The Voices Within

She wiped her dry, sallow cheeks with her trembling fingers. Even tears seemed to desert her as she stood near the door of her mansion, lost in vapid thoughts. She sashayed her head and let her eyes wander, taking in every detail of her possessions-the two-legged chair that her kid used as a toy, the dilapidated bureau that encompassed vacuum, plastic bottles and buckets claiming a strong kinship with abysmal holes, an elderly stove that seemed to have retired from public life, few trustworthy vessels guarding the  stove not aware of its impotency, a handmade shelf with half a dozen lifeless clothes and finally, her own anaemic self. Tears overwhelmed her, extending their fullest support now. They cascaded down slowly yet passionately, clinging to her, wanting to protect her. Her lips quivered, wondering if the viscous fluid was blood. She knew it would be a vain attempt to stop her tears, her only possession filled with life. What started from the pit of her stomach resulted in a hysterical laugh that reverberated through the silent walls. This aroused gasps of pity from her other lifeless possessions. Her cadaverous form took its earlier stance, facing the horizon-facing the cruel outer world that was indifferent to her existence.

Hope is subjective as long as the threshold of pain isn’t crossed. It becomes “Doubt” after the saturation point is reached. Her hope, a result of sheer vulnerability, was facing the same revolutionary crisis. Her heart palpitated as her subjective thoughts struggled to become objective. Her eyes gleamed with a dark light the Moon herself would have contemplated stealing. Hope gave way to doubt, and a million thoughts struck her mind in gargantuan leaps. The corners of her pallid lips twitched.

She watched her kid come back home and kept glaring at him. The dangerous look in her eyes was replaced by a look of uncertain confusion and depression. What was she going to feed him today? Would she do what she did yesterday or the countless nights before? She closed her eyes as she thought of the tool she was using to kill him-Hunger. The one tool that was not biased and was truly a communist. Her heart broke down to a thousand pieces as her kid came up to her. The innocent look in his face and his beautiful smile made her heart swell with peace. She kissed the malnutritioned kid chastely on his forehead. The child looked at his mom eagerly wanting to know if there was anything to eat. The greedy look on his eyes made her want to die at that very instant. She enveloped him in her arms, soaking him with tears of anger and helplessness, wondering why they had to live. The child knew better than to ask anything more and looked away, exhausted, not old enough to question his mother regarding his deprived childhood.

One can’t tell how much longer the puny child and his mother lay across the floor, entwined. One can’t even come to a cliched conclusion that it gave her solace. Her child was the reason she was living. She had no reason to live, if not for him.

She gently rose from the ground as she heard footsteps outside. It was the child’s father- her spouse, the sculptor. She didn’t have to talk to him to find about his inebriated condition.

She knew better than to ask him money. But it was a necessity now. At the rate the child was starving, he would be dead in a month’s time. She painfully knew would never get an answer if she asked where all the money went. It was obvious where it went. She sighed. She needed money. And she wouldn’t let him think she was indifferent to his actions.

“I need some money to buy groceries.”  The confidence in her voice surprised her.

“Who cares if you starve to death? Leave me alone.” He faltered, babbling unintelligible words.

“Please. Our child is dying.” She begged him  secretly wishing she were dead. Had she not been an invalid, she wouldn’t be begging him. She would have stood on her own legs.

“The contract I have signed says I will get the money only after 5 months. Don’t bother me now.” He didn’t, in the least, seemed to care about their son-her son.He fell asleep, snoring loudly.

She knew not whether to laugh to cry. The inhuman human in front of her was one of the most revered sculptors in the entire district. People thought his sculptures had a heavenly aura about them. Were the Gods he sculpted blind? Did God create man or man create Him? The creator in front of her was snoring softly and she sat there looking into the darkness.

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I had been to Kanchipuram a few days before and visited an unfinished temple. I met a sculptor there who took great pains in explaining to us, the Sirpa Shastra. It was an interesting experience, as a whole. But I was perturbed by the way they lived. This made me come up with the question if God created man or it is the other way round. No, I am not an agnostic or an atheist. This is just a fleeting thought.

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