Flight (standard:drama, 2985 words)
Author: Ms Novice	Added: Mar 12 2004	Views/Reads: 3269/2239	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mridula, a foreign student in US who will soon be homeward bound, visits the Art Institute of Chicago and comes upon a most unexpected artwork, which show her that sometimes the path to the future leads through the past

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Mridula tried Beck's cell phone, all the while sifting through the
steady crowd of people entering the museum, hoping to catch a glimpse 
of her friend's leopard-print faux fur jacket. But the messaging 
service came on and she hung up. Answering machines made her awkward, 
and she inevitably ended up leaving abrupt messages in a ridiculously 
uptight voice. 

How ironic that she should end her stay on this note, like some
stranger, after she'd come to regard the city as a second home. She 
hated to admit it, but she was going to miss this crazy life. Maybe if 
she had lived here longer, she'd feel more prepared to leave. After 
all, she'd only just gotten here. Everything was still so new. There 
was so much more to see, so much more to do. 

She switched thought-tracks to study the metal lion, silhouetted against
the dull gray glow of the morning sky. A lump of copper brought to life 
by inspiration and skill. Somehow she couldn't reconcile this cold 
green object with her image of the tawny original in all his languid 
majesty. 

Art was, at best, a poster child for life. Then why was it that people
turned to images to develop a finer appreciation of reality? Why flock 
indoors to chase shadows when you could be outside soaking up the sun? 
Of course, that was a moot point when it was snowing outside. 

The phone rang, interrupting her internal rambling. It was Beck, held up
as usual. “Hey Med! Why don't you head inside and I'll join you in 15.” 


Med was short for Medusa. That's what she'd been dubbed the first day in
class, when she walked in wearing a stony mask over her anxiety, every 
strand of hair tense like a hood raised, ready to sting at the first 
sign of hostility.  The unease had long since evaporated but the 
moniker had stuck. Well, that could be because of the difficulty most 
Americans had pronouncing Indian names. 

Mridula felt a stab of irritation. She still had so much to do before
her flight on Sunday. Pack up, clean out her room, drop by the mall for 
some last minute shopping, add finishing touches to the report required 
by her scholarship program, and she better not forget to call the 
travel agent and confirm her reservation. What was she doing here 
wasting precious time? For a moment she contemplated leaving, but the 
ill-tempered wind propelled her inside. 

Tugging at her heavy tweeds, she headed towards the Coat-Check counter,
feeling the momentary disorientation that came from switching 
environments. It was suddenly so much warmer and brighter. All around 
her, people were glossing over their outdoorsy brusqueness with a 
veneer of museum manners. Voices were muted, yet they echoed. 

Among them, Mridula heard one she would know anywhere. It belonged to
Arthur Levitt, a professor at the university. She spotted him in the 
next line, talking to the distinguished-looking lady behind the 
counter. He was a portly gentleman with an immaculate dress-sense, a 
penchant for gesticulation and, what Beck in her infinite wisdom 
called, an On-Air manner. 

As she had explained to a giggling Mridula, “You know how certain people
behave like a camera is capturing their every move and broadcasting it 
to millions of avid viewers across the country? That's being 
On-Airish.” 

Professor Levitt had retrieved his coat and was on his way out.
Mridula's first instinct was to duck for cover, but etiquette got the 
better of her and she stepped up to say hello. 

“Med! What a pleasant surprise! Here to see the photography exhibition?
No? Well, I insist that you do. Lower wing of the Allerton building, 
first room to the right. It's a collection of prints by Kent Whittaker. 
You will simply adore it. The Institute has acquired some of his 
previously unpublished work from the time he spent in India.” 

Mridula was familiar with Whittaker. The good professor was a great
admirer of his and the class had studied a lot of his work in their 
sessions on Visual Appreciation. Levitt prattled on, oblivious to the 
squirming of his captive audience. “The entire set is suffused with a 
joy de vivre very unlike the minimalism that marks much of his later 
work. Since the early 70s...” Mridula put on her interested face as 
Professor On-Air launched into a longwinded monologue about the 
evolution of Whittaker's photographic eye. 

“...underscores the impact of his work on Web design. Talking of which,
I was sorely disappointed to learn that you won't be taking up that 
position with M&E. I had personally recommended you to their creative 
director, and I rarely do that for short-term students. I don't think 
you realize what an immense opportunity this was. With your potential, 
you could have gone places, young lady.” 

Mridula stammered her apologies, seething inwards. She knew well enough
how exciting the post was. When she was at her dead-end job back home, 
she had fantasized about an opportunity like this coming her way. It 
was partly why she had applied for the scholarship. But things worked 
in a certain way back home, and that order was not to be tampered with. 
It was tough to explain to people here. She remembered trying in vain 
to make a bewildered Beck understand. 

“I know they're among the top five design agencies in the country. I
know I'm the envy of everyone in class... but you don't know how it is, 
the only reason papa agreed to let me come here for this course was if 
I let them start looking for a guy for me... easy for you to say, but 
it's just not the way folks think back in... that's not the point, 
Beck. Don't you think we owe our parents much more than we can repay 
just by writing a cheque? 

“This hasn't been easy for them ... and now that everything's all
settled, I can't just leave everyone hanging. The entire family is 
waiting for me to get back... mummy's been clamoring for an engagement 
by year-end!  No... but you know we've been chatting online and over 
the phone...of course it's not the same thing as meeting him in person, 
and that's why I have to get back. No! No more buts! You've exhausted 
your quota for the day!” 

Mridula made her way downstairs, flinching at the thought of ever having
to explain to dadi ma how things worked around here. On the landing 
outside the photo galleries, she picked up a brochure about the 
exhibition. Called ‘Bombay Celebrates', it was Whittaker's homage to 
the inimitable city. During his stay there in the late 80s, he had 
fallen in love with its quaint customs, its outspoken inhabitants and 
most of all, its vivid festivals. 

Beck would love this, she thought as she headed inside. She was so
curious about everything Indian – the food, the clothes, the lifestyle 
–continually bombarding her with outlandish questions and naive 
comments. Like the time she peered at one of Mridula's family photos 
and exclaimed, “Whoa! Your granny's got a pierced nose! That is so out 
there!” 

The hall was serene in its starkness, content to let the displays with
their sleek white panels and bright focus lights get all the attention. 
Mridula assessed the room's layout, trying to decide where to begin. 

In her experience, people usually walked around exhibitions in a certain
pattern. It was a polite synchronized dance, with your basic 
wait-move-wait steps. Within this were variations such as 
move-gaze-gaze-gaze-move and wait-whisper-move-whisper. It was vital to 
pick a pace that did not disrupt the established rhythm. 

She decided to go with the peer-absorb-move, beginning from the left
wall. That way, she could keep an eye on the entrance. 

The first picture was of Pateti, which celebrated the Parsee New Year.
Titled ‘Embrace', it showed two elderly gentlemen dressed in 
traditional white garb walking towards each other from opposite ends of 
the frame, arms wide open for a congenial holiday hug. 

Next came ‘True Love', shot during that rampant festival of colors –
Holi. A movie poster obscured most of the wall plastering the 
photograph. A roadside drunk leaned against it, tenderly smearing the 
traditional vermilion powder gulaal on the cheek of a larger-than-life 
image of Madhuri Dixit, the popular Bollywood actress. 

As she smiled to herself, Mridula felt some movement behind her. She
edged a little to the right and cast a sidelong glance to see if she 
had made enough room for the newcomer. He smiled his thanks and 
ventured, “You're Indian, aren't you?” When she nodded, he continued. 
“I didn't realize you guys celebrated so many festivals.” 

Mridula geared up to correct his misconception that every Indian
celebrated every Indian festival. But that would require launching into 
a lengthy explanation about communities and castes and religious 
beliefs that could boggle the mind of any average American. So she just 
said, “We sure do!” very cordially and moved on. After all, Bombay did 
celebrate every festival that came its way with an impartial 
heartiness. 

The next picture stopped Mridula dead in her tracks. The subject of
‘Flight' was a young girl leaning out the window of a building, plaits 
dangling mid-air. Her face, lifted upward, radiated with an aura of 
profound joy. The patch of blue sky above her was overrun by kites, 
dozens upon dozens of them, bright rectangles of color with magical 
dancing tails. A blissful moment, captured with poetic artistry. 

But Mridula wasn't looking at the aesthetic aspects of the image. She
was staring at the face of the girl. Was that... it couldn't be... but 
it was. How was this possible? She took a step back, still surveying 
the photo intently. After a while, it slowly began to sink in. That 
girl in the window was her! Omigod! What should she do now? 

Well, there was nothing to do, really. She couldn't exactly start
shouting, “Look, that's me!” even though she desperately felt like it. 
She continued to stare. How long ago must it have been taken? She 
figured she looked ten, eleven at most. Rummaging around for some other 
details in her mind, she stumbled upon a lost childhood memory, and 
losing her footing, fell right in. 

The year is 1989. It is the morning of the kite-flying festival, Makar
Sankranti. Half the city is up on terraces and rooftops, maanjha in 
hand, trying to get their patangs up in the air. Mridoo's been waiting 
the entire month for this day to arrive. She has painstakingly 
decorated her kite with felt-pen stars and crayon flowers and written 
her name at the bottom. It is sure to be the prettiest one in the sky 
today. 

Of course, her pesky six-year old brother decides that he wants the
kite. But it's hers! No way she's parting with it! As he tries to take 
it from her, she grabs his greedy arm and sinks her teeth into it, 
leaving a tidy red mark. He runs off bawling, and she bends down to tie 
her shoelaces. Shaalu and Ritu must be waiting for her. 

All of a sudden, papa walks in. He looks angry.  As she watches aghast,
still on her knees, he seizes the kite. Glowering, he turns towards the 
kitchen. “A houseful of women, and no one has taught her how girls 
should behave! Ok, I'll have to do it then. No more kite flying for 
this hooligan.” Before she can say a word, he has put his fist through 
her kite. 

She looks up at mummy and dadi ma with a plea in her eyes, but no one
speaks up. Well, that's the way it works. When papa says something, it 
has to be followed. No arguments. She goes into dadi ma's room and 
cries her heart out, stung by the unfairness of it all. To be punished 
so severely for something that isn't even her fault. 

When the sobbing has subsided, she happens to look out. That's when she
sees them. She runs to the window, leaning so far out that her tiny 
toes are lifted off the floor. It's like her heart leaps out and soars 
with those kites. She feels giddy with elation, and at that moment, she 
makes a promise to herself. One day, she too will fly high and free... 
with nothing to hold her back... nothing to tie her down. 

Mridula stood rooted to the spot, reliving the forgotten incident in
startling detail. It all came flooding back, every emotion intact since 
the day she had first experienced it. She could taste the bitterness of 
the hurt and the earnestness of the vow. Of course, she knew now that 
what happened was no one's fault. Her brother has acted like any kid 
his age, and her father had done what he thought was right. 

But even as a part of her acknowledged that, another part understood
that the tears welling up in her eyes were a reaction to something more 
powerful than the mere incident, that her cheeks were wet with the hope 
of salvaging a dream gone astray. 

When Beck caught up with her in the lobby a few minutes later, Mridula
was talking animatedly with her travel agent about canceling something. 
There was a smile on her face that Beck had never seen before. It was 
the smile that had once been on the lips of a little girl in a window, 
watching kites fly. 


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