Who was she? This struck me repeatedly. She was young and in the full bloom of her youth. She didn’t seem to be clever. Though she was not over thirty, she appeared to be over forty. She had dry, ragged hair, an unkempt appearance, and seemed to want hygiene and cleanliness. She seemed to have deserted life.
I could not mistake her for a beggar woman for she never asked anyone for alms. She was always there, sad and dejected, as though she had lost something very dear to her heart.
Three months ago, I had been transferred to Nandalur. I had to pass that way every day, en route to my office. One of my friends was posted as the station master of Nandalur. On all the days, I went to the station to have a chat with my friend, I happened to see her.
One evening, dark clouds had gathered in the sky, and there was a steady wind blowing. A steady drizzle had started when I was on my way to the hostel. A gusty wind was now blowing. The storks and the birds on the trees adjacent to the station started flapping their wings and flying around. Now the rain picked up force, and I was drenched. The birds were flying out to escape the force of the torrent. When I stepped into the station, I felt the shivering cold of the rain inside my clothes. The rain had awakened the flavors of the dust, and there was a smell of wet sand floating across. Except for a few trains, the station wore a deserted look most of the time, and when it was the time for a train, there was some commotion; otherwise Nandalur was a quiet little station.
The Rayalaseema Express was chugging out of the station towards Hyderabad. The crowd had dispersed. I felt a hand touching me. It was a scantily – clad child begging for alms. His face reflected the passion of this country. I gave him a ten- paisa coin. He ran towards his mother and gave it to her with a triumphant smile. His mother was squatting on the floor, feeding another child. I kept wondering about the panorama of miserable lives. My eyes searched for her. She was there at her usual place on the cement bench. Thoughts about her ran through my mind. She must have been an orphan. Was she a sage untouched by the tumult of life around her, an unwanted thing, a block of granite, a carved Monalisa, or a woman who had lost all her ancient moorings and lived a life of delusion? I kept wondering.
My friend Yasin patted me, putting an end to my stream of thought. He said, “Come, let’s go” and led me in. A porter came running, and Yasin said, “Bring two cups of coffee”. Lounging in his chair, he started quizzing me about our mutual friends. “Do you know the address of Kula Shekhar?” He wrote to me a long time ago, about his job in the R.T.C. After that there has been neither a letter nor any information about him. The conversation dragged on. It was stuffy inside. Outside, there was no sign of the rain abating. It was more furious now. As the wind blew hard, raindrops were being patted into the room. There was hardly anyone on the platform. The power was on and off and now it was gone for the last 2 minutes.
“Move out. Why are you peeping into the darkness for? Useless woman?” I turned to listen to Rangaiah. I saw her in the light of the lightning. She was moving out timidly, cursed by Rangaiah. She probably wanted to be sheltered from the rain.
Rangaiah served us coffee.
I tried to reason with Rangaiah. “Why do you curse her so loudly? Look at her shivering from the cold.”
Yasin was on the phone.
Rangaiah served the coffee and said, “Sir, you don’t know her. She is in the station all through the day. Once she is inside, it is impossible to send her out.”
“Who is she? Is she a mad woman? Why is she always here?” I started to question Rangaiah.
“Five years ago, you could have called her a film star. She was in the pink of her youth and glowing like gold.” Rangaiah’s words made me more inquisitive. He went on, “The youth of the town lined up to hear her sweet words. Her life took a bad turn, and she is fated to live this life.”
Yasin and I sipped our coffee. I took out some rupees to pay Rangaiah. Yasin warned me. I said it was for my cigarettes. Yasin said, “Ranga, bring some cigarettes.”
I said, “I will pay . I am the one who smoked.”
The rain was blushing and raging alternately. Yasin was running around, attending to the phone and giving instructions. I was alone.
Rangaiah got the cigarettes and was looking at the box. Sensing his intention, I gave him a cigarette. The power was on. I lit my cigarette and said, “So, tell me how her life became so miserable?”
Now there was a raging storm. The doors started to clatter. The power was off again. A pertromax light was burning. Rangaiah squatted, closing the doors and dragging a long puff, said, “Her name is Sri Lakshmi. His name was Tirupati. They belonged to some place near Chennai. It is not known whether they eloped while in love, or shifted here after their marriage.”
“There was gold all over her. She wore gold bangles, chains, rings and Oh! Several other things.” Rangaiah went on in this vein. “They rented a house in the town. They were in great love with each other, totally immersed in each other. They went to the cinemas, roamed the streets and painted the town red with their passion and romance. Two or three months passed in this fashion. A few of her jewels found their way to the pawnbroker. In six months, half of her jewels/jewelry had been pawned. Both of them started to fear the future. The euphoria and passion of the earlier days was no more. They sold the remaining gold and started a hotel near the railway station. People flocked to see her or perhaps to seduce her. The hotel did good business initially. But she was strong, not to be drawn in by any of their charms. She was pure, and her character shone like gold. The town men cultivated ill will against her.
The hotel went on for a year. Gradually, there was a decline in the business. Life became a hurdle. She was no longer his sweetheart. He used to beat her, cursing her for his misfortune. She never spoke a word in her defense. She was vulnerable and afraid that he would probably desert her. She kept all her troubles to herself. She was unable to explain to herself the reason for his anger.
One night, Tirupati brought another fellow along with him. Both of them were drunk. Tirupati had to say this to her, “He is Govinda. A big man; he may be a Zamindar. I narrated all our troubles to him. He has sympathy for us and has promised to do any help we may want. We should be good to this good man. We should think of doing him some help.”
She did not reply. She could sense his depravity. Her dark fears had become real. He was planning to use her like a thing. She was stunned into silence. Her life was now a shattered dream. Tirupati interpreted her silence to be agreement.
Tirupati spoke to Govinda and went out. Govinda inclined onto the bed and pulled her to him.
This was the spark that ignited the fire in her. All her pent-up anger burst out like a volcano. Her eyes were spitting fire. She grabbed the pestle and struck Govinda in fury. She did not even spare Tirupati who came in to rescue Govinda. The news spread through the town like wild fire.”
Rangaiah was excellent in his description. I was immersed in the story. The exploitation of women by men has been the story over the years. Yasin was back in his seat, having finished his work.
“What Ranga? Are you telling her story?”
“Not a story, but life” I said. “Did he desert her afterwards?” I asked Ranga, obviously curious about the twist in the tale.
I could hear the sound of the rain lashing the roof. The force of the wind had come down. Yasin was also silent. I lit another cigarette. There was no sign of power coming back. The light from the table lamp was pale and flickering. Rangaiah started again.
“If the bloody fellow had deserted her then, we don’t know what may have happened. But what happened was different. Unable to run the house, after four days they sold all their wares and stood here on this platform, one evening with her bag and his box.
I remember the day very well. Tirupati insisted on going to Madras on the Janata Express. She wanted to go far, far from this Rayalaseema, towards the Western border. She could not stand again before her relatives and friends, after having eloped, unlike him who was a shameless male.
Both of them argued. At last, he agreed. He wore a decisive face and stepped to the Eastern side.
She asked him, “Where?”
“Here, this far” he gestured to her. She couldn’t disbelieve him. She had left everything to his power.
The Rayalaseema train came. But he was nowhere. The train started and chugged onto the Western side. The sun had set. But her life had become a rudderless boat inside a dark abyss. She could not fight her fate and fell under the mighty blow that fortune had dealt her. She was utterly heartbroken.
The night advanced. She stayed here on the platform. Govinda, who was waiting for a chance, abused her sexually and fulfilled his desire. She was violated. She lost her speech. Since then she has been in this station waiting for Tirupati’s return. When somebody gives her food, she eats, otherwise she goes starving.”
Rangaiah stopped the narrative to light the flickering lamp.
“Does she still wait for his return? Does anyone know his whereabouts?” I asked.
“Yes Sir, she thinks he will come back. But he will never return.” Rangaiah said.
“What happened to him?”
“That day he deceived her, and after the Rayalaseema Express left, he ran after a goods train and caught it. He went on hanging precariously. The train picked up speed. That fellow was holding on to his suitcase in one hand. On the Cheyyuru Bridge, he lost his grip and fell into the river and died.”
Suddenly there was a loud thud on the door.
“He paid for his sins. But she has remained : a proof of this existence.”
The power came back.
Rangaiah pushed the door. She was there on the threshold, with her bag in her hand.
“Sir, she seems to have died.” Rangaiah said anxiously.
( Translated from Telugu. Story written by Sri D. Rama Chandra Raju)