- 5 -
Now it didn’t seem as difficult to cross the semi-circular rock as it had earlier. In case he slipped, the branches of the tree were dense and strong enough to support him. They descended the rock. It was a two kilometre walk through the forest to the road where the jeep had been parked. The forest was fragrant: flowers were in bloom, firewood had been stacked in places exuding the aroma of the wood, the scent of the cats, the odour of the viper that rustled through the dry leaves…, the air was thick with a mixture of these many smells.
They began to exchange stories. Somanath was in the mood for light-hearted banter. Krishnaswamy could no longer sustain the state of intense feeling he had experienced. He reverted to his usual way – of perceiving anything marked by noble ideals with a deep scepticism. He had in fact, made this the very source of his writing. He was full of admiration for someone like Somanath who could adopt a style of carefree abandon with ease, right from his college days.
He remembered. Somanath had never struggled during his examinations. He never learnt by rote. He was a natural thief. He had created his own script, bizarre jottings that looked like worms. And this rogue of a friend with his self-invented secret script would write out answers for the complex questions that he anticipated in the examination and copy them into his answer sheets with such aplomb that he was never suspected of anything.
There was little that Somanath didn’t know about Krishnaswamy’s story involving Haseena and Jyothi. Apparently the girl had told him everything that her mother had told her.
About twenty-five years ago, when Krishnaswamy worked as a lecturer in a college in Mysore, he was a favourite among his students. His wife worked in a bank in Hassan and lived there too. They met occasionally and if you asked them about their arrangement, he would claim her parents were old and need looking after. Krishnaswamy led a disciplined, single life, and was known for hanging out late with friends, drinking beer and discussing various issues. He made no distinction between people. Kumaravyasa, Thomas Mann, Kafka, Lawrence were his favourite subjects for discussion. Everybody loved his ability to be critical even with subjects that were close to his heart.
He had a favourite class, the Honour’s class. Haseena, to whom he felt terribly attracted, was a student in that class. She was a Muslim girl from Coorg. Her father was an autorickshaw driver. She was around twenty years of age, had a thick, long braid that she draped sensuously over her ample bosom, and gazed out at the world with her attractive eyes brimming with promise. She was tall and curved, with just the right amount of flesh at the right places and had a dusky complexion, the effect of a body soaked in the heat of Bellary. She came from poor means and most of her schooling had been in Bellary, where she lived with her uncle who was a vendor. Her father had married twice and was indifferent to his family.
Haseena was quick to grasp the nuances of literature. Famous for her impish ways, she was a headache to the warden of her hostel. Once, she had gone deep into the forest along with a group of boys, and that too to see the naked Gommatta, without bothering to seek permission. As if that was not enough, this Muslim girl had returned from the expedition very late at night, causing her to be the object of much gossip. The other girls envied Haseena, finding her a source of great interest and excitement. Sometimes she would turn up in class wearing a big bindi, her braid adorned with jasmines. On other occasions, she would dress like a typical Muslim girl in a glittery salwar kameez with bright earrings and lots of glass bangles. When she walked her anklets tinkled; there was a whiff of attar about her and when she laughed her beautiful teeth sparkled.
Krishnaswamy and she shared a set of private gestures that would indicate to Krishnaswamy what lines of the poem she liked and what she didn’t. A pair of eyes, eyebrows, her lovely lips … those were the tools of her gestures. If she bit the chain around her neck, Krishnaswamy would hit the heavens. Thanks to Haseena, he had grown to like the writers he admired even more than before.
One day, Krishnaswamy decided to allow the boys and girls to sit together, something he thought was healthy. The next day, Haseena and the dehydrated Govind Rao sat next to each other, whispering and behaving in ways that left the teachers uncomfortable. Krishnaswamy enjoyed telling his intimate circle of friends how he was now viewed as Satan by his colleagues. But at the same time, he hated that an ineffectual person like Govind Rao was getting Haseena’s divine attention. With the two brushing shoulders with each other, Krishnaswamy’s heightened aesthetic experience in his poetry classes had come to an end.
One day, the two of them came to his room. Haseena took the lead and said, ’Sir, we went to the registrar and told him we had changed our names. From now, I’m Tushara and he’s Vinda.’
Krishnaswamy, not knowing how to respond, put on a façade of scholarship, ‘Didn’t Shakespeare say, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name is still a rose.”?’
’Sir, please change our names in the register. Principal Shanta simply hates the sight of us. We have come seeking your intervention,’ Haseena said seriously.
Two months after this, the two disappeared. The college security officer learnt they were staying in some despicable lodge, took the police there and got them arrested. After they were threatened and made to pay their hostel dues, they were disgraced in front of all the students, and expelled. When they walked out holding hands, Krishnaswamy felt perturbed. Had he inadvertently caused it all to happen? Taking his scooter, he pulled up beside them, and asked them to come home, taking Haseena pillion and telling Govind Rao to take a bus.
Haseena seemed completely unabashed. When they got to his place Krishnaswamy asked her to sit down, went inside and brought her some leftover upma and a banana from the morning. ’Thanks,’ she said and ate heartily. She told Krishnaswamy that they had to leave as quickly as possible for fear their families would flog them to death.
’Aren’t you married yet? As per the law, you both are adults. You don’t have to worry,’ Krishnaswamy said. He was trying to play the role of a mature teacher.
Haseena told him how she had to sell her gold chain and earrings to be able to stay in the cheap lodge where they had been found. ‘Those philistine owls in college took away the rest of the money and now we are left with nothing,’ Haseena said laughing, and looking straight at Krishnaswamy. It was the first indication that she had the skill to manage the family.
As she expanded on her plans, however, she got more anxious. ’Vinda says he’ll find a server’s job in a hotel. And I know tailoring. I’ll buy myself a machine and take orders. We’ll somehow manage. We’ll go to Bangalore and have a registered wedding.’ Then, seeing Vinda walking towards Krishnaswamy’s house, she calmed down and went back to her chair.
’You are the source of our courage, Sir.’ Was there mischief in her words? He had recalled those lines again and again.
Krishnaswamy went to his bedroom. He kept two thousand rupees in a new purse that he had bought at Shantiniketan. He placed it in Haseena’s lap. He went in again. He had bought a Singer electric sewing machine for his sister who was to be married. Krishnaswamy brought it out and placed it on the table before her.
’It’s my gift to you. I wish you well,’ he said.
Govind Rao entered. There was no trace of enthusiasm on his face. His nervy demeanour irritated Krishnaswamy. ’Hello sir…,’ Govind Rao said in an over familiar tone; Krishnaswamy was even more irritated.
‘Mr. Vinda, will you please get a tonga from the stand,’ he addressed him in the formal plural for the first time. Govind Rao didn’t budge. It seemed he expected Haseena to go along with him, and carry the machine.
She laughed softly, a picture in her thick braid and wrists full of bangles. She patted Govind Rao on the back, glanced at him prettily with a pout, and placed the sewing machine in his hands. He took it, indifferent, and that was enough indication for Krishnaswamy to sense that this marriage would do Haseena no good. She tucked one end of her pallu in her waist and got ready to walk to the bus stand. ’I’ll write to you sir. You must reply. Now we’ll dash to Bangalore.’ As she said this she gave him a full look, from top to toe, and at that instant, Krishnaswamy was enveloped by a feeling of dejection; he felt he had failed.
That was in 1971, Haseena was twenty years old. He was thirty. It wasn’t too much of an age difference. He could have divorced his unpleasant wife and married Haseena. If that had made it difficult to stay on in Mysore, he could have sought a job elsewhere.
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