Shueli's Star

Novel
Anna Sujatha Mathai

Chapter 23

A Grim Fairy Tale in a Diminishing Landscape
 
After the long and dreamlike journey by boat, down the coast to Kavipuram, Paul led them to the large, old house he had taken on rent, at Falneer. It was a large, white house, solidly built, with mud, rather than bricks or cement. There was a wide, spacious verandah at the front of the house. But there was dust and dry leaves from the many trees all around, which lay in thick piles, everywhere.   The house was set in a huge compound, with another large bungalow and a few out-houses in it..
“I’ve rented this from Miss Almeida, the retired Post mistress of Falneer. I suppose Rs.100/- a month is not bad, for so much space. Couldn’t afford anything more, with my pay being just Rs. 500/- !”   Shueli was very depressed when she saw the dark dingy kitchen. She would have to squat on the floor, to wash the dishes. Even if there was a tap here, and in the small flush toilet, they would have to draw water from the well to wash the clothes. It would, despite this, be thrilling to dry the clothes in fresh sun light.
“Doesn’t anyone sweep away these dead leaves?”  trying not to reveal the panic that was threatening to engulf her.
“Miss Almeida keeps a couple of children to do her cleaning for her. They are supposed to do all her house work, which includes sweeping the compound, but I always hear her complaining about their laziness, and how they keep disappearing!” Paul explained.
Gita helped her to arrange a few things in the large front room, and the two pleasant bedrooms on either side, where you could hear the ocean winds rustle and sigh in the trees all day. Shueli’s  gift for bringing beauty to her surroundings, surfaced again. Odds and ends, and bits of colour brought people keen to look over her house saying “Mrs. Kuruvilla,  could we take a look. It seems you’ve made it look very different.”
“Oh, just a few tricks. Nothing very grand or expensive.” Shueli couldn’t hide her pleasure. Miss Almeida had asked ‘Doc’ as he was now called, to bring ‘Mrs. Doc’ along to visit her at Tea time. “Just to look me over? Or do you think she plans to be a bit helpful?”  The retired post mistress was shrunken and faded looking, but evidently very sharp. She wore a Western style frock, and sat in a large wicker armchair, on her front verandah. She kept fanning herself with the palmyrah fan in her hand, muttering “Pah !Pah! Pah! Hot! Hot! Hot!”  (The mischievous thought flashed through Shueli’s mind that she should have been in Miss Dolly Muthanna’s class describing Lucifer in Hell: “Round he cast his baleful eyes, which witnessed huge affliction and dismay.”  But Miss Almeida would not be amused by such talk. Shueli kept a straight face.) The old lady then started a tirade against her two servants. “I got that Charrlie and that Rosie from the orphanage. They should be thankful that I saved their lives. But do you think they’re in the least bit grateful? Oh no. Not they! Rr o o o c iee. Have you at least made the tea?” Rosy, a nine year old waif, wearing a dress which trailed right down to her ankles, - possibly one of Miss Almeida’s cast-offs – appeared, rather shakily holding a tray with some cups of tea. “Pah! So-o hot. You’ll never believe the wickedness of this one. That boy, Cha a rr liee, he’s the real devil. Encourages her. They steal eggs, and boil in the rice water. Wickedness!  My Lord. How can I stand this in my old age? As if I don’t give them a stomachful of rice. That Ch a a rr liee, - I tell you, - he’s a Communist!” She whispered the last word, as if it was explosive.
Both Shueli and Paul managed to keep from bursting into outright laughter, maybe saying “But you’re the wicked one, Miss Almeida.”  The funny side was made even more so when the infamous Charlie dashed in, like a Buccaneer on Special Duty. He had only one eye, which he evidently regarded as a mark of distinction. They discovered this, about the eye, only later. Shueli came across the boy another day, stepping jauntily along the lane, whistling a Konkani tune. Usually shirtless, he actually had a shirt on now, and looked very much a man with a mission. She asked him where he was off to.
“Oh! I’m off to the Medical College!” with a mysterious askmewhy smile.
“What’re you going to do there?”
“I’m a Special Case” Charlie replied, bursting with pride. “The students look into my eyes with telescopes, and whatnots. It’s all being written down in those fat medical books! They pay me, also. Five Rupees each time! Don’t tell Miss Almeida that. She may take it away, saying I’m making money in her time. Once I become rich, I’ll leave her, and go to school. I’ll become a very rich man one day. Then I’ll rescue Rosie also.” Enthused by his dream, he burst into song, one of those mellifluous Portuguese Konkani tunes, the lyrics barely concealing delighted ribaldry. The songs teemed with sexy comeons, horrible mothers-in-law, murderous fathers, and sweet, sweet young things who’d never been kissed under silvery moons, on the white sands of Konkan beaches. Shueli, already partisan, was whole-heartedly on the side of Charlie and Rosie after that, though Paul warned her “Don’t interfere. Just keep out of it.. You can’t change things overnight .”
No, maybe not . But she didn’t have to be a spy for old skinflint Almeida!  So, when she heard Miss Almeida shrilly calling :  “Ch aa rr liee. Where’s that wretched boy? Where’s that Communist?” she maintained an air of complete ignorance of his whereabouts. Sitting on her verandah, looking up at the old mango tree, she could see Charlie. He lay along the branch protruding over the tiles. He was sucking a mango he had plucked from the tree. With his one eye, he gave Shueli a mighty wink of complicity. Miss Almeida had come right up to her verandah, and was complaining : “ Those two! They’ll be the death of me. No gratitude at all. I rescued them from that orphanage, and what do I get?
That Chaarrlee – he’s always wandering here and there. Can I be running after him in my old age? And he encourages that Ro ciee also – to do evil deeds!” Shueli made appropriate sounds of sympathy, not daring to look up, in case she burst into laughter, and betrayed ten year old Communist, Charlie. As soon as Miss Almeida had left,  Charlie also disappeared into thin air. When Shueli looked up, he wasn’t there. He was like an Ariel or an Oberon, appearing now here, now there! She remembered how, as a child, Papa and Ammy had taken her and Gaya to see ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ played by an English Troupe, Shakespeareana, run by the Kendall family. They did ‘The Dream’ in the old Lodhi Gardens, by the walls of a ruined fortress. Shueli never forgot the magic of a glittering Oberon, appearing now in the trees, now by the ruined walls of the Lodhi Dynasty’s fortress. A fluid, vanishing, ethereal form,, a creature not of flesh, but of the imagination. And now, sitting alone, in that compound filled with dead leaves, feeling friendless and lost, she had her very own Oberon, her very own Hansel and Gretel. Not to mention the Old Witch, who would have to be outwitted, one way or another. Maybe she could be the Good Fairy, wave her wand, and save the children from the Witch . Maybe Charlie and Rosie were actually a handsome prince (with both eyes!) and a lovely young princess. Their rags would change to fabulous clothes with a flash of her magic wand…. And could it make her days happier, not just dra –a-g  on and on?                                                                                                                 
                                                   *******
Paul was thrilled with his work. She hardly saw him. Even in the evenings he would go off to the Doctors’ Club to play cards or Tennis. Wives did not accompany husbands. There were many jokes among the doctors about ‘hen-pecked’   husbands. It was considered unmanly to ‘give in to your wife, and be sitting with her always.’ Wives should be busy at home, cooking, pounding spices, making pickles, looking after the babies. A home was not ‘a man’s job.’ Once or twice, when Shueli did accompany Paul to a party, the old world ways left her feeling more a stranger than ever before. They would be shown into the house. The men would all be sitting in the front room, or verandah. Bottles of whiskey, rum or feni, the Goan cashew drink, somewhat like the Kerala toddy would be placed before the men, along with platefuls of fried fish, nuts or tender cashew. A woman, the wife, mother or senior sister-in-law of the house would come out and invite her in. “Come in . Banni. Come in.”  Women sat in the inner room, on the beds or chairs, or even on the floor. They stared at each other, smiling politely, asking brief questions, and giving mono-syllabic answers. Very often, the  questions were unrelated, and the answers seemed to be of no importance.  Where are you living?  How many children have you got?  Do you do all your cooking yourself? Have you been to Jog Falls? Have you been to the temple on the Kavipuram beach? Shueli, whose knowledge of Kannada or Konkani was most limited, found it was just enough to smile, shake your head, or murmur Yes or No. Polite answers to polite questions.  To say what you really felt was impossible: No. I’m bored crazy here. Wish I could get out. I’m lonely. Going mad. Feel like screaming at times. Miss my friends and work and theatre….  Such answers would only invite blank stares of  embarrassment and horror. So she learned to  just nod slightly, and smile enigmatically. Smiling was important. Otherwise you were labelled ‘the Proud One.’ Sometimes she just got the feeling that all was not indifference, as it seemed. The barriers concealed choked despair, and occasionally the women seemed to watch each other like hawks. Gossip could spread like wildfire from these innocuous encounters. Not only The Proud One, but the Bad, Mad and Wicked one!!  Driving home, a rather inebriated, self-satisfied Paul hardly ever noticed his wife’s desperate feeling of isolation, her growing tendency to be withdrawn. Or, perhaps he did realise it, and did not see how he could help her. Perhaps he felt guilt at landing her into a virtual prison. His mother’s great keenness to get them back, had made her write and tell them there was a job waiting for Paul, with a nice little cottage, and reasonable salary. In fact, when they’d got back, they were jobless for six months, and had to stay with the Kuruvillas in Delhi. Paul  and his parents made up their minds about accepting the Kavipuram job without even telling Shueli about it!  
                                                     *******
 On Shueli’s birthday, Paul offered to take her to the weekly English film. The Hindi, or Kannada films, loud mythological or historical ones; the modern ‘socials’ – with sons crying Maa! Maaa! Women abused in every way, under cover of being chaste and long-suffering, the ideal Indian woman.; heroes and heroines chasing each other endlessly around trees, or up and down endless stair-cases, in magnificent houses such as few had ever seen. Shueli, who, during the last year in London, regularly went to the plays at the Royal Court Theatre, or films from all over the world, by Ingemar Bergman, Kurosawa, Antonioni, Fellini, Godard, - no, she could not bear this vapid, inane entertainment. To her mind, the Hindi Cinema was geared to the level of taxi drivers and domestic servants, containing their fantasies of wealth, grandeur, the subservience of women, celebrating the mother son bond, or the heroic, trampled-on woman, chaste and loyal for ever, almost masochistic! The films offered escape, through song and dance, from the grim reality of life in the country.
Paul had got Shueli a surprise. He handed her a knobby looking brown packet. Rather doubtfully, she untied the string. She shrieked , as a little black thing flew out at her with a piteous mewing. She dropped the bag, and ran out into the verandah. The little black kitten sprang towards the dark store room where they had stacked the crates that had come from England They searched, but couldn't find the kitten.. so Shueli just filled a bowl with milk, and left it there. But Shueli was happy that, tonight, they were seeing Satyajit Ray’s Apu. She and Paul had seen the premiere of Apu Sansar (Apu’s World), the second film in Ray’s trilogy, at a glittering Leicester Square cinema. She had been so emotionally moved, she had wept as they walked towards Soho to have dinner, after the film. Like a sleep-walker in a trance, she had felt What am I doing here, cut away from my own people? A raw nerve in her being was touched by the young man whose loss had forced him to turn away from his home, his child, his whole life…. Now, she was deeply thrilled that the film was to be  Pather Panchali, the first film in the trilogy. She  hugged Paul, and told him how fortunate they were to be able to see this today. “The best birthday present you could give me.”
“Yes, but don’t forget there’s that tiny black ball, hiding, and waiting to be found!”   She was moved to the core by the young bride coming to the poor, bare home of her new, young husband. And who could ever forget the young Apu and his sister racing through fields of grain, to hear for the first time ever, the  sound of a train, carrying with it the hints of far away places and distant mysteries, as it rushed past them. “Don’t you see, Paul” said Shueli excitedly, later, when they sat discussing the film with Prabhu and D’Souza, two medical students who’d dropped in, - “Don’t you see, - Ray was able to say more about the big city intruding upon the rural backwater, than any book could say.”
D’Souza shrugged, and said “Rather boring, I thought. More like a documentary.”
                                                                *******
 
 
 Loneliness and Snakes in Kavipuram
 
Much persuasion, with saucers of milk, and gentle calling brought the little black kitten out. Shueli was, at first, scared of the tiny, squealing thing, but soon began to rely on it for companionship in the long hours spent on her own. Paul was out most of the time, she had no friends, there were not even any bookshops.. Only the kitten to talk to. She did all the cooking in a brass cooker with compartments, so that the rice,  meat, vegetable, all got cooked by steam and pressure. Then she would sit on the verandah, wondering how she would endure a life-time of this numbing existence. In England, she had joined the University of Edinburgh, after declaring that she was “through with Literature” and wanted to “do something quite different..” She’d received letters from Miss Muthanna and Miss Kavita Sinha advising her strongly to stick to Literature. “You have a natural flair, and love for it.” But no, Shueli had decided ‘Out with the old In with the new.” Paul also felt she should study “something useful” like Sociology, more in line with his own work. She couldn’t go to RADA or Oxford, so she might as well do this. Her old dreams still haunted her, now and then, but had to be put aside. She had taken a two year Post-Graduate degree in Social Studies, which had revealed the liberal, .humanist vision of man and society to her, and opened up the world for her.  It had  enabled her to work with people  and families in distress, and understand the country in far greater depth. She had made a life of her own. Wasn’t that what Paul had urged her to do, when he had suddenly come back from University one day with the announcement of the job he had taken.  Shueli had felt lost. How would she manage, being alone for the first time in her life?  Almost in  tears, and very apprehensive at first. To be young and lonely among others who were happily finding love and companionship. It was hard to bear, but gradually, she had begun  enjoying the taste of freedom. Sitting alone, day after day, on the verandah, looking out at the dust covered leaves, Shueli felt desolate, wondering whether she would survive this living death. Kuri was out most of the time, she had no friends with whom she could share anything, there were not even any bookshops. There was only the black kitten, given to her by Kuri on her birthday, who had now become her sole confidante. She had finished her cooking in the brass Icme cooker her mother-in-law had given her. A ragged woman who came in to do a few chores, rubbed the dishes with ash, crouching by the low tap in the kitchen. She drew water from the well , and it did give Shueli pleasure to see the freshly washed clothes, hanging on a washline, fragrant in the bright sunlight. She remembered clothes freezing on the line in England, and was glad.
 She sat on the verandah thinking of how everything had gone wrong. After the infection in Delhi, and the near death encounter, she had gone in for some tests at the local hospital. They had laid her on the examining table, pushed some instrument into her, and then gone off to see about something. Perhaps they had forgotten! She felt humiliated, scorched by a sadness her youthful spirit could barely endure. When they did finish the examination it was only to repeat the bad news the Delhi doctor had given her with such venomous relish. As she sat there, pondering all this, she thought there was some strange movement in the grass outside.  A snake, maybe? As she sat motionless in terror, rooted to the spot, fearing that it was a snake, she realised there were two snakes, not one. She had an absolute horror of snakes. She thought her heart would stop beating. Suppose both the snakes started moving, and came up onto the verandah? The snakes suddenly lifted themselves into the air, and seemed to be about six to eight feet long. They swayed together, as if to some silent melody. Was there some invisible orchestra in the grass whose strains were invisible to Shueli’s human ears? Or, was it Krishna’s flute they were swaying to? The snakes flashed silver fire, as they gleamed in the bright sunlight. For what might have been a minute, or might have been five, she sat transfixed in horror and fascination, like someone caught in a bad dream. Unable  to stir. A scream rose to her throat, which she managed to suppress. In a panic, she wondered what she should do next. She could not call for help. Miss Almeida’s bungalow was not near enough. Rosie must be in the kitchen. Charlie must be wandering somewhere. She looked up at the branches of the tree, hopefully. But that was just wishful thinking. He wasn’t there today. She knew she could not run out, past the snakes. The only thing to do was to get out through the back of the house. Afraid to disturb the snakes, she moved like one in ‘slow motion.’ Once out near the kitchen, she ran, in sheer terror, afraid that the snakes might be chasing her. Miss Almeida was standing on her verandah, fanning herself, as usual.  Her fifteen year old nephew sat a table doing some school work. He had come from Bombay for a month’s holiday. Shueli stammered, almost shrieked, “Help! Snakes! Right in front of my verandah. Come quickly.” Miss Almeida put a finger on her lips, glancing nervously at the studious Francis, and led Shueli inside. “No need to make such a fuss. Those must be just grass snakes. They are good, eat rats, and such pests. They must be mating. It’s a rare sight. They rarely come out into the open to mate. But – please – do not discuss in presence of the boy! Such facts of life may not be spoken of before the youth.”
Shueli could hardly believe that it was so important to keep Francis in perpetual ignorance of the facts of life. He probably knew it all, anyway! And, was this the only help she was going to get, after what had been a terrifying ordeal for her?
“The old ghoul!” she told Kuri later. “Didn’t care a bit about the shock I had felt. And the way that Francis was looking at me – I’m sure he could set his spinster Aunt very
wise!”
Charlie told Shueli later, that the snakes were, indeed harmless, unless hurt or disturbed.. “It’s not good luck to see such a thing” he warned. “Or, it could be, ShueliMaa, that you have an extraordinary fortune ahead, as the snakes never reveal themselves, except to special people.”
Soon after, they heard that Miss Almeida had given Shueli a poor score, on this account. “That Doc Paul – he’s not afraid of such things. But that Missus Doc – bah, - she’s too modern! She doesn’t like millipedes, centipedes, or bipeds!” Shueli thought that rather biased and extreme criticism, but she and Kuri laughed heartily over it. Shueli, who had by no means forgotten her acting days, paced up and down the verandah, fanning herself, saying “Pah. Pah.. Hot. Very hot. That Missus Doc. Doesn’t even like snakes, if you please!”
All the leading ladies of the town tended to describe themselves as ‘Social Workers.’ It gave them an identity beyond that of mere Housewife, made them feel important, gave them a Cause. They all attended Ladies Club or Mahila Samaj meetings. Here, they discussed various projects to help poor women, especially those in outlying villages., They distributed milk powder, gave some tips on nutrition, such as adding a few greens to the lentils, not diluting the babies’ milk with water, and how to deal with diarrhoea. Of course, they dared not mention birth control, as many of the ladies were Catholics,  who had hordes of children themselves. Flavia Prabhu Albuquerque had fourteen, rather an embarrassment to a “leading Social Worker.”
“The Good Lord took away four of them. The rest are alive by the grace of God!”       
       All the visiting ladies were self-consciously “simple’ when they went to the villages,                   wearing only white, or khaadi  with no jewellery, and not a trace of make-up. Shueli found that rather strange, and continued to wear the bright colours she loved. She found it always amazing how the village women could put together the most disparate colours with such an innate sense of beauty. It was these simple women who wove saris of the most brilliant colours and designs. Who would ever think of blending orange with fuchsia pink, or violet with green, yet how daringly they put together these colours found only in Nature, in the sky, in the fields, in the forests, or the ocean. The village women crowded around her, touching her sari, her ear-rings, everything, with pleasure. They were quick to learn, too. That a little salt and sugar mixed in water, given at frequent intervals, could save Radha’s daughter, dying of dehydration after an upset tummy. That a little spinach mixed with lentils could prevent malnutrition. That the imbili puli fruits growing wild on the trees were full of vitamin C!  “Sister, share a little food with us. Here are some dried red chillies for you to take home. How many children have you got, Sister? None? That is very sad.”
       Shueli remembered how she had learned to think, in England, that the best help you could give people was to help  them to help themselves. Only in the last place she had worked at, in London, there had been Mrs. Underwood who had been condescending and patronising to “clients’ she did not consider “deserving.” She presided over a committee of rather Victorian ladies, with an Admiral’s wife in the chair. Shueli, and another young social worker from Canada, had to sit at a table slightly apart, while the great ladies discussed “problem families.” On the day that Paul passed his M.R.C.P., Mrs. Underwood, her thin lips parted with just the hint of a smile, introduced Shueli to the Admiral’s wife for the first time! Shueli and Celia, her Canadian colleague, had giggled wildly over the snobbery and Victorian attitudes of Mrs. Underwood and her Committee; the way Mrs. Underwood would fastidiously peel a tomato at lunch, saying “I only drink Vichy-soisse!”
When Shueli  reminisced about her life in England, it all seemed far away, lost to her. Joanne,  Alistair, all, all gone with the wind. She had started to write down a few of her feelings and thoughts, on scraps of paper. They looked like codes, messages to herself, for which she had lost the key. She tore up each of the scraps of paper, after writing, because it seemed disjointed, ungainly. Like all the pain and humiliation she’d been through. Like the mist of loneliness, which, like a shroud, cut her off from the rest of this world. She did not even know that others in cities like Bombay or Calcutta were writing poetry in English. She did not even dare to think of herself as a writer. The scraps of paper had to be destroyed, because they would only cause her embarrassment set her apart further, and might even make her an object of ridicule.
She had other friends now, which did make life a bit pleasanter, though none she could discuss ideas with, or share her keen desire to grow, intellectually and spiritually. There was plump, happy looking Alicia, always on the go, with seven children, whose main joy was getting a party together. The constant activity masked the restlessness and boredom with the small town, which, like a swamp, had begun to claim her whole life, suck her in till there was only a faint flurry left. As in  all the Catholic homes, Alicia’s food, served at her frequent parties, retained an old world Portuguese splendour. There might be a whole roast suckling pig, which Shueli could never bring herself to look full in the face, as it sat luridly on a large serving dish. Only the staring eyes, and floppy ears screamed silently of its horrific end, its grotesque sacrifice for fine cuisine. Alicia’s unused energy was used up in the many clubs which flourished in that small town. Where else could you go, apart from weddings, christenings, and such dos, except to the Rotary Club, the Lion’s Club, the Round Table, or the Jaycees? You could tell yourself you were doing some ‘social service’ and listen to the endless lectures given by visiting ministers, industrialists and others. All of them exhorted others to be self-sacrificing, “serve the poor, go into the villages” and so on. Shueli was bored to tears by it all. Sometimes, some of the younger ones would get away from it all, and there would be wonderful beach parties on full moon nights, with lots of good food, feni, and music. They sang, played the guitar, and danced, as the waves lapped their feet, and tickled their toes. The old Portuguese songs were deeply romantic, while some of the Konkani lyrics were delightfully bawdy. Who wouldn’t be slightly over the edge, just a bit wild, with all that wine, music and moonlight, with the soft serenades that almost drowned the rhythmic beat of the waves? Shueli thought of all the young Catholic girls, who had only two choices, - either to get married, or become a nun, and join a convent. Often, it was their parents who made the decision, and even gave the girl’s dowry to the Order that she joined. Boys, too, became priests. One of Alicia’s sisters was a nun. It seemed noble, but sad, that they would miss all this joy of being young. Just about then, Shueli met a young woman, whose grand name suggested her Catholic Brahmin ancestry. Christians, all down the West Coast, from Goa to Kerala, maintained the caste system, or at least, were conscious of their social and caste differences. Elvira Kamath Mendonca was only 23 or so, when Shueli met her at a party. She was introduced to the handsome, though elderly man with Elvira, and concluded that he must be her father. He turned out to have been a colleague of Paul’s father, in the I.C.S., but had been critical of the Government, and resigned while young. Both Paul and Shueli were rather taken aback when he put an arm around Elvira, and said “Meet my wife, who’s just recently come from Bombay.” Mr. Kamath Mendonca’s first wife had been European, and gossip suggested it had been an unhappy liaison, followed by her early death. Elvira was nearly forty years younger than her distinguished looking husband. In fact he was older than her father! Gossip, and there was plenty of it here, claimed “She married him for his money. She got rich the quick way.”  But Shueli believed Elvira when she told her, “Love just grew between us. He’s young for his age. I suppose I’m old for mine. I play the piano, and they used to call me a child prodigy!”  The couple lived in a rambling, old, castle-like house on the hill overlooking the Light house. There was a huge big reception room, with wooden flooring, where the couple often gave parties. All around lay spacious verandahs, with breath-taking views of the sea. When Paul and Shueli were invited for Elvira’s birthday party, there she sat, dressed in a rather antique brocade sari, playing on the piano, while her guests danced and twirled away the hours to the strains of waltzes, fox-trots and polonaises. How incredible that this sort of life co-existed with the old Hindu world of Kavipuram.  Elvira had a speech defect, but she was intellectual and brilliant, if rather grandiose! She and her husband, she told Shueli, planned “to produce a weekly political journal, We work together on it, when we’re not receiving guests.”  Rather like minor royalty, thought Shueli.
  The very antithesis of the Kamath Mendoncas’ home was the one Shueli and Paul were taken to the following week by their friend Upendra. It was in a small village near the sacred Brahmin city of Udipi. Upendra had said “We can fit several things into the day. You can have your fortunes told by the old man who lives in the fields. You can visit the home of one of our greatest writers, and also see the Yaksha Gana School!” Shueli was thrilled. “Oh, Yakshagana – isn’t that Dance-drama, with masks, - somewhat like our Kathakali, in Kerala? And who is the writer we are going to visit?” After walking by the tranquil green waves, along the Manipal beach, they drove back to the village near Udipi. Upendra led them along a narrow path, through green fields, until they reached a tiny thatched mud hut. Cows stood in the fields, meditatively chewing cud, and the wind rustled in the coconut and areca nut palms. Two scantily dressed children ran screaming inside. The woman of the house, her head covered, greeted them with a silent Namaskara, and requested them to sit. There was a bench, and a small wooden table.  The man who emerged, greeted them. “They want to know their fortunes -  preferably good ones, if you please," said Upendra, who had a mischievous streak, not untinged with  a touch of malice. The elderly rustic produced some copper grain measures, some rice, a few coins, and some faded parchment, marked with obscure hieroglyphs and almost obscured writing in an unknown language. “You may ask three questions, silently” he told them. Shueli had begun, for the first time, to feel that her life was all twisted up, her marriage a failure. She found it a perilous subject, and tried not to dwell on it, as she did not know what she could do about it. Divorce was a huge, ugly word, and she felt herself falling into a dark abyss every time it was even mentioned. Wouldn’t she be cast into outer darkness, and what would her family do/ Where would she go? How could she start life all over again, from scratch? So, it was a taboo subject. But she did ask, silently, what the future with Paul would be like. She often had a dream, which she couldn’t understand. She was running down a hill, blindly. At the bottom, stood someone  unknown to her, whose face she could not see. He caught her, as she came racing down, holding her tightly to him.. And for the first time in her life, she felt completely loved and understood. Though he was a stranger, she felt a profound feeling of recognition. The dream flashed across her mind as she sat on that wooden bench. Then she heard the fortune teller say, The one whom your heart seeks, nothing on earth can ever separate you from …”  Then she heard Paul and Upendra say, rather flippantly “Excellent future ahead. Now we must move on.”  Upendra then took them to the writer’s house. It was bare, except for a chair or two, and a gleaming copper pot in the corner. There were a few crotons and other plants. Here, Shueli felt a true sense of peace. Shivarama Karanth seemed to her to be the quintessence of one who has found the still centre. She had read his “Whispering Earth” in translation. The world fell away. She knew that this was the true life. Bare, and devoid of ornament as the room was, it was vibrant with the spirit of the man who lived there. They went on to see his School of Yaksha Gana, where the dancers with their huge masks gave a stylized version of reality, in the age-old rhythms and tunes of Karnataka.  All the images blended together in her mind, the dancers, the fortune-teller, and the writer. And, for her tortured soul, a hope, that someone waited for her, at the bottom of the hill!

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Anna Sujatha Mathai grew up in St. Stephen's College Delhi, where her father was Head of the English Department. It was an idyllic childhood, reading wonderful books, hearing poetry, seeing plays. She and her sister spent many sunny days exploring The Ridge, unimaginable now! Sujatha started writing Short Stories and Essays for The TREASURE CHEST, an All-India Children's Magazine edited by an American Editor, and translated into many Indian languages. At 14 she was chosen by Treasure Chest to be their youngest Special Correspondent! 
 What she loved most was the Theatre. She was selected, at age 14,  by the Shakespeare Society of St. Stephen's College, to be Viola in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Later, doing her B.A.{Honours} in English Literature at Miranda College, she won the College Drama Prize, and later, the Best Actress Award of the University of Delhi.
  Getting married at age 20, to a young surgeon, changed her life completely. In Edinburgh, she joined the University for a Post Graduate Course in Social Studies. She worked in that field for several years, in York, Sheffield, London. Leaving it all behind, coming back to small-town India, was traumatic for her. She used to write on scraps of paper, and throw them away. Her sister, in Bangalore, sent her a cutting in which American professor, Howard McCord of the Univ. of Seattle asked for poems by "avant-garde young Indian poets" for his Anthology. Her sister wrote "At the most, you'll lose a few stamps!" Prof McCord's warm response to her poems, made her start taking her writing more seriously! Her first poems were published in P. Lal's MODERN INDIAN POETRY IN ENGLISH. She continued to write, and, later, moving to Bangalore her dream of theatre was somewhat realised. She had roles in plays by Shaeffer, Ibsen, Sartre, Pinter, Tennessee Williams, Lorca and others. She was a co-founder,with friend Snehalata Reddy, of THE ABHINAYA POETRY/THEATRE GROUP.
Her poems have been published in The Commonwealth Journal; Indian Literature; The Little Magazine; The Times of India; Dialogue India; Chelsea (New York); The London Magazine; The Poetry Review (London), Two Plus Two (Switzerland.), Contemporary Asian Poetry Ed. Agnes Lam, Hong Kong/Singapore: Post-Independence Poetry in English ed. by Arundhathi Subramaniam She was among 4 poets "show-cased" on the 50th Anniversary of the Sahitya Akademi. She was an Associate Editor of the prestigious Literary Journal, Two Plus Two,based in Lausanne, Switzerland. She has 5 collections of Poetry in English, and her poems have been translated into several Indian and European languages.
She now lives in Delhi. ​​​​​​​​

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