the chernobyl museum

after the uk, the contrast that ukraine offered in some ways was all the more striking and stark. for starters, there we were, gleefully drinking tapwater in uk. in ukraine i guess youd have to be pretty much crazy to try anything like that. chernobyls terrible legacy is still with them.

our hostess was telling us how she bought supplies only from certain supermarkets because she was worried about ground contamination post-chernobyl. she admitted that it certainly made life more expensive; but considering that she actually went and saw the ghost villages and towns around reactor 4, i dont blame her at all for being so worried. because of mom's penchant for feeding people we took 15 kilos of veggies for them when we went, but really, all the jokes that we all cracked apart, those veggies were "loaded" (pun unintended for once).

though we saw and admired kiev's several beautiful churches i didnt expect to see the chernobyl museum designed almost like another one. as soon as you walk up to the museum's entrance, there's this very simple figure to the left. it about sets the tone for the rest of the tour.




you walk in and see the reception hall's walls covered with black and white photographs. each is a story related to the disaster. there are scenes from the contaminated zones, children's wards in the hospitals that deal especially with the chernobyl related health complications, from cancer hospitals, from deserted villages and houses.

the museum is like a memorial. it has simply hundreds of photographs of the personnel who worked in the reactor, the army staff who patrolled and guarded the area, the scientists who were associated with it, and the villagers who lived nearby. there are quaint photographs of young couples garbed in wedding clothes, holding hands and smiling shyly at the camera. of young men and women proudly receiving awards and medals.

there are glass boxes elaborately filled with military coats, epaulets and badges, handwritten log books, change of shift records, letters, press clippings. theres no mention of whats happening under the sarcophagus built around the 4th phase. the museum doesnt discuss the subject of the sarcophagus now cracking and the reactor still throwing off immense heat. it doesnt mention how even if you walk into the ghost villages, its not a great idea to handle anything there.

it doesnt speak of how some old people decided they had nothing left and would return to die in their hometowns. we dont know what happened to them, or how long they suffered the effects of radioactivity.

when my hostess went to the inner zones two years back, people were mechanically scanned before and after approaching the reactor although the geiger counters couldnt register anything because of the massive large scale contamination.

the museum isnt about the spirit of scientific enquiry. its about being almost numb with shock. the kind of sorrow that the disaster brought about, its as if people feel so drained that even their grief is gentle and still. theres no rage, no railing against the authorities or fate, no savage rejection of everything associated with the power plant... nothing. the museum seemed to simply be a symbol of the sad sepia world of the survivors amidst normal hustling-bustling life.

the man for their daughter

"we are not a very conventional family. our daughter has studied ______ . she is well-read, and is very interested in the arts. she is currently working in ____"

the gaggle of relatives got to work, aunts busily ringing up each other's uncle's, daughter-in-law's, co-sister's brother and other obscure connections to Spread The Word. the uncles took life easier, sat in several acquaintances' houses and over cups of piping hot coffee, dropped a a word in the Right Ears in meaningfully hushed tones. naturally the friends had Been Told as well.

the phone rang. an excited self-appointed deputy on the phone.

"i found someone! you have to call them right away!"

"really?" - scramble for pen and paper - "tell me...."

"they're an excellent family, veryniceboy"

excited cooing

"he works in ______ , an MNC - gets a very good salary"

cooing gives place to "oh, nice. ok.."

"he doesnt smoke"

"oh... "

"doesnt touch alcohol, not the partying kind and all.... veryniceboy, not religous but traditional. and its an excellent family".

the paeans were sung, the receiver was replaced.

she turned to her husband who had come up to stand beside her expectantly. "he's a Very Good Boy. doesnt smoke, doesnt drink, very traditional."

they stood looking at each other in silence.



finally she wailed "how do we say no? i dont want someone like that for our daughter!". he nodded in exasperated agreement, "i'm also allergic to Very Good Boys... my son-in-law had better not frown at me disapprovingly if i want to have a beer some evening!"

this is really how aunty and uncle hunted for a husband for their daughter - this couple has always been Unique, but i think they surpassed themselves this time :))

the story of his love

he smiled. It was the sort of smile that reminded you of a deep breath - the instant it slowly uncoiled across his face, you knew it was a harbinger. it would lead to something….she watched him, catching her breath in anticipation and wonder. what story would this be?

with a sigh like an opening quote, he started his story. it was to become His Story. The Story of His Life. and funnily enough, it was all about something he didn’t even have. he spoke long and lyrically of love that he had felt. of how he had martyred himself - sacrificed his career, his peace of mind, and generally strained every sinew of heart and mind to keep the love of his life happy. the listener heard his words with growing horror. a quiet shudder shook her and she crouched lower.

fortunately, he was too absorbed in His Story to notice the revulsion creeping into her face or the stiffening of her body. her unresponsive silence became the muted scream of the person that he had “loved”. she could identify with the suffocation of the object of his cloying affection.

he droned on about how he was finally betrayed by her – how she had jilted him and walked out of their relationship. the listener breathed easier and cheered her unmet sister – you had to feel relieved for anyone who had escaped such a loving, suffocating trap.

as she watched the woman leave his life with growing joy, he too slowly withdrew from the past and with ill grace limped into the present, glowering like a sulky child. “I did everything for her! What more could she expect of me?” he demanded querulously. a little spirit, fewer shackles, some breathing space? she wondered which her fellowmate would have chosen, the poor woman.

she supposed she should feel sorry for him – he did mean well…. and he certainly wasn’t the only one to reduce love from its powerful magnificence to a maudlin, snivelling sentiment that seeped into your body to weaken spine and spirit. but the concept horrified her too much right then for her to feel charitable. she removed herself to the opposite end of the crowded room as quickly as politeness would let her. and there, slowly recovering warmth and spirit, she saw another person go up to him and sit beside him.

turning to meet the newcomer, he smiled and sighed.

the fragments

she couldnt admit to herself that some things had happened. the knowledge ran as parallel rivulets to her consciousness, causing explosive turmoil whenever the streams of thought converged. she watched detachedly as the rivulets swelled over the years. their waters would one day drown her reason, but as she could see no solution at hand, she accepted it all calmly.

her life had become a disjointed ball of quivering fragments. each shard danced with an intensity and life uniquely its own, each born from the tears that she didnt cry. some fragments would beckon her to the past, an unwilling slave, she would obey their call. her life relived in its most painful emotions again.. and again.. and again. the malicious fragment would dance away then, leaving her a trembling wreck. she couldnt help but sit captive in the middle.

she smiled bitterly to herself as she acknowledged the jabs of the vicious shards which weren't supposed to exist, "so that's what ms. woolf meant". a small sigh escaped her lips. She straightened, held her head up proudly and once more resumed waiting.

patience can be a paralysing virtue.

an epitaph

thanks senthil. the tag gave me a chance to say this - and i really needed to! :)

An Epitaph

They always fought when she was alive. She was a tyrant. We hoped he would enjoy his new freedom. Sadly, he was just too lost without her. after he died, we found her death certificate and an old sepia photo of them together under his pillow.

His was love that had quietly weathered 65 years.

the story behind the stories

twice or three times a week, i wake up ridiculously early and go for my class. on the way, i see a heart warming sight - all the newspaper delivery boys gather under the flyover with their sheaves of papers and settle down for a brisk round of work. as the hands fly, inserting advertisement pamphlets and notices into the bundles, there is much cheerful bantering.

most of them are rather young boys, so they look like many gnomes , squatting in the dim light, chattering and deftly working the mornings magic for us unappreciative late risers. the first time i saw these gnomes, it was a dark cloudy dawn, with a brisk wind blowing. each time there was a gust, the older boys would plonk a practised elbow on the bundles near them, while the younger ones went scampering after the newspapers that had swirled away. as they gave chase, the comfortably settled squatters would call out to tease a not-so-adept chaser, or shout excitedly about a bunch of papers that had managed to get quite far. there was so much simple merriment and enjoyment of such an ordinary task - it was a refreshingly cheerful sight!

isnt it nice to know theres such a buzzing happy world even behind our banal papers with their sordid headlines? Calvin was right - there is treasure everywhere!

andha ponnu.

its a house lit up in festivities. there are little fairy lights even on the trees in the garden. the street rings with the joyous cacophony of children playing. its a large hall, filled with wealth and people. the aunties and uncles sitting around in chairs, making conversation in spurts whenever the children's noise will allow them to.

in that crush of children, there stands one little girl alone, totally out of place in her simple skirt and darned shirt amidst the others' cinderella dresses and spiderman costumes. what really wrings your heart is the string of brightly coloured beads around her throat. a silent bid for childhood. shes "andha ponnu".

she is a live-in servant, looking after the child of the house. shes barely taller than her ward. maybe a few years older, certainly not as privileged. her frail shoulders support the responsibility of playing nanny to the child. she wipes its nose when its got a cold, runs to fetch its toys, to pick up its diapers, or frocks, or hairpins as it sheds them with gay abandon...

its not that shes beaten by the family you know - they do feed her well, give her clothes, help her earn and support her family. its just that her social life is to watch the children play from the shadows of the balcony. her family life is to sit in the front in the car as the child is cuddled by the mother behind her in the rear seat.

she always lives only on the fringes - a wraith of denied and deprived childhood.

faction

where i shamelessly tell stories - a combination of fact and fiction.

the chernobyl museum
the man for their daughter
the story of his love
the fragments
an epitaph
the story behind the stories
andha ponnu