ডাকবাংলা

Part 3

Chilla: Part 4

The letter of good wishes was duly read out and then in a few minutes the auditorium lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and an amber glow shone on the accompanying musicians seated on a dias on the left of the stage, if you were to view it from the auditorium. Ganga Bhaiyya gleamed and dazzled in his sunflower yellow kurta and medallion, but it was Pinku seated lower in the ranks who switched on the electronic tanpura, placed a microphone near it to amplify the sound and then let out three bombastic Oms one after the other. As he began the invocation to Lord Ganapati, Nirmala slowly made her entry swathed in bright red shimmer. A gasp went up amid the audience and several people could be heard tittering and giggling uncontrollably as Nirmala swayed on to the stage. 

Through the next six hours, everything Nirmala tried turned into a farce. When she tried to strike various poses on one leg, she shook uncontrollably and had to abandon the pose to avoid falling. She made mistakes in every tukda she attempted but battled on valiantly. After every two hours the guard would change as it were, and a new set of musicians would slip into place, replacing those that had completed their two-hour shift. Collecting their fee in cash hastily and signing receipts for the amounts received, the artistes rushed to be seated with the audience for their share of laughs as Nirmala resumed her antics with the new set of musicians. 

At some point of time, she decided to display her prowess at abhinaya, and crawled on all fours like a baby as the singer sang a bhajan describing Lord Rama as a child. In another abhinaya segment she lay supine on stage for almost 15 minutes as she played the reclining Lord Vishnu. If the pose itself wasn’t funny enough her many attempts to heave herself off the floor and in standing position were even more hilarious. When she finally managed to straighten up after many failed attempts, it was to the accompaniment of hysterical applause and wolf whistles from the audience. 

But it was after a particularly energetic bout of wild footwork, stomped out with complete lack of precision that she experienced a near blackout. Lurching towards the wings where Bina waited, she was seen gesticulating and asking for what seemed to be a sip of water. Bina rushed to give her some water with a dash of sugar and salt added to it, and for a few minutes Nirmala seemed a little stable. But she was sweating profusely, her mouth was open and she was gulping air uncontrollably. She asked the tabla player to play a short solo as she tried to catch her breath tapping her feet all the while to ensure she did not stop completely. But once the solo was over, there was no option but to resume. 

It was now about 1.30 am and as Nirmala launched into a series of pirouettes, she lost balance, collapsed and fell with a huge thud on the floor. By now there weren’t too many people in the audience, but those that had stayed on, either to laugh or out of loyalty, or to sleep in the air conditioned comfort of the auditorium, let out a collective gasp. Bina rushed on stage towards Nirmala as did some of the musicians. Nirmala was writhing in pain, and no one knew whether it was from an injury caused by the fall or from a possible cardiac issue. Bina called out to one of the musicians to get N.K who was in the green room having a cup of tea, as she dialed for an ambulance. 

As she desperately tried dialling 151 for the CATS ambulance service, her hands shook in fright and anxiety. By then N.K rushed in, saw his wife in a heap on the floor and turned visibly pale. This is what he had feared all along. He turned to his secretary and asked him to contact the Chief Medical Officer at a leading private hospital. As the secretary made his calls, N.K crouched near his wife, took her hand in his and softly cried out, “Nimmo, Nimmo what have you done?” Turning to her husband Nirmala winced in pain, unable to speak. Someone ran in to say the ambulance had arrived and soon she was being transferred on to a stretcher by the attendants. As the stretcher with Nirmala on it, still in costume, makeup streaming down her face, gauze chunni still pinned on top of her head, was wheeled towards the ambulance, a little procession followed the stretcher. Heading the procession was N.K, Bina behind him and a gaggle of musicians exclaiming and discussing amongst themselves following suit. Accompanying Nirmala in the ambulance were the attendants and N.K. Bina, secretary and another staff member followed in N.K.’s car. As they hurtled towards the hospital, siren screaming and red light flashing, the attendants put Nirmala on oxygen. N.K. sent a silent prayer to all the Gods he could think of, terrified that something dreadful and unbearable would happen to his beloved wife. 

His prayers were answered. When they reached the hospital, after a series of tests and preliminary investigations, things did not look as bad as they had in the auditorium. Nirmala had two fractures, one in the ankle and the other on her wrist as she tried to break her fall. She was dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion, but there was no cardiac problem on the face of it. 

By now relatives, friends, artistes were calling to ask about Nirmala from all over and Bina was valiantly trying to give them an update. As dawn broke, and the hospital buzzed with activity, Nirmala went through more tests, and was taken into various theatres for treatment. The media too had heard about the incident and were calling Nirmala and N.K’s phones incessantly. Several papers carried a report about Nirmala Malviya, devoted to Kathak, who had taken upon herself the task of doing a chilla, passing a test of endurance to emerge burnished and evolved. As her fractures mended, and she recovered lost strength, Nirmala received hordes of visitors and well-wishers. She met each one smilingly, repeating versions of the same line to everyone – “Even if I had died that night, I would have been happy knowing that I laid down my life for the art I love.”

Illustration by Suvamoy Mitra

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