Beyond the Lakshmana Rekha

  

Beyond the Lakshmana Rekha

A haze is covering my vision, the haze that is peculiar to authors who are searching for the stories to show up and conjure themselves.  I am feeling boxed in, limited by the despondent and desolate news that is popping up around me. It is laughable, the titanic world is being held for ransom by the limitations of the extremely small-minded people. I even laugh a little, but the appreciation of the metaphor in my thoughts disappear in the haze. Is safety nonexistent today? I turn the wheels of space and time in search of my story. A person in a black long coat swims through the haze and becomes clearer. A young 17-year-old boy plods into the boundaries of my story. I follow my muse into his domain……

Ahmed pulls his coat tighter around his neck and holds on to it, a gesture of nervousness?  But it is cold, a very cold December day. The snow is falling in blotches onto the unkempt pavement conveniently.

Conveniently? Yes, conveniently.

When the local politician would usher in the media along with the foreigners next week, all they would see, would be the pristine white fresh snow.  Not the unkempt pavements, broken glass, overflowing sewage or the blood stains beneath. The cameras would indeed by blinded by the radiating light. Curfew had been clamped in this land from quite a long time. The curfew was on and off, true, but mostly on. Internet was off most of the time, phones lines were jammed to prevent the terrorists from communicating- as if that was the only thing that needed to be communicated among humans. A curse in his native tongue makes its way from his heart to his tongue and he spits it out on to the pavement, at least, something to break the snow cover. One does not heap hardships on people just because they are used to it. People were put behind bars before, but now the entire land was imprisoned!

He hesitates just a moment before crossing over from the boundary of his housing colony onto the main road. He takes a deep breath of the cold air and runs his finger through his hair. There was really no point in thinking or hesitating. Sometimes, one had to do what was required. With his brother dead in the holy war, he must take up this task, for his father. This border was something he must cross anyway.  He quickly and nimbly plods on to the road.  He shifts and moves close to the walls of the shops to avoid being seen. It is predawn, the best time to venture out. Nights were dangerous, the darkness made the military men trigger happy. Mornings were too conspicuous.  He reaches the cobblestone archway at the crossroads. He cautiously looks out for the guns at the other end and runs across. Then ducking and hiding, he completes the 1-kilometer marathon to his friend’s shop.

At least, it had been a shop. The name board is still there, but the shop has been shut for some time now. He quickly gives the code knock on the door. The curtain moves, the door opens, and he steps inside panting in the cold air. They know the drill. They had done this before. His friend hands over the packet and said, “It’s an old one. It has expired, but it will still work. Just ask him to press it harder.” Ahmed nods and starts to step out. “You want a smoke? If we are to die anyway, this is a better way” his friend chortles.

The boy nods again, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips and took a few puffs from the stub. He could not stay any longer. Dawn is beginning to break out. Handing back the stub, he starts back, tracing the path he had taken.  As he came to the cobblestone archway, he looks to the left and right. The pleasure of the smoke has made him a little at ease with the world. He ran across the archway. A shot rings, filling the cold winter emptiness. 

A thud – That is Ahmad stumbling and falling to the ground.

A clatter- The inhaler that is in his hand clatters into the gutter.                  

The crackle of the static announces, “Man down! Man down!”

The boy disappears into the haze. I search for him, wanting to know, wanting to sure he was ok!  He is nowhere to be found. Instead I see the blurry outlines of petite Pragya, around 3000kms away.

Pragya checks herself out in the mirror approvingly. She likes what she sees. She had surely lost some weight and it reflects well on her curves.  She lovingly pulls out the svelte black skirt. The skirt had loyally waited long enough for her. It had been Myra’s idea. “Buy a dress to die for, that is at least 2 sizes small for you.  You will see how your weight loss goals work.” It had worked! She had worked out like crazy and followed a strict diet.  More than 5 kgs in 3 weeks! She was quite happy with her hard work. She puts on the skirt.  Perfect. The spaghetti crop top calls out to her from the closet. Pragya picks it up with a laugh. “It is freedom time for you too!”

She is running her fingers through her hair, when she heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. She quickly picks up the black jacket and zips it up. No point in attracting her mother’s attention. Her mother was talking, “Another rape in Hyderabad! How do you protect your daughters anymore? Can we keep them locked up?  Here, I brought some kheer for you….”

She stops in mid-sentence and sat down on the bed, “Are you going out somewhere, now? It is already 7 pm. Hasn’t you father told you not to go out after 8? When will you return if you go now? And what is that you are wearing? When did you buy that?”

So many questions. It was just funny that her mother still asks them. She hardly ever got any answers from her daughter. Pragya picks up her bag and walks towards the door. Her mother’s call was echoing from her back as she ran down the stairs. When the repeated calls start to pierce her, she turns at the foot of the stairs and half looking back said,” Its Myra’s skirt maa. I am going to her house to study for some time. So, I thought I will wear her skirt.” And she starts walking again, hoping everything was covered.

Apparently not. “How can you wear her skirt if you are going to return it to her? Will you be back by 8? No breaking the rules Pragya”

“Mom! You are talking as if that’s the only thing I do-breaking rules. I will be there for some time, maybe 11. Myra’s bother or father will drop me back,” she rushes to the door, before other questions pop. “And don’t embarrass me by checking with her mother like you did last time!” The door bangs shut.

These parents, ------dictators really! Don’t do this, don’t wear that! They would lock her up if they could! Fuming Pragya runs to the street corner. The cab is waiting. She gets into it. Soon she reaches the party venue, and  the parental troubles were forgotten. “Pragya, you look hot” is the first comment she gets. She laughs feeling the heat running through her. Pouts are given, photos are shot, a few shots are downed. Time does not seem to matter. When she starts back at 11 pm, and gets into the cab, she is feeling a little giddy with that exhilarating thrill that only youth can feel. She considers sharing the ride details with her father, as she had been instructed to do. She sees 15 calls and as many messages from him! She sends a curt message that she is on the way home and put the phone on mute. Her eyes close a bit and then a little more.

When they open, the cab has stopped, and 2 pairs of drunk eyes are looking at her through the glass.

I panic! I can’t see clearly through the haze! She should not have done that, crossing her limits. It was not safe! Wasn’t this bound to happen? I shudder and shut my eyes. When I open them, Pragya is no longer there! I feel my breath catching in my throat. Help! Help! Somebody please Help! There I see someone, a middle aged, bespectacled, man rummaging through his attic. Will he help?

A 1000 kilometers from Pragya, Siddesh sneezes on the top rung of the ladder, leaning against the attic. He is cleaning the attic, clearing out rather. They are moving to one of those new self-contained villa communities, a little outside the city. A paradise within, the advertisement had claimed, and his wife had agreed enthusiastically.  What about the road to hell that led to it? It was a virtual carbon dioxide spa where fast existed in slow motion. Siddesh dreads the travel. It would only shrink his already squeezed out day. He finds the irritation returning. It was ok for her. She worked from home. Somehow, he could not drum up enthusiasm for this move. He had been clearly vetoed. Maybe that was why, he was unable to push out the inertia that confronted him regarding this cleaning. “You are the hoarder here. We are surely not going to take the junk to the new place. Siddesh.  Just get into it and dispose everything,” she had said.

 He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, a childhood habit. Except now, it meets the scalp which fronts his receding hairline. That is when he spots his guitar. At first, he ignores it, he never liked confrontations. The guitar calls out to him.  He picks it up with a sheepish smile. The unexpected memory provides a welcome distraction, as if giving him assurance that the hoarding was after all worth it. He brings it down, takes it out of its case, dusts it and sits down on a stool. After a couple of twangs, he starts strumming it. They say music is muscle memory. It must have been, because the notes do flow out, albeit a little hesitantly. As if they were unsure if their creator wanted them out at all, after 20 years. You see they too had memory, the notes. They had not forgotten how their creator had shunted them out and kept them outside the border- the border of success, of having arrived in the world. And Siddesh had ended on the right side of the border. He had worked hard, followed his instincts and climbed the corporate ladder steadily. He had been a supportive husband, sharing the load at home always. He had supported his children in pursuing their dreams, something his father had never done.  His father, while sufficiently proud of his son’s talent had really never looked at music as a career option. The borders had been clear. “Pursue anything that will help you succeed and give you a secure future.   There are a lot of choices. I am not forcing you into anything!” his father had replied to that lone moment of rebellion. “Hobbies are hobbies. I never prevented you from pursuing them. In fact, I paid the fees for your class! Son, it is time to grow up now!”

Siddesh had never looked back at the border beyond which he had left the Rockstar, and a sensitive musician ages ago. As he strums one of his favorite songs, the journey flashes past him, barges moving on the river of music. He had done the right thing, he was sure, made the right decision. The music finds a way inside and hits his soul with its strong chords.

Twang! The string snaps and the river turns into a waterfall as Siddesh collapses into tears.

I feel the tears through the infinite haze. My heart weeps for him, but why? Hadn’t he done the right thing? Hadn’t he done what I did? What lay across that border was unknown terrain, hard, uphill with no clarity. Surely a journey to the other side would have left him rudderless?

The haze becomes a vortex and drags me down, where I see Sita.

7000 years ago, Sita had stood behind the line pondering what to do. Her brother-in-law had cautioned her not to cross the line. “Stay within the border and you will be safe,” he had said.  He had drawn the Lakshmana Rekha. Now this Brahmin was asking her to cross it. Her upbringing had conditioned her to obey rules, but her upbringing had also conditioned her to respect guests. She looks up at his face. Was there something disquieting or scary even? Even if there was, how would she have recognized it? She had lived in a cocoon of humanity, kindness, and luxury. What did she know about bad people and their evil intentions? Besides, who would dare to harm the princess of Mithila, the queen of Ayodhya. She steps across the border and the earth is jerked out from under her feet.

 I stand viewing the map of space and time. So many stories of borders and the dangers of transgressing them. So effective! Effective in keeping the person in or out, depending on the side that is narrating the story

Stop! I put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to hear anymore or repeat them anymore, these stories.  Let me rewrite them, rewrite them such that the border dissolves into the empowerment of the one behind the border and eradication of the dangers beyond.

Couldn’t Sita empower herself to fight Ravana? Couldn’t Siddesh have had a go in testing the border before accepting it blindly? Couldn’t we have provided Pragya a world where crossing the border was safe? Couldn’t Ahmed have the normal world that was rightfully his? Couldn’t they? Couldn’t we?

Can we rewrite the stories of Lakshmana Rekha?