Out for a Spin

I tried once more. The way I do when I’m writing and I think maybe if I start again, I’ll be able to finish this time. But all that happened was that my body stopped for a moment where I was supposed to turn, wavered, then continued on at the same pace.

Once more round the course.

Then again.

Round and round. Without stopping.

I am unable to stop.

Shall I scream, Stop me! Pull me from this path! Like a little girl pushing a swing who calls out, My turn! and pulls at the swing to stop it and it swivels to a stop right left left right. Stop … swivel … yield … it stops.

But I’m an extremely private soul. Should I shout? Out loud? To a stranger? To anyone? Out of the question! I’ll keep walking round and round, hoping no one notices, and I’ll stop when I’m able.

For now, it’s fine, no one in particular to see or saw, and the wheel too quickly comes to a stop. The men’s group has just started gathering on the lawn between the flats, but they do not seem surprised to see that one inhabitant is spinning nonstop around the flats.

This is my morning walk, an everyday occurrence. And I always return home at the time the men emerge.

It’s just that today a bit of glitch has occurred. My feet are suddenly unable to stop.

I’m waiting for them to stop.

The men begin clapping. To wake up the rest of the group.

The open space between the two multi-story buildings echoes with their clapping. Hell, what nonsense is this! What should I do, open the gate and spin off to some far away park to continue my circumambulations?

I stopped going to other parks long ago and stopped that carefree life in which one unlatches the gate and sets out, leaving behind the intramural squabbling to explore the world.

It’s still naptime at the gate. The door to the guardroom is half open and I can hear the hum of the table fan. He must be sleeping!

But the night light on the electric pole has just been switched off.

Then he must be awake…

So, I take aim at my aimless gait and march off smartly, dexterously navigating right left left right through the parked cars.

Such a tiny space stuffed with so many cars!

At every society meeting there’s an uproar about stuffing too many cars here. Slap them with fines, less on the first car, more on the second if someone has two, flattening and paving the only space worth calling green in the middle, turning it into a car park, what will we do if in the middle of the night we have to call for an ambulance, you’re guaranteed to die between your flat and the gate, make sure you don’t get a heart attack at night!

Not early in the morning either, I resolve, walking through the cars. Although the morning is getting underway. People’s drivers have begun to arrive. I hear the hum of an engine; the cars are stirring up dust. The children will go to school, and the adults to work. Let all these people disappear, then the heart attacks can begin!

But at this moment, I’m not concerned about heart attacks, I’m on my morning walk, which does not wish to stop, and at any moment everyone will begin to stare: the very thing I’d hoped to avoid by not walking outside and walking only in my own society. Early in the morning, when it’s still dark, when the society residents are still asleep. And no one will see me. They won’t see me, and I won’t see me either.

Because if they can see me, I’ll be able to see myself!

We are revealed in the eyes of others: Girl, your kajal is smudged, Madam, your bra strap is slipping, your hair is turning white, your belly insists on protruding through your clothing, and what outlandish thing are you wearing anyway, not feminine, not masculine, not Eastern or Western!

I laugh when I see myself in their eyes. Where will they slot me? They have no idea, and though I’m not proud of my weirdness, it doesn’t bother me. The way these characters at the gate waffle over now to greet me! The guard, the plumber, the electrical chap, the dhobi, all these folks charged with repairing things in the housing society. They neither greet with a Mata Ji, namaste, nor a namaste, behen ji, nor even a good morning, Doctor Sahib, or a Sir Ji, which is how they address women doing men’s work. But a lady writer, unknown, in a mysterious get-up?

I make eye contact just for fun and they try to look right through me!

Today I am round and round.

And I’m back again crunching across the gravel. I keep going forward. Left right left right.

Some cars have left. My feet crunch on the gravel. Yes, there was no space here before.

Along the hedge.

The gravel crunches.

The solitary tree in the corner. A red silk cotton. Raining down bright red flowers. I crush them under my feet. You drop them, I crush them every time I come around.

I walk along the hedge. The squirrels are out on the boundary wire. The squirrels and me. Just walking along. Moving forward.

To the next tree. A sickly mango. Mouldy blossoms. A faint fragrance.

Then the hedge, which everyone refers to as the greenery.

Next corner. The peepal tree. New leaves have burst from its roots, as well as a small shrine. I wander by. Around the round. Round and round.

Then the gate. These two feet are my enemies. My spinning mind. My gravelling body.

The clapping has stopped. Meaning the entire group has arrived. I glance between the buildings. Their arms are raised. Now they will begin to shout Hari Om Hari Om Hari Om.

I’m starting to tire now, I think.

Also, now people are beginning to stare.

I absolutely loathe people staring. I see myself reflected dully in their eyes. To avoid this dullness one wishes to lose oneself in the crowd. To lose oneself in the crowd requires a sari, or a shalwar kameez, but those popular outfits are the oppressors. Once you are oppressed you can stop worrying and wander about any park as much as you like. You can take health-inducing walks.

Because

One must walk. Everyone does it. In this regard, I am like everyone else!

Regardless of age, or gender, or class, or type, absolutely everyone should take walks. Walk walk walk. Some may opt for jogging, in Reeboks or Nikes. Others may raise their arms aloft and march endlessly. Some rotate their arms like paddles, others keep them stiff and straight, like pen knives. Some walk, stop, stand on their heads, then set out again. But everyone walks.

Me too, always, constantly, presently, without cease. Keeping time with the Hari Om Hari Om. I’ll just keep walking as though I’ll never stop. I am almost sleepwalking, and yet I keep going.

But on the other hand

I am an amazing walker. But just as with writing, I can’t write when I’m looking at myself, that is, if someone looks at you, your concentration breaks, because that makes you look at yourself.

Walking is like writing for me.

Like meditation. Absorption. Focusing my inner eye on a single point: the walk point. Walk walk walk. Focal point. Walk walk. Missing the point. Just walk. Inside outside the rhythm of the gravel. The gravel becomes the dhwani. Spread out across the galaxy. Contained within the universe.

But

But when no one sees you, you will tire of those flashes of the self. You will tire of your own reflection. Even if you change your clothes, you will still see it. After all, the shape of the chin and the shoulders will be the same old! The people will also be the same old same old. Alarmed, upset, glaring, staring.

Everyone has allergies. For some it’s eggs. For others it’s dust. For yet others, like me, it’s being stared at. Then one must shrink the size of the periphery and only walk within it.

Early in the morning. When the darkness still lingers. Before the brightness of day exposes the world and me too.

Please make it stop, I command myself.

As though I don’t know that this is in fact what I am actually trying to do over and over! Hari Om, for who knows how long. Somewhere a door slams, a shirt colour pops and my pace is steady; I glance ahead and behind and thenthenthenthen…

…stop my left foot, stop my right foot.

A moment’s falter, then onward!

But I am still quite calm. I’m not the sort to suddenly panic. As if my thudthud panic is an earthworm to be pressed deep in the earth, I keep up my front, walk slowly, resolutely. As long as I don’t think about it because the moment I do – just what the earthworm, the panic, wants – it will leap up as a snake. And then I will be forced to ask, isn’t this indeed something to panic about,

this situation?

I procrastinate over my reply.

I’m at the gate again and the guard stands up politely when he sees me.

Amazing, my repeated appearances have made me worthy of a salaam.

Salaam, I nod, before speeding onward, but then suddenly I realise he has only stood to change duty with the day guard!

The Hari Om people are laughing now. Raising their hands to the sky. Puffing out their cheeks, opening their mouths wide. Like lunatics. Healing themselves with guffaws.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho ho ho!

Hee hee hee hee hee!

Huu huu huu huu huu!

But not at me.

Right…?

Not at me!

Their laughter follows me from between the buildings. I escape like a gust, a gale. A crow hops alongside me. You’re laughing too? Staring? Don’t be afraid. Look, crow, you won’t run me off with your looking, I will still walk round and round.

More people have started coming out.

I arrange my expression, reproach my feet, pull down my shirt, yes it was stuck between my buttocks, it’s getting hotter after all, and continue to walk. Round and round. On the gravel along the hedge, all the way round the multi-story buildings. By the cotton tree, the mango tree, the pipal tree, the gate, the cotton tree, the mango tree, the pipal tree, the gate … if I hurry, it’s a seven-minute round, if I walk sedately, then ten, if I walk like an old lady, then as much as half an hour. One round is five hundred feet. Two thousand steps make a full mile. And a hundred calories less and the glow of the heart lungs skin more, maybe old age will decrease a bit too, a teeny-weeny bit for sure, one lives longer, minute by minute, and sleep is deeper, sweeter, when you return from your wander.

So everything’s great, I suppress my restlessness and keep walking, chin up, shoulders raised, arms swinging left right left right, like a cadet, breathing fierce, legs merciless, feet defiant.

And listen, does anyone know how long I’ve been here? The girl who came out to catch the school bus glanced at me for a moment before she left. People saw me on the way to the office and off they went. The newspaper wallahs performed their acrobatics, saw me, left. But did anyone see me at the exact moment I emerged for my walk? Would they ask one another when did you see her and when did I?

Yes, yes, I started just that very moment when you saw me, that I did!

I just need for no one to find out when I began. Could be hours before – or even before that…what do I know!

I walk by the society temple, trying to look like my legs and the environment are in harmonious togetherness and keep circling fearlessly.

Good morning, someone murmurs. I walk by animatedly. As though today I am resolved to shake off every bit of flapping flesh on my body.

I too murmur something, but by then we have already passed one another. I am under the cotton tree where I need to turn.

I don’t try to stop. What if he turns and looks back? I tug at my shirt, is it stuck again? I lurch along.

I glance about furtively. March on, left-right. At the next bend, that is, the next tree, the pathetic mango. Sharp bend, go slow. Turning time, that is stopping time, that is trying to stop time, that is the time of having hope from these inconsiderate legs, that is I really tried, also slowed down, but didn’t, couldn’t stop. Flapping forward like a chunni.

I am gravel, I am a chunni, I am a top, spinning round and round inside the society. Now what should I do?

This much is clear by now: that I keep on trying but what I wish to consider a stopping pace is only my body lurching at the bend in the path, so I’ll turn again with the gravel. Otherwise, I might collide with a tree or with the gate or with the electrical pole.

But I do know that I am trying and that effort also goes into keeping the snake a worm so it will stay hidden and my face will remain calm. The healthy lady writer of Block I is out on her morning walk to keep brisk, healthy, and active; what’s so strange about that?

What’s so strange about that, my friend?

Meaning it’s a matter of equilibrium. Of maintaining equilibrium. Of exhibiting equilibrium. Of making my fruitless attempts at stopping and my rapidly moving feet look natural.

Of making the following things look natural and purposeful: a spinning top, a shooting comet, a woman.

Making the spinning look natural.

Ah, may you feel natural doing what you are doing.

May you look natural.

Feel natural.

May I look natural reflected in your eyes.

This is all very natural. Let’s make a proposal and get the UN to accept it.

But this desire for naturalness is exhausting.

And I have begun to tire. Less in body, more in mind.

It’s also a question of how much weight I must lose this very day, and do I even want a va-va-voom figure?

Hai, let the cry of my exhausted soul relax concealed in the clamour of the times.

The laughter has stopped. Now yoga has begun. I glimpse it from between the buildings. Like an animated film. Bits and pieces coming together. Now a boat. Now a fish. Now a snake.

An old man leans over from the waist, holding on to his stick.

He puts it down.

He rests.

He stands up.

Gnarled and twisted, but straight for him.

His spine wavy, but straight.

Head to the sky, feet on the ground.

I am astonished.

People exercising, everywhere!

Truly astonished.

A woman has turned into some kind of animal.

She’s squatting.

But her legs are up, not down.

She’s tangled up in them.

Feet behind ears, head between feet.

She swings lightly, balanced on her palms.

On my next round, I note she’s wearing a jogging suit.

Next round, where has she gone?

Next round, she’s folding up her jogging suit behind the hedge.

Next round, she’s wearing a guard’s uniform.

Next round, she’s not a man, is she?

Next round, so has our society hired a woman guard?

Next round, so why do I think I’m the only modern woman out here doing something different?

Next round, I recall, because for how long could I not, that my legs are tyrants up to no good. The fatigue returns, the pain too, the unwanted stares too.

Without a doubt the gazes have increased now. I recognise in them my old reflection. They look astonished as they wonder who what which box shall we slot this one into? The day guard blushes and turns away as I reappear at the gate over and over.

The people who will stay all day long have arrived as well – the presswallah, the vegetable seller, the fruit seller, outside the gate. Now how can I ensure they’ll see me just once and go away without realising how long this reel has been running?

They’ve also probably started whispering among themselves, or why else would these housemaids that have gone into the flats and never glanced at me until today have been emerging on their balconies to say, Namaste, madam. Women can’t hide their nosiness from other women.

Anyway, what else can I do besides walking round and round? I’ve already done everything else: starting with walking around in large circles at the faraway park, then smaller circles nearby, then even smaller, then closer, then closer than that, finally returning to that very point from which I had fled? Now here, round round.

That’s when I made a promise to myself. That I wouldn’t risk it anymore. I had walked around and around so many times. If I must do it then I’ll do it in my flat; so what if the area is small? I can accomplish in fifty rounds there what I accomplish out here in ten.

Okay, a hundred.

Or maybe two hundred.

Whatever, I’ll do all my rounds within the protection of my own walls.

And if I find I can’t stop there either then I can fling my body violently against the wall, or the sofa, or the table and I will happily allow my head to burst open so the blood splatters all over where I like to write and I will succumb to my bloody death alone, carefree.

But here I don’t even have the right to do that. To run into the tree, the wall, the gate, in any way as I circle round and round. Ohmygod, I think, how quickly the laughter gang will drop their yoga-shoga and dash toward me and so many eyes will gaze down at me at once to see where and how much blood flows down my clothing and skin and how did I smash my jaw? And perhaps I’ll begin to sob like a baby?

No, no, I cannot weep in public.

No, no, I berate myself, as the tears well up in my eyes. I truly do not know how long I have been walking around but my speed is like an airplane and ohmygod I am so exhausted, which makes the tears well up again.

Everyone else has been able to get up and leave when they’re done with whatever they came to do: laughter, yoga, everything has finished; they have backed up their cars and departed. Only for me is there no back no brake.

So the car park is basically a park park now, even if gravel-filled. Totally empty.

My feet ring out on the gravel.

Without cease and seemingly deep in thought, I continue to walk.

The Hari Om gang, aka, the laughter gang, aka, the yoga gang, is now repeating the name of Lord Ram. At every glimpse of me, they shriek Ram nam one, Ram nam two

Ram nam three.

Ram nam four.

Me round and round.

Ram nam sat.

Ram nam sat.

At least that’s how it sounds to me.

Then it (what is it?) leaps up, raising its hood, transforming to snake from worm, emerging from my depths and in one swift motion spread across my face, hissing – what is this that’s happening? How will it end? Will it end?

Or do women like me simply begin to walk, then keep walking round round round round? In big circles, then smaller and smaller and smaller…

Worn down.

As anyone would be in my plight. I’ve been walking since morning, since before dawn, in the murky light of sunrise.

From morning until now, how many hours might that be, I wonder?

Which only raises a heap of new questions. Has it just been since morning? Not since yesterday evening? Or since yesterday morning, or since the day before yesterday?

Now I want to remember what I did before going out for my walk, perhaps if I can figure that out, what time (or day?) I suddenly came out, but the actions I recall are all so ordinary, and they don’t have their own separate times, they have no special identity. I drank tea, I slept, I put on my bra, I took a digestive tablet, I dissolved some Triphala in water. There was still the question as to whether I performed these daily actions today or yesterday or before that? I cover my face with my palm as I walk and exhale hah and blow the hah towards my nose so that I can smell whether I brushed my teeth. How recently, can I tell?

I place a hand on my stomach. Have I had a bowel movement? Was it light or heavy? And did I pee? Where is the bladder? I feel around with my hand.

But this I can’t figure out because even if you’ve just peed, you have to go again as soon as you think of it! Peeing, yawning, they are Alladin’s jinn!

Now what, I begin to ask as I walk in circles, what will I do with this Ihavetopee?

There’s nothing better than something ridiculous to complete a tragedy. The experience of pain always contains a comic element. A ninety-year-old woman getting ready for her granddaughter’s wedding tries the necklaces of her daughters and daughters-in-law on her own wrinkly neck. Should I wear this or this? she asks as though the baraat will admire her neck when it arrives! Heaving their final breath, the patient in radiotherapy demands they be brought caps of various colours and designs. What looks best, they ask, I’ve lost all my hair in chemotherapy. And I, who have come out this day to take a walk, and keep on walking, now also need to pee!

Never before now had I felt such compassion for womenfolk! Out for a walk and the sensation of a tidal wave in my bladder. If only I could let it out drop by drop in this interminable, never-ending, uncontrollable walk undertaken by my rebellious legs.

A man, too, I know, would experience discomfort with such a sudden misfortune. But isn’t it also true that I wouldn’t be in this situation if I were a man? No, truly! He would not be forced to escape from circumstances and go out again and again into his life. He would not have to go out and confront staring eyes. Also, do men have to deal with bra straps peeping out? He wouldn’t have to return from that distant park to here. He would not have to search for dark moments, obscure corners to do what he had to do. Whatever he had to do, he would not have to do that.

I continue to walk feeling gobs of sympathy for women defeated by shit and piss. Let’s say a fresh sense of purpose has entered my morning walk. How do we hold it in when it’s a day like this and we’re out and about in daylight surrounded by people?

I suddenly wonder, as I walk and walk (what’s the point of repeating this over and over?) whether even the goddess Sita faced this dilemma? Didn’t she have to pee too? Like right at the dénouement of the story? When her husband was continually humiliating her?

The confluence of sorrow rejection humiliation even when glorifying can also turn so ridiculous! A Hindu goddess, a Hindu woman, pativrata, devoted; she stands with her palms pressed together, her face awash with humiliation: Mother that bore me, burst open, cover my shame. She descended below but also rose above, while Ram, who was above, fell over!

But

In that proud moment what if she needed to pee like me? Would not her shame have grown? Would her prayer have become even more beseeching and pathetic?

All the same she was fortunate that she had a halo of glorious martyrdom to protect her.

But I? What do I have to be proud of? Out here in the bright sunshine, walking round and round at a ridiculous pace, keeping my bladder under control … under control…

Should I pull down my pants and hop? Because I would have to hop, like a frog, since these selfish feet of mine refuse to show compassion and dharam, and won’t give me a moment of respite?

So then only one thing could happen … but how shall I say it … no, no, I can’t say it … no … not even to myself … I must cover my ears!

I just keep on walking, and the sun, growing hotter by the moment, keeps doing its thing.

Yes, the sun is at its zenith. But the crowd has thinned. Thank goodness! Because who wants to stay outside on an April afternoon? Only those who have no choice! Even the people by the gate cling to the shadows. The dhobi, the shopkeeper…. The gardener has decided that since he’s weeded, hoed, watered the lawn, the garden, he will now take a nap. The morning’s briskness is no more.

But mine remains … or that of my feet. Which are still on duty. Shameless in their duty, disdainful of my chagrin. They keep walking, keep walking me.

What can I say about my feet: they’re mine, but they’re not, but I (you know, now I’m wondering where exactly I am). Not in my feet, in my heart, in my forehead, stomach am I, no, definitely not in my feet, which feel whatever I am feeling strongly. I think about the heat, so now I begin to feel warm.

It’s possible, why not, that this is the result of the advancing day. The month is Grishm, it’s afternoon, the time and calendar are not clear, but I could guess.

Where can I find shade to walk in? Those three trees along the boundary! At the corners, at the bends in the path. I begin to race from one tree to another (which I was doing anyway) along the shadeless hedge, then saunter under the trees (which I was already doing).

I begin to leap from one shadow to another. The way one does on burning sand. Practically leaping, not letting my feet touch the ground between.

Do I look like I’m flying? From tree to tree to tree?

From tree to tree to tree just look and if you wipe out the desert between then do three trees a jungle make?

As I walk along on this cruel April day, I’m unable to remember my beginning nor grasp my end. Burning in the sharp sunlight, without respite, burning…

I begin to feel thirsty. I notice a hose. Or I notice a hose and then begin to feel thirsty.

The gardener in his wisdom has left the hose running among the rows of flowerpots and lies sleeping with his gamcha wrapped about his face. Between the buildings. Far from me, but close, too. Near but also far.

Every time I see that hose I feel thirstier.

Then, every time I near the hose, I throw myself into the effort of kicking out my right foot a bit more to the right before putting it down to step forward. First we get the job, then we learn the skill! How so? Like this. Become a doctor, engineer, or driver, first, let a few die, knock down some bridges, crash a few cars, and bingo, you have learnt the profession!

I too figure it out as I go along.

First I stamp my foot.

Then I kick the hose. Towards me.

I kick it onto a flowerpot.

Then I lurch to the right and scoop some water into my palm.

I scoop it up and drink a bit.

This was not filtered water, Aquaguard or RO, but who needs such things at times like these?

Anyway, to tell the truth, I also pick up bits of prashad at the shrine that had sprouted up under the pipal tree: gari and chana and cardamom pods. I’m no better than the squirrels, birds, and ants. I too am a soul in search of forage.

I lean over slightly,

a bit more,

a bit more each time round

then pounce like a raptor

and don’t fall or make a spectacle of myself.

Then back to left right left right, march on.

Later I will ask when I ate and when I drank, on that day or the next day or even the day after that, but time is the primary item I have lost in this strange moment, whenever that is, and that’s why I won’t have an answer.

By now I am accustomed to the burning sun. I no longer feel hot or sweaty.

Or maybe the sun itself has grown cold.

At this point I do notice that the school children are returning and have entered the buildings to fetch their mothers and now they have emerged on their verandahs and balconies and are pointing at me. Not sure, but still. It seems like that.

Perhaps?

Yes, perhaps they, the women and the children, will inform the men returning from work that it seems a woman has been walking about since morning. Or since when? More people begin gathering on the balconies and begin to watch me as they stand in the red glow of evening. To show they’ve returned exhausted from work and traffic, they come out onto their own balconies to drink pana, chai, lassi, roohafza, regardless of whether some loony lady is walking round and round and round like she’s in some kind of marathon.

Everyone sees – not all at once the way I’m making it sound, but whenever I appear, stamping my feet, they instinctually avert their eyes.

Or who knows, maybe it’s only I who am looking and they’re all doing whatever it is they do every day? Certainly no one has stopped me, jumped in my path, grabbed me by the shoulders and arms, lassoed my feet and knocked me over, nor have they tossed a net over my head to trap me. I am free, as long as I do not to get in their way. Which I do not, adept at veering a bit to the left, a bit to the right, without running into them or their cars, just walking along.

But it could also be true that they’re not sure how to stop me? Like all those who avoid greeting me because they wonder what they should say. Who knows, perhaps they’re fretting about it, wondering how they can stop me? Should they tell the guard to do it? Or the policeman? Or the policewoman?

This truly slays me. Without killing me, that is! I am just consumed with shame. It seems so absurd. I know, my every pore knows, that my outlandish behaviour upsets them. I will become a topic of idle chitchat. A joke. People will make jokes about our housing society. The press will arrive with their cameras and such. No one will be able to figure out how to stop me – nor figure out that not even I myself know – but everyone will grow annoyed at the publicity. The people with daughters and daughters-in-law. Every tom, dick and harry will come running on the pretext of watching my drama and peer into their homes. Then the children will stop studying and rush onto the balconies to see: what is she doing now, has she stopped or is she still walking? Which will distract them in today’s era of competition and the shrinking job market. What is her game, everyone will wonder. What sort of feminist hijinks is she up to? They will also fear protesting too loud and get into a fierce debate because then, who knows, she might gather members of the women’s movement and hold a dharna at their very doors?

Oh, oh, I begin to feel guilty and think about how I’ll say with complete honesty, I’ll spit out the truth: I beg of you, please just slap me, knock me over, pin me down, and don’t let me move.

Such a burden on my soul and even so I continue to walk in circles.

Must be some revolutionary plot, started by these stark raving mad women, they must be muttering.

I will be forced to explain. I will have to beg. Please understand, I’ll say. There are many things about them I don’t agree with, but this time I’m not on the other side, I’m on their side, and as they say, I’m a hapless helpless pitiful weak woman, cursed by fate, mine is a tale of defeat, albeit with a new twist.

One can’t walk about like this.

Meaning I can’t walk about like this.

I will have to give a full and unbiased explanation. I will have to beg forgiveness: look what I’ve become. My bodymind stuck in this loop!

I look up timidly, I infuse my gait with good intentions and add a beat, and forge ahead, with the intention of explaining the issue to anyone who appears.

Right in front, at the gate, Engineer Sahib is rummaging through the post.

Hello, I open my mouth to speak as I approach him, Can I please tell you…

But he has just finished giving the guard a dressing down and marches off, nose in the air.

The guard also ignores me, obviously annoyed that I witnessed him receiving an earful.

Now whom can I turn to, I wonder as I continue to walk, keeping an eye out in both directions. The building society’s president appears; he’s berating the gardener: why did you prune the hedges and why did you trim the branches? The other neighbours have complained: You admire the greenery from the grandeur of the seventh story, but the rest of us crawl about below with the bugs and worms, mosquitoes, perhaps snakes too, and we want these things pruned.

The gardener stands scowling in the middle of this prune, don’t prune, and the president, aka the retired Police Inspector General, acts like he still wields his baton.

But this is no time to act haughty, I decide.

Mr I G, I begin.

He is a few yards from me, on the same path where I am suffering.

Mr President, I continue, lifting my hand in salute. Starting to speak already, a bit before reaching him, because once I’ve passed him, I’ll be addressing nothing but the gravel under my feet. I G Sahib is not about to run politely alongside me just so I can contribute my two cents!

But just as I would have expected, that gentleman casts only a cursory glance at me, then turns his face away in a prideful manner and waves his hand as though shooing a fly.

Uff, I could slap him, I think, walking along hopelessly. Where did these feudal holdovers come from? British imperialist! Fascist murderer!

But I have important things to do, this is no time for slapping tyrants.

If I had time, perhaps I might feel suspicious of my present disposition. By which I have persuaded myself that it is out of good will and concern for these astonished, upset, startled people and children that I am asking them to consider me prey and capture me, and not that this wish is my only hope in the effort to stop my outlandish walk on this outlandish day.

But when the entire world suffers from this sickness, why should I be treated differently? They will act in their own interests but believe they are doing so out of altruism, declaring, Witness our empathy and gentility!

Then I try to speak again. Again and again. To anyone I encounter on the path or nearby.

Excuse me, please…

Listen…

Please…

Hey…

Excuse me … I … don’t … but…

Unsuccessful, every time.

As I walk and walk, the sun goes down and the electric bulbs illuminate.

Shadows of darkness dance on them and I’m walking in circles and trying to make myself heard. By each and every inhabitant of the society.

Everyone turns away as though I don’t exist at all. Rudely, carelessly.

By then evening has deepened and the flats light up like lamps.

It must be around eight o’clock, I guess, when the arati crowd begins to emerge. Every time I come around, a few more people have gathered under the peepal tree. The society’s priests have arrived. And the women have illuminated their lamps and begun to perform the puja and everyone is absorbed in bhakti.

I walk by several times, abashed, but convinced that I’ll be able to speak to at least one person in such a crowd. There’s no scarcity of compassion amongst devotees. They’re praying and making entreaties. Then listen to mine.

I return again and again, but then look away in embarrassment, bowing my head in religious camaraderie, making eye contact for the sake of it.

I cannot let this final opportunity slip from my hands, I think, becoming more agitated with each round. So every time, as I parade by the temple, I try afresh to establish contact. Every time I nod a bit too hard and if I make eye contact with anyone, I stare at them beseechingly. I plead with my eyes: Please … a request … listen … my … after the puja, yes, yes. I stop to one side, well not fully, I stop while still walking, and linger, why not: this is … my request … listen … my…. I return after another round and utter the next installment of my incomplete words: I’ll just be back on the next round, don’t forget, after puja, meet me right here, when you have time, and listen and grab me and stop me and restrain me.

Please…. One round.

I beg of you…. Two rounds.

Please…. Three rounds.

I’m helpless…. Four rounds.

I continue to offer my prayer as I return again to wander through the arati.

Now, I say, at last, as the crowd begins to thin.

Listen…

This thing that’s happening…

It’s not something I planned…

Nor is there any plot…

Please just listen…

The crowd thins further. Unconcerned by me and what’s happening to me, unaware, blind, deaf, dumb.

Hey, I say.

Even if you don’t like me that much, I mewl.

Okay, even if you don’t like me at all, I cry.

Even if you hate me, so what? I thunder.

But no one listens.

They’re carrying the arati thaali right in front of me, as though they don’t think I deserve to receive the smoke from the incense, the arati, the purifying water, none of it. I could say something curt to their faces about religion and cruelty. But there’s something else I’m trying to say. And all I’m able to muster is to walk between them every time, a rag of a prayer myself, yelling, But listen to this, in spite of me.

And they are walking by me; they just kept walking by. As though I’m not even there. Like I’m a dry bit of straw floating soundlessly in the wind that bears no examination. Truly, they go off each to their own flat unashamed and some even come out to enjoy themselves on their balconies, pouring whiskey, gin, rum over ice and eating pakoras, totally unconcerned that right under their noses a helpless woman is stuck, exhausted, alone, she could use some help.

No doubt no one even considers it necessary to make a show of stopping me. They leave me to gambol about eccentrically. They’ll keep drinking and eating; their belongings will remain shipshape, so why worry and about whom? Just don’t become an impediment in their paths.

So where does that leave me, unneeded by them? I have no one who can match my marching right left right left.

Only the silk cotton tree does not discriminate and begins to drop its soft fluff on me and on the rest of the society. One fluffy bit slides off my shoulder, one balances on my nose.