Amarshrastha - Motherhood - A Tale Of Love
This story is written by Amarshrastha and Indian and is translated into English. Salim is 18 years old and Preetha is 30 years old. It has a story arc introducing the characters so please be patient.
Preetha's eyes went heavy as she was leafing through the pages of the newly arrived magazine. It is happening to her often these days, a side effect of having too many valiums for sleep. She can't sleep at night, and throughout the day, a spell of gloom and drowsiness hangs heavy over her like a shroud. Her cell phone was buzzing with vibration on the table beside the bed, it must have been Sayani from her office. She has been calling so many times, don't they realize she won't be going back to work?
Preetha was thinking about sending the resignation letter to the H.R, but such ennui afflicted her that she didn't even feel like sitting in front of the computer and typing it out. It has been weeks since she last checked her Facebook and Twitter accounts, something which she couldn't live without before. No whatsapp, no messages, no gmail, no calls, she is living in the massive 3 BHK apartment in Golf Green (a posh residential locality in the metropolis of Kolkata in India) like a marooned sailor. Her only connection with the outside world was the maid who comes every other day to clean up and cook for her. She doesn't even feel like making food for herself. If the maid doesn't come, she orders lunch or dinner from the nearby restaurants who deliver at home.
A sudden gust of cool wind brushed on her bare feet, entered the lower part of her saree like a mischievous lover and blew the pallu (part of the saree cloth which covers the breasts) baring her blouse-covered chest. She climbed out of the bed and arranging her saree, headed outside towards the balcony. A storm was billowing. The lines of trees across the road were shaking their shaggy heads like they were epilepsy inflicted. It was Kalbaishakhi, a storm accompanied by thunder squall that occurs a few times every year during or slightly before the Bengali month of Baishakh (early April) in Bangladesh and West Bengal, following the hot and humid Choitra month, erasing an old year and symbolizing the washing away of the grime of the past. The owner of the tea stall across the road was struggling with the shutter of his shop to close it against the violent gusts. People were running helter-skelter to find cover from the impending storm and torrential rains.
The darkness in Preetha's heart was reflected, as it were, across the sky as dark clouds had covered it from horizon to horizon. Slivers of lightning were streaking through the inky blackness that blotted out the blazing sun of the afternoon. Another gust of violent wind blew away Preetha's pallu as she caught it instinctively. The wind was like an invisible naughty lover trying to violate her modesty. As she covered her chest drawing back the slick strip of silk, she could notice two circular damp stains on her blouse. She could also feel a slight throbbing pain as well. The doctor had prescribed some pills to stop spontaneous effusion, Preetha had stopped taking them for quite some time. The pain was nothing compared to the pain of bereavement that numbed her heart and soul. This pain was a constant reminder of what she had been robbed off, what those monsters had done to her. The physical pain provided some balance to the agony of her heart.
She could smell herself, the scent of her womanhood, the scent of her robbed motherhood, the scent of pent up milk in her breasts, now spilling out. She had been effusing for quite some time, she didn't even realize. This is the reason Preetha doesn't wear western clothes like T-Shirts, tops or salwar-kameez these days. These spontaneous effusions have become an issue of embarrassment for her. If she wears a saree, the pallu covers her blouse, the wet stains are hidden beneath the cloth. Sometimes, when she goes downstairs, she could see the neighborhood kids playing in the park and looking at them, Preetha could neither control her tears or her breast milk which threatened to ooze out of her eyes and breasts.
Preetha could not take that smell anymore. The first drops of rain had spotted the road on the ground like leopard print, and the musty smell of the wet earth and her leaking motherhood were strangely identical. The sky will quench the thirst of the earth, Preetha's breasts were equally full to the brim, but she had no one thirsting for her. Her lap was empty as a desert.
She returned to the bedroom; she was hurting. Today it was worse; her breasts felt like they were going to explode. She pulled them out one by one from the captivity of her blouse and bra and saw a thick white stream rolling down her nipples. They weighed heavy in her hands, becoming heavier with the coagulating milk. Her eyes brimmed with tears looking at the elixir of life spilling out pointlessly, no little hungry mouth to clamp on them and swallow the sweetness filling a little belly, quenching the thirst. She will never have that eternal peace and satisfaction. She stripped off her half-wet blouse and bra and bared herself in front of her dressing table. Before coming back from San Francisco, she had brought numerous expensive cosmetics and make-up kits in a hurry. Living in the U.S had made her snobbish against Indian products. After she returned, she rejoined her old office, a famous and influential news broadcasting company in Calcutta, and in media, the unsaid rule is that you have to look good. Though looking good was not dependant on cosmetics for Preetha. As she looked at herself in the mirror bare bodied, Preetha was startled! Who is this she is looking at?
There were dark circles under her large beautiful eyes, her face was drawn in and dry, a rubenesque heaviness had settled on her once slim and athletic figure. It was the heaviness of motherhood, and in some other time, it would have made her look more full and beautiful on her statuesque, tall 5'10" stature; but she was not a mother, she could not be a mother, she was not allowed to be a mother! In her pre-pubescent years, kids of her age made fun of her due to her unnatural height, calling her pine tree, beanpole, white bamboo, etc. Like many other Bengali middle class parents, her folks were worried if she will ever gain a womanly figure and get married. When she was thirteen, even her dad had to look up to her while standing. Both her parents were of medium height, the genes of her gigantic grandfather skipped a generation and blessed her with it. While marching in sports day, she was always the last girl walking at the back of the line. However, she was quite athletic and sports were her life; she was the captain of the basketball team and continued playing till in college when she had to stop to avoid the greedy prying eyes of the boys.
She was always embarrassed due to her height. During Saraswati Puja (Festival of Goddess Saraswati, the ethnic Deity of Wisdom, which is celebrated in all Indian schools and considered as a regional Valentine's day among students because all girls wear saree on that occasion, making them look beautiful and lady like, and boys also dress up in ethnic dress of kurta/pajama or dhoti), all other girls roamed around in their respective boyfriend's arms while she was considered freakishly tall and gawky for male taste.
