Tempest

Wednesday 16 January 2008

Her story or mine

'No...stop...please don't hurt me'
'You almost won. You almost stole him away from me.' She said in a soft voice, her gaze steadily directed at her victim, the hatred shone.
‘You have to stop this madness…please…’ she desperately begged. Her hands were tied behind her back; her legs were tied together by a rope that was attached to the bed post. Tears streamed down her face as she helplessly struggled against the rope.
‘I would’ve forgiven you if you hadn’t made him say it,’ She slashed the tied woman’s arm with a bread knife.
“I would have let you go without a scratch if you hadn’t made him say it’, she cut her cheek with the same knife.
‘Wh..what did I make him s..say…?Please stop…I didn’t do anything to hurt you’ she sobbed and covered under the knife’s sharp eye.
‘He’s mine! You made him say he loved you! You tried to come between us!’ she screamed while slashing her in various places in mad fury. The air was filled with the victim’s cries.
‘He loves you t..too…he always loves you…’ she cried, ‘please stop this…he loves you t..too.’
Those were her last words. Sita pushed the knife through her stomach, ‘Yes, but I could never love him…’ she said with a small, satisfied smile, twisting the knife deep, killing her in one final brutal blow.

Half an hour later Sita had untied her, put the rope and the knife in a bag, dropped one of the big ghee barrels in the shed over her body and dropped a match on her way out.
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They had known each other since the day she was born. They had played together, quarreled together, read together and played practical jokes on all and sundry together. Of course since he had been the elder of the two partners in crime he had always suggested the idea and she in literal idol worship had executed. They would play cards, he would teach her silly tricks like how to create a blue flame in a beer bottle when the last sip was left with a lighted matchstick, they’d run around the garden playing tag and always finish each other’s sentences.

He lived next door and apart from school hours they were always inseparable at least until primary school. Things started changing slightly and gradually after that. He began to enjoy a mean game of football with the neighborhood boys more than play cards with her and by the time she was twelve and he was fifteen they hardly met all week. Sometimes two or three weeks would pass before they came to spend an occasional weekend together. They still had the same rapport and enjoyed the same easy camaraderie each time they did meet.

Then one summer, Tatha built The S&S Arc. The Sita & Sampath Arc had been named after them. Tatha loved children and animals and had innocent eyes just like the former two. He was a philanthropist, an eighty year old man still robust like he was just fifty. He looked like an old sparrow, always hobbling around doing first this and then fixing that. He was always busy; nobody had ever seen him wastefully idle. The S&S was built two streets across from where they stayed. It was a shelter for animals with a small veterinary division that would provide vaccinations to local street dogs and house any animals brought to its doorstep. Both Sara and Sam had always dogs and S&S became a new meeting ground for them. Both would volunteer regularly and work together on most days.

‘Tatha just got four horses Sita!’
‘Don’t kid with me maa. There are only ducks and starving dogs and disease stricken cats in S&S’, replied Sara with disinterest.
‘Am telling you! This farmer…I forget from which gaon…he did not have money to feed his horses, so he left them at S&S for Tatha to take care of for the time being. Sam has gone to see what he can do’
‘Wheeeeee…really? I can’t believe this!!! Maybe I’ll get to ride one! Am offff’, shouted Sita while leaving the house at a sprint.
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She saw Sam almost everyday. But this day when she gazed at him, it was different. It was then that it happened. Not full blown, but a tiny bud unfurled in her girl’s heart.

Sam was sitting astride a tall, sturdy horse with his back straight, that boyish grin on his face and his hair windswept. The reins were held by one of the mali’s who was making the horse slow trot.

‘Sita! Come here…you could ride Salim with me! He’s big enough’, he waved her over. The excitement in his voice washed over her and she eagerly climbed up behind him and held on tight. It was perhaps silly to feel this thrilled to sit so close to him in spite of knowing him for so many years. But at fifteen, Sita was finally smitten by her childhood buddy. He laughed gaily at the breeze, the sun, the jolting horse and at nothing at all. Sam was like that, easy to please, happy and irresistible.

The farmer never came back to claim the horses. Horse riding became a passion and an obsession for both of them and then eventually a routine. They would meet four to five times a week to ride at S&S. Sita’s affection for Sam grew with each meeting. They would talk about everything and nothing. She could read his mind, he never even managed to read her heart in spite of the fact that she carried it on her sleeve. He would discuss his girlfriend’s with her. Sam was one of those lucky few who was never single for long and never smitten for long either.

‘She can’t ride’, he’d complain about every other girl and that would be the end of that.
‘She’s just not like you’
‘She doesn’t understand my jokes like you do…’
‘She’s gorgeous and sexy as hell. I’ll see you after the movie with Rimmy…one more race? What say?’
There was always time for Sita. She began to feel a kind of ownership for Sam. She was content with just being around him and the other women did not bother her. They never lasted. They could never ride. They were not like her.
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College once again began to take up a lot of Sam’s time and the boards swallowed Sita’s. Riding was no longer an everyday activity. They still met often but both would end up discussing classes, studies and evil professors. There was no time to talk about girls. Or maybe there was something different about this girl…

Sam mentioned her once or twice casually over evening chai. ‘She’s really good at sketching you know. Her horses look just as good as the real ones’, he said and changed the subject.

Then another day he said, ‘I love the way she just laughs at anything I say. Meera has no sense of humour, but she still laughs at my jokes’. It was still nothing. Sita didn’t even pay attention.

Then a few months later, they were sitting on a bench in S&S after having raced. ‘Meera’s beautiful you know’, Sam said out of the blue.
‘Yeah…bet she can’t ride like me though’, retorted Sita with a laugh.
‘Nope she can’t, but bet you can’t sketch like her!’ said Sam slightly annoyed. He had never defended a girl before.
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After this she heard Meera mentioned several times. Each time casually but unlike before, Sam was never really willing to laugh about her like he used to about all the other girls.

School finished. Sam went into his fourth year of engineering and Meera was still in the picture. Summer break was on, so Sam began to invite Sita to go for coffee and other outings with his friends. The first two times Meera couldn’t come. It was at the third outing that Sita met her and it was only then that she realized how much she had wanted to see this girl.

Meera was nothing spectacular. She was short and just about reached Sam’s shoulder. She had a girly voice and smiled at most anyone. She’d squeal and yelp if someone so much as clapped their hand on her back. She wore earrings that matched her dress. She was like any other girly girl. What’s so special about such a ninny? Sam introduced them with much enthusiasm. He had his arm around Meera as he did so and didn’t manage to perceive Sita’s coldness.

‘I’ve heard so much about you. He talks about you all the time’, gushed Meera.
‘Well he hasn’t really mentioned you much’, replied Sita tersely.
Meera gave Sam an uncertain look and he put both his hands on her shoulder and said with a wink ‘we don’t talk too much about someone special do we?’

This trend continued throughout summer. Sita was silently building up a latent hatred for Meera. They would stand in a group and he would crack a joke and never exchange those familiar looks with her anymore. He would always wink at Meera like it was some sort of private insider that only they knew about. They would go to S&S and Meera would say she was too tired to ride and he would sit down with her instead of joining Sita for their usual rounds. Sita would say ‘lets try Chinese’ and Meera would say ‘Oooh yes Chinese is yummy but you guys go ahead...am not very hungry’ and Sam would immediately say ‘We aren’t too hungry either, lets just all have an ice cream’.

He was not neglecting Sita. He was as usual being himself; the revered elder guy who Sita had always doted on anyway. He just made decisions for all of them not because he wanted only what Meera wanted but because he was used to overlooking whatever Sita wanted. But this had never been evident before because before there had only been Sam and Sita.

Sam told Meera he loved her in front of all of them. He did it all the time these days. Sita would have still survived it, if Sam had not woken her up from a long dream.
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They were standing together in a group at a friend’s party. All of them had had a drink or two, laughter was in the air and since most of the friend’s had been Meera’s she had left Sam to Sita while she mingled in the crowd. After ages they’d had time together. It was the first time that they’d danced together and both had a gala time goofing around. One of Meera’s friend’s had kept a close eye on them.

After a few songs their group came together and Meera emerged from the crowds and gave him a hug. Amidst jokes, Richa, Meera’s friend said ‘you guys are really close. Why are you flirting with Meera when you already have something going with this girl,’ Meera was shocked and looked ready to apologise to Sita and Sam. Sam simply burst out laughing and casually said ‘I love Meera. You think I have something going on with Sita? She’s my cousin! I could never like her like that! Crazy!’

It was then that something snapped inside Sita. Not the fact that he didn’t love her or the fact that he loved Meera, simply the fact that he could never love her and she could never have him.

From then on everything was easy. After a lot of patience and months of planning suddenly one day she walked out of S&S leaving a burning carcass of wood, shed and body behind her…

Posted by Pavitra :: 13:33 :: 12 comments

Friday 11 January 2008

Contemplations

I don't want this blog becoming a diary...and when you have nothing to write about except your own life, you realise how self centered you have become. Its all about my life, not 'life'...the most narrow minded view one can have, I can have. I also hate writing in first person, it makes me more aware of what I am telling the world about me and in turn inhibits me. I thus speak boldly using 'I' voraciously and fool the whole lot by not saying anything about the 'I' in actuality. So, this time, I've decided to write in third person and unleash my true thoughts onto an imaginary 'she'; in essence fooling myself rather than everyone else.
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Everything needs to be done for the right reasons or it is never done right and never yeilds the desired results. Why is anyone good to anybody else? Why does anybody do a kind deed? Why would anybody go out of their way to help anyone? Is it simply because they are called nice? Is it simply because they become more popular and favourable in others eyes, in the eyes of their peers and comtemporaries? Recently...or sometime back, she can't quite put a date to it, but irrespective of when it was, she discovered that being nice to others made them nice to you. She discovered that a few kind words in spite of rudeness would in turn make the other person eventually soften their demeanor towards you. At times long drawn and enduring, but always with the same sure shot result. It was a simple matter of what goes around comes back around. She attributed it to tolerance and patience and assumed it to be a great virtue to be nurtured and valued. Little did she realise that this little virtue was cultivated on a very selfish pretext of ensuring that the world or those that mattered, even those who didn't were nice to her. In effect being nice, kind and helpful to others was purely a reflexive act towards the ultimate goal of self preservation. She lived in an air-tight bubble of imagining that she would always be kind and helpful to her friends and those she cared about irrespective of the returns. Its good to be kind is what she believed. This in essense shows that she was more or less nice because 'someone' or rather 'society' decreed it right to be nice and not because genuine empathy came from within her.

A while ago, getting carried away by some idealistic reading and conversations she started volunteering with old people. She figured it would be a nice thing to do, to spend a few evenings a week with the elderly and make them feel good, in effect make herself feel satisfied. Yes making herself feel satisfied was the main reason she took up this endeavour. It had nothing to do with helping them and making their last few years blissful. Initially it was a little embarrassing to refuse to go meet friends for dinner as she had a volunteering engagement, but there was also an odd pride in standing up in front of peers and saying what she thought was right. Yet again the end to the means was different. It was about proving to herself that she could do anything that she thought was right irrespective of what everybody thought. It was not about the old people, it was not about truly making them happy. It was never about seeing the delightful glow on their faces when she read them an interesting piece of gossip from the evening newspaper, it wasn't about the glee expressed by an old woman who was surreptitiously offered truffle by her, it wasn't about making him cheerful either. Lets call him Mr. George. He made everything difficult. He refused to smile when she offered to spend time with him, he refused to feel happy when she played chess with him, he never felt flattered if she skipped her social engagements to walk around the premises with him on a cold evening. He told her in a very flat tone of voice that she was doing him no favour by being there and it was him that made her question all her reasons. She doesn't know if her reasons are the right ones. She doesn't know if knowing this will make her reasons change...
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She had been reading Gandhiji's biography the past few days. This statement instantly invokes two common responses of 'I hate him' or 'I love him' from most people she knows. She hasn't quite made up her mind about him but for what it is worth irrespective of consequences he was a great man. There is something to be learnt in perseverance, dedication and stauch stubborness. The man had self control...the power of will. The reader might argue till summer greets us, but it is an extremely rare charactor trait. People wonder (cynically) why Gandhiji's strict philosophies and way of life could not take India further to becoming the equal opportunity nation he wanted it to be. Others 'thu' their own fellow countrymen saying that the love for Gandhi died with the man itself. She doesn't think it was the love that died. His life gives this one very potent lesson, message. Its evident in every stage of his life. For instance, living at Sabarmati ashram, he inspired the discipline, he made everyone follow the rules and live austere lives and do all their work themselves. It was tough but they did it with him, for him and inspired by him. But everytime he left the ashram on a mission to another place, the ashram would fall slack. It would lose its discipline and the 'inmates' would again go back to living lazy lives. She says 'inmates' because they lacked inspiration from within and lacked a will of their own. They fed off his will power and the conviction of his beliefs. They only did what he said because they felt it was the word of one very wise and great but did not hold the conviction of the very same beliefs in their hearts. Gandhiji's major failing (I apologise) here was not being able to translate the very same understanding of these beliefs to his followers. My only defense for him is that it was not his duty to do so. He spread the right message it was not his duty to ensure that our hearts and minds grasped it...that was our duty. Its a major lesson in being staunch towards ones beliefs, a major lesson in being resolute and following something to the core. Nothing ever works unless it is done for the right reasons. The will cannot be resolute unless the heart and mind in unison believe in the purpose, in the mission. Gandhiji had immense belief in his purpose, we had immense belief in him. Therein lies the difference.
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She learnt the meaning of humility.

She learnt that some stay...some walk...but you love them anyway.

She also learnt that sometimes when you think you've given your very best to someone and are happy and satisfied in a bubble of knowing you went out on a limb to be there for them, they can tell you that you did not come through for them as a friend. She learnt that it was okay to take a deep breath and re-question whether she actually had.
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'Always look at the bright side of life', this is a song in Monty Python's 'Spamalot' which is a laugh riot. This song has been running several marathons in her head for the past few days. But she truly learnt how to the other day when, as she was looking at herself in the mirror and complaining about how unapealing she looks normally, her friend pointed out 'Well atleast you look decent when you dress up, think about how awful some poeple look even after that!'

It was mean, but she laughed like hell.

Posted by Pavitra :: 04:48 :: 12 comments