Every
time Bindu ma’am held our Nepali textbook, I used to notice her slender
fingers, her sharp-pointed manicured nails painted dark red like a fresh rose
of our landlord’s garden. How could I not notice her golden ring shining
brightly in her right middle finger? They were the most beautiful ornament I
had seen so far. Her red matt lipstick always used to match her bright red
well-creased saree. She was the first female teacher we had in our secondary
level. Well! The first female I had known so far who was pursuing her masters.
Her son was one of my classmates and I
thought about how lucky he was to have her as his mom; not only was she
beautiful but intelligent too. She used to share a lot of interesting stuff;
stories of victory, stories of loss, poetries of Devkota, biographies of
Koirala, dramas, novellas whatnot. She spoke verses that were so pleasant to my
ears.
Oh! How I wished I could listen to her all
the time!
Oh! How I wished to be like her- wearing
her red velvet block heeled shoes! How I wished…
Yes, how I wished…
I wished as I looked into the mirror, I
would see a reflection of Bindu ma’am in me. Alas! The mirror on my aama’s podrej daraz always reflected a younger version of
my old aama every time
I looked at it, round face with a button nose completely different than Bindu
ma’am’s who had a symmetrical face with a pointed nose. The red wrinkled ‘sutiee ko saree’ was something that she
used to wear every day to her nursery class in her old flip-flops, again,
opposite of what Bindu ma’am used to wear. I used to turn red out of shame as
she used to sometimes visit the secondary block to give me my tiffin box. Her
cheeks used to turn red too. That might be the reason, she hardly visited my
class. Besides ‘A.. B.. C.. D.. and Ka..
Kha… Gha.. Ghaa…’ she didn’t know anything and she had shared how difficult
it was for her to send me to a private school just on my father’s income. The
school had promised me free education for her service in the primary block.
More than having feelings of gratitude towards her, I felt ashamed at her
inability to help me solve my Math problems or buy me a separate science
notebook or help me prepare in my oratory competition. I never realized when my
cheeks had started to turn red out of anger more than out of shame.
This red never stopped following me. From
my teacher’s flowing saree to my pleated white skirt that I had to keep on turning
around the whole day as a shed of red always dropped from tattered sanitary pad
made of my aama’s old sutiee ko saree. I had shared every time about
my friends using ‘Stay Free’ when my aama used
to tear her saree and teach me how to fold the saree in a way that it fits my
underwear. And I still remember when not just my underwear but my whole body
used to drip red hot blood out of anger for my aama turning her ears deaf to my concern;
for every safety pins that I had to hook in my white skirt; for every scolding
that I had to get from my teachers when I was reluctant to stand up and answer.
I never realized how slowly I had started
to hate the color red. The hatred grew much stronger with time. It was always
the Red house that won the essay competition. It was the RED house that won the
awards in cleanliness. It was the Red house that was applauded every time for
the discipline as well. I hated how I had to stand in front of my school
assembly just because of the collar of my blue shirt used to be dirty because I
didn’t have an alternative shirt to change every day. I felt guilty for not
being a part of the Red house. The silence was the only armor to hide my face
that used to turn red all because of guilt.
Was I the chosen one?
If I was then, could I do anything about it?
Before I could find an answer to this
question, the hatred for this color red grew deep when I saw the color
scattered on the cracked walls of my best friend Ramila’s house. It was only a
few days back when she had joyfully shared that their parents had painted their
walls white in her elder brother’s request who was preparing for his S.L.C.
exam. The topper in his class, he had requested their parents to paint the
walls white so that he could concentrate on his studies. I had promised her
that I would soon visit her unaware of the fact that when I would reach there
the white would have already turned into smoky black that too mixed in the
color of the dark red blood of her intelligent brother. Nobody had anticipated
the tragic death of the future engineer in a bomb blast in his room.
This time the color red disgusted me. I
felt like puking because this time I could smell the color red and it was
pungent. This time the red was vivid and the vividness grew clearer and I could
see a group of people with guns interrogating
Ramila holding her filthy piece of cloth. I could recognize it was a tattered suttee ko saree. I was sure that must have been
her mother’s just like mine because I could see Ramila turning red out of
shame. I would have died at the moment if someone had held my sanitary pad like
that. Ashamed, Ramila stood there still looking at that dangling piece.
The next day, in school, the window seat
next to me, was empty. Bindu ma’am entered the class wearing a black kurtha suruwal. She asked us to turn our books
on a poem by Bhupi Sherchan. The page had had the feathers of a peacock and
some dried red petals of roses that I had secretly plucked from my landlord’s
garden. I placed all the petals mindfully- one by one, on my palm, shifted near
the window and blew them away. Five rows in front of me, Bindu ma’am was
reading,
“ Chiya ko Kitlibata eeuta surya udaucha,
Sadhai raksiko ritto gilasma eeuta surya aastaucha
Ghumirahekai cha ma baseko prithvi – purwawat,
Fagat ma aparichit chu
Wariparika pariwartanharu dekhi,
Drishyaharu dekhi,
Ramailo dekhi,
Pradarshaniko ghumne mechmathi
Kaarle baseko aandho jastai.”
(A sun rises from the kettle of tea
There is always a sun set on an empty
glass of wine
The earth inhabited by me keeps on
revolving — As usual
Albeit, I am unfamiliar
To the changes around,
From the views,
From fun,
Just like the blind forced to be seated on
the revolving chair
Of the exhibition.)
