The swings tied with long, brazen ropes to branches shooting out, as if from clear nowhere, had never inspired the same porcelain fear in her as it can sometimes in children aged nine. Not that she was exceptionally brave or something. She still ran for covers when the milkman Gopal dada dilated his eyes in a not-quite-playful fashion, or when her cousin-brother chased her with the dead cockroach dangling perilously from its whiskers between his index and middle fingers. It’s just this she had taken to the swings. Taken to them enormously. She wanted to miss the school, miss her evening-glass-of-lukewarm-milk, and “gudda-gudiya ki shadi” for the swings. “Not great signs”, her know-it-all and once-a-sanyasi-now-a-liftman-in-the-university maternal uncle had shot off bluntly to her gaunt-bodied and almost-beautiful mother, “girls”, he had remarked, “should show less of this free, untamed spirit and be more involved in familial proceedings”. It was an obvious reference to the oh-so-soon-disillusionment of the girl with “gudda-gudiya ki shadi” and her torrid love-affair with the swings. Her mother chose to ignore him, and had instead in reply asked if he would like some tea or some sugarcane juice.
Her mother had learnt to live life vicariously. To sit and savour the joyrides on the swings from right inside the sweltering kitchen with open, uncovered and sometimes even unbridled fire used for cooking the meals which she always wondered-and-never-resented why she got to have the last of all in an extended family of 19 or 20. She had told herself at the birth of Ramya she wouldl live her life through the senses and sensibilities, experiences and extremities, situations and insinuations, happiness and haplessness, vigour and vitality, endeavours and endings of this little godsend, Ramya. Ramya would sing the most enthralling of songs, take dips in the deepest of lakes, vanquish the tallest of summits, travel to the most obscure of lands, compose the purest of paeans, receive the most-craved of degrees, and love the most-desired of men! Who knows how many empires would be razed to the dust if a woman’s heart were to open up? Surprisingly, the mother didn’t feel guilty enough. It’s her life, and she owes it to no one. It’s her soul, and she owes it to no one.
Ramya was of course not beyond the clutches of time and however badly she wanted to, couldn’t of course always remain the cherubic and free-minded nine-year-old pleading to be left alone for some more time on the swings, or perhaps to be pushed harder and harder so she could swing higher and faster than ever before. Few understood her love for speed and heights. Unbecoming of a little girl for sure.
She turned out to be an exceptional student at college and university. She always gave the smartest of boys a run for their money in the predominantly patriarchal society. Always got the scholarships, the medals and the recognitions. Also went on college trips to strange places her mother had never-heard-of but was nonetheless happy about. Also sang beautifully. Also got her poetry published in The Weekly. Also loved. The best of men. She had had more than her share of walks-to-remember and heartbreaks in her college itself. A fact not entirely hidden and unknown to the mother. Neither a fact not entirely detested and abhorred by the mother.
She had not entirely disliked Dev. All knew he was a bright guy with a bright future. Besides, he was such an affable gentleman, respectful to elders, courteous to peers and doting to the younger. But somehow he had never had the opportunity to figure in Ramya’s entablature of affairs. And then to find yourself married to this very man can be a rude shock. But women, they say, have to bear more than the earth beyond the feet. She had to get married after all, so why not Dev?
All along it has been great. A joyride yet again. Only, not as fast and as rash as the swings. She has a good, loving husband and a two-years-old baby, Rani. She has a decent job in Wise, an analytics firm operating out of Mumbai. Dev earns well too. What’s more important to a woman, Dev loves well too. On her weekends, she spends lots of time with Rani trying to compensate for the absence of it during the weekdays. Ramya feels a bit tired and exhausted these days. It has been a routine since the childbirth. People did tell her Cesarean sections take time to heal not just from the body, also the psyche. Looks like it has left scars not just on the abdomen. And scars that refuse to go.
Her Saturday night outings with Dev or Sunday evening kittie parties with other ladies in the neighbourhood still interested her and helped her unwind. She still loved to be held in his arms, also passionately made love to. She still loved the exotic Thai cuisine at the super-elite restaurant Buds down Bandra. There hasn’t been much of a change in her life in last five years, other than the arrival of Rani, and the usual fare- promotions, raises etc. In a kind-of guilty way, she knows any woman would kill to live the life she was living. Guilty because, she still feels the burning desire inside her for that extra something, that extra bit which obviously is missing. She had tried talking about it to Dev and he didn’t look uninterested (he never does, by the way. He is the proverbial 'woman’s man'.)- but had no incisive insights to offer either. All he could guess was maybe it was the C-section scars, she had still not gotten over it perhaps? She had promptly rubbished the suggestion off!
Scar- she now thinks is a strange word, very explicit and conveying. As if even a person without any knowledge of the language could tell from just the sound of the word, that a ‘scar’ is something awful. As if it’s egregiously bad. Even Evil perhaps. Demoniac. “Useless thought”, she chided herself.
She bought some under-eye lotion at Pantaloon’s yesterday. She had had enough of scars and marks, she decided. Prevention is better than cure. And absolutely better than no cure! “Scars don’t go Ramya”, said Ramya.
What had she done to deserve this? Trying to bring to this world the sweet one, Rani. Is that a crime grave enough for her to deserve such harsh punishment, that too one which leaves indelible imprints on your charmingly beautiful body? Also the psyche she was beginning to believe. Who is to be blamed and held responsible for this crisis in her life- the man who sowed the seeds in her womb or the sapling that grew out of it or the whole expectation that a woman will sure act as the garden and produce, reproduce till the garden remains beautiful no more? “Evil thoughts, I better get down to work”, thought Ramya, once again chiding herself and stifling the thought that was slowly but surely assuming a vice-like grip over her.
Ramya always used to take a cab back home in the evening from her workplace. She hasn’t felt like driving ever since Rani happened, and doesn’t want to be driven around by a chauffeur. Also, a cab suits her just fine. Anyway, Dev drops her to her office in the morning. She is sure he would love to pick her up in the evening too had his office not demanded his presence till pretty late. These days, she doen’t take a cab. She simply walks. Walks to the Juhu seaside. Sits there pondering for God-knows-how-long and then takes a cab to back home when she has had enough of the thoughtful moments spent indulging in self-pity.
The seaside is bubbling with activity today. Rani is a bit indisposed but there is that motherly nurse at home to look after her. The cool breeze from the waves striking against Ramya's face (which has very subtle and almost-indistinguishable make-up) transports her to the swings she used to visit as a child, only in a happier frame-of-mind than now. Rani feels better with her mother around, and the baby waits eagerly for the solace it gets in the mother’s arms. Meanwhile, Ramya lets her feet feel the warmth of the yellow sand, and settles down nonchalantly amidst this soothing warmth. Surprisingly, the mother doesn’t feel guilty enough. It’s her life, and she owes it to no one. It’s her soul, and she owes it to no one.
