Translation of story in english
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What Phulla saw, late afternoon, was Urvashi, incarnate, measuring the stairs of her temple. Phulla's verandah was one third up the stairway. Sitting there, the stairs flowed up like a river that is thinning as it reaches the temple. And today, those waters had thrown up this exotic sea creature, this fish, gliding on her way up. She must be a girl of 11 or 12. Her eyes were soft and radiant jewels. Like the sheen of her skin, embossed with sindoor and bunches of mogra. Brushing the stone steps with her long lashes, those eyes moved indifferently over Phulla, like they moved over everything else. Still the moment of passing over stung like a caress. Phulla sharply turned her eyes away and looked for something else to look at- the mother? Standing beside the fish.
The mother's skin was harsh, the sun was out on cliffs.The supple wetness of feature, so much the lot of the daughter, made the contrast harsher. Made the viewer feel that perhaps there had been an osmosis. A delibrate one, engineered by the mother. The daughter's hands were soft, lifeless, the mothers had the energy and restlessness. This one project, of making her daughter had taken it all out of her. She had given more than she could, and a negative space hung like a frightening aura about her, her face bore the fear of it. Yet her hand was in her daughters' waiting for her Urvashi to take to the skies, with her..
When Phulla's eyes rolled , uncontrollable, to the daughter again, a blue sky rose inside her. It billowed like a stage cloth and a green thorn bush shot into flames that licked Phulla as they died. Her 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 stoking the evening fire, slowly in sleep. It was a sleep she had embraced the day her daughter had taken to making garlands and she knew their small house was secure. That was the way of the mothers of this temple.
The wave had passed, the stairs were stone again. A cat, tail erect, was slowly measuring her paces across the verandah. The evening seemed to have emptied it of life, making it all bird bones. A bird bone mother, hollow stones, a empty cat, and a evening that was descending on them like a sticky cover. 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, leaning on his hands making a 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 co-rri-dor. And today Aai, extending a baby to him, saying “Yours”. Dhurinder had looked beyond Aai's shoulder to where a small Kamala 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. Mid stream, Chandu Kaka had passed by, rocking on his perch, giggling uncontrollably. Ahead of Dhurinder, a woman had covered her face completely, and then also bent her head, making sure no one recognised her. Dhurinder impatiently wondered who the hidden flower was. Kaki? His 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 that night then. 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- see how the crowds would clamour to see those stories! His father..
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.
