By the end of the academic year, Ammi and Baba tied the knot in an Arya Samaj temple, with Baba taking her home the same day, knowing that she would be disowned and possibly even killed, by her own family. Letting her study, and learn dance had already tested the limit of her personal freedom.
Baba was 21. Ammi 19.
Baba probably imagined his father would be livid at first, but, then, come around, for fear of losing his only son. My grandfather, however, was an egotistical man. He was stunned and shattered by his son’s sudden decision. Not even his deep love could stop him from summarily throwing Baba out of the house for marrying a Muslim. He threw him out with his shy bride, simultaneously writing him off his business and in a fit of rage willing it to his daughters, to spite him his latest rebellion, dividing the ancestral wealth between his grandchildren and sons-in-law, with the aim of leaving his only son on the streets.
Baba and Ammi scoured the village with nothing…no money, no connections, no support for their inter-religious marriage, with even friends shunning them for fear of social stigmatization. The next few years proved to be even more torturous. Baba did all sorts of odd jobs to make ends meet, his plays hardly attracting an audience, especially after word got out that he was an outcaste in his community.
Ammi, on the other hand, scrubbed utensils and baby-sat when she could to support him, often concealing her religion for fear of being shunned in an essentially staunch Hindu environment.
My birth within the next year was their greatest mistake. Baba drank himself to oblivion on most nights, especially after I was born. His appearance soon transforming from the handsome, pampered son of a rich seth, dreaming lofty dreams, to a young, haggard, householder, straddled with a wife and child and mounting expenses. Baba floundered to find a stable job, a social unfit of sorts, sometimes a peon, sometimes a handy man. Having discontinued his college education, the world, he so desperately craved for, now betrayed him, as he was faced with its harshest face.
Slowly, Baba sold all his books and material belongings. There was always a paucity of funds. Forced to choose between starvation and sanity, he finally found employment in Ganesh Circus, one of the most famous circuses in Maharashtra that was supposedly looking for a clown. Impressed by Baba’s talent in mimicry, the owner agreed to hire Ammi, as well, but she had to train as a trapeze artist, was the condition laid out. Ammi had long given up dancing. She was perhaps just happy to be safe. Have a permanent roof over her head. A fixed salary, finally. Breastfeeding her prematurely delivered child.
Baba and Ammi entered Ganesh Circus. Their sunken eyes hopeful…again.
One night, when I was about 13, I crouched over an open latrine. I had just smoked a half-finished bidi that I had found on my way outside. My breath stank. I stood in the grass, my shorts pulled down, my penis swollen with piss. And watched as a couple made frantic love, their bodies pressed together, at the back of the performing arena, opposite the monkey cages.
He had an ugly paunch. He was not naked.
She was. Her pubic hair, coarse, untrimmed. Her anklets created a soft clamour.
I blinked, a couple of times; glancing down, anxious someone might discover me this way, staring with my mouth wide open.
It was a full moon night.
The woman squatted on her haunches, grabbing the man’s buttocks, their movements repetitive, raw. Then the woman was down on her arms and knees as the man climbed over her, entering from behind.
I gasped.
His whip was placed around her neck. The veins on his, protruded. His organ, stiff. Stubborn. Sadistic.
The woman let out a fierce howl, wanting to free herself. Losing the fight, after a while, as the man stuffed the whip forcefully inside her mouth, before pulling her face up by her matted locks. The woman’s nipples, caught the light.
I clamped my eyes shut.
Remaining silent. Next to me, lay my father. Once the most famous clown in Ganesh circus, his body now reeked of cheap, country liquor. His lips were faintly painted. His chest shrivelled by the tuberculosis that had almost killed him a couple of years ago.
He stirred.
‘You’re back? Heard Dada Saheb is touring Satara this time…we must go watch his latest play. It’s been so long since I left this damn place…’ Baba muttered, placing his hand on my stomach.
I pushed it away, roughly.
‘Was she there again?’ he spoke after a moment’s silence.
I turned over listlessly on my back, my eyes smarting.
‘Did she, did, your Ammi look happy?’ he asked, all of a sudden.
I covered my face in my hands.
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see…it was dark…’ I answered, gruffly.
The next afternoon, I smoked again.
I liked smoking, I liked smoking a lot.
SARLA KULASHESHTRA
Amitabh’s first death anniversary had come and gone. I hadn’t switched on the television during those days, on purpose. The phone had rung non-stop. Students, fans, admirers, newspaper editors, channel heads, theatre company directors and festival organizers – everyone wanted to express their condolences afresh.
I thanked them all, politely expressing my reservations about appearing on camera or giving detailed interviews – accepting the garlands and flowers that many of them had personally carried or had sent over.
The living room still reeked with the scent of stale blooms. There were no pictures of Amitabh in the house, though. Amitabh abhorred the idea of worshipping the departed, never stopping to place an agarbatti or bow his head even before the portrait of little Maya that hung over my bed. We hadn’t slept together in the same room, after I had lost her.
The dead had paid their price, here, in this house, perhaps.
I had politely declined inaugurating a couple of photo exhibitions and retrospectives the past week – knowing I’d be inevitably hounded by the Press again. I had nothing to say to them. Nothing about living without Amitabh was sensational enough, having lived without him, for as long as I can recall, in the same city, in the same house. A man like Amitabh could never belong. It was probably his greatest undoing.
And yet, in a strange way, for the first time, I missed him in a physical sense, that day. Missed hearing Amitabh clear his throat in the morning; missed watching him catch a quick nap in his room, his spectacles on his chest. Missed ordering his medicines and fixing his doctor’s appointments. Missed visiting the courts on his behalf and ensuring there wasn’t too much salt in his food. Missed keeping my bedroom light on, until I saw his turned off.
Outside, it had started drizzling mildly.
The doorbell rang, just then. I waited for a few minutes, hoping the person would leave if I didn't answer but the visitor was persistent. Reluctantly, I answered the door.
A man in a brown safari suit stood outside, holding a large packet in his hands. He folded his hands politely, as soon as I asked him who he was.
‘Sarlaji, namaste,’ he said, bowing his head, ‘I hope I have not caused you any disturbance. I would have reached earlier, but my driver could not quite locate the address. I apologize for this intrusion. Hope I’m not disrupting your lunch.’
I stepped outside, covering my shoulders with my pallu.
‘And who may you be? Mister…?’ I narrowed my eyes, inspecting him closely, ‘I wasn’t really expecting, anyone.’
The man handed me the packet he was holding. ‘Please to check if it is okay…’ he looked up, gesturing at my hands.
‘What’s in this? Can you please tell me who you are? Where you are from?’ I appeared confused, trying to recollect if I was to receive any parcel from anywhere.
‘I was asked to hand-deliver this…only hand it in to you, and no one else. Sir will kill me if it is damaged by any chance or if it lands in someone else’s custody,’ the man swallowed hard, adding hesitantly, ‘You are Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra, right?’
I nodded, tearing the transparent tape that ran along the sides of the pa
per packet. A thick wad of papers sown together by a dull yellow thread dropped into my hands.
‘This…this is, it’s Amitabh’s handwriting…where? I mean…who are you?’ I said in shock.
The man stepped back a couple of steps. After fumbling in his trouser pocket he handed me a letter with a visiting card stapled to it.
‘I shall take your leave, now, Sarlaji. It is going to be a long drive back, and, looks like the weather isn’t in our favour, either,’ he glanced up at the darkened skies.
‘Where did you find this?’ I questioned sharply.
The man folded his hands, again.
‘It’s all in the letter, Sarlaji…It is what I was told. You are Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra, right?’ he answered as he rushed off.
I read the typed, unsigned note:
Amitabh was carrying this on the afternoon he boarded the train to Mumbai. Rawat was fearful this might contain some fresh evidence in the Malegaon trial and that’s why he had this nixed. I met Rawat, recently, at the Mumbai Gymkhana Club. I was worried he could leak excerpts to the media, or blackmail you, with this, at some later point. Rawat is an unscrupulous man, someone who can resort to anything to get what he wants. He’s now gunning for power in the Centre, allegedly even forming his own party, soon. Amitabh was the only man who dared him, in a sense. The Malegaon incident is a dark spot on his reputation, as well. I could sense the unease in his eyes. Amitabh Kulasheshtra is still alive for him…his new party is looking for funds…Rawat called it most secular party of recent times…it was my promise to bring this to you, soon…as soon as I could…somehow…’
‘Cut…’ I whispered, running my fingers over the papers.
My thoughts spiralling back to the gory Mumbai riots, the incessant bloodshed, the sudden news of the demolition of the Babri Masjid – it was all so deeply personal to Amitabh – he was affected much more than an ordinary person.
‘Oh Amitabh! This is the manuscript you were carrying with you on that day; the one I refused to look after for you…’ I choked, clasping the papers.
Amitabh’s face flashed before my eyes. I relived the way I had witnessed a once proud man crumple, especially over the years, as the Malegaon case dragged on relentlessly, along with mounting bills and endless courtroom appearances.
Amitabh and I had lived separately after he returned from Mumbai in the early 90s. After Maya had spurned him. We had nothing to say, or share, except a sense of failed courage…me…here…Amitabh, mostly in his room, in the outhouse…for the first time, our wars were starkly different. I no longer questioned his sanity, never asking him why he had to take the dare to stage such a controversial play in Malegaon. June 1994 changing our lives in a way from which there was no return or redemption.
Tears clouded my eyes, wiping them with my pallu, I returned to the note: ‘You see Cut is not just Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s final work. It is his…’
I couldn’t read further. I held the papers close to my heart, thinking of the last night Amitabh and I had spent talking, just us.
In the garden, outside…
‘What are you doing here, Amitabh? Have you taken your evening medicines? What’s that in your hands?’ I’d demanded.
‘I just wanted to see the house, once. The paint...it’s all peeling off.’
‘No, Amitabh, it’s the same, the paint is fine…it’s just the rains, the house always looks different after a spell of heavy showers, mellow, somewhat muted...some parts of it lighter...I’ve got used to it in all these years...it’s just that you haven’t come out and sat in the garden in a long time at this hour…’
‘How come I’ve never noticed them, Sarlu? Why do I feel the house resembles an Eastman coloured postcard? Even the roses on the front porch appear different.’
‘Those are not roses, they are carnations,’ I brusquely said.
‘Carnations? But, I always thought you loved roses…and, and that carnations don’t grow here, something to do with the weather?’ Amitabh softly reprised, clearing his throat.
‘One of my students gifted me these and they just grew on their own, I suppose. Initially, I never even watered them regularly or cast as much as a second look. I mean, what’s the point, I remember telling myself...you start caring for something that is meant to eventually perish. But...then...’
‘Then what?’ he touched my shoulders, lightly.
‘One morning, I was standing alone, pre-occupied. I may have even been sad, about something, when, all of a sudden, these plants caught my attention. Their colour, the shape of the buds I don’t know why, but I replanted them at noon, spending the whole of the next day, and the days after, tending to them meticulously, watering them, watching over them, in the afternoons when the sun was at its peak…’
Amitabh walked slowly, towards them. ‘Sarlu, how long will you care for each and everything that lives in this house, in this garden…in, in my life?’ he suddenly glanced back over his shoulders.
The light was falling. I had a function to attend.
‘I don’t care about things, Amitabh. I am just scared to watch them die,’ I cut him short. ‘Anyway, I’m leaving, now. One of my students has opened a dance academy of her own, close by. I had agreed to be her chief guest.’
Amitabh said nothing, at first.
‘Sarlu, I have something to ask of you…’ he finally said.
‘What?’
‘Will you promise to keep this cloth bag safely? I know you take care of my stuff, the best. You’ve always been so careful about looking after my things…always extra watchful not to lose any of it, remembering each date…every bill…every Court summons…every doctor’s prescription…every little saving, I could ever manage…’
‘That was different, Amitabh. Even if you were right about me handling your things with care in the past, why am I suddenly obligated to help you now? Why this sudden benefit of doubt?’ I interrupted, impatiently, checking my wristwatch.
‘Sarlu, do you suppose it’s going to rain again, tonight? You, you always could tell, just by the way the tiny blades of grass felt under your feet…do you think there will be any more showers in June?’ he asked slowly.
‘I don’t know, Amitabh...’ I pushed away the bag.
‘What day of the week is it, Sarlu?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Amitabh,’ I pursed my lips.
‘Even I do that a lot, nowadays. Pretend, I don’t care about days of the week or what time it is, telling myself it’s enough, that whatever little I have left, what little memory, that it’s all okay, that whatever I can piece back, is enough. Sarlu, please take this and keep it safe, please?’ he stretched both his hands out in my direction.
‘Amitabh, I hope you realize that we have to meet the lawyer…the date of the hearing is coming up,’ I frowned, wiping my face, taking a deep breath, ‘maybe, it’s pointless to carry on the case against the Rashtriya Dal…Amol Rawat is a seasoned politician today, with deep pockets and has risen up the party ranks in all these years…he even bribed Prakash Lele’s daughter…the Courts acquitted him citing lack of circumstantial evidence…Rawat is a free man…it’s almost like Malegaon didn’t happen…I am not sure if anyone even remembers that time…’
There was a minute or more of suspended silence.
‘What time, Sarlu? You said you had to be somewhere…somewhere else…I, I wasn’t even sure if we would meet…if you were home…if you be in the garden, now…’ Amitabh broke out into a violent cough.
He had lost a lot of weight. I could faintly see the outline of his ribs. He had been recovering from a secondary chest infection.
‘Ami…’ I had just started speaking, when he held out the cloth bag in my direction, again, ‘are, are you planning to go away again?’
I frowned, confronting his intrepid gaze.
‘I don’t know, Sarlu. I can’t say what I will do, really. That’s the thing about this illness…Sarlu, you know what I regret most about this marriage?’ Amitabh shrugged his shoulders, losing track of w
hat we were talking about.
‘Ours?’ I met his eyes.
‘What I regret most, about us, was that it was not all bad,’ he stared hard into mine, ‘we failed, yes, I suppose, we failed a lot, Sarlu. But, so did they. They failed, too. They all failed us. All those who wrote us off…each one who stood watching us take the fall, including me, and you, in some measure. We were all wrong, Sarlu…all we did was to underestimate each other. Like Malegaon…that you feel doesn’t matter…that you think is a blip in time…a day that’s been collectively erased from public conscience…’
Amitabh wheezed, his eyes gaunt.
‘Sarlu,’ he moved closer to me, ‘Rawat didn’t win…just, just because he was allowed to walk free…you must know that…Rawat…the Rashtriya Dal…they cannot win…it’s why we must not give up…no matter what happens…to, to this case…to this country…to, to me…’
I settled my pallu.
Amitabh watched me, in silence.
‘Just because you can’t see things Sarlu, doesn’t mean they don’t exist…’ he took a deep breath, adding slowly, ‘Like us…what we were…the things that truly mattered…the edifice of our marriage, Sarlu…Each day, each month, every year…each word I have managed to make a note of…is, really, the sum of us…every sentence we ever uttered…the pent-up silences, my nights locked away in that airless terrace room, your lengthy sighs after we touched…the months we lived apart…the affairs that were sensationalised…Maya, our daughter…and, and, her.’
‘So, this is about her, then? I should have guessed where this was going! Love letters to your one-time mistress, Maya Shirale, huh?’ I snarled, my words laced with sarcasm.
‘It has my manuscript, a new natak,’ Amitabh’s eyes suddenly glinted.
‘A play?’ my heart missed a beat.
‘It’s part of the same film script I was once working on, the one I began in Mumbai, the same one I had promised, Maya,’ he coughed again, covering his mouth.
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