Abhinaya

I met her on one of those afternoons when I ran away from home. I had gone as far as the street corner and she was standing on one side of a busy lane. Madras is unsympathetic and undisciplined in its streets. She was blind and struggling to cross the lane even as all kinds of unimaginable vehicles crept from every everywhere and oozed through every pore on that noisy, packed gully. I slowly put out my left hand towards her right, and she grabbed it in a tight grip when she felt it on her palm. Her grip slackened immediately, I think, when she realized I was a child. I led her across the street, a distance of 20 feet maybe, at the first opportunity and she thanked me.

"It's okay," I said. My Tamil is good but is that funny dialect spoken in the slums of Madras. It isn't my mother tongue and I picked it up from the servant's sons.

"Would you like to earn five rupees?" She asked. I mumbled a yes. I've seen blind people before and they have an awkward way about them, this one didn't and she was dressed well to boot.

I've never remembered, or assumed to remember, an event from my childhood more clearly than the time I first met her. She offered me five rupees to take her to a Ganesh temple nearby. I must confess in all those times I ran away from home as a child, I never ventured past the Bhai's shop around the corner. I usually waited sulking at the end of my known universe and dad would come to pick me up. I even got a sweet from the Bhai's shop and all was forgotten. I was about six then. This time I wanted to take her to the temple but I had no idea of where it was. I told her as much.

"Can you take me to the nearest shop?" she asked. I quietly led her into the cycle store we were standing in front of. The shopkeeper asked me what I wanted and she asked him directions to the temple. The little, bearded man very patiently told me to walk as far as the provision store down the street and turn right. I did just that. It was quite a distance for me then but I was too beheld by her to worry about being kidnapped or losing my way home.

We must have looked quite a sight then, blind, beautiful woman and helper kid. I smile when I imagine myself doing that. That afternoon I led her to the temple and stopped in front of it. She folded her hands in prayer and said some kind of a short silent prayer I think. She wasn't even facing the deity. In my opinion, that shouldn't have made a difference. I still stare at the idol in a temple and wonder if there is God listening in it. She reached out for me when she was finished.

"The house next door is a yellow one, a door number 6. Can you take me there?" she asked.

As I remember it, the house next door was totally hidden to me behind tall imposing walls painted a light cream. I led her to the gate and hoped it was the right place. As she reached for the gate she stopped and asked me if I wanted another five rupees. I mumbled an OK. She asked me to wait for some time and help her back to where I found her and I agreed.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Abhi," I said.

She smiled, "That's a sweet name for a boy," she said to me. She went in without giving me the first five rupees and I just waited outside the gate. That was the last I saw of her for quite some time. My dad came looking for me and found me squatting near the gate. He was terribly worried when he didn't find me at the usual place. He told me later he was even all set to file a police complaint but for the cycle store guy. Dad always pampered me, so I got off easily but I must say I felt disappointed at not being able to see her again or keep my promise.

It wasn't until quite sometime later that I found out her name was Parijatha. As far as I know she always remained under the impression that I was a street urchin who needed those ten rupees.