Untitled

She sat at her desk and stared at the pristine white screen of her computer. Still not speckled with even a single word as she'd not been able to sort her thoughts. She had to submit her story in an hour--1,500 words on the death of a well-known, much-loved local artist. She'd met the family just hours ago; seen his mother weep and heard the pride in his father's choking voice. Just the thing she needed to move her readers to tears. A tear-jerker, her boss had instructed her when she sat down to write. After keeping her own tears bottled up for so long, she didn't know how to make someone else cry.


No. Scratch that. She definitely knew how to. The question was, did she Want to? Did she want to go to that place that she'd been avoiding for so long?


She'd read somewhere that actors would keep their emotions right below the surface where they could reach within and use it whenever a scene demanded a stirring performance.


She'd always felt that actors and writers were somewhat similar. They could be whoever they chose to be and could be someone different each day. A king today, a beggar tomorrow. Someone in love, or someone about to end his life. People saw only that side of an actor or a writer that they were shown, and more often than not, associated them with the person they were used to seeing or reading. Play the role of a happily married woman, and people see just that. Write about a little girl who's been given the Christmas gift she'd asked for, and readers visualize only that. Never mind the actor, never mind the writer. YOU remain hidden. YOU don't exist. Your role does. Your character does. Your protagonist does. YOU don't.


Her thoughts going back to the dead artist, she wondered for probably the hundredth time: Here she sat, writing about someone else's loss. There were possibly seven other journalists typing away at their desks at that very moment, plotting how to deliver a sob story that contained as much melodrama as possible to make the most stone-hearted reader shed a few tears. But what about Her pain? Who'd care to even write, let alone read Her story? And if what she'd read about actors was true, why should she use Her pain to make readers cry for someone Else? It seemed unfair. To use her own private memories to strengthen the memories of somebody whom she didn’t even know. All the while keeping hidden everything that enabled her to write this emotional saga she was meant to deliver in less than an hour.


She thought about where her life was, and realised something with slight annoyance. The fact that she sat alone in her dimly lit one bedroom flat—trying to overcome the silence that engulfed her previously ‘loud’ and cheerful life—did not actually bother her so much. She was getting used to this silence, this quiet existence that had become her life. Keeping herself occupied with as much work as she could physically manage, so much so that people began to call her a workaholic, was working really well for her. She didn’t really have any one to spend her free time with, and she realised that sleep was just as great a companion as a human being. Probably even better. And That annoyed her. This meaningless, hushed, private passing away of time that she didn’t even regret any more. She remembered everything that she had given up to get to where she was today, only it hadn’t worked out exactly the way she’d thought. Exchanging a life where people didn't know she existed, for a life where people pretended she didn't exist, was by far the most foolish deal she’d ever made. And for what? Those few stolen memories that only brought a pang of guilt every time she thought about it? Guilt, followed by sudden rage, and eventually replaced by the urge to cry. All of that replaced by a straight face the next morning, as she woke up in a dull mood, but picked herself up with a cheerful smile as she dragged herself to work each day. A strange way to live your life, one might think. Pretending to be someone you’re not, yet slowly becoming that person until one day, you can’t separate the real from the phoney.


She glanced at the time and saw she had only half hour to go, and the only thing that broke the whiteness of the screen were the red blurry shapes that had formed in front of her eyes from staring at the bright screen for too long. She had to get her act together if she wanted to complete her story on time. Her story, but someone else’s life. Exactly what her own existence had become.


She shook her head, straightened her shoulders and began typing. One word after another kept flooding her mind and spilling out onto the page. Words formed paragraphs that formed page after page. The artist came alive to tell his story one final time. His story, her pain. His life, her words. The black and white print gave birth to yet another character that the world would remember, not for the writer who told the story, but for the man whose story was told.


Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts for his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
that he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
--Alfred Lord Tennyson

10 years after madness...sanity has long since sunk in

She’s been reading the papers daily now. It’s a routine: Areeba wakes up before the sun, listens for the creaking of the gate outside her door and the thump of the rolled-up newspaper, gets it in and opens it with absolutely no expression on her aging face. She begins reading: line after line, story after story. So similar to hers, and yet different in ways only she can understand.

‘10 years after madness’ reads the logo placed strategically in the midst of the story. 10 years since the 2002 post-Godhra carnage riots. Had it been only 10 years, Areeba wonders.

She goes back to reading that day’s article. It tells of a man who lost his entire family during the riots, like many others. She doesn’t know the person who has written the piece. She imagines it’s someone devoid of any emotions. Because only he could move people by his words. She tries to put her story into words, and they come out dry and dead. No one who’s lived through the riots can put into words exactly how he or she feels. But this story sounded as though it would move many readers to tears. Not her though. She’s past all that.

Areeba tries to remember what had happened that day, 10 years ago.

A happy bride: her face said it all. People all around kept fussing over her, with their ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s and ‘you’re the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen’. She knew they said that to every woman about to get married. But she wanted to believe them any way. She looked at her reflection in the mirror: she did feel beautiful. The sea green lehnga choli with its gold zari work somehow made her look even fairer than what she was. The dark kohl lining her light brown eyes made them come alive. But it was the excitement of getting married that added the twinkle in those eyes.

Finally, after all these years of waiting, she somehow couldn’t wait any longer. Her day was here. Her nikah, and her prince was just outside waiting to take his vows. She walked out of the dressing room towards the partitioned hall and took her place, face down and covered, as any demure Muslim bride should be.

Somewhere during the rituals, there were loud shouts of ‘kubul hai, kubul hai’ and before Areeba knew what had happened, they were married. Just like that.

Suddenly she was surrounded by hushed murmurings which gained momentum in a matter of minutes and after that everything seemed to happen in slow motion and in a rush at the same time.

Areeba remembered being taken inside in absolute panic, picking up her skirt and rushing past people, her jewellery strewn everywhere but not being allowed to collect them as every one tried to get inside their homes, trampling over anything or anyone that came in their way. She heard children wailing and people shouting. But in the distance she heard something even more disturbing. Screams of people in pain, cries of help, and men swearing.

It was just the beginning of the mayhem that was to follow, Areeba was told much later. Had she known better, she would have seen the signs. Seen that day as an omen of years to come. All that bloodshed, the violence, the pandemonium: symbolic of everything her life would become in a few months from her supposed blissful day.

Areeba hadn’t lost anyone during the riots. No one but herself. In just a couple of months, she learnt that she was carrying a child, and her joy knew no bounds. But she hadn’t expected the rage her husband felt when the news reached him.

That’s when everything began to go downhill.

Her husband's rejection towards her and their unborn child; the constant anger about nothing in particular but aimed, always, at her; the hitting — that was the worst. Not just before their son was born, but even after. And not just her, but their son too. It got worse with every passing month. She hid the bruises on her face and arms behind the burkha whenever she went out. At other times, her excuses for the black and blue marks got better day by day. She had fallen in the bathroom, hit her face while opening the door, or had had an accident. It was the kind of things she'd always seen in movies. But somehow she was living all of that.

After suffering in silence for almost 2 years, she had finally had enough. She knew that her decision for a divorce would have grave repercussions, in her family and the society, but she didn't see a way out. She didn't want her son to grow up amidst the violence and wrath.

And so she decided to leave her husband and go back home; to her parents and her brother's wife who lived with them while her husband was working in the gulf. It was difficult for them to accept that their daughter's marriage was broken and fear of what the rest of the family and community would say led to many arguments for the first few months Areeba was at home. But eventually the happiness and safety of her and her son meant more to them than the jibes and taunts they would face from people.

Even then, at her parents' home, Areeba found no solace for a long time. First her husband would visit them often in a drunken state, create a ruckus and demand to see his son. Her old father couldn't fight back againts her angry husband and was often caught in the middle of his blows.

When that stopped, came papers demanding for custody of thei son. Areeba would murder him if she had to, but there was no way she was giving up her son to that mad man.

After many trips to the court, endless ugly arguments and her son being a witness of all of this, she finally won. Not only did she get to keep her son, her husband was forbidden to ever set foot in her parent's house, or even see or speak to his son. People may say that was extremely cruel and selfish of her. But she had stopped caring what other people said for a long time now. Her family had been supportive enough thoughout the trial and they would always be there by her.

Back to the day's paper, the writing had become blurred and she heard the sound of her son stiring. She looked at the clock, 6.45. It was time to wake him up for school. She gave the article logo one last glance and got up from the chair.

10 years after madness, sanity, for her, had finally sunk in.

(This is a true story. The names, however, have been changed to protect the identity of the people in it)