Tryst with Life

To write about a woman who has an innate strength is not a tough topic at all. To choose whom to write about is. Being a woman, I can perceive the display of strength exhibited by every woman on a day-to-day basis. Running around doing chores in and out of the house, striving to meet the expectations of all around her, in the office and at home is a sheer display of strength and stamina to me. Now I sit and ponder over one that woman whose story I want to pen down here. Is it going to be someone who has conquered the Everest, or the CEO who has struggled successfully to reach the top of the hierarchy or that woman who has brought laurels to the country in the sports arena? No, it’s not going to be them. For me, the epitome of strength portrayed is Shantabai. Yes, it’s going to be her. 

I had first seen Shantabai when I shifted to Mumbai from Kolkata. My husband had got transferred and I was wary of embracing a city which was so new and unknown to me. From the ‘City of Joy’ to the ‘City of Dreams’ was going to be a huge leap for me. As I tried to settle things in our rented flat, I noticed Shantabai with her vegetable cart, standing near our building with the best veggies I could see in the vicinity. On second thoughts, it was more of her cheerful gait than the veggies which drew me to her.

“How much are the pyaaz for?” my first conversation with her.
“Ho Bai, thirty-eight for one kg. Looks like you are not from here. Never saw you before. And by the way we call it kanda here,” she replied with a huge smile and helped me select the best ones from the lot as she piled them over the scale.
“Yes, I’ve recently shifted from Kolkata.”
“Great. I hope you are enjoying the new place. The people are good here. In case you need any sort of help, just let me know. I know a few plumbers and electricians,” she said before helping me pick some green vegetables and fruits.

I ended up buying more than I had planned. In a city where none of my neighbours had approached me, a chat with this vegetable vendor was soothing. I noticed that she wore her sari tied like a dhoti around herself. Slightly plump with a wheatish complexion, she was just another Marathi woman with a typical big bindi on her forehead, kohled eyes, a Mangalsutra around her neck and a pair of gold nose studs. I grew an instant liking for her. Even though I considered myself a reserved person, I found myself talking with her as if I had known her since long. Her amiable personality was what made her a favourite in the market and I noticed more people throng to her than the other vendors. She had a constant smile on her face and made sure she made small talk with everyone who came to pick things from her cart. From enquiring about the bad knee from an elderly woman to talking about baby food with another, she knew her marketing skills well. It seemed to me that she enjoyed her work and looked forward to meeting people here.

I picked up my bag and left with a more cheerful note. The city was not only about distant people, after all. I assured myself that it would take a little time, but I would adjust and like this place. My immediate concern was getting my son admitted to a good school here. Most of the schools had turned down our request citing no admission for class nine. It was indeed a difficult task for my husband and me, sifting through schools and trying to zero in on where to apply. The rejections were increasing our tension. I found myself talking about this to Shantabai when I went to pick my daily need of veggies. She would inquire about it every day with equal worry. So one day when I told her that my son had finally got admitted to one of the best schools here, she clapped in delight. I was amused at the kind of happiness she radiated as if it were her own child I was talking about. It was this personalised behaviour of hers which brought certain closeness between us.

In the meantime, I had made new friends in my building. They were good but I still looked forward to my daily meet with Shantabai who I considered my best friend in Mumbai. I even wrote about her to my friends back in Kolkata and got mixed response from them – some delighted that I had at least made a friend given my introvert nature while some amused at my friendship with a vegetable vendor.

Shantabai and I continued to develop a strong bonding over time. She told me about her husband who worked as a daily wager in a cotton factory. Her two children, a boy and a girl, went to the nearby government school. The boy, Viplav, was the same age as my son, Shobhit. Viplav was quite brilliant in academics and was the pride of the family. Shantabai looked at him as someone who would alleviate their poverty. She looked happiest while enumerating his achievements just as any mother would. Shobhit was not very academically inclined; so it wasn’t a surprise when their board results were declared. While Shobhit had managed to score 81 percent, Viplav had brought laurels to his school by turning out with a whopping 93 percent. That day when I went for my vegetable shopping, Shantabai hugged me in ecstasy even as she had tears of joy welling up her eyes. I was myself very proud of Viplav. Late into the night my husband and I talked about how well the boy had done even in wake of limited resources and a modest upbringing. My husband insisted that I take a gift for him to encourage his efforts. As I tried to make up my mind what to buy for him, I realised that I had never seen him. So I bought a branded college bag for him and an identical one for Shobhit as well. It was a little hard on my purse, but I wanted the boy to know how much I appreciated his endeavour. Shantabai exclaimed in awe as I handed her the bag to be passed on to her son.

“No Bai, how can I take such an expensive gift” she looked unsure of herself.
“Take it Shantabai. Your son deserves a lot more. Tell him to study just as hard in the junior college. I want to see him in a good engineering college by the end of his two year term. Shantabai beamed in delight as she straightened her shoulders, visualising her son becoming a ‘big’ engineer.

It had been almost four years for me in Mumbai. I had grown to like this place, though not as much as Kolkata. For me, like any Bengali, Kolkata remained the best place in the entire universe. Sometimes, I missed the crowd of Kolkata, the Burra Bazaar, the Esplanade, the trams, the delectable flavour of fish curry coming out of every second household. But Mumbai was also good in a strange way. I experimented with sea-food and had grown accustomed to the pace of the city. It was almost as though I thought of it as my second home. It was then that the calamity struck- unannounced, unperceived, brutal, gory and absolutely shocking.

I was in the kitchen when the phone rang. My husband sounded frantic as he explained how Mumbai had been racked by a series of bombs at various places. He was en route to Shobhit’s college. My heart raced and my mind was in a whirl as I prayed hard for his safety. I switched on the TV and all the news channels were talking of this breaking news. I wasn’t interested who had been responsible for these blasts or what security lapses had made this possible. I was only straining my ears to hear that all was well in the vicinity of Shobhit’s college. To me, nothing mattered as of now. I would have exclaimed in disgust and despair had I been anywhere else. But right now I only thought about my family’s safety. I was praying fervently even as I flipped channels to hear more. When I heard the doorbell, I rushed to find my husband with Shobhit standing there, slightly shaken but completely alright. I flung into their arms and sobbed in comfort of my loved ones. It was then that I started realising the enormity of the incident that had befallen on Mumbai. The ‘City of Dreams’ had turned into ‘lost hope’ for several. Everywhere there was chaos and fear with people enquiring about each others’ well being. Several had died and many went missing in the aftermath of the brutal killings. We watched in agonising horror as blurred visions of bodies strewn over were being aired on various channels. There was a mixed feeling of severe angst, sharp sorrow, anguish and bereavement all around. Mumbai was soaked in melancholy disgust.

The day after, I went out to shop for the daily needs. After all, life goes on, as they say. Even as Mumbai was mourning the unprecedented loss, life was dragging back to usual. People were braving the streets and pretending to be normal. There were very few vendors in the market. I was slightly perturbed at the missing sign of Shantabai. There were several who had not turned up, perhaps playing safe for a while. I picked up some from another vendor promising myself to show up again the next day. Still Shantabai was not to be seen. When I did not see her for the third day in succession, I felt alarmed. I asked about her from a vendor who I knew came from her neighbourhood. What I heard shook me from within. It was like a thousand shrapnel striking me at the same time. Shantabai had lost her son.

Paralyzed in horror, I asked for directions to her place. I had an idea about the slum she stayed in, but not the exact location. When I reached, I saw her sitting on the floor, stoned in grief. She was clutching the bag which I had gifted her son, holding it close to her heart and patting it once in a while. It was all left of him as he might have tried to board the local at Jogeshwari. Being in the closest vicinity of the massive blast, the rest of him was a huge mass of burnt grey remains. The bag was covered with soot and shredded at places, nonetheless recognisable. She clung to it as the last remnant of her beloved son. She seemed to look beyond me as I shook her and called her name. Afraid that I might give vent to my emotions, words choked in my throat. I just patted her shoulder and reluctantly left her place. I thought of the bag and its owner- a young promising lad of twenty. My thoughts inadvertently turned to my son, the owner of another such bag who was probably sleeping in the comfort of his air-conditioned room. What I felt could not be described in words. The mental anguish of one mother and the gratitude of another mother could not be compared, ever.

My ritual to the market was something that pained me now. It would remind me of Shantabai every time and the grief she would be fighting against. The loss of her first-born, the loss of her hope, happiness and dreams was all too traumatic to think about. It left me drained of energy at all times. I moved mechanically in the house always thinking of her, never forgetting to thank God each time for Shobhit’s well being.

After exactly ten days of the ill-fated day, I saw her again – at her usual spot, with the same cart loaded with the same fresh vegetables. I raced towards her and waited patiently till she had finished with her customers. She might have appeared the same to others, but for me she was a different Shantabai. The stoned expressionless eyes that looked at me were unrecognisable. The hollow sunken eyes, the puffy face, the frozen look all sang of the excruciating pain she was undergoing. Gone was the shrill chirp in her voice, the glint in her eyes and the dazzling smile which never failed to greet a customer. She looked at me with tired eyes before sitting on a nearby fence railing. She exhaled audibly as she searched for words.

“My husband suffered a stroke the moment he heard what had happened.” She carefully refrained from using the word ‘death’. “He has taken to bed sulking in grief at all time. The doctors say it’s the shock. I have to think about him and also my daughter. After all, there is no one earning anymore. I had to forgo thinking of the suffering God has punished us with in wake of things that need attention now. Our meagre savings have all dried up. With my husband at home and bedridden, I have to think of extra income.” She was looking skywards and seemed to talk to no one in particular. My heart tore at the plight of this woman who could not even grieve her son as long as she wished to. Instead she had to rise like a phoenix to shoulder the responsibilities of her distressed family.

I picked up my shopping bag to leave. Shantabai got engaged in her next customer who was haggling for prices. As I walked home I thought of the enormous latent strength a woman possesses. The strength of a woman does not lie in moving mountains. It lies in her ability to bring life into this world. It lies in her capability to survive in adverse circumstances. It lies in her constant effort to instil the will to survive in her loved ones when they are devoid of any hope in life. It lies in her ability not to drown herself in sorrow and bereavement at her most precious creation being brutally killed by heartless men. It lies in the fact that ‘Maa’ is the most powerful syllable ever uttered on planet Earth.