(A Story)
By Ananda
(Rendered from Kannada by the Author)
I RECKON it is twenty days now,–yes, twenty. What
day is it today? Thursday. Yes, exactly twenty days. I have been seeing her for
the last twenty days. Not a day have I missed seeing her. How is she to look
at?…Ah! patience, please! I’ll tell you everything. Before I start properly
I’ve got to tell you this: that I am living-alone in this house or rather room,
in which I am at this moment sitting and talking to you. That is enough for the
present. Details of my living such as my food, lunch, clothes, occupation,
habits etc., are not necessary now or at any time. They are of no use to you, I
am sure. As for me, I am not in the least mindful of them; in fact, can’t
remember them at a pinch.
Now, about her. Who is she?…Really, I don’t know.
What’s her name…well, I am hanged if I knew that either. How is she to look
at?…Not so easy to answer this question. I cannot briefly finish off by
declaring that she is like this or that or something else. Moreover, my tongue
recoils a bit at the prospect of describing a woman, when I remember the rather
severe yet just admonition administered by my Master Sreenivasa,1 in
one of his stories, to the poets who, transgressing the limits of decency and respect
to womanhood, dare indulge freely in the detailed anatomical description of the
female than the woman, with a gusto that is improper. But fortunately for me my
Master’s admonition is directed towards (mark my word) the erring poets; and
(thank God!) I am not a poet! Under cover of this exception, I will muster
courage and proceed.
How am I to describe her face? That is the question
and problem at once, worrying me. If you can grasp it in a word let me tell you
that she is a beauty. “What kind of beauty”–you ask me, don’t you? Oh! there I
can’t help you much: Her face is certainly not like the full
moon. It is very much alive, warm, and extremely pleasing to
contemplate. Nor is the hypnotizing beauty of her eyes stolen from the lotus
petals. They (her eyes) are more eloquent. The half-opened champaka blossom, in
spite of its tender loveliness, is no match for her well-balanced, well-poised,
chiseled nose. The beauty of her luscious, inviting lips is not at all a dowry
from the tonde2 fruit of our classical poets. “Then, how else
could it be?”– You may ask in dismay and despair. You know, my friends, a
thousand descriptions cannot out-weigh what the discerning one can grasp in a
intense look.
As I have already stated, having seen her for some
days now, the one thing that, at a moment’s recollection, defines itself
clearly and vividly in my mind is her face and face alone. The rest is all
darkness. In that darkness, only her face shines like a tiny, steady flame of
mellow brilliance. Immediately, I (‘I’ may mean my heart-mind-soul or whatever
you may think it is!) become a moth. If you want to experience fully the
enchanting beauty of my damsel, I am afraid you too will have to become a moth
like me. Is it possible for you?...No?...Let go,–don’t worry!...Hearing me
talking this, you may say to yourselves”– What madness!” You are welcome to say
to yourselves what you like. It matters little to me. I will not be in the
least hurt by it,–be assured. Because, if you perchance think that I am mad,
you would not be far wrong. In fact, you will be right, almost! Let me confess
at once the real state of affairs. I become a little (why ‘little’?–completely,
I should say) mad whenever I actually see, or recollect her face. This madness,
however, is to this day obedient to me in a way,–coming and going at my
command. But how long cans this obedience last? I can’t predict at what
inconvenient moment it will become unruly and disgrace me. I am only praying to
God that He may keep that unhappy moment far off or at least spare me from the
disgrace.
Whenever our glances have met, I have felt myself
to be tiny iron particle in the vicinity of a large magnet. During those brief
ecstatic moments, I have felt that my physical body has melted and evaporated
away,–only my eyes remaining intact by some magic. And gradually, in the orbit
of the hypnotising glow of her eyes, the very consciousness of my ‘self’ has
dimmed and vanished.
Often during these twenty days, have I exclaimed to
myself, “Ah! were I a painter!” And the very next moment I have wondered
whether I am not one really–essentially. That face of hers, that smile and
those eyes,–I am sure they will remain deeply imprinted on my mind till the
last conscious moment of my earthly existence. By the least effort at recollection,
I can, on my mental canvas, picture each little detail–every line and colour of
that celestial face. Am I not a painter, then? Perhaps not,–with brush and
colours, on paper or canvas. But what of that? What colour is there, or what
line or form, that my mind cannot assume or draw?...Ah! I see you are yawning!
Are you bored?…No?…Thank you.
Twenty days are over by yesterday. Today is the
twenty-first day since I saw her first. As usual, today also I saw her. Till
now it has been only ‘seeing’ her. Time and again since I first saw her, a
violent irrepressible desire to speak with her–to fill my ears with the music
‘of her smile-soaked voice has been surging in me like the furious waves of the
turbulent ocean at full moon, beating the shore. But how is my desire to be
fulfilled? What trick can achieve if for me? As you may rightly guess I am ever
ready to speak with her. But she?–Would she speak? No! Not at all! I guess I
have become a maniac, so far as she is concerned at any rate. How then can she
speak with me? Is it possible that she has so far failed to detect the maniac
in me–in my eyes–threatening to transgress any moment the bounds of social
decorum as between a gentleman and a lady? Impossible! My very bones and marrow
have felt her searching, steady gaze. That being so, how can she ever
speak with me? Yet, in a way, I have spoken to her at all these days–silently,
with my eyes. Has she heard my voiceless words? Has my gaze, groaning under the
weight of desire, touched her heart? Has she realised that I am a moth, gone
stark mad over her glowing face of matchless beauty?
Yes, I have firmly resolved that I must somehow or
other speak with her. Whether she would respond or not is immaterial to me. I
must make her hear me out. Well, I’m just thinking how I should begin. Perhaps
start with asking her name–place and, then–What? God knows! Anyway, I am sure
in my own mind that once I get started with my talk it will somehow continue
happily ever afterwards!
This is the twenty-second day. Today, early in the
day, I had determined to speak with her, and to that end I had steeled my mind.
But when I met her later–I am sorry to say it–my timid tongue beat an
ignominious retreat! “Today also, my dear friend, you please do my
work,–somehow I am not feeling well and equal to the task”–pleaded my tongue
with my eyes. I had never dreamt that my dear tongue would let me down in this
treacherous fashion in the presence of a woman–whom I had been seeing for the
last twenty-one days! I was pondering over this shameful deception and a sort
of dimness seemed to envelop me. At this moment the Postman came and delivered
a letter–an envelope–and went away. I glanced at the handwriting. It was
Saroo’s letter. I felt something funny–er–no–something
queer-nasty–no–no–no–perhaps a sense of guilt in my poor confused fluttering
heart. Can’t you just grasp what that feeling is exactly?–No?–, Well then, when
you get an opportunity, do as follows (yes, if you are in the matrimonial trap,
or when you get into it! In reply to the series of eight–or ten-page letters of
alternating dates written to you, while you are away, by that august personage
whose hand you grasped or who grasped your hand (as you please!) in solemn
wedlock, you send a tasteless,–colourless–odourless–brief reply, carelessly
scribbled on a half-page once in twenty days or a month. Then, a letter–a
weighty one–will arrive from her. You see it–open it–and read it. Then, and
then alone,–I bet my last copper–you will be acquainted with the exact feelings
in my heart when I saw Saroo’s letter.
When I received Saroo’s letter, for the moment I
forgot everything and started seriously thinking about the diplomatic terms of
my reply to my Saroo. In the course of the last twenty days I had five–no, six
letters from her. This was the seventh. Each succeeding one was bigger than its
predecessor, and today’s was the climax! Very powerful by all counts! All
pepper and no salt! I faintly remember having written, a day or two before I
met my damsel for the first time, a short–ordinary, icy, insipid letter. Since
then six of her letters have arrived and remained unanswered. And today the
seventh had arrived with the fire and fury of the previous six! Dear me! I am
really at my wits’ end, not knowing what answer to send to Saroo in reply to her
latest. What explanation can I give?–What pretext would cover the situation? If
the letter is any indication, verily she must be shaking with rage! How am I to
bring it under control from this distance? Shall I concoct some lame excuse? Or
shall I give the true reason–and face the music? True reason, indeed!–What
happens? W-h-a-t h-a-p-p-e-n-s! It would be like inviting the whirlwind! In all
humility I may have to catch hold of the feet of the person whose hand I had
the proud honour to grasp on a pleasanter occasion! This is certain. My madness
over the face of a woman!–that is the true reason! Can she–my Saroo–understand
this madness of mine and tolerate it? What fond hopes! Women are strange,
complex creatures. I am sure many of you (men of course) share this opinion
with me. Some knotty complicated things of life they take in with the ease of
drinking water. On the other hand, some of the simplest facts are beyond the
comprehension of their mysterious brains. The fact of madness is quite simple
and falls under the second category. I know for certain that Saroo cannot
understand this; moreover, she will not even care to attempt to understand it.
This mad infatuation of mine will never meet with her approval. Let alone
approving, she will not countenance it for half a second. Perhaps some of you
will ask me whether I approve of this myself. This presupposes that I have
decided one way or the other about the propriety of my action. No, I have not.
How can I say whether it is right or wrong? If once it appears wrong, a hundred
times it seems right and very natural. So far as I am consciously aware, the
thought of having her, or making her, my own, has never crossed my mind. I have
all along believed that my infatuation is confined to my eyes,–a desire simply
to look at her, that’s all. Is this wrong? If the mind is persuaded that way,
it may appear wrong. On the other hand, if it is persuaded in the opposite way,
it will seem quite right. Till now, all the effort in me–I think–has been to
make my action appear right. I do not know whether the seat of this phenomenon
is the brain, or heart, or liver, or spleen. Moral dicta are of our own
making–yet a long long way from perfection. On the other hand, we are of God’s
making! Hence there are two sets of laws of living, governing us, one set made
by ourselves with all its short-comings, and the other laid down by God–when He
made us. And so, the eternal conflict that is seen around every day, every
minute.
Really, I have not been able to understand my own
mind regarding my madness over her. Could it be just fleeting,–coming and
staying for a while and then vanishing altogether? Or is it the stream of love
that has sprung in the depth of my heart and flowing out to her? Honestly, dear
friends, I am unable to decide which it is. Often it has appeared to be just a
sort of ocular infatuation to maddening distraction. Did I speak of love?–I
mean the possibility of my being in love with her? Oh! –I don’t know, really!
Even if it is so, I am not aware of it till this day–this moment. It may be!–it
may not be! But of madness I’ve no doubt of any sort. Usually the victims of
this malady are not conscious of it. They are like the unsteady drunkard who
thinks the earth under his feet has gone crazy. But the madness which has tenanted
me is of a rare and peculiar variety–I dare say! Having entered my being in a
surreptitious way, and by degrees pervaded my body and soul, it has made me
conscious of its existence! Oh God! When am I to be free from its fiendish
stranglehold? What is the way out?–Ah! I know,–I know! The day I set my eyes on
her this madness got me. It is she who is the cause of all this trouble to me.
It is only she that can liberate me from this agonising madness. Really
speaking, her enigmatic smile, eternally tantalizing, and her mystifying yet
eloquent silence,–these have nurtured my madness day by day–hour by hour. If
she would only speak with me just one word, any day–hour–or minute– or second,
at that very moment, by that one word, I am sure, this twenty-days old madness
in me will be clean washed away without any trace of it left. The cure is in a
word from those lips of hers. Oh, merciful God! Make her utter that balmy word!
The fiend in me is breaking all shackles. I must speak with her and be done
with it before it is too late. Otherwise–otherwise, the Motherland (Oh!
Motherland be..!) my Saroo, at any rate, will lose me! I am certain–quite
certain. These were the thoughts that crowded into my unhappy brain when I
received and read Saroo’s letter. How can I write all these things to her who
is human–all too human, and yet expect to live with her happily ever
afterwards, as the prince and princess in the fairy tale? But I can’t keep
quiet either, and allow the situation to resolve itself. It is a miracle that
can’t happen. And further, it seems to be dangerous if Saroo’s latest letter is
any index. Anyway I must reply today–and resolve to do so–come what may!–Of
course not having, as yet, any idea of the contents of my reply! This time my
reply has got to be a fairly long one. How shall I begin it? –develop it?–end
it?–this funny letter? I couldn’t see my way though I set thinking furiously
about it. Whenever I get lost in the intricacies of knotty and profound
problems–such as the present one undoubtedly is–I am in the habit of resorting
to all old trick. It is to half-shut the eyes, and through the semi-open lids
to gaze steadily at the tip of my own rather blunt nose. This helps
concentration to a remarkable degree, as any of our pious grandpapas would
testify. After a while at this trick, consciousness slowly but surely gets into
reverse gear. Immediately, any problem, however difficult of solution, becomes
easy like swallowing the ready-peeled banana. The required solution would be
found literally perched on the tip of the nose!–no need to go far! I played
this trick on myself, on this occasion when my very sanity (for what it is
worth) was in grave danger. Gradually all my senses turned inwards. Haven’t you
heard the great stage-actor Varadacharya in the role of Manmatha3
singing of the cosmic grandeur of Siva of the Himalayas in meditation, in that
classic play Victory of Manmatha? Well, well, I must have very nearly
approached that thrilling description of the great Siva, while meditating over
my own problem. “How shall I begin?–What shall I write?”–these were the
‘seed-words’ of my penance.
I do not know what time I spent in this state.
Perhaps an hour–perhaps ten minutes. Yet I had not found the true end of the
tangle. There I was caught up in the thick of the tangle, wandering
aimlessly–with those pitiable words on my lips. From the labyrinth of the
tangle in which I was struggling, “Who is that?” I shouted to my half-opened
eyes.
“It is she!”–they replied.
“Who?”
“She–the cause of all your mad–”
“Ha!”
“Yes, it is she.”
I jumped up as though electrified. I threw my
penance to the four winds and opened my eyes wide. Yes, it was she! She herself
in person!” What luck! What good fortune! For a brief moment, I couldn’t
believe her presence. Was this a dream? Have I been dreaming? No! no! if this is a dream, my seeing her for
the last twenty days is also a dream!...No, it can’t be! never could be!...How
did she come?...Here!…so near!….What boldness, what temerity in her to-day–that
was absent for the last twenty days!…Well, well, whatever it may be, why ponder
over it and waste precious time now? Till this day, this moment, I hadn’t half
a chance to speak to her. Today she is in my room, in my immediate presence, so
near that I can gather her by merely stretching my arms. “I must not let go
this opportunity,” I told myself with some determination. I spurred myself and
resolved to fulfil, this happy day, my twenty-days-old, all-consuming desire.
But, oh, God! how near she was standing! By the embarrassing proximity of the
damsel, all my determination was humbled to dust. I tried to get up; it was
impossible. I was feeling myself pressed hard to the chair by the steady, cold,
yet enigmatic gaze of the enchantress. I tried to speak, with no success. I
could not make even an incoherent sound, let alone uttering a word! My tongue
was like the cobra closing its hood and coiling up at the sight of the Garuda mani.4
I strained myself to blurt out but one word, hoping that after the first word
things would become easy. But nothing doing! My tongue could not lisp even a
syllable. I began to wonder whether I had a tongue in my mouth at all! It was a
case of “the snake not dying nor the stick breaking”–as the saying goes. My
tongue would not move, and I wouldn’t leave it in peace. I started spurring on
and inciting my poor tongue to action, evil as Lord Krishna did to unwilling
Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra. That poor little piece of anatomy in
my make-up, more accustomed and responsive to dainty dishes than to daring
damsels, after a lot of coaxing, jeering, incitement and what not, over what
seemed hours, yielded with the slavish timidity of the subordinate official,
and just managed to blabber,–” A–A–After all, you’ve c-c-come, have you?” Oh!
What a victory!
“Yes! Can’t you see?”
She too spoke! What a resonant voice? “Yes–can’t
you see?” Indeed, I could see. Had I an atom of doubt that this might after all
be a dream, it was laid low completely by her musical voice. No! no! this
cannot be a dream by any stretch of imagination. How could it be? A mere
stretch of my hand, and I can–no! no! The eye alone may be deceived, the ear
alone may be deceived. But, together? Impossible! If the eye doubted, the ear
would say, “I heard her; can’t you see?” “Can’t–you–see!” Indeed!
“Yes, yes, I could see–you’ve come”–I said and
tried to glance this way and that, if only to escape her most disturbing gaze.
But I failed–failed miserably! What helplessness–what humiliation–and in the
presence of an unknown young woman–U-n-k-n-o-w-n!, did I say? Is she? How could
it be? During these twenty days I seem to have known her for twenty years.
“Unknown! no, no, not at all,” I said to myself.
“Not at all!” she replied.
It was an echo–echo of my own voice in the
innermost recess of my quickened heart.
“Not at all’–What?” I asked in bewilderment
“–Unknown,” she answered back in a cool decisive
tone, all the while fixing her moonbeam gaze on me and with a most
mischievously provocative smile on her dainty lips.
“What a magician must she be?” I thought–to hear
and echo what I uttered so silently in the inmost secret recess of my heart, I
thought she was about to laugh at my puzzled look; she didn’t. Only her smile
continued. What a smile!…What a voice!...And those eyes! If ever there was an enchantress,
this was she.
“How did you–”
Before I could finish, she butted in: —
“You can’t hide anything from me.”
Really, this was too much; to get an answer even
before the question was complete! “Can’t hide anything”–I repeated her words
mentally.
“Those eyes of yours can’t hide any thing,”–she
remarked again.
At the moment I heard these words, I tried to cover
my tell-tale eyes with my hands. But I could hardly raise my hands; nor could I
even dose my lids. What weakness was mine in the presence of this Abala5,
I was wondering. A secret that had not even crossed my throat–was not my own!
This was a most disturbing and distressing thought beyond words. I made another
attempt to get up, with no better success. Under the hypnotic gaze of this
unearthly charmer, I was immovable like a log. Had she but rolled her
bewitching eyes this way or that away from me for a split second, I would have
jumped up. She, who knew so much, must have known that her eyes were acting
like a pair of steel bayonets on me. So she dare not relax her ocular hold on
me. However, it was obvious that she had come into my room intent on talking to
me. For, she had not paralysed my tongue also. Rather fair, isn’t it on the
part of the Fair?
“Wa–what brought you–” I started, after a time.
“Didn’t you desire my–” she butted in, and stopped
abruptly, with just a flicker in her cold smile.
“I?–I?”–I managed to utter with a puzzled look on
my face. How uncanny was this magician’s prying power–I thought.
“Yes, you!–your heart–your eyes! don’t you
understand?” she snapped back.
“Me ?–my hea-rt?”
“Of course!–for the last twenty days!”
“For–the–last–twen–ty day–s!”
“Surely, tell me, is it false?”
False!–Indeed how could it be false? But
how?–really, how on earth was the silent desire in the depth of my heart known
to this tantalizing trickster? The thought was agonising.
“It is not false, oh, fair one! But how did you–”
Hardly had I finished my question when she
answered: –
“Oh, it is all a trick with us!”–with dignified
poise.
Oh! Lord, I thought, a trickster indeed! For a
moment, I was dumbfounded. A brief pause ensued. Then I managed to start the
conversation again and said:
“Well, whatever the reason, after all, you’ve
come!”
“Are you pleased, my man?” “My man!”–and what a question!
“Are you not a woman?”–I countered with a smile.
“Yes, but your Saroo–is she also not a woman?”
My Saroo! Saroo!! And what a question!
“How did you know my Sa–?”
“Is it not her letter?”
Saroo’s letter was still in my hands. When she
mentioned it, I felt like crumpling it and throwing it away. But I couldn’t
translate my feelings into action. I was helpless, utterly, wretched1y
helpless. What a shame! Only, I could just wag my poor tongue.
“What would you write in reply?”–she asked with a
challenging twinkle in her eyes.
“Really, since you know so much about me,–tell
me–what shall I reply–”
“Is that so ?” Then write, “I’ve found one more
beautiful–more charming than you!
“Ah! How could that be!”
“If it weren’t so, would you have been what you
are?”
“What am I?”
“A mad moth!”
Mad mo–th! So there was nothing in me that I could
hide from this–“–cold flame”–she completed my mental sentence–with a decisive
tone. “Yes, yes, no doubt you are a cold flame,” I shouted with some emphasis.
“Are you sure?” she asked, rating her lovely brows, and tilting her head a bit.
“Quite”–I
replied promptly.
“Can you–would you–swear by Saroo–your Saroo?”
Would I swear by Saroo–my Saroo! What a branding
singeing question! What a challenge! I confess (meekly if you want) that 1 was
not at all prepared to take up the gauntlet thrown at my face so audaciously by
my fair and daring visitor. “Swear by Saroo!–my Saroo!!” Huh! What is this, and
what is my Saroo! Oh! dash it! What am I to say?…While I was struggling in my
own mind thus, she threw at me another question–sharp as ever:
“Then, is it proper?–what you’ve been doing?” she
asked in a serious tone.
“What am I doing–that’s improper?”–I snapped with
some warmth.
“Being false to your Saroo; deceiving her who
accepted your hand in sacred–”
“Where is the deceit?” I cried aloud
impatiently–without waiting for her to complete the sentence.
“What else is this? You can’t hide a bit from
me!…Be honest and speak out–you desire me–don’t you?”
This too direct a question cut me to the quick and
staggered me for a moment or two. I regained my poise as much as I could, and
replied:
“Oh ! just to speak with you–that’s all.”
“Is that all? Is–that–all?”
“Yes, that’s all–so far as I can say.”
“Nothing more behind it?”
“If there is anything more, surely you ought to
know!” I replied evasively.
“Oh! yes, I knew it all right!”
“Then, what is it?–tell me.”
“You desire to want me–to possess me–to put it in a
more primitive way.”
Her unfaltering, decisive remark was surgical in
effect, and I literally squirmed under its slash. She held me at bay, with my
back to the wall–so to say. Further wordy fencing seemed futile under the
circumstances. So I said, in a way accepting her diagnosis: –
“Who that has set his eyes on you even for a
moment, can repress such a desire?”
“Those who are civilised and sensible.”
“Oh! civilization be blowed! What amount of sense
can withstand those eyes and that smile of yours?”
“It is all in your imagination–gone stroke mad!
What you are doing is senseless and very improper–let me tell you”–said she,
trying to be very dignified. My very sanity was in question and I was truly
hurt.
“But, you do not seem to be any more sensible or
proper than I!” I remarked with some fight in my tone.
“What do you mean?” she asked, taken aback by my
remark.
“Knowing so much about me and my madness, you’ve
come near me–why?”
“Oh! to teach you a lesson! There is nothing
improper in teaching lessons!” she said cheekily.
“To teach me a le–sson! did you say? How dare you?”
I questioned her with some temper.
“Where is the daring?” she asked unperturbed and
cool as a cucumber, with a most provocative smile on her lips and challenge in
her eyes.
“Here I am–a man all alone and mad after you–stark
mad if you please, yet knowingly you’ve walked into my den! Isn’t it a feat of
daring on your part?”
“Don’t be so confident! You cannot do any harm to
me–can’t even touch me!”
“What?–you–so near–and I can’t even touch you,
can’t I? This moment I can–”
“Ho! Ho! don’t be childish! It isn’t so easy as all
that,” she said before I could finish what I want to say.'”
“If this is not easy, what else is, on this earth,
I wonder!”
“Oh! heavens! How mad you are!”
“I accept but you are the cause of it.”
“I will cure you of it.”
“Sooner would I die than get cured of this–it is so
delicious!”
“The forbidden seems to be so; but it is
deceptive.”
“What is forbidden? and who is there to forbid me?”
“I am forbidden to you, and I forbid you!”
“You are not, and you can’t! Are you fooling me?”
“Certainly not–I am off!”
“ Where to?”
“To your Saroo!”
“To my Saroo?–What for?”
“To teach her to teach you the lesson of your life,
and, incidentally cure you of your madness once for all. I am off!”
“Don’t–don’t! It would be cruel betrayal! Don’t go!
You can’t go from here! “I cried half imploringly and half threateningly.
“I must go, and I will go! Nothing can stop me from
getting away!”
“I will stop you! Can you escape from my grip!”
“You can’t stop me for a second! Escaping?–that is
if at all I am caught!–Fool!–look–i am off !”
Thus saying, she retreated a couple of steps,
gazing at me steadily all the while. I realised only too well that she would
slip out in a moment–never to come near me again. My heart was splitting with
agony, despair, and an overpowering feeling of defeat. I swore within myself
that I would not let go this supreme moment which, I was sure, would never come
my way again in my life. No. Never!–I must get up and get her! I got up, with
Herculean effort. As I got up she retreated a step or two. With open tingling
arms–breathing fast and hot,–and burning eyes, I started–slowly, yet
deliberately taking my steps towards her. For every forward step of mine, she
seemed to take two backwards. I could delay no more. All the mad infatuation,
suppressed during the last twenty days, seemed to burst out in a flashing,
thundering fury. Gazing at her with wide open eyes, with one long leap, I shot
out my arms at her. She was more agile than I imagined; for at the same moment she
too—with the same suddenness–leapt upwards, and got snugly and safely into the
frame on the wall opposite!
My impetuous leap had landed my sweating forehead
on the wall–with a thud!
There I was, standing (perhaps looking foolish!),
rubbing my bruised forehead and gazing at the devastating portrait of some
unknown damsel, which I had acquired about twenty days ago from a dealer of
paintings and works of art.
One word more! Please do not laugh. I am not sure
whether I am free from–from–well–madness–if you please.
1 Pen–name of Sro Masti
Venkatesa Iyengar.
2 Same as the sanskrit
‘Bimba’ or the Telugu ‘Donda’.
3 Cupid of the Hindu
mythology.
4 A charmed stone
having the power of Garuda, the sacred kite of Hindu mythology–a born foe of
serpents.
5 Sanskrit synonym for
woman, meaning ‘the weak.’