How Blue is my Sapphire

     It was long past 12PM. I rolled on the bed restlessly. Snarls and moans everywhere. I attempted to tightly close my eyes so that Nidra Devi might bless me. The more forcefully I closed my eyes, the more swiftly viscous tears flowed down from my scrunched up eyes. And thoughts streamed in each time I did put down my eyelids. Anger. Anxiety. Fear. Frustration. Hatred. Insult. Not anything other than my fluffy pillow could pacify these seething and surging emotions of mine.

    “You require one week complete bed rest, Amulya..”, the physician’s advice reverberated in my ears.

    All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am..... I want to pretend neither much had happened nor changed during the last five hours.

   “A woman of fifty kilos lost just two grams in 5-10 minutes”, I consoled my conscience.    

   I shut my eyes again and pedalled hard for no less than a siesta so that I would not asphyxiate. However that tiny limbless and now lifeless zygote gave me a hard blow every time I craved to sleep like a log.

   Out there, on the side table, I found the photograph of my partner-in-everything and specifically in this crime. I stared at it for a solace and dialled him up to evenly share the chalice of blood.

   The sun seemed too infuriated on that afternoon. I looked out of the open window and reminisced. The Monday right after the last Christmas was a big day for both of us. Preludes, Lighting of the Unity, Exchanging of the Rings, The Pronouncement, The Kiss, The Recessional and Throwing off the Flowers. The snapshots of all the cheerful events flashed across my mind in a split second. For some reason, I could not clearly remember many other things but as destiny would have it; the Exchange of Vows between me and him seemed to be banging my head each time I tend to forget it. The bride (I) took effort to memorize and recite it wholeheartedly. On the contrary, the groom sought Priest’s help and merely repeated the words of consent, word by word. The bride’s memory power was too appreciable that she could say it even now:

    “I, Amulya, take you, Joseph, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part”.  

   Before I completed the solemn promise as if it was a floating dream, Joseph picked up the call and said, “Hello”.

     “I’m null and void”, I sighed heavily.

     “But you are independent now”, pointed out my man.

      “Was it a wise decision?” questioned I.

      “Quite systematic”, he answered firmly.

      The telephone got disconnected. I did not want to disturb him further as Dr. Joseph John Chiramel would be in a hurry at that time of the day, prescribing medicines for the cancer patients at R.V. Hospital near Mylapore. Dr. Joseph’s hunger for money and thirst for fame simply lured my Appa to dream ‘a happily ever after’ life for his only daughter; Amulya. Religion and faith did not matter to him when Joseph sought his daughter’s hand. Till date I had not bothered to question his decision as I knew ‘marriages are not made on earth but in heaven.’

     When I discovered I was pregnant, I wanted to bounce out of joy. Of course motherhood is the consummation of womanhood. Nine months of physical pain and trauma would bulge into the form of a piece of flesh and blood. It then urges its carrier to the world to swiftly and safely land him assuring happiness and optimism in return. And the carrier enticed by the promises, happily agrees and selflessly goes through a hell lot of things for a safe landing of the commuter. Yes, it is a give and take process. People opine a woman’s travail is the biggest pain ever. No mother with motherly instincts would acknowledge it so as they know it is a blessing in all means.

     Some say one would become responsible once they become parent. Few say parenthood ensures an urge to live. Others say it is an extra burden. However, for I; conceiving, giving birth and bringing up a child are all divine.

    “I just can’t wait to see our baby playing around us. I prefer a baby boy over a baby girl. How about you?”, I whispered in my husband’s ears last night. 

  “I don’t think we should have a baby now, Amulya..”, promptly responded Dr. Joseph caressing his first and last love Pommy: a Chihuahua.  

   He continued: “I have made all arrangements at a nearby maternity clinic. All you should do is go there tomorrow and follow the instructions. And the doctor-in-charge is a friend of your father too. Tell him you are D/o Mr. Vaitheswaran Iyer and W/o Dr. Joseph John. All would be well.”

   I wished if I could interrupt him to ensure the solidity of his words. Nonetheless I found my scrawny body getting absolutely numb inside the four walls of our bedroom already being adorned with blue curtains, blue bean bag, blue cot and blue mattress. 

   The gentleman gave me an obstinate look and enquired if he was sounding too harsh.

   “No. Just casual”, I answered in a feeble but withering voice.

     I wanted to protest. I wanted to voice out.

    “Have I disapproved when he wanted to pierce his name on my wrist? Did I slam the door when they brought him home drunken? When have I shown my disgust towards the Chinese cuisine he likes? Does he know how nauseatingly I watch all the bloodshed movies on TV along with him? Why doesn’t he liberate me from his clutches at least this time and give a chance?”

  An array of questions splattered deep within me. Nevertheless I pursed my lips as usual and gave a tilted smile veiling my desire of motherhood. And I went to bed with my head held high as if I was going to perform some kind of Pativrata Dharma for the prosperity and longevity of my Pati Parmeshwar. Yet I knew Dr. Joseph would never become like Saint Joseph; the husband of Virgin Mary. 

    And today; just a few hours back I became null and void. Yes, an independent woman according to Dr.Joseph.  

   My tear glands were almost drained but my heart was burdening like anything.

      I saw somebody walking into my half-shut bed room. That somebody had a small tag with her name and address on it.

   “Amma...”, I put my arms around my beloved mother; Sridevi. A genuine warmth of love and protection enclosed me. 

    “Amma.., you drank the evening tea?”, I asked Amma who sat stooped next to me on the bed. 

   “I..”, Amma looked so blank. She has been behaving in a strange way since the last five months. She would refuse to take bath and just would not promptly respond if someone asks something to her. Also she would forget that she had already taken the meals and would keep demanding over and over again. Above all she forgot her own daughter’s name let alone other kith and kin. 

   “Such short-term memory loss is common in human beings. But if it affects the independent functioning on a regular basis, it is of course a serious concern. We call it dementia. She is seventy plus and also at the verge of ....but, nothing to worry about”, responded Dr. Joseph when I alerted him Amma’s abnormal behaviour.

    There was absolutely nothing insensitive by how Dr. Joseph commented. He spat medical terminologies here and there. And that settled how he was.  

    Amma used to be the first person I went to in every crisis. The first person to whom I would share a secret or a problem. And that emotional bonding triggered me to bring Amma home after Appa’s demise. Dr. Joseph remarked that it would ruin our privacy but later for some unknown reason he consented.

    One day when I was busy talking over the phone overcast afternoon, Amma went out of our flat and reached the basement, totally lost and bewildered. Some security staff informed me and I fetched her back. The idea of giving her a tag with name and address on it mooted in Joseph’s head then. I did not oppose it since I did not want some mishap ever again.

     “Amar... Amar...”, cried Sridevi in that dark room clasping my hands.

     “Amar will come Amma..”, I told her poignantly.

     Ever since Amma was hammered down by the disease, she kept asking for Amar frequently. And I would cook up a tale and console her somehow. I got used to treat her like a baby and have learnt to cope with the harsh reality of watching Amma silently sliding away into a world of lost memories.

   “Amar... Amar.....”, cried Sridevi looking into my eyes and tightly holding my wrist. 

   I felt the same love and comfort being drifted from myself to Amma as that unforgettable Friday of 1992. As destiny would have it; unlike Amma, I just could not forget 21st February 1992. If I’m not wrong, that must be the only point of time my Appa found inappropriate to accompany me and Amma. 

   Every single event of 21st February 1992 dawned in my mind. I remember how my mother clutched my hands tightly and stepped out home on that evening without uttering a word to my father. We caught a bus and then an auto rickshaw. I could not recall the elegant and serene experience of the 4 hour long journey from the Granary of Kerala to the Cultural Capital of Kerala. However I always treasure the memories of the whole night at our destination: Guruvayoor. My grandmother had once told Guruvayoor is the Bhuloka Vaikunta. I looked all around. Garuda statue, Anapanthal, Deepastambam, adjacent shops and haste crowds welcomed us. 

    “Ammaa.. Why are we here?”, enquired five year old I while we were entering the temple.

   We sat infront of a podium. All male troupe of masked dancers clad in red, yellow and green costumes and head dresses appeared and began dancing. My mortal eyes were dazzling. All would have been greek and latin to me if that man who sat behind me had not narrated the Krishnattam Kathai to his tourist client; a foreign lady.The play performed there included the Avatharam and Swargarohanam of Lord Krishna according to that man. In fact, he also mentioned it seemed to be a vazhipadu for the birth of a child and the moksha of a departed soul. I failed to make out much.

    At the end of the play rightly after the benediction, someone announced the entire play was dedicated to the person named Amar. My eyes searched for Amar back and forth across the podium. 

   “Amma...Who would be Amar? Why is he not seen around?”, my curious eyes glowed.   

    Amma did not respond to my question but tears were welled up in her eyes.

     When going to Guruvayoor became an annual exercise, I vexed Amma so much that she couldn’t hide the identity of Amar no longer. And now, the day on which I became null and void, I could realize how precious Amar had been to Amma. Nobody would ever understand the strong bond between two ends of an umbilical cord. Nothing other than the name Amar was being remembered by Amma even at that spur of the moment when she was going to slowly slip away into the world of fading past.

     “One day I will also be at the deep regression into the past. For Amma, Amar would always be immortal so as my unborn child to me. Indeed, living corpses and blue sapphires they are!!!”

BUT

    

    The name Joseph pierced on Amulya’s wrist stared at her sharply giving an elusive expression of absence of choices.