Mulshi Pattern – Chapter 1

 Janardan

"After I had returned from my work on that day, I sat absent-mindedly on the only chair in our one-room dwelling, in our chawl in Navi Peth. My mother, draped in a nine-yard saree, was busy with her daily evening chores. She glanced at me now and then but could not figure out why I was sulking, or for what reason. Finally she decided to ask me why I had not even asked for my evening tea. I did not answer at first, then said at last, 'Don't feel like it, Aai.'

As evening shadows darkened, Mother told me to switch on the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of our room. I got up and switched it on. The room filled with the dim yellow light of the old filament bulb. 'Aai, I got a promotion today,' I told her. 'I have become a Chargeman now. My salary will increase by three thousand rupees.' She looked at me in surprise. 'That's very good news — why are you sulking as if your mother has died?' she scolded me, in her blunt village manner. 'Go and get some pedhas and offer them to Ganesha.' She pointed to a small, framed, printed image of the god hanging on the wall.

I got up, slipped my feet into my chappals and left the room. On the way I met one of my co-workers, the only person from my factory who lived nearby. 'Congratulations on becoming a Chargeman. Your life is set now. You can marry now. In another seven or eight years, you'll surely become a foreman. You'll retire as an Assistant Engineer,' he said. 'That is where the problem is — m-marriage,' I muttered.

I bought four pedhas from the halwai on the street corner and returned. 'Why four pedhas?' Mother asked. 'One for Ganesha, one for you, one for me, and one for Chimi, the three-year-old girl from the family living next door,' I told her. Mother found the perfect occasion to needle me. 'How long are you going to dote on the neighbour's child? You should have children of your own. It is high time you got married.' 'Mother, please stop playing the same record. I will tell you when I want to marry. If you're finding it hard to cook, tell me — we will start taking tiffin from Janata Tiffin House from tomorrow.' Mother grew angry. To pacify her, I said, 'If you're all right with it, let's eat. I am hungry.'

We both had our dinner. I rested for a while and later unrolled my thin mattress to lie down. Normally I would not have lain down so early on a Wednesday night, since Thursday was my weekly off. But that day, somehow, I had no wish to talk or chat with anyone. I just wanted to lie down and think.

Mother watched me silently, much troubled. Finally she came near my mattress and sat down. 'Janu, why are you so disturbed? Will you tell me?' I stayed silent. I very much wanted to talk to her, but I simply could not. I just closed my eyes. At last Mother gave up and rose to lie down on her own mattress. Neither of us could sleep — I, because of this strange turn my life had taken, standing as I was at a crossroads before a major decision; she, worrying about me.

As happened every night these days, the moment I closed my eyes to sleep, Vishakha's smiling image rose before me — tormenting rather than comforting my restless mind.

'Vishakha Subhedar' the girl I still remembered from my very first day at the Government Polytechnic, where I had enrolled for a diploma in mechanical engineering. Vishakha too had enrolled there, but for Civil Engineering. In the first year we had a subject called Communication Skills, where students from all streams came together for a single lecture. On the first day, the teacher asked every student to stand up and introduce themselves in four or five sentences of English. Most of us, having come from vernacular schools, found ourselves stuttering and stumbling. I was no exception — my self-introduction was a complete disaster. It was so pathetic that the girl sitting on the next bench prompted me, even though I had not asked for help. As my luck would have it, her turn came right after mine. She introduced herself with such polish and grace that I knew at once she was from an English-medium school.

I had my revenge the very next week. I found the same girl placed in my group for workshop practicals, since our surnames — mine 'Shinde', hers 'Subhedar' — both began with 'S'. Our first practicals were in the Carpentry trade. For me, having studied technical subjects through the eleventh standard, carpentry was easy, almost trivial. Vishakha, however, found it a tough assignment. She watched the fineness with which I finished my work, with open awe, and asked me for help. As a courtesy, I taught her the basics so she could complete her own job.

That was the starting point of our friendship. Still, it took a long time even to break the ice. I wanted to talk to her, but she was always surrounded by other girls. Only once, when I was standing outside the main building, she passed in front of me with her friends and looked at me from the corner of her eye. That single look nearly melted my resolve never to look at her. But another chance did not come for a long while.

My great chance came in the second term, when we had to do blacksmithy in workshop practicals. The smithy instructor, knowing from experience that the girls found smithy work difficult, had paired each girl with a boy from an earlier technical course. Because our surnames both began with 'S', I was paired with Vishakha again, and we were assigned to do the smithy jobs together. Both of us seized the chance to become friends, and by the time the work was done, we had exchanged mobile numbers and added each other to our WhatsApp groups. Photos, jokes, and the usual gossip followed. We soon discovered that both our families had come to Pune from villages around the town of Poud, on the Pune–Mulshi road.

Vishakha's father worked as a car mechanic in the garage of a car distribution company; I, though from the same area, had lost my father at an early age. Vishakha had a younger brother still in school; I was an only child. Early in our friendship I had told Vishakha that I came from a very low-income, almost poor family, with my mother as the sole breadwinner — she rolled incense sticks for a living — and that if she wished to end our friendship on knowing this, I would not mind. Vishakha had told me in return that her family was not well-off either; they too just about managed to survive. We knew almost everything about each other's families, but neither of us truly knew what was in the other's mind.

Perhaps the most important milestone in our friendship came at the start of the second year. In our batch there were four or five boys and three or four girls who had all come from villages in the Mulshi area, from similar farming backgrounds, to study at the Polytechnic. Some of them still had uncles and other relatives living in those villages, though I knew of none of my own. Together we formed a Mulshi Club, to help one another through our difficulties.

In June, soon after classes began, one of the boys proposed a picnic to his village for the members of the Mulshi Club. I was reluctant at first, but when Vishakha asked me to come, I agreed. Most of the girls' parents knew the other boys and gave permission without much fuss. Four boys and three girls finally set out that day by local bus for the village of Ancole. We got down on the main road and walked the half kilometre to the village, where our friend's family lived. Since the rains had not yet begun, the fields were still dry and easy to cross. We played a few games, sang the songs we knew, and enjoyed a simple but hot lunch served by our friend's family. As we ate, black clouds gathered suddenly and rain came pouring down. It rained cats and dogs for the next forty-five minutes, then the clouds vanished as quickly as they had come, and the bright sun reappeared.

This sudden change left the weather wonderfully pleasant, and we were delighted. We started back for home around half past three in the afternoon. The village road was wet but not muddy, and gave us no trouble. Then, beyond a sharp turn, we ran into a major obstacle and stopped in our tracks. Ahead lay a ford — a low water crossing where the road dipped a foot or two — and a furious stream, swollen with the sudden rain, roared across it carrying muddy water. The boys and I saw no real problem; we simply rolled up our trousers and waded across. But the three girls stood frozen with fright on the other bank. No one knew what to do. If we waited too long, we would be late reaching Pune, and everyone at home would worry.

Then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to act — I still do not know why I did it, or whether I would do it again. I crossed back through the roaring stream and stood before the girls. 'Don't worry, my sisters,' I told them. 'I will carry you across piggyback. Just follow my instructions.' The moment I called them 'sisters', I noticed Vishakha step back instinctively. I paid her no attention and turned to the other girls. 'Look — I will bend down in front of you, my back towards you. Put your hands around my neck and hold on. As I rise, wrap your legs around my waist, and I will hold them steady. I will have you across in ten seconds.' The first girl saw that this was the only way across, put her hands around my neck, and her legs around my waist as I rose. I held her by the knees and had her across within ten seconds. I went back and carried the second girl the same way.

Then I turned and came back for Vishakha, and bent before her with my back turned. She put her hands around my neck and her legs around my waist, just as I had instructed. I held her steady by the knees. But then she did something I had not told any of them to do — she embraced me tightly from behind and rested her face against my neck, whispering, 'Hmm.' Since she was on my back, no one else saw what she was doing. I said nothing, but felt an electric wave pass through my entire body. Without a word, I carried Vishakha across and set her down. I looked at her for a second — a look that said far more than words, one that only the two of us understood. A mischievous, naughty smile flickered across her face before she lowered her eyes.

The boys asked me where I had learned this trick. I told them that as young boys we used to play a game called 'Sinbad's Old', in which one boy — usually the smallest — was made king. He would sit on the backs of his teammates in turns and try to touch the boys on the other team; when his carrier tired, he would be shifted to another boy's back. This way of carrying someone is also known as a piggyback in the Boy Scouts, of which I had once been a member. Everyone gave a clap of appreciation at that.

For the rest of the trip Vishakha was unusually quiet, though the others had already forgotten the incident. When we reached Pune, the other two girls thanked me profusely. Vishakha said nothing — only when the other girls prodded her did she offer a quiet thank you. But I alone understood what she was really saying.

That night, for the first time, Vishakha sent me a red heart. When I asked her why she had been so quiet on the way back, there was no reply at all."

(To be continued in Chapter 2)