Holding On and Letting Go!

Author: Rajrupa Gupta

Rajrupa is whimsical in one part, carefree daydreamer and obsessive freak in another part. She suffers from nostalgia and worries about the uncertain. She has a varied range of conflicting interests - books, movies, music, travel, architecture, hacking, cooking, sleeping, gossiping, being lazy on purpose and perhaps most importantly - observing people and reflecting about life. In her head random thoughts are always rioting to come out first. She presents them to you as Riot of Random.

The Story:

I

The aroma of the cake baking was invigorating. It told me that finally Sandhya had come in terms with the shifting. Though she had never complained and kept perfectly enthusiastic about the move and attended my party-men and the visitors tirelessly, I knew it was never easy for her to move back here. Not only because this place bore the memories of the devastating earthquake that took away her puppy but also because she had to take a transfer to the local rural branch of her bank from the head office in Delhi. She was often complaining about fat men coming to bank wearing little dhotis which gave hot shorts a run for money.

But I didn’t have a choice. Many politicians could win elections miraculously without ever visiting their constituency, but I lacked the talent. And grandpa just wouldn’t tell. So I was running amuck, visiting blocks after blocks, talking to people, delivering elaborate speech in venues decorated like circus tents and promising them what I deemed was possible. My decision to not promise washing machine to everyone who voted for me in response to my opponent yamlal’s promise of colour TV infuriated my party leadership. I was sure they were regretting the refusal of the party ticket to Shyamlal by now.

Being a politician in India was a tough job. If you were one then you needed to be always dressed in pressed khadi, occasionally accessorizing it with a Nehru cap. Although India was modernising, its politician still had to be traditional. And although we were a democratic nation, monarchy was still cool; and just like Bollywood where children of famous actors carried on the legacy, irrespective of talent and capacity, politicians too expected their children to carry on their legacy. That is why when after a generation skip, I picked politics as my career my grandpa’s joy knew no bound. People too believed that I was a better politician because I had it in my blood. My party leadership also used to believe it but these days they seemed a little demoralized after I refused to indulge in any grey transaction to finance my campaign. They wondered how the grandson of Pratap Bhatnagar – winner of five Assembly Elections, could lack so horribly his political finesse.  And they were so sure of me losing this election that they promised me a post in the cabinet if I won this one.

II

I whistled a favourite tune of mine as I prepared the icing for the cake. It was liberating to find a departmental store in the main town square which stocked most of the items required for making a Raspberry and Lemon chiffon. There was a new spring in my feet – I was feeling genuinely happy for the first time after moving here. I believe it was because I learnt that Bheem uncle was dead. Deepak gave me the news last evening just as trivial information without realizing what relief it brought to me. So today I was giving him a treat of his favourite cake.

He was outside trying most earnestly to convince Bholanath that we indeed were vegetarians and absolutely could not accept his present of a young goat. Being a politician sure had its perks. They were the modern version of the ancient king. Every morning before even we could get up, the front porch of Deepak’s grandfather’s Victorian Bungalow would be full with people waiting with gifts. While some people came to ask undue favours, some people came to express their love and gratitude for something good Deepak had done for them. Initially Deepak tried to refuse but soon we understood that it meant hurting people sentiment and being snobbish. So within the two months of our move here we had filled a small room with things that we were never going to need.

It made me so proud of my husband. In my lifetime I had never seen a politician who was so honest. Though his party didn’t believe that he would win this election, I was certain. I saw people’s love for him. I also had full faith on Nielsen’s survey which claimed that 97% people of this constituency were supporting Deepak. Of course they would. After all, did they in their lifetime see any other politician who was so honest and educated and not to mention so mind-blowingly handsome?

Banno-ki-mummy came to ask if I was still considering my agenda to clean the gift room. Then she would ask Sarala bai to stay back and help me. I assured her that I was indeed looking forward to it - open each package and try to sort the useful and non-useful things properly. This was another advantage of staying here. The dread of finding a faithful domestic help was non-existent. 

Deepak entered the kitchen. He was still in his kurta pajama from last night. His messy hair fell on his broad forehead in careless curls. His specs were little askew. His bold lips slacked a bit emphasizing his prominent chin as he crooned to the pitch black goat in his arm oblivious to the fact that it was chewing on his sleeve. I sighed. Yet another addition to our backyard farm that had grown to twelve chickens, one cow and seven goats in two months.

III

I let Ramdin the new goat of Bholanath free in his new habitat, watched him bleat happily and chew on the juicy grass before returning back to the kitchen. Sandhya was furious that I had accepted yet another goat but I knew it was nothing a kiss couldn’t ease.

She put up a fight when I hugged her from the back but calmed down quickly when I kissed her. She was an amazing woman. She was my domestic god as no one of any lesser stature could put up with my theatrics. She looked up at me, made a face and then served me a piece of hot cake. She then nuzzled my hair and went on about her chores.

I have never stopped marvelling how comfortable we felt around each other. We were not among those couples who never fought, on the contrary, we fought so often, but at the end of the day both of us had difficulty in remembering what we were fighting about. I was not among those husbands who considered their wives a fragile toy; she was not among those wives who were like creeper plants. She was my equal in every sense.

Yet somehow it felt strange that Sandhya should be in my life as my wife given that she fought so badly with me the first time we met. Sandhya and I were introduced to each other at a party by her mother and my grandfather. Her mother used to be the campaign manager of my grandfather. Within two minutes of our conversation Sandhya had established that she hated politicians. She hadn’t given the rationale behind her belief but had fought with me with so much passion. Her face had become red, her nostrils had flared and beads of sweats had formed on her frowned brow while she argued with me. And there I was, the future leader of our country, who had taken it upon himself to change the face of Indian politics, crouched before the storm that blew in front of me, like the straw in the high tide, mesmerized by her beauty and aura. A few minutes later her mother saved me from blowing away by taking her away. That night I hardly slept. I would have called her the next day anyway but she did it first to apologize. And I was in love.

We were married within a year and the last two years we lived, loved and fought together.

“Why are you eating the cake like you are tasting pickle? Don’t you have any meeting today?” Sandhya broke the fibre of my reminiscing. I wondered why as a banker she got to be the practical one while I as a politician was so prone to be lost in thoughts.

“Yeah going.” I said and finished the cake reluctantly. I knew I would not get another piece till the evening. The day ahead loomed large in my eyes- an open jeep hand waving tour of the southern blocks, inauguration of the new building of the St. Anne’s facility for human psychology, a speech at Kishan Chowk and then finally the interactive sessions with the villagers. If everything went well I would be back home by seven and then there wouldn’t be any stopping me from savouring the entire Raspberry and Lemon chiffon. Daydreaming about the evening I started towards the bathroom.

IV

 The gift room in spite of me turned out to be a treasure trove. Half an hour into unpacking and I was regretting not doing this earlier. I unearthed everything, from golden Rolex to silver teddy bears. It was all over again like my wedding, except that I could not show much enthusiasm at that time because I was being a demure newly married bride.

Deepak had gone out for the day to run havoc in the constituency. Though normally I kept out of his campaign details, I had accompanied him once or twice on his whirlwind tour of a campaign. And I found it crazy, I tell you, outright crazy. The speed the efficiency the professionalism with which he and his team handled the whole frenzy was commendable. I had watched the transformation of Deepak from the man I knew to the savvy politician up this close with absolute awe. I had felt goose bumps all over my body that I was so lucky to be married to this man. God indeed had his own way of compensating everything.

Sarala bai let out a small gasp. She was unpacking a small rectangular thin box. It must be a photo frame which might have come with a cheesy black&white photograph of a couple, I chuckled to myself. But I called out nevertheless, “what did you find Sarala bai?”

“Nothing bhabhi.” Sarala bai was too quick to answer as she hastily tried to put it away.

“What is it Sarala bai? Give it to me, let me see.” I said.

But suspiciously she repeated that it was nothing and tried to go out of the room with it. But I caught her. After all a fifty year old could only hope to outrun a twenty seven year old. Her face turned ashen as I snatched the package from her. I opened it. It was indeed a photo frame. I turned it face up. Deepak’s smiling face greeted me, my heart warmed, but wait, who was this girl with him? And why was he hugging her so close and why “lovers forever” was written across it?

Was Deepak cheating me? Was he also like just any other man? All the faith all the stability I had collected so protectively through all these years slipped through my hands in a moment. My eyes felt like dried wells of fire. I screamed out loud. I pulled my hair open. I might have looked frightening because Sarala bai shrieked and ran out of the room. I took the wooden log used to close the door and ransacked the entire room. I destroyed the Rolex and tore open the teddy bear. I broke all the cheap china and whatever else there might have been inside those unopened packages. I stood amidst the ruin, suddenly conscious of the damage I caused. A cold fear crept up my spine. Oh my god! What had I done? Deepak would come and beat me up. He would lock me in the attic and not give me anything to eat. Maybe he would tie me up and let those hairy spiders loose on my body just like Bheem uncle did.

Sarala bai came back with Banno-ki-mummy. They were my best friends. I told them to hide me somewhere safe from Deepak. They put me to bed and patted my head. Oh! No. Who was that man? Why was he taking out that syringe? Were they all together? Were they all planning to kill me? Yes that was it. They all wanted me dead so that Deepak could be together with that girl. I didn’t want to die. I put up a fight but Sarala bai pinned me down. “Traitors”, I shouted before I drifted to nothingness. My eyelids drooped. I was dying.

V

Being a politician in India was tough. It was tougher to be a politician grandson of a politician grandpa. The southern blocks had been the staunchest supporters of my grandpa. To them I appeared as some angel who had descended from heaven and at the same time as a loving grandson of each one of them. They interpreted my little slouched structure as respect shown to them. Nobody from my team including me corrected them that it was from those six super heavy garlands that I was wearing.

Finally when we were through I had to massage my neck all the way to St. Anne’s.

Here also the shadow of my grandpa’s aura didn’t leave me. Turned out, he had been instrumental in funding this facility. He smiled down at me from dozens of life sized cut outs on both sides of the road as I entered St. Anne’s.

“Why did you have to take all the opportunities yourself? Couldn’t you just leave some for me?” I called him up and demanded. To my irritation he simply said, it was not good to call grandfathers up in the middle of a meeting and advised me to switch it off!

The new building was made in the pantheon style. I wondered if mental patients would be able to appreciate its beauty. Would it not have been better to concentrate more on the utility than on the beauty? All those pillars in the front – were they really necessary? I ticked another agenda in my mental notebook – spread practical sense among people to minimize resource wastage.

I cut the red silk ribbon. At the huge entrance suddenly I noticed a particularly large cut out that was captioned – Pratap Bhatnagar (MP) with all the inmates at the inauguration of St Agnes block (2004).

My grandpa stood in the middle. Standing on the right hand side of him was – Sandhya! He had a protective hand over her shoulder. Was it Sandhya? Yes it had to be! That unique white golden skin tone of hers wasn’t very common among Indians. And how could that mole on tip of her nose be mistaken? Even the hazel eyes! Her brown hair was also same – left open with a thin partition on her right side. Waves of disbelief washed over me. As I walked ahead I kept turning and looking into it.

I sat there on the podium restless and anxious. Was she an inmate or was she someone else? Why would she be an inmate? She didn’t have any mental disorder! She was as normal as one could be! Then why did they have her photograph in “all inmates”?

I delivered my speech with the precision of a robot ignoring the weight of yet another heavy garland that seemed to drag me down. The claps hardly reached my ears. I sat there counting my breath waiting for this torture to end.

“Grandpa. Do you remember the inauguration ceremony you attended here in St. Anne’s in 2004?” I asked. I had called him immediately after the ceremony was over.

“No. I don’t.” said grandpa.

“Don’t lie to me grandpa. I know you do. You never forget anything.”

Suddenly grandpa’s tone changed. He became agitated and shouted, “Now what did those insects of sewage drain tell you? Would you believe them or your grandpa?”

“Nobody told anything grandpa. I saw a picture of yours with all the inmates at the inauguration ceremony.”

“Oh!” grandpa curled up like leech under salt.

“Yes. And would you mind explaining why Sandhya is there with you in the photo?”

“Well. She was an inmate. That’s why! What’s the fuss?”

“Grandpa!” I had to shout to bring some common sense to him. Clearly old age was failing him.

“Well Deepak, what do you expect from a girl who had been subjected to extreme child abuse for ten years in her life? When I saved her mother and her from Bheem, the damage was done. She was prone to depression and anxiety, occasionally a display of violence. So I put her into St. Anne’s and she was fit and fine at the time of the photograph.”

“Bheem. You mean the ex MLA of your party who died few days back?”

“Yes. He was some relative of her mother who took them in after her father’s death. And her mother was too gratified to do anything. Unfortunately I also could not take any legal action because he was powerful in the party.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all these earlier?” I felt betrayed by my own people.

“Well. We thought you would know after the way she argued with you at the party. Anyone but a fool would have. But I had never seen you more glassy eyed. So I discussed with her mother and decided that we didn’t want to bitter your relationship based on some forgotten horrible past. We convinced her as well. But honestly Deepak, did you never notice how unhappy she was to go back to the town?”

“I thought it was because her puppy...”

But grandpa didn’t let me finish. “The party leadership is correct. You wouldn’t win this election. You really need to learn to observe.” And he cut the call.

So at the end of the conversation, it was I who was stupid and inobservant. And Sandhya and grandpa in spite of keeping me in dark about such a horrible truth got to be the saints again. I felt very angry at Sandhya. At the same time I felt sympathetic too. I could not justify why she would keep this hidden from me. But strangely I knew why too. No one felt comfortable discussing a trauma they went through as children. But I wasn’t sure if I should speak to her about it or just let it be. Maybe grandpa was right. It was a forgotten past. I should not dig that up. In any case I remembered now, provocation could bring up the violent streak in her. It had happened few times but I had passed it off as just tantrum. I didn’t want to worsen it now. I didn’t want to lose my Sandhya.

I cancelled my next agenda and headed back home. I couldn’t decide anything about what I should do. Neither could I decide my feeling toward Sandhya. I needed some time to my own to cool it off.

But home was unusually quiet. It was already dark but no light glowed in the house. Bahadur at the gate shot strange glances at me as my SUV passed through it.

I felt a chill of unease. Was something wrong? No more surprises today, please god.

VI

The car sound at the gate told me that Deepak was back. I had woken up from my sleep. My mind was calmer and I felt ashamed at how easily I had succumbed to my old disease again. I almost destroyed all the hard work I had put to make my life what it was today. If there was indeed any reality about the photograph could I not talk with him in a civilized manner? I tried to get up from the bed to receive him but my head still felt heavy from the tranquilizer the doctor had given.

VII

Sarala bai thrust a photograph on my chest forcefully. Her eyes were full of loathing. “What? Oh! Shit. Where did it come from? Oh! Hell, where is Sandhya?” I heard myself panicking. The silence of the house was explained to me in a second. I was filled with the worst premonition. God forbid if something happened to her how would I ever be able to forgive myself! Sarala bai was still shouting something animatedly. Anything hardly made sense. I ran toward the bedroom.

Sandhya lay there. She seemed to have shrunk to half her size in half a day. Her face was drained of all colour and faint dark circles had appeared around her eyes. She smiled weakly at me. A heavy weight relieved me. The force of the affection I felt toward her shocked me. I stumbled clumsily over to the bed.

VIII

They both looked at each other. Each one seemed to have aged drastically to the other. Each one looked and recognized the love and concern mixed with thousands of questions in the eyes of the other.

“She is Gargi. My girlfriend in college. She died eight years ago in an accident. I don’t know who sent this photo now.” Deepak answered the unasked question.

“Maybe Shyamlal.” Sandhya suggested.

“Maybe.” Deepak wondered.

“Eight years ago I used to be a patient in St. Anne’s.” Sandhya said. She felt relieved that they were finally completely clear to each other.

“I know.” Deepak said. A shadow of a smile was playing in his lips. He realized how stupid he had been to expect Sandhya to tell him about her condition when he himself could not bring himself up to reiterate the trauma he went through when Gargi died.

“You knew!” Sandhya looked surprised. But there was also an unmistakeable hurt in her voice.

“Just today Sandhya. You know right I went for the inauguration ceremony to St. Anne’s. They put a big picture of grandpa and all inmates.” Deepak said.

Deepak watched with satisfaction as the cloud slowly vanished from Sandhya’s pale face. “Why didn’t you tell me about Gargi before?” she finally asked.

“It was very difficult to recount Sandhya. I just couldn’t do it.”

“I know.” She smiled.

Deepak smiled too and climbed into the bed beside Sandhya.

As they cuddled, for the first time in three years of their relationship among which two they spent as husband and wife, they were mirror to each other. Finally they could let go of their respective pasts and could hold on to each other completely and fully without any dead weight or barrier.

At the door, Sarala bai wiped a drop of tear with her saree and tossed the photo frame in the fireplace that was cackling with youthful fire now.