Baby Doll

by Gracy

  Radha was cross that even the aroma of hot coffee did not rouse Krishnankutty. ‘The coffee will go cold.’

  A sound escaped Krishnankutty’s throat, ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  Radha did not hear him. Stepping into the balcony, she surveyed the city with lazy complacency. Then, ignoring Krishnankutty completely, she went back into the kitchen.

  At night, she made his favourite curry and called, ‘Come and have dinner!’

  Krishnankutty’s voice stuck in his throat. ‘I’m not hungry, Radha.’

  In bed, Radha spread out like a vine on Krishnankutty, who lay unblinking, his eyes empty. He was like a dried-up tree. Finally, Radha hid her face between his legs. He jumped up and panted, ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Pushing Radha away, Krishnankutty flew to the balcony. Outside, the sleepless night confronted him pitilessly.

  Suddenly, he felt feverish. Even as a child, fever had troubled him a lot. Whenever he boiled over with fever, he would somehow stay aloft from drowning in its darkness by holding on to something or the other. When he searched, not daring to open his eyes, he slowly realized that they were letters of the alphabet.

  But now…

  Krishnankutty wondered where all the clusters of words had disappeared. His anxious eyes searched the horizons. He was shocked to see a terrible darkness descending from the sky. He began to sway on his feet. Distressed, he ran inside and tried to shake Radha awake. When Radha’s tautly held body refused to relent, he dragged her to the balcony.

  Pointing to the sky, Krishnankutty shouted, ‘Radha, look! All the windows of the sky have creaked open. It’s raining numbers. The stars have become red like blood. They are twirling, as if on a swing. Flames emanate as they collide. Wailing, they tumble and perish in the floodwaters. Time’s darkness is spreading. The deluge is swallowing the world. Ah! Alas, we’re drowning. Aah!’

  (Kalpantham)

  21

  Aram Shah

  ‘I’m Aram Shah, Qutb al-Din Aibak’s son.’

  Floundering directionless in the progressively darkening bylanes of history, Gauri swung back, startled. In the darkness, a broad forehead became visible. Then eyes. A high, aquiline nose. Shoulder-length hair. Well-trimmed beard. Embroidered garments and ornate footwear. Gauri’s eyes widened in surprise. If he had a sword at the hip and a crown, he would have been a real sultan, thought Gauri. With one hand on his hip and the other hand stroking his beard, he repeated, ‘I’m Aram Shah. A traveller from the past. I can help you, milady.’

  Pressing his forefinger between his tense brows, he stood lost for a moment, then added, ‘And you, milady, can help me too.’

  Gauri reckoned that he was either a lunatic or a clown. She burst into loud laughter. Ignoring that, he prodded, ‘Madam researches history, right?’

  Gauri felt a flare singe her. Ignoring that as well, he raised his face to the horizon, and as if addressing someone invisible, continued, ‘What is history? How can the history of the ruling class be history? The history of a country is the history of its people. Here, beneath recorded words, history lies bruised. Because I’m a witness to history, I can say that with conviction.’

  Then he looked at Gauri and commanded, ‘Come! Let’s begin from the first lesson – half-truth is more dangerous than untruth.’

  Like a sleepwalker, Gauri followed him. They walked for a while in the company of silence, ambling along one of the arterial roads winding through the university. He stopped under a tree, outspread like an umbrella embellished with shiny metal discs on its rim. His eyes shone in the sharpness of memory. That glow enveloped Gauri. She felt transported to some other time.

  Gazing into her eyes, he said in a voice as deep as the ages, ‘Alas! It is indeed sad that milady cannot remember her old incarnation. You were Mehrunnisa, the daughter of the commander-in-chief of my army. I used to call you Nisa. When day receded, we strolled on the banks of the river Yamuna, hand in hand. Lost in the starlit night mirrored in the blue lake of your eyes, I realized that our love was as innate as the colour red is to blood. Still, milady refused to come into my royal suite. I was ready to give up everyone for my beloved. You smiled it away: “Poor lot! What’s to be their destiny thereafter?”’

  Gauri’s throat felt parched. Unable to tear her eyes away from his, she felt helpless. She shook, as if in the throes of a fever. When his eyes grew more intense, Gauri began to dissolve helplessly.

  ‘What is recorded in your history books? That Qutb al-Din’s death was an accident? Utter rubbish! I have no doubt that all of it was planned. There was no one to defeat my father, be it in polo or riding. How then could he have fallen off his horse? Treachery! Absolute treachery! But try as I might, I could not prove it. Even the relationship between my father and myself has become a historical controversy now, hasn’t it? Son! Brother! Some documents say that I was not kin at all. However, there is something everyone agrees on – that I was a worthless ruler!’

  His glance cooled and then froze. His face went pallid. He muttered, ‘I always detested wars. Meerut. Delhi. Ranthambore. Chandawar … Ya Allah! The Yamuna ran red with blood!’

  His eyes began to blaze again.

  ‘The one who yearned for peace was branded ineffectual by historians. They claim that many troubles exploded during my reign. Apparently, that’s why the emirs and prominent citizens of Delhi invited the governor of Badaun, Iltutmish!30 History will always be written by factions like that. Perpetrating their selfishness under the guise of public good. Anyway, things worked out the way they wanted. Iltutmish defeated Aram Shah, at Bagh-e-Jud near Delhi. Thereafter, historians say, nothing was known of Aram Shah. He disappeared from the pages of history!’

  He burst into laughter. Like the ripples in the Yamuna, it faded into sobs. Gauri was frightened, wondering where it was carrying her.

  ‘That’s true. I disappeared. Nevertheless, even as I travelled through time, I was myself. There was only one difference. My shadow disappeared. A man with his shadow intact cannot perceive facts clearly. The shadow will fall on his vision as well.’

  Caught in a world of echoes, Gauri was vexed. Leaning against the umbrella tree, she shut her eyes.

  Aram Shah became a vision of compassion. ‘Milady seems unable to bear the weight of history.’

  Gauri panted, her eyes still closed. ‘History was my choice in all the three options for my BA course. My intoxications blossom in the mystery of history. I’ve felt like battering my head on the thick barrier that suddenly slid down in front of me whenever I tried to retreat through time. I will give anything to the person who takes me beyond that. Even myself.’

  Gazing intently into the ring on the middle finger of his right hand, Aram Shah said in a deep, resonant voice, ‘A fakir kept me company for a long while. Coming as he was from the desert, he resembled a dried-up root. He had smiled when he said that, if watered, it would sprout in every climate. On parting, he gifted me a precious gem, white as snow. When the mind is immersed in it, a rainbow of colours will suffuse it. It was because of the gemstone set in the ring that I was able to come here, travelling through time. I can return with the same ring.’

  Gauri felt tense with elation. ‘Please take me too!’

  Aram Shah’s eyes became windows opening out to melancholy. ‘The truth is that no age is better than the other, milady! The nerves of this country have always been tainted by the blood of betrayers and sycophants.’

  The breeze blew in, bringing with it a silence that fluttered and settled between them. Listening to the heartbeats of the breeze in the foliage of the umbrella tree, Gauri raised her face. She pressed her entwined palms against the surge of waves in her chest and asked anxiously, ‘What happened at Jud?’

  Aram Shah sighed, ‘Oh, Jud! If the fakir had taken me with him, it could have been avoided. But he said that every life had its own purpose.’

  He covered his face with both palms as if to thwart the memories from wriggling awake. His words spluttered out: ‘Yes, Jud! I tried to
avoid the battle as far as possible. But everyone dragged me into it. One sleepless night, I had stepped out of my tent and was strolling on the battlefield. At night, the universe turns mysterious and alluring. My heart filled with celestial music. That’s when I heard a groan in the thickets. When I checked, there was a woman trying to sit up. Her hips were bathed in blood. Battles always include this kind of silent suffering. Yet, I was repelled by the craving for life in those eyes. Unknowingly, my hand went to my sword. Don’t kill me, Your Highness! Don’t kill this slave! When I heard that pitiful begging, I threw my sword away, beset with self-loathing. After that, it was endless walking through days and nights. That’s how Sultan Aram Shah was ousted from history. Thus, I became merely Aram Shah. I became free. Only those who are free can be witnesses. The others will have to take sides. Witnesses are not destined to enjoy peace. Tragedies become a fixture in their eyes. A witness is condemned to be a wanderer – an eternal wanderer through time and place.’

  Abruptly, he turned to Gauri. ‘Did my tale bore milady?’

  Gauri whispered, ‘No, I’m waiting. For the moment when we are to return to the past…’

  With a faint smile, Aram Shah extended his right hand towards Gauri. Gauri peered into the snowy gem sparkling in the ring on his middle finger. The magical luminosity of the seven colours of the rainbow enveloped them. Gauri offered her left hand to him. When their hands met, as if drawn to each other magnetically, the campus with its scattered concrete buildings disappeared. Time and place overturned.

  Initially, Gauri felt as if darkness had invaded her eyes. Then, that darkness left to roost on the massive trees on both sides of a rural path that revealed itself in the moonlight. Down that path, on which moonlight embraced shadows, they walked hand in hand, accompanied by a light breeze suffused with the fragrance of wildflowers.

  (Aram Shah)

  22

  Outdoor Sights

  Warming up the rails buried in the frost of loneliness, Train prepared to set off. While the station was teeming, within Train a colourful Indian dream was blossoming. Mustard fields that flowered yellow and wheat fields that laughed with their golden crop and cornfields brimming with fresh ears somewhere far away, provided the setting for that dream.

  Whistling a couple of times to clear its head, Train began to move. It slowed at the unmanned level crossing, catching something whispered into its ear, ‘Can’t you stop for a moment when you reach here and pray silently before you proceed again?’

  ‘For what?’ Train was astounded.

  ‘To be honest, I’m a martyr. The thugs of the opposition party tied my limbs and left me here on these rails. My bicycle was placed right next to me. Thus, it became an accident. Head here. Body there.’

  Train said softly, ‘Because there is a heart inside this iron body, I’m really distressed. Don’t you notice how sometimes we travel with our head alone on these rails, separated from our bogies, as if to atone for such accidental sins? Anyway, I will certainly remember you whenever I pass by this area.’

  Gathering speed, Train thundered ahead. It began to pass through a slum. Then it felt as if someone from behind was covering its eyes and tickling it. For a moment, Train was taken aback. ‘Who’s that?’

  The reply was a laughter that sounded like a shower of manjadi31 seeds. ‘Tell me and let me pass by.’ The anxiety about its time schedule seemed to be vexing Train. Removing its tiny fingers from Train’s eyes, a tender voice piped, ‘Choo-choo train, choo-choo train. I was walking on the rails, deaf and blinded by hunger. A train cured my hunger once and for all.’

  Its voice compassionate, Train asked, ‘Poor thing! My child! Now what can I do for you?’

  The tender voice replied, ‘When the souls of departed children touch you, you shouldn’t run away like this. They can’t catch up with you!’

  ‘All right, my child!’ Sighing deeply, Train gathered speed again. Traversing through a bashful village, Train felt a seductive touch. From past incidents, Train knew that this too was a spirit. ‘For a moment, I didn’t realize you were there,’ Train admitted with a rumble.

  With a laugh that could wound anyone who heard it, the voice revealed itself. ‘I was the most beautiful girl in this village. But a few brutes gangraped me. Thinking that I was dead, they dumped me on these rails. A train saved my honour.’

  Train spoke with deep concern, ‘Your voice is so beautiful. You must have been a gorgeous girl. What am I to do now?’

  The girl’s voice went a notch lower, weighed down by sorrow. ‘Whenever you pass by this area, you have to emit a melodious whistle for me.’

  Train agreed with enthusiasm. Then it said goodbye to the girl and rushed on, whistling. When it reached a swamp, it felt a soft caress on the crown of its head. Immediately, Train knew that it was the soul of a mother. It said so too, and hummed in assent, ‘Yes, my child! I am a mother. Every child I gave birth to turned out to be a girl. Their father named each of them after a different river: Ganga, Yamuna, Kaveri, Sarayu, Alakananda, Mandakini! Sacred rivers, all of them. But to what use? Would it have been possible for their father to marry them off with gold and cash? When their desires turned old and grey, all of them went wayward. How long could I have suffered, watching that? A train ended all my miseries.’

  Train muttered aloud, ‘Alas, Amma! There’s nothing I can do for you.’

  The mother’s spirit mumbled, ‘True, my child. However, when trains pass through this spot, they sway violently, recalling all the hardships I had to endure.’

  By the time it realized why trains often stay still, lost in some reverie, before starting to move again slowly with a long, deep whistle, and swaying alarmingly on the rails, Train had passed the boundaries of Kerala. The realization that what it had left behind were merely outdoor sights filled Train’s inner eye. It staggered at the horror of these inner truths. Through the stench of bruised dreams, it fled, panting, to another life.

  (Puramkazhchakal)

  23

  Ball

  Oh, my Jesus!

  What to say to Ammachi now? Now it feels like there was no need to do all that. But then, when people do certain things, can anyone guess how it might all end? It’s true that it was done by my own volition. But then, Ammachi was also in favour of it.

  Poor Ammachi! When the ship of her life, waddling on waves, disappeared like a magical illusion, Ammachi ended up all alone. The only one with her was a little girl of three. Life limited itself to that triangle of Ammachi, Jesus and the daughter. In the cramped life in the flat, my only companion was Baby Jesus. From the hip of Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus jumped down to play with me. When he grew up, he climbed up on to the cross. With his neck already wobbly, burdened with the sins of his flock, it didn’t feel right to drag him down into my adolescent dreams. Still, the light of a merciful smile held my hand every now and then.

  There weren’t many secrets I had not shared with Ammachi. Every little detail about how I met Joyichan was recounted to her. The picture I drew of Joyichan bounding behind the ball like a racehorse, sent Ammachi laughing until tears streamed down her face. To tell the truth, what caught my eyes were his thigh muscles rippling under his fair skin. When my eyes started to ache, I just went forward and introduced myself. The moment I said, ‘Joyichan, your smartness is in your magnificent thighs,’ I saw the racehorse transform into a mere bunny rabbit and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud. Ammachi too had come to see Joyichan playing for the famed Santosh Trophy tournament. She too liked the racehorse flying on the grounds. After that, there was no point in wasting time. Joyichan approached Ammachi to discuss the wedding.

  However, in bed, Joyichan was not the same man I had seen on the field. Even the eighteen manoeuvres native to women could not warm up his frozen blood. After three or four days, a marvel occurred. I was trying to trace the route through which Joyichan was able to slip into sleep, bypassing the yearnings suffocating in my flimsy nightie. At that moment, above the half skirt of the window, the r
ounded tip of a tiny nose appeared, pressed against the glass. Then it pressed further and grew into a bigger circle. Two eyes followed. When the face was scrunched up against the glass like a ball, I nudged Joyichan awake. ‘Shh … See Joyichan? Just look. Someone is peeping at us!’

  What was supposed to happen then? Joyichan was to jump up with a loud cuss word, chase the peeping Tom, catch him, and plant a slap or two. However, what happened was a far cry from it. Joyichan turned around, tore my nightie and flung it away! Suddenly, he was the same Joyichan who kicked up a storm the moment the ball touched his toes. Oh, my Jesus! Later, lying devastated, I couldn’t even recall what really happened. I didn’t even know when sleep pulled me down into its vortex like an octopus. Only in the bright light of the morning was I able to clearly remember what had happened. And it was when I was recollecting the details of the previous night one by one, that the blow struck me – whether it was on the playground or with his woman in his marital bed, to become passionately active, Joyichan needed an audience!

  My beloved Jesus! I didn’t waste another moment. I rushed back to Ammachi, fell on her bosom and cried like tearing rain. Often, thunder and lightning interspersed. Ammachi sat immobile for a long while. Then her frozen lips pressed on the crown of my head. ‘Go, my daughter, Ammachi will be there in two days. Then we will make everything all right.’

  When Ammachi arrived, she brought along a few bits of equipment. The statue of a strapping athlete lunging forward with a football. Four pictures of a mob of spectators. The statue was set up at an angle clearly visible from the bed. The pictures of the spectators were pasted on the four walls. With secret satisfaction, Ammachi returned home.

  When Joyichan reached home and was changing from his trousers into his lungi, he noticed Ammachi’s handiwork. With a sharp intake of breath, Joyichan stood still for a moment. With wonder, I watched his thigh muscles stir awake, layer by layer. When I moved closer to him, I was picked up and thrown on to the bed. Oh, my Jesus! The only thing I could remember later was being hauled up to the sky and collapsing back on earth.