Sister of my Heart

'Final Touch' said Anju as she took from her school-bag a black eye pencil and - yes, a lipstick. From where? But I didnt ask. I was learning that my cousin had her secrets too. In the damply lit Jenana bathroom we changed into the bright kurtas that lay light as wings on our skin.

We darkened each other's eyes with inexpert fingers and outlined each other's mouth with the lipstick which was rich maroon quite unsuitable for young girls. But we were reckless by now, giggling as we loosened our braided hair to fall in waves around our flushed faces. When we turned to the mirror to admire ourselves, I was shocked at how grown up we looked, as though we had crossed over a threshold into the house of adulthood. As though there would be no turning back.

'Oh Sudha', Anju breathed. 'You look stunning. People will be lookin at you instead of watching the actresses on the screen.'
'Don't be silly', I replied, giving her a little push. But I was pleased. We stuffed our uniforms into our school-bags and went to get our tickets.

We are lucky: we have good seats with an un-obstructed view of the screen, and though the theatre is crowded, there is an empty seat next to mine where I thankfully drop my schoolbag. I had been nervous about who I would have to sit next to. Whenever we went to the cinema with the mothers, they sat on the outer edges, buffers between us and the world. For a heartbeat, I miss their protective presence.

But the hall is so fascinating with its high ceiling and cornices embossed with plastic flowers, the rich red velvet of its stage curtain, its aisles that give off a sweetish smell like that zarda that women chew after meals. And the people. Even after the start of the film, which is marvellously romantic and sad, just as I had imagined, I cannot stop watching them. The light from the screen casts an unearthy glow on their rapt faces, wiping away lines, lifting away years. As they smile, or touch a handkerchief to their eyes, they appear strangely, heart-catchingly innocent. And yet so mysterious. Even Anju, in the seat next to mine, emotions flitting like moonlit clouds over her face, seems like someone I do not know at all.

Then a male voice says.."Excuse me, is someone sitting here?"

Just my luck! The last thing I want is a strange man sitting next to me, ruining my pleasure in the film by whistling or making crude kissing sounds during the romantic scenes. I've heard schoolmates complaining of such things. Maybe I can tell him that a friend is sitting here, that she just stepped out for a moment?
But when I look at him, I know i need not worry. 'How could u know, Madam Experience?" How many men have you talked to in your lifetime? Anju would ask later. As it happens he got us into an awful lot of trouble. Sometimes you just know, I would tell her. And the trouble we got into was not his fault.

In the pearl light of the theatre, the man's - but he was not much more than a boy himself - eyes glimmer, dark and bright in turns. His smile is at once open and apologetic. His hair tumbles over his forehead. Charmingly, I think.
"Awfully sorry to disturb you, but I think this is my seat." He holds out his ticket towards me, pointing to the number. The cleft of his chin can break a girl's heart.
I lift my schoolbag from the chair. To keep myself from smiling I stare sternly, fixedly at the screen, where the hero has just boarded the night train. In a moment he will see the sleeping heroine and fall in love, unequivocally, irreversibly, in the way of true passion, world without end.
But I can't stop myself from looking just once out of the corner of my eye.

He is intelligent, I can tell that just by how he holds himself, his body relaxed yet alert. Probably a college student from St. Xavier's maybe. Or Presidency. Open at the throat, his white shirt is very clean and smells of mint. And when, heart pounding, I raise my eyes a little higher, his lips are smiling. At me.
How long do we look at each other in that cinema that is neither in the world nor out of it? How long do we remain suspended in that timeless opal light that gave us strange permission? I dont know. I must have glanced at the screen from time to time, though I had long since lost track of the story. ( The heroine is weeping as she reads a letter. Then she is dancing- is it at her beloved's wedding party? She throws a glass on the ground and it shatters, but she keeps dancing, her feet smearing with blood, but the pain is less than that which tears her heart. And then it's the end of the film, with her in his arms --but how did that come about? )
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They say in the old tales that when a man and woman exchange looks the way we did, their spirits mingle. Their gaze is a rope of gold binding each to the other. Even if they never meet again, they carry a little of the other with them always. They can never forget, and they can never be wholly happy again.
That is why, in families that kept the ancient traditions, girls were not allowed to meet men until the moment of auspicious seeing, shubho drishti, when the bride and groom gave themselves to each other with their eyes. It wasn't as Anju said, to keep the women ignorant and under control. The elders in their wisdom had done it to prevent heartbreak.
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"Sudha' Anju shakes my arm urgently. 'Sudha, what's wrong with you? Let's go!"
I try to focus on her words, but her voice comes from somwhere far away. I start to say something reassuring to her, but instead I find myself smiling at my - yes, foolishly, possessively, I think of him as such - my young man.
"Come on" says Anju, and now I see that her face is tight with worry. How ironic that she, the valiant one who has initiated this adventure, should be afraid just when my own timidity has disappeared. 'Let's go, we still have to change into our uniforms. If we dont hurry, we will never be able to get back to the school gates before Singhji arrives."
"Ok" I say. But all of them -- Singhji, the nuns at school, even the mothers with their inevitable anger -- belong to another universe, one that has nothing to do with me.

The young man speaks thoughtfully, musingly. 'Sudha' he says, and in his mouth my name takes on a sweetness, an elegance I never thought it could possess.
Anju draws herself up. "Please move out of the way so that we can get past" she says in her best grown-up voice.
"Yes of course", he says, courteous withought being apologetic. As Anju pushes past him he says, "Sudha, I'm Ashok, Ashok Ghosh. What is your full name?"
Ghosh. The word tolls inside my head like a warning bell. I can hear my mother saying, in her most disapproving patrician tones, What? A lower-caste man? I squeeze shut my eyes, willing her voice to fade.
"Sudha, stop, don't say anything. Anju cries, abandoning sophistication. "We dont know who this man is, what he might do, whom he might tell." She claps her hand over my mouth, but I move it aside. Ashok. The One who Banishes Sorrow. I know he'll never use the knowledge of my name against me.
"I'm Basudha Chatterjee", I say and I smile my most enchanting smile for him.

Anju's trying to pull me towards the door. The hall is almost empty and her voice echoes as she says, "Come on, Sudha. God, am I sorry I suggested coming to the cinema."
"It's OK, Anju don't worry" I say. A great tenderness fills me. Because she is my sister. Because she wants to protect me from harm. Because she is the one who brought Ashok and me together.
"DONT WORRY!" Anju's voice is brittle with desparation. "Don't worry she says. How can I not, when you stand here like your head is filled with cow dung instead of brains? Someone is sure to see you talking to a strange man, and then what will we do??" She yanks hard at me.

"Wait" Ashok extends an arm as though he would stop me. I wonder how his touch would feel, his fingtips electric, but warm also, like summer rain. But he hasn't forgotten the proprieties completely. At the last moment he fists his hand and jams it into his pocket. "Don't go so soon. Can i buy you a soft drink? Can we talk? Even a few minutes ----"
"No" says Anju angrily. "Is your head filled with cow dung too? Didn't you hear me say we would get into trouble at home if anyone saw us here with you? Please, just go away."
"Atleast let me call you a taxi"
"We're going to take the bus" Anju says as she pushes me to the door of the jenana bathroom. I look over shoulder at Ashok's fallen face. I wish I could tell him not to worry, we will surely meet again. But there is just enough time.....before Anju slams the bathroom door...... to say "We live in Baliganj"

"How can you be so stupid?" Anju bursts out even before the echo of the door fades. "You're acting just like one of those silly lovesick girls in the film. The first stranger you meet, just because he happens to sit next to you."
"Not just happens, Anju. Nothing Just Happens. I know ---"
But before I can say more, the door to one of the ladies' stalls swing open.

"GIRLS" says a familiar voice. "Girls is it you? I thought i recognized your voices, but then I thought, No.. not possible. What are you doing here? You should be in school, isn't it so? And what's this I hear? A man? Sitting next to you?" The large billowy form of Sarita Aunty emerges from the stall. She shakes out her sari pleats and stares at us, google-eyed.
"What are you wearing? And look at that STUFF on your LIPS! Like women of the street. Goodness, I had better take you home right away. Oh, just wait till your mothers hear of this!"

And, enormously elated Sarita Aunty grips our arms and holds on, as though she is afraid we might dissolve magically into the ammonia air of the bathroom and deprive her of the season's best gossip story. Her steely fingers dig into our flesh all the way home...

- by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni--- Book : Sister of my Heart

( This indian Author's style of writing is so real and vivid. No fancy words.. but just plain english expressing the traditions of marriage.. and how two sisters fall apart due to their different choices.. and how they come together due to their ever-strong bond of love. )

-Divster