Yours Whimsically - Part 29: To write or not to write...

I stand in front of the kitchen stove, making my Sunday brunch. (I am just too lazy to cook a separate breakfast and lunch!) Having been schooled - to put it mildly - by Amma that I am not taking proper care of my food - and thus, my health - I am today determined to make vermicelli uppittu. The home is silent, except for the sound of vegetables boiling in the pan and the tick-tock of the recently acquired clock. Not really in the mood to play any music. Sometimes, what we really desire for is silence - within and without. 

Looking out of the huge glass windows/doors in the living room, I see snowflakes gently making their way to earth. The first few melt on contact with the surface. They are preparing the ground - literally - for the rest of the snow to spread its white carpet over green grass. I record a few seconds of snowfall to share back home. Thanks to phones and WhatsApp, no distance seems too far - on usual days. And then, there are days...

My landlord got the garden mowed just yesterday, perhaps to better enjoy the sight of snow covered earth. I see him and his family, having coffee in their kitchen. He waves at me. I wave back and smile. 

The oven "ting"s to let me know that milk is warmed. With uppittu on slowboil, I begin to sip my cup of Boost, staring out of the window. Snow doesn't seem to deter the little birds, pecking at the freshly mowed garden in search of food. Seeds? Grass? Worms? There. The two red squirrels in the garden are out to play. I see them almost everyday, running around the garden, chasing one another. One has a slightly darker fur than the other. They don't have the three stripes, like on the squirrels we see back home. "Rama didn't visit these lands", I tell myself. Sometimes, they pause, look straight at me through the glass window and then continue frolicking. It has been more than a month since I placed a couple of carrots in the garden, hoping that they would consume it. It is still there. Untouched. 

It then dawns upon me. It is one year to the day since I moved into this apartment. For the first time, I was moving in to stay on my own. I have stayed away from home. But then, those were hostels. Here, I had to run a proper household. Cook and clean and wash myself. All this, along with learning a new language and learning the ropes in the workplace. I was sold by the garden in the backyard. On a fading November evening, the apartment with a huge, mowed backyard, along with other benefits, felt like a good proposition. Only, I didn't realize that the garden would not have much utility for a non-smoker staying alone in a country where, on average, it rains for about 200 days in a year. And then, there are the winter months, when it is too cold and/or dark to go out into the open!

One year since moving into this apartment that I now call home. It has been longer since I managed to put pen on paper - except on those increasingly rare days when I write my journal - to write something that is by me as an individual, not undersigned by any designation. There have been failed shots in Kannada and English. A few lines here. A couple of paragraphs there. Two or three voice-notes recorded in the middle of the night, when I felt I had hit upon an excellent idea. Pages in the journal admonishing myself for not continuing what I felt was a gift not many possessed. Resolving that I would spend less time scrolling through Instagram reels and Twitter before going to bed and instead, use that time to jot down thoughts and ideas. Or atleast, read a few pages. Promises to the self to dedicate a stipulated time of the day when I would switch off from the outside world and just let the pen flow. "Writing is as much about discipline as it is about inspiration. It is discipline that will forge inspiration and give it shape", I tell myself. The next day, my partner and I are discussing the latest movie or series to be consumed on Netflix - a way we have figured out to live the same experience together, though virtually. Writing can wait. 

What is it that I can write about, to shake up the mind, unlock the thoughts once again into free flow? I should write something - without sounding preachy. Would it be something borne out of my experience? How do I universalise it, make it more relatable? But then, who am I writing it for? Am I writing it for myself or for others? Am I writing it for people to like it and admire my intellectual prowess or is it just a way of expressing myself and liberating my thoughts long stacked in the brain, in a rather haphazard way? I do not have aspirations to be an influencer, do I? 

It has stopped snowing. The thin layer of snow is making way for the green grass to resurface. The aroma of uppittu fills the kitchen. I take the lid off, give it a nice stir to mix the contents well and set it on low flame again for a few more minutes. It looks colorful - the slight yellow of the vermicelli uppittu. Onions fried till they are slightly transparent. Carrot and capsicum, cut to similar lengths, blending well. Tomato lending its flavor. Garnished with coriander and green chillies. I admire my handiwork. Click a photo to share with my partner, friends and family. The real taste of culinary experiments lies in sharing photos and seeing others' reactions and comments. 

I have realized that my biggest growth in the last one year has been in cooking. Prior to this solitary life, the maximum I knew was to make rice and maybe, fry chapatis, if that counts. Despite repeated attempts by Amma to teach me some useful skills, I did not pay enough attention. Now, at the deep end of the pool, I began learning to cook - remotely tutored from back home, accompanied by vigourous note-taking and supplemented by YouTube videos. Slowly, I began to appreciate what I always took for granted - making saaru and huLi appear on the table. I realized there is music in the spluttering of saasive (mustard). I unravelled the secret that the aroma of coriander can uplift a dish. I understood that oggarane and a spoon of lime can enhance salads. I can make a curry or a sabji out of most of the vegetables available at the Indian store here. Through trial and error, I have managed to get Dose right. Pasta does not seem daunting anymore. The few friends who have experienced my culinary skills have survived - without any visible impact. Which only means that I am doing something right! With the right ingredients, I now have the confidence that I can survive anywhere. Do I need to diversify my palate? That is perhaps a discussion for another day. 

Eating my well-cooked uppittu (since there is nobody to deny it is not well cooked!), accompanied by a bowl of grapes, I decide today is the day to end the drought on my blog. Today is the day when I shall write down ideas as they flow, unhindered. No matter who reads them. No matter what they think on reading it. I write this for myself, unafraid of feedback (if any!). Everything seems nice inside the head. It is only by writing you realize whether an idea is good or otherwise. 

I sit on the couch. Keep my phone aside. The tick-tock of the clock is the only sound in the apartment. Outside, it has begun to snow again. Inside, the thoughts keep me warm...

Yours Whimsically - Part 28: On the love of cinemas...

 Nearly a month ago, my exam process got postponed - indefinitely, thanks to the surging second wave of COVID19. Overnight, from being hard pressed for time, I now had time to kill. While certainly I couldn’t take the foot off the pedal entirely, I had to modify my strategy to prevent being burnt out. One can always say there is nothing called being “over-prepared”. However, to use a cricketing analogy, we are in the ‘middle overs’ of an ODI match: you have to conserve enough wickets and firepower, to go berserk in the final few overs.

I started looking for activities that would make my schedule, beyond preparation. The books were ever present. IPL and Bigg Boss (Kannada) seemed good enough to occupy time and mindspace. But then, we all know how it panned out. When IPL and the reality show were suspended within a few days of each other, I was lost for options. What was I to do? All of a sudden, the world seemed to go blank!

This was when I turned to movies. To be fair, watching a movie every weekend or two has been a practice for quite some time now, more so since we subscribed to Tata Sky’s “Binge”. But then, neither my brother nor I had come to watch movies with as much religious regularity as I do now, because there were other engagements. Movies were meant to be weekend de-stressors. Fortunately or unfortunately, for me, everyday has become a weekend (or a weekday). Sunday rolls over into Monday, in turn into Tuesday. Before long, it is Saturday already -with hardly any difference, except for the dates on the newspapers that I read. Even the news stories seem similar across days! Browsing through the listings on Amazon Prime, Zee5, Disney-Hotstar, and most recently, Netflix, I realized that there is a treasure trove waiting to be unlocked, across languages. All I had to do was to say “Open Sesame!”

Around the same time, my brother, having read about “Chotushkone” (Bengali), wanted to watch it. It was then I realized that my Bengali, though rusty, was largely intact, which led me to watch a couple of other movies by Srijit Mukherjee. Then came articles about the Satyajit Ray, whose birth centenary was on May 2^nd this year. I was curious about what makes him such a celebrated filmmaker globally and decided to explore his movies.

Irony: I began listening to Carnatic music in earnest only after going to Kolkata for my graduation; and here, nearly three years post-college, I am taking baby steps into the world of Bengali cinema – something which I should have done during the five years I spent in Kolkata. It is, perhaps, true that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

I have watched a handful of Ray’s movies now. What can I possibly write that has not already been written about him or his movies? Do I write about the use of dream sequences, heavy with symbolism, in “Nayak” that explore the insecurities of the matinee idol, or how it re-affirms the statement that “winners stand alone”? Do I write about how “Shatranj ke Khiladi” is a commentary relevant to all times, where the rulers – and nobility – are obsessed with everything but governance? Or how tightly the sequences are constructed in “Sonar Kella”, which is a thriller in its own right?

 After these movies, I turned to the novel-based “The Apu Trilogy” – “Pather Panchali”, “Aparajito”, “Apur Sansar”. While watching these, I was reminded of Kannada’s famous tele-serialized novel “Gruhabhanga” (by S L Bhyrappa). A struggling Brahmin family; a father who is unable to provide for the family – though in the trilogy, he is well-meaning and tries hard; a strong-willed mother, who aspires for her family to transcend poverty, into a life of dignity; children, whose dreams and spirit remain unbroken by the struggles; and of course, death – these are some elements that are common among the two.

Personally, I enjoyed watching “Aparajito” more. The train, which is a symbol of fascination in “Pather Panchali”, becomes a metaphor for the distance that emerges between Apu and his mother, Sarbajaya, after he becomes a college-goer in Kolkata. This conflict between the attractions of city life and rural life is a theme that is found across multiple languages (Shivaram Karanth’s novels in Kannada, for example). Sequences where Sarbajaya looks expectantly at the trains capture her state of mind, without being melodramatic or overly emotional. The difference in body language of Apu when he first enters Kolkata timidly as compared to the scene towards the end, where he boldly strides forward, munching on peanuts, speaks volumes of his evolution into a man of the world.

Across the three movies, we see storytelling and screenplay that capture the spirit of life, across rural Bengal, Benares and Calcutta. Be it Apu’s wide-eyed wonder at a play in a ‘jatra’; or Durga and Apu running across the fields to watch a train; or the irritability which Apu’s mother displays towards her sister-in-law; or Apu’s desire to explore life beyond his village; or of Apu eloquently narrating the gist of his novel to his friend; or of Apu and his wife Aparna finding love amidst struggle and poverty; or ultimately, the glint in Apu’s eyes as he makes way towards life once again, with his son, Kajol, across his shoulders.

It is interesting that every critical juncture in Apu’s life is marked by death: that of his sister, his father, mother and finally, his wife. With each of them, a part of Apu dies. However, a newer version of him emerges. Life triumphs over death. In these trying times, with disease, devastation and death all around, this can be a valuable take-away: despite individual, personal losses, as a community, there is always hope for a better tomorrow and coming out stronger at the end of it all.

Having watched more than fifteen movies this month already, I have come to appreciate, that there is much more to movies than mere entertainment. Of course, I am not talking of “Radhe”, which, sadly, fails to entertain even. Thanks to subtitles, I have watched movies in multiple Indian languages now. The logical next step is to explore the treasures of world cinema. All in good time.

Yours Whimsically - Part 27: Taking Control

 Let me begin with a confession. (Deep breath). I finally learnt to cycle only a few days before I turn 26. (There we go. I have said it.)

That does not mean I have not made attempts at cycling earlier. When I was a kid of eight or nine, there was a small cycle at home. For two consecutive summers, my father tried to train me. I became fairly good at it over one summer, only to become rusty by the next, because I did not cycle at all in the intervening months. By the next year, I had outgrown that cycle.

My brother did a fair amount of cycling during his school years. However, by the time I entered high school – old enough to ride his cycle – two of them were stolen from our apartment. With them, went the enthusiasm and the inclination to buy another one.  Quite a few of my friends regularly cycled to school. However, for me, back then, my entire world was within the radius of 2 kilometres, which meant I did not feel the need to cycle.

I completed my pre-university college (Class 12) without requiring to cycle or knowing how to ride a two-wheeler. By the hand that was dealt to me, I ended up in a residential campus for my graduation. Almost overnight, my world expanded from a radius of 2 kilometres to include a place that was almost 2000 kilometres away!

Being a huge campus, there was plenty of scope for me to learn cycling in college. I am pretty sure that my friends would have helped me with it, after some banter and humour. However, by the end of my first year, I had acquired an image which I had to maintain. It did not matter that I did not know cycling. I surely could not struggle to learn cycling, falter and be laughed at, could I? There is a line by a Kannada poet which means even hatred cannot kill the way laughter does. (Ask Duryodhana at the “Palace of Maya”, if you wish). It is not to say that I did not try. I clearly remember one evening where I tried with one of my friends’ cycle. As expected, I lost balance within the first couple of meters. Luckily, it was in front of those whose laughter did not wound. Looking back now, after having cycled a few times, I realize that the problem that night was the height of the saddle.

Returning home after graduation, I had my tasks cut out. Along with preparation for exams that I wished to attempt, I was to acquire “life-skills”, which included learning to ride a two-wheeler and drive a car. It almost became a weekend sport at home to point out how I do not know these basic skills, while those younger than me in the neighbourhood comfortably excelled at it. Never mind the fact that they were riding without licence. Every dinner with friends was followed by dessert at home – of my parents prodding me to at least learn riding the two-wheeler, like the rest of them. When the first iteration of exams failed, it was hinted that at least I could be productive by picking up these skills.

I gave in to this pressure. I diligently went through a course in one of the Driving Schools and through them, I even got my Driver’s Licence for the car – but I can’t say I know driving.  I have not ventured to ride a two-wheeler yet. Perhaps it is an unknown fear that is hindering me. Maybe it is the feeling that it would put me in a position where I am not in complete control. One can always argue that even in life, one isn’t in total control all the time. But then, that is the only “rational” explanation I can come up with.

When COVID19 struck last year, I began contemplating cycling. Not only would I be acquiring a new skill, I would also be burning the flab that had accumulated. I had spent two years at home, during which there was lot of mental exercise, but little for the body. The initial efforts to buy a cycle were smothered when COVID19, which was passing through the neighbourhood, decided to enter our home.

A few days ago, the stars aligned. My brother and I bought home a cycle. All that remained now was riding it. If I succeeded in learning it, it would atleast neutralize one point of attack at home.

On that fateful morning, I decided to take the cycle to a nearby playground and practise. My father insisted that he would accompany me, in case I fell and injured myself. However, I wanted to go it alone. How would it look if we met someone we knew? A 25-year-old was learning to cycle, that too being accompanied by his father? I managed to convince my father to take his time while I went ahead. With a lot of trepidation, I pushed the cycle along the wrong-side on the one-way. I wanted to appear like a law-abiding citizen rather than as someone who did not know cycling.

Thanks to rising Covid cases, the ground was largely empty. I took a deep breath as I positioned myself on the saddle. Images of my previous attempts floated past. I told myself that there was nothing to lose. In that vast ground, I was anonymous. Clean-shaved, I could pass off as someone just out of high-school; nobody would realize it was a 25-year-old taking his baby steps on the cycle. I knew no one in front of who I had to maintain an image. Even if someone did, it should not matter. Ego could only take me so far. If I have to learn anything, if I have to grow, I have to learn to take injuries – physical and mental – in my stride. Moreover, this being a cycle, things were largely in my control.

Magic happened. I do not know if it was because of the mental framework just before beginning or the fact that it was a comfortable height. Everything fell in place. I felt like Harry Potter taking his first fly on the broomstick, without formal training. When my father came along after some time, he was pleasantly surprised to see me comfortably manoeuvring the cycle.

After close to an hour of making acquaintance with the cycle, I returned home. It was not just about having learnt something new. It was about having surmounted some mental blocks as well. I realized that, sometimes, one has to lose to gain. One has to let go to gain control.  I felt victorious.

Post-Script: I have cycled on roads too, now that traffic is subdued. My task now is to gain enough experience and confidence to be able to cycle in Bengaluru’s famed traffic, even in life beyond the lockdown.

Yours Whimsically – Part 26: The #AtmaNirbhar Haircut

May 12th, 2020. The Honorable Prime Minister came on national television and delivered an address that would determine the trajectory of the Indian economy and society for years to come: a glorious vision for an “Atma-Nirbhar Bharat” – an India that is self-reliant and strong enough to compete with the best in the world.

So moving was this vision and the address that even my father caught onto the spirit. Once the primetime address of the Honorable PM was over, Father proclaimed “We shall be Atma-Nirbhar too. From today onwards, we shall no longer visit the saloon – even once the pandemic is over. We shall cut our own hair”. Unlike the government, Father did not delay in putting his vision into action. The very next day, to spite the Chinese for letting the virus loose on the world, not to mention their grave folly of creating trouble on the LAC, he bought a trimmer of Taiwanese make. It was a moment for celebrating the nationalist spirit.

Two days later, Father sat down to execute his grand vision. I almost clapped when, for the first time, Father switched the trimmer on and cut a few strands of hair. For the next half-an-hour, the only sound in the house was that of the trimmer. My brother and I watched curiously. Even Mother stopped everything else to join us. It was an emotional moment when the first haircut ended. To be honest, it was executed poorly – no where close to the professional finish of a saloon. However, this was sufficiently compensated by a feeling of pride. Even Mother did not complain about hair flying and lying all around the house. Father worked out calculations to show how much we would save by having made this one-time investment on the trimmer. We were no longer dependent on the saloon and the barber’s whims.

Couple of weeks later, when my brother ministered himself a haircut, he did a thorough job. An almost professional touch. Word of my brother’s skills with the trimmer spread through the family and he was called on to do the honors for our nephew! This laid my apprehensions to rest and gave me some confidence to give it a shot myself. Moreover, it had been nearly three months since my visit to the saloon. The hair was reaching irritating proportions.

When I decided to be my own “stylist”, I told myself – this would not be merely an exercise in “Atma-Nirbharta” but also a spiritual exercise. My mind, eyes and hands would work together in unison to give me the best haircut. For those thirty-odd minutes, the rest of the world would simply melt away. The drone of the trimmer would shut out all the noise and I would experience pure bliss at the end of it all. 

None of it happened. Without my spectacles, the task was tough. It was an earthly struggle, rather than a spiritual journey. However, at the end of it all, I was left with a sense of achievement. No matter how poor the haircut, it was my handiwork and I would display it as a badge of honor. (Not that I had any other option, though!)

Couple of months later, it was time for the second iteration of haircuts. This time, I had no spiritual expectations. All I wanted was to complete the process, leaving behind something that had a semblance of symmetry on either side of the head. In order to get the same pattern on both sides, we were spending so much time that one charge of the trimmer was no longer enough. We had to keep batteries handy to be put into use, and they drained fairly quickly. When one took into account the effort that went into the haircut, not to mention the imperfect outcomes, were we making significant savings after all? Clearing up became a chore. Mother, while not being very vocal, was clearly not impressed with our cleaning skills. The costs seemed to outweigh the benefits. Shadows of doubt crept in over the grand vision of being Atma-Nirbhar.

By the time of the third round, the experience was no longer enjoyable. I just wanted to be done with it. I decided that that would be the last time. No matter what the state of the pandemic was, I would get a professional haircut the next time. Clearly, I wasn’t skilled enough to wield the trimmer and there was no sign of improvement over the two iterations.

Then came a wedding in the family. All the feeling of pride in displaying our own handiwork is fine when it is within the family. When we have to project ourselves to the world, one has to look presentable, doesn’t he? That was when I heard of saloon services on one of the aggregator apps. We could get a professional haircut at the comfort and safety of our home.

Father & I decided to give it a try first. I had only heard stories of how, in our ancestral village, the barber would provide his services to our widowed great-grandmother in the backyard of the house. Life had come a full circle. Only, there was no backyard here.  

The barber arrived ahead of schedule. There was beauty in the way he arranged his tools – scissors, comb, brush, razor – and sanitized them. There was grace in how he laid out a disposable paper cover under the chair to ensure no hair littered the house. There was elegance in the way his hands moved. When it was my turn, I sat with my eyes closed, savoring the sound of the scissors. It felt like music, almost divine! Even Mother was impressed with how clean the entire process was.

As I looked in the mirror, I almost wept tears of joy. Perhaps “barber” was too crude a word for him. Google says “tonsorial artist”. Maybe it suits him. There certainly was a sense of artistry on display. And then, realization dawned. “Atma-Nirbharta” is good rhetoric. However, for us, it had come at the cost of quality. Attempts at being entirely independent or self-reliant don’t make sense economically or practically. I wanted to thank the barber…the artist, for helping me appreciate this. By then, he had noiselessly cleaned up and left to attend to the next customer.  

Yours Whimsically - Part 25: #LockdownDiaries

“Truth is stranger than fiction”. Nobody had imagined that a day would arrive when a large part of the planet is forced to stay indoors, for such prolonged periods of time. The movie “Contagion” (on my watch-list) depicts a scenario very similar to what we are experiencing today, I’ve heard. But then, in that movie – like several other Hollywood movies – the US saves the world. Truth is definitely stranger than fiction!

Frankly speaking, the lockdown did not disrupt my routine to a great extent, because I anyway spend most of my time at home, preparing for my exams. However, it hurts when your choice is restricted, when your agency is curbed. Running out of ideas to keep myself engaged in these uncertain times – apart from studying, I decided to record my activities for a day, which are detailed below. 

10.30 AM: Amma has asked me to clean the windows for her today. It takes quite some time to clean them well. I wonder how the maid completes it so quickly! Though the lockdown has been lifted, the road is quite empty: the peak hour traffic has passed. As I dust and wipe the grills, I see six cows, in varied stages of rumination and rest. A couple of them are ambling along, like they own the place. On other days, a similar situation may have clogged the traffic for quite some time.

The stiffening of a cow’s tail and its lifting is the first indication of a cow about to relieve itself. It is not that I am noticing it for the first time. However, there is some intrigue to the whole process. 

11.30 AM: I am not rigorously studying or attempting tests today. Let me dedicate it to observations and sundry tasks. More than half-an-hour has passed since I sent my friends a message on my observation about the cows. None of them seem to be inclined to even acknowledge it, let alone share the curiosity.

I was disturbed from reading the newspaper by a peculiar sound. It was a squirrel, nibbling at the bark of a tree in front of the apartment. Before this pandemic-induced lockdown, it would have been impossible to hear it above all the noise. I have been standing here for the last fifteen minutes, almost meditating, tracking the squirrel, as it scurries along the branches. It tries to hide at the sight/cawing of crows nearby.

My reverie is broken by the wafting smell of perfume. There is a lady walking along, perhaps returning after shopping for essentials. Alas! The face is half-hidden behind the mask and I shall never know who she is.  

12 PM: I am checking the updated stats for the blog I wrote a few days ago. The last few posts of mine have not done well, in terms of views. May be, it is because I have become so infrequent in my posts that whenever I share it on Facebook, only a few people see it in their feed and fewer care to read it. I have also unfollowed a lot of people – resulting in “mutually unseeing” each other. However, the ones I am really angry about are those who saw my Facebook “story” but did not bother to open the blog. If only as many people had visited the blog! There lies the conundrum: do I write for myself? Or do I write to be read by others? Should I seek validation from others? Questions for another day, perhaps.

Worse are those who liked the screenshot from the blog on Instagram, without bothering to go to the blog and read it at length. Did they even read what they liked? Or was it out of habit – of double-tapping every image that rolls down their screen, while they are busy relieving themselves?! Lesson learnt: The number of friends on Facebook or the number of followers on Instagram is neither an indicator of your importance nor your popularity.  

Maybe I should begin randomly liking photos and posts - on both these platforms. That would perhaps increase my visibility. Let me sell my soul to sell my blog!

3 PM: I am trying hard to sleep. Over the last few weeks, I have been sleeping on a mat. It isn’t a sign of frugal living or a simple lifestyle. It has just become too hot. You can’t even call the electrician now to repair the fan. The afternoon heat, a slowly rotating fan, a near-lifeless road, the infrequent cawing of crows – seems like a scene straight out of an art movie. Or better – from one of R K Narayan’s books.

3.20 PM: I gave up the struggle to sleep. There’s Jagjit Singh playing on low volume, as I read some articles from the Indian Express and EPW. “Hosh waalon ko khabar kya…” – the ghazal that led me to Jagjit Singh. It was in my first year in hostel. During breakfast that day, 9XM or some other channel was playing this from “Sarfarosh”, instead of the regular Kumar Sanu/Udit Narayan/ Alka Yagnik crooning. Thus began my exploration. I don’t understand the lyrics in entirety of several of his ghazals. Yet, they connect. A line here; a musical note there – it is sufficient to trigger a chain of thoughts and memories.

During hostel days, Jagjit Singh featured in the background even as I studied…. In the later years, those ghazals hummed in the background of many a late-night adda….As coincidence would have it, I am reading an article on stories and storytelling. After all, stories are a retelling & recreation of memories – individual, familial, cultural, civilizational, aren’t they? 

4 PM: The squirrel is back in action. Let me see it at work for some more time. There’s also a dead rat being feasted upon by crows under the tree.

4.30 PM: The number of vehicles on the road is gradually increasing, with people returning home. It is clearly evident that the lockdown has largely been eased from the number of vehicles and their horns. I had never assumed that such cacophony would feel so welcome.

Am I imagining it? Or am I able to distinctly make out the smell of vehicle exhaust? Maybe the drastically cleaner air over the last forty-odd days has heightened my sense of smell!

5.45 PM: The lockdown has revived old games. We are playing “chauka-baara”, a desi version of Ludo, played with cowrie shells, instead of dice. It has the right mix of strategy and fortune. One can infer many a life-lesson from this game, but I shall not get into it today. 

7 PM: In high-school, we had a story which our teacher called an ‘expression of the triumph of human spirit’. Any answer pertaining to that text had to contain those words in order to be complete. I see that triumph manifest before my eyes now. My parents have succeeded in their endeavor to ensure my brother dedicates time for ‘online bride hunting’ and are doing it in earnest. Having played a game of fortune and strategy a while ago, they are translating it into real-life now! I want to call this "Love in the time of Corona", but it sounds too cheesy and cheeky. 

Despite all the uncertainties, we continue to plan for the future with a (sometimes) bewildering sense of confidence.  It is the belief that we shall come out strong at the end of it all which keeps us chugging. Hope is such a beautiful feeling, isn’t it?

11.45 PM: The summer heat seems to have brought ants out of their hiding. As I sit, trying to plan my schedule for the next few days, I see a group of ants carrying a dead fly back to their colony. It’s fascinating to watch these ants lift something which is multiple times their own weight.

2.30 AM: Despite not having slept at all in the afternoon, sleep eludes. And I don’t even have any gnawing guilt to justify this sleeplessness. I now wonder what bothers me more – the fact that I am unable to sleep; or the fact that I don’t have a worthy guilt.  

I have read somewhere that counting 100 to 1 helps one fall asleep. Let me do it in English and Kannada both.

Hundred….ninety nine….ninety eight….

Did all of these occur over the course of a single day? How much of this is fact? How much is fiction? Where does truth end and fiction begin? That, Reader, I leave it for you to decide. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 24: On Harry Potter, memories and more...

Last week, I watched “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 1)” for the umpteenth time. I stopped keeping count years ago. Despite knowing the movie so well that I know many of the dialogues by-heart, I watch them afresh each time, eagerly. This is true for all Harry Potter movies. I’m not saying that they are great works of art, which offer new meaning or insights with every viewing (or reading). It is simply because, for me, the series carries with it a sense of nostalgia.

As the clichéd line goes, I’m a 90s’ kid who grew up with Harry Potter. It was the first series I ever read, from cover to cover. I was initiated into the Harry Potter series thrice – is there any term for thrice-born?  During the first two attempts, I promptly fell asleep by the time I completed the first chapter of Philosopher’s Stone. I mean, it is very difficult to hold the attention of an eight-year old with a chapter like that. When POGO started telecasting Harry Potter movies, my brother and I religiously watched the multiple reruns, setting aside everything else. My brother even tricked me into waiting for one book every year, making it seem like a sacred custom of great importance and ‘magic’. It took me three books to realize how foolishly I bought into that entire charade!

By the time we were in high-school, some of us had matured into “Potter-heads” discussing books and movies with great enthusiasm. We were in Class 10 when “Deathly Hallows (Part 1)” released. It was around the time of its release when a few of us were going to attend an inter-school competition. That Harry and Hermione share a kiss on screen was being hotly discussed, oblivious to the fact that we had a teacher sitting a couple of rows away. She turned around and gave us an all-knowing smile but luckily, did not embarrass us further.  

During a very eventful second year in college – a story for another day, perhaps – a friend of mine and I delved deep into the subject of assigning characters from the series, to various faculty and students. We had a Voldemort, a Dumbledore, a Dolores and even a Hagrid, for the simple reason that he had a noisy bike! One of the last things my friend and I did before bidding farewell to the hostel was to watch a couple of movies from the series, almost raising it to the level of a ritual. You see, the memories associated with the series are endless…

In a manner similar to my initiation into the world of Harry Potter, there were many false-start articles before I sat down to write this today. Too many ideas jostled for space, without any of them germinating well. Besides, I was hesitant to put pen to paper – out of the fear that it may turn out like an essay that I would write while preparing for the exam! However, you never overcome your fears unless you face them, do you? I decided to rely on the best source of material for my piece – memories. Watching reruns of the Harry Potter movie has its benefits, you see. Moreover, with the whole world coming to a near stand-still and nothing to keep us occupied, aren’t memories the only ones to keep us company? (Apart from those “8 PM tasks”, that is. Now, some of my friends may well accuse me of pushing my ideology!)

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It has never been easier to feel nostalgic than today. I am not talking of the fact that we simply have too much time to spare. I am not even talking of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata being telecast on national television. Even without the generous help by the likes of Schoop-Whoop, Social media has transformed private reflections and quiet ruminations into a very public, noisy affair, triggering a chain of people to jog their memories, for the fear of missing out is so widespread! Old albums have got a new lease of life, thanks to the lockdown. I check Facebook very rarely and Instagram even less – I’m one of those Instagram users who logs in only to post or to check how those posts are doing! However, these days whenever I do check, my feed is filled with throwbacks, with plagiarized lines about how one longs for the years gone by. This deluge is despite me unfollowing quite a lot of people on my friend-list. Every now and then, a challenge rages on, keeping people occupied with searching for photos suited for the challenge, fishing for compliments and complimenting others on their pictures, in expectation of reciprocation. 

Unless you know the person too well or unless the person insists on your liking/commenting on the post, you can choose to ignore your Facebook or Instagram feed. (Trust me when I tell you that I know of persons who go around asking people to like their pictures and even unfriending them if they fail to comply!) The real challenge is when the same is replicated on WhatsApp, especially in family groups. The smartphone revolution, coupled with Jio’s Digital India campaign, has indeed empowered a lot of people. Every new day brings with it a new puzzle or a challenge, flooding the group with photos and messages, testing not only your intellect but also your social skills. The read receipts can be turned off for personal conversations, but not for groups. Seeing the messages but not responding to them can earn you the reputation of being ‘unsocial’ on social media. I doubt if Shakespeare ever had such groups in mind, but “to be, or not to be, that is the question”!

You might assume that I am complaining about feeling nostalgic. I have nothing against it. In fact, I value memories and reflections. How else do you connect with your old self? And unless you are able to appreciate who or what you were, it is not possible for you to realize who you are or chart a course for who you want to be. “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered”. What I am actually complaining about is the blurring of the lines between the public and the private.

When some of my friends from college decided to “Zoom” some days ago, I gave in to the surge of nostalgia, wanting to reconnect with the group that largely defined college for me. The last time I met some of them in person was five or six years ago, at their respective farewells. My memory of the first such farewell stands out, because I was awkwardly silent for the most part that night. May be, I made up for it when that senior came as an alumnus in my final year. 

A few minutes into the “reunion”, topics veered off into small talk and of course, the ensuing pandemic along with strategies to cope with it. Inspite of all the laughter that ensued, realization dawned that our lives and trajectories had diverged, post-college, with little in common to hold us together – except memories of times spent together. Perhaps none of us had the heart to accept it or the courage to say it out loud. I still like to believe that it was due to the virtual, ‘dry’, setup of the meeting that such an anomaly occurred; or perhaps it is just me overthinking, like always. Maybe it is just due to the pandemic. Or maybe it is that the path I have chosen to tread does not have much of an overlap with most others there. I still hope that if and when all of us meet in person, it will just be like the old times. Or is it too much to expect? Was it a mistake – because this may alter my perceptions of us as a group, in turn changing the texture and smell of my memories, remaking them? Or is this what they call ‘growing up’? 

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Years after we have left this pandemic behind, how will we remember this event? Will there be a throwback to these two months of throwbacks? Will somebody collect all those challenges circulating on WhatsApp and compile them into a book, "commemorating the human spirit and creativity during these trying times"? Will there be a record of human relationships that blossomed or broke down in this lockdown? Will waves of nostalgia bring back fond memories?

Life will not be the same after COVID-19. Will our memories be?  

ಕೌದಿ

ಊರ ಜಾತ್ರೆಗೆಂದು ರಜದ ಮೇಲೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದ ಅವಳ ಗಂಡ, ಮಗುವಿನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಕೌದಿಯ ಮೇಲೆ - ಅವಳು ಹೊಲಿದಿದ್ದ ಕೌದಿಯ ಮೇಲೆ -  ಆಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ತನ್ನ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಗೂಡು, ಪುಟ್ಟ ಸಂಸಾರವನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಅವಳ ಮುಖದ ಮೇಲೆ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿಯ, ಅಭಿಮಾನದ ಕಿರುನಗೆ ಮೂಡಿತು. ಊರಿನಿಂದ ಬರುವಾಗ ಅವನು ತಂದಿದ್ದ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಸರಿಮಾಡುತ್ತಾ ಅವಳು ಕುಳಿತಿದ್ದಳು. ಈ ಬಾರಿ ಕೌದಿಗೆಂದು ಅವನು ನೀಡಿದ್ದ ಅಂಗಿಯನ್ನು ತನ್ನೆದೆಗೆ ಅವುಚಿಕೊಂಡಳು. ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯವೆಂಬಂತೆ, ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಆ ಅಂಗಿಯಿಂದ ಇನ್ಯಾರೋ ಮುಡಿದ ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆಯ ವಾಸನೆ ಬಡಿಯಿತು.

ಏನೂ ತೋಚದವಳಾಗಿ ಅವಳು ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಕುಳಿತಳು.....

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ಊರ ಜಾತ್ರೆಯ ಸಂದರ್ಭದಲ್ಲೇ, ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಅವನಿಗೂ ಅವಳಿಗೂ ಪರಿಚಯವಾಗಿದ್ದು. ಅದುವರೆಗೂ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಆ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ತಮ್ಮವರು ಎಂದು ಯಾರೂ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಅನಾಥರೇ. ಊರಿನ ಜನರ ನಡುವೆ ಬದುಕುತ್ತಲೇ, ಅವರು ಜೀವನವನ್ನು ಕಲಿತಿದ್ದರು. ಹಾಗೆ ಮಾಡದೆ ಬೇರೆ ಆಯ್ಕೆಯೂ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. 'ಕಲಿತಿದ್ದರು' ಎನ್ನುವುದಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಬದುಕೇ ಕಲಿಸಿತ್ತು ಅಂದರೆ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಸೂಕ್ತ. ಜಾತ್ರೆಯ ನಂತರ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆದ ಸಾಮೂಹಿಕ ಮದುವೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಅವರದ್ದೂ ಒಂದಾಗಿತ್ತು, ಆ ವರ್ಷ. ಅಂತೂ, ಒಂಟಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದವರು ಜಂಟಿಯಾಗಿ ತಮ್ಮ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಗೂಡನ್ನು ಪ್ರವೇಶಿಸಿದ್ದರು. 

ಇಷ್ಟು ವರ್ಷ ಒಬ್ಬಂಟಿಗಳಾಗಿ ಹೇಗೋ ಬದುಕು ಸಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಆದರೆ, ಈಗ, ಅವನಿಗೂ ಹೆಂಡತಿಯಿದ್ದಳು. ತಮ್ಮದೇ ಆದ ಮನೆಯಿತ್ತು. ಜವಾಬುದಾರಿಗಳಿದ್ದವು. ಊರಲ್ಲಿ ದೊರೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಸಂಬಳ ಅವರ ಇಂದಿಗೆ ಆಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತೇ ಹೊರತು ನಾಳಿನ ಕನಸುಗಳಿಗಲ್ಲ. ಹಾಗೆಂದು, ಕನಸು ಕಾಣುವುದನ್ನು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಲಾದೀತೇ? ಹುಟ್ಟಂದಿನಿಂದ ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿದಿದ್ದಾದರೂ ಅದೊಂದೇ ಅಲ್ಲವೇ - ಕನಸು ಹೆಣೆಯುವುದು? ಕೆಲವು ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳ ಕಾಲ ಹೊಸ ಸಂಸಾರದಲ್ಲಿ ಖುಷಿಪಟ್ಟು ಅವನು ಪಟ್ಟಣಕ್ಕೆ  ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ಹೊರಟ. ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ವಾರಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬಂದು, ಇದ್ದು, ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. 

ಆವಳಾದರೂ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ಬಳೇ ಏನು ಮಾಡಬೇಕು? ಮೂರು-ನಾಲ್ಕು ದಿನಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಅವನಿಗೆ ಪತ್ರ ಬರೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವನೂ ಉತ್ತರಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಅವರ ಪತ್ರಗಳು ವ್ಯಾಕರಣಬದ್ಧವಾಗಿದ್ದವೋ ಇಲ್ಲವೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಪರಿಶುದ್ಧವಾಗಿದ್ದವು. ಪದಗಳಲ್ಲೇ ಪರಸ್ಪರರನ್ನು ಮುದ್ದಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಆದರೂ, ಪತ್ರ ಬರೆಯುವುದರಲ್ಲೇ ದಿನಗಳನ್ನು ತಳ್ಳಲಾದೀತೇ? ಆಗ ಅವಳು ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗಾಗಿ ಕೌದಿಯೊಂದನ್ನು ತಯಾರಿಸುವ ನಿರ್ಧಾರಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದದ್ದು. 

ಕೌದಿ ಹೊಲಿಯುವುದು ಸಾಮಾನ್ಯದ ಕೆಲಸವಲ್ಲ. ಅದರಲ್ಲೂ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಎಲ್ಲಿಂದಲೋ ತಂದ ಚಿಂದಿ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಸೇರಿಸಿ ಮಾಡುವ ಕೌದಿ ಬೇಕಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳ, ಅವನ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಒಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸೇರಿಸಿ ಮಾಡಿದ ಕೌದಿಯೇ ಆಗಬೇಕಿತ್ತು. ಅದು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಕೇವಲ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯ ತುಂಡುಗಳಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವರ ಸಂತೋಷ, ಸಿಡುಕು, ನೆನಪು, ಕನಸುಗಳೆಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ಹೊತ್ತ ಬೆಚ್ಚನೆಯ ಹೊದಿಕೆಯಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಜೀವನದಲ್ಲಿ ಅದುವರೆಗೂ 'ನಮ್ಮದು' ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವಂತಹ ಯಾವುದೇ ವಸ್ತು ಅವರಲ್ಲಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಈ ಕೌದಿ ಆ ಕೊರತೆಯನ್ನು ನೀಗಿಸುವದಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ಎಂದು ಅವಳು ನಿಶ್ಚಯಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. 

ಅವರ ಹೊಸಸಂಸಾರದ ಹೊಸ ಕೌದಿಗೆ ಅವಳು ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರೂ ತಮ್ಮ ಮೊದಲ ಭೇಟಿಯ ದಿನದಂದು ಧರಿಸಿದ್ದ ಸೀರೆ, ಪಂಚೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೊರತೆಗೆದಳು. ಅವುಗಳ ಸ್ಪರ್ಶದಲ್ಲಿ, ವಾಸನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಆ ದಿನದ ನೆನಪುಗಳು ಇನ್ನೂ ಹಸಿಹಸಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಅರಿವಾಗಿತ್ತು.... 

ಹಾಗೆ ನೋಡಿದರೆ, ಅಂದು ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರು ಭೇಟಿಯಾಗಲೇ ಬೇಕಾಗುವಂತಹ ಸಂದರ್ಭವೇನು ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಊರ ಜಾತ್ರೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡಿದರೆ ಪುಣ್ಯ ಲಭಿಸುತ್ತದೆ ಎಂದು ಹಿರಿಯರು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಇವರೂ ಅದರಂತೆ ತಮ್ಮ ಕೈಲಾದ ಸೇವೆ ಮಾಡಲು ಬಂದಿದ್ದರು. ಅವನು ಪೂಜೆಯ ಸಾಮಾನುಗಳು, ಸಂತರ್ಪಣೆಯ ದಿನಸಿಗಳಿರುವ ಮೂಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೊತ್ತು ಸಾಗಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೆ, ಅವಳು ಹೋಗಿ ಬರುವ ಭಕ್ತರಿಗೆ ಪ್ರಸಾದ, ಪಾನಕ ಹಂಚುವ ಕೆಲಸದಲ್ಲಿದ್ದಳು. ಮೂಟೆಗಳನ್ನಿಳಿಸಿ ಪ್ರಸಾದಕ್ಕೆಂದು ಅವನು ಬಂದಾಗ, ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರು ಒಬ್ಬರನ್ನೊಬ್ಬರು ಕಂಡಿದ್ದರು. ಅಷ್ಟು ವರ್ಷ ಅದೇ ಊರಲ್ಲಿದ್ದು ಅದು ಹೇಗೆ ನೋಡಿರಲಿಲ್ಲವೋ ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಅಥವಾ ನೋಡಿದ್ದರೂ, ಅಷ್ಟು ಗಮನ ನೀಡದೇ ಇದ್ದಿರಬಹುದು - ಅವಳೇನೂ ಹೇಳಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವಂಥ ಸುಂದರಿಯಲ್ಲ. ಅವನೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ. ಅಂದಿನ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಏನಾದರೂ ವಿಶೇಷವಿದ್ದಿರಬಹುದು ಎನ್ನಲು, ಅವರು ತೊಟ್ಟಿದ್ದ ಬಟ್ಟೆ ಸಹ ಅವರಾಗಿ ಕೊಂಡದಲ್ಲ, ತಮ್ಮವರು ಕೊಡಿಸಿದ್ದಲ್ಲ. ದಾನವಾಗಿ ಬಂದದ್ದು - ಅವರ ಹೆಸರುಗಳಂತೆ. ಅವನಿಗೆ ಅವಳು ಯಾವ ಕಾರಣಕ್ಕೋ ಹಿಡಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವಳಿಗೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ. ಹೇಳಲು ಕೇಳಲು ಹಿರಿಯರು ಎಂದು ಯಾರೂ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಕಣ್ಣು ಮುಚ್ಚಿ ತೆರೆಯುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ, ಸರಳವಾಗಿ ಅವರ ಮದುವೆಯೇ ನಡೆದುಹೋಗಿತ್ತು. ಪುಣ್ಯ ಲಭಿಸಿತ್ತೋ ಇಲ್ಲವೋ. ಒಬ್ಬರಿಗೊಬ್ಬರು ದಕ್ಕಿದ್ದರು....

'ಮುಂದೆ ಹುಟ್ಟುವ ನಮ್ಮ ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ ಈ ಕಥೆಯನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿದರೆ, ಅವರಾದರೂ ನಂಬುತ್ತಾರೆಯೇ?' ಎಂದು ನೆನೆಯುತ್ತಾ ಅವಳು ನಕ್ಕಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗೇ ನಂಬಲು ಸಾಧ್ಯವಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ದಿನ! ಹಸಿರು ಬಣ್ಣದ ಮೇಲೆ ಬಿಳಿಯ ಹೂವುಗಳ ಚಿತ್ರವಿದ್ದ ಅವಳ ಸೀರೆಗೆ, ಅವನ ಬಿಳಿಯ ಪಂಚೆಯ ತುಂಡನ್ನು ಸೇರಿಸಿ ಹೊಲೆಯಲಾರಂಭಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವನಿಗೆ ಬರೆದ ಮುಂದಿನ ಪತ್ರದಲ್ಲಿ, ಅವರ ಈ ಕೌದಿಯ ವಿಚಾರವನ್ನು ತಿಳಿಸಿದ್ದಳು. 

ಮುಂದಿನ ಬಾರಿ ಅವನು ಊರಿಗೆ ಬರುವ ವೇಳೆಗೆ, ಕೌದಿ ತಕ್ಕಷ್ಟು ದೊಡ್ಡದಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಅವನು ಬರಲೆಂದೇ ಅವಳು ಆ ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಒಮ್ಮೆಯೂ ಬಳಸದೆ ಕಾಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಇಕ್ಕಟ್ಟಾದರೂ, ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರೂ ಮಲಗುವಷ್ಟು ಜಾಗವಿತ್ತು ಅದರಲ್ಲಿ. ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿ, ಅವರು ಊರಿನ ಗದ್ದೆಯೊಂದರಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಳದಿಂಗಳ ಊಟಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ಹೋದರು. ಕೌದಿಯ ಮೇಲೆಯೇ ಅವರ ಊಟ. ಬೆಳದಿಂಗಳನ್ನು ಸವಿಯುತ್ತಾ ಅಲ್ಲಿಯೇ ರಾತ್ರಿಯನ್ನು ಕಳೆದರು. ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿ, ಅವರ ಪಿಸುಮಾತುಗಳಿಗೆ, ಹೆಣೆದ ಕನಸುಗಳಿಗೆ ಸಾಕ್ಷಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದು ಆ ಕೌದಿ ಹಾಗು ಮೇಲಿದ್ದ ಹುಣ್ಣಿಮೆ ಚಂದ್ರ ಮಾತ್ರ. ಅವರ ಮೈಯ ವಾಸನೆ, ಬೆವರ ಹನಿಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಅವೆಲ್ಲವೂ ಬೆರೆತು ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಸೇರಿತ್ತು. ಕೌದಿಯ ಸ್ಪರ್ಶವಾದಾಗಲೆಲ್ಲ ಅವಳು ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿಯನ್ನು ನೆನೆದು ಪುಳಕಗೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. 

ಮಾರನೆಯ ದಿನ, ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಮೊದಲ ಬಾರಿ ಒಗೆದು, ಅವರ ಮನೆಯ ಮುಂದೆ ಒಣಗಲು ಹರವಿದ್ದಳು. ಊರಿನ ಜನರೆಲ್ಲಾ ಅದನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಅವಳನ್ನು ಹೊಗಳುವವರೇ. ಅವಳ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯ ತುಂಡುಗಳಿಗೂ ಅವನ ಬಟ್ಟೆಯ ತುಂಡುಗಳಿಗೂ ಅಂತರ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗದ ರೀತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಹೊರಗೆ ಕಾಣದ ರೀತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಹೊಲಿಗೆ ಹಾಕಿದ್ದಳು! ಚಿಂದಿ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳಾದರೂ, ಬಣ್ಣಗಳು ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಹೊಂದುತ್ತಿದ್ದವು! ತಂದೆ-ತಾಯಿಯಿಲ್ಲದ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಇಷ್ಟು ನಯನಾಜೂಕುಗಳನ್ನು ಯಾರು ಕಲಿಸಿದರೋ! ನೆರೆಹೊರೆಯವರ ಮಾತು ಕೇಳಿ ಅವನು ಉಬ್ಬಿಹೋದ. ಅವಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಹೆಮ್ಮೆಯಿಂದ ಬೀಗಿದ್ದ. ಊರಿನವರ ಕಣ್ಣು ಬೀಳಬಾರದು ಎಂದು ಅವನೇ ಸ್ವತಃ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ದೃಷ್ಟಿ ನೀವಾಳಿಸಿದ್ದ. 

ಕೆಲವು ವಾರಗಳ ನಂತರ, ಅವನಿಗೆ ಬರೆದ ಪತ್ರದಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಳು ತಿಳಿಸಿದ್ದಳು - ಅವರ ಆ ಕೌದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಆಡಲು ಹೊಸಬನೊಬ್ಬ  ಕುಟುಂಬಕ್ಕೆ ಬರುತ್ತಾನೆಂದು. ಸುದ್ದಿ ತಿಳಿದ ಅವನು ಕೂಡಲೇ ಊರಿಗೆ ಬಂದು, ಇಬ್ಬರು ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಹಣ್ಣು-ಕಾಯಿ ಮಾಡಿಸಿ ಬಂದಿದ್ದರು. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರ ಸೀರೆ - ಅಂಗಿಗಳ ಜೊತೆಗೆ, ಇನ್ನು ಕೆಲವೇ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಅಂಗಿಯೋ ಲಂಗವೋ ಆ ಕೌದಿಗೆ ಸೇರುತ್ತದಲ್ಲ! ಇನ್ನು ಮುಂದೆ, ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಹಿರಿದಾಗಿಸುವ ಜೊತೆಗೆ, ಬೆಚ್ಚಗಾಗಿಸುವ ರೀತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೊಲೆಯಲು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿಸಿದ್ದ. ಅವಳಾಗಲೇ ಕೌದಿಗೆ ತನ್ನ ಪ್ರೀತಿ, ಕನಸುಗಳ ಕಾವನ್ನು ಹೇಗೆ ಹೆಣೆಯಬೇಕು ಎಂಬ ಯೋಚನೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದಳು. 

ಅವನು ಪಟ್ಟಣಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದ ನಂತರ ಒಂದು ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನ, ಹೊಲಿಗೆ ಹಾಕುವಾಗ ಅವಳೊಂದು ಕನಸು ಕಂಡಿದ್ದಳು....  

ಅವರ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಗೂಡು ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹಿರಿದಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಈಗ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಹುಟ್ಟುವ ಮಗುವಿನ ಜೊತೆ ಇನ್ನೆರಡು ಮಕ್ಕಳು. ಅವರು ದೊಡ್ಡವರಾಗುವ ವೇಳೆಗೆ, ಅವಳು ಹೊಲೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಕೌದಿಯೂ ಹಿರಿದಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಅವರ ಮದುವೆಯ ನಂತರ, ಆ ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ನಾಲ್ಕು ಭಾಗವಾಗಿ ಮಾಡಿ, ಮೂರನ್ನು ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ ನೀಡಿ, ಒಂದನ್ನು ಆವರಿಬ್ಬರು ಇಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದರು. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರು ಇಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡ ಭಾಗದಲ್ಲಿ ನೆನ್ನೆಯ ಸವಿಯಾದ ನೆನಪುಗಳ ಜೊತೆ,  ನಾಳೆಯ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿಯ ಕನಸುಗಳನ್ನು ಹೆಣೆದಿತ್ತು. 

ತಮಗೆ ನೀಡಿದ ಭಾಗಗಳಿಗೆ ಅವರ ಮಕ್ಕಳು, ಹೆಂಡತಿಯರು ತಮ್ಮ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಸೇರಿಸಿ ಆ ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಮುಂದುವರೆಸಿದ್ದರು. ಆ ಹೊಸ ಕೌದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಆಡಿದಾಗ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ತನ್ನ ಮೈಮೇಲೆಯೇ ಅವುಗಳು ಆಡಿದಂತೆ ಭಾಸವಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾದಾಗ, ಅವುಗಳ ತಂದೆ ತಾಯಿಯರೂ ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಭಾಗ ಮಾಡಿ ಹಂಚಿದ್ದರು. ಮತ್ತೆ ಕೌದಿ ಬೆಳೆದು, ಮರಿಮಕ್ಕಳು ಆಡಿದರು...ಮುಂದಿನ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಪೀಳಿಗೆಗಳವರೆಗೂ, ಅವರಿಗೆ ಈ ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಮೊದಲು ಮಾಡಿದವರು ಯಾರು ಎನ್ನುವ ನೆನಪಿರುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಇವರ ಅನುಭವದ, ಜೀವನದ ವಾಸನೆ, ಕಲಿತ ಪಾಠಗಳು, ಆಡಿದ ಜಗಳಗಳು, ನಕ್ಕ ನಗುಗಳು..... ಎಲ್ಲವೂ ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿ, ಇನ್ನೂ ಹೊಸದಾಗಿ ಪ್ರವಹಿಸುತ್ತಲೇ ಇದ್ದವು.....ಹೊಟ್ಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ಮಗು ಒದ್ದಂತಾಗಿ, ಅವಳು ಕನಸಿನಿಂದ ಎದ್ದಿದ್ದಳು. 

ಅಂತೂ, ಮಗು ಹುಟ್ಟಿತ್ತು. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗೂ ಸಂಭ್ರಮವೋ ಸಂಭ್ರಮ - ತಮ್ಮದು ಎನ್ನುವ ಒಂದು ಜೀವವಿದೆಯಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು. ಅಷ್ಟು ದಿನ ಬರಿದಾಗಿದ್ದ ಅವರ ಮನೆ, ಅವರ ಕೌದಿ ಈಗ ಮಗುವಿನ ಆಟಿಕೆಗಳಿಂದ ತುಂಬಿತ್ತು. ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ವಾರಗಳಿಗೆ ಊರಿಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವನು, ಈಗ ಪ್ರತಿ ವಾರವೂ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಪ್ರತಿ ಬಾರಿಯೂ ಹೊಸ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳು, ವಸ್ತುಗಳು. ಪ್ರತಿ ಬಾರಿಯೂ ಹೊಸತೆಂಬಂತೆ ಅವನ ಅವಳ ನಡುವಿನ ಹುಸಿಮುನಿಸು, ಜಗಳಗಳು: ಮಗು ನೋಡಲು ಅವನಂತೆಯೋ ಅವಳಂತೆಯೋ ಎಂದು. ಅವನಿಗೆ ಆತಂಕವಿತ್ತು: ಮಗು ಹುಟ್ಟಿದ ನಂತರ, ತನ್ನನ್ನು ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಳು ಕಡೆಗಳಿಸುವಳೋ ಎಂದು. ಸಧ್ಯ, ಆ ರೀತಿ  ಏನೂ ಆಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. 

ಮೊದಮೊದಲು ಅವಳ ಬಿಡುವಿನ ಸಮಯವೆಲ್ಲ ಮಗುವಿನ ಆಟಗಳನ್ನು ನೋಡುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ ಕಳೆದರೆ, ಈಗ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಬಿಡುವೇ ಸಿಗದಷ್ಟು ಆಟ, ಚೇಷ್ಟೆಗಳನ್ನು ಮಾಡುವ ಹಂತಕ್ಕೆ ಮಗು ಬಂದಿತ್ತು. ಇದರ ನಡುವೆ, ಅವನಿಗೆ ಕಾಗದ ಬರೆಯುವ ಸಮಯವೂ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಕೆಲವೊಮ್ಮೆ ಸಿಗುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.  ಪ್ರತಿ ವಾರ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ ಗಂಡ ಈಗ ತಿಂಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬರಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದಾಗಲೂ ಅವಳು ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಯೋಚಿಸಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವನು ಊರಿಗೆ ಬಂದಾಗಲೂ, ಅವನ ಯೋಗಕ್ಷೇಮಕ್ಕಿಂತ, ಮಗುವಿನ ಆಟ ಪಾಠಗಳನ್ನು ಬಣ್ಣಿಸುವುದರಲ್ಲೇ ಅವಳು ಕಾಲ ಕಳೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವನೂ ಸಹ ಅವಳ ಉತ್ಸಾಹಕ್ಕೆ ಭಂಗ ತರದೇ ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನೂ ಕೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ತಿಂಗಳಿಗಾಗುವಷ್ಟು ದುಡ್ಡು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ನೀಡಿ, ಪಟ್ಟಣಕ್ಕೆ ಮರಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. 

ಮಗು ಕೌದಿಯ ಮೇಲೇ ಆಡಿ ಮಲಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದರಿಂದ, ನಿತ್ಯವೂ ಅದರ ಉಚ್ಚೆ, ಮಲಗಳನ್ನು ತೊಳೆದು, ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಬಿಸಿಲಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಳು ಒಣಗಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಊರಿನವರಿಗೆ, ಅವಳ ಚೆಂದದ ಕೌದಿ ಬಣ್ಣ ಮಾಸಲು ಶುರುವಾಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಅರಿವಾಯಿತು. ಮಗುವಿನ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳು ಈಗ ಅವರ ಕೌದಿಯ ಭಾಗವಾಗಿದ್ದ ಕಾರಣ, ದೊಡ್ಡ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳು ಹಾಗು ಚಿಕ್ಕ ಬಟ್ಟೆಗಳ ನಡುವಿನ ಹೊಲಿಗೆಗಳು ಈಗ ಹೊರಕ್ಕೆ ಕಂಡುಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದವು. ಎಂಥ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯ ಕೌದಿಯಾಗಿತ್ತು; ಹೀಗಾಯಿತಲ್ಲಾ ಎಂದು ಕೆಲವರು ಮರುಕಪಟ್ಟರೆ, ಅವರಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲವರಿಗೆ ಇದನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಸಂತೋಷವೂ ಆಯಿತು. ಆದರೆ, ಇದಾವುದೂ ಅವಳ ಗಮನಕ್ಕೆ ಬರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳ ಧ್ಯಾನವೆಲ್ಲ ಬೆಳೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವಳ ಮಗುವಿನ ಮೇಲೆಯೇ ಇತ್ತು. 

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ಮೂಗಿಗೆ ಬಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೂವಿನ ವಾಸನೆ ಅವಳನ್ನು ಎಚ್ಚರಿಸಿತು. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತು ಏನೂ ತೋಚದವಳಾಗಿ, ಗಂಡ-ಮಗುವನ್ನು ನೋಡುತ್ತಾ ಕುಳಿತ ಅವಳು, ನಂತರ ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಕಾಣದಂತೆ ಮನೆಯ ಹಿತ್ತಲಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ, ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೂವಿನ ವಾಸನೆಯಿದ್ದ ಆ ಅಂಗಿಯನ್ನು ಹೂತು ಬಂದಳು. 

ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿ, ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಊಟವೂ ಸೇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವನು ಯಾಕೆಂದು ಕೇಳಿದಾಗ ಹಾರಿಕೆಯ ಉತ್ತರ ನೀಡಿದಳು; ಅವನೂ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಒತ್ತಾಯ ಮಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳ ಮನಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಸಂಘರ್ಷಗಳು ಅವನಿಗೆ ಅರಿವಾದಂತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮಾರನೆಯ ದಿನವೇ ಜಾತ್ರೆಯಾಗಿದ್ದರಿಂದ, ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಬೇಗ ಏಳಬೇಕೆಂದು, ಮಗುವನ್ನು ನಡುವೆ ಮಲಗಿಸಿ ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಅಡ್ಡಗಾದರು. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪವೇ ಹೊತ್ತಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅವನ ಗೊರಕೆಯೂ ಆರಂಭವಾಯಿತು. ಅಂದಿನವರೆಗೂ ಅವನ ಗೊರಕೆಯೂ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಚೆಂದವಾಗಿ ಕೇಳುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಆದರೆ, ಈ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಅಸಹ್ಯವಾಯಿತು. 

ಅವನ ಗೊರಕೆಯಿಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರೂ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿ ನಿದ್ದೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮಗು ನಿದ್ದೆಗೆ ಜಾರಿದ ಮೇಲು ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಹೊತ್ತು ತಟ್ಟುತ್ತಲೇ ಇದ್ದಳು. ತನ್ನ ಮುಂದಿನ ದಾರಿ ಏನು? ತನ್ನ ಬಳಿಯಿರುವ ಆಯ್ಕೆಗಳಾದರೂ ಏನು? ಇಷ್ಟಕ್ಕೂ, ತಾನು ಭಾವಿಸಿರುವುದು ನಿಜವೇ? ಎಂಬ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆಯೂ ಕಾಡಿತು. ಆದರೆ, ಒಡೆದ ಚೂರುಗಳೆಲ್ಲ ಒಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸೇರುವಂತೆ, ಅವನು ತಿಂಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬರಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ್ದು, ಅವಳು ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಗಮನ ಕೊಡದಿದ್ದರೂ ಏನು ಆಗದವನಂತೆ ಸುಮ್ಮನಿದ್ದದ್ದು, ಅವಳ ಮನಸ್ಸಿನ ಜಾಡನ್ನು ಮುಖನೋಡಿಯೇ ಕಂಡುಹಿಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ ಅವನು ಇಂದು ಏನೂ ಅರಿಯದವನಾಗಿ ಮಲಗಿರುವುದು, ಆ ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆಯ ವಾಸನೆ - ಇವುಗಳೆಲ್ಲ ಅವಳ ಅನುಮಾನವನ್ನೇ ಪೋಷಿಸಿದವು. 

ಇದೇ ಯೋಚನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮುಳುಗಿದ್ದ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ನಿದ್ದೆ ಹತ್ತಿದ್ದೂ ಅರಿವಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳು ಅಂಗಿಯನ್ನು ಹೂತಿದ್ದ ಜಾಗದಲ್ಲೇ ಒಂದು ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆಯ ಗಿಡ ಸೊಂಪಾಗಿ ಬೆಳೆದಿತ್ತು. ತನ್ನ ಜಡೆಗೆ ಆಗುವುದೆಂದು ಆ ಹೂವುಗಳನ್ನು ಬಿಡಿಸಲು ಅವಳು ಹೋದಾಗ, ಹಾವೊಂದು ಬುಸುಗುಡುವಂತೆ ಭಾಸವಾಯಿತು. ಹಾವನ್ನು ಎದುರಿಸಲು ಅವಳು ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಅದರ ಮೇಲೆ ಎಸೆದರೆ, ಆ ನಾಗರ ಹಲ್ಲುಗಳು ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನೇ ಹರಿದು, ಮತ್ತೆ ಹಾವು ಅವಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಹರಿದು ಬಂತು. ತಪ್ಪಿಸಿಕೊಂಡು ಓಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವಳು ಹಿಂದಿರುಗಿ ನೋಡಿದರೆ, ಅವನು ಸಹಾಯಕ್ಕೆ ಬಾರದೆ, ಮಗುವನ್ನೂ ಎತ್ತಿಕೊಂಡು, ನಗುತ್ತಾ ನಿಂತಿದ್ದ....ನಿದ್ದೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಗು ಹೊರಳಾಡಿದಾಗ, ಅದರ ಕಾಲು ತಾಗಿ, ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಎಚ್ಚರವಾಯಿತು. 

ಜಾತ್ರೆಗೆ ಹೋದಾಗಲೂ, ಅಷ್ಟು ಜನರ ನಡುವೆಯೂ, ಅವಳು ತನ್ನದೇ ಲೋಕದಲ್ಲಿ, ತನ್ನ ಮುಂದಿದ್ದ ಆಯ್ಕೆಗಳ ನಡುವಿನ ಹಗ್ಗಜಗ್ಗಾಟದಲ್ಲಿ ನಿರತಳಾಗಿದ್ದಳು. ಏನೂ ಮಾಡದೇ ಸುಮ್ಮನೆ ಇರುವುದು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಸಾಧ್ಯವಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ - ಮುಂದೊಂದು ದಿನ, ಹೇಳದೇ ಕೇಳದೇ, ಆ ಮತ್ತೊಬ್ಬಳನ್ನು ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೇ ಕರೆತಂದು, ತನ್ನನ್ನು ಹೊರಹಾಕಿದರೆ?   'ನಾನು ಮಗುವಿಗೆ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಗಮನ ನೀಡಿದ್ದೇ ತಪ್ಪೇ? ಆದರೆ, ಮಗು ನಮ್ಮಿಬರದೂ ಅಲ್ಲವೇ? ಅಷ್ಟಾಗಿಯೂ, ಅವನಿಗೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಅನಿಸಿದ್ದರೆ, ನನಗೇ ಹೇಳಬಹುದಿತ್ತು. ಈಗೇನು ಮಾಡಲಿ?' ಹಣ್ಣು ಕಾಯಿ ಮಾಡಿಸಲು ಅವರು ತಂದಿದ್ದ ಸಾಮಾನುಗಳನ್ನು ಅವನಿಗೆ ನೀಡಿದಳು. 'ಅವನನ್ನೇ ನೇರವಾಗಿ ಕೇಳಿದರೆ?' ಎಂಬ ಆಲೋಚನೆಯೂ ಸುಳಿಯಿತು. ಅದರ ಹಿಂದೆಯೇ 'ಗಂಡು ಎನ್ನುವ ಅಹಂಕಾರದಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದನ್ನು ಅವನು ಸಮರ್ಥಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾನೆ. ತಪ್ಪೆಲ್ಲಾ ನನ್ನದೇ ಎನ್ನುವ ಹಾಗೆ ಮಾಡಿಬಿಡುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಆಗಲಿ, ಮಾತಲ್ಲಿ ಚತುರನಲ್ಲವೇ ಅವನು?' ಈ ಹಿಂದೆ, ಅವನ ಮಾತುಗಳನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿ ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಬಾರಿ ಸಂತೋಷಿಸಿದ್ದಳೋ. ಈಗ, ಆ ಮಾತುಗಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ತಾತ್ಸಾರ ಮೂಡಿತು. 'ಅಥವಾ, ತನ್ನ ಸತ್ಯ ಬಯಲಾಯಿತು ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿದು, ನನ್ನನ್ನೂ, ಮಗುವನ್ನೂ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಆ ನನ್ನ ಸವತಿಯ ಬಳಿಗೇ ಹೊರಟುಹೋದರೆ?' ಈ ಮಾರ್ಗವೂ ಸೂಕ್ತವಲ್ಲ ಎನಿಸಿತು.  ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಆರತಿ ತಟ್ಟೆಗೆ ಎರಡು ರೂಪಾಯಿ ಹಾಕಿ, ಮಂಗಳಾರತಿಯನ್ನು ಸ್ವೀಕರಿಸಿದಳು. 'ನನಗೂ ಒಂದು ತವರೆಂದು ಇದ್ದಿದ್ದರೆ...' ಎಂದು ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಡುತ್ತಾ, ಮಗುವಿನ ಹಣೆಗೆ ದೇವರ ಕುಂಕುಮವಿಟ್ಟ ಅವಳಿಗೆ, ತನ್ನ ಇಡೀ ಜೀವನದಲ್ಲಿ ಎಂದೂ ಕಾಡಿರದ ಏಕಾಂಗಿತನ ಒಮ್ಮೆಲೇ ಅಪ್ಪಳಿಸಿತು. ಅನಾಥಳಾಗೇ, ಒಬ್ಬಂಟಿಯಾಗೇ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ದರೆ ಪ್ರಾಯಶಃ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಹೀಗನಿಸುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲವೇನೋ. ಆದರೆ, ತನ್ನದು ಎಂದು ಭಾವಿಸಿದ ಎರಡೇ ಎರಡು ಜೀವಗಳಲ್ಲಿ, ಒಬ್ಬ ತನ್ನನ್ನು ತೊರೆದು ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾನೆ ಎನ್ನುವಾಗ, ಅವಳೆಂದೂ ಅನುಭವಿಸಿರದ ಆ ಅನಾಥಪ್ರಜ್ಞೆ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಭಾರವಾಯಿತು.

ಅವಳ ಕೈ ಹಿಡಿದು, ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಗುವನ್ನು ಎತ್ತಿಕೊಂಡು ಅವನು ರಥದ ಕಡೆಗೆ ಸಾಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. 'ಅವನನ್ನೂ, ಮಗುವನ್ನೂ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಹೊರಟುಹೋಗಲೇ? ಹಾ! ಜಾತ್ರೆಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಈ ಜನ ಜಂಗುಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ, ತಪ್ಪಿಸಿಕೊಂಡಳು ಅನಿಸುವಂತೆ ಹೋಗಬಹುದಲ್ಲಾ...'  ರಥದಲ್ಲಿ  ಉತ್ಸವಮೂರ್ತಿಯನ್ನು ಕೂರಿಸಿ, ಅಲಂಕಾರ ಮಾಡಿದ ಮೇಲೆ, ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ಕಟ್ಟಿದ್ದ ಪರದೆಯನ್ನು ಸರಿಸಿದೊಡನೆ, ಅಲ್ಲಿ ನೆರೆದಿದ್ದ ಜನರೆಲ್ಲಾ 'ಹೋ!' ಎಂದು ಕೂಗಿದರು. 'ನಾನು ಹೊರಟುಹೋದ ಮೇಲೆ, ಮಗುವನ್ನು ಆ ನನ್ನ ಸವತಿ ಹೇಗೆ ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡಾಳೋ? ನನ್ನಂತೆ, ಅವನಂತೆ ಅನಾಥರಾಗಿ ಬೆಳೆಯಬಹುದು. ಆದರೆ, ಮಲಮಕ್ಕಳಾಗಿ ಬೆಳೆಯುವ ಪಾಡು ಬೇಡ' ಎಂದುಕೊಂಡು, ಆ ಮಾರ್ಗವನ್ನೂ ತಿರಸ್ಕರಿಸಿದಳು. ಅಲ್ಲದೆ, ದೊಡ್ಡವನಾದ ಮೇಲೆ, ತನ್ನ ಮಗುವಿಗೆ ಸತ್ಯ ತಿಳಿದು, ತನ್ನ ತಾಯಿ ಹೇಡಿಯಂತೆ ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಯಿಂದ ಓಡಿಹೋದಳು ಎಂದು ಭಾವಿಸಿದರೆ?  ಸೂರ್ಯನ ಬೆಳಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ದೇವರ ಬೆಳ್ಳಿಯ ವಿಗ್ರಹ ಹೊಳೆಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅವಳ ಕಣ್ಣಲ್ಲಿ ತುಂಬುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ನೀರು ತನ್ನದೇ ಆದ ಹೊಳಪನ್ನು ನೀಡಿತ್ತು. 'ನೀನೆ ಕಾಪಾಡಬೇಕು' ಎಂದು ದೈನ್ಯದಿಂದ ಕೈಮುಗಿದಳು. 

ಅಂದು ಊರಿನವರಿಗೆ, ಭಕ್ತರಿಗೆಲ್ಲಾ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲೇ ಊಟ. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಹುರುಪಿನಿಂದ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದವರನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಹಳೆಯದೆಲ್ಲಾ ನೆನಪಾಯಿತು. ಆಗಷ್ಟೇ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿದ್ದ ಹೊಸ ಜೋಡಿಗಳನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಅಸೂಯೆಯಾಯಿತು. ಆ ಅಸೂಯೆಯ ಅಡಿಯಲ್ಲೇ, ಕಡೆಗೂ ಒಂದು ದಾರಿ ಕಂಡಿತು. ತನ್ನ ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಯನ್ನು ಖಾಯಂ ಆಗಿ ನಿವಾರಿಸದಿದ್ದರೂ, ಸಧ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಅದಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಉತ್ತಮ ಉಪಾಯ ಕಾಣಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳ ನೆಚ್ಚಿನ ಕೌದಿ ಮುಳ್ಳಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಬಿದ್ದಂತಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಬಹಳ ನಾಜೂಕಾಗಿ ಅದನ್ನು ತನ್ನತ್ತ ಎಳೆಯಬೇಕಿತ್ತು. ಇಲ್ಲವಾದಲ್ಲಿ, ಅಷ್ಟು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಪರಿಶ್ರಮ ಹರಿದು ಚೂರಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. 

ಆ ರಾತ್ರಿ, ಊಟವಾದ ಮೇಲೆ, ಮಗುವನ್ನು ಮಲಗಿಸಿ, ಅವನಿಗೆ ಎಲೆಯಡಿಕೆಯನ್ನು ಮಡಿಸಿಕೊಡುತ್ತಾ ಅವಳು ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳ ಮುಂಚೆ ಕಂಡ ಆ ಕನಸಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅವನಿಗೆ ಹೇಳತೊಡಗಿದಳು. ಅವನಿಗಾಗಾಲೇ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ ಆ ಕನಸನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದರೂ, ಈ ಬಾರಿ ಹೊಸತೆಂಬಂತೆ ಬಣ್ಣಿಸಿದಳು. ಅವರ ಮೂರು ಮಕ್ಕಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ... ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ನಾಲ್ಕು ಭಾಗ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದು...ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಸೊಸೆಯಂದಿರು ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಮುಂದುವರೆಸಿದ್ದು...ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು...ಮರಿಮಕ್ಕಳು....ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನೂ ಹೇಳಿದಳು.... 

ಮಾರನೆಯ ದಿನ, ಎಂದಿನಂತೆ, ಕೌದಿಯನ್ನು ಒಗೆದು, ಬಿಸಿಲಿಗೆ ಹರವಿದಳು. ಕೌದಿಗೆ ಹೊಸ ಕಳೆ ತುಂಬಿ, ರಂಗೇರಿತ್ತು.