FREEDOM

“Freedom is not always about breaking free from chains”

Prologue

I woke up to the persistent ringing of the telephone. Rubbing my eyes groggily, I gazed around in semi stupor, trying to get a grip over my slow senses. By the time I was fully awake, the person at the other end of the phone had given up. Something odd about this set me thinking- and then it hit me like a flash- I was alone in the apartment!  

It has been four years since I have rented this apartment. Along with the apartment, came Kamala- the maid. Over the course of these four years, every day has been the same- starting with a hot cup of masala tea brought to the bedside by Kamala. She had complete freedom over the running of my homestead- she moved around the furniture, decided when and what the meals were and even the clothes that I wear. Being a writer, and a temperamental one, it was imperative that I am not disturbed by these trifling matters- Kamala gave me the luxury of never having to attend to trivial household matters and, in return, I never pried into her domain.

My friends were jealous of my find- a jewel in the competitive world of house maids, and did their best to lure her away from me- but she stayed on. Imagine my chagrin when all of a sudden, she vanishes from my life. I felt like a toddler taking his first steps without anyone to hold on to. Thus began a new part of my life.

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I had started with an attempt to make my morning cup of tea, but I had to search for everything, from sugar to spoons. I lost the entire morning trying to make breakfast.

I realised that I was over dependent on Kamala and that my daily routine was built with her as the core. I, who boasted of being a free bird, was actually a tame pet of an inconsequential house maid! I decided that it was high time I broke free from the invisible shackles of domesticity that bound me and became a master of myself, and made up my mind to terminate the services of Kamala if she returns.

I started out with moving the furniture around. I reorganised everything in the kitchen, from the cupboards to the racks. Once I was done with cleaning the entire house, I felt I had accomplished something. Several days passed in this manner, with no sight of Kamala and I grew more and more accomplished day by day. I was enjoying my freedom to choose my life- revelling in my successes, determined in my failures and the warrior in me rose to the challenge of redesigning my life in my own terms.  After a week or so, Kamala had vanished entirely from my life and my thoughts. One day, when I went out to empty the dustbin, my neighbour- a natural in the field of gossip mongering- signalled to me indicating that she had vital information to pass on.

She knew that Kamala had been absent- in fact she knew even why! Kamala had gone insane! I gulped down the retort that it was she who had gone insane, merely nodded, and went back.

I may not be much of a conversationalist but I prided myself on being a good judge of character and in my opinion, Kamala was perfectly sane – she had absolutely no tendency of falling over to the other side. Since I was rather free that day, I decided to enquire into the matter. I got her address from my landlord and set my steps to her home.

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Kamala lived in a tumbledown shack with her husband and four children. When I reached her place, it was crowded – people usually flock to a place of tragedy like insects attracted to the light. From the bits and pieces of conversation around me, I gathered that my inquisitive neighbour was right- Kamala’s mind had indeed gone astray.

After some conversations I could gather the full story, rather the same old story. Kamala had married young and even though her husband was loving, he was a drunkard. He barely spent any time at home, spending all his income on drinks, leaving her to fend for the family. Even while she went about her duties in my house with a stolid demeanour, her mind might have been heavy with worries over her home- piling debts, increasing expenditure and growing kids- each held their share of space in her thoughts. When the weight was too much to bear, and her mind couldn’t keep pace with her thoughts, her mind had got deranged.

One fine morning, she sat on bed, intensely staring in front of her, as if concentrating on something – putting all her mind to it. Even the kids crying for food did not awaken her from her meditation. It was when her husband came home- drunk and late as usual- and found the tired and hungry kids sitting pooled around their mother, that he realised something was wrong. Several local doctors were called in, but none succeeded in waking Kamala from her meditation. It seemed like her entire world had shrunk into the tiny square of floor tile in front of her.

She was initially labelled as a patient of chronic depression, but after a week the verdict was delivered that she was officially insane – the diagnosis coinciding with the one that the localites had derived since day one. I went inside to support them in their tragedy- or rather to see the sight of the day.  She was sitting in the same pose, oblivious to the stares and chatter of the people around her. One of her kids got up and attempted to walk towards her father- but she stumbled and fell. I was still looking at Kamala, and I caught the sudden look that she darted in the direction of the kid. That look – the concerned look of a mother- belied her sanity and at that instant I knew- she was as sane as you or me. However, nobody else seemed to have noticed her momentary lapse. I walked out slowly, wondering about why she would forsake her life, earning and family and act insane.

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I spent a whole day and night thinking about Kamala, and then my thoughts were replaced by more pressing matters. I no longer required the services of a housemaid- Kamala had in fact taught me dependence and independence. My life went along the new lines for a month or so, when one of my ramblings brought me face to face with Kamala’s husband. He seemed to have undergone a transition. I enquired after Kamala’s health.

“She is much the same. Since we are not able to support her in this condition, she has been shifted to a home for the mentally challenged. A week after she was admitted, she grew rather violent and vindictive and consequently was shifted to the isolation ward. We rarely go to see her now, as we do not know when her mood might change and cannot bear to see her in one of her tempers. I have heard rumours that they use chains to keep her checked during her violent days.”

He seems to have gotten over his old ways and looks after the family now. They had got some financial help from the government and were able to live a better life. Except for the fact that Kamala is not with them, they seemed to be doing rather well. Like me, they too have grown accustomed to a life without her.

Epilogue

I thought about that one look of intelligence that came from her and wondered if she was acting insane for this very end. Call it a writer’s imagination, but I believe her to be perfectly sane. She might have forsaken her life, family and freedom so that her family can lead a better life.

People have changing views of freedom- it is the absence of responsibility to some, the choice to mould their own life for some others. For me, freedom was a life devoid of meagre tasks- a free mind, infinite time and engaging work. Kamala made me realise that freedom is also about choosing the way one lives, making small yet significant decisions every day. Freedom is not about independence- it is more about the luxury of being able to choose your dependences.

I believe, in her isolation, bound in shackles and branded insane, she had found her freedom- worlds apart from her worrisome life- with weighing thoughts of her family and the mechanical and frustrating job of a house maid. I realised that one could find freedom even in chains- Freedom is not always breaking free of chains; sometimes freedom might be better when fettered than free.

The End

LEGENDS THAT LIVE

“Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.”

Prologue:

She felt the spray from the sea on her face, the taste of salt made her take note of her surroundings. The sea continued its ritual of bringing wave after wave to the shore, only to take back all the things people left- no longer useful. The sea always had charm for her - the stability of its monotony, yet the variety evident in each different wave that strikes the shore- it captivated her, calling to her as if from a forgotten past. She stood there staring with unseeing eyes, as if witnessing a scene separated by time. Yes, the call was growing deeper with every passing day, as if the sea had remained embedded in some part of her soul that refuses to let go. She must go; for there, she knew, lay, in some inexplicable way, a part of her destiny. She turned to leave, feeling the wave that licked her toes, inviting her onto the depths. She closed her eyes, surrendering her senses to the sea.

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The spray that splashed through the window sill washed the last remnants of weariness from her sleep deprived eyes. The train thundered on, not in the least weighed down by the feelings of the multitude thronging its interiors; not pausing to feel the cool drops of water splashing down. She looked out of the window, watching the scenes that slipped by, not waiting to bid goodbye. That was life for her. The more she moved forward, the more the things that she cared for moved away from her, leaving her clutching in vain at the abyss they had left. But now, it will be different... she had answered the call. She was going to the place where it all started. A sense of peace descended on her and she closed her eyes to drift to sleep while the train brought her closer to Kanya kumari.

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Chapter 1:

The sea was just the same, it never changed. She was happy about it. She never got bored watching the sea, watching its innumerable waves splash onto the rocky shore and withdraw gracefully. The sea at this particular place held more fascination to her, for at this place the tri-seas met, sharing waters and silt from different lands.
It was 25 years since she saw this sea last, but it never did leave her mind. Something in its magnetic depths lured her towards it. That was what made her leave all her work and catch the train to this peaceful seaside.

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Chapter 2:

Ram Babu saw her sitting at the steps, staring at the sea. He had seen many people like this; people running away from home in search of peace, a few minutes of retrospection; and he did his best to avoid them. Being the eldest of the guides and having a moderate grasp of English, he was the most sought after among guides. There weren’t many legends that he did not know of. There was something about this girl, (not really a girl, but for this very old man, anyone below forty is a girl), that made him go to her. He knew she needed his help. He tapped on her shoulders. She turned, taking her eyes off the sea for a second, and gave him a ready smile. He asked, "Madam would you like a guide? There are many stories here that only I know of!”. He saw her smile wean off. She sat looking at him, as if sizing him up, for some time and at last nodded her head.
"What is your name, madam? And where are you from?" "I am Madhuri. I work in Mumbai. Have you ever been to that part of the world?" "No, I have never left this seaside for the whole of my life.....and I am proud of it!" She grew silent. He took her to several places - churches, buildings of beauty, which she viewed with a disinterested air. He took her shopping but she bought nothing except a packet of seashells from a small girl. Her gaze always seemed to return to the sea, as if in search of something she lost. He then took her to the seaside and showed her the rock, a few feet wide, lying at a little distance from the sea. "That, madam, is the star attraction of this place. The latest legend and I have the utmost authority to speak of it. "What’s so special about it?". Here, at last, he could discern some curiosity in her tone, a twinkle in her eyes. He knew her heart would stir up to it. "A long time ago, around twenty five years, there was a little girl of 12 years-a very cheerful little girl with a musical voice who sold seashells, flowers and other knick knacks to tourists. Her name was Kadambari. She was collecting shells at the sea shore. The sea lay beyond this rock then. She was standing at its edge, bending down and collecting beautiful shells. Maybe she saw a beautiful shell that would attract the tourist eye; anyway she fell off and the tide carried away her light body remorselessly. She was never seen since". She noticed that his eyes glistened with tears. "I knew her well. She used to come running to me calling 'Babuji', to show me her collection. Her body was not recovered, but in this place where the tri-seas meet, the whirling waters in the depths can take you anywhere. Since then it is said that she haunts this place. Many a guide coming back home at night has seen her standing on this particular rock." She gasped. "Have you seen her?"
"Yes, just once. She waved to me and vanished. It is called Kadambari rock now and is the most sought after location in this place". He helped her take some photographs of the rock and as the sun began to set, she left him, giving him a generous pay, almost twice his fee.

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Chapter 3:

The taste of salt brought her back from her musings. She opened her eyes half expecting to see the sea. But she was at the balcony of her hotel and the sea was distant, like a giant grey monster lying in wait to be fed. The salt had come from her tears that were running freely down the sides of her face.

Should she have told him that she was the very same Kadambari, who was saved from the turbulent waters, taken to Bombay and deposited in an orphanage? He was right; everyone liked her at first glance. That’s how the elderly couple who came to adopt took her, gave her education, took her to places; at last they passed away leaving her rich and educated. It was a blessed moment when she fell off, else she would have remained as the illiterate girl for ever; or was it? She realised that all along there was an inner longing in her to go back to the simple unsophisticated youth of hers, but now, it was too late to turn back. She had recognized Babuji at first glance but he didn’t know her; maybe she had changed. It was a good thing she didn’t tell him about herself. She didn’t want to be known as the illiterate flower girl. Besides, she didn’t want the old man to lose his star attraction-a story which earned him a living!
Funny-after years of education and perseverance, here she was ,a well settled woman; but her presence in the world has gone down in history -not as the cultured cosmopolitan but as the flower girl whom she had hated and buried in her heart for ever.
She looked at the rock, the birthplace of the legend. She felt she could see the child there, waving her arms as if urging her to let go and move on. She felt, vaguely happy, as if all along there had been a fight raging inside her, a fight between the past and the present. The past had won, proving itself the better of the two. Tomorrow she would go back, but she would have left all the memories and sorrows at this shore- let the sea wash it onto itself, dragging it to its depths.

The sea hasn’t changed, so did Babuji. His assumed air of self importance-she had thought that there wasn’t anything that he didn’t know of, but she had been a fool then!!!

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Epilogue:

That day Ram Babu came home early. His wife looked up from where she was cooking their frugal supper.

"You remember Kadambari, the little flower girl? She had come today. I was right all along. She didn’t drown, she somehow managed to escape. She has grown up to be a pretty woman but has the affected airs of the city folks about her. I didn’t give away my feelings because I wasn’t sure if she'd like to be known by her past. I was right. She has a new name and has made a mark for herself and did regret her past.
I told her a cooked up story about the rock- the one which she fell from -being named after her and it being the star attraction of this place. Quite a legend I made up.” He sat there laughing to himself.

"Why did you do that?"

"So that she would be as much proud of her humble past as she is of her new found glory!!!"

The sea continued to lick the shore with its ebbing waves, lying in wait, dragging and burying the stories left there.

“Break, break, break

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.”

- Tennyson

The End

Treading On

The dark landscape, ahead, loom,

warning me of the impending doom.

I pause, unsure, fearing the fall

and tread lightly, in steps small.

The moon, behind rainclouds, hid

casting shadows onto the mid

of the black expanse that lay before,

like the sea in some alien shore

My feet search for a firm ground

my ears strain for the slightest sound,

my eyes try to pierce through the dark,

while I, on this journey, embark.

I move on, oblivious to the time,

through paths filled with dust and grime,

till red shot through the sky’s mien,

like blood from a severed vein.

And soon the sun rose, spilling its charm

on a new day, serene and calm

and I behold the beauty ahead

that was hidden by the night dead.

The stream, like silver, winding along,

sprawling green meadows, wide and long,

green trees and flowers in full bloom

raise my mind from fear and gloom.

I tread on, my face in smiles,

journeying through sunlit miles,

drinking in the beauties blend,

happy, till my journey’s end.