Anupama had left a message for Vasant on the answering machine. 'Vasant, I
want to talk to you about something important and personal. Could you come to my house at six this evening?'
Vasant wondered what it could be, but somewhere deep inside he was thrilled.
Satya had also heard the message but, rather uncharacteristically, had not joked about it. He looked at life from a different perspective now. He told Vasant, 'I respect Anupama a lot. She is such a balanced person. Even with all the odds stacked against her, she is always optimistic. Life has treated her badly and given her so many shocks, but she is never bitter.'
'That's why I never consider her unfortunate, Satya. She has a soft heart but great strength of mind. Whoever marries her will be really lucky.'
Satya smiled and agreed with him.
When Vasant reached Anupama's house, she was waiting for him in the veranda. A cool breeze was blowing in from the sea.
Anupama said, 'Vasant, I have a small wish. And only you can help me fulfil it. I cannot do it alone.'
'What is it?' Vasant was intrigued.
'There is an international medical conference in Bombay. After that, there is a cultural programme. The organizer is Mr Mojwani and I know that he is your patient. The theatre group in my college wants to perform Swapna Vasavadutta as part of the programme. Mr Mojwani says that people will not understand the
play as it is in Sanskrit. But we will give the commentary in English. Could you
request him to at least see our play and then decide whether to include it or not?
If he finds that it is not really suitable, he can always reject it. Will you please
talk to him on our behalf?'
Vasant was disappointed. He had hoped she wanted to have a more personal
conversation with him.
'Who told you Mr Mojwani is my patient?'
'Satya.'
'Anupama, I don't expect anything in return when I treat my patients. Nor do I think that they should feel obliged to me forever. Some people don't wish to have anything to do with the doctor once they're done paying the fees, but Mr Mojwani is different. He firmly believes that I cured him of a chronic infection and is always eager to help me. I'll definitely put in a word to him but the decision will be his. I know only two people who are always trying to help
others, and he is one of them.'
'Who is the other person?'
'You, Anupama. The way you looked after Satya, the love you show your students, and your deep commitment as an artiste. . . No one else could be like you.'
Vasant's admiration for her grew stronger each day—she had asked him for a favour but on behalf of somebody else. She was truly an extraordinary woman—compassionate, caring and eager to serve anyone in need. She took so much pleasure in everyone else's happiness, and that was indeed a rare quality. Perhaps, there were a few other women like her, but what were his chances of meeting them, wondered Vasant.
He decided, at that moment, to voice something that had been in his heart for a while. 'Anupama, I'd like to ask you something. . .'
'What is that?'
'I came to Bombay to do my Master's and have worked here since then to gain some experience. Now I want to go back to my village and serve the people there. That is my dream. Will you be a part of my life and complete my dream?
Will you share my happiness and sorrows in future?'
Anupama stood dumbstruck for a while. She had never expected this from Vasant. And then she laughed ruefully while her eyes brimmed with tears.
'Vasant, what are you saying? What do you know about me? Aren't you aware of my condition? Just a week back, a new patch appeared on my ear. My disease is beyond any cure now. Within a couple of years, my face will also be white.
How will you feel then?'
'Anupama, Satya told me about your past. Being a doctor, I know the nature of this disease, and it does not bother me. I admire you more for your inner qualities than your physical beauty.'
'What will your people think of me, or haven't you thought of that?'
'I don't care what others think. I decide what I'm going to do with my life. If you're worried that leukoderma could be hereditary, well then, so are many other problems such as diabetes and hypertension. Take your time and think over what I've said. I am going to be here for two more months. I promise to respect whatever decision you make.'
Vasant sneezed and shivered slightly as a cold gust of wind wafted in through the billowing curtains.
Anupama's attention was immediately diverted from the serious conversation they had been having. 'Vasant, why don't you wear a sweater?' she asked.
'I don't have one,' he replied, 'I have no one to knit sweaters for me, and I've never remembered to buy one for myself. So I have reconciled myself to catching a cold every winter.' Vasant smiled and then took leave of her.
🍃🍃
Anand was in Bombay to attend an international medical conference at one of the five-star hotels in Nariman Point.
After the day's session was over, he paused in front of the Oberoi Hotel to
gaze at the sea. Of late, he had found himself sinking into a state of chronic
unhappiness. Feelings of shame and guilt always gnawed at him, and left him
feeling helpless. I did not do the right thing because I was immature, he
sometimes tried to console himself.
As he stood looking at the sea, someone tapped his shoulder from behind.
It was his friend Dr Prakash Apte. Prakash had been with him in England and had now settled down in Bombay where he and his wife, Nirmala, owned a
nursing home.
'Hi Anand, I never expected to meet you here! Where are you staying?'
Anand was happy to see Prakash. 'I am staying right here in the Oberoi. How
have you been?'
'I will tell you if you come home and join us for dinner.' Anand laughed and
agreed.
Anand and Prakash were soon immersed in conversation. The latest innovations in surgery, seminars, their contemporaries—Prakash was voluble about them all, and Anand was unable to cut short the conversation although he wanted to get back to his room and rest.
'Hey Anand, there is a Sanskrit play at the Tata Theatre this evening. Let's
go,' insisted Prakash.
The thought of going for a play scared Anand. It had been several years since
he had last watched a play. Even when he visited England, he no longer went to
any of the Shakespearean plays that he had once loved. Anything connected with
theatre had become taboo for him. Plays inevitably brought back the memories
of Anupama, his marriage, her disease, the betrayal and their separation.
Unaware of Anand's inner turmoil, Prakash insisted, 'Anand, let's go.'
'You say the play is in Sanskrit. . .'
'But the commentary will be in English. It is being put up by college students and we must encourage them. Even the German delegates are planning to watch
the play. We, as Indians, ought to go, too. The Tata Theatre is as good as any in
England.'
Anand did not have any option but to go with Prakash.
The auditorium was already packed with people. The murmurs of conversation slowly faded as a voice from behind the curtain started speaking, 'Dear friends, today we are here to enact one of the best plays written by the famous dramatist Bhasa, Swapna Vasavadutta.'
The years melted away as Anand remembered another such voice:
"Dear friends, today we are here to perform the play, Mahashweta. The theme has been taken from the novel Kadambari, written by Bana Bhatta."
Anand began feeling restless and disturbed. He wished the voice would stop; but the commentary continued. . .
'Bhasa was one of the renowned poets of his time. He was called the Smile of
goddess Saraswathi. It is said that all his plays were thrown into the fire but
Swapna Vasavadutta was not burnt because it was as pure as gold. . .'
Anand couldn't concentrate on the commentary. Was it really Anupama's
voice or was his imagination playing tricks on him?
Prakash said, 'Did you hear that? How beautifully she is explaining
everything! I told you. . .'
'Who is the lady giving the commentary?'
'She is a Sanskrit lecturer from a college in Vile Parle. Every year she directs
plays and gets the first prize. And the great thing is that only her students act in the plays, not professionals.'
'What is her name?' Anand's voice trembled in anticipation.
'I think she's called Anuradha. My cousin is her student. It seems that young
artistes are always looking for a chance to act in her plays. It is as good as
getting a break in Bollywood, they say!' laughed Prakash.
The explanation continued in a melodious, well-modulated voice. 'The
handsome Udayana is the prince of the prosperous Vathsa Desha. He has an
exemplary student, Princess Vasavadutta. She is an extremely beautiful, intelligent and good-natured girl. They fall in love and get married. For the good of the kingdom, Udayana is told that he must marry the Magadha princess, Padmavati; but he refuses. But, for the betterment of her husband and his kingdom, Vasavadutta spreads a rumour that she has died in a forest fire.
Reluctantly, Udayana agrees to marry Padmavati. Vasavadutta visits him when
he is asleep to console him, and helps him to accept his second marriage. Hence, the play is called Swapna Vasavadutta.
'In any community, land or race, a woman always wants her husband to love only her. Vasavadutta was very fortunate to have a husband who was completely devoted to her. In those days, a king could marry any number of women, but Udayana did not wish to do that.
'The exact period when Bhasa wrote his plays is not known, but historians
claim that he comes before Kalidasa and after Ashwagosha.'
Prakash said, 'Look at the depth of her knowledge. After watching the play,
you will realize what an excellent director she is.'
Anand was not bothered about the play; he only wanted to see its director, and
waited impatiently for the play to begin.
Throughout the play Prakash kept up his running commentary, 'Look at the
sets, costumes and actresses. Don't they look extraordinary?'
There was thunderous applause once the play ended. The students came on the
stage and bowed to the audience. At the very end came the lady who was
responsible for the success of the play, and everyone gave her a standing
ovation.
In a daze, Anand watched Anupama walk onto the stage as she had many
years ago. Then she had been the heroine of Mahashweta. This time, she was on stage as a real 'Mahashweta'. Her face shone with the same confidence, the
same dignity and the same love for theatre.
When Anand came out with his friend, Prakash immediately sensed that Anand
was not his usual self. 'Are you not well? Come home and rest.'
'Thanks, Prakash, but I'd rather go back to my room. I have a severe
headache.'
'Didn't you like the play? One rarely gets to see Sanskrit drama nowadays.
That's why I insisted on bringing you with me. I'm sorry if you didn't enjoy it.
But don't you think Anuradha is a great director?'
'Thank you for taking me to the play, Prakash. By the way, the director is not
Anuradha. She is Anupama.'
'Oh, I'm not good at remembering names. Besides, Anuradha or Anupama,
there isn't much of a difference anyway.'
For Anand it was a world of difference. He declined Prakash's invitation to
dinner. His mind was a riot of conflicting emotions. As soon as Prakash left, he
hurried backstage. The attendants were closing up after cleaning the stage. It was
already late. 'Could you give me the address of Anupama?' Anand asked the
supervisor.
'Which Anupama?'
'The lady who directed the play today.'
'They have all left.'
'Could you at least you give me her telephone number?'
The supervisor looked at him suspiciously. 'Who are you? Why do you need
her number?'
'I am her relative.'
'If you are her relative, then how come you don't have her address?'
Anand was unable to to come up with a satisfactory answer. But he looked so
dejected that the supervisor felt sorry for him. 'Come tomorrow morning at
11.30 and meet the manager and speak to him. Now, if I stay any longer I will
miss my last local to Virar.'
Anand came out of the theatre and stood gazing at the sea at Nariman Point.
He felt a deep sense of grief and regret. A few hours' delay in getting
Anupama's address had upset him so much. What had Anupama gone through
when she had been struggling all alone without any money, support, or even a
letter from him?
The more he thought about Anupama, the guiltier he felt. He remembered
Anupama's words in her introduction to the play. In any community, land or
race, a woman always wants her husband to love only her . . .
I probably never loved her as Udayana loved Vasavadatta. Though she had all
the qualities of Vasavadutta, I did not have any of Udayana's. . .
The next day, Anand went back to the Tata Theatre and got her college
address. He called the college, with trepidation, and was told that she was on
leave; but he got her home address without much difficulty. Instead of calling her, he hailed a taxi. '46, Pali Hill, Bandra West,' he said.
🍃🍃
Anupama woke up later than usual the day after the play. She was looking
forward to spending the entire day in search of her next play.
The play she had
directed had been a resounding success, and she was very happy about it.
Satya And Vasant had congratulated her warmly. The media too had sought her out, but she had persuaded her students to speak to the reporters while she herself remained in the background.
She told Vasant, 'This is not my success. It is the result of my students' hard work, the dramatic prowess of Bhasa, and the
appreciation of the audience. I am so grateful to you for introducing me to Mr
Mojwani, Vasant.' Her limpid brown eyes were full of sincerity.
Anupama knew that choosing a play for college students would not be an easy
task. It would require a sound knowledge of the history, the attire and customs of the period in which the play was set. She was immersed in her search when there was a knock on the door.
Sakkubai her maid, had taken the day off. Assuming that some of her students had come to see her, Anupama called out, 'Please come in.'
Anand walked in.
Anupama was sitting on the floor holding some books in her hand. When she
saw her visitor, her smile faded and she got up hurriedly.
The shock of seeing
Anand after so many years left her speechless. She forgot the basic rules of
etiquette and did not even welcome her guest.
'Please sit down,' she said, indicating the sofa.
Once, Anupama had waited eagerly for even a brief reply to her letters and
cried, day and night, for a single word of consolation from him. 'Anand, please
come and take me away from this hell. . .' had been her constant prayer. But no
one had come to her rescue. Now that he was sitting in front of her, she did not
know what to say. She found that she had no expectations from him.
Anupama smiled sadly. There were so many things that she had once wanted
to tell Anand. She had devoted her mind, body and soul to him, loved him
without reservation, and in return he had hurt her deeply.
Every second dragged heavily and old wounds became raw again. Anupama
remembered Sunaina's and Aadya's indifference to her; the helplessness she had felt as an abandoned wife who had been sent back to her father's house. She
remembered, in minute detail, the moments when she had contemplated suicide.
It was as if all those things had happened just yesterday.
Anupama's silence made Anand deeply uncomfortable. White patches had
appeared on her beautiful arms, which had once been adorned by green and red
bangles. Her eyes sparkled with confidence; there was not a trace of self-pity in her demeanour. Anupama seemed to have grown in stature.
Anand spoke first, breaking the awkward silence, 'How are you, Anu?'
Anupama turned to Anand. He was still handsome but she thought he looked
somewhat jaded. There was a distance between them now, and he seemed a stranger to her.
Since he did not receive a response from her, he tried again, 'Anupama, I saw
your play yesterday. It was fantastic.'
Hadn't he said similar words to her, which had charmed her and won her
innocent heart, several years ago?
'Thank you, doctor.'
Anand was disheartened by her response, but he made yet another effort to draw her out. 'It was very hard to trace your address. No one was able to help me. . .I tried my level best. . .'
'When did you come back from England?' she cut in.
'Two years back. Anupama, please forgive me. Everyone makes mistakes.'
Anand stood up.
'Please sit down. Which mistake are you seeking forgiveness for? Please remember that saying the right thing at the right time is what makes a conversation meaningful. Language is a tool we use to express ourselves. It is
what differentiates us from animals. Did you speak when you first got to know
about my condition? Was it my fault that I got this white patch? Is it my fault
that I am a poor man's daughter? Now that you are here, answer me.'
Anand did not know what to say.
'You knew that I did not have this disease before our marriage. You could
have told your mother. . .but you didn't. You were scared that I would be
disfigured because of this disease. Your mother and sister disliked me because I
was from a poor family. They wanted an excuse to get rid of me and your silence
provided them with the perfect cover. I ended up a victim because you chose to
dishonour the vows you took.'
'Anupama, I cannot answer any of your questions. I can only beg your
pardon.'
'Why? Even household pets are treated with love and cared for when they are
unwell. I was your wife, lonely, scared and totally dependent on you. All I
wanted was to hear a few kind words from you. They would have been my
strength, but you never bothered to console me even once.'
Anand found the courage to say, 'Anupama, avva is old-fashioned. She was worried that if we had daughters their future would be difficult.'
'Being a doctor, how can you even say that, let alone use it as an excuse? Nobody in my family had this disease. Then why did I get it?'
Anand was quiet.
'You were worried about your unborn daughters' future,' Anupama
continued. I am also somebody's daughter; did you worry about my future? You never treated me as a human being. I was only a beautiful object that you wished to possess and flaunt. Had I known your attitude towards life, I would have told you to marry somebody else. Suppose you had got leukoderma, do you think I would have left you for some other man? A marriage is a lifelong commitment; for better or for worse, till death do us part. Wasn't that what you'd said to me before you left for England? Even though you are a doctor, you only know how to treat a disease, not tend to a patient's emotional needs.'
Her words weighed Anand down.
'Do you know why your mother sent me back? Because she knew that you
would never question her about it. I was an unwanted toy she had brought home
because her son had set his heart on it. Once it was damaged, she threw it away
knowing that her son would not want it any more. I want to ask you a simple
question. What guarantee is there that tomorrow your children will not get this
disease?'
'I have not married again, Anupama.'
'But I heard that you had consented. . .'
'Avva tried her best to get me married again, but I refused. Everything you
said is true. I'm begging you to forget the past. If you do not want to stay with
avva, we will go back to England where nobody will bother us. Let us face life
together.'
'How can you possibly expect a burnt seed to grow into a tree? Husband,
children, affection, love. . .they are all irrelevant to me now. It is too late for us. I am no longer the naive Anupama whose world revolved around you. I know what my goals are and where I am heading, and I don't need anyone's help to reach my destination. God has been very kind to me. I have been fortunate
enough to live in a place like Bombay where even this mad rush has a humane
side to it. I have excellent friends who trust me and will not hesitate to help me if I am in trouble. All my students are as dear to me as my own children would
have been. Their unconditional love has never made me think of myself as
blemished. I cannot help feeling sad for those women who are still at the mercy of their husbands and in-laws, and are emotionally and economically dependent
on them. What will their fate be if they are unfortunate enough to get this kind of a disease? I am not dependent on anyone for emotional or financial support and that has given me enormous strength. I thank God for having been so fortunate.'
Anand heard her out quietly, still hopeful that she would go back with him.
Anupama realized the time had come to make her decision clear to him.
'It would be better for us to part now and never communicate with each other again. We met accidentally, but we were not made for each other. Let us part with a
good grace.'
Anand understood then that this would be his last meeting with Anupama. He
gave it one desperate try. 'Anupama, think one more time about what I've said.
Please come back with me.'
Anupama picked up her books, 'You are a well-educated man from a good
family. But there is one thing you have not learnt.' She looked at him steadily.
'What is that?'
'You should never call a woman whom you do not know by her given name.'
Anand watched Anupama walk away.