TRANSLATED FROM KANNADA BY THE AUTHOR
It was a scorching afternoon in May. The sun hung heavily in the sky as if it had wrapped the atmosphere in fire. The trees stood motionless, resembling meditating gomatas. Even the wind had gone into hiding. It was so bright, one couldn’t lift their head to look at the sun directly. The roads were quieter than usual, few dared to brave the heat.
In front of the primary school’s main gate stood Geeta, waiting for her daughter. She was oblivious to the burning heat; her mind was ablaze with a deeper unrest.
“How long will this go on? What next?”
Her thoughts churned as she waited for Anita to appear. Five days a week, Geeta came to pick her. Dropping her off in the morning was Anirudh’s responsibility. This routine had continued for the past three years. Anita was now ten years old. Their house was only a kilometer from the school. Many children of her age walked by themselves, but Anita couldn’t. She wasn’t like other children. She wasn’t a normal child.
Everything had been fine when she was born. How it all changed within a year – no one could explain. As Geeta stood alone at the gate, memories from nine years ago came rushing back.
It was Anita’s first birthday, the eve of August 15th.
“Geeta, I’m heading out to get flowers and the cake. You’re handling the rest, right? Guests may start arriving any time,” Anirudh called, starting his motorcycle.
Running from the kitchen to the door, Geeta called after him, “Bring some roses along with the jasmine garland. Red ones, okay?”
“Got it! Get your darling ready. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he shouted back.
It was their first child’s first birthday. The couple had planned a grand celebration. Relatives and college staff had been invited. Geeta, a university postgraduate, had become a lecturer at a local college, trying to balance ambition with family life. Her marriage to Anirudh had been arranged by elders, but love had grown steadily. Anirudh held a senior position in the education department.
After two years of marriage, when Anita was born, Anirudh’s mother Kamalamma stayed with them to help, especially since Geeta had lost her own mother early in life.
Anita was beautiful – her mother’s large, black eyes, thick curls, and her father’s fair skin. Geeta had always wanted a daughter, and here she was. After six months of maternity leave, she returned to work. Kamalamma took care of the baby despite her age, though one day she voiced a concern.
“Geeta, maybe you should consider resigning. Leaving such a small child for the whole day … It’s not ideal.”
Geeta hesitated. Anirudh left the decision to her, saying nothing.
The day of the birthday, Geeta was exhausted from preparations. As evening turned to night, she fell asleep beside her baby. But at midnight, Anita began crying. Geeta picked her up, her body was burning. She woke Anirudh in a panic. He tried giving her water, but the fever did not subside. They gave her paracetamol and applied cold compresses, but the fever wouldn’t subside.
“Where’s the thermometer?” Geeta asked frantically.
“Can’t find it!”
Kamalamma entered, worried. “What happened? She’s crying continuously?”
“High fever, Amma. We might need a doctor.”
“A doctor? For fever? No, no. This is someone’s evil eye. She was admired too much yesterday. Wait, I’ll deal with it.”
She took salt and chilies, circled them around the baby’s head, and tossed them into the fire. They crackled loudly.
“There. The bad eye is gone. She’ll be fine by morning.”
But the fever raged on. Anita was rushed to the family doctor, Mr. Joshi, and admitted. After two days, she recovered. But a new worry emerged.
“Her eyesight doesn’t seem normal,” the doctor said. “You should consult an ophthalmologist.”
The specialist confirmed their worst fear: Anita had no vision in either eye.
Geeta couldn’t believe it. “This can’t be. She was fine until the fever…”
“It likely existed before,” the doctor explained. “She couldn’t express it. She’s too young.”
Geeta collapsed into a chair. Anirudh’s voice trembled. “What can be done, doctor? Anything, please.”
“We need to run tests. Determine the cause. Then we’ll know.”
Though the fever subsided, their lives had changed forever. Grandmother Kamalamma was devastated. Geeta, hiding her pain, reassured her, “Amma, don’t tell anyone. She’ll be fine. I believe that.”
But Anita’s condition didn’t improve. Her words were limited; crying was her primary language. Geeta’s confidence began to waver. They sought out more doctors – some blamed nerves, others genes, some the retina. Treatments dragged on for years.
Amid this, Kamalamma blamed Geeta’s lineage. “No one in our family had such problems. This is from your side – your sister Shashikala’s daughters are also unwell.”
“They aren’t blind, Amma. Their issues are different – mental, not visual.”
Even Anirudh seemed to agree with his mother. Geeta’s frustrations increased.
Shashikala, her cousin-sister, was strong yet soft-spoken. Despite having two mentally challenged daughters, she managed her job, household, and caregiving with grace. She had become Geeta’s silent inspiration. Geeta often wondered how Shashi managed it all.
Years passed. Anita didn’t gain her sight, but her love for music blossomed. She was admitted to a school for the blind. Geeta learned to ride a scooter just to take her there and back.
Anita learned braille quickly. Her memory and touch sense were sharp. Still, Geeta ached – what kind of life would this be? Anirudh had accepted it, but Geeta’s ambitious spirit hadn’t.
Then came the thought of a second child. Kamalamma pressured for a grandson. Anirudh hesitated. “What if this happens again?”
“We can test during pregnancy and abort, if necessary,” he said.
Geeta was horrified. “No. That’s still a life. I can’t … even if it’s deformed, it wants to live. I can’t play God.”
Eventually, they left it to fate. A year later, Geeta gave birth to a healthy baby boy – Tanmay. Joy returned to their home. Anita was overjoyed. Tanmay grew up asking questions about everything. For a time, he was deeply attached to his blind sister.
But as he grew older, his attitude shifted. He began feeling embarrassed around friends.
“Don’t come out when my friends are here. It’s awkward,” he said one day. Geeta was crushed.
Tanmay was bright and interested in medicine. Geeta saw in him her lost dream. Anita, meanwhile, excelled in music. Her voice mesmerized. She earned diplomas and began dreaming of a career in music.
Then fate struck again. Geeta was in a hurry, Anirudh was out of town, Tanmay had friends over, cooking wasn’t finished. She rushed back from school with Anita. At a junction, a car hit her scooter.
She fell hard, her chest hit a milestone, her neck twisted. She was taken to hospital, semi-conscious. Anirudh was summoned and arrived the next morning.
Internal injuries were severe. Surgery was scheduled. Before being taken in, Geeta opened her eyes briefly.
“I want to write,” she gestured.
“Tell me. I’ll write,” Anirudh said.
She insisted on doing it herself. With trembling hands, she wrote a few lines, then closed her eyes – forever.
Three days later, the bandages were removed from Anita’s eyes. She returned home. Anirudh led her to a photo on the wall.
“Look,” he said, tears welling. “That’s your mother.”
Anita had never seen her before. To her, she looked like an angel.
Anirudh wept silently. God, he thought, is a trader. He didn’t give Anita vision but blessed her with divine music. Now, he gave her sight and took her mother away.
He gives with one hand, and takes with the other. Maybe that’s how he remains needed by imperfect humans.
Also, read A Letter Arrived by Surya Dhananjay only on The Antonym.
Also, read Love in the Time of Typhoid or the Sprite that Loved the Fisherman by K. Rekha only on The Antonym.
Love in the Time of Typhoid or the Sprite that Loved the Fisherman — K. Rekha
