The Leader

Generally Aruna’s letters are short. They contain ten or twenty words. But those ten or twenty
words are like weapons spitting fires at me. Sometimes she addresses me as my dear ex-comrade!
Other times she begins, “Abhinava Tikkana[1] who ran away from warfront. And yet other times,
she begins her letters, “Dear Renegade.” Normally her letters do not contain any special news.
They convey commandments like “send a draft for one thousand rupees to this person,” “help that
person, here is how.”

Each time I received Aruna’s letters, I experienced an excruciating pain as if my body organs were
breaking up. My heart would feel snubbed. I’d feel like an accused who kept facing the same
punishment over and again for a single crime. Every time I received a letter from Aruna I was
frustrated. I suffered from remorse and emptiness, and on top of all this, a feeling of guilt.

There was also the threatening presence an another world—the humdrum of the corporate world
that I was working for. Hunting for money that people would pursue seriously and its frenzied
commotion. I have a a review meeting in ten minutes. These reviews try to reveal something about
the human machines that receive monthly wages. I went to the meeting holding on to the letter in my
pocket as if it was a time-bomb.

“What happened to you Rajasekharam! Why have you turned so gloomy, suddenly? Are you
alright?” With these comments of MD, everyone’s eyes turned toward me. I was looking like Raj
Kapoor, a one-time popular movie star, with red streaks in my eyes, depressed look on my face,
and crumpled clothes. The staff looked at me questioningly and amusedly. In the corporate world
every one should look as fresh as a rose just brought from the farm. There shouldn’t be any trace
of tiredness, vexation and sadness in the face. A smile should always hang on to lips as if saying,
“always at your service.” I repeated the words like a parrot, “Nothing, Sir. Just a little headache.”
In the corporate world, the essential act is delinking the tongue from the heart. “I’m tell you. For an
industrious person L&P organization is a goose that lays golden eggs. Rajasekharam is the best
example to prove my point. He started his career as a sales manager. Today he is an executive
director. It is no wonder if he becomes the managing director one day. There is an intellectual in
him. There is also an ‘adapter’ who could change like a machine according to the method of
work.” The Managing Director was getting tedious. The compliments are for me on my bagging
two or three contracts for the company. On another occasion, these words would have sounded
delicious. But not now. Now I am encompassed by the ‘red’ clouds of Aruna. I decided not to
read the letter. But I was overcome by tension and curiosity to know the contents of the letter. I
tore it open, and read it. “Raju Dear! Hereafter, my letters will not trouble you. This might be my
last letter. The police may arrest me at any minute. Bye, goodbye friend. —Aruna.”

For a second, my heart skipped its beating rhythm. Tears welled up in my eyes. Somehow, I
managed to pull myself out of the meeting and went to the restroom. I am not making any attempt
to stop the flooding tears. I felt the pangs of a wounded bird that has been hit by an arrow. This
letter is not like the other letters that mocked and tortured me. This is a letter from a dear friend
who has aligned herself with my life—as life within life. My weeping gave me a little bit of relief.
After washing my face, I dragged myself back to the meeting. The letter did not have return
address. It is not an SOS message seeking help. It is a special letter, a sort of punishment. She
wrote about the hazard she was in but at the same time she took care not to give me an opportunity
to rescue her from the hazard. My guilty feeling would stick with me like marks of tattoo on my
body forever.

The Managing Director was saying, “I am proud of him. In recognition of his talent and as a
compliment on his valuable service to the company, I am presenting this car to him.” Amidst the
applause of the staff, our managing director handed over the keys of a new Maruthi car to me. In
the corporate world, the measuring of talent is done in terms of contracts one fetches for the
company. Bagging contracts in a sincere way is a matter of bygone times. Today’s trend is sniffing
like a dog at the weaknesses of the prospective clients and gratifying them, and grabbing the
contracts. Rajasekharam, the dream boy of the corporate world, is an expert in these tricks.
Because of his expertise, he has dwindled to the status of a dwarf in his conscience. As feudal lords
were used to throw chains that adored the necks of their subjects or rings on their fingers as a
gesture of appreciation of the latter’s performance, in the corporate world a company would offer a
flat in a posh area or a Maruthi car to their employees. Along with this, the company would paste a
label on our forehead which readsa reliable servant or a confidential servant.

A trolley with liquor bottles was brought into the room. Glasses appeared in our hands in no time.
Cheers. Atmosphere warmed up quickly. A mountain of silence crumbled away gradually, and
snakes of chit-chatting spread to all corners of the room. To me, the commotion appeared like the
wails of pawned souls. There was a feeling of being drowned in the noise. But transcending this bin,
the good-byes of Aruna were reverberating in my heart. A feeling of being hammered ached my
head. A feeling of severe disturbance filled my heart. A gush of tears were trying to come out. But
the etiquette of the corporate world suppressed it. Presently, the farce of meeting closed with
good-byes, see-yous and bye-byes. A feeling of being released from prison.

Through the wilderness of the traffic, journey homewards in the new Maruthi. Shift from one jail to
another. In the evening, as the darkness engulfed, Lalitha appeared like a burning torch. In my
secure life, Lalitha functions as a tonic that rejuvenates me every second. She revives me daily with
the cocktail of coffee, a few sweet-nothings, a warm embrace and a small kiss. But today, Lalitha’s
mark of tonic failed to act upon me. My eight-year old Bunty rushed to me waving his progress
report and saying that he ranked first in his class. Lovely and pretty words. Precocious intelligence.
Generally looking at him gives me a feeling of pride. In my secure life, he is a valuable asset.
“Congratulations!” Throwing at him a lifeless compliment, I slipped into my feeling of loneliness
again. My son left the place sulking and calling me “Moody Dad”.

I remained in my room like a forest burning down silently. The light was not turned on. Soft foot
steps. The two soft hands of my wife lingered on my shoulder for a while, and then embarrassed
me and pulled me towards herself. Lalitha’s beauty is of explosive type. In her hands, there is the
kick of thousand pegs of whisky. She asked me sympathetically whether I received another letter
from Aruna. I pull out the letter and gave it to her. For a long duration of time, there is a silence
between us. Intermittently there are heavy sighs as an expression of helplessness. “You know my
cousin Raghunadha Rao, an IPS fellow. He is working as the Superintendent of Police of
Nizamabad District. Let us contact him. Perhaps he can help us,” Lalitha said. “How could we
request him anything without details. We don’t know anything about Aruna’s whereabouts. We
don’t even know by what name she is living at present,” I expressed my doubts. Another spell of
silence. For a while we did not talk to each other. “What could we do by worrying. She knows
quite well that this will be the last stage in her journey. In fact, she must have treaded this path of
fire knowingly. Our weeping and wailing will not be of any help. Of course feeling sad for her sake
is natural. But we should control ourselves. Before you go to bed, take a sleeping pill. Hope you do
get relief by morning.” There were a glass of milk and a sleeping pill on the table. Lalitha is a
genius. She takes all the precautions to prevent the plant of married life from getting infected with
the diseases like depression or agony. For a middle class being like me, women like Lalitha are like
safety lamps.

The sleeping pill could not show much impact. Sleepless night. Memories of Aruna are like flaring
wood fire, and they are burning me down totally. I was the person who preached Aruna the first
lessons of the movement. I was the person lectured to her on Das Capital with detailed explanatory
notes. I was the person who inspired her by narrating the tales of protests and struggles of various
countries. At that time a movement had originated in the state with the spirit of the poor peasants’
struggle of Bengal. Many a young person joined the stream of the movement leaving colleges and
universities. I myself pulled many a friend like Aruna into the movement. With the onslaught of
heavy repression, we got scattered into various directions. Some of us managed to erase the
remembrances of the movement, and put on new colors on our faces, and metamorphosed into
executives, teachers and doctors, and entered the rut of routine life. Thus placing us behind the
Lakshmana Rekha[2] and within the security ring of safe living, we are leading our lives
pretending to be fearless. In fact, safe living is a coward’s paradise. Pointing an accusing finger at
injustice is a frightening task. Extending a friendly hand and patting on the back of the members as a
gesture of solidarity is also a frightening task. There is the fear of losing expensive house, wife,
children, luxuries and laziness. That is why people like me are leading a life, simulating amnesia.

It was nine in the morning the next day when I woke up. Sun rays were pricking at my face. My
eyes were like a pin cushion emanating pain. Inside the house, the usual commotion was being
heard. The noise of children running about. Shrieks of happiness that could penetrate walls. It’s
surprising for me, to see the house that had witnessed tears last night and waking up into laughter
and shrieks of happiness in the morning.

After taking bath and dressing up, I entered the dining hall. Raghunatha Rao, IPS, was looking
majestic and cruel. Along with him, came his wife who looks like an incarnation of kindness
combined with sex appeal. And their two children are looking smooth and sweet like sweetmeats
made of milk, sugar and cheese. Their prompt greetings appeared to me as a prologue to an
exciting drama that is to follow. Raghunatha Rao converses with me as a long time friend. It’s like
he is enacting a role in a drama with a mask of smiles. After having made some small talk and
completing the routine enquiries about my wellbeing, he hit upon the more important topic.

“Sister told me about Aruna. In our police records, Aruna is known as Arunakka (Sister Aruna).
Very intelligent woman. I think she is an engineering graduate. Your suspicion is true. Recently our
personnel arrested Aruna. Two or three senior officials of the department had explained to her the
facts and tried to enlighten her. In fact, they appealed to her to give up the wild dreams and return
to the normal public life. Ultimately they were able to convince her to come out of the movement.
And arrangements were also made to give her a loan under a scheme of self-employment. So,
nothing to worry.”

“Dear son, it is me, Ramandham, Aruna’s father. Aruna was arrested a week back. So far, she
hasn’t been produced before any court of law. Her whereabouts are not known. Whomever I have
approached, they all are saying that they don’t know anything about her. I’m apprehensive in this
matter, son. Please, use your influence and see that nothing happens to Aruna.” I said, “Okay, Sir.”
And by the time, I put down the receiver, my body was soaked in sweat. Again the excruciating
agony of my body organs breaking up.

This is an endless fire of cremation that cannot be extinguished. If not Aruna, some Kamala,
another Rama Rao, or another comrade—all of them would jump into this pit of great fire definitely
as well. I being outside the movement would inevitably suffer the pangs of the pain forever. For the
persons who are in the movement, there is only one death. For the ones like me who are outside of
it, there is a death every day.

[2] Lakshmana, is the brother of mythological hero-god, Rama in the Indian epic, Ramayana.
While standing guard for Rama’s consort, Sita, in Rama’s absence, during the Vanaprastham(
‘exile’), Lakshmana is compelled, much against his wish, to leave his task of protecting his sister-
in-law. While leaving Sita, fearing that some harm would happen to Sita, he draws a ‘line of safety’
and asks the lady not to ‘cross’ it and stay within the limits of it.