Breaking free, p.2
Breaking Free, page 2
He was slightly winded by the time he reached the end of the walkway and climbed the steps leading to the temple. ‘Easwara.’ Piously muttering the Lord’s name, he stopped in front of the gigantic doors of the temple. He set the sombu of water on the floor and trained the beam of the flashlight on the mouth of the lock with one hand and tried to insert the key in the lock with the other. Soon his fingers were tired. In despair that he might not be able to open the lock, he groped for the hole again, muttering to himself, ‘Lord, it is such a trial.’
‘Who is it?’
As soon as he saw Shanmugam, the guard, come up the steps, calling out in a peremptory tone, he calmed down.
‘It’s me, Shanmugam. I am not able to open the lock.’
‘Oh, it’s Gurukkal Aiya. Why have you come this early, when it’s still dark? Here, I’ll open it. Hold the flashlight.’ Shanmugam stepped forward and stood in front of the door, leaving enough space for Subramania Gurukkal, clad in ritually pure clothes, to move aside. With the priest shining the torch, he opened the lock, flung both doors open and switched on the electric lamp in the outer pathway along the temple’s perimeter. In the soft light, the yalis came alive. Bats wheeled anxiously near the ceiling.
As the priest walked to the deity’s chamber, Shanmugam said, ‘I asked you, didn’t I? Why so early, well before first light?’
‘Oh, maybe I got restless,’ the priest said as he kept walking. ‘I wonder when we’ll get the news from Kasturi’s house. If it comes, I shouldn’t light the lamp for the deity. I can’t bear the thought. I came here thinking I’d light the lamp and offer at least two plantains before anything happens.’
As he walked along with the priest but at a distance, Shanmugam muttered, ‘Oh, I forgot all about it.’ After a brief pause, he ventured delicately, ‘I thought those practices are not followed these days, aiya.’
‘Not legally, yes. But there’s such a thing as temple rules, isn’t there?’
‘If the woman dies, you say the deity should observe ritual mourning?’
‘Yes, as when a wife passes away.’
As Subramania Gurukkal continued in silence towards the chamber of the main deity and opened the door, Shanmugam kept switching on the lights along the way. The oil lamp the priest had lit the previous evening was still burning in the sanctum sanctorum. The lingam had a withered garland of oleander around it.
‘Kasturiamma’s brother, Sabapathi, might question the need for these rituals. And his son, Senthil, does have a quick temper.’
Without replying, Subramania Gurukkal removed the wilted flowers from the lingam and washed it with his own hands with the sombu of water he had brought, as though bathing a baby.
Then he said gently, as if to the lingam: ‘No matter who forgets the bond between Kasturi and the temple, this deity won’t. This temple will pay all due respects to Kasturi. I have stayed alive only to ensure that it happens.’
‘I told you what crossed my mind, aiya.’
Without a word, Subramania Gurukkal started the puja. Lulled by the melodious tones of the devotional hymn, Shanmugam began to feel sleepy. He was amazed at the sincere attention with which the octogenarian priest performed his duties. The priest rang the bell, offered worship to the deity with the sacred flame and set the plate with the burning camphor on the steps. Shanmugam bent down, swept his fingers above the flame and touched them to his eyes, then took a pinch of sacred ash from a small tin outside and smeared it on his forehead.
‘Carry on, Shanmugam,’ Subramania Gurukkal said. ‘Go back to sleep if you want to. I’ll sit here and meditate for a while.’
‘Fine, aiya,’ Shanmugam said and left.
Gurukkal shut the door of the sanctum sanctorum and walked to the outer pathway. He sat down cross-legged, rested his back against a pillar and closed his eyes.
Behind those closed eyelids, Kasturi appeared and stood before him.
A thrill spread through his body as though she had entered it and possessed him. A smile settled on his lips. What beauty, what grace, what hauteur. His eyes, which had seen her as a child wearing long skirts, had never forgotten that shimmer of youth. Fifteen-year-old Kasturi, with a childlike innocence in her face; eyes like round, black beetles; complexion, fair and shiny like the inside of a plantain stem. Kasturi at twenty, the empress of dance, a picture of elegance. Majestic at twenty-five, with her clear gaze and fierce pride. Teary-eyed Kasturi who had come to him wounded and grieving. ‘Suppuni, please, please allow me, just this once, to pay my tribute before the deity in his chamber. For one last time … I can’t bear it, Suppuni … I feel my heart is about to break … There’s no place for me anywhere, Suppuni …’ He had wanted to take her in his arms then and wipe those tears away.
Subramania Gurukkal’s frail body trembled slightly. His eyes welled up. His heart wheeled around at a dizzy pace. And holding his hands, Kasturi whirled around too. Her arms were like strings of flowers. When she laughed, the sound rang out in peals, as if someone was shaking a small bronze bell. He yearned for that laughter. The fragrance that surrounded her—was it sandalwood, or rose, or simply the sweet scent of her body? The silver anklets on her feet that tinkled softly. Her feet, reddened with henna, whirling around in a circle. And in that picturesque scene, Suppuni spun around too.
‘Don’t cry, Kasturi. Wherever you dance, the Lord will be present.’
Kasturi broke down in great, heaving sobs. ‘They won’t even let me dance, Suppuni. The deity himself has spurned me.’
Suppuni was shaking. How could this golden idol be reduced to tears? How was he to console her? He could not say ‘Don’t worry, I am here for you.’ It was not allowed. Though his body and heart pulsed with desire, he couldn’t even lift her to her feet.
Subramania Gurukkal’s body shivered. Opening his eyes, he reminded himself of the present, and then closed them again. It must have been clear to her that day that the god I worshipped was a mere onlooker even though I didn’t have the maturity to say it to her; I couldn’t hide my weakness. I was upset by her tears but I didn’t have the wherewithal to help her either. My wretched heart longed to touch her, to lay her on my lap and comfort her. If my father hadn’t come there, something disgraceful might have occurred. Kasturi wouldn’t have forgiven me all her life.
‘Remember, there is a woman at home who is dependent on you.’ It was as if his father stood before him now, chastising him.
Subramania Gurukkal got up immediately. He prostrated himself in the direction of the Lord’s chamber.
‘Please forgive me. Please forgive me. I never betrayed Kamakshi with this body.’
When he stood up, he was overcome by a fatigue he had never known before. He sat down once more, cross-legged on the floor, leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes.
‘Om Namachivaya.’
Lord, please set her free. She has suffered enough. Her life is lingering on for no good reason.
Something had taken hold of him today. He couldn’t steady his mind. It seemed to have grown wings of its own will. Two enormous wings and a physique capable of roaming the universe. Like a chowry fanning the idol of the Lord, they flapped slowly and took flight. With every beat they scattered the moments and minutes buried in the dark caves of memory, like tearing off the pages from a calendar. Everything that he had seen and not seen, heard and not heard, understood and not understood, everything that was secret and mysterious assumed a shape as large as the universe and danced before him. Like Sanjaya perceiving the events of the war in the Mahabharata from afar … the priest gasped for breath. As though he was standing as tall as the sky, laden with the histories of many births on his shoulders, his chest grew wide and his head erect. He imagined that he was at once the blind king Dhritarashtra and his adviser Sanjaya.
‘This be the gate, this be the gate
where the liturgies of our Saivite faith thrive.’
Kasturi was dancing in front of the deity’s chamber. The young priest Suppuni who had come to perform the night puja in his father’s stead looked at her with rapture. Was she at all human? Or was she a nymphet from the land of the gods? How could a human be so beautiful and so proficient in her art?
‘Chinna gurukkale.’
Suppuni looked up, startled to hear a voice as melodious as the tone of a veena.
‘You can call me Suppuni. I am the same age as you.’
She smiled and said teasingly, ‘Yes, Suppuni Aiya. Don’t you have to light the lamp?’
‘Have you finished dancing yet?’ said Suppuni, gathering his wits. ‘You seem to have skipped a verse.’
Kasturi clapped her hands and giggled. ‘You missed it because you were sleepy. Light the lamp and perform the puja. Or the deity himself might fall asleep.’
A spirit of levity entered Suppuni. ‘How can he go to sleep? He is still enchanted by your dance.’
She tittered, the sound like the tinkling of a bell. Dimples appeared on her cheeks for a fleeting moment. ‘As if you would know! I am feeling sleepy. I’d like to go to bed early.’
Suppuni lit the piece of camphor on the plate, held up the flame before the idol and turned to offer it to Kasturi. His eyes fell on the entrance and his face grew dark. After sweeping her fingers above the flame and raising them to her eyes, Kasturi turned in the direction of Suppuni’s gaze. A footman from the palace stood at the door. Suppuni looked intently at her face: a faint trace of sorrow was visible there. Yet when he fetched the plate of votive offerings from the sanctum sanctorum and gave it to her, her face was radiant and smiling as always. She touched the plate piously, then her eyes. Then she walked silently behind the footman from the palace. As he saw her leave, Suppuni felt a blaze flare up in his belly. He locked up the sanctum sanctorum hastily and hurried, half running, to the entrance. The horse-drawn carriage was already on its way, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of ankle bells. It was a closed one with curtains. Wondering if Kasturi, seated behind the curtain, had a smile on her face, Suppuni locked the main door of the temple and walked home.
3
IS IT DAY or night?
Kasturi didn’t know.
Where am I?
She was not sure.
Am I still alive?
One moment she seemed to be floating inside a bank of clouds; the next, she had dived to the bottom of the ocean, looking for its treasures—floating and drowning, as if riding a swing.
When she raised her head after a dip, the doors to the chamber were open. The Lord appeared before the devotees dressed in silk robes and draped in garlands of fresh jasmine from head to waist with dots of vermilion and sandalwood paste glinting amid streaks of holy ash on his forehead. As soon as Suppuni Gurukkal intoned ‘Om Namachivaya’ and commenced the puja by showering the idol with oleander and assorted flowers, she realized that she was standing at the threshold of the sanctum sanctorum. It was a joyous sighting of the deity that was hers alone to experience. A song came gushing forth from her navel.
‘May I come by, Lord, to sing and dance in your chamber?’ One hand rested on her waist while the other mimed the phrase, ‘May I come by?’
‘May I come by, Lord …’
Who is singing now, Thilakam or I?
Kasturi’s body was racked by anxiety. Is it Thilakam standing before me? Why have you become so thin and dark, Thilakam? What happened to you? Tears brimmed over in Kasturi’s eyes. Grief choked her throat. How many years has it been since I heard you sing? How extraordinary your voice was: the range, the richness, the gift. It was a gift, girl, but you didn’t realize it. You didn’t understand that you were born to this. Never mind. You are here now, finally. I told you back then, but you ignored me. If you had stayed with me, we would have been queens of our kingdom. You didn’t listen. You’ve come today, when I’ve lost my legs and voice, when I am without protection, an empty shell. But I am glad you’ve come at least now. Sing.
Kasturi closed her eyes and whimpered.
May I enter, Lord, to dance and sing in your chamber?
Why is your voice sounding ragged, Thilakam? Have you cut down your practice hours?
‘Manjula.’
Hearing that voice which sounded like a clap of thunder, a tremor ran through Kasturi. Who was this Manjula? Kasturi couldn’t remember.
‘Won’t you do as you are told?’
The voice set off a wave of panic in her abdomen. The singing stopped.
‘Manjula, how often should I tell you to stop this singing and dancing?’
‘What’s it to you if I sing? Whenever I sing you tell me to stop. Singing at sunrise is good for the voice, Kasturi Aththai used to say.’
‘Let all this song and dance stop with Aththai. We want no more of that.’
‘I sing because I feel like singing. Why does it bother you, da?’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Aiyo! Amma! Somu is beating me.’
‘I’ll kill you for real. Be careful.’
Kasturi trembled. Haven’t they killed her already? How can the soul survive once the heart is crushed? Now I can’t even open my eyes at will. I should run away if I can. I am used to running. How I ran to the Lord’s chamber that day like a crazed woman …
They have killed me, Suppuni! They’ve murdered Thilakam. She didn’t die alone; I died along with her. What’s left of me to kill now? How many times can a person die?
Grief came surging from below.
What did I do wrong?
Growing up, they told me that I was born only to sing and dance in the Lord’s chamber. I never realized there could be another kind of life. Nor did I yearn for one. I didn’t know whether it was right or wrong. Those who broke free and went away—did they do well for themselves? We have to ask them. Just one Thilakam is enough to let us know. Swimming upstream requires ability and courage from each person. I had neither. That’s why I was killed over and over again, without being conscious of it. It’s true, Suppuni. What does Lakshmi call it? She will say it is political scheming. What do I know about politics and whatnot? I thought shouting ‘Vande Mataram’ was politics.
She heard many thousands of voices at once. ‘Vande Mataram! Vande Mataram!’ Holding a tricolour flag aloft, she shouted along with the others in the procession, ‘Vande Mataram!’ Her veins bulged with the effort. It felt like a holy dip. The clamour for freedom was everywhere. While she danced, whirling round and round, he sang, ‘Now our sorrows are gone, all gone.’ Lakshmi spoke about that too.
The swing went back and forth, and back and forth. So many voices, so many faces. Sweeping everything aside, the swing moved up and down. And as it swayed, people looked like dolls, with doll-like voices. The web of memories wound itself around the swing as it went up and came down. Like a peacock feather, it caressed her softly.
Kasturi as a little girl of six. The street where she was born, where she played, sang and danced. The sound of water being splattered in front of doorways well before daybreak. ‘Chathak, chathak.’ Water mixed with cattle dung hits the mud floor. ‘Charak, charak.’ A twig broom moves in brisk strokes to sweep the ground. Kolam powder is dropped through fingers as dots on the wet floor and on the cool earth. Even in that dim light, hands swiftly join the bright dots with lines, bangles tinkle gently like anklets. As the day slowly dawns, flowers bloom and parrots perch before the entrance as though waiting only for the clang of the temple bell. The temple bell rings. She hears Sundaramurthi Mama playing the nadaswaram. Enchanted by his ‘Saraguna Palimpa’, hands drawing the kolam presently begin to tap the taalam on the wet floor … for a deep love of music pervades the air. The gentle drone of the tambura floats in the stir of a breeze.
‘Why are you taking so long to draw the kolam, Sengamalam? Don’t you have to wake Kasturi and get her ready?’
When she heard Kanagu Paati’s words, Sengamalam paused for a moment to admire the kolam and then went inside. ‘Get up, Kasturi. It’s getting late. Don’t come crying to me later that the master rapped your knuckles.’
Kasturi was curled up in deep slumber in the passage next to the courtyard. After a vigorous shake, she woke up immediately and sat upright. Rubbing her eyes, she walked to the courtyard. Sengamalam glanced at her for a moment with delight.
A solid gold figurine she is. At least she should attain a good position in life. ‘You’ll go places.’ When words of praise, rare as pearls, drop from the dance master’s lips, they are equal to god’s own utterance. Let no evil eye bring her harm, Brahadeeswara. She needs luck. Beauty alone isn’t enough to lay the world at one’s feet. One has to be smart. This one is naive, though: she thinks all that is white must be milk.
When Kasturi came back after rinsing her mouth and washing her face, Sengamalam gave her a bowl of rice water. While she drank it, Sengamalam combed and braided her thick, curly hair and changed her skirt. ‘Enough, ’ma. I’ll be off now.’ As Kasturi flitted away like a little bird, Sengamalam prayed aloud, ‘god, may a new life dawn in this house because of this girl.’
‘She hasn’t reached puberty yet, and you are already building castles in the air,’ Kanagu Paati said.
‘I hope she doesn’t become a bearer of ill-luck like me.’
‘Come on, you stupid woman. Of course Kasturi will be a lucky girl. But if you keep up your daily complaints, even god will get fed up. In his irritation, he might go looking for Lakshmi, Thulasi’s daughter, from the opposite street. Do we have singing practice today or not?’
Sengamalam laughed and said, ‘All right. Come. We’ll try singing that jaavali today.’ She fetched the tambura and sat down to practice.
Taking care not to stomp on the kolam at the entrance, Kasturi stepped gingerly on to the street, and, as instructed by her grandmother, looked up at the gopuram and patted her cheeks as a mark of pious devotion. As she headed towards the nattuvanar’s house, Dhanam, Meenakshi and Lakshmi joined her and
