Translation of story in english
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That afternoon, Phulla saw the divine Urvashi climb up the temple stairs.
Phulla's veranda, where she sat stringing flowers to make little ornaments for the hair, was situated one third up the length of the stairs. The stairs flowed up like a broad river that thinned in its upper reaches. That morning,the most beautiful fish was making her way up them, gracefully swinging her fin. She was young, probably 12 or so. Dark kohl lined her jewel like eyes and shone on a skin whose radiance would pull any onlooker towards it, and intimidate him that it pulled. Her long lashes skimmed the stairs as she walked. Soft pebbles of mogra caressed the back of her neck. Her forhead was dusted by a lightly blown patch of vermillion.
When those langorous eyes swept over Phulla and past her, in an instant forgetting what they'd seen, Phulla was stung to the quick, she turned her head away from the apparition and looked at the fish-mother instead. The mother's face was craggy, as though the daughter's skin had absorbed all its moisture. If 'Urvashi's' hands were soft and limp, her mothers' had the restlessness of a craftsperson. In colouring this perfect picture that stood next to her, the mother had faded to a dull outline. Her presence was shadowed by a lack, and her face showed a fear of want. But her hand was clasped in 'Urvashis. She wanted the gift of flight from her.
As Phulla's eyes swam, over the mother's hands, along the daughter's, to that beautiful face, again..a sky rose over the earth inside her, like a minaret over a tower. A thorny green bush caught fire somewhere, and Phulla was singed. Her plump fingers continued to pick white flowers and nothing stirred in her eyes. The girl walked right past her. Still dazed in the trap of fragrance of her flowers and her hair oil, Phulla turned to her own courtyard. Her mother was slowly stoking a fire, very slowly, as if she wanted to be sure that she did not break the sleep that she had gathered to her like a blanket the very day that Phulla took over her work at the stall. This is how it's always been with flower girl mothers at this temple.
The wave had passed, the stairs were stone again. A cat with an absolutely upright tale was slowly taking measure of the courtyard. It felt like the evening had emptied the yard of any signs of life. A hollowed cat, a hollowed mother, a hollow yard, over all of which, the evening had settled in a shroud of small grain. The hollowed out legs of Phulla hurt as she carried utensils to the river for a wash.
The mats were empty. But the katha vachak had started his story in the light of the lamp. Phulla sat on the empty mat with the thought that maybe, by some chance, the story that was told today, would somehow belong to her. Her palm was clutching the packet of vermillion she had bought from Azgar's shop.
Dhrinder was resting on his arms on one of the empty mats and looking up at the sky, where dull clouds were walking over a stunted moon. Dhurinder shut his eyes and found images falling behind them like coins into a money box. Like broken paintings they fell- the horse at Baroda.. Sir Griffith standing in a corridor.. Just today, in their courtyard, his mother had extended a baby towards him, as though she was saying "Yours". Kamala was standing in the depths behind Ma's large shoulder. Dhurinder's fingers went over the edge of the durrie and sank in the sand, stroking it like it was Kamala..His eyes opened. Baba's face was so white in the light of the lamp.
The boatmen of Nasik were on strike again. So Dhurinder had also sat on a pahalwan's shoulder to cross the river. It irritated him. Had he not been carrying all that luggage, he would have swum across. Mid river, Chandu Kaka passed by, letting out sharp giggles from where he sat on the shoulders of one of the pahalwans of the Udaseen Akhara. Ahead of him a woman passenger had completey covered her face with her saree, so that no one recognised her in this shameful posture. Dhurinder kept staring her way- who was she? He had an urge to kick at the sides of his mount, like he would at the horse in Baroda, and yell 'giddy up'! Was that Kaki after all? Even after getting off, Dhurinder waited a full 20 mintues at the ghat, in the hope that if he figured who the woman was travelling with, he would be able to identify her, and he could narrate this story to Kamala at night. Would Kamala laugh?
The fat girl in front of him was going on shaking something in a small pouch. She looked working class, like she'd taken advantage of the situation and made herself comfortable on the empty mats. All her attention was directed at the pouch in her lap. Truth be told, even Dhurinder was impatient with Baba's telling. His voice was not able to travel the distance of the mats. Had Baba's voice been diminished by this open shore? Dhurinder felt like putting up a Ravi Verma painting on the ghat- and how the crowds would clamour then. He kept staring at his father.
After washing the dishes, Phulla had broken the water into pieces as she swam to the temple in the middle. She had stayed there, silently, like a fat fish in the water, mourning as she looked at the moon. She had realised that she was trapped in her mother's very ordinary dream. She could never become Urvashi.
When Dhurinder hid his face in the black cloth and tried to find his Baba in the mirrors of his camera, he found an empty chair- Baba had left its imprisonment. It was the next morning. Dhurinder was quietly trying to forget the Katha of the previous night. He had put the camera between his father and himself. He wanted to capture an image of his father that he could then love in a simple way. But Baba refused this imprisonment. As did Kamala. Resting against the stand of his camera, Dhurinder realised that this was not the place to keep it, he would have to go elsewhere with his machine.
hulla saw the celestial Urvashi herself climb the stairs of the temple that afternoon. She did not climb, her footsteps swam, each movement a stroke measuring the width of the stair it went over. Phulla's verandah was one third up the stairway. The steps flowed past her like a river that thinned as it climbed to where
P the temple stood like a child's toy in the distance.
The river had thrown up an exotic fish today. She must be 11 or 12. The dark line of kohl framed eyes shining with the deep radiance of rare jewels, and highlighted the smoothness of a skin that invited touch, and intimidated it. Soft pebbles of mogra embellished her neck, and on her forhead, a careless powder of sindoor.
Sweeping the steps with long lashes, the gaze of that - painting- skimmed over Phulla as it skimmed over everything else, noticing nothing. The moment of the indifferent passing over stung Phulla like a caress. She sharply pulled her own eyes away from that vision, like a mother pulls her children from the patronising neighbours. The eyes turned away, and still staring, fell on the young girls'- mother? Standing beside her.
The evening sun slapped the older woman's face, highlighting its dryness. The supple wetness of feature, so much the lot of the daughter, made it look more parched in contrast. Made you feel as you watched, that there might have been an osmosis. A parasitic drawing out of the water from mother to daughter.
If it had indeed taken place, it must have gone through the hands. The daughter's hands were soft and lifeless, the mothers had the restlessness of an engineer. This one project, of making a beauty of her child, seemed to have taken it all out of her. She was spent, and a negative space hung like a frightening aura about her, her face bore the awareness and the fear of that hovering absence. But her hand was in her daughters' waiting for her Urvashi to soar into the skies, with her..
When Phulla's eyes moved , uncontrollable, to the daughter again, she felt a sky rise like a dome inside her. It billowed like a stage cloth and a green thorn bush shoot into flames that singed Phulla as they died. Phulla's plump fingers kept plucking at the flowers, her eyes gave nothing away, the Beauty walked past her. And choking in the strands of her oil and her flowers, Phulla turned to look at her verandah.
Her mother was slowly stoking the evening fire, as if in sleep. It was a sleep she had embraced the day her daughter had taken to making garlands and she knew their small house in the temple yard was secure. As her Bold textmother must have felt before her.
The wave passed, the stairs were stone again. A cat, tail erect, was slowly measuring distances across the verandah. Twilight seemed to have emptied the verandah of life. A bird boned mother, moved among hollow stones, an empty cat, and an evening sticking to them all. Phulla's bones ached with the wind inside them as she took the evening vessels to the ghats to wash.
The mats were deserted today. Empty. But the kathavachak had started his story. Phulla seated herself with a new hope that maybe, today, in this emptiness, the story might be told just for her. In her hand she clutched the pouch of sindoor that she had got from Azgar.
Dhurninder was sitting staring at the sky, his hands making an arch on the mat: clouds were congressing on a stunted moon. If Dhurinder shut his eyes, a clutter of images fell into the blackness behind his eyes. Like canvases torn at the corners- the horse in Baroda, Sir Griffith in a corridor. And today Aai, extending a baby to him, saying “Yours”. Dhurinder had looked beyond Aai's shoulder to where a small woman was standing. Dhurinder's fingers felt Kamala's body in the sand and his eyes snapped open. In the distance, across the mats, Baba's face glowed white in the light of the lantern.
The boatmen of Nasik were on strike, so Dhurinder had also had to sit on a pahalwan's shoulders to cross the water. He had not liked it. If it was not for the luggage, he would have swum across. That angry river in spate beckoned his muscles. Mid stream, Chandu Kaka had passed by, clutching onto his dhoti, rocking on his perch, giggling obscenely. Ahead of Dhurinder, a woman had covered her face completely, and then also bent her head, making sure no one recognised her. Dhurinder was looking at her ankles, they were not very young, there was a firmness to the curve of a long, slightly callused foot, pushing into the pehalwan's chest. Kaki? His own ankle itched to spur his mount like the horse in Baroda, “Hurry”!!
He waited twenty minutes on the ghat after reaching, waiting to see who her consort would be. He could tell Kamala about it at night . Would she be amused?
Ahead of him, a fat girl was restlessly playing with a crumpled packet of paper. She looked working class, taking advantage of the empty mats to take some good seats. And then all her attention was on her package! Truth be told, today Dhurinder was also finding it difficult to concentrate on Baba's story. Baba's words were lost somewhere across the empty mats. The large river bank was swallowing the small man's voice. Dhurinder wished he had a large Ravi Verma canvas with him, just then- then crowds would clamour again! His father perhaps no longer knew how to bring them alive..
Phulla could not bear to hear of Jatayu. This old man, casting bird shadows in lamplight, telling of another vain bird, just like him. Vain for honour. Silly currency. Phulla closed the eye her fingers had been drawing and redrawing in the sindoor with an angry clutch at the paper. She got up and left.
And Dhurinder could bear his fathers telling no more. His wide open eyes now conjured up “Kamala”, only “Kamala”.
When she had washed the dishes with it, Phulla took to the waters herself, plunging herself into the river, swimming till mid stream, to the foot of the small temple. Where she wept moon blue blackness, for herself.
When Dhurinder ducked into the black cloth to look at his Baba through his camera, he found the chair was empty. Baba had fled the camera's captivity.
It was the next morning. Dhurinder was quietly trying to forget his look at Baba, the previous night. He had placed the apparatus of the camera between them today. He wanted to compose a Baba, make an image and love that image. But Baba had not consented. Nor Kamala. Holding the leg of his companion, Dhurinder knew then that he must leave to live with the camera.
