An Awakening Cry on the highway

 

The dreadful news arrived at 7:00: “There’s going to be a lockdown!” It was the unmistakable voice of Shyam’s best friend, Vishal, “....from 25^th to 14^th April.”  Stunned, Shyam rushed out. Mouth agape and eyes transfixed, he stood staring into the darkness. “Pull yourself up!”   shouted Vishal, shaking him violently. “We’ll get through it!” He knew the cause of their anguish and didn’t wish to add another ounce to it. Despair, like the silent night, engulfed Vishal. Slumping down on the bench, he cupped his face in his hands, trying to fight the cascading tears. They streamed down like the runnels on a mountain slope in summer’s rain. An occasional gasp, in between incessant sobs, disturbed the eeriness within. It was Arushi – sobbing! Unknown to the announcer, thousands of happy homes sunk into despair with that eloquent announcement, made with much deliberation, but little consideration!

A cursory glance around that 10’x8’ cabin would reveal why the suddenness of that news dealt a crushing blow to the young couple, Vishal and Arushi - the occupants of that home. Love’s labour bore its seal on every packet neatly arranged against the wall for the homeward journey on 29/3/20. A journey planned to the distant Gonda, for the comfort and identity of the infant on the way. “Why didn’t I leave earlier?” Shyam was heard muttering in between sniffles. How could they? They needed the pay and it would not arrive before the 28^th. That night, they hardly spoke. Shyam had no soothing words to comfort Arushi, who sobbed herself to sleep. Shyam lay wide awake, groping in the wilderness of his tangled brain for a way out. It eluded him, though the dawn was breaking.

Punctually at 8:00, Mr .Sharma, the overseer, arrived. None to mince words, he conveyed the decision of the management as though he was reading out a proclamation: “All the work stands suspended till lockdown is lifted”, he began. “You will be paid all the dues till April,” he added, sounding benevolent. A murmur of approval greeted the statement.”  The camp is open, but the management takes no responsibility for your safety or well-being”, concluded Sharma. ”A point of reassurance,” thought Vishal, who had decided to stay. “When will we resume work?” It was Sunder, a newcomer. “You’ll be notified by SMS,” replied Mr. Sharma. Then, picking up his bag, he moved towards the office. With that, the distressed assembly followed him like sheep, behind the bellwether.

To work and for work, the men come to dusty Bangalore, leaving the verdant village, where mustard and wheat grew in profusion.  Work gave them purpose; work sustained their kin back home, and work allowed them to dream - way beyond the horizon, at times! Shyam, too, was building a golden dream, brick by brick: a tiled house for Arushi!

 “It was two seasons ago,” he recalled, “that Arushi had come into his life.” She was like the sparkle when light plays on the tiles he laid. A fleeting meeting at the Ganesh festival had kindled their romance. That year, the pot-bellied, God had blessed the village with a bountiful harvest and the entire village had assembled for a grand feast in His honour.

Shyam was quite a dasher, and this aspect was not lost on the young women of the village. He was seven and twenty, with an impressive five-foot eight-inch height. A thick mop of hair, cut in Bangalore style sat atop a neatly set face. When he smiled, the evenness of his teeth enhanced his smile, revealing a soul at peace with man and God. As per Indian custom, the women and children were invited to dine first, while the males stood under trees, or sat at vantage points to ogle at the women.  Arushi made quite a statement of her attractiveness as she came out in the company of her mother. Her svelte frame, swaying gracefully to the tinkling anklets, drew many an admiring eye.

 Eager to get home, the elder woman quickly looked for her husband. However, Chaudhuri Sahab couldn’t accompany her as he was part of the organizers. Without a thought, Shyam came forward. “I will accompany you home, Mausiji,” he volunteered. “No beta!” she protested, “you have not eaten”.” No problem,” he replied. “I will eat whatever is left on my return”. It was spoken in all sincerity without the aim of making an impression on the younger companion.

They walked on, chatting gaily, and he spied her observing him in the flickering light just as he cast furtive glances, when she was distracted. They seemed to have fallen for each other, but dared no further. What remained was the memory of that stolen glance in the flickering light.

 

Shyam was a tile layer and was back at work the following week. Dull rooms came alive under his skill, transforming them into vibrant living spaces. They enhanced the beauty and grandeur of elegant homes and malls where the affluent lived, shopped and partied. Love and lust celebrated over the workers’ sweat and toil, oblivious of the pain!

Two weeks had elapsed since his return. Feeling homesick, Shyam took a trip to Cubbon Park on Sunday afternoon. The “Akasha Mallige” was in full bloom. Shyam chose a quiet corner under its sturdy trunk and sat down. Soon, he was transported to his village and Arushi. “She looked good for a wife,” he thought, and smiled .The buzzing phone drew him out of his reverie. As he glanced at it, his irritation grew. It was his father. “Oh God,” he sighed “not for money, again!”. “Hello,” his father sounded excited “I have a marriage proposal for you.” “Oh!” Shyam sounded indifferent. “You will like her” his confidence was palpable. “Come home next Sunday,” he urged and hung up. He knew his father had an eye for detail, but could he trust his choice?

Arushi had no such misgivings. She knew her man and made arrangements to impress him. When they met, Shyam dwelt at length about his work, his life, and his plans. Neither did he glorify the opportunities, nor did he belittle the hardships they would encounter in Bangalore. They would get a princely 10’x8’ room to set up as their home – she would work as his assistant, mixing concrete – while he laid the tiles. Their joy, if it be called so was - they would be together and she would be safe. With much trepidation after delivering his monologue, he posed the question, more to overcome his nervousness: “Are you ready?”. A few moments of silence, a little smile, and a gentle nod shyly delivered, sealed the deal. In excitement, he took her soft hands in his calloused ones and held her firmly as a sign of his commitment.

 Ten days later, they landed in Bengaluru. A day later, she was at the grind, doing exactly as he had briefed her......mixing concrete and laying tiles to liven up drab floors! It was exhausting, but she plodded on. “One day” he assured her “I’ll build you a tiled home”. “Oh, Taj Mahal!” she giggled girlishly. “No,” he said, “I swear by Vishnu Vardhan!” He was dead serious. Such dreams were like folklore among these country folks. They were the migrant workers who build mansions for the rich in cities alien to them. What they received in return, helped to feed and clothe them. What was left, they dispatched home, by shrinking their wants. Wonder how many among them achieved the dream of building tiled homes for their loved ones! Yet, there was no price for dreaming, no shame and no tax. Shyam prayed to his beloved Vishnu Vardhan, whom he displayed prominently in a corner of his room, to help him provide adequately for the giggly girl he fondly loved.

While Shyam’s dreams were eons away, another was rapidly taking shape in Arushi. Well into the ninth month, she was heavy with the child. Lockdown aborted their plan. But the baby, it could not be locked in! The thought of being in a strange land, with a strange disease on the prowl and the unforeseen lockdown, terrified them.

“Go, we must!” she was adamant “I don’t want to die amongst strangers with none to cry for me”. She was becoming hysterical.

“How?” asked Shyam, in utter disbelief.

“Walk!” she said decisively. “Trust in your Vishnu Vardhan, he will surely send us help”.

“It is suicidal!” he warned her and fled to the veranda.

“Death on the highway, death in the by-lane; death by starvation, death by mugging,” his fevered brain kept repeating. He shook his head violently to dismiss the macabre song of Death, and prayed: “Oh Vishnu Vardhan, show us the way and guide us to safety”.

The next day, they decided to set out .Well - supplied with dry rations of chappatis packed with vegetables and pickle, and bottles of water, they sneaked out of their 10’x8’ cabin, at Aryan Karsen Towers at the break of dawn. At the gate they glanced anxiously at the cabin of corrugated sheets called home, for one last time wondering: would they ever return?

 Following the familiar Anikal Main Road, they headed for NH44 hoping for an empty truck, with some kind driver, to pick them up. By 8:00, Arushi was exhausted. Moving to the nearest bus shelter, Pillar No:4, they had their first meal . The highway was deserted, except for an occasional vehicle speeding down. Some sound of an approaching truck alerted Shyam. He sensed it was empty, judged by the trundling speed. Arushi stood on the curb, while Shyam stood on the carriageway, waving his red towel frantically, to alert the driver. The driver, accustomed to seeing struggling humanity on foot on a futile march, slowed down. Seeing the heavily expecting young woman, he needed no other incentive to stop. With profuse expressions of gratitude, the devotees of Vishnu Vardhan boarded. The truck was on its way to Kanchipuram, and the benevolent driver agreed to drop them on the border of Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu. He felt that they could easily board another vehicle and reach Kurnool by night. Arushi slept on the shoulders of Shyam, who kept chatting with the driver, Velu, about life and times.

It was about 3:00 pm when they reached the Andhra border. Despite the little they had, Shyam offered Rs 100 to the driver as he got down. Velu refused. “Keep it brother for your child,” was his kind response.

The scorching heat was mellowing as they set foot on NH40. Slowly and laboriously they walked, stopping occasionally to catch their breath. An hour later, Arushi was becoming breathless. She found the going very tough and sat down.  Shyam tried flagging every passing vehicle, but luck eluded him. Seeing the dusk falling, he was filled with a sense of urgency and made another attempt. As if in reward for his persistence, a tempo: AP6426 stopped. En route to Kurnool, the driver was ready to drop them on the outskirts of the town. “Only vehicles and animals could enter the town under lockdown,” said Jagan, the driver, humorously.

Grateful for the ride, they got in. The tempo picked up speed and raced on. Apart from the flickering lamp-posts that sped by, the road had been emptied of its people. As for the tempo, it jetted through the highway, its headlights tunnelling through the darkness.

It was past 10:00 pm, when Jagan led them down on NH40, on the outskirts of Kurnool. Shyam held out a two hundred rupee note. Jagan pushed his hand away, saying “No! Please don’t give me money. I have a young wife like you, Shyam,” he acknowledged. “Thinking of her, I helped you”. “I feel very sad to leave you here, but I have to leave now!”. With that, the tempo sped away.

The migrants walked on, plodding through the pitch darkness, aided by the flashing light of passing vehicles. They needed a perch to rest for the night. It was then that Arushi felt her first spasm. The tension of the previous night, the exhausting walk, and the jolts delivered by the speeding vehicles seemed to oust the baby from its haven. Seating her for a while, Shyam moved on. A hundred feet or so ahead, he saw something and dashed forward. He came upon a hut. Overjoyed, he ran back frantically to collect Arushi and hastened their way to the refuge in the wilderness. In the lamplight, he checked the interiors and found it clean. It looked like a vegetable vendor’s cabin. With three sides closed, he only had to tie a chaddar in front, to get through the night.

He cleaned the floor thoroughly and laid out two chaddars. He stuffed an airbag and fashioned a pillow for her and placed the image of Vishnu Vardhan and on the head side. The formalities completed, he laid her gently and sat guard. A little later, she asked for something to eat and drink, and he served her what she had thoughtfully packed. None to let things to chance, she asked him to heat a knife over the fire and keep it ready, just in case. Then she lay quietly. As beads of sweat formed on her forehead, he fanned her gently. Seeing her writhing and wriggling, deep anguish seized his heart. He wondered what the night hid, and what the day would reveal. Occasionally, the barking of a dog some distance away and the sound of a speeding vehicle disturbed the makeshift home on the highway.

Soon, he was lost in reciting incantations to Vishnu Vardhan. As the night deepened, his actions became slow and erratic. How long it went on, only Vishnu Vardhan knew. A sharp cry jolted him out of his stupor. It was followed by a powerful cry. He was wide awake and attentive. “It is a boy,” she cried, as she reached out for the knife.

In the eastern sky, the spring clouds had parted, preparing to greet the new dawn. Venus shone in splendour, marking the birth of the child on the highway, just as the GLORIOUS STAR had marked the birth of the Great One, centuries ago.