white was a colour too. It depended on" how you saw it. It was not a colour to be afraid of, shy away from. A bowl of rice, a perfect white mound. Milk in Rani's feeding bottle, as she noisily gulped it up, legs waving in the air. A single white rose trembling between the dark green leaves, petals loosened by a sudden breeze. The creamy translucence of pearls in a perfect semi-circle, nestling in the blue satin of her jewellery box. The white pages of her diary open before her, patiently awaiting her chaotic thoughts. Rani's single white tooth, revealed in a fleeting smile. Pond's Dreamflower talc cupped in the palm of her hand. Snow at Dhanolti among the slopes of the hills and their misty breath mingling in the air. The white foam riding the crest of waves at Puri on that wonderful holiday. Rabindranath Tagore's beard in that faded oleograph on the drawing room of her grandfather's home. Toby, her white cat nestling on her lap on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Father's starched dhoti and |
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potless Kurta as he set off to attend a meeting. The freshly white-washed Walls of her hostel room. The ivory white of her wedding invitation With those letters embossed in gold yes. It was a colour associated With the things she had grown up with and loved. Then why this terror that rose from the pit of her belly and engulfed her whole being? Was ",hite a colour or absence of colour? Did it denote death or death in life? She stood in the centre of the room, clad in a blouse and petticoat, staring dully at the white sari someone had laid on the bed. Through the half open door she could hear the muffled sobs of relatives. Today was the thirteenth day. Pranab had hated wearing his helmet. A few drinks at a friends place, a slippery stretch of road, the glare of headlights of an ohcoming truck had snuffed out all her dreams. Now her tears had dried up and grief settled like a stone in her heart. She wound the white sari around her body. It seemed to smother her in its folds. She could not bear to look at herself in the mirror. On an impluse she opened her wardrobe. There, neatly arranged on hangers were her saris, flaming orange,wine red, azure blue, emerald green, gleaming in the dark. She touched them slowly, her eyes drinking in the riot of colours that was now denied to her. Then she closed the wardrobe and leaned against it, spent. This was like being forced to exile. What did she do to deserve this?
Ten years passed by. The white clothes became like a second skin to her. As if to make up for it, she surrounded herself with colours. The flaming bougainvillaea bloomed in profusion. Sunflowers lined the drive. Peonies clustered in small pots on the window. There was a riot of gay cushions on the living room settee. She indulged Rani, selecting for her the most gorgeous clothes, toys, posters. In her spare time she painted in glorious tones a sunset, a stretch of mustard field, full skirted gypsy women. It was not great art but her pieces cheered the buyers. There was a brimming exuberance that bouyed them. Ashok helped her to sell the paintings. He was a tenant living all by |
self in a two room cottage near their home. Rani adored him. He en took her for long walks and coached her in Maths. On still summer evenings the three of them would sit out in the ::ront porch, sipping lemonade and talking. It happened so gradually :hat she was not even aware of it. She would wait, without realizing it, ;or his footsteps. She took pains to remember what he liked to eat. She :elt a little pang of loss whenever he went away. She could not help the :lush that crept to her cheeks when his eyes were upon her. It was Rani .,-ho brought the letter to her, Rani who pranced about in exitement, ~i who wanted Ashok Uncle as her Daddy. Mala set clutching the . etter, her eyes half-closed as colour burst in flaming streaks in her indo Red, green, blue, yellow, orange .... she longed to drown in them, :0 celebrate, to say yes, yes, yes. But life was so full of the unexpected. nat if death laid its icy hand on Ashok too, and she was once more ::ondemned to white? So she said no and he moved away to another ::ity. And all the time her Kanjeevaram and Balucheri, her Benerasi silk and Pochampalli lay wrapped in mothballs, waiting.
Ten more years passed by. Rani had left home and was living in the hostel. She was doing her final year at Lady Brabourne ~ollege. Mala knew that in a years time she would have to get Rani arried off and the thought filled her with happiness. She had been to :he jewellers once or twice and had made a few ornaments. It was ever too early. She had just returned from such an expedition when ::he phone call came. Rani was not in the hostel. She had not attended er classes. Would she come over at once? She packed her bag, furious. That silly girl had perhaps eloped with someone. Why did this have to happen? When she had planned for a grand wedding. And she had waited all these years to swathe her daughter in the wine-red Benarasi, to festoon the doorway with mango leaves and marigold, had waited to see the dot of vermillion on her daughter's brow. The principal was kind and solicitous. Rani had been a good student, had never caused any trouble. Her room mate shook her head
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in bewilderment. Rani did not have a boyfriend. Numb with grief, Mala went through her daughter's books. Then, scrawled in her diary she came across an address. Mercy Home, Amherst Street. As the taxi wended its way through the heavy mid morning traffic. Mala sat slumped on the back seat, imploring the driver to drive faster. Every red light, every passenger who jay-walked in front of them, seemed to take her further away from Rani. When the driver, a burly Sikh, good humouredly told her to be patient she burst out in anger. "My child, my only daughter,is missing. It is a matter of life and death for me. Why don't you understand". He was immediately contrite. "How old is your beli?" he asked gently next time. "Twenty. " "Bahenji, is she married ?" "No, hurry up please". With one free hand he slapped his forehead. "Bahenji, daught~rs are parayadhan. I got my daughter married off at fourteen. Why have you kept her at home for so long ?" "I was making plans when this unforseen thing happened. She is all I have in this world ..... will you hurry up please?" At Amherst Street, few had heard of Mercy Home. A passerby finally pointed out a battered signboard tucked between a shoestore and a motor ?arts shop. After paying the taxi driver, she walked through a long dimly lit corridor. Men, women and children sat on their haunches, waiting. A little boy with an enormous bandage round his head cried in his mother's arms. Soon she was in dingy hall filed with rows and rows of beds. Women in white saris moved among them, tending to the needs of the ill and the dying. In a far comer, a women was sponging the back of a sore infested old man. There was a calm and gentle expression her face. All the while she was murmuring softly, as a mother does to her child. The white sari made her look older than her years. "Rani !" her voice rose shrilly, an agonised cry of pain. For so long |
she had tried to surround her daughter with the myriad hues of the rainbow. Then why was she wearing white, the colour that was a denial of life, the colour of desolation and death? Rani tucked a blanket over the old man and hurried forward, an uncertain smile on her lips. "Ma, I knew you would come". She clasped Mala's hands. "Somehow I felt you would not understand if! told you this at home. This is so far removed from the world you and I lived in .... yet I am happier than I have been for yellrs ..... "Rani, tell me, it was a boy isn't it? The cad jilted you and you have turned to this on the rebound? Tell me everything my dear. Come home with me ...... I have so many plans for you". "I can't go, Ma", Rani's voice was steady. "I have not been jilted. All these lost and dying people need me. You need me too but not so much as they do. And Ma, Idon't want to be tied to one man, and grieve senselessly for him when he's dead ... Yes Ma, that is what you have done. Ma ,don't look at my sari like that. White is not a sad colour Ma. Here, it is the colour of mercy ..... " Ther was a long pause. Mala looked around at the patients on the beds. Maybe her beloved Rani was destined for something higher than she had planned. Rani looked so happy, so fulfilled. She had attained peace that had eluded Mala all these years. Then, hesitantly, she touched Rani's arm. "There seems a lot to be done here. You could do with an extra pair of hands couldn't you ?" "Ma !" Rani's tone was incredulous. "You don't mean?" So, from that very day, they began toiling side by side, mother and daughter, swathed in white, the colour of mercy ..... |