There Lived A Woman

I am sick today – fevered and full of throbbing pains. I welcome my aches, though. Anything to distract me from the overwhelming emptiness of the bustling streets...

There lived a woman. Till not long ago. Last morning when we woke neither did I spare her a thought, nor did her existence matter. Today her absence claws into my being. I must tell her story – her insignificant story – for my own well-being. I must talk and think about her, I must mourn her. My soul refuses to accept the silent complacence of the world at her passing.

She roamed the streets of my neighborhood – homeless, all material possessions stuffed into a plastic bag. An orange saree, a tattered shawl – a handsome green - and a clear blue plastic bottle of water. She walked – how she walked – all day, tireless, bent, lugging at her bag, pausing aimlessly for many minutes, holding on, clutching to her share of emptiness. She walked – she talked not. She bathed – punctiliously – and washed her only spare clothing – every morning, refilled her blue bottle. And walked on again.

‘Mad woman’, They muttered, and They shook their heads and walked on. For many years I accepted Their verdict. Never once did I question – ‘But mad women must eat too? And mad women might feel cold? Or thirsty? Or sad? Or happy?’ Madness had somehow set them free – liberated them of all human needs. Or feelings. Madness, as I know it, is accepted, stoically – with due gravity – like a capital sentence – with the shake of a head. But she never protested, she never spoke, she never smiled.

But innocence does not understand madness. Does not know much about capital sentences. Or verdicts uttered with the shake of a head. My son, almost three summers old, with the caprice of the fey wind, freed himself from my hold. And ran. To a stooped old figure – pausing aimlessly. He tugged at an orange saree. And smiled. She turned. And smiled back.

I took him away. Worried? Anxious? Embarrassed? Defeated? ‘She must be dirty, and you will fall sick’, I muttered to my son. My mother with gray eyes calmly said, ‘He won’t. She bathes and washes. She is a clean woman. Haven’t you noticed? And Mom smiled at her. She smiled back. Wise Woman, my mother.

Then I did notice. My son would forever run to her – many times a day – tug at her, tap her – and smile. She always smiled back. Ruffled his hair – once. And then, looked my way – in fear, horrified eyes. I smiled. She smiled back.

My son learned to talk – rather late – nevertheless he did. And then, one day, he spoke to her ‘Tumi kemon aacho?’ (How are you?) And she spoke. Bhalo aachi, babu. Thakur tomake bhalo rakhuk. Ashirbad koruk. (I am well. May God keep you well. May God bless you.) The mad woman who never spoke. I smiled at her. She smiled back.

Many days. Of smiles, snatches of my son’s conversations. With a mad, silent, woman. Who had never spoken. Or smiled. ‘She refuses to eat when I offer her food’, ‘I gave her a saree but she didn't take it’ – Kind Woman, my mother.

And three summers more.

I was hurrying to work. Lugging at my handbag, and a laptop bag, and other inscrutable weights. And there she stood. In her lightness. And smiled. At me, without my son. I smiled back. Emboldened, I spoke the next day – ‘Kemon aacho, ma?’ (How are you, mother?) She said – Bhalo aachi. Amar khub chinta, jano ma. (I am well. I have many worries, you know). And a sigh.

Later came, ‘Amar ekti mey aache, tomar boyoshi. Amar khub chinta, jano ma.’ (I have a daughter your age. I have many worries, you know). And a sigh. Mad woman.

‘Babur mon khub bhalo. Thakur oke bhalo rakhuk. Ashirbad koruk’ (The child has a kind heart. May God keep you well. May God bless you). The mad woman who never spoke. Or smiled.

My mother passed to Summerland. Her clothes bore her smell. Bengal cottons. In reds, and blues, and yellows, and pinks.

‘Let me give you one of my mother’s sarees’, I told the stooped woman pausing aimlessly on the street. She smiled. ‘Ami sadi niye ki korbo? Kothai rakbo? Na, ma’ (What will I do with a saree? Where will I keep it? No, my dear) And she pointed to a plastic bag. With a handsome green shawl and a clear blue bottle of water peeping out. I bore not the heart to say – ‘Throw the tatter you are wearing away’.

I saw her at a street-side stall. Which sell fried bread (kachaudi). She counted coins to pay the vendor as he ignored her for all the others. Mad women do eat!

I hastened. ‘Let me buy you dinner. Whatever you wish to eat tonight’ ‘Amar taka lagbe na. Kachurir du taka hoye jabe. Kothai rakhbo bolo?’ (I don’t need money. I have two rupees – the cost of this kachaudi. Where will I keep the money?) Horrified eyes. Mine helpless. ‘Tomar babu khub bhalo’

Yesterday, my son – now all of six – stepped out to go to school. ‘Tumi kemon aacho?’ (How are you?). Bhalo aachi, babu. Thakur tomake bhalo rakhuk. Ashirbad koruk. (I am well. May God keep you well. May God bless you.)

In an hour my aunt called me – ‘Do you know there lived a mad woman in this neighborhood. Your son often talked to her. She slipped and fell on the street. And died. They’ve taken her away’. I looked out of my window. A bright yellow sheet of plastic, a handsome green shawl, a clear blue bottle of water, and a tattered orange saree. This morning They cleared it away. All traces of a mad woman. Who never spoke. Or smiled.

The bustling streets are empty. I need to scream out to the world. That she existed. And had worries. And a daughter somewhere. And that she ate. And spoke. And smiled. My soul torments me in silence. I welcome my aches. 

Maman

She started to leave, but I held on

A moment longer – the end foregone.

Tarry a heartbeat more, my love

May that I capture these grey eyes now.

She smiled and said “It’s a dazzling place

Hues brighter may, then, fill the space.” 

Wise Woman she was; She spoke of my days -

Keeping up with Life at a dizzying pace

True I see her words were, then. I smile again 
Strike worldly deals, consider losses and gain

In a world devoid of the Love that was She

Every dusk,though, I ponder where Home may be.

The Pink That Hurt

Taking motherhood too seriously? Is that even possible? I haven’t slept well, not a single night, ever since my child was born, six years ago. Aren’t there a million evils he needs to be protected against? I have seen mothers lose their children to drugs, to accidents, to ignorance, to communal conflicts, to terrorism, and worse - to careless upbringing. Well, maybe not seen all of these, but heard? Certainly. At least, imagined. Not a moment goes past when fear doesn’t grip me. Am I teaching him the right values? Honesty? Check. Security? Check. Patriotism? Working on it. Worldly wisdom? Check. Cultural sensitivity? Check. Etiquette? Darn, we missed it this week.

When my six year old asked me for money one foggy morning a couple of days back, but wouldn’t explain why, I know I was sharp. I brooded all day, and all night. What was enticing him? Why would he not tell me? When did my baby suddenly become secretive and stubborn? Wars were waged. I looked into his eyes, and he stared back in silent defiance. The fear was tangible - in my soul and in his throbbing Adam’s apple. I sent him to school in utter helplessness; could I not keep him home, sheltered forever?

I am a mother. I have forgotten anything else I might have even been. Career in the backburner, social life come to naught, and no thought, but him. I have persistently ignored all other demands made of me. But once in a while, I am reminded, that there is a world outside of parenthood. One of those rare nights I decided to work late. Coming home to see the child fast asleep is one of the greatest pains a working parent can experience. I braved it last night. I reached home at a late hour to see a bright little butterfly, huddled in a blanket, dozing on my bed – a face that spoke of his wait for his mother, and his brave battle, which sleep had won. Melting heart, I stopped to ruffle his hair and plant a kiss, a soft little one – lest he miss the angels that frequent his dreams. He is too young to be enticed by the evils of the world. My fears were unfounded, I told myself.

“He broke the piggy bank today”, my aunt reported. I froze. The demons reared their ugly heads again and roared. They had tasted blood. I collapsed into a heap of pain and struggle. What evil had enticed my little flower? I recalled the early months when my colicky baby would cry all night; the pains I took to wean him off his milk and get him to have fruits & cereals; the one time I nearly lost him to the anxiety at the hospital; the first moment he called me ‘Mom’; how he clung to me when he lost his Grams… The night was a vile poison that would neither let me live nor let me die. I counted the hours, the minutes, the moments - when will he wake, when can I ask him, how do I ask him, what should I say, what will he say.

The cruel clock struck six. Saturday. Let him lie in, said a voice in my head. Wake him, ask him, said another. He stirred, reached out for me. Divine Grace. ‘Mom?’ ‘Yes, love?’ Inscrutable mumblings… ‘Did you break your piggy, yesterday?’ tenderness overdone. My measure of Love. He sat up. All awake, morning languor suddenly gone. ‘Wait’, he said . And went into his study.

Browning is my favorite poet. In joy and in pain I have kept going back to him, his words...

"Fix'd me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance: right!"

‘Happy Birthday, Mom’ my son muttered. Pink gerbera. It looked fresh. Too new, too wet, too bright…it stung my eye. ‘I wanted the money to buy you a gift. I broke my piggy’.



Image Courtesy :http://pics.admadic.com/SpecialFlowers/Pink-Gerbera-Collection-2008/7526835_J5R3dw#!i=486104551&k=GWsq9

Prayer

Mother Divine, whom I see in the quickly darkening grey of the clouds; Mother, whom I find in the faint brightness that peeps from in-between the clouds; Mother, whom I see in the shimmering city lights, in the steady glow of the bright palace lights, in the flash of lightning that illuminates the dark waters of the lake; I see your many colors in the golden dawns, in the blue of the sparkling waters, in the many-hued lights afar, in the purple reds of the sunsets, in the slate greys of the evenings, in the dark of the nights, in the white of the lightning bolts, in the greens all around, in the pearly smiles and laughter of people, in the kohl smeared tears.

I see you in the isolation of the island, in the crowds of the city streets; I hear you in the peals of the temple bells, in the Maghrib sung from the distant mosque; I sense you in the life urge of men and women as they return to their homes tired from a day’s work, in the death urge of the moths that are attracted to the flame; I feel you in the pain that wrings my soul and in the breeze that teases my senses.

Grant me, Mother, that I may never lose my Faith in you.

Written on August 2010. (the patio of the Noor-Us-Sabah palace, Bhopal. Heaven)

Happy New Year

The first month of the year spent in mirth, in anticipation
The lovers’ month tastes of sweet procrastination
In March, we brewed a colourful concoction
The Ram’s month brought in a fiery revolution
While my earthy May a warm homely satiation
The butterfly June of cheer and celebration
Wet July all spent in fearful trepidation
Tired days – an August of restless nights and exhaustion
Mummy-like September of caring consolation
Fall’s flaming ochre and October’s ruthless persecution
November’s my month of absolute exasperation
Cold December makes for a stern new resolution

Fly...Flee

Let’s fly away...far beyond the misty hills; let's flee this raging hell before the dusty, tired city awakes to another dreary day. Let’s live among the lesser men, who know only a pained life; worship the lesser Gods who never egg us on. Let's drink our sorrows with acceptance, cherish our lesser joys with appreciation and love our languid lives. Let's fly away...

Kalbaishakhi

The thunder, the lightning, the storm…Kalbaisakhi again. The dust rose and the whole world stirred mirroring my restless soul. The thunder crackled and the skies split open. The heavens poured their heart out. My soul awoke to aeons old memories, I believed again. Nature opened her arms and embraced me, hugged me close to her bosom - the long abandoned daughter welcomed back into her fold. I heard the music of my soul, I heard the unspoken promise…the promise of power, the promise of love. I was initiated into the secrets of the Gods; my coven called, I must answer…The purple velvet veil was ripped apart, I waited to catch a glimpse of the universe tonight…Heightened senses, I held my breath. As abruptly as it started, it died down. City bustle again. I almost lived...