore silk saris and Mysore crepes.

I looked at the couple standing on the dais. I was still not able to remember either of them. Standing in the middle of the crowd, without knowing anybody, I did not know what to do.

Just then, an elderly person approached me and asked me politely, ‘Do you want to meet the couple and greet them?’

I followed him to the dais, introduced myself and wished the couple a happy married life. They seemed very happy. The groom asked the elderly man to look after me. The man took me to the dining hall and brought me something to eat. Enough is enough, I thought to myself. I can’t eat without knowing who these people are.

As though he sensed my doubts, the elderly gentleman smiled and said, ‘Madam, I am the groom’s father. My son fell in love with Malati, the bride, and we arranged the wedding., Malati contracted leukoderma after the engagement, and as a result my son backed out of the marriage. We were all very sad. I asked him what he would have done if Malati had got leukoderma after they got married, but he would not listen. Her family was worried about her future. There was so much unpleasantness in the family. To escape from the tension at home, my son began to visit the library often. After about a month, he told me that he was ready to marry Malati. We were all pleasantly surprised and were truly happy.’ I still did not have an answer to my question. How on earth was I involved in this? Soon, the groom’s father provided the answer.

‘Madam, later we came to know that he read your novel,
Mahashweta
,’ he said. ‘The plight of your heroine touched him deeply. He took a month and decided he did not want to be like the man in your novel who shed his responsibilities only to regret it later. Your novel changed his thinking.’

I finally put the pieces together.

The groom’s father, then, brought a packet to me and insisted that I accept the gift. When I hesitated, he pressed it into my hands and said, ‘Malati has purchased this sari for you. She will be very happy if you accept it.’

The rain grew heavier and water splashed into the hall. Raindrops were falling on my face, and my silk sari was getting wet. But nothing mattered. I was delighted that Malati and her husband had made me part of their celebrations. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that an ordinary person like me would change somebody’s life.

Whenever I wear that sari, I remember Malati’s shining face as it was that day and the cover of
Mahashweta.
This is the most precious sari I own.