3.

Human Relations

A. Reading

The Journey
After spending a leisurely Sunday at home, the very thought of returning to
work on Monday is tiring. Lethargy creeps in if the holiday continues over an
extended period. That is how I felt when I was preparing to return to my place
of work after spending six months at home. The fact that I was to leave behind
my newly-wed wife and go to a far-off place did not help either. Obviously I did
not want to go.

However, I finally did decide to go. I did not have much to carry by way of
luggage - just a trunk. Ours is a hilly terrain, without any motorable roads -
and there is no certainty that we are ever going to have any roads. In any case,
while coming home we do not carry bedding. Besides, I had come home this
time round for a special purpose: to get married. My parents had arranged my
marriage, according to the customs of our tribal society. Time flew, and five
months into my marriage I realized it. Initially I thought of extending my leave -
even taking unpaid leave. But after some dilly-dallying, I finally decided against
it because marriage had increased my responsibilities and I had got into debt.

On my way home from the bus stop, my trunk had been carried by a porter.
The problem now was we couldn't find anyone who could help me carry the
trunk to the bus stop. At another time of the year, we would have easily found
someone to help me, but now most of the villagers were busy in the fields.
Nobody had time to spare for me. In fact, carrying the trunk should not have
been such a worry for me except that my education had made me shun
physical labour. After all, I was a government officer and the idea of people
seeing me carry my own luggage was not at all amusing. Otherwise, for a young
man like me it should not have been an issue to carry a 20-kilo chest on my
back.

Finally, my father came up with a solution. 'Don't worry. I myself will see you
off at Dirang.'

I protested. How could I allow my old father to carry my trunk? What would
people think? What would they say? But I failed to dissuade him. It was
decided that father would carry the chest.

A large crowd gathered at our place the day I was to leave. People had come to
wish me luck. It was 10.20 when I left for Dirang. My father had already left. As
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I had to do a bit of catching up, I walked fast. Three kilometres down the road,
I caught up with my father. Father said, 'You are late. Would you like to rest
for some time?'

Having walked fast I was tired. Moreover, I had to cross two hills on the way up
to the spot. I quickly sat down on a rock. My father laughed at my plight.

'So this little distance has tired you? Rest for a while. But we have to be in time
for the bus.'

Father was quiet for some time. He thoughtfully looked at the sun for a
moment, and then his eyes fell on the can of home-made wine that I was
carrying. Wetting his lips with his tongue he said in a matter-of-fact manner, 'I
am thirsty'.

I gave him the can of wine. He poured himself a mug and handed me the can.
He drank all of it at one go. He then arranged the belt that was attached to the
trunk carefully on his forehead. So, this was the picture: my father carrying my
luggage on his back and me following him with a tiny bag in my hand. We were
walking up a narrow hilly road, and neither of us uttered a word as if we were
strangers who spoke different languages. I did not know what was going on in
his mind. From time to time it crossed my mind that it was improper for me to
let father carry the luggage. I wanted to tell him that I would like to carry the
trunk myself, but my guilt and shame did not allow me to do so. This self-
consciousness had probably to do with my education, the white-collar job that
I had, or quite simply my pride. Somehow, I had the feeling that if I carried the
luggage, my father and my people, in fact the whole world would laugh at me
and I would be belittled.

Father had provided for my education, and I had been able to realize his
dreams. My parents were truly proud of me. It was through me that they had
earned a greater degree of admiration and respect from the villagers. My father
would not like to see me carrying a trunk on my back and would be very hurt if
I did so. I concluded that it would be better to let him carry it. Father was used
to carrying luggage anyway. He was stronger and more skilled than I in these
matters. I had never got used to physical labour having stayed in hostels right
from my childhood. So, in spite of my youth and strength, I was physically
useless. I continued walking silently with father. We rested at two places on the
way and had our tiffin but we hardly talked. Finally, we reached Dirang. The
bus from Tawang had not yet reached Dirang and so we had some time in
hand. We entered a tea shop and sat facing each other. Father appeared tired. I
felt sorry for him but couldn't bring myself to say anything. I asked the waiter
to get us two cups of tea. Just as I was going to take my first sip, I heard
father's voice, 'Do you have a pair of old shoes?'
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'Why? I asked.

'The road is uneven and full of pebbles. It hurts while walking.'

I looked at father's bare feet. Never having worn shoes, his feet had developed
cracks and somehow resembled those of an elephant. I noticed this for the first
time. I hadn't noticed that the road was uneven. I didn't have to since I was
wearing a pair of hunting boots. I checked my wallet and saw I still had around
Rs.40 with me. A pair of canvas shoes would cost around Rs.12 and the
remaining amount would be enough for me to get to Bomdila.

My father protested. 'Give me an old pair. You don't have to spend money on
new shoes.' I couldn't convince him to buy a new pair. Reluctantly I gave him
the hunting boots I was wearing. I then took out my pair of leather shoes from
the trunk, and noticed my father's face lighting up with contentment. Suddenly
he looked at me and said, 'Take care. Write to us...'

Father wanted to say something but the bus started moving. I saw my father
gradually receding into the distance. I saw that the road we had come by
looked like a giant motionless rope. Father would use the same road to go back
home. Simultaneously our journeys started in two opposite directions, with me
seated in the luxurious seat of a bus and father walking back with weary legs
on the pebble-strewn road.

B Reading
Once upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and laugh with their eyes:

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

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There was a time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts:

but that's gone, son.

Now they shake hands without hearts:

while their left hands search

my empty pockets.

'Feel at home'! 'Come again':

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice -

for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses - home face,

office face, street face, host face,

cocktail face, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say, 'Goodbye',

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when I mean 'Good-riddance';

to say ' Glad to meet you',

without being glad; and to say 'It's been

nice talking to you', after being bored.

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake's bare fangs !

So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

C. Reading
What Is My Name?
Have you noticed how your father calls your mother? Does he use her name or
not? How do the neighbours address her? Does anyone address her by name?
What about your grandmother? In this story, P. Sathyavathi describes how a
woman forgets her own name since no one addresses her by name. How does a
woman gain her identity— by name, by marriage, by motherhood, by

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education, by profession or by anything else? Read the story keeping these
questions in mind.

A young woman, before being a housewife. A woman, educated and cultured,

and intelligent, and capable, quick-witted, with a sense of humour and
elegance.

Falling for her beauty and intelligence, as also the dowry which her father
offered, a young man tied the three sacred knots around her neck, made her
the housewife to a household and said to her, 'Look, ammadu, this is your
home.' Then the housewife immediately pulled the end of her sari and tucked it
in at the waist and swabbed the entire house and decorated the floor with
muggulu designs. The young man promptly praised her work. 'You are
dexterous at swabbing the floor — even more dexterous in drawing the
muggulu. Sabash, keep it up.' He said it in English, giving her a pat on the
shoulder in appreciation. Overjoyed, the housewife began living with swabbing
as the chief mission in her life. She scrubbed the house spotlessly clean at all
times and beautifully decorated it with multi-coloured designs. That's how her
life went on, with a sumptuous and ceaseless supply of swabbing cloths and
muggu baskets.

But one day while scrubbing the floor, the housewife suddenly asked herself,
'What is my name?' The query shook her up. Leaving the mopping cloth and
the muggu basket there itself, she stood near the window scratching her head,
lost in thoughts. 'What is my name — what is my name?' The house across the
road carried a name-board, Mrs M Suhasini, M.A., Ph.D., Principal, 'X' College.
Yes, she too had a name as her neighbour did — 'How could I forget like that?
In my scrubbing zeal I have forgotten my name — what shall I do now?' The
housewife was perturbed. Her mind became totally restless. Somehow she
finished her daubing for the day.

Meanwhile, the maidservant arrived. Hoping at least she would remember, the
housewife asked her, 'Look, ammayi, do you know my name?'

'What is it, amma?' said the girl. 'What do we have to do with names of
mistresses?' You are only a mistress to us — the mistress of such and such a
white-storeyed house, ground floor means you.'

'Yes, true, of course, how can you know, poor thing?' thought the housewife.

The children came home from school for lunch in the afternoon. 'At least the
children might remember my name' — the housewife hoped.

'Look here, children, do you know my name?' she asked.

They were taken aback.

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'You are amma — your name is amma only — ever since we were born we have
known only this, the letters that come are only in father's name — because
everyone calls him by his name we know his name — you never told us your
name — you don't even get letters addressed to your name,' the children said
plainly. 'Yes, who will write letters to me?' Father and mother are there but
they only make phone calls once in a month or two. Even my sisters are
immersed with swabbing their houses. Even if they met me in some marriage
or kumkum ceremony, they chatted away their time talking about new muggulu
or new dishes to cook, but no letters!' The housewife was disappointed and
grew more restless — the urge to know her own name somehow or the other
grew stronger in her.

Now a neighbour came to invite her to a kumkum ceremony. The housewife

asked her neighbour hoping she at least would remember her name. Giggling,
the lady said, 'Somehow or other I haven't asked your name nor have you told
me. Right -hand side, white storeyed - house or there she is, that
pharmaceutical company manager's wife, if not that, that fair and tall lady,
that's how we refer to you, that's all.' That's all that the other housewife could
say.

It's no use. What can even my children's friends say — they know me only as
Kamala's mother or some aunty, now my respected husband — is the only
hope — if anyone remembers it, it is only he.

During the night meal, she asked him, 'Look here, I have forgotten my name —
if you remember it, will you please tell me?'

The respected husband burst out laughing and said, 'What is it, dear, never
has it happened before, you are talking about your name today. Ever since we
were married I have got used to calling you only as yemoi. You too never told
me not to address you that way because you have a name of your own —
what's happened now — Everyone calls you Mrs Murthy, don't they?'

'Not Mrs Murthy, I want my own name — what shall I do now?' she said in
anguish.

'What's there, you choose a new name, some name or other,' the husband
advised.

'Very nice — your name is Satyanarayana Murthy; will you keep quiet if I ask
you to change your name to Siva Rao or Sundara Rao? I want my name only,'
she said.

'It's all right, you are an educated woman — your name must be on the
certificates — don't you have that much common sense — go and find out,' he
advised her .

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The housewife searched frantically for her certificates in the almirah — pattu
saris, chiffon saris, handloom saris, voile saris, matching blouses, petticoats,
bangles, beads, pearls, pins, kumkum barinas, silver plates, silver containers to
keep sandalwood paste, ornaments all things arranged in an orderly fashion.
Nowhere could she find her certificates. Yes — after marriage she had never
bothered to carry those certificates here.

'Yes — I haven't brought them here — I shall go to my place, search for my

certificates and enquire about my name, and return in a couple of days.' She
asked for her husband's permission. 'Very nice! Must you go just for your name
or what? If you go, who will scrub the house these two days?' said her lord.
Yes, that was true — because she scrubbed better than the others, she had not
allowed anyone else to do that job all these days. Everyone was busy with his
or her own respective duties. He had his office — poor things, the children had
their studies to take care of. Why should they bother about this chore, and she
had been doing it all along — they just didn't know how to do it, of course.

But still, how to live without knowing one's name? It was all right all these
days since the question had not occurred to her; now it was really hard to live
without a name.

'Just for two days you manage somehow or other — until and unless I go and
get my name, I shall find it difficult to live,' she pleaded with her husband and
managed to get out of the house.

'Why, dear daughter, have you come so suddenly? Are your children and
husband all right? Why have you come alone?'

Behind affectionate enquiries of the father and the mother there was a strain of
suspicion. Recollecting immediately the purpose of her visit, the housewife
asked her mother most pitifully, 'Amma, tell me, what is my name?'

'What is it amma, you are our elder daughter. We gave you education up to
B.A. and got you married with fifty thousand rupees as dowry. We took care of
your two deliveries — each time we alone bore the expenses of the maternity
home. You have two children — your husband has a good job — a very nice
person, too — your children are well-mannered.'

'It's not my history, amma — it's my name I want. At least tell me where my
certificates are.'

'I don't know, child. Recently we cleaned out the almirah of old papers and files
and arranged some glassware in their place. Some important files we kept in
the attic — we shall search for them tomorrow. Now what is the hurry, don't
worry about them — take a good bath and have your meal, child,' said the
housewife's mother.

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The housewife took a good bath and ate her meal, but she could not sleep.
While scrubbing the house, humming happily, joyously, and making muggulu,
she had never thought that she would have to face so many difficulties like this
by forgetting her own name.

Dawn broke, but the search for the certificates among the files in the attic had
not ended.

Now the wife asked everyone she met — she asked the trees — the anthills —
the pond — the school where she had studied — the college. After all the
shouting and the wailing, she met a friend — and succeeded in recovering her
name.

That friend was also like her — married, and a housewife like her, but she had
not made swabbing the sole purpose of her life; scrubbing was only a part of
her life; she remembered her name and the names of her friends. This
particular friend recognized our housewife.

'Sarada! My dear Sarada!' she shouted and embraced her. The housewife felt
like a person — totally parched and dried up, about to die of thirst — getting a
drink of cool water from the new earthen kooja poured into her mouth with a
spoon and given thus a new life. The friend did indeed give her a new life —
'You are Sarada. You came first in our school in the tenth class. You came first
in the music competition conducted by the college. You used to paint good
pictures too. We were ten friends altogether — I meet all of them some time or
other. We write letters to each other. Only you have gone out of our reach! Tell
me why are you living incognito?' her friend confronted her.

'Yes, Pramila — what you say is true. Of course I'm Sarada — until you said it I
could not remember it — all the shelves of my mind were taken up with only
one thing — how well I can scrub the floors. I remembered nothing else. Had I
not met you, I would have gone mad,' said the housewife named Sarada.

Sarada returned home, climbed the attic and fished out her certificates, the
pictures she had drawn — old albums, everything she succeeded in getting out.
She also searched further and managed to find the prizes she had received in
school and college.

Overjoyed, she returned home.

'You have not been here — look at the state of the house — it's like a choultry.
Oh what a relief you are here, now it is like a festival for us,' said Sarada's
husband.

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'Just scrubbing the floor does not make a festival. By the way, from now
onwards don't call me yemoi geemoi. My name is Sarada — call me Sarada,
understood?

Having said that, she went inside, humming joyously.

Sarada who had always cared so much for discipline, keeping an eye on every
corner, checking if there was dust, making sure things were properly arranged
each in its correct and respective order, now sat on the sofa which had not
been dusted for the last two days. She sat there showing the children an album
of her paintings that she had brought for them.

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