Short Stories >> Vichoro
Written By: Smt.Sundri Uttamchandani
Translated by R. Ishwarlal
Sundri Uttamchandani is one of the most major Sindhi short story writers. Best
among all women Sindhi writers, and better than all Progressive Writers put
together. Sahitya Academy Award Winner, she has also written novels.
It seems as if on a dark bleak night the music is muted in the musician’s room
and the instruments, devoid of rhythm and beat, are silent. Only the few windows
now open let in the rays of silvery moonlight. In every nook and corner of the
room inaudible sighs and moans speak of the hovering mute emotions. Amidst the
haze of the smoke of joss-sticks and the rays of the moonlight, you appear every
now and then as the outlines of a memory-laden vision of a dream girl.
The mind taunts, “Why do you keep memories of the one you do wish to forget”.
True! But what else has remained with me except the memories.
In this hospital room, smelling strongly of disinfectants, every thing seems
washed and scrubbed. Mind has no complaints against you. Only your outlines, of
a semi-goddess, remain the silent serene figure as at the marriage ceremony two
years ago. If only on that day you had not remained so, but reacted and rejected
me saying, “I do not wish to go through this ritual of a wedding ceremony”. You
should have rebelled to break this fragile, thread like bond that evening
itself, not later when the gossamer – thread had developed into a firm
relationship.
It is now two years since the break became final as separation. Your mother and
my mother at whose initiative the knot was tied in the first instance are no
longer in this world. Our relationship has lost its validity. Nevertheless, we
are seen as husband and wife in the eyes of the world. It is but a farce. As the
end of this farce draws near, my mind struggles to avoid the inevitable, to see
and meet you. This overwhelming desire impelled me to mount on my motor cycle
and speed towards you, only to end up with a broken leg.
True, my leg did break only yesterday, but with your departure from our life, do
you know much more was already in pieces. Just as with the breaking of a beam,
the house collapses, so also my world, my relationship with you and indeed my
very heart lay in shambles.
I know you have been so brought up as to feel intensely for others’ sorrows and
sufferings, however slight, and to identify them with your own. But my sorrow…
oh, forget it. Time for recriminations is past, the wound in my leg is badly
infected and by morning it would be amputated. It should have been done today
itself, but who cares for me when I am myself indifferent to my life. I feel as
if the poison has taken roots not only in the leg, but is slowly creeping up and
spreading throughout my body. By next morning, who knows what will happen.
Perhaps the fire will have consumed everything.
I do not feel up to facing life with this lonely, leaden heart. A small sorrow
that gnaws at my heart is what will happen to those sparkling bangles on your
slim wrists to those ear rings of yours. These two adornments on your body were
extremely attractive to me. At times, an overwhelming desire to see them would
bring me to the street where you like. You would see me, but pretend that you
had not.
The estrangement in our hearts was too deep to recognize the nearness of our
bodies, postpone any attempt to bridge the chasm in our minds.
You might as well forgive me today for is it not our custom and culture to
forgive the dead.
Conventional, you must certainly never have been. I remember my mother
admonishing you: “Daughters-in-law going to college, having friends, talking
freely with other men ! No, it is not in our custom.”
I kept quiet then in silent approval of my mother’s views. You had, with lowered
head, replied, “I did not know that in high-class families, life is so strangled
!”.
You had great zest for living life your way. My mother wanted you to have a
homely life with all the family adornments and jewellery. But you were from a
different world. Fashions, clothes and jewellery had no meaning for you. You
were against all customs and conventions. I was brought up to accept
conventions, but not to speak out against them. Our upbringing was different.
Our life-styles and ways crossed each other. Time passed uneasily for both of
us.
I hear others whispering about you and your accomplishments, that you have now
passed your B.Ed. and been appointed as Head Mistress of a school; that you have
organized cultural events, lectures; that you have persuaded your cousin to stop
drinking; another to accept and respect his dark-skinned wife.
My mother had called you a shame on our family and I had supported her and lent
weight to her words.
Now, at this moment, when my mind is free from prejudices and hatred, I perceive
you as pure as a lotus, indeed as a sparkling jewel. The dazzle of a jewel is
for the world to admire, but to sheet of glass, which dares to come close, it is
only a cutting edge, to slice and divide. So too is my slain heart. I now
comprehend to searing pain of your mind when I raised my hand on you. I remember
your eyes then burning with defiance like lit torches. The strength of such
defiance in the fragile frame of a woman, such steel like hardness of purpose !
I am at a loss to understand its source till today. But I do know that, within
the tenderness of a woman, somewhere in a corner, lurks the rocklike strength of
her indomitable spirit to break free. You too did display such firmness, you
opened the door and boldly walked out of the house. Woman and such boldness !.
We had crossed the threshhold of life with childish ignorance, but when mature,
the bonds between us had already snapped; knowledge of the reality and
complexity of life came too late to me. By then, you had already gone too far
away, reached a point of no return.
Your success in B.Ed. sealed all my hopes. I do not know how many examinations I
have faced during these years spent behind the counter selling books and pens.
I, too have undergone bitter changes.
Many of my customers were girls. Anita was one. She was very regular, sometimes
for repairs and at other times for new pens or ball-point pens. She was very
talkative and full of mirth. I got the impression that she had a crush on me and
that flattered my ego that at last there was some one who cares for me. Such
emotions were gratifying, but at times brought forth painful memories of happy,
laughter-filled days I had spent with you. One day, Anita came into the shop
with her boy-friend. “He always gives me a lucky pen,” she told him, pointing to
me. “That is how I did well in my papers”.
“Now, Anita ! You are getting married. You have no need to pass any more exams”,
remarked her boy-friend.
“But I shall continue coming to this shop”, Anita replied.
“To this pen-wala”, he asked in such obvious contempt that I was taken aback.
Before I could frame a suitable reply, he hurriedly led her out of the shop.
Anita came again to my shop after a long time to invite me to her wedding.
“By what relationship are you inviting this pen-wala ?” I asked her.
“It is not necessary to have any relationship with some one for inviting him to
one’s wedding”.
“And with a pen-wala, certainly not !” I replied.
“Now don’t get annoyed, my pen-wala brother ! There are so many books in your
shop, I will keep visiting you for them”.
“But your husband will drag you away from here”.
“Why ?”
“He dislikes the pen-wala”.
“Oh ! but it is not necessary for him to approve whosoever I should speak to”.
“I do not mean that”.
“All right, then do come to my wedding”.
I did not, of course, go to her wedding, but I did increase the number of books
in my lending library. As a result, I came in contact with more and more of
educated and intelligent folk. My mind came out of its shell and new fragrant
vistas opened out before me. I began to understand human nature more deeply,
their good qualities, their compulsions of birth, status and wealth. My
intellectual horizons broadened to look into the minds of people around and get
to know them, understand them. As my contact with neighbours became more close,
they would often advise me to effect a reconciliation with you and bring you
back into my house. Every time I made up my mind to come to see you to attempt
reconciliation, my own abominable behaviour in the past would hold me back. I
would recollect with shame my scolding you on the slightest pretext, and trying
to misinterpret your good-natured and polite answers to others’ questions. Why,
even your silence to my constant nagging was misconstrued by me. My eyes burn
with tears of remorse at the memories of my kicking you.
I searched to find your spirit in the girls who came to buy fountain-pens from
my shop, in all of them, but alas found in none. If only you had stepped into my
shop once for a pen to write your papers with !. But would it have made any
different to the past events ?.
My education was incomplete. So much so I did not realize that marriage was by
no means the end of the journey, but rather the beginning of a long arduous
climb, while you, even after marriage, sought opportunities for
self-advancement.
Having found you, I felt satisfied. A wife like you satiated me completely, it
could not be otherwise. That was my prime fault.
You had once collected your neighbours around you to narrate the tale of king
Janaka who, despite his pleasure laden life, used to keep one of his legs in a
pit of fire as a mark of his detachment from pleasures. I had then remarked,
“Perhaps, kind Janaka did not have an accomplished wife like you, one who could
take the burden of the salvation of seven generations on her shoulders !”. I was
gasping with glee. You did not even smile, and why should you ?.
You were a perfect woman, you must have yearned for a perfect man. In our
tradition bound society, rarely does a person think in those terms. It is
believed that any man is suitable for any woman.
Whenever you boldly discussed politics with my cousins on the terrace of our
house, I would stealthily sneak out into the house. Perhaps the memory of such
happenings prevented you from joining me in my laughter. You could not even
smile on such occasions. May be you were carried away by the life story of
Kalidasa who received admonition from his wife for his foolishness. Exactly, at
such moments, a feeling of inferiority would grip me, which you failed to
understand. Instead, hatred welled up in your heart. Unable to come to terms
with my feeling of inferiority, I came to hate you, progressively more and more,
and the valley of divide between us became deeper and deeper…
At last, I did pick up sufficient courage and confidence in the fond hope that I
would once again be able to win you over. I mounted my motor cycle and sped
towards you. Alas, I could not reach you, but only this hospital bed !…
It is late. Night has advanced, the corridors of the hospital are silent and the
lights extinguished like hope from my heart.
Good-bye, my queen. As you have broken all customs and conventions, break one
more, that of a widow’s dress and the life of widowhood.
One thing more. I hesitate to write. But then everyone, breathing his last, has
the right for a last request. I, too. If you find an ideal partner, do marry
again. My best wishes, although not welcome, are always with you. I conclude
this letter, but my heart would continue to write. I recollect another incident
when you, reading aloud Meghaduta to your friend, had drawn a long sigh and
exclaimed !. “Yakshini like women are still plenty, but Yaksha like men are
indeed rare, they are not to be found today”.
Today, after many years of separation, the spirit that flickers in this gasping
frame, does carry a heart. Perhaps, separation alone gives birth to an affection
filled Yaksha like heart.
The hand falters. Memories of the past flit across the screen of the mind, words
turn to scrawls. Adieu, yours forever, whether you accept or not…