Broken Hug

Strange Encounter

To the left of the balcony were several pairs of male and female footwear. Ms Dastidar rang the door bell and soon a woman appeared. Though she was in her mid thirties, her face fooled her age, making her appear twenty years older. Her features closely resembled Samita’s, only that she wore glasses. She nodded at Ms Dastidar and wished the professors good morning; simultaneously her eyes moved from one to the other. Once ushered inside, their eyes fell on Samita lying on a cot, closed eyelids, ears and nostrils plugged with cotton. She was dressed in white cotton salwar kameez. A white piece of cloth covered her throat where the bulge could be made out, possibly from a wad of cotton covering the stitches.   

            But her face still retained the innocence that she had always worn. The faint fragrance of jasmine flowers from the incense sticks on the table floated all over the room – Samita moving about – and coupled with this was the smell from some white flowers I was unaware of. The smells mysteriously trapped my mind. Fai. Suicide. Fai here. Disbelief like a sea in turmoil.

Suddenly a thousand and one streams of lights of all colours zoomed around the room, joined together and swirled into a deranged dance. Then they hurtled towards Rohan, picked him up like a piece of paper in the strong wind and flung him from one side of the room to the other. They banged his head from left to right and from right to left. Catching hold of the room, the colours swung within it, and when Rohan opened his eyes he could hear his voice, suppressed, uttering, Charoen… Charoen…

A hand felt soft on his face. He opened his eyes and the face of Mrs. Sharma, the philosophy professor, was looking down at him. The other colleagues sat, surrounding him, marks of agitation written on their faces.

“What is he muttering,” the dean asked.                                                                          

“Some word,” Mrs. Sharma said.

She looked at me.   

Soon Rohan was helped to sit up. An arm stretched out, holding a glass of water. His eyes fell on the wall and the TV was swaying, the cupboard warped. Everybody and everything bent and twisted and went out of shape, but Samita didn’t.

Some young boys and girls seated around Samita, and some elders, probably relatives and neighbours seated on couches, looked at him. An aged lady, sari-clad, frail in body, her mouth sunk in for want of teeth and dishevelled white hair, stood at one of the doorways framing the gap. Her eyes were mysteriously fixed at the group of educators. A mixture of wonder and stupefaction, and unsolved mystery of life and death hovered around her eyes and in her mind. What can be more unfortunate for me than to see my granddaughter’s death. Can I ever pray for my peaceful death?

            Mr. Biswas handed the bunch of flowers to Samita’s mother. Her eyes were red and wet with tears. The lashes had collected themselves into bunches and sleep seemed to have permanently abandoned her.

            There are moments when Silence speaks more than a thousand words. Here, in Samita’s house, the group of educators had travelled all the way with Silence, guided by it, made wise by it. Silence arose with new definition: Silence meant death; the curls of incense smoke; fragrance it spreads all over the room; and Silence means the innocent Samita with cotton bits in her ears and nostrils and a slit throat.

            All that they could do was go deep within their hearts and look for the flower with the most sympathetic colour and touch it and apply it to our inner self.   

            Once we were by the door, Mr. Biswas assured Samita’s mother that the door of the college was always open for her. “Our love for Samita is no less,” the dean’s voice assured. “She will always be with us; we will hold a special condolence meeting for her in the college campus. And tomorrow the college will be kept closed.”

Rohan was helped by two colleagues to the jeep, though he was able to walk on his own. The last that they saw of Samita’s mother that day was she standing at the door and tears welling up in her eyes till the vehicle vanished at the road bend.

            While travelling back, Mr. Gordon suggested if the college could start a competition in memory of Samita. “Yes, that is not a bad idea,” the dean nodded. “You mean something in her line of skill. Like a 1000 metre Samita Memorial Prize.”

            Back in college Rohan’s heart hungered to see Charoen. Nothing was right. She is my healer. My physician.

The student representatives were called to meet in the dean’s office. The news was given to them. A notice was put up on the notice board.

*

News had already spread unofficially in the college about the suicide, but now it being official, the students became restless. 

A short while later, Rohan wondered at the turn of events. His mind was all over. Who would be the next in the list; the next numbered one to surrender to the hand of suicide due to academic pressure; the pressure from society; the pressure of the vicious circle called education. There have been times, during lecture, his explanations had meandered off to another road. He had openly spoken to his students to indulge in self education.

“The library has so many books, and one can even take advantage of the internet library. Take part in discourse,” Rohan had told them. “The education system has to do away with traditional methods though the concept is retained.”

A tap sounded and he slid the tinted and curtained door open. Charoen and her classmate Hetal stood at the door. No sign of the least smile was visible on their faces.

“Sir,” Hetal’s voice was hardly audible, “we were just planning upon Monika fashioning Samita’s bust out of wood.”

I nodded.

“She is good at woodwork.” Hetal insisted.

The class wants to contribute. They want to show their love and concern for Samita.

“Should we give this proposal to the dean?” Charoen asked.

Rohan looked out of the window. “It’s undoubtedly a unique idea,” I remarked, my eyes now at the girls. “You can, and I think it’s imperative to let the Head know about it before you speak to any other authority. And by the way, let the student representative speak.”

The girls nodded, their quietness a result of the loss weighing heavy upon them too. They left the office, and Rohan leaned back into his thoughts. But very soon Charoen returned. Rohan smiled; the corner of her mouth smiled a bit. But his intuition told him she was ill at ease.

“Water,” he asked her, making an endeavour to begin some conversation. She shook her head. “I’ve brought your notebook.” He tried again.

“No, keep it with you.” Her words were curt. Some mark of worry showed on her face.

“You okay?”

She nodded once more. “I’m fine.”

“Who’s in the class?”

“Free period. But everyone’s talking about Samita.” A strange quietness trapped in her voice. Next moment she turned and was gone.

A mark of worry creased up on his face. The picture of the disturbance on her face refused to leave his mind. Or is it that my mind is picturing the words of her parents’ separation mentioned in the green notebook?

Later during lunch break Rohan was sitting at one of the corner benches of the cafeteria having his food. Ravi came up and sat across the table, mixing chilli prawn with cabbage and peas curry into the rice with a clatter. He coughed, as if intentionally announcing, You professor of Creative Writing, you are taking my girl out… You are whispering sweet nothings into her ears… I saw you holding her hand at Relax, and then you got into the cab with her. And I followed your cab.

            Ravi threw him a casual look, the way fishermen cast their nets standing on their traditional fishing boats. They swing the upper portion of their body to the left; and with the artistic twist of a batsman hitting the ball outside the fence, Ravi turned every now and then and looked at me. He twisted his wrist, the chain around threw a dull sound. His every move was like a punch directed to the professor’s face. The first one was for his nose; and after he had taken a spoonful of rice and chilli-prawn curry, he aimed one for his left jaw. The next one, as he gulped his food fiercely (as if biting the educator’s finger inside his mouth), he aimed for his chin; and the next for his eyes. But the opponent across the table felt nothing but the delicious and delectable taste of the Tom Yum Soup, the pieces of the baby octopus soft and crunchy adding to the great lunch in the college dining area. Every now and then Rohan’s eyes fell on Charoen, standing near the water cooler, her black skirt and pink top strikingly attractive (making him rush to her and fill her mouth with kisses), the earrings dangling like the gunmetal earrings of the female smoky being whom Rohan had seen at the café and at his study window. As Charoen stood with her shoulder against the wall that turned towards the flight of stairs, she gave an enigmatic smile at him.