The Harlequin Dream

    Harlequin/ n/ (formerly) a comic character in Pantomime, usu wearing a mask and dressed in a costume with a diamond pattern.

Granpa shifted on the charpai, swatting invisible mosquitoes over his head magnifying the noise in the dark- like a creepy eight-limbed monster plonking down on our terrace. My nine-year-old brain that had been fed on a diet of Enid Blytons and desi Tinkles was churning its learnings out fast and I was ready with my own curled up newspaper- the makeshift fan and my missile- within striking distance of the supposed beast. “Isn’t it uncharacteristically hot for June?” someone called out- the enemy head- leading a bandwagon of archaic soldiers- war heroes in their own right battling demons night after night, ensuring that their children slept soundly. We were on their turf, engaged in a furious war for supremacy on green killing fields struck by a posse of golden daffodils, which would soon turn rust with their blood. Come on, I shouted to my men inwardly, Charge! The battle cry froze in the air as the black veil which had surrounded me momentarily lifted with flickering tube lights as fans hummed to life. The power supply was now back.

As I hung around on the terrace while the rest of the family made their way back to normalcy- and dinner, the buzzing halo around the streetlight darted furtively here and there before lifting up into the open- eagerly rushing towards the barrage of other lights in the house.

My extended family of ten (during the summer holidays)- comprising uncles, aunts and their kids were seated round the table, feasting on lamb and meat dripping with rich wine sauces as I casually sauntered in. “Make yourself useful, Prerna- get the rice from the kitchen” ordered my mom. I went in and asked our maid to deliver the steaming haggis to our esteemed guests from far off Catalonia. We mustn’t offend them at any costs- I told her- they will refuse to sign the Lake treaty then, and where would we then find electricity to run our mills? She looked at me- a little bewildered as she went out, used to my make believe world of pure fantasy.

My granma was the only one who would understand my other world. I looked forward to the summer holidays only because she would come across to stay with us in our bigger house. Granpa and she lived in an exciting but smaller house in old Lucknow. Mom had once told me how she had hidden for a couple of hours, undiscovered, in the small attic of their house when she was younger, and I longed to try it out for myself. But however hard we kids begged, the grown ups would not budge from this house- it was bigger and better connected and all the cousins could have their own rooms- besides, the electricity men were kinder here. The most frequent power cuts happened in old Lucknow, and ‘grid’ failures were not uncommon. I used to think a grid failure was some kind of steps which collapsed- steps leading to the main electricity room, maybe? The kind we had seen in Amitabh Bachchan’s Deewar. It was during these power cuts that my dormant imagination would spring to life, colouring pieces of black and white conversation with multi-hued fantasies. We would often retreat to the large terrace, dotted with comfortable charpais (primarily because the terrace afforded some breeze in the sultry June heat) and while enthusiastic groups would start Antaksharis, I would either be involved in a war, or be gazing at the star-spangled sky, wishing that a UFO would choose our terrace to land During the day, Granma and I would sit for hours on her soft bed- plotting revenge against the atheists, while she would conjure up fancy names and titles for all my soft toys and dolls. In the mornings, before anyone would wake up, I would pad across to her room and snuggle in with her, reveling in that old comfortable smell, a mixture of soft earth and the faint perfume that the grace of old age brings. We would narrate our dreams to each other- while I would dream vividly of spaceships, forests, knights and kings, her dreams would largely comprise of old memories and the past- which she recounted to me in the form of stories. This usually signaled the start of a good day, while I thought of all tasks during the day- perhaps inviting the Duke of Orange for the summer ball and the Princess of Normandy to tea.

I would trail Granma all day- listening to her hum old bhajans and movie songs. Her crisp cotton sarees, her medicine chest, her dressing table- that was always full of sweets for us kids and her wardrobe that smelled sweet and faintly old fascinated me. She was a resolute woman, having worked for the ruling party in her youth, with a vivacious zest for life that would put any teenager to shame. In fact, Granpa used to say she had the strength and determination of the entire family combined. One of my favourite pastimes in the hot June afternoons with her was taking out all her jewellery and listening to its history- here was a kundan set she received as a bride- this was the lighter gold chain she had gotten when she had cooked the first meal in the house, these were the pearl earrings that Granpa had got for her when he had toured Hyderabad. In the scorching afternoon heat, while the fan whirred atop noisily, I would parade behind locked doors wearing her jewels, wrapped up in a silk saree, feeling every inch the princess she proclaimed me to be. I would look at my reflection in her mirror, which caught her fading youth in the slant of the afternoon sun, and feel sad for the years that had passed between us. I wished she was my age so we could be together and friends forever.

My aunts and uncles who descended upon us from far off towns like Agra and Allahabad, would be jealous of the time she spent with me. Sometimes, my aunts (who would not have the chance to see Granma for another year) would bundle me out of her room and lock it from inside and all I could hear would be whispers and muffled laughter. I usually sneaked in with Bela (our maid) and the evening tea and pakoras.

Granma was a treasure trove of stories. While my cousins would fill their afternoons and mornings with borrowed library books, I would listen to Granma’ s stories all through the day. My favourite was the Harlequin story.  

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Andrew the great, there lived a poor cobbler. He had a fair and beautiful daughter, Rosa, who looked after him and their house, as her mother had passed away. Fair Rosa did all the housework and cooked delicious but frugal meals for the cobbler and herself. They lived in a small one-roomed thatched cottage on the outskirts of the village. Rosa was sixteen.

One day, while the cobbler was bent over his last, sewing away furiously, a young man of about twenty came to his shop and asked for his riding boots to be mended. They had worn out, he told the cobbler, during the royal hunt taking place in the nearby woods. After careful inspection, the cobbler agreed to replace the young man’s worn sole for two gold pieces.

While he was busy at work and the young man was seated at his shop, Rosa came out to tell her father of their torn straw roof, through which a part of the sky could be clearly seen. The young man saw Rosa and fell in love with her beauty. He asked the cobbler for her hand in marriage.

The cobbler was only too happy to see such a fine young man ask for his daughter, but he wanted to be sure that Rosa would find a safe and rich home with the young man. He agreed, but only on condition that the cobbler see the young man’s means of livelihood himself.

The young man, whose name was Vassily hesitated for a moment, but seeing Rosa standing in the doorway of the straw hut, he agreed.

Vassily was part of King Andrew’s court. Apart from the usual entourage of jesters, clowns and mimics, there was a harlequin, who advised the King on important matters. The nature of his role was completely opposite to the function he performed. It was a widely held belief that the Harlequin had a divine connection with The One, and hence his spoken word carried more weight than that of all advisors and ministers. Naturally, the court was not without hatred towards him. The real identity of the Harlequin was unknown to all, except the King. Vassily was the Harlequin.

Hearing the cobbler’s request that he construed as genuine concern of a father, Vassily closed his eyes, and asked to be left alone with Rosa for a moment. Placing one hand on Rosa’s shoulder, he transferred his predicament to her- showing her a dream that was filled with all pleasures of the kingly court- food, music, wine, clothes, servants and jesters. And the Harlequin- important to the kingdom and the king, feared by all because of his bluntness and accuracy. And himself as the Harlequin. On seeing this, Rosa drew away in surprise, and opening her eyes, told Vassily she would take care of the matter. Vassily left for the woods again, with his mended boots, and a promise from Rosa that she would reach the King’s court the following day and they would work out a plan to fulfill the cobbler’s wish without divulging his work.

Rosa stole out secretly from their hut at dawn, carrying with her a modest bundle of handpicked flowers and some fruit. She had no wish to disturb her father- her mind brimmed with ideas and means to convince her father that Vassily was a hardworking and honest man. For during the course of the night, as she had lain on the straw bed, gazing out at her favourite star, she had seen its unusual brightness- and had taken this to be a lucky omen.

She arrived at the court about two hours later- dusty and tired. Her windblown hair only added to her beauty. The courtiers were surprised to see her. She looked around for the Harlequin but he was nowhere. At last the trumpets rolled and the King’s entry was announced. And there, following the King at a respectful distance was the Harlequin- Vassily, her love.

Rosa peered over the onlookers’ and courtiers shoulders in order for him to notice her, but he walked on. It seemed like he didn’t recognize her at all. Rosa was disappointed and shattered. Still, she felt he might approach her once the Court was over- but he walked away just as he had come. All day long, Rosa stayed near the Court, in the town square, waiting for Vassily. But he didn’t come. As night fell, she trudged slowly back to her hut, to her worried father and the despondency of rejection. The colours of the flowers in her bouquet had run dry and they looked grey and lifeless. The fruit she had carried for Vassily was shriveled and rotten. She cried herself to sleep. From that day onwards, every day, for a month, Rosa would make her way to the Court,

and wait for Vassily to remove his mask and come to her. At night, through the hole in the roof, she would look up at the sky, searching for her special star, but it was lost. Instead, it was filled with stars that shone as brightly as the diamonds on Vassily’ s mask and wonder at the injustice of it all. And once, when her father questioned her about Vassily, she remained silent.

For what could she tell him? They had parted ways to think of a solution to bring them together, and while Rosa had invented many paths to do just that, Vassily was lost.

And then, at the end of the month, she decided to let the matter be heard in Court. While she feared for Vassily’ s safety on one hand, she knew that if she did not find him soon, he would be lost to her forever as the cobbler was already looking for another groom for her.

Mighty King Andrew heard her story. The courtiers sighed in surprise. The jesters became silent with amazement. The King ordered the Harlequin to take off his mask in front of the Court. He agreed. Rosa stood holding her breath and her tears, waiting for that moment when she would finally see Vassily after a long wait of a month. But the face that the mask covered was not Vassily ‘s, young and handsome, but a gnarled and wrinkled one- that of the King’s oldest minister. The King looked aghast. Rosa fainted in the Court and when she came to, found herself in the market square, with the same minister staring down at her. As he walked away, she noticed he was wearing hunting boots, the sole of one of which was patched and sewn together.

No one knew what happened to Vassily. Rosa believed that he was killed during the royal hunt. The cobbler (to whom the story had been narrated) felt that his enemies, the courtiers might have conspired against him. There was no trace of him, no one heard of him.

But the flowers that Rosa grew were always without colour.   

<>I loved the ending. I loved the story and it soon became my favourite. I listened to it everyday- lying beside Granma with closed eyes and picturing young Rosa and Vassily- the straw cottage and the colourful court. My eager brain processed the ending in different ways. Maybe Vassily was the king’s oldest minister- disguised. Maybe he was a demon (which was why the flowers were colourless) or a witch. Each time I heard the story, my involvement with the characters grew, and I took to fancying myself to be Rosa- waiting for Vassily.

That was when three incidents happened which I still remember as vividly as yesterday’s breakfast.  

1.1       The Missing Idol We had an ornate puja ghar that was decorated with idols of every kind. While Ma would take care of it during the rest of the year, in the two months that Granpa and Granma stayed with us, it would be their domain. In fact, the pooja ghar was housed in their room itself. While Granpa finished his daily ten-minute pooja ritual immediately after his bath, Granma was more elaborate. She cleaned all the bronze idols every day with limewater and a soft cloth. She wiped the floor of the pooja clean and plucked fresh white jasmines everyday as offerings which none of us kids was allowed to touch or smell. The pooja itself was a large collection of golden idols, carefully placed in a semi circle. At the center of them all was mighty Shiva, with his coiled serpent, looking every inch the majestic destroyer and creator  Then there was Ganesha, with his round belly and cute mouse. Hanuman holding the Kailash Parbat, Ram and Sita, looking benevolent in their bronze likeness and Laxman, ever humble at their feet in a row. There were the Devis- Lakshmi on her lotus throne, Saraswati with her veena and Parvati. But most of all, I liked Krishna, with his little flute sticking out of the mould, being different than all the other idols and one that I could recognize with ease. While granma devoted half an hour each day to aarti and consequent prayer, I would sit at the door, observing all her actions- how she offered jal to Surya dev first at the small window, followed by sprinkling of the same holy water over the pooja ghar, offering the flowers, lighting the diya and agarbatti and performing aarti, singing Om Jai Jagdish in her strong voice. Sometimes my aunts would join in, if they had had a bath, otherwise, I would mumble the words along, happy to be entrusted with the dual task of ringing the ghanti and taking the clutch of agarbattis to each room, spreading the fragrant holy smoke. I loved to see the incense trail curl up and distribute itself as I gently blew on it. It reminded me of the smoke I had seen coming out of a building once, when it had caught fire. The concept that I had a potent weapon in my hand was enough to make me excited.

One day, while she was elaborately cleaning the pooja ghar, it was noticed that one of the idols was missing. (Granma used to rely on the easier and trusted trick of counting the idols besides remembering their places, as there were more than two dozen bronze gods). On inspection, it was found that it was Krishna who was the runaway. All of us kids were lined up and questioned, and soon afterwards all the maids were too. All possible hiding places were looked at. There was no sign of the blue god. I was especially sad, since he had been my favourite. More than exclaiming over lost bronze, Granma felt this was unlucky- losing so precious an idol just like that. The morning passed in mourning.

In the afternoon, when I went to the pooja room to listen to Granma’ s stories and settle for an afternoon siesta, I found her at the foot of the pooja ghar, clutching a copy of the Bhagavad Gita tightly. With the afternoon sun streaming in through the window, making her grey hair look silver, she looked like the perfect humble devotee, offering prayers to the lord. And at that moment, the enormity of the situation struck me. Granma was a simple lady- her wants and needs revolved around those of her children, grandchildren and her lord (and of course, Granpa), but just then, seeing her bent head catching the rays of the afternoon sun while an unexpected gloomy calm and silence filled the room, I knew I had to do something.

Years later, I would remember that scene as if it were yesterday. And even now, when winter waves a hazy goodbye to us, and the cold is melting into warm and its just about summertime, I can feel the same feeling of peace, tranquility and calm that stole over me that day, accompanied by a fleeting vision of a lady in a starched cotton saree, with her head bent.

I coughed a little to let Granma know I was there, watching her. She put away her holy book with a little tired sigh, wondering which of the gopis Krishna had run away with. That afternoon, I asked her for my favourite story, though I fell asleep at the part where Rosa reaches the court. And I dreamed the Harlequin Dream.

In my dream, a soft and dull moonlight stole over a large thicket. I was following someone- I knew not who. As I stumbled over grassy weeds and overgrown creepers, I heard a strange footstep behind me as a twig cracked. As I turned, I caught a fleeting glance of the Harlequin’s tasseled cap as he dodged behind a tree. I ran after him, but I couldn’t see where he was. I grew breathless and seemed to choke as I continued my mad run after him. Suddenly, I came upon a clearing. The ground was cushioned with a layer of soft leaves as I fell down, exhausted, gasping for air, feeling that I would die any minute.  And then, looking deep into my eyes was the Harlequin. The moon shone a little silver beyond his head, giving him a faint angelic halo. He spoke to me, though no words were uttered. He asked me why I was in the forest. I told him I was looking for the lost idol. He said it was close to me and in that dreamlike quality where one realizes what is happening without the solidity of dialogue and sound, I thanked him. That was when I woke up.

For a full minute I lay beside Granma, little rivers of sweat running down my forehead as my heart continued its thump thump and my mouth ran dry. I turned towards Granma to tell her of my dream, but strangely, she already knew.

Next morning, the idol was found underneath my pillow. One of the maids confessed to having taken it to sell it and earn some extra money. She was fired immediately, and I got myself listed in the golden books of Granma.  

1.2              Sleep

The next incident occurred in the same week. Bela, our maid who was also our cook, had taken to complaining ever since we fired the stealing maid, who, we hadn’t realized, was her right hand. Since it was difficult to find help at such short notice, Bela had to complete almost double the work in the same time. Though there were other maids, Bela was still in the process of grooming most of them and the onus of majority of the work fell to her. She remained sullen and gloomy the whole day, and to add to her worries, she complained of her sick child to Granma.

Granma listened to her story. Bela’s four year old son was healthy in all aspects- except one. He just wouldn’t sleep at night. All through the day when he sometimes came to our house to sit quietly in one corner or play with a broken fire truck, he seemed content. But Bela recalled to us the horrors of having him toss in bed the whole night, crying and upsetting others - a two year old daughter and her husband. Her husband was a tempo driver and needed his six hours of sleep. The daughter, on the other hand, was like an angel- slept through the night and didn’t wake a soul. The crying of the son often woke up their neighbours in the kachi basti where she lived. She was exasperated, she told Granma. She had tried everything- warm milk at night with haldi and mishri, an oil massage to soothe his scalp, even rocking him to sleep while her daughter watched them amusedly. Nothing helped, as he would soon wake up even if he nodded off for ten minutes. He would keep whimpering through the night, waking Bela as she held him close. Naturally, Bela wasn’t in the highest of spirits when she came to work for us in the morning. The strain was telling on her. Granma just nodded and said she would find a solution.

 1.3              Bargad ka ped

The first thing Granma did was to visit Bela’s kacha hut in the basti where she lived, not too far away from our own house. Her hut, made of straw and mud, had tin roofing, which looked new. She also noticed that the rest of the mud huts had thatched straw roofs, and above Bela’s hut, stood a giant gnarled banyan tree. In fact, the trunk of the banyan tree went right through her hut, which Bela had converted into a wall- and drilled several holes in it- to fix a clothesline and hang some brass pots. It looked awful.

When she returned, I ran after her eagerly- wanting to find out what Granma had learnt. She told me of the banyan tree. I stared at her in horror as I realized what Bela had done.

In our locality, there was a banyan tree at the corner of the crossroads to our house. It was a large sprawling structure- and its roots grew to encompass the adjacent wall. Beneath this shady alcove, was a one-room shanty that had been constructed by the owner of the house adjacent to the tree. It housed the maid working in that house, and her teenaged son, who worked in the nearby Paper Mill Colony. The maid, who was new to the area, unknowingly cut off a part of the large root tendril that hung across her door. It was noticed that ever since that day, the son experienced frequent sleeping problems. He kept hearing voices in his head, he said, and once, tired of the low droning that accompanied his waking hours, he had climbed atop the banyan tree and thus seeking refuge, had slept off.  It was rumoured thereafter that he could find peace only in the lap of the tree. The bargad had, effectively, stolen her son from the mother, as a punishment to the wrongdoing that she had caused it. Thereon, it was a widely held belief that one should never

a)      attempt to cut off or destroy any part of the bargad- this has reverse effects on the doer and

b)      attempt to bring in un-natural elements near the bargad.  

While it was clear that Bela had committed a sin of the first order, by defacing the trunk of the tree growing inside her house, she had also put in a new tin roof- while others were content with old thatched straw huts.

I realized this, and looked to Granma eagerly for a solution. She just smiled down benevolently at me, and started narrating my favourite story again. With all the excitement that my tender nine-year-old heart had borne the previous hour, I fell into a deep sleep- this time when Vassily approaches the cobbler for Rosa’s hand.

And I dreamed the Harlequin Dream.

This time too, it was night, but it was unusually dark. I could hardly see my way as I moved forward, stumbling over roots of trees and creepers that coiled around my ankles, making it extremely difficult for me. Don’t go ahead, they seemed to say, but I was intent on following that unknown person. Suddenly, I felt something brush against my shoulder. I screamed in terror, but no sound came out of my mouth. I turned back, only to see the grinning face of the Harlequin. What are you searching for now, he asked me. The cure, I replied. It’s closer than you think, he said, and pressed a warm cloth pad into my palm. Keep this under his pillow, he said. And I woke up in a deep sweat, gasping for air while Granma soothed my hair and my wildly beating heart.

I knew she knew what had to be done.

Later that night, she packed a small bit of tinfoil in a bed of tulsi leaves and gave it to Bela to be placed under the pillow of her son. The tinfoil was the offender- the tulsi leaves the soother. Bela took the small cloth pack gratefully.

Needless to say, her son slept deeply that night.

Next day, under Granma’s supervision, Bela carefully took down the nails she had dug in the banyan tree. She applied a paste of turmeric and multani mitti over the gaping holes in the bark, and then proceeded to cover up the tin roof with a sheet of straw. Things returned to normal, and summer holidays ended.

Granma went back to her own house in old Lucknow. I missed her sorely. I would speak for hours over the phone with her, but the physical proximity of her was lost. That year had been special for us, as we had been brought closer by the Harlequin story.

The Harlequin Dreams stopped as suddenly as they had started.    

Years later, in my own small cozy two bedroomed apartment overlooking the sea in far off Mumbai, where I had chosen to settle with my journalism career, I heard Grandma’s raspy voice over the phone. She had pneumonia, and wouldn’t live the night. I held the phone close to me, wishing that I could somehow climb inside the wire and be transported next to her. At that moment, I realized that I had done so little for her- she, who had put everything on the backfoot so that her grandchildren could be happy, she, who had selflessly devoted hours of naptime to entertaining us kids, she, who was the first one to hold me as a newborn

Between bouts of crying and that sinking feeling which enveloped my heart in a cold grasp, I sat in front of my own small pooja, praying for her. I didn’t realize when I fell asleep, holding the Ramayana in both hands.

I dreamt that it was daytime, and I was in an open field. The vastness and the greenery of the meadow fascinated me. I was searching for someone, and I started running towards the opposite end, where I spied a small house. But however hard or fast I ran, the meadow kept getting bigger, and the house smaller. I soon ran out of breath and collapsed on the ground. The smell of poppy seeds and a koyal singing in the distance jolted me awake as I felt someone shake my shoulder roughly. It was the Harlequin.

Don’t take her away, please, I said. He smiled, and beckoned me to look in the window of the house, which had appeared just a little way from us. I struggled to get up, and dragged myself to the window- there was Grandma, in front of her own pooja ghar. The sun caught her silver hair and her saree was crisply starched and white. The folds of her skin appeared translucent and there was an ethereal glow about her. On hearing me, she turned and smiled and said, everything will be all right. I am happy.  

I woke up with a start and looked at my watch. It was two o’clock in the night. With trembling fingers I dialed the long distance number. My mother picked up the phone. She informed me that Granma had passed away peacefully in her sleep.

Granma also took the Harlequin with her, much to my grief.

(August 9, 2009)