One two one two three by Nandini Gupta

Toronto

At the end of a long day, Mandakini set off for home. An icy wind stung her face, shadowy figures lumbered along slushy sidewalks. She was eager to be home, hoping Rangan would have a casserole going. But when she turned the corner at Spadina, her steps  faltered. The house stood dark and still, with no lights in the windows;  no Rangan at the study table, no aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen inside. She found him face down on their bed, his arm dangling over the phone lying on the floor. 

Blinding lights, piercing sirens, paramedics arrived. She stood still by the bed, impervious, her face white, her dark kohl-lined eyes dilated with shock and bewilderment. Unruly coils escaping a red silk bandana clustered around her face like tiny snake-heads. If she had been performing the navarasa, the nine emotions that make up the repertoire of Indian classical dance, she could not have choreographed terror more eloquently.

 After the funeral, Mandy shut herself up in the bedroom and let the blackness sweep over her. Food turned to chalk.  Nights were infested with shadows. She stared uncomprehendingly at the grief counsellor’s lips moving soundlessly like in a muted television. 

Then one day, like a tornado, Devika arrived.

“ Pack your bags. You are coming home with me. ”

Sajangaon

The taxi veers away from the old Mussoorie Road and plunges down the hillside. It stops in front of a small brown house. Devika’s mother, Gaura Devi, very tall and straight even at eighty, appears. 

“Come, beta!, she says gently touching Mandy’s cheeks.  Her hands are cool as water from an earthen pot.

Later, Gaura Devi serves her lunch on the terrace: hot millet rotis with ghee and kulath daal,  tender greens drenched in piquant mustard oil. Mandakini eats. She goes for long walks. Women with colourful scarves tied round their heads bask in the sun. Snot-nosed children scamper behind mules laden with corn-flour. 

Out on her walks, one day, she meets Prateek, who tells her that he runs a school in the village, the ‘Better High English Medium School for Boys and Girls’.

“.Gauraji thought you might  teach our children for a few months. Will you?” 

Mandy hesitates. He adds quickly, “We do not teach them from books, but help them learn from the world around them. You can tell them about a country they will never visit.”

“Come in and see for yourself.”, he continues.

A loud lesson is in progress in one classroom, joyous yet tuneless singing in another. A group of children are engaged in sowing saplings at the far end of the field.  Two girls with cracked cheeks, dark eyes and long plaits, break away squealing with merriment. Their faces flushed, their eyes bright, they jump up and down. Gleefully, they sing ,  ‘One two one two three, Clap, clap, clap with me.”

One two, one two three, one two, one two three: the beats of  Jhaaptal. A roomful of six year olds in Dehradun.  Decades ago.  Struggling with the first kathak steps. The teacher setting the tempo:  “dhee na, dhee dhee na. Tee na, tee tee na.  Taa thoi taa taa thoi, aa thoi aa taa thoi…” Her first dance lesson. Her feet twitch. Her fingers quiver,  every muscle in her body trills. Deep within her, something stirs. She looks at Prateek and says, “Just for a few days. After that I have to go back home.”

Years pass.  Mandy cannot tell how and when Sajangaon becomes home.