The Swayamvara

I looked at the wedding venue’s address again. Then, I looked up. There it was. The mandapam. Not bad. Even though I had lived in Chennai for more than a decade, I still found it a challenge to locate addresses outside Adyar. And this was way outside Adyar. But credits to the mandapam itself- it was massive, and definitely hard-to-miss. I shrugged my shoulders, half in resignation, half in fearful anticipation, before I walked in. The welcoming committee recognized me almost immediately; they comprised of all my classmates, and half of my best friends. After some cheery banter, they showed me to a seat, and went back to the entrance to resume their duty. I, for my part, slumped in my seat, and turned my attention to the most attention-demanding event in the hall- the music. Old veterans of semi-forgotten instruments played them like they were an extension of their arms. Familiar music enveloped the crowd, which was gradually swelling. The music, ever so familiar, continued to emanate from those instruments, which led me to ponder- did these players understand what they were playing? Did they appreciate the magnitude of the task faced by their ancestors, who sat down and said,” Listen, we need to come up with something for a wedding. What do the guys who come early do, else? We need to keep them occupied.”? Or did they just do it, learnt by rote from their dads for ages, so they could earn their 20K package to feed their families, until the next wedding? I paid close attention to the mridangam player. I had heard say that these people had to, as part of their training, slap rocks, cold water, and sand, to harden their palms. Did he think of the first time he cradled his swollen palms, or had he taken the sum of his experiences for granted, the magnitude of which has lost significance because of the numbing effects of Time? You could read nothing off his face, as it looked expressionlessly at the trumpet player for the next signal. So, I switched my quiet study to the trumpet player. Having been an asthma patient from birth, I could definitely appreciate the effort he put into sustaining a note till the veins danced and shimmered on his forehead and neck, a grotesque tribute to his skill. I closed my eyes, and let my head fall back a little. In what seemed like almost two heartbeats, I felt someone shake me awake, and tell me that I was expected to stand right next to the Bride’s family. I winced. This was exactly what I had been trying to avoid, but it couldn’t be helped now, and I let myself be led away. I saw familiar faces, but I was in no mood to engage anyone this morning. I fixed my gaze on the flowers adorning the altar. My brain yet again tried providing useless statistics to distract, as I vaguely remembered that on an average, almost 20% of the wedding expenditure, including jewellery, went to the purchase and transport of flowers, and its subsequent use in decoration. That money could cover another hall’s rent and food.
Suddenly, the tempo of the music changed to something more urgent, signaling the entrance of the bride, and my heart lulled to a stop, gently. I had imagined this moment a dozen different ways, with me in it, before I found out that the truth was starkly different. Afterwards, my mind had continued to imagine it in endlessly different scenarios, but my imagination couldn’t capture a speck of what actually unfolded. The music, the lights, the smell of jasmine….and She.
Truthfully, she was something of a Plain Jane in pictures, except for a really glowing smile. But having known her for almost ten years, I knew every one of her vast range of expressions, and the emotions they conveyed, and what every nuance in her voice meant. And the entire sum of her was something I stood in silent awe of; something that made me sit down, and say, “Gosh, there really must be a God. Who else could possibly make such a complex and wonderful creature?”
But now, no matter how much I tried blaming the advances in cosmetics, she sat there, a vision to be beheld, a sight to be silently appreciated with naked admiration in everyone’s eyes. I knew it wasn’t anything to do with the stunning silk sari, as much as her proud, yet relaxed, posture, which made her look like a Queen, even if she were to wear a lab coat. She looked around once, and her eyes almost bugged out when her glance rested on me. I couldn’t blame her, as I had absolutely, and firmly, refused her invitation two months ago. I flashed the half-mocking, half-comforting grin I always reserved for her, showing her I was still her old confidante and fellow adventurer. She hesitated, and then grinned so brightly that I felt a dull CLUNK somewhere in my chest cavity. I slouched a little at the pretext of picking flowers from a bowl, to ease the pain. Then, the music turned again, as the groom was brought back in by the father-in-law, having convinced him from absolving from his “Kashi-yatra”. I couldn’t help but begin making comparisons between he and I; I was five inches taller, fifteen kilos lighter, and three shades fairer. My IQ points might have exceeded his by at least 20, and salary by 20K. Most importantly of all, I loved her, and had been around her for a decade. He had been lucky they picked his name from a list of fifteen other guys off a matrimonial site, thirteen months ago. Yet, why wasn’t I the guy in white, being led by the father-in-law to the altar?
I wasn’t of the same caste, and he was.
For an unfettered second, I railed bitterly at my ancestors for having decided to stay in Kerala instead of moving to Tamil Nadu. Then, I sighed. I probably would have been Mr. Doofus there, if I had been brought up by his family. And I would never have had a chance with being anything to her, as Mr. Doofus.
We had never been romantically involved. We had been too close a pair of friends by the time I realized she was something much more to me. I had taken it for granted that we would spend our lives together, as I knew she was as dependent on me as I was on her. Nothing prepared me for the quiet chat we had, while she recounted in an impersonal, clinical manner, how she met a stranger, and had fixed a date with him to get to know him better. The overwhelming emotions, the helpless rage directed at no one in particular, the silent meditation on the caste system, and its impact, were still vivid. That the system, once meant to establish social harmony in times of yore, was being practised blindly in modern times set a series of thoughts in motion, which led to forbidden habits, and a haze of memories stitched together, as I surrendered myself to vices that promised to ease the pain, show me an answer, wipe out that which was etched.
Unpleasant memories were suddenly dispelled by the sudden rise of the music to that familiar and dreaded crescendo, when the groom tied the thread around the bride’s neck. I had planned on being far away for this event, eyes turned to a sight that could overwhelm the mental pictures I was sure to conjure. But suddenly, an inexplicable instinct took over me, commanding me to witness the events to follow. It was like a well-wisher’s silent, firm and purposeful gesture, telling me, “Look. Pay close attention; this is one of your life’s most defining moments. Do not miss it, for all your worth. Witness it as penance, as punishment, as atonement, as an exorcism.” I fixed my gaze on her bared neck, as her mother helped the groom tie the thread, finally passing the responsibility of that priceless miracle on to another family. But knowing her, I knew she’d hardly be responsible to anyone but herself. I smiled, and threw flowers at the couple, now circling the sacred fire slowly, hand in hand. The Earth and Moon, paying homage to the Sun that sustains them. I was Venus, alone and zooming off rapidly in another direction with every second. The sight sent unseen swords sliding in smoothly and silently, between ribs, through joints and right through my heart. Then, I spent the bravest and most torturous thirty two minutes, watching as the couple attained the blessings of all the elders, until my resolve snapped, and I shuddered as I let animal instinct take control over me. I quietly turned, and blindly shoved my way through the oncoming crowd. By the time I had reached the gates, I was half-blind, and I stumbled as I pulled my bike out, and started it. Just before I could flee, I noticed the groom’s name one last time.
“At least that’s one thing that you beat me in- the length of our names.”
I turned to look at the foreboding-looking entrance to the hall. I silently bowed my head for a minute, wishing her all the good, the glory and joy she deserved, and more.
The bike coughed a mournful cough once, as I disappeared into the ever-welcome, never-discriminating traffic, that Great Equalizer.

The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear

April 5th, 2013

Tag words: missing tooth, makeup, horoscope

Eradi checked his horoscope in the newspaper at exactly 7:12AM, after having digested the headlines at 7:00AM, the sports page at 7:07AM and the obituaries at 7:10AM. Do not think him morbid, or dark, in any manner; he had developed the habit of looking out for friends' names ever since he hit the age of 75 in a dramatic manner- plunging through the safety net from a height of about a tenth of a kilometre at his last act of trapeze. Eradi still treasured the blood soaked costume from then. Now, he resided in St. Mary Ann's Nursing Home for the Aged, paid for by an NGO who took care of circus artists and folk dancers. He read the papers everyday, made no trouble about his breakfast, and properly utilized his time outside in the evening. Eradi was a good inmate in all manners, but one; every night, at 7:00PM, he would return to his room, lock the door behind him, and play blaring music from an aged tape recorder. The Matron had tried gifting him a music player, but had withdrawn his offer hastily, when the taciturn Eradi's face turned a squishy, bright red with apoplexy. The music, hence, continued to blare, and the Matron resignedly changed the TV timings of the B block to 7:00PM. Thus, every night, the corridor stood empty witness to Eradi's revisitations of his past. For, no one ever knew that Eradi had smuggled in his face paint, his makeup, his other "self". The music he played was his act's song- "The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear", by Ji Tzu Tan. He would never forget the progression of notes even if he were to die, for he had been born to it; a child born in a circus caravan to 2 trapeze artists. 

Every child's dream.

What a nightmare. 

His entire life could be summarized into that 6 minute track. He had relished his accident, utterly believing that he had escaped that life, that costume, that song. 

Yet, the first night in the nursing home, the nightmare had occurred, more vivid than his vision had been in 13 years. The net, the speeding earth, the twanging snap of rope, and the gnashing crunch of bone. But, the crescendo of the dream (and the song) was the abrupt discontinuing of the song, the silence that did not belong in the story. Someone had shut the song off.

Why had they turned the song off?

Had he, Eradi, not the right to listen to the song that had been his ditty, his anthem, his friend and his dirge? 

He had woken up screaming in terror, at the idea that someone, anyone, could, with the press of a button,stop the song that was, in essence, his very being.

He refused to eat for 2 days, until the day he played the cassette. The song had submerged him, filled him, supported him, and whispered his name over and over, like a chant that made his skeleton more tangible, more solid than it had ever been, summoning from his depths all of him. 

He had, in a vitalized trance, sat in front of his square little mirror, opened his makeup trunk, and applied with unforgotten skill, the paints that made the other "him".

Rocky.

The Clown.

The Jester.

The Child-Dream stealer.

Rocky looked the same. His eyes were tired and rheumy, and his hair just barely made whisps above his ears. He also appeared to be missing a tooth. But those were minor, smidgen changes. What mattered still remained; the grin, the nose, the dimples that never ceased to exist. They were the same. Rocky, Eradi had come to realize at the age of eleven, was the reason Eradi existed. One could not be without the other. Rocky made people touch the skies, made their hearts pound till their shiny, sweaty faces plunged with him in terror, towards the nets, before he pulled off an escape they heartily acknowledge with applause. Ah, applause. It fed Rocky. That was probably why he went wild in the fag end of their career, when the Great Chinese Traveling Circus could hardly muster a fifty-strong crowd. Eradi still remembered the last time he saw Rocky, his makeup smudged, his happy face contorted from within, the paint cracking at his frown lines. The incarnation of hate...

Eradi-stealer.

He had spoken about Rocky to his Doctor in the nursing home. They told him Rocky did not exist. They told him that he still remained Eradi when the makeup was on. He had shaken his head in exasperation the first 2 times, then he had stopped visiting the doctor because he seemed to be stupid. How would the Doctor know Rocky wasn't real if he hadn't met him? Had the Doctor ever had his dreams stolen and flung through the skies by Rocky's acts? He would definitely change his mind about Rocky then. Eradi had, as a result, taken to believing in Zodiac signs. They managed to bend the truth to mean anything the reader desired. Like his horoscope this particular day:

"Follow your intuition today, and take on challenges you have kept aside. Success is sure to favour you. Romance is a little low, but as long as your spouse/partner does not expect a trip somewhere, things should be just fine."

Hence, he had followed his intuition, and worn his makeup to the mess hall, enduring the stares and comments of his fellow inmates. As he spooned peas into his red, painted mouth, he knew what he had to look forward to. The next day, he would read the headlines at 7:00AM, the sports page at 7:07AM, the obituaries at 7:10AM, and the horoscope at 7:12AM. He would wait until sunset, and at 7:00PM, he would insert the cassette into the tape recorder. And Eradi would apply makeup to the tunes and strains of "The Dance and Death of Kuma The Bear" filling his room. And then, he would die somewhere in the near future.

The End.

But until that day, Eradi would meet Rocky.

And the song would play, echoing in the dark, square corridors of B block, St. Mary Ann's Nursing Home for the Aged.