I
haven’t met her, have not spoken to her and communications were only through
text messaging. She was reticent, perhaps timid and unassuming and I felt she
preferred to stay away from being noticed. She spent her moments away from the tawdriness
and melee of contemporary life, not even in the periphery of it. Even if one
were a trained danseuse (in Mohiniyattom),
she humbled her ability even after being conditioned in the art form since she
was 6 and after having done quite a few performances in temples and other
venues. Her gregarious peers seem to have had not much effect on her decision
to be different. In the age of social media and wannabes are everywhere
jostling, elbowing for space and visibility a pretty eyed maiden whatever was the reason , she chose to be
confined and less conspicuous , if I may say so?
In
fact she was literally faceless on social media, but yet she had her own little
space; you scour through her pages you may not see a picture of hers, but if
you have the clever knack of sieving through, you may chance to pick her from
the many faces in the few photographs of groups that you would see on her
social media pages. But yet again, that can only be a conjecture. However I was
certain. The vivacious, spellbinding pretty eyes and the élan of a danseuse was
obvious in one among others in the few pictures she posted. The pulchritude of
the eyes was arresting. Yet, until you can be sure guesses how so ever definite
may stay just as they are - guesses.
When
asked why she chose to be so, she said she loved it so. Was she a troglodyte of
sorts? Oh no, definitely not. She must have been 23-24. Her eyes captivatingly
beckon you from her pages. But what also was conspicuous was her outlook towards
life and life around her. 23 or 24 may not necessarily be an age when one
thinks deep about life and living, about wanting to give meaning to one’s life
which in fact has no real sense – “we are just born without purpose, but we can
provide one. Can’t we?” She once suggested in a chat. Now, that was some time
ago and today there is no shred of line that can tell you about her
whereabouts, she simply melted away. Perhaps she consciously left no foot
prints.
Yet,
what she said in the last communication we exchanged haunts, gives one an eerie
discomfort, though she may have gone away as shooting stars do. She fancied
them and their wanderlust.
She
communicated with me the first time after reading my blog post which I reposted
on my social media page. “My Gods of Small Things”, was the title of the post
taking the cue from Arundati Roy’s novel of the almost similar name “God of
Small Things”. The matter was entirely different in its content and I was
seized with the few images of people from my life, who have all now passed, but
the little things they did has been more than Godly.
I
understood in course of our quite some discussion which touched on religion,
love, morality, humanity, apparent frivolity of life, doing nothing, and even
film songs of the old from Malayalam and Hindi, that she was a keen listener,
reader and at the same time possessed a keen sense of reasoning in on almost
anything we discussed about. But why was she being trained as a Chartered
Accountant? Most of them in that profession are insipid aren’t they? The answer
was simple, her father willed so.
It
was her mother who cultivated in her the love for Mohiniyattam, she being a
dancer in her own right. But had to compromise her passion in face of her spouse’s
imperiousness, but not without the rider that her daughter will not be
restrained. Occasionally she used to mention about her little sister who was
about 10 years her junior and often hung around with her with the faithfulness
of a satellite.
“Sir,
(she always addressed me so), what do you make of this clichéd phrase of
‘settling down’? Why must settling down
be confirming to what society and someone else, even be it what the family
decides for you? Perhaps you can tell?”
“Yes,
why can’t settling down be what you think would lend meaning to the frivolity
of life?”
”Yes
exactly what I meant. You see this is why I believe being sexy is not of a
masculine body, an arrogant swagger, Ret Butler whiskers, broad jaw or high
cheek bones.”(She followed up with smiley in her text messages). “It is how one
thinks… it is the mind and it shows in one’s face. You cannot fake with
sassiness and swagger. Men are terribly wrong, mistaken. Don’t you think so?”
“Haa,
well, well. Indeed!”
”
Thanks for agreeing, now think of that girl , you once spoke about, the one who
cast away a wonderful job in the far
east , heaved a back pack and took to travel the world. How old was she when
she did that, my age?”
“Hmm.”
“Here
Sir, I quote, I read from her book her own words, ‘4 years ago, I gave up my
home, sold most of my possessions and embraced a nomadic life. This journey has
taken me as far within as with my feet.’ ” I could see the text pause on the
screen, then, “I hate him, the bastard!”
“What?”
I asked not knowing what she meant. I myself had suggested the book to her and
I knew those few words were not from the passage she read from the book. Certainly
those words were not related to the texting she was doing quoting the young
author of that book she loved reading over and over. If they were spoken words
I could shrug off thinking I heard them wrong. But these were words she typed
out and sent in text message.
She
continued and not giving importance to my question. “…. how travelling changed my
perspective on getting married, not wanting kids. ‘Sir, I felt sick after
that.’ I finally decided to write this
post for fellow dreamers, adventurers and rebels, who feel stifled by a lack of
choice too.”
“What?”
I asked again. There was a pause, a little long one from her and when I asked again,
what she meant in between by something unrelated, she narrated.
“I
wanted this out of me. It is he.”
“What?
And Who?”
“My
father.”
“Yes
what about him?”
“He
hugged and kissed me today.”
“Well
what about a father kissing his daughter hugging her. I do. Haven’t he kissed
you, hugged you before?”
“No,
no, it is not that. Yes he has sometimes. But this was not of those kind. It
was different. I felt it when he touched me. It was nauseating and terrifying.”
“Oh,
what are you trying to say….?”
“Yes
exactly that, but I feel like retching and am scared now. He kissed me biting
my cheeks, almost my lips and I could feel it… that thing of his pressing on to
my body, and through the lungie he was wearing… it was deliberate. It was all in
matter of seconds.”
I
was wordless and then asked her, “Are you sure?”
Please,
understand me Sir, I’m no child. This had never happened before, but I could
feel it, see it in his eyes that moment. I was numb that I could not shrug away
from him. These days I sometimes felt strange when he was around, a kind of
discomfort….but now…!”
“Did
you tell your mother?
No,
I can’t. That will make matters worse. You see they are not hitting off well and
anything I say might jeopardise my sister too.”
“Is
he your step father?”
“No,
no.”
Okay,
what do you want me to do?
“Nothing,
I just wanted this heaved off my chest.”
“Now
anything untoward any sign of it, let others outside know. Call me, if you may.”
“Hmm,
yes. Instead of wondering when one’s next vacation is, maybe one should set up
a life you don't need to escape from.”
Was
that a quote? I do not know. But that was what she texted the last before the
line went dead. Months have passed and she just vanished without a trace.
Perhaps her foot prints can be traced in the sands of time - in the deserts,
the mountains, the wild basins of South American rivers and the forests she
dreamt of. She may have gathered the courage to run away so that she has not to
escape from places and people. Pray she did not relent and be captive.
