Short Story
Barriers that remained*
artwork by amina
For she had died by drowning herself in the whirlpool of the past.
The husband was an officer.
Went away in his car.
The children were of school age.
The bus came, and off they went.
She took a deep breath. Now she was alone, quite free despite being enclosed in her fortress-like bungalow, but the rain had erected a wall around the four sides of the fortress and the bungalow got soaked standing like a crane in a state of melancholy. It didn't leak from anywhere; nor was it moist any place. The blue colour too hadn't peeled off...like a wet cloth. The leaves, flowers, and branches swayed in the garden; all had been washed clean, softened. Not a speck of dust anywhere, not any trace of patterns etched in mud but...
The rain had pulled off the sheet covering her. and it had drenched the other sheet, the sheet of honour.
She had dressed up to go: sweater, scarf, gloves, socks, sandals, overcoat, yet she was naked still; shivering. Then a struggle began between her existence and her heart. There was no visitor. Nor had she been invited anywhere. Not even a message.
No one had phoned.
Today, something should happen today.
An accident from the past needed to be tossed into her present.
Accidents.
Telegram.
Illness.
Shadows began to stretch. He'll come soon; followed by the children. She'll come to life again.
But when evening comes, it comes to say farewell, not like a woman, who, willing or not, for the rest of her life laughs and weeps while dissolving into silence. Evening leaves, leaving her space for night. It is not a life sentence--one sole relationship, against will, violence. No difference, no change.
Touch
And
Smell
Speech
The same old, stinking, rotten things.
Time-tested, familiar, limp, lifeless.
Mom, tell me a story.
My raja, which story would you like to hear?
A good one.
Raja! Yes, she always addressed him as Raja. He'd say: How lovely you are...lovely.
Mom.
Yes?
A story.
All right, listen.
Son, it rained so hard one day, so mercilessly...
Like today?
Yes, son.
What happened then, mom?
She kept wondering what to say next, When the rain came, she began to remember. Then...?
Mom.
Yes, my child, listen...it was a downpour. The sparrow's nest was made of straw. The crow's was of unbaked mud. The sparrow's house withstood the rain, no worry about the dirt or mud...
But, mom, the crow's house was made of mud, which washed away...
What? No, son. If it had done so, where would the poor soul go?
Whom can he call his own?
Mom, is he still getting soaked in the rain?
No, my raja. He comes to the sparrow's house and tells her...to open the door, sister sparrow.
Yes, son.
Did the sparrow open the door?
No.
Why?
Don't know, son, I don't know.
She should open the door. Our teacher tells us to always love our neighbours.
To love one's neighbour, said your teacher.
Your teacher, right?
Yes, why?
No, one cannot love one's neighbour, son.
Why? Is it bad?
No, very good, love...
Yes, go on, mom.
She said nothing more; kept caressing her son with affection. And the child kept making little noises. Later on, he fell asleep with his feet on her belly. She was lost in thought. The light streaked out from the study. She wished he'd go on working all night. She wanted to sleep alone tonight; didn't want to be touched tonight; otherwise her body would speak out. Her body would become the tongue of her soul.
But can everyone follow the tongue of silence?
He could see through it.
He could feel it by a slight touch.
But this? He couldn't comprehend this vernacular.
So what! He has the right. So what if he didn't comprehend the vernacular of silence?
She felt like a prostitute, a helpless poor little thing, dependent, chained down with relationships. She longed to break all bonds, shred them to pieces, to finish them off for ever. She removed her child's feet from her. The child turned on his side and threw his milk-soft arms around her neck. Overcome with love, she stroked the silky hands of her child; tears welled up in her eyes.
Could this web of silk be broken! Never...
Perhaps that's why the sparrow had said to the crow.
Wait, I am feeding my child now...
He'll grow up, get married, bring his bride; only then will she allow the crow to come in.
Today the web of my child is around my neck.
Tomorrow a grandchild's.
It was the same rain, pouring down without mercy. Thick clouds gathered. He'd come; she'd wiped his hair with the wet corner of her shawl, then they had embraced.
He'd whispered, Now please add a little kohl too...such a child I am.
Who is it? Mother had asked.
No one, mother. It is my girlfriend.
All right.
The blind mother kept on counting her beads, sitting in silence.
Both had their tea while it rained, had breakfast.
Both had lent warmth to each other with their embrace.
As the rain relented, he left.
Did she deceive her mother?
Her mother, or herself? Or the world?
Perhaps all of the above, but not him.
Really?
She could not go to his house.
His wife stood blocking her way.
Raja, I will have to marry now. Mother won't listen to me anymore.
But we have promised to be each other's, life after life.
True, my Raja, but you are trapped in a relationship.
But, my Rani, that relationship is only outwardly. I am alone.
But it is she who has the right.
How long will you keep on reminding me of that?
She tried and tried, but mother wouldn't listen; finally she said: I am leaving. Do take care. Protect our falling house.
If I ever showed up at your door, will you let me in?
Of course, you can come any time.
No, you won't be able to do it.
Why not? Why would I not be able to do that? Our youths will pass somehow, but we'll need each other in old age. If we couldn't live together, we could die together at least.
No, I don't want to live that long--tired, bent out of shape, coughing, what will I ask for at your door? What will I be able to give?
Raja, please, don't say such sad things...for my sake.
He never came again. Nor did he run into her anywhere. With such restlessness did she pass all those months! Even moments of happiness were spent in a struggle. Now even the memory seemed too old. If he'd showed up then, she would've given everything up to leave with him. If he came now?
This child...if he came now, she wouldn't go.
The husband?
Honour?
Society?
She pondered and pondered. She is not alone now. She has children, and people consider her an honourable member of society; the husband too is not a bad person. The house...all this furniture, jewellery, clothes, china, pots and pans...no, how can she leave now. So many ties, so many traps.
She kept on thinking. Only God knows when she fell asleep. The light went out in the study. Two feet approached her; and returned after pulling the blanket over the mother and the son. She woke up. Eyes wide open.
She could feel the breeze, heavy breeze. It rained outside.
Oh...who's at the door? Who's knocking at the door?
He? He has come? In this rain? Asking for shelter? Asking for help?
He kept waiting all those years?
He was in love all this time? Promise? Memory of touch?
And she? Remained in the trap created by honour, money, children?
Another knock came on the door.
Suddenly she jumped out of her bed. The blanket fell away, leaving the child uncovered.
She reached the door on trembling feet.
He was getting soaked in the rain. He was standing. She would certainly bring him in now.
The world...the motherhood...will destroy her aloneness.
She placed her hand on the side of the door; she pulled back as though terrified. The corpse of Madame Bovary hung from the door of happiness.
The mistress of Flaubert...Madame Bovary.
The lover deceived her.
She swallowed poison. Madame's body writhed. Her body had stiffened because of pain.
The blood had dried on the corners of her lips.
And Madame's husband, madly in love with her.
The little girl, terrified.
Standing at the door of death, Madame Bovary.
She ran to her husband's room.
She threw her arms around his neck, embraced him; how nervous she had become. Poor little Madame Sparrow.
The sparrow's door is shut.
The rain has no intention of letting up.
He is sitting outside.
Alone.
The wretched crow.
*From Penguin India's A Letter from India, 2005, reviewed previously on this page.
Vali Ram Vallabh is a Sindhi poet/short story writer. Moazzem Sheikh is an editor/translator.
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