Pink Doll
Suneeta
Rao
It had been four years since she
was lifted out of the dark green BMC garbage can by the calloused hands of
Amma, the oldest rag picker in the colony. There was barely enough life in her
to stare blankly at you from behind those cobalt blue eyes. Amma held her,
tentatively but firmly – petrified a bone might crack or that she might get hurt
– and walked away from the dump with renewed vigour and a determination in her
face that belied her age. The chipped and dirty words CLEAN UP painted on the
bin receded as she took the fragile little bundle to her corner under the
bridge. That was to be the child’s home for the next four years.
Poorvi was younger than Raji. The sisters passed the junction everyday
on their way to school. Raji would get mad whenever the old lady knocked on
their car window leaving behind a slimy smear. The baby would be peering at them
curiously as the girls bickered and tried to shoo the old lady away. Every time,
just as the car rolled away from the signal, Poorvi would toss a rupee coin
into Amma’s outstretched hand – and they would exchange a brief but intense
look which would be interrupted by a loud and impatient honking by Driver Ramu,
who had no tolerance for any such delay.
Poorvi could not keep her mind off those dark blue eyes. It was she who
stopped the car when she saw Amma’s body lying lifeless on the pavement – the
pink doll in shreds beside her. It was Poorvi who picked the girl up and took
her to Asha Sadan, the adoption centre run by their mother. It was busy at the
intersection under the overpass that hot Monday afternoon. The traffic light
just turned green when the girl suddenly let go of Poorvi’s hand and darted
across to the mangled remains of her doll. She picked it up and ran back
clutching the woolly head to the shouts of ‘Hurry! Hurry’ from Raji, who tried
to grab at the doll’s brilliant pink hair. ‘Let her have it, you cow,’ Poorvi
shouted and yanked Raji away. ‘Kid doesn’t have anything, not even a name. Let
her keep the damn doll.’ Raji let go but bared her teeth and jeered,
‘Anaamika.’ The girl child didn’t care.
That was the day their next-door neighbour, Mrs Sen, came in with her
application. Mrs Sen had been married for nearly ten years. Although her music
gave her a full life and some satisfaction, it could not lighten the heavy
burden of not being able to bear a child. Her body refused to bear fruit even
when things were good with her husband – and she spent those years craving for
a child that was never born. ‘A girl,’ she had said. ‘I want a girl’.
Mrs Sen’s palms felt soft and smooth and a little pudgy to the child as
they cupped her face. It made her think of Pink Doll. She missed Pink Doll.
Raji had snatched it from her the moment they reached the home and she had not
seen it since. When she closed her eyes now she could remember what it felt
like to stand in the shadow of the massive concrete arches, hugging the doll to
her chest. The sensation evaporated as Mrs Sen removed her hands, leaving a
shallow vacuum.
‘Sangeetha, that’s what I’ll call you,’ Mrs Sen said. ‘Yes, Sangeetha,
music, that will be your name. And I will teach you to use that voice of yours.’
Although Sangeetha practiced diligently everyday for years – not daring
to incur the wrath of old Mrs Sen by missing a single day of Riyaz, it was dance
that was her true passion. Poorvi was the dancer – and Raji the singer.
Sangeetha would watch Poorvi practice her Bharatanatyam with passion and
longing – and then, when no one was looking, she would close her eyes and throw
herself into a world of movement and gay abandon – her every fibre one with the
music that only she could hear. She dared not let Mama Sen see her – that would
mean she would have to skip her meal that day – which meant less energy to
dance!
Poorvi would secretly take her for dance class on the days Mrs Sen was
busy. Sangeetha would watch and soak in as much of it as possible, and the
moment she was on her own she would burst into a whirling frenzy – forgetting
it all – the taunts, the rules, the scolding, all the things that cramped her
style and soul.
But the singing continued. Every morning she would wake up at the crack
of dawn to the starchy smell of Mama Sen’s crisp red and white saree. The
thick, powdery, crimson-red circle loomed large on Mama Sen’s forehead – like the
third eye – always watching the girl’s every move lest she dared to stray from
the raga or falter in pitch or tone.
It is now twenty years later. Sangeetha is twenty-four. She has changed
her name to Tridha.
The accident had left Poorvi paralysed from the waist down. But she has
managed the long and arduous journey to New York. Mama Sen, older and calmer,
is still strong enough to push Poorvi’s wheelchair. Raji and her husband will
join them at Boston airport – she has just completed her degree in Music
Pedagogy. Poorvi’s novel is almost complete – she had started it in the hope
that writing would heal her devastated heart. And it did to some measure.
The roar of the stadium crowd is deafening. Madison Square Garden is
brimming with a charged, multi-racial audience. Screaming teenage fans are
clamouring with each other for a glimpse of anyone who steps out of their sleek
black shiny limousines onto the red carpet. Cameras and wide smiles flash
everywhere. The paparazzi are going berserk. Lady reporters are shouting into
their microphones, trying not to smudge their eyeliner or lipstick while
powdering their noses every second and adjusting their in-ear monitors
frantically.
She steps out gracefully in her diamante strapped stilettos – the slit
of her shimmering gold brocade gown slipping ever so gently to reveal her toned
bronze calves. The Prada purse comes next, followed by a swish of her thick
silken black hair. The low back dress is now in full view and as she turns to
face the cameras – the crowd goes wild. She lifts her hand in a gentle warm
wave, stopping every now and then to oblige a voice that calls her name from
behind a camera, not wanting to disappoint any one of them.
The ramp is long enough for Mrs Sen to want to pause for a moment every
few minutes, for a breath. The wheel chair is now becoming heavy – and Raji and
her husband are too busy gawking at the stars to offer to help. A sympathetic
Mexican security guard in his smart black suit and dark glasses finally emerges
from the crowd. He effortlessly wheels Poorvi up the ramp and Mrs Sen, looking
astoundingly elegant in her maroon silk Calcutta saree nods with graceful
gratitude as he cocks his handsome head in acknowledgement.
The anticipation is unbearable. The low hum bursts into a roar as the MC
of the show, a popular comedian, announces the opening act. Mama Sen watches in
awe as one after the other the performers and awardees make their way on and
off stage – each one more enthralling than the other. Finally, the moment is
here. The nominees have been announced and now it is time to announce the winner.
Mrs Sen knows it is her the
moment the famous actress on stage starts the introduction. Her eyes are
already welling up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen … the winner of the “Best Female Pop Album of the
Year”… All the way from Mumbai, the feisty newcomer, for the first time ever a
crossover pop star from India – Will you welcome please, Tridha Sen, for PINK
DOLL!!!!!!
*
Suneeta Rao is hailed as India's most loved performing artist. Her song, Paree Hoon
Main from the
album Dhuan made Suneeta a household name,
leading the press to affectionately crown her the ‘Paree of the Masses’. The song, and the UNFPA
sponsored video Sun Zara was a pledge to fight against the practice
of sex selection and received worldwide acclaim for its powerful depiction of
the cause of the girl child. Suneeta is the spokesperson of the girl child
initiative Laadli. She has recently
released her first English single called You
Say You Love Me.
As a writer
Suneeta has written and published a number of travel articles including one on
Ladakh for Jetwings called Ah! Ladakh! and one on the coffee
plantations of Chikmagalur that was published in Midday. She also wrote for JADE
magazine on her favourite musicians of today's Indie Music scene. Suneeta was
commissioned to write a
blog for the Times Wellness site called Diary of a Supermum, which was published weekly for a year.
She writes her own lyrics and has dabbled in poetry.
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