Krishna Leela

by Suma Jayachandar

The post-monsoon roar is deafening.

Barachukki rips through the boulders like a monster and crashes into the foamy mirror, sending up a fine mist. I shiver. You rearrange my stole. And rest your arm on my shoulder.

A young couple holding hands bobs in front of us, leans on the railing, pouts, hugs, and clicks selfies. Then hops down the steps scanning for the next selfie spot. The crowd mills around on the plateau.

You scowl. I laugh.

I know. You wanted us to take this trip on a calm Thursday evening. I pushed for a Friday. I love to be swept into the swirls of the bustle when I can. Can you smell the heat of pakoras being fried in black pans, the sweetness of the cobs getting roasted on hot coal, and the sourness of the sliced raw mangoes? We wouldn’t get all of that on a Thursday, would we?

You are worried about the swelling crowd with the ticking time. Please don’t fret now, we’ll be fine.

“Do we go down, or sit here for a bit?” you point to the green bench facing the waterfall.

A troop of monkeys trapezes down the hanging roots of a sprawling banyan; a group of youngsters squeals.

“Let’s go down. Maybe a couple of rungs?” I want to feel the cool droplets plop on my face.

In fact, I would like to sprint down the steps with you, clasping a cone of warm roasted peanuts, reach the last landing, let you nibble a bit, and then gobble up the rest before it gets cold.

But, are you up for it?

“Hmm maybe, if you promise to hold my hand and not rush,” you smile, hooding your worried eyes.

My family and friends had warned me this would happen. A man at forty-one will not be able to keep pace with a young wife. He would be too cautious.

Twenty years on, I am tempted to agree with them.

“Promise! Can you get a cone of roasted peanuts, please?” I squint at you with the evening sun pricking my eyes.

***

I was twenty-five, heartbroken again, and looking for a new job. It felt weird to stay with my parents after being out of home for years—first for college and then for a job. But the greenery around the house in the cantonment was a balm to my broken spirit and I clung to its bosom.

Pa was busy commanding his unit that was on summer exercise and Ma was busy with her welfare and ladies’ club meetings. It was a relief to be left alone at the house, and not be prodded by inquisitive jibes at unexpected moments—at least for most of the time.

After moping around for a month, I ventured out for morning walks. The bursts of bougainvillea along the path lined with tamarind, neem, and mayflower trees did cheer me up a bit and made my days bearable.

After what seemed like forever, the summer sun dragged itself to monsoon clouds.

I had an inkling my solitude was about to be disrupted when Ma returned from the beauty parlour with her eyebrows arched into thin bows and her face polished to a shiny glow. And sure enough, she called out, “Leela, there’s going to be a house party tomorrow. Unit just came back from the exercise. A few officers from other units will also be there. Would you care to join?”

“No.”

I had met enough people. Charming people, who had made me hate myself afterwards.

Ma shot arrows through her eyes even as she stopped herself from saying something. Then she turned to the kitchen, eager to confer with her trusted chef and share her party food recipes that never failed to succeed, unlike her daughter.

I crawled back to my room and locked the door.

***

Had the wind not blown off the electricity, I would not have come out of my room that evening. The sepoys hollered outside, trying to get the generator to work. I couldn’t find a candle in my room.

I tiptoed along the corridor. Only to stumble on you and hit the wall. Something came crashing down on my bare feet.

The generator bellowed outside spewing the petrol fumes. The light flooded the corridor, blinding us. The Cheriyal scroll Ma had hung on the wall lay shattered on the floor. A few shards were stuck in its frame and the rest scattered around it, crumpling the crimson khadi on which the tales of divine love were painted in hues of turmeric, betel leaves, and ruby dust into glittering pools.

You glanced at it and exclaimed “Krishna Leela!” And the next moment, you lifted me up and rushed to the nearby couch, as if I were your buddy to be rescued from a minefield!

My insides churned with abhorrence at your impunity. Till I saw the blood gush out of my foot and fainted.

The next morning, I woke up with wisps of a new longing stirring inside me. I felt alive, in a way I had not in a long time. I didn’t think much about it. For I didn’t believe in divine intervention.

I was told you had excused yourself from dinner. But you did ask me out for dinner a few days later, as soon as I could limp in my peep-toe shoes.

***

Within weeks, I got a new job in Bengaluru and moved out of the cantonment. It was not the age of cell phones or Facebook. So, you came all the way from Secunderabad, just to check if the toes had healed. I assured you my toes had healed well. To prove it, I invited you to join me on a trek with my friends. Well, at least that’s what I told myself.

My friends—they saw in you what I was blind to.

It took me five months and as many visits from you to shatter the frame I had encased my heart in. And lay it bare, at your mercy, hoping you wouldn’t trample on it.

I also did something I had never done before. Asked my friends what they thought of us, as a couple.

He may not be very romantic; he is a bit old for that.

When you get older, he will just be too old.

When you get really old, he might be in a wheelchair.

And then, asked them to shut up. None of it was true. I knew it.

The way I saw it, you had transcended the youthful need to grab another person’s essence to make your fragrance; you were already fragrant and were ready to share your essence with me.

So, a year later, when you popped the question at the base of Jog Falls, all I could say was,

“What took you so long?” and cry.

Not only did you carry me up all the way, but you carried us through all the barbs thrown at us through the years. And stayed strong for both of us.

Till now.

***

You return with two cones. But don’t hand me any, yet.

I hold your hand; you prop me against your left shoulder and begin to climb down the steps. Clumps of elephant grass flank the wide, stone steps. We wobble a bit and make it to the first landing. A young couple with a soap bubble-blowing child walks past us.

“Here,” you open the first cone and hand it to me. I want to protest. This should happen at the last landing. But I look at your face and take it. It has already gone cold. I offer you a handful though. A couple of girls about the same age as our daughter exchange looks, and get up from the bench, gesturing for us to take it. You answer my question.

“Nalini is coming home, tomorrow.”

She shouldn’t. Not in the middle of her school term. Her future should not be spoiled over some silly sentimental stuff. That’s what we decided, right?

“Okay.”

“Don’t worry, she will be home only for a couple of days.”

You shouldn’t be able to do that. Read my mind and do the things that my heart desires even before I know—like you suggested we adopt Nalini five years after marriage, after multiple miscarriages.

I clutch at the binoculars hanging down my neck as we settle down on the bench. With a few turns of its knobs, I bring a coracle floating downstream into focus; A frieze of faces exploding with glee and fear hits me. I drop the binoculars and munch the rest of the peanuts in muted fury, gnashing their saltiness into a rough paste before gulping it down with disappointment and turning the cone upside down in the end.

You take the empty cone as I stand up. You have already given away your cone, unopened, to an urchin selling the plastic flutes. And have bought a couple of flutes.

The crowd below cheers excitedly, “Rainbow!”

You hold me back from rushing down to join them. I insist, like a petulant child. You sigh.

“Leela, must you go down?” with your eyebrows knotted together.

You seem hell-bent on not letting me go down. But darling, do you really have a choice?

“Yes, don’t you want me to see the rainbow?”

You gulp and take my hand. The scarf slips off my head. A passing teenager’s jaw drops. You glare at him and retie my scarf.

You do that a lot. Treat me like a fragile work of art. It used to make me feel irritated, but not anymore.

***

We are at the base, at last. At the rim of the basin, the water is shallow and clear, undulating on the pebbles. I dip my toe in it; a chill runs up my spine. I want us to wade through the ripples to reach the rock under the waterfall, sit on it, and let the water drench us and wash away the grit that weighs down on my soul.

You put your foot down.

“The pebbles in the water will be too slippery, Leela. Please understand,” you plead.

You won’t stop me from leaping into the magic of the moment, would you? After all, that’s what brought us together in the first place. And made you, a reticent bachelor, a boy from the village who had to earn and save enough to marry his two sisters off, swoop me in your arms and secure me in your heart.

You win. But I wear you down into sitting on a rock at the rim, dangling our legs in the air. My toes long to dip in the water—cool, cleansing, vibrant water.

A V of birds flies in the sky into the woods beyond. I feel untethered.

“Tell me, Krish, do you wish you weren’t saddled with… a difficult brat like me?”

The plastic flutes rattle in your hand, and the veins bulge out of your knuckles.

The sun climbs down the hills, pouring molten gold into the waterfall, leaving the sky bleeding. Nature’s Cheriyal scroll.

You point your finger at it.

“When I get to be with you in this, should anything else matter?”

I place my head on your shoulder. You plant a kiss on it, fleeting as a butterfly.

A guard blows the whistle, urging the visitors to leave the place before dark.

A breeze passes through. A fine mist envelops us. You hold me in your arms. I close my eyes and inhale the exuberance around me.

The guard blows the whistle again. There isn’t much time left.

I want to rush to the waterfall, stand on the slippery rock with my arms wide open, and howl into the wind,

“I NEED MORE TIME!!”

But I’m breathless. Chemo has drained me.