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Cloud Nine

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Sr. Anne was taken by the horns by surprise. When she entered the class room at a cool and sunny December morning, the kids were agog in their prankish best. They greeted her in unison with gusto, just for the pleasure of hearing their sounds joining forces to create a racket. She smiled and sat at her table to begin a new academic week. She opened the drawer to pull out the books and crayons. There it was: a golden colored envelope addressed to her. It was addressed to Rev. Sr. Anne, Teacher, St. Augustine’s Lower Primary School. She examined the envelope with a kinky curiosity. The origin of the letter was unknown and it was deposited there probably by the writer himself. As a committed woman of religion and a bride of the Lord, bound by the three vows of chastity, obedience and poverty, she should hand over the suspicious material to the mother superior, without even opening it and deflowering it. But curiosity had the better of her and she opened it, leaving the ebullient kids to their own devices. It was a careless hand, obviously that of a specimen from the male species, caring little for the appearances. The forward slant of the letters indicated that the writer was an aggressive type, determined to get what he wanted.

‘Most Rev. Mother,’ the missive began and it straight went to her bosom. Nobody had ever called her mother; she had been sister always, now that she is thirty five.

‘I am an illegitimate birth, an orphan, somebody wanted by none, somebody having none. In plain language I am a bastard just like your Lord, just like Confucius, Queen Elizabeth First, Lord Ayyappa, Dr. Radhakrishnan and a galaxy of other enlightened beings of consequence. As an abandoned cur I lived in the underbelly of the world, feeding on darkness, celebrating my privations and eternally shut out from the brighter side of the world. The couple that bought me had groomed me to be a manual laborer, to help them for free for the rest of my life. So my education stopped after a few tempestuous years. I was tethered and apprenticed to the motor workshop they owned.

But you see, dear mother, the tree is in the seed. My parents must be of noble birth and I happened to be a philistine of intellectual disposition. I read books when I had time and taught myself. I burrowed into literature, science and philosophy like the fish taking to the waters. I found my happiness in my books even in the midst of appalling penury, starvation and hard work. My tyrannical foster father cum master and the shrew of a foster mother made sure that all my cherished avenues of happiness are shut out from me. They never knew that I had been sneaking my way to the municipal library to borrow books.

On one lonely sordid night, an idea struck me. In our parts, voltage deficiency during the peak hours is a debilitating hurdle to the people. I designed and fabricated a low cost step up transformer for the households. It happened to be an instant hit. It cost was a pittance and the service delivery was brilliant. By that time I was eighteen and was determined to wring my freedom from my so called parents who, with a malicious élan used to slap my bastardry on me most often than not. I took nothing when I made good of my escape except my intelligence and my fecund imagination. Shortly my product became a sensation throughout Idukki district, the most mountainous part of our state. I struck it rich, that too without any marketing blitzkrieg. Then I decided to diversify my product range. I introduced a voltage stabilizer that protected electronic gadgets from voltage spikes. That also invaded the local markets in style. I became an industrialist, I became established, my brand became known across the state and I could buy my way up the social rungs.

That is the obvious background, in the face of it. But I am peeved by a gnawing insecurity. I know my dear mother very well. I do not care who the hell fathered me. But my mother is dear to me. I have been searching for her though out my disowned life. But in my beautiful dreams, after tortuous days and tearful evenings, she used to come to me, my angelic mother. Her precious visage is etched deep in my soul. During my long travels across the country, I greedily searched her face in the multitudes, in the humdrum chaotic Indian cities, in the sadly poetic Indian villages where the farmers prime their lives with a primordial rhythm, in the ancient temples where the immense yesterdays breathe with us and walk with us, in the frescos and stone carvings of the central Indian caves and temples where female figurines excel in their curvaceous proportions. I had been to the hills, dells and exotic valleys flaunting myriad cultures- valleys where they add salt to tea in place of sugar, valleys where they hit the cloth with a stone instead of striking the cloth on a stone for washing, valleys where they clean themselves after defecation with pebbles instead of water or tissue paper.

One day, after long, long travails, I found my mother. My divine mother, who used to visit me in my bahis firmaları dreams and softly soothe my fatigue away, who used to kiss new hopes and aspirations into me and who used to heal my otherwise indelible internal wounds with her redeeming love. Then I decided to relocate to be near to her, to see her and worship her from a distance, unobtrusively, without ever barging into her hallowed solitude. I watch her with overflowing admiration when her nimble feet are seen blessing my roads, when her adored frame is seen moving its wonted way to the workplace and back. Blessed that I am now, I live and breathe in a world which is consecrated by her presence. I also survey the same landscape that she does; I also share the same air and water she survives on.

I know that I have no claim over her, she may not even be my biological mother. My pestilential presence might shatter her inner tranquility. She might even out-rightly disown me and snub me to nothingness. But kindly forgive me, my precious dear if I am overtly sacrilegious and perfidious, but you are the mother of my dreams, the queen of my dreams.’

The mysterious letter was un dated. Chronological sign posts seemed impertinent.

Sr. Anne found herself to have broken into cold sweat, her armpits were wet, her hands and feet were moist with spreading sweat. A cold but exciting chill swept past her. Of course she was not going to share the devastating epistolary bomb shell with anybody, not even with her dear roommate Sr. Ursula, leave alone the imperious mother superior.

Her internal wounds came alive again. They began to bleed. The chaste and demure sister has certain secrets that should go to the grave with her. When she was just fourteen, she was raped by a family friend. She was terrified and shattered by the breach of faith. He was her trusted uncle, he did it in a diabolic tsunami of inexorable carnal passion. She was a sweet curvaceous girl blooming fast into a mesmerizing feminine presence. After many nightmarish months, she realized that she was carrying. Being a diffident naiveté, flabbergasted by the changes in her adolescent body, Anne kept the secret to herself. She realized that she was unclean. The fruit of her sin was growing in her. She knew that her conservative church going parents would give her up. That will be the end of the world. She wanted to die with her past. Weeks heaped upon weeks and turned into months. One day her mother realized the change in her daughter.

An illegitimate birth in the family would shatter the reputation of family. They will become social pariahs. It will affect the future of her siblings too, nobody will ask them in marriage. Anne herself will become an unwanted commodity on the marriage market.

She was packed off to the distant place, till date she could not make out where it was. When the child was born, she was refused to even have a glance on it. She never knew whether it was a boy or girl. Her motherly instinct told her that it was a boy. Thereafter nothing was heard about the child. When she returned home, her father who was so dear to her, her refuge and tower of hope, emphatically and imperiously said that she should join a nunnery. The consequences will be disastrous if she cheats a future husband and he finds it out at a later stage. She had no choice. She had to do it to keep the dignity of the family intact. When her cloistered life meted out to her by a forced avocation dragged on, she was by and by alienating herself from her own family. In the years that followed she became a non entity in the family. A few months after her confirmation, she heard that her father had brutally murdered her aggressor and committed suicide. She did not go for the funeral, she melted away in the darkness of her cell and cursed herself.

But this anonymous epistler could be an imposter. Still it thrilled her. On many a still and rainy night, when the morose rains wept down the roof, she would gaze deep into the darkness and wonder what had happened to her child. Was somebody feeding him, caring for him and providing him his share of emotional security and safety? During Christmas, Easter and other feast days, when the nuns elaborate and have elaborate banquets, she would silently weep and wonder whether her child was starving somewhere, waiting expectantly for his mother to give him his share of good night kisses, cuddles, candies and pleasures.

She looked after the children in her class room as her own. When the thirty little kids in her class are affectionately cared for, God would hopefully recompense by caring for her sole child, the unfortunate child of an unfortunate mother.

Sr. Anne was thrilled, now she has somebody, a mysterious somebody. Even if he is not her son, it mattered little. There somebody out there, somebody who would care for her, who would share his life with her. She felt infernally defiant, against the society and against the congregation and its hypocrisy.

Next day, Tuesday, on her way to school, she furtively looked kaçak iddaa for faces that would register a secret recognition. Nothing happened. She secretly hoped that he was watching her from everywhere. She took the class for her dear child. On the way back also she looked for dear faces. Many walked past her, many greeted her, but he was not among them. She knew all the parishioners, none among them could be the one she was looking for.

That night she found another letter, this time right in her bag- a fresh one from the same hand.

‘My dearest mother, perhaps it is presumptuous of me to call you so, but please permit me, an unwanted creature alone in the world, to address you so, the paradox and irrationality thereof notwithstanding.

My days pull on thinking of you. I hope that on one epochal day I would stand in front of you and that you would recognize me across the ages. Thereafter my days will be different, my life will be different. There will be music in my moments and charm in my chores. I would stand on top of the world, I would touch the stars and tread on the beds of fragrant dreams.

May be in your home mission, you would call on my humble abode and recognize me. I shall stand before your beaming bonny form in trembling hope. You would read my soul and time will cease to be.’

Suddenly her eyes were wet. On Saturdays the sisters used to visit various houses in the parish. They used to listen to the hopes, aspirations and anxieties of the parents and children. They used to lure and goad the deviant and recalcitrant teenagers back to the ways of the church. Sr. Anne was sympathetic to the girls and children who were sexually abused. Many confided in her the silent and subterranean tragedies and traumas they were subjected to in a stiff, seemingly still conservative community. This time around she decided to visit non Christian families too.

One day during the home mission, she and her companion, Sr. Ursula noticed a new house not far from the school. Sisters are not permitted to visit houses alone. Sr. Anne said that she would go alone and find out who was living there. The house was a little way uphill from the main road. Sr. Anne and the novice companion acquiesced for no reason. Perhaps they were too tired to trudge up hill.

She walked up and expectantly opened the wicket gate. It was a small cute house newly built with taste. The house seemed to be deserted. She pressed the calling bell and waited for a response. There was movement inside. Suddenly the door was opened and a young man bowed low to her and touched her feet.

‘Come in mother, come in, I was watching you from the top floor. I am blessed that you have deigned to visit my humble abode,’ he said politely.

Suddenly it clicked- humble abode- it was he. They eyed each other. There was mutual blushing and recognition. She thought that he had a vague visage of her dear father. May be or may not be. But this youth, could he be her own? In her fantasies her child was a young boy, frozen in time, always a primary school child.

Few minutes later they knew that they were unceremoniously ogling each other, oblivious of the world around.

:Were you the one?” she asked.

‘Yes, forgive me. I have no right whatsoever?’

‘Who are you? You know that I cannot be your mother,’ she cringed inside.

‘I am Alex and reason tells me that you cannot be what I take you to be,’ said the young man with a soft beard aged around twenty said.

‘I can understand your spiritual crisis, I can be your spiritual mother and help you.’

‘Pray what is a spiritual mother?’

“Well, you can confide in her, you can seek her advice on spiritual matters and you can help those she recommends you to help with money.’

‘I have found my own spirituality and I am not ravaged by any spiritual crisis. And I do not believe in charity or charity work. There is only one enemy you have, yourself, you have only one friend — yourself. Charity and parity are the feverish dreams of a sick society.’

There will be no differences when all is said and done.

‘Life is more than living, more than striving, more than what is perceptible.

Love is the antidote for the ‘wither hurried hence and hither hurried whence’ anxiety syndrome,’ he said.

‘May be you are the son I long lost and you are the man I long sought.’

She was suddenly sorry, she had played it all wrong. She had tried the parsimonious stereotyped approach of the order.

She tried to absorb him from top to toe in her parched mind. Indeed he was handsome and charming. He did not belong to the working class, Syrian blood was evident. His lips were soft and thin and furious red. The light merry eyes were showering her with a warmth unknown to her. The evening sun streaked golden sparks in his wavy silken hair. His chest and arms were well developed, becoming of a hard worker. There was no excess fat in his well chiseled body. He stood towering in front of her with his 6’1” kaçak bahis frame.

Her companions were watching the rendezvous down on the road. She should not enter the house.

‘My dear son, I accept you as my own son though I cannot be your biological son. Here is my cell phone number and e mail id. I do not share them with many people. I share it with you. Write and talk to me and we may know each other more nearly, more clearly and more dearly.’

Back in the safety of her room, Sr. Anne realized that her feelings toward him were not entirely motherly. It was much more than that, it was a heady euphoria, a defiant recognition, a miraculous cure from devastating fear, an apocalypse infusing a lingering cheer. She longed to hold him, to bask in the corona of his loving gaze, to embrace him, to absorb him into her womb again. She felt her nipples twitching to feed him, to nurse him to expunge the accumulated curses from him.

As she expected he called her over the phone every night, his voice thrilled her to distraction. He promised that he would be on her side in all her needs. If she ever chose to leave the nunnery he would be there to commence s new life with her. But she could not take such a drastic step. Yet the prospect thrilled here to the core.

One day he borrowed the lines form Richard Marx and serenaded: ‘Wherever you go and whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you/whatever it takes or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.’ She smiled with tears. Her days became heady, her cells were bursting with ecstasy. If she chose to leave the convent, she had no explanations to give to anybody on earth. She was a free individual. Yet inertia pulled her back.

Another day he sang on the phone distorting a line from Dolly Parton, ‘If anybody makes you sad, I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls. But then of course a certain part of you always makes me remember and love Dolly Parton.’ She laughed softly for him even though she had no idea who Dolly Parton was.

Sometimes his emails became very poetic and touching to her. His poems would become poignant when she was not available on the phone.

‘Puling for your news, sulking for your views, pining for your cues

This long break is unbearable-

Love takes no holiday, one cannot put it in suspended animation, one cannot switch it on and off at will

If only I could fly to you, if only I could weave exquisite dreams into your solemn slumber

I wish I could watch you at least from a distance

I wish you would think of me at least in your silence

Days months years and even generations may heap up between us

You are shut into a cell whence there is no respite

I am shut into another without an escape chute

Still my memories gravitate to your dear self

You become the center of gravity of my being

Time flies, but time fails

Distances fail and the social strictures too

I remember the troubled patient and the solace

Life has a reason, suffering has a season

If your love laces my days

If your love traces my ways

If your love graces my maze

A Euripidian hero I cease to be.

You wander in the labyrinth of humanity

You frequent the halls and malls of Arabian Queen

You chase the fairies seen or unseen

Your phone says you crossed the range

You seek new frontiers, queer and strange

But at last, if you flutter and fly to settle on my wattles bare

You will see them blooming fair

And this gawky frame, a gaudy bough I’ll bear

Those very wattles, desiccated and brittle

Waiting in trembling hope, dear

For a finishing storm and flame-

I demand nothing and nothing I claim

If your smiles and ringing chime would bless my days and lingering nights

What more should I seek

An inky night drags on and tumbles into the closet of eternity

I sit here as a speck of pulsing hope

Yet I hope nothing and nothing surprises me

I revel on the pains and proudly flash the stains

Many more nocturnal thoughts, many more moments of internal tumult

You become a distant star, flashing your Doppler colors

I wander in the night and saunter into your light

And light and night I fight no more

Most affectionately alex.

Once she had to go to Cochin and was out of station and out of range for some time, in a desperate mood he wrote:

‘You were not there when I trustingly took the plunge

You were not there when I crossed the Rubicon’s fringe

You were not there when I serenaded at your lofty casement

You were not there when I turned a shadow in your basement

You were not there when I genuflected at your doorstep ajar

You were not there when I wailed against the hills afar

You were not there when I railed against the fluffy canopy of the trees

You were not there when I loitered in the spooky nooks to freeze

You were not there when I whispered at the portal of your soul

You were not there when I crashed against your unfeeling wall

You were not there when I tricklingly rained down your thatch eaves

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