Mahashweta Read online

  Sudha Murty

  MAHASHWETA

  Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  Postscript

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Sudha Murty was born in 1950 in Shiggaon in north Karnataka. An MTech in computer science, she teaches computer science to postgraduate students. She is also the chairperson of the Infosys Foundation. A prolific writer in English and Kannada, she has written nine novels, four technical books, three travelogues, one collection of short stories and three collections of non-fiction pieces. Her books have been translated into all the major Indian languages and have sold over 150,000 copies.

  By the Same Author

  ALSO BY SUDHA MURTY

  Fiction

  How I Taught My Grandmother to Read and Other Stories

  The Magic Drum and Other Favourite Stories

  Dollar Bahu

  Non-Fiction

  The Old Man and His God

  To all those women in our country who suppress their emotions and suffer silently because they have leukoderma. May they be imbued with hope and courage.

  ONE

  There had been an emergency at the hospital that night. A woman with a serious heart condition had gone into labour, and Dr Anand had stayed at her side the whole night. By the time the child was delivered, Anand was exhausted. He gazed at mother and child, wondering whether the precise moment of birth was determined by the baby or its mother. Though he was relieved that the mother had come through the ordeal alive, there was still a nagging worry at the back of his mind. The newborn had not cried at all. Anand and his boss, Dr Desai, shied away from considering the possibility that the infant was dead. Surely, they had not struggled the whole night to deliver a dead baby. . .

  As a last resort, Anand tried to resuscitate the girl through artificial respiration. His rough lips had barely touched the delicate mouth of the infant, when she whimpered.

  Dr Desai smiled happily, confident now that the baby would survive.

  The paediatrician, too, sighed with relief. ‘Hey, Anand, isn’t she lovely?’ Dr Desai and the paediatrician left the operation theatre. The baby was crying lustily now, and Nurse Prabhavathi smiled. Having grown old working in the maternity ward, she was used to such scenes. For a moment, Prabhavathi was lost in thought. Even though the female child is stronger than the male child at birth, as adults it is the man who becomes the oppressor, and the woman who suffers. Why did this happen? She did not know the answer—she only knew that it was a fact of life. Prabhavathi cut short her musings and hastened back to her work as she caught sight of Anand.

  Dr Anand was passionate about his vocation. Like most doctors, Anand had discovered that his time was rarely his own. He was soon busy recording the details of the case, but stray thoughts kept drifting through his mind. Both parents play equally significant roles in the birth of a child. But at the moment of birth—the moment of truth— the only reality is the mother. She is the one who sheltered and nurtured the baby within her body while the father watched from the sidelines. Through the window, the sun’s rays glinted on his spectacles, and Anand realized that another day had begun. A quick look at the clock showed that it was already seven o’clock. He was no longer on duty and could go home now. He washed his hands and was about to leave when Prabhavathi approached him. ‘Sir, Dr Desai left his watch near the operation table. Could you please give it to him on your way home?’

  Anand knew how special the watch was to the professor. Dr Desai had done his postgraduation in England as a young man, and had worked under a very famous gynaecologist there. When he had finished the course, his mentor had presented the watch to him, and Dr Desai had treasured it ever since. He often spoke of his teacher and everyone at the hospital knew the story of the watch.

  Anand had once teased him in class, ‘Sir, to whom will you pass on your watch?’

  ‘Good question! I have no intention of parting with it at all. But I will buy a new watch for the student who scores the highest marks in the final examination.’

  Anand glanced at his own watch. It was a gift from his dear teacher and proof of his academic prowess, of his having secured the highest marks in the final examination. Though he was tired, he felt it was his duty to take his professor’s watch back to him. Dr Desai was extremely absent-minded, and would probably turn the house upside-down as soon as he realized that his watch was missing.

  Anand got into his Mercedes and drove towards the professor’s house. Dr Desai stayed in a comfortable bungalow on the college campus. An eminent doctor and teacher, he was totally committed to his work. He would often joke, ‘I know the entire city because half of them are my patients and the other half my students!’

  When his car entered the professor’s bungalow, Vasumathi, Dr Desai’s wife, was pleasantly surprised to see Anand; they were distant cousins. The only son of affluent parents, Anand was shy and reserved, and although he was related to the Desais, he had never visited their house without a reason. ‘Come in, Anand!’ Vasumathi said. ‘This is a surprise! What brings you here so early in the morning? I’m sure it must be something very special. In all the seven years you’ve been in this college, you’ve come here only thrice. Is everything all right at home?’

  ‘Everything is fine. The professor forgot his watch at the hospital and I thought I’d restore it to him. I knew how upset he would be.’

  Knowing her husband, Vasumathi could not help laughing. ‘Anand, now that you’re here, do have a cup of tea,’ she insisted.

  ‘No, akka, avva will be waiting for me at home.’

  Hearing Anand’s voice, Dr Desai came out of his room, and his face lit up when he saw his watch. ‘Anand, don’t behave like a baby. You’re a young man now. Why must you rush home like a calf running to its mother? When I left for England I was younger than you and had to do everything myself. . .’

  ‘Everyone knows your England story. Once you start, you won’t stop for the next half-hour. That may be one of the reasons why Anand never visits us,’ Vasumathi interrupted him. ‘Anand, you must stay back for lunch today. My brother, Shrinath, has come from the US. He would love to meet you. If you like, I’ll call Radhakka and tell her.’ Anand felt very uncomfortable. He was so tired that he wanted to go home and sleep immediately. But he was unable to refuse the invitation. Noticing his silence, Dr Desai said understandingly, ‘Anand, I know you’ve had a hard night. You can go and rest in the guest-room upstairs until lunch is ready.’ Vasumathi nodded in agreement and, feeling helpless, Anand went upstairs without a word.

  The guest-room was clean and neat, but had none of the trappings of wealth that filled his own house. Anand had his nightclothes with him in his carry-bag. He changed quickly and lay down on the bed so utterly exhausted that nothing seemed to matter—not food or clothing or company. He just wanted to sleep. But the moment his head touched the pillow, he heard a sweet voice say, ‘Darling, you are handsome and irresistible. . .you are the very picture of Manmatha. When I saw you today, through the branches of the parijata tree, I fell in love with you immediately.’

  Anand was dumbstruck. For a minute, he thought that his imagination was playing tricks on him. He could make out from the voice that the person who had spoken was a young woman; and he was so startled by what she had said that he was wide awake now. He looked around carefully, but there was nobody there.

  Anand was tall and fair, and had curly hair and a charming smile. His cousin Anasuya, his junior in college, often came home and told them the stories about Ana