Novel
~ Anna Sujatha Mathai 
​

Previous Chapters 

​Chapter 29
The Ballad of the Black Sorrow

The play was almost upon them. Charu talked to the girls who were going to bring Lorca’s play alive: “Bernarda Alba oppresses and imprisons her daughters, because she herself knows the disrupting force of passion. That it can destroy an entire family, even a community. We don’t often think about it, - but it’s true, isn’t it? Those girls are just like so many of us in India. Behind bars, of one kind or another, most of us – aren’t we? Thwarted passion can become warped. Bernarda cannot prevent her daughters from hearing the music in the fields, or experiencing the feel of spring in the blood…”
There was the usual tension and excitement, everyone rather highly strung, before the final staging of the  play. There they sat.  Prim, restrained daughters of an ancient line, dressed in black, their blood beating wildly under the stiff, black dresses. The hungry, unappeasable thirst for life could not be crushed by tradition or custom. Shueli had learned after so much privation and denial, that ancient doors had to be broken down if you were to grasp a moment of true passion. “It’s about freedom. That’s why I love it so much. It really is about you and me, Charu, and every woman here. We have to break out of  all kinds of  prisons. Like Lorca’s woman in Ballad of the Black Sorrow: ‘I come in search of what I am seeking, my joy and my own self.’”
“How very sad that someone who could write like that, who saw freedom as a shining possibility, was finally destroyed, killed by faceless, inhuman forces, and thrown into an unmarked grave. Charu, that young poet of the theatre, they didn’t realise his voice could never be stilled, did they? That it would spring, a flower of exquisite fragrance, from the darkest grave…”
Charu replied, sadly: “I feel my time is coming soon, and I shall be nothing more than a forgotten tune.”
“Charu, why must you talk like this? You will never be a faded tune, always a song remembered...”  and, as Shueli got carried away by her feeling for Charu, she continued, “ Long after you’re gone, you’ll be an underground river, whose music will still haunt us.”
  Why on earth had she said such a thing, Shueli wondered, and Charu just smiled,  flattered by her friend’s strong reassurance. Neither of them thought the words might be prophetic.
There were the inevitable last minute scenes and disasters , the usual high tension and rush of excitement, before the play started. In the final scene, Adela, the rebel daughter, confronts the towering force of Bernarda Alba, her mother. Shueli found herself trembling with anger, as she had, years ago, when the English girl in the Convent School had tried to bully her, or when confronted by physical and mental violence by Paul, or whenever she found some small human creature threatened by a crass and powerful  intimidator. Charu was sweating, a powerful, dominant energy, the very embodiment of tradition and authority, pitted against an equally unyielding will. She picked up her stick to strike Shueli. As it fell across her shoulders, actually stinging her, Shueli forgot everything except her wild desire to live.  Possessed by a fury impossible to contain, she snatched the stick from Charu’s hand, and broke it in two. It actually snapped!
                                                          ******
 
Shueli had always desired freedom, the right to choose, more than any gift. She had  once thought that she would like to sing her own song, laugh her own laugh, shed her own tears, above all, rather than express just what was required of her. In one of her favourite plays, while at college, she had come across the lines: “We think caged birds sing, / When, indeed, they cry.”
Caged birds sing heart-breaking songs. A caged bird, indeed, she too had been. Now, for the first time, she savoured the taste of freedom, a destined and appropriate freedom, the human dignity of choice. Maybe she could fly – like the birds she used to gaze at, from behind her barred windows.
  Still exhilarated by the wild and passionate defiance of  authority, the throwing open of windows, letting song and sunlight in, she rejoiced in affirming her own life.
                                                          ********
She felt she had arrived at a decision. The play had been catalytic for her. She would not flounder in indecision any more. She was worried about Kartik, What future could she give him, all alone, with no job, and almost no money. Would she wreck his life, as well as her own? He was the child she had taken into the shelter of her heart. She should not leave him ship-wrecked. The little boy who didn’t like sad stories – it was she who would have to make his life a happy story! Paul might oppose the whole thing, and refuse to give up Kartik. She would have to see. Terrifying as it was for her, she would have to discuss things honestly and openly with Paul, and they would have to work out a separate future.
  The  garden of the house in Kavipuram lay covered in fallen leaves. The flaming red hibiscus tree by the front door, had withered. Inauspicious, she thought!  She opened the doors and windows, as the familiar musty smell of fungus overwhelmed her. Paul should have come back from the outlying Clinic. Where was he? There was no sign of him. She cleaned the house, and  Veroni’s cooking soon had the fragrant smell of a tasty meal, floating through the house. When she heard the sound of a car, she ran out to the wooden gate, to open it up, and let Paul in. But it wasn’t Paul’s car, and in the car sat their friend, Dr. Keshavan.
“Come and sit down, Shueli. I have something very difficult to tell you.  We have to be very careful that no one else gets to know about it, so that the scandal doesn’t ruin Kuri’s career. He is such a fine doctor, and has been doing such valuable work in the village Clinic. There was a woman assistant, with some nursing experience, at the Clinic. She used to help out with all the routine cases. Difficult cases used to be brought back to our Hospital here. This woman, I think her name is Kamala, seems to have worshipped Kuri almost as if he were a God. You know how it is. Doctors can seem larger than life, - god-like, - as they work, and heal the sick and dying.
Sorry, Shueli, I should be frank. Kuri was sleeping with this woman. No harm would have been done, and you need never have known, except that things took a bad turn. I would never have known anything about it, either, except that Kuri sent for me urgently, as he found himself in a really bad situation. Apparently, Kamala was in tears, and told him she was pregnant, and it was his child. She comes from a very poor family, landless labourers, and has no one to support her. When Kuri first heard about it, he was desperate. He felt she was ruining him, - destroying his position, his reputation, - everything.. He said he would give her some money, but could do nothing more. Shueli, I think he was really shocked when she ran towards the well in the Clinic compound. You know these village people. The women often kill themselves, when faced with such hopeless situations. Luckily, Kuri ran after her, caught her, brought her back into the Clinic, and put her on sedation. If she had thrown herself into the well, it would have been catastrophic.  Meanwhile, one of her brothers arrived. They have made no threats, but that is the situation. Kuri could be blackmailed. He sent for me, and I was able to talk to the brother, and calm him down. Kuri is in a bad state. But I feel it can all be worked out. We felt you should be told the truth. I know you’re feeling very upset about it now, Shueli. But I’m sure you do understand. I didn’t want it to reach you as gossip or rumour. Kuri will come back tomorrow, after settling up things there. They have to decide about the baby….”
  Shueli thought quickly. She could not bear to see Kuri, or hear about his decision, or be the forgiving wife. There was nothing to forgive.  They had reached the end of the road. They had to take separate paths.
 She thanked Keshavan for standing by Kuri, and informing her. She told him she would think over what she should do. (Later, Keshavan told Kuri he had been amazed at how composed Shueli had seemed, “deadly calm.”)
Shueli then packed a suitcase with some of her things. She told Veroni also to get ready, as they would be going back to Belapur by the early morning train.
She left a note for Kuri. It simply said: Keshavan told me about everything. Hope you work it all out. I plan to start a new life. Kartik will be with me. I will send you my address after I know where I’m going to be. We can discuss things then. It is best we go our separate ways. Shueli
                                                      *******
 
When Shueli reached Belapur, she spent several days organising things, trying to make plans for the future. Maybe she could get a job teaching, or with some publishers. She had been so out of touch with things that her career prospects didn’t seem too bright. But she was determined to do something. Maybe she could do a short course,  which would give her more possibilities.
     Mitran had left a message for her, telling her he had had to go back to Delhi for 2 or 3 weeks. He did not know anything about Shueli’s decision to leave Paul and Kavipuram  for ever. Nor did he know about the catastrophic happening that had forced things out into the open.
 Because of the critical situation that had completely changed her life, Shueli realised she had lost touch with Charu. When she enquired, she was shocked to hear that there had been a midnight raid at Charu’s house. Charu had not herself been there when it happened. She had gone to Madras, with her husband, to attend a political meeting.. Her very old and feeble father, and her young son, who was a musician, were at home. Sometime in the middle of the night, there was a banging at the front door. “Police! Open up!” A group of men in police uniform, with some others in plain clothes, entered the small drawing room, opened up by a sleepy-eyed Gaurav, Charu’s son.
“What’s happening? What on earth is all this about?”. Gaurav, always preoccupied with his jazz band and electric guitar, hardly ever gave a thought to politics.
Later, he told Shueli: “I didn’t know whether this was real, or I was dreaming a scene from a Spy thriller, or a movie about the CIA and the KGB, Man, this was something else!”
“Where are your parents? Your mother – where is she?”
“There’s only me and my grandfather at home,” replied Gaurav, still sleepy and dazed by this weird spectacle of men in uniform.
“Get your grandfather up. We have to ask you both a few questions.”
“Oh man! Questions at this hour of the night?”
The old man, who had a heart condition, was aroused, and emerged, still in his night pyjamas. He was shocked, and trembling badly. “Sit down, OldDad, This is too much for him. Do you mind if I get a spot of brandy for him?”
After that, they had both been grilled intensively, for over an hour, about all Charu’s political friends and activities. “Man, my Mum loves Theatre and Dance. My father makes films. People of all kinds come to our house. We don’t keep lists of them…”
“Quiet, young man. Don’t fool around. There is a serious charge of conspiracy against your mother, and of aiding and abetting people charged with criminal activity against the State!” Gaurav was too stunned to reply. OldDad was weeping by the time the interrogation was over.
  The next day, Charu was arrested, and taken to the Central Jail. Protests from artists, writers, film makers and intellectuals from all over the country, and other parts of the world, did nothing to change the situation. In jail, Charu, who suffered terribly  from bronchial asthma, was placed with prostitutes and other “criminals.” The prisoners were given the job of husking and cleaning wheat and rye grain, in the courtyard just outside the jail windows.
“It aggravated Mum’s asthma greatly, so that she was put on higher and higher doses of medication. We found her limp, and almost unconscious when we visited her the other day. Father has spoken to several people, very high up ones,, and lots of petitions are going to the Chief Minister, the Governor, even the P.M…How can they do this to my poor, sick mother?”
Charu did not waste her time in the prison, on useless self-pity. She began to talk to her fellow prisoners, mostly young girls and women, picked up on flimsy charges of soliciting, or prostitution, or theft. She began to keep a Diary in which those pathetic, broken, helpless voices found a place. ”Not that anyone cares” thought Shueli bitterly, when she later read that sad testament of voices from the underground.
“Injustices against the poor and already oppressed …just seem to go on and on. All this talk of ‘Garibi Hatao’*… It’s just a political gimmick, to cover up the lust for power, and the immense greed and ruthlessness of our leaders. Someone like Gandhiji, who genuinely cared about the people .. well, they killed him”
 In the prison, one of her young fellow prisoners said to Charu:  “If you become free, go to Delhi, Charu Behan, and speak to Mother Prime Minister. She is on the side of us women, and doesn’t want people to be poor … speak to her. She’ll surely come down here personally, and free us all.” Charu had smiled bitterly at their ignorance, naivete, innocence.
   The reprieve came too late for Charu. As she gasped for breath, she was put on dangerously high doses of cortisone. Her condition was so poor that the Jail Doctor and Police felt it was best to let her go home. “It’ll be a big head-ache for us, if she dies here.”
“Our Big Sister, our hope, our voice, she’s going,” wept the girls in the prison, as Charu was led out to where her husband and son waited to take her home… a few hours after she got home, Charu breathed her last, painful breath. She was released from prison indeed!
  When Shueli came to see her, she found her vibrant, passionate, beautiful friend laid out on the floor, cold, dead. She still had so much to give. Why should someone like her have been called away so early? Years later, when Papa lay dead, she found a half-finished page on his type-writer. It was part of the book he was writing, which he
would never complete. That unfinished text, the incomplete text of our lives, those unwritten pages, began to haunt Shueli. Perhaps this life itself is  only a small part of that greater text, that text which holds the secret of all human life...

* * Garibi Hatao or Remove Poverty : tslogan of Indira Gandhi and the Congress Party  

Chapter 30
The LightHouse on the Rocks 

“I come in search of what I am seeking, my joy and my own self..”
            The Ballad of the Black sorrow.  Federico Garcia Lorca
.
 One sultry evening, Shueli sat grieving about the death of her friend, her own wrecked life, wondering how she could reshape it, give it meaning and impetus. She heard a shout from below, and, looking down from the balcony, saw Mitran standing there, a single red rose in his hand, smiling that boyish smile. She almost threw herself headlong down the stairs. As she flew down, she remembered the dream she so often had. She was running down the steep slope of a hill, alone, desperate, falling into space, likely to be destroyed. Sometimes she would wake up sobbing. Sometimes, in her dream, unknown arms held her, and saved her.  Now, Mitran caught her in his warm, strong embrace. He had heard about Charu’s death, but was shocked to hear about Paul and the woman at the clinic. Shueli told him that she had decided to leave Paul. Mitran said “ Shueli, more than anything, I want you to share my life, and, of course, our Kartik will be with us. We may have troubles, but we can face them, if we’re together. Somehow I feel strong when you’re with me!”
 Mitran and she  decided to take a walk by the ocean, not too far from the house. Arms around each other, they strolled along in the moonlight, discussing their future life together. Not far from the deserted temple they found a small clump of casuarina trees. They sank down in the sand, embracing each other. “ Love of my life. You’re the love of my life!” he whispered in her ears.
“I never knew what love was until I met you. “
Naked in body and spirit, intoxicated by desire, with the moon and the stars as their only witnesses, they became one. The sand made a gritty bed, but they were oblivious of it, overwhelmed by an experience  so primal and absolute.
 All night they lay there, holding each other, talking of their plans to stay together for life. Shueli found a perfect shell  lying beneath her. She held it out to Mitran. “Put it to your ear. Listen carefully. Tell me what you hear. Can’t you hear the music – of time - the secrets of people and families long gone from here?” He hugged her, and whispered, “Yes! Yes, of course I can hear it all!”
  In the clear sky there was that one perfect star, Shueli used to gaze at, as a child..
“There’s your star!”  he laughed.
“No” Shueli replied. “It’s our star. It’s our world. The whole world belongs to us, because we believe in it! Love makes you inherit the whole earth!””
                                                            *****
 

Short Fiction
~ Brindley Hallam Dennis 
​

(This story is the first prize winner in the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition)

​Sometimes, he said, I think this damned thing has a mind of its own.
            I’d followed him down to the boathouse.
            I’ve just got this to put away, he said, and then I’ll make a cuppa. He lifted the chain saw. It should have had a plastic sleeve for the chain, but that was missing. I know that boat, and felt the shiver you get when someone steps on your grave. The boat is under water now, but he kept his tools in the boathouse, as if it were a shed. The plastic safety sleeve was lying on the decking near the boathouse door.
            Must have left it, he said.
            Easy done, I thought, and he glanced in my direction.
            That was when he reached down for the sleeve and let the chain saw swing against his leg. That was when he said that he thought it must have a mind of its own. The chain was still, and the engine turned off, but the saw blade snagged against his trouser leg and pulled away a long, dark red thread.
            Damn! He said.
            Chain saws make me nervous. It’s the way they bounce up off the logs, or jam unexpectedly in the cut, or swing up further than you expect. Silly, really, considering.
            The next time I visited he was in the orchard, slicing up logs. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to shift one of those logs. Far beyond me. He had the logs on the grass, steadying them with his foot so close to the moving chain. Sprays of soil shot up among the wood chips when he’d cut through to the ground. That’s bad for the chain, I knew.
            Then he’d toe the cut piece away and move the cutting chain a few inches along the log. You only need to move such a small distance and you can be through boot, sock, flesh and even bone before you can yelp, let alone have the presence of mind to push the safety bar forward and disconnect the chain.
            I stood beside him and watched as he worked. He kept it sharp. You could tell. Torrents of wood chips spew out when it’s sharp. If it comes out like sawdust, you’ve let it get blunt. It still cuts, of course. He’d always been good at things like that; keeping things sharp. Keeping them neat; in their place, under control.
            He pushed the safety bar forward and the chain fell still. Hardly any effort there. He set the chain saw down and it idled contentedly.
            That’ll do for now, he said. Still thinking aloud, I noticed.
            I wondered how easily the safety bar would pull back to engage the chain again and bent to get a closer look. He jumped, as if I’d made a noise, or there had been a whisper in the air. He looked around and shivered.
            Funny, he said aloud to the empty orchard.

​Brindley Hallam Dennis lives on the edge of England, where he write short stories. Writing as Mike Smith he has published, plays, poetry and essays (mostly on the short story form). He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com

Short Fiction
~ Elaine Barnard

(This story is the second prize winner in the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition)

             “Do you eat that slop around the corner?”
             He’s suddenly beside me whispering in my ear. I back away, my pack full of books. He follows me to checkout. His backpack bulges, his T-shirt stretches tight over his belly.
                “I tried to get a job at that place. Told them I could improve their cuisine.”
                His mouth is against my ear now.
              “Listen, I said to them. You need a real chef, not a graduate from Jack in the Box.”
                I pull up my hoodie.
         “A real chef is what I told them. One with experience. I cooked for the best restaurants in Paris.”
                I set my pack on the checkout.
              “Oh yes, the very best on the Champs Elysee.”
                I take the books from my pack.
               “You’d think they’d be impressed. But they’re not that smart. Never been to Paris I bet. Never been anywhere outside this town. Local beach boys. Surfer bums. What do you expect from surfer bums?”
               The librarian frowns. Looks up from her computer.
              “I could have instructed them. Built their restaurant into a first-rate eatery. I mean I know food. Just look at me. Do I look like I don’t know food?”
                I try to smile. Maybe he’ll go away if I’m pleasant.
            “Listen, I know the inside of every mushroom the French ever cooked. Shitake, Chanterelle, Butter cup, Cinnabar, Cantharellus Illicis….”
                I zip up my parka.
             “When I was a kid my dad and I tramped the woods for mushrooms. He was a great chef. That’s how I learned the trade.”
                “I thought that restaurant on the corner was a Thai place.”
                “It is but there’s a major French influence in Thailand. Didn’t you know that?”
                The librarian quickly checks my books.
                “I guess I didn’t.”                                                                                                        
               “That’s the trouble. No one knows anything in this town. Insulated-isolated. You’d think we were on Mars for all anyone cares about anything.”
                The librarian hands me the due date.
                “Just look at that parking lot.”
                He tries to steer me out the door.
                “See those cars. Luxury vehicles. I bet that Lexus is yours.”
                “I wish.”
                “C’mon tell me which car is yours.  We’ll go for a ride.”
                “I don’t think so.”
                “You don’t think so?”
                “Right, I don’t think so.”
                “Oh c’mon, let’s have a little fun. Sun’s still up. We’ll watch it set over the ocean.”
                He tries to take my pack.
            “It’s too heavy for a little gal like you. I’ll carry it to your car. Just tell me which one.”
                “I take the bus.”
                “Where do you catch it?”
                 “Right here, in front of the library.”
                 “I’ll wait with you.”
                 “No, you don’t have to.”
                 “I do have to. I want to. I need to wait here with you.”
                 He sits on the bench. The library locks shut behind us.
                “Now which bus is it we’re waiting for? We’ll take a little ride.”
                “I don’t think so.”
              “I know so. I’ve seen you before. You spend the whole day in the library. Spend the night on this bench. You can’t fool me. I watch. I wait until the time is right.”
               He comes toward me, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to hug me, or crush me. I grab my pack from the bench and start to run.
                “Wait,” he hollers. “Wait.”
                I hear his footsteps following.
               “We can spend the night together on the bench. Be first when the library opens in the morning.
           Start the day with a good book. Learn something new. Don’t you want to be smart?”
                 He’s screaming now. People are staring. I ‘m hoping a cop car will pass.
                “Come back here. I’ll show you how to get smart. I know how. I know everything. Just try me.”
                A bus pulls up to the curb. It’s not going in my direction but I hop on it anyway. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. 

​

​
Elaine Barnard's plays and stories have won awards and been published in numerous literary journals. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best small Fiction and Best of the Net. The collection of stories from her travels in Asia was published in 2018 by New Meridian Arts. She received her BA from the University of Washington, Seattle and her MFA from the University of California, Irvine.

Short Fiction
~Annie Bien 
​

(This story is the third prize winner in the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition)

Listen.
The wind. The vultures.
Smell the rain. The rainstorm drenches you.
Lightning, first warning. Then thunder. Don’t fear. I’m here.
Lightning sharpens your wits. Wait. Listen.
Little one—
Run!
 
The forest legs of her family scattered in every direction. She didn’t know which way to run. She saw everything she didn’t want to see. Too much thunder.
 
Her family dissolved into yellow sunset fog. Village goats browsed as the horizon turned lavender. She stood alone under a jagged acacia. For the only and last time of that day, night swallowed the last seam of pink, draining Mount Kenya into darkness.
 
She stood alone. These vertical ones ran on their hind legs only. They threw spears with their forelegs. They called each other People, Children, Man, Men, Woman, Women.
 
Her mother had fallen with an avalanche of spears. A searing groan. A heavy collapse. Blood in once yellow grass. The elephant herd stampeded whirling dust, turmoil. Her mother’s breath wheezed, seeping knowledge to her baby daughter in their language, a half rumble ending with:
 
My little one—
 
A long shaking whisper.
 
She heard the shouts, spears, bludgeons, their heat, silence. She heard chopping, hacking. Her mother’s flesh. Her mother’s bones. Even if she closed her long lashes, even if she felt cold, she could still hear through what she no longer saw.
 
Sunrise. The savannah quiet. Sleeping People. A little Man saw her. Dressed in yellow trousers and a plaid shirt, he walked with his goats. She heard someone call out, Boy! Boy saw her. He reached his hand toward her. Palm up. He and she were small. He leaned toward her. “Come.” They walked slowly, joined by the friend who had called Boy, another Boy. And Boy’s Goats. She knew goats from where her family once walked. They belonged to People.
 
She followed Boy. He pointed: “Village.”
 
Then her ears warned her of the previous day’s fire. The fire of Village shouts. The fire of crowd, Men, Women, Children, People, gathered in inflamed minds—minds of jagged breaths. Now they threw spears. Although Boy was with her and shouted at them. Fire in her leg, pain. Village beat her with sticks. Children threw sand, rocks, chasing her. Like a wildfire in the bush; a spark, suddenly a blaze of anger. The grazers and predators froze then disappeared. Her legs buckled.
 
Then she heard a smooth breath walking through the crowd. A Man. Different. She heard murmuring among the Villagers. She heard them say, Conservancy Warden. A Man in camouflage clothing wearing beret strode forward: under his uniform, the physique of a bodybuilder. Village slowed their noise. His presence quieted them like a still lake in early morning before a bird or lizard stirred. His voice slowed their movements, his bellow resounded bringing hesitation to their fury.
 
Conservancy Warden knelt close. He held out his Hand. His dark long Fingers extended. Soft, gentle. He helped her up. Her baby heart beats slowed from racing. She suckled his fingers. She missed her mother so much. Village began to shout at Conservancy Warden. They raised Spears. She heard Conservancy Warden: “You will have to kill me first.”
 
He herded her into his office. He sat in his office chair. He lifted a black shape with rounded ends and spoke into it. She would later learn: Telephone. He put it down.
Then she heard his mind: I’m not brave. But if I can protect her, my life is whole. These are my people. Elephants have eaten their new crops. But not this herd. They didn’t see. They’re Angry. But without the elephants where will we be? It’s not this little one’s fault.
 
She didn’t all understand his words—she hadn’t learned them yet. But she could read his thinking, deep down, where Men didn’t speak.
 
He daydreamed in the night as he stroked her head. Pat, pat, stroke, stroke--both dozing, reliving: the Village. His musing: Little one, you must live.
 
Her drowsiness pooled into his dream: Conservancy Warden strokes her head, his eyes closed, willing her to be grown up like her mother. She remembers: my mother, tall, long-legged. Mother’s gait, loose-limbed, silent, swinging trunk, ears flat, relaxed. Then she grows up, swimming into his dream: One day I’ll would bring own little one to visit you; just the way I walked under my Mum.
 
He sighed. His strength seeped into her little body.
 
They both stirred at the sound of the orphan rescue keepers tapping the door. Men stepped into his office, exhaling soothing breaths. Conservancy Warden greeted them:
 
“This is my little charge. I’ll distract the villagers. Take her out the back. I know you’ll take care of her. Thank you.”

The keepers whispered in her ears. A veterinarian knelt, giving her an injection. She lay down on a large round cloth. She felt sleepy. They wrapped her in a blanket, covered her eyes. She could smell their kindness. She was so tired. She had spear wounds on her hind quarters. She’d been so scared, she’d become numb. Her wounds were swabbed and cleaned, swathed with green clay.
 
The voices of men floated. She dozed. They lifted onto the fixed wing airplane. She felt the Conservancy Warden grow distant.
 
She imprinted him in her heart: This is the way of elephants. I will always remember you.
 
He stood, watching. His feet resounded through the earth. She could feel his presence soaring from his heart: Be well little one. I will wait for you.
​

Novel
Anna Sujatha Mathai

Previous Chapers

​Chapter 28 
The Water is Wild

The water is wild
I cannot cross over
Nor have I got strong wings to fly.
Give me a boat
That will carry two
And we both shall row,
My love and I. 
                          Old English Ballad
 
It was at this time that Shueli met the fascinating Charulata. She was like a magnet
to every theatre person, writer, and intellectual in that small town, and to many others from all over the world. Her small house, hidden like a tiny jewel in a cul-de-sac, was always filled with interesting people and lively conversation. .Shueli sensed that a deep loneliness and unhappiness underlay Charulata’s vivacious personality. Some months before, in the cinema where she and Paul had seen Ray’s film, Pather Panchali, she had seen a Kannada film based on a novel,c which had become a classic. It was about a Brahmin priest, a leader in his community, totally committed to tradition, and to dutifully caring for his bed-ridden wife.. In the village is a renegade Brahmin, who has flouted all traditions, eats meat, drinks alcohol, and keeps a low-caste mistress. When a plague strikes the village, killing the renegade, his mistress comes to plead with the devout priest for his cremation with all sacred rituals. The mistress falls before the priest, her long hair flowing over his feet She utters a single word:  “Acharye” (Teacher or Learned One). Her silent appeal followed by that one word, it seemed to Shueli, was deeply eloquent, The devout Brahmin, lifting her up, is swept into the ecstasy of a relationship with the low-caste woman. The priest’s moral dilemma and suffering, lead him to a truer understanding of his responsibility, and
 the choice he must make, before he can truly claim moral authority. Charu had played the part of the low-caste woman. When Shueli met her, she wanted to express the admiration and excitement she had felt.
“Charu, it was like a Greek Tragedy. One felt that the cleansing and purification of the Brahmin’s soul, and of the village, came through the suffering and self-knowledge he sought. In a way, you were like the Magdalene falling at Christ’s feet, Charu. One felt that the question was being asked: ‘Who among us is without sin?’”
 Charu and Shueli had so much in common, both sharing their passion for poetry
 and the theatre, that they decided to form a group. “Let’s call it Abhinaya, as that
will stand for the traditional, as well as modern, understanding of expression in the theatre.”
“Yes,”  replied Charu. “Also for the way facial and bodily gesture can combine with language, to create a truer sense of meaning.”
That’s how ‘Abhinaya’ took off. After the numbing claustrophobia of Kavipuram, Shueli felt she was breathing fresh air again. Even if there were many unpleasant scenes with her ambivalent husband, this was living, and she was not going to turn her back on it. Having a baby to think about, did somewhat complicate things, but it added to her joy and vitality. She took the baby with her everywhere, and Veroni was a faithful carer, when she had to be elsewhere.
“Let’s stick to plays by Indians, or, since there aren’t many of those, let’s have the European ones which reflect, or relate to, our own reality. Definitely not English bedroom farce, even if that’s what gets easy audiences and quick ticket money,” Shueli said, with a vehement passion, fully shared by Charulata.
“What shall we do next, Shueli?”
Lorca, the Spanish playwright and poet, was Shueli’s favourite. She loved the story of Yerma, the childless woman. She knew, too well, that the anguish of the childless woman in India is as sharp as  that of her Spanish sister. However, they chose another play, The House of Bernarda Alba, with all the repressed passions, longings and anger of women in strict and suppressed societies.. Women could still be killed, especially in small village communities, if they did not conform to the family’s rules, if they defied their fathers, brothers, or anyone in authority, if they dared to choose their own lover. They would watch, from behind barred windows, and bolted doors, the men sing and dance in the sunlight, enjoying the freedom and life denied to them. “Why, sometimes girls aren’t even able to go out of the house on their own. It’s so cruel, so oppressive. All the laws are made by men. Are women just the property of their men folk?”
 “Well, Bernarda Alba is a woman, the powerful matriarch, who harshly and rigidly suppresses her daughters, in the name of family honour. Of course, what she is doing is suppressing her own passionate nature, which has  been warped and twisted by denial. Only one of her daughters is finally able to break away, and confront her mother. Shueli, I want you to act that part, the part of the daughter, Adela. And I shall be Bernarda Alba.”.
                                                          ********
 
When Shueli told Paul about the role she had got, he exploded in fury. “What do you mean by neglecting your home and your family?” he raved. “Plays, plays, and all those intellectual friends of yours. You don’t bother about the way the house is run, or anything. Your mind is always there…” He ranted and raved, she feared he might even strike her. Or he might try to forbid her visits to Belapur. But he did something worse. Standing there, huge and intractable, with only a towel wrapped around his middle, as he had just come out of the shower, he yelled at her: “Do you remember that time, when you used to go over the moors to work in Sheffield? Well, that was when I used to sleep with Audrey, right there, on the operating table. How do you like that? You never guessed, did you? I could fool you any time…”
Shueli could barely speak. Everything was sliding out of control, and she had lost the keys which might get the engine started again. A terrible sorrow and anger held her in its grip. When she did recover her faculty of speech, she could only moan: “I was so young then. Why did you drag me through all these years? Why didn’t you leave me free to make a new life for myself?” An immeasurable weight, a darkness like the grave, descended on Shueli. She felt a deep coldness and alienation from Paul.  Later, when she  talked of leaving him, he wept and begged her forgiveness: “I’ll be a far worse man, if you leave me. I’ll be lost..”  The words fell on Shueli’s stone ears.
                                                         *******
 The next week, Shueli ran through the garden, into her friend Charu’s house. ‘Charu’ she called out, not quite able to see, in the shaded room. The young man sitting there, stood up, and taking her hand in both his hands, said “Shueli, I mean Mrs. Kuruvilla, - how wonderful to see you again!” He was still holding her hand as he started to tell her about what had brought him back to the South. Shueli was trembling when she finally pulled away her hand, and sat down. She felt as if she had been hit by a bolt of lightning!  Charu came in, saying “Mitran, Shueli, - glad you’ve met. Shueli, Mitran could be a great help to us in getting Reviews and write-ups about our group, particularly our Bernarda Alba,  in the press.”
Shueli feared that the wild beating of her heart could be heard in the room. Mitran tried to talk normally, but as he looked across at her, he could not conceal how much he was drawn to her. Though she had tried to shut the memory out, her heart and mind had often gone back to the first meeting with Mitran, at Elvira’s house. She had recognised then, and knew now, that the world had changed for ever, for both of them, with that “first strange and fatal interview.”
  They tried to talk normally. Mitran talked about the ‘Emergency’ – the crushing law imposed by the Government of Mrs. Gandhi, which struck at the heart of civil liberties and freedom. Anyone could be arrested at any time. The evil forces of authoritarianism, which were sweeping across the country, could strike here too. “Nothing will ever be the same again. Overnight, we’ve been turned into a Police State. No. I’m not exaggerating. You can really feel it in the Capital, and we in the Press are most hard hit. Before, even if we had nothing, at least we could curse the Government. We could write what we thought, or from as eccentric or individualistic a viewpoint as we chose, we could draw cartoons – but now even that is being censored.” For Mitran, and many others all over the country, it was like a death sentence. For Shueli, her friendship with Charu, the feeling of connection she had with Mitran, helped her to survive not only the loneliness and alienation she felt in her personal life, but also this atmosphere of fear and paranoia sweeping the country. She did not know then, that this would be the last play she would do with Charu. That it would be Charu’s swan song.
                                                      ********
Shueli and Mitran used to walk for hours by the sea, in the remote village they had discovered, not far from Belapur. Friends, lovers, they walked with their arms round one another. This was something she had always dreamed of, this free, sweet, happy relationship. They talked about their childhoods, their dreams, disappointments, fears. Once, he laughingly said: “Now I know all about your aunts, uncles and cousins!..” They collapsed, laughing. She had never known this sweet, spontaneous, uninhibited sharing with another. She said to him once “I had so many hurts and wounds, not only of the body, but also of the spirit. You have healed them all..” Boyishly embarrassed he may have been, but always willing to share every moment fully with her.
There was a hut, and a small deserted temple here.  Sun, sand and surf had worn away the figures in the temple. All that remained were a few headless bodies, a few monkey gods, and parts of an elephant. Sometimes they would run, the wind in their faces, the sand and surf stinging their bodies. He would pull her into the water, and then, spluttering, laughing, and holding on to each other, they would dry off in the shade near the temple, or on the warm sand. If a few fishing boats passed by, they never disturbed them. They had a picnic here, a few times, sitting on the steps of the old temple. They brought Kartik a few times. Mitran always called him “Our Kartik.” When the little boy was taken to Kerala for a short holiday with his grand-parents, Shueli found staying in Kavipuram, with Paul, even more tense and difficult.  It was made easier by the fact that he was hardly ever at home. “Have work at the village Clinic. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”
Or “If your play is coming up in a fortnight, may be best for you to stay over in Belapur.” Shueli barely heard him. She was wrapped in an enchanted world of her own. Too often, in the past, she had not grasped love at the crucial moment, had let happiness pass her by.
“ Yes, Chinnamma Kocham. This time, I’m  holding on. I’ve got  life right in the palm of my hands, and I’m not letting go.”
                                                            ******
While Shueli was experiencing her first taste of freedom and personal choice, the country was in the grip of a nameless fear and hysteria. “Anyone can be picked up, arrested and jailed. It’s already happened to some of my friends. I’m shelving my book for the present. Wait for more liberal times..”
“But, - poor people have never really had any rights in our country, have they? They’re often picked up, interrogated, tortured, - die mysteriously in jails. Now, we’re all in this position.”
“Yes,” said Mitran, “the State has complete authority. The individual, labelled an enemy of the State, has none. But, do you know, there are some people who’re actually happy with this state of affairs. There’s this chap, who’s always on about law, order and discipline, actually rejoicing in it! I heard him say: “What a difference this Emergency makes. Things are ever so much better these days. People don’t dare to try and cheat you now. No one dares to ask for a bribe!’ Someone else said: ‘You don’t hear people rubbishing the Government now. Everyone’s busy getting on with their own work ….If that fellow thinks he can cheat me on this deal, he’d better think twice. I’ll just have to report him, and he could be in serious trouble.’   Yes. All in the name of law and order.  Something precious is slipping away, Shueli… our freedom, our right to think for ourselves.”
  Shueli remembered the evil, yellow fog that had covered the Capital before the Partition. And the horror that had followed. But this was different. There wasn’t the raw flame of ignited passions. This was more calculated, in a sense, more menacing. The gradual taking away of the ordinary, but most precious, human right, to make decisions, to criticise things – “It’s like standing on shifting sands – right under our feet, - and we barely noticed. Now we’re being swept away into dangerous currents. Maybe we’ll never get back ashore.”
 They had always taken it for granted that they could discuss things openly, say what they thought.. But, the very next day, drinking a cup of coffee in a small café
 in the city, Shueli was about to say something to the others present there, when she caught a warning gleam in Mitran’s eyes.  “Walls have ears. Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself, for the time being at least,” he warned her.
“Is this the way to live?  Suppressing one’s real thoughts and feelings? My marriage, too, has become a lie. Everything has become a lie.” Said Shueli despairingly, when they were on their own. Mitran pulled her to him, holding her tight, caressing her hair. “That I love you, and you me, that is the truth.”
“Supposing we had never met?”
“If I hadn’t met you, I’d have been searching for you all my life.”
                                                  
                                        *******
c Samskara by U.R. Ananthamurthy, translated by A.K. Ramanujan.