Monday, January 9, 2017

The Third Woman

The Third Woman



On the right-hand side of her Facebook timeline, the notification tab beckoned Malu.  She dragged the cursor and clicked. An extensive list of birthday friends unfurled before her.  She found them boring and scrolled down. She noticed, someone had tagged her onto a post. The scene of a gruesome road accident, with a telling caption: “somebody’s morning trip turned fatal.”
She never found accidents eye-catching, but something made her stick at it.  A white Maruthi, and what remained of it after being devoured by a construction truck. The driver’s side sat huddled inside the front grill of the giant truck. One end of the mudguard detached from the body stood in the air waving at the world. Two dark holes held where the lights were. Their splintered glasses crystallised in the crimson pool on the ground. The inward bent number plate rendered its figures unreadable.  Malu’s wondered, who could be that unlucky driver whose morning trip turned fatal?  She added a sad emoticon and scrolled down.
She had big plans for the day, a lot of readings for the coming exam, but the letters in the books and papers were losing shapes and running away. With the stomach rolling, and the bile taste exploding in her mouth, she went to the bath to throw up. But nothing came out. 
Inside the kitchen, on the table, she saw a heap of vegetables her mother had collected from the garden that morning.  She should have been cutting and cooking them now. Inatead, where had she gone?
She went to the garden, where her mother stood behind the rickety fence, peeping at the vehicles rolling along the road, which was on the other side of the fence . In the backed-up traffic, the vehicles snaked along like a child's drawing. They were hootin endlessly signalling an impending calamity.  Her mother’s body was shaking, she looked puzzled as though she was witnessing a bizarre vision in front of her.  
Malu thought it was better to leave her there, let her mull over whatever were bothering her. 
“Malu, I saw a dream in the night,” her mother said when she was about to turn. 
“Aha, I hope something nice,” Malu smiled.
“Stupid me. I don’t recollect it. The more I try, the more it evades.”
“Don’t worry Amma. Dreams are like that for everybody.  You’re not stupid,” Malu said.
“Even the dreams are not coming normal to me.”
She looked at her mother and gave a smile.
***
“You think, Malu did something wrong, but we are her parents we….,” her mother was appealing to her father. Both of them were in the lounge. Malu couldn’t see her father's face from where she stood at the end of the corridor leading to the lounge. Suddenly her mother went silent, her voice froze and jaws stiffened. She knew it was her father, he had threatened her to stop, otherwise, he would slash her throat. 
.
Her father lied down on a rocking chair. That made only his feet visible to her, resting on the arms of the chair. The speed of his rocking slowly increased, and with that the crunching of the cement under it. A cigarette beedi burned in between his fingers.  When he drew on it, the room went hazy in the clouds of smoke he puffed out. The room held a nasty stinking odour from his sweat and smoke.    
The lounge was furnished with a three-seater sofa in addition to her father’s rocking chair. The upholstery of the three-seater in frayed moss green was torn and its snarled up yellow innards were puffing out. Few visitors when they came home, pulled their faces when invited to sit on it.
“Please get a new sofa set,” her mother pleaded with her father.
“To entertain men?” her sneered at her.
One day, her mother sent her to town to find the cheapest upholstery repairs.  The following weekend, a young boy came to their home. Her father accosted him when he showed in his book their home address written in her hand. “How did you get this address?” He took him by the scruff of his neck.
“He came to look at the sofa,” she rushed to the boy.
“Are you going to college or visit shops and boys?” Her father shouted at her. In the gap, the boy broke away and ran for his life. 
The next piece in the lounge was a colour TV.  A new Sony. Her father had bought it the week after he chased the boy from the upholstery shop. The TV stood on a stand against a wall hanging a calendar beaming big breasted females.
He watched the TV, lying in his rocking chair, and he flipped the remote control to choose only his favourite channels. How could he be a teacher? Malu often doubted and sympathised with the children who sat in his classroom. Only when he went out to work or visit his friends, she and her mother watched the channels they liked.
When his male friends visited him, they sat around and ridiculed their female colleagues --this one has big buttocks and this one big breasts.
“Huh, are you sure, she’s my daughter?” Her father laughed, he drew himself up and sat straight on the chair. 
Her mother ignored him.
“So, you’re not sure. Good God! Then who can help her?” 
“She is your daughter is her only problem,” her mother said.
“You regret for that?” He shouted.
Malu saw her mother caving in like a caged bird, and her eyes widening.    
Her father sprung to his feet, and as his lungi was peeling off.  He shot himself in her mother’s direction like an anaconda.  Malu braced up, she moved toward her mother and yanked her away from her father's grip.  He was thrown into the air and flopped onto the floor like a frog onto a rock-bed.  
She feared, he would leapt onto his legs and follow them.  She pushed her mother through the corridor, looking back and checking up whether he was chasing after them. She heard his cries ricocheting through the corridor, but that could be a pretension, he couldn't be trusted. 
Halfway through the corridor, her mother flopped onto the floor. Her tension and the blood pressure had weakened her mussels making it difficult for her to manure her body. She lifted her in her arms and trudged on. At the end of the corridor they entered a tiny garden behind the house.
In the garden, she sat her mother on a rickety bench that was in the shadow of a lush mango tree. A small seedling, they had planted three years ago. 
The garden was a heap of broken stones and glasses, a few years ago. They had spent their sweat and labour to make it in the present form.   
“Hey, what’s happening.” Her brother barreled along the corridor, reached its end and peeped out.
“What’s it, bro?” She asked.
“Father cannot get up.”
“Yeah.”
“He needs support.”
“Yeah.”
“He needs to be hospitalised.”
“Yeah.”
“What is this yeah, yeah.”
“We didn’t know he was pretending or not. In case he got up and strangled us, you know it has happened.  So, we were waiting for you: he wouldn’t do that to you…”
“Huh… So what’re you going to do?”
“Nothing! You’re here. Come on. You take him to the hospital …”
“You’re cruel …”
“Aha… how did it happen anyway? Did you ask him?”
He walked away punching the air with his clenched fist.
Her lullaby as a child was her mother’s narratives, how had bad luck pushed her marriage into miseries. It wasn’t easy as a child to grasp the animal instincts of the adult world. The confusion smothered her childhood and stunted her growth into adulthood. As an adult, she was always angry, mad at her mother and the world.  Her mother was selfish to victimise her childhood, she believed, to sort out her miseries. The thought ate into her being. It took a long time to resolve the differences but what difference did it make when even now she depended on her as a child.  
“You, know he turned the way he is, because of you,” her brother accused her once
“How?”
“You disobeyed him.”
“I don’t understand?”
“You knew, he doesn’t approve of girls falling in love, and you did exactly that.”
“Yeah, what does he know about love, anyway bro. He who knows only violence and thinks all women in this world are his sexual objects.”
“That’s different,” her brother said.
“Yeah, different because you too are like him.”
He thumped on the table in between them and stood up. 
“Admit bro, your mother and sister are things to you.”
Anger sparked out of his eyes like a monster’s tongue. He ran around like a mad dog, picked up a pot plant from her collection, raised it above his head and dropped onto the ground. She smirked seeing his cheeks bulging out and the corner of his mouth curling up like the monkey god. And he ran away shouting curses.  
She fell in love with Nithin, who was her childhood friend.  He gave her sweet promises of a future life together, which created a halo of manhood around him, only proven to be fake.  When his parents confronted him, he denied all knowledge of her. And they accused her father of stealing their son.
That was cheap talks, which certainly embarrassed her father. If he had retaliated by challenging them, that was acceptable. Instead, he used it as an opportunity to tarnish her mother that she was running after playboys at her young age and like mother, like daughter.
***
Her best friend called, “haven’t you heard?” Her voice was shaking.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“At home,”
“I’m coming,” she dropped the phone. 
She felt a numbing shock crawling down her spine, a poignant reminder of a biological banging happened twenty years ago.
“Malu… Malu…, “she heard her mother yelling from the garden. She rushed to the garden, and her mother was waving her hands in the air. She looked pale, and her long hair had fallen loose on her face.   
“Malu, I remember the dream now. It was an accident, a fatal one. It was his car.”  She smiled the death of a smile. Her dry lips twisted a bit. She gripped a wooden stake on the fence and made stumbling strides towards Malu, who held her in her arms. 
There was nothing in Malu’s mind other than a kind of calmness, which shrouded the embers of a burning fire. She remembered, how he drove the car onto the road that morning, like a mahout kicking an elephant. The poor car never purred only shrieked and grunted in his hands. Often, she told her mother, it was the third woman in his life preordained.
***
Malu could barely see his mashed body bundled up on a barricaded raised bed in the ICU through a glass door. Was there any life beating inside it? None of his organs performed even near normal was clear from the dangling curves on the white graphic screen hung above his head. His body was clipped on to too many humming machines using tubes, wires and bottles. The last mechanical rituals performed on a dead man by a hospital.
Uncles and aunties who stopped visiting them frequented them. They held meetings in the lounge, and amidst them sat her brother, chickened out.  Malu and her mother sat in their garden, frightened. Having no idea how the whole thing was going to turn out and from where the money was going to come to settle the huge hospital bills.
On a ninth day, his body was taken to a crematorium. On the sixteenth day, he returned home in a red silk-topped pink ceramic pot. The male progeny of the diseased, immersed its content in the water to let his spirit rest in peace. 
***
“You knew it, isn’t it?” Malu confronted her brother.
He sat quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“What use.  We needed money!”
“So you agreed to pawn away this house and we in it.”
“How can I pawn you away.”
“You treated us like things. Otherwise, you would have told us… I won’t agree.  You put your signatures on their papers, what about ours?”
He kept quiet.
“It’s not going to be easy for you brother.  How much did you get?”
“What?”
“Your share for agreeing to our relatives’ terms?”
“I didn’t get anything.”
“Shame! I know everything.”
“What are you going to do?” He asked.
“We’re moving to the village. Grandma offered her home for us to stay.  We’re going tomorrow.”
“Can I join you.”
“You won’t like it, bro. Our life is going to be tough.  We have to do everything for ourselves. Start from scratches, till the land, make gardens, mend the old house. You’ll not like it.”
He sat quietly and then walked away.

***

Friday, August 26, 2016

What is Real Indian Pride?


True when it comes to a nation competing with the world the idea of national pride takes  a new meaning and height. Sports competitions are the best examples of this. Rio Olympics  just concluded and its highlights are still fresh in our mind.  In this case, the national pride we projected are in terms of the medal tally but of course, in that we weren't featured significantly. India is featured very low there. But that cannot be counted against India's national pride because in a competition there will be always excellent, average and poor. An opportunity to realise where one stands in terms of the strength and weakness is a matter of realism. 

But again how do you define pride?  This is the best definition I got for personal pride after a simple search: PRIDE Pride is Personal Responsibility In Delivering Excellence. There is also something confused as pride; arrogance and disregard for others to boost one's self-importance and ego. 


The above definition of PRIDE is applicable at the national level as well because a nation can be taken as a big person.

Now coming to the other Rio highlights; let us look at what news has been flashed across the world about the way Indian's sports officials, including Vijay Goel the sports minister of India, took responsibility vested on them in delivering excellence. Oh yes, he went to visit Rio, unlike sports ministers in other nations, but to embarrass the whole nation including the Indian Olympians. 

A few samples of this bitter pill the Indians talk about when they meet and feel ashamed, that is those who really understand the meaning of PRIDE. 

  • "The sports minister of India, Vijay Goel, who was accompanying Indian athletes to show his support and monitor requests of athletes, ended up almost losing his Olympics accreditation. The minister's  'entourage' without having accreditations to certain locations behaved in 'aggressive' and 'rude'manner when they were stopped by the officials to enter."
  • "The Indian Olympics contingent had two official medical staggers, Pawandeep Singh and Col R. S. Negi, who both were radiologists by profession and had no prior experience in sports medicine." 
  • "The two radiologists, coincidentally are related to Indian Olympic Association's (IOA) key members.  According to reports, O.P Jaisha's coach had to get into scuffle with the doctors to demand medical  attention after she fainted during the marathon."  


You can read more of this here

Well, one can argue, it's all over, the next Olympics is going to come only after four years, so why should we bother about these things anymore or doubt the sincerity of those who feel ashamed about these things.  

As individuals we feel helpless is also another way of seeing this. And it's where the officials and politicians who were responsible for causing this outright mayhem get scot free. And they will continue showing the same disregard riding the people and a nation thinking that is what they are appointed for.

One way to make a change is everyone who feels that PRIDE should talk about that to create its awareness. If none talks, we are helping to make it a forgotten thing and the show of ego will take precedence over it. 

It's good news that while I was concluding this, I saw this on Facebook; a petition started by Devyani Chaudhari, "a former table tennis player who represented India in 1980," addressing Mr Modi, the prime minister of India. She is asking the PM to take necessary steps so that the oncoming Asian games and the Commonwealth games both happening in 2018 can avoid the Rio embarrassments. 




Tuesday, August 23, 2016

One Indian Girl

We all heard it: Chethan Bhagath's One Indian Girl, broke all records in Amazon's pre-order history thirty minutes after going live on the platform beating Harry Potter and Cursed Child's Day 1. 

Chethan Bhagat is a best-selling Indian author. The banker -turned author's debut novel is 'Five Point Someone', and One Indian Girl is his eighth work; previously he has written  five fiction and two non-fiction.

The book is set to hit stands on first of October.

What makes the current work unique according to him is that it is about females about feminism. This is what he writes in his blog on this:"I wrote on feminism because it isn't an equal world for woman, and most don't realise it. As a writer, I want to highlight issues in society that affect a lot of people. Feminism affects us all." He adds that his desire to write about females has taken a long time because to write in a 'female first person' was a 'huge challenge'.  
In the book's teaser released last Friday, he hints what feminism we can expect from his book. This is how he pictures the Indian Girl's profile: "Hi, I'm Radhika Mehta and I'm getting married this week. I work in a top investment bank. Thank you for reading my crazy story. However, let me warn you. You may not like me too much. One, I make a lot of money. Two, I have an opinion on everything. Three, I have had sex before. Now, if I were a guy, you'd be cool with all this. Since I am a girl, these things don't really make me too likeable, do they?"

Okay, Chethan Bhagat's female protagonist is a North Indian girl, we can see that from her surname. If she were a Keralite, I wonder whether the first reason in the list would have mattered, but certainly the other two. And for that matter, I wonder, how a parallel story if ever written in Malayalam (not a translation) be received by us?  

Just a thought. 

Those who want to read his debut novel, Five Point Someone can be freely downloaded from the link 









Friday, July 15, 2016

A Page From My Writing

From Long Island Express Highway, Kailas turned north to enter Spring Filed Boulevard.  His visit to his home, he wasn’t sure to call it home, would have impacted who were close to him, had the events happened recently taken another turn.  The Boulevard was chock-a-block with traffic; his laziness didn’t allow him to check the traffic level before entering the Boulevard.  The road ahead stretched in two lines.  A tall advertising vehicle in front prevented him seeing anything beyond its flat back. He switched on his car radio and tuned on to the SyriusXM channel.  The announcer went on and on about all routes busy, he got angry and turned off the channel.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Radicalization of Kerala youths

How alarming is the theory that 21 people, some say, over 40, were recruited from Kerala to join the IS in Siria and Afganistan? It's a theory so far because the Kerala government has no tangible evidence to prove they were truly the cases of IS recruitment. They could have gone on a pilgrimage and emerge later is a possibility, so we have to wait until the official confirmation comes from the government.  Until then we go one making our own theories and facts. However, the government has started investigating.

Monday, July 11, 2016

My Uncle's Heirloom




It was a mistake happened in a split second.  The lamp shade, I just removed of a table lamp slipped off my hand; fell onto the floor and crashed in a jingling. How I watched sadly, the shade was turning into a white net of shards. The dust that had gathered on its surface had rendered the lamp a dead, fearsome look.  So I was prompted to give it a facelift.

 I was also earnestly trying to help my aunt in secret.  But, if my aunt got a clue of what I was intending, I was sure, she wouldn't have allowed me. The lamp, my uncle told was his family heirloom, so had lots of sentimental values attached to it more than its material value.  His great uncle got it from Vas co Dagama's yacht; his story went like that. I never believed him. My point was, how could he discard a thing of much sentimental value in the corner of the passageway to gather dust? Only when visitors came, he got my aunt to dust it and display on his table.  The following week, some guests were coming, and my aunt had to clean it. 

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Freedom in Creative Expression



Kethan Bhagat, one of the India's bestseller authors, answered in an interview; he writes for changing people's perspective.

He's right. Writers are mainly the people who deal with emotions, and only emotions or feelings can change people's perspectives or views. And how can this be possible for writers, if they aren't allowed creative freedom, and tethered at the end of limited expressions? The individuals and the society as a whole get to with only stale or outdated ideas.