Thursday, 31 December 2015

United by Fear.




               “Bai Goanna’s a ‘bhitree bhagoobai’, a ‘darpok’, I said. “She’s the only one I know who’s afraid of butterflies. Stupid, no?”
“It’s sad,” Shri Husband said. “Must be traumatic childhood disorder.”
               Really? I wondered. Did her parents threaten her with caterpillars? Didn’t make sense to me, but I can’t argue with Shri Husband when he uses big words. Actually, can’t argue with Shri Husband, full stop. No such kind words go to his mind when I display a fear of something.
Example: the other day, I pointed to something lurking underneath the laptop. Its whiskers gave it away. Periplanata americana, or brown, shiny-winged cockroach, sly creature that sneakily hides in drawers and shelves, and scares me when I least expect it, the bane of my life. I’m told it will survive every other species on this planet, and is immune to nuclear blasts. I’m petrified by the mere mention of it. My instinctive reaction is to ask for help. Usually by informing somebody in the vicinity. With all the power my lungs and larynx can muster.
No matter what I do, it irritates Shri Husband and pointing to something that terrifies me isn’t any different. “It’s only an insect, get a chappal and thwack it dead,” he said impatiently.
“I can’t,” I said, voice trembling, nerves trembling, muscles trembling. “It’s looking at me menacingly.”
“You are bigger and stronger,” he coaxed, then mimicked a sports-shoe advertisement. “Just do it.” I wanted to tell him ‘you do it, you’re even bigger/stronger’, but (conditioning, you know) I obeyed.
I tripped my way across furniture to another room without once taking my eyes off it (the insect, not the furniture), got a pesticide in a can with a long straw attached to its lid so I could spray it from a distance. Finally the ‘roach died. So ahimsic, I thought  with quiet pride. But Shri Husband--- didn’t even smile, forget clap.  
               Forget me. Let’s get back to Bai Goanna and her irrational fears: the other day, one of our neighbourhood children was doing her homework. She (the child, not Bai Goanna) began chanting the alphabet: “A for arson, B for bans, C for Cashmir, D for Dadri…”
               Bai Goanna put her palms to her ears, shook her head from side to side and said, “my goodness”. Shri Husband raised one eyebrow. I thought they were appalled that Kashmir was being misspelt, but I was wrong. Something else seemed to be bothering them.
Child carried on: “…E for encounter, F for fatal, G for goons…” Shri Husband went to close the window whilst “… I for injuries” was going on, but the sing-song voice still came through: “…K for killing, L for lynching…, M for massacre…” Shri Husband raised second eyebrow, which meant his brain was ticking overtime.
               “What on earth is this child saying?” he snapped to himself.
               “…R for Raamsene, S for Shivasena, T for Taliban…V for violence, W for wounds…” I had joined the child’s rhythmic chant for I’d been hearing it for many days and knew it by heart.
               “I’m so afraid,” said Bai Goanna, a tremble in her voice.
“Of someone reciting the alphabet?” I asked.
Shri Husband seemed to nod slightly in agreement… it took me a moment to realize with Bai Goanna, not me. He’s usually allergic to anyone who’s in any way afraid. So this came as a big surprise.
“I’m so afraid,” said Bai Goanna again, now with a hint of liquid accumulation along her eyelashes.
“Didn’t I tell you she was a ‘bhitree bhagoobai’, a ‘darpok’ ?” I whispered to Shri Husband. His reaction came as a bit of a shock: “There’s reason to be afraid.”
I’m trained to detect trouble through the slightest inflection in his tone. I stayed quiet.
In the meantime, we heard the child’s mother, who possibly was on the same frequency as these two, give her child a couple of slaps and some loud advice: “… say it correctly, otherwise you won’t get good marks.” We heard her further shout to no one in particular, “this is what television is doing to our kids; they pick up these new-fangled lyrics instead of learning the traditional stuff.”
So the child began again: “A for apple, B for bat, C for cat, D for dog…” without the previous level of enthusiasm. I thought to myself: we’re still slaves of the goras. Where in Goa do we get apples? A minute later, the child was singing about pigment-challenged, wool-providing ovine and telling rain to go away when the fields in our villages are parched. This old-fashioned chant was inappropriate for contemporary India, I thought, but kept my opinion to myself. I do that often these days, getting older and wiser, must be.
For the third time in quarter of an hour Bai Goanna said, “I’m so afraid.”
This time, after too much of keeping quiet, I snapped: “Of what, yaar?”
“Of what this child has learned, is learning.”
In a rare display of silent camaraderie, Bai Goanna and Shri Husband were in agreement. Interesting, how fear unites people, no?
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in


              
                

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