Monday, November 1, 2010

The Outcast


Image Courtesy: Dipity Blog
 Ranée could hear the pundit chanting, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya[i],as he sprinkled Ganges water on the threshold before stepping into the sick room. Pundit Paramatmaji was invariably summoned to perform all the rituals and ceremonies in that mohallah[ii] inhabited by high caste Hindus. He was a familiar figure in the neighborhood and did not arouse much curiosity.
But Ranée was not a resident of that mohallah. To her the shriveled, almost ridiculous figure of the pundit was fascinating. He had sparse grey hair on a high dome like head and his brow, smeared with sandal paste, was furrowed and puckered. A vermilion tika[iii] at the center of the forehead made him look menacing. She noticed that his sunken cheeks were wrinkled and the loose flesh hung like deflated balloons below his chin. The betel stained protruding teeth never quite allowed his lips to meet. His eyes gleamed dully in their hollow sockets and his piercing glance somehow frightened her.
The pundit’s frail body was encased in a grimy loin cloth and an equally grimy cloth was flung across his bony shoulders. The holy thread, heralding his dvija[iv] or twice born status, had discolored and stiffened from its daily treatment to the mustard oil he rubbed on his body before his bath and perspiration. He kept Ganges water in a small urn with a mango leaf dipping into it and sprinkled the holy water along the path as he walked gingerly into the room. Water from the River Ganga is said to have the power to purify all objects it touches and Pundit Paramatmaji was particularly careful to sprinkle copious amounts as he walked up to the bedside of the dying man.
Ranée’s mother Laxmi, the youngest daughter of the family, was persona non grata. She had been informed of her father’s illness at the very last moment, only because she had at one time been his favorite child. That was a long, long time ago- before she had eloped with John and incurred the wrath of the entire community. For days she had been the topic of endless gossip in the neighborhood and the “talk” had hurt the pride of her clan.
 Laxmi knew well enough that she had caused her family to “lose face” and be ridiculed. What she had not anticipated, however, was the rigid denial of the feeble efforts John’s family had made towards reconciliation. She had been so confident of winning her father back that she had underestimated the hold her brothers and the rest of the community had on him. Her brothers Ganesh, Shyam and Raghu were torchbearers of the community. Laxmi was years younger than them. Her elder sister Saraswati had been married at 16 to a well-to-do Brahmin boy who worked as a clerk in a government office.
Saraswati and her family were always received with customary warmth and show of good will. The three daughters-in-law would draw their pallus[v] over their heads and gush over the latest arrival to the Saraswati brood. There usually was an addition to the already large family every time Saraswati cared to pay her family a ceremonious visit. Her husband only came to take them back home. It was not seemly to visit the in-laws too often and Suresh, Saraswati’s husband, knew that informal visits might undermine his prestige.
Laxmi’s three year old daughter, Ranée, was ignored. Nobody cared to gush over her. Her aunts did not fondle her plump cheeks nor did they caress her glossy dark hair. Laxmi had been the last to arrive at this family gathering. She clutched Ranée’s arm tightly as she alighted from the rickety cycle rickshaw and put down her battered suitcase on the pavement. Old Mungroo, her father’s lackey, was the only one waiting for her at the gate. He snatched Ranée up in his feeble arms and pressed his tired face to her belly. His hand trembled with emotion as he stroked Laxmi’s head twice before saying brokenly, “Hurry, child, hurry! You are just in time to see him.”
Laxmi followed him down the graveled driveway. Her mind traveled down tortuous paths to her childhood, when “Mungroo Dada” as they had called him would play blind man’s bluff with her. Her shrieks of delight when she espied him still echoed in her ears. A sob caught at Laxmi’s throat. The delicate thread that had bound her to this once familiar scene had been broken and her memories were like cobwebs in a forgotten cupboard.
Laxmi was showed into the large and stately drawing room like a formal guest. A hush descended upon the crowded room as she hesitated by the door. Ganesh’s wife Parvati came forward, pressing her lips with her pallu trying to stifle a sigh. Laxmi bent forward and touched her feet. Ranée watched as both women looked at each other, Parvati’s eyes grieving- Laxmi’s downcast in shame. Parvati had been more than a mere sister-in-law to Laxmi. She had given Laxmi the love and care the adolescent motherless child had craved for. She had even arranged for Laxmi to be engaged to Ganpat, her nephew, to save her from her family’s wrath. But Laxmi had failed her…she ran away with John.
Without a word Parvati led Laxmi away from the curious glances of the other relatives. Laxmi was as nervous walking down the long dimly lit room as a model walking the ramp for the first time. She blinked her eyes as she at last stepped into the sunny courtyard. While walking down the drawing room she had glanced furtively at her brothers and their wives and had encountered hostile looks. There was a host of other people, probably relatives of her sisters-in-law, who had stared at her with unabashed curiosity.
Parvati led her down the hot courtyard, walking barefoot, the cracks at her chapped heels showing below her anklets. They ascended a few stones steps at the end of the courtyard, crossed a verandah and paused before a massive door that was half shut. Parvati peered into the room and stepped aside to allow Laxmi to pass. Ranée wrinkled her nose as the over-powering smell of ether and camphor hit her as she followed closely behind her mother.
The room was large and almost completely dark. Only a few scattered rays of sunlight broke into the gloom through the dusty and stained ventilator high up on the wall. Gradually as her eyes got accustomed to the dim interior Ranée could make out the huge antique four-poster at the center of the room. A grimy, discolored mosquito net hung like a canopy on the wonderfully carved king-sized bed. On this bed lay the inert figure of someone so thin and wasted that it was almost lost under the coverlet. One bony hand lay across the breast.
The face was gaunt, the flesh had fallen away and the nose rose prominently below the jutting brow. The figure lay so still that it was hard to make out whether it breathed or not. Laxmi held back, clutching at her daughter. Parvati gently pushed her towards the bed and whispered, “Touch his feet, child. There isn’t much time left.” Laxmi stumbled and almost fell over her father’s feet. Her numbed senses did not register the feeble flicker of the dying man’s eyes. She stood as if turned to stone by his bedside, her mind refusing to accept that this was her last visit to the house where she had been born and raised.
Ranée hated the smell of the room. She wanted to slip out into the courtyard and sit on the wide swing under the Mango tree. She made as if to go but Laxmi’s grasp restrained her. She was afraid of the blank expression on her mother’s face. Who were these strange people? And why was she here anyway, she wondered. How long she stood rooted by her mother in that dark gloomy room she did not know. At last Mungroo came and took her away.
The grandfather clock ticked loudly. The relatives had been arriving in batches since the early morning. Everyone was in pure white, greeting each other in hushed voices. The new arrivals mingled amongst the already assembled kin and sat waiting. Ganesh had a long list in his hand and held a whispered consultation with Shyam, Raghu and a few close relatives over the various items required for the funeral ceremony.
Pundit Paramatmaji was requested to go through the list and pronounce his approval. He fished out an ancient pair of glasses from his bag and clicked his tongue over obvious omissions. A new mattress, a pillow along with pillow case, sheets and a blanket were extremely essential. After all his jajmans[vi] were stalwarts of the community and it would never do to put up a shabby show, would it?  And then there was the minor question of the gow-daan[vii] and brahman bhoj[viii].
Shyam and Raghu nudged each other as Paramatmaji handed another list to Ganesh, names of the fifty-one Brahmins who were to be fed separately at the shraadh[ix]. Ganesh as the eldest had the foremost duty to perform the shraadh in decent style and was advised not to skimp on expenses. His brothers frowned over the list and tried to ignore the barb from the priest. After all he reasoned ones father did not die every day and as dutiful sons they had the responsibility to ensure his needs in the afterlife…
The clock in the verandah struck eleven. Pundit Paramatmaji almost jumped off his seat and hurried towards the sick room. The auspicious time for departing souls was between 9:52 and 11:24 hours according to his panchaan[x]. The old man was not cooperating. What if the lagan[xi] should go away? All his seedha[xii] would be in the soup! What was the use of the old man clinging on to life so stubbornly? Even after the doctors had given up all hope? It was that outcast Laxmi- she should never have been allowed into the house. Bringing her mlechhaa[xiii] influence into the house and desecrating its sanctity. The witch must have used her phirang[xiv] mantra to delay the imminent proceedings.
Fuming inwardly Pundit Paramatmaji pushed open the half ajar door, sprinkling Ganges water and muttering Om Namah Shivaya under his breath. He walked straight up to the bed his wooden sandals clacking coldly on the stone floor. Parvati drew aside and allowed punditji to stand by the head post. He peered into the face of the still figure and placed his ear close to the open mouth to hear whether the breath was coming. His eyes strayed to the clock on the wall at the foot of the bed. Ten minutes past eleven. The body must be taken for cremation in another fourteen minutes and the man was still alive!
Saraswati sat with her brothers waiting for the priest to start chanting “Om Shantih, Om Shantih” and loud lamentations to ensue from the folks gathered on the verandah. They waited and the atmosphere got heavier but nothing broke the stillness, not the rustle of a leaf or the chirping of a sparrow. She had gone over the list of invitees to the shraadh and had communicated her approval. It was getting late; all other relatives who had assembled to console them started to depart one by one to a sense of anti-climax. How the tough old nut clung to his life. ‘It was all God’s maya[xv]; who could change destiny?’ they said.
Pundit Paramatmaji sat with drooping shoulders on the stone steps leading to the sick room. The auspicious time had come and gone. He consulted his almanac again and again to see if there were any other auspicious moments on that day. Laxmi had not emerged from the sick room. She stood beside the dying man dry eyed, her legs numb from standing motionless. No one had come into the sick room since Parvati and Paramatmaji had withdrawn in some consternation. Mungroo had earlier led Ranée away from her mother to be bathed and fed.
Suddenly a spasm passed over the still body. The sunken eyes flickered open for a second and the head rolled over to one side. Laxmi bit her lip to smother the scream that rose from the pit of her stomach. She gazed for the last time at her father’s face and slowly walked out of the room. Pundit Paramatmaji sprang to his feet taking his cue and hurried into the room. His loud chants brought everyone else to the sick room. Soon the afternoon air was rent with loud wailings from all the assembled womenfolk. Saraswati joined the lamentations beating her chest and pulling at her hair. Soon the neighbors had all trooped in. The ladies joining in lustily, after all Upadhyayji had been a well known person and his passing merited some show of respect and sense of loss. Out on the porch the men consoled the bereaved family in tense whispers.
Laxmi dragged her weary feet across the dusty backyard towards the servants’ quarters. The dead leaves from the mango trees rustled under her feet. She found Mungroo squatting under an ancient neem tree cradling Ranée in his arms. Ranée had been listening to his ramblings round-eyed and clapped her plump little hands as soon as she saw her mother. Mungroo glanced at Laxmi and an unspoken message was exchanged between them. Mungroo’s face seemed to shrivel all the more and his dim eyes glittered with unshed tears.
Laxmi picked up her suitcase from the shed and took hold of Ranée’s hand once again. Together they stepped out through the rear exit of the house into the narrow lane turning their backs on the great big crumbling house.


[i] Popular Hindu redeeming mantra from the Vedas
[ii] Neighborhood
[iii] Dot made with vermilion paste
[iv] A Brahmin or high caste Hindu is said to be born twice
[v]  Veil- part of the sari to cover the head
[vi] Hereditary relationship where a family is obliged to hire the services of certain caste people
[vii] Donate a cow
[viii] Feeding Brahmins as part of virtuous deed
[ix] Ceremony to propitiate the departing soul
[x] Almanac
[xi] Auspicious time
[xii] Donation made in kind to holy people
[xiii] Infidel
[xiv] Foreign
[xv] Illusion

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