Letting Go
By Deepthi Jayaraj
Nayana finds that in finally letting her mother — and her past — go, the answer to her deeply defined solitude gleams through the darkness
The rays of the sun, not too warm, seemed just right for a day when monsoon unwillingly makes way for winter. Yet, it brought no cheer to the garden-facing apartment Dr. Nayana A. Verma called home. Like the loveless life the occupant had grown used to, the dwelling too was enveloped in a strange, stifling silence. The darkest corner seemed to be under Nayana’s bed where she stored her nightmares. Maybe it was Dadi’s stories of her village in Rajasthan, where they did away with little girls. “Always unwelcome,” Dadi would sadly nod her head, as she took out the bottles of pickled mangoes begging to be freed from the cramped, damp storeroom.
She wondered what it was about clothes…why was it that she seemed to remember the colours and patterns, but seldom remembered the name of the person that was housed in them? The sharp nose or mole on the chin of the lady draped in a blue chikan saree who came to the Out-Patient Clinic on Tuesday she could recall, but try as she might, the whole face and associated name would be missing from memory.
She hastily put these random thoughts aside as she pulled into the hospital’s parking lot.
The hospital corridor was brightly lit and lined with stainless steel benches. The one that led to the Operation Theatre was filled with relatives that doctors called ‘by-standers’ waiting for news of their loved ones. Ananya spotted Nayana walk by and shouted out, ”Doctor Aunty!” The small, yet determined voice startled Nayana. She turned to the little girl, looked into her tear-filled button eyes, patted her head and managed a nod. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She had a job to do…a life to save. “Please, please save my ma,” she desperately pleaded, clinging to Nayana’s hand. And then Ananya lost control of her bladder and began to cry loudly. In spite of her training to stay detached, Nayana wanted to gather the little girl into her arms and assure her that everything was going to be OK. But a nurse materialised out of nowhere and took over.
The junior doctor briefed Nayana about the patient’s history. Another case of a botched-up abortion. “Ma’am, it is that same hamlet in Baghpat and we have already sent a complaint regarding this ultrasound centre’s violation of the PNDT act.” The patient had been in shock when she reached the hospital. There was a lot of blood lost. They would now have to remove the uterus to save the life of the patient. As she walked back to talk to the husband and explain the risks before obtaining consent — she liked to do it herself especially in complicated cases like this one — she noticed the sunlight filtering through the trees. Momentarily, that cheered her up.
The man seemed remote and unconcerned about the risk. He seemed more bothered about the cost of the surgery and the fact that she would never be able to bear him a son. But the pleading little eyes of Ananya, standing behind the man, followed her back to the Operation Theatre. Despite their best efforts, though, they could not revive the patient.
She now had to perform the most unpleasant part of her job. To her utter shock, she realised that the husband was nowhere to be seen. He had vanished and left the little girl alone. Nayana sat on the sofa beside the girl, in her disheveled frock, her feet dangling, her worn-out chappal on the floor. She was staring out the window. Nayana followed her gaze and saw a family sitting on the lawn. A father was feeding a little girl and seemed to be telling her a story, while the mother was knitting what looked like a pair of socks. Nayana thought of that one time with Papa when he had made her a personal rainbow with the hose as they played pretend-picnic on their lawn. This sofa in the hospital, with the huge glass windows behind it, looked so much like the one in the hostel foyer where Papa and she had had their conversations when he would drop her back to school.
She reached out to the little girl, squeezed her hand and whispered, “Sorry, we tried our best.” She desperately looked for the light at the end of the tunnel.
***
“So what brings you here now, Anna?” he asked, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. C Kandaswamy, or CK as his friends referred to him, looked at ease in his silk kurta and sipping his single malt whiskey, as they sat in the balcony of his house, overlooking the backwaters. Nayana could smell the monsoon in the air. She sighed and said little. It had been two years, three months and two days since she had been addressed as Anna. Only Mamma had had the license to call her that. It was her maternal great-grandmother’s name and Mamma had been valiammachi’s favourite grandchild. When her mother was around, she had tolerated CK. Now she ignored his question. Since Mamma’s death, there was nothing connecting her to him. She never understood how her mother could have married him in the first place. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she had come to say goodbye, to let her mother go. “Anna, the wine is delicious…why don’t you try it?” CK passed the bottle. She gently touched the bottle, allowing her fingers to sink into its cool surface. Now there was no looking back.
As a child she had desperately wanted to be a boy, in spite of being repeatedly told by both her parents ‘separately’ that it was not her fault. She somehow thought that that would have made everything all right. For Dadi, for Papa, for Mamma.
She was seven years old when it happened. Mamma had gently told her they were going to live in Pondicherry where she had found a new job. Even as she enjoyed the attention she got from her mother’s students and nurses on the JIPMER campus, she missed Papa terribly.
In a few years, through conversations overheard, she gathered that Dadi had wanted a grandson. She had blackmailed her only son into agreeing to use his medical knowledge to ensure that the next child would be a boy, an heir. Mamma found the idea abominable. Gradually things got so ugly, they decided to go their different ways.
Nayana wished things could have been different. She had loved them both. Now, finally, with both of them gone, she somehow felt lighter and seemed to finally understand Mamma. “Let it go, Anna,” she had often said. “Life can only be lived by moving forward.”
The aim was to enjoy the solitude without feeling lonely. But it seldom worked. She could almost hear her mother say, “If you shut yourself to light, no one can help you.” Even now, some days when she woke up to blue skies, she felt like drawing the blinds. She felt safe in the cocoon of darkness. When she thought of Ananya and the unfairness of it all, a strange mix of anger, despair and compassion swelled up within her like the dark hues in a postmodern painting.
***
Back in her apartment, she stood in her balcony, looking at the setting sun. It was her refuge. She loved listening to the voices of children wafting up from the playground below. It was also an ideal place for day-dreaming, especially with her favourite mug of tea in hand. This evening, however, she saw a young mother hit and drag a child along. Then the mother realized that the child’s chappal had come off, so she made a U-turn to go and fetch it. The child looked more irritated than upset. It reminded her of the time Mamma would drag her home from the playground, though, to her credit, she never once hit her. Plus, on several days, there would be the promise of her favourite chocolate ice cream at home.
Yes…she knew it.
Ananya would be her personal rainbow and she would ensure her fridge never ran out of chocolate ice cream.
Deepthi Jayaraj is a civil servant, aspiring baker and writer who feels her purpose in life is to be a bridge between people.
