The DiffiCULT Child

Lalitha sits in the dark on her wooden armchair in front of a running television. Her spine is parallel to that of the chair’s, her elbow resting on its arm and her fingers joined as if holding a pen. Her right leg is crossed over the other, lifting up her saree to her ankle, drawing to light the toe rings that ornamented her feet since her wedding. On the floor is an unfolded letter, its contents hidden by her shadow. She looks like the school principal she is during the day and not a loving mother she’s always tried to be after she got back home in the evenings.

The television is broadcasting videos of a cult; clumsy shots and sloppy zooms on naked devotees chanting aloud their personal, wildest desires. Lalitha’s eyes ignore every human and every template in the TV, except the 24-year-old woman dressed in white – the bohemian responsible for turning nearly a quarter of the world’s population into extreme mavericks!

Lalitha remembers that day all too vividly- the day of admissions fifteen years ago when a nine-year-old girl walked into her office with her mother.

She’s a little difficult.

She remembers the caution in her mother's words.

I am not! YOU think I’m difficult because you always try to control me. No human has the right or power to control another!

She remembers thinking that she’s never seen such a smart-tongued girl before. With her guidance, she was sure the girl could be a great asset to her school.

She admitted the girl gleefully and observed her for days. She watched her skipping school prayer and running off to sit under the Neem tree; saw her playing cricket with the boys and throwing ball with the girls. She almost always had an eye on her but never interfered with her habits.

After a few weeks, the protests started. Every morning there was a queue of teachers outside her office, waiting to share their agony about the new student. So she had organized a meeting to clear up the situation once and for all.

"Oh, she's an outrageous little thing! She said I should wear pants instead of a saree because I have nice "round" buttocks!" started one of the lady teachers.

"She's too loose-tongued! She has no filters and she doesn't fit in!" complained another.

"She diverts my whole class! Saying and doing things that a fifth-grade-child must not even think about!"

All her subject teachers jammed in, everybody using their own distressing experience with the little girl to urge her expulsion.

"Please calm down," Lalitha stood up to address them all at once. "So far, the girl has topped in all her class tests and she is an outstanding public speaker for someone her age. There's no doubt that she is disobedient and a bad influence on other students. But that is what you and I are here for. What kind of teachers are we if we can't even control a 9-year-old? She is an invaluable asset to our school. I'm sure if you can find the right way to approach her, you can make her listen to you. Now please do not come to me with the same issue again. Meeting dismissed."

The teachers dispersed quietly and she was confident that she had declared her stand with the meeting. She wanted her staff to deal with the girl. A difficult student once in a while was a good exercise. Otherwise, they could get too comfortable. And as of the girl, she might have to have a friendly talk with her soon.

The week after the meeting had been extremely busy for Lalitha. Her husband would drop her off at the school in his car and then take off to his office. Every morning was one of the many when they sat side by side but never looked at or spoke to each other, except for occasional greetings. And then she would spend the rest of the day in her office, having meeting after meeting on smart classes, term examinations, laboratory usage, sanitation, cultural development, children's discipline and so and so.

One same morning at the end of the week, she heard the first complaint on the girl since the meeting.

“She was asking all the boys in the class if any of them could show her his penis since she has never seen one and was curious about how it looked!" One of her teachers brought to her notice.

It was time she had that 'friendly talk'.

She summoned the girl to her office and asked her to sit down. Lalitha pretended to be going through her files when actually, she was just processing the situation. She had an exhausting week and her headaches didn't help her heated mind.

She composed herself and cleared her throat. "Is there anything you want to tell me, dear?" She started, thinking the best way to handle this was to let the girl feel comfortable enough to talk about it herself. "Go on. You can tell me anything."

"Yes, there is." The girl dragged her chair close to Lalitha, without breaking eye contact. Lalitha prepared herself, ready to hear about an abusive father or a depressed single mom or a child molester or about the boogeyman in her nightmares. But nothing in the world could've ever prepared her for what she said.

"I think your husband is gay. And I think you know that. But you won't divorce him because you think it will ruin your reputation. But I think it will free you both if you take a divorce."

...

And that was the day she had signed the Transfer Certificate of the student she admired the most. She stated that the girl was expelled for 'juvenile delinquency' and 'extreme unruly behaviour'.

There were days in her later years when she wondered how that problematic child would turn up to be as a grown woman but never in a million years would she have thought that she would form a cult and have millions of followers for her absurd idea of a "Truth Culture".

How did I ever think I could tame such a wild girl… that too, with my own self in denial...

Lalitha recalls as she sees the videos rewinding on the television of the World's Greatest Offender- the Guru of “Truth”- The Greatest Bohemian- her diffiCULT student.

The front door unlocks and someone walks into the house. The lights are switched on and Lalitha turns around to see who it is.

"Mom?"

It's her daughter, Maya who has just returned from work. She steps closer to her mother, confused why she was sitting in the dark.

"What's this?" She squats down as she looks at the unfolded paper on the floor. She takes the letter and reads it through.

"Mom! What happened?! Why did dad write this? Where is he now?!"

Lalitha looks at her flustered daughter, helpless. She looks at the letter in her hands and then points to the television. "There."

And there he is, in one of the looped videos of the cult; standing naked with his white hair and slender body, with joined hands raised high. He is chanting out his wildest desire of having a gay orgy, louder than any of the white-hair, naked devotees around him. The video is followed by another, a speech by the woman in white.

“Nirvana is nothing but becoming the truth! Shed your clothes, shed your rules, and embrace what is natural!”