Cold to Touch
Sumanya Velamur
I felt gora people were cold. Not in temperament but in temperature. Cold to touch. I felt like if I touched white people, I would feel nothing but ice.
I told this to my best friend in school, Trupti. She was telling me the story of the movie ‘Koi Mil Gaya’ in minute detail. During sports period, I hardly ever played – my coughing fit would have interrupted any game – and Trupti did not like to play, so the two of us would take rounds of the school ground. She would usually fill me in on the latest movies she had seen – movies her mother took her to watch every now and then. Over recess, over sports period, over lunch, I would listen as she told me the story scene by scene. She never spared a single detail. She was very keen that I don’t miss out on anything just because I had no mother.
‘Then, the Rakesh Roshan character tells a bunch of gora scientists, his colleagues, that he was able to contact an alien life form. They laugh at him,’ she was saying.
My mind slipped to gora people in general. How would it be to touch them? How would they feel on my fingers? How would it feel to kiss them on the lips? How would it feel to hold them in my arms?
Trupti sensed that my attention had flagged and turned her inquiring eyes onto me.
‘How do you think it would be to fall in love with a gora man?’ I asked.
She giggled. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t fallen in love with a brown man only!’
It was true. Neither of us, at fourteen, had developed a serious crush on anybody in school. The boys in our class were not interesting. And those senior to us seemed way out of our league.
‘Yes, but think about Hrithik Roshan.’
Trupti took a sharp breath in.
‘What about him?’
‘You know how you would feel if you were in love with him.’
Trupti was in love with Hrithik Roshan. She had been ever since ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’ was released two years ago. Half the girls in school and half at the Home were also madly in love with him. It was one of the few movies I had seen on the big screen. The Sisters made it a point to take us to one or two movies a year. When ‘Kaho na Pyaar Hai’ came out in theatres, we had already seen Hrithik Roshan in the songs, dancing on a beach with Amisha Patel. A bunch of us girls made a contingent and lobbied the Sisters to take us to see it. The Sisters did take us to the theatre for the movie. And for the first time, I found I had the upper hand. Trupti’s mother was unusually busy that month and was unable to take her for the movie. It was my turn to tell her the story during lunch, during recess, and during sports period.
‘I AM in love with him!’ Trupti said indignantly.
‘Yeah, so you can imagine hugging and kissing him na?’
‘Yes,’ she said shyly, ‘I have imagined my lips touching his many times. I do it just before going to sleep. Tara didi from my building says that if you conjure up in your mind your desires and they are the last things you see before nodding off to sleep, they will come true. Ever since then, I have been trying to see my lips and Hrithik Roshan’s lips meet just before I sleep.’
‘Yes yes! I know. You told me all this. But do you ever feel this way about white people? Like have you ever felt like you wanted to kiss a white man on the mouth?’
Trupti thought for a bit, ‘Not really.’
‘Yesterday, we were watching ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets’ for the hundredth time on our home VCD player. And I was wondering why none of us feel about the characters in that movie the way we feel about Hrithik.
‘Maybe because Harry Potter is a small boy?’
‘No. That’s not it. I think it is because white people are cold to touch.’
‘Are they cold to touch?’
‘Aren’t they?’
*
One day I told Shamoli didi that I felt gora people were cold to touch. She laughed and laughed. She was clutching her stomach in pain by the end of it. When the laughing subsided somewhat, she asked why I thought this.
‘I don’t know why. But, I cannot find white people attractive because I feel they are cold to touch. Technically, I know there are no real differences between white people, brown people, black people or any people. Everybody bleeds red. Everybody’s insides are the same, the same intestines, the same stomach, the same brain, the same heart, the same everything. Sizes might vary, but all in all, there is no reason for me to think that white people are cold to touch. I know this.’ I emphasised. ‘And yet it is just a feeling, a strong one, that I have.
‘But you like Hrithik Roshan, Ridhi. Isn’t he very fair?’
‘He is fair but he isn’t white. He feels warm to touch.’
Didi smiled.
‘Maybe, if you actually met a white person, the feeling would dissipate?’ she suggested.
Maybe. Maybe not.
‘You have met white people, didi. You tell me. Are they cold to touch?’
Didi had studied in America and had sat with white students in large classrooms. During our therapy sessions, she told me stories from America sometimes. And I imagined a sea of white people standing at touching distance from her.
‘Ridhi, they are just as warm as you and me. But don’t take my word for it. You will meet a white person, maybe when you are studying in college like I did, and then you can touch them and see for yourself.’
A silence came over both of us. I would certainly like to touch a gora person and see for myself. Maybe, like Shamoli didi said, I might find myself studying in America or London, and then there would be an ocean of white people to touch. I decided to take Trupti’s neighbour Tara didi’s advice and visualise this just before nodding off to sleep. And then maybe it will come true. I thought of what should be in the picture. I imagined standing on the footpath in a foreign country, stretching my hand out and my fingertips brushing against a passing white man. And then I would know for sure if they were cold to touch. The idea of standing in a foreign street amongst a sea of white people had made me go quiet. Perhaps, the same idea had made didi also go quiet. Maybe she was praying that it would all come true – that I would survive to go to college, that I would go abroad, and that, one day I would touch a gora person and see for myself.
*
It was not that I had never seen a gora person ever. White people were more common now in cities like ours. Once a priest from Switzerland, Father Gerard visited our home. He was as white as milk. He stayed at the Church with Father Rupert but spent his days with us. He came with chocolates, toys and books. While he went around touching the little children on their chins, he never touched me and I never touched him. I was twelve then and the idea that white people were cold to touch had not occurred to me yet.
One day, Shamoli didi, Suryamma, and I took Father Rupert’s car to attend a conference. Shamoli didi and Suryamma were invited because they were to present a paper. It was didi’s idea to take me to the conference.
‘Ridhi is fourteen. Girls her age have so much exposure. She only goes to school and comes back home. She also works so hard at home. She deserves a little outing. And it will be educational as well.’
Suryamma looked doubtful, ‘What does a fourteen-year-old need exposure for? School is enough to get all kinds of outlandish ideas.’
Shamoli didi pounced on her when she said that. ‘But that’s exactly why she should go to the conference. We will both be with her and we can keep an eye on her. Also, she is a bright kid. She may learn something from the presentations. These things will come in handy when she has to choose what she wants to do in life.’
‘I really don’t see it, Shamoli. What good can come of it? Also, wouldn’t it be traumatic for her to listen to people talk about sickness all day long.’
‘No. It’s not like she doesn’t know what ails her. She has already spoken to me a couple of times about death and dying. Besides, we will carefully monitor the sessions she attends. Plus, on each day of the conference, they are putting up a variety entertainment show. I think she will enjoy those immensely.’
Suryamma relented. The conference was held over three days, over a weekend, in a huge auditorium in the city centre. The three of us piled into Father Rupert’s car and we zoomed across the city. Friday afternoon was the key note address by a gora woman. Watching her it occurred to me that there may be other gora people around. Maybe an opportunity was presenting itself once more. Lunch was a buffet and I found myself right behind a gora person in the queue. I gently touched my elbow to her hand but her full-sleeved shirt came in the way of touching her skin.
After lunch, I went to the toilet and when I came out I saw an old white man talking to Suryamma and didi. As I came close to them, Suryamma put her hand out to me and said, ‘You must meet Ridhi. She is one of our star pupils. A very hardworking girl.’ The old man turned and smiled at me and put his hand out. This was my chance. I could touch and see. Just then, somebody called from behind him, ‘Henry!’ and he turned and walked away.
*
One day, I overheard Shantamma tell Suryamma that if I had received proper training in music, I would have been a famous singer. I daydreamed that day, that I was standing on a big stage, facing three judges, singing my favourite song, ‘Gali mein aaj chaand nikala’, at a high octave, one I had been unable to reach in real life without a coughing fit. But in my imagination, I ascended those high notes smoothly. The audience was uproarious. In the wings, stood the three Sisters, Suryamma, Shantamma, and Simoneamma, and Shamoli didi, tears running down their cheeks. Maybe if I became a famous singer, I could go abroad and touch a gora person. I changed the vision I would muster just before nodding off to sleep. It now had me on a stage, the spotlight hugging me as confetti dropped from the heavens. And white people were scurrying up the stage to congratulate me.
Shantamma was always telling me to sing. And when I hummed while doing the chores, she would bellow at me, ‘Sing aloud. Open your chest and sing.’ I think she meant heart, but it’s okay, I know what she meant. I had thought Shantamma urged me to sing because I was happiest singing. But after I overheard her conversation with Suryamma, I thought for the first time that I could be famous. Being famous, I thought was inherited from parents, and came down from one generation to another. What had my parents given me? Only he-who-must-not-be-named.
Yes. I know. He-who-must-not-be-named is the villain in Harry Potter. But ever since Rubina and I saw the movies, sitting next to each other in the theatre, we have been calling the thing that ails us, Voldemort. It was Rubina who said it first. We started giggling at how apt the name was. We were Harry Potter. Our Voldemort decided what we did or did not do. Ever since, I only call it Voldemort – this formless, ugly thing that plagues our lives. Voldemort scripts our stories.
*
It certainly scripted Rubina’s life and death. Rubina was my best friend in the Home like Trupti was my best friend in school. It happened when Rubina’s pink-as-pink-can-be lips turned white. I was at the hospital with her, then. While Simoneamma spent the night with Rubina, Shantamma came in the morning. When the doctor made his rounds, Suryamma was always there to talk to him, ask him questions, and tell him about the things Rubina had done the previous day.
‘Was there any blood in the spittle?’
‘Did she vomit?’
‘What are the blood tests saying?’
‘She was in a lot of pain last night, Doctor. Can we do something about that? Can we give her some morphine?’
‘She is too young for that, Sister. She will feel very weak.’
‘How is she sleeping?’
‘Sister Simone who was here during the night told me that her sleep has been fitful.’
‘She has been having nightmares.’
‘Is this the girl who keeps her company during the day, Sister Surya?’
‘Yes, Doctor. This is Ridhi, a very conscientious girl who is also Rubina’s best friend.’
‘Oh! that is good. Beta, make sure to wear your mask at all times. It is good for both you and your friend.’
Rubina had lain motionless on the hospital bed. She looked pale but her lips were bright pink, maybe tinged a little by the blood in her spittle. Or was it the blood in her vomit? She could hardly open her eyes but whenever she caught me looking at her she would give me a weak smile.
One night, Rubina’s lips turned blue. And then, they turned white. I touched them. They were cold as ice. Voldemort made its presence felt.
Suryamma hated it when I called it Voldemort. ‘Aye! Ridhi, Don't be ungenerous. God gave you this. And he is not Voldemort.’ I never said God was Voldemort. But God did give me Voldemort. Suryamma was always like this – giving illogical explanations hoping to reassure a troubled mind. She was also the scariest of the three Sisters. Sister Surya, as she was known to the rest of the world, was the head of the Home. She decided on the rules and then followed them to the tee. She did not brook any misbehaviour. She never raised her voice. But a look from her – her eyes like perfectly-shaped, round fried eggs in eye-shaped saucepans – would send us scurrying for cover.
Sister Shanti was the kindest, least likely to scold. Shantamma would scold only if you put your life or anyone else’s life in danger. This was, believe it or not, quite frequent since Voldemort made all our lives precarious. She giggled a lot at all the children. She giggled when we told her how much we loved Hrithik Roshan. She giggled when we told her that Harry Potter was an eleven-year-old wizard. She giggled when we told her that Voldemort was the grown adult villain who Harry Potter fought. She giggled at everything we said and did. She did not have a problem calling it Voldemort. Only, her heavy Malayalam accented Voldemort made us giggle in turn.
Sister Simone was the most hardworking. Simoneamma once told me that whatever suffering I was going through, would be completely erased if I just focussed single-mindedly on work. ’Prayer is good, Ridhi, and one must do it regularly and diligently. But there is no substitute for hard work. It’s the one thing that can keep Voldemort at bay.’ Simonemma took to the metaphor smoothly, almost with a sense of relief. She hated to say ‘HIV positive’ aloud, especially in company.
*
During the last days, it was Rubina’s shit that gave it away. It was watery. There is something I love about a good, well-formed, stalactite-shaped, smooth-on-the-outside, well-coalesced piece of shit. Once Shantamma told Suryamma how she was happy to have had a good shit after two days of constipation, and I nodded animatedly in agreement and said, ‘Yes, yes. Nothing like a good shit!’ Shantammma giggled and Suryamma laughed in a roar. Then she playfully tapped me on the back and said, ‘Ridhi, always listening to adults conversations!’
It is true. Voldemort made sure even the littlest of us had adult problems. There were around ten babies in the house, give or take, all around one or two years old. Ours was a household, where the numbers fluctuated every day. They lived (if you can call it that) on the first floor in the room called the Nursery, their white-painted wooden cradles set up in an orderly line. I always wondered why they would keep them all in one room. If one started crying, all the others would join in. I thought it made sense to split them. I told Suryamma this, once, and she smiled and said ‘When you run an orphanage, do it differently, Ridhi’
In the mornings, I had to check their nappies and wash the bums of those who had soiled them. This was, more often than not, all of them, since they all had dysentery every day. We all had dysentery quite often but the babies always had more of it. While cleaning their bums, I would often wonder how irritable I would be if my shit was always watery. Their bums must have felt like a perennial river of sludge. I would make them wear clean new nappies. Then I would be in charge of washing the soiled nappies. First, I had to dip the smelly, gooey, nappies in boiling hot water, leaving them to soak in it for 30 minutes. Then dip it all in cold water. Then scrub with a wooden handled scrubber, jhik-jhik-jhik. I always wondered at what point do the nappies become threadbare. Not that I was ever allowed to find out because before it got to that, Sister Simone would take it away to wring out and dry in the sun.
Once school was over, I was supposed to help out in the kitchen. I was always given the job of sorting. Airlines donated their waste food to us and while most of it was perfectly consumable, we would come across the occasional rotten meat. So I was supposed to go through everything and make sure the inedible stuff was removed from the pile.
Working in solitude gave me the time to think up ways in which to keep Voldemort at bay. When I was in school, I couldn’t think because of studies and Trupti and when I was home, if not doing chores, I was supposed to be studying. So this was the only time I had to think. To think about how I would grow up to go to college. To think how I would go abroad for higher studies. To think about how to become a famous singer. To think into the future, when I can touch a gora and make sure they are cold to touch.
I knew of only one thing that would come in the way of me doing all these things. That was Voldemort. Voldemort was the one thing that made babies with a sludgy river for a bum. It was the one thing that turned Rubina’s pink-as-pink-can-be lips to white. It was the one thing that gave me coughing fits every time I sang. It was the one thing that made the numbers in our house fluctuate rapidly like a stock exchange ticker. The Sisters watched that ticker without blinking. And through all the fluctuation, they continued to work because there was no substitute for hard work.
*
A few months after my ‘cold to touch’ conversation with Trupti, I was in a hospital bed. The dry, raspy cough and the breathlessness that had been part of my entire life, that I had managed with my hard work, had returned. The blue light of the hospital room and the white bed reminded me of Rubina and her lips, coloured by blood-ridden spittle. Was this how she had felt when she was lying here some months earlier? Simoneamma spent the nights in the hospital, as usual. She would come up to my bed and check on me every time I made the slightest movement in bed. Shantamma relieved her in the mornings, just as she had done when Rubina was in hospital. When the doctor came on his rounds Suryamma would be there, to field his questions and to ask him questions in turn.
‘Yes, Doctor! There is blood in the spittle.’
‘How are her stools? Any vomiting?’
‘What are the blood tests saying, Doctor?’
‘It is important to keep her comfortable, Sister Surya.’
‘Yes, Doctor. Whatever it takes?’
‘How is she sleeping?’
‘Sister Simmone spends the night here, Doctor. She says she sleeps like a baby. She does not have nightmares like Rubina did.’
It was true. I did sleep like a baby. Before nodding off to sleep, I would conjure up a white doctor. Someone who would touch me.
***
Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine
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