(Part 3 of 3 part series)
Manjula disliked Anagha’s closeness to Anant. She doubted Anagha had some illicit bonding with Anant, “that moron acts idiotic but is smart enough to stare at naked women,” Manjula often pierced Anagha with such words.
Anagha chided Anant once to go away from her. She beat him up too. She made her fell to the ground and slapped every part of this body. All the while when he was being thrashed, Anant tried to reach his hand to her; often times touching her face, her breasts, her neck, and so on. Anagha got aggravated further with this, and thinking what Manjula said about Anant was true, she whipped him more. They both were crying. Tired, Anagha stopped her pounding, knelt down next to Anant pleading to him to go away. She covered her face with both her hands and cried more. Anant gathered himself from the ground, went behind Anagha, and touched her hair, sniffed at them, kissed them, like he used to do earlier. He hugged her from behind and clutched around her neck. “I just wanted to touch your hair once,” he said and ran away into the fields. Anagha sat there weeping.
Anant started spending most of the time all by himself. With Anagha no longer there to take care of him, villagers and other boys bullied him regularly. Anant use to vent his anger and frustration on the jackfruit tree. He used to bang his head on it. At times, Anant used to stare at Anagha through the window sill and bang his head on the rods. Anagha was rarely allowed to step out of the house after marriage. All her time went in doing household chores, helping her mother-in-law, and satisfying Parshuram at night. Anant used to stand outside one of the windows of Anagha’s room and keep gazing at her while she worked up her hair. He sobbed that he could never get the touch of that silk. It had been days and months when he had breathed the freshness of that sweet aroma of her hair. He missed it all badly; so much he was in love with her hair.
An uproar of cries that came from Manjula’s veranda disrupted Anant’s sweet-n-bitter day dreaming. Parshuram had died of excessive alcohol, and probably because of having multiple sex partners; may be eunuchs at times, a truck driver that he was. Parshuram was being taken to the cemetery; four men had lifted the bamboo stretcher specially made for the moment. All the ladies howled in chorus. Anagha could hardly cry. Finding a tear in her eye or on her cheek could have been like an astounding discovery. Her eyes and skin were as dry as a draught struck earth. She sat there in the corner, calm and composed, as if celebrating her freedom from a demon.
After the men departed with the body, Manjula and other women dragged Anagha. They pulled her up and pushed her into the house. Anant ran through the bushes and from tree to tree to find out what is being done. Confusions in his mind had overtaken the curiosity.
Anagha could not take the pain. She sobbed and yowled too. She was pulled to the backyard of the house with all the force. She protested. However, her vigour, now that she had become too weak, could not fight the force of seven women. She was pushed into the backyard. She toppled, and trying to balance herself, she went and hit upon a rack that stacked chopped wood. Few women again hauled her to the centre of the backyard. Anagha sat there couched, hissing and bawling. A bucket of cold water was poured on her. She was shivering now. Her tears disappeared in the water that trickled down from her head. She kept shouting for mercy. No elderly woman obliged. Anant stood confused behind a three feet partition wall made of round stones. He sneaked at the entire scene craning his neck above the wall. Soon Anagha’s hair plaits were chopped off. Anant got enraged, he got furious but he could not move from his place, he was scared too. He stood there rumbling. Lot of soap was then applied to Anagha’s hair. The soap was then thrown into a nearby fire. Four women held her tightly, while other two shaved her head closely. Manjula stood in one corner beating her chest and crying out loud, cursing Anagha for having killed her son. Finally, Anagha’s head was washed again to leave sparkling bright scalp with fresh wounds and blood stains. The towel used to wipe her head too was thrown into the fire. Anagha was made to stand up and her sari was pulled off. She stood there, just in a blouse and petticoat, with her hands covering her bosom. No one bothered about her tears or the torture she was going through. The culture of preparing a woman for her widowhood had blinded all the women present there. Anant started crying. Anagha was again taken inside the house. Anant jumped over the wall, ran towards the wet floor, and picked up Anagha’s hair plaits. He kept looking at them and cried. He kept crying. He arranged the strands of hair neatly, put them in his pockets, and marathoned towards the jackfruit tree, with a high jump over the partition wall. He sat there, crying all the time, and caressing Anagha’s hair.
For many days, Anant never got even a glimpse of Anagha. He kept trying everyday. He would wander around Manjula’s house, stand outside the window, and try to peep in through the cracks. However, all attempts went hollow.
After about, more than a month, Anagha stepped out of the house. She felt very awkward about her recent getup. She tried to deceive the sight of fellow villagers. One day when returning from her mother’s home, Anant met her on the way. They stood opposite each other, face to face. He smiled at her; he kept smiling, and then giggling. He was happy. She started crying though. She hugged him tight and kept crying. Anant removed the strands of hair from his pocket and tried to stick them on her head, one-by-one. The hair would fall off. The scalp could no longer hold those beautiful shiny strings. The once black glistening mellifluous head is now just a cottoned maroon scalp that will just fade in colour with every passing day.
Manjula disliked Anagha’s closeness to Anant. She doubted Anagha had some illicit bonding with Anant, “that moron acts idiotic but is smart enough to stare at naked women,” Manjula often pierced Anagha with such words.
Anagha chided Anant once to go away from her. She beat him up too. She made her fell to the ground and slapped every part of this body. All the while when he was being thrashed, Anant tried to reach his hand to her; often times touching her face, her breasts, her neck, and so on. Anagha got aggravated further with this, and thinking what Manjula said about Anant was true, she whipped him more. They both were crying. Tired, Anagha stopped her pounding, knelt down next to Anant pleading to him to go away. She covered her face with both her hands and cried more. Anant gathered himself from the ground, went behind Anagha, and touched her hair, sniffed at them, kissed them, like he used to do earlier. He hugged her from behind and clutched around her neck. “I just wanted to touch your hair once,” he said and ran away into the fields. Anagha sat there weeping.
Anant started spending most of the time all by himself. With Anagha no longer there to take care of him, villagers and other boys bullied him regularly. Anant use to vent his anger and frustration on the jackfruit tree. He used to bang his head on it. At times, Anant used to stare at Anagha through the window sill and bang his head on the rods. Anagha was rarely allowed to step out of the house after marriage. All her time went in doing household chores, helping her mother-in-law, and satisfying Parshuram at night. Anant used to stand outside one of the windows of Anagha’s room and keep gazing at her while she worked up her hair. He sobbed that he could never get the touch of that silk. It had been days and months when he had breathed the freshness of that sweet aroma of her hair. He missed it all badly; so much he was in love with her hair.
An uproar of cries that came from Manjula’s veranda disrupted Anant’s sweet-n-bitter day dreaming. Parshuram had died of excessive alcohol, and probably because of having multiple sex partners; may be eunuchs at times, a truck driver that he was. Parshuram was being taken to the cemetery; four men had lifted the bamboo stretcher specially made for the moment. All the ladies howled in chorus. Anagha could hardly cry. Finding a tear in her eye or on her cheek could have been like an astounding discovery. Her eyes and skin were as dry as a draught struck earth. She sat there in the corner, calm and composed, as if celebrating her freedom from a demon.
After the men departed with the body, Manjula and other women dragged Anagha. They pulled her up and pushed her into the house. Anant ran through the bushes and from tree to tree to find out what is being done. Confusions in his mind had overtaken the curiosity.
Anagha could not take the pain. She sobbed and yowled too. She was pulled to the backyard of the house with all the force. She protested. However, her vigour, now that she had become too weak, could not fight the force of seven women. She was pushed into the backyard. She toppled, and trying to balance herself, she went and hit upon a rack that stacked chopped wood. Few women again hauled her to the centre of the backyard. Anagha sat there couched, hissing and bawling. A bucket of cold water was poured on her. She was shivering now. Her tears disappeared in the water that trickled down from her head. She kept shouting for mercy. No elderly woman obliged. Anant stood confused behind a three feet partition wall made of round stones. He sneaked at the entire scene craning his neck above the wall. Soon Anagha’s hair plaits were chopped off. Anant got enraged, he got furious but he could not move from his place, he was scared too. He stood there rumbling. Lot of soap was then applied to Anagha’s hair. The soap was then thrown into a nearby fire. Four women held her tightly, while other two shaved her head closely. Manjula stood in one corner beating her chest and crying out loud, cursing Anagha for having killed her son. Finally, Anagha’s head was washed again to leave sparkling bright scalp with fresh wounds and blood stains. The towel used to wipe her head too was thrown into the fire. Anagha was made to stand up and her sari was pulled off. She stood there, just in a blouse and petticoat, with her hands covering her bosom. No one bothered about her tears or the torture she was going through. The culture of preparing a woman for her widowhood had blinded all the women present there. Anant started crying. Anagha was again taken inside the house. Anant jumped over the wall, ran towards the wet floor, and picked up Anagha’s hair plaits. He kept looking at them and cried. He kept crying. He arranged the strands of hair neatly, put them in his pockets, and marathoned towards the jackfruit tree, with a high jump over the partition wall. He sat there, crying all the time, and caressing Anagha’s hair.
For many days, Anant never got even a glimpse of Anagha. He kept trying everyday. He would wander around Manjula’s house, stand outside the window, and try to peep in through the cracks. However, all attempts went hollow.
After about, more than a month, Anagha stepped out of the house. She felt very awkward about her recent getup. She tried to deceive the sight of fellow villagers. One day when returning from her mother’s home, Anant met her on the way. They stood opposite each other, face to face. He smiled at her; he kept smiling, and then giggling. He was happy. She started crying though. She hugged him tight and kept crying. Anant removed the strands of hair from his pocket and tried to stick them on her head, one-by-one. The hair would fall off. The scalp could no longer hold those beautiful shiny strings. The once black glistening mellifluous head is now just a cottoned maroon scalp that will just fade in colour with every passing day.
- Parikshit J.
Categories:
Human Bondage,
Love,
Motherly Love,
Relationships,
Short Story
