Short Story: Eyes

I wanted to post it on 15th October, World White Cane Day as my dedication to all those who are equipped with better insight than most of us able-sighted folks.
I hope after reading this, you can forgive the three day delay.
A special thanks to dear friend, Gayatri who helped my blocked head with her beautiful situation ideas.
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“…and after the marriage was over, they moved into their new apartment…”

She smiled as she read it. So many kids her age did not understand the difference between a wedding and a marriage. They used the terms interchangeably often leading to hilarious results. She made a mental note to speak to Shubhra the next day after class about the use of either “marriage ceremony” or “wedding” in the context. The story had promise. But Shubhra needed to learn to pay attention to minor details. She moved on to the next answer sheet. This was the last one.

There was a big pile of transcribed sheets on the table at which she sat. “Julie has been working really hard lately. There has been too much material. I must ask Amar to give her a raise.” She told herself as she started going through the last story.

Julie was a high school student who came in three afternoons a week with BrailleWriter, a type-writer like device used to convert text into Braille. She charged rupees two thousand a month for three hours of transcription a week. Sometimes she also read out the newspaper to him while Mr. Seth messed around with a piece of play-dough that their next door neighbour’s seven year old son often stopped by with. Mrs. Seth loved to prepare tea for them all while the newspaper was being read.

Julie was such a delightful girl to have around in the house, she thought as she heard the dining room clock strike four.

“Ah! Tea time! It is time to bring the fanatics back to real world.” She smiled, putting down the test paper sheets on the table and lovingly thinking of Mr. Seth going gaga over a new masterpiece in the studio.

She walked towards the kitchen, on the way ironing the wrinkles on the dining table cloth with her deft fingers. She turned on the stove and set the water to boil in a kettle. She threw a spoonful of tea leaves in the water as it started to boil. As the aroma of green tea leaves wafted through the room, it was time to ring the bell attached to the basement.

Mrs. Urmila Seth, fondly known as Urmi Madam amongst students and other members of the staff, was an English teacher in a highly respectable boarding school situated on the beautiful and picturesque foothills of the Nilgiri mountain range. She was around forty five years of age with an ample volume of hair greying at the temples and worn backwards in a loose, somewhat untidy bun. Her eyes were a mystical green.

She had a fair complexion and a skin so translucently lovely despite her age, that it put all the pimpled teenagers at school to shame. Being a little over weight with a height of a little over five feet; which did little to add even the slightest illusion of a slender body shape, she usually dressed in a blacks and browns. Her usual attire to school consisted of a long black pure wool pullover with big pockets over a salwar-kameez in earthy tones and soft black pumps. A big brown pure leather purse, large and sturdy enough to accommodate a china dinner set for four, completed her ensemble. She walked in an upright gait despite her height and was very punctual with her classes and appointments. This often made her quite impatient with any tardiness exhibited by others.

Mr. Amarnath Seth was a thick set, happy-go-lucky fifty year old, with a small pot belly and a salt-and-pepper mop of curly hair that was usually smeared with dry white plaster. The white of the plaster added to the salt volume and made him a close resemblance to Santa Claus. He was a city renowned sculptor and spent most of his days and nights working from his little workshop in the basement of their house. He had a gift for carving out the most vivid and beautiful forms out of dead white clay. He was jovial, a lover of food and a man of immense patience. But like many men of his age, he had his set of quirks.

Anyone interested in buying his work had to go through a certain ritual. He believed that the buyer’s vision came in the way of making a true estimate of the value of his work. Since every creation of his was made with his bare hands, a true appreciation of the piece could only be done by feeling each piece, each line, each subtle detail, without letting “seeing” interfere with it. He lost many prospective buyers because not everyone interested in his work was comfortable about being sent over to his studio with a blindfold around their eyes and an escort who took them from one spot to another.

Mrs. Seth often teased him about how he gave the impression of one having a resentment for his able-sighted fellow beings. To which he would say, “Urmi, you know that is not true. I just want them to know the piece the way I do before they buy it. If they cannot get to the soul of it, it isn’t meant to be theirs. I only save them the hassle and the money.”

Mr. and Mrs. Seth resided at a cosy little cottage set amidst ranges of lush green tea plantations, around two kilometres from the school campus. Like so many of us, they had every reason to brood over the unfairness of life and spend hours blaming God for what was missing from theirs. But they had chosen to focus on what they had. Every morning, the cool mountain breeze that played on the window drapes of their bedroom brought a renewed sense of vigour in their lives.

Mrs. Seth was in love with English literature and always tried to transport her students to the world of Keats and Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Dickens. Her passion was shared by only a few select students in her class, who were mesmerized by her story-telling. They genuinely admired her and through her, the works of the great poets and novelists. They relished every word she said, bathing in every brush stroke she drew on the canvases of their minds, painting a world so different yet so similar to theirs. However, a majority of the students in her class just wanted to get passing marks. Not one to get easily perturbed, she did not let that affect the bird-like chirpiness with which she addressed her class every morning.
Mr. Seth’s occupation was like meditation to him. He poured all his frustrations and worries “into another head” as he had once said while making an old woman’s wrinkled face. This was one of his favourite jokes. He was passionate about his work. He vanished into his haven every morning after Mrs. Seth left for school and spent hours working on a new master piece every day.

*

It had been some time since the little wooden bird had gone back into her clock house having cuckooed four times. Mrs. Seth set out the tea on a tray. On her way back from school this afternoon, she had stopped at the bakers and bought Mr. Seth’s favourite coconut filled sweet buns. This was sure to put him in a good mood. Good food had that effect on him. She planned on preparing biryani for dinner. Malti, their cook and house-keeper, who worked from seven until twelve every morning had cut the vegetables and soaked the rice before leaving for the day. While Malti prepared a light breakfast and lunch on most weekdays, Mrs. Seth liked to prepare dinner herself. She loved experimenting with the spices to create aromas that dragged her husband out of his den.

It was raining outside. She loved to sit by the window when it rained. She loved the smell of the wet earth outside and the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the roof. The slight chill in the air, as she reached out for her shawl, reminded her about the tea.

“Amar, the tea is getting cold. And so are the buns.” She called out a little louder than usual to drown the rain’s spatter.

“I’m on my way, sweetheart. On the fourteenth step...”

She smiled. He wouldn’t take long. There were exactly twenty steps from the basement to the dining room. She peeped outside the window to feel the fresh air on her face. The rain always brought to her mind a poem by Sarah Teasdale.

“There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;”

She tried to recollect the remaining lines.

“Hello, Nutty Professor!”
Mr. Seth was right behind her.

“You call me nutty and you are the one who bangs his head into the cow-bell every single day.”

There was a Swiss cow-bell, a parting gift from an old student of hers, hanging at the centre of the ceiling, at the top of the stairs.

“Gosh, you heard that? And I thought I was the one with a stronger auditory faculty. Why don’t you just remove the silly bell from there?” he grumbled.

“Well, every time you bump into it, I get to tease you. I love the sound. It means you are coming to me.” She smiled and gave him a hug.

“I was just thinking we must give Julie a raise. She has been doing a lot of work lately.” She said handing him the cup of tea as they seated themselves on the dining table chairs.

“Ah! That dear little kid! Yes, I’ve been thinking of the same myself. It makes sense to do it. In fact I was planning on asking her to transcribe a few Panchatantra stories in Braille. I remember hearing those stories as a school kid. What fun they were! It is not like the US where the county library keeps Braille versions of all the good books. And if they aren’t available in the library, they are procured and delivered at your door step. The world out here is just structured for the sighted.”

He sighed and then continued.
“I mean, look at this for example. Couldn’t even the top-notch restaurants think of a non-visual way to mark restroom doors for Men and Women? The world seems to be replacing pictures with words everywhere.”

“Well, a wise man, or was it a woman, once said that a picture is worth a thousand words.” she teased.

“Whoever that was, the person definitely wasn’t blind. But I am sure you’d agree that the pleasure of building a scenario, a setup in your mind, piece by piece, is matchless as compared to just being given everything at the same time, as in a picture. You would miss the little details where most of the beauty lies. Don’t you think my dear?” he asked.

“You always give the false impression of someone who has a feeling of vengeance for all those who can see. Talking of details, what are you working on at the moment?” she asked, delicately changing the topic.

“You must come and check it out dear… I am trying to make a basket of fruits… non-intellectual and painfully domestic as it may sound, it is not easy. There are so many lines and knots...“.

“Sure. Right after I finish another cup of this lovely tea. By the way, now I know where the fruit basket from the dining table has vanished”, she said, her smile once again ringing in her voice like the sweet sound of a distant church bell.
Mr. Amarnath Seth shifted his attention to the next dearest object of his affection – the coconut filled sweet bun.

*

It had been raining all night. The ten AM sun, still trapped in a bunch of clouds, felt warm and mellow on the skin. It was Saturday – a day when Mr. Seth took elaborate pains to get dressed for a special mid-morning music class at the local clubhouse. The music class was usually followed by a long chat over a leisurely buffet lunch with his friends.

Mrs. Seth was right outside their cottage, haggling with the subzi-wallah (vegetable vendor) over the price of tomatoes.

“They are not even half as good as last time. There is no way I am going to pay twelve rupees for these.”

She lifted a fleshy one and sniffed it.

“Ugh! These are from storage. Forget it. I don’t want tomatoes. I’ll take only the potatoes and turnips. Don’t forget to add a few green chillies.” She said with a note of authority, handing him the agreed upon price of potatoes and turnips.

While the vegetables made their way into her jute bag, Mrs. Seth waved in the direction of a rickshaw-full of children who took turns blowing the rickshaw’s horn while the rickshaw waited for the boy next door. The little kids had a two hour play-school every Saturday – a blessing for moms struggling with the demands of an elaborate weekend brunch.

“So, here you are! I’ve been looking for you all over the place. I’d better be going. Are you sure you do not want to come with me to the clubhouse today?” Mr. Seth was at the doorstep. He adjusted his beret over his head with his left hand while extracting his cane from the holder at the entrance.

“Oh, is it ten already? It feels like an eight AM sun. You smell nice, dear. Is that the new aftershave?”

Without really expecting an answer to any of her previous questions, she added, “And yes, I think I’ll just stay at home and rest today. My legs are aching and I am not in a mood to walk. By the way, just watch your step. Since it rained all of last night, the road is somewhat slippery. Come, let me give you a hand.” She extended her hand which soon met with the warmth of Mr. Seth’s fingers. As he stepped down the small flight of three stairs that connected their patio with the road below, his hand still in his wife’s, he heard her chirpy voice once again.
“Bye dear. Have a good time.” He smiled and said bye.

Mrs. Seth was looking forward to a few hours of solitude to catch up on her knitting. She handed over the vegetables to Malti and gave her a few instructions. Tuning into a channel on the radio that played old Hindi film songs, she picked up her knitting needles and settled cross-legged into her favourite chair by the window.

On his way to the clubhouse Mr. Seth spotted an old friend of his, someone he had played golf with for four years until arthritis in the knees got the better of him. He was thankful to the optician who had sent the new pair of glasses a day before. With the previous pair he would not have recognized the retired army man at that distance.

Mrs. Urmila Seth sat by the window with an unopened envelope in her hands. It smelled of ink from a printer cartridge. It had come in the mail a few minutes back.
“This would have to wait until Amar is back. I hope it’s nothing urgent.”
She sighed and placed it on the side table next to the chair.

Mrs. Seth’s white cane stood alone in the umbrella holder at the doorstep waiting for her companion of many years - the mahogany walking stick that belonged to Amarnath Seth. It was not very often that the white cane was left in that holder all by herself.