The young, roughman sitting in front of me, on the bench,looked visibly ashamed. Now and then he tried to put an end to the ruckus his small children were making but to no avail. Twice the staff nurse had complained.“Sir, such noise from the visitor’s lounge shall not be appreciated. Please.”
“Yes sister! I…..I……..Am waiting for the discharge formalities to be completed”, the young man fumbled.Then restoring to his habitual way of putting an abrupt end to such normal kid’s fight, the man turned to his little daughter with clenched teeth,not more than 5 years, “when will you learn to behave like a girl.”
“But it’s my chance!” the hapless girl defended pointing to her elder brother. “Bhaiyyahas already played so many times.”
Buried deep in the mobile game, the aloof boy hardly paid any heed to the complaintbeing made as if he knew what the outcomewill be.He knew his father wouldn’t scold him!
“Dheere Bolo!” the man roared in the girl’s face keeping his voice as controlled as possible.He then angrily shook the girl holding her arms and made her sit in the farthest corner of the bench. Two words and the girl silently retreated into her own world of loneliness.
‘Dheere bolo! ‘
‘Speak softly! ‘
‘Be quiet! ‘
The familiarity of these words sliced my heart and tears stung my eyes. I grew up listening to these advice, till it slowly became my identity.
“Such an obedient and silent girl.” My teacher would praise.
“Is she dumb? She hardly talks!” my in law’s relatives would joke.
Yes, at a very early age I was taught to behave like a ‘good girl’. The habit was inculcated and cultivated by none other than but my own mother. Ma, always the silent dependent member of our family, hardly spoke even if it were for her own self.She never spoke when she was taunted by Grandma for bringing less dowry. She never spoke when Grandbaba would threw nasty remarks at her. She never spoke when she caught Baba feasting his eyes on the bare cleavage of the maid or took too much interest in the next door Aunty! Rather, Grandma brushed off Baba’s activities saying, “Men have roving eyes. It’s the wife’s fault if she can’t keep her husband attracted to herself.”Ma,had bargained the tag of a ‘sanskaribahu’ with her freedom to speak.
The ring of the mobile shook me from my reverie. The young rough man answered his call, leisurely stretching his legs forward, now pleased to have taught her daughter some manners.Fromthe little that I could understand from his conversation,I summed up that his wife had slipped in the bathroom some two days back.
Slipped or was she pushed? I wondered gauging the man’s flat expressions.Or she tripped while defending herself? A sly smile passed my dry lips.Anything is possible in this world of men. Every word they say is truth. I was not alien to these cover up stories! I heard them as a child when once in a while, Ma was rushed to the clinic for her deep wounds inflicted by Baba, Grandma or Grandbaba.I alsoheard them when my husband would quickly jump in to clarify to anybody who inquired about my black-blue patches on the exposed skin.
Aah! I sank into an abyss of despair.
Everything in front of me — the innocent girl caged in the world of mannerism,her face contorted in anger and helplessness, the nonchalant father and the aloof son,was nothing but a scene replayed from my childhood. It hit really hard on my already disturbed brain, stirring up some really bad memories. I could vividly recall that horrible day many years back.
‘You little moron!” My Grandma’s wrinkled yet strong hand landed on my soft cheeks when I was barely 6 years olds. Red marks popped out and I howled in pain.
“How dare you argue with me!Wait till your father comes in the evening. Thisis what your mother has been teaching you.” Grandma bellowed angrily now pulling my neatly braided plait so hard I screamed my lungs out.Unable to understand what had taken over Grandma, I questioned her innocently, between my sobs,”Why always me?Why you never ask bhaiyya to do work.Why are you beating me? What is my fault? “
“No, it’s your mother’s fault!” she yelledin my face.
My mother came running from the kitchen to my rescue. I was saved but Ma wasn’t. The indescribable ordeal she went through left a deep scar on my psyche.
Next morning when I went to Ma, too disturbed to do anything, a gasp of shock escaped my mouth as I noticed her face. Puffed, slightly bruised skin under her left eye and a small crust of blood near her lips.Tears streamed down my cheeks and my little fingers immediately shot upto caress her wounds.
“Baba is bad. He….” Ma placed her fingers on my lips and silenced me.
“Don’t ever say that.” She said controlling her tears. “He is my Parmeshwar.”
“But why do you hold onto such a marriage?” I asked unable to say anything else.
“Can’t let down my parents honour.” She sighed after a brief pause.
Mesmerised by the aura she exuded I kept listening to those heavy words, coming out of my charismatic mother, the meaning of which I understood many years later.
“Should I tell you the essence of a virtuous woman?” she enquired. I nodded yes.
She then explained it to me how men and women are made different and so is their work. Men shoulder the responsibility of the family. Women, on the other hand were made to bring up children, keep the family happy and assist men in all spheres of life. This is not just our culture but our values to be upheld and passed onto the next generation.
I pledged to never let my mother down and embarked on a road to become a good, devoted, pious and virtuous women one day, just like her.I soon started taking interest in household chores apart from my studies in Primary school because this is what a girl eventually does in future. Keeping the house like a showroom and herself as a show piece, at all times.
I appreciated how every morning Ma would dutifully take the dust off Baba’s feet and put it on her forehead, seeking his blessings.I admired, how she remained hungry and thirsty all day, without a frown, praying for Baba’s long life on karvachauth .She looked beautiful to me with thesindooralong the mid hair parting, stretching from forehead to the centre of head.I slowly learnt our rich culture along with the meaning ofsolahshringar and was ecstatic when Ma allowed me keepSolahSomvaarVrat for a good life partner.
Days passed by, slowly and steadily, I slipped into the skin of a sanskaaribeti, behan, bahu and patni, smoothening the creases of misbehaviour here and carelessness there, until it fitted me perfectly.My mother always prided herself in transforming me from a boisterous and naughty girl to a silent, sanskaari woman.And I prided myself to be the daughter of a virtuous woman who walked the tight rope of culture precariously with the heavy weight of honour on her head.
Alas! Where Ma succeeded, I failed.
How could I forget that unfatefulnightAnju, standing on the doorsteps with a big suitcase beside her.She lunged forward throwing her arms around me, as I opened the door.Her cries wrecked her body.
“Mama! I have left Ravi forever.” The words somehow made their way out of her choked throat.
ShockedI stood rooted to the spot. What has she done?Anju had warned me many times but she would actually do something like this, was beyond my imagination.
“Thoda adjust karlo”, I tried to make her understand, whenever she would call me to complain about her husband, Ravi’s unhelpful, insensitive and dominating behaviour. After all, marriage is nothing but one sided adjustment and compromise. I also tried to convince her to have a baby because it will make Ravi gentler. But all my advice fell on deaf ears.
“Ravi has changed my email password andhe is controlling my Facebook page!” Anjucomplained when she called few days back shocked and disturbed.
“What’s there to hide” I argued. ”Isn’t this all about faith.”
“But I am not allowed the same!” she bellowed.
“He is your husband, your parmeshwar.” I said stepping into my mother’s shoes.
“You live in a nasty wretched world of old cultures.” She blasted and hung on me.
Such audacity! I was always on tenterhooks and now my worst fears have come true.That night a big brawl ensued in my house. My husband was definitely not happy to learn what Anju had done.
“Time has changed.” Anju argued with her father. She was ready with all her arguments. Shell shocked my husband couldn’t believe his daughter arguing with him. Every word coming out from her was like a hard punch inhis face.Girls should not argue.Good girlsin fact. They should notput forward their explanations,their views.No reasons from them. No conflicts either.
“I only ask for my freedo–”
“No!” My husband cut Anjushort. “Youngsters like you have shamelessly adorn the cloak of modernism in the name of freedom.”
“I shouldn’t have sent you to those big cities for studies!” He continued boiling in anger. “This venom of westernism has seeped into our culture insidiously, no wonder so many old age homes and single mothers in metros.”
“Papa you are one of faces of those rotten heads who make the headlines of the newspapers and occupy the prime time of TV shows blaring out of the screen- jeans and skimpy dress invites rapes. Valentines day’s celebration is a display of vulgarity.”Anju retorted.
Unable to take any more insult, my husband slapped Anju so hard she collapsed on the ground with a thud.
“Mrs Kapoor!” a soft crisp voice of a neatly dressed nurse, shook me out of my pensiveness.
“Yes sister!” I stood up respectfully.
“You are wanted in the Doctor’s cabin.” She turned and started walking.I followed her dutifully. Mixed emotions criss-crossing my mind at frenzied speed.
“Please have a seat” the Doctor requested me once I reached his office. His gentle voice eased my tensions a little.
“Your prayers havebeen answered.” His lips curved slightly in a smile.“Mr Kapoor is stable now. You can meet him.” He paused.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
“But you should not forget,” he continued,” this heart attack was a bad one. I would only advice you to keep him stress free and happy as much as possible. He might not survive another attack in future, so please no emotional stress.”
I thanked the Doctor for all his efforts and advice and immediately got up to meet my husband after twenty long and strenuous hours. As Imade my way down the corridor, the Doctor’s words reverberated in my ears.“Keep him happy.”
This is what I have been doing all my life. My heart screamed. I sloughed all my life to keep him happy. My one and the only duty in the world.And I always kept duty over self. In factthis has been the very reason of my existence.
My key to moksha.
My key to heaven.
“Here, This one!” the nurse said once we reached the ward.
With a heavy heart, I opened the door. I quietly crossed the small room to sit on a stool beside my husband’s bed. My heart knotted in pain to see his extremely tired and pale face. The silence in the room was unnerving. Every now and then, the beep from the machines near thebed, only accentuated the eeriness.
Everything was stark white. Immaculate White walls. White curtains.White bed with white sheet.I always disliked this colour. The colour of sorrow and ill luck! I hated it when I saw my Baba’s dead body wrapped in it.I hated it even more when I saw Ma draped in it after Baba’s demise. This colourerased all the other colours fromMa’s life. An ardent lover of bright coloured accessories with matching saris, she was forced to befriend it for the rest of her life.
With broken bangles, smudged bindi and thesindoor wiped off, Ma sat helplessly as the women inside her was also set ablaze along with the pyre of Baba. The energetic woman who made every occasion lively, was now barred from all the festivities and happy occasions. She was looked down upon as the harbinger of bad omen. Stripped of all the privileges, Ma soon became a zombie- the white ghost!
One day, soon after Baba’s death, my brother voiced Ma’s wish to spend the rest of her life in Vrindavan. None argued. Everybody accepted, because a man lives through his sons. A family progresses from one birth to another, through sons not daughters. So, here he was the new head of the family.
“Ma wants to serve God, to seek forgiveness for her sins and live an austere life.” Bhai convinced everyone. Or was it otherwise.And old widow nothing but a burden. An extra mouth to feed!!
“Damaadji….. sorry….. my honour…”, my husband mumbled a string of incoherent words.
“Are you OK” I inched closer. A hint of happiness in my voice.
He blinked his eyes open with great effort. He turned towards me and our eyes met. Mine swelled withtears of joybut his were full of anger and disgust. Without saying anything, he turned his face to the other side. Silence once again descended on both of us. I was no alien to his behaviour. He hated me because he believed what Anjudid that night was my shortcoming. My failure as a mother to pass on our cultural values to our daughter.
Moments of tension passed by, finally, my son Sanjay quietly joined us.
“Papa! Doctor says you are absolutely fine.” He said sitting on the other side.
“Sanjay, tell your mother to leave the room,I don’t want to see her face.” My husband said between breaths. “She has maligned our honour. Saariizzatmittimeinmila di”.My husband was spewing venom now.
“Papa relax!” Sanjay said comforting him. “You will be discharged tomorrow morning”
“No! I will not enter the house tillAnju goes back to her husband and seek forgiveness.”
“She has gone back to Ravi.” Sanjay immediately said to cheer him up. “She left this morning. She was so sorr…..”
Words trailed off. Isat numbed on my stool. My eyes swelled with tears and I turned to look out of the window.
Just across the street was a beautiful house but the boundary wall,all botched and stained, was in a pathetic condition. Garbage strewn all over the place in spite of a big bin placed there.
In white bold letter, the owner has stamped a warning. “PLEASE DON’T URINATE HERE” A passer-by joyfully targeted a red stream of liquid from his mouth and it landed exactly at the word “don’t”. He chuckled to himself after giving a new meaning to the warning. He then turned to relieve his bladder peacefully. Yellow stream spluttered all around as it struck the wall. Happily, he moved on. I wondered how ruthless and evil a person can be even though humans are gifted with the most distinct trait that put us far above all the other creations of God. Empathy.
Another warning caught my eyes, “STICK NO BILLS”. Ironically,the wall was adorned with posters of all sizes, shapes and colours. The biggest of all was pasted in the middle. All tattered, it mademe restless and once again the same nagging question popped in my head. The question even my mother couldn’t answer.
‘When will we learn to extend the same respect to women as we give to our Goddesses?’
The day we’ll let our heart answer this question, we won’t need such poster as a reminder, with a face of a small girl that read:
“Betibachao, Betipadao”
