The treasures of SANUALI

The KongAnug Mail of 10:30

RIVER HIMANTURA was not only the pride of Konadhu but some adjacent towns sharing borders of the Swastika as that of Anugavalli also preserved the serenity of its piousness. The lush greenery that surmounted the valleys on the outskirts was a matter of great adoration by the people who often visited the Chinar, apple, and pine gardens to take a carefree stroll in the evening past supper as moonlight, often than seldom, glistened over the water like a silver belt around the perimeter. 

The Mayor of Konadhu had often been seen taking many distinguished visitors onto the shore of Himantura as he’d proudly point at the Sanuali Mountain looming in the centre of Anugavalli and twinkled in one’s vision like a fading moon—foggy and misty before offering a ride in those famous Shikaras. The overall experience would leave the guests in awe and one among the many would often express their willingness of becoming an inhabitant among the thousands once they’d retire. This would, obviously, make the mayor’s chest swell with pride.   

The Vinayak Beach was some fifteen minutes’ walk away from Shapoorji Street where the dismal brick building of Swamy’s shady house stood erect at number 309. Swamy habitually spent many of her evenings on the Vinayak Bridge, watching the sun melting down the horizon. It used to pacify her otherwise dishevelled brain for in her words, ‘It was one among the many places where she could think rationally.’ 

The evening crowd had started to thicken around the beach as the dusty glare of the evening sun scattered over the Konadhu like sheep without shepherd illuminating all the dingy alleys. Swamy sat aloof with Mani. Body relaxed in front of her old friend, her mind was working rather ferociously. With their feet dangling in the water of the deep stream, they stared at the crying birds homing their way to nests. Swamy looked at Mani, casting an intense look and asked.  

‘This water is the same as that beneath KonAnug Bridge. Isn’t it?’ 

‘Yes, why?’ Answer Mani, taking a big bite out of a fat red apple, she had brought with her. Mani was an old school friend who also attended college with Swamy. A brown-haired person with an olive complexion and good five-one height, Mani had been a constant companion that Swamy honoured with immovable confidence. Possessing no extraordinary skills or intellect, Mani was somewhat similar to Swamy in many prospects. She was lame and awfully slow in whatever pursuit she would try to endeavour. Frequently insulted at home and college, Mani was an outcast, timid, and apprehensive. People founded their companionship absurd and laughable, but both the girls adorned it.

‘Nothing! I was thinking if She would appear again. I don’t feel secure anymore. You think I am going insane?’ Swamy questioned, voice laced with intensifying defeat and tiredness. 

Mani sat silent for a few minutes. Eyebrows knitted and head bent to the chest, she appeared to be in deep thoughts as with coquetting a battle within. A few more seconds later she inhaled a deep breath and spoke, as if determined. 

‘No, I do not. You are not going insane. Nope! Naah! Nada! I have often heard my parents talking about people having visions…I just think, you should seriously consider making an appointment with a Dream Interpreter. My father knows a few. I can bring some contacts if you want. Perhaps, they could help.’ Mani replied with an air of acuity that instantly calmed Swamy down. 

She pondered over the suggestion for a few minutes, but then thinking otherwise, she shook her head and groaned. 

‘I can’t do that!’

‘Why? They don’t charge much. Some four hundred rupees for an hour or something. I am sure we can sacrifice a week’s visit to bakery. The matter is…’ 

‘It isn’t money, Mani.’ 

‘Then?’  

‘It’s my secret. I don’t want to give people another reason to criticise me. Konadhu can be covered in a fist. I can’t risk giving people another topic to laugh at me. The woman said that things would start make sense in a short while. I think I must wait and see.’ 

‘We can find one in Anugavalli. It’s a big town. No one Konadhu know about it. BTW I am glad, we took the KonAnug Mail today or you would have never told me about it. Anyways, how does she look?’ Mani asked. 

‘Awful and…’ Swamy’s voice trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the mid-air as that of the Chinar leaves that rustled above them pleasantly. Afterwards, they both went silent, watching the sky turn into a shade of soft red towards the west, thinking and thinking. 

Konadhu being one of the four islands marked circularly in between two arms of the Swastika had been surrounded with the bluish-green water of the Himantura beyond the whole circumference whereas the major right angles of the Swastika (the entire landscape of Anugavalli) had all of its edges dripping with its water too. The calm and peace, it offered to the natives, had always been tremendous, however, it also presented them with many survival challenges—for instance, travelling. 

A small town with scarce resources, the Konadhu was heavily dependent on Anugavalli for its major economic and development needs and thereby, giving the people no other choice but to travel kilometres across the Himantura regularly.  

 There were three prominent alternatives to complete the journey from the Anugavalli to Konadhu—The first—of course, was the Himantura Bridge; a sixty kilometres long stone circular segment that connected the shores of both the towns with its stretched length. The bridge could only be travelled through either one’s vehicle or a mode of public transport. The Himantura Bridge had been standing up for ages and so far, was the most preferred means by the people who travelled regularly, like that of Swamy. 

However, the remaining alternatives weren’t less travelled either— Shikaras, the long passenger boats crafted out of the finest deodar wood. The Shikaras were the most modest and expensive means that had to be navigated by at least two sailors in phirans. Even though slow-moving, the Shikaras attracted the tourists as passengers more than the regular inhabitants who used to choose either the KonAnug mail or the Himantura Bridge for the mundane journey.

Then there were the KonAnug Mail, a local train gliding over the embankment, booming and rattling while passing over the KonAnug Bridge that travelled back and forth between Konadhu and Anugavalli with half an hour halt in-between two consecutive trips were often picked by students, officer goers and oil mongers who put-up near the Bodh library. It, nonetheless, had to cover the same sixty kilometres journey only from the first quadrant of the Konadhu as that of the Himantura Bridge that was erected horizontally on the third quadrant.

It was an early morning incidence in the KonAnug Mail that the two friends were contemplating over. 

Thursday was as unpleasant for Swamy as any other day in the week had been. She considered the month of September especially unpleasant in the calendar. After all, it was the very month when her parents had died casting the tag of ‘disgusting murderer’ on her forehead so long she existed. Moreover, the insane voices and dreams had started to frequently appear as their twelfth death anniversary was inching closer. Swamy could feel dread crawling in her heart slowly at the thought of it. She hated the day like nothing other. 

‘Professor Sharma is going to have your head if you wouldn’t make it before his subsequent lecture. Barking throughout the class at how awful the students of our batch are! Worse among all he’d ever taught. He said that if this continued, he wouldn’t be taking our class to the educational trip the next week—it’s some historical site near the Sanuali Mountain. His face was red as apple. I wouldn’t tell ya…’ Informed a classmate as Swamy turned the corner fast, half focusing on the phone call.  

‘Fortunately, Professor Mehta has postponed the presentation post lunch. God bless the lady or you would have found a red fat F on your sheets and we would have lost the chance of visiting the mountain ranges. Hurry before the Surrealism Lecture or consider yourself dead. And yeah, Mani is absent too. Make sure you both arrive with decent excuses so long you wanna save your ass.’ Alvera, an acquaintance in her project group whispered yelled through the phone as Swamy hastily walked to the bus stand—her medium of transportation to college. Her waist-length blonde hairs were falling before her ears with each scurrying step she took while the anklet in her left foot dangled softly. She had shrugged a white plain full-sleeved T-shirt and blue denim with matching white sneakers. Nothing extraordinary or attractive but decent enough to be acknowledged as ‘presentable’. 

‘Grrr…I will be there before you know it. I just have to hop on the bus. I woke up late again and Rustom. You know my cousin. Yes…Yes! That filthy douchebag. He had to mess up…mess up with me early mor…morning. You wouldn’t believe what he did. Chocked the bathroom with beer bottles. Two! I had to…had to clean that nasty mess up before ne... neighbours could come knocking on my door for the awful s…smell.’ Swamy responded gasping as she scrunched her nose up at the memory and opened her mouth to fill in as much oxygen as she could. Swamy was one among those lean people who had been blessed with an enviously curvy body but hadn’t been sanctified with much of prosperous health. Ironically, she didn’t care. 

 ’Please make something up for me. I owe you one! Remember?’ She pleaded and let out a huge sigh of relief as she ascended on the pedestal of the bus station. She took a sneak peek at the wristwatch and let out a breath. It was five minutes to the scheduled bus arrival, enough time for her to buy a ticket. 

‘The last time! And you will help me with our writing draft. Deal?’ The giddy voice of Alvera rang in her ear and Swamy had a feeling that she wanted to hit the woman with something worse. However, controlling the urges, she replied with a faint yes before hanging up as she fumbled through her pocket and pushed four coins through the circular hole in the ticket window and shirked.  

‘A ticket to The School of Languages, Bus Number 9.’ She gasped out still panting as she waited for the attendant to help her with a ticket while tapping her foot anxiously. The attendant gave her a flat look, nonetheless punched a few keys in her system. She paused, leaned closer, adjusted her glasses, and leaned back rather slowly—snatching away whatever remaining patience Swamy had had a moment as she spoke in the dullest voice. 

‘Bus Number 9 broke down in middle. A replacement would be some half an hour late.’ Came out the monotonous reply. Yet again, Swamy refrained the urge to pull the woman by the collar and beat her black and blue. 

Instead, almost instantly, she snapped her neck towards the digital schedule board to her right. A loud yelp (loud enough to earn a few irritated glances) escaped her lips. Unfortunately, the bus was actually fifteen minutes late from its departure time that was fifteen to ten! The notification panel blinked unnerving, adding more to Swamy’s miseries. 

‘Oh, No! I have to reach the college before fifteen to twelve.’ She gasped, voice quivering.

‘Then take hurry to the railway station. KonAnug of 10:30 would be departing soon.’ The lady replied, rolling her eyes. Swamy did not mind replying for she twirled to the nearest local taxi stand that came to her mind to make it to the Pahari City Centre. The screen of her phone was blinking an upcoming call from Mani while oblivion to her and everyone, the wind was rising with ferocious intensity towards the east.