Red Is The Colour I Dread
Red is the colour I distantly remember my whole family
drenched in, the colour that the lush green fields turned to immediately after
the riots. It is the colour I watched flowing endlessly in every naali of
the mohalla then. Red is the colour I dread because, by the time Bade
Sahib came to my rescue that day, my vest had also turned red.
It almost
seemed like they were on the verge of annihilating our whole race that day.
That is when Bade Sahib appeared from nowhere, clasped my hand to pull me from
the heap of bodies one on top of the other and jerked me into his arms. Soon
after, my small body curled around his chest and went numb.
When I
regained consciousness, I found myself in a cowshed, along with a newborn calf,
amidst a heap of cow dung, the stench of urine and an intimidating blob of red
between the cow’s hind legs. ‘I want to go home!’ I shrieked.
Bade
Sahib’s tone was hushed. ‘Quiet! You don’t have a home anymore. Hide in the
corner and don’t come out until I ask you to.’
I vaguely
remember cuddling and mothering Booboo in secret. I survived by drinking milk
from the cow’s udders and nibbling on the jaggery they fed him. In a few days,
he became stronger, more adorable and playful; certainly more than a five,
six-year-old human child as myself.
After a
few days, Bibiji came with Bade Sahib to the cowshed, Bibiji’s expression was a
mix of pity and hatred.
‘Since when has
he been here, Ji?’ she enquired.
‘It has been
six days.’
‘And you are
telling me now?’
‘Calm down; his
father was Babaji’s favourite employee. That day I reached our farms, the paddy
fields had turned red, and the soot from the smoke blurred my vision. In that
stillness, his was the only body that showed any sign of life. I wrapped him in
my jacket and came elsewhere.’
‘But why the
hell do we have to shelter him and risk our own lives?’
‘Sarita, his
family has given years to our farms. And he can be of immense help to you in
bringing up our children.’
‘Ram! Ram! He
is a Muslim! Do you think I would let him in the house?’
‘Let him do the
chores outside! Let him take care of the cowshed. No one in our village knows
him. Just say he is an orphan,’ Bade Sahib sighed.
The
coming days were rough and traumatic, but somehow I survived the hatred and
disconnection. In no time, I became Bibiji’s blue-eyed boy. Her five children
kept me on my toes. Booboo became my only solace.
With time
I learnt that they had ripped the country into two and the ripples had placed
me in Kathua, a small village on the border of Jammu & Kashmir. The new
place had given me a new name, maybe to hide my ethnicity or highlight my
physical trait. But they forced me to live with my new name, Kallu,
which they had thrust upon me. People around the house scrutinised me from
head to toe. When my colour, my appearance or dialect didn’t reveal much of my
background, the Taveez tied around my neck lent a lot of fodder to their
imagination. But amidst speculation, scrutiny, and even apathy, I salvaged what
was left of myself.
Within the next
few years, I learned to milk the cow, mastered making cow-dung cakes and helped
Bibiji with all the daily chores. Whatever little free time I had I would spend
with Booboo, riding on his back in the fields.
The only mandir
in the village became my clock. I would wake up with the blowing of the
conch-shell before dawn and rested after the tolling of the bells stopped at
midnight. From the children in the house, I had heard stories of all the gods
inside the mandir. Krishna was my favourite. One he was black like I
was, and two he liked Booboo.
In my
early years, I always thought if they ever allowed me to enter the mandir,
I would surely ask, ‘Krishna, you are also Kallu like me, so how do they allow
you inside the mandir and not me?’ Later I realised that they considered
something else about me darker than my skin. But if you asked me, I didn’t know
a thing about my religion. Krishna was my God. I grew up listening to the
prayers sung in his glory. For the last seventy years or more, I have bowed to
him and mainly him in every moment of agony, pain or contentment. And every
time I passed the temple, I tried to catch a glimpse of him. But I failed.
The only
day in the year Pujari Ji officially invited me to stand outside the temple was
Bhandara. Everyone in the village visited the temple on Basant Panchami
to have the annual feast, dressed in the brightest, most colourful clothes. I
would also dress my best, not to have a feast but to take care of the slippers
of the whole village. It gave me the authority to summon anyone who touched
someone else’s slippers. This was the high point of my job! That day my gaze
would wander from the slippers to the food, to the shiny utensils and to the
red mat on which everyone sat.
At
the end of the ceremony, Pujari Ji would give me prasad from a small
distance, but he never encouraged me to go in. The yearly ritual continued with
the same enthusiasm decade after decade. Infants grew into adolescents, and the
youth turned older in front of my eyes year after year.
But
every year I waited for one pair of slippers desperately. Hers. To this day, I
do not know her names. The tinkling of her anklets would infuse energy into my
body, and her soft voice would make my lonely soul rejoice. ‘Kallu, keep
my chappals close to you. See that no one steps on them,’ she would say
before taking the slippers off her tender feet.
I
fondly remember the curved arches of her feet, her gleaming toenails and her
intricate payaal. I used to get so absorbed by her feet that I often
forgot to exchange a glance with her.
Although
our eyes met a few times, her dreamy ones kept my hopes alive. Until that
Basant Panchami when she walked towards me and said, ‘Kallu, keep my sandals
safely. These are new and very expensive.’
As
she was trying to unbuckle her sandals, I noticed a new pair of anklets and
shiny toe rings on her painted toes. My heart skipped a beat. I raised my eyes
from her feet to her face. She blushed, her colouring cheeks widening her face.
Immediately, I spotted a round, red bindi on her forehead, blood
red lipstick on her lips and a shimmering red dupatta around her head. A
strong wave of shock washed over me I couldn’t utter a word.
That
was the only day she had touched my hand and said, ‘Kallu, I am speaking to
you.’ As her red bangles jangled against my wrist, I said, ‘I will, don’t
worry.’ And in the glow of the red she wore from head to toe, my heart darkened
once more. My life’s melancholy is that I hadn’t advanced beyond being a chappal-wala
over such a long time.
I
had been so absorbed in the monotony of rural life that I had never tried to
step out of the small village. Complacency, under the shadow of Bade Sahib
and Bibiji, kept me going, until one night when I heard Bade Sahib
howling, ‘Kallu, come fast! See, your Bibiji is not responding!’ It was
sudden. She had died of a cardiac arrest. The following morning, her daughters
clothed her body in red clothes, bindi and sindoor. She
looked just like a bride. I wanted to hold Bibiji’s feet one last
time but I couldn’t. She wasn’t my mother, but I regarded her as no less than
that. I often wondered if she ever considered me more than Kallu? While
she had had all her children married in front of me, how had she never
thought about me?
Nevertheless,
life went on without her. All her children, except Bade Bhaiya, moved to bigger
cities. And Bade Sahib couldn’t survive for a long after Bibiji, either.
However, I kept slogging, the same way, in the same cowshed, with one
Booboo after another.
Now I am almost
eighty, I do not take care of slippers on the day of Bhandara anymore,
but I stand outside and watch people laughing, singing, and eating merrily. And
I wonder, will I ever be able to see Krishna in my life or will I sit on the
red mat, crossed-legged like the others, while Pujari Ji serves me prasad? Or
is it I am still intimidated by the red rug, red flags, and red flame inside
the temple?
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