Mahashweta (2 page)

‘I am Dr Anand.’

‘Oh, I see. . . !’

She never got a chance to finish her sentence as Dr Desai and another gentleman came out then. He looked at Anupama and exclaimed, ‘Anu, how long must I wait for you? Here you are chatting pleasantly with Anand, while an old man sits inside waiting for you! I was about to leave now.’

‘Uncle, selling tickets is not an easy job. I had to coax and cajole people to buy them, and I’ve been here for a while. . .’ For a moment, Anupama was in a quandary. What was she supposed to say. . .that Anand had prevented her from going in? She quickly collected herself and said, ‘Let it be. Now, which ticket should I give you?’

‘Oh Anu, I forgot to introduce my friend, Dr Rao. He is the principal of the Arts College. You may know him. And this is Dr Anand, one of our most brilliant doctors, who is shortly going to England for further studies. He is one of the lucky ones blessed by both Saraswati and Lakshmi.’

‘Sir, please. . .’ Anand mumbled, embarrassed.

Dr Desai ignored him and continued. ‘Anand, this is Anupama. Her father, Shama Rao, and I have been good friends since school. What can I tell you about Anupama; she is so talented. . .’

Anupama tried to stop Dr Desai. ‘Uncle. please, don’t talk about me. Just buy the tickets. That is more than enough for me.’

But the doctor would not be stopped. ‘Anand, you cannot imagine how versatile our Anu is. She is a superb actress and an excellent student, always getting the top rank. She even sings Hindustani classical music. Which gharana do you belong to, Anu?’

‘Uncle, enough of my praises! Please buy a thousand-rupee ticket.’

Dr Desai smiled, ‘Anu, I am a poor man with no private practice. I cannot afford your thousand-rupee demand. Give me two tickets of a hundred each, instead. The principal is also like me. Give him two tickets of a hundred each as well. Is that all right, Dr Rao?’

‘Of course, Dr Desai. That is my budget, too! I won’t be in town on the day of the show, but my daughter will definitely be there. She wouldn’t want to miss your play,’ the principal responded.

Anupama looked crestfallen, the thousand-rupee tickets still in her hand. Looking at her, Desai continued, ‘Anu, don’t worry. You can still sell your thousand-rupee tickets. Our Anand can afford to buy them all.’

Anand wondered why he should buy the tickets without even knowing what the tickets were for. Hesitantly, he said, ‘Please give me a hundred-rupee ticket, too.’

Anupama had already torn off two thousand-rupee tickets from her book. She wrote Anand’s name on them and said, ‘Doctor, two thousand is not a lot of money for you. But for an institution that helps physically challenged children it is a big sum. They will be grateful for your donation. This is a fund-raising programme. Please do not refuse to buy the tickets. Please come with your wife to our play.’

Anupama talked like an experienced saleswoman, and when she held out the tickets, Anand felt too shy to refuse her.

‘Hey Anu, Anand is not married yet. Though there is a big line of hopeful women in front of his house. He wants to marry someone of his choice; and who that is, nobody knows. On his behalf I will guarantee that he will come,’ Dr Desai concluded.

Anand woke up later than usual the next morning. Although he had not been on night duty, he had been unable to sleep the entire night. Thoughts of Anupama had occupied his mind all the time. Dr Desai had used many superlatives to describe her and although Anand did not know anything about her other qualities, he had certainly felt the impact of her beauty. He was sure she would outshine any beauty queen.

But beauty and histrionic talent were two different things, so her play might not be so great, he told himself. He was debating whether to go for the show. But his heart told him he had to see her again; he had to get to know her. After all he had met her only once, he knew nothing about her. Not even whether she was married or single, although from what he had seen there was no indication that she was married. But what did she think of him? His musings were cut short when the razor blade nicked his cheek and blood started oozing from the cut. He imagined Anupama standing behind him, smiling. He felt elated and light-hearted at the very thought of her. Whistling happily, he got ready to go for the play.

The Town Hall was crowded and Anand realized that Anupama must have worked really hard to sell so many tickets. While looking for his seat somewhere close to the front row, he met Vasumathi. ‘I knew you would come,’ she said, smiling mischievously. ‘Anu gave me complimentary passes for the boys but there are no seat numbers on them. And they’re pestering me for ice cream. Let them sit in your seat while I get the ice cream. Could you go and find Anupama and ask her the seat numbers of my complimentary passes?’

‘Where is she?’

‘She is in the green-room behind the screen. But you can ask anybody, they will direct you to her.’ Without even waiting for his reply, Vasumathi went away.

Happy, but somewhat hesitant, Anand went looking for Anupama. He found her sitting in a chair, simultaneously giving instructions to several people. Clad in a deep red sari, she reminded him of a beautiful rose. Her long hair was loose and touched the ground like a dark cloud. She was holding a garland in one hand and a book in the other. Anand felt as though he had entered the court of a queen, and not a green-room! Though he went in and stood near her, Anupama was so busy that she did not even notice him until a girl standing nearby whispered to her. A faint blush stole across her cheeks, as she asked, ‘Where are you sitting?’

‘Oh, I have found my seat. But Vasuakka’s complimentary pass. . .’

Anupama had no time to hear him out. She was in a hurry. ‘Oh, they can sit on one of the red sofas and you may also sit with them if you want.’ And then someone called her and she went away. As she brushed past him, Anand felt as though a beautiful parijata tree had showered its flowers on him.

There was no reason for Anand to keep standing there, but still he did not move. Anupama did not come back though she had said that she would return in a few minutes. Then he remembered that Vasumathi would be waiting for him, and would make many suggestive comments if he delayed going back to the auditorium. So, he reluctantly returned to his seat. Anupama returned to the green-room moments after Anand left.

Her friend, Sumithra, whispered in Anupama’s ear, ‘Anu, who is this Prince Charming? Is he one of your admirers?’

‘Come on Sumi, don’t imagine too many things. I sold him tickets worth two thousand. Is it not my duty to help him? It is purely professional! Anyway, I have to go and wear my make-up. You handle things now.’ Anupama dashed off.

It was a fund-raising programme—so there were several speeches about social responsibility, humanity, and so on. Anand was slightly bored; he knew that when people got hold of a mike, they hated to part with it. Every minute seemed to last a year.

Finally, all the speeches were over, and a melodious voice off-stage began to speak on the play that was to follow:
‘Kadambari
is one of the earliest novels written by the great scholar Bana Bhatta, in Sanskrit. A part of this novel has been translated and dramatized by Ms Anupama. The essence of the novel is the love between the heroine, Mahashweta, and the hero, Pundarika. The cast includes Ms Anupama as Mahashweta, Ms Nirmala as Pundarika. . .

‘Mahashweta is an extremely beautiful princess and the daughter of the king of Gandhara. One day she goes on a picnic with her friend, Kadambari, and meets Pundarika, the dazzlingly handsome son of a rishi. It is love at first sight for both of them. . .’

As the princess, Anupama looked sculpted in ivory. When she enacted a love scene with Pundarika, her face glowed with passion. She delivered her lines so naturally: ‘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.

‘I feel I have been waiting for you for many lifetimes. You are my ideal man.’ Anand realized instantly that these were the exact words he had heard in Vasumathi’s house that afternoon. In his ignorance he had presumed that the unseen girl had been talking about him. As he heard those words again, he thought,
Thank
God,
I
did
not
discuss
this
with
anybody.
Anupama
must
have
left
by
the
rear
staircase
the
other
day,
which
was
why
I
did
not
see
her.

The play continued. Later, Mahashweta confided in her friend, ‘Like Rohini to Chandra, like Lakshmi to Narayana, am I to him. Just as the creeper depends on a tree, emotionally I depend on him. I cannot live without him, and for his sake, I am ready to renounce everything. Let society say anything it wishes. I do not care. . .’

Pundarika, Mahashweta’s beloved, meets with an untimely death and the princess, wearing a white sari and garland, undertakes a severe penance in the forest. Her resolve is unshakable. Her dear friend, Kadambari, tries her best to dissuade her, but to no avail. Finally, Mahashweta’s heart-rending love for Pundarika brings him back to life and the lovers are reunited.

Anand looked around—Anupama’s portrayal of Mahashweta was so convincing that the entire audience was spellbound. Anand realized that Dr Desai had not exaggerated. Truly, Anupama was not only beautiful but also a brilliant actress.

When the play ended, there was tremendous applause as the president of the association called Anupama to the stage and spoke highly of her commitment to their cause. ‘Ms Anupama has been of immense help in raising funds for the school. I thank her on behalf of the organization. She has not only been involved with the play but has also sold a substantial number of tickets. We would like to present her with a memento in appreciation of her efforts.’

Anupama had not expected to be singled out for such praise and was taken aback, but humbly accepted the gift. Lost in admiration, Anand sat still, raptly following her every move.

As Anupama collected her things and prepared to go home, Vasumathi approached her and said, ‘Anu, the play was wonderful! It is quite late, how will you girls get back to the hostel?’

There were three other girls with Anupama.

‘We’ll take an auto or a taxi,’ Anupama replied.

‘It’s too late to take a taxi. Anand’s house is nearby. I’ll tell him to drop you off on his way home.’

‘No aunty, we’ll manage.’

But Anand was only too happy to help, ‘I’ll drop all of you back,’ he said.

They were all tired and one of the girls whispered in Anupama’s ear, ‘Let’s get a lift.’

Anand opened the back door and all four of them squeezed in. Anand had hoped that Anupama would sit in front with him. Foolish thought! A girl like Anupama would certainly never do anything so forward. Very 18
^th
century She was only aggressive when it came to selling tickets!