Crying in the Rain

Crying in the Rain

When the eight-year-old girl heard her name, she dashed for the nook behind the bed and crouched there. When the door opened, she closed her eyes and hid her face between her knees and chanted, Ramji Ramji Ramji Ramji. Her rhythm broke when she felt a cold wooden stick being poked against her face. She tried to chant again but the sharp pain she felt above her eye from the second poke made it hard.

“Come out,” shouted Amma.

A third poke.

“Haramzadi, are your coming out or you want me to kill you right there?”

A silence followed, which was disturbed by a screeching sound of the moving of the bed. She looked up and saw light staring at her in the face. Amma wrung her ears and pushed her head against the bed, and said, “Haramzadi, what were you doing near that tree?”

“Amma, nothing.”

“Nothing? Tell me, or I’ll break your legs. You have blackened my face today. Tell me what were you doing?”

“Amma, I was just playing. Nothing else.”

“Talking to trees and you call it just playing, huh? Haramzadi, do you know what happened? Mohit saw you talking to the tree and he told the whole basti about it. All the women were laughing at me, and some even had the guts to say, ‘Show her to a tantric and get rid of the ghosts.’ Do you know how ashamed I was feeling? Tell me the truth, was Mohit right?”

She wiped her tears and looked at Amma.

Amma gave a muffled cry and said, “So Mohit was right. I will kill you today.”

She lay on the floor, curled up, while Amma pounded the baton on her body frenziedly. A silence followed, interrupted only by her sporadic snivels. She heard a sob, which was not hers, and then the sound of the baton being thrown on the ground. When the pain eased a bit, she opened her eyes and saw Amma sitting on the floor in front of her, her face streaked with faint tear marks, her fingers pressing her eyes. She was muttering, “Why don’t you listen to me my child, why? Why are you ruining your life? Why?”

“Amma,” she said through her tearful face, “why do you beat me? I have not done anything. I was only playing with it. Why don’t you beat those people? I didn’t do anything. They even pull down my skirt down in the market and laugh at me and keep calling me, “Mad, mad”. But I don’t do anything. I wanted to throw stone at them and bite them. But I didn’t do anything because you say. Why don’t you beat them?”

“Why don’t you understand my child, why don’t you understand? I know those people are animals. But didn’t I tell you to stay away from them? They just want to prove you are mad, just like you Baba. It gives them pleasure.

I am working day and night to save for your dowry. Even I have dreams of seeing my daughter in her wedding dress—but you will ruin everything. Why will anybody marry a mad girl? Why? They will throw stones at you and call you mad. Mad. Like your Baba. Nobody will marry you. Nobody.”

She looked at Amma’s wretched, tearful face, and said wiping Amma’s tears with her fingers, “Amma, don’t cry. Amma, I am sorry. Very sorry.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down.

Amma slapped her.

“What will this ‘sorry’ get you now?”

Amma wrung her ears and rammed her head against the bed and kept slapping her. Amma’s bangles broke, some shards of which dug in her flesh.

“Why didn’t you die the day you were born,” Amma said. “Why? You are nothing but a curse on me. A curse. You never listen to me—you never try to understand things. My parents told me to kill you when you were born. But I didn’t. I loved you, I brought you up, but I was wrong. I should have thrust sand in your nose the day you were born. Why didn’t I do it!”

Amma released her hand from her ears. She lay down, curled up and sobbed. Amma went out. A fire was burning inside her. Fire of Anger. She cried and cried and cried but the fire didn’t extinguish; the flames leapt up with every tear, searing her from inside.

Nandu, her puny five-year-old brother was peeping from behind the door. He could see her lying on the floor, her face covered with her hair, the sound of her sobs filling the air with gloom. He came in and squatted in front of her, and kept the glass of water on the floor and gently pushed it towards her. She looked up at him through the tears. He was looking at her like a curious little kid looks at an unfamiliar insect; his head was bent at an angle, the light shone in his eyes, and his lips were wry, as if he could feel the pain. She raised her hand in the air, as if to hit him. He fell back and his head rammed on the door. He went out.

When Amma came in an hour later, she was still lying on the floor. Amma sat besides her and passed her fingers through her hair. She jerked away Amma’s hand and uttered a grunt. Amma sat still for a minute, looking at her.

Amma said, “Forgive your Amma.”

She started sobbing loudly.

Amma said, “Look up.”

She didn’t look up, because if she did, she knew she would melt.

“Please forgive your Amma. Look, I am holding my ears also. Forgive me, my child.”

She screeched and started banging her head on the floor.

Amma placed her palm between the ground and her head and said in a tearful voice, “No my child, don’t. Forgive me, please. Beat me if you want, I wont complain.”

She raised her head and looked up into Amma’s eyes; they were as wet as hers. Her anger faded away somewhere. Like always. She never knew where. She dragged her body forward and kept her head in Amma’s lap.

Amma caressed her hand and said, “Your Amma is so bad. She is a devil. When you go up, complain to God about her. Tell Him that she was a bad mother and she used to beat you—”

“No Amma, no.”

“No, my child, do tell him. Tell Him she was so bad to you. Tell Him to beat her with whips and throw her in hell.”

“Amma, no. Amma you won’t go to hell. No, you won’t go.”

Amma cradled her lap and said after some time in a calm voice, “This world is very harsh. If people think you are mad like your Baba, then who will marry you?”

“But Amma I am not mad.”

“I know my child, I know. And I know you were just playing with the tree. But people don’t understand this. It is because of Mohit’s family that your Baba is in this condition; just because of an old family feud. Now they are searching for clues—they want to prove to the world that you are mad, so that no one can marry you. Amma is just trying to save you. When Amma beats you, it hurts her more then it hurts you. But what can Amma do? She is also helpless. If you don’t listen to her, how will you get married?

Now, promise me, you won’t ever go in that area. Promise me you won’t even go beyond Ramlal’s shop.”

“Promise.”

“Good girl. If you listen to me, you will get married in a good place. I want to see you in a wedding dress and then I can die peacefully.”

“No Amma, you won’t die. Amma, no, I won’t let you.”

“No, my child, every body has to die one day.”

“No” she shrieked and burst into fresh tears.

Amma wiped her tears with her pallu and said, “OK baba, I won’t die. Now, I have made parathas, you want to eat?”

“No.”

“Why no? You have eaten only one apple since morning. And because of you I have also not eaten. We both will eat together. I will feed you with my own hands. Wait here, I’ll get the plate.”

Before going out, Amma bend down and thrust a one-rupee note in her hands, and whispered, “Buy nankhatai with this.”

After Amma had gone to Vasant Colony for cleaning the utensils, she beckoned Nandu, who was sitting in his underwear and shirt near the tulsi plant. Nandu put the insect he was surveying in his shirt pocket and ran after her.

She turned back and called out, “Nandu, run fast.”

His speed was slow as he took short steps and ran with his eyes firmly fixed on the ground for impediments. He uttered a feeble cry. She turned back and waited for him. He made his way over the boulders and rocks, and tightly clutched her skirt when he reached her. She held his hand and they ran towards the deserted garden behind the Municipal Corporation building. Baba was sitting cross-legged on a platform, under the tree, looking at the ground, drowned in deep, deep contemplation; the cotton thread tied around his ear waved in the air. She and Nandu went and sat besides him. Baba raised a hand in the air and moved his index finger rhythmically, as if doing a sum. He turned towards Nandu, who was watching him with utter concentration and opened his mouth to speak something. His mouth remained opened, as if he was about to make a grave point of observation and someone had rudely interrupted him. He rubbed away with his palm the sum he was doing in the air and patted Nandu’s back—at which Nandu almost fell off the platform—and said, “Hello, Nandi, how are you?”

Nandu looked at his sister. She said, “But Baba, he is Nandu, not Nandi.”

Baba’s eyes lost their mirth and again became clouded with confusion; he withdrew his hand, as if Nandu had at once become a child unfamiliar and strange.

Baba said, “But why do you change his name every week?”

“No, Baba, we don’t. His name was always Nandu.”

Baba looked at Nandu, then at her, and then at Nandu. He took out the small steel box from the sack kept near his feet. He once searched for newborn mice in the trash mounds and placed them in this box. He would look at the little, wriggling, pink bodies from the air-holes and say, “They look so happy.” He felt they were wriggling out of happiness, and to spread more happiness, stuffed more of them in. For mysterious reasons, he released them one day. He then started collecting a different thing in it.

He brought the box closer to her and Nandu, like a magician about to perform a trick, and said, “Very very cold air inside. I caught it in winter.” Baba slowly opened the lid and said, “Ah! So cold!”

“Yes Baba, very cold,” she said.

Nandu looked confused.

Baba raised the box up and snapped it shut, like he had caught a mosquito. He clasped it by his chest and quickly tied a string around it, and said, “I have caught hot air. Now we will open it in winter.” Nandu looked at the air-holes, and then at Baba, and then at air-holes. He scratched his head and was about to say something, when Baba kept the box back in his sack.

“What is this?” Baba said looking at the nankhatai she had held out to him.

“Baba, this is nankhatai. Eat it.”

She gave two pieces to Nandu. Baba surveyed the brown square pieces on his paper and then licked them.

“Baba,” she said, “you have to eat it. Like this.”

Baba reluctantly ate it.

She kept a piece from her paper to Nandu’s paper. He looked at her for clarification, and when he got none, continued eating. When one piece was left, he neatly wrapped it in the paper and kept in his pocket. He looked at his pocket in dismay, for the insect was gone. He took out a golden wrapper and unfolded it. Inside was a piece of Cadbury, not larger than a shirt button. He promptly held it towards her. She shook her head. He held it towards Baba.

“No Nandini, you eat it.”

Nandu started at Baba for a brief period, and then ate it. Suddenly, he pulled at Baba’s kurta and said, “Baba, Baba, see.”

He kept his leg on the platform and searched for something on it.

He found it. “Here Baba, here it is. I fell down yesterday. So I got hurt here.”

Nandu kept his little fingertip precisely on the wound—which was itself not larger than his fingertip. Baba chewed his nankhatai and looked at Nandu; his lips were bent downwards and his forehead had crinkled. Then he took another bite, chewed it and looked at the wound, which also looked crinkled. Then Baba looked at Nandu’s forehead. Then he looked at the wound, and blew air on it. Then he looked at Nandu’s forehead and blew air on it. Nandu put his leg down, content with the first blow and puzzled by the second. He talked to Baba about the various insects he had collected from the rocks near his house, and also told him that he had seen a double-decker dog yesterday.

Not much later, while she was licking the traces of nankhatai from her fingers, Nandu was giving his pocket a forlorn search for the insect and Baba was contemplating, the word “Paagal” slit the tranquillity of the evening as if by a scythe. They all looked around. A stone hit Baba and he uttered a loud cry.

She went to Baba and tried to soothe him.

She shouted, “Who is it?”

Another stone hit him. He was now weeping.

She stepped down from the platform, picked up a stone and looked around. A voice came from behind the bush, “Oye pagalni,” and then giggles. She said Saaley Kuttay, and threw the stone at the bush. A stone hit her on the head and she fell back. She wiped her nose and tears with her skirt, stood up and started picking and throwing stones frenziedly at the bush, shouting after each stone, “Kutteykaminayharamzaadey Kutteykaminayharamzaadey” One more stone hit her but she didn’t stop. The giggles died from behind the bush. She stopped. The stone was clutched in her hand, dried leaves and pebbles were tangled with her hair, her face was covered with marks of tears and dirt stuck to it, and her little chest was rapidly rising and falling. She wiped her tears with her palm ran back to the tree. Baba had tightly clutched Nandu’s hand and was sobbing.

She tugged at Baba’s grip and said, “Leave him, Baba.”

Baba loosened his grip after she bit his hand with her teeth. She picked up Nandu and back home. Fortunately, Amma hadn’t arrived till then. Amma had strictly forbidden them to talk to Baba, to meet him or to even look at him when they passed by him in the market. When Amma had seen her talking to Baba last year, she was whipped with a belt.

She and Nandu were sitting on their respective cots in the kitchen, and Amma was taking morsels of rice between her fingers and feeding them one by one. It was Nandu’s chance when they heard a knock on the door. Amma leaned back to see who it was when Nandu leapt forward and ate the rice from between Amma’s fingers. Amma told them to eat by their own and she went to the door. The telegram announced that Amma’s father had died. Amma hurriedly did some packing and went to her village with Nandu on a bus. Due to the lack of funds, she was to stay with Amma’s friend.

Amma returned three days later, at six in the morning. With Nandu in her hands, she went to the well to drink water. She noticed Nandu was staring at the peepul tree, where Baba was sleeping. “Nandu,” she said, “don’t look there.” Amma did not look at Baba for more than a second, but that was enough for her to know that her daughter as also sleeping next to him. The women who had come to fill water from the wells were looking at Amma; their eyes swollen with pity. She was sleeping within an arm’s distance of Baba; the dirt and mud stuck to her face, legs, fingers but not interfering with their calmness and serenity, her palms joined together and kept under her head like a pillow, a tiny smile on her face that seemed to say, ‘Don’t disturb! I am watching a good dream.’ Next to them lay a paper plate and spoons that smelled of last night’s chutney. Behind them, a board read, ‘Mad House. Do No Disturb.’ Amma threw the packet of rice she had brought on her face. The serenity evaporated from her face. She opened her little eyes and had brought her hand to rub them, when Amma held it and dragged her across the ground. A voice bellowed in the air, “Arre, why do you leave this creature in the open, huh?”

The payal unclipped from her feet. She cried, “Amma, my payal, my payal. Wait.”

But Amma didn’t wait. She saw as the payal slowly drifted away, and was soon just a fleck of whiteness in the brown morning dust. When they reached home, Amma pushed her towards the tap. She said, holding her bleeding lip, “Amma, no Amma, I’m hurt.”

“Haramzadi, why did you go and sleep there? I told you not to go that side of the basti, didn’t I?”

“Amma, those people made me sleep alone. But I can’t sleep alone, I’m afraid.”

“You slept there daily?”

“Yes, Amma, but I was afraid. I can’t sleep alone.”

Amma picked up the metal bucket and threw it on her, and said “I will kill you today.” The sharp rim hit on her head and she fell on the ground. “Amma, no.” She tried to stand up and run away; but the thick film of tears had made it hard to see: she collided with the tap and fell back. “Amma, no,” she cried. She tried to stand up but something hit hard against her thighs. She saw Amma was holding something in her hands. The bat with which she beats wet clothes. She heard Nandu’s cries. Another blow; this time on her back. She coughed; her red sputum fell on the ground. The next blow made face fall flat on the red liquid. She heard a sound of banging, but felt no pain. She turned her head. Amma was banging her head on the wall. Nandu was crying on the doorway. “Amma, no,” she cried and dragged herself near Amma and held her feet. She stood up with the support of her Amma’s legs and tried to pull away Amma from the wall. But Amma kept hitting herself. She shrieked, “Amma no, Amma no.” She went between Amma and the wall and tried to push her away, but no avail. “Nandu,” she cried, “Nandu help me. Amma beating herself. Nandu come.” But Nandu didn’t come.

Amma cried, “I want to die. I don’t want to see my own daughter being admitted to a mental hospital.”

“No Amma, no. Get away from wall. I’m sorry.” Amma kicked her. But she stood up again and held Amma’s feed and tried to pull her off the wall. Amma rested her forehead against the wall, and wailed.

Amma said, “Now I feel I have started believing people. Perhaps my daughter really is mad. It’s all because of me. Me. Why didn’t I die before I gave birth to you?”

“No Amma, no. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.”

Amma turned back and saw her daughter coughing out red sputum and trying to say sorry, holding her earlobes, her feet red with bat marks, squatting up and down. Amma held her hand and pushed her in the room and closed the gate from outside. Amma’s loud, painful wails seemed to linger in the air like a dying bird with feathers of pain. She cried, “Amma no, Amma, don’t cry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.” But Amma cried. She stood on the stool and looked out from the opening in the wall. Amma had crouched near the gate. “Amma, sorry. Sorry, Amma. Forgive me.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down on the stool. But Amma still cried. Her feet shook with pain; she sat down on the stool. Then she heard Amma’s curses. She stood up and looked out. Amma was standing near the main gate, hollering abuses at some men, who were laughing at some distance.

The air was filled with the silence of a ransacked graveyard, but Amma’s wails still echoed in her ears. She now clawed her ears and twisted them and tried to pull them off; but they remained, and so did the wails in them. She was a devil, causing misery to everyone, including her own mother, her Amma. She remembered how the women would taunt Amma, telling her to throw to her daughter in the well to ward off the evil shadow, and how Amma would hold her and Nandu’s hands and walk away, saying nothing, with just tears rolling down. At home she would hide behind the gate, thinking Amma would throw her in the well, and when Amma saw her, she would cry and say, Amma please don’t throw me in the well; and Amma would wipe her tears, hug her, and feed her with her own hands and tell her that she is a piece of her heart and no one can throw her piece of heart in the well. How much Amma loved her. How much. Amma should have thrown her in the well. She was the reason for Amma’s tears. She felt like she was a mistake, a sin, whom Amma bore for years, without complaining. Amma worked so hard – from seven in the morning till nine in the night – washing utensils, cleaning floors, sweeping streets; and all this to feed her. Feed her. Feed a mistake. And that too with her with her own hands, never complaining when she bit it, never telling her to work in tea shops like other mothers do; loving her, loving again, and again, and more, loving a mistake. Amma even said she wished she had enough money to send her to school. She saw the tear of a failed dream in Amma’s eyes then. How much Amma wanted to give her. How much. She now clawed her face with her little fingers; red lines of pain formed. How much. She now rammed her fist on the wall. When she would wake up in sleep and start crying, Amma would make her sleep in her lap and then all the fears all the worries all the pains would go away, whoosh, like a rocket that never was; Amma would sing lullaby for her and tell her that she is her moon. A small piece of herself. Her world. Her everything. Amma never ever said she was a mistake. Never ever. The tears had now formed a small puddle on the ground. Poisonous tears. Tears shed by a mistake. Why did Amma love a devil so much? Why? More tears now fell in the puddle. Amma hit her only for her good. Her good. Only because Amma wanted her to get married and live a good life. More tears fell. And more. And then more. Amma would say, I will give you a red saree on your wedding, and you will look like a princess in it. She now picked up the stone and brought it down on her hand. Amma wanted to give so much to her daughter. She again brought down the stone and grunted with pain. So much. Again the stone came down, and then again. So much. And then once more. She felt something burning inside her. Fire. She fretted her teeth. Her tongue tasted the sweet blood. She was giving pain to the person because of whom Amma was crying. The flames leapt up. She clenched her hair and tried to pull them off. She banged her head on the floor. The fire seared her. She looked at her hands, hands of a mistake - she hated the design of her fingers, her red skin, her flesh, the sound of her cries, her existence. She the held her fingers between her teeth and bit them. Pain. Consoling pain. She was biting Amma’s miseries; biting a devil, biting a mistake. She turned her head and saw Nandu’s face in the window. He was trying to keep the glass of water on the sill. She leapt up towards him and held his wrist and pulled it. The glass fell down and he winced in pain. She bit his palm with her teeth. He started crying. She clutched his warm, shivering, fragile neck. She pushed his head from the window; he fell down from the stool he was standing on and ran back in the house. Seeing him cry, wince in pain, the fire ebbed, but only for a second. Now it leapt up again; with sound and with fury. She wasn’t able to breathe. She shrieked. The fire was in her throat. She clenched her throat and pressed it; she wanted to kill self. She liked the pain. Sweet pain. Soothing Pain. She gasped for breath, coughed, cried. She coughed, coughed again, coughed more. She wanted the blood to come out. She wanted the life to come out. The tears didn’t seem to dry up; they kept coming.

Amma opened the door two hours later.

It was two in the night when she opened her eyes, drew aside the blanket and crept in darkness towards the trunk. She spread her blanket on the floor, and quietly opened the large trunk. An assortment of smells burst forth, like a secret anxiously waiting inside, pervading the dull darkness of the night with a strange feeling of joy. Smell of a little boy who followed a little girl even before he knew who she was. Smell of a boy who loved before he knew the laws. Smell of a mother whose lap promised a sleep without nightmares. Smell of a mother who smelt like love. Smell of a love that always spilled beyond its boundaries. Smell of a love that never made you search old memories for happiness. Smell of a house where three people cried if one got hurt. Smells that she had grown up smelling. Smells she was smelling for the last time.

She turned back; Amma and Nandu were sound asleep. The trunk was divided by plyboards into three compartments; above each it was inscribed with a brick, ‘Amma’, ‘Nandu’, and ‘Neetu’ respectively. As she felt the rough cloth of her green dress, a dimpled smile came on her face. She kept it on the blanket along with the red dress and her undergarments, all of which Amma had washed the day before and neatly folded in the morning. She looked at Amma’s compartment – barren, dull. The smile shrunk from her face. She opened the wooden box from her compartment – a small Ponds cream, a comb hiding from dust inside its plastic wrap, a packet of bindis. She looked at the large comb with broken teeth in Amma’s compartment. She kept her comb and her bindi packet in Amma’s compartment and kept Amma’s large comb on her blanket. After a minute of thinking, she kept the Ponds cream also in Amma’s compartment. From her savings box, she kept a ten-rupee note over Amma’s saree and the rest on her blanket. She kissed the words ‘Amma’ and ‘Nandu’ and quietly closed the trunk. She kept aside her Hot Wheels car, her only toy, and knotted the blanket. She kept her car next to Nandu and a paper slip next to it; it read in Hindi, ‘Now it is yours.’ She whispered, “Bye” and kissed his hand and moved sideways to Amma. She looked at Amma’s face like a child looks at his birthday gift. A dimpled smile appeared on her face, and the past and future melted away into oblivion and what existed was only the present – which was nothing but a happy dream. She surveyed Amma’s eyes, nose, lips, ears, hair, skin. She joined her hands and prayed to God that she never forgets this face. She bent down and kissed Amma’s hand. Lured by its warmth, she rested her cheek on it. Tears came in her eyes, as if someone had snatched away that gift from the child. She snivelled. She couldn’t take her face away from Amma’s hand. One second more, she said to herself, just one second. Finally, she pulled her face away, keeping the last second as a memento. She crept towards the trunk and wiped her tears with the blanket. She knew she had to go before she gets weak. She picked up the blanket by its knot and walked towards the gate, after looking at Amma once again. Outside, the world was asleep, draped in an ebony blanket. She crouched by the doorway, and with the sack kept near her feet, she looked at Amma’s face while she waited for light. When day broke, she didn’t know why, it felt more dark. She pulled her face away from Amma and picked up her sack and walked out, after kissing the main gate.

As she walked towards the horizon, she wondered now who will feed her. She wiped her tears, and thought that she can always eat with her own hands, like most of the children. But—what if she wakes up in the night and cries? What will she do? She will cry a little and then she will go back to sleep. And what will she do if she misses Amma or Nandu? No, she reminded herself, she can’t go back. She was doing this for Amma. She reminded herself that she was a mistake. And by going away she was undoing this mistake from Amma’s life. But, this doesn’t answer the question—what will she do if she misses Amma and Nandu? She will try not to think about them. Yes, she wiped her tears, she will try not to think about them. But then—why is she crying? She kept the sack down and wailed. Why is she crying if what she is doing will bring happiness to her Amma? She didn’t know.

She turned back and looked at the house. Through the thin layer of mist, she could see Amma standing at the door. She wiped her eyes. Yes, Amma was standing at the door. She felt her feet shiver. She took a step towards Amma. In greed of love, she forgot what she was doing. She took one more step. Before she could throw aside the sack and run and hug Amma, she saw Amma go inside and close the door. She remained standing there, amidst the mist.