My Womaniya

I rose up to a lovely, fragrant morning. The rose buds had bloomed at the dawn. The raat ki raani (Night queen climber) was retiring with a trail of soul touching aroma. I stepped out of my bed and comforted my dainty feet in to my pink slippers.

I walked through the Persian carpet in to the verandah, to appreciate and consume the fresh air of my lawn. The little sparrow had grown into a big boy and was flying on his own. I thought my gardener was being mean to him and gave him a very small place in my large expanse. My bliss came to a jolt when I heard a voice “Madam, your tea is ready”. I stretched to have my morning cup, in a fine bone china. “Ramdheen, get me the newspapers”, went my unapologetic order across the verandah to the kitchen. In no time another voice responded “Madam, the newspapers are kept ready for your read”. There were couples of newspapers to choose from, I picked the one I thought was an unbiased journalism treat.

I was soaking myself in the flavor of my strong cup of tea and skimming through the newspaper articles. Something on the fourth page caught my attention and ravaged me. It pierced million memories into me. It read “Refugees for 25 years now!” Really! Has it been twenty five years since …….I last saw my Dad? Twenty five years back, it was the same earth shattering news my mother read out to us, when we came back from school.

She stood at the door like always waving and welcoming us back into the house. Though she was stoic, but there was a fake smile on her face. Once we were close to the house, she ran bare feet from the threshold of the room towards the main gate and engulfed us with a tight clutch. She did not leave us for a long while. She held on to us like a bird protecting her little ones from the predators. Her otherwise stiff and starched sari had wrinkled like the face of an old tribal woman from Amazon. I still recall there was not a single tear drop, but yes the bindi had smeared. Her warm hands were cold and shivering. Her long black tresses were let loose like Draupadi’s. My mother’s stereotyped clink clanking of bright glass bangles were missing. And I could see strange thread thin lines from where blood was oozing out. My mother got up, clamped our palms tightly in her hands and ushered us inside. Nothing had still changed; she went into the kitchen, mechanically fetched the pitcher of lemon juice and offered us. Very nonchalantly she spoke up after a gap of thirty minutes “Beta, today Daddy did his bit towards giving you and everyone a safer country. He fought the enemies of the county with all bravery and valor and is a martyr now”   That’s all.

In the midnight, while we went off to sleep, I had heard loud wailing and howling sounds coming from my mother’s room. The deep screeches where like thousand tigresses’ roaring. I got up to see if she was fine, but my aunt, who had come to spend the night with us, did not let me enter in. I still curse her for that.

My mother was all of my age, when twenty five years back she had left the city of old and nagging memories. She rummaged to settle in a place where none of the relatives would talk about remarrying her, sending the kids to a hostel or asking her not to smile or laugh loud in public. My mother decided to leave her birthplace, my birthplace for ever - a place which had seen her from a new born to a young girl, a wife, a mother and to a widow.

So it was a sultry monsoon season when we reached our new accommodation. We had a one room accommodation with a common bathroom and a kitchen which was the size of a pigeon hole. We could have settled amongst the many others like us, but my mother chose not to be.

She was an independent woman. She was not looking around to feed on the leftover thrown by the affluent. She picked up a job at a primary school. Life was back on track but with no soul. Like a mechanical belt we would all do our chores and miss the man in the house

During our turbulent days, we had an ever obnoxious tenant, with whom we were sharing our bathroom. One day early morning she did not vacate the bathroom and did all her washing and cleaning at the morning time when we had to rush to school. Mother did not say anything. In fact to my utter dismay she said “Let me help you sister, you must be in urgent need of these clothes. My kids can miss the school for your washing”. Our neighbor looked bedazzled at mother. “Also, do you want any cooking help? My daughter can do that. She can miss the school for your hunger pangs”.  I was fuming and eager to know what was going in my mother’s mind but could not fathom her. In a little while, the cantankerous lady stood up on her knees with dismal shame and said “I am sorry, actually ……..everyone here ………..” She could not complete as my mother interjected “…..everyone here said, come lets harass this widow. What harm can she do to us? Let’s have some fun. But mind you, I am the wife of an army man; man of real blood and nerve, who did not wink an eye before slaying his self for the nation. Your antics will do no harm to me”.

She was a woman of steel nerves. She was lady of her command. She did not stoop, bend, or beg to any one for the survival of her two kids. She had the determination to live and give her children the best growth and environment. It is not easy for a young widow with younger children to lead a normal life. Phony well-wishers are always knocking at the door with their vile plans. To me she exemplifies the song from a movie named Mother India “ Duniya mein aaye hai to jeena he pade ga, jeevan hai agar zeher to peena he pade ga”, which roughly translates to “ When we have been given life, we have to exist with pride even at the face of all adversities”.

Mother was an epitome of selflessness, love, affection and generosity. Every morning we would look forward to start our day with a glance of the calm and composed face of mother. Her warm smile and her dignified grace was our strength. Her noble and righteous personality taught us the importance of human values and brotherhood. Her self-sacrificing personality nurtured our up-bringing and made us what we all are today. She was like an angel who was the guiding star to us. She continued to wade us away from all evils and troubles even when we were grown–ups. Mother holds a special place in my life, at every turn when life throws me off the track I know I can draw courage from her, when I have given up on myself I know I can draw inspiration from her, she will remain an ever guiding star.

I am reaping the fruits of the seeds my mother had sown. She writhed and wailed. She suffered and struggled.  She waited longingly to see me join the armed forces and serve the nation. For her that is where the pride was and that is where the dignity was.

Life will throw nasty surprises, but in the end, who we evolved in, is more important and you never know a nasty surprise may give the determination to mould our life to be more purposeful.