The Scar

THE SCAR - A Short Story By Varalotti Rengasamy - Part II

I detested Sharadha so much that I supressed the fact that I had a sister to my friends in the school. I was in Class XI at that time.

One of my classmates, Janani, just like that walked into the house one evening to borrow some books. As I was talking to her, Sharadha came out from inside the house to see who had come. Janani saw Sharadha and also the ugly scar that marred her face.

I could read the question in Janani's eyes 'Who is she?'. If Janani knows about Sharadha and her scar then the whole school will know about it in a day and I could not bear to get the 'pity you' looks from everyone. I immediately thought of a way out and shouted at Sharadha as if she were a house maid: "Veeramma, when are you going to learn to clean the house thoroughly? I can see dust patches almost everywhere."

Sharadha stared at me for a second and her big eyes were filled with tears. With the accompanying sound of her silver anklets she ran into the house.

I had overdone it, for Janani said, "Sethu, try to be humane to your maid. Don't shout like that. After all she is also a woman like your mother."

I had just started in Medical College. My shoes had worn out completely and I started nagging my mother for a new pair. She said that I have to wait for two months for my shoes as she had just borrowed heavily to pay my college fees.

I could not bear that waiting as already my friends were teasing me about the old shoes. In despair I refused to go to college and was confined to my room for one whole day.

The next day when I woke up I saw a gift-wrapped parcel on my study table. I opened it with trembling hands to discover a pair of brand-new shoes inside. I had eyed on this design long back and mother had exactly bought according to my taste.

I hugged my mother to thank her for the thoughtful gift. My mother just sighed and said, "All these years I could save only so much to buy a pair of golden bangles for Sharadha. After all

she has to be married away in a year or two. Without breathing a word to me that foolish girl went out last evening to pawn her bangles to get you those damned shoes."

Tears started welling in my eyes. I was not devoid of emotions. Had Sharadha been there without the scar I would have willingly washed her feet with my tears. But in the end the magnified look of the scar killed all the soft feelings of affection and gratitude.

My face stiffened and I did not even utter a formal thanks for that outstanding act of kindness. A kindness which even my mother didn't venture to show! All because of that scar. Oh God why did you create her with a scar? Only to torture me?

Mother had tried hard to fix Sharadha's marriage. In fact one guy came to see her. He was very friendly with me. But the moment he saw Sharadha and her scar he shouted at all of us and ran away from the place.

I could hear Sharadha sobbing all night. Part of me wanted to go up to her and say, 'Forget that idiot, Sis. You deserve much better.' I thought of the scar and another part of me wanted just to shout, 'After all you deserve all that. Why should a woman like you with such a hideous scar dream of marriage? You are destined to suffer.'

Amma woke me up next morning to tell amidst tears: "Sethu, Sharadha has gone away. To Mysore. To her aunt's house." My mind only jumped in joy almost uttering the words, "Good riddance". But I said something to pacify Amma. It appeared as though Sharadha had almost disappeared from my life.

A few years later I learnt that Sharadha had fallen in love with a middle-aged bank official and had married him. Though it was an inter-caste marriage mother was happy that Sharadha could get a life-companion at last in her late thirties.

Actually my mother had been pestering me to take her to Mysore to see Sharadha and her husband. I have been dodging her all along because I could not bring myself to face her and talk to her that too in the presence of a third person, her husband. And now the news of her death has come relieving me once for all of that unpleasantness.






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THE SCAR - A Short Story By Varalotti Rengasamy - Part III

It was late afternoon when we reached Mysore to see Sharadha for the last time. The small house bore clear evidence of Sharadha having ruled over it. Everything was beautifully arranged and every object tastefully chosen. Even the small doll she had kept on the TV set announced her presence.

I saw the lifeless form of Sharadha lying in the drawing room. For the first time in my life I was seeing the face of my sister without any fear or hatred, for death had destroyed all those emotions. I could not help thinking that but for that scar Sharadha would have been a very beautiful woman. The scar had robbed her of many things in life including the affection of her only brother. Well, past is past.

A soft looking man with an unshaven face was sobbing before the body. He should be her husband, Balan. Our eyes met. But I did not have the nerve to talk to him. Sharadha was consigned to flames the same day. We stayed there for two more days.

As soon as we landed in Bangalore my mind reverted to the problem of choice between cardiac surgery and Orthopaedics. But now Amma could not argue any further on the issue. Sharadha's death had devastated her. I was starting to yield to Deepa when a letter came from Mysore. Balan had written. Why should he write to me now?

Dear Dr. Sethu,

There is not much of relationship between us to justify a letter. Had Sharadha been alive she would have acted as a bridge between us. But that also seems a distant possibility because you have never loved your sister. Sharadha did not tell me; but I could infer that. And your mother told me openly about your hatred towards her. I am writing this letter because I want you to know the truth.The truth about Sharadha.

When I first met her at the bank I was overwhelmed by her internal beauty. The beautiful handwriting, soft words, an unhurried and a clear approach to life - all these attracted me to her. I was not frightened by her scar. And when I spoke my love to her, she wept like a child for half an hour. It seems no one had spoken loving words to her all through her life.

As we began to move closely I asked about her scar. I just wanted to know whether it was congenital or not. Very reluctantly she told me the story.

She told me that once the house in which you people lived had caught fire. In the melee everybody forgot the fact that you, a two year old child then, were sleeping inside the house. Your mother had already fainted. But the fifteen year old Sharadha rushed inside the house to rescue you. As she was about to bend down and lift you, she saw a burning wooden plank falling right over your head. Without hesitation she spread herself over you and the plank hit her leaving a deep scar on her back and on her face. Had she not done that you would have probably been burnt alive or you would have got a more hideous scar on your face.

But more than that Sharadha got a promise from your mother that this fact should never be made known to you. Lest you should suffer from pangs of guilt every time you see the wound.

Even when she told this to me she extracted a promise that I should never reveal this to you till the very end. I do not know what she meant by the words, 'very end'. But I take it to mean her end. I am now free to tell you this, so that you understand Sharadha at least now. And that is the least I could do the memory of that lovely person with whom I shared the finest years of my life.

On my first night I asked Sharadha: "Don't you feel bad having that scar?" You know what she said! "Not at all. This scar always reminds me of Sethu. When Sethu stood first in the District in the HSC exams, when he got a gold medal in his MBBS exams, I used to fondle the scar as if to say, 'What laurels have you brought to my Sethu!'

Now Sethu, your mother told me about the confusion you have in choosing your specialty in medicine. Take my advice and choose plastic surgery. Become an expert in removing scars from the faces of loving sisters so that their brothers do not carry uglier scars on their souls. That, perhaps, is the least you can do to the memory of Sharadha.

Yours sincerely,
Balan.

"Sharadha" I shouted as if the roof were falling over me. My mother came running from the kitchen. She was quite astonished to see me sobbing violently; for I had not even shed a drop of tears even when Sharadha's body was being consumed by flames a week earlier.






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